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lizzyiii · 3 months ago

Text

His Lady Love (3)

pairing | aemond targaryen x vampire!mikaelson!reader

word count | 3.7k words

summary | calm before the storm. the queen forces you to go to the targaryen-hightower supper where you finally sit face to face with aemond, (whilst getting interrogated by prince daemon as well.)

tags | reader is just here for the targ drama tbh, fluff, small angst/but reader comforts,

note | I just realised that both rebekah and reader fall for boys that they technically watched grow up (not really, but really tho, also would you consider this pedophilic, since rebekah and reader had mere platonic feelings, while marcel and aemond were already obsessed)

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated ✨

𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 — 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 — 𝐍𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

It had been a moon's turn since your return, and Aemond had taken to shadowing you through the sunlit halls of the Keep, his presence felt like a specter lurking just out of reach. Instead of confronting you directly, he observed, his violet gaze lingering on you with an intensity that sent shivers down your spine. Meanwhile, the currents of Targaryen drama began to stir anew, this time not over the succession of the Iron Throne, but over the shores of Driftmark and the title of the Lord of Tides.

Lord Vaemond Velaryon was set to make his case, summoned to the court to argue vehemently against Lucerys Velaryon’s claim to the ancestral seat, while the King deliberated on who would wear the mantle of the next successor.

Your mind, however, was torn asunder by the weight of the situation. It was as clear as the midday sun that Rhaenyra's three sons bore the mark of bastardy, the truth hanging in the air like a bitter fog. Yet, despite their dark hair and brown eyes, they were still Princess Rhaenrya's sons, making them true Targaryens, and as long as the crown acknowledged their legitimacy, they had every right to embrace their heritage.

Yet, the specter of justice loomed heavily. They bore no true Valaryon blood in their veins, a fact that rendered their claim to Driftmark similarly disquieting. If they were to inherit such a coveted title, it would be naught but a dagger to the heart of the Velaryon legacy, erasing centuries of honor and heritage in one fell swoop.

But who were you to cast judgment on the matter? You were, after all, a bastard yourself in your own right. With no discernible features from either your father or your mother, the only tether to the Mikaelson name was the multitude of witnesses who could attest to your mother birthing you into this world.

Soon enough, the matter erupted into a grand spectacle, as the Queen had relayed with a glint of grim madness in her eye. Viserys, frail and near death, had heaved himself from his sickbed, a ghost of his former self, to proclaim the legitimacy of his grandsons. That proclamation, laden with tension and bitter truths, secured their claim to Driftmark—an act of desperation that would surely echo through the halls of history. It was not long after this madness that the Prince, Daemon Targaryen, wielded his fury like a sword, severing Vaemond Velaryon's head from his shoulders for daring to call Rhaenyra a whore.

To your great displeasure, Queen Alicent had insisted your presence at the supper of Targaryen and Hightower—a feast destined to spiral into a night of revelry or ruin, most likely the latter. You preferred the shadows, where the light of their self-destructive feud would not touch you, allowing you to observe from afar rather than be ensnared in their political webs. Yet, refusal was a luxury you could not afford.

As the time of the supper approached, you dedicated a substantial time deliberating over your choice of attire. The vibrant hues of black and green were decidedly unfit, signifying discord and allegiances you wished to avoid at all costs. Instead, you selected a gown of soft pink silk, its flowing fabric draping elegantly over your form, a symbol of innocence amidst the clamor of tensions. You wove your hair into intricate braids interspersed with delicate pearls that caught the flickering candlelight, culminating your preparation with a cherished pendant—a family heirloom adorned with the Mikaelson crest.

Stepping into the grand dining hall, you were met with the scrutinizing gazes of the Blacks. Whispers and curious glances darted in your direction as you approached the long table, poised and unwavering, choosing to disregard Aegon's lecherous leers that felt all too familiar. A frown tightened your lips when you spied that both seats beside Helaena were occupied. Resigned yet resolute, you claimed the next available chair—seated close to Aemond.

"My prince," you intoned softly, offering a nod of acknowledgment.

Aemond's violet eye bore into you, a swirl of unspoken thoughts birthing an electric tension between you. Time seemed to stretch as he regarded you, his expression inscrutable, before he replied, "My Lady," his voice low and controlled, yet laden with something you couldn't discern.

With practiced grace, you settled into your seat, the heavy air thick with unspoken politics. You leaned slightly forward, attempting to listen as King Viserys, broken and weary beneath the weight of his crown, delivered a grand speech. He spoke of unity and the bonds of family, though in truth, all you wished for was the freedom to roll your eyes, a habit you had long restrained. His words felt hollow, a poignant irony given his role in fracturing his family as much as he sought to mend it

From what Queen Alicent had confided in you, you were painfully aware of the King's heart-wrenching choice—his decisions that saw his first wife deprived of her future and life, all in favor of the male heir he hoped for. That tragic episode echoed through the halls of the Red Keep, leading to not just his wife but both her and their son's death. And now, as King Viserys eagerly sought the son he so desperately desired, he had all but disregarded Aegon, neglecting the boy from the moment of his first cry.

As the King’s voice echoed in the hall, you caught sight of Helaena, Aegon, and Aemond—each face twisted in quiet agony, a poignant testament to the empty love their father bestowed upon them. In that moment, you felt a surge of empathy and support for them — even Aegon. With a discreet but deliberate motion, you slipped your hand beneath the table, gently covering Aemond’s tightly clenched fist.

He tensed at your touch, but after a heartbeat of hesitation, Aemond relaxed and opened his hand, intertwining your fingers with his. A small squeeze passed between you—a silent token of gratitude that spoke volumes in contrast to the empty words spilling from the King's lips.

As the evening wore on, the air thick with unwelcome tension, your mind began to drift, thoughts becoming a haze as the speeches droned on around you. It was only when Aemond's hand slipped from yours, his presence withdrawing as he rose to his feet, that your gaze sharpened. You found him casting a fierce glare at Jacaerys, who was regaling the gathering with yet another toast.

However, it was Helaena's gentle voice that truly broke through the fog enveloping you. She stood, her lovely countenance illuminated by a warm, sugary smile as she raised her glass high. "I would like to toast to Baela and Rhaena," she declared, her tone carrying a dreamy lightness, "They'll be married soon. It isn't so bad. Mostly he just ignores you... except when sometimes he's drunk."

Her words pierced your heart, the bittersweet truth laced within them shattering whatever sympathy you had harbored for Aegon. With a mixture of sorrow and indignation igniting within you, you cast a venomous glare towards Prince Daemon, who, aflame with mirth, laughed at Helaena’s toast. Yet you were not as discreet as you’d hoped; the piercing gaze of Prince Daemon met yours, a knowing smirk creeping upon his lips.

“I do believe I am yet to have the distinct pleasure of being introduced to our guest,” Prince Daemon declared, his voice tinged with the kind of arrogance that could curdle the blood of the unwary. The room fell silent; all attention was drawn to you, as if you were a curious creature caged among the dragons, and you suppressed the urge to sigh at the mischief brewing in his expression.

Queen Alicent cleared her throat—a notable attempt to extricate you from Daemon’s merciless gaze. “She is one of my esteemed ladies, Prince Daemon,” she interjected, her tone hinting at a subtle warning, though the sharpness of the prince’s wit remained unyielding.

“A lady, indeed?” Daemon’s voice was laced with mockery, his eyes flickering over you as if you were an intricate puzzle, “Yet here she sits, so comfortably, as if she belongs to the very blood of House Targaryen.” Daemon replied, the cunning glimmer in his eye only intensifying. He leaned forward, every inch the contemplative predator. ��What is your name, my lady?”

The warmth of the hall contrasted sharply with the coolness of his gaze, yet you met it with unwavering resolve, the remnant courage of your lineage steeling your heart as you told him your name and lied about hailing from The Reach, your voice steady, resonating amidst the stillness.

"Mikaelson?" Daemon mused, his smirk as sharp as Valyrian steel. His silver hair framed a face both youthful and hardened by conflict, and his voice dripped with the playfulness of a cunning predator. "And yet you're no son."

A tight smile graced your lips, the playful banter igniting the spark of your short temper. "My father has enough sons, I assure you, Prince Daemon," you rebuffed, your tone dipped in irritation.

"How old are you? Six and ten?" he pressed, his gaze unwavering, while you caught sight of young Jacaerys approaching Helaena, asking her for a dance. If only irony were not woven into the very fabric of their fates—how you wished Queen Alicent had seen fit to unite them in a more harmonious bond than the betrothal she made with Helaena and Aegon.

But also at that moment, you recognized the precariousness of your own web of lies. Since your arrival at King's Landing, you had deceived the queen into believing you were six and ten, which in truth you were. Oh, how the centuries rolled by, yet your vampiric nature kept your visage untouched, a fragrant bloom eternally in its prime. It was a game of wit and veiled truths, and you knew well how to play.

You met Daemon’s piercing gaze anew, your expression turning steely, tinged with an edge of irritation. “No, your highness,” you replied, your voice as cool as ice. “I am three-and-twenty.”

Prince Daemon raised a silver eyebrow in surprise. “My, my, even older than Prince Aegon,” he drawled, the words rolled off his tongue like honey laced with venom, aimed to sting, "And unmarried, I presume?"

Though you longed to retort with the truth, that you were even older than him, a creature of darkness preserved by the very essence of your nature, you instead offered a demure smile, saying, “Yes. But I prefer it that way. Much more preferable than marrying whilst I was a girl." Your words, though soft-spoken, held a steel beneath their surface—a blade forged in the fires of countless unsaid anger at the world around you.

Daemon’s lips curled into an amused smirk, and he shrugged, seemingly unfazed. “And yet, that is the world we live in.” His tone was laced with the disillusionment of a man who had seen much—his own brand of charm wrapped in an air of indifference.

“Indeed, a world where old men prey upon young girls,” you countered, your voice steady and unwavering, “but I daresay you are no stranger to such tactics, your highness.” The look of amusement that had brightened Daemon’s features dimmed, his smirk wilting like a flower in winter, which you took great satisfaction in.

You jolted in your seat, when Aemond, seated beside you, suddenly slammed his fist onto the table. The cacophony of music and chatter in the hall fell silent as he rose, his goblet held aloft like a rallying cry. "Last Tribute!" he announced, a boldness in his voice that demanded attention.

You glanced around the room, and the unease reflected in the faces of his kin did not escape you. Aemond continued, "To the health of my nephews: Jace… Luke… and Joffrey. Each of them handsome, wise… hm… strong."

A faint gasp escaped your lips as you caught the veiled insult aimed at the Velaryon boys' bastardy. The shocked expressions of the Targaryens around you were a clear indicator that Aemond’s words had struck a nerve. Queen Alicent, her composure straining against the affront to her family, attempted to intervene. "Aemond," she cautioned, her voice taut with concern.

But he paid her no heed, raising his goblet higher, a wicked gleam in his eye as he spoke, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Come… let us drain our cups to these three… Strong boys," he declared, the words echoing through the revelry like a distant thunderclap.

The hall fell silent, eyes turning to Jace Velaryon, whose face had flushed a deep crimson, betrayal etching lines into his young features. He advanced on Aemond with the fury of a dragon, fists clenched tight. "I dare you to say that again," he challenged, his words barely concealing the tempest of wrath within him.

"Why? 'Twas only a compliment." Aemond retorted with a smirk that could cut glass. "Do you not think yourself Strong?" The taunt flew from his lips like a well-bred serpent, and before the words had fully settled in the air, Jace's fist met Aemond’s cheek with a resounding smack.

Yet, to Aemond, it seemed naught but a gentle breeze, his expression barely shifting as he staggered back only a pace. His pale violet eye sparkled with mischief, unfazed by Jace's sudden fury.

In a swift motion, you rose from your place at the table, the wooden chair scraping against the stone floor as you moved to intervene. Aemond, with a dismissive shove, pushed Jace down, the young prince hitting the hard ground with a thud.

Without thinking, you stepped towards Helaena, and gently took her by the arm. “Come, boys are such immature creatures, yes,” you said softly, guiding her away from the escalating chaos that threatened to engulf them both. Her wide eyes flickered with uncertainty, but she leaned into your touch, casting a sorrowful glance back at the scene as you ushered her away.

You watched as Aemond stormed out the dining hall, his anger crackling in the air like the storm clouds that often loomed over King's Landing. As chaos settled around you, you felt an impulse, a momentary lapse in resolve, and left Helaena's side to pursue him.

He strode fiercely through the halls of the Red Keep, the glint of his silver hair catching the flickering torchlight. You hurried to match his pace, concern fluttering in your chest. "Aemond," you called out softly, "are you alright?"

The scent of his wrath surrounded him, palpable as the incense in the court. He did not glance your way, his voice a frigid whisper laced with venom. "Absolutely splendid."

Your brow furrowed at the sharpness of his words, and with a hint of naïveté, you responded, "I sense a trace of sarcasm in your tone."

Aemond exhaled sharply, quickening his steps in a feeble attempt to distance himself from your probing presence, but your determination was steady. "Did my mother send you to chastise me?" he snapped, the words like arrows loosed from a drawn bow.

"No," you responded gently, your eyes softening with empathy. "I am here of my own accord, wishing only to know if you are truly well."

His stormy glare wavered for the briefest moment, as if the floodgates within him were on the verge of breaking, as if realising it was you he was talking to. But just as swiftly, he clamped down on it, his demeanor hardening once more. Suddenly, he halted and turned to face you, the tension palpable in the air between you.

You lifted your chin defiantly, unwilling to cower beneath the intensity of his stare. "Knowing," he began, his voice low and resonant. "And yet I find I do not know you at all."

Your brow furrowed, a hint of confusion playing at the corners of your lips. "I’m afraid I don’t understand what you mean."

He raised a hand, holding out three fingers as if counting off a point. "Three things," he affirmed, his tone matter-of-fact. "I now know three things about you: your name, your home, and that you have brothers."

You paused, gazing at him with wide, innocent eyes, your voice a gentle whisper, "You seem troubled by this knowledge."

He exhaled heavily, pressing a knuckle to the jagged scar that marred his skin, perhaps seeking solace from its lingering pain. A part of you longed to ease his suffering. "It is only my frustration that weighs heavily upon me," he confessed, his tone laced with a mix of irritation and longing. "You hold the knowledge of my life in your hands, yet I know naught of your story."

You crossed your arms defiantly, donning a mask of indifference, "I do not understand the depth of your frustration."

Aemond's singular violet eye bore into your soul with an intensity that made your heart race. "I suspect you do. You are well aware of the affections I hold for you."

A sharp breath caught in your throat as you shook your head, dismissing the peculiar warmth blossoming within your chest. "Those were mere whims of a boy, your grace," you retorted, attempting to cloak your uncertainty in bravado.

His gaze remained unwavering, a storm of emotion swirling within that piercing eye. "Yet here I stand, no longer a boy, and the flames of my desire for you still burn fierce."

"You mustn't speak so," you urged, desperation threading through your voice like a fraying rope.

"Why ought I to remain silent?" Aemond shrugged, a hint of defiance lacing his words. "This is but the truth of my heart."

"Which is wholly improper," you retorted fiercely, the tension between you thickening in the wake of your words.

An awkward silence enveloped you both, heavy with unspoken thoughts, until Aemond cleared his throat, shifting the fragile atmosphere. "You held your own remarkably well against my uncle's incessant probing," he remarked, seeking lighter ground.

You wrapped your arms around yourself as a tendril of chill from the nearby window touched your skin, though the coolness hardly bothered you. "There is only one man who may speak to me in such a manner," you replied with a touch of defiance, "and that is my brother."

“Mhm,” Aemond murmured, his gaze locked onto yours, an intensity in his violet eye that seemed to pierce through the very air between you. “Pray, tell me more.”

You stifled a roll of your eyes, at once annoyed and amused by his insatiable curiosity. "I am the youngest of six," you said, your tone now lighthearted yet elusive, "and my favorite color is pink. Might that suffice for your unquenchable thirst for knowledge about me?"

His lips curved in a smirk, his gaze unwavering. "No," he replied, his voice low and firm. "It shall never be enough."

With a genuine exasperation, you rolled your eyes this time, a small smile betraying your annoyance. "Well, if you must know—"

But your words were abruptly stolen by Aemond’s boldness. His strong hands cupped your face, his touch igniting a warmth that seeped through the layers of silk between you. In an instant, his warm, soft lips met yours, and time seemed to freeze. Your heart raced, an unexpected firework of emotion exploding within you as you instinctively leaned into him, responding to the kiss despite the whirlwind of confusion in your mind.

Yet reality came crashing back as your senses settled, and you hastily broke away from him, breathless and bewildered. The air in the room felt charged, and you glared at him, regaining your composure and a semblance of control

The fool wore a dopey grin, that infuriatingly charming smile that only deepened your ire. You shot him a withering look. “I was speaking,” you pointedly reminded him.

His brows knitted in confusion, a flicker of surprise on his face. “What?”

You planted your hands defiantly on your hips, your indignation brewing like a storm. “I was speaking, and you interrupted me! Not only that, but you did not seek my permission to claim my lips.”

Aemond’s laughter rang like the chiming of bells, an amused glimmer in his eye as he observed your vexation. “Very well, my lady. May I kiss you again?”

Your irritation flared, your cheeks warming with a blend of anger and embarrassment. You took a deliberate step back, confusion simmering just beneath your skin. “No, of course not. You have already stolen a kiss from me, but I shall not so easily grant you another.” You held back the childish urge to stomp your foot in frustration. With a petulant huff, you turned on your heel to storm away, your voice carrying a wisp of indignation. “This is most improper and indecent! Good night, your Highness.”

“Good night, my Lady Love,” Aemond murmured, his violet gaze lingering on you until you vanished around a distant corner. His heart swelled with an unexpected mix of hope and affection, the chaotic Targaryen supper and the impending shadows of war fading from his mind. With a tender gesture, he brushed his fingertip against the spot where your lips had just brushed against his, savoring the memory.

And as you stalked off into the dimly lit corridors of the castle, the weight of his gaze lingered, leaving you with a tumult of emotions swirling in your mind, an echo of the kiss that you could neither dismiss nor desire to forget.

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x reader #aemond x you #aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #hotd aemond #house of the dragon #hotd fanfic #hotd #the originals #mikaelson #vampire!reader

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peterparkersnose · 1 year ago

Text

Spoil

pairing: Prince Regent!Aemond Targaryen x reader

word count: 3.6k

warnings: lowkey dark!aemond, alys river type themed, reader’s family gets killed, reader is a plaything, sexual themes and descriptions (not a smut), fluff at the end :)

a/n THAT GIF OML uuhhh this came to me in a fever dream apologies.

summary She’s his spoil of war, and his new found confidant.

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read time: 13 mins 26 seconds

A spoil of war.

Is the one thing you had been demeaned down to. From a visiting Lady to Harrenhal, a betrothed to one of the Strong sons, and now to nothing. A spoil of war.

The first time you ever saw him was weeks after the fateful night that your life collapsed. You still remember the cool breeze in your nightgown and the loose hair around your shoulders. How the moon shone so brightly, but only in the early evening before the fight began. Smoke then filled the air as your new home was captured.

And then they were gone.

The Blacks had just packed up everything and… left? The castle you once knew to be lively, despite its cracks, was suddenly sullen and empty. Few staff remained from the ones who fled. You clung to your betrothed along with the rest of his family. Life felt like a ticking time bomb.

It was midday when you heard the roar of the great dragon, Vhagar. A strange time to invade, but there wasn’t much to do. A glimmer of hope, you thought. A glimmer of hope.

Hope is only something a fool would believe in now, you truly believed.

The Strong family was rounded up by the one-eyed Prince. You had heard of him before and knew what the people whispered about him. Kinslayer. Evil. Egotistical. Irrational.

A plea for help, you thought. How foolish you feel now. The Kinslayer swiftly went one by one, killing every single last Strong, down to the grandchildren. All you could do was scream. Your betrothed was gone, and so was his family. The women and the children were all gone. And all that was left was you.

The worst death of all, you supposed. It was certain now, you were the last one on your knees pleading for your life. Perhaps in another lifetime, you deserved this. Watching your new family die one by one, knowing of your fate. As the Kinslayer approached you, his sword bloodied in his hand, blood splattered all over his armor, and his face, his white hair matted with the blood of your betrothed. His facial expression was unreadable as you stared him dead in the eyes. A soft prayer came from your lips as he looked at you like you were the most disgusting thing he had ever seen now, as a scowl moved to his lips.

His hatred for the Strong family was inconceivable. Why did such a man hate a family that much?

He stared you down, taking in every single inch of you. An evil snarl approached his lips as he grunted. “Mmm…”

“She’ll do.” he called out to a man in armor, an older one than the Prince and with Dornish features.

She’ll do? What in the Seven Hells is that supposed to mean?

The Dornish Knight took you by the shoulders and forced you off your feet and whispered into your ear softly as he was escorting you to horseback, his hand resting on the small of your back. “Just be quiet and listen. Pledge your allegiance to King Aegon. Then you’ll be fine.” His words were far from comforting as he intended them to be. Your betrothed blood was still fresh on your hands.

A war camp was your new home. One of the dirtiest places on earth, not for a Lady such as yourself. Men were constantly poking and prodding at you, calling and shouting at you all sorts of terrible names. When you first arrived, you were brought into a quiet tent away from the evil eyes of the soldiers. The Dornish man sat with you and spoke softly. He seemed as if he didn’t want to scare you, but he still did nonetheless. You pledged your allegiance to King Aegon and kept quiet, listening to the first piece of advice he gave you. He introduced himself to you as Ser Criston Cole. You feared for your life, and the only thing seemingly keeping it here was this Ser Criston Cole.

After a while, Ser Criston left you alone. And for a while, you sat confused as so many things were running through your head. Your cries continued as well did the trembles in your hands, the hands you couldn’t pull your eyes from as they were covered with your love's blood.

A maid who was silent the whole time came in with a tub and began to bathe you after you were alone for a while. Why? You had no clue. A bath did seem nice though, you wished to be rid of the horrors that painted your body. You cried as the maid washed you, traumatized by the events of that day. The clear water turned a murky brown as your old life was washed away. A new dress was gifted to you. One of a deep green and a sinch in the middle, tied with golden strings. It was long-sleeved and floor length, keeping you warm in the harsh, cold, rainy environment where the camp was located. And along was an optional green coat of fur, embroidered with beautiful designs. Something you would never normally choose, but there wasn’t really a choice. The dress was soft and felt a bit snug around your body, but you didn’t feel like complaining would be a good idea at the moment.

Your hair was combed by this maid as her quick hands moved through your locks. It reminded you of your old life and your old Lady maid. Who you thought must be dead by now. The soothing words of your old Lady maid calmed you for a bit, as you closed your eyes and pretended you were simply not there.

The maid dressed you and quickly left. You didn’t know the Dornish man was guarding this tent until the maid left, and you saw a glimpse of his armor from the flap of the tent that was exposed when she left.

Ser Criston returned and looked you up and down. It was not in a perverse way though, more of an inspection. Like you were some… some item being prepared. He sighed.

“He’ll be happy.” Ser Criston stated, crossing his arms.

“Who, may I ask?” you finally spoke.

“Prince Aemond.” Ser Criston replied, giving you one last look up and down. “He spared you for a reason, my Lady. You should be eternally grateful for him and his grace when it came to you.”

Prince Aemond? Having grace?

Ser Criston escorted you to another tent. The men whistled and whooped as you walked by, looking like a fresh piece of meat to the soldiers who hadn’t felt the touch of their ladies for weeks. Heat rose to your cheeks as you looked at your boots, praying this nightmare would end. But oh, it had just begun.

Prince Aemond sat in his tent. It was identical to every single one each soldier had on the outside, but on the inside, it was quite different. The delicately carved chairs and a large bed of hay with many pelts over it caught your eye before the Prince did. You didn’t even notice Criston leaving your side until you turned to speak to him, and he was gone.

He was sitting in front of the fire. His armor was gone, and his hair was cleaned. His stockings were hung by the fire as they seemed to be drying as he sat in a chair, not looking in your direction. You stood still, fear wracked your body as you tried to think of something to do. Should you speak? Just stand there? Wait for him to approach you?

“Come,” he said commandingly as he flicked a few of his fingers towards you, beckoning you over to his side. The Prince didn’t even look your way. His voice was much calmer than it was at Harrenhal. You listened, approaching him with hesitance.

He looked up at you, taking in your features with the same blank look as he did at Harrenhal.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked harshly as you stood next to his chair awkwardly. You nodded. “Mmm…” he hummed once again, moving his hand in a way to ask you to sit in the opposite chair. The chair creaked a bit as you sat, giving an unexpected chill down your spine.

“When I speak to you, you respond to me in words. No nods. Understood?” he scolded you, his tone of voice making you twitch.

“Yes.” you squeaked out, almost silently.

“Yes, what…?” Prince Aemond asked you, testing you to see your limits. “Yes, my Prince.”

“Good girl. You learn quickly.” he purred, standing up from his chair to approach you. You froze as he did, not wanting to mess up. This was your only chance at survival. The Prince circled you, almost as a lion did to its prey not once, not twice, but three times. You couldn’t meet his gaze.

“What is your name…?” he asked, now standing in front of you. You answered him swiftly with your name and your house.

“Your father bent the knee to the Princess Rhaenyra, is that correct?”

Your heart skipped a beat. He had? You genuinely had no clue, as you were already living in Harrenhal with your betrothed as the war broke out.

“M-my father, your grace, I have not seen him in many moons.” you quivered, your eyes fixated on the brick of the fireplace.

“But yet you are his kin…” Aemond sighed, picking up a lock of your hair in his hands. “Such a shame. Ironic, isn’t it? He had pledged his allegiance to Rhaenyra, and yet you are mine.” he chuckled. His laugh sent chills down your spine. You stayed silent.

“How old are you?” he asked, dropping your piece of hair and looking down at you menacingly.

“Twenty, your grace.” you replied hastily, afraid of his presence. “And I suspect you were betrothed to a Strong boy, is that it…?”

You nodded.

“Use your words,” he said demeaningly, his long lanky fingers meeting your chin as he pulled your sad eyes up to meet his gaze. “Yes, my Prince.” “Good girl.”

His words went straight between your thighs. “I think I’ll like you,” he says, letting go of your chin. Tears brimmed your eyes. “Do not worry. I will not touch you tonight.” he says somewhat softer, as he grabs your hand. You didn’t even realize they were shaking. “Touch me?” you asked, looking up at him.

“Oh yes. Don’t you understand what this is…?” he asked, making her feel like an idiot. The way he spoke was so demeaning, making her feel like she was the stupidest person alive. How had she not figured out what this was yet? “No.” she whispered. It was all making sense now.

“You are mine. Mine to do with what I please. My spoil, as some say. You will do as I say, won’t you?” he asked, letting go of your shaking hand. You felt like your tongue was numb as he spoke. No emotion was shown on your face as you felt him kneel down in front of you. He placed a hand on your thigh.

“Are you afraid of me?” he asked after a while. You met his gaze as he looked up to you, he seemed like an evil spirit had possessed him. His face was different, his lips curled into a cruel smirk. You were speechless again. Aemond was getting obviously annoyed by your lack of response. “You should be,” he said, his grip on your thigh tightening as your breath quickened. “Tell me, my Lady. Are you going to be a good girl and listen to me? Be my plaything, my lover, my company… or would you rather join the Silent Sisters? I cannot kill such a beauty as yourself.”

His other hand moved to caress your cheek. He awaited your answer.

“I-I…” you stuttered. The Prince grew impatient. “Answer me, now!” he yelled at you. You finally cracked.

“Yes, yes, I’ll listen, I'm sorry.” you cried, cringing at the sudden raising of his voice. His cruel smile only widened. “Good girl.”

He was gentle to you at first, but every time after grew harsher and harsher. He often prided himself on seeing you at his mercy, his hand on your stomach as he fucked you slowly. He liked the way you muttered his name as he held you in his arms as you were about to reach your peak. He enjoyed watching you leak his seed out on your thighs as you rested in bed after a long night of pleasure.

Even if he was rough, he never treated you as his whore. He would often put your own pleasure above his, which was quite unexpected. In many senses around the camp, you were seen as his Queen. Even if that was far from the truth.

He never liked it much when you spoke. He had no desire to know about your life, your dislikes, and interests, or anything remotely personal about you. He used you. He took and took and gave nothing in return, besides a mutual pleasure for each other. He took your company, as you would sleep next to him in his bed every night. He never held you or whispered sweet nothings to you as you fell asleep. He took your time, as you waited around for him all day. You had grown quite lazy and bored, with close to nothing to do. He took your worth. Yes, he didn’t treat you as his whore. But he would call you names that made you feel like one. You figured it made him feel better about himself, making you beg for his cock and calling you a slut afterward. Aemond would often tell you mid fucking about how beautiful you would look bearing his bastards. Or how good you looked with him buried inside of you.

Aemond had returned for the night. You had gotten used to the angry footsteps and the sudden whooshing open of the tent door flap when he would return from his days. You hadn’t seen him for five days. You heard of his return to the camp by a few passing soldiers and expected his presence in your chambers tonight. But tonight seemed different. It was eerie how quiet he was. He was usually eager to get his armor off and to fuck you, but tonight was more solemn. He angrily threw his eyepatch on the floor and kicked his armor. It startled you a bit as you watched him seemingly throw a tantrum. Mentally preparing yourself for a night of torture, you began your routine as you had in the past few weeks and began undressing.

“No,” he said, emotionless, not facing to look at you. You stopped. This had never happened. He took off his armor and set it aside, and made his way slowly to the bed in his underclothes. You sat on the bed, unsure of what to do. He couldn’t look at you. Aemond could sense your confusion and your uncertainty.

“Not tonight.” he said, his voice sounding weaker and weaker with each syllable. “Oh.” you said quietly, adjusting your nightgown back on comfortably. You sat in bed next to him.

He reached up a hand and took a lock of your hair in it and twirled it in his fingers. He hummed. You just looked down at what he was doing and watched his fingers, then looked into his gaze. He seemed to have revealed an emotion, for the first time in weeks. Sadness.

You wanted to ask what was wrong but decided to keep your mouth shut. He didn’t like when you talked.

He waited a long time before he spoke. He sat there, not moving, and seemingly staring into space. Groups of soldiers marched by, the only sound breaking the deafening silence between the two of you. You knew better than to speak.

“How has Hilda been treating you?” he asks quietly, still not meeting your gaze.

“Hilda?” you asked, confused. “Your maid.” he said annoyed that you didn’t know what he was talking about. His tongue had a sharp, defensive tone to it.

“Oh,” you replied, confused as to why he was making conversation. He never usually did. “She’s been kind.”

Aemond nodded. He was trying. So hard. He just didn’t know how to approach you with what he really needed tonight. Kindness was something he had not equipped in a while.

“Come,” he said, placing a hand on your back suddenly. You were hesitant. “I won’t hurt you.”

You listened to him and scooted over in the bed, lying next to Aemond as he wrapped his arms around you in a sudden movement. Your stomach was filled with butterflies and fear as he did, he pulled you closer to him. You had so many questions, questions you wished to ask and knew you couldn’t. And you stood still as touched you, confused as to what he wanted from you.

“Do you want me to embrace you?” you asked softly. He nodded, burying his head near your chest and the crook of your neck. You could feel his warm breath on your neck.

What the fuck was this…?

One of your hands wrapped around his head and cradled it as the other moved to his back and gave him some small circles with your fingers. He let out a long sigh.

He looked up at you as he rested in your arms. His eyes were wet and his face was one you had never seen before. Aemond seemed like a complete stranger at that moment. “Do you love me?” he asked her with a tired voice.

She most certainly did not. But that was not the answer he was currently seeking.

“I do,” she said, caressing the side of his face and moving stray strands of hair out of the way. He just held her tighter and placed his head back on your chest, his breathing becoming shallow as he tried to hold in the tears. You were so utterly confused. He knew she truly didn’t love him. But he needed to know if she was obedient enough to lie for him. To hold his secrets, to be an extension of just his thing to toy with. He needed somebody desperately right now, and the only thing he craved was touch. Touch and your attention. He didn’t love you and you didn’t love him. But it hurt nobody to just play the part they were supposed to that night. He was in need.

“I-I went to Rook’s Rest,” Aemond began to speak. His tone was different from his usual commands, he sounded scared. You had never seen this side of him before. She nodded, stroking his hair as he spoke. “My brother, Aegon, and I…”

You had never heard him speak of the King so informally.

“We fought our cousin Rhaenys and her dragon… and we won but-” his voice hitched. He was… he was shaking? “It’s okay.” you said softly, daring to speak as your lover shook in your grasp.

You knew tears were now falling down his cheeks but didn’t dare to say a single thing about it. You knew deep down, he was just a scared little boy. Aemond was only twenty as you were. His big persona of being a ruthless kinslayer was peeling back and he was revealing himself to you. It was something he never did, only in the solemn private moments with his mother years ago.

He had broken at the sight of what he was about to tell her.

“Aegon got hurt. Really bad.”

He was telling you confidential information about the King. He was trusting you. “I-I’m sorry.” you replied sincerely. His hands moved around your ribcage and the other snaked around your back. He felt the fabric of your dress and played with it between his fingers as he tried to calm himself. “H-he can’t walk and he’s burned terribly and he’s barely conscious, and his dragon is injured, and... You-you mustn't tell anyone.” he whimpered, his tone stiffening at the last sentence as his ramblings came to an end. “Never,” you whispered, combing through his hair with your fingers to try and calm him.

“I’m- they made me… they made me Prince Regent.” Aemond confessed as the words left his lips with a sour taste. You could tell he was terrified.

Oh shit.

Aemond in a sense, was King. She finally understood how dire King Aegon’s condition was and understood why Aemond had been acting so strangely that night.

“Isn’t that a good thing?” you asked him softly, trying to look to the positive side. If the positive side even existed in this situation.

“No!” he seemingly barked at you suddenly, making you tense a bit. “I’m sorry…” he whispered, running his hand over the side of your ribcage and down to your hips. You had never heard this man once apologize for anything. He looked up to you with his red eyes as he craved your touch. You cupped his cheek, clearing the tears from his right cheek with your thumb. You knew he was afraid. Shocked. Terrified. And he was asking for you.

“I will pray for the King’s recovery, your grace.”

“Aemond…” he said softly. You were confused and he read it on your face. “When-when we’re like this. Don’t bother with the titles. I am just Aemond.”

You nodded.

“I will pray for the King’s recovery, Aemond.” you corrected yourself. “And that your reign may be successful.”

She kissed the top of his head. He held her close.

“Everything will be okay.”

He held you like that for the rest of the night. No violence. No sex. No words. Just you and him, in a moment where he could have his last bit of clarity before he had to put the mask back on and perform for everyone else in his life. He was quite thankful for you that night. Aemond wept quietly as you held the most powerful man in Westeros all throughout that night.

tag list: @dani5216 @uwiuwi @alohastyles-x @mandoloriancookie @maddieinnit0 @alexxavicry @scoliobean @avengersfan25 @nyotamalfoy @milly-louise @mxtokko

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sehaedazokla · 2 months ago

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robb stark and a witch reader

fem! reader terms and descriptions

a/n: robb and witch reader you will always be my most beloved…

you have never cared much for human men and hold every intention to continue that tradition with robb stark. despite his own misgivings, robb wishes to offer you all the courtesies a gentleman can provide. not without a tense jaw and a tight hesitation to his body; he has asked your house for assistance and been sent a lady in return. as alluring as your peculiar and haunting beauty is, robb needs men. he is met with equal disappoint in your own eyes – you have been sent to assist the lord of winterfell, not his young heir. neither of you extends a hand in welcome, but robb at least plays the part of a gracious host. no warmth is to be found in your stunning visage.

you find him rather boorish, brutish, unseemly – likely incompetent, having never seen battle. save for the blue of his eyes, brighter and clearer than the sky above. he is offput by your strange customs and odd manner of speaking, alongside the obvious dislike for humans.

your suggestion for a blood pact to seal your allegiance, for example, gives robb pause. he convinces you a signed scroll shall suffice.

sensible and cold, your advice comes to robb in eerie whispers with unimpressed gazes. he discovers quickly you have knowledge of a great many things and does not dismiss your counsel even if he is wary. in the stressful months following his assumption of his father’s role of his absence, it is you whom he finds himself turning to.

when not directly advising robb, your tongue spins unsettling riddles and breaths of valyrian, often cast to robb when he says something you deem foolish. there is no softness in your presence, no need for it. it is practicality that you offer, and practicality that robb is requiring.

he is left watching as you draw in the world at your whim. your penchant for shadow and flame, how light and dark alike seemed called to dance upon you. the winds of the godswood blow high and crisp as you walk beneath their branches, robb leading you to the weirwood tree his ancestors have prayed to for centuries. light breeze carrying your hair about your face as you are told warnings and wisdoms by voices long since lost to most human ears.

the strangest of strangers to him. unknown and foreign, as distant and cold and lovely as the moon.

save for when you gain the favor of his direwolf, taking long strolls through the castle with the creature at your side. you speak to him in valyrian, and robb cannot tell if grey wind understands your or not. robb is almost childishly jealous of the ease with which the wolf took to you – had all loyalty been discarded at the arrival of this witch?

and rickon and bran do not seem to fear you in the slightest. robb would find this is because you have given them no reason to. your general scorn for humans does not extend to the children, whom time and attention are given to whenever it is asked. you never seek out their company, but always provide it when you can, even if it means leaving robb in the middle of providing counsel.

and perhaps it is both of your innate instincts to parent and protect that you notice in each other as a surprisingly piece of common ground. pensive gazes watching after the other as you both engage with the young boys. robb knows without your saying that you are the eldest of your siblings as well.

but your efficiency in that department is where your true talents lie. you bloom like nightshade in combat, your skill with a sword almost as terrifying as your eyes. many witches are natural healers, your nature is more destructive than that. you seem more creature than human when you fight. and when bran’s life is on the line and robb is forced to lower his sword, heart clenched and mind racing, he sees blood trickling from the eyes and nose and mouth of bran’s captor.

the man dies quickly, melting to his knees, choking on blood as it spills from his face in crimson rivulets. when robb whips his head to see you, he knows, but cannot prove it because you have collapsed to the ground, faint and then unconscious.

you would keep your oath no matter the price you paid, to serve and protect the starks. it is by your bedside that he waits with anxiously wringing hands, his thick brows drawn together while the maester tries and fails to discern what has befallen you. the fire in the hearth flickers lowly as the night drags on, each moment that you do not wake worsening robb’s concern. grey wind curls himself by the hearth, resting among the furs.

you wake with tired blinks and a hazy memory, the first words that come from your hoarse throat ask after the safety of robb’s young brother. robb is a turbulent wreck of emotions: relief at your waking, frustration at his reliance on you in a time of trouble, gratefulness for protecting bran, anger at your quickness to do something that seemingly put yourself in danger.

when you stubbornly and coldly remind him of your promise to serve him, he grips the sheets of your bed in a tight ball as he leans towards you with pained and frustrated worry.

“your life is not mine. do not be so reckless, i order it of you.”

#game of thrones #game of thrones x reader #robb stark x reader #robb stark x y/n #robb stark x you #robb stark headcanons #robb stark #robb stark imagine #robb stark drabble #asoiaf x you #asoiaf x reader #asoiaf headcanons #a song of ice and fire #asoiaf fanfic #house stark #house stark x reader #robb stark x witch reader

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radioactivewisdom · 13 days ago

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Liberal and Leftist men are becoming increasingly sneaky in presenting their woke misogyny. They’ll use “theory” to explain why access to women’s bodies is actually a good thing, and totally not aligned with patriarchy at all! Just as a conservative man would pick up his Bible to tell a woman why her body belongs to her husband completely, both types of men are serving their own best interest. I’ll give credit where it’s due, Dworkin was correct in assessing the similarity in the supposed “differences” between political men. Male sexual “need” is at the core of both ideologies. It doesn’t matter religion, political leaning, economic class, race, or century, women’s bodies have remained a resource. Men have always sought to control reproduction via women’s wombs, and no revolution or rapture is going to change that.

It’s important for women to not participate in men’s blame game, faulting the very systems they created in order to further dominate women. As a woman, the man most likely to hurt you is one of the same race, religion, social, and economic class. He’s not harassing you because he’s poor, but because of degeneracy and entitlement. Physicality is a male minded obsession because it distracts from the truth. It’s really THOSE men’s fault, not ours. As if male allegiance doesn’t span across continents, centuries, and space itself (misogynist have landed on the moon.)

Unfortunately, no matter where you go, the story remains the same. Women in Mesopotamia didn’t experience sexual slavery because of capitalism. Of course our world needs fixing, but only intelligent women are capable of that, and it won’t come from removing a single system alone. They’re all interconnected. Built upon each other, because sexual entitlement is at the root. Men have leveraged money, race, and all other physical and political distinctions, to better monopolize their position. Nobody wants to dismantle patriarchy, only rid the parts of it that personally put them at a disadvantage.

The money game is becoming harder to win, so now economically unfit men want to do away with it. Guess what resource they’re going to redistribute first? Your body. The world’s poorest are women, and their male peers don’t seem to be making it any easier on them. Yet, women are supposed to believe that male behavior is all due to one particular economic system? Are these institutions detrimental? Yes, but not for the reason XY’s claim.

The only allegiance you should have is to likeminded women who practice self preservation. Everyone else is trying to convince you that a lack of sex is oppression. Sex is seen as a resource, and if money can’t “pay,” another loophole will be found. Our world has been built upon the notion of sexual access and paternity being given away to the highest bidder. Whether they pony up cash, blood, or scripture, doesn’t matter. The intention remains unchanged. So called progressives put on pretty performances, deceptively disguising ulterior motives. Stay sovereign, there are better courses of action to take.

#progressive patriarchs #woke woman hating #systematic sexpests

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black-buttercup-clangen · 3 months ago

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🌼HELLO and Welcome to my Clangen blog, Buttercupclan!🌼

Also known as Black Buttercupclan which will come in later ;) — I try to keep everything tagged well like #characters reference and #moon 1 #moon2 etc

Warning this comic will include cartoon blood, animal death and other things like, that I will tag with warnings tho of course. — Also the art style may change a bit, mostly just the background of the comic, and the text balloons just seeing what different things I can do with it.

I will try to at least post a moon update every Wednesday and yes the ask box is open for characters! :) — My Warrior cats blog is @mousetoe-wc and my Main is @voidcats-0ne5ive

🌼Start Here🌼

Mini Allegiance of the Clan sorted by order they were introduced

Medic cat: Quilldusk - pale gray dorsal striped tom with green-yellow eyes

Warriors: Burntfade - black smoke medium furred tom, with gray eyes

Swiftbloom - fluffy ghost and ginger tortie molly with yellow eyes

Apprentice:

Kits: Murkkit - dark masked tabby molly with yellow eyes

The different tags for this blog:

#Buttercupclan moon — A moon update

#butter asks

#butter fanart

#character reference

#buttercupclan allegiances — the allegiances art that I update every 3 moons

#background post — the background art

#clangen sprites

#other or #inbetween moons — is any thing that doesn’t fit into the previous stuff

#clangen #Buttercupclan #last updated:#2/10/24

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fanficapologist · 4 months ago

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Of Dragons and Maelstroms

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

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

Chapter Ninety-Two

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To my Queen and dear younger sister,

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your devoted brother,

Cedric

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maera,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your loving brother,

Gwyn

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maera

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

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

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

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

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

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

I cannot stand this for much longer

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#aemond targaryen #aemond fanfiction #aemond x oc #house targaryen #maera wylde #hotd aemond #hotd fanfic #hotd helaena #house wylde #chapters #aemond fanfic #aemond x original female character #aemond x original character #aemond targaryen fanfiction #house of the dragon #hotd #aemond fic #house of the dragon season 2 #hotd s2

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rise-my-angel · 1 year ago

Text

Heart of the Great Wolf

6 - King and Queen in the North

Pairing: Jon Snow x F!Baratheon!Reader (Slow Burn), Robb Stark x F!Baratheon!Reader

Length: 10.4k

Warnings: Angst/hurt comfort, slow burn, discussions of warfare, strained parent-child issues, mild mentions of blood and violence, smut, oral (m receiving), slight dom/sub dynamics, consensual degredating langauge, symptoms of post coital sub drop, secret relationship, unexplained nightmares

Notes: Robbs campaign in the Westlands begins now. Disclaimer, I am not a war expert so if you are, just don't read into it too closely. Series Masterlist Here.

Men in the camp all spoke of different stories to explain it, some fantastical, some of ominous warning and many in their spare moments keeping their eyes peeled to the sky following the slow moving streak of red. The tip of it burned brighter almost as an orange or yellow that deepened in colour as it stretched into a striking red tail. It appeared in the bright sun of the daylight it seemed many days ago and it had barley moved along the skyline as it peeked into the night. The moon was barley visible in comparison, the red comet burned so bright that it demanded all of the skies attention.

Now in the dark of the night, it was much more the centre of talk and yet as you walked through the camp you paid it no mind. Olyvar Frey to his credit, was trying very hard to be a dutiful squire to the King in the North and he seemed to show you a similar level of respect. Yet as you heard his squeaky voice shouting, you felt a tinge of annoyance in your chest. You would like just one singular night that would allow you any sleep. “Your grace,”

Turning to see him, he paused in front of you, leaning his hands onto his thighs as he huffed out, “Your grace, my apologies, I,” taking another breathe he hoisted himself up and straight as he held out a raven scroll. “A raven came in urgently for the King.”

Grabbing it, you glanced at the unbroken wax seal to see that of a Stag. Heart picking up a small bit, you nodded a thanks to the squire and he took a moment before realizing you were waiting for him to take his leave.

There was much getting used to now, this new title. The Northmen respected you as their Queen as much as they did when choosing Robb Stark as their King. You had stood beside him, fought beside them as he did, and knew the North as well as any foreigner could. You had knelt and pledged in front of his men, that you vowed more then that of a wife’s love to him but your sword and loyalty. Even when it would mean standing opposite of your own father.

You could only wonder just how he had taken it, learning of your allegiance, that these people called you Queen in the North. Now with a letter in your hands to the King you knew him well enough that Stannis Baratheon was not one to broker peace after being insulted so. Coming to your own tent, you could see that Robb had barley gotten inside before preoccupying himself with the papers in front of him.

So much so, you seemed to have not even been noticed. “Your grace.” Robb having propped part of his head up by a closed fist with his elbow perched on a table, he raised up quietly with narrowed eyes until they flattened out to an amused smirk. “I know a King such as yourself is ever so busy, but pray tell could he spare a few moments for a girl such as myself?”

Standing up, the smirk grew to a more wolfish grin as he stepped towards you. Slow, purposeful steps that made you feel like the prey before he stood tall over your leaning his face into yours. “For such a pretty one, I have more then a few.” Two fingers pulled your face up to his from under your chin, as he pressed his lips gently to yours. His other hand moving up to find the back of your neck, but finding you pulling back before he had the chance.

One hand on his chest plate, he glanced down to see what the other was holding. His eyes narrowed more in question, before you turned it in your fingers so he could see the sigil. You found the others eyes, him pulling you in further away from the entrance. He leaned back against the table, using one hand to pull you to stand between his legs so he could keep his touch at your waist. “What’s it say?”

Raising an eyebrow, “It’s for the King in the North.”

Robb only shook his head in a slight no, running one hand smoothly up and down your waist to hip and back. “And you are my Queen, which means what I know, I want you to know too.” It still took getting used to even from him, “Read it for me.”

If you took a deep breathe no doubt it would come out shaking, instead you let your lungs burn as you unveiled the writing. Not in your fathers own hand, but it was indeed in his words nor was it addressed to one person. Th contents though, made you raise your eyebrows in surprise. Whatever ideas the realm had of this war before, certainly they knew now.

“To the High Lords of Westeros, all men know me for the true born son of Steffon Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End, by his lady wife Cassana of House Estermont. I declare upon the honour of my house that my brother Robert, our late King left no true born issues of his body. The boy Joffery, the boy Tommen, and the girl Myrcella being born of incest between Cersei Lannister and her brother Ser Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer. By right of birth and blood, I do this day lay claim to the Iron Throne of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros. Let all true men declare their loyalty. Done in the Light of the Lord,”

For a brief second, your eyes narrowed at the wording in a mix of confusion and then to a distant concern. All which were not missed by Robb as you continued.

“under the sign and seal of Stannis of House Baratheon, the first of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and protector of the realm.” Your voice trailing out by the end with a mixture of acceptance and yet frustration in it’s sound.

Robb pulled one hand back open as you handed it to him to scan over for himself. Your own hands now free, found themselves resting gently along the side and back of his neck. “It seems he’s not willing to make the same mistake.” Glancing up to you with a knowing look, “The whole realm knows now.”

Robb meant no offence and you knew that. His father and you had made a few too many of them in both of your failing confidence in allies. Ned Stark, having sent one of his men to give a letter detailing the truth in the wake of Robert’s death meant for Stannis and only Stannis. Your own father however, seemed to think that no such subtly was required. “He wants everyone to know if you oppose him, then you’re opposing the one true King.” Your words a bit more pedantic then calm.

There was no doubt when you chose to stand by his side what this meant for your family. It meant that now two of you were pulling the remains of the Baratheons apart, but before you could look to Robb, your men, and the united front that the Lannister forces how three times could not keep up with and ignore it. Now however? There was no more room to pretend otherwise.

Robb would be considered a usurper, and you a traitor. At the least the punishment was the same for both crimes, but the once idea of your heads on spikes were whispered to be something new. Something this letter only added validity to such rumours. Robb gently calling your name, getting you to look him in the eye. “There is something else, something I wasn’t sure of until this.” Your fingers tapping at the letter. “He had said in the Light of the Lord,”

“He did,” Robb watching carefully as you tried putting pieces together.

Your nails lightly scratching at the ends of curly hair at the back of his neck almost like a nervous tick needing to fidget with something. “I’ve been hearing things from Dragonstone. About my father and mother.”

It weighed in your chest unsettled and uncomfortable enough that you pulled out of Robb’s touch entirely as the feeling closed in on you. Choosing instead of sit back against the surface next to him as one arm draped across your stomach and the other with your fingers curling up against your lips. “My family has never exactly been considerably dedicated to the Seven, as you likely could tell.”

A lightness in Robbs eyes glazed over as he looked at you, “Aye, considering there is actually a small sept in Winterfell and you never even considered getting married there.”

Nodding, you didn’t think of the ceremony a lot actually. Most of it felt like a blur of anxiety that you barley remembered any of it until the crowd had left entirely. “My father and I approached it much the same. That the gods exist, but neither of us particularly liked them very much. He saw it was, we have our duty down here why should we too trap ourselves in obeying all of their demands as well.”

Robb found himself trying not to laugh, unknowingly much like his father had said to his mother, “It is your gods with all the rules.” The Old Gods had not rules, but ways of life to adhere to that worked in conjunction with the way they saw nature was supposed to work. Likely why most Northerners found little care to move South, when many Southerners found little issue in going place to place.

The Andals had came through the lands and cut down almost every Weirwood south of White Harbour, and pushed the First Men up behind that point to stay out of their way as they brought the Faith of the Seven with them. You smiled a little yourself. “My uncles weren’t exactly much different, just a little more into the debauchery of it all then us. But I’ve heard things about my father.”

“He’s taken an advisor in a woman from Asshai. A red priestess of this,” You paused to find the words but none were too kind, “fanatical religion. One of the men here call it R’hllor. This red god that works through fire and blood magic and sacrifice.”

The image in your mind of the blackness of the cell in Kings Landing, your memory of that dream was so faded now all you could recall was a terrible chilling cold, and that of a flame that seemed to fly past you before you woke up. The dream at the time unsettled you then, and yet now as you could barley even recall anything but that it still did.

You must have been quiet for longer then a moment, as Robb leaned closer into your side as he murmured your name. “Talk to me, what’s going on in that pretty head of yours?” Shutting your eyes, you felt the nerves soothed once more by his thick warm voice draping like honey in your ear.

You shrugged though, “I’m not sure. I shouldn’t even care, we have more to worry about.” He could tell you were rapidly changing the topic, but thankfully you knew that Robb knew better then to push you to talk when so much of how you worked things out was in the quiet of your head.

“I’m going to speak to him.” Looking back at him, Robb had dropped more of the softness only you were privy to these days. “Jaime. He had admitted it to my mother, that he pushed Bran from the window. But now that the whole realm knows his secret, I want to hear him confess his crime to my face.” A look in his eye grew darker and harsher when he met your eyes.

“I’d wish you luck, but I know neither of you need that now do you?”

This time, he was far less soft as he pulled you into him by the back of your neck. Pressing his lips roughly to yours, and deepening it just enough to steal your breathe before pulling back with a bite to your lower lip. Smirking at the low look in your eyes as he brushed against your lips still as he spoke lowly. “Your King expects you to show me just how lucky he is later tonight, understood?”

He kissed you once more before departing. If Robb was good at one thing, it was making you forget everything you were raised and trained to be as soon as he got that lustful, demanding look in his eyes.

The growing disparity of numbers was doing your head in. So many men here, so many here and yet the amounts changed depending on the source and of course each man saw it differently. Lord Karstark across from you arguing about the sheer size in the Stormlands. “Even if he had twice that, he’s no better then a boy playing games. He’s fought no battles, and neither have half those summer boys camped out.”

Biting your tongue as you considered it, you shook your head at the dismissal finally. “He has Highgarden and the Tyrells, which means he also has Randyll Tarly at his command.”

The Greatjon beside you loud and brash as any, “Tarly’s more likely to inspire those men to pack their bags and head home then follow that rat into battle. Some say he had his eldest killed and his second sons not the sharpest one either.”

Tilting your head in doubt you glanced up at him, “It doesn’t matter what he did, what matters is if he’s on Renly’s side then they have more leadership then none. I don’t care what the man’s like in private, I care about how quickly he can train his men.”

Bolton to the right of you spoke much calmer much to your growing headache’s relief, “We should have approached the Tyrell’s before Renly married the girl.”

Now that was a news you hardly could picture, no more then a political move but you had no concept of what your uncle was going to do to even try selling that reality. “There’s nothing we could’ve done, Renly’s been in with the Tyrells for longer then even Roberts been dead.” Roose glancing at you curiously as you elaborated. “He’d been trying to find a way to get Lady Margaery in Robert’s bed for over a year, and he didn’t just leave the city when Robert died he left with Ser Loras and fifty retainers with them.”

“You think he already knew about the Queen?”

Nodding to Karstark with confidence. “I know he did. There’d be no reason for it otherwise. He gets the Tyrells in with his brother, exposes the Queen’s secret and suddenly there’s a gap to be filled on the throne and oh would you look at that.” Hitting your palms with some force onto the table, “Someone already has a tie in with Highgarden that just so happens to have a hundred thousand men at arms.”

“She’s right,” the gruff voice of Brynden Tully speaking up from the side of the room. “We dismiss Renlys army and it gives them the chance to smarten up without us noticing and sneak up behind us while we’re busy with Lord Tywin.”

“Most of his men backed themselves into Harrenhal, he’ll join them most likely. Knows it’s too risky for us to march on him even in those ruins.” Your head continued to grow louder in it’s pain. There were four armies at this point, and frustratingly the North were the only ones who weren’t fighting for claim of the Iron Throne and yet it seemed all of the weight of this war was falling on your shoulders.

You stared at the lap, marks laid out as the debate continued. There was a certain amount of worry you were purposely keeping from them, one that you knew Robb was watching fester inside. You were not worried about Renly’s army against the North, no you knew better then that.

Stannis would go after Renly first, considering him as his biggest threat having claimed his seat for himself and brought maybe ten thousand men of Storm’s End onto his side. Guessing you’d say your father was left with around five thousand which to most is something to scoff at, but you knew better then that.

He had skill, drive, and little mercy for those who were in his way in ways that Renly had never even seen before. His enemy was Renly, then the Iron Throne and finally you had no doubt your father would end his campaign by coming after Robb. The North hadn’t declared independence just to hand themselves over to the crown without a fight.

If Lord Tywin was your current enemy, it was your own father’s Iron fist that left you awake at night. The men around you bowing with mutterings of “Your Grace,” causing you to look up. Robb entering the room looking to you as you gave a slight grimace. Renlys numbers it seemed, continue to be the rotten apple of the bunch that was ruining the strength of the rest.

Moving aside from where you were stood, palms braced against the table as you leaned over the chair as Robb moved around. Theon came in after him with a nod, “Your grace.” If there was one person who such formality felt odd being directed towards, it was the strangest coming from the Greyjoy. You had spent far too many years bickering and bantering to be used to being addressed as such from him.

Taking a similar stance as you had, Robb looked over the map. “I assume we haven’t reached an agreement yet?” Brynden confirming that no you all had not, as he explained that the problem seems to be what to do about Renly. Robb considered the words, “He has the numbers, but he has the weakest claim and no talent for warfare. Last I heard he was busy holding competitions just to elect a kingsgaurd. Either we deal with him now when he’s no threat, or we let him turn into a threat and it is too late to come to any agreement.”

Lord Karstark opened his mouth, speaking the first few syllables of protest before Greatjon’s voice bellowed pushing right back. “You not hear your King, Karstark? Or do you think this is up for debate.”

The man muttering an apology, “No offence is taken, my lord. You are all hear to have your opinions heard.” Taking a seat, Robb begun to glance around to his men. “Now, why I’ve called you all here so late.”

If you were being honest, it was far to much work to keep with the amount of Lannisters there. Some looked alike, some looked nothing like any you’d ever seen making you wonder just looks their parents had to create such a mix in appearances. The man in front of you had darker hair, somewhat similar eyes to his cousins but little else you saw that would place him but name.

For all of the damage such striking blonde hair had caused in Kings Landing, the Lannisters did not seem to share the strength in familial looks that the Baratheons or Starks shared. He was still and quiet, but had nothing but an earnest respect on his face as he looked to the King now speaking to him. “You’re Ser Alton Lannister?”

“I am, your grace.”

He had been called upon in wake of the fresh defeat of forces, Robb to send him to Kings Landing and present the Queen with his peace terms. “She won’t care.” Renly’s voice had spoken once more in your head, and yet when telling that to Robb he wasn’t perturbed at all.

“You’re right, she won’t. But then I’m the one who extended an offer to end the war, which means the fault lies with them for denying us. We have our enemies, but none who hate us quite as much as they hate the Lannisters.”

It was clever to be honest. Make a simple offer of peace that could end Robb’s campaign against them with ease, especially considering it was incontestable the degree which they were losing the war against him. Give them one less army to fight and the North far more time to plan and resource how to handle Stannis should his own campaign for the throne succeed.

“I offer your cousins peace if they meet my terms.” Robb spoke with the roughness of authority and yet the powerful calm of a man truly in charge. He suited his role perfectly, as if truly destined for him. “First, your family must release my sisters. Second, my father’s bone’s must be returned to us so he may rest beside his brother and sister in the crypts beneath Winterfell.”

Your heart ripped a little at his demand. It ripped at his even though he did now show or speak it here and now. Your uncle had called such a place dark and depressing, when to the Starks it was where they belonged. A place they could stay together in the home they belonged in. Eddard Stark did not belong rotting away in Kings Landing, sick thinking of how long did they let his head decay away on those spikes.

“And the remains of all those who died in his service must also be returned. Their families can honour them with proper funerals.”

Alton for his part, had a look of understanding to each request so far. “An honourable request, your grace.” But your eyes narrowed at him, and he caught the look with a tiny shift to something more unsteady at the sight. You knew he wouldn’t take the next quite as easily as Robb too knew what he was asking him to deliver.

“Third, Joffery and the Queen Regent must renounce all claim to dominion of the North.” Oh the look on the Lannister’s face that dropped so quickly. “From this time ‘till the end of time, we are a free and independent Kingdom.”

The nervousness dripping from him as the loyal men surround you and Robb all unified in their words together, “The King in the North.”

“Neither Joffery not any of his men shall set foot in our lands again. If he disregards this command, he shall suffer the same fate as my father. Only I don’t need a servant to do my beheading for me.”

A chilling pride filling your veins. For as much learning as you had been given in your years growing up, none at all gave you anywhere near the ease of leadership that Robb had so quickly grown into. Alton Lannister in his place, stammered out “These are...Your grace, these are...”

Robb finding no issue in finishing his sentence for him. “These are my terms. If the Queen Regent and her son meet them, I’ll give them my peace. If not?” His voice dropping harsh and deep with no false or pretend in it to be found. “I will litter the south with Lannister dead.”

As if he forgot where he was, Alton spoke out, “King Joffery is a Baratheon, your grace..”

“Is he?”

Silence fell over the Lannister as he looked at you, a paleness in his face growing ever more white at the unblinking stare you gave him until the silence threatened to swallow the man whole. Robb had taken quite a bit of internal struggle to not smirk at just how quickly you turned the Northerners in the room to quick amusement at the mans expense. “You’ll ride at daybreak, Ser Alton.”

Nodding, he was brought out of the tent as Robb dismissed the rest of his men. “That will be all for tonight.”

Standing together, Robb raised an eyebrow with a playful glint in his eye. “Is he?” His smirk turning to more of a grin as you broke your own face into a smirk. “Nearly send that man into an early grave. Who would’ve sent the understanding Queen my oh so reasonable terms then?”

Shrugging a shoulder at him, “I have no doubt there’s an endless amount of Lannisters around you can scare into it, my King.”

Nudging you ahead of him playfully you both could see Theon waiting around the front as you three now stood at the opening of the tent. Looking to the camp settling itself in. “A word, your grace?”

Robb sounded almost bashful as he turned to him, “You don’t have to call me your grace when no one’s around.” A small pocket of ease settled between the three of you, for a short moment you were not the leaders of a war as Theon shrugged.

“It’s not so bad once you get used to it.”

Feeling Robb’s hand run gently along your arm and wrist where he could find without looking, as you twisted to run yours over his hand back as he sighed. “I’m glad someone’s gotten used to it. “

Cutting to the chase Theon at least understood what was happening. “The Lannisters are going to reject your terms, know.” Robb wasting no breathe in affirming that of course they would as Theon turned to you both. “We can fight them in the fields as long as you like, but we won’t need them until you take Kings Landing. And we can’t take Kings Landing without ships.”

Glancing at you, Theon could clearly tell by how quickly glanced to Robb that you could see exactly where this was headed. Both of your families had ships, but only one of you had any chance at bringing them to Robb. “My father has ships, and men who know how to sail them.”

“Men who fought our fathers.”

You felt doubt, not in Theon but perhaps in those who he was speaking of. He looked at you with a plead, and you felt for how long he must have considered bringing this up. “Men who fought against King Robert to free themselves from the toke of the south, men who fought against the very father that you’re siding against now.” Your jaw clenched, but you didn’t argue back. He wasn’t wrong. Not at all.

“I’m his only living son. He’ll listen to me, I know he will.”

Flickering his eyes to you, a trust was found in both of your eyes in the man before you both that had been as close as could be for over ten years now. Theon’s words were quiet, hitting you with an emotional weight that he hadn’t intended, nor do you think either considered. “I’m not a Stark, I know that. But your father raised me to be an honourable man.”

You thought of those dreams, those visions of nothing in your eyes that appeared out of nowhere and disappeared just as quickly. A deep rasp that spoke too much of the same words, and yet filled with a pain that send him towards the edge of the world. Neither you not Robb had mentioned it yet but you both certainly felt it, especially as you, him, and Theon all stood here fighting for the same thing.

A fourth person was missing and both of you felt his absence each day grow more difficult.

It felt as if the night had never ended. One thing turned to another and another, and little by little by the point you had a chance to peel off the heavy fabric weight you down. Or was it the war around you doing that all on its own? You could hear just outside the quiet mutterings following by a distinct wolfish huff that had you smile.

Something about the way only Robb could speak to Grey Wind intrigued you. Like it was a companion that understood him, maybe even others. The direwolf was smart enough, but seemed to choose to obey only one. You tried very hard not to think about the fact that Grey Wind did not follow Robb inside, choosing instead to rest comfortably out at the entrance like a lock to the door that didn’t actually exist. Also ignoring the dark look in his eye as he looked you over, turning away from his eyes as you hid how flustered he made you look. “She didn’t take it very well, I’m assuming.”

“No she didn’t. To either.” Glancing over you saw him move to tear off the layers himself, narrowing your eyes as you crossed the room, motioning for him to turn around. Standing behind him, you had rise up on your toes to comfortably reach at his shoulders as Robb turned slightly to glance at you, a cheeky grin on his face. “You know I have a squire to do this right?”

Pausing mid movements you leaned over more to meet his gaze, “My apologies, your grace. Shall I go fetch him to undress you tonight?” Robb tried turning to grab at you, only to be stopped by your hands bracing against his shoulders. “No? Then don’t move.”

As you undid the pauldrons on his shoulders, the weight did nothing to rid him of the itensity in his muscles there, pausing your work only to run your palms over then. Digging in slightly, his breath hitched for a second, exhaling when you moved continued down his arms to undo the armour. “Told me never to trust a Greyjoy.”

You were glad to be behind him, not wishing for him to see the irritation in your face despite how much you tried to hide it. “We’re not trusting a Greyjoy, we’re trusting Theon. She should know by now there’s a difference.”

Robb could hear it in your voice however, but he didn’t blame you nor did he hide it in his own frustrations. “If we didn’t make allies in anyone who hasn’t been our enemy before, it’d be seven kingdoms all blindly fighting each other with no one to trust.” As his arms were released, you could see Robb flexing and relaxing them in a pattern, trying to keep the stress from tensing him too much.

“Hell if that were the case I certainly wouldn’t be allowed to be here would I.” This time he turned to fast for you to hold him in pace. His eyes were unamused as they bore into yours. “I mean if this all goes the way we think it will, it’s not just the Lannisters we’ll be fighting against.”

His voice was low, and the hefty concern in them made you feel small, or smaller perhaps. “I want you to listen to me.” Shaking off his chest plate he had far more room to pull you closer. “You are far more then just Stannis’s daughter. You’re my wife, the woman I love, and the Queen all those men out there call their own.” Grasping your face gently, he pulled you to look at him, his face serious but the blue in his eyes shined brightly in the dim yellow light. “If we fight him, we fight him. But you won’t do it alone.”

Staring at you until you slowly nodded, he gave you a light, gentle kiss before pulling back. “May I continue?” Kneeling down you started on the last of it quickly, having done it enough times by now for him. Walder Frey gave him a squire, but you much preferred doing certain things yourself for him, you had to share the other with some thirty thousand men out there the least the boy could do was find anywhere else to be at night but in your tent.

You were quiet and didn’t glance up as you spoke, “I love you as well, just if we’re being honest.”

The chuckle above you was darker then you thought, a shiver down your spine as he spoke. “Dangerous thing to say to a man when you’re on your knees before him.” Tearing your eyes up you had no way of stopping the way your gaze took it’s time strolling up his body as you freed him from the remaining metal. His hand ran over the side of your face, thumb brushing against your bottom lip before beckoning you up.

Undoing the laces to slide off the thin material covering your own body, you felt your body want to shake from the sudden cold air but the deep breathe Robb let you as he rested his forehead against yours make you warm. His large hands grasping your hips and pulling you to press against him. “You cannot keep doing this to me, I’d like to get my whole thought out for once before you make me want to shove you into my bed.”

Pulling back, you looked into his eyes now a much deeper colour then before as you very gently undid the shirt covering his chest. Not looking away still as you slid it open and off both his shoulders to let it drop to the ground. “Well, I’m listening.”

Either such a quiet growl you were meant to hear, or something only meant for himself you felt his hands tighten against you. “How is it I have five siblings, and yet you’re the one whose the biggest brat?” Not moving, you much more calmly pressed your palms against his chest and up to rest along his shoulders and neck as he collected himself. “She tried telling me I should just send you instead.”

You bit your tongue as the scenario played out in your mind, “The last time I saw Renly, I told him he was out of his mind thinking he could be a king, and not to do anything stupid. I’m not sure he’d be so keen on letting me walk in and out of his camp.”

Robb adding, “Not to mention all they’ll see is their enemies daughter, not the wife of the King trying to offer a truce.” The conflict in your heart just never left did it. It was always bubbling to the surface waiting to escape and taunt you. “We agreed to stay together from now on. Where I go, you go, and right now we belong here, with our men fighting this war. I’m not sending you off miles away where anyone could take you.”

Sliding your hands around the back of his neck, one threaded through his hair as he wrapped his arms around more to pull you into his chest properly. His voice muffled as he rested it in your neck. “I’m not fighting this war without you, and I don’t want to.”

Sensing he needed more ease, you scratched your nails along his scalp but the shudder he let out was strong. “What do you need? From me, right now?”

Hands rough along your hips as he started running them up and down, you could feel his heart beating fast against your chest. One of his hands slid back, grasping one of the cheeks of your ass tightly while his mouth slid up to ear your. “What I need, is for you to be a good girl for me tonight. Can you do that?”

He knew he had you by the hitch your breathe and how much tighter your nails dug into him at his own touch against you. It was unseemly just how quickly Robb could unravel everything that made you stoic, and quietly intimidating to those under you when he got you alone like this. He could make your body buzz with need only to be quenched as he told you what to do. It was just unfair how easily be had you so freely wanting to submit to him.

Pulling away to look him his eyes you nodded at him yes. “Good.” Moving back, Robb sat at the edge of the bed. Legs spread and nodding for you to knee before him. Trying to keep your breathe even as he once more ran his thumb over your bottom lip, pulling it down slightly before moving his hand away to grasp at your jaw. “Pull me out.”

Your eyes and hands as focused as they were undoing his armour only this time you felt the wetness between your legs increase as you tugged his pants down just enough to grasp at his cock. Already hard, it was thick in your hand as you freed him and shuffled closer. Robb slid his hand to the back of your head. “You want to please me? Make your husband feel better?” Your hand tightened around his length more firmly as he spoke as if unaffected by your touch. “Suck my cock.”

Pulling you closer to him, your eyes slid shut as you gently took the leaking tip of his cock into your mouth. Not pushing you to take more, just letting you slowly adjust to how much he would start stretching your lips open the deeper you would take him. The saliva gathering quickly and mixing with what bit of precum was already there he held you until he was confident your mouth was more then ready to soak his cock.

The tiny sigh you let out as he slid deeper, his cock heavy on your tongue as you tasted him. Once he started pushing you down, you knew he’d push as far as you could take it. Which by now, was far more then the first time you ever took him in your mouth. He had trained your mouth well.

Just as he teased your gag reflex, Robb loosened his grip letting you pull back on your own. He kept his touch to the back of your head but let you bob up and down his cock. Your thighs pressing together as you let him fill your mouth, the bit of saliva trailing from the side of your lips only increasing the more you ran your tongue over his length.

Your hands braced against his thighs, Robb moving to give you more space as he let out a groan, his head falling back, eyes sliding shut at the feeling. You sucked him eagerly like you couldn’t get enough and maybe that was exactly the case. Taking him as deep as you could handle, your face pressed up against the coarse hair around his cock before Robb pulled you off completely, you gasping for hair as he held you close enough to see the mix of saliva and his own seed drop from your lips. Yanking you to look up at him, he was breathing harsher and his teeth gritting together. “Can you take more?”

Nodding your head, Robb smiled like a man on the hunt and you were just ripe for the attack. “Anything,”

Almost hissing at the words, Robb coaxed you forward feeding you more of his cock once more now that you had caught your breathe. “Is that so? You going to let me do anything to you? Whatever I want?” You hummed against his cock, the need between your own legs growing in desire. “Let me fill your mouth like a pretty little whore, and then I’ll show you what I really want.”

Robbs words rough but they blocked out everything beyond his sound and touch and taste. He throbbed in your mouth as you sucked his cock before pushing you down to once more brush against the hair at his base. “Fuck- oh good girl,”

His hand in your hair loosening as he let go, cumming in your mouth and caressing you through how much he was giving you. His cum warm and thick that made him hard to swallow down when he held you so close, but he spilled all down your throat as you moaned around him. His mouth running as much as his cock spilled inside you, “Swallow all of me, my love. That’s right, just like a good little slut.”

When he finally finished, he slowly pulled you off his cock. Wasting no time, he pulled you to sit up and straddle his lap as he kissed your lips. No shame in being able to taste himself on your tongue you leaned into his chest. Robb running a hand all through your hair, making a tangled mess of things as you begun kissing down his jaw and neck.

Him how shivering at your touch, you had learned he wanted you to be rough with him when he was with you. Nights like tonight, he was a wolf who wanted you to play.

Biting at the skin you could already feel him growing hard again, your lips licking and pressing a kiss to each mark you made, sinking lower and lower as you could to leave them along his collarbone. He watched you with hooded eyes, lips still parted as he tried desperately to control himself and failing.

Pulling you up to look him in the eyes, Robb trailed his hand down between your legs and just as he teased the idea of easing you into it, he pushed two thick fingers inside of you down to the knuckles. A loud cry leaving your mouth as he did nothing to stop you from it. Only fucking you with them at a far faster pace then was kind, and you couldn’t get enough of it.

How he played you like an instrument and the sounds were your moans and pleas of his name, and the sound of how wet you had become as he touched you. Your insides tightening quickly, far faster then it took you to bring him to the edge. “Sucking my cock get you this worked up?”

Catching your eye as he fisted your hair tighter, your hands digging into his shoulders to keep yourself steady. “Yes, yes, it did. You always do,” Your voice so light and breathless as it faded into another cry as his thumb brushed your clit. “Make me feel so good, every part of you.”

Gods help you when Robb found the moods to tease you about the way you sound, even worse when he reminds you that there is every single chance that his men have heard you. Their head strong Queen in the North who begs and cries for her King’s cock in the night. Maybe it was a good thing Theon was to leave for a while, you certainly knew he had been stockpiling that material to make fun of you with in private.

You wanted to bury your face in the neck you just marked up, but he refused. Forcing you back to watch you, like keeping you at a distance as he touched you was just another ploy to make you melt. “Cum for me, soak my hand like a good girl and I’ll fuck you full of my cock. Is that what you want?”

Through almost painful cries as he pushed you closer to the edge, you shook your head. Robb asking in such a sweetly mocking tone what it was you wanted then. “To please you, I oh fuck- please use me however you want, that's what I want, I promise,”

Smiling in such a dark, dominating manner he leaned to brush his lips against yours. “That’s right, you’re here to please me like the needy slut you are.” Pressing his lips in a light kiss be rubbed tightly against your clit as you came around his fingers. Shaking in his hold as he kept you in place, watching your eyes struggle to even stay open.

You had barley even started to come down before Robb moved, pushing you face down onto the bed before yanking your hips up in the hair. You suspect if he weren’t so worked up, he may have made you beg to fuck you, but before you even came down from your own orgasm he pushed inside of you. The stinging stretch still came with every time he fucked you, but you clenched around him as the aftershocks of pleasure came back to spike into your core again.

Pushing his hips hard to fill you completely, you cried out his name as Robb grit his teeth and held you so tight you’d be bruised come morning. Whispering almost just to himself in wonder, “Fuck you’re still coming down,” He held you tighter before pulling back and thrusting inside of you once more.

The pace he set fast and greedy, your hands clenching the sheets below you as you made no sounds that contained words other then, “Fuck”, “please,” or “Robb”. His cock pounding inside of you right against that sensitive wall that took away the rest of the air in your lungs. You felt like he could ask you to say, admit, or do anything when you were fucked like this and you wouldn’t think twice.

One hand ran down your spine before once more tangling in your hair as he held your head into the sheets, leveraging himself to fuck you with rougher thrusts. The need inside of you coiling so tightly that you could feel yourself getting more wet around his length. “Do you want to cum for me? Be a good little whore and cum all over my cock just so I’ll spill inside you?” Nodding as best you could he knew that you were falling deeper. His hand more gentle around your hair before sliding around to your neck and pulling you gently up as he thrusted slow but hard. “You always want my cum don’t you?”

“Always, Robb, always. Please, gods my love, I need you.”

Oh did that ever do Robb in, fucking into you with little regard for any rhythm as he spoke low over the delicious sounds of his hips slapping against your ass. “I need you too, I always fucking need you,” Gasping into the sheets you felt the coil snap and the pleasure burned right through you and tensing every muscle. Clenching around him hard, Robb lost his final sense of control, pushing inside deeply as he spilled inside of you.

You felt light headed, floating in bed as he slowly pulled out of you. For a split moment when you couldn’t feel him at all, you fisted the sheets below you tightly almost anxiety bubbling in your chest at the lack of touch. Before you felt him cover your back, turning you to your side as he pulled your sweaty hair off of your face, kissing gently below your ear. His voice soothing you back to earth gently as you felt the haze doze off.

Relaxing in his arms, you reached behind you to run your hand through his hair. Robb capturing you hand to press a kiss to your palm before sending it on it’s way, your name on his lips gentle in your ear “Talk to me, are you alright?” You nodded, and he wrapped an arm around your waist pulling you back closer. “I didn’t push you too hard?”

For all the rough touches and growling words Robb quickly learned that he didn’t feel relaxed after fucking you until he checked in. Making sure he didn’t go too roughly or was too strict with you. Shaking your head no he ran his nose over your cheek before relaxing behind you.

It was quiet between you for a while before a question popped in your head. “Robb, why send your mother and not one of the other lords?”

His voice was low and rumbling in your ear, not near sleep as you were but content to lay with you nonetheless. “I’ve known her my whole life, I trust her.” There was a pause before a tiny hint of a cheeky tone peeked through. “She’s also the least intimidating out of this lot. You really think Renly would respond well to someone like Roose or Maege?”

You both laughed in the others arms, “You have a point. A hundred thousand men and yet I don’t think any of them would be as tough as your mother is.” Once the Starks made you one of their own, it seemed like being a wolf is the inevitable outcome.

What caught your attention just as you begun to drift off, was the way that no words or noise made from Robb in anyway occurred. His hand running up and down your side and yet as if obediently following a spoken order, Grey Wind made his way into the tent. His large frame circling around like any small dog before settling close by the bed.

Robb’s hand had stopped moving as Grey Wind had done so, and only started up once the direwolf was inside and settling down for the night. To sleepy to focus on it, you let it slip your mind.

The camp was in a hustle as they all prepared to move out, with the bulk of Tywin’s forces moving in on Harrenhal, it left pockets of lesser forces in the open. Robb determining they would be easy to wipe through, especially in the dead of night. Something, the Lannister forces had yet to catch on that it may be something to watch for.

It was still quite early, the sun barley even awake as you made your way through the camp. Your eyes sharp, only softening a bit to nod at those giving a slight bow and “your grace” as you passed. Coming to one specific cell near the back, sat a face you wished you weren’t so familiar with.

Ser Jaime Lannister, Kingslayer. As your father’s raven had so described him. Covered in filth and tied to a wooden pole, he didn’t look quite as fierce as his reputation proceeded. The guard opening the gate as you approached, obeying the nod of your head to step back for a moment to give you space with him. His mouth it seemed, was still working just fine.

“I’m a lucky man, a visit from our dear Queen in the North so early in the morning.” Stepping inside, you felt the shiver of cold morning air that you could at least depend on going the more south you travelled today. “I can’t quite tell, is it just spending what? Months being dragged around by this ugly lot, or has leadership made you that much more ravishing.” You stared down as unmoving and unamused as ever before he dramatically rolled his eyes. “Still have your father’s charm I see.”

Your arms crossing over your chest, voice as flat as could be. “I’d ask how you were fairing, but I think we both how little your answer would change anything.” Looking down at him, you still could see the same smug face that had mocked you and Lord Stark mere moments before a spear was shoved through his leg. “You had a late chat with the King last night, did you not?”

“We did, hope that didn’t interfere with your plans too much. Though I suppose it didn’t, your husband doesn’t seem too bothered about anyone hearing you does he?” You only looked down at him, eyebrows raised as if to tell him if he has a point, to get to it. “Seems like a jealous man, making sure every man here knows what he does to you at night, just to mock them that it’s not them who gets it.”

Stepping forward you marched right past his words. “Curiously, it seems like you did nothing but deny such allegations against you.” The pause in his face did in fact, stand out. “Odd because when Ned Stark approached your sister with the same, she sung like a bird. Told him all about how you were born together, so you belong together.”

Something almost uncomfortable came over his face, for once, you found that hard to read. He was a hard man to read most of the time even past his words. “I assure you, my sister does an awful lot of talking and most of the time people just don’t seem to know when she’s lying.”

“You also confessed to Lady Catelyn.” You also know a rough looking scar across his face was from a rock she hit him with. Even now, it made you proud that it looked like it must have hurt. “Told her the truth, told her how it was you who pushed her ten year old son out a window.”

As if unable to find words, he just scrunched his face up in dismissal. “And?”

Now that got a tiny smirk from you. Stepping closer once more, your eyes flickered to where his legs were spread. How easily he could kick you from here, but you were well aware he couldn’t get anywhere past those chains. “You push a child from a window beacuse he saw you with the Queen. You don’t deny pushing him, you don’t deny that you fucked her and yet when faced with the same thing you deny it to Robb Stark’s face. I’m just curious of the change of heart.”

His eyes narrowed at you, both playing a game trying to read the other only it was a competition between two experts in such a matter. You hid in plain sight as well as he did, only with slightly less bloodshed and betrayals on your side of the river. “Tell me, would you confess your sins to him in my position?”

Crouching down in front of him, you took no thought in how much you actually knew you should keep your distance. “Tell me, Lannister. What sins have I committed that you think puts me at your level?”

He was quiet for a moment, but when he spoke, it was soft. Almost like a genuine question as something not as sinister sat behind his green eyes. “It’s not easy, keeping that sort of thing to yourself is it? No matter what your heart screams at you, the other part of you knows its far safer to keep it locked away. Don’t think about it if you don’t have to, and maybe it won’t eat away at you in guilt.”

You stayed silent, watching him with a narrowed brow as he dumped it on you like a bucket of freezing water. “How close did you get? To giving yourself to him?” For all the pounding of your heart, you stayed as unmoving as a statue. “I wondered if you had at first, the way he looked at you, how you tried not to look back. Would have been easy I imagine. You spent so much time in the North, you both probably know just where to go to not get caught.”

You shoved his face out of your mind. You made your choice, in mind and heart. And you don’t regret making that choice at all. Just let him play his game, he wouldn’t do anything more then say it to you. Hard to tell if he didn’t have any interest in playing the game of whispers as so many in Kings Landing did, or he just didn’t have the patience to try. “Next time I give myself to my husband for the first time I’ll be sure to invite you to witness the evidence first hand.”

“He came close though. Very close. A man doesn’t look at a woman the way he did if he’s never been anywhere near close to fucking her.” Jaime leaned his head back against the post, almost resting casually like a chat between friends. “You wouldn’t let it get that far, though. Considering who you are, and who he is, or was should I say. Afterall you can’t get much further away from you then all the way up there.”

It was hard to push him back out of your mind, the memory was clear. Most of your time with him as so clear you could reach out and brush your fingertips against it. But to do so, was to acknowledge what you wished would go away. Find a life that wasn’t marred in secrets of the heart. For a second you looked away, to the ground of nothing as a gear turned in your mind.

If you didn’t admit the truth, you could pretend it wasn’t real. Meeting his eyes back with a curious scrutiny, you begun to suspect the same for him. Only you weren’t trying to make your way back to that life, you had made your peace with it and chose a future that could want you freely.

You suspected Jaime Lannister however, didn’t have such a person in his life to give him that chance.

In the quiet between you, keen ears begun to reach out to listen. The longer you spoke with him, the more that concern of you, perhaps the jealousy making it grow begun to take hold. Only the closer he got to the edges of the cage, the less anyone suspected.

“It’s a shame. Tommen and Myrcella are good kids, maybe no one would quite have cared if your third didn’t turn out the way he did.” He had little to say, as you leaned in. “But the worse he gets, the louder those rumours are going to become. Best gets used to hearing them thrown at you, I won’t be the last.”

As if something inside changed, he glanced over you. “Stark must be relieved you didn’t inherit your fathers looks along with his joyless personality.” Your face fell far more flat and whole unimpressed at his mocking. “Can’t imagine armour that dark or sleek looks good on any Baratheon, some dead ancestor of yours must have done the gods work to skip past all those brothers to land on you.”

“I’ve seen enough of your family to know that most of your cousins weren’t blessed with the same looks.”

The sheer confidence in him, to many times in Kings Landing had you spoken to him as he held such a high opinion, dangling it around like a marionette everyone should gawk and awe at. “Did I lose my hearing along with my freedom, or did the Queen in the North just give me a compliment?”

Now this was a game you’ve played before, but with far more likeable and non condescending bantering partners. “I’m dull, not blind.”

As he was cracking a smile, you heard the pattering of feed behind you curiously. “No, not when you’ve spent your life around Starks like that.” Nodding to the distance of nothing in particular. “You know, we aren’t actually related.”

The steps grew behind you with no sound but them reaching you as the man spoke. “I always thought you’d be a bore in bed, but now I can’t help but be curious what kind of she wolf Stark has turned you into underneath all that.”

In a second, a large figure leaped in beside you just as you stood to your full height. Grey Wind beside you in an aggressive display growling at him, Jaime leaning back with his eyes almost squeezed shut before you reached a hand out. Grasping onto the fur along the direwolf’s back ,Grey Wind backed off in a second. Standing large a foot out in front of you still, until you eyed the Lannister once more and turned away.

Grey Wind took a moment before he too turned, and as he followed you along the way, you noted that he seemed much more like himself then moments before. Yet still followed you the way he only did for Robb.

You didn’t clue in when later in the day, Robb had glanced in the direction of the cage Jaime was in as he pulled you into him with dark eyes and a greed in his voice that had your heart pumping a big harder. “If he speaks to you like that again, I’ll drag him into our tent and make him watch me take you apart until the sun rises.”

It was a frustrating point the ride out, waiting on Theon about the Iron Islanders, waiting to hear on Renly. If they both said no, you and Robb would handle it but it was the in between times on horseback where you could see in the far off look in those bright blue eyes that spoke it. The frustration of trying to find just who your true allies were as so far the entire weight of this war rested on him alone.

For all the talk of kings and armies, the only one who had the strength and ability to fight this war so far, was Robb. The only one posing a threat, even despite all the talk that he was young and over eager as the Lannisters continued to lose out.

As unsure of his abilities as a King were in private, looking to him in those moments you saw nothing but what a real King is made of. Like Robb was not aware of the degree that his own men worshipped him. They chose him, and yet not once did he let any hubris take hold of that fact.

Robb held his kingship like a weight that would sink him at any splash, and you couldn’t help but see something you had not watched in a King as long as you were alive. There were many claims of kings in this realm now, and perhaps it was your own bias, your own love that spoke of such an opinion.

But the only one you could say had the strength of a man that makes him worthy of King, was the man next to you. Jaime Lannister had a point in some, but you had done what he refused to do. Chose a life, taken a path that would lead you to where you truly were supposed to be.

And the way Robb looked at you back, and the way his men never looked at you as less then? It was hard to image yourself in this life that didn’t bring you to here and now.

That confidence in the day however, wasn’t the same confidence that danced in your dreams once the sun went down. In the dark of nights, fast asleep was when the dreams of cold and ice came to you, ones that filled you with a fear you didn’t even think was yours.

You told no one of the night you dreamt of that tall figure, of the cries of a newborn baby and the striking eyes so blue they felt not of this earth and how those eyes carried away those infants cries into the darkness before you awoke.

Nor did you know why in the few seconds between waking from such a dream, to falling back asleep, did you think of Jon.

#jon snow x reader #robb stark x reader #game of thrones #jon snow #robb stark #asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #jon snow x you #robb stark x you #jon snow imagine #robb stark imagine

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seaclangen · 4 months ago

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Moon 1

Content warning: Blood

*manic cackling*

Apologies for not including any cameos in this one, it occured to me that the last panel could be mistaken as romantic and I didn't want to draw anyone's oc like that. Sorry :c

And yes, Seacats can go on land - but only for a few minutes at a time. As long as their gills are wet they can still breathe. However, they can't speak while on land bc their voices are evolved to travel through water, not air.

<< starting allegiances || < moon 0 || moon 2 >

#🌊 Seaclan #🌊 Moon #🌊 Redpaw #🌊Siltdawn #🌊 Sleepyminnow #Cw blood #Oopsie sudden jump in artstyle

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cutieclangen · 7 months ago

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Moon 11, Part 4: The Omen

Beware the bark that brings blood in a swirl of drops...

I got too excited to show this off and so I'm posting it early! With this, CutieClan will now be on hiatus until May 26th, but will return then with weekly full moon updates! I am moving states next week and also want some time to get settled and finally have a buffer built up of pages to post. See you soon!

Prev | Next

Start from the beginning

Moon 6 Allegiances

#don't worry it's supposed to be cryptic #you'll find out the full meaning soon enough :)#i'll answer all asks later this month after i get settled #i am so sorry its taken me so long #clangen #clan generator #warriors #warriorcats #warriors oc #cutieclan #cutieclan moon #cutieclan omen #sunpaw #cw blood

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promisedclan · 1 month ago

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Form a clan in my name, and unto you I shall grant great power…

Promiseclan is a semi-Clangen based horror comic set in the post-apocalyptic 2010s.

Most story beats will be dictated by the save file, but a variety of decisions will be left up to audience choice.

For more information, see Butterflypaw’s Guide .

[ OOC Info: Call me Ally! (She/Her, 20+) ]

Character/Lore asks are always more than welcome <3

Allegiances (Updates every 12 moons)

Start reading here! | Most Recent Page Here!

Major Content Warnings and other Information beneath the cut

The following topics/themes are somewhat unavoidable in Promiseclan’s narrative. They will not be tagged, but will be posted here for your reference.

- Warrior Cats-typical illness and injury

- Eye & Mouth imagery.

- Minor/Cartoony blood & gore imagery

The following tags will be used/updated as needed:

#cw: body horror - These cats go through it. This tag will be used when they are excessively going through it.

#cw: death - For any character deaths.

#cw: eyestrain - For panels that may be a bit eyestrain-y.

Additional Tags:

#butterflyeffect - For posts that require audience participation

#moon update - For moon updates

#promisedlore - For relevant lore posts / answering lore focused asks

#promisedsillies - For shitposting / answering sillier asks.

Individual characters will be tagged when they are involved with major beats of the story/have development happen to them.

#clangen #warrior cats #promiseclan

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witchthewriter · 2 years ago

Photo

𝐁𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐐𝐮𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐒𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐚'𝐬 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐜𝐢𝐥 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐡𝐮𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝, 𝐒𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐫, 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞

⤷ female, ambiguous race, and any size reader. Requests are open, thank you for reading!

Warnings: mentions of PTSD, triggers, violence, blood, death and swearing

ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ

🌿ISTP 🍁Slytherin or Hufflepuff - can be debated. 📜Chaotic Neutral 🔮Aries Sun, Taurus Moon, Scorpio Rising

𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒎𝒆 𝑺𝒐𝒏𝒈:

Nad Dunaem by DakhaBrakha

𝑹𝒆𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒑 𝑻𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒔:

One Showing Kindness (You) x The Other Choosing To Become Kinder, As Redemption (Sandor)

Snarky Power Couple That Can, And Probably Will, Destroy You

“Shut Up” x “Make Me”

𝑯𝒊𝒔 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒖𝒂𝒈𝒆𝒔

Acts of Service. Likes to do things for you - making sure you’re fed and hydrated. Cuts up logs for the fire, and makes sure it’s always burning.

𝑺𝑭𝑾🌿

・Sansa specifically asked for the both of you to join her council right after her coronation

・Technically lowborn, your family had been loyal to House Stark for generations

・And when ... well when it all went to shit, you were forced to flee.

・For years you didn’t know what became of your family. But you did hold onto the knowledge that was passed down from generation to generation

・Not just about the physical world, but the spiritual, and the natural.

・Your family was initially so close to the Starks’ because of your usefulness, but over hundreds of years, your family proved their allegiance

・You grew up with the Stark children as your mother was a close companion of Cateyln’s (when she first came to Winterfell as a newlywed, she felt very lost. Your mother was the same age and showed her the ways of the North)

・Arya and Sansa were like sisters to you. But you were always caught in the middle of their bickering. You were the eldest of four siblings, having two other brothers and a younger sister. She was only a baby when Nedd Stark went to King’s Landing.

・It wasn’t easy, surviving all those years on your own. But you did it. You endured.

・After acquiring a job as a barmaid, you heard all the gossip and news the war

・You protected yourself with a hidden dagger underneath your skirts, and always wore a ring which held poison. Like a locket ring.

・In all honesty, no one fucked with you because of it. And your reputation grew.

・Women would come to you in the early hours of the morning, wanting an array of things. Herbs for birth control, poison for violent husbands, drafts to aid in sleep, ingredients to churn someone’s guts.

・Your boss didn’t mind at first, but he thought you were creating too much attention.

・But your boss’s wife liked you, and she helped you until one day a young Arya Stark trudged into the tavern with a tall scarred man.

・It didn’t take her long to recognise you, and within minutes she had knocked over a pitcher of ale and threw herself into your arms

・She demanded that you came with them, and the rest is history...

・The relationship between you and Sandor was rocky in the beginning. You thought he was too abrasive and harsh. Arya, already used to it, just shrugged her shoulders when you called him out on it

・Even though you knew his reputation, you didn’t care. You had packed your belongings and had your own set of weapons that could kill him.

・He knew that.

・And he was ... honestly impressed

・Arya loved the dynamic between you two. And although she would never admit it, she loved when you fussed over her - your big sister instincts kicking in.

・It took you a while to realise Sandor’s love languages. Arya had to point out when he was ‘being nice’.

・But you saw something in him that he didn’t see in himself. And you fell in love

・When Sansa asked you to be on her council, Sandor was really proud of you, but it took him a long time to accept his position. He didn’t think he was worthy of it.

・”We’ve all made mistakes,” Sansa told him one evening when the three of you were dining together. “You can atone by accepting my offer.”

・You don’t have an official title, as you dabble in many areas of Winterfell. But you’re the connection to the people, and also the natural world. An advisor, and Maester in training.

・Sandor’s official title is, ‘Master-at-Arms’ / ‘Commander’. He’s responsible for training soldiers, giving military advice and choosing the guards of Winterfell.

・Sansa also has a council of Bannermen, who are present when very important decisions are made. (Sandor hates nearly every single one of them.)

・You were going to have a little cottage somewhere warmer (because Sandor doesn’t like the cold), but the position was ... too perfect. Being with Sansa, living in Winterfell, it was home.

・If Sansa travels to King’s Landing, she wants you and Sandor to come with her. She feels safe when the pair of you are around her. Sansa has PTSD (although not known as that), and can get triggered when men get too physically close.

・You’ve taught Sansa about herbs, plants, poisions and cures. The old Sansa never listened, thought it was too boring. But now, she listens intently, and has endless questions.

・Sansa offered to rebuild your family home, but it hurt too much. Until ... two years later, when your youngest brother and sister found their way back home.

・Sandor was unsure of this reunion. He wanted to make sure they were who they said they were.

・But you knew.

・Yes, in your gut you knew. But your brother and sister had specific birth marks and physical oddities which set them aside since birth.

・Arya travelled back to Winterfell when she found out, as did Jon Snow. Even though he was labelled a bastard during your childhoods, your family was still lowborn as well.

・So on numerous occassions, your family had invited Jon Snow to sup with them.

・Sandor didn’t think his life would be like this. He didn’t think he would make it this far or that he deserved the love you gave him.

・And when your siblings came along, they too grew love for Sandor. He offered to train both your siblings (because he thought both men and women should know how to defend themsleves).

・You slowly found out the horrors that your siblings endured, and at nights you cried to Sandor.

・You became a family again.

・And like the generations before you, your family was once again faithful to the ruler in the North.

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surfclangen · 1 year ago

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Welcome to Surfclan!

At least, what remains of it.

This comic may contain disturbing imagery, animal death, and violence. Proceed with caution!

Asks are open! Please feel free to ask about whatever, I love sharing lore and I love chatting with y'all! So are interactions with other clans! I love plotting.

Cats Available for speaking to

This page will be updated as I design assets.

"What Remains After The Flood" is a clangen based comic inspired by @moons-of-dewclan! (You should for sure check them out if you haven't yet, Nettlepaw is the cat of all time.)

Surfclan is a coastal clan bordered by Reefclan and Tideclan. Traditionally, Surfclan cats are strong swimmers that make their home in the rocks by the water, boldly diving into the waves and cracking open crabs and mussels with their wit.

All of the clans suffered from the hurricane, but it took everything from Surfclan. The rain-slick rocks were nearly impossible to climb in the midst of a storm. All but two cats were lost.

ALLEGIANCES

Ospreystar- Gray colorpoint tom with yellow eyes.

Medicine Cat Apprentice: Darkpaw- Brown tabby she-cat with blue eyes.

Map (Made on Inkarnate with clan icons by yours truly!)

Tag Guide

#Comic page - A page of the comic!

#OOC - Out of character! The writer is a man and sometimes he speaks!

#TW animal death - Animal death!

#TW blood - Blood!

#clangen #warriors cats #warriors cats ocs #clangen comic #tragedyclan #surfclan #Surfclangen #asks open

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flaxclan · 2 months ago

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WELCOME TO FLAXCLAN

FlaxClan runs on Classic Mode on the Web Page, meaning it really shouldn't have anything interesting going on. However I'm taking the events as more of suggestions if you think about it.

A lot of main inspos. Most notable are FallenClan, juniper-clan, gray-thistleclan.

Rules to self: Kits, apprentices, and young warriors are not allowed to die. Basically do not worry about that. I get sad about it.

Warnings: Just as about as any average clangen blog. Blood warning, animal death, potentially abuse. All that stuff.

Enjoy all the chaos that has happened. I'm currently at moon 62 so expect a lot of foreshadowing. Teehees.

Also I allow any design headcanons on my ocs. If it works well in your art style then go ahead! Be free!

Discord is right here

Tags:

Ooc: Anything not a moon update or anything directly about the characters.

FlaxSprites: Showing the sprites obviously.

FlaxMemes: Memes about FlaxClan

Allegiances

#clangen #clangen blog #clangen oc #warrior cats #warrior cats oc #wc #wc oc #ooc

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ladystarksneedle · 10 months ago

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Darkly, delicately

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Original Character

Warnings: Minor character death, mentions of period typical crimes and their punishments, prostitution, implied smut.

Word count: 4.7k

Summary: All her life Meynara has struggled to belong. Captured and taken to a land far away she's made her place in the world of Westeros with allies she can count on one hand. With the siege of Duskendale by the army of King Aegon II, she finds herself facing odds that change the course of her life once again, weaving her fate to the tune of the dragon in a dance hidden through time, as the war between the blacks and the greens rages on.

Link to read on ao3: here

She hears the bell ring twice as the castle erupts in chaos. “Noom, Narrah, Nyel” she chants to herself as the third dong reverberates through the wind drowning the screams around her before she's shoved hastily to the safety of the dingy cellars below. The scent of sweat fills her nostrils as she navigates the musty cramped quarters, filled to the brim with anxious ladies clasping their hands in prayer as they kneel together trying to stifle their whimpers. Lady Meredyth wrings her hands nervously as she stares into the distance, somber in demeanor. A moment of recognition seems to pass through her eyes as she spots her near the hastily barred door, before she turns abruptly to question her ladies maids’ who bow their heads in response. She finds her place near one of the walls, turning away from the woman reprimanding those around her to assess the scene in silence. Ever since the war began she knew the siege was inevitable. The family of the dragon had torn themselves in two embroiling most of the realm in their chaos and it was about time they too were hit with the consequences of their support. One of the dragons would soon grace their skies, she only hoped it wasn't their queen. Rumors of the kinslayer had wafted through Duskendale these past few moons. Round the winding harbor and the cobbled streets, onto the market square threatened over a bargain gone wrong, passed around taverns along with a drink in hand all up to the Dun Fort and it's gates in hushed whispers carrying over inwards to the pale walls enclosing winding threads weaved together for their lady, his name had evoked fear, disgust and surprising wonder alike. As the clashes of metal drew nearer to them she wondered how long it would take for him to finally reach his mark.

Seven blows was all it took to bring down the giant gate of the Dun Fort. The irony of the number isn't lost on her as they are rounded up in the central courtyard by noon. Captives surround her in haphazard lines along the posts and below the outer gate manned by armed men in green, their banner of the three headed dragon glinting maliciously in the sun. Some of the women struggle to stifle their sobs as they watch their husbands and sons being rounded up for slaughter before being hushed with a shove and a sharp word. She cranes her neck to see an older man at the head flanked by two heads of silver around a familiar face kneeling in chains.

“People of Duskendale, you face the price of your betrayal! Lord Darklyn has condemned you all but the King is just and merciful. Whoever wishes to make good on their vows again and pledge allegiance to the true heir to the Iron throne need only speak it now and his grace shall consider their folly pardoned” booms the older man, his tanned skin streaked with the blood of the burning ports. She hears a few whispers of indignation and fear before a handful of knights step forward to pledge their allegiance. It is a meager number which she realizes dissatisfies them deeply.

“Very well then” murmurs the King before they hear a shrill roar near the top of the castle. There in all his glory, perched atop the highest parapet, she sees a beast so beautiful, unworthy of the carnage it has wreaked, yet as it growls and makes its way towards them with its scales of shimmering gold she feels the true power that the men before her yielded. More of the folk around her now rush to bend the knee, hastily murmuring their pleas and apologies as the men in green smile haughtily. A lone eye, stern in its gaze, catches her unmoving. She suppresses the shiver that runs through her as she curtsies in response. The urge to live has long outlasted whatever moral code runs through the heart of the realm and it does not fail her today. Somewhere to the side she hears a familiar scoff of distaste. “It won't be my head on a spike when they're done with us” she thinks as she stares at her rival in defiance. Lady Meredyth scorns her in response as she's dragged off to witness the event of the day. Lord Gunthor kneels a few paces before her, locking eyes with their captors before turning to face her with hurt and disdain. She sees him gaze at her for a moment before offering a few words of comfort to his wife along with affirming his allegiance to the Queen with pride. She feels a quiver of fear pass through him, a cry of anguish a few feet away and an unrelenting stare on her as he's beheaded. A hush falls over the courtyard as the deed is done and the guffaws resume their way to the main hall shoving all in their path. Somewhere in the distance her heart leaps, far away across the fishing villages dotting the skyline towards the ruins of Hollard castle near the fork of the Crownlands. Duskendale would face a similar fate tonight.

She wastes no time in making herself scarce. She trains her ear on the whispers clinging to the walls as she makes her way downwards. They have been sacked by a little under three thousand men amassed during their journey through Rosby and Stokeworth that are to stay on till further word from the King. The lower kitchens and the halls are filled to the brim and are easy to blend into as she hurries towards her destination. She finds herself taking the familiar flight of stairs past the makeshift bakery to wind down to a hidden door below. Exactly three knocks later it opens to reveal a harsh face staring right at her.

“You are late”

“Forgive me for trying to stay alive” she huffs in return.

“Did they hear you?”

“Not yet”

“Let us keep it that way then.”

She knows he means to assess the threat before them both before feeding her to it. That is how it has always been, her body for the price of their safety. For all her bravado she hasn't been able to escape the clutches of home and the thread that ties her to it remains the one that cuts her the most.

“I know what I have to do”

“You move on my command Meynara, not before, nor after. We've made a decent life for ourselves here, do not go ruining it now.”

“I suppose the head of the lord staring at us as we walk through the hallways is enough of a hurdle in our path” she retorts shakily.

“As if you were ever fond of him”

“No, perhaps I wasn't. Doesn't mean I wanted him dead either”

“Life and Death are right around your corner”

“Faith shines the ability to prevail in both” she finishes turning away from him. Those were his father's words, ones that he'd told her on the boat to Westeros as they lay together shackled and starved. She remembers his eyes shining with a promise in the dark, willing her to forgo her fear. It seems a lifetime ago yet the man before her stares at her just the same. It is her gaze now which is filled with apprehension rather than the faith she's long left behind and no feelings of ardor can bring back the naive trust she has lost.

There is a feast to be held in honor of the King as Duskendale had yielded with ease, unprepared and caught off guard. Perhaps if Gunthor had insisted on better fortifications and riders rather than her religiously mounting him each night, his head wouldn't be hollow and unattached at the moment. She finds herself slinking into the shadows, with that thought, trying to keep an eye on the party at hand. The ale flows freely in the lower halls with the men getting handsy with the serving girls despite their indignation. Her only option is to reach the upper halls unnoticed hoping the stronger wine would dull them long enough to be done with her faster. She spots him in the distance as she makes her way up. He stands still near a burly man, eyes as empty as the dead hanging outside. A brief flicker of warning passes through to her before he's consumed to his farcity. Faith shall have to suffice for both of them tonight.

The main hall is decorated with banners of gold yet much sparse compared to the mess below. Anyone with a title should occupy the benches ahead of her, some newly appointed lords and generals, who all sit jesting and drinking below the dias as the men of the hour watch on. She watches the King engrossed with the head cook’s daughter fully partaking in the merriment. She sees her blush and smile coquettishly turning a lock of her hair as she entertains him and wonders how much persuasion it took for her to be offered up on a platter. Freshly plucked and naive, innocence was always coveted first at the altar, of worship and sacrifice alike.

Next to him sat two men with equally stern faces. She recognised the first with the booming voice, still in his armor refusing woman and drink alike, surveying the crowd for an imminent threat yet the man flanking the King's left drew her attention the most. To see him in person after their loss at noon made her skin tingle and the rumors had not done him justice. He sat poised, with his hair still braided for battle, eye lazily surveying the crowd like the elder man next to him, sipping from his chalice at ease. His gaze seemed unfocussed, unwilling to seek out anything in particular yet she saw through the haze. A predator responds only when it spots a worthy threat.

“What's a pretty thing like you doing all alone” she hears someone say before being grabbed by pudgy hands. The man near her reeks of nauseating sweetness. Arbor red she discerns as he leers close to her.

“Apologies my lord, I was on my way to serve the King” she lies promptly.

“Perhaps you might serve me first then. His grace would not refuse his loyal subjects tonight” he spoke earning a few jeers.

“Wait” she hears a crisp voice break through the crowd. “That one is mine”

There is no room for argument as she's pulled by two armed knights towards the dias, under the eye of the dragon.

“My my brother, you've caught a pretty one. A shame she's too old to be plucked” smirks the King playfully biting the girl on his lap.

She sees the prince ahead of her regard her with interest before beckoning her forwards with his finger. It isn't long after his appraisal that he takes her by the arm retreating to the sounds of muffled cheers. She feels him make his way around the castle assuredly, neither in haste nor at leisure, before he pulls her into the nearest chambers he can find.

“What can you do for me?” he asks abruptly, leaning against the door as he surveys her again.

“Whatever you desire my prince” she responds, as demurely as she can muster.

“I do not wish for pleasantries”

She balks at his refusal as she stands before him, tilting her head to observe him closely.

“I meant what I said”

“Are you a whore?”

“I am what you want me to be”

“If I wanted a whore I'd find one more willing, you may quit your farce”

“And what if this isn't one” she finds herself saying.

“Then I have wasted my time and I do not wish to be proven wrong”

She stares at him in bewilderment and defiance meeting his gaze as he turns to pour himself another cup of wine.

“I can entertain you to your heart's content”

“I am not a man who revels in the pleasures you seek to offer”

“You are hard to please, as any prince should be, yet I am not one to yield. Allow me to show you instead” she says confidently walking towards him. He looks at her skeptically, before his eye widens slightly upon hearing the clinks that follow her. He lets her lead him to the chaise nearby, raising an eyebrow at the sound that clings to her while she smiles at his astonishment, ready to finally play her part.

She keeps her gaze on him as she begins her routine, serpentine and sinuous, twisting her arms above her head with precision entrenched in her bones. She feels his eye take in her form, the flow of her wrists twisting like waves to the swell of her breasts rising and falling with each turn, moving in tandem with her hips all while the room jingles with the ring of threes; Noom, Narrah, Nyel. He continues his trail along her frame trying to match her pace and she sees him relax through her lids, taking in his enraptured face.

“Is this to your liking, my prince” she smirks as the ringing comes to a halt, the chanting of her soul, awake at the appraisal in his gaze. She finds her answer soon in the nights to come.

“You move to the sound of the gods” he says as they lie together, sweat clinging to them as the wind wafts through the open windows. It is the second night under the new command of Duskendale and all seems to be at rest, lying in wait for the bells to strike.

“Do you believe in them?” she whispers back, turning to regard him with mirth “I thought the Targaryens fashioned themselves as gods”

“The blood of Old Valyria leaves little to imagination.”

“But Valyria is gone and all you have left in this strange land is the power you wield through the skies” she continues stroking his bare arm.

“Which strange land should I thank for gracing me with such beauty tonight” he whispers, turning a lock of her hair between his fingers as he gazes into her eyes.

“Norvos, across the narrow sea”

“Norvos” he repeats, rolling the syllables around his tongue regarding her with awe. “Are all Norvoshi so,”

“So?”

“Quiet”

“I thought you found my chatter incessant”

“I never heard you” he stops her, “Not once as you crept around the castle all the way into my bed”

“You wish to know my secret?” she asks him playfully “Perhaps my blood is as special as yours”

He scoffs in turn earning a crease to her eyebrows which does not go unnoticed. “We are not so different, you and I. We both seek to soar far beyond what fate plans for us”

“Your riddles can exhaust a man far more than your movements” he huffs petulantly.

“You are only displeased because you cannot decipher this one” she hums thoughtfully earning her a pinch to her hip which she swats away promptly.

“Careful, I am not fond of that wayword tongue of yours” he warns her with a smirk.

“Why when it has given you such pleasure? What is the use of depriving yourself of such an investment” she finds herself giggling in return to the bashful pout of his lips.

It has been long since she's been so enamored with a man. There have been a few, young and beautiful, not immune to the charm she summons at will but none so rigid yet tender that makes her heart want more.

“Dance for me” she hears him say as he lies back, hair splayed around the pillows like a halo.

“As you wish your grace” she responds devilishly, slinking away from his embrace to twinkle under his eye.

Their nights continue with well practiced rhythm as their days stretch on. She finds herself at the precipice of good fortune, confined mostly to his chambers as his prize, content to stay hidden till she's displayed with pride. The King she learns takes offense to her growing presence in his brother’s life yet is dissuaded to take action by his elder hand, his disapproval making itself known in its own way.

“My lady, the prince is betrothed to Lady Baratheon of Storm's End and is to be married in a few moons”

“With the tide of the war changing ever so often I feel it best to practice restraint Lord Hand. I'm playing my part just as everyone, as a loyal servant to the crown won't you agree?”

“As I am certain you are” he responds with distaste.

“The prince seems quite sated does he not? What then I wonder, merits such growing concern. As long as your plans come to fruition I am sure a woman such as me should hardly pose a worthy obstacle” she bites back eager to send him away from her new chambers. Victory in the face of adversity tastes almost as sweet as the dreaded wine she brings to her lips, sipping at it with mock delight as she watches the commotion enfold out her door. As he walks to give way to someone, she hears a familiar scream of anger grace the threshold. Lady Meredyth barges in, red faced and fuming. She finds her predicament almost hilarious were it not for the state she's in. Dressed in mourning for a neglectful husband who managed to give her a daughter too young to give away for the dwindling power she now tries to hoard, she tries to muster whatever pity she can find for the woman, before she opens her rotten mouth.

“You seem mighty pleased with your situation, finally living up to your true potential as the whore you are”

“Widowhood suits you my lady. The black brings out your eyes” she responds back sarcastically.

She sees her spit at her feet before she's escorted away, spewing curses through the halls. There is no greater joy in watching the old crone claim her late husband's chambers where she rode him to death while she lounges on her very own bed waiting to be taken in the arms of pleasure at night.

“What did I tell you about that tongue of yours” he retorts as he pulls her into an alcove at midday.

“To use it more often” she whispers, running her lips along his jaw. The walk she'd managed to take away from her confines had proved to be a welcome change after that harrowing ordeal in the morn.

“You wanton thing. Do not vex me outside of these walls”

“You have my word” she says flightily resuming her course along his neck.

“And much more” he breathes, palms burning through the blue she's clad in. She finds herself smiling as she pulls him closer, enjoying his proximity during the quiet of the day. Perhaps nights are not the only thing to look forward to anymore.

She feels his presence in the hallways later, long before she turns the corner, trying to rid herself of the evidence of her dalliance.

“You've lost your faith” he remarks somewhere behind her.

“I've simply found it around another corner” she replies, turning to face the judgment in his dark eyes. There are bags underneath them, weary with doubt and the wisdom he seems to wield like a weapon.

“He is a dangerous man to be around. Someone who kills his own is not one to be trifled with”

“And yet we've faced far worse”

“Worse than treason?”

“Tell me you don't mean to support yet another foreign queen”

“You've grown slow” he states glaring at her. She finds herself at a loss of words. Her old self would have caught on to what was spoken almost instantly with an equally sharp retort in tow. Shame creeps up on her at being caught off guard, vulnerable and at his mercy.

“I will not fail you” she says, turning to avoid his eyes, tears glistening amongst her own. “I am only doing what I think best”

“And therein lies the problem”

“Lady Meynara” a voice cuts through the silence suffocating her as she turns to face the source of her shame. He stands with his hands clasped behind his back regarding her companion with distrust only for her to turn around to find him gone.

“Do all of you possess such talents of evasiveness” he questions her as she sighs and makes her way towards him.

“It has served us well”

“On the contrary, it makes you noticeable. The very thing you are ever so keen to avoid”

“I think you happen to have a keener eye than most, my prince. Do not fault the entire realm with the same flaw you possess.”

“I would hardly call it that”

“A flaw?”

“More of skill honed and fortune bestowed” he smirks leaning towards her.

“Something that earned you your birthright” she questions back impudently. “I've heard the rumors”

“I didn't think you'd put much stock in them”

“One tends to learn a lot through tales, true and false alike. Besides aren't rumors as such keeping your plan afoot”

“You know far too much to be jesting as such. Do you not fear for your life?” he asks her, eye glinting in the light.

“You'd have me hanging near the gate by now if I was such a threat”

“By your feet” he replies, watching her face darken. “You needn't worry as long as you serve me.”

“That is a threat my prince, far worse than what I'm accustomed to”

“Good, my intentions must be made clear then.”

“And what exactly might they entail”

“Your faith for a price” he says regarding her in earnest. The promise of more lingers on her lips as he leaves her wondering what it is she plans to do about it all.

“You mean to leave” she asks him on the third night they're together, with the moon at its height bathing them both in its embrace. He's reclined on the bed, one arm resting behind his head as he listens to her, eye closed in sequestered bliss.

“Rumors can only serve their purpose with cause to back them”

“You are to leave at dawn then?”

He hums in response as she fidgets with the sheets around her.

“Do not fret, I shall ensure your safety for your word”

“That is a hefty promise”

“And one I intend to keep”

“You will tire of me soon enough.”

“Perhaps,” he says, opening his eye to look at her. “Yet I'm certain it won't be so soon”

She feels the sheets pool at her feet as she rises to sate him for the night, eyes trained on him as she watches him cock his head in piqued interest. There is an unspoken understanding between them as she glides by the bed, running her fingers over the wood to stand in the center of the room, the light from the candles illuminating everything she wishes for him to see.

“Not tonight” she murmurs, running her hands over her hips.

“You'd deny the man who holds your fortune” he asks incredulously.

“I'd offer him something far sweeter”

“And what is sweeter than your company my lady”

“Joining me in ways a man would take his woman”

She sees the bed dip with his weight as he rises, moving with agility to stand before her. She cranes her neck to see him peer down at her, eyebrow raised at the game she wishes for him to play.

“In Norvos, we move like this to show our feelings. For emotion sometimes is best expressed through something tangible” she says reaching forward to steady his arms.

She feels him follow her movements with ease, twisting and turning with surprising accuracy never letting her out of his sight.

“You are a trained warrior”

“So are you, it seems. This is much like swordsmanship”

“All art is said to be inspired”

“What inspires you tonight little soldier” he rasps as he spins her around, arms enclosing her as she stares ahead. She feels his breath against her neck, her back pressed against the ridges of his body leading her to exhale before she writhes in his embrace.

“I do not wish to be a piece in the war you play at”

“We are all pieces to be moved about, each for a different purpose”

“It seems you've mastered my tongue in these past few days”

“I've only claimed what's mine” he says running his hands along her waist.

“Your plan will only work on trust, something the people here lack in abundance. Faith, which you scorn me for holding on to, is only meaningful if adhered to in earnest”

“I don't begrudge your faith” he whispers, turning her around to face him. “Just who it's tied to”

She finds herself mesmerized by the blue of his eye, so still yet violent, unrelenting yet open to the words that spill from her lips. “He is what connects me to who I am”

“To cherish something so deeply is a suffering in itself that I've come to accept. I think you understand that very well, Aemond.”

She feels him stiffen at the mention of his name, fingers clasping her arms tighter before he turns her around in a pirrouette, bowing before her as he ends their performance.

“Always your way, yes” she responds breathlessly.

“I do not wish to mold you Meynara, only to make you realize how well you belong. I can offer you something far more than the life you wish to subject yourself to”

“Wealth and power?”

“Purpose” he says with finality.

“Then I ask one thing of you. Bare yourself to me, in good faith” she whispers, watching him carefully “and I shall do the same.”

“Haven't I seen all of you?” he questions, removing the barrier across his face.

“Not without adornment” she says, reaching down to remove her restraints. “They are as much a part of me as this is of you” she finishes reaching up to cup his face. The sapphire glistens brilliantly as she stares at the angry scar accompanying it, intensifying his beauty.

“Is this what you've heard of” he remarks, gritting his teeth at her request.

“Indeed” she replies, reaching up to stroke his face. “We wear our shame and pride on our sleeve. It is time to embrace it together for the purpose you so wish to achieve”

“It will require much more than I've since asked from you”

“I think it is time I left the chains that bind me my prince, yours will have to suffice for now”

They wake again at the crack of dawn to the domestic bliss of togetherness. There in his chambers she experiences what it means to be a wife at last. The euphoria of nurture, she'd long dreamed of since she was a girl, envelops her in a sense of longing and nostalgia. As she bathes and readies him for battle, she finds herself gazing at him wistfully.

“I shall return soon”

“I am aware. I did not forgo my bindings for a lie”

“You wished to soar did you not.”

“You know, the Norvoshi do not trust a man without a beard. They say one as such lacks the honor to defend and the foresight to lead” she responds by running his blade across his face as he turns away from her.“You have your own honor though”

“Many would disagree. I am said to be cursed ”

“One man's curse is another's blessing. You shall return a King”

“Because I've given you the freedom you desire?” he jests “Your faith is truly boundless”

“As is your routine. Hold still while I finish or they'll have to wait the whole morn for you to ride out with glory”

It is an hour later after she meticulously braids his hair and secures his armor, over his eye and body that she finds herself truly bogged down with the weight of his departure. He kisses her temple as he leaves, the act too chaste for her to protest before he's gone. As she sits ruminating on her time spent with him, she hears the flap of the great wings of Vhagar, leathery and forceful as she rushes to spot her out of her window. A shadow falls over the Dun fort as she flies past, giving way to three rings of the great bell of Duskendale, thrice for the sound of freedom that soars through her heart.

Taglist: @arcielee @succnfuccubus @barbieaemond @watercolorskyy @paprikaquinn @witheredoffherwitch

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