#but i would enjoy it more in like...in any other game that actually has the space to explore it fully

[rosieyart]

okay, by popular demand (and by popular demand, i mean 3 people and my inability to keep my mouth shut) i am here with my saiou/ousai relationship + mini character analysis. this is an elaboration on this ask i got earlier !!

i should mention that i’ve only ever played through v3 once, so there is probably a lot i am missing, nuance wise and what not. i also haven’t edited this well, so it’s kinda just a word dump (sorry), so i’m not sure how understandable/coherent it’ll be. nor do i know how original my ideas are; there’s probably someone who’s dumped their opinions exactly like mine somewhere… in any case, here is my conclusion on why i think saiou is a rather intriguing ship and why i’m personally drawn to them, individually n otherwise ✌️

ouma kokichi. god what a complex character. some might argue otherwise, but i think his character and his arc throughout the game is not only hard to crack/understand, but integral to the v3 plot and overarching themes presented. well never truly know what he was thinking, and so many have already fought tooth and nail to defend or oppose him. in my humble opinion, however, the way i see it is this: ouma’s overall goal was to unite everyone against an active, obvious threat in the killing game. the mastermind was hidden amongst them, as they decided found out on, and by outing himself as the mastermind, making himself a clear and obvious target, it encouraged the remaining survivors to build trust within one another and fight together. kokichi realized very early on that no one was going to trust anyone as long as there was a hidden mastermind posing as a student within their group. he knew they weren’t going to get anywhere if they kept doubting each other — so in a very unorthodox way, he united them together. they didn’t need a friend, he realized, they needed an enemy. and by default, he sort of becomes shuichi’s nemesis as most antagonists in the games do.

i was on tiktok the other day and found this comment that i thought made a good point, regarding kokichi’s character and why people hate him.

though i am biased, i think it’s fair to say that in a world without the killing game, kokichi would want to be friends with shuichi. or at the very least, he’d be intrigued by him and push shuichi’s buttons to figure him out. i think it’s funny and such a nice detail to notice, but just as shuichi (and us, by default) are confused about kokichi and his actions, shuichi himself is actually a mystery to ouma as well. in the eng version, kokichi had shuichi labeled “trustworthy?” on his whiteboard meanwhile in the jp version, it’s “tricky/can’t figure him out.” in both versions regardless of translation, i think it’s fair to say that kokichi is intrigued and wants to understand shuichi better. one part of their dynamic i really love is the whole “i’m gonna annoy because it’s so fun and you react to said annoyances in ways i thoroughly enjoy.” and it’s fun, and silly, but i think it’s also kokichi’s way of figuring shuichi out. shuichi is… an anomaly. he’s an ultimate detective who’s supposed to search for the truth, yet he is ironically afraid of what he’ll find out. he has a knack for discovering and unearthing mysteries (he can’t help but connect two dots together) and yet he simultaneously is hesitant to discover more. he wants to find the truth, but is willing to tell lies in the classroom trials. this is a really fun juxtaposition with kokichi, who is notorious for telling lies and skirting around the truth like it’s the plague. and yet, they both want the same thing: to find out the truth and be done with this killing game. one is searching for the liars within their group, the other is finding out the truths.

this is one reason why i really enjoy saiou. one of the biggest themes for drv3 is the relationship between truths and lies. there’s the overarching “truth” of their world which is that it’s gone to hellfire and everyone but them are dead. the world ended. except, nope! that’s a lie! the *real* truth is that they’re in a killing game show. kokichi is known for telling lies, and so when he reveals the fire destroyed world outside and says that this is the truth out of the outside world, it’s ironic. kokichi knows there’s something else up, but he reveals the truth of the outside world to them (this, from what i understand/theorize, is ultimately to further everyone’s hatred towards ouma and help them form a close and trusting bond together, but the symbolism behind it is really interesting to me). “here is your truth,” he says, and they can’t dispute it as a lie because it’s right there in front of them. just like they couldn’t dispute gonta in the fourth trial.

except… what *really* defines truth? kokichi must’ve known the outside world was a lie, or that there was something more to it, otherwise why did he go through with his suicide in chap 5? to beat a dead horse: he tells a lie about the “truth” that is the outside world. we circle back to this lie vs truth theme in chapter six when shuichi starts questioning his sense of self. what is really true if he used to be someone else? if his memories and experiences are fake, does that make himself a fake human? a fake person? ultimately we come to know that it doesn’t matter — *he* gets to choose his own truth, even if there are lies buried beneath them. his memories may be fake, but his emotions and feelings aren’t. you cant fake the beating of your own heart or the pain you feel at knowing it’s all unreal, that it’s all a *lie*.

one thing i just thought was so so clever and genuinely helped me understand kokichi more was his friendship reward. for every friendship star completion thingy you complete, you get their underwear (💀) and a special skill to use in the trials. kokichi’s friendship reward is “kind lie.” he has a multitude of lies under his belt — real ones, hurtful ones, white ones, and ofc kind ones. you could argue his plan to deceive everyone as the mastermind was both a hurtful lie and a kind lie — he was ultimately lying for the greater good (imo). shuichi, despite being afraid of the truth, has no problem lying for the greater good either. i was so confused about the whole “perjury” aspect added to this game. i thought it was just another lame addition that didn’t make sense as a means of attempting to change it up a little in comparison to the last two games. but now i understand it’s greater purpose. lying is ultimately not a bad thing. not always, anyway. lying, as we find out, can help us pursue the truth. and i think kokichi knows this to be true in some ways, which is why he’s always acting so oblivious and naive at some times — or outright lying when he knows the truth is the opposite of what he’s saying. without a doubt, kokichi seriously helped move debates along during the trials. pretty sure whether you hate him or love him, people could agree to that. even if he appeared to be spouting nonsense or derailing the conversation, shuichi being the detective he is was able to slowly but surely understand (if only somewhat minimally) kokichi’s methods and thinking process. which is why chap 5 was so wild because it quite literally was all up to shuichi. kokichi single handedly put his trust into kaito to follow through with the plan, and shuichi to figure it out; NO ONE ELSE would’ve been able to figure it out except shuichi (except maybe maki but she was too stubborn to see thru to the truth). and that is like. holy shit??? that’s crazy to me and i think it shows that despite not trusting anyone and not knowing how it was going to turn out, kokichi took that gamble anyway. and it worked! except yknow. it also didn’t, in a way. all in all, the lying aspect of the trail grounds ties into the bigger overarching theme of choosing your own truth to live, and choosing what lies to believe in — good or bad.

side note: i think it’s so funny how mad kokichi gets when shuichi lies about seeing him in the virtual world in chapter four. had shuichi not lied, we wouldn’t have figured out it was gonta (or more likely, kokichi would’ve spoon fed the answer to everyone a bit more). gonta wasn’t supposed to have memory loss, and i have to wonder if not lying about kokichi would’ve made the trial go along if gonta still had his memories from the virtual world. in any case, when shuichi pulled the “yeah i actually did see you walk up the stairs” — the fact he LIED (mr “i’m searching for the truth so we can live and find the culprit” detective) to notorious king of liars ouma kokichi was so funny to me. like girl. ofc kokichi’s gonna realize you lied. and he did and he got so fucking mad over it and kokichi being petty like that and just saying “yeah okay gonta’s the culprit” is so funny to me. bro was LIVID he decided to just up and say the truth to be petty 😭

moving on, i think the big three characters juxtaposed with shuichi is something to note. those three being kaede, kaito, and kokichi. mayyyybe i’m looking a bit too much into this but i want to mention their relationship with shuichi and their character designs because it feels very intentional to me. a while back i discovered shuichi and kokichi have inverted color palettes — black with light accents vs white with dark accents. grey-ish yellow vs purple eyes. but the eye color inversion also actually applies to kaito and kaede, who, just like kokichi, have purple eyes. here is my argument: purple is an important color to the story, as it overall conveys a symbolism for trust and truth. if you look at those three’s color palettes, purple is a notable color. for kaito, it’s dominating. kaede, she’s a bit more desaturated, and kokichi it’s like his accent color. barely there, but noticeable nonetheless.

kaede is our first culprit (except she isn’t since her plan failed). she is trusting and sweet and kind and encouraging. she is desperate, *desperate* to find the mastermind first thing because she is heavily determined to help everyone escape. her color palette is a mix of purple and pink, with pink being more prominent and her purple being a more lavender shade. she’s desaturated in color, especially in her eyes, and i want to say this is likely symbolic of her desire to find the truth, yet her willingness to deceive others simultaneously. she’s not a bad person, far from it, but when she “kills” rantarou, she doesn’t own up to it immediately. she owns up to it eventually, but she also doesn’t take advantage of the first blood perk as a means of further trying to find the mastermind. she is willing to lie about her plan to shuichi (even if it’s lie by deception/not telling) and willing to take a risk to find and kill the mastermind. this, i believe, is why her eyes are so desaturated in purple; she is telling the truth, but it’s watered down.

kaito is almost the complete opposite of kokichi, but also not exactly the same as kaede. out of the three, he has the brightest purple eyes and the most purple on his body. he is a living, breathing, walking example of trust and truth. he wants to find the truth so badly and would never even THINK to tell a lie. would never even consider murder, even if it was the mastermind. his hair is purple, his jacket is purple, and his eyes are purple as all hell. purple, in my opinion, is a huge color resembling truth and trust. he *trusts* maki just because he wants to. he *trusts* shuichi just because he wants to. he wants to believe in them because he wants to find the good in everyone. his trust in them help bolster shuichi into a better mindset, especially after kaede, and encourages him to keep going. kaito might not be the brightest, nor the most helpful in the trials, but emotionally he is vital to shuichi. because he *trusts* shuichi.

kokichi has the least amount of purple in his color palette, but i think his purple accents are the most important out of all of the purple trio. if purple is the color of truth and trust, then having that color reflected on kokichi almost seems ironic and misinforming. except it isn’t. ouma kokichi, the notorious king of lies, is actually quite good at leading everyone towards the truth. the only purple on him is in the dyed tips if his hair and his eyes— almost like the truth his bleeding out of him, or rather just barely visible that you can’t make it out unless you focus hard enough. after all, at first glance i imagine everyone would take in the checkered scarf and the fact black and white is so prominent on him. i think it’s symbolic to have purple as his eye color. it’s a nice character design aspect imo, but it also harkens back to that one saying “the eyes are the window to the soul” or something long that line. despite what kokichi might say or do, the truth is in his eyes (literally). it’s silent and unassuming, but it’s there. his eyes are actually a brighter and darker purple than kaede’s. not as bright as kaito’s, but still something to note.

with all this being said, shuichi gets a difference sense of truth and trust from each of them. kaede provides him an equal dose of truths and lies, kaito gives him absolute truth, and kokichi gives him almost all lies to find the truth.

and i really, *really* love the dynamic between shuichi and kokichi with this whole truth vs lie theme. kokichi, as we learn in his free time events, loves to play games. he’s a bit childish but still extremely mature. his way of having fun is messing with people (though not necessarily in a mean way. after all, he makes the stakes extremely high and concerning, like killing yourself if you lose — but he still purposefully rigs each game so they end in a tie, or with shuichi winning. hell, he STABS himself, hurts himself, in the knife game that is in the final FTE and holy shit if that isn’t foreshadowing for chapter five idk what is. he is willing to hurt himself to avoid others getting hurt. obviously this can get more complicated when it comes to chap. 4. you could argue he hurt miu and gonta terribly and he should’ve died if what i said was true, but i would counter argue by saying the killing game would’ve gone on and on, just like tsumugi wanted, without his intervention there… still a heart wrenching trial nonetheless and gonta and miu both deserved better imo. but what would danganronpa be without unfair trials and bullshit like that?).

it’s this push and this pull, this dance, if you will, between shuichi and kokichi. kokichi is a trickster pulling various stunts and never revealing his hand, and shuichi is a detective trying to uncover his secrets. i think kokichi gets thrilled at the prospect of being uncovered like that — he lies and he lies and he *wants* someone to catch him. after all, in the love suite hotel his entire thing is phantom thief being captured by detective shuichi…… the fact he still says “because i love you shuichi” is fucking insane, but that’s actually not the most important part here. during the love suite, he brings up playing games again, just like in the FTEs. “you weren’t bored playing with me, were you?” kokichi asks. and then “are you mad because i toyed with you? don’t worry. i’m always thinking about you!—“ (bombastic side eye 🤨🏳️‍🌈) “—you’re always trying your best to catch me. i really have to give it my all to win .” and then shuichi points out directly after that he seems to be enjoying himself, despite being a “cornered criminal.” and that’s when kokichi admits that he *wants* shuichi to catch him. ….. oh boy the connotations here are kinda crazy but…. it gets even crazier. i cant believe this part is voice acted but here i’ll just link the video so people can watch. (from 4:32 to 5:10) a lot of this, esp towards the end, is likely for the whole romantic love suite hotel roleplaying thing going on to appease the audience playing the v3, but even still it’s such a fun dynamic. again, the push and the pull. it almost feels like a game of tag, the thing going on between shuichi and kokichi. except it’s hard sometimes to figure out who’s running after who. overall, kokichi is a liar and it’s hard to tell what he says is true, and shuichi is a detective hungry for truths.

side note 2.0: i think a lot of people hate saiou because it feels toxic and i can sorta see where they’re coming from: from a very bare bones glossing over their character dynamic, i could potentially see how they got to that conclusion, but i don’t think that conclusion did any real deep diving into their dynamic and characters. so no, saiou is not toxic. and also, it should be mentioned the moment shuichi shows signs of unease in the love suite hotel after kokichi shoved him over the bed, bro was up and out. kokichi respect boundaries and understands a no when he hears one 😁👍

tldr: truths vs. lies. games. purple = truths and trust. chasing after one another. saiousai cool ✌️👍

[moniericreative]

Goro Akechi: A Mask of Heroism

Part 3 of my multi-post series: "The Universally Hated Futaba Line: Biased Opinion to Throw Out, or a Valid Point Taken Too Literally?"

The posts will be in the following order:

Part 1: Clarifying the meaning of the line (link) Part 2: A Mask of Lies (link) Part 3: A Mask of Heroism (this post)

Please check out the first two posts of the series for more context, as it'll help explain the direction I'm going in when discussing this subject.

Without further ado, enjoy the final part!

So you guys might be asking why I started with the "Mask of Lies" first, and not this one. Especially since Akechi's childhood dreams of being a hero are stated very explicitly in his Royal confidant.

Well, it's because when you ignore the lies aspect (i.e. Futaba's words), and focus exclusively on this single portion of Akechi's character... A lot of people tend to think that's all Robin Hood represents. That he's the "Good Shoulder Angel™️" to Loki's "Bad Shoulder Devil™️" and nothing more. Sound vaguely familar?

It's the other unfortunate extreme that's full-tilt in the opposite direction.

By fervently ignoring Futaba's observation, you accidentally horsehoe right around from pigeon-holing Akechi's persona(s) with a convenient, singular label to... pigeon-holing Akechi's persona(s) with a convenient, singular label. This time it just sounds cuter because it's childhood nostalgia flavored.

But both Robin Hood and Loki are far more nuanced than that, and nothing's a bigger example of this than how Akechi's ideals of a "hero of justice" grew up with him (even if he himself can't see it).

How his methods of helping others gradually evolved from playing pretend with a toy gun and saving imaginary people...

To expertly utilizizing his crafted image and its connections, as well as his own resourcefulness and cunning, to help real people even if it doesn't his benefit his revenge against Shido in any way.

Much like the actual hero of legend that Robin Hood is based on (or at least, it's more modern interpretation).

Let us go back to the previous examples in a different light, shall we?

Let's Discuss: The Game

So we've already covered Akechi's absolute masterclass of subterfuge and cheating a rigged system to benefit the Phantom Thieves.

Is he only doing this to win their trust in order to pull the rug out from under them?

Perhaps, but that ignores the elephant in the room: His relationship with Sae.

While he does have a single line of "foolish woman" before the interrogation room, there's one small detail that often gets overlooked.

Why didn't he remind Shido that Sae was a loose end in their plans?

While he didn't know about the Phantom Thieves' actual plans to keep Joker alive, that still doesn't change the fact that the Sae now has direct ties to the Conspiracy's actions because they used her palace as a trap, and she presumably has a Change of Heart.

With how close Sae was to uncovering The Conspiracy already, and with a determination to keep digging until she found the truth, it would make sense for Shido to order her death. After all, he did so for Kayo (Ohya's friend), Kobayakawa, and the SIU Director and they arguably knew just as much.

So why didn't he?

Because Akechi kept his focus on the Phantom Thieves, and not once did he ever remind Shido about Sae.

"Well, maybe Akechi was riding the high of victory and simply forgot? He seems pretty egotistical during that timeframe."

True, but then you have multiple scenes following the Interrogation Room.

The first is his phone call with Shido on 11/20 (while he's in the elevator), where he tells him he'll take care of the Phantom Thieves:

And then the second scene is during Shido's arc, after Shido becomes paranoid due to the Thieves destroying his cognitions of people in his palace, and he and Akechi are in another call:

Notice something specific about both of these interactions? Not once does Akechi give any specifc info about when or how he eliminate these people. He instead keeps giving vague half-answers wrapped in a villianous bow, downplays the threat of the remaining thieves (especially Morgana), or tells Shido "why not wait until after the election?"

The election that he's already planning to ruin Shido on.

Both moments are such a blatant attempt at damage control to ensure less blood is spilled in the long-run, and recontextualizes everything beforehand with Sae.

Throughout the game he says he respects her, and that's no more evident than this. Despite tricking her, he's not interested in killing her or inducing a breakdown/shutdown in her.

In fact he went along with the plan to Change Her Heart and left it at that, only knowing that by stealing her treasure, she'd hopefully re-evaluate her actions leading up to this and go back to normal.

He didn't know that the Thieves never planned to actually steal her treasure. He just trusted their methods, knowing it helps more people in the end than his own. He even asks Makoto herself this:

Which, while it could be seen as him just pretending to be comforting her, gains a more genuine layer with the above context behind his question. The guy loves his double-entendres after all. He put his faith in them, and lied on their behalf to Shido to keep the remaining thieves and Sae safe, regardless of whether he was aware he was doing such or not. On another note, there's also some cut Mementos lines as well (implying that it's not just Joker he opens up to, but everyone else as well):

And finally, we can talk about that Cut Mementos Request as well.

In a way, I understand why this was cut despite being nearly finished. It doesn't leave the players feeling accomplished, but rather like they just made the situation worse and can't take it all back.

But that's the point, and it's a very important lesson they sorely need.

Akechi intentionally chooses targets similar to his situation with Shido, and any information he gives to the Thieves is superficial. Past work history, past connections, etc. As far as investigating goes, he even says he'll do it himself, which the other thieves agree to. Then when they all discuss a game plan, he hangs back while the other thieves come up with their own narrative for what's happening, and doesn't correct them.

The entire point behind this long charade though?

He doesn't want the Thieves to get hurt any further by people like him.

One very important thing to note about this request is that it only occurs during Third Semester. Maruki's Reality. The same reality where, once they defeat him to restore the true reality, everything that occurs during it will be reverted.

Including the events of this request.

Which is probably the actual reason why it got cut other than time-constraints. What's the point in learning it if your mistake can be undone in the end, right?

But again, that's the point. It's a means of giving the Thieves a reality check to be more careful in the future, without them carrying a permanent weight on their shoulders like he has. To let them actually feel first-hand the consquences of their powers when used recklessly, or blindly putting their faith in anybody, and hopefully learn from it to save others more effectively.

He's giving them the lesson and out that he never got before he started working with Shido, and was in too deep to quit.

Let us discuss: P5: The Animation

This time, we've actually got two instances instead of just one.

The first is Yusuke's situation with Kawanabe: (Episode 13 · Dreams and Desires) The second is Futaba's situation with her uncle: (Episode 24 · A Challenge That Must Be Won)

In Yusuke's case, Akechi's main argument to convince Joker into helping him with the investigation into Kawanabe is this:

Of all the people he could've gone to for assistance on the case, he went directly to Joker because he knows Yusuke is his friend, and if they don't do this, Yusuke, a child with honest aspirations, will become yet another casualty of a corrupt individual in power.

He's solved plenty of cases without needing Joker's presence, case in point his entire years-long Detective Prince career (which the anime shows isn't just the cases involving the shutdowns). But he's still willing to ask for his help anyways because he knows Joker will also do anything to protect people in need, even if it means bending or outright breaking the law.

In Futaba's case meanwhile, the dynamic is flipped around completely: Joker asks Akechi for help. The whole situation starts with Akechi being the one to initiate the topic on Futaba acting off due to her uncle:

And Joker responds to him with this sometime later:

The day after, they both have this exchange while discussing the matter:

The entire time, Joker's very open about not wanting to share much information about Futaba's situation to Akechi, who at this point the thieves are well aware he's the Black Mask. It's only after Akechi shares his own experiences with his mother and the foster care system that Joker finally gives him the info he needs to look into Futaba's uncle. Akechi never asks for more context, he trusts Joker's judgement that this is another awful person who needs to be stopped and goes along with it without question.

And all to help a girl that he's aware is in this whole situation because of his actions, too. You could probably argue this is way of atoning for what happened to Wakaba.

Let us discuss: Mementos Mission

Here we can actually talk a bit of the grander plot in the manga, rather than focusing on an iconic yet minor part of it. To give a brief summary, Mika is accused of a murder, and Ann and Joker (followed by the rest of the thieves) want to clear her name and find the true culprit. To this end, Joker decides, against the judgement of the other thieves, to ask Akechi for help in looking into this whole mess.

One key thing to note about this is that Akechi goes out of his way to look into this in between his own cases, including that of the "Double Fanged Murder Demon" that they find out later on is connected to it. And the kicker? It's not even remotely connected to The Conspiracy at all, either. Nor Akechi's revenge plan against Shido (which does get hinted at in this story). There's no subtle clues indicating that some parties might be tied to the conspiracy, or need to be taken out like Okumura was. It's just an entire cast of people in their own smaller spider-web of coincidences, that Joker and co. happen to stumble into. Akechi has absolutely nothing to gain from indulging in Joker's request to look into police files or clues, but he still chooses to do so anyways, even if he's technically not supposed to share details due to confidential information.

The only thing he asks for in return? More coffee and curry. That's it. Surprisingly simple pleasures for a very complex guy.

Akechi's honestly one those characters that's fascinating to see others react to. When people hear the "lie" comment, they tend to jump straight into two categories afterwards:

The people who take it too literally, and proceed to loathe him with every fibre of their being and doubt every word he says (and end up falling for his black mask "being his true, more likeable self" by Third Semester when it's yet another distancing tactic).

The people who write it off completely, and proceed to victimize him to the point that it takes away any agency he has over his crimes (in spite of how frequently Akechi accepts the blame for his own involvement, or says that it wasn't solely Shido's manipulation driving him forward).

Even Akechi himself says it: It's not that simple.

He's a liar, but he lies for a damn good reason.

It's just such a shame that there isn't much room to have nuanced discussions about this, because of the two sides and the admittedly knee-jerk reactions to anything opposing them.

Because everything involving the Robin Hood side of Akechi is honestly fantastic. It's a middle-ground on justice between blind righteousness (like the Phantom Thieves) and tunnel-visioned "might makes right" (like Shido, Yaldy, Maruki, and to an extent Sae).

It's the stance of someone who's crawled his way up through a living hell with pleasant smiles and a gun behind his back, but still has enough faith in humanity to put his trust in Joker: The closest person to his idealistic image of a hero, moreso than himself.

The Detective Prince and Black Mask may have been public images, but underneath both is a kid who just cares deeply and painfully about others.

[candyredmusings]

Slay The Princess Sentence Starters

Sentences taken from Slay The Princess: The Pristine Cut by Blacktabby Games! Change Pronouns As Needed!

CW: Angst, Fluff, Comedic, Romantic

"Now we can both enjoy the mutual romantic subtext to this murder!"

"Yeah do you not know what The Look is? Even I know what The Look is."

"Do you think we can throw her out the window?"

"Hey you threw it out the window even though I just told you not to, I'm proud of you!" 

“WHY DO YOU HATE ME?” 

“What do you mean? This is what you wanted. Idiot.” 

"We ain't done yet, we get up."

"She asks that I tell you to remember her. You won't." 

"BEHOLD! The PERFECT woman!"

“I didn’t think you’d come back. We’re going to have a lot of fun, you and I!” 

“He’s making fun of us!”

“If only I were capable of throwing myself off a bridge.”

"Do I miss your heart because I can’t stand to see it go?"

“I will not be described into submission.” 

"By believing in your limitations you put a shackle on your neck."

"The number of stabbing implements I have is practically zero!"

"The world can't be bad if you're still in it."

"There are few things more terrifying than one's own heart, and there is almost nothing more terrifying than sharing it with another."

" ...do you not have anything witty to say? I could use a good bit of wit right now."

"The End. Nice knowing you."

"You're using a lot of words to say a lot of nothing."

"But violence and passion are dances that both of us know well."

"No. You stop that! Stop all this nonsense."

"If you want us to ignore her, then why did you tell us any of that 'wide pleadin eyes begging for mercy' business to begin with?"

"Whatever you're trying to do right now, you don't have to do it alone."

"You have no idea how good it is to hear you."

"I think you know who I am."

"HA! YOU BASTARD! Even face-to-face, you find a way to stab me in the back."

"I know you and you're hideous! Absolutely wretched! Just like me!"

"You ask of things that cannot be done."

"Why wouldn't I be kind to you? You are the only thing I know that isn't me."

"Fuck this guy. Don't trust him."

"You will have your rest in due time, and I am sorry for the burdens I place on you."

"I would never dare to tarnish our relationship by assuming myself above you."

"Names are their attempts to capture that which cannot be captured."

"Sweet! I've always wanted to off a monarch. Viva la revolucion!" 

"Oh, you bastard! You're in for it now. I'm wise to your tricks!"

“My will triumphs yours."

"We've hurt each other plenty, and I still like you."

"What nooo I wouldn't stab you."

"Why? Why did you let me do this?!"

"It takes a wretch to know a wretch, and we're all at the bottom of the barrel here."

"They're good questions. Great questions, even. But they don't have any answers."

“Do not mourn her; She has finally been heard.”

"Last time? If somebody came into my house and tried to kill me and I cut his neck open and then he stabbed me in the heart and we both died looking into each other's eyes, well, surely I would remember that! But I don't, so it must not have happened!"

"I just want to make you happy!"

"You've been kinder to me than anyone else I've met. Thank you."

“I’m not going to destroy the world, but I am going to hold it in my hands and squeeze it.”

"Oh that's right! Yeah, fuck this guy, don't trust him."

"If the world ended, how are we talking?"

"I'm going to die now! I think that's what you want."

"You've changed"

"And you've stayed exactly the same"

"I'll be damned. We're doomed."

 For everyone's sake, you're not in love."

 "They always say it's lonely at the top. I didn’t think they actually meant it."

“Ignore all the criticism. You’re doing great!” 

"She's been like me this whole time. She's just been hiding it."

 "Of course I'm not okay! I've never been okay. But maybe I needed to never be okay for us to make this happen"

[noirsdoll]

hum..hii, im kinda shy to ask about it but huh hear me out about Daisuke non-con bestfriend!reader after she acted like a brat with him when he had a really bad day..i imagined more of an on earth/college au but if you prefer writing on a tulpar au im totally okay with it!! I just love daisuke sm and im tired of everyone writing him like a subby twink..💔 have a good day mwah :3

REAL!! death to twink!daisuke like being naive ≠ twink, naive just means he's a dumbass. I think abt how jimmy influences him in the game a lot… also a college au is so fun to think about omg this is so long

cw/tags: noncon, mentioned abuse and drugging (not by daisuke), incel!daisuke and perv!daisuke, daisuke is a porn addict, accidental creampie, college au, daisuke is jimmy-pilled, vivziepop levels of swearing LMAO

Daisuke isn’t a bad guy.

In fact, he’s the shoulder to cry on, the ray of sunshine, and the hopeless but very enthusiastic tutor. That’s his reputation on campus— the nice guy that you can come to with anything, who’s always ready and willing to strike up a conversation.

You’re his closest friend, the first person that bothered to look his way on this sprawling campus. He’s stuck to you like an unfortunate parasite and you wouldn’t have it any other way. You’re both inseparable.

Daisuke and you are sitting on the grass outside one of the faculty buildings during the one break you both share. He’s staring up at the partly cloudy sky, letting the cold spring air run flush against his skin.

“Did you hear what happened at the big party last night?” You ask, too eager to wait for a response before you continue, “that Jimmy guy, like, roofied some poor girl.”

He glances at you, confused. “Jimmy? Nah, he’s not like that.”

“What, you know him?”

Daisuke talks to the older years fairly often. Jimmy’s one of the cooler ones— meaning he has a motorcycle and he let Daisuke take it for a spin once. So at least the guy’s not all bad. A nine on the Daisuke Friend Scale. You’re the ten, of course.

He just shrugs. “We’ve talked once or twice, yeah. But there’s no way he— are you sure?”

Your expression falters. “Uh, yeah, he did. There’s bruises and everything.”

“Some girls like that sort of thing.” Jimmy explained it all to him— the right way to choke, how to leave bruises that stung but faded quick, not to mention to always go for girls with uncovered drinks because it showed their open body language.

You frown and change the subject, but Daisuke’s still dwelling on it. Asking Jimmy about it later proves that he’s even better at shifting gears— he just dangles his keys in front of Daisuke’s eyes and suddenly Daisuke’s more than content to stop pressing.

There’s no way you’re telling the truth. A guy like Jimmy doesn’t need to do all that to fuck a girl. She must’ve just gotten more than she bargained for. 

Sure, Daisuke’s never actually done it before, it being sex, but he’s watched more than enough porn to figure it out. Girls in porn always seem to look like they enjoy it, they moan and cream and squirt as they get their asses and faces slapped red. 

Daisuke would probably get more play if he wasn’t such a nice guy. Jimmy has that bad boy persona going for him, Daisuke just gets friendzoned. Knowingly or not, he starts to learn from Jimmy.

That’s what he’s thinking about while at this party. He’s been unable to peel himself away from all the people that want to talk to him, it’s a miracle that he breaks out of the crowd long enough to get to you. You’re hugging the wall, no one to talk to but him. You don’t make friends very easily and Daisuke’s more than willing to fill in the gaps.

You offer a smile, a half-full solo cup dangling from one hand. Daisuke has to pause when you lock eyes. That dress makes you look like sin, he has to pick up his jaw from where he dropped it. Sure you’re both just friends, but Jimmy said that girls become friends with guys because they like them— and you seem to like him enough.

His pick-up lines and plans of attack all fade away the closer he gets to you, until all that’s rattling around in his head is the thought of you. What you’re wearing under that dress, what position is your favourite— normal things to be thinking about your best friend.

“Do you want to get out of here?” He asks, tugging on his collar.

Daisuke watches your shoulders settle, the anxiety sweeped away. “Thought you’d never ask,” you grin, downing the rest of the drink and taking his hand.

Instead of guiding you back to his extremely unsexy Jeep, he takes you deeper into the house, away from the mass of milling party-goers and towards an empty bedroom.

“Uh, Daisuke, where are we going?” You chuckle nervously.

He glances over at you. “Just getting some privacy.”

“Okay.” You say, not much else on your mind as you take a seat on the bed together.

You flop down against the mattress, laying sideways along the bed. You must not notice how your dress is riding up and Daisuke doesn’t have the heart to comment on it. Are you like those porn girls? Are you?

Your hand moves into his field of view as you tug your dress down and sit up. Fuck, you caught him. You lean closer, enough to pillow your cheek on his shoulder. “...Daisuke? What’s up with you? You’ve been acting weird all night.”

“Ah, I dunno. Guess I’ve just got a lot on my plate.” 

“Yeah? What are you thinking about?”

He looks at you, his eyes dragging down, down, all the way to your tits. Daisuke glances back up. “I uh, like you.”

You blink at him, the silence feels deafening. Daisuke’s brain catches up with his words and he starts to panic. Floundering, he leans in and kisses you.

Your hands brace on his chest and you make a confused noise. He just crowds you against the mattress, feeling his dick growing unbearably hard. He pulls back, blood pounding in his ears. Holy shit. He can’t believe he just did that.

You let out a shaky breath, blinking at him. “I don’t think I like you like that, Daisuke. I like us as friends, you know?”

Yeah, he knows. He was hoping something would change. His hand slides up your calf to your knee, pushing your legs apart to allow him between them. “Just once? Can we… just once?”

“What? No, Daisuke, I just said—”

“I deserve it.”

“Excuse me?” Your chest rises and falls heavier. You’re scared.

What would Jimmy say? What would he do? How does Daisuke course correct? “You’re just so beautiful. I want to touch you.” Shit, he sounds like a fucking creep.

You sit up on your elbows, moving to get up. “You’re drunk or something. Let me get you some water.”

He needs to take control of this situation. Daisuke plants his arms on either side of you, one hand lifting to cup your pussy through your underwear. You freeze, looking up at him. “I won’t hurt you. Just let me–”

“I am not letting you have shit! What the fuck is wrong with you?!” You try to weasel away from him, but he still tugs your underwear down in the struggle of flailing legs.

This is his chance. He’s already fucked up the friendship, what’s the worst thing that can happen next? Your underwear has a little wet spot in the center. Maybe you do want him— you just can’t admit it.

Daisuke can’t help himself, pressing his body to yours, his hand slipping through your pussy lips as you wriggle and squirm. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he whispers, sliding down his pants and pressing his cock into you.

You grit your teeth. “God, Daisuke, what the fuck?” You’re crying, looking up at him with your eyes full of betrayal.

But he’s in his own world now. “You’re so pretty. So pretty. Needed to put my dick in you– fuck—,” he gasps, his hips pressing flush to yours. 

It’s so much better than how he could have ever imagined pussy ever feeling. How do those guys in porn not bust immediately? You’re wet and warm, squeezing him tight in the midst of your panic.

“Daisuke, please,” you beg, voice shaking with each thrust into you. In a different context— the one Daisuke’s imagining— it would have turned him on. You want him. You’ve always wanted him.

If he was ever listening over the course of your friendship, he’s definitely not now. He buries his face in your shoulder, moaning airy praises as he fucks into you like a dog. Shallow, abrupt thrusts as he tries and fails to get used to the stimulation.

Lucky for you, it hardly lasts more than a couple of minutes before his dick slides out of you, cum-covered. He watches the added realization wash over your face.

“Daisuke, fuck, please tell me you didn’t—” You scramble back, the creampie leaking out of you and staining the sheets. All the evidence you need of what he’s done to you.

He tries to get closer. “I’m sorry, shit, I— What can I do—?” 

“Don't come near me," you spit and Daisuke knows the friendship is well past over.

He’ll still dream about you, fuck his fist to you. You can’t stop him from doing that.

[averagewriter-inthedark]

Fluffy Headcanons ❤️ | Sam Wilson

Marvel Masterlist

Note: Okay I might be in a small percentage but I actually enjoyed CA:BNW! I love Sam Wilson/Anthony Mackie and I love him as Captain America. Although I wasn't too on board with Marvel the last couple years, I'm pretty excited for this next phase and can't wait to see Sam lead the Avengers for Doomsday 🥹 Sam Wilson you are my Captain America !!!

Being in a relationship with Sam Wilson/Captain America would look like:

Sam is a very attentive partner. He makes sure your needs are met and that you never have to question his feelings toward you. Whether that be communicating it in words, or showing you through actions, you feel Sam's love every second of every day. 

It's not always easy being the partner of Captain America and you knew that going into the relationship. Sometimes you have to sacrifice a date or redirect a planned occasion for an anniversary because the fate of the world is at stake. But Sam always makes it up to you, and who are you to turn down an all-paid trip by the government as a thank you to your superhero love. "Baby, I know I missed your birthday because of aliens invading, but how do you feel about spending the next two weeks in Bora Bora?" "You won't be on call will you?" "No, the others will handle any shit that goes down while we're gone." "I'll go pack."

During football season you can bet your house is the place to be when the Saints are playing. Sam will get the barbeque going and you'll be in charge of the side. Bucky will supply the alcohol, because even though he's a Giants fan he still is y'all's best friend and he never misses a Wilson Family Party.  You can also expect the Saints to give you two season tickets to their home games and field access. Sam is like a little kid the first time you guys are invited--you even have a video on your phone of him and his nephews 'scoring' a touchdown. 

We know Sam is a big fan of Marvin Gaye and Sunday nights are spent cuddling on the couch to watch a movie before eventually Sam puts on a record and brings you to the middle of the living room floor to dance. You'll be giggling into his chest as he spins you in the air, dipping back to kiss your lips, and being in your own little world. "Did I tell you Steve loved this album after I recommended it to him? I knew he'd like it. Bucky didn't--can you believe that shit?" 

You sometimes have to force Sam to go to bed because he tends to work late at nights. Tracing one last lead, responding to one more email. It worries you when he pushes himself to the limits and therefor you have to smack some sense into him every once in a while. "Baby, you won't be able to save America if you drain yourself like this. You need to rest--I promise you that can wait till the morning." 

Joaquin Torres is basically your adopted child. He is constantly over at your house, eating your food, watching a sports game with Sam or staying over because the two were working on a mission and lost track of time. You adore the kid (he's literally in his late 20s), and love that Sam has someone out there looking out for him. With Bucky off with the Thunderbolts, Steve retired, and the Avengers still yet to come together, Sam needs a wingman--and Joaquin is someone he'd risk his life for. 

You are close with Isiah Bradley and send him holiday cards every year as well as on his birthday. Whenever you and Sam are on the East Coast you make time to visit Isiah and his grandson in Baltimore. When the Ravens and Saints play against each other there's gonna be some playful rivalry between y'all. And when the Ravens win, Sam receives a "Better luck next time," text with a raven gif (which you taught Isiah how to send). 

His love languages are acts of service (are we surprised) and words of affirmation. These can both be applied to giving and receiving, because yes Sam knows how to give a great pep talk to those who need it, but also he needs some affirmation as well. Whenever he's feeling down or starts doubting himself, you're right there to remind him that he is what the world needs. He is Captain America.

Let's face it, you and Sam are the life of the party when there's an event. If there's a dancefloor and a DJ, you two are running there the second your favorite songs start playing and it's causing the rest of the guests to form a circle around you two. You're hyping each other up, dancing like maniacs, and don't give a damn about what others think. But you will see a "Captain America throws it down on dancefloor with partner," headline on the news the next day and you guys are trending on all social media platforms. 

Sam never keeps secrets from you about his job. He knows better than try to hide things from you especially if his life is in danger or you are a potential target. After the Accords fiasco, where you literally ripped him a new one for getting sent to the Raft, he would rather face Thanos again with all six infinity stones than face you at your wrath. "If you ever pull that shit again, Sam Wilson, it's not the government you'll need to worry about coming after you ass."  Yeah, he's taking that risk. 

Every weekend you guys take the boat out and will have a picnic while you see if you catch anything. Sometimes the boys will join you, other times it's just the two of you. You'll bring a speaker to play music and enjoy the peacefulness of the open water---a rare feat as Sam's life now that he's Captain America is always constant action. It pains him to leave you for long periods of time, but coming back and having moments as simple as catching fish in his family's boat, that's what he looks forward to the most.

[persephonerinyes]

I enjoyed Daenera and Edelin's almost-sleepover. Dae really needed a reprieve from everything and to feel close to someone again. It shows their developing relationship that Edelin can go from telling Dae that she would throw her under the bus if it came down to it to laying on her shoulder and enjoying a good story 😂🥰 I understand where she was coming from tho. Dae was kind to Patrick but still killed him so it only makes sense for her to be distrustful and wonder if she would do the same thing to her.

Then Aemond ruins the sleepover and Dae is not having it!

“Then I will fucking piss on it.”

I felt bad that she was having such awful dreams. I wonder if the baby she saw was Rhaenyra's child or if it was actually Rhaegar 😢

Aemond tries so hard to be kind and gentle towards her when he delivers the news about Rhaenyra even when he knows she will say hurtful things to him (which she has every right to). He can't help it and tries to comfort her but she pushes him away 😭 I feel like Dae goes through all the stages of grief in that moment. Then when she thanks Aemond for telling her and that day comes up.

“I waited for you,” she said, the strain in her voice betraying the wounds that had yet to close, the kind that festered beneath the skin and leaked poison into the blood. “I waited for you, but you never came.”

“I wanted to give you one more night.”

“It wasn’t enough,” Daenera murmured. Her voice was quieter now, but no less firm. “It would never be enough.”

When Larys was outside with his men ready to search their rooms and Dae wasn't dressed yet it totally reminded me of the time that he had her stripped down and locked up so I can see how Dae remembered it later as well after feeling that he was violating their space. I'm glad Aemond shut him down when he got out of line and I have a feeling Aemond was also thinking about that time. I feel like one of the themes of this chapter is Daenera not wanting to feel protected in any way by Aemond but multiple times he gives her that feeling just by being there 🥺

Go Edelin for standing up to Mertha and doing something for herself. I feel like Dae was using her as a buffer with Aemond there but then she got roped into playing their game.

Their back-and-forth over her note gave me early Daemond vibes when they were mean-flirting with each other. She got a tiny victory in the end but I bet he still enjoyed every moment of it 😈

A Vow of Blood S2 - Ch. 3

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, child murder, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 3: Word of the Dead

AO3 - S1 Masterlist - S2 Masterlist

Weariness had become a shroud around Daenera, wrapped tightly in its suffocating embrace. It pressed into her skin, her bones, deep inside. She sat before the dressing table, the polished surface of the mirror reflecting a face she barely recognized, her features drawn and pale, shadows pooling beneath her eyes. The glow of the candlelight flickered unevenly, throwing long, restless shadows across the chamber, though even the golden hues couldn’t soften the sharp lines of her exhaustion. 

Behind her, Mertha’s voice grated against the stillness, sharp and unforgiving as the scrape of iron on iron. The older woman held up the damp remains of Daenera’s dress, the once-lustrous fabric darkened and heavy with rain. She shook it with an exaggerated vigor, droplets splattering the floor like blood against stone. 

“–I hope you’ve had your fill of death,” Mertha snapped, her voice climbing. “I hope you’ve commended the sight to memory! The poor boy.”

The sound of rain battering the shutters filled the room, a steady rhythm drumming against the windowpanes like the beating of some great, restless heart. . It was as though the gods themselves had grown tired–tired of the endless schemes and betrayals of mortals, of their blood-soaked ambitions and unending grievances. Perhaps they sought to drown the world in their wrath, to wash it clean of sin and sorrow. But mercy was not the gods’ way, and the rain fell without promise of redemption, a bitter reminder of how unyielding the world remained.

Her fingers rested lightly on the edge of the dressing table, the cool wood grounding her as Mertha’s tirade continued unabated. The chamber felt stifling despite the chill creeping in from the storm, the air thick with unspoken tension. Somewhere in the depths of her fatigue, Daenera wondered if the gods had sent the rain not as wrath but as a mockery–an illusion of cleansing that would never touch the festering wounds of this world. No storm could wash away the sins that had taken root here.

Daenera watched the droplets race down the glass, her envy flaring briefly. How simple it must be, she thought, to be the rain–to rage freely, without consequence or restraint, without care. The rain lashed against the stone walls of the Red Keep, it seemed to carry the weight of its own wrath–seemed to mock her. 

Patrick’s life had been the noose she carried, her every movement constrained by the knowledge that the Greens held his fate in their hands. But now that burden was gone, severed by her own hand. And in truth, she felt a bitter sense of relief, even triumph–it stirred something far darker within her. 

It would take time before the Greens loosened their hold on her again; she knew that much. The death of the boy would only deepen their scrutiny, tighten their watch. Yet she had paid that price willingly, knowing that it would cost her what little freedom she had. And yet, there were still freedoms she could take within the confines of this gilded cage.

A bird in a cage might not be free to fly, but it could still sing–and it could still bite.

The thought brought a bitter twist to her lips, an almost imperceptible smile that carried no warmth. If this was to be her prison, she would make it as wretched for her captors as it was for her. Let them watch her every move, chain her to her chambers, whisper their suspicions behind closed doors. She would show them there was no caging her rage. 

Her fingers grazed the edge of the table, the cool wood grounding her as her thoughts turned sharper, more deliberate. She could make life miserable for them–Aemond, Alicent, Aegon, Otto, even Mertha. 

Her reflection stared back at her, unyielding, as she leaned closer to the mirror. The shadows beneath her eyes seemed to deepen, the firelight flickering across her features like the glow of embers. That ember of rage had been with her since the moment she rose amidst the rubble of her chambers. It had been a spark then, small and fragile, but it had grown, fed by every indignity, every insult, every betrayal. It burned against her ribs now, a constant reminder of what she had lost–and what she would one day reclaim.

Aemond. His name pressed against her mind like a sharp edge. He had gotten what he wanted–a wife bound to him by chains as much as vows. But she would make sure he wished he hadn’t. She could see his cold, calculating expression in her mind’s eye, his singular gaze that sought to pierce through her, to lay claim to what he had ruined. 

“They should make you take his place in the dungeons,” Mertha spat, her voice sharp and unforgiving as she moved about the chamber like a restless bird. The fabric of her skirts swayed and hissed with her movements, the quiet rustling as sharp as a blade in the otherwise suffocating silence.”That is where you belong–among rapers and murderers, you wicked creature.” 

“I would take the night watch over her myself,” Mertha said, a sneer curling at the corners of her lips, her tone dripping with self-importance. “But the day has drained me, and you are young. Your energy will serve you better tonight.” She busied herself with gathering the discarded underdress from the floor, shaking it out before throwing it carelessly into the basket at the foot of the bed. “It will be a long day tomorrow, and I’ll need my strength.”

Mertha’s gaze snapped back to Edelin, sharp and commanding. “You must not fall asleep,” she warned, her voice lowering into something that resembled a hiss. “The gods know she cannot be trusted. I wouldn’t want to wake in the morning and find you dead, as they did the poor boy.” She straightened, brushing her hands off with exaggerated finality as if ridding herself of some invisible stain. “Stay vigilant, do you hear me?”

Daenera’s gaze lifted from her reflection in the mirror to regard the older woman. Mertha’s face was pinched with disdain, her eyes gleaming with self-righteous fury as she discarded the damp dress in a basket. A sickly pallor clung to her skin, her complexion ashen and lifeless, while the whites of her eyes blotted with red. The skin around them was flushed and swollen, betraying the rawness of fatigue and strain. It wasn’t hard to guess the cause. She’d been retching–violently so, if the bloodshot state of her eyes was any indication.

Her attention did not linger long; instead, it drifted to the young woman just behind her. The girl had been uncharacteristically silent, her usual chatter replaced by a subdued quiet since leaving the sept. There was a heaviness to her presence now, a weight in her every movement as she worked through Daenera’s hair with a brush. The tangles yielded reluctantly to her careful ministrations, and each stroke of the brush seemed to carry an unspoken frustration. She did not meet Daenera’s gaze in the mirror, her focus fixed on the task at hand. 

“You will remain at the Princess’s side at all times. Do you understand?” Mertha snapped, her tone dripping with scorn as she pointed an accusing finger at Edelin. The older woman loomed like a shadow over the younger lady-in-waiting, her presence a constant weight that pressed down on the room. “You will not let her out of your sight for a single moment–not a single breath! If she so much as steps into the privy, you will stand outside, staring in at her from the open door!”

Daenera grimaced, her frown deepening as the indignity of Mertha’s command settled over her. The thought of being watched even in her most private moments, of someone hovering behind her as she relieved herself, made her stomach twist with revulsion. 

Edelin seemed to share her unease. The younger woman’s hands faltered in their careful work, her brushing pausing for the briefest of moments. She hesitated, her lips parting slightly as if to protest, but Mertha’s sharp, scornful gaze bore down on her like a hammer. Reluctantly, Edelin turned back to her task, her face a careful mask of submission that failed to hide the faint tremor of her fingers.

“Yes, Lady Mertha…” she murmured, the words clipped and heavy with reluctant obedience. Her frown deepened as she resumed her brushing, the strokes growing firmer. 

“And if she proves even a bit difficult, you will call for the guards immediately. Do you understand me?” Her sharp voice carried across the room from where she stood. “I will not let her humiliate us again.” She hefted the basket with a grunt, the motion sharp and deliberate, as though the weight of her burden served as evidence of her righteousness. Her eyes, hard and gleaming, turned towards them.

Daenera felt the prickle of Mertha’s attention against the back of her neck, an unwelcome presence that tightened her shoulders. She met her gaze in the mirror, her expression calm but cold, her eyes glittering with defiance. They held each other’s stare for a long, tense moment. 

Then, Mertha shifted her focus to Edelin, her tone hardening. “Be wary of her, girl,” she warned, her words laced with bitter scorn. “She is as kind as a viper and twice as cunning.”

Edelin shifted but said nothing, her head bowing slightly in a gesture of reluctant acknowledgement. Her hands moved with practiced care through Daenera’s hair, the brush going through the strands smoother now.

With a final sniff of disdain, Mertha spun sharply on her heel, the heavy skirts of her dress swishing against the stone floor with each forceful step. The wicker basket bumped against her hip, the motion punctuating her retreat as she disappeared behind the lattice screen. Moments later, the muffled sound of the chamber doors opening and shutting reached them, followed by a decisive click that seemed to echo in the still air.

“A viper,” Daenera murmured, her voice soft and edged with a dry humor. “How inventive.”

The room settled into silence, broken only by the steady drumming of rain against the windows, the world outside dark and lost in the storm’s fury. The fire crackled in the hearth, sending errant sparks dancing upward before they vanished into the darkened stone. Its heat radiated outward, warring with the persistent chill that lingered at the edges of the chamber, crawling along the floor like an unwelcome guest.

The brush moved slowly through Daenera’s hair, the soft bristles tugging against stubborn tangles as they worked through the dark curls. Each stroke coaxed the locks into a loose cascade, spilling down her back in an unruly spill of shadowy waves. The ends tickled the curve of the chair’s back, swaying faintly with each pass.

Daenera’s gaze shifted from her own reflection in the mirror to Edelin’s, studying the girl as though seeking answers in her quiet demeanor. The red-gold of Edelin’s hair gleamed in the firelight, the strands pulled back into a tightly braided coil pinned neatly at the nape of her neck. Her pale blue eyes remained fixed on the task, unyielding and methodical, but the faint crease between her brows betrayed her unease. Her lips pressed into a tight line, a silent barricade holding back whatever thoughts churned behind her calm exterior.

The silence grew heavier, thick with words unspoken, until Daenera broke it. Her tone was soft, measured, yet it carried the weight of apprehension.

“What is it?” she asked, her fingers drifting to toy idly with the edge of a strand of hair. “I can feel you want to say something.”

Edelin drew in a deep breath, measured through her nose, as though summoning every ounce of courage within her. The brush in her hand stilled mid-stroke, her fingers tightening around the handle. Slowly, deliberately, she lifted her head and met Daenera’s gaze through the mirror. Her blue eyes were steady, but the faint quiver in her lower lip betrayed the turmoil beneath her composed exterior. 

“Did you poison him?” She asked, her voice low. The words hung in the air like a blade suspended over a neck. The corners of her mouth pulled downward, her expression strained, but she pressed on. “I want you to tell me the truth.”

Daenera’s face remained impassive, her dark eyes locked with Edelin’s in the glass. Her heart thudded a painful rhythm against her ribs, the ache reverberating through her chest. The acrid taste of bile rose in her throat, and her tongue felt dry, as if all the moisture had fled her mouth. She resisted the urge to look away, though it took more resolve than she cared to admit.

“I cannot give you the truth,” She said at last, her voice calm but laced with an edge of weariness. Her words were measured, deliberate, as though she were stepping carefully along the edge of a precipice. “You know that.”

“You can,” Edelin pressed, her tone soft but insistent. 

Daenera’s lips twitched, the faint curve caught somewhere between a smile and a scowl, though it was neither. “And what will you do with it?” She asked, her voice strained. “What then? Will you bring it to the Small Council? March into the Great Hall and lay it before them?”

“I should,” Edelin said, her voice barely above a whisper. “It is my duty.” Her pale blue eyes held Daenera’s in the mirror, unflinching despite the tremor in her fingers. The words lingered in the air, as though the room itself held its breath, waiting for what might follow.

Edelin moved, setting the brush aside on the polished surface of the dressing table. The faint clink it made against the wood seemed louder than it should have been, an unspoken punctuation. She straightened, drawing herself up, her youthful features set with a determination that made her seem older than she was. 

“I am not asking for them,” she continued, her tone sharper now, steadier. “I am asking for the truth–for myself.” Her hands disappeared briefly into the folds of her skirts, and when they reemerged, she held a small pouch. 

Daenera’s gaze flickered to the object as Edelin placed it on the table before her, the soft scrape of fabric against wood drawing her attention. The pouch was unassuming, its pale, creamy cloth bright against the dark surface. But it was damning in its simplicity, a quiet truth laid bare between them. 

The silence that followed was suffocating. The storm outside raged on, the relentless drum of rain on stone a backdrop to the tense stillness that filled the chamber. Daenera’s heart plummeted, a hollow ache settling deep within her chest as the lavender pouch lay before her. The scent of lavender wafted into the air, delicate yet overwhelming, mingling with the cloying remnants of incense that still lingered in her nostrils. It was a sickly-sweet aroma, at odds with the cold dread that coiled in her stomach. Her eyes burned with the prickle of unshed tears, though she refused to let them fall. Tears would not help now. 

Her gaze lifted slowly from the pouch to Edelin’s face. For a moment, the younger woman seemed transformed–her features hardened by the weight of understanding, the sharpness of her expression far removed from her usual youthful softness. The knowledge she carried was etched into her face, undeniable, even as she sought a confirmation she already knew in her heart. 

“You could take it to the Council,” Daenera said, her voice strained and dry as though every word scraped against her throat. “They would no doubt welcome your… evidence.” Her tone grew brittle, laden with weariness. “But it would change nothing. Their punishment is already decided.”

Her hand moved, reaching tentatively towards the pouch. She wanted to seize it, to hide its damning presence from sight, yet part of her just wanted it within her hold–wanted the security of it, however damning it was for her to keep. Before her fingers could close the distance, Edelin’s hand shot out. She slid the pouch across the table, out of Daenera’s reach. 

“Are we all so easily discarded?” Edelin demanded, her voice cracking.

Daenera froze, her outstretched hand retreating slightly as Edelin’s words settled on her with the same sharp sting as a slap. Her brows knitted together, as she stared up at Edelin. “Nothing about this has been easy,” she said, her words twisted into something sharp and bitter, almost a sneer. Her voice was raw and strained as tears burned at the back of her eyes. She blinked them away fiercely, unwilling to let them fall. 

“You told him he was going home,” Edelin pressed.

“This was the only way he was ever going home,” She answered, her jaw tightening as she leaned back against the seat, the wood pressing into her spine. “The Hightowers would never have released him.” Her gaze flicked back to meet Edelin’s, her voice growing harsher, weighed with frustration. “He would have stayed in the dungeons–alone, forgotten, rotting in the dark. Every footstep outside his cell would have been a death knell, every echo a reminder that the noose was waiting.”

Her throat tightened as she swallowed hard against the lump rising there, her emotions clawing at her like a living thing. It felt as though she had swallowed a jagged stone, its edges tearing into her, making every breath ache. “I didn’t want him to suffer.”

Edelin stood silent for a moment, her pale blue eyes searching Daenera’s face, her expression wavering between pity and unease. When she finally spoke, her tone was measured, understanding yet cautious, as though she were treading carefully across ice. 

“I understand that,” she said, her voice low. “Truly, I do. But… it gives me pause.”

She hesitated, her hands twisting together as she gathered her thoughts. “I have been kind to you, as you have been to me,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “And I am grateful for that kindness, Princess. But… I am still in their service.” Her words hung heavily in the air as she looked down at her hands, her fingers knotting in the fabric of her skirts. “I’ve held my tongue before because you asked it of me–held my tongue when I properly shouldn’t have…”

Her voice broke, and she raised her head again. “I don’t want to find myself in the same position as the boy,” she said, her words low. “I don’t want to end up discarded, forgotten, let to rot because I’ve been loyal to the wrong person.”

“You won’t,” Daenera said firmly. The words hung in the air, a promise or a plea–it was hard to tell.

“You don’t know that,” Edelin countered, her voice trembling slightly. “I might end up in the dungeons, just as he did. Waiting for the noose.”

Daenera held her gaze, reading the desperation written across the young woman’s face. She understood Edelin’s fears all too well–that her kindness, her proximity to Daenera, would mark her. And yet, even as her chest tightened with the weight of understanding, she found herself speaking. Words rose unbidden, soft but steady. “I don’t believe you’ll find yourself in that position. You are neither child nor fool, and that is why I trust you, Edelin. You’ve stood by me when many would not, when it would have been easier to distance yourself. I see the risk you take, and I do not take it lightly. If the time comes when they turn their eyes toward you, I will not begrudge you for your choice.”

Edelin nodded and stared into the middle distance, her expression apprehensive. When she finally spoke, her voice wavered, as if she were forcing herself to ask a question she feared the answer to. “There are still berries in the pouch… Are–are you going to poison the King? The Small Council? Your husband?”

The words hung in the air, heavy and dangerous. Daenera let out a slow breath, her lips curving in a faint, humorless smile. “If I’d meant to poison them,” she said, her tone edged with sardonic amusement, “it would have been done by now.” She shifted in the chair, her eyes drawing to meet Edelin’s wary gaze. “I’d be no freer for it…”

No, she would not be spared. She could already see it–herself locked away in a damp, lightless cell, awaiting a trial that was no more than a performance. The verdict would be predetermined, her fate sealed. Whether it ended with a rope tightening around her neck or the cold kiss of a headman’s blade, the result would be the same. 

Even if she somehow managed to rid the Keep of the Greens, even if she tore them out like the weeds they were, the realm would still cry out for justice. The lords and banners of Westeros would demand her head, and her mother, for the sake of the crown, would have no choice but to oblige them.

Daenera’s heart twisted at the thought. Her mother, who had already lost so much, would lose yet another child–this time by her own hand. It would break her, she thought. 

And she didn’t want that for her. She didn’t want to be the shadow that darkened her reign, the wound that festered in the heart of her rule.

But more than that, she didn’t want to die.

Daenera glanced at the pouch where it rested on the table, the faint scent of lavender clinging to the air like a ghost. She knew exactly how many berries remained. Four. Four lives she could take, if she so chose. 

For a fleeting moment, Daenera allowed herself the indulgence of impossible imaginings, the kind that belonged to children spinning dreams of kingdoms they would never rule. Each name pressed against her mind like a dagger poised to strike.

Aegon, who occupied the throne that was her mother’s by right, his existence the linchpin of the Green’s ambitions. Otto, the Hand that set the board against her mother. Aemond, the rider of Vhagar, the Greens’ most fearsome weapon, and her brother’s murderer…

Her fingers tightened instinctively, though there was nothing in her grasp. She would need three to strike at the heart of their power. Aegon, Otto, and Aemond. Without them, the Greens’ strength would falter, their unity splintering like a cracked blade.

But that would leave her with only one berry. One final life to take.

Her thoughts turned to Alicent. The Queen Dowager had tormented her mother for years, weaving webs of guilt and ambition to smother the rightful Queen’s claim. Alicent’s venom had seeped into every corner of the Red Keep, infecting all it touched. Yet as much as Daenera despised her, Alicent’s power was waning. Without her sons and father, the Queen Dowager would be nothing more than a shadow in a court that no longer needed her. Killing Alicent might bring momentary satisfaction, but it would do little to weaken the Greens’ cause. Her death would be a wound that no longer bled.

For a fleeting, haunting moment, Daenera thought of using the berry on herself. It would be over in an instant–a brief, bitter swallow. Her death would be on her own terms, out of the hands of her mother. That would be a waste, and she had no use for waste. There were other ways to die, should she decide on that course. The berry was a tool, not a reprieve.

If Aegon, Otto, and Aemond were removed from play, the Greens’ foundation would crumble. Their strength would falter. But even without its leaders, the council still held power. The Small Council would not vanish overnight; its members would scramble like rats on a sinking ship, seeking to salvage what they could.

Yet one figure remained in her thoughts, an unseen viper lurking in the shadows of the court: Larys Strong.

The clubfoot. His loyalty was to no one but himself, his scheming far more insidious than the others. It would be a mercy to her mother if Larys Strong was removed entirely from the board–and Daenera would take great satisfaction in his death. 

But such thoughts were idle, and she pushed them aside–for what use was poison without a means to deliver it? She had neither the freedom to act nor the cunning to see it done unnoticed. And though vengeance burned within her, she could not stomach the thought of dying as both a Kingslayer and a Kinslayer. History would not look kindly on her, even if her heart carried honor. No, she did not wish to die–not yet.

“The remaining berries are assurances,” She added softly, her voice taking on a weightier tone. They were a contingency. “For myself.”

Understanding flickered in Edelin’s eyes, her expression softening with sudden clarity. Before she could voice her thoughts, Daenera tilted her head ever so slightly, a wry smile playing at her lips. “And Mertha, perhaps,” she said, her voice carrying a dry edge. “If she keeps on the way she does.”

The jest hung in the air, and after a beat, the corner of Edelin’s mouth twitched, her lips curving into a faint smile. It was the kind of amusement one found when laughing felt almost too dangerous–subdued, guarded, but genuine. The firelight danced between them, casting flickering shadows across the polished oak table and the intricate weave of the rushes beneath their feet.

Silence settled in the room once more, punctuated only by the soft crackle of the hearth and the faint rustle of fabric as Daenera adjusted her seat. But it didn’t last. She leaned forward, her voice cutting through the quiet. “What will you do?”

Edelin rose slowly. Her fingers tightened around the pouch in her hands as she looked down at it, her brows furrowing as though the pouch itself might offer some guidance. A heartbeat passed. Then another. Finally, she drew in a breath, her voice firm but low as she answered. 

“I’ll hide it.” Her voice carried the conviction of a decision made, though her gaze, when it lifted to meet Daenera’s, revealed the unease beneath her resolve. “Your chambers will be searched come morning. They’ll tear through everything–every chest, every corner. I will take it with me and keep it hidden.”

Relief washed over Daenera, lifting the weight from her chest, though a shadow of unease lingered at the edges of her thoughts. “You cannot hide it in your room. They’ll question you either way, but if they uncover it…”

Edelin gave a short nod. “I won’t say a word of this.” She paused, looking down at the pouch in her hands. “I will keep your secrets.” Her eyes lifted, meeting Daenera’s. “But if the choice comes down to you or me…”

“I understand,” Daenera said, reaching for her hand. Her fingers closed over Edelin’s, feeling the faint outline of the pouch concealed within. “I am thankful for you, Edelin. Truly. I value your friendship more than I can ever express.”

The girl’s slips curved into a faint smile, a look that carried warmth and steadied Daenera’s frayed nerves. The weight that pressed against her chest eased just slightly, like a knot loosening. 

Without another word, Edelin shifted her hand, tucking the pouch deep into the folds of her skirts. The moment passed, and she stepped behind Daenera, where she began to gather the dark waves of her hair. Her fingers moved deftly, weaving strands into a loose braid, her touch light yet sure. She worked in silence for a time, adding thin ribbons of silk to the braid, the delicate fabric glinting faintly in the firelight.

“I am sorry,” Edelin murmured after a moment, her voice soft, almost tentative, as though the words were a fragile offering. “For your loss.”

Daenera blinked, the words catching her off guard, though she quickly masked her surprise. The weight of grief, ever-present and unyielding, swelled in her chest. She swallowed hard, willing away the tears that threatened to rise. “Thank you,” she managed, her voice barely above a whisper.

The silence that settled over the chamber was tentative, stretched taut between them like an invisible thread that might snap at the slightest of breath. The fire in the hearth crackled, its embers pulsing faintly in the dim light, casting shifting shadows across the polished wood of the dressing table. Rain still drummed against the windowpane–louder in the silence.  

Daenera watched Edelin through the mirror as the girl worked through the length of her dark curls. The younger woman’s movements were practiced, careful, as she wove the ribbons of silk through the strands, taming their unruly wildness in preparation for the morning. Edelin had fallen back into her quiet diligence, though Daenera did not miss the occasional flicker of thought in her eyes. 

When Edelin finally spoke, her voice was measured, but there was something tentative beneath its surface, something that made Daenera’s lips twitch with wry amusement. 

“What will you do now?” She asked, her pale blue eyes fixed on the task before her, the words carrying an air of casual curiosity that did not quite mask the deeper intrigue beneath. 

Daenera exhaled softly, lifting a hand to toy with one of the silk ribbons that had been woven into her hair. She wound one tightly around her fingertip, then unraveled it, only to wrap it around another. A small, idle act–something to busy her hands while her mind shifted through the weight of the question. 

“What can I do but languish in bed all day?” she murmured, her lips curling in a wry smile. “I shan’t leave my bed for a week, I think. Not that it matters–I won’t be permitted beyond my chambers regardless.” Her lips quirked as she met Edelin’s gaze through the mirror. “ I should be rather easy to keep an I on, don’t you think?”

Edelin hummed softly, twisting another length of silk through Daenera’s dark locks. “Mertha will be beside herself,” she mused, amusement creeping into her voice. “What was it she said this morning? ‘The only people who can afford to spend their days sprawled in bed–”

“‘Are down on the Street of Silk,” Daenera supplied with a smirk, shaking her head in amusement. She stretched lazily, her fingers tracing the embroidered edges of her robe. “Yes, I seem to remember something to that effect.” She stretched her arms above her head, letting her limbs go slack as she lounged back on the chair. “It’ll give her something to gnash her teeth over, and I rather like the thought of it. What can she do? Drag me from bed? She’d have to haul me through the halls like a sack of grain, and I doubt she has the strength or the nerve to try.”

A small chuckle escaped Edelin–almost a snort–before she caught herself, pressing her lips together as if she had not right to find humor in any of it. But Daenera saw it–the briefest glimpse of something lighter beneath the surface. It was a fragile thing, but it was there nonetheless and it eased the mood. 

“You’re making things harder on yourself by opposing her at every turn,” Edelin chided, though there was no true reproach in her tone–just the weary truth of someone who had spent too long in the company of Mertha. “Not everything has to be a battle. Sometimes it’s easier to endure than to suffer the consequences of her ire.”

Her brow furrowed slightly, hesitation flickering in her gaze before she continued, softer now. “And… she should never have struck you.”

Daenera’s gaze drifted to her reflection in the mirror, tracing the contours of her face. The cheek that had been struck bore only the flush of exhaustion, no bruising, no swelling. The slap had stung, but it left no lasting mark—whether by design or by lack of force, she could not say. Had Mertha wielded just enough control to ensure it would not linger, or had the sheer audacity of the act stolen some of its strength? Either way, the sting had been real, sharp enough to startle but not wound. And, in some strange way, she had welcomed it.

“I was deserving of that one–” she murmured, the admission barely more than a breath.

“No.” Edelin’s voice was firm, sharper than before. Her red brows knitted tightly, her displeasure writ plainly across her features. “You are a Princess. It doesn’t matter what you may have done–she had no right to lay a hand on you.” Her head shook slightly, as if the very thought of it unsettled her. “Her mistreatment of you–it isn’t right.”

The vehemence in her tone, the unguarded concern that colored her words, sent a flicker of warmth through Daenera. It was a rare thing to hear such defiance spoken on her behalf. A rare thing, to feel the weight of someone’s anger on her account.

For a moment, she simply watched Edelin, her expression unreadable. Then, slowly, the ghost of a smile touched her lips, fleeting but genuine.

“I do not understand why you allow it,” she said, her voice edged with quiet fury. Then, as though realizing she had overstepped, she hesitated, drawing in a sharp breath. “Forgive me, Princess. It is not my place.”

Daenera caught the flicker of restraint in Edelin’s reflection, the way her lips pressed into a thin line as if she wished to swallow the words back down. “Do not hesitate now,” she said, her tone measured, absent of reprimand. If anything, there was an openness to her words. 

Edelin’s shoulders squared, seemingly emboldened. “Then I will speak plainly.” Her voice softened, though urgency still simmered beneath the surface. “Why not go to him?” Why not let him put a stop to it?” She hesitated just slightly, as if weighing her words. “He’s your husband–”

Daenera’s expression darkened, and the flare of irritation was immediate. Her lips curled into something that was neither a smile nor a scowl. “He is my brother’s murderer,” she said flatly. 

The words settled like iron between them, heavy and immovable. Aemond’s name was not spoken, but it didn’t need to be. His presence loomed over the conversation all the same. 

Edelin did not flinch, though the tension in her posture grew, her hands tightening ever so slightly around the strands of Daenera’s hair as she twisted them into careful braids–had the hands been Mertha’s, Daenera was sure she’d feel the reproach burning at her scalp. 

“Then I could go to him,” Edelin said carefully. “He is still your husband. He would not allow–”

Daenera’s lips curled into something caught between a sneer and a smirk. “We may be married,” she said, her voice clipped with barely restrained irritation, “but I have no desire to rely on him.”

Even as the words left her mouth, she heard the petulance in them, like a child railing against a gentle reprimand. It irked her. She was no child, yet the stubbornness in her own tone betrayed her.

The very thought of going to Aemond–of seeking his protection, of pleading for his intervention–curdled in her stomach like spoiled milk. The notion made her blood boil. To humble herself before her brother’s murderer, to ask anything of him, would be a betrayal of all that still burned within her. The thought stung sharper than any of Mertha’s slights, cutting deep into the raw edges of her pride. She would endure a thousand small humiliations, suffer every sneer and whispered insult, before she would ever crawl to Aemond Targaryen for help. 

He had already taken too much from her. She would not give him this.

“I do not want him to know.”

She would suffer Mertha. She would suffer this prison. But she would not suffer Aemond’s protection. 

“Your pride may keep you standing, but it will not make it any easier,” Edelin murmured, finishing the last braid. “And you will only suffer for it.”

Daenera grimaced, rolling one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “Perhaps,” she allowed, though there was no real concession in her tone. Then, as if to undercut the moment, the corner of her lips curled in a ghost of a smirk. “But should it ever become too much to bear… I still have a few berries left.”

She watched Edelin’s reaction through the mirror, saw the way her lady’s eyes widened, her fingers briefly stilling in Daenera’s hair. There was a flicker of hesitation–just for a heartbeat–before the tension shattered with a sudden, incredulous laugh. Edelin shook her head, amusement chasing away her earlier unease, her lips pulling into an exasperated smile.

“Gods save us,” she muttered, still chuckling, “You are impossible.”

Daenera only hummed in quiet satisfaction, tilting her head slightly as Edelin resumed her work, weaving silk through the long, dark strands. The storm still raged beyond the Keep’s walls, the wind howling through the towers, but within the chamber, for just a fleeting moment, the weight of it all seemed a little lighter.

Once Edelin finished weaving the last of the silken strips through Daenera’s braids, she stepped back, seemingly admiring her work with quiet satisfaction. Daenera studied her reflection, tilting her head slightly as she took in the intricate braids cascading down her back. They varied in thickness–some woven tightly, others looser, softer–and threaded through them were silken ribbons of varying hues. Deep crimson, pale gold, and midnight blue intertwined with the dark strands of her hair, each color catching the firelight as though a rainbow had been woven into her tresses. 

Her father, Laenor, had taught her to braid her hair like this. "To protect it," he had said, his hands deft and sure as he wove the strands together, "and to keep it from tangling into mats. You’ll thank me for it one day."

And she had.

Even now, she could recall the warmth of his hands as they guided hers, the quiet patience in his voice as he showed her how to twist and weave each section with precision. It had been one of the few things they shared—an unspoken ritual, a bond forged in simple, careful movements.

She had been young then, barely past her sixth nameday, her hair wild and unruly as the sea. He would laugh as she wrinkled her nose in frustration, murmuring, "It’s a Targaryen mane, but it has the soul of Velaryon waves. Stubborn as the tides."

She had not understood then how precious those moments were. How fleeting. But this–this, at least–was something of him that remained. And for that, she would always be grateful.

Daenera rose from her seat, rolling her shoulders as she stretched her aching limbs, feeling exhaustion seep deeper into her bones. Every movement felt weighted, as though the events of the day had carved themselves into her flesh, leaving her heavier with their burdens. The thick layers of her night robe trailed behind her, whispering against the cold stone floor as she made her way towards the bed. 

When she reached it, she sank onto the mattress with a slow, weary exhale, feeling the feather-stuffed bedding give beneath her weight. For a moment, she simply sat there, pressing the heels of her palms against her eyes, willing away the dull throb of fatigue. Gods, she was tired. The kind of tired that settled into the marrow, that no amount of sleep could truly mend. 

And yet, she knew rest would not come easily. Even if her body yielded to it, her mind would not. It would race in endless circles, retracing the same agonizing thoughts, the same bitter regrets, the same simmering anger that refused to fade. 

She let out another slow breath, lowering her hands to her lap. The chamber was quiet save for the faint crackle of the fire and the steady drum of the rain against the windowpanes. 

The quiet rustle of fabric and the soft click of the drawer were the only other sounds in the chamber as Edelin moved with quiet efficiency, gathering the leftover ribbons and slipping them neatly into their place. Her fingers worked with practiced ease, smoothing each strip of silk before tucking them away, the motion precise, almost reverent. When she finally closed the drawer, the faint snick of wood meeting wood echoed in the stillness, a small, measured sound against the hush of the room.

“Would you choose a book?” Daenera murmured at last, her voice quiet but steady.

Edelin paused, glancing over her shoulder. “A book?”

“I doubt I’ll find any rest, and I have little desire to be left alone with my thoughts,” Daenera admitted, shifting back against the headboard. She reached for the pillows, propping them up to sit more comfortably. “I thought I’d read to you, as I promised I would.”

For a moment, there was only silence. Then Edelin’s entire face lit up, her expression shifting from wary surprise to something far softer. “Really?” She asked, her voice carrying an unmistakable note of hope, her pale blue eyes bright with something almost childlike. 

Daenera inclined her head in a slow nod, and that was all the encouragement Edelin needed. Without hesitation, she turned swiftly, the fabric of her skirts whispering against the cold stone as she hurried from the bedchamber into the adjoining common room.

Beyond the doorway, the faint sounds of movement reached Daenera’s ears–books shifting, the soft scrape of parchment, fingers trailing along leather-bound spines. The quiet rustling carried through the dimly lit chamber, each sound deliberate, searching.

Moments later, Edelin reappeared, cradling a book in her hands as though it were a relic of great worth. She held it carefully, reverently, her fingers tracing the embossed title along the gilded spine before she extended it toward Daenera. The firelight flickered over the worn leather cover, illuminating its deep indigo hue. 

The Watchers on the Wall by Maester Harmune.

Daenera’s gaze flickered over the familiar gilded spine, recognition settling like a stone in her chest. It was one of Aemond’s books.

For a moment, a stubborn flicker of defiance sparked within her. A part of her wanted to refuse it outright, to push it back into Edelin’s hands and send her to find another–any other–so long as it did not bear the mark of him. The thought of reading something Aemond had once poured over, of letting his choice in words take root in her mind, was enough to make her fingers twitch with hesitation.

But just as quickly as it came, she forced it down. It was a childish, foolish kind of obstinacy, and she knew it. It is only a book. Whatever satisfaction she might gain from spiting Aemond in this small way was not worth the effort. To refuse it would be to give him more power over her than he already held.

With a quiet resolve, she took the book from Edelin’s hands and settled back against the pillows, fingers tracing the worn leather before she opened it to the first page.

When Edelin lingered at the bedside, her hands clasped before her, Daenera glanced up, a slight furrow creasing her brow. The girl stood uncertainly, her posture stiff, as though waiting for permission she had never needed before.

Daenera tilted her head, studying her for a moment before patting the empty space beside her. “Join me,” she said, her voice softer now, lacking the usual guarded edge. “You can’t very well stand there the whole time. And–I’d like the company.”

Edelin blinked, her expression shifting between hesitation and something unreadable. But the reluctance lasted only a moment before she relented, moving with careful grace as she crawled onto the bed, settling beside Daenera atop the thick layers of blankets.

The fire crackled in the hearth, casting golden light over the pages as Daenera opened the book. The weight of it felt solid in her hands, the scent of parchment and ink mingling with the lingering traces of lavender from the silken sheets.

Then, in a voice steady and measured, she began to read. 

“It is said that the wind howled across the black pines of Sea Dragon Point, carrying with it the cries of wolves and the whispers of greenseers, when the Warg King had called forth a storm from the spirit wood, thick with mist and shadow, to blind his foes. But winter was coming for him, and winter did not fear the dark.”

She read aloud from the Chronicle of Sea Dragon Point, one of the many accounts compiled within the Waters on the Wall. The words painted images of long-forgotten battles, of the King of Winter riding at the head of his armies, banners snapping in the frozen wind as he marched against the Warg King and his skinchangers. The story spoke of war-wolves the size of destriers, of ravens that carried the voices of the dead, of a battle fought beneath a sky thick with swirling snow and seething magic.

Edelin listened intently, her breath slow and measured, and as the tale unfolded, her head found its way to Daenera’s shoulder. It was a quiet, unspoken thing–no hesitation, no formality, just a simple shift in weight as she rested against her.

Now and then, she murmured soft comments, wondering aloud if the Warg King had truly wielded such power, or if the greenseers’ whispers were just the fancies of storytellers. Daenera responded when she felt inclined, but for the most part, she simply read on, allowing the cadence of the words to fill the space between them.

It was… comfortable. Almost familiar in a way she had not expected.

For a fleeting moment, it felt like another life–like the nights she once spent in the nursery, reading to her younger brothers beneath the warm glow of candlelight. She remembered Joffrey nestling close, too proud to ask outright for another chapter but lingering until she gave in. She remembered the way little Aegon would nod off before the end of the tale, his small fists curled into the blankets, his silver hair tousled against her arm.

That time was gone now. Her brothers were gone too, one buried, the others out of reach.

But here, in this quiet moment, with the fire casting long shadows across the walls and the steady weight of Edelin at her side, she allowed herself–just for a little while–to remember what it was like to be a sister instead of a prisoner.

She had fallen into a steady cadence of words, weaving through one chronicle and into the next, when the distant groan of the chamber doors echoed through the quiet. It was not a sound easily mistaken–the heavy wooden doors did not yield to passing drafts or the stirrings of servants. Someone had entered. 

Daenera stilled, her gaze lifting just slightly from the book in her hands. Beyond the lattice screen, she caught a flicker of movement–a shadow gliding across the floor, tall and deliberate. Then, a glint of silver, unmistakable even in the dim light, and the sound of measured footsteps against stone. 

Aemond.

The warmth of her head resting against her shoulder vanished as Edelin sat up abruptly, her breath catching as she straightened further. 

Aemond did not acknowledge them at first. He crossed the chamber without hesitation, his long strides carrying him toward the desk tucked into the corner, moving with the same quiet purpose he always carried. A drawer scraped open, its sound sharp against the hush. He rifled through its contents with practiced ease, plucking something from within before shutting it once more.

Only then did he turn, his gaze flickering toward them.

His eye found Daenera first.

Daenera refused to acknowledge him, her gaze fixed on the weathered pages of the book before her. The words blurred into meaningless symbols, their substance lost to her entirely. Yet she kept her eyes trained on them, feigning indifference even as she tracked his every movement from the edge of her vision, her senses sharpened to his presence. Every measured footstep, every shift in fabric, every controlled breath–she noted it all, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of meeting his gaze.

“Leave us.”

Aemond’s voice cut through the quiet, smooth and unyielding as tempered steel. The weight of his command was absolute.

Edelin stiffened, hesitating only for a heartbeat before swiftly rising from the bed. She had been seated near him–on his side. The very thought sent a bitter taste to the back of Daenera’s throat. Would she ever allow him in that bed again? If it were her choice, the answer would be never.

Edelin dipped into a quick curtsy, her skirts whispering against the stone as she moved. Before departing, she cast a fleeting glance toward Daenera, her hesitation evident, as though silently asking if she should truly leave her alone with him. Daenera nodded in reassurance, and with no further protests, Edelin turned and hurried through the chamber, her steps light but swift. The door closed behind her with a quiet click.

Silence settled in the room like an encroaching fog, thick and unrelenting. And then, there were just the two of them.

As Aemond turned his back to her, Daenera’s gaze flickered upward. The candlelight glowed against the hard lines of his shoulders, the deep green of his doublet darkened further by the shadows. He moved with an air of quiet purpose, reaching for the flagon of wine resting upon the table. The deep red liquid sloshed against the sides of the goblet as he poured, the only sound in the heavy, suffocating silence. He lifted the glass to his lips and drained it in a single swallow, setting it down with a dull clink against the wooden surface before abandoning it entirely. Not a single drop left. 

Daenera forced her eyes back to the open book before her, though the words on the page blurred into nothingness. She turned the mover in her mind, trying to weave sense from them, to anchor herself in something that was not him. And yet, from the edge of her vision, she caught the way he moved–a controlled, deliberate pace as he wandered back to the desk, returning whatever it was he had retrieved back into its place–a habit, she knew.

When he turned at last, his gaze found her. She felt it settle upon her, heavy as a weight pressed into her skin. There was no mistaking his interest–his presence bore down on her, a silent force demanding acknowledgement. Her grip tightened slightly around the edges of the book, the parchment rough beneath her fingertips. The pages might as well have been blank for all she could read of them now. 

He leaned back against the desk, a picture of ease, though she knew him well enough to recognize the tension radiating off of him. He watched her for a long moment, the familiar prickle of irritation itching beneath her skin as his gaze slid over her. 

She would not give him the satisfaction of meeting his gaze. 

Then, without a word, he pushed off the desk, his movements measured and steady as he crossed the room. Each step sent a ripple of tension through her, her pulse quickening in defiance of her will. The sound of his boots against the stone floor echoed in the silence, a slow, deliberate rhythm that grated against her nerves. He rounded the bed, drawing closer, and for a fleeting moment, she bracing herself, half-expecting him to lower himself onto the mattress beside her, to claim his place without care or question. 

But instead, his hand reached out, long fingers curling around the pillow at her side. He lifted it, the fabric shifting beneath his grip, and without a glance in her direction, turned and carried it across the room. 

Daenera breathed out in relief, heart shuddering in her chest. Had he dared to settle beside her, she thought she might have driven the spine of the book straight into that cursed sapphire eye before smothering him with a pillow for good measure.

He settled on the chaise with the same quiet deliberation, shrugging off his belt and unfastening the claps of his doublet. The fire caught the hard planes of his face as he discarded the garment, his movements unhurried, effortless. Every action spoke of ownership, of familiarity, as if he had already decided this was his place to claim. 

Bitter words rose unbidden to her lips, lodging against the back of her teeth. She did not want to break the silence, did not want to acknowledge him, did not even wish to breath the same air as him. And yet, despite herself, her lips parted. 

“I do not want you here,” she said, her voice cold as iron.” From now on, if you wish to sleep well, you will do so in your own chambers–or else you’d have to sleep on the floor like a dog.”

Aemond did not flinch, nor did he seem surprised. Instead, he merely shifted, settling into the chaise with an air of measured indifference. “The chaise is comfortable enough.”

Daenera’s gaze narrowed at the page. “Not when it’s wet.”

His eye seemed to gleam with something unreliable, she felt it even as her gaze was set on the book, felt the faintest trace of amusement curling at the corner of his lips. “And if I have all the water removed?”

She hated the way he spoke–calm, controlled, so certain of himself. And she hated, more than anything, that he found humor in her defiance. 

And so, pettily–because pettiness was the only weapon left to her in this gilded prison–she answered, each word honed to a pointed edge. “Then I will fucking piss on it.”

The night had stretched into an eternity, an unending cycle of drifting in and out of fitful sleep, caught between waking and dreaming. Sleep, when it came, was shallow and uneasy, frayed at the edges by restless thoughts that refused to settle. Every time she closed her eyes, she found herself back in the depths of the Sept, standing in the cold, candlelit silence as the Silent Sisters worked over the lifeless boy laid out before her. His skin was pale, waxen, his golden curls damp and darkened in death. Their knives moved with reverence, slicing into his flesh, prying open his ribs as they reached inside to extract his organs–one by one–while she could do nothing but watch. 

Sometimes, the boy on the stone slab was not golden-haired at all. Sometimes, his pale curls had bled into a deeper hue, shifting, thickening, taking on the unruly wildness she knew so well. And suddenly, it was not him, not the boy she had poisoned, but someone else. A brother. 

His skin was pallid, his lips drawn into the ashen stillness of death, the cold finality of it settling over him like a shroud. The candlelight flickered across his face, casting shifting shadows over lifeless features, hollowing the soft curve of his cheeks, deepening the sunken stillness of his closed eyes.

She could almost hear the whisper of her own voice, soft and coaxing, weaving lies as gently as a mother tucks a child into bed. You are going home, Patrick. Words that had been meant to soothe, to soften the edge of his fear, yet had been nothing more than empty breath–cruel deceptions clothed in mercy.

And as she gazed at the boy laid bare upon the cold stone, she wondered if Luke, too, had believed he was going home. Had he looked toward the horizon with relief, with the quiet certainty that he would see his mother again, that he would sleep once more beneath Dragonstone’s sky? Or had he known, as Vhagar’s shadow swallowed the storm, that home was a place he would never reach?

When the Silent Sisters turned away, their robes whispering against the cold stone, something shifted. They moved as shadows, silent as the dead, carrying away the glass jars that held what remained of the boy’s insides. The air was thick with the scent of myrrh and death, clinging to Daenera’s skin like a second shroud. She should have turned away too, should have followed them into the dim corridors beyond the chamber. But she could not.

Neither the golden-haired child she had poisoned nor the dark-haired boy who had haunted her dreams remained. Instead, something smaller lay swaddled in cloth, its frail shape stark against the hard, unyielding stone.

So small. Too small.

Her breath caught in her throat, a sharp hitch of air she could not release. The cold of the Sept pressed against her skin, but she felt nothing, as if her body had numbed to everything but the sight before her. The chamber, the distant murmur of prayers, the lingering scrape of steel against flesh–all faded into the periphery. Her world shrank, narrowed to the impossibly delicate bundle lying before her.

Her fingers trembled as she reached out, longing, desperate.

And then she saw it.

A wisp of silver hair, soft and fine as gossamer, barely visible in the dim glow of the candles.

Her breath shuddered from her lips, unsteady, uneven. Too small. Too impossibly small to be here, in this place of death and decay. The chill gnawed at her bones, but she did not care.

All she wanted in that moment was to gather the bundle into her arms, to cradle it against her chest, to shield it from the cold grip of the stone. To take it from these walls, away from the death and decay that clung to the air, and let her warmth pour into it, chasing away the chill that did not belong to something so small.

Her fingers curled, desperate to grasp the soft swaddling cloth, to feel the impossible weight of it against her. If she could only hold it, she could will life into it–breathe warmth into cold flesh, whisper comfort against a too-fragile brow.

But even as she reached, the air around her seemed to still, thickening like mist, pressing heavy against her lungs. The chamber wavered at the edges of her vision, the candlelight dimming, shadows creeping in like grasping fingers. And then–

A shudder ran through her chest, sharp and sudden.

She gasped, torn from the dream, her body lurching awake as if pulled from deep waters. Sweat cooled against her skin as the room pressed down around her. The air felt thick and suffocating, clinging to her like unseen hands. Her pulse hammered against her ribs, a dull ache pressing behind her eyes. The world was dark, the only illumination the flickering firelight casting restless shadows across the walls. For a moment, she simply lay there, staring at the canopy overhead, struggling to separate dream from memory. The phantom scent of incense still lingered in her nostrils, the cold touch of the Sept’s stone floor ghosting along her bare feet. 

No matter how many times she pulled the blankets over her, no matter how fiercely she willed herself back to sleep, the cycle would begin again. Each time she closed her eyes, she was back there–watching, waiting, unable to move. 

And each time, when they turned into the bundle of darkened fabric, she’d wake before reaching him. 

The only solace Daenera found in the endless, wretched hours of the night came in the form of the man she despised. It was a strange, loathsome comfort, knowing he was there–just beyond the edge of her sight, a shadow lingering at the periphery of her awareness. She could not see him, but she felt his presence like the faint warmth of a dying fire, an awareness that settled into the marrow of her bones, a tether that kept her from slipping too far into the abyss of restless dreams. And she hated herself for it.

When she finally woke, it was with a sluggish, heavy pull, as though her body had been weighted down by lead. The weight of exhaustion pressed heavy against her limbs, dragging at her movements as she pushed herself upright. She braced one arm against the mattress, her fingers curling into the soft fabric of the sheets as she rubbed at her face, trying to rid herself of the drowsy fog clinging to her thoughts.

The world around her felt strange, disjointed, as though she had woken in a place that was not her own–like a song heard through thick stone walls. The air felt cloying against her skin, thick with the scent of spent candle wax. Weariness clung to her, needling beneath her skin like trapped embers, crawling like a thousand unseen ants. 

The light streaming through the windows stabbed at her eyes, sharp and unforgiving. 

Daenera winched, turning her face slightly away, blinking against the warmth that flooded the chamber. The sun had already climbed above the walls of the Keep, its position telling her it was later than when she was usually awoken. Mertha was nothing if not punctual. The old hag roused her at the break of dawn, when the sky bled red and bruised above the horizon.

She frowned at the daylight, as if it had betrayed her. There was no evidence of the previous night’s storm–no lingering mist, no streaks of rain trailing down the glass. The sky was clear, bright, as though the day before had never happened at all. If not for the ache in her bones, the weight of her heart pressing against her ribs, she might have thought it had all been nothing more than another fevered dream.

Frowning, she rubbed her face again, the press of her fingers doing little to chase away the lingering grogginess. She forced herself more upright, her gaze drifting across the chamber, searching–until it landed on the chaise. 

Empty. 

No trace of its occupant remained. 

The pillow and blanket had been put away. There was no discarded boots, no abandoned clothes draped over its back. It was as if Aemond had never been there at all. 

Her frown deepened as a strange tightness coiled in her chest. 

The faint murmur of voices carried through the air, distant but distinct. Beyond the bedchamber, in the adjoining room, figures spoke in hushed tones, as though wary of disturbing her rest. 

Daenera’s unease curled in her chest, coiling tighter with every passing moment. She pushed the covers aside and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, her bare feet meeting the cold stone floor with a quiet tap. For a moment, she simply sat there, listening, her senses sharpening against the strange stillness of the morning.

She pushed the blankets aside and rose from bed, bare feet meeting the cool stone floor with a shiver. Moving towards the chair, she plucked up the robe she had discarded the night before, the silk slipping like water through her fingers as she pulled it around herself. The fabric was soft, another layer of warmth, but it did little to shake the lingering heaviness in her libs. She slipped her feet into her waiting slippers, and with slow steps, she shuffled towards the adjoining chamber. 

The scent of food reached her before she stepped through the archway–warm, rich aromas of roasted meat, freshly baked bread, and ripe fruit heavy in the air. Her stomach twisted, though whether in hunger or unease, she couldn’t tell. 

She halted just beyond the threshold. 

Sunlight streamed through the tall windows in thick, golden shafts, illuminating the room in a hazy glow. The long dining table had been set in one end, its polished surface laden with an array of food–ripe fruit and shelled nuts, boiled eggs, meats sliced into neat portions, warm loaves of crusty bread. And at the far end of it all, seated with an unreadable expression, was Aemond.

Her eyes found him immediately, drawn to him before anything else. He sat at the head of the table, his posture relaxed, one arm resting against the table, his long fingers absently tapping on its surface. Yet there was nothing idle about him–his presence, as always, engulfed her. His gaze drew from Edelin to her. 

With a gentle clink, Edelin set down a bowl of berries, the delicate sound barely disrupting the thick silence hanging in the room. Her movements were deliberate, careful, as if wary of disturbing something fragile, something already on the verge of splintering.

She straightened, smoothing invisible creases from her apron before lifting her gaze. Her eyes met Daenera’s–hesitant, searching–and for the briefest of moments, her expression betrayed something unspoken. A sadness, quiet and lingering, settled in the slight crease between her brows.

It was not pity, not quite, but something close to it.

“Why are you still here?” Daenera’s voice was all cool disdain as he stepped further into the room, her movements unhurried as she drifted towards the table. “I thought we had come to an understanding.”

Stopping to the chair to his left, she rested a hand against the carved wooden back, her fingers idly tracing the grain before plucking a single berry from a bowl. She rolled it between her fingers, holding it before her mouth. “I see my threats weren’t enough to deter you.” She popped the berry into her mouth, chewing slowly, letting the silence stretch for a moment. “What will it take? Must I piss on all the furniture to rid myself of your presence?”

A sharp clatter split the air.

The clatter had rung through the chamber like a struck bell, reverberating off the high stone walls. Edelin stood frozen, her fingers splayed over the tray as if by sheer force of will she could undo her mistake. Her face burned crimson, shame creeping up her throat.

Daenera barely spared her a glance. The noise had startled her, yes–sent a jolt through her ribs, coiled her nerves tighter–but she had not reacted beyond a slow, measured breath. She seemed to feel the impact echo through her bones, the feeling jarring. 

Her attention returned to Aemond. 

He did not flinch, nor did he seemed to care for the source of the commotion. His gaze met hers, sharp and unreadable, the corner of his mouth curved–just slightly, just enough for her to see it. His amusement bled into something more serious, the curve flattening. 

“I have something to tell you.”

He moved then, shifting the plate before him. The scrape of metal against polished wood was soft, deliberate, as he pushed it across the surface towards her. It came to rest beside the chair she gripped, inviting her to take a seat. 

She did not sit. 

Her gaze flickered downward. The food had been arranged with thought–small portions of roasted meats, ripe fruit sliced into pieces, chilled grapes and peeled tangerines. Freshly baked bread, still warm, set alongside honey and jam. And a cinnamon cake topped with sugar. 

The scent curled into her senses. She felt a pang of hunger deep in her belly, but what fleeting warmth that came with the offering did not reach her. 

A sick, molten heat curled in her stomach. Half of her wanted to shove the plate away, to overturn it onto  his lap and let him wear his pathetic attempt at civility like the mockery it was. But she did not move. 

“Are you to soften the blow of telling me you’ve killed another of my brothers with cake and tea?” Daenera scoffed, her voice laced with venom. “Do you think it will make it easier to swallow?”

He hadn’t been gone long enough for it to be true. She knew that. But the words left her lips all the same. Her fingers curled around the back of the chair, knuckles whitening as she glared at him. The scent of warm bread and sugared fruit lingered in the air, cloying and thick, but it did nothing to soothe the tightening in her chest.

Edelin, wisely, said nothing. Without another word, she gathered the tray, her movements careful, practiced. She turned on her heel and slipped from the chamber, the heavy wooden door falling shut behind her with a muted thud.

Aemond remained composed, his expression an unreadable mask. Not a twitch of his jaw, not the slightest crease in his brow betrayed his thoughts. And yet, there was something in his eye–a flicker of something elusive. Amusement? Irritation? Pity? Worry? Daenera could not tell. He did not rise to her provocation, did not sneer or scoff as she expected. He merely regarded her, studying in that way of his, as though peeling back her layers to reveal her bleeding insides. 

The silence stretched between them. Then, at last, he spoke. 

“Sit,” He said, his voice smooth, measured. A urging that bordered on command. 

There was something in the way he held himself, in the deliberate calm of his tone, in the weight of his single eye upon her that made unease coil deep in her belly. It was in the quiet insistence of his words. The way he looked at her–with a gentleness so sharp that it cut her more deeply than his scorn ever could. 

A knot tightened in her throat. 

“I don’t want to,” she said, the words leaving her lips before she could stop then, a childish defiance she knew already was useless. And yet, she clung to it, as if voicing her refusal would keep at bay whatever terrible thing he meant to tell her. 

Aemond did not blink. 

“Sit down, Daenera.” This time, his voice was firm, unyielding as cold steel. 

Her fingers curled around the back of the chair, nails biting into the polished wood, pressing so hard she felt the strain in her joints. The wood did not give, would not break under her grip–so she did. She released her grip on it and lowered herself into the chair. Her hands found their place in her lap, curled into fists against the silk of her robe.

Aemond did not gloat. He did not smirk as she had expected him to–no cruel twist of his lips, no gleam of satisfaction in his eye. Instead, he regarded her with a quiet gentleness that unsettled her more than his arrogance ever could. And that, somehow, was so much worse. 

His arrogance, his cruelty–those things she could fight against. They gave her something solid to grasp, something to spit venom at, something to push against. But this… this quiet patience, this measured restraint, this softness–it felt like a dagger slipping between her ribs in slow, excruciating inches. It stripped her of armor, left her exposed and flailing. 

Whatever words he held back lingered in the air, an unspoken storm gathering in the silence between them. It clung to her skin like damp fog, coiling around her ribs, settling in her chest like water filling a drowning woman’s lungs. She felt it, the suffocating dread creeping through her, the gnawing certainty that whatever he meant to say was not anything good. 

Aemond inhaled slowly, deliberately, the movement measured and precise. His fingers twitched idly against the polished wood of the table–just the faintest motion, absent and unhurried, betraying some restless thought stirring beneath his composure. Daenera’s gaze flickered towards them before she forced herself to look away, to return her focus to his face. 

And yet, she could still feel them. 

The ghost of his touch lingered, seared into her skin as if he had only just held her, as if his grip had never loosened. She still recalled the bruising pressure of his fingers, the way they had burned into her flesh, branding her in ways she could never truly scrub away. She still carried the bruises on her thighs, small blossoms of purple. 

Aemond shifted slightly, brow contemplative. He parted his lips as if to speak, then hesitated, exhaling through his nose in a soft hum. It was not so much uncertainty that held his tongue, she thought, but something else. He was choosing his words with care, as though the right words would lessen the blow of what he wished to tell her. 

At last, he spoke. 

“We’ve received word,” he said, his voice a quiet drawl, “that your mother has returned to Dragonstone.”

Daenera exhaled, a slow and measured breath, though it did little to steady the storm within her. Her mother had left Storm’s End. Had returned home. 

For a fleeting moment, relief washed over her, swift and forceful, crashing over her like a wave breaking against the shore. But just as quickly, it retreated, dragging something heavier in its wake. Grief surged to take its place, welling up inside her like the rising tide, lodging itself between her ribs. It pressed against her throat, made it difficult to swallow, difficult to breathe. 

Had her mother abandoned the search?

Or worse–had she found what she was looking for?

She closed her eyes. Just for a moment. 

And in that single moment, she saw him. 

Her brother lay upon the cold, unforgiving stone. The Silent Sisters worked over him with quiet reverence, their hands steady in their duty. She saw the pale, waterlogged flesh, the places where his skin had turned grey, kissed too long by the sea. Salt clung to him like a second burial shroud, glistening against the limp, tangle mess of his curls–curls that had once been soft, once had been warmed by the sun, now stiffened by the ocean’s embrace.

But would he truly look like that after all this time? After all that happened?

The thought coiled inside her like a living thing, sinking its fangs into the tender flesh of her heart. She almost wanted to ask him, almost wanted to force the truth from his lips, to demand if her mother had found something, anything. But the fear held her still. Because she already knew the answer. 

There was nothing left to find. 

Daenera forced herself to breathe, slow and steady, though it did little to ease the tightness coiling in her chest. The weight of exhaustion pressed against her ribs, heavy as a millstone, and the warm air of the chamber felt thick in her throat. She willed herself to keep her composure, to smother the grief before it could bloom into something she could not control. Her fingers curled into the fabric of her robe, nails biting into the silk.

She gave a small nod, a single, curt motion that barely disturbed the strands of silver hair falling over her shoulders. Her lips parted, then pursed, as if to trap the question before it could leave her tongue. She swallowed, forcing down the bitter taste of sorrow.

And then, at last, she spoke.

“Is that all?” Her voice was a blade’s edge, honed sharp, but strained–fraying at the seams. She would not break–not in front of him.

The silence that followed was brief, but it dragged, a heartbeat too long, as if the weight of what he was about to say needed that extra breath to settle. The tension drew taut as a bows string before the arrow was released. 

Aemond’s gaze remained on her. “No,” he murmured, softer than she expected. He straightened slightly, a mere shift in posture, yet it felt deliberate, careful, as though bracing himself. His hands, long-fingered and calloused, stilled against the table. “Your mother lost the child.”

A thousand thoughts stormed through her mind, each one crashing over the next. She thought first of Jace. The last she had head, he was at Winterfell, far beyond the Green’s reach–surely beyond their reach. But then–Joffrey? Aegon? Viserys? Had something happened to them? Had the war already stolen more from her than it had already taken?

And then, at last, the truth settled in. 

It was not them. It was not one of her brothers. 

It was the child–the one her mother had been carrying. 

The realization landed like a blow, knocking the breath from her lungs. She felt the weight of it sink into her bones, cold and merciless. Grief swelled in her chest, thick and cloying, rising like a tide she could not hold back. The air thickened, turned to something unbreathable. The room blurred at the edges, light wrapping around her vision as nausea coiled in her gut, sharp and violet. 

She rose, too quickly, the legs of the chair scraping roughly against the stone floor. The sound barely registered. Blood pounded in her ears, drowning out the distant murmurs of the Keep beyond these walls, drowning out the warmth of the fire, the lingering scent of sugared fruit and cinnamon still cloying in the air. 

Her composure slipped, crumbled through her fingers like sand. 

Her sibling–gone before they could even be held, before they could take their first breath. 

The grief curled inside her like a living thing, sharp-toothed and ravenous, tearing at the fragile seams of her restraint. Her throat burned, bile rising, but she forced it down.

Out of the blurred edges of her vision, Daenera caught the slightest movement–a flicker of motion that, for a moment, she mistook for hesitation. But it was not hesitation.

Aemond reached for her.

His fingers hovered just shy of her own, the barest breath of space between them, as if he meant to grasp her hand, to still her, to ground her. But she wrenched away before he could touch her, as if his fingers were flame and she had already been burned too many times. The motion was sharp, instinctual, a recoil from something she could not bear to endure. She turned her back to him, closing herself off, severing whatever fragile moment might have passed between them before it could take shape.

A sharp ache bloomed in her chest, spreading like a bruise, pressing heavy against her ribs until it felt as if they might crack beneath the weight. She strained to breathe, to force air past the tightness in her throat, but it caught and stuttered, shallow and uneven. Her hands found her hips, fingers pressing against the curve of her spine as she tried–gods, she tried–to steady herself.

Her gaze lifted skyward, as if seeking solace in the high vaulted ceiling, in the distant light that streamed through the windows. But the tears burned hot behind her eyes, threatening to spill, and she clenched her jaw, willing them away.

And she did not want him to see. 

She did not want him to watch her unravel, to bear witness to her pain, to see the raw, ugly thing that grief made of her. Vulnerability was a weapon turned against its wielder, and she would not offer him that blade–not again.  

A sob rose in her throat, thick and strangling, but she swallowed it down, forcing it into the put of her stomach where it could rot unseen. 

Her mother had wanted this child–had longed for it. Daenera had seen it in her eyes, had heard it in the quiet way she spoke of the babe, in the way she touched her stomach as if the child were already there in her arms. 

And now, there was nothing. 

Her hand rose, fingers trembling slightly as she tugged at the collar of her dress, as if loosening the fabric might somehow loosen the tightness coiling in her chest. She pressed her palm against her heart, felt the frantic beat beneath her skin, fast and uneven, as though her own body rebelled against the weight of the truth. 

Her mother had lost a son. 

And now, she had lost another child. 

Another life stolen, another piece of her mother torn away. And the gods were silent. 

Daenera closed her eyes.

For a fleeting moment, she no longer saw her brother stretched out upon the Silent Sisters’ stone table, his chest broken open, his curls stiff with salt.

Instead, she saw something smaller.

Too small.

A bundle of fabric lay upon the cold, unforgiving slab–wrong, out of place, never meant to be there. The candlelight flickered, casting shifting shadows over the swaddled form, over the impossibly delicate curve of it.

And then, a wisp of silver hair.

Soft. Fine as gossamer. Barely visible in the dim light, but there all the same.

Her breath hitched, caught somewhere between her ribs, aching as though something inside her had cracked. The room around her faded, the weight of the present slipping beneath the tide of grief pulling her under.

Oh, gods. The letter. 

The realization dawned on her, settling in the pit of her stomach like a stone. 

By now, Fenrick would be on his way to Dragonstone, carrying the letter she had written with such careful, measured words. She had tried–foolishly, naively–to offer her mother some semblance of solace, to give her something to cling to amidst the reunion on loss. She had told her that the child she carried would bring her comfort–that not everything had been lost. 

Regret was a sharp, bitter thing, curling around her ribs and sinking its teeth deep.

Behind her, Aemond spoke, his voice low, careful. “Daenera…”

She lifted her hand, fingers trembling slightly as she motioned for him to stop. Not yet. She wasn’t ready to turn, to face him, to bear the weight of his gaze pressing against her as it always did. 

Her grief twisted into something worse–guilt. It tore through her anew, sharp and relentless, pulling her apart at the seams. 

Had she done this?

Was this her punishment? A cruel retribution from the gods for what she had done to the boy who trusted her? For the poison she had slipped into his food, for the lies she had whispered as she sent him to his death?

Her breath shuddered in her chest, jagged and uneven, but she swallowed the turmoil down, forcing herself to steady. She wiped at her cheek, smearing away the single tear that had escaped before it could be seen. Before he could see it. 

“When?” Her voice came, quieter than she had intended, hoarse with the effort of keeping herself together. “When did this happen?”

Aemond was silent for a beat too long. Then–”Does it matter?”

At last, Daenera turned to face him. Her movements were slow, reluctant, as if forcing herself to meet his gaze would make the weight in her chest any easier to bear–but it did not, it only made it all the heavier. Another tear slipped free trailing in a  slow descent down her cheek before she wiped it away with a trembling hand. It was a futile effort. More clung to her lashes, catching the light like glistening shards of glass. She could feel them tremble, feel the heat behind her eyes threatening to spill over again, but she refused to let them fall. 

She met his gaze, and it nearly undid her. 

His expression was carefully neutral, yet there was something guarded in the set of his jaw, something restrained in the way he held himself. And his eye–gods, his eye. It was not cold as it so often was, nor sharp with mockery, nor darkened by cruelty. Instead, there was a softness there, a quiet, somber patience that only deepened the ache in her chest.

“I–” the words caught in her throat, breaking apart before it could fully form. She swallowed against the lump in her throat. “Did I–?”

Her lips parted, but she could not finish the question. Was it my fault? The words remained trapped behind clenched teeth, rattling inside her skull like a dying thing. Did I do this? The thought alone sent a fresh wave of nausea rolling through her. Had the gods seen what she had done? Had they cast their judgment, taken something from her mother in retribution for what Daenera had stolen from another?

The guilt gnawed at her, a ravenous beast sinking its teeth into her ribs. She could not bring herself to ask him, could not bear to voice the thought that had already sunk its claws into her mind. 

And worse–why, why in all the gods’ names, was she looking to him for reassurance? Why was she searching his face for some denial, some certainty that this was not her doing, that she had not willed this tragedy into being?

Hatred curled inside her–hatred for herself, for the shameful, desperate way her heart clung to his presence in this moment. She swallowed again, fingers curling into the silk of her robe as she forced her voice into something steadier, something more composed, though it still trembled. “When did it happen?”

Aemond tilted his head slightly, watching her in that way he always did–like he saw more than what she gave. He studied her, peeling back the layers of her composure as though he could see the raw, open wounds beneath. 

“It was before.”

Before. 

Before she had killed Patrick. Before she had sealed her own damnation.

For the briefest of moments, the relief came swift and sharp, crashing through her like a desperate breath breaking the surface of deep waters. It was a cruel, fleeting thing, barely there before it was swallowed whole by something far worse. A wave of guilt surged up in its place, heavier than before, pressing down on her like a boulder against her chest. She felt sick with it, sick with herself. What did it matter when it had happened? What difference did it make? The child was still gone, lost before ever taking a breath. And yet, for the smallest fraction of time, she had felt relief that it had not been her fault. That it had not been her sin that had stolen another life from her mother’s arms. 

She clenched her hands into fists at her sides, nails biting into the flesh of her palms until she could feel the sting of it, grounding herself in the pain. She could not allow herself that feeling, could not let herself grasp onto it. Her mother had lost her son, and now she had lost another child. 

There was no comfort in the timing of it, no absolution in the fact that it had been before Patrick. And yet, she had sought it anyway, like a coward grasping at scraps of solace in the face of an unbearable truth. 

She forced her shoulders back, forced the breath into her lungs, forced the grief into something small and quiet, something she could lock away until she was alone. Because no matter how much she might feel as though she was drowning, she could not afford to let herself sink. 

“Before,” Daenera echoed, the word curling bitterly on her tongue. Her brow furrowed, and something inside her twisted. The grief threatening to pull her under began to harden, cooling into something sharper and accusatory. “When before?”

Aemond inhaled through his nose, slow and measured, though his posture stiffened slightly. He bore the weight of her accusation as he bore all others–like armor, as though he had long since learned to let such words slide from his skin like rain against steel. He did not flinch, nor did he waver. Instead, his head tilted, just enough for the sunlight to catch the angular lines of his face. 

When he finally spoke, his voice was the same even, measured tone. “Before.”

Before Patrick.

Before Luke.

The child had been lost before he had ridden to Storm’s End, before he had given chase in the rain, his rage and wounded pride spurring him forward, before the storm had swallowed them both whole. Before the sky had split with the crack of thunder, before Vhagar’s massive jaws had closed around Luke and torn him from the sky. Before the sea had claimed whatever was left, dragging it down into the cold, endless depths, leaving nothing but salt and silence in its wake. Beforeher mother had searched those very waves, desperate, grieving, calling for a son who would never answer. BeforeDaenera’s own hands had been stained with the blood of the innocent, before poison had coated her fingertips, before death had followed in her shadow.

Before everything.

And yet, no matter how she turned it over in her mind, no matter how she tried to unravel the cruel weaving of fate, she could not shake the truth of it.

It did not matter.

The order of their suffering changed nothing. The loss remained. The grief endured. The dead did not return.

“It seems the news of our father’s passing brought it upon her,” Aemond continued, his voice careful. And yet, his fingers–long and deft, ever steady–began to tap idly against the polished wood of the table. A restless habit, though whether born of irritation or impatience, she could not tell. 

Daenera’s lips parted, but only a breath escaped before her grief twisted into something else entirely–something raw and seething, something blistering beneath her skin like an open wound. 

“When her rightful claim was usurped.” She did not temper her hanger, did not bite back the words before they could lash out. She wanted them to land.

Not only had her mother lost her father, but her very birthright had been stolen from beneath her, torn away by those who had sworn loyalty and then betrayed her in the same breath. Her throne had been usurped, her claim trampled beneath the weight of ambition and treachery. She had carried a child, nurtured it within her, only for it to be wrenched from her before it could ever take its first breath. And then, as if the gods had not yet finished their cruel work, she had lost her son–her sweet, bright boy–swallowed by the storm, by the beast, by the sea.

The gods were vicious, their judgment as merciless as it was senseless. They were no wise and righteous overseers, no keepers of justice and fate. They were cruel, capricious, laughing down from their lofty halls as mortals broke beneath their whims. What justice was there in this? What righteousness? There was none–only suffering, only grief, only the relentless toll of loss upon loss, piling higher like bodies left to rot upon the battlefield.

How could they punish her–her mother, whose only crime had been existing as her father’s heir–while those who had taken, those who had stolen, those who had murdered were left to rule, to thrive, to wear crowns dripping with the blood of the innocent?

The gods had no justice. They only had cruelty.

Aemond’s jaw tensed, just slightly. A small shift, a twitch of muscle, but she saw it. 

“How many more must die for your family’s ambition?” She bit out, fury coiling around her grief like a viper. 

“The fault is not ours,” Aemond siad, his tone composed, infuriatingly patient, as though he expected her anger, as though he would simply weather it like a storm passing overhead.  “The child was malformed, he continued, his voice careful, as if he were offering her something close to reassurance. “It is said it had horns, scales…a tail.” He exhaled, shaking his head slightly. “It would not have survived, whether it came now or later.”

“Who?” Her voice was sharp, demanding, slicing through the thick silence between them. “Who said this? How do they know?”

Her breath quickened, her hands curling into fists at her sides, nails biting into the flesh of her palms. The words felt too heavy, too cruel to accept without a fight. Aemond had spoken them so plainly, as if they were mere facts and not a sentence of grief carved into her very bones.

“How do you know it's the truth?” She challenged, stepping closer now, her gaze burning into his.

Daenera seethed, but she could feel her fury unraveling at the edges, slipping through her fingers like sand. She needed someone to blame, needed it to make sense of it all, needed somewhere to aim her anger before it ebbed out entirely, only leaving behind an aching emptiness. But Aemond did not flinch, did not rise to her anger. 

“We have received multiple accounts,” he said, his voice dreadfully gentle, offering her no cruelty, no satisfaction, only the quiet inevitability of truth. 

Daenera felt the fight drain from her in an instant, like a blade sliding free from between her ribs, leaving behind only the gaping wound, the hollow ache where fury had once burned. The fire inside her flickered, then went out entirely, snuffed like a candle’s flame, leaving only behind the curling remnants of smoke, grief’s cold fingers creeping into its place. 

She swayed slightly on her feet, her pulse thrumming in her ears, tears pressing hard against the back of her eyes. She closed them, only to find that the darkness brought no relief. The image waiting for her there–waiting in the hollow spaces behind her ribs, in the marrow of her bones. The small bundle wrapped in cloth. The wisp of silver hair barely visible. Unbearable stillness. 

She rubbed her hand across her face, as though she could wipe away the vision along with the tears that threatened to spill. With a quiet, weary sigh, she sank back into her chair. 

She wished she had been there. 

Wished she could be there now–with her mother, beside her, as she mourned her children. 

Daenera was growing weary of grief, of loss. It clung to her like a second skin, a weight that hadn’t lessened yet, only shifted, pressing down on her in different ways, at different times. She was drowning in it. The loss of this sibling–one she had never met, one she had only allowed herself to hope for–was but a drop in the ocean of sorrow that had already swallowed her whole. 

It was a cruel thing to admit, even to herself, but it was the truth. Compared to Luke, compared to the gaping, irreparable wound his absence had left inside of her, this loss felt small–manageable. A shallow wound against a deeper, festering one. 

Perhaps that was not so strange. 

And perhaps, there was only so much grief one could carry before it became to heavy to bear. So she gathered this small sorrow, cupped it in her hands like water, and let it slip through her fingers, pouring it into some quiet place within herself where it could no longer drown her. 

“I wanted to be the one to tell you,” Aemond said softly. 

Her gaze lifted to meet his, and this time, there was no scorn in her eyes, no reproach or bitter edge to her expression. Only something quieter, something more measured. A tired understanding, perhaps. A truce, however fragile, however brief. 

The sunglint spilled through the high windows, cutting through the coldness of the chamber, catching the strands of his pale hair and turning them to gold. The light softened him, rounded the edges of his sharp features, took the severity of him and made him something almost gentle. Almost human.

Daenera swallowed, drawing in a slow, steady breath, holding it deep in her lungs before releasing it, exhaling the grief, the weight, the ache–if only for a moment. 

“Thank you for telling me,” she murmured at last. 

Aemond studied her, his gaze lingering. And then, quiet, deliberately he ventured, “I wanted to tell you about–”

“But you didn’t,” Daenera cut him off, her voice regaining an edge–something brittle. A simmering ember of anger licked at her ribs. It did not blaze into a roaring fire, but it smoldered there, deep and slow-burning, waiting. 

“I waited for you,” she said, the strain in her voice betraying the wounds that had yet to close, the kind that festered beneath the skin and leaked poison into the blood. “I waited for you, but you never came.”

For the first time, Aemond broke her gaze. He turned his face ever so slightly, his eye flickering away, his shoulders going taut beneath the fabric of his doublet. The shift was small, but she saw it bathed in the light of day as it was–the tension in his jaw, the almost imperceptible curl of his lips, the way his fingers twitched against the table as if resisting the urge to move. It could have been mistaken for annoyance, but it wasn’t. 

Shame, she thought. Regret, perhaps.

His next words came as softly as they had the last time, spoken with the same quiet weight, the same bitter aftertaste. “I wanted to give you one more night.”

The same words he had spoken when they sat together in the ruin of her chambers, amidst shattered glass and scattered blood. One more night believing her brother was alive. An explanation. A bitter solace. A stinging mistake. 

One more night–one night too long. And yet far too little. 

“It wasn’t enough,” Daenera murmured. Her voice was quieter now, but no less firm. “It would never be enough.”

They held each other’s gaze for a long moment, the silence between them thick with everything neither of them would say. Words unspoken tangled in the space between them, unsaid truths pressing against the weight of air. 

And still, neither of them looked away.

“You should have been the one to tell me,” she murmured, finally breaking her gaze, her voice quieter now. “Just as I should be the one to tell Patrick’s parents of their son. 

Her fingers curled slightly against the table’s surface as she lifted her gaze back to him. “I do not expect it to bring them peace. But at least they will know. I owe them that much.” It was the kindest thing she could offer. “Let me write to them. Let me be the one to inform them of his passing.”

Aemond studied her. His lips pressed together, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face–perhaps a sharp remark, a cutting jest waiting on his tongue, but if so, he swallowed it. Instead, his gaze flickered downward, settling on the plate of food in front of her, untouched, the warm of it long since dissipated.

“If you eat,” he said at last. 

Daenera blinked at him, caught off guard by the audacity of it. It was so unexpected, so absurdly him that she nearly let out a sharp, humorous laugh. Instead, her expression darkened, her brows pulling together as a scowl twisted her lips. She briefly entertained the idea of overturning the plate onto his pristine doublet, watching the food spill into his lap with a pure, spiteful satisfaction. She could already picture it–the way his lips would tighten, the sharp edge of his glare, the inevitable snap of his patience. 

The thought was tempting. 

Spite crackled beneath her skin, hot and restless, but she forced it down. 

It should be her that told Patrick’s parents. She had taken their son’s life–whatever justification, whatever mercy she had told herself had softened it, it was still her hand that had ended it. And for that reason alone, she begrudgingly reached for the plate, sliding it towards herself with slow, reluctant movements. She picked up a piece of tangerine, lifting it to her lips without breaking her glare, scowling at Aemond as she chewed. 

Across the table, the corner of his lips curled–just slightly, just enough to make her scowl deepen. 

The first few bites were an effort, her throat constricting, her stomach coiled so tightly it felt as though it might reject the food entirely. But the more she ate, the more the tension eased, the tightness giving way to something else–something she had not realized had been gnawing at her. Hunger.

She had barely eaten since the day before yesterday. Perhaps even longer than that. She had forced herself to move, to speak, to endure, but she had done so on nothing but sheer will. And on some level, she suspected Aemond knew.

Her eyes flicked up, narrowing slightly as she caught him watching her. “Are you not going to eat?” she asked, her tone sharp, edged with irritation. 

“I’ve eaten,” Aemond replied, entirely unbothered.

“Are you just going to stare at me while I eat? If so, I’d much prefer if you left.”

If anything, he seemed amused by her hostility. His hand lifted lazily from the surface of the table, reaching for her plate with deliberate slowness, plucking a single grape between his fingers.

Daenera reacted before she could think.

Her hand snapped out, slapping against his with a sharp smack. The sound echoed between them, louder than she had expected, but she did not regret it. Resentment flared in her chest, hot and immediate. If he had wanted to sit here, if he had wanted to share her food the way they had once done before, then perhaps he shouldn’t have murdered her brother.

The vitriol did not make it to her voice, though. Nor did it reach the glare she leveled at him. Instead, her tone was cold, flat, edged with something quieter, something just as sharp. “If you’ve eaten, then leave. Or get your own food. Don’t steal mine.”

Aemond’s gaze flickered to where she had struck his hand, then back to her, something unreadable passing over his expression.

Then, with an infuriating little smirk, he popped the stolen grape into his mouth.

The doors swung open with a quiet creak, and the sharp rhythm of approaching steps cut through the silence. Daenera barely had time to register the intrusion before Mertha stood before her, her hands folded neatly, her face in that ever-present mask of tight-lipped disapproval–though now, it was drawn even tighter, as though she had bitten into something sour and found it worse than expected. 

Edelin hovered behind her, expression worried. 

“My prince,” Lady Mertha said stiffly, inclining her head. “Forgive the intrusion, but the Lord Confessor’s patience has worn thin. He insists that they begin the search now.”

At the words, Aemond leaned back slightly in his chair, the shift slow, deliberate. Whatever flicker of amusement that had lingered in his features vanished in an instant, his face hardening into something cold and impassive–his familiar mask of steel and ice. Every trace of that infuriating smugness from moments before was gone, replaced by something unreadable, something distant. 

His fingers twitched idly on the tabletop, betraying the only sign of his irritation. He inhaled through his nose, the sound quiet but edged with something restrained. 

“Very well,” he said at last, his voice carrying no emotion, nothing but the crisp weight of obligation. 

Mertha did not move. She did not bow her head in dismissal, did not turn to fetch the Lord Confessor. Instead, she lingered, her dull gray eyes dragging from Aemond to Daenera, her gaze narrowing as her expression tightened. 

“Princess,” she said, her tone stiff with expectation. “We must get you dressed properly. You are in no state for company.” With a sharp flick of her wrist, she gestured for Daenera to follow, already turning towards the bedchamber. 

A cold prickle of unease ran down Daenera’s spine, a familiar dread twisting deep in her chest. She knew what waited for her behind the dressing screen, beyond the sight of others. Knew what Mertha’s cruel hands would do. The evidence of it still lingering on her skin–every cruel pinch, every warning squeeze, every silent reproach. The thought of it–of standing there, bare beneath Mertha’s fingers as she worked over her with disapproving hands and sharp, muttered words–made tension coil in her stomach. 

But still, she rose to her feet. 

“Lady Mertha,” Edelin interjected smoothly, stepping forward with an air of quiet insistence. “Allow me to see to the princess. I will dress her.”

Mertha’s head snapped toward her, lips pressing into a thin, bloodless line.

Edelin did not falter. “The Lord Confessor’s men will need to be supervised,” she continued, her tone carefully even. “They will tear through this chamber like hounds after scraps. Someone must ensure they do not leave a mess we will only have to clean later.”

Mertha’s lips twitched, her displeasure barely concealed. She exhaled sharply though her nose and turned back to Daenera, her eyes narrowing in quiet suspicion. Her gaze lingered for a beat, as if considering whether to press the matter, to drag Daenera to the screen herself. 

But then, without a word, she pivoted sharply on her heel. “Very well, make her presentable,” she said and strode to the doors, her skirts sweeping across the stone floor as she went to admit the Lord Confessor and his men. 

Daenera let out a slow, controlled breath, grateful for Edelin. 

She stepped into the bedchamber, the warmth of the late morning sun filtering through the tall windows, casting golden light against the cool stone walls. The air was still, thick with the lingering scents of candle wax and the morning meal. 

Crossing the room, she made her way to the basin, dipping her hands into the cool water before bringing it to her face. The sudden chill sent a shiver down her spine, but she welcomed it, relished the way it momentarily cleared the haze from her mind–and washed the salt from her face. Droplets slipped down her skin, trailing along her jaw, and she reached for a cloth to dry them away, pressing the fabric against her cheeks with slow, deliberate movements. 

When she finally lifted her gaze to the mirror above the basin, she understood why Mertha had been so quick to comment on her appearance. 

Strands of hair had slipped free from their braids, some curling in wild disarray around her face, the carefully woven plaits loosened from restless sleep and the wear of the day. The silk strips woven into them had come undone, some hanging limply, others barely clinging to the braid at all. Shadows bloomed beneath her eyes, a testament to the fitful rest that had done little to ease the weight pressing on her shoulders. 

She looked tired. Worn. 

And she was. 

The distant murmur of voices drifted through the open archway, punctuated by the shuffle of boots against stone. Low, hushed tones woven together, an indistinctive hum of men speaking, orders given. Yet amidst it all, one sound stood apart–the rhythmic, deliberate tap of a cane against the floor. 

Daenera’s breath stilled for a fraction of a moment, an instinctive reaction, though she forced herself not to tense. The sound unsettled her. The slow, measured beat of it, never hurried, never uncertain. A herald of unpleasant things. 

Edelin’s hands remained gentle, undisturbed by the noise beyond the chamber. With practiced efficiency, she helped Daenera out of her nightgown, the fabric slipping from her shoulders in a whisper of silk. A moment later, she was easing her into a fresh gown–a modest, loose-fitting dress of grayish-blue brocade, its fabric soft against her skin. 

The girl worked swiftly, fingers deft as she moved to Daenera’s hair, undoing the intricate weaving she had secured the night before. The ties slipped free one by one, and with them, the last remnants of braids unraveled. Her dark hair spilled down her back, loose and soft, waves curling from where it had been bound. 

Edelin hesitated briefly, as if expecting some instruction, some desire for her to gather it up, to set it with pins and ribbons. But Daenera gave none. She let her hair fall as it was, unbound and unstyled, unwilling to fuss with it. She had neither the patience nor the mood for it. 

“Would you prepare ink and parchment?” Daenera asked, her voice quiet but firm as Edelin removed the final braid from her hair. Strands slipped free, falling in loose waves over her shoulders and down her back, pooling like dark silk. “I expect I will need more than one sheet.”

Edelin gave a small nod, setting aside the silk strip she had unwoven and placing it neatly on the surface of the dressing table before turning to fulfill Daenera’s request.

Daenera exhaled, lifting her hands to her hair, running her fingers through the long, thick strands to smooth them out. Rising from the chair, she swept the mass of it over her shoulder before letting it fall back behind her. It cascaded down past her hips, heavy and unbound.

Mertha would surely find fault with her appearance–the simplicity of her dress, the lack of jewelry, the way she left her hair undone instead of setting it in careful plaits and coils as a lady ought to. But Daenera could not bring herself to care. Not today.

Without another word, she turned from the mirror and made her way toward the common room.

The room was a whirlwind of movement, a flurry of restless energy as men tore through every corner of the space with methodical precision. Cupboards were thrown open, drawers upended, books lifted and set aside, decorations shifted from their places as hands dragged across every surface in search of something unseen–something they would not find. The scrape of wood, the rustling of parchment, the dull thud of objects being set down or discarded–all of it filled the air, mingling with the thick oppressive tension that hung like a storm waiting to break. 

As Daenera stood at the threshold of the room, men moved past her with single-minded purpose. They did not pause, did not acknowledge her presence beyond the necessity of stepping around her, their focus set entirely on the task at hand. 

Her gaze swept across the room, cutting through the chaos–until it landed on him. 

Larys Strong. 

The Lord Confessor stood apart from the frenzy, watching rather than searching, his sharp gaze meeting hers. He inclined his head in acknowledgement. But the way he looked at her–calculated, considering–made something crawl beneath her skin, made indignation flare within her chest. 

She gritted her teeth and turned away from him, tearing her gaze from his prying stare, intent on ignoring him. 

Her eyes drifted to the far end of the table, where Edelin had already set out the ink and parchment with meticulous care. The quill rested neatly beside them, its tip glistening faintly in the afternoon light. Her seat from earlier had been pushed in, the remnants of her interrupted meal cleared away–no trace of the bread or fruit remained.

Only the cup of tea lingered.

It had been moved, no longer in its original place, but now sitting beside the pot of ink at the opposite end of the table, as if subtly repositioned to accompany her new task. The gesture was a small one, yet Daenera recognized Edelin’s quiet consideration in it. A reminder. A kindness. A way to steady her hands before she set ink to parchment and wrote the words she did not want to write.

But she hardly had time to register the small act of consideration, her gaze barely flickering over the carefully arranged parchment and ink before her attention was drawn elsewhere–to him.

Her eyes found him without meaning to, latching onto his presence as though pulled by an unseen force. Aemond.

He had not moved. He sat where he had before, poised yet at ease, as if entirely unaffected by the commotion around him. His profile was sharp in the glow of the sunlight, the golden strands of his hair catching in its warmth, making him seem almost otherworldly–almost soft. But Daenera knew better.

She had half-expected–half-hoped–that he would have left by now. It would have been easier, cleaner, not to have to share space with him, not to be reminded of the tangled, wretched mess that existed between them. And yet, bitterly, begrudgingly, she felt something cold and treacherous loosen in her chest at the sight of him still lingering. She could not call it relief–she refused to call it that.

She said nothing as she passed him, her steps measured, controlled. She felt herself brush past him without sparing him a glance, settling into the chair before the parchment–at the opposite end of the table where he was sitting. Her fingers smoothed over the parchment’s surface, grounding herself in the task. 

“Her herbs are over here,” Mertha said, her voice clipped as she gestured towards the far corner of the long room. Her tone held its usual note of authority, sharp and reproachful. 

At the entry to the apartments stood Maester Gilbar and his apprentice, their washed-out gray robes blending into the stone walls, their presence unassuming. The eldest maester’s hands were clasped before him, knotted with age, while his much younger charge stood attentively at his side, watching, waiting. 

“You can remove all of it–”

“No,” Aemond’s voice cut through the room like the edge of a blade. 

From his place at the other end of the table, he barely shifted, only tilting his head slightly as he spoke. He lounged against the wooden surface, leaning lazily on one elbow, his posture deliberately relaxed, yet anything but careless. A book lay flat before him, its pages untouched, as it had merely been something to occupy his hands rather than his mind. 

“You will look through it,” he continued, his voice steady, cool, leaving no room for argument. “Remove only what is necessary. The rest, you will return as it was.”

Mertha stiffened, her lips pressing into a tight line. Her disapproval was palpable, her fingers curling ever so slightly against the fabric of her skirts. “The Dowager Queen ordered it all removed.”

“And I am giving you new orders.”

Aemond’s gaze met hers, cold and controlled, his brow lifting ever so slightly in challenge. There was no raised voice, no outward sign of irritation–just that quiet, unwavering authority that left little room for defiance. His mere presence seemed to consume the room, filling every empty space, pressing against the walls like something unseen but undeniable. There was an air of danger about him, something quiet and coiled, like a blade resting in its sheath–hidden, but no less lethal.

He did not need to raise his voice, did not need to move with any grand display of power. It was in the way he carried himself, the effortless command in his posture, the sharp edge to his gaze. He was a man who did not need to remind others of his authority–he simply was.

And everyone in the room felt it.

Maester Gilbar cleared his throat, the sound rasping in the thick silence, his aged frame shifting slightly as he adjusted his stance. The chain around his neck swayed with the movement, metal links clinging together in quiet protest. His apprentice remained still beside him, rigid, uncertain, while Mertha lingered a moment longer, the weight of unspoken words seemingly pressing against her lips. 

Reproach flickered in her eyes, her mouth tightening as if she might yet voice her displeasure. But in the end, she swallowed it down, gritting her teeth. Without another word, she turned sharply on her heel and gestured for the maester to follow. 

Daenera barely spared them a glance. 

She could still feel Aemond’s gaze on her, heavy, unwavering, pressing against her like the ghost of a touch. It prickled against her skin, demanding acknowledgement, but she refused to meet it–refused to feel grateful that he would let her have her herbs. Instead, she turned her attention to the parchment before her, dipping her quill into the inkwell. The dark ink clung to the tip, and she tapped it twice against the edge to shake off the excess, watching the tiny droplets stain the rim. 

The quill hovered over the parchment, poised and ready.

But no words came. 

Her mind, once full of thought, so burdened with what needed to be said, now sat empty, blank as the page before her. The silence stretched, her breath shallow, her fingers tightening around the quell as though she could will the words into existence. 

The nose of the search continued around her, a steady drum of disruption–the shuffling of boots, the scrape of furniture being moved, the voices cutting through the space as orders were given and carried out. Daenera remained still, putting it out of her mind as she stared at the blank expanse of parchment before her. 

How do I even begin?

What words could she possibly offer? What comfort could she give when she knew there was none to be had? No sentence, no carefully chosen words could soften the sting of their loss. 

She dipped the quill into the ink, pressing the tip lightly to the parchment, watching as the black stain bleed into the fibers. The soft scratch of the quill met the paper, delicate, hesitant, but the wound was swallowed by the nose around her. 

Lord and Lady–

The words sat before her. She stared at them, then with a frustrated breath, dragged the quill through them, striking them out.

Setting the quill aside, she crumbled the ruined parchment, tossing it aside before reaching for a fresh sheet. 

I have no words to offer you comfort in this–

Her jaw clenched. No, that wasn’t right either. It was the truth, but the truth was a hollow thing. She scratched through the sentence, crumbling the parchment and tossing it aside again, reaching for another. 

The pile of discarded parchment had grown into a small mountain of frustration, crumpled remnants of failed attempts littering the table like fallen leaves. Each rejected letter, each scratched-out sentence, only fed the gnawing irritation curling in her chest. The right words would not come–not ones that mattered, not the ones that might dull the edge of grief for the parents of the boy she had taken. Nothing was enough, nothing could be enough, and the futility of it all made her stomach twist. 

With an aggravated sigh, she set the quill aside, fingers stained with ink curling slightly before she flexed them in an attempt to rid herself of the tension coiling in her knuckles. 

Leaning back in ehr chair, she pressed her spine against the unforgiving wood, tilting her head until it met the backrest with a dull thud. She stared at the ceiling, letting her breath escape in a slow exhale before dragging her gaze back to the ruined parchment strewn across the table. A waste of paper.

Her hand lifted, fingers ghosting over the rim of the now-cool teacup beside her inkpot before she sighed once more, this time softer, quieter. “Edelin,” she murmured, her voice no longer edged with irritation but something wearier. “Bring me more tea.” A pause. Then, almost as an afterthought, she added, “And pour one for yourself as well, if you’d like.”

Edelin, who had remained silent at her side, flinched slightly, as if the request had startled her. Daenera turned her head just enough to watch the girl’s expression shift, the small crease between her brows deepening with confusion.

“I’d like it if you’d join me,” she said, offering a simple invitation. 

“Princess?”

“You can practice your letters,” Daenera continued, her voice softer now, almost absent as she reached for one of the discarded parchments. Her fingers smoothed out the crumpled sheet, revealing the tangled mess of scratched-out words, failed beginnings that never found their end. “Or draw, if you’d rather,” she added, turning the parchment slightly in her hands before glancing back at Edelin. “It seems such a waste to discard them entirely.”

Edelin’s eyes widened in surprised. Then, before she could stop herself, her lips curled into a smile. “Really?”

Daenera gave a small nod, watching as Edelin tried–and failed–to temper her excitement. There was something almost childlike in the way her expression brightened, a rare glimpse of unguarded joy that had no place in a world like this.

But before Edelin could utter another word, a sharp, disapproving noise cut through the moment like the scrape of steel against stone.

Mertha.

The older woman stood rigid, her scowl carved deep into her face, hands planted firmly on her hips, her entire stance radiating displeasure. Her lips curled downward, thin and bloodless, eyes narrowing as she fixed Edelin with a look meant to wither whatever foolish notion had taken root.

Edelin hesitated, her fingers twitching faintly at her sides. For a fleeting moment, she looked down, studying her hands as though considering whether to retreat, to bow her head and fall back into the quiet, obedient role expected of her.

Then, as if making a decision, she lifted her gaze once more–this time meeting Daenera’s eyes.

“I would like that,” she said at last, her voice steady despite the deepening scowl Mertha shot her way. A quiet defiance, a choice made.

She reached for the empty teacup, fingers wrapping around it with deliberate intent.

“Thank you,” she added, as if daring Mertha to object.

As Edelin moved through the room towards the pot of tea hanging over the fire in the hearth, her steps light but unwavering, she seemed intent on ignoring Mertha’s sharp, narrow-eyed scowl. The older woman’s silent disapproval lingered, thick as smoke, still, Edelin did not falter. If anything, she carried herself with more purpose, as though determined to have this small act of defiance. 

The Lord Confessor’s men continued their search–ransacking, really–their hands trailing over every surface, their eyes scanning each object as if the very stones of the room might whisper her secrets. Drawers scraped open, rugs were lifted, shelves emptied only to be hastily repacked–much to Mertha’s displeasure. No corner was left undisturbed, no possession too insignificant to escape their notice. They moved with the cold efficiency of hounds on the scent of prey, though whatever they sought would not be found. Because there was nothing to find.

And then, amidst the chaos, Larys Strong moved. 

Unlike the others he did not search. He did not paw through her belongings or upset the furniture with prying hands. He did leave the marks of disturbance in his wake. Instead, he drifted through the chamber like a shadow, his presence deliberate, unhurried. The slow, steady tap of his cane accompanied each of his steps, the sound too precise to be anything but intentional. 

It was not necessity. It was a reminder.

Larys was not a man who commanded a space the way Aemond did, with his sharp-edged presence and the sheer weight of his gaze. No, he was something far more unassuming. He did not demand attention–he crept into awareness, slipping through the cracks of conversation and silence alike. A cripple who wore his affliction like a mask, a man who allowed others to see only what he wished to see–less–while beneath the surface, his mind wove its webs. 

His presence felt like a violation. 

Not just his, but theirs. The men rifling through her things again, treating what little she had as though it belonged to them. The first time had been her old chambers, where every object, every piece of fabric, every book had been hers. They had torn through it as they did not, leaving nothing untouched. 

And now, in this new chamber, this space meant to be hers, meant to be a sanctuary–even if it was the one she had desired–it felt the same. 

Violating.

It reminded her too much of that night–of how he had ordered her stripped, of how his men’s rough, indifferent hands had seized her, pulling at laces and fabric with the same disregard they now showed to her drawers and cupboards. They had peeled her apart, layer by layer, until she had been left standing in nothing but her smallclothes, the cold pressing against her skin.

The memory curdled in her mind, but she pushed it down.

The tap of his cane against the stone made the muscles in her spine tense, the hairs at the nape of her neck prickling as Larys approached. This time, his gaze was not on her–his attention was, however. His head tiled slightly, his sharp eyes flickering towards the far wall, where a great tapestry of the finest greens hung. It was a beautiful piece, expertly woven, depicting a vast forest bathed in golden light, its canopy breaking just enough to allow the sun to dapple the moss-laden earth below. 

“Such fine work,” he murmured, his voice smooth, carrying the careful cadence of a man who measured every word before he spoke it. His fingers curled over the head of his cane, watching the tapestry with something unreadable in his expression. “The details are exquisite.”

Then, his gaze slid back to her, keen and knowing. 

“But I wonder, Princess… Were you displeased with the ones I gifted you”

Daenera inhaled slowly through her nose, her fingers tightening around the quill before she dipped it into the inkwell, watching as the dark liquid clung to the tip. She set her gaze firmly on the parchment before her, the fine script of her unfinished letter waiting to be continued. The quill hovered above the sheet, ink threatening to drop onto the page as she let her silence stretch just a little longer than necessary. 

“I did not care for them,” she said at last, her words cool, edged with quiet finality. She saw no reason why she shouldn’t be so blunt. 

She did not want his gifts. Did not want anything hanging in her chambers that bore his influence, anything that served as a reminder of his betrayal and all that had followed. She did not want his eyes watching her–even in something as inanimate as a tapestry. 

Larys did not so much as blink at her curtness. 

“I had thought they were just to your liking,” he mused, unbothered. “They are not so different from the ones you have up now. I had them woven with such care, you see… selected by my own hand. A thoughtful gesture,” he continued, his fingers drumming idly atop the head of his cane. “I had hoped they might bring you some joy–a touch of something familiar, perhaps. After all, I know how fond you once were of your time in the Kingswood along with my brother. 

Daenera’s fingers tightened around the quill, ink pooling at its tip as it hovered above the parchment. Her jaw clenched, fire burning in her chest. When she lifted her gaze, she met Larys’s sharp stare with a glare of her own, her lashes fluttering slightly as she steeled herself against the venom curling on her tongue.

“Indeed,” she said, her voice cool and flat, though there was no mistaking the sharp edge beneath it. “I do have fond memories of your brother.” She let the words linger, let them settle between them like a blade laid across the table. “He was a good man. Honorable. Trustworthy.”

Unlike you.

“He understood loyalty was not something to be bartered but something to be upheld,” Daenera continued, her voice smooth but edged with quiet steel. “A shame such virtues are not inherited by blood.” Her quill tapped lightly against the parchment. “He was a man who deserved better fate than that that befell him. He would be disappointed in you.”

Larys came to a slow halt before her, the steady tap of his cane ceasing as he reached for one of the many crumbled pages strewn across the table. His fingers plucked a discarded letter, smoothing over the creased parchment, peeling it open with a care that felt almost like mockery. 

“Perhaps,” he mused, almost a hum. “But he is not the only one who deserved a better fate than the one that befell him…”

The soft scratch of parchment unfurling filled the space between them, the sound prickling against her skin like the scrape of a dull blade. 

Daenera remained still, her breath shallow, as she watched his gaze skim over the parchment, absorbing the tangled scrawl of condolences, of words she had tried and failed to shape into something meaningful. The weight of it, the intrusion, made her stomach twist. Though the letter was unfinished, though it contained nothing but fragmented apologies and half-formed regrets, it was hers-

It was as though he were peeling back the layers of her skin, prying into the raw, festering wound beneath, sinking his fingers tino the rot of her guilt and pressing–just to see where she would break. 

Daenera gritted her teeth. Grief, anger, and shame stirred tight within her chest, each emotion tangled so thickly she could no longer separate one from the other. She refused to meet his gaze, would not give him the satisfaction of seeing how deeply his words struck. Instead, she focused on the quill in her hand, though it trembled ever so slightly. Ink pooled where the tip met the parchment, spreading across the sheet like spilled blood, soaking greedily into the fibers. 

“It is not an easy thing, is it? Larys mused, as if he understood, as if he had ever understood. “Writing to the bereaved.” His tone carried the same insidious softness, the kind that soothed while it pried. “He was a young boy. Such a shame…”

The words slithered between them, curling in the space like smoke, like something that could not be battered away.

A sharp, seething urge shot through her–to reach across the table, to rip the letter from his hands, to tear it apart piece by piece until there was nothing left for him to inspect, nothing left for him to pick at.

“A shame, indeed,” she said, her voice cool but brittle.  He was a child, yet you imprisoned him as though he were a traitor grown. A child who fell ill in a cell, a child who could have been saved had any of you thought to do so.”

“Children grow into men, Princess. And men take up swords,” Larys murmured, his voice smooth, deliberate, each word measured as though he were weaving a trap with silk instead of steel. “It would be foolish to ignore the seeds of treason simply because they have yet to bear fruit.”

His fingers released the crumpled parchment, letting it fall open on the table before her, the unfurled words laid bare like an exposed wound. His head tilted slightly as he regarded it, as if contemplating the weight of what she had tried–and failed–to say.

“I do not envy your task, Princess,” he continued, his tone almost gentle, as though he were offering condolences instead of pressing a blade deeper into an already festering wound. “Telling grieving parents of their child’s fate… such a burden.”

The way he said it sent a slow, crawling heat up Daenera’s spine, something between fury and unease. But before she could summon a response, before she could shape her anger into words, he exhaled softly–almost thoughtfully–and added,

“I do hope they will find solace in your words. That they will read them and know their son was… cared for.” His gaze flickered back to her then, his lips curling in something that was not quite a smile. “Unfortunately, he put his life in the wrong hands.”

“Lord Larys.”

Aemond’s voice cut through the room like a blade, sharp and unyielding. Cold steel wrapped in quiet authority.

“Refrain from speaking to my wife.”

He did not so much as glance up from the book before him, his posture as composed as ever, as if the matter was beneath his notice–as if Larys himself was beneath his notice. Yet there was no mistaking the warning beneath his words, the subtle finality that severed whatever the Lord Confessor might have continued to say.

“You are not here for company,” Aemond continued, turning a page with deliberate ease, as though entirely unbothered. “You are here to supervise the search. Do your job.”

Silence settled between them for a heartbeat, thick and weighted.

Then, Larys released a slow, measured breath, his expression unreadable. “Of course, my prince,” he murmured, inclining his head ever so slightly. “Forgive me.”

His gaze lingered on Daenera for the briefest of moments, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes before he turned away. The rhythmic tap of his cane punctuated his retreat as he drifted back into the middle of the room, vanishing into the controlled chaos of the search.

Even as he moved away, Daenera could still feel the lingering presence of his words, the weight of what had been said–and what had been left unsaid. 

Agitation and guilt simmered beneath her skin, a restless, needling sensation that refused to settle. It pricked at the edges of her composure, rising in waves, pressing against her ribs, tightening around her throat like unseen hands. It burned low and slow, like embers waiting to catch flame, and she despised the way it made her feel–feeling she could not name.

Her gaze drifted, drawn as if by some unseen pull, towards Aemond.

He sat at the far end of the table, his posture deceptively relaxed, yet nothing around him was truly at ease. One elbow rested against the wood, supporting his weight, while two fingers ghosted along the sharp plane of his cheekbone, the others curled at his jaw, cradling his head in an absentminded pose. His eye remained lowered to the book before, expression unreadable, his gaze steady on the pages–but Daenera felt his attention all the same.

Even as he remained still, she knew he missed nothing. 

She watched him through her lashes, unwilling to fully turn her head, unwilling to acknowledge that she was watching at all. The midday sun poured through the high windows, spilling golden light across the room, illuminating the polished wood of the table, the cold stone walls, the shifting shadows of those still searching through her belongings. It bathed him in its glow, catching the silver strands of his hair, turning them almost white, almost golden. He looked terrible and beautiful all at once.

Yet even in the warmth of the sun, even in stillness, he reamined himself–a blade, a beast dressed in civility. 

Protector. Monster.

He was both, and she did not know which unsettled her more. 

She hated that his mere presence steadied her, that even without a word, without a glance, he anchored her in a way she could not understand–did not want to understand. Hated that the weight of him in the room, the quiet force of his authority, was enough to make Larys retreat, enough to remind everyone present of who truly held power here.

She despised the way it settled the storm inside her, the way it quieted the trembling in her fingers, the unease coiling tight in her chest. That it protected her, even when she did not want it, even when she had no wish to rely on it.

And still–still–she found solace in it.

As much as she wanted to recoil, to push against the feeling, to reject the bitter comfort his presence provided, it was there nonetheless. A truth she could not deny. A truth she hated herself for.

Daenera forced her gaze downward, fixing her attention on the parchment in front of her, where a heavy blot of ink had spread like spilled blood, seeping through the sheet beneath, and the one under that. Her fingers curled around the quill, her grip too tight, too stiff, as she stared at the ruin of what should have been her letter. 

For a fleeting moment–briefly, childishly–Daenera entertained the thought of snatching up one of the crumpled letters and tossing it at his head. 

His blind side was to her–an oversight, a vulnerability he rarely allowed.

Aemond had honed his reflexes through years of relentless sword training, his body molded for combat, his instincts sharpened to near-perfection. On the battlefield, he could read an opponent’s movements before they even struck, knew the rhythm of the fight as intimately as a dancer knew the steps of their routine.

But here?

Here, where there was no battle, where he was at ease, unexpecting–he was vulnerable.

She knew he struggled with his peripheral vision, with his depth perception. A flaw he compensated for in war, in the controlled chaos of combat, but outside of it? It was different. He might catch her movement in the last instant, might sense the shift in the air, but too late–the crumpled letter would already be sailing toward him, already bouncing off his head before he could react.

She could see it so clearly in her mind–the sharp flicker of awareness flashing across his face, the subtle tightening of his jaw, the briefest beat of delay before he turned toward her. His single eye, always watchful, always seeing too much, would land on her at last.

There would be no true surprise in his gaze, only that quiet, knowing amusement he always carried, that lingering intrigue that never quite left him when it came to her. He would not scowl–not truly–nor would he chid her–no, he would smirk, if not with his lips, then with his gaze alone, a gleam of something half-mocking, half-entertained. 

And if there had been no one else in the room, perhaps he would have picked it up and tossed it back. Perhaps he still would.

She exhaled, shaking the thought from her mind, dismissing it as she reached instead for the ruined parchment. Setting aside the ones the ink had bled through, she placed them neatly near the chair beside her, making room just as Edelin returned. 

The girl carried two steaming cups of tea, the rich, earthy scent of it curling through the air, grounding Daenera in the presence. Edelin set them down with quiet care, the porcelain clinking softly against the wood before she settled beside her with a small, pleased smile. 

Without hesitation, she turned her attention to the page in front of her, her fingers curling around the dry quill, bringing its point to the words, tracing over them. A learning habit, Daenera realized. The motion of following the letters an attempt to make her body remember them, as though committing their shape to touch, she would be able to write them at a later time without jumbling their order. 

Daenera turned her attention back to the blank sheet before her, forcing herself to block out the distractions around her. The shuffling of boots across stone, the scrape of drawers being opened and closed, the rustle of pages as books were shifted from their places–she ignored it all. Even Mertha’s sharp, shrill reprimands, snapping at the men to return everything to its proper place once their prying hands had finished disturbing it, became nothing more than background noise.

The midday sun poured through the high windows, its warmth spilling over her back, pressing against her skin like a heavy cloak. It should have been comforting, that steady heat, the way it wrapped around her like a blanket. But she barely noticed it now.

Instead, she reached for the quill, dipping it into the inkwell, watching as the tip darkened before she brought it to the parchment. The first few words came hesitantly, uncertain, and before she had even formed a full sentence, she was already reaching for a fresh sheet. Again and again, she wrote–each attempt falling short, each line either too impersonal, too forced, too hollow.

It took several discarded pages, ink bleeding across the table from her hurried scratches, before she finally settled on what needed to be said.

The letter toed the line between formality and something more personal. Not distant, but not too familiar. Careful. Measured.

It would not bring comfort. She knew that much.

But at the very least, it would be something.

The letter read:

To Lord and Lady Piper,

I write to you with a heavy heart and deepest regrets to inform you of the passing of your son, Patrick. 

There are no words in this world that can mend the wound left by the loss of a child, nor do I dare offer you empty comforts, knowing they would be unworthy of your grief.  It is a poor thing to learn of such sorrow through ink and parchment, a message carried by dark wings instead of spoken by the lips of one who knew him. And yet, it is all I can offer. 

Patrick was a boy of great heart and keen mind. He was kinder than most, and I cared for him as though he were my own blood. He did not deserve the cold isolation of a cell nor the sickness that crept upon him while he was there. I do not pretend that my words will change what was done, nor will I insult you by pretending what happened was just. He was imprisoned when he should not have been. That is the fault of the men who placed him there. And mine as well.

I blame myself for his fate, for not doing more, for not being able to save him. I did all within my power to protect him, to see him freed from that cell, to have him home in your arms where he belonged–but it was all for naught. I do not ask for your forgiveness–I do not deserve it.

When the illness took hold, I was there to hold his hand. I told him he would be going home. And in the end, I can only hope that he believed me. 

I wish I could give you something more, something to make this loss less cruel, less unbearable. But I have only this truth to offer you, and the promise that I will carry his memory with me, as I carry my own grief. 

May the gods grant you the strength to endure what they have taken from you.

Daenera Velaryon.

A shallow breath shuddered from Daenera’s lips as she leaned back, watching the ink dry on the parchment. She leaned back slightly, as if putting distance between herself and the words now sealed in ink. They now sat before her, each letter etched in careful, deliberate strokes. Yet they did nothing to ease the weight pressing against her ribs, the ache deep in her bones.

She blew softly over the parchment, coaxing the ink to dry, though she knew it was more out of habit than necessity. No amount of breath could lift the weight of the words she had written, nor could it undo the truth they carried–or ease the lie that kept it all together. Her gaze lingered on the letter, her fingers gripping the edges with just enough pressure to crease the parchment. 

Ink stained her hands, dark smudges trailing across her fingertips, smeared in uneven blotches along her palm. It had dried in places, turning her skin a mottled mess of black and gray, sinking into the fine lines of her palm. The sight of it stirred something uneasy in her–it looked too much like blood. 

Her jaw clenched, and she forced herself to blink the thought away.

She traced the edges of the parchment absently, the rough fibers pressing against the pads of her fingers as her gaze flickered over the lines once more, as if searching for something she had missed. A mistake. A word too cold. A sentiment too weak. But no–there was nothing more to add, nothing that could make it enough.

A thought crept in, unbidden.

Had her mother received one such letter?

Had she held a piece of parchment in shaking hands, inked with the confirmation of her son’s death? Had it carried some semblance of comfort, or had it only deepened the wound, made it real in a way that even grief had not yet managed?

She tried to imagine it—the moment the letter arrived at Dragonstone, the moment her mother’s fingers had broken the seal, the way her breath must have caught as her eyes traced over the words. Lord and Lady Piper. Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen. Did it make a difference? Did the words soften the loss, or only sharpen its edge?

Was it ever a comfort?

Her fingers stilled against the parchment, her breath shallow, the ache in her chest pressing deeper.

No.

It never was.

“Edelin,” she murmured, turning slightly towards the girl at her side. Her voice was quiet, strained, as though the words caught against the tightness in her throat. “Take this to the prince.”

She held the letter out, fingers curling slightly as though reluctant to part with it. For all her certainty in her choice, a part of her still balked at the idea of handing it over–to let him be the first to read the words she had beld onto the page. 

Edelin nodded without hesitation, settling her quill down. Rising from her seat, she smoothed her skirts before stepping away, her movements quiet against the ruckus the room held. The soft rustle of fabric accompanied her as she brushed past Daenera’s chair, slipping away like a shadow towards the other end of the table. 

Daenera did not watch her go. She did not follow the letter’s small journey. Instead, she let her hands fall to her lap, curling and uncurling her ink-stained fingers as if she could shake loose the lingering weight of what she had written. 

But the stain remained.

And so did the ache. 

Aemond’s gaze lifted from the book, slow and deliberate, as though drawn from distant thought. The golden light streaming through the windows spilling over his features, casting sharp relief over the high cut of his cheekbones, the straight curve of his nose. It caught in the dark sweep of his lashes, making the silver flakes of his eye gleam as he lifted his gaze.

Edelin approached, extending the letter towards him. He took it without a word, his fingers brushing against the parchment, turning it slightly in his grasp before his eye began to move over the page.

Daenera did not turn to watch him directly, but she observed nonetheless–from the corner of her eye, from the shift in his posture, from the slight tightening at the corner of his lips as he read. He said nothing at first, only tilted his wrist slightly, as though weighing the letter, his mouth pursing.

Then, after a long pause, he handed the parchment back to Edelin with a quiet murmur, his voice low, measured.

“If you wish it sent, sign your name properly.”

A simple statement. A pointed one.

And though his tone remained smooth, unbothered, Daenera did not miss the meaning beneath it.

Frustration flared hot in her chest, her teeth grinding together as she shot Aemond a sharp glare. The audacity of his demand grated against her, and it did not help that he had made it with such maddening ease–voice soft, measure, but pointed. Across the table, he remained composed, watching without so much as a flicker of irritation, his patience sharpened by quiet amusement. 

Edelin hesitated beside her, shifting slightly before placing the letter back into her hands with a sheepish expression, as though she were a guilty child caught between warring parents.

Daenera snatched the parchment from her grasp, fingers tightening around the quill as she dipped it into ink, bringing it down with a sharp, deliberate stroke.

Velaryon–scratched out.

The ink bled into the fibers, a jagged line slashing through the name like a wound. Without pause, she wrote another in its place–Baratheon–deliberate, bold, unmissable beneath the old name. He wanted another name, then so be it. She’d give it to him. After all, had that not been her name too?

She felt a sharp flare of satisfaction at the name she had written, knowing well the sting it would carry. Her former husband’s house. A name that no longer belonged to her, but had been hers nonetheless.

She knew he would not accept it–of course, he wouldn’t. But that was never the point.

It was meant to needle him, to press against the edges of his control, to remind him–even now, even here–that she had been someone else's, and she did not yield so easily. A deliberate act of defiance, a small rebellion carved in ink, meant to test the boundaries he had set around her. 

It was childishly spiteful, she knew. A petty thing. But in that moment, she didn’t care. 

She did not look at Aemond as she thrust the letter back into Edelin’s hands, her irritation evident in the quickness of her movements. 

Edelin turned on her heels, practically flying back to Aemond’s side as though she were a raven sent across great distances, bearing news between warring houses. She presented the letter once more, and Daenera watched as Aemond’s gaze dropped immediately to the name she had chosen to sign. 

His eyes sharpened. 

His lashes fluttered ever so slightly as he glanced up at her, a slow, knowing shift of his gaze, before the corner of his lips curled–not in displeasure, but something far more infuriating. 

Unabated amusement.

He leaned back in his seat, the movement slow, deliberate, the very picture of unbothered ease. With little ceremony, he handed the letter back, his fingers releasing it effortlessly, as though the exchange was of no consequence to him–as though he had expected as much from her.

His gaze did not return to his book, nor did he so much as glance at the letter again. Instead, his eye remained fixed on her, watching, studying, waiting.

Daenera met his stare with a glare of her own, sharp and unwavering, though it only seemed to amuse him further. There was no irritation in his expression, no hint of frustration–only that quiet, infuriating amusement, lurking at the edges of his lips, flickering in the depths of his gaze.

As though he was enjoying this.

As though her defiance was not a thorn in his side, but something else entirely–something expected, something welcome.

The realization only made her grip tighten around the quill, her fingers aching with the force of it. She snatched the letter from Edelin’s hands, her movements sharp, unrestrained. The tip of the quill scraped against the parchment, the sharp sound slicing through the air as she pressed down, almost hard enough to tear through the delicate fibers of the page. Ink pooled at the tip, bleeding into the paper in thick, deliberate strokes, the force behind her writing betraying the anger simmering beneath her composed exterior.

She knew she should temper her hand, ease her grip–but she didn’t. She let the pressure build, let the sharp drag of the quill against the parchment carry the frustration she would not speak aloud. Let it show in the harshness of the lines, in the way the ink settled too dark, too heavy in places.

The tension in her fingers refused to abate, and for a fleeting moment, she almost wished the parchment would rip. At least then, it would be a tangible break, something to match the slow, grinding strain inside her.

She struck out Baratheon with a single, merciless slash, the ink bleeding into the fibers, dark and final. But she didn’t stop there.

Her grip on the quill tightened, her fingers aching from the pressure, but she barely noticed. The anger coiling in her chest, hot and unrelenting, demanded release, and so she let it spill onto the page in jagged, furious letters:

‘Daenera Strong, or so my stupid, long-faced, one-eyed prick of a husband likes to call me.’

Without pause, she shoved the letter back into Edelin’s hands, uncaring of the way the parchment wrinkled under her fingers, crumpling slightly as it was passed over once more. 

This time, when Aemond took it, the amusement in his gaze grew. 

His eye flicked over the words, his grip tightening just slightly at the edges of the parchment. The telltale shift of the corner of his lips, the slow inhale through his nose, the way his eye fluttered up to meet hers–smug.

Daenera watched him, the sharp curl of satisfaction twisting in her chest–until it soured.

Aemond, ever composed, merely handed the letter back once more, his movements slow, effortless, expectant. He had known she would do this. Had known she would try to needle him, to test the limits of his patience. And still, the outcome had been inevitable.

The only way to have the letter sent, to have it reach Patrick’s parents as she intended, was to obey.

Her pride bristled at the thought, a fresh sting of resentment flaring in her chest as Edelin returned to her side, wordlessly offering the letter back.

Daenera took it, unfolding the crumpled parchment with deliberate care, smoothing the creases between her fingers. The ink had bled slightly where she had pressed too hard, and she knew she would need to copy it onto a fresh page. A part of her burned with the urge to refuse entirely, to dig her heels in out of sheer defiance.

But her pride was not worth more than this letter.

And so, she gripped the quill with steady fingers and began again, each word carefully rewritten, each sentence weighed with the same deliberate precision as before. The slow, rhythmic scratch of ink against parchment filled the space between them, replacing the silence that had settled over the room like a thick, heavy fog.

When she reached the end, she did not hesitate.

She signed the letter, firm and unflinching:

Daenera Targaryen.

The name felt heavier than ink alone, final in a way she could not bring herself to dwell on.

Without another glance at the words, she sent it back to Aemond. Daenera’s gaze drifted toward him, drawn by something she could not quite name–resentment, perhaps, or the unwilling pull of inevitability.

She watched as Aemond read over the letter once more, his eye moving steadily across the page, his expression unreadable save for the faintest purse of his lips. But she saw it–the satisfaction lurking in the subtle pull at the corners of his mouth, a quiet triumph in the way he held himself.

When he lifted his gaze to meet hers, it was with a look of quiet acknowledgment, a brief but pointed glance that told her what she already knew: this was always how it was going to end. He gave her a single, curt nod–nothing more, nothing less–before turning his attention away, already moving on to matters of greater importance in his mind.

His gaze landed on Maester Gilbar and his young apprentice, who stood a few steps away, engaged in hushed conversation with the Lord Confessor.

“Maester,” Aemond called, his voice smooth but firm, effortlessly drawing their attention. He extended the letter toward him with the same effortless authority he wielded in all things. “See to it that this letter is sent immediately–and that the boy’s body is returned home to his parents.”

The aged maester blinked, his rheumy eyes flickering with brief hesitation before he inclined his head in acknowledgment. The chains around his neck swayed with the motion, the dull clink of metal filling the space between words. Without turning, he lifted a hand in a slow, deliberate gesture, beckoning his young apprentice forward.

The boy obeyed at once, scurrying through the room with hurried steps, weaving past the men still shifting through Daenera’s belongings. He reached the letter where Aemond had left it and plucked it up with careful fingers, clutching it as though it were something precious–hough, if the boy had any true understanding of its weight, he did not show it.

Returning to his maester’s side, the apprentice lingered, wide-eyed and eager, standing as still as a well-trained hound awaiting its next command.

The maester, for his part, barely acknowledged him.

He inclined his head once more, the movement stiff with age, offering a murmured farewell before turning on his heel.

The apprentice followed close behind, the letter tucked beneath his arm, his other hand grasping the small woven basket filled with dried herbs and tinctures–remnants of whatever search they had conducted through her chambers

Daenera did not look away.

Even as the weight of it left Aemond’s hands, even as the finality of it settled over the room, she kept her gaze on him, knowing–hating–that he had won this battle, small as it was.

Daenera swallowed, her throat tight, her emotions tangled in a bitter knot she could not untangle. She felt grateful–resentfully, unwillingly grateful–that Aemond had not only ordered the letter sent but had also ensured Patrick’s body would be returned home. It was the least that could be done, and yet the taste of that gratitude was sour on her tongue, thick with resentment.

She pushed back her chair abruptly, rising from her seat and abandoning the small ruin of failed attempts that littered the table–a mountain of crumpled parchment, discarded words that would never be read, ink-blotted sheets soaked with frustration, and the quill still dripping onto one of them, its black stain spreading outward like spilled blood.

As she stepped forward, she rubbed her stained fingers together absently, the ink smearing across her skin. She would have to scrub them clean later, but for now, she let it sit there, let it linger like something earned.

Aemond’s gaze lifted as she moved, his eye following her, tracking her without urgency.

There was something almost lazy about the way he watched her, his head tipping back against the chair, his body sinking deeper into its frame. He studied her through dark lashes, the way a cat might watch the shifting light as it basked in the sun–idle, observant, but never truly unaware.

She did not slow as she neared him.

Instead of stopping before him, she moved around his chair, stepping between him and the towering bookshelves behind him. She did not hesitate, did not break her stride, circling him with deliberate ease before coming to a halt at his side.

And then, without a word, without so much as a glance toward him, she reached down and swept the book from the table, stealing it from his grasp before he could react.

She did not want to read it.

She simply did not want him to.

The weight of the book settled in her hands, cool against her ink-stained fingers, and before he could protest, before he could even move, she turned on her heel and strode into the bedchamber, taking it with her.

[alertarchitect]

So! A new Doom game got announced!

Here's the trailer for those interested, it will help with what I'm about to go into:

As a bit of a Retro Throwback Shooter Shitter myself, I have some Thoughts. Read on if you're interested.

So, first of all I like the premise of exploring the time the Doom Slayer spent fighting demons alongside the warriors of Argent D'Nur. It's a time period that was purposefully left pretty damn vague in Doom Eternal, and the Slayer's lore before waking up again wasn't even really talked about much - if at all - in Doom 2016 from what I remember, since they were trying to play it a little safe due to Doom 2016 being a soft reboot of a series that hadn't gotten a new game in 12 years at that point, with the last title (Doom 3 and its various editions that attempted to improve it a bit) being a pretty big departure that had a wealth of issues, such as it being a Doom game with one of the worst shotguns ever put into a shooter. So it's a cool idea to explore this time frame of the Doom Slayer's history, and possibly show the events leading to the Slayer's imprisonment in Hell before he was rediscovered and subsequently awoken by Samuel Hayden in Doom 2016, including the Makyrs' fall from grace.

Second, I'm actually kinda hyped to see id Software still working on making retro throwback shooters. I was worried they'd get shuttered and their IP sold off after Rage was such a flop back in 2011, and they didn't make anything after it for 5 years until Doom 2016 came out, so it's nice to see they've found their groove again - making some of the best examples of the retro throwback shooter subgenre. Doom 2016 started the BoomShoot Renaissance, and Doom Eternal is still one of the best examples of the genre, mechanically. They are masterclasses in using an old formula while keeping the level design and visuals fresh with modern game design principles that have improved a lot since the 90s, along with new game mechanics to keep the moment-to-moment gameplay feeling fresh as well (such as the weapon / stat upgrade systems, the movement abilities you get in Doom Eternal, etc.). Seeing them pushing that even further is a treat to behold, and I'm confident it's going to be a pretty damn fun game, as long as it doesn't get forced into being $70.

Final point, though, is a bit of a downer for me personally. Why in the fuck are they making a game in the Doom series that's going for a more medieval-ish feel, when the Quake franchise is right fucking there and begging for a better modern entry than goddamn Quake Champions?? Seriously, making a Quake game calling back to the first game in the franchise - with the Lovecraftian inspirations, the more medieval-ish setting, the unique monsters like the Shambler you didn't see much of past Quake 1 - would be a fucking money printer. But no, Microsoft wants them to play it safe so they can get a guaranteed blockbuster because Quake Champions hasn't done very well since it came out of early access in 2022, which is definitely a fault of the Quake franchise not having any consumer interest and 100% for sure not because Quake Champions pivoted into being a fucking hero shooter trying to emulate the feel of old arena shooter deathmatching!! It's not like a soft reboot wouldn't be sorely needed after the goddamn disaster of a story that was the Quake 4 campaign! It's not like a modern Quake game that actually relies on having a fun weapon sandbox instead of relying on taking your opponents off guard with fucking superpowers on cooldowns is something the fanbase they're trying to pander to would nut in our fucking pants over or anything!!!!

TL;DR: This game looks really good and fun, and I like to see id is still making banger games, but I'm actually kinda angry that they'd rather make a Doom game with medieval vibes rather than using that other fantastic retro shooter IP they own to make something that kind of vibe would actually fit into better.

[araneitela]

WHICH SYMBOLIC FRUIT ARE YOU?

Cherry. (Man, this is going to need some tag rambling; because while it's what I suspected and it's very fitting in many ways, I need to address one element).

In popular culture, cherries have come to represent sensuality, sex, and seduction. In the cult classic, Twin Peaks, Audrey Horne expresses her sexual expertise by tying a cherry stem with her tongue. "Cherry" is also used to refer to the concept of virginity: why? I don't know to be honest, but here we are. Much like the cherry, you're a sensual person who enjoys all the creature comforts the world offers. You enjoy delicious food, dynamic relationships, passionate lovemaking and stimulating conversation; however, you may also come across a touch vapid or shallow, due to your quickly fading attention when something has served its usefulness to you. To quote some man on tinder: "you're here for a good time, not a long time". You can come across, at times, slightly tart, carrying a bit of a bite to you that not everyone can handle. That’s okay: you’re an acquired taste!

Tagged: @basbousah (Thank you 🩷) Tagging: I don't tend to tag for quizzes easily but this one was actually fun, so let's harass. @immobiliter (how about Furina?) @kushtibokt @genus83 @genius81 @spiderwarden @delusionaid (Wriothesley, or Zhongli— porque no los dos? 🤭) @apocryphis (Topaz) @aventvrina @resolutepath (Elio) @daybreakrising (Blade) @astrxlfinale @kahakera @cygnor @chasersglow @scrtilegii (Jing Yuan)... and anyone else who'd like to do it, say I tagged you because I'd love to see the results!

[kayzero]

ohhhh, i only ship them with the protagonist because i have an issue separating myself from the perspective character. i don’t like them together necessarily, i just like Her and i think i’m Them. i gotcha.

[tasmanianstripes]

Amazing how it took the developers of Poppy Playtime two whole chapters to finally make a bare minimum of a functional game

[venomgender]

scott cramer worlds best youtuber

[warpstarrie]

oh no gay people hyperfixation

thinking about comoe/susie is so weird bc in canon they are sugar sweet, jus two girls having their first* relationship

but if they met at anytime during robobot comoe would eject her from the solar system

szzsszzczxzx

you know what i am rewriting robobot in my mind she's just evil in a rich girl way instead of that + a willfully ignorant/indifferent colonizer brat

[little-diable]

Lightning - Tyler Owens (smut)

I mean, we all knew this would happen. I haven’t seen the movie yet, but I am DESPERATE for him. And as somebody who actually has something to do with studying tornadoes, I had to write this. I am obsessed with this fic, but I doubt this will get much attention, so please actually reblog it if you enjoyed reading it! Enjoy my loves. xxx

Summary: Tyler and the reader are chasing tornadoes together, but when they have to step back and find shelter, things quickly change between them.

Warnings: 18+, smut, piv, handjob, kinda enemies to lovers, teasing and all that fun stuff

Pairing: Tyler Owens x fem!reader (3k words)

Wind was blowing in her face, letting her strands dance in the air while her eyes flickered between her laptop screen and the dark sky. She was surrounded by her team, trying to ignore their shouts as they decided which direction to head in. (Y/n) was torn between too many options, not liking the way this afternoon was playing out. 

It was do or die, miss or hit one of the biggest tornadoes they had come across in a while. And yet the second cell that was currently forming gave off a somewhat more promising chance of catching enough data this time around. 

“Which way will it be, lightning?” Her breath hitched in her chest as he mumbled the words, front pressed against her back. The hairs on her arms began to rise, fully focused on his closeness, allowing her to pick up on the scent of his familiar cologne, on the way his breath fanned over the back of her neck as if he was about to kiss that very spot.

“Am I dreaming? Is Tyler Owens asking for my opinion?” She slowly turned towards the handsome man. Her eyes instantly found his piercing ones, getting lost in their intense gaze while he shot her one of his signature smirks. Fuck, if he weren’t such an asshole most of the time, she would easily give in to the pull she felt, allowing him to tug her towards his bed without having to fear about the aftermath. But if there was one thing (y/n) was sure of, it was that Tyler Owens was all about playing games, toying with a woman until he eventually grew bored. He was a personification of a thunderstorm, fast moving and never ready to settle.

“Don’t let it get to your head, pretty.” She clicked her tongue with a displeased expression tugging on her features. There was no time left to study him, to curse whoever had created him for making him look this handsome. They had to stay focused, at least until she got the data she needed for her project. 

“Alright, we’re heading east.” (Y/n) closed her laptop before reaching for her bag–the bag that was snatched from her grasp before she could protest. Tyler had slung it over his shoulder while tilting his head towards his truck, silently asking her to ride with him. 

On any other occasion she would have cursed him, would have told him to fuck off. But today, while being heavily understaffed, she needed any help she could get. And knowing that Tyler drove like the devil himself, she knew she had the best chance of arriving just in time with him by her side. 

His smirk grew wider the second she gave in, begrudgingly following Tyler while her eyes found the confused ones of her teammates. She only rolled her eyes at them, raising her shoulders and dropping them again as if she was wordlessly telling them that she was just as confused as they were, not seeing through Tyler’s game just yet. 

Silence filled the truck, only a few commands left (y/n) whenever they needed to make a turn, chasing down the roads to catch up with the growing cell. All while the others followed behind them, too slow to catch up with Tyler’s truck. Her heart was pounding in her chest, riled up by the anticipation of chasing another storm – no matter how many times she had done this before, (y/n) would never get used to the thrill, the moments leading up to seeing yet another beautiful though terrifying tornado. 

“You alright, pretty?” She’d never get used to the way Tyler called her, dripping with that drawl she loved more than she’d ever admit. (Y/n) didn’t look at him, fully focused on her laptop to monitor the path their tornado took. No word left her pressed together lips, trying to drown out the feeling of his concerned eyes flickering towards her every few seconds. 

“(Y/n)?” The use of her name ripped (y/n) out of her trance, letting her wide pupils find his. She only nodded at Tyler, knowing she couldn’t waste any time on the crush she could never speak of, preferring to take her secret to the grave rather than feeding his ego–only to end up with a broken heart in the process. 

“Guys, can you hear me?” She held the radio close, speaking to the others while refocusing on the map. All they could hear was rustling, unable to pick up on the reply that was spoken on the other end. Curses clawed through (y/n), she tried to reach their teams again, while swallowing the sinking feeling growing in the pit of her stomach. No longer could she see them in the rearview mirror, telling her that they hadn’t made it down the narrow path Tyler had taken.

The road ahead was muddy, forcing the truck to slither along while Tyler tried to avoid holes and ditches. With one hand clutching the door, (y/n) tried to hold still, not daring to bump into Tyler whose angry cusses filled the truck. Both had their eyes focused ahead, knowing that this had been the wrong choice, the wrong tornado to chase. They were heading straight towards their death if they kept going that way, knowing that without their team by their side, they wouldn’t be able to collect enough data anyway. 

“I hate being the one to say it, but we gotta find shelter, lightning.” Tyler’s annoyed groans left her nodding, giving him the green light to take a sharp left to turn towards the town close by. With the slimmest chance to find proper shelter, Tyler kept speeding along, seemingly having a spot in mind. (Y/n) was angry, at herself, at the road conditions, knowing that this situation should have played out much differently. And all she could do was trust the man she had always tried to hate.

“Come, follow me.” The truck was forced to a sudden halt. (Y/n) followed Tyler outside, holding onto her things while he reached for her free hand to pull her along. He guided her towards what appeared to be a barn, a building she paid no attention to as she studied the tornado, getting lost in its beauty for a second. “They built an underground shelter here a few years back, if we’re lucky nobody else had the time to find it.”

Tyler pushed her into the unlocked barn, letting the doors slide close again before he led her down some stairs. She didn’t dare speak, torn between too many emotions. All (y/n) could do was let go of a sigh while being ushered into the empty, dark shelter. It took her a while to adjust to the darkness, letting her hands move along the metallic wall until she found what appeared to be a light switch. She gave it a try, though without any luck, letting herself drop to the ground while Tyler stayed glued to his spot. 

If both hadn’t been too deep in thought, they would have realised that this was the first time they were sheltering together, completely alone without any nosy eyes watching them or listening to their talks. 

“We should have gone west, I’m sorry.” Her whispers filled the small shelter, luring Tyler closer who plopped down next to her. He fumbled with his phone to turn on the fleshlight, letting it rest on the ground to alight their surroundings. A few boxes were placed against the wall, filled with water and some snacks they hopefully wouldn’t have to use, praying that they’d get out of here fast enough to chase their luck once again. 

“There’s always time for another try, pretty.” Tyler reached for her hand to squeeze it before he could stop himself, forcing her eyes to focus on the spot where she now felt a buzzing sensation. She let her head roll towards Tyler, studying the white hat he took off with his free hand, placing it down on the ground, only to comb through his hair. 

“Don’t think I’ve ever seen you without that thing on.” (Y/n)’s whispers left him chuckling, a sound that momentarily managed to drown out the roar of the tornado. The howling was an almost comforting sound to them, after years of chasing them, well aware of every little detail. 

“Well, you’re one of the few who gets the honour, appreciate it.” She rolled her eyes at him before ripping her gaze off of him. Heat flushed through her at his teasing, a heat that only grew more biting as she realised that they were still holding hands. Her tongue moved along her dry lips, trying to find the right words to break their silence, silently hoping that she could cherish every single second of their time together. As much as she had once sworn to hate him while burying her crush deep inside of herself, she had lost all strength to fight against it, at least for now.

“Why have we never done this before?” Tyler seemed to feel the same longing, drawing her focus back towards him with his question. His eyes had an even more piercing touch to them now, having an invisible tight grasp on her soul she didn’t want to escape from. 

“Because you’re an asshole most of the time and I can’t stand being around you for long.” (Y/n)’s sharp reply left him laughing, a loud sound that had an addicting effect on her, leaving her chuckling while shaking her head at the man. 

“You wound me, lightning. Here I was hoping you’d finally let me take you out on a date, once this day’s over.” No longer did she laugh, the sound was stuck in her throat all too suddenly.

Did he truly mean it? Was he planning on asking her out? Or was Tyler playing yet another game with her? 

“Don’t fuck with me, Owens.” His hand darted out to grasp her chin, forcing her to keep her focus on him before she could even try to turn away from him. For just a second, she watched his gaze flicker between her eyes and her slightly parted lips. Once again her heart was back to racing, no longer focused on the howling wind, the sounds of things crashing outside, but fully and solemnly focused on Tyler. 

“Are you scared of this thing between us?” Once again, his question managed to rob her of the air filling her lungs, not expecting him to be this direct with her. A part of (y/n) begged her to cuss him out, to make fun of the question, to escape the avalanche that was about to roll upon them, but the bigger - more desperate - part of her, managed to gain the upper hand, leading her straight towards danger.

“Well, even though you enjoy riding your fears, I prefer to face ‘em. I’m not scared, not of this, whatever this is. But I’m fucking terrified of you toying with me and dropping me the second I’m no longer interesting enough.” He let go of her, only to pull her into his lap, making her straddle his stretched out legs. They held eye contact, wordlessly daring one another to move first, to give in to the pull that was as strong as an F5 they’d happily chase on any other day. 

“I’d be fucking stupid to mess it up with you.” She felt his breath on her lips, ghosting over her soft skin like he was giving her one last chance to pull away. A chance she wouldn’t take, letting it pass while finding his lips for a soft kiss that escalated within seconds. With his hand pressed to the back of her head and his other placed on her waist, Tyler held her to him while deepening the kiss.

Their tongues fought for victory, knowing that neither of them would back down from a fight against the other, urged on by their need to gain the upper hand. Soft groans and moans left them while their bodies searched one another’s closeness, knowing that this was something they wouldn’t tell others about, preferring to keep this as their secret. 

Her hands roamed his clothed chest, feeling his muscles beneath her wandering fingers while finding her way to his belt. She toyed with the buckle for a moment while her lips were still glued to his, knowing they’d have to part any moment now to inhale some much needed breaths of air. 

“You sure you want to do this in here, lightning?” His chuckles left her grinning, while holding onto the question she had wanted to ask for a while now. 

“Why lightning?” A kiss was shared between them, much softer than the one before. Her hand was still toying with his belt, slowly undoing the buckle to wordlessly tell him she wanted this much as he did, even though they knew that it was stupid and selfish of them to hide out here while their teams were undoubtedly worrying about them. 

“Well, the first time I saw you, you struck me like lightning, brightening my darkest day.” The explanation was cheesy, and yet it still drew heat up her neck. She could only swallow, smile at him and refocus on her hands. Tyler let her move, freeing his hardening cock while his impatient hands tugged on the buttons of her blouse, letting it pop open to expose her bra-clad chest. 

“Fuck, you’re a dream.” Her eyes flickered up to his while she spat into her palm, using her saliva to lube him up. Tyler couldn’t stop his moans from clawing through him, fully focused on the way he perfectly fit into her hand, pressed against the soft skin he wanted to feel against every inch of his body. His head rolled back against the wall, eyes closed and lips parted – offering a sight that made her walls clench around nothing, proud for being the one to make him feel like that. 

Her hand added more speed to its movements, squeezing him with just enough pressure to draw another raspy moan from Tyler. He allowed himself to relish in her touch for another moment before he gently though urgently grasped her wrist to stop her from moving. 

“Will you ride me, lightning?” His accent grew thicker with every syllable, leaving her shuddering while only a soft chuckle managed to leave her. She rose to her feet to shuffle out of her jeans, keeping her eyes focused on Tyler who marvelled at her as if she was the strongest tornado he had ever been fortunate enough to see, fully mesmerised by everything about her. She kept her panties on while finding her way back to his lap, knowing that they needed to hit the road soon, not giving them a chance to do this properly. 

“Wait, here.” He reached for his back pocket to pull a condom out of his wallet, letting her rip it open to roll it down his aching cock. Both their hearts were beating in sync, knowing that they were finally about to do something they had been desperate for ever since running into one another for the first time. No matter how much anger and hatred had once grown between them, it was now turning them from opponents to lovers–or whatever it was both were trying to adjust to. 

Tyler held onto her as she sank down on him, letting her forehead fall against his shoulder for a second. No words were spoken while they had to adjust, overwhelmed by the new sensation and the whirlwind of emotions buzzing through them like a storm hitting them both. With her hands holding onto him, clinging to the fabric of the shirt he wore, she began to move, fucking herself on his twitching cock with such a passion, Tyler feared he may never want to get out of this shelter again. 

“Tyler,” his name left her, a breathy whisper he almost missed, too far gone to focus on anything but their closeness. He palmed her ass, letting his fingertips dig into her skin to leave marks that would remind her of this very moment for days to come. His hips met hers, jerking upwards to make his cock disappear inside of her even deeper, drawing desperate moans from them which dripped with a need for more. 

“Attagirl, look at you, fucking yourself on my cock like you were born for this.” She moaned at his words, knowing that her thighs would start aching soon enough, begging for a new position to give herself the needed push to fall over the edge. “What? You’re already getting tired? I should have fucked you in my truck, make you scream my name while the world’s ending around us.” 

He pushed her off of him without a warning, leaving her dazed and confused for a second while watching him rise to his feet. With a hand stretched out for (y/n) to take, he pulled her up towards him–only to pick her up and press her against the wall. His cock was pushed back into her, stretching her walls while he fucked her with a fast pace that made both of them see stars. 

(Y/n) clawed at his neck, needing to hold onto him while he fucked her closer and closer to the edge. A cocky grin widened on his lips as he felt her walls tightening their grip on his cock. She was close, would let go soon with his name burning on the tip of her tongue, a perfect reminder that she was his from today on, glued to the man who she had once sworn to hate. 

“Scream my name, lightning, show them what a real thunderstorm sounds like.” If he weren’t buried deep inside of her, she would have rolled her eyes at him. But (y/n) was too far gone to care about his cheesy teasing, solemnly focused on her arising high and the name rolling off her tongue like a prayer.

And then she came, pushed into an orgasm so strong, (y/n) feared she’d never experience something like this again. It buzzed through every part of her body, stealing her breath as if she was drowning, forcing her heart to skip beats as if she was chased by someone or rather something. Tyler kept fucking her against the wall, urged on by her moans, the sounds he’d never forget again. 

Pants kept leaving him while chasing his own high, letting his skin meet hers with every ferocious thrust. And with one last “Fuck” Tyler came, relieving himself into the condom as his smirk returned to his lips. Both were heavily breathing, clinging to the other while coming down from their highs.

“I don’t know if I can walk back to the truck.” Carefully, he placed (y/n) back down on her feet, shaking his head at her with a soft smile thrown her way. Tyler pressed another kiss to her slightly swollen lips before both redressed, knowing that they had to get out of here and back to their team as fast as possible. 

“You know I’ll gladly carry you, lightning. I always will, if you let me.”

[bloomries]

yeah so my husband— my husband?!

includes : lucifer, mammon, leviathan, satan, asmodeus, beelzebub, and belphegor.

summary : calling him your "husband" (even though you two aren't married yet) to see his reaction.

warnings : gn! reader. mention of marriage. suggestive (in asmodeus'). the word 'husband' will begin to look strange bc it's used so much, apologies.

LUCIFER

You just meant for it to be a harmless little prank, something to tease Lucifer with later when you two were alone, perhaps gauge his reaction to the idea, but after you said 'yeah, so my husband...' Diavolo's eyes grew as wide as the moon and you instantly regretted your prank idea.

Diavolo clasped a hand on Lucifer's shoulder, beaming. "You finally asked!" This statement went over your head as you tried to quickly take back your words, Lucifer's blanched face making it clear he'll definitely be scolding you later. "But it seems I missed the wedding? Oh well, I'll just host you another wedding so I can see it for myself!"

"Ah, L- Lord Diavolo..." Lucifer sends you a glare as you smile sheepishly. "We aren't- I haven't-"

"How do you both feel about a chocolate fountain?" Diavolo is already off in his own little world, imagining how he'll plan out your wedding. Lucifer decides he'll inform Barbatos of the prank, and have Barbatos deal with it- Lucifer already has his hands full with you. He pulls you aside as Diavolo talks to himself.

"Do you see what you've done?"

"Sorry..." You fake pout, batting your lashes up at him. "My darling husband will surely fix it though, right?" Oh, how can he stay mad when he truly likes the title so much. Perhaps this will make asking you to marry him easier? You surely seem to enjoy the title just as much.

MAMMON

Mammon is always trying to listen in on your phone calls, he's nosy and likes to know all the gossip. Today in particular though, he's trying extra hard to hear, clinging to you and making you unable to do other tasks whilst on your call.

Deciding to tease him a little, in hopes of getting him off of you, you sigh dramatically into the receiver. "I'm sorry, my husband needs my attention, one second."

And when you look down at him, his eyes are wide and shiny, a blush quickly forming on his cheeks. Him? Were you talking about him? He's your husband? A giant grin takes over his features and it seems your little prank has the opposite effect you wanted, as he takes the phone from you.

"Yeah, sorry, their husband- that's me!- needs 'em!" He boasts proudly before hanging up the call and clutching on to you tighter, burying his face into your side, his grin not changing in the slightest.

You sigh, running your fingers through his hair. "Rude, I was trying to talk to someone, you know." Mammon shrugs, not a care in the world.

"'m your husband, I take priority."

"You know you're not officially my husband yet, right?" Shit, you're right. Well, that'll change soon, don't you worry one bit! Mammon knows how to take a hint, and there'll be a ring on that finger soon enough!

LEVIATHAN

You and Levi were playing an online game, chat on full blast, when you decide to tease him- because it's just so fun to see his flustered expression, and you have an inkling that this'll give him some motivation for the game. "Ah, hubby, can you help me with these guys!"

"H- Hubby!?" Leviathan's neck nearly breaks from how quickly he snaps to look over at you, you seem unphased though by the phrase- as if it came so naturally. His heart skips a beat, his grip on the controller tightening. "W- Where are you, I'll come help!"

His gaming friends are all blowing up the chat box, some getting on voice chat just to ask what that meant- 'was Levi actually married?,' 'He was a husband?,' 'Since when!?,' 'Congratulations!,' etc.

Levi would have gotten more flustered, had he been paying any attention to said friends, but he's much more focused on proving he'd make an excellent spouse by rushing to where you were in the map and one-shotting all the enemies that surrounded you.

The battle is quickly won thanks to Levi, who puffs out his chest with pride. You lean over from your gaming station adjacent of his, and press a kiss to his cheek. "Thank you, hubby~" His cheeks grow a rosy pink, and he pulls his headphones off to give you a serious look.

"Let's get married."

SATAN

"Oh husband~" You call, "Can you help me get this book? I can't reach!" Satan peaks his head from around the corner to give you a questioning look. Who were you calling husband? He watches you struggle, leaning his frame against the door with his arms crossed over his chest.

"I don't remember proposing." Satan watches as you deflates from his lack of reaction to your prank. He sighs, walking over to you and helping you reach the book, tapping it on your head lightly before handing it over to you.

"You're no fun, you know that?"

Satan has a feeling this was definitely set up by one of his brothers, and he'll definitely be getting his revenge on them for making you do this (and for making his heart hammer against his ribcage uncontrollably). Still, he hates to see you upset in the least, so he lifts your chin with his finger and thumb and sends you that smile that sends shivers down your spine.

"Don't be upset, you'll get to call me husband soon, okay?"

And he truly did mean that, he already had a ring, which sat heavy in his pocket. He just wanted to make sure you had the most perfect proposal, something straight out of a romance novel- because that's what you deserve. Soon, soon you'll be able to lovingly call him 'husband' whenever you wish.

ASMODEUS

Asmo is live-streaming again, doing a little grwm-type video, with you off to the side/in the background. As he begins to do his skin care, he asks for you to take over and chat for a little while for him, so you peak your head into view and wave at his viewers.

"Hello everyone!" You smile, glancing back at Asmo who's behind you in the bathroom, doing his skincare. "My lovely husband is doing his skincare right now, it usually takes him about ten to fifteen minutes to complete it." You say, however you can see his head pop-up from the sink and he whips around to look at you.

"Husband?" He calls, and when you nod, confirming your words, he grins. "Oh my, is this a proposal?" He asks with a teasing lilt, and you joking go along with his words, nodding before reenacting the famous getting-down-on-one-knee. You open your hands as if you had a ring box, presenting it to him. He holds his hand out to you, "I do~" You pretend to slip a ring on to his finger and he admires the imaginary ring before leaning down to kiss you.

"Now," He pulls away, wiggling his brows. "Shall we get started on the honeymoon part?"

"Asmo, that's typically after the weddi-" Asmo reaches for his phone, waving and saying a little 'byeeee' to his followers as he ends the livestream with a giggle, throwing you a lil' mischievous smile.

"No harm in starting earlier, right?" And despite only being halfway through his skincare, and this not being a real proposal, the honeymoon was very nice indeed- he can't wait for the real one though.

BEELZEBUB

You had seen the trend, and wondered how Beelzebub would react. So, under the guise of trying some new food and giving it a review, you set up your camera and begin filming. "Hey everyone, me and my husband are going to be rating food from the new McDevil menu~"

Beel doesn't react at all, and you send him a quick glance before trying again- perhaps he didn't hear you? "I think the Sin-Fries are a solid 7/10, what about you, husband?" But again, he doesn't react to the word at all, instead giving his own rating for the new fries.

Is he really not realizing what you're saying? You decide to try one last time. "My husbands food always looks better than mine," You whine, peaking over at him to see his reaction, only to see him offering you a bite of his burger. You sigh, giving up and deciding to just enjoy your food. You take a bite of his burger, offering him some of yours. The review ends swiftly, and you turn off the camera.

As you two clean up from eating, you notice Beelzebub quieter than usual. You're about to ask him if everything is okay, his face becoming flushed, when he speaks up.

"Soon, okay?" You blink a few times, confused by his words. He bashfully looks up at you, and that's when you realize what he's talking about- marriage, he plans on proposing to you soon. Your own cheeks now grow unbearably warm. "I promise."

Your prank definitely backfired, as now you're the one trying to calm your racing heart (although Beelzebub is definitely just as flustered). Still, you're holding him accountable to his promise- soon.

BELPHEGOR

You're not sure how this little prank managed to get turned against you, but Belphegor has made it so that you're now his personal pillow- again.

"I'm just saying, if I'm you're husband, then that means you should let me use you as a pillow whenever I want." You open your mouth to retaliate, but he beats you to it, batting his lashes up at you. "Don't you want your husband to be comfortable?"

"I..." You falter. You regret deciding to call him your 'husband~' to try and get him to help you with chores. You thought maybe it'd motivate him, or maybe you'd just get to see his cute blushing face, instead you're suffering.

"Come on now, don't be shy~" He wiggles about, trying to grab you to pull you towards him, but he doesn't really exert enough energy to be successful. "Ugh, why... do you... do this... to me- to your darling husband!"

"You're anything but darling." You say, crossing your arms over your chest. "Last time I call you 'husband' or any term of endearment, I swear..." You grumble, turning on your heels to leave, disappointed your prank didn't work.

Belphegor grins, snuggling up to his pillow as he watches you leave. "That's what you think," he mumbles to himself, yawning, "when I finally get that ring on your finger, I'll have ya calling me husband again, just you wait~" He snickers, and a cold chill runs down your spine. You glance back to see him asleep, although you feel as if he's planning something- and you weren't sticking around to find out what!

[preciouslittle-bhaalbabe]

Astarion wants to enjoy sex. He wants to have loving intimacy with the player. The first time they had sex was indeed different for him despite his disassociation. He reflected on it and enjoyed it enough to want to do it again (he still disassociated, it wasn't exactly wonderful but I digress) . He didn't have to. As far as he was concerned the player was already seduced.

He wants to have sex without the feelings of disgust. He isn't repulsed by sex, he's repulsed by not having the choice. The reason all of the scenes have to be approved or agreed upon by the player is because this is a roleplay game and if a sex cutscene just started playing without any options I think people wouldn't like that. Please stop babyfying Astarion and acting as if he never actually wants to and is people pleasing/lying to the player/hiding what he actually wants or feels or is unable to decide for himself. That he is incapable of consent due to his trauma. If you feel that way why would you romance him at all? He makes it very clear when he doesn't want to. He asserts that boundary. And if you push it he breaks up with you. The "I could be persuaded" line in the graveyard is him being playful. If he actually has to be persuaded there would be a skill check like that other time.

In conclusion, Astarion wants intimacy with the player. And he wants it on his own terms. This is especially evident in his scenes because he's usually taking the lead in one way or another. If you don't choose to have sex with him after that one time that's perfectly fine, but that's because YOU are making the choice for your Tav, not Astarion.

*Edit, if the things I said don't apply to what you think or how you play the game, then this post wasn't for you. Please refrain from filling my comments with conjecture about unrelated things I never brought up*

*second edit* THIS IS NOT ABOUT ACE PEOPLE. If you hc Astarion as ace that's perfectly fine. My issue is when people insist he is incapable of choosing for himself that he wants to have sex due to his trauma. Or that every time he brings up wanting to, he's lying and people "fell for it". Moreover if that's what you think, fine. But don't harrass people who feel differently and say we're bad people because we don't agreee with your headcanon. This is a completely different conversation from talking about Astarion being ace. This entire post is calling out the behaviour of people making choices for him when that's the entire theme of his story. He wants the choice, let him make it. Believe him when he says what he wants. This is about Astarion's relationship with autonomy. Nothing more.

[cheapshrimpysheep]

Pocky Game

SUMMARY: How would they react if you asked them to play Pocky with you? Do they already know the game? How do they act while playing? And who is the first to finish the biscuit stick and kiss the other?

CHARACTERS: All NRC students (except Ortho)

TAGS: Fluff; GN Reader; Bullet Points; Kissing; suggestive?

WORD COUNT: An average of 310 words per character.

COMMENTS: I had this idea for some time but only now did I write it down. I don't know what else to tell to you other than: I hope you enjoy 😘

CONTEXT: The Pocky game is a party game played with Pocky, a Japanese chocolate- or candy-coated biscuit snack. Two participants place the Pocky between them “Lady and the Tramp” style, and try to be the last to hold onto the biscuit, often resulting in a kiss.

Since it's a game similar to the famous scene from "Lady and the Tramp" where they eat spaghetti, my headcanon is that this game exists in Twisted Wonderland.

How to play:

Pick a partner that you wouldn't mind kissing.

Face your partner and put a Pocky stick between you. Each partner takes an end of the Pocky stick in their mouth.

Each partner bites their end of the Pocky stick until their mouths meet in the middle. The first person to pull away loses!

Riddle has no idea what this game is, you'll have to explain it to him. “So, if I understand correctly, you lose if you pull away and you win if you keep eating the biscuit stick. Very well. It sounds simple. But is there any purpose to the game? Is it some kind of endurance test?” You say, in a way, it can be seen like that. He smiles.“I see. Are there any other rules I should be aware of before we begin?” You say no, that you already explained everything.

You put the biscuit stick in your mouth and point the other side at him for him to bite. He does so and you begin the game. The closer he gets to your face the more he will blush. Until he starts having difficulty looking you in the eye and diverts his attention to the biscuit stick, which makes him make a cute face.

When there is only one bite left to finish the game, it is his turn and he pulls away. “W-wait!” The only times he gets redder than he already is is when he's angry, but of course this was not the case. “You never said there was a possibility that neither of us would pull away. If we both continue eating the biscuit stick until the end, what happens? Because if we had continued...” He looks away, embarrassed.

You apologize because you thought finding out during the game would have been a fun surprise. But you didn't know he wouldn't like the idea of... kissing you.

“What? No, no! It's not that I don't like the idea, I actually really wish I had done it... it's just that... I didn't know that it was the objective and I didn't want to, you know, be ill-mannered in case you...” Then he gets slightly upset with you. “You should have warned me! You lied to me when you said there were no more rules.” He smirks confidently. “If you were a student of Heartslabyul, it would have been off with your head for this. But I will allow you to play again and if I consider the end of the game satisfactory, you will have my forgiveness.”

In the second round, even though it's his turn, he will stop and hesitate, he wants you to be the one to consent. So you take the last bite and kiss him. You feel his lips relax. And If you deepen the kiss, he will reciprocate and hug you, pulling you towards him by the waist.

Ace knows this game so well that it's not you who invites him to play, it's he who invites you. “You also bought a box? Ha ha ha, we thought the same thing. That's a good sign.” He winks at you and smirks. “What box do we start with?”

While you play, he looks you in the eyes with a mischievous and provocative look, to see when you will chicken out and lose. The longer this takes, the more he will smile and the more smug his look will become. His face reminds you of a sly cat.

When there's only one bite left for your lips to meet, he stops, to let you choose whether to kiss him or give up and lose, while he looks you in the eyes defiantly.

If you finish the game and kiss him, his eyes will widen in surprise, but soon after that he will close his eyes and you will feel his lips form a triumphant smile. He place a hand on the back of your head to deepen the kiss.

He's the one who breaks the kiss with the most smug smile he's capable of. “Wow, chill out. We still have a lot of biscuit stick to play with.” There is a pause in which you reply. “What do you mean I was more excited than you?!” He blushes. “Lie! You were enjoying it as much as I was!... Wait! I mean...” He blushes even more. “You know what, let's play again to find out.” He smirks again.

The name of the game is not unfamiliar to Deuce, but you’ll have to remind him what kind of game it was. You explain the rules to him, that both players eat the biscuit stick from one side and the first one to pull away loses. “Okay, so whoever finishes the biscuit stick first wins?” He asks and you confirm.

“I see. So let's... wait! What happens if none of us pull away?” He asks innocently. You suggest that he finds it out while you play. And he trusts you, so he accepts the suggestion.

You put the biscuit stick in your mouth and point for him to bite the other side. He does so, and as your faces get closer he begins to blush.

As the two of you take bites, it seems to bring out his competitive side, causing him to pay more attention to his bites of the cookie than to the fact that he's getting so close to you.

He's the one who takes the last bite and kisses you. But he'll quickly jump away and start apologizing. “Sorry, I didn't mean to- I mean I didn't think- expected-” He stammers, unable to finish a sentence and almost as red as when his Housewarden gets angry.

If he sees you looking sad or disappointed because it looks like he didn't want to kiss you, he'll immediately tell you that's not the case! Clumsily, and stumbling over his words.

“Wait... that... that's what you wanted? T-To kiss me?” The poor boy is a little slow. But now that he's realized this, he's going to try to muster up all the confidence he can and suggest that you try it again. And if you take out another biscuit stick to play again he'll be like: "Ah, yes! Try again the game, yes. That... that's what I meant, haha”

Cater was the one who had the idea. And it was probably trending on Magicam. He will ask you to play in the cutest way that only he knows how to ask. “Oh, you know this game too? So you can play with me right? Right, [Y/N]-chan~? You're not going to tell me that you've already played this with other people and you're not going to play it with me. You're going to make Cay-kun very sad, and a little jealy~.”

If you accept, he'll ask you if he can film you two playing. He promises not to post it on Magicam if you don't want him to, but the footage will be so cute that he'll at least want to keep it as a souvenir for himself. “Pretty please~?”

He will play like it's any other game, while looking sweetly into your eyes. Yes, he is taking the opportunity to flirt with you. If you get embarrassed, even just a little bit, he'll find it super cute.

He will let you take the last bite and decide whether to kiss him or not, while he looks at you seductively as a way to convince you to kiss him.

If you do, you'll feel his lips form a smile as he deepens the kiss. One of his hands on top of one of yours and the other on your cheek.

After the kiss, he will stay very close to you, wanting to hug you and with his forehead touching yours, laughing. Like those couples on social media.

Trey recognizes the name. “It's that game where two people eat the same biscuit stick until they meet in the middle, right?” He smiles awkwardly. “Isn't it usually played between crushes?”

If you answer yes in a way that makes him understand that that is exactly why you want to play with him, he'll give you that rare smirk of his, and chuckles. “Okay. I'll be happy to play with you.”

Even though he knows how the game works, he will let you have more control over the game. You'll take the first bite and he'll follow, as if the fun part for him was seeing you having fun and not the game itself.

He will be smiling sweetly the whole game, but when only the last bite is left, his smile turns into a smug as he looks into your eyes, and he kisses you, kindly and relaxedly. Then he'll pull away with that smug still on his face and he'll even lick his lip.

“Well, I guess we both won. That's what you wanted, right? Did I play well?” His expression is a mix of his gentle side with the rare cheeky side. “Oh,you would like I hadn't pull away so soon? Sorry, I'm still getting used to the rules of the game. I don't mind playing it again if you want. It was fun. With or without the biscuit stick.”

Yes, Leona knows what game this is, and he will tease you for wanting to play it. “Isn't that a cubs's play? How cute.” he says lying in the botanical garden, as always. “And why are you asking me to play? Do I look like someone who plays these games?”

You take that as a no (or at least as a 'try to convince me') So you say that if he doesn't want to, you'll find someone else to play with. Points if you say something like: "Maybe Tsunotarou would like to play with me."

“OI! I never said no! But if you want, you'll have to play with me lying down, because I'm not going to get up to make you that favour.”

He just straightens his head, resting it against the base of a tree before you begin. He opens his mouth for you to put the biscuit stick in his mouth. The only thing he'll do is bite that whenever it's his turn.

At first, his expression is neutral, almost bored. But every time your face gets a little closer to his, a smug smile forms on his lips. In the last bite, not only is he smiling, he's looking you in the eyes like a greedy predator.

He takes the last bite, attacking you with a kiss. He's been standing still the whole game, so when he does that you almost get a jump scare. Just like felines preparing to attack.

But he doesn't just attack you with the kiss. At the same time he puts his hands on your waist and makes you lie underneath him.

He breaks the kiss for a moment and looks at you to see your reaction with the most smug smile on his face. “As if this wasn't why you asked me to play with you. Now deal with the consequences.”

Jack doesn't know what game it is, but maybe he's heard the name somewhere. You'll have to explain it to him.

“Okay, it sounds like a simple game. And... You want to play it with me?” He says rubbing his neck. You say yes and if he wants too. “I... I think I don’t mind.” He says wagging his tail.

If you insist on knowing if he is really sure he wants to play with you, he will stop beating around the bush and tell you bluntly: “Yes. Yes, I would like to play it with you.” But blushing a liiittle bit.

You are the first one to put the biscuit stick in your mouth. He will follow you. He'll be flattered the whole game. He's never played a game so... intense for him.

Whenever your eyes meet, he looks away and his ears lower.

When there's only one bite left he'll stop and let you decide whether you want your lips to meet or not.

If you kiss him, his ears will immediately stand up straight! And if you don't pull away, he will relax, his ears will go back down, and he’ll deepen the kiss.

And you might be surprised when that shy boy a minute ago, suddenly pulls you close to him by your waist and turns the kiss into a passionate one. His tail wagging like crazy, by the way.

And as suddenly as he brought you closer to him, he will pull away, embarrassed for having let himself be carried away.

He will start apologizing and if you want to keep the flame burning, the best option is to shut him up with another kiss. He will love that.

A game that involves eating? Sign Ruggie up! A game that involves sharing food? “Hum... In that case I should have something else for the halves I let you eat.” He bargains with you.

You can try to dissuade him with something like: “But it's just a silly game. And it's just a biscuit stick.” But he will respond with: “It could even be a freshly picked dandelion, I don't play with food.” He's telling the truth, but trying to appear playful.

You suggest giving him the entire box if he plays with you once. But play the game the way it should be played, not finding a way to play around the rules just so he can keep the box. “Shye hee hee. Don't worry, I have no reason to do that.”

You're the first one to put the biscuit stick in your mouth and wait for Ruggie to start eating the other side. But he looked at you and the cookie with a mischievous look, came closer, opened his mouth and... ATE ALMOST THE ENTIRE THING IN ONE BITE! Leaving you just one bite away from placing your lips against his and ending the game. His gaze was cutely mischievous.

If you finish the game and kiss him, he will hold it for a second just to see if you don't pull away. And when he realizes that you are enjoying the kiss, he will grab you by the waist and deepen the kiss. And there is only one way to describe his kiss: Greedy

Azul doesn't recognize the name of the game, but when you explain it to him he realizes it's a land version of one that exists under the sea. And he'll ask you if he can see the box.

He glances at the front, but then turns it over to see the ingredients list on the back. He's counting the calories, isn't he? You try telling him something like, “Come on, it's just a silly game. Just a little biscuit stick.”

But to your surprise, he starts talking about how a game can be a brilliant marketing strategy, to wonder if he could incorporate those biscuit stick into a dessert on the Mostro Lounge menu and whether the students would be interested. You ask for his attention again.

“I’m deeply sorry for wandering off in thoughts while you were talking to me, but I heard everything you said, don't worry. And since you just gave me an idea for a special new item on the Mostro Lounge menu, the least I can do is accept your invitation to play. That might teach me more about this product. And... that way we’ll be even, correct?” He adjusts his glasses.

His confidence starts to slip as the game starts and he realizes how close your face is to his, and how close it will be by the end of the game. He tries his best to remain unmoved and maintain eye contact with you, but he can't stop the blush from appearing on his face.

When there's only one bite left, he stops so you can take the last one and decide whether the kiss happens or not.

If you do, you will feel the tension in his lips, but he will not break the kiss. And if you don't do it either, it will start to relax and deepen it. The tension turns into a smile and you feel his hands cupping your face.

Jade doesn't recognize the name of the game, and asks you if you could explain to him how to play and what it consists of. He recognizes the description as the land version of a game that also exists under the sea.

“Ah yes, I believe I understood how this game works.” Then he gives you that deceptive smile he does when his true intentions are suspicious but hard to tell. “And you chose me to play it with you? Well, I'm honored. I'm more than eager to partake in this land activity with you of all people.”

You are the first one to put the biscuit stick in your mouth. He follows you with a calm smile. But the eyes, they're focused on yours, intensely.

He follows the instructions you explained at the beginning, imperturbably, as if he were truly just following the rules of a simple game. But that was just what he showed. From the look in his eyes you could tell there was much more behind this behaviour.

He always shows himself so passive that it almost came as a surprise to you when he took the last bite like an attacked to kiss you. But his eyes weren't completely closed, just half closed. As if he was observing you and studying you while enjoying the kiss.

And when you start to deepen the kiss, he pulls away, with a charming and dangerous smirk on his face. “It seems that we ended the game in a draw. That is not usually a very exciting outcome, is it. Perhaps we should play another round. And perhaps... make up some new rules of our own. Wouldn't that be interesting?”

Floyd doesn't recognize the game by the name you said, but if your description makes it seem fun in some way, he'll agree to play with you. The problem is that it seems boring to him. It's just eating a cookie. What's so special about that?

You decide to reveal to him that the real reason people play it is to get a kiss from their crush at the end. This makes him smile mischievously. “Aaaah~ So that's why you want to play with me, isn't it Koebi-chan~?” The smile becomes cute. “And what is my reward if I play?”

You say if he doesn't want to kiss you he can just not play. And he sulks. “Ehh? That's not what I said. I want to know what I gain by playing.” He smirks. “Because I don't need to play to get a kiss, do I?” He pauses for a moment to appreciate your reaction. His cute smile returns. “Ah! I know, why don't you give me the box of biscuit stick as payment?” And then he says in that deep voice through the sinister smile. “You're not going to play with anyone else, are you?”

If you accept he'll be like ‘YAY. Let's play then! :3’. You are the one who puts the biscuit stick in the mouth first and he follows with a relaxed look and smile. He follows the rules like you said, but it seems like he's more focused on you than the stick, as if he was amused watching your movements and reactions.

He leaves the last bite for you, watching you with mischievous eyes and an amused smile. If you take the last bite and kiss him, he won't move, not even return the kiss, to see how long you can hold out like that.

When you break the kiss disappointed he will say with a smirk: “Aww, Why so sad? Wasn't it the win you wanted? I told you the game was boring.” He takes the box from your hand, and he wraps an arm around you to pull you close to him. “Now if you still want to make out, you should just do it you know? I'm in the mood so don't waste it.”

Kalim doesn't know what game it is but he accepts any invitation to play anything. He's like: “Of course I'll play with you! Hum... what game is that again?” And after you explain he will say with his big enthusiastic smile: “Sounds fun! I know I can't accept food from other people, but it's you, even Jamil says it's okay accepting things from you. So how do we start?”

You are the one who puts the biscuit stick in your mouth and points it to the other end for Kalim to bite. He does so with a cute, innocent smile.

He seems to be having fun playing. When there is only one bite left to finish the game, it is his turn, and he ends the game giving you an extremely loving kiss. Like a smooch.

He breaks the kiss with a huge happy smile on his face. “Ha ha! This is fun! Can we play again?”

He will make you play with him until the box is empty. And when he asks to play again and you say that the cookies are gone, he will say: “Ow, I was having so much fun. You too? That's great! We should buy more. I'll pay for all of them.”

When you go to the Mystery Shop to buy more and Kalim discovers that there are several flavours, he will buy ALL OF THEM! All of the ones that Sam has? Yes, because Sam, somehow and at that moment, has ALL OF THEM THAT EXIST!

Jamil knows the game because he's heard of it, If not from schoolmates, then from his sister or something. “Isn't that the game where two people eat a biscuit stick to kiss at the end?” He says this with a neutral face, but then he makes that smug face, with one eyebrow raised. “And you want to play it with me? *chuckle* Fine. I don't see why not. I just have one question: Will you allow me to finish the game however I want?”

You say that as long as you follow the basic rules, he can end the game however he wants. “In that case, don't forget that you were the one who allowed it.” He says.

You put the biscuit stick in your mouth, but before he bites the other side, he puts a finger on your chin to tilt it a little and only then bites the biscuit stick.

He plays the whole game with that cocky smile. This is one of those rare moments where he lets his cheeky side show.

When there's only one bite left, he lets you decide how the game ends. The moment you touch your lips to his he will grab you and pull you towards him to deepen the kiss in the blink of an eye. Like a snake biting its prey in a single moment.

And then, he breaks the kiss, licking his lips, and still with his arms around your waist. “You're the one who said I could end it however I wanted as long as I followed the rules.” He says with a smirk and brings his lips closer to your ear. “I hope you haven't regret it.”

Yes, Vil knows this game. There was a time when it became very popular and he usually keeps up with those trends. Especially because sometimes they are incorporated into teen shows. “If I ever participated in one of those scene? No. No offence to the genre but I prefer to participate in films and genres that are less... melodramatic. That and IF I were cast in one of those shows there would be little chance of me getting the love interest role. I am perfectly aware that I’m more of a ‘mean girl’ type.” He says with a certain pride in both his voice and his face.

“And you want to play it with me?” He smirks charmingly. “My dear, you and probably all my fans. I hope you know that if I accept, firstly what a privilege and honor it is, and secondly, that this must remain between us. *chuckle* Well, if you understand that, then perhaps I can give you that pleasure.”

He lets you be the first to put the biscuit stick in your mouth and extend the other side to him, inviting him to bite. He does so with elegance and as if he were following some kind of etiquette for that game that you didn't even know could exist. That and he even places his index finger and thumb on your chin to adjust your posture while playing.

When there's only one bite left, it's his turn. He closes his eyes and kisses you gently and delicately. He'll stay like that for a second before breaking the kiss, and lovely looking at you with a soft smile.

“I must admit it was more satisfying than I expected. Thank you for inviting me to play. I shall be the one inviting you next time.”

Epel's never heard of that game, mostly because he's never been interested in that kind of stuff. So you explain it to him. But he doesn't quite understand why that would be fun. “So two people eat a biscuit stick from each side until someone pull away? But what if no one pull away-... wait... Don't tell me the goal is to kiss at the end!?”

When you confirm, his surprised expression begins to turn red. “A-and you want to play it... WITH ME?! No, it's not that I don't want to. I mean...! Hum... you just caught me off guard. But... yes, I... would like to play with you too.” He ends up agreeing with a sweet smile.

He starts playing a little shyly, but as you two take bites he starts to see it as a real game and his competitive side gives him confidence. So much so that when the last bite arrives and he takes it, kissing you, he only realizes it too late.

He quickly pulls away, blushing profusely! He stumbles over his words as he apologizes, because at the same time he also remembers that that was the intention of the game.

“EH! Wait! This is what you wanted, isn't it? Why am I apologizing? Oi! Are you laughing at me? Fine! Let's play again!” He gives you that confident smirk. “And this time, I'm not pulling away! I'm warning you!”

The second time you play he is definitely more confident. And he keeps his word, as soon as you kiss again, he doesn't pull away. His lips start out tense, but they relax as he forgets about the game and enjoys the kiss.

Of course Rook knows this game! A fun excuse for two lovebirds to kiss? How would he not know something like that? “Oh, and would you like me to have the honor of being your playmate? Mais bien sûr, Trickster! It will be my greatest pleasure.” He smiles enthusiastically.

“May I have the honours?” He asks, holding out his hand for you to hand him the box. He takes one of the biscuit stick and puts it in his mouth, inviting you to bite the other side and start the game.

He plays with a big “innocent” smile on his face. But eventually, as your faces get closer, his eyes change to that hunter's gaze.

When there's only one bite left for your lips to meet, he stops and lets you decide whether to take the last bite or pull away, while he fixes his intense gaze on you, observing you. Yes, he likes to hunt, but part of hunting is also setting traps and waiting for the prey to fall into them.

If you finish the game and kiss him, you will feel the smile he already had grow and the kiss becoming sweeter and more passionate. His hands cupping your face, him bringing his body closer to yours, and then one of the hands slowly leaving your face to end at your lower back.

When he finally releases your lips, he's looking at you with desire. “Très bien Trickster. Your lips are sweeter than the chocolate in the biscuit stick.” He brings his lips closer to yours again. “And now, I so ache to taste that mixture of flavours again. Would you allow me to play this once more with you? There are some sensations I would like to introduce you to, as a token of my gratitude.”

Ooh, Idia knows very well what game you are talking about. Probably for the same reasons that you know it too. “Do you think you're in an Otome game or something?” He mocks you with that smug smile. “And even if you wanted to live that fantasy, why me?” he sulks. ”Do you think I would be the only one to fall for this ‘cause of the games I play? That's a bit mean, don't you think? Or did the association of one thing with the other make you feel pity for me? I'm sure any student with good taste would love to play this with you, you don't need to invite me just because no one would do it with me.”

You tell him, in the form of a scolding, that you want to play with HIM! Not out of pity, but because you like him. And maybe, just maybe, you expressed it quite bluntly because of the adrenaline of being upset with him at the moment.

“Y-y-you like me?! C'mon, why would you?” You two continue to argue until he says something like: “FINE! I'll play with you, but when you lose because you pull away at the first bite, don't blame me.”

He's the one who reaches into the box and takes out a biscuit stick to put in his mouth and points the other end at you with an almost annoyed look on his face. Which looks more like a pout.

You take a bite, he takes another and so on. As your faces get closer, to your surprise, he seems to become more confident. Do you really want to play? He'll show you how a game is won! The heat of competitiveness escalates because of the dangerous mix of stubbornness of the two involved.

When there's only one bite left, it's his turn, and he's already so heated up by the game that he finishes it as if he were making the final strick. Turning your kiss into a surprisingly passionate attack.

But only for a second, until he opened his eyes in disbelief and immediately pulled away with his hair bursting pink, and the paleness of his face contrasting with his blush.

“I-I-I warned you!” He sees you smiling, and his smugness strikes with full force. “Oh! So you weren't just baiting, you really wanted it. Fine then. Next round! And this time I'm not going to chicken out in victory, you hear?”

Malleus is already beaming with joy that you invited him to something. The fact that it's a game only makes him even more excited. Even though he has no idea what game that is. You just explain the rules, that two people eat the same biscuit stick until someone pulls away and that person loses.

“I see. It seems like a simple game to play. But what happens if neither player pulls away?” You decide to respond with: ‘Why don't we play to find out?’ He laughs ans smirks. “Fearless as ever, Child of Man. Are you truly not concerned about what might happen if you withhold information from me? Fu fu. Very well. We shall see how our game ends.”

You put the biscuit stick in your mouth and point the other side at him for him to bite. He does it with a loving smile, and tries to take bites the same size as yours. He doesn't want to cheat without knowing it.

When there's only one bite left to finish, he stops, not knowing what to do. So you're the one who ends the game and kisses him.

He is surprised, but doesn't break the kiss, instead he maintains it and deepens it. He carefully puts his arms around you to bring you even closer to him. And then brings one of his hands to your cheek. You can feel him controlling his strength to make sure he doesn't hurt you, even though he wants to hug you tighter.

He breaks the kiss unexpectedly. “I am not hurting you, am I?” He asks slightly concerned. “I am learning to control my strength, but I am afraid I might run the risk of burning you with my breathe.” You say you weren't feeling hot at all, or at least not that kind. “That is other of my concerns. I may not hurt you at first, but if I let myself be carried away... I am not aware if the same thing happens to you, I hope so, but I feel the need to show you through actions like this how much I'm in love with you and that could be...”

You tell him that just as he learned to control his strength, he can learn to moderate other things. And perhaps the best way to do that is to continue training with you, little by little. Maybe with another round of that game?

Silver doesn't know this game, but if you’re willing to explain it to him he will be happy to play with you. You explain the rules except the part about what happens if neither player pulls away. But Silver doesn't remember to ask either and you start the game as soon as he understands the basic rules.

You put the biscuit stick in your mouth and point to the other end for him to bite. He does so and plays as you had explained to him, taking a bite whenever it is his turn. His expression remains the same throughout the game... as always.

When there is only one bite left he stops, confused about what he should do and looks at you, or rather, into your eyes, looking for a hint or something like that. And you decide to be the one to end the game and kiss him.

He is surprised, but does not pull away. He just stays like that the whole time you do. Even though his lips are relaxed, it's as if he simply accepts it and does you the favor of staying there.

You're the one who has to break the kiss, probably disappointed that it seems like he didn't reciprocate.

“What's wrong?” He asks, with the same neutral face as always. “You look sad. Did I do something wrong while playing?” You explain to him, in your own way, that it seemed like the kiss was nothing to him, but he didn't pull away either, so you were confused.

“I failed to express myself again.” He says, now with a slightly disappointed expression. “I'm sorry. I... really enjoyed it.” He smiles for a second and then goes back to being disappointed with himself. “But I didn't know what to do, so I just... let you lead, I think. I understand now that I should have taken some kind of initiative. We could play again if you could give me a second chance? Would you be willing to tutor me in how to express myself to you through a kiss?” He smiles at you again. “I would be very grateful.”

Sebek doesn't even know what game you're talking about and he's already complaining about you wanting to play a silly game with him. But fine, he lets you at least explain the game and the rules.

“Just as I thought, a foolish human game. And it is not even productive as a sport to train the body or an intellectual one to train the brain. Why would I waste something as precious as time playing something like that with you? The game is simply two people eating a biscuit to see who can finish it the fastest. FOOLISH!”

You opened your mouth to correct him and say that that wasn't really the goal, but thinking about it, maybe it was a fun way to convince him to play. So you choose to insinuate that he is so slow at eating that he wouldn't be able to beat a mere human in such a competition.

“WHAT?! You believe you're up to my standards in any kind of physical competition? HA! That's what we're going to see, human.” He says smugly. “Pass me one of those biscuit stick, if you please.”

He's the first one to put the biscuit in his mouth, and he even crosses his arms looking at you with a defiant and cocky look.

You start playing, and quickly, without him noticing in time, he kisses you. But only for like half a second before pulling away in the blink of an eye. “AH! YOU DECEIVED ME!” He says with a serious and offended look but a blush on his face. “This is not a game, it's a trap! AND I FELL FOR IT!”

You ask if he didn't like it, and his blush only deepens. “Th-those weren't my words! Do not distort my speech!” So you ask, with a smirk, if he would play with you one more time. “Very well! We shall play again.” He smirks too. “ And this time I will not pull away! Be warned, human!”

As incredible as it may seem, Lilia doesn't know this game well, but he has heard of it. This is a recent thing for very young people, and as that phase of his life had already passed and Silver was never interested in those things, he ended up never having the opportunity to get to know the game.

You see his eyes light up with amusement and interest as you explain the game. “Khee hee hee, sounds like a simple but fun game.” Then, he smirk with a sly look. “I wonder what happens if neither of us pulls away. I assume you were inviting me to play because you are also interested in finding out? Fu fu. Let's play then. Will you do the honours?”

You put the biscuit stick in your mouth and Lilia bites the other side. He plays with a cute expression rather than a smug one, probably to make you more comfortable and confident playing. His red gaze can be too penetrating, at least for the first round of the game.

When there is only one bite left to finish, he stops, even if it’s his turn. He wants you to be the one to decide how the game ends.

You take the last bite and kiss him. And now you can feel from his lips that his cute expression has given way to smugness again. He cups your face and deepens the kiss. He is surprisingly (or not) very skilful, so much so that if the kiss were a dance he would certainly be the one guiding it.

And he's the one who breaks the kiss, gently, and gives you a cute smile. “I know I'm irresistible, but let us save some energy for the next rounds, shall we? How many biscuit stick are in the box?”

If you would like to read more from me, you can find it in my pinned post: INDEX