#army x blood x oath

[monossidodiazoto]

NUcarnival event - Army x Blood x Oath - Chapters 9 ~ 12 gif

[nuflashfic]

⚔ Introducing Army x Blood x Oath August! During the month of August, share your (new & old) AxBxO Event inspired works under 2500 words.

You'll also have the option to submit your completed works to a commemorative zine, which will be available after the event!

Event Info

[yozora]

assigned beta by the gay porn game

[nucarnivalincorrectquotes]

Once Eiden forever Eiden

I'm offended because *I* want to be ordered around, not the other way

[creganslover]

Woman Like You

Pairing: Cregan Stark x Fem! Warrior! Reader

Requested?: Yes/No

Summary: Skilled as a warrior like your husband, you both made the dangerous pair... the latest battle proves just how much you mean to him.

Word count: 1.6k

Warning/s: canon-typical violence, graphic descriptions of violence, mentions of blood and death, near character death, cregan being whipped for his woman

Note: loved making this omg

GIF is not mine, credits to the owner!

It had been a harrowing battle, not knowing left from right, up from down as bodies rallied against one another, the clash and clinging of swords ringing in your ears, horses whinnying as their rider had been dismounted only to be slain. 

The amount of bodies falling over with no longer a life to them, and there you also stood fighting, a female warrior, married to Cregan Stark, the two of you making the dangerous pair through your cunning skills and Cregan’s exposure to battle.

Now both of you were fighting under the Queen Rhaenyra’s banners, honouring the oath Rickon Stark, Cregan’s late father had made under Viserys’ proclamation for Rhaenyra as his heir. 

Before the battle had started, you were in your shared tent with Cregan, as the troops were began to be rounded up to march, a thousand of his greybeards and your own army of blackwings, the two of you preparing each other in their armour, the action done in silence as you both strapped your gears on. 

It was Cregan’s hand grabbing your wrist that made you halt your movements, your eyes finally meeting his. Both of you had trusted each other out and in the field, though both of you knew every battle forward had counted, and that you would treat it as the last. 

“Promise you will return to me.” Cregan’s husky voice spoke in a whisper, staring you down with a tender gaze, blue flecked with hazel eyes searching yours, grip momentarily tightening on your wrist to travel down to squeeze your hand. As done countless times, you reply, “Always.” Never failing to give him a smile, making him mirror it with a chuckle of relief at your reassurance. 

Until you had gotten separated from your husband in the heat of the battle, you two had held out well even when separated yet it felt like the enemies had just kept on coming, banging the end of your shield at your attacker’s face, sending them lunging back as you thrusted your sword in their stomach, cutting clean through before you had pulled it off, flecks of blood spraying as the man hurled in pain, dropping to the ground.

You had not known how long the battle had raged for, all that you knew was your muscles had begun to strain, dodging and putting on the offence as you could, dirt and blood scattered everywhere. 

Successfully putting down another opponent, another came rushing to you, sword slicing part of your arm, making you cry out as they had also managed to land a hard blow to your side, that would surely be a nasty bruise. 

Still, you were not as easily felled as they thought, managing to regain back your senses, adrenaline pumping within your veins as your grip on your sword had tightened, letting out a yell as you swung and advanced, hitting left to right, sword slicing efficiently at the man’s side as you threw your broken shield away, holding your sword, Ashbringer, in both hands before thrusting it upon the man’s neck, blood running down the steel of your sword before pulling it out. 

That’s when a series of arrows had been launched into the sky, not knowing which was which as you tried to deflect some by grabbing your shield yet again, though an arrow had already dug itself onto the back of your shoulder, making you groan, using your strength to cover yourself with your shield as the arrows had landed. 

When the arrows had stopped, your mind had fogged, vividly you saw Cregan’s face in your mind as the words he had uttered to you hours before rang. 

Return to me 

・・・・・

Cregan had litters of bodies lay around him as he became the opposing side’s target, knowing his worth and they had intended to cut him off. His broad form swung his sword Ice, not opting for a shield as it only hindered his movements. 

His men yelled around him, his graybeards killing tens of the opponents as they had only managed to fell a few of Cregan’s men. They were winning, they had the upper hand. Cregan only needed to push a little further, and all of this would cease. 

“The Lady!” 

“Keep Fighting!”

“Arrows inbound!”

Cregan felt his blood suddenly run hot, head snapping around him as the shouts grew in intensity, until his eyes spot a distant blur. You as he looked to the sky to find rains of arrows, making Cregan react and haul a body from the ground, using it as his shield as bouts of arrows pierced through its body, his eyes wide and alert and searching for you. 

He was able to see you defending yourself, staggering, an arrow on the back of your shoulder, the pained look on your face.

Cregan saw red. 

The rumbling in his chest grew to a roar as he screamed, throwing the arrow-clad body to the ground before he shouted. “You want me? Come get me!” 

Enemies turned their heads towards him as Cregan swung Ice at the oncoming assailants, ignoring the burning in his whole body as he and his sword had moved as once, determined to get to you, his wife. He was covered in dirt and blood that wasn’t his, except for the minor cuts on his face, and the bruises he had felt forming onto his body. 

Alas his enemies fell one by one as his men fought valiantly, Cregan making his way to you as he managed to grab you in time before you fell, careful to handle the arrow still peeking from behind your shoulder. 

The battle had begun to die down, Cregan still holding you in his arms as he looked at you, his heart never wavered in battle nor showed vulnerability before, now it did as he shook you lightly, inspecting you. “(Y/N),” he repeated before his men had spotted the scene, immediately calling for aid. 

“Stay with me, as you promised.” Cregan breathed. 

・・・・・

Darkness. That’s all you could see, with your body feeling light as a feather. 

It felt like you were floating on some void, where it held nothing but peace. You tried reaching out, but a flicker of orange lit in the distance, a smooth glow, followed by the smell of the forest trees, like a campfire. 

You watched as the orange glow began to scatter, spreading the dark void with its own colour, and then you sensed some sort of pull, until it had become stronger. 

Your eyes opened. Blurry at first, blinking a few more moments as everything slowly began to sink in, body feeling numb as you tried to shift on the cot. Looking around your surroundings, you were in your tent, back at camp perhaps? 

A woman stood by the table, preparing her herbs, a healer, you recognized. It was your healer Taisa, and when she had turned around, her eyes widened as she placed the bowl hurriedly back down. “My lady!” She said in surprise, knowing she had been commanded by Lord Stark himself to alert him if his wife had awoken at once. 

Taisa was already running out the tent before you could utter a single word, or yet you were unable to from your body still processing what it had went through.

Your shoulder was bandaged that wrapped around your torso peeking from your loose tunics, along with your left arm that had blood starting to soak through as you moved, making you groan as you assessed yourself. 

Cregan had been manning the map room, along with the other lords and their army in ally, pacing around and spewing all kinds of forms of defenses and offenses, it had been hours since the battle had ceased, taking in few left live opponents as prisoners. 

Cregan was pacing until the tent flap shifted, revealing Taisa, Cregan immediately halting, she had not even uttered a single sound out her mouth. 

You were awake.

“My lords,” Cregan only said as he rounded the table, ducking out the tent as he forced himself to navigate his way to the tent you were in. His heart pounding near his ears as a few steps more he’d be inside, pushing through the flaps, and there you did lay, eyes open, face harbouring an expression of fatigue. 

Cregan wasted no time gliding towards you, taking you in and slowly grabbing your right uninjured hand as he knelt in front of the cot, gaze scanning you all over. “Wife.” His voice faltered. 

“Husband.” You managed to croak out, moving to sit up which Cregan refused to let you but you won in the end, now he was knelt in front of you as you sat. His huge rough hands, rid of their gloves now, enveloped yours, thumb stroking circles upon the back of your hands. 

You lift your right hand, coming to cradle his face, stroking the slight flush on the apple of his cheeks as he let out a heavy breath, closing his eyes, brows knitting as he leaned into your touch, showing his utter devotion to you and you only, making you smile.

“I thought I had lost you.” He voiced, eyes still closed, making you frown. “Look at me, Cregan.” You spoke, slowly regaining your voice back as Cregan’s eyes flickered open, staring into you. 

“You will not lose me, not now, not ever.” You began. “I’d wager it would take more to kill me.” You smirked, finding a way to still lighten a situation upon the brink of what could have been. 

The end of Cregan’s lip tugged upwards in amusement, his features softening as he chuckled, nodding along and finally letting himself relax with the fact that you were okay, you were going to live. He turned his head where your palm cradled his face, pressing his lips upon your palm before looking at you. 

“Aye, you are right. It would take more for a woman like you.”

[miguelhugger2099]

A Knight's Oath

Summary: You're a princess in need of a personal guard after your father's passing. Miguel from the enemy kingdom, is assigned to become a spy that kills you. Next>>

Knight!Miguel x Princess!Reader, Enemies to Lovers(?), Angst, Fluff, Not proofread, Word Count: 1,005

Like any tale as old as time, history is never clean. Freedom is never gained through peace. It is violence, a necessary one at that, in order to get what you need. Even if it means becoming the villain to some and the hero to others.

Your father was no exception. As a young king, his father had died in battle protecting the kingdom during a famine. With its citizens crying for help and other countries trying to step on their kingdom, your father had picked up a sword and began to lead a slaughter in the name of freedom. With your mother at his side, she helped on the inside, providing jobs, and a sense of community for hope and pride of their heritage. It had been a long thirteen years of bloodshed, but ultimately, the king had successfully pushed back intruders and helped bring his kingdom back to life.

In the middle of the war, you had been born–a princess–a new era of hope and peace for the land. Your people had celebrated your birth with parades, art, music and dancing, while your parents always showed you off with pride. For the next couple of years, you had been raised to be kind, resilient and humble. You were still just a baby when it had ended, so you did not know the true extent of it. You did know there was a war where other countries had looked down upon you and despite the small size of your army, you had won. You knew your father did whatever he had to do to protect the faces of the common people and the future of your life so you never faulted him for it.

Unfortunately, your father passed just before you reached adulthood. An unknown illness and went in his sleep. Everyone had mourned the terrible loss of their protector and beloved king, father and husband. Despite his actions in war, he was always incredibly kind to his people and was a great role model of a man in your life. You took pride in the fact you were his flesh and blood and that would never change. So with honor and grace, you worked hard to follow in his footsteps to be a great leader.

Others, however, did not share the same feelings. In other stories, your father was the devil himself. A cruel king that had struck anyone who had gotten in his way, caused the downfall of armies and used wicked ways to poison and torture troops to his advantage. When word of his passing had spread, many had celebrated the death of the evil king and hoped all those who lived in his kingdom perished with him.

Miguel O’Hara was one who thought the same. He hated the king that had started a war and it killed his father, hated how the aftermath of it left his mother depressed and his family starving. His homeland was in shambles because of your father and for years, he prayed for a chance to help his own country in gaining revenge.

So, for years Miguel had worked his way up in the ranks of his homelands army. A protector of his people and a way to finally fight back if another war were to break out again. He not only trained hard for his home, but to also feed his family—his mother and little brother. He often worried about them but little Gabriel was always eager to help while Miguel was away. Always a kind soul, he was.

When rumors had gone out that his king had been planning on planting a spy and an assassination on the princess of the enemy land, Miguel’s interest had been piqued. He thought to himself, without an heir, that wicked kingdom would surely fall to its knees and get what they deserve.

Naturally, Miguel had been called in for an audience with the king. He bent down on one knee and bowed his head.

“My Lord.” He greeted.

The king’s slicked back white hair practically glinted in the sunlight where its rays were seeping through the tall windows of the throne room. “Stand, soldier.” His voice boomed.

Miguel stood back up, the metal of his knight armor clanking against each other and he rested his wrist on his sword by his side. The king spoke again. “My boy, you are the finest gem in our armed forces. Your victories are endless and you make all of us here proud.”

Miguel’s face didn’t move, still as ever and it only made the king’s grin curl up even more.

“Which is why I’ve assigned you a special mission,” Miguel took a deep breath. “As the princess of Etheria’s guard.”

Now that had made Miguel’s face scrunch up in disgust. “My Lord, forgive me but–” He quickly shut his mouth when the king raised his hand.

“You will portray yourself as one of them. Eat, sleep and breathe like them and gain a position of a knight in their castle,” He explained. “There are talks of the princess needing a personal guard. Once you have gained information and the trust of those lowlife scum, you are to kill her. Once she is dead, we will invade their land and finish what they started.”

Miguel let his words seep into his thoughts. To live amongst the people he’s loathed since the beginning? It was barbaric and humiliating.

But this was his chance. A chance at revenge. He was angered when the king had died before he could even get close. Now, with the opportunity of sticking a sword in his own daughter’s heart–Miguel felt that was an even better alternative.

He was snapped out of his thoughts by his king. “Do what you must to be as convincing as possible. Care for her, protect her, admire her, kill one of our own if need be– just make sure that no one expects a thing… Especially the princess.” Miguel stood up straighter, saluting the man in front.

“Yes, My Lord.”

“Dismissed.”

A/N: ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[the-fiction-witch]

The Snow P2

Media House Of The Dragon

Character Jacaerys Velaryon

Couple Jacaerys x Reader (Bastard Stark Girl)

Rating Sweet

Part One

Jacaerys remained in Winterfell for several days taking in the northern customs and sights even if most of it was mostly snow, he has made fast friends with Cregan Stark as his mother suggested he might. The two sat at a table in Winterfell's great hall, enjoying a flagon of mead each finally getting to the true meat of the discussion he had been sent here to discuss, they had been chatting about it intermittently during his time here but now was the real talks, they sat and discusses plans, oaths and the choices ahead.

Even if admittedly Jacaerys often glanced across the room to where Y/n sat in a beautiful silver dress that hugged her so perfectly and snugly his eyes often wonder to her, her eyes at times met his own which made him blush as admittedly her had an effort to appear more handsome tonight as he knew he would be seeing her. Over the days he had been here so far he had really grown interested in Y/n and he had a feeling she was interested in him too. 

But he forced his attention back to Lord Cregan Stark, 

“You’re mother wishes to start a war, with her own half-brother for the throne no less. Tell me… The Iron Throne and Kings Landing are thousands of miles away from the Winterfell walls, it would take a good two months to march an army down there and that’s without complications of the twins and any other issues in the Riverlands,” He explained, “Why should we involve ourselves in a war so far from our home? It makes no difference to us up here, so why should I risk my kin and my house in a war for who’s ass sits in a chair halfway around the world?” He asked, 

Jacaerys nodded and he understood Cregan’s thoughts he had a good point and it was hard to disagree with him. The North could just stay out of this and be untouched by the war in the South, “You’re words have quite a bit of wisdom, but this war will not simply be contained beyond your borders, who sits on the throne will affect all of us from old town to the wall.” He explained, “And regardless your family swore to my mother, do your oaths not mean anything?”

“Oaths mean everything in the north,” He nodded, “There has never lived a stark who forgot an oath,” 

“Then you cannot sit cosy in your castle while he sits on the throne.”

“But you see my concerns, by the time I walk my army down the war could be over. And what happens when we arrive at Kings landing in a war that's over, to fight for a side that lost? They would massacre us. And as much as our oaths are our law… you cannot expect me to allow my house, and the houses of my noble lords to be snuffed out,” He explained, “The Targaryen dynasty has already taken so much from us…” 

“And he may take more from you still, you know your peace is my mother's greatest hope.”

“That is true, we do not know the man this king will be. But your mother… we know her ways and means, she is her father's daughter and her father was a man of peace and understanding.” 

“Sometimes the best way to peace, is war.”

“Let us talk no more of it tonight,”

“Of course,” Jacaerys nodded, “May… My lord may I speak of something else?”

“Go on,” Cregan nodded sipping his drink, 

“May I ask… about your kin?”

“Oh?”

“Y/n specifically,”

“She is a snow. But she is my sister. My blood. No matter what the laws of this land are she is my sister.”

“That is Honourable of you,”

“You know… there are rumours I have heard about your family-”

“It is… lies.” Jacaerys lied, he knew the truth but he knew best not to speak of it, 

“Lies?” Cregan nodded with a smile, “What is your question in regards to my sister?”

“... Is she promised?”

Cregan snickered, “Why?”

“I… I admit, I have… I have caught her in my eyes and I would like to ask permission to court her,”

“you think you are the first to ask me that? I have been buried under marriage proposals for my sister. You are not the first nor will you be the last to ask to court her. The answer to you is the same as the answer to the rest I will not allow anyone to court Y/n. If a man wishes her hand he will bring a proposal and I'll wed her to the best proposal I am given.”

"So, then the question now is… what kind of proposal is sufficient for you?"

“I will make you a deal. We will join your mother's war the Starks and all the banners of the north with be on the side of her crown we will keep our oaths and back her. And as payment for all this war will cost us. And when your mother's ass is sat on that throne you will be her heir, so you will marry Y/n and have a stark as your queen,” 

“I… I…” he stuttered, he knew this was a big thing to promise, the hand of an heir to the throne is not something to be given away so likely but he knew he had to return to his mother with the Starks alliance and… he wanted to return with Y/n in his arms, 

"You drive a hard bargain, my Lord. Is this your full request?"

"it is. And when she gives you a son stark blood will be your heir. I will legitimise my sister and wed her to you in the godswoods and our oath, and alliance will be set as your vows.”

“You will support my mother, march to war with us, spill blood for us. And you will wed me your sister?” Jaracerys asked, “You give me your word in this?”

“You have my sworn word,” He offered his hand.

"Then, I accept your deal, my Lord, on the condition that she too agree to this proposal." he took this hand and shook it. 

[ladythornofrivia]

Kingdom of Fire & Blood || (Part Two)—Revised

🐉 MASTERLIST 🐉

Next Chapter

summary: modern!reader survived from the attack. But the new coming threat awaits her.

pair: aemond x reader

warnings & disclaimer: smut, violence, p in v sex, sexual content, aemond being arrogant, modern reader doesn’t know how the world of GOT works but is a Aemond stan, praise kink, breeding kink, spitting kink, voice kink, fluff, angst—family drama, oral sex, hate sex, stalking, jealousy, virginity loss, size kink, obsession, reader being sassy and aroused, sweet moments with reader and Aemond. Reader is a huge GOT & HOTD fan. Pro-Green, Reader is a green supporter. Aemond becomes king instead of Aegon. (P.S. Alys who? I only know Aemond x Reader)

a/n: I’m sorry; I have to redo the chapter due to my perfectionism and complications of getting my chapter point across. I hope it's better this time. By the way, I misspelled Criston’s name so I edited on the first chapter, and my mind STILL wouldn’t stop thinking about Aemond. I hope you enjoy.

Chapter Two: The Green Star

Within their reach towards the destination in King’s Landing, under a stretched mile, moving from town to town, and markets and orphanage—after entering through Gate of the Gods—someone held you tight with one arm as he gripped the reins with the other hand. Your head bobbed and flopped from the tremendous speed from a horse. Your eyes opened to a band of armored men couldn’t find words to question or dare to challenge at someone’s actions from carrying you—a mysterious young woman—in his arms.

With your one eye open, for the last few hours, the moonlight casting its soft radiant light over the lands. Finally, underneath a cloaked hood, you spotted Criston Cole. You knew him, of course, based on how he acts in the show. Men who have seen Criston—his excellence in combat in training grounds and battlefield—never gave or reveal a soft spot for a woman. For a Knight in Westeros, the knights held the upkeep of never to lay a hand on a woman, let alone consummating a woman. Just like kings and queens, knights’ reputation must purify through oath and the civility of duty, not by the heart.

Within these governed laws must require a sheer will to not break a vow from a source of desperate love and intimacy or camaraderie of long-lasting companionship, one woman to the next. Being sent into the Wall and join the Night’s Watch is inescapable when choosing to lay or develop affections for a woman, whether the woman is married or lonesome whether being a bachelorette or widow. Or perhaps through dissent, other than committing a heinous crime. Once being sent at the Wall, the stories on what they have done in Westeros will be nothing but a fruitless conversation.

Meanwhile in Criston’s thoughts, although Criston thought you’re beautiful—even in your sleep—he does not love any woman; his unshared notions and expression to come into terms on how he adore the Targaryen princess, Rhaenyra, but all that’s forgotten when she gave birth to not one but three children and is betrothed and married to Prince Laenor Velaryon. Soon it erases the traced reminiscences of their shared times between the princess and the knight in armor, Rhaenyra, as a mother, placed her adoration for the children—and the claims to the Iron Throne—above all else.

But now he still loathes the dragon princess, buries hatred it in secrecy for Rhaenyra leaving him, and swear loyalty to Queen Alicent—as you read and watched the show.

Once the army infiltrated through the colossal gates, halfway to the Red Keep, you spotted Criston and his men trudged their way on the crowd—men, women and children were all staring at Criston Cole, but for one main reason: you—your hood came off due to the rush of wind. Although Criston carried you with ease and attentiveness, lifting you in his arms without so much of a trouble despite traveling, how his arm grew tired, not wanting to carry you anymore, but does it to maintain his clean image.

At first they made no effort to complain to Criston’s questionable nature regarding to his deeds. Bringing a young woman is unexpected.

“If you so much on planning to bring a whore into the Targaryens’s court, I do not wish but to think of the worst consequences for you and for the good of the realm. Your decision will cause a catastrophic downfall,” the man beside Criston spoke with urgency.

Criston spun his head and pierced his deadly and relaxed glare. “I’m in no position to take anyone as my bitch, ser. In fact, why don’t you do as you’re told by our queen.”

“You mean your queen,” the man seethed.

Criston ignored him, rolling his eyes.

“In fact, you can put this useless girl in the Street of Silk. She’ll be a great asset to men who needs tight cunt for a good breeding and it can swallow every seed and it can give birth to multiple bastards until she accepts her failure in death.”

Criston halted his tracks. “Then why don’t throw yourself to a woman’s cunt in the Street of Silk, Ser Marrow. I’m sure the fine ladies in King’s Landing will appreciate your service on fucking someone for having delicate desire of yours.”

This did not sit well with Ser Marrow. In fact, Ser Marrow could not register Criston’s reasoning on bringing the girl.

Knowing this won’t end well, but the girl has to be robust.

Hasten into the street of Rose Road, but then encountered traffic, to which he lead the horse to Street of Sisters, then turned right at Flea Bottom. Flea Bottom, filled with watchful eyes as Criston Cole and his men passed through.

All was quiet until you heard the words all at once:

“A whore!”

“The knight is carrying a whore!”

“Kill him!”

“To the death of the knights!”

“Fuck the Targaryens!”

People in Flea Bottom cheered as they fell from the windows of their townhomes and landed on the knights, who are all powerless when their swords were still in their sheaths; the swords are long to draw out for retaliation.

Criston, as brutal as he is, stabbed and slashed with his jagged sword, as people roared with rage and clawed the stallions skin. By their mistake, the horses punted and jabbed and ran, stomping over people’s bodies, and reached to the Street of Looms by the west side of the road.

Criston errored. When he glanced behind him, the people who are left alive still hunted them down, but his comrades slashed their way through for a clear promenade.

Night is throng with potential threats and sacrifice.

“For fuck's sake," he hissed. "We must reach to the Red Keep! Warn the others!” Criston shouted. “We must protect the Targaryen line!”

Suddenly the man’s speed had caught up with Criston and yanked you by the cloak and dragged you below, but Criston pierced his bloody sword on a man’s throat and retrieved you back in one swoop as his steed and his company ushered in the entrance gates of Red Keep.

By the time the gates are shut tight, you have woken up, but immobile and drowsy.

“Where…” your voice croaked. “Where am I?”

“You’re safe, my lady,” a voice said, looking up, you spotted none other than Criston Cole, a character you recognized in the House of the Dragon.

Screaming, you nearly throw yourself off the horse, but Criston held you. Though the men behind you gave an impression of unused to seeing your antics.

“At ease, my lady. You’re safe,” he said with a tight smile.

You cringed at his pretentious charm.

Did I potentially became an actress without giving an audition and be on a set of House of the Dragon?

But then recalling Ser Remon Blackwood’s words and call upon a realization. Westeros is real.

“Sorry, you just have me startled,” you said, deadpan. But you felt a tremendous wave of affliction after facing three men who tried to ambush you.

“It’s quite alright,” he said, still wearing a tight-lipped smile. Dismounted from his horse, he helped you down and ambled towards the stoned bridge. “Stay behind my men; they’ll protect you.”

Out of nowhere, Prince Daemon comes to into a scene.

“You’re late, Ser Criston,” he said with a sardonic grin.

Excited as you’re now, Prince Daemon wasn’t really your favorite member of House Targaryen.

“Apologies, my prince. I never knew you’re concerned of my punctuality, you’re merely acting as a dutiful handmaiden,” Criston remarked smoothly.

Asshat, as always.

Prince Daemon scowled. “Alicent needs you at this moment. I’m here to see my brother, not as a messenger. That damnable green star has caused ruckus to Caraxes and I.”

Criston’s jaw shifted from gritting his teeth. “I’m her guard not her hound.”

Prince Daemon rolled his eyes, and marched upon the gates leading to the Red Keep.

You’re certain that your wounds won’t fall into another failure as you watched Criston speaking to Daemon. One man leaned over against your ear. “One wrong move and you’re good as dead,” he warned.

Giving him a cold shoulder, you gazed upon the view of the dark ocean and crystal, ink sky. From gazing at far away town, it was magnificent, but upon a closer view, you knew how the underbelly of King’s Landing is.

Then looking upon the Red Keep, you were still in awe of the structure, vibrancy with crimson and ivory. But before you admire other parts of the Red Keep, two of the men blindfolded you—one wrapped the fabric on your eyes, the other on your wrists, then tackled you down while the others ignored your voice.

“One more sound and I’ll slit your throat,” he said.

Hiding behind them, even with a dark vision, you’re carefully planning out on your exit avoid of gaining infliction.

With a strike of punch, there’s not much you could do but felt trapped into a situation you can’t escape in.

The noise ensued.

The swords had drawn in.

Overhearing Prince Daemon is being ambushed by a band of thieves and killers who clambered out from under the bridge in the usage of strong rope and hooks secured and pierced the stone. Hoisting themselves in the air as they drew their blades out, attacking the rogue prince.

Grunt by grunt, Prince Daemon sliced and slashed through ragged clothe.

Though two of the men dead, except the bulky man with a great sword, twice as thick and honed. When he lifted the sword, you blocked the attack with a dagger in one hand while your eyes are blindfolded. With your rage, the green spark eroded, and snapped the sword in half, your blindfold tore in half, leading you doing a spin kick across the man’s cheek, sent him flying around seven feet away. Criston, Daemon and the army watched in awe. The dagger shattered; picking up the dead man’s sword, tying the sheath's belt around your waist, you clutched the blade and fought your way near the entrance. Although you retaliate, you earned wounds gashed on your exposed flesh.

When Jacaerys and Helaena appeared outside the palace due to curiosity, they spotted you fighting the band of killers with one slice and left them dead, blood sprayed everywhere, and tainted your peculiar clothe, fighting together with Prince Daemon.

Jacaerys—Jace—drew his blade out, but Helaena held him back, but Jace stubbornly charged in. Prince Daemon spotted them a mile away and towards the man who attempts to aim Jace’s head maimed through a roundish belly and fell down, the man’s body split into two. You managed to seize Jace and dodged the attack—blocking the blade from the killer before managed to have the upper hand; piercing through the heart, returning Jace back to Helaena’s side in one piece. “Get back inside! I’ll take it from here,” you said before charging back into the battlefield on the bridge.

The sentinels and men from the City Watch fought with their battle cry, attracting the attention from commoners at the streets behind them, flooding in, scattered at every corner.

Unbeknownst to you, Prince Daemon wondered who you were, or where you came from or why you came with Ser Criston. But you skills in battlefield, hasn’t seen anything extraordinary. He parried and lanced through the enemy’s chest. Behind Daemon, the killer held a brick and held above his head, but your split his head into two.

Prince Daemon’s peered at you as you smiled at him shortly before the men were charging towards the heirs. You skewered and slashed their legs in half; the earning of the intruders’ agony was worth it.

Until the man, thrown Helaena off the bridge, her shrilled screams filled the night’s air, but Helaena seized the rope, holding onto her dear life. When the man undo the hook, you knocked him out with a kick on his balls, resulting of him falling back with howling cry.

“Give me your hand,” you said to Helaena, your other hand outstretched to hers.

“Jace!” she bellowed, as the rope wobbled.

Behind you, Jace killed another man, who was trying to push you off the bridge.

“Help me pull the rope,” you said to Jace. Within an instant, you and Jace worked together and lifted Helaena off from the brink of death.

With the battle nearly over, you reached for Helaena’s hand and lead her back, safe and sound onto the bridge and fled with them into the gates.

Prince Daemon and Criston reached alongside.

“Close the gates!” Criston commanded. “Close the gates!”

“You’re safe,” you told them.

“I can’t thank you enough,” Jace said, putting a smile on his face.

Facing Helaena, you asked, “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” Helaena nearly sobbed. “Thank you.”

“See, everything’s alright.” You grinned widely.

Then a hot stab seared into your lower belly and collapsed; your body violently shaken, suffocating.

“Take the girl to the Maester,” Prince Daemon said, cut the traitor’s throat. “I’ll head back to the bridge with Caraxes.”

Screams echoed outside the gates, garnering everyone’s attention, but others fled into the Red Keep.

Your eyes gazed upon Jace and Helaena watched you in horror as Criston elevated in your arms, sprinting down in the castle, then through the secret passages, his mind motioning the idea of who could escort you faster to the Maester to dispose the poison; Criston rarely attends the healer’s room; Criston is an undefeated warrior with no battle scars.

With the last of your awake, you watched Criston entered the secret passage, and while crossing from a secluded hall, from there, he spotted the one-eyed prince, who returned from his training, softened at the sight of you, vulnerable in Criston’s arms, as you collapsed, eyes halfway lulled in oblivion. “She has been wounded,” you overheard Criston said.

Sheathing his sword, Aemond took an examine of you, as you examined him, listening in while dazed.

Tall and handsome, graced with fair hair and delicate yet strong features.

“What happened?” Aemond approached you.

Criston trudged passed Aemond and turned the corner into another hall. “The people from the Flea Bottom saw her, and wants me dead,” he said rather composedly.

“What you’re doing is treason,” Aemond reminded.

“Consequences be damned, my prince. But I found her alive in the forest.”

Aemond’s brow quirked. “How?”

“The men in armor are dead; all have been stabbed, and their cocks have been…cleaved,” Criston whispered at the last part.

Aemond’s eye widened.

“She saved Princess Helaena from falling of the high bridge, and protected Prince Daemon himself.”

Aemond’s hardened expression softened.

“Ask her once she’s awake,” Criston suggested.

Aemond suddenly swept you into his arms. “Go and ward off the people from Flea Bottom. Otherwise my mother will question your knighthood and send you to the Wall.”

Criston is relieved when you’re not in his arms anymore and fled back.

In these last awakened moments, your eyes saw but a glimpse of long, silver-gold hair glowing like halo, and a soft glow of his blue eye gaping into yours.

“Well done, my fair lady,” Aemond’s voice crooned. "You fought bravely."

Before you faded into your subconscious state.

~Aemond’s POV~

After positioned you onto the surgical table, he faced the Maester, who was bewildered at the dragon prince with a fallen maiden in his arms.

“You mustn’t tell no one of this,” Aemond said. “Heal her, and I’ll reward you well.”

Soon, he heard the footsteps, and sprinted outside the Maester’s room and hid among the shadows—after unlocking the secret wall and spied on Rhaenyra, and his mother, Alicent, who accompanied Rhaenyra the Maester’s room.

“Your Grace, Lady Rhaenyra,” the Maester bowed after prepping the medicine on his tiny desk beside the surgical table, where you lay.

“The men outside the Red Keep were severely injured,” Lady Rhaenyra said. “And the people from Flea Bottom arrived here without a warning, flooding through the gates; the guards were gravely injured from defense by the time we arrived.”

Queen Alicent, on the other hand, was surveying the maester with tensed posture.

“I cannot spare this room for the men,” the Maester said. “I shall send more healers for the guards. There’s another room for them to repose.”

Rhaenyra stood with neutral expression, still obtain a regal posture. “Good.”

Queen Alicent intruded with, “What of those from the Flea Bottom?”

“Syrax escorted them out,” Rhaenyra vexed. “I never would’ve expect that the plans to visit my father would come to terms of bloodshed.”

Queen Alicent chimed in with, “It is already been taken care of. However the penalties must continue; the people from Flea Bottom are beastly as they come, and should pay for its crimes from infiltrating the Red Keep.”

Rhaenyra darted her hues on Alicent. “The Commander of City Watch has been injured. That is why I came here on his behalf.”

“I’m sorry, my lady,” the Maester said. “I happen to be in a delicate procedure.”

Rhaenyra’s brows furrowed. “What might I ask what the cause of your refuse my request?”

The Maester turned around. Alicent and Rhaenyra pivoted their gaze to a lying figure on the table.

While laying still, you were mumbling incoherently, sighing.

“The poison has taken a great effect on her,” he said.

“Who brought her here?” Rhaenyra asked.

“Ser Criston, my lady,” the Maester said, but Queen Alicent knows that the tongue of a liar has shown nothing but hesitation; the grey eyes of an old maester averted. Alicent has known her subjects well for as long as she could remember; resided in King’s Landing for more than six years.

“What a strange attire she was wearing,” Rhaenyra commented, approaching your sleeping body, caressing the side of your face. “Beautiful girl, but, strange choice of appearance. Her gown is too short.” Then she took notice on your right thigh inked with a large and fiery outline of a red dragon stretched across the thigh, and on the arms until the knuckles of your delicate hands. “I’ve never seen anyone with strange markings,” she said, fascinated.

The maester gulped. “She fought valiantly outside the Red Keep, princess. She not only protected Prince Daemon, but rescued your son, Jacaerys, as well.” He then looked at Alicent with pride. “She also saved Princess Helaena from falling off to a drowning river beneath the bridge and consulted from this young girl before traitor stabbed her, contaminated with poison.”

Both Alicent and Rhaenyra are in deep bewilderment of the revelation regarding to your deeds.

“Impossible,” Rhaenyra said, paled.

“Are you certain?” Alicent chimed in.

“Yes, Your Grace,” he said. “Thank the gods your heirs has been graced by the valiant savior.”

Queen Alicent approached you, though rather carefully, studying your face.

“So young and vulnerable,” she whispered. “She shouldn’t die in vain. Not when she saved our children,” she said to Rhaenyra with watery eyes.

“She secured the successors to the Iron Throne and Driftmark,” Rhaenyra added.

Alicent could only stare at your visage. “We shall bless her with our gratitude.”

“We shall await for her recovery, and ask her questions, regarding to the green star,” Rhaenyra determined. “Until then, she must rest upon the hands between the Gods and you, Maester. Keep her alive and guarded from The Stranger.”

The Maester bowed. “As you wish, Lady Rhaenyra.”

As soon as Rhaenyra left, Alicent moved closer to the maester. “You have served as a Maester for many years of your excellent service. You may be truthful to your skills, but your eyes offered a lie. Tell me, who summoned her here?”

The Maester is unable to dart his eyes at her. “Your Grace,” is all he uttered.

“I can assure you that you won’t be punished; I shall spare you from the slice on your tongue,” she guaranteed, rather kindly. “Pray tell, who gave you the order? Who brought her here?”

After a minute of glancing at your sleeping form, he then veered at Alicent, and leaned against her ear. “Prince Aemond, Your Grace. He requested for me to treat her wounds and aid her through salvation, and handed her over to me—carried her from the entrance of the Red Keep.”

Alicent was awestruck once more with another revelation.

“I do not believe he sees her as Helaena’s rescuer to offer his gratitude,” she mumbled. “Rather more than what it lies beyond the prince’s decision.”

In the heart of a dragon prince’s mother, Aemond perceived the nature of your goodly heart. In the heart of a dragon prince still remains unknown. Rather what Queen Alicent seems to believe in.

Then the sincere smile fell onto her face.

~Your POV~

Your eyes have opened. Not in the apartment you lived in, but rather in the hands of a man who was drawing out the equipment to settle the resolute force on the poison that is bestowed on you.

In the maester’s room, there you were, your immovable body splayed at the rocked surface of the surgical table, weakened arms and hands clinging onto dear life. You wouldn’t hold still, not when the maester held the tools with honed end lancing on the poisoned area by your lower stomach.

“No, don’t touch me,” your groaned with plea, tears on the corner of your swell.

The old maester did his bidding, and gazed upon your agony with his melancholic eyes upon your fettle. For a short moment, you were sure that you’re going to die soon. With all that it’s left in your body is shattered and bleeding with venom, leak altogether against your raw and vulnerable flesh.

���It’s alright, my lady, you’re safe,” the maester said with a sad, polite smile.

“Don’t hurt me,” you pleaded, tears prickling.

“It’s alright,” the maester repeated, his gentle voice gradually turned to a firmed tone, petrified of severing you through medicine.

The heavy oak door opened, unveiling the dark silhouette. Though your vision remains unclear, it is obvious who entered the healing room.

A young woman with elongated copper-brown curls reached on her chest, with brown eyes and elegance of her dark green dress was flowing across the floor as she ambled, encountering the maester as you listened in.

“How is the girl?” she asked, rather in a motherly voice.

“I was eliminating the disinfection of the poison, Your Grace. The girl’s stature could not survive long in this dreaded indisposition. She won’t last. Her bones have been fractured and her flesh is newly bled.”

“Have you used the Milk of the Poppy,” the queen asked, hoping. Her hands folded together with anxiousness.

“She took the last of it, Your Grace,” he said with a scowl on his face. “The lack of substance is insufficient—only a quarter of the liquid left; her mind is as resilient as a bull’s head, still awake and eccentrically movable.” He wiped the bleeding knife, sighing. “Mumbling and groaning in her unconscious state. Gods be good.”

“What of her wounds? The markings? Will she ever move again?” Queen Alicent noted your deep scars forged on your smooth, delicate skin, her hand smoothed against your tousled, stiffed locks across your softened look on your face, sleeping.

“The girl requires the milk of the poppy. Should the girl move while under the stead of my delicate care on discarding the poison within her body, her death will be as slow and merciless,” he reminded the queen. “It cannot be undone—The Stranger won’t spare a second chance for anyone. In additional process of cleansing and stitching on her fresh wounds needed delicacy, requires of greater assistance.”

Queen Alicent comprehended. “Go see if there’s anymore milk of the poppy. Bring the other healers to aid the maester,” she eyed and told the servant.

“Yes, Your Grace.” The girl bowed and quitted, skittered through the door.

Queen Alicent ambled and sat beside your restful sleep, whilst you’re unaware of her presence, watching you laboring your staggered breath in the humid air, smothered in heated sweat. Queen Alicent bestowed her concern on your poor health that’s closely endangered, to be sent to the God of Death—The Stranger, one of the many Gods in Westeros. Regardless, Queen Alicent’s main concern is your well-being.

“The effect won’t last long,” he reminded the queen. “There so little of the substance.”

Queen Alicent swept your hair longer. “Do what you must, Maester.”

For she and the others have something else in store for you once you gained consciousness and well accord.

As of now, you must battle your life between the air of life and death.

Piercing cries reached into the barricaded doors in the Red Keep. For those who walked pass by near the halls and down on the staircases leading to the lower grounds, would surely be terrorized by the sounds of your screams that is twice as loud. They were certain it was a dying sound of a dragon, but they were undeniably mistaken.

Luckily, the doors were sealed. No one was awake at the sound of your voice.

“Keep her still,” the maester instructed.

The godswives pinned you down from failing on the table each time you shifted. On a pair of limped legs, your one leg slithered downward across the table, and one of your fractured bones punctured with twinge of pain, searingly poking and a sensation of splinting.

You could no longer withstand the pain, not with the surgical instrument lancing through your bleeding skin. The wounds on your flesh stopped the blood from flowing. Albeit the process was painstakingly slow. The poison was heating up from your stomach and down on your hip.

And the conflict you upheld will unleash. One kick sent the godswife fell on the floor before she had seized your lower calf.

The door boomed, unveiling the healer delivering the milk of the poppy to the Maester. And Queen Alicent entered the room, which the Maester is unexpected with her reoccurring attendance.

The maester was undermined in the position of stress, hoping for other solution, but gained no new ideas to soothe you. Therefore, Queen Alicent went over to your side, ordering the godswife to loosen their grip.

“Listen to my voice,” Alicent murmured.

Little by little, you listened, but your breathing rasp with dejection.

“Don’t fight it, sweet girl,” she said gently, holding the cup filled with milk of the poppy. “This will do you good.”

Struggling to free from their grasp, you gazed at woman in green gown with trepidation.

“I don’t want to die,” you whispered with your ongoing struggle. “I have so much to live for.”

“You won’t be,” she reassured you, settling the cup into your parched lips, and you consumed the liquid and let your head fell down again. “Be brave,” she said. But this time, your struggle has dimmed, as did your eyes blurred harsher, unable to see the silhouettes of her, the maester and the knight. With your limbs sank, your breathing went from rush to steady flow. Your eyelids lulled into sleep.

~Aemond’s POV~

The repair of your wounds has gone successfully. Though rather took quite long, it has gone in favor. Rather, in Prince Aemond’s favor.

Aemond awaited in the dark of the great hall, eavesdropping his mother’s voice, and eyeing on you. As soon as she and Ser Criston left, Aemond met up with the Maester in silent haste.

“Have you told anyone of my whereabouts?”

“No, Your Highness.”

He knew that the Maester told Alicent; spying from one of the secret passage.

His eye flickered over the Maester’s shoulder. “How is she?”

“She’s in good health. She has defeated The Stranger.”

Aemond gave a small smirk. “You did well, Maester. At least I don’t have to kill those who harm the young woman.”

“It would be unwise to pose a threat for the Greens, my prince.”

Aemond had his hand behind his back. “I couldn’t care less of what the common people think of my duty.”

“That you do, my prince.”

Aemond gave the Maester small pouch with five coins for keeping his word, and make his way to your repose body, wearing the strange attire, which it struck an intriguing notion to him. Aside from your appearance, what caught his sight more is your visage and your long locks splayed across the table you laid on, Aemond pressed his fingers and traced the soft line of your face, the smoothness of your face.

Candle light flickered, it casted soft glow onto your features. Lifting your shirt, it revealed the greenish color of the poison faded as for the fresh wounds has been stitched.

Aemond’s hand ached to linger his touch on your flesh. Without so much doubting, his fingers traced over the lines of your waist. Hearing you moan, Aemond’s lips curled upward.

“I shall be taking my leave. Tell the servant to bring a spare attire for her,” he told the Maester, lifting you up in his arms and left the room, walking to a staircase and settled you down to one of the spare rooms. If his family rejected his idea of you staying, he’d rather annihilate King’s Landing than to put you into one of the servant quarters. He found a perfect spot for you to lay rest.

Resting you down on a bed with washed sheets, he dragged a spare chair and sat beside you. Aemond couldn’t restraint his smile at your sleeping figure. Despite it all, he was thankful.

He should have been sleeping in his own chambers, but curiosity lead him awake.

The servant entered with a nightgown and handed it over to the dragon prince. Shivering from the cold, Aemond discerned of your body devoid of blanket.

“She’s cold,” Aemond told the servant. “Fetch her warm blanket.”

As the servant dismissed herself, obliging.

Aemond, without a shred of single doubt, is intrigued with you. While the servant is gone, he resumed tracing his hands and fingertips onto your body.

Moaning, your body shifted on the side, which caused him to chuckle and reverted you back to the former position. A soft hum rumbled into his throat, studying you further, his hand hand splayed over the lines of your exposed thigh, slithered back up to your waistline, cupping your breast while the undergarment is intact. Seeing your chest heaving, it coaxed him to further his touch, smoothing again with your waistline, then up onto the back of your neck, smoothing your cheek with his thumb as he smiled adoringly.

He placed his hand afar when servant returned with a wooly sheet and placed it over onto the foot of the bed.

Aemond then stopped the servant; the girl’s eyes gleamed with fright. “Don’t let her wander out from her chambers; she needs few days of rest. It’d be unwise if she puts herself into harm’s way again. She can stroll through the gardens and the training yard as long as she watched afar.”

The servant could only nod then departed to rest in her own quarters.

Alone again, Aemond unfolded the sleeping wear and had you sat up, your long locks veiled most of your naked figure, though choked when he spotted red outlined marks on your arms. With precision, Aemond had your strange attire remove and exchange with new ones. Laying you down, he undo your tennis skirt and pulled downward, he spotted the red dragon on your whole leg and a pair of thin and pink material clad your womanhood.

Licking his lips, he smoothed the linen of your nightgown, shielding your legs and awaited for the maid to return.

When the maid has been summoned upon the demands of a prince, Aemond handed your attire over to a trembled servant, requesting for a good wash.

“I trust you tended to her needs whenever she desires and not utter a word to my family regarding to my requests or my doings,” he stated.

“No, my prince,” she said.

“Should you utter, I’ll feed your corpse to Vhagar,” he growled.

Aemond could only gaze upon her meek stance and parted away into the room anew and stayed, eyeing you. Shifting onto your bed, particularly your legs from sliding down with a soft stretch, Aemond couldn’t keep his hands apart. His mind plagued with other ideas. But held them off and left your chambers after looking at you one last time.

~your dream~

The sudden chill on your body has left with warmth and comforted with safety, not with the sheets of think blanket, but rather in the arms of a strong man. In the void of your dreams, you spotted long locks of silver-gold shining like golden halo as the blue eye behold with a sapphire stone on the other eye.

“My beloved star,” his voice echoed.

~Your POV~

Your drowsy body lurched, resulting your stomach and stitches twinged in exasperating pain, hissing.

“My lady, you should be careful with your wounds,” the servant girl said.

Hand over your head, your tousled hair tainted the pillows you slept on with black sand sticking onto your head.

“Oh, I stained the pillow,” you said. “I’m so sorry, I’ll wash it.”

Before you had a chance of disarding the pillow case, the servant girl halted you. “I shall take of it, my lady.”

Remembering where you’re at, you surrendered; the wounds you endured is another battle.

The servant carried the bowl with porridge, lifting the spoon and approached close to your mouth, you said, “I never like porridge.”

Shocked, the servant insisted with, “You must, it’s good for the wound.”

“As much I would like to, I’d rather eat something else, if you don’t mind,” you insisted.

She settled the bowl down. “What do you wish to have at this moment, my lady?”

“Ham, bread and cheese,” you requested. “A hot cup of tea. If it’s required for me to eat porridge, then I’ll do it.”

The servant rose onto her feet with a smile. “I’ll fetch your food right away, my lady.”

“Thank you,” you said.

“Anything else, my lady?” she anticipated.

“A bath,” you said, cheeks flushed as your head lowered, hidden in shame.

The servant bowed and calmly shut the door.

Your head plopped back down on the tainted pillows, not for long. The morning weather has simmered with sunlight. Abiding for your meal, you lounged, idling and contemplating.

From a modern world, jumping back to centuries past is one thing, but in a fictional world is another. In order to see another day, you must play the game.

You’re startled at the sound of a knock from the door in your contemplation. It was rather quick.

The servant returned, gladly served the meal on the round table and quitted the chambers, as you consumed every single piece of the breakfast portion. Once you’re finished, you propped the tray on the desk, and as you grabbed a cup of tea, the parchment fell down onto your lap.

Breaking the seal, the parchment wrote in few words.

Beauty is not when a soul finds when awake, rather in sleep.

Your heart raced, though slowed when it has no name—not knowing what the letter meant.

But for some reason, you feel as if you’re being watched.

In solace, your servant returned with new dress and shoes for you, and prepared a steaming bath on the room next door with smoke materializing.

“The bath is ready,” she notified.

Undo your nightgown and undergarments, you hopped into the bathtub, soaked with bubbles and rose scented bar soap with a new bottle contained in liquid substance like jelly—the Maester created hair cleanser for hair like yours—muddy and greasy. And so, while the servant assisted you, scrubbing your hair, you lathered yourself with bar soap, washing off the black sands from Blackwater Bay at the Dragonstone. By the time you’re done rinsing and drying yourself, she wore the dress over your head. While you’re combing your hair, she tied the corset around you and then gestured your feet to insert into the shoes. Last but certainly not least, she clasped the golden necklace on you at the vanity mirror.

For a moment, the self-conscious in you dwindled, for you have seen yourself in a mirror, filled with new life striving.

Another knock came in. You answered, revealing the Maester with medicinal items in hand and greeted you “Good morrow.” After a short exchange of words, you let him in, and allowed him to inspect your wounds and delivered you the milk of the poppy, then made a further inspection of your new wounds and the poison in your belly. In the end, the maester is relieved.

Another knock came in for the third time. Revealed Ser Criston Cole swung the chamber door open, following Queen Alicent. The servant already left once she gathered the soiled sheets before the arrival of the maester and the Greens.

“Your Grace,” the Maester bowed, though you didn’t have time to curtsy because the characters you’ve seen on the show are brought to life.

Overwhelmed, you curtsied though as if you’re suffocating with elation.

Queen Alicent gazed at you before the Maester.

“How is she fairing, Maester?”

“The wounds on her flesh are still new. But with her withstand to harm is astounding; and yet she’s able to move with agility and ease.”

Queen Alicent darted her eyes on you, from head to your shoes. “How are you fairing, sweet girl?”

Your mouth opened, stuttered. “I’m doing perfectly okay, Your Grace.”

Alicent grinned. “Wonderful. I hope King’s Landing doesn’t settle disagreement in your heart,” she said.

“No,” you replied, shaking your head. “I’m not offended. Not in the least.”

Queen Alicent examined you. With your cleansed appearance, she finds herself genuinely smiling again.

“What is your name, sweet girl?”

“Name’s (y/n), Your Grace,” you said in a somber smile, drowsy during the massive effect of Milk of the Poppy.

Alicent seems pleased with your introduction. “A pleasure. Rhaenyra’s right. You are beautiful.” Then her face turned grave. “As much as we idle our conversation, you must be prepared with your answers with the Blacks. You protected their heir, just as you rescued my daughter, what’s more is your capabilities, so brace yourself. I shall be heading to the council with the others. Ser Marrow will escort you to the council room once you’re done meeting with the Maester.”

You nodded. “Alright.”

“I shall see you there.” Queen Alicent left without a word as Ser Criston followed.

After done conversing with the Maester, you thanked him as he left your quarters.

Dabbing your lips with lipstick, you ushered yourself to meet Ser Marrow. But instead of a greeting, he struck a blow on your belly and the side of your cheekbone with his gauntlet not once but seven times, bruising your lips and nose, and blindfolded you with a golden fabric.

“You should’ve stayed dead, you whore,” he said, then dragged you down at the council.

~Aemond's POV~

It was a clear message when Alicent told Aemond that she had an important council meeting up the high floor. Meaning, no heir is allowed to enter unless the heir becomes King or Queen. Disregarding of his mother's words, Aemond found his way through the secret passage again, peering through the carved hole, as he flicked his gaze, spotting Alicent and Criston, chatting, while the rest were still on a most gossiped subject that lasted in recent days--the green star.

"Looking for someone," a voice said.

Aemond looked over to his brother, Aegon, who was drinking red wine in a heavy goblet.

"You shouldn't be here, brother," he said.

"Neither should you," Aegon said. "Besides, you didn't answer my question."

Aemond ignored him and listened to Alicent's conversation.

“Where could she have gone? Did the guard lead her onto the wrong room?” Alicent agitated.

“She’ll be here soon,” Ser Criston assured her, watching the Blacks interacting.

Their talk has cut through the air when the double doors boomed, startling the Blacks and Green; with you in his hand, keeping you standing, bleeding as your dress tattered, and your nostrils bloodied, eyes shielded with blindfold, and your hands tied on the back.

“Here’s the whore you wanted,” Ser Marrow seethed to the Greens, casted you down with splat.

Your head raised and studied the environment—the council room. But you took noticed of the Blacks and Greens’s faces, are all unexpectedly mortified of your bruised appearance and the guard’s sudden outburst.

In the land of Westeros, a girl from a modern century has entered into the House of the Dragons.

@ aemondswifffeeeyyy - all rights reserved

Taglist: @galactict3a @daonenonlysandman @toodlesxcuddles @hufflepuff1700 @colored-tr-panels @valeskafics

[milswrites]

How To Train Your Illyrian Prologue

Cassian X Morrigan'sSister!Reader

Series Masterlist

Summary: Growing up in Windhaven doesn’t give you the best table manners. Cassian was an Illyrian soldier and that meant that most of the time he acted like a barbarian. When he enters Rhysand’s court, it’s you who must show him the ropes of proper Night Court etiquette. But will you be able to train the untrainable?

Warnings: A lil angsty

Notes: Let me know if you want to be tagged (see the note at the end for an explanation)

Hewn City was not a place for those of weak heart and fragile mind. You don’t just live in the Court of Nightmares; you have to fight in order to survive it.

To live is to adapt, and to adapt to a life in this wretched city you have to learn that the only thing that matters here is power, and to the likes of Kier and his small legion of command, power was everything.

To them power wasn’t about wealth, status or ownership. Power was about control, about the complacency of their subjugates and their greed for power ran deeper than any ocean. Making them willing servants to their desire for authority.

It was the coronation of the new High Lord, which caused the stir of panic within Hewn, whispers of the young male's new regimes flooded the ebony halls. Opposed to any senseless changes which may soon be made, the Lords under the mountain tightened their grip on the strings of control they had held for many years prior to this new ascension.

Yet their claws didn't sink as deeply as they had once assumed. Free from their control the ever changing winds blew in a new direction, now carrying a different type of news. The hushed whispers of a promise, an oath that the Night Court will one day see better and brighter days ahead. A promise that Kier so longed to crush.

The first upset was the bastard Illyrian’s promotion to the General of the Night Court’s army. A valued role once reserved for those of pure blood and golden lineage, now tarnished by the brute's filthy ancestry.

The next slight came soon after the first in the form of an announcement, Rhysand had selected his second-in-command, giving the gravely important role to a woman. Yet this was a decision Kier was too afraid to contest, the otherworldly beast which lurked behind Amren's silver eyes dared the bitter Lord to protest her new position, a cruel smirk slicing across her face as she absorbed his quaking form.

It was Morrigan’s advancement into Rhysand’s court that was the biggest slap in the face for Kier. An unwelcome sign that the power he held over the Night Court was indeed slipping from his vice-like grip. The Lord of Nightmares was smart enough to see this act for what it was, a threat. A ceremonious performance by the young High Lord which veiled the true meaning of the young woman’s appointment into Rhysand’s court.

It was a contest of power, Rhysand’s subtle way of bearing his sharp teeth at Kier in warning. His way of establishing the dominance he had over the Night Court.

Kier didn't take this insult lightly, the spiteful male beginning to sew the poisonous seeds of his hatred throughout Hewn City in protest. Slowly turning the inhabitants loyalty from their new High Lord back to himself, settling the roots of the thorns which would one day grow to choke Rhysand's new regime.

Power was power.

That's what Kier would prove to Rhysand. That try as Rhysand might to wear the mask of leadership, Hewn City belonged to him. Each miserable soul who had the misfortune of living there, every onyx brick which made up the hollow streets, Kier owned it all.

Though the Lord of Night was no fool, he saw the flames of rebellion which flickered in the treacherous streets of Hewn. Heard the accusatory whispers which were carried to him by the winds.

So it was decided that Rhysand would play Kier at his own game, opting to plant his own seeds of destruction within the Court of Nightmares. And what better way to uproot Kier's nefarious plans than by welcoming his youngest daughter into his court, choosing to further fuel the inferno which was currently waging war against the political infrastructure of Hewn.

And so Rhysand hired you, standing by with a smile as he watched Kier's world crumble and burn. Waiting to see what move the wounded male would make next.

Leaving you to hope that you don’t get hurt in the process.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Notes: So I know you're probably confused about how we've gone from Part 8 to a prologue. I love the concept of this series I just knew I could do better on the execution so here we are! I’m sorry this has happened but I really want this to be something I’m proud of and I’m already so excited about it!

You can expect more arguments, more tension and more smut!

I'm going to tag all of you on this one just so you know what's going on, but if any of you would like to opt out of the tags I totally understand!

Taglist (let me know if you want to be added):

@esposadomd @gorlillaglue25 @tele86 @azriels-shadowsinger @justvibbinghere @mybestfriendmademe @kalulakunundrum @abysshaven @iluvyewman-blog @lectoracronica @st0rmyt @aunicornmademedoit @blackgirlmagicforever @awkardnerd @acourtof-wingspan @12358 @sh4nn @roses-are-red54330

[monossidodiazoto]

NUcarnival event - Army x Blood x Oath - Chapters 2 ~ 8 gif

[puffles]

Army x Blood x Oath and Blood Secret Chibi Icons

[damneddamsy]

renegade | aemond targaryen x oc (part viii)

a/n: the 2 big C's - cregan and character deaths

With Aegon II Targaryen averred as king in King's Landing and Rhaenyra crowned queen in Dragonstone, a war among kin was brewing on the horizon. Upon Prince Jacaerys' request, it was resolved by Queen Rhaenyra that she would send her three eldest children—Princess Aemma, Prince Jace and Luke—as messengers on dragonback to remind the great houses of whom they had sworn fealty to her succession nigh on twenty years ago.

"Dragons will persuade the lords more than a raven scroll," Jace had said. "Let them see that we are the blood of the dragon and we are not to be disparaged."

It was decided that Aemma, the oldest of her siblings, would fly to Winterfell to meet with Lord Stark, given his previous inclinations in treating with her before her hasty marriage to Prince Aemond. By stealth, the queen wanted to propitiate Cregan Stark's displeasure with her daughter as a significant motivation. It was a foul thought for a mother to have, but chances were on her side.

The princess was initially defiant about being cozened into this bloodshed. Whilst her husband advocated his traitor brother's claim to the throne and her mother played her for a mummer in her siege to the throne, she preferred to bide her time. She would not be made to raise war against her husband and, moreover her dearest friend.

That evening, Prince Daemon had cornered his stepdaughter in her chambers and bore down on her.

"You, my girl, piss on compromise—I adore that. But, ambition without intellect is like a bird without wings," Daemon had said to Aemma. "Are you a chicken or a dragon?"

She had snorted. "Better that than ambition without conscience. You would lead my little brothers to slaughter and death."

"Then take no part in it. Go as the queen's emissary and nothing else." He glanced at her, slightly encouraged. "Assure safety to your kin. Do your mother good and help her raise an army."

Jace, the oldest male of the three, was entrusted with a longer and trickier task of flying to Eyrie to meet with the Lady of the Vale, Jeyne Arryn first, before making his way to White Harbour to win over Lord Manderly.

At long last, Princess Aemma attempted to advise the queen against sending her little brothers anywhere, fearing their novice would travail their situation. Jace was fifteen and Luke was but thirteen, and Aemma had noticed how her youngest brother had blanched upon her mother's decision. Luke was in no way fit to deal with those mighty lords alone.

"Both your brothers have served as squires for long," Rhaenyra pacified Aemma, bringing her aside from the great painted table. "It is you we fear for. You only mounted Silverwing three days ago. With winter’s grip tightening in the North, we cannot risk your health flaring up on the journey."

Luke silently lingered by her and squeezed Aemma's tense shoulder, sheepish to her protectiveness. "You minimize me, Emmy. I am to be the Lord of the Tides one day. I can fight as well as my brother."

"Arrax is yet a fledgling," she insisted.

"A dragon, nonetheless." But his rejoinder went by ignored.

"At least send Luke and Jace together," Aemma pleaded to her mother. "They will make each other invulnerable, protect themselves."

"It would be time wasted," her mother said.

"Then I shall accompany Luke to Winterfell, persuade Lord Stark, and afterwards proceed to Storm's End," Aemma declared firmly. She took her mother’s hand, gripping it tightly. "Arm my brother with his blade, and let him act as my ward instead."

"There will be no fighting," Rhaenyra especially prompted. "You will only go as my envoys. Remind the lords of the oaths they swore."

"Then Luke will be my knight," Aemma triumphed.

The queen hesitated, her gaze shifting between her daughter’s earnest plea and the anxious figure of young Luke standing behind her. Rhaenyra could sense the depth of Aemma’s desperation, the way she fervently protected her siblings with a fierce loyalty that had always been evident. Whether it was managing a simple supper or overseeing rigorous training, Aemma had always been protective of her younger brothers, asserting her authority with unwavering dedication. Her devotion was so profound that, if either of her brothers were not fully on board, Aemma would have upended the household to find recourse.

Daemon had once remarked that Aemma’s dedication to her brothers was a way of compensating for the absence of Aemond as if the next best thing was to safeguard her own kin with even greater intensity.

Now, as Aemma ardently defended her younger brothers, Rhaenyra found herself torn. She was caught between honouring her beloved daughter's unrelenting aims and fulfilling her obligation to the realm justly.

Finally, Rhaenyra nodded. "So be it."

Little Joffrey stepped between Aemma and his mother, his mouth twisted in disdain. They watched him incredulously, Daemon included. Rhaenyra smothered a smile at how her children lovingly doted on one another.

"I will fly on Tyraxes with Jace. I will be his knight," he offered harshly. "Let me go with my family, mummy."

Luke tousled his brother's hair, who fought off his mischief. "Sheath your steel, Joff. Daemon needs you and your dragon here, on the lookout with Moondancer."

Come undern, Aemma lingered in her chambers, feeling like a fish far from the familiar seas. The garments laid out for her—a sleek brigandine with armoured layers—were finely designed yet undeniably cumbersome. The synthetic scales and padded wadding were meant to mimic the attire of a Targaryen dragonrider, but the weight of it felt oppressive.

She sighed in frustration, tugging at the stiff jacket. When her mother arrived at the door, a knowing smile on her face, the realization dawned.

"As much as you'd like to shield me to the teeth, Mother, I'm still flesh and bone underneath," Aemma said, grumbling as she smoothed the jacket’s skirting. "Seven hells, I can barely move in this."

"This old thing was mine once," Rhaenyra revealed, her tone soft with nostalgia. Aemma turned to her, surprise flickering across her face. "Though it seems you’ve outgrown it. You’re taller than I was at your age."

Aemma tilted her sleeve, inspecting the gold stitching and intricate patterns that mimicked the form of Syrax, her mother’s dragon. Her fingers traced the delicate embroidery, a grin spreading across her lips.

"Beautiful," she murmured.

"I’ve imagined you like this since the day your tiny hand curled around my finger," Rhaenyra mused, standing beside her daughter and speaking through their reflection in the mirror. Her hands gently adjusted the braids near Aemma’s temple, a wistful look in her eyes.

"I know you wish none of this were happening," Rhaenyra continued, her voice tender. "But I am eternally grateful that you would do this, for your queen."

"For my mother," Aemma corrected, her voice barely above a murmur.

Rhaenyra’s expression softened, her indigo eyes shining as she leaned in to kiss Aemma’s cheek, the gesture overflowing with affection. One kiss turned into three more, each more desperate than the last as if trying to hold on to her daughter before she had to let her go.

"Hurry back to me, sweetling," Rhaenyra whispered, her voice thick with emotion, her hand lingering on Aemma’s arm as though she could keep her safe just a little longer.

The three siblings departed from Dragonstone on their dragons. Silverwing and Arrax flew north, battling the rash winds and winter, while Vermax flew west toward the Bloody Gate. Throughout their leave-taking, the entire island held its breath. Something was left amiss, for sure.

X

Prince Luke and Princess Aemma Velaryon's arrival at Winterfell was of distinction, as decreed by their northern king. Despite the daunting fire-breathing beasts that came thundering down onto their outer courtyards, Lord Cregan Stark and his few council members lingered outside the entrance gates, waiting on hand and foot.

Lord Stark was most persistent to see the Targaryen princess who had dashed his hopes, considering that he should be raising his banners against her in a war for breaking her word. For months, the young lord had heard tell of her beauty, elegance and infinite passion, and a few gossips of her paternal lineage. She had acquitted herself well to her people, kith and kin; spirited, gracious, knowledgeable, good-humoured, and treasured by the smallfolk. Out of sight, Princess Aemma had him fascinated, twisted into a wordless spell.

And now, as he saw Aemma dismount her awesome dragon, she appeared as a might-have-been. What a vision, the princess was; her eyes gleamed with the warmth that could melt a thousand winters, while the hazy evening sun bathed her in a golden glow, offering her the aura of a queen long forgotten. There was no mistaking the magnificence of her lineage, visible in the silvery sheen of her hair and the striking features of her face. In stark contrast, her brother stood at her side, lacking the same Targaryen traits but every bit as protective, his presence quietly formidable.

"Lord Stark," Prince Lucerys greeted, nervousness cloaked beneath his strong voice. "I am Prince Lucerys Velaryon. This is my sister, Princess Aemma Velaryon, heir to the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. We bear a message from our mother... the Queen."

Just then, the boy prince's dragon let out a deafening roar. Whilst Lord Stark's meagre council staggered back and away, the young lord stood his ground, amazed.

Aemma curtsied with a quiet greeting, her head held high. There were traces of a grin on her shivering lips—she was not dressed for such cold—and she galumphed across the snow with a tightly bound scroll.

"Good morrow, my lords," she addressed his council first, then the Warden of the North. "I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Lord Cregan."

Aemma spoke exuding the integrity she wished would make up for his disfavour.

Cregan made do with a slow nod and a breathy, "Princess." He couldn't take his eyes off her.

"I hope you bear no malice towards my engagements, my lord. Or that my impulsive actions are to the detriment of your ancestor's oath to my grandsire." Her silver-toned voice was faint, as if these words were only meant for him.

Cregan simply flashed her a smile, instinctively taking her scroll-carrying hand into his. He brushed a courteous kiss against her gloved knuckles before acquiring the message.

"Starks do not forget their oaths, princess," he proclaimed. He leaned closer, saying, "And believe me, your beauty is one I would raise my swords and banners against your prince husband in a blink."

Aemma managed a suave laugh. "My prince husband would rend a vein in his head if he heard your words."

Cregan arched a quizzical brow. "Who just happens to be southward, miles away, plotting his war resisting the Queen. I am compelled to assume his loyalties are hence withdrawn."

This struck home, and her jaw flexed. "They remain true, my lord. Writ in dragonglass, bound by blood."

"So I've heard," he said, barely concealing his amusement. "I meant no disrespect, princess. Even the many cold mysteries that lay beyond the Wall cannot stand to compare with matters of a lady's heart."

Aemma chewed the inside of her cheek, stifling the levity that built in her. A shiver wracked her body, and she darted a look at Luke, who stood a few steps behind her, watching his sister's interaction, shifting his weight from foot to foot, and blowing into his palms. The cold was overwhelming him, too.

"Let us pursue this matter further in a more amiable setting. Winterfell is yours for tonight, Your Graces," Lord Stark announced before Aemma could make a request. She shuffled back to join her brother's side.

"To all appearances, our summer snow does not agree with dragon blood. I'll have warm clothes sent to your chambers. I expect you'll be walking piles of quilts for supper."

Aemma burst forth a snicker, unlike Luke who was quick to take offence. He glanced his disdain at his sister, prickled by the lord's familiarity. Cregan bowed his head with a spirited grin aimed at the prince and princess before stepping aside to direct the path to the Winterfell gates.

"If it so pleases you, I would be honoured to show you around the castle," he remarked, eyeing Aemma particularly.

"For the sake of goodwill, my only request is that no one infringes on our dragons without us, my lord," Luke informed before walking forward. His tone was tinged with an immature threat. "Contrary to our gracious disposition, dragons are far less so, their mercy though a breath of fire."

Cregan acknowledged this with a courteous nod. "Very well, my prince."

"Silverwing is rather benign," Aemma interjected, striving to allay their concern. "And Arrax has been well-fed before our journey. I assure you, they will bring no harm to your people."

The lord pursed his lips, fighting a smile as he bowed his head once more.

"Your assurances are most welcome, princess," Cregan said, his tone even but grey eyes gleaming with thinly veiled mirth. "Though I must confess, it's not the fullness of a dragon's belly that troubles us, but how swiftly it empties."

X

As much as Aemma despised the bereft frost and the muddy funk the north had to offer, she could not deny how captivating their hearts were. Northmen and women carried themselves with honour above all else, bound to duty for their castle and regent. Like raw gold, they were unpolished but held a promise of brilliance once refined.

Their values glistened most promisingly in their young lord and king, Cregan Stark. At merely seven and ten, he was sized like a titan, unmatched by her athletic Aemond, and built like an ox, swathed in a dense cloak of wolf furs and leathers, amassing his ancestral Valyrian sword, Ice. His pride wafted out in vaunts of his home and his duty-bound traditions and resilience to the Wall. His accent was thick, assertive yet unfamiliar to Aemma's ears, his voice tinged with the lilting cadence of the North.

In the castle stables, they came upon the direwolves, and Aemma’s excitement was uncontainable. She had only ever known one direwolf, her own Seasmoke, and now before her was an entire pack with pups. She could hardly believe it.

"I’ve never heard of direwolves surviving so far south of the Wall," Cregan mused as he watched her awe-struck expression. The wolves, still untamed, were kept behind barricades, wild and untrained, but their presence was nothing short of glorious.

"My direwolf is named Seasmoke," Aemma said with quiet pride, her voice softening with fondness. Her eyes grew misty as the green memories awakened. "Named after my father's dragon. Aemond and I raised him as a companion. We were the only ones of our kin without dragons for a long time; Seasmoke was our solace, our friend in that loneliness."

Cregan’s lips curled into a thoughtful smirk. "I understand now," he said quietly.

Aemma turned to him, her brow furrowing slightly. "Understand what?"

"It was not haste," Cregan replied, his voice gentle but sure. "You simply married your friend. Few are so fortunate."

Aemma couldn’t suppress the smile that blossomed on her lips, warm and unbidden. "Fortunate indeed," she agreed, her voice barely above a whisper.

Cregan’s expression turned serious, his gaze unflinching as he met her dark, doe eyes. "If we are past evasions, there is something I would ask freely."

"Anything."

"Is it not treachery that Prince Aemond stands with the usurpers instead of the rightful queen?"

Aemma exhaled slowly, a weary grimace tugging at her features. "This whole war is treason, my lord," she answered, her voice heavy with the weight of her thoughts. "I fear what we have begun."

A lavish feast was hosted during supper to honour the Targaryen nobility who graced the halls of Winterfell. Aemma was resplendent—tireless to win over the young lord—in striking black velvet adorned with thick furs, her pendant sleeves embroidered with intricate dragon motifs. Beside her, on the grand table overlooking the Great Hall replete with folk, Luke wore a regal black pelt draped over his shoulders in the manner of dragon scales, the red sigil of his house prominently displayed on his raven armour.

Aemma's bell-like laugh rang out louder than the chortles among the men in the hall when one of Cregan's captains had cracked a joke about most of his men puffing up like overstuffed armchairs during their harshest winter from a few years ago.

Luke stewed in silence, observant of his sister's unstinting friendliness. She had effortlessly impressed upon the lord's heart, no doubt, now remained the lingering question of his obeisance. He subtly touched his elbow against Aemma's in a signal.

Aemma glimpsed him, wiping a tear from her eye, from laughing too hard. She happily cut another slice of pie onto her plate before adding a few slices of honeycake onto Luke's.

"Must you remain so shy, brother?" She waved to a table full of boys who appeared his age, engaged in lively dialogue. "Interactions would do you good."

"Well, these interactions would be more esteemed if I..." he sighed, peeking at his sister's silvery hair and angled features. "Never mind."

Aemma laid down her cutlery to scowl at him. "Luke."

"Nothing," he hedged.

"Tell me. What's wrong?" she urged softly.

He shook his head before he mumbled, "Some guards took me for an outsider when I ventured out to see Arrax. Perhaps they anticipated a dragonrider more akin to our uncle or mother."

Subdued by sympathy, Aemma palmed his shoulder and then his cheek. "It is the mark of our lineage to defy expectations, not simply hair and skin. You carry the legacy of the Conqueror and Old Valyria, Lucerys, no matter who you resemble." She let out a disbelieving giggle, tousling his hair. "Your steed is a dragon—how many among these people can claim such a distinguished feat?"

Luke's spirits were lifted by the reminder of his place and worth. He bared her a smile, shrugging. "You."

She tilted her head. "Besides, I think some people

More than anyone else, he felt acknowledged that Aemma valued him the most despite his differences. While Jace taught him to fight back, he learned from Aemma to take advantage of his disparities.

He took his sister's hand into his and held it to his lap silently. He didn't need to impart his thanks, he would not sour their bond with such silly presumption.

Cregan smiled to himself as he quietly listened to the conversation between the siblings. What misfortune indeed, he thought. Aemma would have been an incredible match for him, as a lady and his wife. Upon first impressions, integrity became her. Now, she carried herself with the succour of a good queen. Ice and fire would have found a home to coexist between them, here in the north.

"If I may, Lord Stark," Aemma called for his attention, clearing her throat. She was going to cut straight to the chase. "Your hospitality precedes you, truly. But our time here is scarce. The realm will be in dire straits if the North fails to recall the oath sworn to King Viserys and his rightful heir."

"The North remembers, princess," he declared.

Aemma let a relieving grin spread on her lips. His further words dampened her smile.

"But my gaze is forever torn between north and south. In winter, my duty to the Wall is even more dire than the one I owe to King's Landing." He pressed two emphatic fingers down on the table. "I need my men here."

"The Hightowers have usurped the throne," she insisted, her tone morose. "If my mother is to defend her claim, she needs an army. War is coming, my lord, and our queen cannot wage it without your support."

Murmurs and raucous conversations around them drown out their fortuitous silence.

Feeling as if her negotiation had come to nought, Aemma shrunk her shoulders and returned to her plate, staring out her defeat. Would this have been easier if she had remained unhasty, or even secretive, and brought forward a marriage pact to the lord? Would she take to pleading? Perhaps this was her impulse's due consequence.

"I have thousands of graybeards who've already seen too many winters," he pronounced, his attentive eyes yet to have left her face. "They are... well-honed."

A flicker of triumph appeared in her eyes before it vanished to steely-nerved determination. She nodded once at him before letting a curious smirk curl on her lips.

"They are old," she mentioned.

"They will fight hard." He leaned closer, whispering, "Like Northerners."

"Our queen would be honoured to have their prowess be of service to her," Aemma praised.

"I will ready them to march at once."

When she looked at her brother over her shoulder, she offered him a victorious wink. Luke responded with a slight nod, his lips curling into a bemused smile.

X

It was Lord Stark alone who bade farewell to the princess and princeling on the morrow whilst the sunshine still drifted behind a gloomy sky. He had shed his thick furs and menacing sword for his leather coat of plates, wishing for calm winds to carry the siblings on their arduous journey east.

Silverwing trilled a soft, melodic song, her wings beating gently as the pearly snow cascaded around her like dust motes in an abandoned hall. It was as if she were welcoming Aemma home. Aemma reached up, her hand brushing against Silverwing’s snout before trailing down the horned scales of her warm, thrumming throat.

"Iksan kesīr, gevie. Lykirī," Aemma murmured soothingly. (I am here, beautiful. Be calm.)

"A she-dragon," Cregan remarked, his tone laced with newfound understanding.

Silverwing nudged her great purring maw into Aemma's stomach, eliciting a chuckle from the princess.

She glanced at Cregan, amusement dancing in her eyes. "Does she take after her rider?" she teased.

Cregan’s lips curled into a smirk. "You’re only missing two wings, princess."

Before Aemma could respond, she heard Luke call her name, "Em!"

His voice was impatient, coming from where Arrax pawed at the ground, eager to escape the biting cold. Aemma’s laugh faltered as her gaze shifted to her brother. She stilled, seeing the shock written all over his face.

Luke’s awestruck gaze rested on a small, sizzling mound of snow, no taller than his sister’s knee, its shape undeniable—like a fresh dragon clutch. Silverwing had nested here during the night.

"What do we do?" Luke’s voice trembled slightly at the sight, unnerved by the prospect of what lay before them.

Aemma, caught between awe and uncertainty, steadied herself, her mind drifting to the wisdom of their mother. Only sharp reasoning would pull them through this.

"We... should take them with us to Storm’s End," she said, almost in a daze, her voice filled with calm resolve. "Perhaps we could offer an egg to Lord Borros, should he swear his fealty to our mother. He’s a vain man, she said. This could win him without any fuss."

Luke, still rattled but reassured by his sister’s clarity, flashed her a grateful grin. Without further hesitation, he drew his dagger and began slicing through the tough membrane covering the clutch. Inside, nestled in the steaming heat, lay three perfect dragon eggs, shimmering in silver, red, and violet.

"I really have seen everything," Cregan wondered to himself.

"Not in the slightest, m'lord," Luke huffed, glancing at Aemma.

He and Aemma carefully retrieved the eggs, their hands reverent as they placed them one by one into a satchel waiting nearby.

Luke, with a serious expression, secured the flap and slung the satchel over his shoulder. The weight of the future, the hope these eggs represented, now rested on him. He would carry them to Storm’s End, where he would face Lord Borros alone.

Aemma, sensing the significance of the moment, turned to Cregan, who stood quietly by her side, observing the scene. Her eyes, warm and earnest, met his.

"You've been a gracious host, my lord," she complimented, her voice soft but laced with hope.

Cregan’s gaze softened as he looked at her. "Much obliged, princess."

"I'm certain we will see each other once again. I'd love to show you around Dragonstone," Aemma said, a faint smile touching her lips as their eyes lingered for a moment longer.

"I await that day," he promised.

X

The siblings were again on the wing, charting a course to the Stormlands. It was a gruelling many-hours-long journey, so much so that Aemma began to rub her thighs raw from straddling the saddle.

Snow gave way to storm-wracked isles, and out of the horizon, rose the crests and spokes of the Storm's End fortress, centuries old in the gusty oceans with little wear to show for it. A single, colossal edifice, buttressed to the hilt endured the impending tempest like a fist of spikes.

The sight of menacing Vhagar cloistered in the outer courtyard had Aemma gleaming with a smile. Her heart painfully clenched in her chest when she realized that they had convened as opposing sides of their factionalized families, so any chance of meeting Aemond would be null.

So Aemma pursued Arrax's path of flight, descending off Silverwing who seemed to answer the gruff roars of Vhagar with her own hollers. An apprehensive Luke dismounted a shrieking Arrax to come up on the Baratheon soldiers whilst noticing Vhagar's looming head above the bridging battlements.

"Luke!" Aemma tried to yell at him.

He turned to nod at her, wilfully showing her the silver egg he had safely tucked between his chest and forearm. "I can do this, Emmy! Wait for me!"

"Let me come with you." Too bad, her words were a mere whisper in the gales and Luke had disappeared behind the impenetrable doors. The knights went back to their positions, evident that she would not be getting through.

Vhagar's savage roar rattled the bones in her ribcage. It unsettled Silverwing, too, who thundered back in return and advanced defensively over Aemma. She stood right beneath the fiery belly of her dragon, shielded between two towering wings.

Aemma touched Silverwing's shivering scales, stroking. Silverwing's tense growls subdued beneath her careful palms.

She attempted to console the impatient dragon. "Ssh. Skoros iksis ziry, Gēliotīkun?" (Ssh. What is it, Silverwing?)

Silverwing released another uncharacteristically aggressive roar, so deafening that Aemma had to press her palms tightly over her ears. Even Arrax had sensed a strange disturbance in the air, flapping his wings and bellowing out more shrieks.

"Lykiri, Silverwing. Iksan kesīr, paktot kesir," Aemma tried again, tilting her head up to catch Silverwing's auburn eye, (Calm down. I'm here, right here.)

Eventually, Silverwing sank her great head down by Aemma's side to blink her obscure emotion at her. Unknowingly, Aemma rubbed at the curve of her coarse jaw back and forth, conveying her consolation through her touch.

"Bastard!"

A vicious seethe boomed past the doors, cutting through the gushing winds following a whip of lightning and another of Vhagar's roars. The word crushed an unfeeling weight in her heart, especially with the deep voice it came bearing.

Aemma had not noticed Luke's hurried appearance out the bolted doors. She rushed to her brother's side, blood coursing through her veins, unease catching in her throat.

Luke, still clutching the dragon egg, had his eyes round with horror. "We need to leave. We need to leave now."

"What was that—what has happened?"

He shook his terrified head, half in words and half in gasps. "He wants... He wants my eye."

"Aemond," she whispered, now totally conscious.

"He was there!" Luke blustered. "He came with Dreamfyre's clutch and then he nearly cornered me!"

She inhaled deeply, understanding the full implication of his words. She had suspected for some time now the depth of his resolve. Her dearest friend had once told her, "Better to be feared than scorned," a sentiment laced with the retribution he believed he deserved. What kind of sister would she be if she allowed her little brother to believe that sacrificing his eye would quench the burning vengeance in her husband’s heart? Aemond was not going to leave this place without shedding blood—someone's blood. And she would not allow it to be Lucerys.

Vhagar's wings stormed up and into the grey clouds, leaving their line of sight.

Aemma gulped down her dread and quickly ushered Luke forward. No time to waste.

"Quickly. Get on Arrax," she ordered.

He nodded shakily. "You?"

"You fly first. I'll follow close behind—Silverwing and I will stand guard on your tail."

He was not convinced. "What if he—"

"I will keep you safe, as I always have." She held his trembling cheek firmly. "Aemond will not get past me."

She said this with all the confidence in her heart. If one thing she was certain about, Aemond would rather gouge out his other eye than see her harmed by his hand. Because that is exactly what Aemma would do, too. She trusted him enough to trust her instincts on this.

The rains whipped at them, harsher now, as if urging them off the island at once. Luke blustered calming commands at his twittering dragon before taking up the saddle and tightening his harness. Aemma stood by and watched him fly off, and then she dashed to Silvering, who waited with her torso lowered to the ground, awaiting her.

As soon as Aemma mounted her, she shouted, "Soves, Silverwing!"

A thunderclap cracked the darkened sky, and their dragons roared. It wasn't a dance anymore—this was a full-blown war.

Up ahead, through a blurry film of clouds, Arrax bolted on, battling the rain and winds. Luke looked behind him, his fright shifting to reassurance when she spotted Silverwing, as promised, close on his tail. He would have some probability of avoidance tonight, thanks to his sister.

Vhagar threatened them from above, casting a pall over them, ten times larger than Arrax, particularly more battle-worn than Silverwing.

"Dracarys!" Aemond's vindictive growl shattered between them.

Bright amber flames gushed forth, not meaning to harm either of them, only meant to separate them. As if to kindle the vestige of doubt that flashed in her mind, Aemma gasped when Silverwing staggered, trilling in surprise.

Beyond, Luke had twisted Arrax, deftly switching his direction to find cover between the clouds. A breath of relief staggered into her chest.

"Vhagar, daor!" She heard her husband's anguished yell.

Grasping the peril in the moment, she discerned what Aemond had yelled for. There was a bigger prey to hunt for Vhagar as her wings moved forth. Wings thumping and jaw-snapping, she was coming for Silverwing now.

"Come and get me," Aemma challenged, twisting the reins around her wrist tighter.

Silverwing was swift and more agile than Vhagar, so she had the upper hand in fleeing, utilizing it to the maximum. She angled off to see Aemond, hair slicked from the rain and handsome face deformed to pain, seeming a lot like that nervous boy from her memories, control slipping from his fingers.

"No, no, no..." he muttered. What was she doing? Idiot, fool, my love, flee!

His single eye roved toward her, Aemma’s fingers tightening around the rim of her helm. Those doe eyes of hers were unmistakable—both a caution and a plea.

His gaze softened ever so slightly, a flicker of something unspoken passing between them. Warning her. Begging her. Anything to spare her from the madness that had engulfed them all.

Aemond's usual sharpness faded when his eye rested on Aemma and her dragon. He didn’t want her caught in this whirlwind of vengeance, didn’t want to see dread in her eyes. For a brief moment, regret clouded his expression, as if wishing to pull her away from the violent path fate had carved out.

But Aemma would never run. She would face it, head-on, so many times he had seen this. She would do anything to protect her brother. Aemond knew this, and it both enraged and pained him. What about him? What about her dear friend?

His jaw tightened as his fingers flexed around his handgrips, knuckles whitening under the weight of a choice he didn’t want to make. She stood her ground, flying onward, defiant and fearless, the same fire that lived within their bloodline burning bright in her.

"Don’t do this," his voice was barely a whisper, almost lost in the wind, but she caught it.

It wasn’t a command—it was a plea. He didn’t want to see her hurt, didn’t want to be the cause of it. His breath hitched, the internal struggle tearing at him, and for the first time in a long time, he was vulnerable.

Aemma, in her silent resolve, glanced upward, to the sheet of roiling clouds where Arrax soared as a silent shadow. She was her brother's shield, his protector, even when she was outmatched. The bond between them was unshakable, something Aemond could almost respect—almost envy. His heart twisted as he realized that. Aegon would never do that for him, be that for him.

But this was the world they lived in. He was bound by duty and pride, while she, unyielding and courageous, would never leave her brother's side. And in that moment, Aemond knew—no matter what he felt, this battle wasn’t his to stop.

It was then that everything happened in the blink of an eye, too fast for any to fully comprehend—save for one. Prince Lucerys Velaryon, the sole witness, would carry the weight of what he saw that day for the rest of his life. The memory would be a haunting spectre, etched into his mind like a scar never to heal.

A jagged bolt of lightning split the sky, illuminating the chaos unfolding above. From out of the storm’s fury came Silverwing, her silvery-blue form cutting through the dark clouds like a blade. She appeared from the blindside, as if summoned by the tempest itself, her wings sweeping back to gain speed. With a sudden, terrifying dip, she collided with Vhagar, catching the ancient behemoth off guard.

Vhagar's massive jaws were spread wide, ready to unleash destruction, but Silverwing struck first; not in an attack, but a defence.

Her momentum was devastating—saddle-first, she slammed into Vhagar's gaping maw, throwing the larger dragon off her path. The collision was like thunder in the air, the sound of scales and bone crashing together echoing through the storm. Both dragons reeled from the impact, spiralling in the sky, their forms twisted in a violent struggle as they plummeted from the heavens.

For a moment, they seemed weightless, like leaves tossed about in a gale, their massive bodies buckling and capsizing as they lost control. Vhagar, once so fearsome and prevalent, was forced into an ungainly descent, wings flailing as she tried to recover her balance and safeguard her rider. Silverwing, though smaller, was relentless, her own wings stretched wide to slow her fall, her screech piercing through the roar of the storm.

From far above, Lucerys could do nothing but watch in helpless terror, the clash of the dragons above unfolding in a chaotic dance of survival. His breath caught in his throat. What he had witnessed would haunt him till his dying breath.

Three desperate shouts rose in the air.

"Sister!"

"Aemma!"

Aemma’s piercing, hopeless scream echoed in Luke’s ears as Aemond resurfaced from his reckless dive, now reining in the immense form of Vhagar, who had steadied with lethal grace beneath him. Aemond grunted, prepared to berate his wife from atop his dragon for such rashness.

But then he noticed Silverwing—far below, plummeting ever faster toward the turbulent seas, a pale streak against the darkness, spiralling out of control. Her familiar trill had vanished, ruined by the roaring gales.

Confusion gripped him, suspicion withering, only to be replaced by a creeping dread. His grip on the reins tightened as he pieced together the gravity of his mistake. Something had gone terribly wrong, not just in the chaos of the battle but in the very fabric of his choices.

And then, the realization struck with the force of a dagger to the heart. His mind raced back to what he had truly seen in that final moment—Silverwing’s saddle, empty.

"Aemma!" His yell was gobbled by the thrumming roar of his dragon.

It was over Shipbreaker’s Bay, the histories tell us, that Princess Aemma Velaryon, Queen Rhaenyra’s heir and dearest daughter, plunged to her death, swallowed by the unforgiving sea below. She was but sixteen years old. Her body was never recovered.

To this day, no one knows for certain whether it was her desperate haste to protect her brother that caused her to forget to fasten her harness or if it was the wrath of her husband’s vengeance, a grim twist of fate that claimed her life. The darker tales whisper of betrayal—that Princess Aemma was murdered, felled by the very hand sworn to protect her, the hand of her husband, Aemond Targaryen, whose thirst for blood ran deeper than his vows.

Regardless of which tale you believe, one truth remains clear: the light had dimmed on both sides of the Targaryen war. With Aemma’s death, the last beacon of hope, her ambitions, and her courage, all were lost to the salt and sea.

X

I promise I'm working on the next part—or do I?

[gayforjuza]

quincy picking eiden up in chapter 5 of the main story:

vs quincy picking eiden up in army x blood x oath (which takes place AT LEAST one in game year later):

im unwell at quincy remembering that specific interaction ,

[a-not-so-clean-blog]

Nu: carnival masterlist

Event images

Eerie escapade (1) (2) (3) (4)

Sunburst fever event images

Festive glimmer event images

Forest carnival event images

Army Blood Oath results

Rusted Nation event images

Blood key results

Frozen echos prayer (1) (2) (3), puzzles

Sleepless fun fair puzzles

My writing

Kiss headcanons: clan members

Shy gemless reader headcanons: clan members+ Eiden. Aster+ Morvay

Yandere headcanons for everyone 🔪

What everyone is like as a top and bottom amab reader ♠️

Everyone except Rei with a werewolf partner gn 🤍

Nickname headcanons for everyone 🤍

Everyone with a top werewolf AMAB reader ♠️

Everyone's ABO presentation, what ABO they like, and scent

Everyone as an omega in heat ABO ♦️

Everyone's reaction to someone screaming at you 🤍

Everyone with a shapeshifter reader ♠️

Everyones reaction to a dysphoric ftm boyfriend ♦️

Everyone with a gn celebrity reader 🤍

Everyones biggest kinks ♠️

Everyone dealing with a transphobic family friend in public ♦️

Everyone with an gn SO who feels insecure and unworthy of love 🤍

Everyone finds out there so is a demigod

Everyone spanking headcanons

FTM boyfriend on his period ♦️

Boys giving head AMAB reader in mind ♠️

Boys receiving head gn reader ♠️

Jealousy headcanons 🤍

Dante x male reader colab ♠️

Dante x male reader colab epilogue 🤍

Quincy x male reader hunted ♠️

Rei x gn reader Calling 🤍

Eiden x top FTM reader ♠️

[waitingforsecretsouls]

"Then his sons beside him, the seven kinsmen, crafty Curufin, Celegorm the fair, Damrod and Díriel and dark Cranthir, Maglor the mighty, and Maidros tall (the eldest, whose ardour yet more eager burnt than his father’s flame, than Fëanor’s wrath; him fate awaited with fell purpose), these leapt with laughter their lord beside, with linkëd hands there lightly took the oath unbreakable; blood thereafter it spilled like a sea and spent the swords of endless armies, nor hath ended yet: ‘Be he friend or foe or foul offspring of Morgoth Bauglir, be he mortal dark that in after days on earth shall dwell, shall no law nor love nor league of Gods, no might nor mercy, not moveless fate, defend him for ever from the fierce vengeance of the sons of Fëanor, whoso seize or steal or finding keep the fair enchanted globes of crystal whose glory dies not, the Silmarils. We have sworn for ever!’ Then a mighty murmuring was moved abroad and the harkening host hailed them roaring: ‘Let us go! yea go from the Gods for ever on Morgoth’s trail o’er the mountains of the world to vengeance and victory! Your vows are ours!" The Lays of Beleriand II, The Flight of the Noldoli from Valinor

"Your way shall never lead you hither more, nor any son of Fëanor; nor ever after shall be bond of love twixt yours and Nargothrond.’ ‘We will remember it,’ [Celegorm and Curufin] said, and turned upon their heels, and sped, and took their horses and such folk as still them followed." The Lays of Beleriand III, THE LAY OF LEITHIAN X

"Therefore [Thingol] sent back the messengers with scornful words. Maedhros made no answer, for he had now begun to devise the league and union of the Elves; but Celegorm and Curufin vowed openly to slay Thingol and destroy his people, if they came victorious from war, and the jewel were not surrendered of free will." The Silmarillion, Chapter 20: OF THE FIFTH BATTLE: NIRNAETH ARNOEDIAD

"There fell Celegorm by Dior’s hand, and there fell Curufin, and dark Caranthir; but Dior was slain also, and Nimloth his wife, and the cruel servants of Celegorm seized his young sons and left them to starve in the forest." The Silmarillion, Chapter 22: OF THE RUIN OF DORIATH

Ride or kill die

[not-a-seagull]

Our secound match of Round One of the nukani Eidenless ship poll!

On one hand

Yakumo/Olivine, having been the first characters to have gotten three events with each other...

VS

Blade/Garu, being two of the cutest clan members, but having Army X Blood X Oath as their only event together...

Which one is more popular? only one way of knowing...

Now...