#chapters: hunger for vengeance

[darthnell]

Chapter 70: Pyrrhic Ashes

But if I can't let go Will you carry me home? Can we celebrate the end? I'm asking for a friend.

[awkward-teabag]

The body horror and violence also works in large part because it doesn't forget it's a kid's series. It's there but it's not voyeuristic and doesn't dwell on it except when the intention is to be horrifying. It's not disturbing because it exists in the first place but at the implications of it in that moment and what it means to the characters.

It doesn't pretend things are fine but it doesn't relish the bad parts, either.

"This is the reality of war".

It doesn't sugarcoat things but also doesn't fixate on the bad and isn't written where it's clear the author is intentionally trying to shock the reader.

And when you finish the series or learn the finale was explicitly to show that war has no winners and doesn't tie things up in a neat little bow, that people involved still have to live with what they went through and did, it puts a different perspective on things.

A lot of it went over kids' heads, mine included, because fuck yeah turning into animals, aliens, and waging a secret war, but as an adult? The implications are disturbing.

Which makes me appreciate and applaud Applegate and the ghostwriters for walking a line that a lot of writers fail at, especially with that many books over multiple years.

people ask me "how the hell is [scene from animorphs] in a kid's series" and i cannot emphasize to them enough that animorphs does not forget for a single moment that it is a kid's series

[candyeager]

𝐁𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐈𝐍𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐕𝐄𝐈𝐋

— gojo satoru x fem!oc

MASTERLIST + PROLOGUE

synopsis. in which her political marriage to Satoru Gojo, the world’s most arrogant and untouchable sorcerer becomes the unlikely balm to her festering bloodlust—a union born of duty, yet fated to temper the darkness within her.

bound by power and circumstance, Kurai Sanzu finds that the key to controlling her hunger for vengeance may lie in the very man she vowed to stand beside, even as indifference and unspoken desires pull them into a quiet, dangerous dance beneath the weight of their shared fate.

warnings. graphic violence, murder, blood mentions, disorder eating, implied sexual threats, suggestive themes. tags. gojo x fem!oc, arranged marriage, angst with happy ending, eventual fluff, heavy pining/yearning, emotional detachment. oc is an empath.

chapter one chapter two chapter three chapter four chapter five chapter six chapter seven chapter eight chapter nine chapter ten chapter eleven chapter twelve chapter thirteen chapter fourteen chapter fifteen

taglist. OPEN (comment to be added to taglist!)

MAIN CHARACTERS

Kurai Sanzu, 25 - Cursed Empath

Satoru Gojo, 25 - Limitless Cursed Technique, Six Eyes

Year 2014

Kurai Sanzu stood before the ancestral altar, her gaze steady but hollow as she stared at the man beside her. The heavy weight of the ceremony pressed down on her, but her face remained expressionless, her posture rigid. The intricate folds of her bridal kimono, shimmering with the interwoven colors of the Sanzu and Gojo clans, felt suffocating against her skin. 

Satoru Gojo, the so-called strongest jujutsu sorcerer alive, stood next to her, exuding the same insufferable, effortless confidence he always had. His ceremonial haori, adorned with the proud insignia of the Gojo clan, hung perfectly on his broad shoulders. 

Since childhood, this moment had loomed over her like an inevitable storm—an event orchestrated not by love or choice, but by the cold machinations of power and politics. An arranged marriage to bind two of the clans in the jujutsu world. The Sanzu clan, desperate to salvage their dwindling influence, had offered her up like a pawn, a tool for their own survival. Kurai knew she was disposable to them. The 'useless heiress', born without the prized mind-reading ability her bloodline cherished.

And to Satoru? Kurai doubted she even registered as more than a footnote in his list of responsibilities.

She shifted her gaze toward him, who seemed utterly detached, his blue eyes glazed with boredom as he observed the ceremony with barely veiled disinterest. His signature arrogance radiated off him in waves, that air of untouchability that surrounded him like a second skin.

'Arrogant bastard,' Kurai thought. She didn't expect him to care—about her, about this marriage, about anything beyond his next mission. But his indifference only fueled the fire of her bitterness. To him, this was just another show, another symbol of his superiority. And now she was bound to him, not through choice, but through necessity.

As the elders from both clans chanted the ancient rites, invoking the spirits to seal their union with cursed energy, Kurai felt the weight of the attention upon her. The Sanzu clan elders, in particular, radiated relief—finally, their useless heiress was no longer their problem. She could feel their emotions like a storm pressing against her senses. The smug satisfaction, the quiet disdain. It wasn't even subtle. 

But Kurai refused to acknowledge them, refused to give them the satisfaction of knowing how much their indifference had wounded her over the years. Her expression remained as still as a porcelain doll's, though her fingers trembled slightly under the weight of the ceremony.

As the chants drew to a close, the elders stepped forward and placed a shimmering cord of cursed energy around their intertwined hands. The cord pulsed, glowing faintly, infused with the power of both their clans. Kurai flinched slightly as she felt the overwhelming surge of Satoru's cursed energy flood into her senses. It was like being submerged in an ocean, the sheer magnitude of his power pressing down on her, threatening to drown her. 

But then, something flickered in the torrent of energy. Curiosity. Satoru's gaze slid toward her, and his lips curled into a familiar, lazy smile. He looked at her as if the entire ceremony was some fleeting amusement. Kurai didn't bother returning the smile. She had long since learned not to trust his expressions. His playful demeanor was nothing more than a mask—a shield to hide whatever lay beneath. 

Not that it mattered. She didn't care enough to dig deeper.

The cursed energy surged between them, swirling in an ethereal light as the binding cord glowed brighter, intertwining their powers. Satoru's Infinity shimmered faintly, a reminder of the barrier that always separated him from the rest of the world, even now, at the most intimate of ceremonies. Kurai's cursed energy intertwined with his, a bright blend of red and purple, the two energies merging in a fleeting dance of light. 

For a brief moment, Satoru's expression shifted. His eyes widened slightly, just enough for Kurai to catch it—a spark of genuine surprise, maybe even awe. It was fleeting, but it was there, like a child witnessing something extraordinary for the first time.

The elders completed the ritual, the cursed cord dissipating into the air as their union was solidified. Kurai stood beside Satoru, her hand still loosely intertwined with his, though the contact felt as cold and distant as ever. The Gojo clan elders bowed deeply before them, their reverence for Satoru palpable. To them, he was more than just a clan head—he was a god in human form, the pinnacle of strength, the symbol of their pride. 

And yet, Satoru barely acknowledged them. His gaze drifted lazily over their bowed heads, the same detached look on his face as if he had long grown bored of their constant praise. It was sickening, watching them fawn over him as though he were their savior. 

Kurai's own clan elder, Botan, stepped forward for the blessing. His presence grated against her senses, his emotions radiating disgust and simmering resentment. Kurai's fingers twitched with the urge to smirk. She relished the taste of his hatred, let it seep into her bones like a toxic elixir. After all, it was this same elder who had cast her aside as a child, branding her the clan's disappointment. 

Now, here he was, bowing before her. 

Botan's voice was cold and flat as he recited the customary blessing. His words echoed through the temple, hollow and insincere.

"May the clarity of thoughts and the depth of understanding bind your souls..."

Clarity of thoughts? Kurai nearly laughed. The Sanzu clan, so proud of their mind-readers, was nothing but a shell of its former self. Most of them were dead, including her mother, who had died bringing Kurai into this world. 'Such clarity,' she mused bitterly. The only clarity Kurai sought was revenge, and this marriage was a stepping stone to that end.

When it came time for the exchange of cursed objects, Satoru moved first. He produced a finely crafted ring from the Gojo clan, humming with the unmistakable signature of their cursed energy. The craftsmanship was flawless, every detail intricate, and when Satoru slid the ring onto her finger, Kurai felt the pulse of its power.

His touch lingered on her hand, his fingers curling around hers in a silent challenge, as if waiting for her to break, to react, to give him something. 

But Kurai met his gaze coolly, her face a blank mask. She yanked her hand free from his grip without a word, slipping from his hold with practiced ease.

In exchange, she handed him an heirloom of her own—a weathered dagger, old but deadly sharp, its blade gleaming under the dim light. It had seen blood before, and if Kurai had her way, it would see more. Satoru accepted it with a flicker of amusement in his eyes, his fingers brushing the blade lightly before he tucked it away with a smirk.

The master of the ceremony's voice boomed across the temple as they turned to face the gathered clans, their hands interlocked for the final part of the ritual.

"... Satoru, Kurai, this union signifies the melding of your destinies and the obligation you now share. The strength of your combined spirits will shape the course of your futures, and those of your clans..."

Kurai's heart thudded in her chest, the weight of his words sinking in. 'Shape the course of your futures and those of your clans.' She'd always known it, but hearing it spoken aloud made it feel more real. 

This wasn't just a ceremony. This wasn't just a formality.

This was power.

Kurai almost smiled, but she forced it down, knowing too many eyes were on her. As she suppressed the grin, she accidentally tugged Satoru's hand a little too hard, earning a raised eyebrow from him. He glanced at her with silent curiosity, a smirk playing at his lips.

She quickly let go of the tension in her grip, her face as unreadable as ever, but inwardly, her mind was racing. This marriage might be a burden to him, but to her, it was an opportunity. 

And she would make sure to use it.

< prologue ends >

© CANDYEAGER. do not copy, repost, modify, or translate my works in any other platforms.

[randomdragonfires]

If The Sun Ever Rises | Chapter 5

Chapter 5 | Symptom Of Your Touch

SUMMARY | After narrowly escaping the Battle Above God’s Eye, Prince Aemond is now a hidden fugitive within the very kingdom he once ruled. Driven by vengeance, he plans to usurp Aegon III and avenge his family. His rage-blinded path to the throne begins with getting rid of Cregan Stark and the men who support his nephew’s rule. Having nothing to lose, he recklessly kidnaps the Northerner’s betrothed - his own niece - hoping to lure him and his men out to fight.

Soon, Aemond finds that memories of a first love are strong, and that he cannot steel his heart against the woman he has loved all his life.

WARNINGS | 18+; Smut; Canon Divergence - Aemond lives (but barely); Violence; Stockholm Syndrome; Mental and Physical Trauma; Angst; Canon Incest; Manipulation; No Happy Endings In This House YAY; Slow burn, I think?

WORD COUNT | 3k

Text Divider by @saradika-graphics

As the first light of dawn began to creep through the mouth of the cave, she stirred from her slumber, the chill of the morning air seeping into her bones. Nestled near the entrance, she could see the forest floor spread out before her, bathed in the soft light of the rising sun. Beyond, the calm river wound its way through the trees, its tranquil waters shimmering like liquid silver in the early morning light.

With a sigh, she rose to her feet and stepped out, the soft earth cool beneath her bare soles. The forest lay silent around her - muted hues and shifting shadows as the sun cast its golden rays through the tangled branches overhead. But despite the tranquil beauty of her surroundings, there was a tension in the air that she couldn't quite shake. She dropped a hand into the river to drink, water going through her throat smoother than she ever thought possible.

Looking around, her eyes desperately searched for her uncle’s lithe form - but she could not spot him. Where has he gone?

It amazed her how quickly her heart had become too heavy to bear in his absence. She may be physically worn and barely holding on, but it seemed that her heart had taken a worse beating. Her mind churned with conflicting emotions, memories of happier times warring with the bitter taste of betrayal and hurt that lingered on her tongue. She couldn't shake the image of him standing over her, his features twisted with silent, dangerous rage as he pressed the cold edge of a knife against her throat. The fear that had gripped her in that moment still clung to her like a shadow, whispering of dangers yet unseen.

But beneath the fear, there was something else, something she couldn't quite name. A flicker of longing, perhaps, or the ghost of a love she had thought long extinguished. Despite everything, she couldn't deny the pull he still held over her, an undeniable force that drew her back to him time and time again.

All he had done in her presence was plot against peace, her brother and her betrothed - and somehow, her heart refused to let her see him for anything apart from the man she fell hard and fast for before their carefully curated world had crumbled from underneath their feet.

Setting her thoughts aside with a heavy heart, she laid a hand onto her stomach as the hunger settled in. She then assumed that he’d gone away to hunt and must be nearby. She shouldn’t move from here, she knew - but her feet carried her on their own accord as she scanned the underbrush for any sign of his presence. The forest remained stubbornly silent, its secrets hidden beneath layers of foliage and fallen leaves. The scent of pine and damp earth filled her nostrils, mingling with the distant echoes of birdsong and rustling leaves as she pushed deeper into the heart of the forest.

As she treaded cautiously through the forest, her senses heightened by the eerie silence that surrounded her, she caught the faint sound of footsteps behind her. Heart pounding, she spun around, expecting to find Aemond emerging from the shadows, but there was nothing. Only the whisper of the wind through the trees and the rustle of leaves underfoot.

Wary now, she continued on her path, her steps quickening with each passing moment. But before she could react, a strong arm wrapped around her from behind, pulling her back against a solid chest. She gasped in shock, struggling against the unseen assailant's hold, but his grip was firm and unyielding.

Not Aemond. It is all her mind manages to register as the man’s hands tighten around her, his beard nauseatingly close to her neck as it poked.

Not Aemond. 

Not Aemond. 

Aemond, Aemond, Aemond-

“Let me go,” she choked.

Amusement colored his voice as he spoke, his breath hot against her ear. "Wandered away from where you're supposed to be. Have ye, Princess? Trying to escape?" Her heart hammered in her chest as she thrashed against his hold, her scream dying on her lips as he silenced her with a quick, brutal motion. A blade pressed against her throat, its edge biting into her skin, drawing a bead of blood that trickled down her neck.

Helplessness. The feeling makes her want to retch.

Terrified and disoriented, she allowed him to guide her, her thoughts consumed by the fear of what Aemond would do when he found her gone. As they walked, she couldn't help but notice the sack slung over the man's shoulder, hanging by his side. Her confusion deepened when she caught sight of the worn-down skirt peeking through the edge of the pack, alongside short swords, jerkins, fruit, and scrolls bearing the unmistakable seal of House Hightower.

Of course. If anyone would help Aemond, it would be his mother’s family. How did she not think of this before?

“Who are you?”

“Quiet, Princess. I’m under instructions to not hurt you, but I don’t have much patience for girls, eh?”

She pushed her back against him firmly in what could only be described as an act of defiance, but she felt his cock harden against the swell of her backside. Immediately, the disgust took over her and she gritted her teeth together as the man guided their steps. His touch made her squirm, and she hoped she’d find Aemond in time.

The sigil of House Hightower. This man will not attack her. 

But he was a man nonetheless. And she was a woman with no strength to summon and no one to help.

He won’t. He won’t. He won’t. Aemond will have his head.

He will. Won’t he?

As they approached the mouth of the cave once more, her eyes caught sight of a tall black horse tethered to a nearby tree, its powerful form standing sentinel in the dappled light filtering through the forest canopy. A sense of unease prickled at her skin as she wondered who could have left such a magnificent beast outside their secluded sanctuary. Was it this stranger? If he knew the cave, surely he had been here before?

Before she could ponder the mystery any further, the man behind her gave her a rough shove, propelling her forward into the comparative darkness of the cave. She stumbled, her hands reaching out to catch herself against the rough stone walls, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she struggled to regain her footing.

As she straightened up, her eyes adjusting to the dim light, she couldn't shake the feeling of dread that settled over her like a heavy shroud. Despite her circumstances, the cave never felt like a prison closing in around her - but it did now.

House Hightower. They’re surely part of this. As she steadied herself, she couldn't help but wonder what twisted game fate had set in motion, bringing her back to the one place she had hoped to escape.

The man’s gaze lingered on her, a predatory smile curling his lips as he took in her disheveled appearance. His eyes roved over her with a mixture of amusement and something darker, something that made her skin crawl. She clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms as she fought to maintain her composure.

"You're quite the curious one, aren’t you Princess?" 

She closed her eyes, turning her head away from him in a desperate attempt to block out his leering stare. She could feel his presence, his eyes boring into her, and it made her feel exposed and vulnerable. The cave's shadows seemed to stretch and twist, enclosing her in a suffocating grip.

The sound of footsteps approaching the cave’s entrance made her heart skip a beat. Hope and fear tangled together in her chest as she opened her eyes. Aemond emerged from the shadows, his one remaining eye flashing with a cold, dangerous light.

“You weren’t to speak to her, Hugh.”

“I wouldn’t have, but your little chit insisted on a little expedition. Luckily, I was around to bring her back to safety… was I not, Princess?” She did not look at either man, but she felt both their stares bore into her from where they stood - one amused, and the other furious.

“Regardless, I’m here for a reason,” Hugh said, and pushed the sack into Aemond’s hands. “I’ll be outside, Your Grace.” And with that, he was gone.

"Are you all right?"

She nodded, but the fear of being manhandled by a stranger in a forest she did not know refused to dissipate. In all honesty however, she found it hard to be as shaken as she should have been - multiple instances of near death have a way of doing that, she supposed.

“Stay here. I need to speak with him. Will you listen to me?”

“Yes.” How could she say anything but?

She listened to Aemond's footsteps recede, accompanied by the other man's heavier tread. The silence that followed was oppressive, broken only by the distant murmur of the river and the rustling leaves outside the cave. She sat alone and the hours dragged by, daylight waning into twilight.

The cave felt stifling, its walls pressing in on her with a suffocating intensity. Desperate for a moment of respite, she ventured outside to the river, the moon casting a silver glow over the serene landscape. She slipped into the cool water, the sensation soothing her frayed nerves as she scrubbed away the remnants of her fear and uncertainty. Each stroke of the water against her skin felt like a balm, washing away the grime and the memories of the day's encounter. The cut from Hugh’s blade stung, but she couldn’t be bothered.

Returning to the cave, she noticed the dress inside the sack Hugh had left behind. Assuming it was for her, she shed her old damp clothes, letting it fall to the ground in a heap. The cool night air kissed her bare skin, sending a shiver down her spine as she dried herself with the rough fabric before slipping into it as quickly as she could to preserve what little was left of her modesty. The worn-out dress was unlike anything she’d ever worn before - old, ordinary and almost maidservant-like. It laced at the back, and she struggled to reach the ties, her fingers straining in vain. Frustration mounting, she gave up, her back left exposed to the moonlight filtering through the cave entrance.

And then she felt it. She felt the air change, a presence darkening the entrance of the cave. 

She could always sense him before she saw him.

Aemond's stealthy, catlike steps approached, and she watched the shadows move before he even touched her. The heat of him, so close yet not quite touching, was intoxicating. His presence was a heady mix of danger and desire, making her pulse quicken and her thoughts blur. Every inch of her skin seemed to come alive under his gaze, her senses heightened to a near-painful awareness. 

And then he touched her.

His fingers traced a line down her spine, sending a cascade of goosebumps across her skin. She held her breath, her body taut with anticipation and an unnameable yearning.

He’d brought her here against her free will. Abducted her, subjected her to hurt. She must not love him. She mustn't. 

Oh but she did. She did she did she did-

Aemond's hand traveled to her collarbone, then down the front of her neckline, his touch firm and possessive as he cupped her breast. Her breath hitched as his lips brushed the back of her neck, the warmth of his kiss a stark contrast to the cool night air. A shiver ran through her, her body responding to his touch despite all that they’d been through.

For what seemed like years, Aemond leaned in closer, his face buried in her damp hair as he inhaled deeply. His hand remained inside her dress, fingers splayed over her skin in a possessive grip that sent waves of heat radiating from where he touched her. The sensation was intoxicating, overwhelming her senses and drowning out the lingering fear and uncertainty.

The blood of the dragon runs hot, he had once said. Hot indeed.

"Aemond," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the pounding of her heart.

He pressed a kiss to the nape of her neck, his lips trailing a line of fire down her skin. "You are mine," he murmured, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "No one will ever take you from me."

She shouldn’t. She shouldn’t. She shouldn’t-

Before the war, their paths would never have crossed in such a way. Now, he was a fugitive, and she was betrothed - what future could they possibly have together?

Gathering her resolve, she lifted her head and looked into his eye with a determined gaze. 

To fall out, or give in?

“I’m going to ask you one last time,” she managed to breathe out. “When all this is over, what will you do with me?”

Aemond's expression softened as he traced his fingers over her lips, his touch both tender and contemplative. She watched him, her heart in her throat, as he seemed to weigh his words. Finally, he sighed, leaning in to kiss her with a tenderness that took her breath away, all while his eye housed a dilated pupil so dark that she thought she could count stars.

"You will be my queen," he said softly, the conviction in his voice making her heart skip a beat.

Wasn’t that what she’d wanted her entire life?

To fall out, or give in? To fall out, or give in? To fall out, or give in? To fall out, or give in? To fall out, or-

For a still moment, they simply looked at each other, the intensity of the connection between them almost tangible. The weight of their past and the uncertainty of their future hung in the air, but in that instant, none of it mattered. All she could see was Aemond, the boy she had once known, and the man he had become.

Damn it all. Damn it to all Seven Hells.

I want him. I love him.

Throwing caution to the wind, she closed the distance between them, pressing her lips to his in a kiss that was both tentative and fervent. She gave in to her passing desires, letting them grow and burn her from the inside out. Her hands found their way to his hair, fingers tangling in the silken strands as she deepened the kiss, pouring all her longing and desperation into it.

In that moment, she forgot about Cregan, Aegon, and all the tangled webs of duty and betrayal. It was just the two of them, as it had always meant to be. The world outside the cave ceased to exist, and all that remained was the fire between them, consuming and all-encompassing.

Aemond responded with equal fervor, his hands roaming over her back, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them. His kiss was hungry, filled with a need that matched her own.

His warmth seeped into her skin and ignited a fire in her veins. She barely dared to breathe as he pushed her into the cave wall and knelt down, his hands reaching for her bruised feet with a surprising gentleness. His touch was light, reverent almost, as he traced the contours of her ankles and then moved upward, lifting the skirts of her dress along. The fabric rustled softly, the sound mingling with the pounding of her heart.

His fingers brushed over her inner thighs, the sensation sending shivers of pleasure racing through her body. He was so close to her core, the anticipation making her breath hitch and her body tense with need. She closed her eyes, surrendering to the intoxicating blend of his touch and the heady sense of his dominance.

Aemond stood up, his breath warm against her ear before he captured her lips in a kiss and lifted her leg up to wrap around him. It was fierce, almost desperate, as if he were a man starved, finally tasting what he had long craved. She responded in kind, her hands fisting in his old linen shirt as she pulled him so close that neither knew where he ended and she began.

Between his kiss and his wandering hands, her head went light and hazy as she gave in to her desires. His fingers found their way to her slick folds and she gasped into his mouth - his touch both demanding and expertly gentle. The pressure built inside her with each stroke of his fingers pushing her closer to the edge.

Her breaths came in ragged gasps, her body arching into his touch as she felt the pleasure build, taut like a bowstring. His lips never left hers, their kiss deepening in intensity, a mirror of the growing storm within her. She could feel herself unraveling, every nerve ending alight with pleasure - the kind that she thought she’d never experience again.

How had she gone so far without him?

“Mine,” he said. His, his, his, his, his-

She always had been. In dreams and in desire.

With sped up ministrations, he sent her careening over the edge. Her peak crashed through her, a wave of ecstasy that left her trembling and breathless in his arms. Aemond held her tightly, his fingers still gently stroking her as she rode out the aftershocks of her release.

As she came down from the high, her body still shivered as she looked up at him. His one violet eye burned with a fierce, possessive light. He held her gaze as he brought his fingers to his lips, licking them clean with deliberate slowness. She blushed deeply, the intimacy of the act making her pulse quicken again.

He pulled her closer, her head resting against his chest as he whispered, "Mine, mine, mine." The steady beat of his heart and the rise and fall of his chest calmed her, grounding her in the moment. “My queen.”

Inhaling the smell of him, she watched over his shoulder as the river sparkled in the moonlight. “Yours."

In the distance, a pained wolf howled in pursuit.

NO TAG LIST. Follow @randomdragonfics and turn on post notifs for fic updates!

A/N: This feels a bit like I've completely forgotten how to write lol. It's been a while, please be a little nice about it hehe thanks loves!

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood - Wedding Night AU

Much of this scene is written from Aemond's POV of chapter 96 and then in veers off--so you get an insight to his thoughts and feelings during that scene. 35K Words

Warnings: Smut, (p in v), over stimulation, multiple orgasms, oral (m&f), orgasm denial, handjob, rough sex, slapping, scratching, choking, degradation(?), cum play (?).

The worship of a starved man

Aemond had been born hungry.

That gnawing emptiness, deep and insatiable, had been within him from the very start, a hunger that time had only sharpened rather than dulled. No matter what he attained, the emptiness within him remained. It was a hunger for everything just beyond his reach–a desperate craving for what could never fully be his. He was the second son, a spare, forever living in the shadow of another, born into a role that left him wanting more. 

From the moment of his birth, Aemond had been filled with a yearning for all that was denied him. What he received was never enough. The morsels of recognition or affection that came his way were inadequate to satisfy his growing hunger. What little he had, he had rested from the world himself. 

Nothing was freely given; everything was taken by force. 

He had claimed Vhagar, the mightiest of all dragons, a conquest that should have filled the emptiness gnawing at him. And for a brief, fleeting moment, it had. 

The triumph had been short-lived. The blade had come soon after, carving another hollow deep within him, a wound that went far beyond flesh and bone. The void inside him had yawned wider, and no amount of strength, no dragon, could close it.

It had given him a different kind of hunger, had twisted into something darker; a hunger for revenge. 

For years, he had fed that fire, starved for vengeance, convinced that once he had it, the gnawing ache would finally be satisfied. But it hadn’t. The taste of revenge had only stoked the fire further, leaving him with the same hollow emptiness, still aching for more, still unwhole.

Even now, with all he had wrested from the world, he remained hungry–starving for something he could never fully grasp. He had taken a taste of satisfaction, of peace. For a fleeting moment, the void had subsided, dulled by the comfort of her presence. Her touch had softened the jagged edges inside him, her warmth had stilled the rage and resentment that always simmered beneath his skin. In her arms, with her lips on his, and the heat of her body entwined with his, the hunger had receded, if only for a brief, blissful instant. For the first time, the acing void that defined him had quieted, almost forgotten.

But it had been just that–a moment. 

A fragile, fleeting moment, forn from his grasp as quickly as it had come. The blood on his hands had ensured that much. He had tasted love, had felt the intoxicating sweetness of what she could offer. And then, like everything else, it had spilled away. Now, he wanted nothing more than to taste it again, to gorge himself on that sweet poison of hers. 

But the hunger had come back to him, sharper, more ravenous than before. No matter how much he tried to bury it, no matter how fiercely he clung to her, the hollow ache gnawed at him. 

He had believed that claiming her as his wife might finally quench the insistent hunger. Surely, with her beside him, it would ease. But even in possession, he found himself lacking. She was his, yet not truly. Her heart, the one thing he craved above all, remained hidden in the ruins he had wrought. Her love was beyond his reach, forever locked away behind the scars he had left on her soul.

There was nothing more terrible than to hunger for something so close, yet forever out of reach–to see it, to touch it, but never truly possess it. And that hunger, cruel and relentless, consumed him still. 

The halls of Maegor’s Holdfast were eerily silent, the kind of stillness that clung to the air in the late hours of the night. Only the guards, vigilant but distant, patrolled the edges of the keep, their armor whispering softly as they passed. Aemond moved through the corridors with a slow, deliberate pace, his every step heavy with the weight of the day’s tensions. His muscles were coiled tight, as if they might snap at any moment, while an undercurrent of agitation simmered beneath his skin, restless and prickling.

A dull, persistent ache had settled deep within his skull, lodged behind the sapphire that now filled the space where his eye had once been. The pain was sharp, cold, like a shard of ice driven into his empty socket behind the sapphire, jolting with every slight movement. 

It wasn’t unfamiliar–it had been with him ever since that night when his eye was taken, a constant companion that haunted him. But since Lucerys Velaryon had been torn from the sky, since his vengeful will had fulfilled itself, the ache had intensified, as if the act itself had deepened the wound, embedding the pain even further into his bones. 

It gnawed at him, needling at his nerves, fraying them bit by bit. He had tried to dull it–to numb himself against the pain. Milk-of-the-poppy offered little relief but blunting the ache, and sleep, when it came, was fitful and muddled. 

As Aemond continued down the empty halls, the cold silence only intensified the throbbing in his skull, each step reminding him of the pain. He clenched his jaw, his breath measured but tight, as if he could force the ache away by sheer will alone. But the pain remained, just as it always did, clinging to him like an unwanted shadow.

Aemond stepped into the chambers he shared with Daenera, the soft creak of the door breaking the stillness as it swung open. The sitting room lay shrouded in shadow, the darkness thick and heavy, broken only by the faint glow spilling from the archway that led into the bedchamber. Soft, dim light filtered through the small ornate holes in the screen that separated the two rooms, casting delicate patterns on the stone floor. 

The once tidy space had become cluttered, the floor now strewn with chests overflowing with fabrics, their lids half-open, as if the attempt at organizing had been abandoned. A narrow path had been cleared, winding through the disarray toward the bedchamber. Scattered across tables and shelves were books and trinkets, remnants of their wedding–gifts from nobles, each piece laden with more meaning than sentiment. 

Aemond moved through the room with a sense of detachment, his gaze briefly sweeping over the chaos but finding no reason to care. The weight of the day still pressed heavily upon him and the familiar ache behind his sapphire eye pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat. 

His gaze lifted towards the lattice screen, catching fleeting glimpses of movement within the bedchamber beyond. His pulse quickened as he neared the archway, the soft glow of flickering candlelight spilling into the sitting room. He moved slowly, deliberately, stepping into the dim light until he stood in the archway, his attention immediately drawn to her. 

There she sat, Daenera, her back turned to him, the silhouette of her form wrapped in a deep velvet robe he had commissioned specifically for her. The rich fabric cascaded around her like blood-drenched velvet. Intricately embroidered along the fabric were golden dragons, their serpentine forms woven in exquisite detail–a deliberate reminder of her mother’s dragon, something to remind her of her family and home, even if it warred against his own possessive nature.

Aemond’s desire for her to feel at home here–with him–was a constant struggle. He wanted this place, these chambers, to be hers, to be the sanctuary where she belonged. He longed for her to see this as her home, as he did, and not just a gilded cage in which she had been placed.

But still, he had chosen those dragons, knowing they might soothe some part of her that still longed for the past, even if it went against his deepest instincts. Even if it stoked the jealousy that quietly simmered inside him.

He had known she would refuse it if it had come from his hands, and so, he had asked Helaena to deliver it. 

Now, seeing her wrapped in the robe, the golden dragons gleaming faintly in the dim candle light, his chest tightened, the familiar ache in his heart intensifying. A part of him swelled with something almost like pride–with dark satisfaction–at the sight of her wearing it, it settled deep in his stomach, burning. 

His sister, Helaena, stood to one side, her hands working with the same quiet grace she always possessed. She glanced over her shoulder as Aemond appeared, offering him a gentle smile, a fleeting touch of warmth in her otherwise dreamlike demeanor, before turning her attention back to her task–gently drawing a brush through Daenera’s hair. 

On the other side stood the girl, Edelin, her movements quick and efficient as she worked through the long tresses with practiced care. She offered him a bow of acknowledgement, though he barely registered it, his focus locked entirely on Daenera. 

Aemond stood silently in the archway, watching her for a long moment. His eye traced the lines of her face through the reflection in the mirror. Her gaze remained downcast, her eyes deliberately avoiding his, a silent refusal that had been her quiet defiance throughout the day–ever since his return from Storm’s End. Each time she denied him, each time she refused to meet his gaze, it needled beneath his skin like a barbed thorn. 

The tension within him tightened further, his frustration growing with each second of her silent dismissal.  He barely acknowledged their presence as he strode further into the room, his gaze distant and his thoughts on her. The weight of the day bore down on him still, an invisible pressure that seemed to settle into his bones, making each step feel laborious. His hands rose to unfasten the belt at his waist, his long fingers deftly working the clasps with practiced ease. 

A restless impatience gnawed at him, an itch beneath his skin that he couldn’t quite shake. He wanted to be alone with his wife, finally, after days of strained separation and distance. The mere thought of it made his muscles tense with anticipation. Yet, even as that desire swelled within him, something heavier lingered beneath the surface–a sense of apprehension, quiet but persistent. 

He could already feel the tension simmering between them, a weight that had settled in the air. He knew it was there, waiting for him, just as surely as he knew what had caused it. Even in this moment of privacy, it felt as though they were standing on the edge of a precipice, ready to fall into yet another silent battle. 

He moved with the deliberate, restrained grace of a man accustomed to concealing his true emotions, but even now, the effort seemed heavier than usual. His muscles ached with the strain of holding himself back, and the hollow ache behind his sapphire eye pulsed with every heartbeat. 

Without a word, he shrugged off the belt and let it fall into his hands. The presence of the others in the room was insignificant to him at that moment. All that mattered was the oppressive silence between him and Daenera, her deliberate avoidance of his gaze gnawing at his patients, fraying the edges of his already brittle composure. 

The tension was palpable, like a storm waiting to break. 

Aemond caught the soft murmur of Daenera’s voice, her words quiet yet clear as she addressed her lady-in-waiting. “Thank you, Edelin. That will be all. Please inform the kitchens of my preferences for breakfast.”

The girl responded with a nod. “Yes, Princess.”

Out of the corner of his remaining eye, Aemond noticed Edelin glance towards him, her head dipping in a small, respectful nod. He, however, made no effort to acknowledge her, his expression unmoved as he silently dismissed her presence. Her footsteps quickened as she passed, the soft rustle of her skirts barely audible as she slipped through the archway and out of sight.

Helaena followed Edelin, pausing only for a brief moment. She glanced at Aemond before passing him, her gaze soft with gentle reproach. It was a look only a sister could give–a subtle warning not to push too hard, not to force what was already fragile. Her quiet smile lingered for a moment longer before she turned, her pale green gown whispering softly as she crossed the threshold into the sitting room.

The soft creak of the main doors echoed in the silence, followed by the distinct, final click as they closed. The sound seemed to deepen the quiet, leaving Aemond and Daenera alone in the thick, oppressive stillness of their chambers.

Aemond abandoned the belt of the back of a chair with a careless flick of his wrist, his attention shifting to the laces of his doublet. His fingers moved deftly, pulling at the strings that his mother had fastened for him earlier that day. It was a task he found easier–the laces unraveled more willingly than they tied. The doublet parted easily under his hands, the weight of the thick fabric lifting from his shoulders as he shrugged it off, folding it on the foot of the chaise. 

The shirt beneath clung lightly to his skin, the material much thinner, allowing the cool air to seep through and brush against him. He could feel a slight chill creeping in, but he didn’t mind it. With a sharp, impatient tug, Aemond loosened the lave at the collar, letting it fall open in the familiar way he always did, exposing the pale skin of his collarbone to the cool air. 

He lowered himself onto the chaise, the cushion giving way beneath his weight as he leaned forward to undo his boots. Each motion was deliberate, methodical, though tension rippled beneath the surface of his calm exterior. He could feel her eyes on him–her gaze, heavy and intent, watching his every move. It prickled at his skin, like the sensation of needles poised to break through the surface. 

Though she said nothing, her silent scrutiny hung in the air between them, thick with unspoken words and emotions that neither of them had the will to voice just yet. He knew she was studying him, weighing the tension in his posture, perhaps gauging his mood–waiting for the inevitable storm that seemed to linger on the edge of every moment between them.

Aemond felt the urge to break it, to say something–anything–but no words came to him. Instead, he remained still, unwilling to disturb the fragile peace that hung in the air like a thread about to snap. He could endure the silence if he had to. As long as she was near, as long as she stayed with him, he could bear it, he thought. He could bear it.

Aemond tugged off one boot, setting it aside with a quiet thud before shifting to the other. His fingers moved methodically, loosening the laces as he began to unfasten the second boot, his motions tinged impatience. His gaze lifted, drawing inevitable to her. She sat across the room, a glass of wine clutched in her hand, her slender fingers tightening around the stem. She drank deeply, desperately, the dark red liquid vanishing down her throat as if she sought to drown whatever unrest stirred inside her. 

Aemond swallowed hard, the sight of her drowning her wine with such urgency gnawing at him, like a needle burrowing deep beneath his skin. The very idea that she needed the drink just to tolerate being alone with him twisted something sharp inside him. She drank with an intensity that made it seem as though she were bracing herself, steeling her nerves simply to endure his presence. His jaw tightened, teeth grinding together, but he remained silent, biting his tongue. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her place the empty glass back on her dressing table with a soft clink, her hand lingering on the stem for a moment before she reached for the brush. She began drawing it through her hair, her movements slow and deliberate, as though focusing on the familiar task might somehow soothe her. The long curls rippled beneath the strokes, but even as she tried to smooth them, they frizzed slightly in defiance, each pass of the brush seeming to do little to tame the wildness of her hair.

After pulling off his other boot, Aemond placed it neatly beside the first, his movements slow and deliberate. His gaze was then drawn to her, like a moth to a flame. Her long, curly hair was gathered over one shoulder, exposing the nape of her neck, where small, unruly strands clung delicately to her skin. The sight stirred something deep within him–he remembered the softness of that skin, the feel of it beneath his lips. 

He watched her intently, his gaze tracing the gentle slope of her neck, the fragility of the exposed skin that seemed to beckon him. She ran her fingers through her hair, slowly taming the unruliness, the curls gradually becoming more defined with each stroke. His attention followed every subtle movement, every shift in the way her hair settled, as though memorizing the moment. 

Her expression remained carefully composed, a mask of porcelain coolness that revealed little of what she might be feeling. And yet, he knew. He could sense the storm brewing beneath her still surface, could feel it in the air around them, thick and heavy like the scent of rain before it breaks. 

His gaze traveled down the column of her neck, following the line of her skin until it met the rich red velvet of her robe, which draped over her from. The fabric clung to her, accentuating the curve of her shoulders and waist. His fingers itched with the desire to feel it beneath his hands, to touch her, to erase the distance that seemed to stretch endlessly between them despite their closeness. 

Through the reflection in the mirror, he watched her more closely, saw the flutter of her eyelashes as they almost brushed her cheek, a subtle sign of the emotion she kept so carefully hidden. There was a slight blush beneath her skin, barely noticeable, but it was there–an undeniable warmth. Her full lips parted as she exhaled a soft breath, the gesture small but enough to make his pulse quicken. The restlessness within him grew, the silence between them feeling more suffocating with every passing second, the weight of his unspoken desires and frustrations threatening to spill over.

As if the weight of his gaze had become unbearable, Daenera abruptly rose from her seat, her movements marked by a restless, agitated urgency. The chair creaked slightly in her wake, and her footfalls were soft but hurried as she padded across the floor in her slippers, the sound barely more than a whisper against the stone. She made her way to the water basin with purpose, her tension evident in the sharpness of her movements.

Without a word, she dipped her hands into the cool water, cupping it and splashing it over her face in an attempt to calm herself. The water dripped from her fingers, beading and sliding down her skin before she reached for the cloth nearby, dabbing her face dry with a weary sigh that seemed to echo the exhaustion hanging between them.

When she finished, Daenera folded her arms around herself, as she moved toward the hearth, seeking warmth or perhaps a moment of reprieve. The firelight flickered against her skin, casting shadows that danced along her frame, but even the glow of the flames couldn’t soften the tension that crackled between them like an unseen storm.

Removing his eyepatch, he abandoned the leather piece atop his doublet. It always felt strange removing it, felt as much like exposing his nerves to the cruelty of the world as it did grabbing onto a blade and holding it against the neck of the world. When he had first donned the eyepatch, he had felt it chafe on him, felt it just as much as the loss of his eye–a reminder of it, perhaps because it seemed to agitate the tender flesh surrounding his eye, worsening the pain. But he had grown used to it, learned to bear it as he did the loss of his eye, as he did the pain, use it as a shield, as a mask. It protected him as much as it seemed to ease the world around him–while the ladies of the court had still turned their gazes from him in pity, they were no longer turning it in disgust, in revulsion, and his mother could finally bear to look upon him. 

He removed it now and felt it as though it removed a layer of skin. 

Aemond stood from the chaise, his movements deliberate, tense, as he crossed the room. His steps were soundless over the stone floor as he approached the dressing table where Daenera had been sitting moments before. The faint scent of something earthy lingered in the air–light and nutty, with something sweet added. It clung to the space like an echo of her presence, delicate but undeniable.

Reaching for the abandoned glass, his fingers brushed the cool surface as he lifted it from the table. Without a word, he turned and made his way to the long, narrow table that stood near the sitting area. On it, a silver tray held a pitcher of wine and a set of glasses, their polished surface gleaming in the low firelight. He reached for the pitcher, the rich, deep red wine swirling inside as he tipped it carefully over the glass. The liquid poured smoothly, its color dark as blood against the crystal, filling the glass with a quiet slosh.

He didn’t need the wine. In truth, he didn’t even want it. Aemond despised indulging in it, hated how it dulled the sharpness of his senses, how it blunted the edges of his restraint. But the day had been long–too long–and the steady ache behind his sapphire eye throbbed with a relentless persistence. He took the glass more out of habit than desire, hoping that perhaps, in some way, it might ease the gnawing pain in his socket. 

And more than anything, he hoped the wine might dull the deeper ache–the one that gnawed at him with every glance at her. She was so close, mere steps away, yet felt impossibly distant, just beyond his reach. 

Lifting the glass to his lips, he hesitated for a moment, almost resenting the drink even as he sipped it. The taste was familiar but offered no real comfort. Rarely did he indulge in this much, but today, the weight of everything–of her silence, of his unspoken frustrations, of the mask he wore–had worn him down. 

Still, he hated the feeling of dullness creeping into his thoughts, the sense that the edges of himself were softening when he needed some restraint–some focus. Even with the wine warming his blood, the ache within him remained. 

As Aemond swallowed the wine, its bitter taste momentarily overwhelming his senses, her voice cut through the silence. It came unexpectedly, sharp yet quiet, just as he drew the glass away from his lips. 

“You’re here.”

It was more than just a statement–it carried an edge, almost like an accusation. Her voice was tight as if she were questioning his very presence, as though she had expected something else–as though she expected to be alone. Of course he was here. Where else would he be? It was their wedding night, after all.

Aemond’s response came softly, but beneath it was a thread of weariness that he couldn’t quite suppress. “We have to keep up appearances.”

For a moment, his teeth bared in a flash of frustration before the sneer melted into a resigned grimace. This may have been their official wedding night, but it wasn’t their true wedding night. That had been months ago, under very different circumstances–when they had exchanged blood, cutting their palms and sealing their bond with more than vows. She had kissed his bloody lips, and he had tasted the essence of her, her heart’s blood mingling with his own. They had consummated their marriage not in the cold formality of a bedchamber but before the hearth, lying on a soft blanket, their bodies warmed by the fire’s glow. 

That had been their real wedding, the moment that mattered. Tonight was just a formality, a hollow echo of what they had already claimed. 

He clung to that memory, savoring it like a flame against the chill between them now. 

Her voice cut through his thoughts, sharp and biting. “Appearances… I hope you don’t expect me to welcome you into bed with open arms and spread legs just to ‘keep up appearances.’”

The biting remark sent a fresh wave of frustration surging through Aemond, needling beneath his already frayed nerves. It worsened the simmering anger that burned low in his chest, threatening to ignite. Her defiance, her bitterness–he felt it burrowing beneath his skin, feeding the fire inside him. Yet he said nothing, the weight of his restraint pressing down on him as heavily as the silence that stretched between them. 

“Out there, I may play the part of your wife,” she continued, her voice steady though a bitter edge clung to each word, “but I will not keep up the pretense behind closed doors. 

Aemond let out a silent scoff, a sour bitterness settling on his tongue as her words hit him. He raised the glass to his lips, trying to hide the sneer threatening to pull at the corners of his mouth, and took a long, deliberate drink. The wine slid down his throat, bitter and strong, but not nearly enough to drown out the sting of her words.

What did she think of him? That he would force her to bed? The thought twisted like a knife between his ribs, sharp and bitter. If he had truly wanted to secure the marriage fully, to assert his claim over her against her wishes, he could have allowed the tradition of the bedding ceremony to proceed. He could have stood aside and let his brother and his lecherous friends strip her bare, carrying her to the marriage bed in a public display of humiliation and degradation. But he hadn’t. He had opposed it, not just for her sake, but his own. 

The idea of anyone–least of all Aegon–laying hands on her, seeing her exposed and vulnerable, had ignited something dark and volatile within him. The very thought had kindled a rage so fierce it had nearly burned through his restraint. He had felt it clawing at the walls of his chest, threatening to break free, the beast inside him roaring to life. It had taken every shred of his self-control to keep from striking his brother down at his wedding for the mere suggestion. 

The idea of such force sickened him as much as it pained him to imagine she believed him capable of it. He may bend her will, but he would not break it completely. And he wanted her–but only if she came to him willingly. 

He swallowed both the liquid and her accusations, feeling them burn together in his chest. It wasn’t as though he expected her to keep up the pretense, not when they were alone. He didn’t expect her to warm his bed or fulfill the duties of a wife when they were behind closed doors—he hated the very thought of it. The idea that she would feel forced to play a role, to pretend for him, sickened him. It twisted in his gut, just as her bitterness did, leaving a foul taste in his mouth that even the wine couldn’t wash away.

He despised the pretense as much as she did, perhaps even more, but he couldn’t escape the fact that it clung to them, binding them in ways neither could control.

The wine brought Aemond no comfort. It churned uneasily in his stomach, a bitter warmth that did nothing to soothe the knot of frustration and weariness tightening within him. He set the glass down with a soft chime on the table, its sound almost lost in the crackling of the hearth. His hand reached for the pitcher, pouring another glass, though he knew it wouldn’t ease the turmoil building inside him.

Out there, in public, they both had to pretend. They both wore their masks, painted on with careful precision, maintaining the façade expected of them. But he had hoped–foolishly, perhaps–that when they were alone, they could drop those masks, at least a little. Even if she hated him, even if her words were sharp and her gaze colder still, he had imagined they could find some kind of partnership in their solitude. That they might share a space where they didn’t have to pretend, or at least where they could pretend less.

It was a vain hope, he knew. But in the quiet of their chambers, away from the eyes of the court, Aemond thought they could be something more–something truer. Even if it was built from their bitterness and anger, it would be honest, and that, he thought, would be better than the hollow pretense they both loathed.

“Why?” Her voice was low, almost swallowed by the soft crackle of the hearth, the question slipping into the heavy silence between them.

Aemond exhaled, the sound more resigned than he intended, his muscles tight under everything left unsaid. His gaze flickered towards her but never reached her before he drew it back. 

“Why what?” He asked, though he had a sense of what she meant. Still, he waited for her to say it, to give voice to the question that hung between them like a blade, poised to cut through whatever fragile peace remained in the room. 

The horrors of his actions–of the boy he had killed–crept into his mind, seeping between the stones of the rooms like blood in the mortar. The thought of Lucerys lingered at the edges of his consciousness, a ghostly presence he couldn’t shake, clinging to him like a shadow. His jaw clenched, the tension there spreading down his neck and into his shoulders as the thoughts stirred. 

He didn’t want to discuss her brother–not now, not tonight. 

He almost feared the question stretching in the silence, feared that she would demand an answer he wasn’t ready to give and she couldn’t bear to hear. The thought of facing it–what happened in the sky above Shipbreaker Bay–now, filled him with dread. Would she believe him if he told the truth?

Aemond reached for another glass, his hand steady as he poured the wine. The soft clink of the pitcher as he set it aside punctuated the silence, a subtle sound that seemed louder in the tense stillness. His movements were deliberate, careful, as he picked up both glasses and finally turned to face her. 

She stood before the hearth, the firelight casting a soft glow against her figure. Her arms were wrapped tightly around herself, the long dramatic sleeves of her nightgown spilling out through the long, draping sleeves of the robe he had gifted her. The rich red velvet framed her in a way that made her seem almost otherworldly, a creature of fire and blood. A thick strand of her dark hair fell over one shoulder, while the rest flowed down her back, waving gently in the light. 

She looked beautiful–fragile, delicate, like something that could break with the wrong word or touch. 

Their eyes met, if only for a fleeting moment. Her expression flickered, her eyes widening slightly as though she hadn’t expected him to confront her so directly. But just as quickly, she turned herself away, her gaze shifting back to the fire. 

Aemond watched her intently, his gaze never leaving her as he moved slowly towards her. She lifted a hand to her lips, brushing her fingertips against them as though she needed to feel the weight of the words before giving them life. That simple, thoughtful gesture drew his attention, his eye tracing the path along her long, slender fingers as it grazed her bottom lip. He remembered the softness of them, plump and rosy–sweet, and yet devastatingly ruinous. 

He came to stand beside her, the flickering glow of the hearth casting a soft, golden light over her features. The warmth of the fire curled against his side, a subtle heat that contrasted with the chill lingering between them. His gaze drew over her profile, her eyelashes fluttered, long and dark, as she blinked,the fire’s reflection burning within the cool cornflower blue of her eyes, tracing the gentle slope of her nose, the soft valley of her lips, and the elegant curve of her jaw. Stray curls grazed against the side of her neck, haphazardly tucked behind her ear, framing her face. 

“Why did you insist on this marriage?” Her voice, barely more than a whisper, finally broke the silence, fragile and tentative, as though unsure if this was really what she wanted to ask. 

Aemond stood still for a long moment, his agitation prickling beneath the surface, twisting in his chest like a knot. He clenched his jaw, fighting the rising tide of frustration. 

“You know why,” he answered, his voice quiet but firm. 

A derisive scoff curled at her lips, cruel and biting, as she turned her face back to the fire. The orange glow flickered across her features, casting shifting shadows that accentuated the tension tightening her jaw. It was as if she were chewing on her words, tasting the bitterness of them before they spilled from her. Her long, dark lashes fluttered as she looked away, her gaze shifting upward, then downward, before returning to the fire. She blinked rapidly, as if forcing back the threat of tears. 

Then it came–strained, exasperated. “No.”

Her voice was thick, and her head shook with frustration. “I don’t.”

The denial pierced through him, sharp and unforgiving, lodging deep in his chest like a slow-moving arrowhead, twisting with each breath. It wasn’t just her words; it was the rejection of everything he had done, every word spoken, every gesture that had laid his love bare before her. It was all refused, unacknowledged. He felt the weight of the rejection settle heavily, a wound that festered quietly beneath the surface, a silent rebuke of the love he thought he had made so plain for her to see, and yet, she denied it. 

“I’ve told you before,” Aemond said, his voice weary, the edges softened–wishing to ease her into a truth she already knew. His gaze lingered on her, searching her face for any sign of understanding, of anything that was an acknowledgement of his feelings towards her. His eye latched onto the tears glistening at the corners of her eyes, barely held back. The subtle downward tug of her lips, the way her brows knitted together–signs of the emotional turmoil simmering beneath her calm exterior. 

But before he could say more, she cut him off.

“You want me.” Her words were flung out, sharp and scornful–they sliced through the air, seeking to wound, exposing only the part she wanted to acknowledge, leaving the deeper meaning buried beneath her bitterness. She said it as though his desire for her was something vile, something to be ashamed of, and the sting of the rejection hit him harder than he cared to admit. 

“It is more than that,” Aemond replied, his voice quiet but firm, unwilling to let her reduce everything between them to a single, shallow emotion. 

Daenera let out another derisive scoff, her lips curling in disbelief as she shook her head, her arms tightening around herself like she needed to hold something together. Her jaw clenched and unclenched, as if she were struggling against his words. Stubborn as always, she refused to meet his gaze, her eyes set on the fire. 

And then she spoke, the words harsh and dismissive. “That’s all it is. Desire.”

But Aemond knew better. He could feel it in the way his heart pounded in his chest, in the way the ache gnawed at him whenever she stood just out of reach. As much as she wished to deny it, it was more than mere desire. Yes, it may have started that way–an attraction, a spark of something dangerous and thrilling, like a game they both played. But what had once been a small flame had grown, slowly and persistently, like a creeping vine taking root.

Love had grown, even if neither of them had intended it to. 

Perhaps the seed had always been there, buried beneath the lust and desire, and over time, it had been watered by their shared moments, their connection, until it bloomed into something more. 

But now, it was undeniable, no matter how weak or wretched it made him feel to admit it. 

Her denial was like another arrow piercing him, this time sinking deep into his gut, twisting as it tore through him. His patience, already worn thin, frayed even further. “It is more than that,” he insisted, his voice laced with quiet intensity, his gaze burning into her. “And you know it.”

Aemond extended the glass of wine towards her, a small, bitter consolation–the gesture was tentative, an offering of comfort, even if it felt hollow. 

Her gaze snapped to him, sharp and wary, wide with indignation. For a moment, her eyes flashed with something fierce, searching his face. She seemed to study him intently, tracing the bare planes of his features–the parts of him that were usually so guarded. She’d see the places where the invisible mask he wore had chafed at him, where it had clung to his skin, leaving raw edges now exposed, if only slightly.

He was cautious, though, reluctant to remove the mask completely. Vulnerability was dangerous, and Aemond had never shown it easily. It was something he kept guarded, hidden beneath layers of control and cold detachment. But now, as he stood before her, offering a fragile attempt at connection, he was painfully aware of the sting of her earlier rejection. 

Her disbelief in him had cut deeply, more than he cared to admit–when she had refused to acknowledge his feelings, when she had not believed him about what truly transpired in the skies above Shipbreaker Bay. That moment had lingered like a raw wound, reopening each time she had dared to let his guard slip around her. He had bared himself, had tried to explain the terrible mistake, but she hadn’t believed his words–hadn’t believed him.

It still burned within him, a slow ache somewhere behind the sapphire in his eye socket, where her words had pierced him deeply. He was trying, but the wound was fresh, and he wasn’t ready to bare those soft, fragile parts of himself again–not fully. Not when she looked at him with such scorn. 

Her gaze drifted from his remaining eye to the sapphire embedded in the other socket, her brows knitting together as if she were searching for something buried deep within his stare–as if she saw something within its depths. Her gaze then dropped to the glass of wine he led out for her. 

In an instant, the tension snapped.

With a sudden, violent motion, she slapped the glass from his hand. The wine sloshed over the rim, splashing onto his fingers and soaking the cuff of his sleeve. The force of her strike sent the glass tumbling from his grip, and it shattered against the stone floor at his bare feet. 

The sound of breaking glass rang out, sharp and piercing in the silence, shards exploding across the floor. He felt the wine spilling against his skin, cold and sticky, and the jagged pieces of glass skittered across the stone, some grazing his feet. The smallest of shards threatened to nick the skin, catching the firelight as they spun to a stop, and the bitter scent of the spilled wine filled the air.

Fury blazed in her eyes as she snapped her hand to the other glass, knocking it roughly from his grip. It slipped from his fingers, and in the same motion, she pushed hard against his chest, forcing him back a step. The wine soaked into the fabric of his skirt, the deep stain spreading across the material just moments before the glass shattered against the floor. The sharp, jarring sound echoed through the room, a harsh punctuation to the rage crackling between them.

The crunch of glass grinding beneath the soles of her slippers filled the air as she continued her assault, slapping violently against his chest with a sneer twisting her features. Her strikes were wild, frantic, fueled by the rage she had swallowed throughout the day–throughout the days of compliance. Each push sent him back, but every time she shoved him, Aemond stepped forward again, refusing to retreat. His feet found the shards of broken glass, and he could feel the threat of them biting into his skin, but he remained unmoved.

He accepted her rage. He let her fists pound against him, let the blows land without flinching, like a sinner seeking repentance. He welcomed it–the violence, the scorn, all of it. Her rage was a storm he would weather, her hatred a fire he would endure. Anything was better than the oppressive silence, better than the cold void of her refusing to acknowledge him. He would bear every strike, every bitter word, as long as it meant she was still with him, still within his reach. 

“No, no you don’t get to claim it’s more than that!” Daenera spat, her voice trembling, caught somewhere between fury and anguish. Her eyes burned with unshed tears, her body shaking with the force of her emotions. 

“Daenera…” Aemond murmured her name softly, his voice a gentle plea as he tired to soothe her. But it only seemed to enrage her further, her anger consuming her. She struck at his chest again and again, each blow resonating inside him, though he barely felt it. He absorbed each hit with a quiet reverence, almost as though her touch–violent as it was–was a kind of communion he didn’t deserve. 

“No!” She sneered, her breath ragged and sharp, her voice cracking under the strain. “It’s not more than that–it is not–” Her words faltered, her fury giving away to something more fragile, more vulnerable. The corners of her lips pulled downward, her composure breaking as she choked out, “it is not love! You don’t love me, you can’t. You don’t even know what love is!”

Her words pierced him like arrows, each one embedding itself deep into his gut, his chest, his back. They burrowed into him, unforgiving as they sank deeper, their sharp edges tearing at his insides. Aemond could almost feel the jagged tips twisting with each breath he took, as if the pain were a physical presence, something which he couldn’t escape. 

Aemond had never truly known love–at least, not this kind of love.

It was foreign to him, something he had never witnessed growing up, never felt within the walls of his childhood. Love was not something that thrived in the Red Keep. It had not bloomed in the chambers of his mother and father. Their union had been one of duty and desolation, a cold, barren space where affection had no root. His father had never loved his mother, and though his mother had tried, her love had gone unanswered, leaving only the chill of disappointment and isolation in its wake.

Nor had he seen it in the marriage of his brother and sister. That, too, was a bond forged of duty–a weary, unspoken agreement between two who had no choice in their fate. Aegon and Helaena’s chambers were places of resignation, where love had no room to grow amidst the heavy burden of expectation and the bitter weight of obligation–no love beyond that of siblings. 

Love was a rarity in the Red Keep, a flower that withered before it could even take root in the cold, stone halls. It was not something he had been taught, not something had ever truly witnessed. It was an ideal spoken of in stories, in songs, but never a truth he had known. 

So how could he ever have been expected to understand it now, to recognize it, when all he had known was duty, bitterness, and the hollow echo of unmet desires?

And yet, somehow, he knew. 

This was love–what else could it be? It had to be. Love was a weakness, and oh, how weak it made him for her. He had never wanted it, had tried to deny it, to uproot it from within himself, but no matter how fiercely he tried, he had been powerless against it. It had taken root deep inside him, growing around his heart. 

Was this not love? A weakness that made him bare his soul, that made him strip himself of his armor and lay everything before her, vulnerable and exposed. It was the feeling of pressing the blade into her hand and bearing his neck for her, daring her to strike, and yet hoping she wouldn’t. It was savoring the bite of steel, reveling in its cold caress against his skin. Love was both agony and ecstasy, destruction and devotion.

What was love if not a matching set of bleeding wounds?

And no matter how much this love pained him, how weak it made him feel, he would never let it go–he could never let her go. He couldn’t.

He reached for her, desperate to feel her beneath his hands, to show her how deeply she affected him, how much he needed her. But the moment he moved, she flinched–her lip curled into a sharp sneer, teeth bared in silent warning as though daring him to come closer, threatening to sink them into his wrist if he touched her. Her defiance burned with the same ferocity as a dragon poised to strike, her eyes blazing with a dangerous light. The flames of the hearth danced in the blue of her gaze–a field of cornflowers set ablaze. 

His hand froze, hovering in the space between them, his heart pounding violently in his chest, bludgeoning itself against his ribs. The sting of her rejection hit him like the crack of a whip, fresh and raw on his skin. His throat tightened with the ache of it, hurt that she’d recoil from him, that she’d flinch as though he were a danger to her, as though she feared him. The thought twisted in his gut, the idea that she saw him in the same way she had once seen her husband–as someone who could hurt her. 

It gnawed at him, twisted something bitter inside of him. 

Swallowing hard, Aemond shifted, reaching for her again with the tentative caution of someone approaching a scared animal that might snap its jaws at any moment. His fingers brushed against her cheek, and the contact sent a trail of fire up his arm. Her skin was soft beneath his calloused fingers–the touch was both soothing and tortuous. Slowly, he let his other hand follow, brushing against her other cheek, slipping beneath the wild curls of her hair until his hands cradled her face. 

His thumb traced the curve of her ear, while the tips of his fingers grazed the back of her head, gentle but firm. He held her with a reverence, as if he held something sacred in his hands, something he both longed for and feared losing. 

Her eyes widened slightly, her breath catching sharply as though she had not expected him to come this close, to venture past the barrier of her warning. And yet, despite her defiance, despite the anger that burned in her gaze, she allowed it. She didn’t pull away. 

Her hands found to his wrists, slender fingers curling tightly around them, her nails biting into his skin with enough force to leave a sharp sting in their wake. She held him in place, her grip unyielding, as if she wanted to both push him away and hold him there. 

Aemond’s brows furrowed, his heart twisting painfully in his chest, frustration rippling through him. Couldn’t she see what she had done to him? How deeply she affected him? 

“You’ve poisoned me, don’t you understand?” He rasped, his voice low and raw, thick with the anguish that was admitting to such weakness. He searched her gaze, willing her to understand what he had tried so hard to deny. He had fought against it, buried it deep inside, and refused to acknowledge the hold she had over him. But the truth was undeniable now–she had poisoned him, and her poison was sweet. It was intoxicating, all-consuming, and he had grown dependent on it, on the taste of her lips, the warmth of her touch, the very air she breathed. 

His hunger for her had become insatiable, a constant, gnawing ache that plagued his every waking moment. 

“You’re in my veins,” he breathed, his voice strained with the weight of the admission. His grip tightened just slightly, enough for her to feel the desperation in touch as her hair brushed against his skin. “A poison I can’t purge without bleeding myself dry.”

 He had told her this before–when she sought to leave him, when she had denied the love between them and chosen to return to her family. Back then, he had felt the same desperation, the same ache deep within him. Would she demand he bleed himself dry just to prove his devotion, to prove that he loved her beyond reason?

There was no escape from her, no way to rid himself of this torment without losing everything. She had woven herself into him, and though her touch burned and her words cut, he craved her still–needed her, even if it destroyed him.

Aemond shifted his hold on her, his touch softening as he brushed his thumb over her skin. He felt the subtle shiver that ran through her, a reaction she couldn’t hide, and his heart fluttered in his chest for it. There was a warmth now, creeping into the pit of his stomach, as if her very presence had the power to both soothe and torment him. 

His thumb continued its slow, deliberate caress, lingering against the delicate curve of her cheek, relaying the feel of it to memory. Her pupils dilated ever so slightly, a faint sign that betrayed the depth of tension between them, the pull that neither of them could fully escape even if they wanted to. 

Her gaze flicked down to his lips, just for a moment, and her own parted in a shuddering breath before she tore her eyes away, meeting his once more. He swallowed thickly, his voice hoarse when he spoke again.

“I killed your husband for you,” he rasped, a flash of anger stabbing through him at the memory. His grip tightened just slightly, the thought of that man laying his hands on her twisting something dark inside him. He’d do it again–he’d kill anyone who touched her, anyone who dared to harm her. “For laying his hands on you.” The words came out low, barely restrained, his chest tight with the intensity of it. “I’ve spilled blood for you.”

His thumb brushed softly against her cheek, softer this time, pleading with her to understand, to see how far he was willing to go. He would spill enough blood to drown the world if it meant keeping her safe, if it meant she was his. 

The tenderness of his touch contradicted the violence of his words, his need for her tangled with the desperation to protect her, to claim her, to make her see how much he loved her. 

“I cut my palm for you,” Aemond murmured softly, his voice barely above a whisper as his thumb brushed down to her lips. His hold on her shifted, fingers cradling her face more gently now, his thumb tracing the soft curve of her lips. Her breath, warm and trembling, curled against his skin as her lips parted beneath his touch, pliant yet resistant. He tugged gently at the plump flesh, the temptation to taste their sweetness nearly overwhelming him, the need to close the distance growing unbearable. 

But he held it back.

“I bleed for you,” he rasped. His gaze burned into hers, filled with a desperate need for her to see the depths of his fervor. He had bared his soul, had laid everything before her, bleeding out his vulnerability, his love, in ways he had never known he could.

And yet, despite the hunger that gnawed at him, despite the overwhelming desire to close the distance between them, to taste her and claim her, he waited, hovering on the edge, waiting for her to see–waiting for her to understand.

Aemond tilted his head slightly, his gaze never leaving her face as he searched her expression. The inner corners of her brows lifted, her expression softening into something that looked almost pained. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, a sheen of emotions she fought to swallow down. Her bottom lip trembled slightly before she pressed it together, her resolve hardening. Her nails bit into the skin of his wrists, the sting sharp, promising to leave behind crescent-shaped marks as her grip tightened. 

His voice was soft, almost a whisper, as he spoke again. 

“I have you my vows, ñuha jorrāelagon,” he murmured, the endearment slipping from his lips like a caress. 

His hands cradled her face gently, his thumbs brushing against her cheeks, wiping away the tears that hovered on the brink but had yet to fall. He could feel the tension in her body, the way she fought against his words, resisting them with everything she had. 

Her scorn burned against his skin, but he welcomed it, feeling it as sharply as he felt the breath between them, hanging in the small space that separated their lips. It was as though her every breath was a reflection of his own, the closeness between them warming him more fervently than the dying fire in the hearth. 

“You are my wife,” Aemond murmured, his voice soft but insistent, as he shifted his grip, pulling her closer, closing the space between them. Her fingers tightened around his wrists, her nails scraping across his skin, leaving faint lines in their wake–the sting sharp, as though burning a trail of fire across his skin. 

He could feel the slickness of her palms against him, the tension in her body as she leaned back, trying to maintain the distance between them. But despite her resistance, despite her fragile reluctance, her feet betrayed her, inching closer, the soles of her slippers scraping the broken glass across the stone floor as she moved towards him.

Her gown brushed against his chest, the delicate frills grazing his shirt, a teasing reminder of just how close she was. The heat radiating from her seeped through the fabric, warming him in a way that made his pulse quicken.

Aemond let one hand slip further behind the dark curtain of her hair, his fingers gently tracing the nape of her neck, brushing against the curls that framed her skull. His touch sent a shiver through her body, and he could feel the hairs on her skin rise in response, betraying her reaction to him. 

“You are mine,” he whispered, his voice low, a quiet, possessive hum that reverberated in the small space between them. He held her close, so close that he could feel the steady rhythm of her breath, the rise and fall of her chest brushing against his own. The familiar scent of spilled wine and burning wood that had filled the air was now overwhelmed by something far more intoxicating–her.

The earthy fragrance of her hair, sweet and nutty, mingled with the heady aroma of flowers, like roses and something richter, more decadent. It flooded his senses, clouding his thoughts, making it harder to keep control. The desire to close the distance, to lean forward and capture her lips, surged within him, a hunger he fought to restrain. His pulse thrummed, his heart hammering as he felt her heat radiate through the fabric of his shirt, seeping into him. 

The wine he had drunk throughout the evening churned warmly in his stomach, coursing through his veins like fire. It dulled the sharp edges of his restraint, blurring the lines between reason and desire, making it harder to think clearly. His focus narrowed entirely on her–the softness of her skin beneath his fingers, the scent of her surrendering him, filling his lungs, the warmth of her so close and yet still not close enough. 

He wanted nothing more than to give in, to lose himself in her touch, her kiss, her very presence. But still, he held back, his hands lingering, waiting, even as the pull between them grew unbearable. 

“That isn’t love,” Daenera spat, her voice trembling, thick with something sharp and raw that Aemond couldn’t quite place but which burrowed beneath his skin, needling at him with every word. Her grip on his wrists shifted, nails digging deeper into his flesh with all the force she could muster.

“Was it love,” she continued mercilessly, “when you chased my brother through the sky?”

Her words hit him like fresh arrowheads, lodging deep within him, each one striking a different wound. The bitterness churned in his stomach, twisting like a blade, and for a moment, the familiar ache in the hollow of his eye socket flared, sharp and cold, stabbing through his skull with prevision. His scar burned, aching with the memory that refused to leave him. 

“Was it love,” she sneered, lips curling downward as she bared her teeth at him, “when you murdered him?” The accusation dripped with venom, burrowing deeper into him. “When you forced me into this marriage?”

Aemond’s jaw clenched, the anger and frustration rising within him. He leaned back slightly, his gaze hardening as he stared down at her, the eight of her words pressing against him like a suffocating fog. 

“You married me willingly,” he ground out, his voice tight, fighting against the storm inside him. “You cut your palm as I did mine–we shared our blood, and we bear the same scars.” 

His tone was firm, unyielding, though beneath it, there was something more–a plea, a need for her to remember, to see that their union was not just forged in violence but in something deeper. The blood they had spilled together, her husbands and their own, bound them in ways she could not deny–no matter how much she might try to.

Yet, the sting of her accusations lingered, twisting the arrowheads she had loosened upon him. 

Aemond lifted his hand from her face, revealing the pink scar that slashed across his weathered palm, a reminder of the vows they had shared. The scar stood out against the pale skin, a mark etched in blood, forever binding them to one another. He held his hand there for a moment, allowing her gaze to fall on the scar, to remember what it symbolized–what they had both done willingly. 

After a brief pause, his hand moved again, sliding back to her face with a firm but gentle insistence. His fingers curled around her cheek, cradling her as something precious, even in the midst of their storm. His thumb brushed slowly over her skin, the soft caress at odds with the tension crackling between them, as he tilted her head back to force her to meet his gaze directly. 

“You chose to become my wife.”

He hadn’t forced the cold dragonglass arrowhead into her palm that night, hadn’t made it bite into her flesh until her blood spilled freely. He hadn’t coerced her to trace the ancient glyphs on his brow, or to utter the binding vows that would forever tie their fates together. She had done so willingly, her voice steady as she recited each word, her hand unwavering as she drew the symbols that sealed their union.

And he had not forced her to taste his blood, to drink the crimson drop from the gash in his palm that had mingled with her own. Nor had he compelled her into their bed afterward, to consummate what had already been forged in blood and ritual.

They had both known what it meant, even then, even if they hadn’t spoken it aloud–an invisible thread that tied them together, bound in blood and scarred flesh. 

She had chosen to become his wife. The scar on her hand, like his, was a testament to that choice.

“You were mine from the moment you made that choice,” Aemond continued, his voice soft but filled with an undeniable intensity. He needed her to remember it as clearly as he did, needed her to acknowledge it, to accept what they both knew deep down. His thumb brushed against her cheek again, gentler now, as though trying to coax the memory from her.

“And you loved me then,” he added, voice barely a whisper, gaze searching hers desperately for recognition. “I know you did.”

He believed it–needed to believe it. And he needed her to admit it too.

“I was a fool,” Daenera muttered, tugging lightly at his wrists. 

The subtle movement felt like a shift in the world, as though she was slipping through his fingers like smoke. Aemond’s heart twisted, panic blooming in his chest as he felt her fading from him–like a mirage, a dream eroded by the harsh light of day. She had haunted him, consumed him, and now she was slipping away. Desperation clawed at him, tightening his grip as if holding her would make her real, keep her tangible beneath his hands. 

“I was a fool to think you were capable of love,” she continued, her voice low and laced with a biting edge that cut through him like a blade. “But you’re not. You don’t even know what love is–how could you? You don’t have a heart.”

Her words tore into him, deep and raw, like old wounds being reopened. Aemond stood frozen, his grip tightening as though he could hold her in place, keep her from drifting away with the harshness of her words. The echo of her accusations reverberated in his mind, words like venomous barbs sinking deeper into his soul: You have ruined her. Your heart is even blacker than I thought. You are a plague sent to destroy me.

If he could rid himself of his heart, if he could tear the weakness from his chest and be free of the unbearable weight of it, he would. If becoming invincible, untouchable, meant being free from this torment, he would do it, he thought. But deep down, he knew the truth–his heart was bound to her. The moment he severed it, the moment he tore himself free of its burden, he would lose her forever. 

Her accusations pierced him, but the thought of losing her–the only person who had ever truly made him feel–gnawed at him even more fiercely. 

Without her, he would be nothing but a hollow shell, an empty vessel of power, invulnerable but utterly alone. The desperation to keep her there, real and present, throbbed through him with every pulse of his wretched, bleeding heart.

Your heart is even blacker than I thought. His fathers words echoed in his mind, cruel and unrelenting. Indeed, his heart was black–black with rot, festering within his chest, pumping out nothing but bitterness and venom. And yet, it was still there, was it not? Beating wretchedly, thumping with wounds and weakness, a grotesque thing in all its decay and ruin.

Aemond twisted his wrist free from her grasp, her nails scraping bitterly across his skin, leaving behind more trails of red, the burn of her touch stinging in their wake. The pain barely registered, overshadowed by the greater ache she’d lodged in his chest with her words. He released his hold on her, but only to firmly grip her hand. He could feel the delicate bones beneath her skin shift, the soft lines of her long, lithe fingers trembling slightly as she brought her palm to his chest. 

He pressed it there, firmly, holding her hand against the rapid, uneven thrum of his heart. He covered her hand in his, caging it against his chest as though he could force her to feel what he felt–force her to acknowledge that his heart, black as it was, was there, beating for her.  

“Can you not feel the beat of my heart?” Aemond asked, his voice low, as he dipped his head closer to hers, his gaze remaining intently locked with hers. He refused to let her escape it, to look away and deny him once again. The press of her palm against his chest burned–it was as if her touch was searing through him, branding itself upon his flesh. 

Even with the undeniable thrum of his heart beating beneath her hand, she resisted. He could feel the tension in her fingertips the way her nails grazed his skin, curling in a futile attempt to dig deeper, to hold onto her anger. But her anger seemed to falter, slipping away as her fingers trembled against him, unable to find purchase in the very thing she sought to deny. She could feel it–she had to–but still, she tried to reject it. 

“Black though it may be,” he continued softly, thumb moving gently along the curve of her jaw. He tilted his head slightly as he regarded her, expression softening. “Wretched with sin and monstrous as it is, it belongs to you. My heart is yours.”

It is there, beneath all the ruin and decay. It is yours. You make it beat.

The words burned on Aemond’s tongue, tasting of weakness and something he loathed to admit–and still here he was, admitting it. They felt pathetic, soft, an admission that stripped away the hardened exterior he clung to so fiercely. He despised how she made him feel–frivolous, poetic, vulnerable, and romantic in ways that grated at him. Yet, despite his hatred of it, she drew the words from him, pulling them out like a confession he was desperate for her to hear. Desperate for her to accept. 

But her reaction cut through him, twisting a blade into his gut. 

“I do not want it!” She sneered, her voice trembling, the edge of her vision blurred with unshed tears. Her nails dug deeper into his chest, as if trying to claw away the love he had laid bare before her. 

“And I do not believe it,” she spat, her voice tight, the words strangled by the tension that thrummed between them, and with a sudden burst of defiance, she wrenched her hand free from his grip, pushing back against him. Her voice rose, sharp and scathing, her eyes burning with anger and disbelief. “This love you claim, it is not love. It is possession. It is desire. You want to claim me like you did a dragon, like something you can own,” she continued, her voice trembling. “You want me–you desire me. That’s all this is–lust, a desire to possess, nothing more. It has always been that. And that’s why you insist on this marriage, to claim me as yours.”

Aemond stood there, staring at her, the words sinking like talons seeking to tear him apart. Anger and frustration flared within his chest, bitterness swirling in his stomach like a corrosive poison–not the poison he wanted to be drunk upon. Why couldn’t she see? Yes, he desired her. Yes, he wanted her, wanted to claim her, to possess her. He had never denied that. But why was that so wrong?

His hand tightened into a fist at his side, the tension coiling through his body like a spring ready to snap. Had he not just exposed his heart to her? Bared a vulnerable, fragile part of himself, laying it at her feet? He had shown her more of himself than he had ever shown anyone, had admitted the love he had struggled to understand, the love that twisted so painfully around his desire for her. 

“What you want is for me to warm your bed,” Daenera continued, her voice biting, her nails digging into the flesh of his other wrist. The sting was there, sharp against his skin, but Aemond hardly felt it anymore–her words cut deeper. “What you want is for me to spread my legs for you and welcome you back into the heat of my cunt.”

Her words sent a shudder down his spine, the accusation settling in the pit of his stomach like wildfire. His blood seemed to ignite, a sharp wave of heat coursing through him, twisting the desire that had always simmered beneath the surface into something more volatile, something far more dangerous. The fire she stirred in him, though she spat her accusations with venom, only blazed hotter.

“What you want,” She continued, her voice trembling with fury and something more fragile, “is for me to forget what you’ve done–forgive you for it, and pretend it never happened. So that you can pretend you’re not the monster you are. So you can fool yourself into thinking you’re human, that your hands aren’t dripping with my brother’s blood. So we can play husband and wife, and you can fuck me like nothing has changed.”

Her words landed on him like fresh wounds, each one tracing over the previous wounds she had lathered him with. The ache within the hollow of his missing eye flared, a sharp, stabbing pain that throbbed with every word she uttered.

But then her hand moved, and his breath hitched, not just in shock but in something far darker–desire. Her fingers grazed his thigh, confidently, before slipping up to cup him through his trousers, her touch brushing against his half-erect cock. 

He had been like that since he entered their chambers, a tight coil at the bottom of his stomach. The fire there flared, fierce and consuming, as her touch muddled his mind, clouding everything else. He clenched his teeth, a sharp hiss escaping his lips as arousal surged through his veins. A shudder rolled down his spine, his control fraying as her hand lingered there, toying with him–reigniting the hunger that had never really left him. 

Her touch, her words–both tore at him in different ways, and yet he wanted her still, desperately. 

He caught it then–her gaze flickering down to his lips–and a fluttering stirred in his chest. His heart hammered as his breath hitched, his lips parting as he released a ragged, shuddering exhale. Her hand moved slowly, deliberately, palm pressing down against him, stroking him. The heat of her touch seeped through the fabric of his trousers, branding him with her warmth. Beneath her hand, he grew harder, more needy, each stroke sending a pulse of desire that coiled deep within him. 

He had missed her touch–longed for it in the night.

Her lips parted too, and Aemond’s sole focus narrowed to the sight of them, the temptation of her so close. His own lips ached with the need to close the distance, to claim hers and swallow her breath, to taste the sweet poison he knew lingered there. He craved her, craved the intoxication she offered, the way she could unravel him with just a touch. 

“This is what you want, isn’t it?” She drawled, her voice dropping into something lower, smoother, the words curling around him like a seductive caress. Her gaze lifted to meet his, eyes gleaming. 

Her hand continued its slow, maddening movement, and he could barely think past the need she stirred in him, and her name slipped past his lips like a prayer, filled with quiet reverence. “Daenera…”

There was a warning woven into it, subtle but undeniable, warning her that she was getting too close–tugging at his strings, unraveling the carefully maintained control that held him back. 

His grip on the side of her head tightened slightly, not with force but with a tender, possessive need. His thumb brushed just below the curve of her jaw, the soft skin beneath his calloused fingers warm to his touch. He could feel the rapid flutter of her pulse beneath his thumb as he tilted her head upward, guiding her to look at him. The tension between them crackled in the air, heavy and thick, as though the room itself held its breath. 

Aemond’s gaze dropped to her lips, and he felt the ache in his chest intensify. Her lips were like rose petals, soft and red, delicate yet tempting. He was utterly captivated by them, by the thought of pressing his own against them, tasting their warmth. Temptation gnawed at him, his body trembling with the effort it took to hold back–to not take what wasn’t freely given. He could feel her breath, warm and shallow, mingling with his own, filling his lungs as he drew in a breath. 

Her hand slid deliberately up the bulge in his trousers, adding just enough pressure to send a flutter through his eyelid, his breath stuttering in response. She moved slowly, teasingly, dragging her palm further and further upward until she abandoned the bulge entirely. The sudden loss of pressure left a sharp ache in its wake, his cock straining painfully against the fabric, throbbing with need. 

The heat of her touch burned against him as her fingers grazed his bare skin, slipping beneath the soaked fabric of his shirt, trailing a searing path along his stomach as she moved downward, inching closer to where he ached for her the most. Her touch was deliberate, slow, teasing in a way that made his muscles flex, the anticipation making every second stretch. 

When her fingers finally brushed the waist of his trousers, Aemond felt a surge of heat course through him, his breath hitching as she neared the edge of his restraint. His cock throbbed harder, aching for her touch, every nerve on edge as she grazed the head of it. His response was immediate, a low, shuddering breath escaping him as he fought to keep control. His body wanted to move, to roll his hips into her touch, to give into the desire she was deliberately–cruelly–stirring within him. 

But he forced himself to remain still, every muscle tight and coles, the tension humming through him like a taut string ready to snap. Her fingers curled around his cock, and he felt himself twitch at her touch, the sensation sending another jolt of arousal through him. 

Aemond’s free hand shot to her wrist, his fingers curling around it with just enough pressure to keep hold of her, though neither guiding her nor pulling her away. He just held her, feeling her pulse beneath his fingers as they pressed into her skin.

The soft tickle of her hair at the nape of her neck brushed against his fingers where he still held her, a delicate sensation that seemed almost at odds with the fire coursing through his veins. He caressed her there, his touch gentle, loving. He needed the grounding, something to focus on besides the way her hand moved up and down the length of his cock, her warm palm sending pulses of pleasure through him with every stroke. 

She held his gaze defiantly, her eyes locked onto his as she continued to stroke him with deliberate slowness, each movement calculated–meant to make him tremble. His breath grew more ragged with each passing moment, each drag and squeeze of her hand. He watched her in return, captivated by the slight flush that colored her cheeks, the way her eyelashes fluttered when her gaze dropped to his lips, then lower, lingering on his throat as he swallowed thickly, before lifting back to his eye. 

His own gaze traveled downward, following the line of her throat to the vein that pulsed just beneath her skin, the sight of it stirring something primal within him. The gentle curls that framed her face seemed to tickle against her neck, drawing his attention to the collarbones that peeked from beneath the wide neck of her clothes.

The robe she wore was tied at her waist, its neckline exposing less than the nightgown she wore beneath it–the frills that peeked out beneath the robes neckline hinted at the presence of the nightgown beneath, hinted at more exposed flesh. Still, the robe revealed the gentle curve of her chest, the subtle swell of flesh that teased him from behind the fabric, hinting at more than it revealed. 

Her hand twisted at the head of his cock, the sensation sending a jolt of pleasure through him. A low hum escaped his chest, his breath catching as the sound hung in the air between them. His fingers curled into her chair as she clung to the fragile thread of control he had left, every part of him aching with the need to close the distance, to taste her, to claim her. Yet he held back, watching her as she continued, knowing he was on the verge of unraveling completely. 

Aemond’s grip tightened, pulling her closer as if by doing so, he could make her feel the intensity of what she stirred within him. His need for her, raw and overwhelming, pulsed through every fiber of his being. A low, frustrated rumble escaped his throat as her thumb tranced the sensitive vein running along the underside of his cock, the pressure making his breath catch. 

His forehead dropped to hers, his nose brushing lightly against her skin as he nuzzled against her, seeking some semblance of comfort in her closeness. A low moan escaped his lips, ragged and desperate, his voice coming out in a raspy, broken drawl. “What do you want from me?”

For a moment, her hand stilled, fingers wrapped around his throbbing cock, holding him in place as she seemed to pause, her brows furrowing slightly. Her eyes flickered back and forth, as if weighing something heavy in her mind. Then, a subtle shift came over her, and Aemond saw something dark and alluring settle in the blue of her gaze. It was a look that sent a shiver down his spine and made the coil in his stomach draw tighter. 

“I want you to kneel.”

Aemond leaned back slightly as he regarded her, watching her intently, measuring her words. The heat of her hand remained around him, the sensation of her touch, so close yet unmoving, sent a shiver through him. The soft tickle of her hair brushed against his fingers as he caressed the side of her neck, feeling the delicate thrum of her pulse beneath his touch. She met his gaze with equal intensity–challenging him and his pride. 

He tugged gently at her wrist, pulling her hand out of his trousers, dragging it slowly up the length of his throbbing cock. His breath hitched in his throat, feeling the heat of her touch, every inch of her fingers pressing against him, sending sparks of pleasure through his body. His jaw tightened as her fingers grazed him one final time before slipping away entirely, leaving him aching for more, his cock straining beneath the fabric, twitching desperately for her touch again. 

And then, without a word, Aemond lowered himself before her. His descent was slow, purposeful as he sank to his knees. His gaze remained on her–unflinching, unwilling to let her escape the moment. The act of lowering himself, of bending the knee before her–to her–should have chafed at his pride, should have made him feel small and diminished, but it didn’t. 

Instead, it felt like an offering–an act of devotion. 

Lowering himself before her felt like a sacred act, as though he were kneeling before an altar in reverence to a god.

As his knees touched the cold, unforgiving stone of the floor, shards of broken glass dug into his skin with bruising force, threatening to tear through the fabric of his trousers and embed themselves in his flesh. How fitting, he thought, to worship her with bruises and blood–a sinner seeking absolution at the altar of her will.

Aemond had never been allowed to be holy–he was born with a hunger gnawing at him, a need that no one ever forgave him for. He had never been pardoned for wanting, for desiring more than what was handed to him. But no matter how he tried, he could never stop himself from wanting. And now, as he knelt before her, gazing up at her with the same insatiable hunger, the want tore through him, gnawing at his soul. 

She stood above him, her figure bathed in the flickering glow of the dying fire, the flames painting her into something both beautiful and terrible. She was a vision–something to be worshiped, something to be feared. The light danced over her skin, casting shadows that made her seem untouchable, and yet, Aemond ached for her–felt the need to reach for her itch at his fingertips. 

He was no closer to the divine than the baser man, and yet, on his knees in front of her, there was divinity.

His nose was level with her navel, mere inches away from her. 

The proximity made the air between them feel thick, suffocating, every breath he took was filled with the scent of her. It flooded his lungs, making his mouth water, drowning him in a wave of desire so strong he could scarcely think.

He could smell the sweet, intoxicating scent of the flowers on her skin–roses and that elusive something, richer and darker. Beneath that fragrance, though, was something more primal, something raw–the scent of her, the subtle yet unmistakable fragrance that betrayed her own desire for him.  

It filled him, made his cock strain painfully against the tight fabric of his trousers, pulsating with a desperate need for her. The ache had grown unbearable, a sharp, constant throb that demanded relief. His hand slid from his thigh, pressing against the bulge in his trousers, shifting his cock in a futile attempt to ease the mounting pressure. The angle had become uncomfortable, almost painful, and as he adjusted himself, pressing his palm harder into the fabric, a soft hiss of pleasure escaped his lips. 

His gaze never left her as he traced the gentle planes of her face, his eye roaming over the delicate flush in her cheeks, the way her lips were slightly parted as her breath came quick and shallow. He lingered there for a moment, captivated by the subtle beauty of her features bathed in the flickering light of the fire, before his attention ventured further down. 

His eyes drank in the pale skin of her neck, framed by curls that grazed her skin with each small movement, delicate and teasing. His gaze followed the curve of her collarbones, etched out in the shifting shadows, rising and falling softly with each of her breaths. The exposed skin of her chest beckoned him, alluding to the body that had haunted his nights, a sweet torment that filled his mind with images of her pressed against him, her kisses burning his skin, her body writhing beneath him, her cunt fluttering around him as she reached the edge of her pleasure. 

He swallowed hard, his breath quickening as his gaze fell lower, settling on the tie that held the robe together. It was the only thing keeping him from revealing more of her, from exposing the body he so desperately craved. His fingers twitched with the urge to untie her, to strip her of the fabric that stood between them.

Tentatively, Aemond reached for her, fingers parting the robe to grant him entry beneath it, the soft fabric caressing his wrist. As his fingers grazed the delicate skin of her ankle, his gaze lifted to meet hers. She stared down at him, unmoving, but not pulling away. He felt her release a slow breath, her chest rising and falling in a way that made his heart tighten. 

With measured confidence, his other hand found her other ankle, slipping beneath the hem of her nightgown. His fingertips grazed her skin as they traveled upward, exploring not only the smoothness of her legs but the boundaries of her resolve. Gooseflesh rose beneath his touch as he inched further up her calves, her body responding to the soft, delicate caresses. 

As he reached her knees, his breath caught in his throat, the fabric of her nightgown draping over his forearms like a delicate curtain as he drew his hands even further up. His fingers spread, kneading the soft flesh of her thighs, reveling in the way her body reacted to his touch. She was warm, pliant, her muscles tensing under his fingers. 

Wetting his lips, Aemond shifted closer, the scrape of shards of glass sounding beneath him as they shifted under his weight, burrowing deeper into his skin. The sharp edges bit into him, but he hardly noticed the pain. It was insignificant at the moment. 

With a deliberate breath, he closed his eye, letting his head fall forward in a gesture of reverence, pressing his forehead against her stomach. The warmth of her body seeped through the fabric of her nightgown and robe, filling him with a sense of closeness that both soothed and tortured him. His breath hitched as he inhaled deeply, her scent–earthy and floral, mingling with was uniquely her–flooding his senses. 

For a moment, he stayed like that, unmoving, as though seeking some kind of absolution in the simple act of resting his head against her. His hands, still cradling her thighs, squeezed gently, as if grounding himself in her, feeling the rise and fall of her abdomen with each breath she took. His lips parted, a soft exhale escaping him, almost a sign of surrender, as the weight of everything–the want, the worship, the hunger–settled over him. 

Aemond was no longer the fierce, unyielding prince. In this moment, at her feet, he was something else entirely. He was raw, open, vulnerable.

And he was hers. 

His heart thundered in his chest, the rapid beats crashing against his ribs, each pulse so fierce it felt as though his very bones might crack under the strain, as if it were trying to break free–to tear through flesh and bone and throw itself at her feet. Would she understand him then? Would she see the mangled, raw truth of it, the ruined, blackened thing that still beat so desperately for her? He could almost imagine it, his heart laid bare before her–broken and wretched, throbbing with a devotion he could never fully articulate. 

Would she accept it? Would she even care for the offering? The gnawing ache inside him deepened, twisting and curling into something hungry, something relentless. This wasn’t just desire–it was a need that corroded his insides, leaving him weak, hollow, exposed. It was love, or what remained of it after everything he had done. Love that had reduced him to this–a man brought to his knees, consumed by the weight of wanting her in a way that felt both unbearable and utterly inescapable. 

His love for her was a sickness, a gnawing ache that clawed at his every thought, every breath, a feeling that stripped him down to the rawest, most pathetic part of himself. And despite how it festered inside him, he still wanted her to see it, to see him as he was–ruined and yet wholly hers. 

Lost in the feeling of her, there was nothing else for Aemond but her presence, her warmth, her scent. He nuzzled his head against her abdomen, the simple touch filling him with a sense of reverence that bordered on desperation. 

The scent of her was intoxicating, making his mouth water with desire as he inhaled deeply, wanting to drown in her essence. His fingers traveled higher, grazing over the soft skin of her thighs before reaching back, where he squeezed the supple flesh. His fingertips brushed against something slick–her arousal. 

Warmth filled his stomach, but before he could revel in it any further, he felt her shift. Her fingers slipped through his hair, her nails scraping deliciously over his scalp. For a moment it felt like a caress, until her grip tightened, and suddenly, with a forceful yank, she pulled his head back. His neck strained with the movement, the muscles in his thighs and abdomen flexing instinctively to keep him from losing balance. 

His breath hitched, pulse quickening as he looked up at her, his eye wide with a mix of surprise and arousal. Her sneer was sharp, cutting through the haze of his reverence like a blade, her lips curled in anger as she glared down at him. 

“I said, let go.”

The muscles in Aemond’s throat tightened against her hold, his neck exposed as he swallowed thickly, his jaw clenched in an effort to restrain himself. He gritted his teeth, fighting the primal urge to resist, to take control, to meet her defiance with his own. The sneer that threatened to curl at his lips remained trapped behind his tight expression, his chest rising and falling as he stared up at her. 

For a moment longer, he savored the warmth of her beneath his hands, the way her skin had felt as his fingers traced over her thighs. But with her command still lingering in the air, he withdrew, releasing his hold and allowing the fabric of her nightgown and robe to fall back into place. The robe hung loosely now swaying with the movement, teetering on the edge of revealing more. 

His palms burned with the memory of her skin, the sensation imprinted there as though it had seared into his flesh. He sat back on his heels, his breath ragged, trying to steady himself as his hands restlessly rubbed up and down his thighs, seeking some relief from the itch to touch her again. 

Aemond gazed up at her through the dark lashes of his remaining eye, a frown marring her features as she stared down at him. Her eyes–those cornflower blue eyes–were now ablaze, reflecting the burning embers of the dying hearth. It was as though a field of blue had been set aflame, something both beautiful and terrible. 

His eye drifted lower, settling on her lips. They parted slightly, red like wine–red like the shade of madness, a dangerous allure. And oh, how he wanted them. He craved their bite, the way they could be both gentle and cruel, the soft press of them hiding a merciless edge. He longed for their sweetness, for their decadence–the poison that lay beneath, the temptation that threatened to ruin him and heal him all the same. 

He hungered for those lips, even if they pressed the metallic tang of blood to his own, even if they cut him open and made him bleed. He would welcome the pain if it came from her, would drink it in like it was the sweetest wine, the most intoxicating spring. He wanted to consume her, to feel the taste of her linger on his tongue, to know her in the way that left marks–physical or otherwise. 

The need in him was palpable, a gnawing ache that twisted in his gut, urging him closer, always closer, even as he remained on his knees, looking up at her in silent reverence, waiting for whatever she would choose to give him. 

With a sharp tug, Daenera yanked his hair again, and Aemond hissed through his teeth as the strands were pulled tight, the sting sharp and satisfying–a sweet kind of agony that he didn’t mind. He had always liked when she hurt him a little. 

“You don’t get to touch me,” she sneered, her voice thick, laced with something he couldn’t quite name–a tremble that betrayed her. “You don’t get to touch me unless I tell you to.”

A low, raspy hum escaped from deep within him, a sound that seemed to rise from his chest and escape through his lips like a barely restrained growl, almost a purr. It was instinctual–something primal and raw. He could feel the need clawing at him, desperate for release, and he dug the heel of his palm into the throbbing bulge in his trousers, grinding against it to soothe the maddening need for friction.

Her eyes followed his movement, flickering with a dangerous spark, the intensity of her gaze twisting something dark and vicious inside her. She burned with desire, though she fought against it, her expression betraying the struggle within her. She wanted him, even as she tried to will herself not to, and he could see the war raging in her eyes. 

And then, as though scorched by the desire he had inspired with his needy, desperate display, she released her hold on him. Her fingers slipped from his hair, leaving a lingering sting behind, and she stepped back, retreating out of his immediate reach. 

The sudden distance between them was jarring, like a frigid wind sweeping through the room and snuffing out the warmth the embers in the hearth provided. It left a hollow, punishing cold in its wake, one that settled into Aemond’s bones the moment she pulled away. The heat of her presence had been the only thing sustaining him, and without it, the space between them felt chilling in its vastness. 

A frown tugged at Aemond's lips as he watched her, his chest tightening at the flicker of disgust that crossed her features. It cut through him, sharp and visceral, setting like a thorn in his heart. But then, something in her expression shifted, the disgust morphing into something far more dangerous–measured, deliberate, and cruel.

His breath came in labored, heavy pants, his chest rising and falling with an effort to control his impulses. His gaze followed every movement, unable to tear himself away from the sight of her, even as she stood just out of reach, as though deliberately punishing him for his need. 

Slowly, she reached for the flimsy knot of her robe, the half-undone tie that had taunted him since he’d knelt before her. Her fingers pulled it loose with ease, the red fabric falling open, revealing the enticing expanse of the nightgown beneath. The rich color of the robe bloomed open like a flower, slipping down her shoulders as she lifted her hands, pushing against the fabric. It cascaded down, revealing the wide neckline of her gown in its entirety, the frills framing her collarbones, delicate beads shimmering faintly in the glow of the firelight. 

The robe caught at her elbows, still covering most of her, but what was revealed sent a fresh wave of desire crashing over him. His gaze drank her in, tracing the path of the fabric as it slipped, his hands itching to reach for her again. 

Aemond’s eye trailed the exposed skin of her chest, tracing the delicate planes of her collarbones and down the smooth line of her breastbone. His gaze lingered on the inner curve of her breasts, just visible beneath the nightgown, the fabric so thin that he could have almost seen through it if not for the layer of frills that artfully covered her nipples. 

The sight of her–so close, yet just out of reach–drove him to grind the heel of his hand into the bulge of his trousers again. He released a tight, strained breath, hips shuddering in a barely restrained show of need. 

And then, without a word, she turned away from him. The heavy fabric of the robe trailed along the floor as she moved, the soft sound of it brushing against the stone mingling with the faint chime of glass shards being disturbed. Her movements were measured, each step calculated–a taunt. 

He could do nothing but watch, his breath catching as the last remnants of her robe slipped away from her. The red fabric pooled on the ground behind her, like a dark, spreading puddle of blood. 

As she walked towards the bed, her silhouette became even more tantalizing through the thin material of her nightgown. The outline of her body teased him–the gentle curve of her hips, the dip of her waist, the slight sway of her step. Her curls spilled down her back in wild, cascading waves. 

Aemond was utterly lost in the sway of her hips, each subtle movement making his cock strain harder against the fabric of his trousers, throbbing beneath the palm of his hand. He could feel the tightness coiling within him, knowing that he wouldn’t last long–already a few droplets of seed soaking into the fabric. His breath came in shallow pants as he watched her, transfixed, unable to tear his gaze away as she slowly turned back towards him. 

The firelight cast a glow around her, outlining the curves of her body in soft shadows and golden hues. His eye traced the dip of her waist, the gentle rise of her breasts beneath the thin fabric, and then lower–where the dark curls at the apex of her thighs were barely visible through the nightgown. She was breathtaking, every part of her taunting and out of reach, yet pulling him deeper into his need. 

For a long, excruciating moment, Aemond watched her, the distance between them growing with each step. A sharp, visceral tightness gripped his heart, a dread that twisted like a blade lodged between his ribs. The ache spread, cold and heavy, as the thought slithered through his mind–what if she left him there, kneeling before her, yearning, aching, abandoned?

The dread settled deep in his gut, a gnawing fear that she would slip through his grasp like smoke, intangible, untouchable. He feared the unbearable weight of silence returning, the oppressive void that would stretch between them, colder and more distant than ever before. It clung to him, that awful fear–fear that she would turn away, leaving him desperate and empty.

With deliberate grace, she settled herself on the foot of the bed, her movements fluid and confident, framed perfectly by the tall, spiral bed posts that rose from each corner like sentinels. 

She leaned back leisurely on her arms, every movement deliberate, teasing, her posture relaxed yet commanding. The soft heels of her feet had slipped free from her slippers, her toes still resting lightly on the ground, the arches of her feet lifted slightly as she sat on the bed. Her body, draped in the delicate fabric of her nightgown, was framed by the spiraled bedposts like a portrait of serene power. 

The neckline of her nightgown dipped dangerously low, drawing his gaze to the swell of her breasts, heavy and full, rising and falling with each slow, measured breath she took. The exposed skin, lit by the flickering firelight, gleamed with an allure that left him breathless, hands twitching with the need to touch, to claim what was being so mercilessly dangled in front of him.

She looked like a goddess–beautiful and cruel–perched on an altar made for worship. 

The image of destruction and ruin loomed behind her, the flames painted on the wall seeming to dance in the flickering light of the hearth, echoing the fire that burned inside him. 

Her head tilted to the side, her expression one of playful cruelty, like a god surveying their creation with a mocking, knowing gaze–waiting to see how they would react to the challenge laid before them. 

With deliberate slowness, she parted her legs, the silk of her nightgown falling like a thin, teasing veil between her thighs. The movement was subtle, yet the intent was clear, undeniable. The hint of what lay beneath, the promise, the provocation, sent a shudder down his spine, settling deep in the pit of his stomach. She didn’t need to say a word; the silent command was woven into the very fabric of her presence. 

Aemond shifted, lifting himself to his knees again, ready to rise–desperate to close the distance between them, to feel her beneath his touch. But before he could move further, her voice sliced through the silence, smooth and sharp, like the graze of a blade across his skin. 

“Crawl.”

The single word lingered in the air between them, heavy and unyielding.

The fire in the hearth crackled, the wood popping and hissing in the silence that followed, its warmth reaching out to lick at his skin, but did nothing to quell the cold tension that gripped his body. He stared at her, his eye searching hers, feeling the weight of his pride bare down on him.

The slow burn of humiliation spread across his skin, stinging like a fresh wound. His body tightened, every muscle tense, as if poised to react, yet he remained still. The silence stretched on, thick and suffocating, the crackling flames the only sound to cut through it. His chest rose and fell with controlled breaths, but the simmering emotions beneath–anger, shame, and the ache of wounded pride–made his restraint feel precarious.

It wasn’t far–only a few paces that separated them–but in that moment, the distance between them felt vast, as though it stretched into an endless expanse. The ground between them became a barren, cold stretch of stone, a desolate wasteland where nothing could flourish. 

It was a place where pride withered and died, where pitifulness took root and thrived in the cracks. In that landscape, a man like him could be left to perish–abandoned, starving for dignity and honor, dying of thirst for the promise of her sweetness. 

And there she remained, lounging back leisurely–provocatively–legs spread before him, her head tilted slightly as she watched him with the detached amusement of a cruel goddess, who found satisfaction in watching him lower himself, in making him crawl like a dog to her, commanding him to come worship at her altar of flesh. 

The sight of her–brutal in her beauty, merciless by nature–lodged itself deep between his ribs, twisting, burrowing into him, cutting through his pride like a blade.

Aemond’s breath came in shallow, strained pants as he watched her fingers trace up the length of her parted tights, drawing up the hem of her nightgown with agonizing slowness. Each inch revealed more of her divine skin, the curve of her legs, the soft, pale flesh that he craved with a hunger that gnawed at him, unrelenting. She tugged her nightgown higher still, offering teasing glimpses of what lay between her thighs–a promise of what he so desperately sought, a spring, a feast for a starving man. 

And how could he not obey when she looked like that–a vision of cruel divinity, a goddess demanding tribute. And he, a sinner on his knees, knew only the burning hunger that gnawed at him, the desperate need to repent for the sins of his desire. His pride seemed but a small price. 

She was both salvation and damnation, and he–helpless in his need–could only submit, knowing that he would give anything, everything, to touch her, to worship at the altar she so mercilessly offered.

With slow, deliberate movements; Aemond obeyed, lowering himself onto his hands. The cold stone beneath his palms sent a shiver through his body. Shards of glass embedded themselves in his skin, the faint chiming sound mingling with the soft crackle of the hearth as they bit into him. Pain bloomed in small bursts, bruising and cutting as he began to crawl towards her, inching closer, feeling every sharp edge burrow deeper as he pushed himself forward. 

Each scrape of his knees against the rough surface was a reminder of his abandoned pride, but he twisted the act into something else, something more primal. He moved with a predator’s grace, his muscles shifting as he turned the crawl into something more deliberate. 

He bent to her will, but it was wholly his choice–a dragon obeying its rider. 

A small, wicked smirk tugged at the corners of Daenera’s lips as she seemed to revel in the sight of him crawling towards her, the thrill of power gleaming in her eye as she watched him, utterly captivated. 

As he drew closer, she raised her foot with deliberate slowness, pressing it firmly against the curve of his shoulder, just enough to halt his approach. Aemond obeyed, pausing, settling back onto his haunches as her foot kept him at bay. His hands moved instinctively to his thighs, brushing away the dirt and shards of glass that clung to his palms. 

For a moment, she kept her foot against him, savoring the tension that hung thickly between them. Her eyes never left his, even as she slowly lowered her leg. The air was cloyingly thick with anticipation. She looked wholly delectable, like something forbidden and irresistible. 

And there he knelt before her once again. 

Gripping the hem of his ruined shirt, Aemond tugged the fabric over his head in one swift motion, muscles rippling beneath his pale skin. The shirt bunched in his hands as he took a moment to brush away the last remnants of glass from his palms, his fingers moving methodically to ensure nothing remained but the small cuts and the wellings of blood that had already begun to bead. The sting of the wounds was a dull sensation compared to the sharp edge of his desire. 

Once satisfied, he tossed the ruined shirt aside without a second thought, letting it fall haphazardly to the floor. He could feel her eyes roaming over him, the heat of her gaze like a physical touch that made a shudder run down his spine. His chest rose and fell with heavy, deliberate breaths, gaze finding hers. 

With measured daring, Aemond reached for her, his fingers curling around her ankle as they had before, but this time there was something different–a deeper, more intentional reverence in the way he held her. He inched forward on his knees, never breaking eye contact, his gaze locked with hers as he leaned down, bringing his face closer to her skin, a quiet plea. 

He felt it then–the subtle shudder that ripped through her, the delicate tremor of her body responding to his touch. Her breath hitched, just slightly, but it was enough for him to notice. The way her chest rose and fell in that moment, the way her muscles tightened beneath his fingertips, all betrayed the effect he had on her. 

The warmth of her skin against his lips, soft and yielding, sent a rush through Aemond that made his heart swell in his chest. That simple, tender contact stirred something deep inside him, heat spreading from his core and settling like a flame in the pit of his stomach. He pressed his lips to her knee again, nuzzling it gently with a reverence that words could never capture. It was an act of quiet devotion, a silent offering of everything he could not express aloud–a prayer whispered with his touch, worship hidden in each lingering kiss.

He savored the delicate moments of connection between them, as fleeting as they might be, each one precious. As he felt her breath hitch and the subtle tremor in her body, the tension beneath her calm exterior, it only fueled the fire in him further. He could sense her restraint, feel it in the air, and it drove his need to worship her in the only way she would allow, to show her what his words could not–his longing, his reverence, his unspoken love.

Suddenly, she lurched forward, her palm meeting his cheek with a sharp crack that resonated through the room. The force of the slap rang in his ear, a sharp sting spreading across his skin, the heat of it immediate, burning, and prickling beneath the surface. 

“Did I say you could touch me?” She hissed, her voice tight, hovering between a sneer and something that sounded almost like shock–shock at her own reaction. Her chest rose and fell sharply, breath heavy, and Aemond could feel the tension vibrating in the air, sharp as a blade. 

Her fingers weaved into his hair and then twisted harshly, yanking with a force that sent a sharp jolt of pain rippling through his scalp. The sting bloomed into something darker, twisting into a perverse pleasure that made his eye flutter shot, and a raw, guttural moan escaped his lips. 

He reveled in it–the sharp tug of her grip, the stinging that shot through his scalp and down his spine. It fanned the fire already burning low in his belly, his breath coming in ragged, needy gasps. His body responded instinctively, a shudder rolling through him as he tightened his hold on the throbbing bulge in his trousers. His cock strained painfully against the fabric, so hard it ached, a pain that bordered on agony. His hips jerked forward involuntarily, desperate for relief, for more of that deciduous agony and bliss. 

“Please…” His voice was hoarse, ragged, a broken plea that slipped from his lips with no thought behind it. 

Pride had long since abandoned him, scattered to the wind as she knelt at her feet, consumed by the need for her touch, for any scrap of her attention.

His eye, dark with hunger, flickered up to her, silently begging for more, for anything she might deign to give him. “Please… Let me touch you…”

Let me show you.

Her hold tightened, and he could feel the sharp pull of his own desperation unraveling him, inch by inch, the fine threat of his control fraying with every heartbeat. The sensation of her fingers twisting in his hair was an exquisite torture, and Aemond, for all his carefully cultivated restraint, found himself teetering on the edge, powerless beneath her hands, lost to the raw, brutal desire that coursed through him. 

“Why?” Daenera chided mercilessly, her voice sharp as a blade, cutting through the tension. “Hm? Why should I let you touch me after all you’ve put me through?”

The words dripped with venom, but there was a power behind them, a control that twisted the knife already embedded in his chest. 

Aemond swallowed thickly, his heart hammering so violently it felt as though it might burst from his ribs, each beat a relentless thud that reverberated through his entire body. What was he to stay? That he was sorry for pushing her into this marriage? No. That would be a futile lie, she already knew the truth. He wasn’t sorry for binding her to him. 

The thought of apologizing for her brother’s death flickered briefly through his mind, but he dismissed it just as quickly. He refused to dwell on that now–refused to give in to the guilt she likely wanted to see in his eye, refused to feel any guilt for it at all.

No apology, real or feigned, would come to his lips. He had none to offer. And yet, the words she demanded from him hung in the air, suffocating him as her grip tightened in his hair. 

“I want you to suffer,” she said, her voice sharp and cold, her gaze sweeping across his face like a blade. There was a cruel gleam in her eyes, a glint of satisfaction as she watched him kneel before her. Her fingers twisted deeper into his hair, the tension in her grip relentless, sending sharp stabs of pain through his scalp. 

Aemond hissed through his teeth, the raw sensation twisting in his gut, making him ache in ways that he both craved and despised. 

“I want you to feel what it’s like to lose something,” she continued, her voice low, deceptively soft. “I want you to know what it feels like to want and never have. To need something, but have it just out of reach.” She tightened her grip, her nails scraping against his scalp with a deliberate cruelty that sent shivers down his spine. The searing ache in his scalp merged with the storm of emotions roiling inside him–humiliation, lust, frustration, bitterness, love–each one fueling the fire that burned in his chest. 

“And I want you to admit that you desire me,” she demanded, her lips curling into something that was almost a sneer as she leaned closer, her breath brushing his cheek. “That’s all this is.”

Aemond’s jaw clenched tight, muscles straining as he fought against the onslaught of conflicting emotions that surged through him. Her words lashed at him, each one a whip crack against his pride–against his heart–and yet, beneath the sting of her cruelty, desire coiled like a snake, tightening with every second. He wanted to deny her, to resist her, to insist that it was love, but the words died on his tongue, mind muddled by desire. The need twisted inside him, dark and relentless, threatening to consume him whole. 

His single eye flicked up to meet hers, and the intensity in his gaze was raw, unyielding. He looked at her with something deeper than anger, deeper than lust–a need so profound it bordered on agony. His breath came in shallow, ragged gasps, his chest rising and falling with the effort to control himself. He was on his knees before her, at her mercy, a prince brought low by the force of his own desire. His silence was an answer in itself.

Without words, his gaze seemed to say it all: Look at me. I am here, kneeling before you. What more could you take? I am already yours.

Aemond’s pride had long since fractured under the weight of her cruelty, but he refused to surrender fully–not yet. His teeth ground together, a stubborn resistance flickering in the storm of his emotions, even as his body betrayed him, trembling with the tension of her grip, with the yearning that gnawed at his soul.

“I want you to feel the weight of your choices and what they cost you.” Her free hand slid almost tenderly across the skin of his neck, fingers brushing against the taut muscle there as if she was testing how fiercely his pulse raced beneath his flesh. The touch sent a shiver down his spine, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard, trying to steady his breath. Her touch was deceptively soft, like a blade sheathed in silk. 

For a brief moment, something flickered in her eyes–something that looked almost like pain. The storm that raged within her seemed to break free, the blue of her eyes–once soft like summer cornflowers–darkened, turning into the turbulent depths of a stormy sea. The same sea that had swallowed the remnants of her brother whole, a sea of vengeance and grief, pulling at her, drowning her. 

Aemond saw it, that flash of torment behind her cold facade, and it struck something deep within him. But before he could fully grasp it, her expression smoothed out, her gaze sharpening with the kind of cruelty that twisted the knife she had already driven into him.

“I want to see you grovel,” she whispered, the words laced with venom, yet spoken in the sweet cadence of someone who knew they held all the power in the palm of their hand.

Aemond’s breath hitched at the word, grovel. He had already bent himself before her, knees digging into the cold stone, the shattered remnants of his pride scattered at her feet. Her demand clawed at him, both humbling and infuriating. But that flicker of pain he’d seen in her eyes remained etched into his mind, pulling at the small part of him that still longed for something other than the chaos between them–longed for her heart, her soul. 

He felt the weight of her words press down on him, crushing his defiance. The choices he made–the blood he had spilled, the bond he had forced–hung heavy on him like a chain. And still, he ached for her, every fiber of his being drawn to her, even as her words struck at his soul. 

Then, with a sudden, sharp tug, she pulled him closer, until their faces were mere inches apart. Their breaths mingled, her scent filling his lungs as he inhaled raggedly. Aemond’s hands, shaking with tension, gripped the edge of the mattress with a desperate strength, his knuckles white, the skin stretched tight over bone. 

“Please,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and raw, the plea falling from his lips with quiet desperation. He hated how the word tasted, how it settled so heavily in the air between them, but he couldn’t stop himself. 

His mind was a haze, clouded by the wine coursing through his veins and the intoxicating mixture of her scent, her touch, and the unbearable closeness. Each breath he took was filled with her, each sensation heightened to a maddening degree. 

He would take her scorn, gladly. He would welcome the sharp sting of her cruelty if it meant she would stay, if it meant she would give him the smallest piece of herself. Every barb, every sneer, every cruel word–he would endure it all if it meant being near her, if it meant feeling her presence just a moment longer. He was willing to suffer, to bleed if that was what it took. 

If she would only allow it, he would show her. He would show her that this was not just raw desire or base need–it was love, something that had taken root deep inside him. His heart, dark and broken as it was, beat only for her–he would prove it if she’d let him. 

She leaned back, studying him, seemingly taking a slow, deliberate pleasure in his suffering. The corners of her lips curled into a cruel, wicked smile–something beautiful and devastating, a forest fire, the earth opening up, a storm unleashing on the shore. 

The tension that had coiled in his body was released only for a moment as she let go of his hair. Without a word, she spread her legs for him, as though she were inviting him into something sacred, urging him towards the altar for worship. The fabric of her nightgown draped loosely around her, teasing at what lay beneath, and Aemond’s breath hitched, his mouth suddenly dry. He was so close–so agonizingly close–but still, he remained on the floor, gazing up at her like a man starved, the pulse of his own need thrumming through him like a second heartbeat. 

Daenera lifted her foot, letting it trail slowly up his arm, the soft curve of her ankle brushing against his skin. Her head tilted to the side, her expression playful, almost daring, as if she was challenging him to prove his worth. Her lips curled into a faint smirk, eyes glinting with amusement as she watched him.

Aemond leaned into her touch, the warmth of her foot igniting a fire in his chest. His gaze flickered up to meet hers, tentative and seeking approval, his breath shaky with anticipation.

Slowly, he pressed his lips to her skin, kissing up her leg with reverence. His fingers, trembling at first, gripped her calf, his touch growing firmer, bruising in his eagerness as he realized she was allowing him this small indulgence. 

His kisses trailed higher, pressing into the side of her knee, his breath hot against her skin as he exhaled slowly, nuzzling his cheek against her like a man seeking forgiveness at an altar. 

The scent of her–sweet and earthy–filled his senses, driving him deeper into his desire, the heat of her body drawing him in, consuming him. His fingers slid further up, bunching the fabric of her nightgown as he pushed it higher, exposing more of her soft skin, inch my inch. 

His lips found the inside of her thigh, lingering there with open-mouthed kisses, tasting her skin as though it was something sacred. Every touch, every caress, was offered with reverence and need. When his lips brushed over the small pink scar near the top of her thigh, he paused, his breath catching as he pressed a kiss there, lingering on the mark–had it been love, then?

The scent of her arousal filled the air, heady and intoxicating, making Aemond’s pulse quicken. He could feel the tension in his stomach, his need for her growing unbearable, but he moved slowly, savoring every moment, every inch of her skin as he kissed his way higher. Each kiss was a plea, a wordless promise for mercy–for understanding, for acceptance that she was his as much as he was hers. 

Her fingers tangled back into his hair, this time tugging more gently, guiding him with slow insistence to where she wanted him the most. There was no need for harshness now; they both knew he would obey her every command–lost in the haze of lust. 

The fabric of her nightgown bunched higher around her waist, revealing the slick curls at her center, her cunt glistening in the dim glow of the firelight. Aemond’s breath hitched, his mouth watering at the sight, a deep, primal need surging through him as she urged him closer. 

A low moan escaped him, a sound of desperate hunger, as her hand tigged insistently at his hair, urging him to her. He obeyed without hesitation, lowering his head to press his mouth to her, his lips parting as he locked a slow, deliberate line along the slick seam of her cunt. 

The taste of her flooded his senses–sweet like the nectar of forbidden fruit and salty like the sea, intoxicating and all-consuming. He groaned against her, the sound reverberating through his chest as he savored the feel of her on his tongue, his hands gripping her thighs more firmly. 

Her breath hitched sharply above him, the sound of it filling the space between them as her fingers tightened in his hair, tugging at it more insistently. The small, delicious sound that slipped from her lips–a soft, breath moan–sent a shiver down his spine, the weight of her pleasure heavy in the air. It was a sound that stirred something deep inside him, a spark of satisfaction that ignited into a burning need to hear more.

The sharp tug of her fingers weaving into his hair sent a brief sting through his scalp, but instead of discomfort, it sparked something deeper within him–a strange, intoxicating satisfaction. His heart gave a sudden flutter, almost embarrassingly eager for it. The pain was not simply pain–it was a tether, a silent pull drawing him closer to her, binding him to her need as if, for a fleeting moment, she wanted him as much as he craved her. That closeness, the sense of being wanted, even in this twisted dance of control, filled him with a warmth that spread like wildfire through his chest.

As Aemond savored the taste of her on his tongue, all he could think of were his vows–the promises he made to her, now binding him to her in a way that felt both sacred and primal. He lathered her slick cunt with slow, deliberate kisses, each one a silent oath, his lips moving against her as though sealing the promises he could not speak aloud.

Isse aōha perzys nyke rijībagon.

In your fire I worship. 

He dragged his tongue down through her folds, feeling her tremble beneath his touch, swirling around her quivering entrance with a devotion that bordered on reverence. 

Isse se vāedar hen aōha prūmia mazeman lyks.

In your breath I find life, in the beating of your heart I find peace.Then, with a low groan deep in his chest, he ran his tongue back up, pressing it flat against her swollen clit, sending a shiver through her body. Every stroke of his tongue, every breathless kiss, was an unspoken testament to his need for her, to the depths of his desire.

Isse aōha ondos, iā egros lēda skore kostā gaomagon naejot nekēbagon hen skoros iksis aōhon.

In your palm, a blade, with which you may use to carve out what is yours.

His cock throbbed painfully against the confines of his trousers, twitching in response to the moan she gifted him, the ache in his groin intensifying with every passing second. But he pushed his own needs aside, focusing entirely on her, on the taste of her, on the way her body responded to him. He licked her again, slowly, reverently, as if she was the only thing that existed in the world at that moment, the only thing that mattered. 

Ondoso aōha prūmia rests ñuhon.

By your heart mine rests. Her thighs trembled beneath his touch, soft and quivering as Aemond’s fingers pressed into the delicate flesh, holding them apart with a firm, possessive grill He kept her spread wide, ensuring she was fully exposed to him, and his tongue moved with greedy precision through her slick folds. He lapped at her with desperation, as though her desire was the sweetest nectar, and he couldn’t get enough. 

Nyke tepagon ao ñuha jorepnon.

I give you my prayer.His tongue circled her swollen clit with purpose, teasing it with the flat of his tongue before closing his lips around it, sucking gently but with just enough pressure to draw a sharp, involuntary jerk of her hips against his face. Her hand tightened in his hair, tugging him closer, as if she couldn’t stand even an inch of distance between them.

Isse aōha nesh, morghon kesan gīmigon, se isse aōha perzys kesan zālagon.

In your embrace, I will welcome Death; in your fire, I shall be consumed.Another moan spilled from her lips, louder this time, as Aemond sucked harder at her clit, his tongue flattening firmly against the sensitive nub. The sound of her pleasure unraveled him, and a deep, guttural groan escaped his throat, vibrating against her in a way that made her hips twitch in response.

Ñuha jorrāelagon, bisa nyke vow naejot ao ondoso Perzys Ānogār.

My love, this vow I make to you with fire and blood.

Aemond’s stomach tightened, a fierce fire burning low within him, an inferno that roared with each moan she gave him, each tremor he felt through her body. His grip on her thighs tightened, desperate, as though he needed to hold her close to anchor himself against the tide of his own desire. Everything about her consumed him–her scent, the taste of her slick heat, the soft tremble in her voice as she gasped for air. He burned for her, for the need to please her, to make her fall apart in his arms.

“Ah, fuck,” she breathed, her voice low and thick with pleasure, the sound of it making his cock throb. “Mmmh…”

Aemond devoured her like a man starved, as though the taste of her could finally sate the hunger that gnawed at him since birth. The hunger was deep, insatiable, something he had always carried, and in this moment, he willed it with all his being that it would be enough–that she would be enough. His tongue moved with desperate fervor, drinking her in like a man who had wandered a desolate, barren landscape, only to fall to his knees before a spring of clear, life-giving water. 

His hands roamed her body greedily, fingers digging into her tender flesh with bruising intensity, needing to hold onto her, to feel her warmth beneath his grasp. He was oblivious to the sharp sting as the shallow wounds on his palms reopened, streaks of blood smearing across her thighs where he touched her. 

The crimson stains mingled with the salty sting of her perspiration, painting her skin with his mark, as though he were a sinner tainting the pure. But Aemond didn’t care–he wanted to leave his imprint on her, wanted her to bear the evidence of his devotion, his desperation. 

Each movement was raw, primal, as he worshiped her with his mouth, licking and sucking at her folds with a feverish need that bordered on reverence. The taste of her, the sound of her breathless gasps, only spurred him on, driving him deeper into his own madness. He felt the blood warm on his hands, the proof of his sacrifice mingling with the pleasure he gave her, and it thrilled him–made him want more, to take more, until she was wholly his, stained with his touch, marked by his desire.

The stillness of the room was punctuated by the wet, intimate sound of her arousal, the squelch of her cunt and their labored breaths filling the air as Aemond devoured her. Every swipe of his tongue was deliberate, unhurried, wanting to commit each taste, each texture, to memory. HIs tongue moved through her folds, tracing the slick heat of her, savoring every inch of her–oh, how he had missed her taste.

His hands slid along the insides of her trembling thighs, his touch tender–soothing. He pulled back slowly, his lips left her wet heat, the taste of her still thick on his tongue, her essence smeared across his lips and dripping down his chin. A string of saliva connected them for a brief moment before it broke apart. 

Aemond’s gaze locked onto her, watching the way she bloomed under his touch. He spread her folds open with his hands, exposing her fully to his hungry gaze. The soft pink of her flesh deepened into a rich red, the slick wetness glistening in the dim light as her cunt clenched, pulsing with need, aching to be filled. He groaned at the sight. Even if she refused to voice it, her body betrayed her, silently begging for release she so desperately craved. 

Aemond leaned forward again, his hunger insatiable, and dragged his tongue slowly through her slick folds, savoring the way her body responded to him. He circled her swollen clit, teasing it with gentle, precise strokes before dipping back down, thrusting his tongue deeper inside her. The warmth of her engulfed him as her walls fluttered at the intrusion, clenching tightly around his tongue, as if her body were trying to pull him in deeper.

A sweet, guttural moan slipped from her lips, a sound that sent a thrill through him. Her hips rose instinctively, meeting the thrusts of his tongue. Her head fell back, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps, her body moving on its own–seeking more of the pleasure he gave her, desperate for the release that hovered just out of reach.

Her hips rocked against his face in perfect rhythm, each movement more frantic than the last, as if her body craved everything he could give her and more. Aemond’s tongue thrust in and out of her with practiced precision, his nose pressing against her swollen clit with each push, sending shudders through her. The soft curls of her cunt brushed against his face, tickling his skin as her scent surrounded him, filling his senses completely, drowning him in her essence. 

Aemond groaned into her as her hips bucked harder against his face. His hands gripped her thighs tightly, fingers digging into her soft flesh as he held her steady, keeping her spread open for him as he worshiped her with his mouth. Every sound she made, every tremble of her body, only fueled his need to give her more, to bring her to the edge and watch her fall apart in his hands. 

“Oh, mmh, fuck, r-right there,” she muttered, her voice breathless and raw, her grip tightening in his hair. Her nails scraped across his scalp, sending sharp tingles down his spine, and the sensation made his hips jerk seeking friction. The prison of his trousers became unbearable, the fabric constricting painfully around his throbbing cock, offering him no relief, only intensifying his desperation.

“Ah, oh… Sh–fuck,” she gasped again, her voice trembling with the tension building inside her. 

The heel of her foot pressed firmly between his shoulder blades, digging into his spine with enough force to push him closer, to keep him trapped exactly where she wanted him. There was no escape from her now–not that he wanted to. Aemond could feel her drawing closer to the edge, could hear it in the breathless way she moaned, in the quiver of her body beneath his hands. Her thighs trembled against his grip, her slick heat clenching tighter around his tongue with each thrust, as though her entire body was winding up to shatter. 

Her breath came in short, ragged pants, her body tightening, and he knew she was moments away from falling apart. He leaned into her, his tongue moving with increasing fervor, desperate to push her over the edge, to taste the full extent of her pleasure as it spilled over him. 

Aemond felt the shudder ripple down her spine, her body trembling and jerking beneath his mouth. Her hips bucked involuntarily, her legs twitching in his grasp as her cunt fluttered and tightened around his tongue, the pressure almost intoxicating. Her breath came out in stuttering, broken moans, each sound more desperate than the last. 

“Hmm–hmm–ah, mmhp–mmm,” she gasped, the soft whimpers escaping her lips as her body gave in.

A long, breathless moan hung heavy in the air as she came around him, her release flooding over his tongue. She gushed, and Aemond drank down every drop she offered, his mouth never leaving her. He soothed her through the waves of her pleasure, his tongue lapping at her gently now, dragging it slowly up through her folds before flattening against her sensitive clit, sending another shiver coursing through her.

She collapsed onto the bed, her body spent, her chest rising and falling with rapid breaths. Her grip on his hair slackened, the intensity of her hold fading as she panted above him, her muscles trembling in the aftermath. But Aemond didn’t stop. He continued to lick at her, dragging his tongue slowly over her still-sensitive skin, savoring the last remnants of her release. He swiped his face along the inside of her thigh, smearing her slick onto her own skin, his cheeks, chin, and lips wet with the evidence of her arousal.

Releasing his grip on her thigh, Aemond’s hand drifted down, desperate for relief. His fingers wrapped around his painfully hard cock, the touch sending a shudder through him. A broken, needy sound escaped his throat as his hips jerked instinctively into his own hand. Even as he stroked himself, he couldn’t tear himself away from her, his face still buried against her thigh. He nuzzled into her skin, smearing the wetness of her release across his cheeks, dragging his lips and chin along the crook of her hips and the bunched fabric resting against her lower abdomen. 

His mind was hazy, swimming with the scent and taste of her, his senses dulled as though he were drunk on her alone. His breaths came in ragged pants, and he rolled his hips into his hand, each movement a futile attempt at finding some reprieve from the ache that consumed him. He clung to her, nuzzling like a pitiful dog, desperate for any attention she might offer him.

But then her fingers tightened in his hair, gripping hard enough to yank him back. His face was dragged from her, his neck craning as she forced him to look up at her. Her gaze burned into him, fierce and merciless. Her pupils were blown wide, like dark blots of ink consuming the pale sea-blue of her irises. 

“Did I say you could touch yourself?” She hissed, her voice cold and commanding.

Aemond’s breath hitched, his hand stilling as she tugged harder, forcing a sharp gasp from his lips. Her grip on his hair was unforgiving, ruthless as she glared down at him. 

“Get on the bed.”

With her command delivered, she released him abruptly, her grip leaving his scalp stinging from the roughness of her touch. She scooted back on the bed, then shifted to the side, swinging her legs over the edge before rising to her feet. The pale ivory of her nightgown cascaded down her legs, flowing around her like water, the candlelight casting her in an ethereal glow, catching the gold string weaved into the fabric. 

Aemond remained sitting at the foot of the bed, his knees ached, bruised from kneeling on the cold stone floor, the chill still lingering in his skin. He sat there dazed, breathless, his mind swimming–drunk on her. It took a moment for him to collect himself, to ground his senses enough to move. Slowly, he rose to his feet, feeling the pull of the fabric around his cock, tightening painfully.

He crawled onto the bed, muscles tense with anticipation, each movement careful and deliberate as his heart pounded in his chest. She had moved to stand where he had knelt only moments ago, staring at him with an intensity that made his pulse quicken. Her gaze was dark, calculating, as she took in his disheveled form, his every breath, every flicker of need exposed for her to see. 

Without warning, she climbed onto the bed again, her hand pushing against his chest urging him back onto the mattress. She wasted no time, her hands immediately going to the laces of his trousers, roughly undoing them–the sight of her making his cock twitch. The sharpness of her movements made him suck in a breath, each tug of the laces sending a jolt through him. 

Her fingers hooked into the waistband of his trousers, tugging them down with no care for gentleness, pulling them only to his knees before abandoning the effort entirely. 

As Aemond’s cock sprang free from the confines of his trousers, it slapped hard against his abdomen, the sudden release drawing a low, guttural moan from his lips. His hands clenched into the covers beneath him, knuckles white with the force of his grip as his cock throbbed, slick with his leaking seed. The thick, white fluid dripped down from the swollen head, droplets pooling on his lower abdomen as his body trembled with need. 

Daenera settled herself beside him, her head tilting slightly, watching him intently. Her lithe fingers reached out, curling around the shaft of his cock, and Aemond couldn’t suppress the sharp intake of breath that followed. Her hand was warm, soft, yet commanding, and he was sure she could feel how his cock pulsed and throbbed beneath her palm, desperate for her touch. 

The sensation of her hand wrapped around him sent a jolt of pleasure through his entire body, forcing a hiss from his lips as his hips bucked, driving himself deeper into her grip. He couldn’t stop himself, the need for her overwhelming, his body reacting without thought, pushing her palm lower along his shaft, craving more of her touch–more movement as he teetered dangerously close to the edge of release. 

“This is what you want, isn’t it?” Daenera murmured, her voice low and teasing as she dragged her hand slowly up the length of his cock. Her grip was loose, deliberately ghosting along his skin, letting the heat of her palm tease him with every agonizingly slow stroke. 

“For me to wrap my hand around your cock,” she continued in a musing drawl. The way her hand moved, the deliberate teasing, left him aching for more, his hips twitching in response, chasing the friction she so cruelly denied him. His breath hitched, and every nerve in his body was attuned to her, waiting for her to give him the release he so desperately craved. “This is what you want, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Aemond answered through gritted teeth, his voice strained with the effort of restraint. Every muscle in his body was pulled taut, trembling as he fought to stay still, to hold back the overwhelming urge to surrender completely to her touch. 

“For me to play your sweet little wife,” Daenera continued, her voice laced with something he had no mind to decipher. She dragged her hand slowly down his length, her grip tightening at the base of his cock, sending a shiver through him. “So that I can fulfill your desires–”

“No–” Aemond choked out, the protest barely forming before it was stolen from him. His teeth dung into the inside of his cheek, trying to ground himself as she dragged her hand back, twisting wickedly around the sensitive head of his cock. The sensation ripped his denial from his lungs, leaving him breathless, silenced by pleasure. 

A low, helpless hum escaped from deep within his chest, his lungs straining as he fought the instinct to buck his hips into her hand, to seek more friction. “P–please,” he gasped, his voice rough and broken as his hips bucked uncontrollably into her touch. She swiped her thumb over the tip, smearing the bead of seed that gathered there, then slowly dragged her hand down his shaft again, the deliberate slowness of it making his body tremble. “Fuck, I–I can’t fucking think–”

Her gaze remained measured, dark with something cruel and vicious. “Do you think this is what you deserve?” she mued, her voice laced with quiet mockery, ignoring his pleas. Her hand continued its slow stroking, testing his length as if his words were beneath her notice. “To be touched like this after everything you’ve done?”

“No,” Aemond muttered, his breath coming in quick, ragged gasps as he edged closer to his breaking point. His eye fluttered closed, lost in the overwhelming sensation of her hand wrapped around him–the softness of her palm, the heat of her touch, the way her fingers glided up the length of his cock before twisting at the tip, teasing the sensitive head. Each movement drow him further towards the precipice, the pleasure clouding his mind, blurring the edges of his control.

“No?” Daenera hummed, her voice deceptively sweet, laced with a cruel undertone.

Aemond struggled to respond, the words slipping away as his head swam in a haze of lust. “I–fuck,” he gasped, his body trembling under her touch. “I only want what you give me.”

Her lips curved slightly, her expression mocking as she tilted her head, drawing closer to him. “And what if I decide to give you nothing?”

The question hung in the air, sharp and cutting, but Aemond couldn’t focus on anything other than the excruciating pleasure and the fear of losing it. He was at her mercy, and he knew it–desperate for any scrap of what she might offer, even as the threat of denial lingered between them.

“Please, don’t–stop,” Aemond begged breathlessly, his voice rough and desperate. The muscles in his lower abdomen tightened, his entire body coiling with the fiery warmth that spread through his lower stomach, teetering on the edge of release. “Please–”

“Look at you, begging for me,” Daenera chided, her voice dripping with mockery. She leaned down, her lips hovering just over the head of his cock, her tongue darting out to tease the slit where his pearly seed beaded. The sensation sent a sharp jolt through him, his breath catching in his throat. Her hair brushed against his skin, a delicate, tortuous tickle that only heightened his torment, while her warm breath fanned over his length, making him tremble beneath her.

“Do you think begging will make me forgive you?” She murmured, her voice a soft, cruel whisper as she dragged her tongue along his tip. “That I’ll forget the blood on your hands?”

No, Aemond didn’t think she’d forgive him. He knew better. His hands fisted tighter in the covers, the fabric straining beneath his grip as a desperate moan tore from his throat. Her breath, hot and teasing, curled over the head of his cock, so painfully close but still withheld. His hips jerked instinctively towards her, seeking more, but she withdrew, tightening her hold at the base of his cock and pushing him back down against the bed. 

“Daenera…” Aemond moaned, her name falling from his lips like a fragile prayer, trembling with reverence. Her tongue flicked out once more, swirling around the sensitive head of his cock, and the sensation sent a violent shiver up his spine. His breath hitch, stolen from his lungs in a broken, needy moan. 

Her long, dark lashes fluttered delicately against her flushed cheeks as she licked at him, teasing, torturing. When her eyes slowly opened, her gaze locked with his, and Aemond felt his breath hitch in his throat. He stared down at her, utterly mesmerized by the sight before him–her red lips glistened, her tongue darting out to wet them as her hand remained wrapped firmly around his cock, stroking him in a slow, torturous rhythm.

Her hair, dark and unruly, brushed softly against his skin, the sensation almost too much to bear. She looked impossibly wicked and innocent all at once, and when her tongue darted out again to lick him, the sensation sent a jolt of pleasure through his entire body. She was every bit a temptress, holding him in thrall, and he was powerless against the pull she had over him.

The heat of her mouth closed around him, a sensation so overwhelming it forced a ragged gasp from Aemond’s lips. Her tongue swirled around the sensitive head of his cock before pressing flatly along the length of him as she sank deeper, taking him fully into her mouth. Every inch was enveloped in her warmth, while her hand gripped and caressed what her lips couldn’t reach, making quick work of him as she bobbed her head once, twice–

A long, breathless moan escaped him, a sound so broken it bordered on a whimper as the pleasure crested. He couldn’t hold back any longer, spilling himself into the wet heat of her mouth. The muscles of her throat tightened around him, heightening the sensation, while her free hand teased the sensitive flesh of his testicles, sending sharp ripples of pleasure through his entire body. 

A shudder coursed through Aemond’s entire body as Daenera slowly dragged her lips up the length of his shaft, her touch leaving him trembling in its wake. She pressed her lips into him, kissing the sensitive skin as her tongue swirled languidly around the head of his cock, teasing him with that final flick of heat before she slipped off, her lips closing softly at the tip as though sealing the moment with a kiss. 

She sat up beside him, resting on her knees, her hair spilling like dark silk over the front of her chest. Her cheeks were flushed a soft pink, the remnants of their shared heat lingering on her skin. 

A gleam shimmered on her lips, wet with the evidence of him, and her eyes glinted mischievously, a wicked satisfaction dancing in her gaze–the sight made his stomach churn, his heart fluttering against his ribs.

Aemond lay panting, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he swallowed thickly, trying to steady himself. Aftershocks of pleasure trembled down his spine, warmth spreading through his limbs, leaving him feeling both weightless and utterly spent. Her hand remained wrapped around the base of his cock, moving with a soft, unhurried rhythm, coaxing it to say hard even though he had already given her his seed. The sensation teetered on the edge of pain and pleasure, an overwhelming mix that left him groaning softly with each stroke. 

She leaned over him, straddling his thighs with effortless grace, her body pressing down just enough to pin him against the mattress. Her hand continued its relentless, teasing motion, working him even as his body protested with a sharp hiss. His brows furrowed, back aching as if trying to escape her touch, but there was nowhere to go–he was trapped beneath her, at her mercy, and the mattress offered no reprieve. 

Did he even want her to stop?

His breath came in quick, uneven gasps, his gaze flickering to her hand as she stroked him. His eye traveled upwards, taking in the way her nightgown draped over her thighs as she straddled his legs, the fabric gathering around her hips. He caught a tantalizing glimpse of her nipple as the gown slipped slightly, teeterning dangerously on the edge of her shoulder, threatening to fall. His gaze finally met her face, the wicked gleam in her eyes still burning with the same intensity as before, merciless, unfinished. 

She leaned over him, her lips parting slowly as she released the seed he had given her. It fell in a thick, wet splatter onto his stomach, gleaming in the flickering candlelight. For a brief moment, a delicate string of saliva connected them, an intimate tether between them before she spat out the last remnants, licking her lips with deliberate slowness before rising back up–a gift unwanted and returned to him.

A memory flickered at the edges of Aemond’s mind, something elusive and fleeting, almost like a dream lost to the haze of the moment.

“You can keep your seed,” Daenera murmured, her head tilting slightly, her voice a cruel drawl. “I do not want it.” As she spoke, her hand tightened around him, stroking him with a newfound intensity, pulling a strangled whimper from his lips. His body trembled under her touch, the sharp mix of pleasure and pain overwhelming him, and all he could do was lay there, helpless beneath her control, at her mercy.

“I’m not done with you yet,” Daenera mused darkly.

 For a fleeting moment, Aemond thought she was about to crawl over him, imagined her sinking onto his throbbing cock, her lips parting and her eyes fluttering closed as she took him fully. The thought sent a surge of heat through his body, his breath catching in anticipation. 

But instead, she shifted off him, moving to the side, her eyes never leaving his as she murmured, “You’ll take what I give you, won’t you?” Her tone was cold, taunting. “You’re at my mercy, and I want you ruined.”

Aemond swallowed hard, nodding, his voice reduced to a low, needy hum, “Mmhmm,” the sound slipping past his lips as his chest rose and fell with the weight of his desire.

“I do not wish to look upon your fucking face,” Daenera spat, her voice dripping with disdain as she turned away from him, straddling his hips with her back to him. 

Aemond’s breath hitched at the sudden shift, his muscles tensing beneath her as her nails scraped over the skin of his thighs, sending jolts of stinging pleasure-pain up his leg to burn in the pit of his stomach. His body reacted instinctively, muscles flexing under her touch, heart pounding. 

Her hands slid up his legs, fingers teasingly brushing the insides of his thighs before finding their target. She took him in her hand again, the familiar grip making his breath catch, and pressed the head of his cock against the slick, searing heat of her wet folds. The sensation made him groan low in his throat, hips twitching towards her, desperate for more. 

Without a word, she sank down onto him fully, the wet heat of her enveloping him completely in one slow, agonizing descent. His eye fluttered shut as a broken moan escaped him, his mind blanking under the overwhelming pleasure of being buried inside of her–oh, oh how he had missed her. She took him fully, her body pressing down until there was nothing between them, and for a moment, all he could do was tremble beneath her, consumed by the feeling of her wrapped around him. 

Aemond’s hips jerked off the mattress, a guttural grunt escaping him as his hands found her hips. He tugged at the bunched fabric of her nightgown, feeling it tease against his lower abdomen, brushing through the slick pool of seed and saliva that ran down either side of his abdomen, trailing between the contours of his muscles as they flexed beneath his skin. 

His fingers dug into the soft flesh of her hips, desperation driving his grip as he sought to still her movements–just for a moment. He needed that brief pause to regain control of himself, to hold on to the feeling of her wrapped around him before the inevitable rush of release overtook him. Every nerve in his body was on fire, his sensitivity overwhelming him, each shift of her hips sending sharp jolts of pleasure through his core. He knew he wouldn’t last much longer, his body trembling beneath the intensity of her heat and the way she clenched around him, pushing him closer and closer to the edge.

But Daenera was not so forgiving.

“What did I say about touching me?” She sneered, her voice dripping with cold authority. She balanced herself on one hand, fingers pressing into his thigh for support, while the other hand latched onto his. Her nails dug sharply into the pliant skin of his hand with enough force to leave crescent marks behind. 

A groan tore from his lips, a breathless whimper as her cunt clenched around his cock with an unbearable tightness, her heat searing him from within, leaving his head swimming, dizzy with the feel of her. She tore his hand away, forcing him to clutch at the fabric of her nightgown instead, bunching it in his hand.  

Her hand slipped between his legs, fingers tapping at his testicles with a maddening precision. Each tap sent a sharp jolt through Aemond’s body, making him twitch beneath her, hips wiggling involuntarily–pushing closer, then retreating, arching into the mattress, then bucking against her, his body struggling to decide what to do. Every tap reverberated through him, stealing the breath from his lungs and causing his heart to stutter in his chest. 

“Fuuuck,” he ground out through clenched teeth, his voice strained, a mixture of desperation and pleasure. His other hand tore away from her hip, barely able to resist the urge to touch her, to claim her. Instead, he gripped the fabric of her nightgown tightly, the material bunching in his fist as if holding it together was the only thing keeping him from completely unraveling. He could feel the fabric threatening to tear under his grip, his body trembling with the overwhelming pain-pleasure she continued to inflict on him. 

Aemond panted heavily, his breath ragged as it struggled to fill his lungs as she lifted herself off of him with excruciating slowness, the torturous drag of her heat pulling away from his throbbing cock sending waves of pleasure and frustration through him. The withdrawal felt like agony, each inch stealing a bit more of his breath–and then she sank back down onto him, slow at first, making him feel every second of it. His hands trembled, gripping the fabric beneath him, the feel of her almost unbearable. 

As her hips began to roll, grinding herself against him, Aemond’s head fell back against the mattress, a low groan escaping his lips. He felt her nails dig sharply into the flesh of his thoughts, her grip tightening to steady herself as she continued her slow, deliberate pace. 

A low, appreciative hum slipped from her throat, a sound she seemed to hold back from him, as though she refused to let him fully hear her pleasure. Yet even that restrained hum made his heart race, fluttering uncontrollably against his ribs. 

The rhythm she set, the grinding and lifting, made his body strain beneath her. His gaze drifted downward, watching her body rise and fall above him, her movements both deliberate and tormenting. Her wild curls cascaded down her back, tickling his lower abdomen with each roll of her hips–dark against the pale ivory of the nightgown. 

The urge to reach out, to bury his hands in her hair, to take control and thrust up into her, forcing those sweet, breathy moans from her lips, burned fiercely within him. It tugged at him, burning at the center of his chest. But that desire felt agonizingly out of reach. She held the power, and he was wholly at her mercy, trembling beneath her. 

A breathy moan tore from his throat, his fists tightening in the fabric of her nightgown–damn that fabric, the very thing hiding the sight of her sinking onto him again and again. He wanted to see it all, wanted to watch her take him fully, to lose himself in the sight of her body joining with his, but even that was denied to him. 

Every moment felt like a cruel test of his resolve, his will stretched taut beneath the mounting tension in his body. His head swam, his thoughts narrowing to a single point of focus–her. The desperate need to see her consumed him, to witness the way she moved above him, the way her lips parted and her eyes fluttered in pleasure. 

Pushing himself up onto his elbows, Aemond gritted his teeth as her tight cunt clenched around him, her hips rolling against him in maddening waves. The lewd, wet sounds of her slick folds wallowing him filled the room, intensifying the fire coursing through his veins. He longed to watch her, to see the expressions on her face as she took him deeper–longed for the blackened blue of her eyes and how the burned. 

Then, movement caught his eye. 

A glint from the corner of the room–the mirror. His gaze latched onto the mirror, and there she was–her brows lifted in pleasure, eyes fluttering closed, long lashes brushing against her cheeks as she sank onto him. Her lips were parted, a breathless moan escaping them, her body moving with such devastating grace. The shoulder of her nightgown, which had been hanging precariously, finally slipped down, exposing the soft, pale skin of her shoulder and revealing the heavy swell of her breast, her pink nipple taut and perked.

The sight of her was utterly mesmerizing as she rode him, every movement of hers drawing his attention, his pulse quickening in response. It throbbed within his ears, his neck, his chest–an insistent beat deep in his stomach. He could feel it beneath his skin, growing more intense with each passing second. His breath hitched as he watched her through the mirror, unable to look away from the image of her body writhing above him. His hips rolled up to meet hers, instinctively matching her rhythm, pressing into her as she sank onto him again and again.

“Fuck, mmh, fuck,” Aemond groaned, his voice a guttural moan as he gritted his teeth and thrust up into her, his hips rolling with a desperate urgency. Her slick, warm cunt clenched tightly around him, sending waves of pleasure through his body. She was leading him to the edge, teasing him mercilessly towards the brink of madness, his mind muddled and pitifully blank, unable to focus on anything but the feel of her. 

Each time she ground down against him, her soft, sweet moans filled the air, her nails biting deeper into the flesh of his thighs as though anchoring herself to him. His gaze remained on her reflection, mesmerized by the sight of her, her body moving with such intoxicating grace as she pleasured herself on his cock. He was helpless beneath her, clawing at her nightgown, watching her every move, entranced by the image of her body rising and falling, her skin glowing in the low light. 

“Please,” Aemond moaned, his voice low and raw with desperation, a pathetic plea slipping from his lips, “please, let me–ah, mmph, fuck–please let me see you.”

Her response came without hesitation, sharp and teasing. “Why should I?”

“Because I want to see you–’m so… I can’t–fuck,” he chocked out, his breath in ragged gasps. His cock throbbed painfully inside of her, his need for release intensifying with every agonizing moment that passed. Her cunt gripped him tightly, like a velvet vice, her walls soft and slick, holding him in place as she continued to ride him. 

“Are you close, hm?” Daenera teased, her voice a sultry hum as she rode him, lifting herself up and down, grinding against him each time she took him fully. “Are you going to gift me more of your seed?”

Aemond’s response was immediate, breathless. “Y–seven hells, yes,” he panted, his head falling back against the bed, his hips jerking up to meet hers in a sloppy, desperate rhythm. The tension inside him coiled tighter and tighter, each thrust bringing him agonizingly close to the edge. He could feel it everywhere–coursing through his body like fire, burning in his bones, tingling in his teeth, a pressure so intense it threatened to consume him. His testicles tightened, his whole body taut, straining, needing–begging–for release. 

He was so close, so painfully close, his hips moving erratically beneath her, driven by sheer instinct as he chased the peak she teased him towards, the pleasure cresting higher–

A desperate whimper tore free from his lips as Daenera lifted herself off of him, her slick warmth slipping away, leaving his cock throbbing, slapping helplessly against his lower stomach. The sensitivity was unbearable as the cool air met his heated flesh, only for the sensation to heighten when her nightgown brushed over him like a cruel tease. 

His body tensed as she shifted, turning to straddle his hips once more, but instead of sinking back onto him, she brought her soaked folds down against his length, pinning his aching cock between her heat and his stomach. The pressure was maddening as she kept still, her hands splaying on his stomach, nails grazing his skin as she towered over him.

There was something dark and wicked in the way Daenera looked down at him, her eyes gleaming with a mischief that both terrified and enthralled him. Her head tilted slightly to the side, causing her hair to spill over her shoulder, exposing the pale column of her neck, the curve of her collarbone, and the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. The neckline of her gown had slipped further, fully revealing the soft swell of her breast, the dusky pink of her nipple making his mouth water with a need to wrap his lips around it. She looked like a goddess poised above him, untouchable and unforgivable. 

“I told you,” she said softly, her voice laced with cruel amusement, “I do not want your seed.”

Daenera began to roll her hips, dragging her slick folds along the length of Aemond’s cock, the slow friction igniting every nerve in his body. He hissed through clenched teeth, his fingers fisting in the fabric of her nightgown and twisting the sheets beneath him as his head fell back. His entire body trembled with the effort of restraining, the overwhelming need to reach out and grab her, to feel her soft flesh under his hands again, to anchor himself in her, burned at his fingertips–needled at him. His hands shifted closer to her, knuckles brushing against the side of her legs as his grip tightened. 

“What was it you once told me?” She mused, the click of her tongue adding to the note of mockery in her tone. Her hips continued their agonizingly slow rhythm, dragging her wet heat over his throbbing length without granting him the mercy of release. “That your seed should not be wasted–that it belongs only in my womb, isn’t that so?”

Aemond couldn’t form a coherent thought, let alone a response, as her words filtered through the haze of his mind. They echoed somewhere deep, but he was too far gone to truly comprehend them. It was, indeed, a waste–but in this moment, none of that mattered. His hips moved on their own accord, rolling up to meet hers, a desperate, instinctual movement, driven by the overwhelming need to be closer to her. Every muscle in his body was tense, straining as he bucked against her with a raw urgency that bordered on madness. 

“But I do not want your seed,” Daenera continued, her voice calm, almost mocking as her fingers danced along his abdomen. She smeared the remnants of seed and saliva across his skin, dragging it in lazy circles, painting him with his own release. He should have been revolted by it, humiliated, but his mind was lost in the heat of her cunt, to the friction of her dragging her wet folds over him. “I have no use for it, and I do not want it quickening inside of me.”

She dragged her nails lightly over his chest, her hands ghosting over him in a way that was as infuriating as it was tantalizing, a slow drawl falling from her lips. “Shall I cease, so your precious seed isn’t wasted where it has no purpose?”

“No, he choked out, his voice breaking as he bucked his hips against her, needing more–so pathetically close. “No–fuck, please–don’t stop,” he begged, his voice a broken whimper. He was lost, utterly and completely, drowning in the sensation of her body, the heat, the pressure, the intoxicating drag of her wet folds along his cock. 

Daenera rolled her hips with deliberate slowness, dragging the scorching heat of her cunt up the length of his cock, teasing him with each movement. Her fingers splaying on his chest, gripping onto him tightly as she ground down against him, lips falling open as her head tilted back. Her own low moan joined his, a sound so intimate, it sent a shiver up his spine. His hips jerked upwards, meeting hers, desperate for the friction, for the feel of her.

Every slow, deliberate drag of her hips sent another surge of pleasure coursing through him, the tension in his lower abdomen tightening to a painful degree. His testicles pulled taut, and the pressure within him mounted–building to a breaking point, each shallow breath of his accompanied by soft, helpless whines. His brows knitted together, mouth falling open as he teared on the edge of release.

When the coil finally snapped, it was a sudden, overwhelming rush of warmth spreading through his entire body. Aemond gasped as he spilled what little seed he had left in him, pale streaks spurting across his stomach as his cock throbbed and twitched beneath her. His back arched off the mattress, a violent shudder wracking through him as his body succumbed to the intense release. He collapsed back onto the bed, utterly spent, breathless, his chest rising and falling rapidly. 

Daenera kept her cunt firmly pressed to him, pinning him down as she milked him dry. He felt her folds slick against him, warm and tight, as the last drops of his seed dripped from him. The white droplets trickled from the head of his cock, nestled between her folds, pooling onto his already smeared stomach, joining the mess of seed and saliva spread across his skin. The puddle was smaller this time, insignificant compared to the earlier flood. 

A soft, tingling sensation prickled at the base of Aemond’s skull, a haze of bliss filling his mind, leaving him wonderfully vacant. The only thought that lingered, that anchored him to the moment, was her. He could feel her thumb gently stroking against his wrist, grounding him, soothing him through the last remnants of his release. At some point, her hand had wrapped around his wrist, and he hadn’t even noticed until now, lost as he was in the moment. 

With effort, he loosened his grip on her nightgown, his fingers slowly uncurling, each joint creaking as if they’d forgotten how to move. He was stiff, but he brought it to her leg, brushing his fingertips slowly against her skin–tenuous, daring. 

His gaze lifted, meeting hers. 

Daenera stared down at him, her chest rising and falling in quick breaths, a flush blooming across her skin, spreading down her neck to her chest. She held his gaze as she began to move again, dragging her hips up and down his length with agonizing slowness. 

A sharp hiss escaped his lips, brow furrowing. The sensation was teetering on unbearable–his cock overly sensitive, nerves alight as though exposed to the raw air. Each deliberate roll of her hips teetered dangerously close between agony and pleasure, his body recoiling and responding all at once. His hips instinctively bucked into her, seeking more even as the overstimulation urged him to pull away, breath stuck in the back of his throat. 

From her lips spilled the sweetest sound–a soft moan that completely captivated him. She looked hauntingly beautiful above him, her hair spilling over one shoulder, wild curls tickling his skin with every movement. Her fingers splayed across his stomach, and his gaze was drawn to the lewd display of his seed smeared between her fingers, glistening against his abdomen in a way that should disgust him–but instead, it only made him ache for more of her. 

The night gown hung loosely off one of her shoulders, revealing the soft curve of her collarbone and the heavy swell of her breast, her nipple perked and teasing the air as it swayed above him with her movements. Her head tilted to the side, mouth slightly open in a way that stole his breath, her brows lifting in pleasure as she continued to roll her hips against him.

She looked as if she were savoring every inch of him, as though taking pleasure in his torment–and Aemond couldn’t deny her that, not when the overstimulation made him grit his teeth, muscles tightening as he tried to hold back. Even then, all he could do was watch her, mesmerized–heart fluttering in his chest. 

There was a devastating beauty to her–it stirred something deep within him. 

The sight of her above him, glowing with satisfaction, only intensified the sweet torture he flet in every slow roll of her hips. Every breathy moan that slipped from her lips felt like a dagger carving into him with a blend of pleasure and desperate need. Each sound she made left him feeling more vulnerable, laying him bare before her, exposed and aching in a way that was both tortuous and intoxicating. His heart hammered against his ribs, every nerve alive and raw, responding to the rhythm of her movements, the sound of her pleasure, the press of her heat against him.

She lifted off him slightly, the sudden loss of her warmth making him ache. Her hand slid down his stomach, fingers grazing the smeared remnants of his release as she reached for his cock, wrapping her lithe fingers around it with a gentle but sure grip.

The sensation sent a shudder through his body, and he hissed through gritted teeth as she swiped the last lingering bead of seed from the head, her touch achingly tender. 

Aemond gritted his teeth, pulling in a ragged breath as he felt the searing heat of her press against him, her slick folds giving way as she took him in again–a soft gasp leaving her lips as he breached her. His head lifted from the mattress, eye locking onto her as she sank down onto him, inch by inch the tightness of her cunt almost unbearable–mercilessly tight, squeezing him so perfectly it stole the breath from his lungs. It was too much, too quickly. His body was too sensitive, his nerves alight and raw, already spent from what he’d given her. And yet, he couldn’t refuse her–didn’t really want to. 

As she settled fully against his pelvis, rolling her hips in slow, measured circles, his mind swam with the overwhelming sensation, torn between pleasure and the brink of madness. 

Was this not love? This aching need, this desperation to stay close, to be one with her in whatever way she’d allow? 

Aemond’s heart pounded furiously within his chest, each a beat heavy, desperate thrum. Helpless beneath her, tormented and intoxicated by her in equal measure–the sweetness of her cruelty drawing him deeper into her grasp. “Ah, fuck–mmph, you’re so fucking tight.” 

He released his grip on her nightgown, his hands trembling slightly as he peeled his other hand free from the fabric, only to reach for her thighs. His fingers dug into the supple flesh as he bucked his hips into her, a sharp hiss escaping through gritted teeth. His gaze was riveted to the sight of her cunt swallowing him whole, each thrust accompanied by the wet squelch of their bodies meeting, filling the spaces between their shared moans and breathless pants. 

He let his hands wander further up her thighs, kneading the soft skin with growing urgency. His eye flickered from where their bodies connected up to her face–her eyes fluttered closed, head tilted back as she rode him. 

Daringly, he trailed his fingers higher, gripping her hips tightly. He guided her down onto his cock, holding her so tightly it would brand her with the imprints of his fingers–would leave a mark that would remain long after the night had ended. The thought made his heart flutter–perhaps leaving those small bruises would be the only way to prove this moment had been real, that it hadn’t been a dream, for the both of them. 

He could feel her drawing closer to the edge, the tightening of her walls around him sending a wave of pleasure rippling through his own body. The way her cunt sucked him in, squeezing and releasing, made it impossible to think of anything but her–how she felt, how she sounded, how she looked as she rode him with such intensity. That fluttering deep inside of her pulled him in, drawing him closer to the precipice, to the same edge she was so desperately racing toward.

Aemond released his hold on one of her hips, his fingers trembling as they left the warmth of her skin. He pressed his hand into the mattress, using the leverage to push himself upright. As he rose, his other arm snaked around her waist, pulling her down onto him, locking her firmly in place as her wet walls quivered around his cock, squeezing him tighter with every breath she took.

The sensation was overwhelming, a perfect storm of heat and pressure, but he craved more–craved her. He buried his face in her chest, lips brushing across the soft curve of her skin, tasting the salt of her sweat. His mouth moved in a slow, reverent path, trailing kisses up her breastbone, his lips ghosting over the spot where her heart beat wildly beneath. He could feel the pulse of it, thundering beneath his lips, an intimate rhythm that matched the frantic pounding of his own chest.

He inhaled deeply, taking in her scent–sweet, yet now tinged with the musky intensity of their exertions. It was intoxicating, maddening, filling his head until nothing existed but her. Her body, her scent, her heartbeat. Every part of her claimed him, enslaved him to the desire that roared through his blood. His arm tightened around her waist, holding her impossibly closer, as if he could fuse her to him, as if he could never bear to let her go.

Releasing his grip on her hip, Aemond’s fingers dragged reluctantly over her skin as he pressed one hand into the mattress for support. He pushed himself upright, muscles straining as he moved, the overwhelming sensation of her slick heat still gripping him tightly. His other arm slipped around her waist, securing her against him as he thrust upward, locking her body to his. The way her wet walls quivered and clenched around his cock nearly drove him mad, but he needed to feel more of her–needed to taste her, wanted to capture her lips, to taste their sweet poison. 

His lips found the soft curve of her chest, pressing desperate, heated kisses into her skin. He moved slowly, tracing a path up her breastbone, mouth hovering near the beating pulse at the center of her chest. He could feel the quickened rhythm of her heart beneath his lips, pounding in time with his own. Each beat sent a wave of heat through him, settling low in his stomach.

Drawing in a breath, her scent filled his lungs–sweet, intoxicating, but now saltier, mixed with the musk of their shared exertion. It only intensified his desire, the scent of her sinking into his bones like a poison he could never be free of. His face pressed deeper into her skin as if he could bury himself within her chest–within her heart. 

A soft moan fell from her lips urging him on. The more she trembled around him, the closer she came, the deeper his need became, consuming him from the inside out. 

Aemond anchored himself to her, bracing his weight against her body as he freed one hand, his fingers dragging slowly up her leg, the heat of her skin searing his palm. His grip tightened around the flesh of her thigh, kneading it as his hand traveled higher, fingers pressing into the curve of her hips before sliding up to the exposed breast that brushed against his chest. He groaned softly, squeezing the supple weight of her breast in his hand, his thumb grazing over the hardened peak of her nipple, earning a sharp gasp from her as her hips ground into his, her cunt clenching tighter around him. 

The feel of her made his own breath hitch, his focus momentarily split between the warmth of her body and the way her cunt gripped him greedily, sucking him in. He kneaded her breast for another moment, savoring the feel of her in his grasp, before his hand moved again, tracing a slow, deliberate path up her side, past her shoulder, and beneath her hair. His fingers cradled the back of her skull, holding her firmly, ensuring she wouldn’t pull away. 

He needed her close, as close as possible. 

“Ozudligon kostā, yn ñuhon iksā, Daenera,” Aemond muttered, his voice low and rough, the words spilling from his lips like a vow. He pressed his mouth against the flushed skin of her collarbone, tasting the salt of her on his tongue, savoring the faint taste of her. He kissed a path to the crook of her neck, where her pulse throbbed wildly beneath the fragile skin. 

You may deny it, but you are mine, Daenera. 

His lips lingered there for a moment, feeling the quickened beat of her heart against his mouth, before he buried his face in the hollow, letting his teeth scraping teasingly over the tender flesh.

A sharp shudder ran through her, her fingers tightened their hold on him, nails digging into the hard muscle of his shoulders with a force that sent a jolt of both pain and pleasure straight to the pit of his stomach–he rolled his hips into her, savoring the feel of her cunt clenching around him. The sting of her nails undoubtedly left deep impressions in his skin, each one a silent, feeling mark of possession. 

Aemond reveled in it–the way her touch left him marred, marked, claimed, just as his teeth grazed her skin in a primal mirror of that desire. He liked that idea, that exchange of marks, of unspoken claims etched into each other’s flesh. 

Even as her nails bit into his skin, leaving behind crescent marks, he wanted her to mark him more, to etch her presence into his very flesh. If she left nothing else behind, these scars would be his–testaments to his love and suffering, to his desire that consumed him entirely, and a reminder that it had all been real. 

His lips left her pulse, brushing over the curve of her jaw, his mouth barely hovering over hers. He was almost kissing her, but not quite–just close enough to feel the heat of her, the scant distance between their mouths nothing more than a panting enclave of shared breath. 

“iksā ñuhon,mazōregon ziry iā daor,” Aemond murmured possessively against her skin, his grip tightening around her as though fearing the moment he loosened his hold, she would slip away like smoke through his fingers. “Se aōhon iksan. Iksi ozletagon, jorrāelagon ñuha. Lanta perzyssy hae mēre, ozudligon ao daor. Mēre ñelly, mēre prūmia, mēre gīs, ābrazȳrys.”

You are mine, whether you acknowledge it or not.

And I am yours. We are bound together, my love, intertwined in ways you cannot deny. One flesh, one heart, one soul, my wife.

The words lingered in the air between them, as fragile as spun glass, trembling under the weight of their meaning. Aemond could almost see the tension coil around them, feel the precarious thread of hope stretch, taut and brittle. His breath caught as the last of his words slipped from his lips. But in the silence that followed, he felt it–the cold snap of rejection cutting through the delicate moment.

“Don’t call me that,” Daenera’s voice trembled, but not with weakness–with barely contained rage. Her nails pressed harder into his skin, the sting of her grip a painful reminder of the divide between them–and yet he welcomed it. 

Her teeth were bared in a snarl, lips curling back into something feral, something wild. Her brows were knit together, her expression twisted in fury that smoldered like a fire barely contained. The rage in her eyes was a blaze that threatened to consume them both, yet she couldn’t tear herself away from him. “You don’t call me that!”

She shoved him back onto the mattress, her hands splayed against his chest, firm and unyielding as she forced him beneath her. The weight of her pressed into him, pinning him there, trapped beneath her as she straddled him with a commanding force. Her movements were fervent, rocking her hips in a rhythm that was maddening–his head swimming as she glided up and down the length of his cock, taking him over and over again. 

“You don’t get to call me that!” Her hand struck his face, the sharp crack cutting through the air, his skin immediately stinging under the blow. The heat from the impact spread across his cheek, a burning flush creeping over him as the ringing in his ears drowned out everything but the pounding of his own blood. He barely had a moment to process the first slap before the second came, harder this time, the sting more intense. His skin prickled, red and raw, the fire of it shooting down to his core.

His body reacted instinctively–his hips bucking up into her, desperate, wild, as her cunt clenched tightly around him, intensifying the sensation. 

The searing blend of pain and pleasure shattered the clarity of his thoughts, unraveling him piece by piece. His mind felt distant, blurred, as though submerged beneath waves of sensation, each surge pulling him closer to the brink of madness. 

“You know it’s true–” another slap landed across Aemond’s cheek, silencing him mid-sentence. A guttural moan groan tore from his throat as the sharp sting spread like wildfire across his skin, making his face burn from the force of it. His teeth clenched together, a low growl rumbling deep in his chest as he instinctively turned his head back toward her, meeting her gaze with a defiant, wild glint in his eye. 

She ground down against him, her hips rolling with calculated cruelty, her slick heat gripping his cock so tightly that he could feel his entire body tensing, every muscle drawn taut with need. 

His breath hitched as he fought to remain focused, the muscles in his lower abdomen tightening as the pressure in his spine coiled tighter, threatening to snap at any moment. His jaw clenched, teeth grinding as the words spilled from him, raw and fractured. “You make me sick with love,” he gritted out, his voice hoarse, desperate, every word wretched from deep within him. “Sick with a desire to possess you–”

“I don’t want to hear it,” she spat, her voice laced with venom as she pressed her palm over his mouth, cutting off his words.

But even beneath her hand, muddled and desperate, Aemond continued to mutter, “To have you around me, always–” His words became a muffled, broken sound beneath the pressure of her hand. His lips pressed painfully against his teeth, the sting of it sharp and burning as her palm pushed harder against his mouth, attempting to silence him completely. 

Still, he continued, even through the suffocating press of her palm against his mouth, “You are m–mmh–mine,” he grunted, words barely escaping through the pressure, his breath hot and ragged. “Mmph… fuck, mmph… my sweet poison…” His words broke off again as her hips ground harder into him, his mind burring, thoughts unraveling as his body wound tighter and tighter beneath her. 

His chest rose and fell heavily, breaths shallow and frantic as his fingers dug into the flesh of her hips, needing something to hold on to. His muscles coiled with each movement, his body taut, his breath hitching as he teetered on the precipice, every inch of him attuned to her–the woman who was both his destruction and salvation. 

The slap of skin against skin echoed through the room, the raw, primal sound filling the space as she ground herself against him, rolling her hips in quick, demanding motions. Her movements grew more intense, body rising and falling on him with a furious rhythm–unforgiving as he writhed beneath her, the only sounds escaping him now reduced to pathetic, broken whimpers. His breath came in shallow, ragged gasps as she took him again and again, cunt fluttering around him.

Daenera’s touch was languid, almost idle, her hand slipped from his lips, his mouth open beneath her touch, to the space just below his jaw. She applied just enough pressure to keep him pinned beneath her, completely under her control–enough to send a rush of dizzying heat through his body. He gasped, a low, guttural sound rumbling in his throat as she squeezed just the right amount, his pulse thundering beneath her palm, drumming loudly within his ears. 

The pressure inside of him became unbearable, like a tightly wound coil ready to snap, every inch of his skin sensitive to her touch. His breath hitched as his hips bucked, the friction of her heat driving him closer, closer–until she lifted off him.

The sudden loss was excruciating. His cock, swollen and throbbing painfully, slapped back against his abdomen, slick with both her arousal and his own. The cool air hit him like a punishment and he drew in a breath through clenched teeth, brow furrowing.

Then she slid back down against him, pressing her wet folds along the length of his cock in a slow, tortuous drag. His fingers dug into her flesh, kneading the soft curves of her hips, unable to do anything but respond to her rhythm, powerless under her. She moved with deliberate cruelty, rolling her hips with that maddening pace, her slick cunt teasing every nerve in his body. 

“Fuuuck, please–please–please–mmh,” Aemond panted, words strained and raspy from the pressure she exerted on his throat. “Ple–pleeease…”

Every breath came out in ragged pants, his heart hammering in his chest as she mercilessly ground against him. His stomach clenched, his cock twitching violently as she dragged herself over him again and again, the sensation overwhelming. His hips jerked, bucking up against her with a mind of their own, seeking relief that seemed just out of reach. 

He felt the last remnants of his release approaching–drops of clear liquid beading at the tip of his cock, his body convulsing in futile spasms as his testicles tightened, drawing up painfully close. And then, with a final grind of her hips, he broke. 

The last of his seed spilled from him, barely more than a thin, watery trickle, nothing compared to what she had already wrought from him. His entire body surrendered violently, wracked with tremors as the overwhelming sensations washed over him, leaving him drained, utterly spent.

Daenera’s hand remained wrapped around his throat for a few fervent heartbeats longer until he stopped grinding himself against her. He could feel his pulse racing beneath her fingers, the thud of his heartbeat echoing in the silence of the room as though his heart had truly burst from his chest. 

It was only when she decided to release him that the tension eased, the sounds of her rapid breath growing stronger as the throb of his pulse subsided. Her fingers dragged slowly down his neck, teasing the sensitive skin, then down his chest as she rose above him, looming over him like some cruel deity who had taken her fill–who wasn’t finished yet. 

Aemond’s breath hitched in his throat as she lifted herself off of him, her wet cunt dragging slowly over his softening cock. The friction, though minimal, still made him hiss through gritted teeth, his body too sensitive, too raw from the brutal pleasure she had wrought from him.

The brief reprieve was over as quickly as it had begun.

He watched with a half-lidded eye as she climbed further up his body, the mattress shifting under her weight as she moved above his shoulders. Her knees pressed into the battress of either side of his head, her drenched cunt now hovering just above his face–her cunt fluttering in view, revealing just how close she was to her own end. 

Swallowing thickly, Aemond felt a sudden rush of heat flood back into his veins despite his spent body. His gaze flickered upward, meeting hers for just a moment–half-lidded with desire, a flush clinging to her skin. She fisted her hand in his hair again, the sharp pull sending a shiver down his spine, making his lips part in a soundless moan. He could feel the heat radiating off her, her arousal slick against her thighs. 

There was no denying her, no denying the way his mouth watered at the sight of her above him, her cunt so close to his lips, dripping with desire. Without hesitation, Aemond leaned up, the delicious tug of her grip guiding him, pulling him into her. His hands trembled slightly, moving to her thighs, fingers gripping the soft flesh as his mouth latched onto her, his tongue immediately seeking out a taste of her. 

The moment his tongue slid through her folds, he could hear her exhale sharply, the sound a soft, breathy moan that made his heart flutter. He dragged his tongue up, flattening it against her swollen clit before dipping back down, greedily lapping at her. Her grip tightened, her nails scraping against his scalp, urging him to give her more, to take her apart again as he had done earlier. 

He obeyed without a question, his mouth worshiping her, each movement of his tongue a silent plea for her to use him, to take her pleasure however she wanted. 

She pressed herself down against his face, her thighs caging him in as she ground her slick heat against him–his mouth, his nose, his chin–coating him in her desire. The hand in his hair tightened, bringing him closer–impossibly so–as she moaned loudly. 

Aemond groaned against her, his tongue thrusting into her eagerly, swirling inside her before he dragged it up through her folds, his nose brushing her sensitive nub as he nuzzled into her. His hands clutched at her, fingers digging into the soft flesh of her arse, kneading the supple flesh, branding it as his. He could feel her slickness spreading over his face as he pressed her onto his mouth, feasting on her like a man starved–a man who couldn’t get his fill.

Her fingers tangled tighter in his harp, pulling sharply as she settled more of her weight onto him, suffocating him in the best possible way. He dragged his lips to her clint, sucking at the sensitive bundle of nerves, eliciting a sharp hiss from her as her hips bucked against him, the pleasure rippling through her, her thighs trembling.

A shudder reverberated down her spine, her whole body trembling as he flattened his tongue against her, dragging it down to her clenching hole again. His hands grabbed at her hips, holding her steady as she moved against him.

Aemond felt her body tense, her thighs trembling against his face, her breath catching in her throat. Then, with a final, deep shudder that rocked through her entire body, her cunt clenched tightly around his tongue, quivering uncontrollably. He felt the hot rush of her release spill across his lips, a sudden gush of fluid flooding his mouth and wetting his chin. She moaned, low and broke, as she came undone above him, her hips rolling involuntarily against his face, grinding into him with the last waves of pleasure. 

His grip on her tightened, fingers digging into her hips, holding her there as he greedily lapped at her, swallowing every drop she gave him. Her slick coated his lips, smeared across his face, but he didn’t stop–he couldn’t. He could feel the tremors still coursing through her, her body quaking with the aftershocks of her pleasure, and it only fueled him further. He pressed his tongue flat against her sensitive clit, drawing another sharp gasp from her, feeling her shudder once more, her thighs squeezing his head as if to trap him there.

Her release was his reward, and he savored every moment of it, the taste of her still heavy on his tongue as he nuzzled against her, leaving soft kisses along her trembling inner thighs. His mind was a blur, lost in the haze of her pleasure, in the feel of her quivering body against his, the way her slickness coated his skin.

Aemond felt her grip in his hair loosen, her nails shifting from sharp tugs to gentle, almost absentminded caresses over his scalp. As her fingers withdrew, he heard the dull thud of her hand finding the headboard, seemingly clutching it to steady herself. He remained where he was, nestled between her thighs, his breath warm against her as he continued to lick away the last remnants of her release, pressing soft, reverent kisses along the tender skin of her inner thighs. Her body trembled above him, her breath coming in shallow, rapid bursts, but she gave no further sound.

For a moment, he allowed himself to linger there, relishing the closeness, the intimacy of the moment, his lips trailing over her skin as though worshiping her. Her thighs were still quivering, her skin slick with the evidence of what had passed between them, and the sensation only deepened the ache within him. But then, as quickly as she had taken him, she lifted herself off, her warmth slipping away. Her leg swung over him, and she slid to the edge of the bed, her movements stiff and hurried

Aemond felt the sudden coldness of the air where her heat had been, and a quiet emptiness settled in his chest. He felt the shift of the mattress beneath him as the weight of her body lifted away, leaving an absence that made the space feel suddenly vast. He didn’t follow her with his eye, his gaze remained fixed on the ceiling, where light and shadow danced over the stone as the candles flickered faintly.

The faint sounds of movement filtered through the haze that clouded his mind–soft footsteps, the splash of water, the steady drip breaking the stillness of the room. 

He lay there, breathless, his chest rising and falling in uneven rhythm, the soft rustle of her movements was the only sound that tethered him to the present, anchoring him as his mind threatened to slip away into the haze of spent desire.

His body still thrummed faintly with the lingering echoes of their intimacy, a low hum that settled into a sweet, bone-deep weariness. His muscles, once tight and coiled, now felt loose and spent, heavy with the exhaustion that came after being pushed to the brink. The warmth that had radiated from his skin began to fade, slowly giving way to the creeping chill of the room. It cooled the thin layer of sweat that clung to him, leaving him shivering slightly, his body beginning to ache in the absence of the heat they had shared.

Aemond heard her footfalls approaching again, the faint shuffle of her bare feet against the stone floor. The corvers shifted roughly as she tossed them aside, the corner brushing against his arm, sending a brief gust of air across his face. The movement stirred his hair, tickling his skin and causing a shiver to creep up his spine, but before he could fully react, a pillow was unceremoniously dropped–no, smacked–right onto his face. 

The fabric smothered his view, plunging him briefly into darkness as the pillow hit with a soft thud. His senses buzzed with the sudden disruption, and he quickly grabbed it, pulling it away and tossing it aside. He forced himself up on his elbow, his gaze immediately locking onto her. 

Her face was illuminated by the flickering candlelight, but it wasn’t a soft expression that greeted him. She was scowling, her lips pressed into a thin line, eyes sharp and unforgiving. The sharpness of her gaze cut through the fog of his exhaustion, drawing him back into the moment, the briefest flicker of frustration passing over him as he met her eyes, her expression filled with something far from tenderness.

She roughly tugged at the covers, her movements quick and impatient as she yanked them further open. Her hair fell messily over her face, as she shoved it behind her ear with an irritated huff, her hands busy adjusting the bed, pulling a pillow into position. “Sleep on the chaise or on the floor–I don’t care which,” she uttered, her voice clipped and icy, “but I will not share a bed with you.”

You already have, Aemond thought bitterly, the words pressing on the back of his teeth with his tongue. 

She slid under the covers with a forceful determination, muscling beneath them even as he remained in the middle of the bed, watching her in frustrated silence. Her legs knocked against him as she wiggled into place, shoving him in the process, forcing him to sit up further, muscles tightening beneath his skin. Her gaze finally met his, and what he saw twisted the knife deeper. Fury radiated from her, her cheeks flushed with anger, but there was something more–a hint of shame and regret in her eyes that sank beneath his skin, stinging more than her words did. 

“Savor this memory, Kinslayer,” she spat, her voice like the edge of a blade, sharp and cold. “There will not be another.” Her words cut through him with brutal finality. “I may be your wife in name and by law, but that is the extent of it.” 

Kinslayer. 

The word cut through him like a blade, sharp and cold, the sound of it echoing in his mind. It wasn’t just a title–it was a condemnation, a brand seared into his flesh, a scar brandished on his face, a curse that clung to him no matter what he did. It burrowed beneath his skin, needling into the very essence of him, clawing along his bones and etching itself there as though it belonged. The venom in her voice, the contempt, twisted it deeper. 

Kinslayer. 

Her lips, which had moaned so sweetly just moments before, now dripped with vitriol. The sting of the word festered inside him, sinking into the marrow of his bones, poisoning him from the inside out. His entire body tensed under the weight of it. 

Kinslayer. Kinslayer. Kinslayer. 

The word pulsed through him, relentless, eating away at whatever fleeting pleasure he had felt only moments ago. The memory of her moans, her touch, the way her body had responded to him–it all seemed distant now, corroded by her coldness. 

I may be your wife in name and law, but that is the extent of it.

The ache that settled into him was unbearable–an emptiness that gnawed at his insides, demanding something he could never have.

It felt like a bitter jest, as if the gods themselves were mocking him–punishing him. She was his, bound to him by name, by law, by the vows they had spoken. And yet, she was always just beyond his grasp. No matter how close he came, she remained distant, her heart lost to him. She haunted him, a ghost lingering at the edge of his reach, present enough to torture him with the illusion of closeness, yet forever slipping away, like smoke between his fingers. 

Aemond remained where he was, his body still pressed to the lingering warmth of the bed. His breath was shallow, his chest rising and falling in slow, controlled movements as he tried to steady himself. The taste of her lingered on his lips, a reminder of the closeness they had shared just moments before, yet the memory already felt distant. The tenderness of the moment, the way her body had trembled above him, seemed like a cruel trick now, a fleeting mirage that had faded as soon as it appeared. He felt the distance between them stretch wider, like a gaping wound that swallowed the intimacy they had just shared, erasing it from existence. 

He pushed himself to the edge of the bed, feeling the weight of exhaustion pulling at his body. His muscles ached, tight and weary from the tension of the night, and yet there was a hollowness within him that gnawed at his insides.

With a heavy sigh, he rose, his movements measured as he moved with an air of detachment. He loosely hiked his trousers back up around his hips, his mind drifting elsewhere, swallowing the disappointment, the frustration that clung to him. He supposed he shouldn’t have expected anything different.

His bare feet met the cold stone floor, and the chill bit at his skin, but it did little to rouse him from the hollow emptiness that had settled deep in his chest. His heart pounded heavily, a dull thud that echoed inside him. It thumped against his ribs insistently, as though the ache within was determined to make itself known, to demand attention.

The soft padding of his feet echoed faintly in the room as he walked across the cold floor as he made his way to the water basin. His gaze fell to the cloth she had carelessly abandoned there, hanging off the edge of the porcelain, half submerged in water, the end dripping slowly onto the wooden table beneath, the soft patter of water hitting the wood the only sound in the room aside from his own breathing and the low crackle of the hearth. 

Aemond stood there for a moment, staring at the cloth, the dampness a reflection of how he felt–half submerged in his emotions, half left to dangle in a bitter state of unfulfillment.

He cupped his hands in the cool water, gathering enough to splash against his face. The shock of it needled at his skin, sharp and biting, the chill sinking into his bones. The water stung as it hit the edges of his scar, the tight, sensitive skin prickling, burning under the touch. The familiar ache returned, a dull throb that had always been there, always present, reminding him of everything that had made him into this–a man more monster than not, a kinslayer. But it was more than that now. He had been unaware, in the gaze of their intimacy, how the pain had subsided, softened beneath her touch. 

And now, with her rejection, it had roared back to life. The scar burned as though aggrieved by her absence, as though it, too, knew that she had closed herself off from him, denied him in ways that cut deeper than flesh. 

The sweet taste of her that still lingered on his tongue had turned bitter, acrid, a taste he found impossible to swallow. It sat there, thick and heavy, a remainder of what had been–of what he had been so close to. His throat tightened as he swallowed against it, trying to push it down, to rid himself of the sour aftertaste that lingered not only on his tongue but in the hollow ache that had settled in his chest. 

He splashed more water on his face, the cold droplets clinging to his skin as they dripped down his cheeks and jaw, trailing down the column of his neck in slow, torturous rivulets. Straightening to his full height, he inhaled deeply, the coldness of the water doing little to soothe the heat that still burned beneath his skin. His body felt raw, exposed–vulnerable in a way he loathed. He whipped at his face with a rough hand, smearing the water across his scar, the ache sinking deeper, gnawing at him from within. 

Aemond’s seed clung to his skin, smeared across his stomach and chest, sticky and growing cold in the air. He dipped the cloth into the water basing, wringing it out slowly before wiping it across his skin, each stroke deliberate as he cleaned himself. His breath came steady, controlled–his body still trembling faintly from exhaustion, but his mind retreating, lingering on her presence behind him. 

As he worked, movement flickered in the mirror above the basin. His gaze lifted, settling on the familiar specter–a boy with dark, damp curls plastered to his head, pale skin almost luminous in the dim light. 

Aemond felt the weight of the boy’s gaze, his hollow eyes fixed on his sister, staring at quietly as though willing her to open her eyes, to see him, to know that he was there, haunting him. But she remained still, unmoved. The boy didn’t move either, just stood there, an embodiment of all that haunted him, of the blood that stained his hands and the sins that marked his soul. 

His jaw clenched. He could feel the boy’s silent accusation hanging in the air, thick and oppressive, like smoke curling into his lungs. His grip on the cloth tightened, his knuckles whitening as he dragged it across his skin once more, scrubbing it clean.

The phantom wasn’t real–he knew that. And he tore his gaze away from the reflection, refusing to look at the boy again. He finished wiping himself down, his grip on the cloth tight as he squeezed the last droplets of water from it. He stood before the basin for a moment longer, staring at his reflection in the rippling water, the cool air of the room biting at his damp skin. 

With a measured breath, turned away, abandoning the basin as he moved quietly through the dimly lit chamber. He blew out the candles as he passed, plunging sections of the room into shadow, his footsteps soft against the stone floor. 

Reaching the chest, he pulled out a clean shirt and trousers, the fabric cool beneath his fingers. He placed them carefully over the chaise, and with a sense of detached routine, stripped off his trousers and smallclothes, folding them neatly and placing them on the floor. The cool air kissed his skin as he changed into fresh undergarments, the soft rustle of fabric the only sound in the stillness of the room.

Settling down on the chaise, he allowed himself a brief moment to close his eye, rolling his neck. His knees ached from where they had pressed into the shards of glass earlier, the sting a dull throb that pulsed in time with his heartbeat. He lifted the wet cloth once more, bringing it to his knees, wiping away the blood that had snared across the skin. The small cuts peppered his knees, the remnants of shattered glass embedded there. He could feel the tiny shards, and with a grimace, he began to pull them out one by one, each piece glinting faintly in the dim light as he dropped them onto the side table. 

Blood welled in the wounds, but the pain barely registered. It was nothing compared to the ache that thrummed behind his sapphire, the ever-present reminder of what he had lost–of what he could never reclaim.

He propped one ankle over his knee and began working at his feet, carefully removing the smaller shards embedded there, each one making a soft clink as he placed it alongside the others. His hands worked methodically, cleaning the wounds with the wet cloth, the blood soaking into the fabric, dark blots spreading through the damp cloth. The cloth was stained now, like everything else–like him. 

Once he finished cleaning himself off, Aemond toasted the damp cloth onto the side table, its weight landing with a quiet thud. He rose from the chaise, pulling on fresh trousers and a new shirt with an air of quiet detachment, each action a distraction from the gnawing thoughts in his mind. 

He crossed the room to the desk in the corner, his bare feet silent against the floor, and pulled open the drawer, revealing a small porcelain jaw he had placed within–one of the few things he had brought with him to this chamber, their chambers. The cool surface was smooth against his fingers as he lifted it out and gently pushed the drawer closed again. 

Settling back onto the chaise, Aemond unscrewed the lid, and the earthy, herbal scent of the salve immediately filled the air, surrounding him like a familiar ghost. The mixture was form but malleable under his touch, and as he dipped his fingers into it, memories stirred, unbidden. Daenera had made the salve for him long ago, back when there had been something else between them–before it had all unraveled into the bitter, tangled mess they lived in now. The jaw was half-used–often he had used it on the scratches and cuts he’d received during training. 

He began dabbing the salve onto the fresh cuts on his feet and hands, the cool balm stinging at first before settling into a soothing warmth. The stinging didn't bother him, though. It was a brief, sharp pain that faded, unlike the ache that lingered inside him. He screwed the lid back on and set the jar aside, and leaned back against the chaise, staring at the ceiling as the earthy scent still lingered in the room, a faint reminder of her lingering presence in his life, even in absence. He rested on his back, the quiet of the room settling heavily around him, but his mind remained restless. 

His gaze drifted towards her, drawing irresistibly to her form beneath the covers. She lay facing the hearth, her back to him, but the irregular rise and fall of her shoulders betrayed her pretense of sleep. She was awake, just as he was, the tension between them still thick in the air.

The distance between the chaise and the bed felt immeasurable, though it was just a few paces from where he had knelt not long before. His heart felt heavier now, weighted down by a familiar ache–an ache that never seemed to leave him. It settled in his chest like a thorn, burrowing deep and festering there, always reminding him of the things he couldn’t have, that was denied him, the things that slipped further from his grasp the more he yearned for them.

The gnawing hunger clawed at him again, that deep-seated need for something more–more than the physical, more than the fleeting moments of passion. He longed for something far out of his reach, for something softer, gentler, something that might soothe the raw, bleeding edges of his soul. He wanted her heart, but she was determined to deny him that–to deny he had held hers too. He clenched his jaw, the frustration, and longing twisting inside him, coiling like a serpent as he lay there, unable to quell the storm that churned within him. 

To Aemond, love was a poison–corrosive, festering, rotting from the inside. It left one weak, vulnerable, and utterly at another’s mercy, and yet, despite the bitterness, he drank deeply from it. How sweet it was when it chose to be sweet, intoxicating and filling him with warmth. And how bitter it was when it turned, sharp and acrid, cutting at his very soul. But he drank it all the same. Sweet or bitter, it was her. It was him.

Even now, as it burned in his veins, as the bitterness overwhelmed him, he still craved it–still craved her. He wanted her with every fiber of his being, even when she clawed at him, when her words sank deep into his skin, venomous and scathing. He wanted her even in her hatred, her scorn, her cruelty. 

Wasn’t this what love truly was? Holding onto something that had the power to wound so deeply? Or was it merely madness? 

It didn’t matter how much he bled for her, how she pressed her words to his neck like a blade. As long as she haunted him, as long as she was tethered to him in some way, he could endure the pain. He welcomed it. 

Aemond lifted his hand, holding it before his face, his fingers splayed, feeling as though he could still feel the ghost of her touch, the bite of her nails sinking into his skin. The crescent-shaped marks were stark against the pale flesh, raw and red, a physical reminder of her–of her fury, her desire, her hold over him. He turned his hand slowly in the dim light of the hearth, watching as the flickering firelight played over the small ridges of those marks, casting tiny shadows along his palm. 

His gaze shifted to the scar that ran wider and deeper than the others, cutting a clean path across his palm–a wound that had healed, an echo of what was, a vow. The scar was pink and slightly raised, different from the other jagged scars that littered his palm and was slowly healing and fading out of existence. This remained–always would remain. 

He clung to the faint, fleeting satisfaction that came with the marks she had left on him–the evidence of her touch, a scar etched into his skin, a loving claim. 

It was something tangible, something real to hold onto. In this scar he found proof that what had passed between them hadn’t been a dream, nor an illusion–it hadn’t been solely desire. It had been real. It was real. A stolen moment that shouldn’t have been, but was. Something they had shared. 

The scar beneath his fingertips felt like scribbles left in the margins of a book–thoughts hastily written down, fragments of a story that would never fully be told but still remained. The moments they’d had, fleeting as they were, seemed to live in the quiet spaces between their shared agony, in the creases of his memory, where he could revisit them again and again. This mark, this scar, held meaning, for it carried within it the weight of all the things he could never say, all the things he could never fully have. 

It was lasting in the only way that mattered, meant to be carried with him like a secret, hidden in the deepest parts of himself, in the creases of his soul where he kept all the unspoken words and unrealized desires. Her touch, the wounds she inflicted both out of rage and passion, were all he had now. The marks she left on him were his alone, remnants of the fleeting grip he had on her–even as she slipped further away from him with each passing breath, with each scathing word she uttered.

Aemond's jaw tightened as he lowered his hand again, as if relinquishing her entirely would undo him. He could still feel her there, in the aching sting of the scars she left, in the phantom warmth of her skin against his. But he knew, deep down, that these marks were all he had left–momentary, fleeting, like her affection. And yet, he held onto them as though they could somehow keep her tethered to him, as though the memory of her touch might prevent her from slipping through his fingers entirely.

[theetherealbloom]

AS GOOD A REASON - CH. 3 | OBERYN MARTELL

Chapter Three: There Will Be No Glory

Summary: You, who has made it her life's work to get retribution on those who mistreated and harassed you when you were a child. The scars on your body are a physical reminder of the suffering you endured at the hands of abusers, and they also provide the fuel for your years-long quest for retribution.

Paring: Oberyn Martell x Fem!Reader

Warnings: 18+ MDNI DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, MINORS GO AWAY, GoT is full of serious and harmful topics, mentions of SA, Rape (not the reader), Murder, Violence, Gore, War, Poison, Scars, Burns, Scratching, Su!c!de, AU, Age–Gap Romance, Angst, FLUFF, Eventual SMUT, Swearing, PTSD, Depression, Anxiety, Crying, Suggestive content, Flirting, Blood, War, Religion References, Nudity, Domestic Abuse, Incest, Prostitution, Weapons, Fire, Horror, Character Deaths, Rewrite Alternate Universe, Sex, Alcohol, Revenge, 

Word Count: 8.4k

A/N: I swear I’m cookin’ back here. I've been writing this series non-stop for days lmao. Idk what hit me?? I actually have the next chapter ready to post too lmao. Hope everyone is doing well!

Side note: I’m dyslexic and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!

Song: hunter by Paris Paloma

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KING'S LANDING, THE SEPT OF BAELOR — EARLY MORNING

The Sept of Baelor was alive with a flurry of activity. Servants moved swiftly, preparing for the grand wedding of Joffrey Baratheon and Margaery Tyrell. Every corner of the grand sept was being scrubbed, every flower meticulously placed, every banner hung with precision. The sun had barely risen, casting a golden hue over the stained-glass windows, but already the heat of the day was making the air feel thick and heavy.

You were in the midst of it all, arranging the delicate floral garlands along the altar. The scent of the flowers was overwhelming, mingling with the incense that filled the Sept. Your hands moved mechanically, arranging the blooms with precision, though your mind was elsewhere. The headache that had been gnawing at the edges of your consciousness all morning now pulsed with a vengeance, a searing pain behind your eyes. It was getting harder to focus, and the heat didn’t help.

Voices echoed through the Sept as people hurried by, servants calling to one another in preparation, but it was all a dull hum in your ears. You pressed a hand to your temple, closing your eyes for a moment as the migraine intensified. The world seemed to blur at the edges, the weight of your own thoughts pressing down on you, mingling with the physical pain. 

Then, suddenly, a firm hand gripped your arm. You gasped, eyes snapping open as you were pulled away from your work, your feet stumbling beneath you. The world spun as you were dragged through the corridors, away from the main hall. 

Your first instinct was to fight back. You kicked, struggled, your heart pounding with panic. But the grip was unyielding, dragging you into a darkened alcove, hidden away from prying eyes. 

“What are you—? Let go of me!” you hissed, your voice strained with fear and frustration as you fought against your captor, kicking and trying to free yourself.

Then, in the dim light, you saw him. Oberyn Martell. His eyes gleamed with amusement, but there was something else in them—a hunger, a dangerous edge. He didn’t release you, instead pressing you further into the shadows, the cool stone wall biting against your back.

“You—” you began, breathless, still trying to regain control of the situation, but Oberyn leaned closer, cutting off your words with the intensity of his gaze. 

“Shh," he whispered, his voice a low rumble that sent a shiver down your spine. "I’ve been looking for you.”

His words hung between you like a dangerous secret. His body pressed against yours, firm and unyielding, his hands bracing on either side of your head, caging you in. Your heart raced as you realized there was no escaping him now. You forced yourself to meet his gaze, determined to maintain your composure despite the sudden surge of heat that flushed your skin. 

“What are you doing?” you demanded, your voice shaky but defiant. “We shouldn’t be here—”

Oberyn’s smile widened, the corner of his lips curving into a wicked smirk. “Shouldn’t we?” His tone was teasing, but his eyes were dark, intense. His face was so close, his breath warm against your skin. “You’ve been avoiding me. I’ve noticed.”

“I’m working,” you replied, trying to maintain control of your voice, trying to keep your heart from pounding so loudly in your chest. “And you should be—”

But Oberyn interrupted you, his hand brushing lightly against your arm, sending sparks shooting up your spine. "You carry yourself with grace, more like a lady of the court than a servant.” His gaze trailed over you, studying you, watching the way you tried to hide the tremor in your breath. “It makes me wonder… who are you really?”

Your throat tightened. The question cut too close to the truth. You had worked so hard to blend in, to be unnoticed, yet Oberyn’s gaze seemed to peel back the layers you had carefully built. He was too perceptive, too sharp.

“I’m no one,” you lied, your voice steadier than you felt. “Just a servant.”

Oberyn chuckled softly, but there was no humor in it. He leaned closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he spoke. “A servant who speaks with such eloquence, who watches others like a hawk, as if you’re calculating their every move.” His breath was hot against your skin, his presence overwhelming as he whispered, “You’re planning something, aren’t you?”

Your pulse quickened. His words were dangerous, far too close to what you had been so careful to hide. Oberyn was watching you with an intensity that made your skin burn, and for a moment, you couldn’t breathe. He saw through you in a way no one else had. The facade you wore was slipping under his gaze, and you weren’t sure if you could hold it up any longer.

“I don’t know what you mean,” you said, your voice barely more than a whisper.

Oberyn tilted his head, his dark eyes searching yours, reading the fear and the defiance in equal measure. He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re a good liar,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your skin as he spoke. “But I’ve spent my life around liars. And you... you are no ordinary servant.”

You swallowed hard, your back pressed firmly against the cold stone as Oberyn’s presence enveloped you. His fingers brushed lightly against your jaw, tracing the line of your face as he studied you. "There's something about you," he said, his voice soft but dangerous. "Something... familiar."

Your breath caught in your throat. He was getting too close, too close to the truth you had buried so deeply. You had to regain control, had to push him away before he uncovered everything.

“Let me go,” you whispered, though your voice lacked the strength you intended. 

Oberyn’s eyes glimmered with something unreadable as he held you there, trapped between him and the wall. He leaned in, his lips hovering near yours, the tension between you crackling like wildfire. “Not yet,” he whispered, his voice a promise, a warning. 

And in that moment, you realized you were caught.

Oberyn stood so close, his presence overwhelming, his eyes filled with that dangerous blend of curiosity and something more primal. You could feel the heat radiating from him, the air between you thick with tension, as if the entire world had fallen away, leaving just the two of you in this darkened corner of the Sept.

His voice, low and smooth, broke the silence, sending a shiver down your spine. “My sister used to write to me, you know,” he began, his lips curling into a small, almost bittersweet smile. “Princess Elia. We were always apart, but her letters kept me close to her.” He paused, watching you closely, as though he could see right through the facade you’d carefully built over the years. 

You stiffened at the mention of Elia, your heart clenching painfully. You hadn’t heard that name spoken so intimately in years. You were only a child then, but you remembered her well—kind, gentle, her presence like a soft light amidst the darkness that surrounded the Red Keep. Your hands trembled slightly, but you quickly clenched them into fists, trying to maintain your composure as Oberyn continued.

“There was one letter,” he mused, his voice softening as if recalling a distant memory. His fingers lightly traced the air, as if mimicking the act of writing. “She wrote about a servant. A girl, a child really, whose parents had given her away. She never mentioned the girl’s name, but she always said how kind she was. How strong, despite everything.”

Your breath caught in your throat. You knew he was talking about you. Elia had been the only one who had shown you kindness, who had given you a place to belong when the world had taken everything from you. But you couldn’t let him know that. You couldn’t let anyone know who you truly were. The weight of your past was a burden you had carried alone, and it had to stay that way.

Oberyn stepped closer, his eyes searching yours, as though he could find the truth hidden behind your carefully guarded expression. “I wonder…” he whispered, his lips hovering near your ear. “Was that girl you?”

You swallowed hard, every instinct screaming at you to run, to get away, but Oberyn’s presence held you in place. His gaze was relentless, burning into you, waiting for an answer you couldn’t give.

“I—” You struggled to find the words, your mind racing, but your throat felt tight, your heart hammering in your chest. You had spent years building this mask, this life as a mere servant, someone no one would look at twice. But now, in the span of moments, Oberyn was threatening to tear it all away.

His hand lifted, fingers grazing the side of your face, and the world seemed to narrow down to that single point of contact. “Who are you, truly?” he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper, but there was no mistaking the intensity in his tone.

The question hung in the air, suffocating. His proximity, the way his body loomed over yours, the way his eyes pinned you in place—it was all too much. The pressure, the closeness, the danger of being exposed—it all came crashing down on you, and suddenly, something snapped inside you.

Without warning, you moved.

Your knee shot up, connecting with Oberyn’s side, hard enough to knock the wind out of him, but not enough to cause real harm. He staggered back, his expression briefly shifting to one of surprise before it morphed into something almost amused. But you didn’t give him time to recover. You slipped out from under his arm, using his momentary lapse to dart past him, your body moving with an agility you hadn’t shown before. 

He chuckled, low and dangerous, clearly not expecting the sudden resistance. “I see,” he murmured, rubbing his side where you’d struck him, his eyes gleaming with something far more dangerous than before. “You’re full of surprises.”

But you didn’t stop to listen. You were already moving, slipping back into the main hall of the Sept where the other servants were still bustling about, preparing for the wedding. The light from the stained-glass windows bathed the room in a kaleidoscope of colors, but you barely noticed. Your heart was pounding in your chest, adrenaline still coursing through your veins as you forced yourself to keep walking, blending back into the crowd of workers.

No one seemed to notice your disheveled state, the faint tremor in your hands as you returned to your duties. You grabbed a bouquet of flowers, your fingers working mechanically as you set them in place, your mind racing with the encounter you had just escaped.

Oberyn had been close—too close. You had no idea how much he truly knew or how much he suspected, but it was clear he wasn’t going to let this go. You could still feel his eyes on you, the way he had studied you as if he could unravel all your secrets.

But you wouldn’t let him. You had survived this long by keeping your past hidden, and you wouldn’t let anyone—no matter how charming, how dangerous—pull you back into that life. 

As you worked, your mind kept replaying his words, the way he had looked at you with that knowing gaze. You could feel the danger closing in, but you had no choice but to press on. The game was far from over, and you would have to be even more careful from now on.

But one thing was clear—Oberyn Martell was not a man easily fooled.

KING'S LANDING, THE SEPT OF BAELOR — DAY

You lingered in the cool shadows of the Sept, hidden from view, just another servant who wasn’t meant to be seen. You weren’t supposed to be part of the grand ceremony at all. Your role, after all, was to prepare for the feast that would follow this extravagant display—a celebration meant to rival even the greatest of royal unions.

But something compelled you to stay.

The air was thick with the scent of incense, and the sound of hushed murmurs echoed off the high stone walls as nobles and lords gathered to witness the joining of Houses Tyrell and Lannister. It was all falling into place, every step of this elaborate plan leading to this moment. The tension in the room crackled like lightning before a storm.

You stood, your heart pounding, as Margaery Tyrell, radiant in her flowing gown, walked down the aisle on the arm of her father, Mace Tyrell. Her golden hair shimmered in the light of the stained-glass windows, and her face was calm—serene even—as though she had been preparing for this her entire life. You watched closely, your gaze sharp, dissecting every movement, every flicker of emotion. The entire event was a spectacle, a symbol of power, of politics. It was all theater. 

Mace Tyrell paused at the base of the steps, his expression proud as he handed his daughter to the waiting king. Joffrey stood at the top, his grin smug, cruel even, as he accepted Margaery’s hand. For a brief moment, your eyes lingered on the boy king, revulsion curling in your stomach. His reign had been a reign of terror and madness, and yet, in this moment, he stood like a conqueror, basking in the adulation of his subjects. 

Margaery, ever poised, ascended the steps with him, her head held high as she moved beside Joffrey. The High Septon awaited them, his voice booming through the Sept as he began the sacred rites. You felt a strange sense of detachment, as if watching the scene unfold from a great distance. Yet, there was a thrill beneath your skin—a deep, quiet satisfaction. Everything was in motion now, and there was no turning back.

The High Septon’s voice echoed through the hall, reverberating off the stone walls: 

"Let it be known that Margaery of House Tyrell and Joffrey of the Houses Lannister and Baratheon are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder."

As the words filled the air, you couldn’t help but smirk slightly to yourself, hidden in the shadows. Cursed, indeed. The irony of it all, the pageantry, the vows, the promise of unity, knowing what was to come—it was almost poetic.

You watched as Joffrey, in all his arrogance, turned to Margaery, taking her hands in his. "With this kiss, I pledge my love," he declared, loud enough for all to hear. His voice carried the same venomous self-importance it always had, as if he truly believed himself a benevolent ruler.

The crowd erupted in applause as their lips met in a kiss that was supposed to symbolize the unity of two great houses. You watched with an unreadable expression as Margaery played her part flawlessly, the perfect bride, while Joffrey basked in the adulation.

From your vantage point, you caught a glimpse of Sansa Stark, her face pale as she leaned toward Tyrion Lannister. Her eyes were dark, her lips pressed into a thin line as she whispered, "We have a new queen."

Tyrion, ever the cynic, barely glanced at her as he muttered under his breath, “Better her than you.”

You felt a surge of something—was it pity?—for Sansa, trapped in this viper’s nest with no escape. But this wasn’t your concern, not today. Today, the wheels were turning, and soon, this entire charade would unravel. You could feel it in the air, the undercurrent of tension beneath the applause and celebration. It was almost time.

The ceremony concluded, and the newly crowned queen and her king descended the steps together, the picture of royal power. The applause grew louder, the lords and ladies of Westeros rising to their feet in celebration of this union. But all you could focus on was the bitter truth behind it all. 

Your migraine throbbed in your temples, the dull ache intensifying as you stood there, watching the farce unfold before you. But you smiled, knowing that by the end of this day, Joffrey would no longer be king. The poison had already been set in motion, and the pieces on the board were exactly where you needed them to be.

For now, you would watch. The storm was coming, and you would be ready to strike when the time was right.

THE WEDDING RECEPTION 

KING'S LANDING GARDEN, RED KEEP — DAY

The garden was a riot of color and sound. Banners of crimson and gold fluttered in the warm breeze, the sigils of House Lannister emblazoned on every surface. Long tables stretched across the lush greenery, laden with golden platters of roasted meats, fruit, and delicate pastries. Lords and ladies of every great house in Westeros mingled, their voices a hum of excitement, laughter, and gossip, all gathered to celebrate the union of Joffrey Baratheon and Margaery Tyrell.

Jugglers tossed brightly colored balls high into the air while fire-breathers sent plumes of flames into the sky. Their movements were smooth and practiced, as if the entire performance were just another part of the show that was the king’s wedding. Some even walked on stilts, towering over the crowd, while musicians played lively tunes in the background, the melodies weaving in and out of the general din. 

You stood back, observing from the edge of the gardens, the soft perfume of roses mingling with the smoky scent of roasted meats. The spectacle of it all, the opulence, the grandeur—it was enough to make anyone feel insignificant in its shadow. You glanced down at your own hands, trembling slightly as you worked to keep them busy, adjusting a garland of flowers, though your task had long since been finished.  

The whole scene was a display of power, the ruling elite flaunting their wealth for all to see. Each lord and lady wore their finest silks, their jewels glinting in the midday sun as they danced, laughed, and raised their goblets in celebration. But beneath the surface, there was an undercurrent of tension. It lingered in the air, a brewing tempest on the horizon.

As your eyes drifted over the crowd, you spotted Bronn, Tyrion, and Podrick making their way through the guests. Tyrion’s face was hard to read, his usual wit tempered by the weight of the moment. He and Bronn exchanged quiet words, but even from a distance, you could see the unease in Tyrion’s posture. He didn’t want to be here, that much was clear.

And then, from across the garden, your gaze landed on Oberyn Martell. He and Ellaria Sand were seated near the fountain, utterly captivated by a contortionist performing impossible bends and twists before them. Ellaria laughed softly, her eyes alight with amusement, while Oberyn watched the performance with a more measured gaze. 

For a fleeting moment, his eyes found yours.

The world seemed to slow as the intensity of his gaze sent a jolt through your body. His dark eyes, filled with a mix of curiosity and something deeper, locked onto yours, as though he could see through every wall you had carefully constructed. Your heart quickened, and an unexpected warmth spread through your chest. The moment stretched between you, silent and loaded with meaning.

But you couldn’t hold it. Your pulse raced, your palms dampening with sweat as you quickly tore your gaze away, focusing on the flowers at your feet. You forced yourself to breathe, but the weight of his attention lingered on your skin, like a touch that burned long after it was gone.

You busied yourself again, rearranging the flowers though they didn’t need rearranging, anything to distract yourself from the flutter of nerves in your stomach. What was it about him? The way he looked at you wasn’t like the others. It was as if he knew something—something about you that no one else did. 

Your hands shook as you tried to steady your breath. You weren’t supposed to stand out here, in this garden full of lords and ladies, and yet… here you were, caught in the eyes of a man who seemed to see too much.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Ellaria lean in closer to Oberyn, whispering something into his ear, her hand resting lightly on his arm. Her eyes flicked briefly in your direction, curiosity burning behind them. The same possessive glint you had seen before was there, but now it was tempered by a different kind of intrigue.

Your heart pounded in your chest. You weren’t sure if you were relieved or unnerved by the brief reprieve from Oberyn’s gaze. Either way, you knew one thing: nothing at this wedding was what it seemed.

The air was thick with revelry, the laughter of lords and ladies mingling with the melody of flutes and the clink of goblets. Everywhere you looked, you saw power—power flaunted by those who had it, and coveted by those who didn’t. But you played your role, dutifully present, a servant watching a play unfold.

At the head table, Olenna Tyrell moved with a deliberate grace, her hand trailing through Sansa Stark’s carefully braided hair before lingering on the stones of her necklace. The movement was subtle, her fingers deft, plucking at the polished purple gems with a kind of ease that only someone of her station could manage. It was easy to miss if one wasn’t paying attention—but you were always paying attention.

Your eyes narrowed, recognizing the faint gleam in Olenna’s fingers as she discreetly palmed something. The strangler. A crystalline form of poison, almost impossible to detect once dissolved in wine. Your heart beat faster, but outwardly, you remained composed, blending into the background of the celebration.

No one else seemed to notice. Not Sansa, lost in her sorrow, nor Tyrion, pouring himself another goblet of wine as he approached the table. Olenna’s conspiratorial smile went unnoticed by the rest, except you. You stepped closer, pretending to busy yourself with the trays of wine, ready to serve at a moment’s notice, but your ears were sharply tuned to their conversation.

You heard the last bit of Olenna’s words as she turned to Sansa, her voice low but pointed. "Perhaps if your pauper husband were to sell his mule and his last pair of shoes, he might afford to bring you to Highgarden for a visit. Now that peace has come and all is right with the world, it would do you good to see some of it." Olenna cast a glance toward Tyrion, her eyes gleaming with amusement. “You must excuse me. It's time I ate some of this food I paid for.”

Tyrion smirked, but the bitterness in his eyes was unmistakable. He raised his goblet in a mock toast, the weight of his station pressing heavily on his shoulders.

As Olenna moved away, the music changed. The musicians struck up a familiar tune, the one they always played for the Lannisters—a song of lions, of power.

"A coat of gold, or a coat of red, a lion still has claws..."

Margaery seemed to be enjoying the performance, her laughter light and genuine. But Joffrey, ever the restless king, was bored. He stood abruptly, tossing coins at the musicians as if they were little more than beggars. "Very good. Very good. Off you go," he said dismissively. The musicians scrambled to collect the coins, bowing as they backed away from the table, desperate to avoid the king’s wrath.

From where you stood, the entire spectacle felt sickening. You clenched your jaw, your hands hidden beneath your sleeves as you forced yourself to remain composed. It was all a game to them. A game of politics, of power, of lies. The poorest in King’s Landing would never see the remnants of this feast, no matter what Margaery or Joffrey decreed. You knew the truth. People like you—those without titles, lands, or coin—were little more than pawns to be sacrificed in their endless struggle for dominance.

You watched Margaery lean toward Joffrey, her hand resting on his arm as she tried to soothe his restlessness. "My love, why don't we make the announcement?" she said, her voice soft, almost coaxing. Joffrey banged his goblet against the table, the sharp clang silencing the crowd as he stood.

"Everyone!" he called out, his voice booming over the garden. "The queen would like to say a few words."

The crowd cheered, applauding the queen they had already accepted as their own. Margaery stood gracefully, her smile serene as she addressed the crowd. "We are so fortunate to enjoy this marvelous food and drink. Not all among us are so lucky. To thank the gods for bringing the recent war to a just end, King Joffrey has decreed that the leftovers from our feast be given to the poorest in his city."

More applause followed, and Joffrey beamed, soaking in the adoration of the crowd. Cersei, ever watchful, approached Margaery with a forced smile. "You're an example to us all," she said, placing a kiss on each of Margaery’s cheeks. The queen mother’s jealousy was palpable, her eyes glinting with barely concealed disdain.

You stood there, watching it all with clenched fists beneath your sleeves, your breath coming in slow, measured draws. The words, the gestures, the smiles—it was all smoke and mirrors. They paraded their generosity, their wealth, their power as if it were a gift to the realm, but you knew better. This peace was fragile, built on the bodies of the innocent, and it could shatter at any moment.

Your fingers dug into the fabric of your dress, a habit you had developed over the years. You scratched at the skin beneath, the pressure grounding you as memories flashed before your eyes—memories of pain, of cruelty, of the Mountain. The heat of the branding iron. The smell of burning flesh. Your own screams ringing in your ears until the world went dark.

You bit down hard on your lip, forcing the memories to retreat back into the dark corners of your mind. But the tension remained, a heavy knot in your chest, coiled tight like a viper ready to strike. Everything around you—the laughter, the opulence, the false smiles of lords and ladies—was part of this never-ending cycle of power. A gamble played at the expense of lives like yours.

Standing at a distance, you felt Oberyn’s eyes on you again. He lounged with casual arrogance, a wicked smile playing on his lips as Ellaria sat on his lap, delicately feeding him a grape. His gaze lingered on you, his expression one of amusement, as if he found your presence there tantalizing. His nod in your direction was slow, deliberate, and the smirk he gave you only made your pulse race. You quickly turned away, determined not to give him the satisfaction of seeing the effect he had on you.

Your focus shifted, catching Cersei out of the corner of your eye as she exchanged curt words with Brienne of Tarth. Whatever was said made Brienne visibly uncomfortable, and she soon excused herself, walking away with her usual brisk pace. You weren’t close enough to hear their exchange, but the look on Cersei’s face said it all—disdain, irritation, and a certain dangerous pleasure in making the taller woman feel out of place.

Just as you were about to step away, something else caught your attention. Pycelle, with his hunched posture and greasy fingers, had cornered a young maid—Serena, you realized with a scowl. Inwardly, you cursed. Pycelle was one of those men you despised most at court, his pretense of wisdom nothing more than a shield for his lechery. You moved closer, keeping your head down, pretending to adjust your serving tray as you eavesdropped on their conversation.

Pycelle’s voice was low, his tone sickeningly paternal as he said, "No, no, come to my chambers and I will examine you personally."

Your stomach churned at his words, but before you could intervene, Cersei’s voice cut through the air like a dagger.

"She’ll do no such thing."

Pycelle jumped, his greasy face paling as he turned to see the queen standing there, her expression cold and unyielding.

"Oh, Your Grace," Pycelle stammered, his voice trembling slightly. "Yes, well, this young lady sought my advice..."

Cersei’s smile was sharp and cruel. "You should see Qyburn. He’s quite good."

The maid, eyes wide with relief, quickly dipped her head. "Your Grace," she murmured, then hurried away, escaping Pycelle’s grasp.

Pycelle’s face contorted into an expression of disgust. "Qyburn? Deplorable man. Brought shame on the Citadel with his repugnant experiments."

Cersei tilted her head, her smile never wavering. "More repugnant than your gnarled fingers on that girl’s thighs?"

Pycelle stiffened, his eyes darting around nervously. "Your Grace, I am a man of learning."

Cersei’s eyes gleamed with dangerous amusement. "My little brother had you sent to the Black Cells when you annoyed him. What do you think I could do to you if you annoyed me?"

Pycelle’s face turned ashen. "I never meant to annoy anyone," he mumbled, his voice now a pathetic whimper.

"But you are," Cersei said softly, stepping closer, her gaze boring into him. "You annoy me right now. Every breath you draw in my presence annoys me. So here’s what I want you to do: I want you to leave my presence. Leave this wedding right now. Go to the kitchens and instruct them that all the leftovers from the feast will be brought to the kennels."

Pycelle’s mouth opened in protest, but Cersei cut him off sharply. "The queen is telling you the leftovers will feed the dogs, or you will."

For a moment, the old man seemed to consider arguing, but one look at Cersei’s smile—a cruel, dangerous curve of her lips—and he thought better of it. With a shaky bow, he muttered, "Yes, Your Grace," and scuttled away like the coward he was.

Cersei smiled after him, pleased with herself.

What a bold-faced cunt, you thought bitterly, watching her bask in her small victory. Everything about her was venomous—her beauty, her power, her cruelty. She wielded them all with deadly precision, and you hated her for it.

With a steadying breath, you made your way back toward the head table, slipping seamlessly into your role. You refilled goblets, offered plates, your presence unnoticed among the nobles. But beneath your mask of calm, your mind churned. Every move, every word, every gesture at this wedding was a lie—a careful façade constructed to conceal the rot beneath.

The clamor of the wedding feast carried on, a haze of laughter, clinking goblets, and the gleam of gold and silk that shone in the late afternoon sun. The Lannisters and Tyrells reveled in their temporary triumph, their smugness saturating the air like a sickly perfume. But you knew better than most how quickly fortunes could turn in a place like King’s Landing. The city was a pit of snakes, and the shift of power could change in an instant.

From where you stood, just close enough to watch but far enough to remain unnoticed, your eyes followed King Joffrey. He sat at the head of the grand table, restless and bored, his twisted amusement turning toward the fool juggling before him. Margaery, ever the dutiful queen, smiled gracefully at his side, playing her part flawlessly. 

But Joffrey… he was never satisfied.

You saw the glint of cruelty in his eyes before he even stood. The familiar spark that made your skin crawl and your stomach twist. His voice cut through the air, sharp and mocking.

"A gold dragon to whoever knocks my fool’s hat off," Joffrey declared, his sneer stretching wide as he stood, scanning the crowd like a predator ready to pounce.

The fool, a trembling man in motley, barely had time to react before the guests joined in. Laughter echoed as food—chunks of bread, slices of fruit, and bits of meat—were hurled at him. You could see the fear in his eyes, how his smile wavered as he danced awkwardly to avoid the barrage. 

Your hands clenched into fists at your sides. The sight of it—how quickly cruelty had become sport—set your blood boiling. You knew this game, too well. You had seen it before. You had lived it.

Joffrey’s laughter rang loud, ringing in your ears like a taunt. 

You couldn’t take it anymore.

With a sharp inhale, you turned on your heel, walking briskly away from the spectacle. You could feel your heart hammering in your chest, the fury bubbling beneath the surface, the memories threatening to overtake you. The jeers, the screams, the sound of flesh meeting stone… all of it haunted you still, and this—this senseless cruelty—stirred it back to life.

The clamor of the feast swirled around you, a whirlwind of laughter, clinking goblets, and hushed conversations. Your hands moved mechanically as you helped arrange the giant feast table, replenishing trays of roasted meats and lavish platters of fruits. Yet your mind remained a storm of its own, the anger still simmering beneath the surface from what you'd just witnessed.

This court—its twisted bets, the cruelty woven into every interaction—was a festering rot, and you couldn’t allow yourself to forget that. Not for a moment. Not here, where forgetting meant losing yourself to the madness.

As you moved to refill goblets of wine, you saw Cersei and Tywin strolling past, their expressions as cold and imperious as ever. You kept your head down, but their voices reached your ears, low and murmured.

Tywin’s tone was calm, almost bemused. “You’re in rather a good mood.”

“I suppose I am,” Cersei replied, her voice holding a faint, bitter edge.

“I won’t ask why,” Tywin remarked, his gaze never faltering as they passed by.

“Small pleasures,” Cersei added, a sharpness in her words that hinted at something more, something dark beneath the surface.

You busied yourself with the table, arranging goblets when you caught movement from the corner of your eye. Oberyn and Ellaria had entered, gliding through the crowd with a grace that seemed to draw every eye. Their presence commanded attention, not unlike the very snakes that represented their house.

Oberyn's deep, silken voice cut through the air as he greeted them. "Your Grace. Lord Tywin."

Tywin turned to face them, his expression as stony as ever. "Prince Oberyn."

"I don't believe you have met Ellaria," Oberyn continued smoothly, gesturing to the woman at his side. "This is the Lord Hand Tywin Lannister and Cersei Lannister, the Queen Regent. Or, I suppose it is former Queen Regent now." The jab was subtle but unmistakable. "Lord Hand and Lady Cersei, this is Ellaria Sand."

Ellaria stepped forward, her dark eyes gleaming as she curtsied. "My lord. My lady."

Tywin offered a curt nod, the barest flicker of acknowledgement. "Charmed."

Cersei, however, let her gaze linger on Ellaria for a moment too long. “Can’t say I’ve ever met a Sand before,” she said, her words dripping with disdain.

You stole a glance at Ellaria, whose demeanor had shifted, a spark of fierceness flashing in her eyes. Her voice was like steel wrapped in silk. “We are everywhere in Dorne. I have ten thousand brothers and sisters.”

Oberyn’s lips curled into a smirk. “Bastards are born of passion, aren't they? We don’t despise them in Dorne.”

The corner of your mouth twitched, nearly betraying a smile at Oberyn’s thinly veiled jab. You bit your lip, forcing yourself to remain composed, knowing how easily any sign of amusement could draw unwanted attention.

Cersei, however, did not miss a beat. “No? How tolerant of you.”

Oberyn leaned in ever so slightly, his eyes never leaving hers. “I expect it is a relief, Lady Cersei, giving up your regal responsibilities. Wearing the crown for so many years must have left your neck a bit crooked.”

His words were a dagger, sharp and cutting. And as he spoke, his eyes flicked to you for the briefest moment, a knowing glance that sent a shiver down your spine. He knew. He had known the entire time you were standing there, silently witnessing the exchange.

Cersei’s smile faltered, if only for a heartbeat, before she recovered. “I suppose you’ll never know, Prince Oberyn. It’s a shame your older brother couldn’t attend the wedding.”

Tywin chimed in, his voice as cold as ever. “Please give him our regards. With any luck, the gout will abate with time, and he will be able to walk again.”

“They call it the rich man’s disease,” Oberyn shot back, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “A wonder you don’t have it.”

You almost choked on your own breath at the boldness of his words, gripping the tray of food tighter to maintain your composure. Every word he spoke was a calculated strike, each one landing with precision, and you admired his audacity.

Tywin’s expression remained impassive. “Noblemen in my part of the country don’t enjoy the same lifestyle as our counterparts in Dorne.”

Oberyn’s gaze darkened, the air between them thick with tension. “People everywhere have their differences. In some places, the highborn frown upon those of low birth. In other places, the rape and murder of women and children is considered distasteful. What a fortunate thing for you, former Queen Regent, that your daughter Myrcella has been sent to live in the latter sort of place.”

Your grip tightened on the tray as Oberyn’s words struck like a whip, slicing through the false pleasantries of court. You admired him for it—for his boldness, his refusal to bend to their rules, their cruelty.

But you also knew that such boldness could come at a cost.

Without another glance, you quietly moved away, slipping back into the sea of nobles and servants. You busied yourself with pouring wine and serving food, but your thoughts lingered on the dangerous dance unfolding before you. The court was a place where words were as deadly as swords, and you could only hope that Oberyn’s sharp tongue wouldn’t cut too deep.

Yet, as you glanced back at him, standing tall and unyielding, a part of you knew that he wouldn’t be so easily broken.

The air was thick with tension, festivity clashing with the cruelty lurking just beneath the surface. You stood near the head table, your place behind Sansa Stark’s chair, a silent observer in the midst of the spectacle. And Joffrey, the cruel little tyrant, loved his games.

From the center of the garden, you heard the familiar tap tap of Joffrey’s goblet. He rose from his seat, commanding attention as if the entire world existed solely for his amusement. His voice rang out, high and grating.

“Everyone, silence! Clear the floor,” Joffrey called, smirking as his gaze swept over the gathered crowd. “There’s been too much amusement here today. A royal wedding is not an amusement. A royal wedding is history.”

You could feel the unease ripple through the crowd as Cersei and Tywin returned to their seats. Their expressions remained impassive, but there was a shared sense of something darker brewing beneath the surface. You, too, felt the shift, your body tensing as you braced for what was to come.

“The time has come for all of us to contemplate our history,” Joffrey continued, his voice dripping with arrogance. “My lords... my ladies…”

A lever was pulled, and from the gaping mouth of a giant lion, a red carpet unfurled, rolling down the middle of the floor. The crowd leaned in, curious, and you felt your stomach twist.

“I give you... King Joffrey... Renly, Stannis, Robb Stark, Balon Greyjoy. The War of the Five Kings.”

From the lion’s mouth, five dwarves emerged, each dressed to mock the fallen kings of Westeros. They paraded around the floor with exaggerated movements and comic glee, drawing laughter and applause from the nobles. But you could feel the weight of it—the insult, the cruelty embedded in the display.

The dwarves pranced around, playing their parts. One, dressed as Renly Baratheon, twirled about the center with an exaggerated flourish. Another, playing Robb Stark, shouted, “I am the King in the North!” His wolf-head helmet bobbed comically as he danced. The Joffrey dwarf stood at the center of it all, reveling in the absurdity, while the real Joffrey watched, his face alight with sadistic glee.

You saw Tyrion’s face, stoic yet darkened with distaste, and you shared in his disgust. Every part of you was braced for the inevitable humiliation, the way Joffrey delighted in belittling those who had fought and died with honor. The scene continued, with the dwarves mocking and prancing, their movements a grotesque parody of real battle. 

“Let the war begin!” the Joffrey dwarf cried, and the chaos of the mock battle began. Robb Stark’s dwarf clashed with the others, while the Balon Greyjoy dwarf pretended to drown in an invisible sea, his gurgling cries echoing through the hall.

You glanced at Sansa. Her face was pale, her eyes wide with shock as she watched the dwarf dressed as her brother fall to the ground, his wolf helmet tumbling off. Joffrey laughed, his high-pitched cackle reverberating through the room. “Your head!” he cried, pointing at the fallen wolf.

Your fingers curled into fists, nails digging into your palms. You sneered, your lip twitching as you barely restrained the anger rising within you. You wanted nothing more than to lash out, to put an end to Joffrey’s twisted plans. But you couldn’t. Not here. Not now.

The crowd cheered, applauding the spectacle as Joffrey stood, a cruel smile on his face. “Well fought! Well fought!” he exclaimed, his voice brimming with satisfaction. “Here you are—champion’s purse. Though you’re not the champion yet, are you? A true champion defeats all challengers. Surely there are others out there who still dare to challenge my reign.”

His gaze landed on Tyrion. “Uncle. How about you? I’m sure they have a spare costume.”

The crowd erupted into laughter. You clenched your jaw, biting down on the inside of your cheek so hard you tasted blood. Every fiber of your being screamed treason. Never had you wanted more to defy a king than in that moment.

Tyrion rose slowly, his expression unreadable. “One taste of combat was enough for me, Your Grace,” he said, his voice steady. “I would like to keep what remains of my face.”

You almost smiled at the subtle barb, but it was quickly followed by another.

“I think you should fight him,” Tyrion continued. “This was but a poor imitation of your own bravery on the field of battle. I speak as a firsthand witness. Climb down from the high table with your new Valyrian sword and show everyone how a true king wins his throne. Be careful, though. This one is clearly mad with lust. It would be a tragedy for the king to lose his virtue hours before his wedding night.”

The crowd went still, the tension palpable. You could feel it, the shift in the air as Joffrey’s expression twisted into anger. He marched over to Tyrion and, without warning, poured the contents of his goblet over his uncle’s head.

You bit back a gasp as wine trickled down Tyrion’s face, his hands clenched at his sides. His voice remained calm, but you could see the fury in his eyes. “A fine vintage. Shame that it spilled.”

Joffrey, ever the petulant child, sneered. “It did not spill.”

Margaery, sensing the rising tension, tried to intervene. “My love, come back to me,” she called, her voice sweet yet pleading. “It’s time for my father’s toast.”

But Joffrey was far from finished with his torment. “How does he expect me to toast without wine? Uncle, you can be my cupbearer since you’re too cowardly to fight.”

You watched in disbelief as Joffrey dropped his goblet, forcing Tyrion to kneel and retrieve it. Your own anger mirrored the look on Tyrion’s face, your nails biting deeper into your palms as he knelt to retrieve the goblet, only for Joffrey to kick it away. The humiliation was complete.

Sansa kindly retrieved the goblet for Tyrion, silently nodding in acknowledgment. He turned to hand Joffrey the cup but sneered, “What good is an empty cup? Fill it.”

Tyrion pours wine for Joffrey in front of Cersei and hands it to him.

“Kneel,” Joffrey hissed. “Kneel before your king.”

Tyrion did not move.

Joffrey’s voice rose, venomous. “I said… kneel!”

Before things could escalate further, Margaery stood. “Look—the pie!”

The crowd’s attention shifted to the giant pie being carried in. Joffrey turned his gaze toward it, temporarily distracted. He strode forward, hacking at the pie with his sword. Doves burst forth, fluttering into the air.

But you weren’t watching the birds. No. You saw Olenna, her hand quick and deft as she slipped something into Joffrey’s goblet. A stone. A strangler stone that she took from Sansa’s necklace.

Your breath hitched in your throat, but you did not react. You acted enraptured, like the rest of the crowd. You helped serve the pie, your movements mechanical, your mind racing. Sansa turned to Tyrion, her voice a whisper.

“Can we leave now?”

Tyrion’s response was measured. “Let’s find out.”

As you continued serving, your eyes flicked back to the head table, watching as Joffrey took his goblet and drank deeply. A small smile tugged at your lips as he swallowed.

The end was coming. You could feel it.

“Mm, good,” Joffrey muttered. “Needs washing down.”

He took another gulp, arrogant and unaware, until it hit him. The first sign was the subtle hitch in his breath, almost laughable at first—until it wasn't. The coughing came next, sharp and violent, ripping through him like a wild beast gnawing at his throat. His regal posture crumbled, hands clawing at his neck as if to tear the poison from his skin. His face twisted, contorted, morphing from haughty superiority into sheer terror.

The hall shifted with his agony, the murmurs turning into gasps, the gasps into cries of panic. Chaos rippled through the crowd like wildfire, nobles scrambling, eyes wide, horrified. But you did not move. Your body remained still, a statue amidst the storm of panic, unmoved by the sight of the boy-king choking on his own hubris.

Joffrey’s sputtering, retching—every grotesque, gurgling sound—echoed through the hall, yet all you could hear was the pounding of your own heartbeat. Slow. Steady. A contrast to the pandemonium erupting around you. It was a symphony of suffering, and you reveled in the silence that enveloped your mind. His pain meant nothing to you. 

Your eyes drifted across the garden, over the faces twisted in fear, horror, and confusion, and then... there was him. Oberyn. His dark, probing gaze locked onto yours from across the hall. His brows furrowed, lips parting ever so slightly. Surprise? No, curiosity, perhaps even confusion, flickered in his eyes as he searched your face for something—anything—but found nothing. No flicker of emotion, no sympathy, no shock. Just the cold, hollow indifference that had settled into your bones like an old companion. 

You didn’t flinch, didn’t waver. Why would you? This was one of the moments you had been waiting for. The reckoning. All of Joffrey's cruelty, all of his venom, had finally come back to devour him whole. His pitiful gasping, the frantic clawing at his throat, was a fitting end for the boy who thought himself untouchable.

Joffrey gurgled, his face now a deep shade of purple, eyes bulging, lips frothing. The people around him scrambled in vain, trying to save a life that was already slipping away. You remained still, cold as ice, watching it unfold with detached precision. The world could burn around you, and you would not care.

Oberyn’s eyes lingered on you longer than they should have, as if he were trying to understand the enigma standing before him. He didn’t. He couldn't. No one could. There was no more humanity left in you for him to grasp.

Joffrey’s choking grew louder, more desperate. His hands flailed, reaching for his mother, for someone to save him from the inevitable, but no one could stop what was coming. No one could stop you from witnessing the justice you had longed for.

Margaery rushed to Joffrey’s side. “He’s choking!”

Olenna, ever the actress, called out, “Help the poor boy!”

But there would be no help. No saving the king. You watched, unmoved, as Joffrey staggered, his face turning purple, vomit spilling from his lips. Jaime rushed to him, but it was futile. Joffrey was dying.

And all you could think of was how fitting it was. There would be no glory for Joffrey Baratheon. No legacy. Only pain. Only death.

“My son. He’s gone. My son!”

Around you, the world screamed and wailed. Cersei’s frantic cries cut through the air like a knife, but you barely registered them. You were detached, distant. Untouchable. 

It was strange—the numbness. The apathy was a shield you had forged long ago, layer by layer, through every injustice, every cruelty, every wound. You were unbreakable now, untouchable by Joffrey's suffering or anyone else’s. There was a quiet power in that, a dark satisfaction, as you watched the boy-king's life wither before your eyes. 

His torment did not sway you. Not a muscle in your body flinched. Your fingers, relaxed at your sides, held no tension. You didn't care. Not anymore.

“He did this. He poisoned my son, your king. Take him. Take him! Take him! Take him!”

Cersei, her screams filled the hall, but you felt nothing. The king was dead. And soon, the unraveling of this court, this rot, would begin.

TAGLIST:

@christinamadsen

[anacdoce]

I Wish

Chapter 2 - Embrace the eternal night

Pairing: Astarion x you (f!reader, implied sorcerer)

Rating: T

Word count: 2.5k

Warnings: reliving memories from the past; some angst; some fluff

Summary: Astarion decides to change his priorities; he is tired, and you have given him the courage to ask for what he has wanted for a long time.

a/n: At first, this chapter was intended to be in the reader's POV, but it didn't feel right. So, I rewrote it from Astarion's perspective, hoping to capture his thoughts and feelings accurately.

Special thanks to @bloodlessdarling for generously allowing me to use her perfect screenshots.

Hope you enjoy it <3

Read on ao3

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While you sleep, Astarion lies beside you, adoring you, listening to your heartbeat and your breathing. The sound of it soothes his own heart and thoughts. He enjoys these moments and sometimes he even talks to you in his mind, telling you things that he’s not ready for you to hear just yet. 

The night before had left him restless, guilt gnawing him for your suffering, making him dwell on his own pain and worries. So he watches you while you sleep, trying to find clarity in his thoughts.

For so many years, I prayed to the Gods, pleading for a way out of my torment, and all I got was silence. I was forsaken. They had abandoned me, and I had to endure my pain alone for so long that I forgot how it felt without it anymore. After some time, I gave up on praying. I gave up on believing, or so I thought I did. 

I did what I have to do to survive. And sometimes, all I wished for was to die. 

There were times during my hunts for prey to satisfy Cazador’s insatiable hunger when I fantasized about being hunted myself, that someone could stab a stake through my undead heart and put an end to my miserable existence. After years of torture and torment, I whished for nothing no more. I was a puppet to my Vampire Lord, and I accepted my fate, or so I pretended to believe.

Every time that filthy sack of bones of Godey had beaten me nearly to death, I repeated to myself it was my fault, that I deserved it for displeasing my Master in some way. But deep inside, there was always something that kept me fighting. Every time I was on the floor, beaten up, I gathered all the strength I had left and got up. Every single time… defying everything I forced myself to believe.

And for that, I was beaten a little more just for getting up, raising again, and again, and again… I did not hope for anything, but I did not stop fighting either. And I always wondered why I fought so hard to stay alive, to survive all that pain. I told myself it was the thirst for vengeance that drove me.

That’s when, after so many years without hoping, I stumbled upon you, my darling. My sweet little thing… you with all your kindness and gentle words, with all your altruism and modesty… I despised you for so long, because you were everything, and I was nothing. Because you hadn’t suffered anything, and I had suffered everything for both of us. And yet, you were a light in my darkness.  

Every single kind gesture you had done for me was like daggers in my chest because I didn’t remember how to do anything without pretending. And so, I went along, and I did what I knew best — I pretended. I played a game to manipulate you, to bring you to my side, to gain protection. And you let me carry on with my plan, even when you knew what I was doing, because you saw more in me than the monster I thought I was. You believed in me.

Day after day, you gave me something. A smile, a kind word, your blood, a kiss… and you gave me everything freely because you wanted to. Because you cared. You never used me, you never tried to get advantage of me. You always treated me with respect and gave me everything, never expecting anything in return. That consumed me for days. I wasn’t used to it.

I didn’t trust you because I knew the day would come when you would finally ask me for something in return for your kind gestures. But that day never came. And then, to my surprise, I realized I wasn’t pretending anymore. After years of putting on a mask, I could finally drop it. I was there with you because I wanted to.

You helped me when no one else had. You gave me your hand and you didn’t let me go, ever. And I accepted it. I was grateful, but I had never been more afraid. 

I couldn’t lose you. Not to our foes, not to the Absolute, not to Cazador… How could I ever return to my Master, after you? After all the things you made me feel and believe? How could I risk your life when Cazador found out that I was in love with you? Because he would hunt you, and he would drain you in front of me, just for me to watch and suffer… 

So many nightmares I had about you in his hands, dying at my feet, begging me for help. And so many times I woke up from them with you by my side, holding me, feeling my pain as yours, promising me that you would help me to get free from my chains forever. And you did.

Today I am free and I am here with you, my love. I am so grateful…

At that time, I cursed the Gods for abandoning me. Until you… you are the best gift that they could have offered me. You are everything I could ever have wanted. You saved me.

I know that some days are harder than others and sometimes I may be such a prick to you, my dear, and yesterday was an example of that… For that, I am so sorry, my love. But I am trying to be better.

It’s not easy to forget two hundred years of torment, and I know I have a long recovery ahead of me. But you are helping, softening this burden of mine…  always so patient and understanding. You are always by my side, never giving up on me, always ready to give me your hand and guide me when my days are not so bright. You love me for the man I am, with all my flaws and imperfections, not wishing for anything other than to make me happy.

You are everything to me and I don’t intend to be unworthy of you anymore.

Last night you made me believe that I can give you a real life. Your words are spinning in my head even now: “I choose you. And if not seeing the sun again is the price to be paid, be it. I will live with you in the dark of the night, forever, because I don’t need any other light than yours… you are my light, Astarion.” They are healing me in a way that I can’t even explain, and I will remember them forever.

Which made me realize that I was chasing the wrong things all this time. Because nothing is more important than you, and what I really want is to have you. I want you to be mine, and I want to enjoy our lives together without the running, the searching, the hunting… I am tired of that. I am tired of pursuing nothing but enchanting fables.

It is time to stop. 

As Astarion wanders through his thoughts, the sun sets outside, giving way to the moon. He feels you stirring in the bed, stretching, rubbing your eyes. He waits patiently for you to wake, planting soft kisses on your cheeks.

“Hello, my sweet.” He greets you, smiling, his fangs peeking out.

“Someone was eagerly waiting for me to wake up, I see…” You reply, yawning.

“I can’t resist myself watching you sleep. You are adorable. Your open mouth, drooling on the cushion…” He laughs as your cushion lands on his face. “At least I have proof. There is drool all over it!” He throws it back to you, still laughing at your outrage.

“You're a jerk!” You say, joining his laugh. 

“I can be that sometimes, yes.” He rolls over to you and gives you a little nibble on your lower lip, kissing it afterwards with his silky smooth lips. “And you are delicious, and I can't get tired of teasing you.”

He feels you squish him to you, and he smells your hair, filling his senses with your scent mixed with his own. Sometimes he just needs to be like this, like he doesn’t know where he ends and you begin, like you are one. He rests his face in your neck crook and you stay like that for a while, listening to nothing but each other breathing, savoring the moment.

After a while he shifts and faces you. “I want to talk to you, Darling. If it’s alright…” 

You release him of your embrace and he stays side by side with you, lying next to each other. “Of course my love.” You grab one of his hands, placing it next to your chest, and he smiles at your gesture, feeling your heartbeat in his hand. Your heart’s pace soothes him, and he knows that you know that too. 

“While you were sleeping, I tried to rest too, but I couldn’t stop thinking… I thought a lot about my life since the days I was Cazador’s spawn. About the time when we first met. About last night.”

“Oh no, please Astarion… Don’t dwell in that any longer. We settled that, and it is all good.”

“I know, but please let me finish.” He holds your hand tighter. “Yesterday you made me realize that I had enough of the life we have been living. I’m tired. Since we were freed from our tadpoles, we didn’t have the chance to enjoy a real life together because we are always busy trying to find a cure for me. We are always researching or jumping into new cities, catacombs, wild places. I realized we almost didn't spend much time here, in our cottage, in our home. And I’m tired of that. I don’t want to pursue it anymore. As much as I like a good adventure, I think it’s time to give my armor a rest.”

You frown, blinking repeatedly, staring at him, and he sees the confusion in your eyes. “What? But… are you giving up on seeing the sun again? You wanted this so badly!”

“Yes! I wanted to. And I still want it, but not as much as before. I don’t say if the opportunity arises we don’t take it. But I’m done living for it.”

“Are you sure?” 

“I am, my love.” He is peaceful and resolved with his decision. He never has been so sure. 

“If that is really what you want… you are not doing this because of me, are you?”

“No, no, no! Darling, don’t think that, please. I’m doing this for me. Yesterday you told me something that will be forever deep in my heart because no one ever said anything so precious and meaningful to me before. And it made me understand that what I really want is to live! You see, all of my life I had to fight because there wasn't any other way. Now I don’t have to do that anymore. Now, all I want is to have a real life with you, my sweet! I will give you that. You already gave me so much… that is my gift to you.” 

He can see your inner struggle. First, you give him an understanding look, but seconds later he detects some sadness. 

“You are giving up on something so important to you, again. For so long you wanted it. You’re going to regret it…” In that instant, tears start to build up along your waterline, finding their way down your face.

Astarion offers you a tender smile, wiping your tears with his thumb, gently caressing your cheeks. “I won’t. I need this. I need to settle. To call this place home. A real home, and not just some place where we spend some free time. A place where I know I will always find you, waiting for me, always ready to brighten my darkest nights if I ever stumble to get lost in them again… And I need you by my side on this.”

“But I am. I am always on your side! No matter what. You know that.”

“Good. Because there is something else I wanted to ask you.” He sits on the bed and brings you to sit in front of him. He holds your hands, and his fingers start twitching. Now he is nervous.

“I thought of asking you this before, but never got the courage to do it…” Because I was afraid of what you might answer. Because I thought I wasn’t enough. But I am not afraid anymore, not with you, never with you. I am worthy. “And I think now is the right time to ask. Will you marry me?” He says, after a deep breath. “Will you be my wife?”

You gaze at him, surprised. He feels a shiver running through his spine. He can hear your heart beating in such a frenzy—are you nervous too? Was it too soon? Did he expect more than you actually wanted to give him? No, no! I am worthy!

“Darling, don’t leave me waiting. My undead heart can’t take it any longer.” 

“I’m… I’m sorry, Love. I was just caught off guard.”

“And?” His hands are shaking, and he tries to control it, but he finds himself not able to control his emotions around you more often than he would like to admit. He waits anxiously for your answer.

“I can’t think of anything that would make me happier! I always wanted it, but I never proposed because I didn’t want to put any kind of pressure on you. So, I never asked. But I want it! I want it so badly!” In that instante, you leap to his lap, hugging his neck, making him tumble on his back on the bed. “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

“By the Gods woman… do you want to kill me?!” You feel his tension vanishing from his shoulders. Astarion kisses the crown of your head as you bury your face in his chest. He holds you like you are the most precious thing. Because for him you really are.

“I would never! I just wasn’t expecting this! I barely had the time to wake up… you could have waited a little longer, but you are a very impatient man, are you not?”

“You know me.” He is so lucky to have bumped into you. He is so lucky to have you. A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. I am worthy.

“Silly…” You giggle as you look at him. 

“I am, but don’t you think I am doing this just because I like you. Well, of course I love you, and I want to make you the happiest woman that has ever lived! And I will, that is a promise. But like you told me, you are mine, and I couldn't lose the opportunity to show to all of Faerun that the most perfect woman is my wife, and that I, Astarion, the most beautiful man, am your husband.” He says with a smirk on his face.

“You're hopeless, you know? And I love you!” 

He winks at you and holds your chin to lift your head, planting a slow kiss on your temple. “Darling, some things never change.”

[hey-you-not-you]

SATOSUGU VAMPIRE TWO SHOT

Snippet:

''I've ignored you, have I?'' Getou asks softly, lifting a hand to cup Satoru's cheek. It takes everything in him not to lean into his touch at first. But his body betrays him anyways and he leans into Getou's cold-warmth, sighing a bit as a thumb strokes across his skin.

Satoru feels his face heat up a fraction, knowing Getou notices from the way he smirks.

''Your hair has grown longer.”

''You told me you fancy men with long hair." Satoru chips.

Getou hums, reaching to stroke a few strands between his fingers. ''So I did."

''You also said my hair looks good in any style. But you like this one more."

''Did I?'' Getou seems to be humoring him at this point, his face still with lazy contentment. ''I can't seem to remember," he laughs, though it's short.

''You also said it matches my eyes and skin,'' Satoru continues on. He leans downward this time, pressing closer to Getou so their noses are a mere inch apart. 

Getou arches his brow. ''Do you remember every word I say?''

''Every word,'' Satoru's voice clicks as he repeats. ''Every move. Every twitch. I watch you Suguru. You just aren't looking at me hard enough.''

Getou's breath hitches a bit at the sound of his other name slipping past his lips. It's rare for Satoru to say it, usually calling him by his family name. But he favors saying Getou's first name sometimes, and he likes that the tone he uses does all the right things he wants to it's owner. 

"Tell me something Satoru," Getou's lips twitches as he presses on. "What would you do once you do own me?'' 

Satoru answers without missing a beat. "I'll make you mine and mine alone."

"You're too possessive. I don't remember training you like that," Getou sighs, shaking his head as he mutters something about bad company before he looks back up at him.

Satoru stares at his Master. Getou stares right back, a knowing look in his eyes.

"No, you trained me to always go for what I want," Satoru says, his fangs peeking out. The hunger is back with a vengeance. He steps forward and Getou inches back until his legs hit the edge of the bench causing him to fall into the seat.

Satoru smiles a bit predatory, a hand reaching out to wrap around Getou's wrist. He holds it in place when the other moves to drop it, earning him a frown. The temptation is too much now, and his fangs elongate more until he feels the tips nearly touching his bottom lip.

Getou doesn't pull away, in fact he seems elated by Satoru's forwardness. "What if I don't want you?"

Satoru hisses low and threatening, squeezing Getou's wrist tighter before releasing it to grab at the back of the bench, caging Getou between his arms. He quickly calms himself. What use is it getting angry? Getou would only take his anger and frustration as a personal victory.

''You will. I assure you,'' Satoru whispers, his face hovering over Getou's. He smiles at his Master's widening pupils. "And when you do. I'll devour you completely.''

Full first chapter here👇

Credit of beautiful fanart to owner😊

[dying-brb]

desolation / an ellie x f!oc fanfiction / tlou universe

!slowburn !angst !subreader !domellie !fluff

tw: this is a heavy fic. mentions of sa, violence, gore, etc. 18+

(oc starts off 14 but only for backstory)

click if you haven't read chapter 1

chapter 2: 1900 words

⋆⭒˚.⋆ Natalie  -  14 yrs old  ⋆⭒˚.⋆

The leader of the cannibalistic cult that had captured me, David, began making regular visits to my cell.

Every morning. Every night.

Initially, I tensed at the creak of the door and his heavy steps echoing through the confined space. He would slip into my cell at dawn, before the sun even rose, and again at dusk as twilight fell. I assumed he chose these times to avoid detection by others in the community. If they were capable of consuming their own kind—people they had known, and enjoyed it—what regard would they have for their "Father" assaulting a young girl?

At first, I fought. I screamed, kicked, begged, bit, thrashed—anything to stay alive.

But after 22 days in this grim cell, my will to fight ebbed away. This wretched place drained my hope like a reverse transfusion.

The hope I once clung to was grounded in the possibility of a cure, believing my immunity could make a difference. But what kind of world would my immunity even be saving? A world where girls are confined like animals in cages? Where desperate pleas are met with cruel, heartless laughter? It was a world too far gone.

So I simply let go, releasing my tight grip on life. It seemed easier that way.

They fed me once a day, enough to sustain me if I had actually consumed what they served. Each time dinner arrived, delivered by a young girl much younger than myself, I refused—knowing full well what they were disguising as 'just venison.' I would gag and swiftly retreat to the farthest corner of my cramped cell, desperate to distance myself from the plate. I would sooner embrace death than stoop to this dehumanizing level.

David noticed my refusal to eat, observing my breath growing more ragged each day, my shirt hanging looser on my small frame. His displeasure was palpable.

"You know, if you don't eat, you'll just die. Starvation is a slow and miserable death. Is that what you want?" His eyes squinted in my direction as he spoke.

I chuckled weakly. I may not have had any fight left in me, but this defiance was the one thing I could still wield against him—something he craved but would soon lose.

"So? Let me die. I don't care. I won't have to endure you anymore," I whispered, my voice cracking, lungs wheezing with each word. A pained smile crept across my extremely chapped lips.

"I know they're tired of me taking up space in this cage. They want me gone. Your community needs food. But you don't want that, do you?" I scoffed, laughter tinged with bitterness. "You're deluded if you think you can keep me here forever. I'll die soon enough, with or without your buddies butchering me first."

Sometimes in my dreams, I glimpsed the light—the one they say appears before death. Yet, every time, just as I approached it —my hand reaching out desperately— I'd awaken to the cramped confines of my cell.

Disappointment flooded me each time.

Please. Make it stop. Let it end.

I silently begged myself and any deities who might hear my cries for help.

The sinister man—the false prophet—simply stared at me, his expression devoid of emotion.

"If you just eat, it doesn't have to be that way. You can survive this. You could join us. If you behave, of course."

Behave.

My fingers twitched at the word. He had used it incessantly during his visits. It pricked at my eyes and pierced my skin, much like the frigid air on my first night here. My stomach churned. Was it hunger, disgust, or perhaps fear?

"Never," I choked out, tears streaming down my cheeks as he grinned, evidently pleased to provoke a reaction from me.

Now, death was the escape I sought out, death was my vengeance. He would no longer hold my life in his hands, and I would finally be free of him, this place, this cruel torturous world.

A young girl interrupted my thoughts, entering with dinner and placing it on the floor outside of my cell.

"Ravioli today. Mommy said not to waste it or you'll be punished," she chirped, nudging the plate so it slid beneath the bars of the cage. With a skip in her step and a faint smile on her lips, she hummed her way out of the room.

Punishment was reserved for disobedience, escape attempts, or failure to answer David and the others. They'd burn the soles of my feet to ensure I couldn't flee. It had been over a week since I last endured it. I hoped to keep it that way.

I didn't comprehend how they could subject a child to witness a prisoner like this: innocent, naive, and impressionable. This young girl bore daily witness to my battered body. I frowned, contemplating her upbringing, silently hoping for a better future than that of the other corrupted souls trapped here.

Aware that the ravioli came from a can, I crawled over on hands and knees, trembling as I ate the cold concoction with the spoon they provided. Normally denied utensils, I suspected it was the young girl's oversight. David remained oblivious.

"Good. You're eating," he remarked, rising and casting a glance in my direction. "Now that wasn't so hard, was it, Cupcake?"

I recoiled at the nickname. Throughout my time in confinement, they had never managed to pry my real name from me. Instead, they relied on pet names or simply calling out "Hey, you!" to get my attention.

I mechanically stuffed the ravioli into my mouth, despite my stomach already feeling uncomfortably full from days of only sips of water. Every bite was a struggle, but I forced it down, knowing I would need my strength for what lay ahead.

They left the spoon behind. It was a mistake.

After finishing every last bite, I slid the plate back under the barred enclosure and carefully tucked the spoon beneath my makeshift bed—a bundle of newspaper and a thin blanket, but enough to hide my newfound tool.

Tonight marked David's final visit. Tonight, I would make my escape.

—

The night sky gleamed through the window directly opposite my cage, a constant reminder of freedom just out of reach. Tonight, though, I vowed to step into that moonlit world, to feel the crisp outdoor air on my skin once more. Never again would I have to gaze hopelessly at that window.

David had left some time ago, granting me a fleeting sense of security to plan my escape. The night watch continued their rounds, checking on me sporadically. As the weeks of my captivity drew on, the intervals between their visits stretched longer. Perhaps they mistook my subdued demeanor for resignation, believing I had surrendered any hope of freedom. Maybe yesterday they were right, but today, they would be proven wrong.

Mentally calculating, I estimated the next check-in was approximately 45 minutes away.

"Plenty of time," I muttered to myself, retrieving the spoon from under my pillow. This small oversight, this spoon, was my ticket to freedom.

Pressing the spoon against the cage's lock, I heard the bars lightly clank as I leaned into them. Damn it.

I prayed no one had heard the noise emanating from my confinement; now was my moment to slip away unnoticed. This was my sole chance, my final opportunity before the end. I knew it. The lock securing the cage door wasn't intricate—a simple, rusted padlock with a cord wrapped multiple times around the door and cage. In another time, perhaps it had been a bicycle lock.

With determination, I wedged the spoon's end between the shackle and its base, bending it toward me, shaping it into the tool I required. Straining with every ounce of remaining strength, the spoon bent into a U-shape, exerting pressure on the lock's shackle. The metal groaned, protesting against the strain until finally, with a snap, the rusted shackle yielded, freeing the old lock.

I exhaled a long sigh of relief before slipping out of the cage, my limbs trembling with adrenaline, my mind racing. Glancing at the butchering table that had loomed in front of me for so long, I smirked and quietly seized a cleaver as I tiptoed from the room.

"David, you're dead," I thought to myself, the rush of adrenaline keeping me alert and steady. A frenzied sensation prickled my skin as I navigated the dark corridors, hunting for him.

Yet, instead of David, I encountered someone unexpected—the young girl who had dutifully brought me dinner every night since my arrival. The 9, perhaps 8-year-old pointed up at me, her finger trembling with what seemed like fear. "You're out. The Father won't like this," she whispered.

I gazed into her eyes, my expression pleading silently. I didn't know how to beg a child for my freedom, but I couldn't risk her revealing my escape either.

"Hey, kiddo. I'm going on a little adventure, okay? It's our secret," I whispered urgently.

"I love secrets! I hide them from my mommy all the time!" the little girl chirped, twiddling her fingers and scanning the room.

I chuckled softly, enough to comfort her nerves. "Me too. How about we play hide and seek? You hide, and I'll come find you," I suggested, seizing the chance to divert her attention and buy myself time.

I burned with the desire for David's reckoning, but survival drove me more.

The girl beamed, nodding eagerly and clapping her hands once before scurrying to a nearby corner, starting to count aloud. "Okay! 1, 2, 3..."

I moved cautiously past her, quickening my pace once I was out of earshot.

I swung open the front door of the building, bracing myself against the biting winds of Colorado's unforgiving winter. My hands instinctively wrapped around my body, seeking warmth that was elusive in the frigid air. This wasn't the liberation I had envisioned—feeling the cool breeze on my skin, my clothes fluttering in the wind. No, this was harsh, cutting against my weakened frame.

I recalled vividly the night when David had dragged me here, barely alive, teetering on the edge of frostbite and hypothermia. The memory made my skin crawl with the same chapped numbness as the icy winds whipped around me now.

In the distance, a horse neighed, its sound cutting through the cold night air. I pushed myself to move faster. Escaping on horseback would increase my chances of survival, offering a chance to find shelter far enough away from David and his followers, yet close enough to navigate through the wilderness.

Tears streamed down my face, turning to ice on my chilled cheeks. If I managed to escape on a harsh winter night like this, survival seemed improbable. Yet, the thought of taking control of my fate, even in such brutal conditions, ignited a flicker of hope within me.

With trembling hands, I finally reached the stable. I approached the horse cautiously, shushing her gently to signal I meant no harm, then stroking her neck to earn her trust before attempting to mount. The touch of the icy metal and the warmth of the horse's flank provided a stark contrast against the freezing air. As I settled into the saddle, the once extinguished fire within me surged back to life. This moment, seated firmly on the horse, marked the start of my battle for freedom on my own terms.

[sliced-n-diced]

I came because I’m super curious if you have any fic recommendations? My brainrot on Halloween is terrible and I need something to help me out

Heres a few that came to mind!!

M/F:

(Not Your) Final Girl by ghost_weather :

https://archiveofourown.org/works/47272477/chapters/119113672

You're working the night shift at a gas station in the middle of nowhere when you're almost murdered by the resident serial killer. To your dismay and his delight, you find each other again, and he can finish what he started as many times as he wants.

Baby, (dont) fear the reaper by dachande :

https://archiveofourown.org/works/37558858

You never could forget how good he looked perched above you like a damnable god in the midst of a feast. One that hungered for your flesh and your demise. That willful sacrifice on an altar to a being who wants to chew you up between his molars and consume you entirely.

His hand stretches across the threshold. Hades with an offer.

And you can't bring yourself to say no.

(Tagged as M/F but can be read very GN!Reader for the most part : LOVE this one)

Obsession by QueenBeesWritingPoint :

https://archiveofourown.org/works/44338180

The Ghostface is obsessive in his love.

It's suffocating, clingy, and overwhelming.

But there's small moments where it's just you and him, and time falls into the void, where Ghostface turns into Danny.

God, is Danny clingy.

M/M:

Gotcha by Michael1109 :

https://archiveofourown.org/works/50590837

Danny catches y/n before he escapes a trial. Stuff ensues.

Scavenging by siriscum :

https://archiveofourown.org/works/45870517

You catch Ghostface while he’s distracted and decide to enact some vengeance for all the shit he’s put you through.

Fuck Me? Naw, Fuck You! by alucardarc :

https://archiveofourown.org/works/45505345

Danny should have known you were a freak when he first saw you.

The violent killer should have known you were batshit insane when he noticed you from the corner of his eyes, staring at him like you wanted nothing more than to devour him. He should have known you were deranged when you kept flirting with him as you checked his groceries out, a pretty smirk curling across your features when he replied with bored answers and a nervous glint shining in his eyes.

Danny should have known better than to get involved with you, someone who clearly wanted nothing more than to break him. Maybe if he had, then he wouldn’t be in this state.

GN!Reader:

Desperate Measures by s_c_r_i_p_s_i :

https://archiveofourown.org/works/26707918

Seeking privacy, you stray a little too far from the campfire to perform your... daily ritual.

Ghostface has been watching and decides it’s time for a little audience participation.

Matchbook by misericordia_writing :

https://archiveofourown.org/works/45585013/chapters/114704077

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐥𝐞𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐮𝐧 𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐨𝐮𝐭, 𝐜𝐨𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐨 𝐭𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐫 ��𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐦𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐬𝐧𝐚𝐩 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐞, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐮𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐢𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐭, 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐦𝐥𝐲 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝-- 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐟𝐨𝐠𝐠𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐥𝐮𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐩.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐠𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐚𝐳𝐢𝐥𝐲 𝐟𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐧𝐞𝐰𝐬𝐩𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐫. 𝐀𝐬 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐮𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐜𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐞 𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠.

A series of connected one-shots, focused around a relationship between The Ghost Face and the reader.

Wet Sand, Moss Born by justwolosersandqtipcpttonbuds :

https://archiveofourown.org/works/44105895/chapters/110903055

he can't keep his hands off of you.

Washrags by justwolosersandqtipcpttonbuds :

https://archiveofourown.org/works/44105530

it's not like you'd notice

Real by Guugi :

https://archiveofourown.org/works/22093993

He's the only one around who's capable of making you feel something real.

Stabbing Sounds Harsh, Just Call it Flirting by LittleWingScales :

https://archiveofourown.org/works/38741541

You hate visits from your family. You try to be cordial, patient, and as understanding as possible, but they obviously know every button you have and press them relentlessly. You thought having them over for dinner would be pleasant (and give your mom the opportunity to apologize for last time) but no such luck.

Part 1 of 2

Spilled guts by rapono :

https://archiveofourown.org/works/23056975

Another grisly attack by the Ghostface, another victim with their guts cut open and spilled onto the carpet floor. And yet, despite all odds, coated in their own blood and viscera, they wake up.

( this one is sooooooo good i love it )

[fromduck]

Vampire Slayer: TWO

Warnings: Same as last chapter

A/N: Enjoy!

The first thing he noticed of Hellsing’s daughter was the terrifying accuracy in the way she shot a gun.

He truly had to wonder what training his old nemesis put the little thing through. Eight years old and already able to kill various vampires? Sheesh.

The second thing was that she completely hated his kind. Seriously, he would have been intimidated getting such a glare of hatred from her if she were as big as her father. Alucard really had doubted that this small child was the last Hellsing. Compared to her father’s 6’6 muscular build, this little girl looked frail and weak.

But he knew she was anything but weak. The corpses of the Level E vampires proved that.

It seemed the little thing got too full of herself when she decided that she could take him on.

She had tried to launch herself on him, cursing and yelling at him. Her fear is gone and overrun by her rage. Her hunger for vengeance had blinded her to the point she kept attacking blindly at him even though she was mostly punching the air.

“I’LL KILL YOU!” She screeched from the top of her lungs, her cute little face scrunched up in anger similar to that of her father.

Instead of making him feel excited for a fight, it only made him coo out of adoration. It was like seeing Hellsing squished into a little human.

His carefree behavior pissed her off more.

Resorting to her last line of defense, she rips out a small knife from one of her many pockets.

Alucard raises an eyebrow, “you’ve already used that tactic, little chick. Don’t you have anything else up your sleeve-”

His mocking drawl is cut short when she doesn’t use it on him, instead she cuts her own hand.

With the grace of a feline, she reaches back to the arm holding her. Pulling back his sleeve, she rubs her bloody hand on his exposed skin. Unlike the color red, her blood was a pitch black.

Immediately he knew what she had done.

Dropping her, he makes a fast motion to take off his coat. He ignores the blinding pain he starts to feel from his arm, taking out one of his pistols.

He witnesses before his eyes his arm rotting, from his wrist where she had touched, to the rest of his arm. Before it can spread to the rest of his body, he makes the split decision to shoot off part of his arm.

The limp falls off from his body with a quick barrage of bullets. When his arm flops onto the floor, he notices as the rotting melts the skin off exposing the tissue. The little girl huffs at her failed assasination attempt. His red eyes glinted with approval at the little girl.

“A smart tactic that was,” he gives out praise as his arm grows back in place. If he were anything but a pureblooded vampire, he may as well be dead. Either through the venom in her blood or from destroying one of his limbs. Thank goodness for his fast healing and ability to regenerate lost limbs.

“But unfortunately for you, your father also used the same one. Though it was mostly my fault when I was ripping his heart from his chest. It was quite the shame! I couldn’t even eat it because it was poisonous!” He pouts, putting his hands on his hips. At the mention of her father and the way he had brutally murdered him, her lip trembled. For a moment, Allucard could see the grief pass her big eyes. It’s only there for a second, before she forces it down, her eyes hardening.

Realizing that she had no chance of defeating him, she makes an attempt to flee. She bolts towards the edge of the roof, jumping off.

Except that she landed in his arms, when he teleported underneath her. She squirms as he twirls her around, laughing at her misery.

“Come now, even though you look tasty, I won’t eat you! Just wanted to give you an offer!” He exclaims, putting her down on the snow floor. He doesn’t let her go, his big arms surrounding her before she could even try to escape again.

He begins to sway her softly as he maneuvers them around the dead corpses of vampires. He continues to guide her away from the corpses when he finally gets far enough that he could kneel down.

“Now you must be aware that if I wanted you dead, you would already be so, yes?” He asks. She nods her head, which makes him grin.

“But then I thought to myself, how funny would it be if I took you as my own? Think about the irony! A vampire taking in a human child? Now that’s something you don’t hear everyday!” Alucard laughs to himself, “you are also the last Hellsing on this earth, it would be a shame to not let you grow to your full potential!”

He starts to reminisce, a look of longing passing his dead red eyes. “I already miss your father and the rivalry we shared for twenty years. I fight with you Hellsings at least every century, it’s something I look forward to in my long lonely life.” He sighs wistfully, “maybe if I finish your training, maybe you’ll grow up to be a better opponent..hmm I wonder.”

Snapping his fingers, he puts on his most convincing smile. Which wasn’t even convincing to begin with, he could tell through her grimace.

“You have two options, little one.” He starts off, “you can either come with me as my apprentice or you can come with me as a corpse, which will it be?”

She responds unhesitatingly, “a corpse.”

He lets out a shocked laugh at her quick answer. “Wait now hold on a second, you’re supposed to be begging for your life!” He wags a finger to her face in which she snaps her teeth at him, “yeesh! You're a really weird kid!”

“Unfortunately for you, I was just bluffing, you don’t get to choose!” Dramatically he puts a hand to his chest, where his heart would be if he had one. “You would rather die than be with me?! You wound me my little chick!”

With that he picks up her squirming body as she screams at him to let her go. He acts none the wiser as he teleports them to the place he was currently staying in.

With that the days of your learning under the strongest vampire in the world, begin.

[darthnell]

Chapter 69: Where I End and Begin

The Victor returns home. It's not how she left it, but then again, neither is she.

[wordsformizu]

Your Father's Daughter

Mizu x Reader story

Word count: 2.3k

Chapter 4

The streets were as busy and crowded as you remembered. It took you a little over a day to get down there from where your fathers plot of land was. It would have taken you less time if you hadn't traveled on foot, but you didn't want any attention on you. It was easier to slip in and out without a horse to worry about and you could take care of yourself just fine. This wasnt your first time being your fathers eyes and ears in places he couldn't enter without drawing attention to himself. 

You decided to become familiar with your surroundings. If the Kamiizumi’s knew of this samurai, that meant one of two things. He was well known, or close by. Rumors and gossip spread like wildfire in cities and towns, passing from peasants, to merchants, to the inns and brothels and finally to the higher ups. If he wasn't in this town, he would be in the next, and if he wasn't in the next, someone would know. Someone always knows. People talk.

 Hitching rides behind carriers, slipping into alleyways, walking the streets in plain daylight or even the nights, you became a wanderer. It was easier to blend in a town. Everyone was more focused on themselves to really notice another stranger slipping in and out. You learned to use that to your advantage always. 

If the samurai were in this town and traveling, he would eventually grow hungry, tired or in need of entertainment. Every other man you watched flocked to one of these three areas, and at the end of the day no matter what nickname this samurai had, he was just a man after all. You’d find him somewhere. It was then on your journey your mind began to wander, curiosity grabbing hold on this “Onryo”. 

What could make a man walk down this path of vengeance? It clearly was as it was targeted to specific people according to the rumor you heard that night. He had already removed one of his targets, and now he was onto the next. He was determined, and skilled, but that was all you could think of to add to his character. Your mind began to wander on other characteristics of his. He couldn't be loud or boastful, his actions do his speaking for him and others echo them like the walls of a cave. No one knew of his name either. You would think that someone who managed to slice through the four fangs would shout it from the mountain tops. Men would be prideful and loud about performing such a task, and yet no words of his had been repeated for you to hear. He was narrow eyed, focused, a predator who slips in and out the bushes, plotting on his next meal who lapped up water from the bank without a thought in its mind. He had a very specific taste, and with that came an unquenchable hunger that came with picky eaters. You refused to let your father become his next meal. Not that he could. Your father was a bigger predator, and more dangerous.

You decided to head in the direction of the town markets. There you were sure to find men and lost children wandering and stealing from the tables and trays. The markets were always busy, and bustling with life each time you visit. It was the closest resemblance you had to your childhood. Remembering days of slipping through the booths and grabbing whatever small item you could find. It was never enough to fill your stomach, but enough to hold you over, and more than what you would receive at home at times. Stealing was a crime that was taken very seriously here as everyone was low on income and were trying to get by with the profits they sold that week. It was punished if caught, so you had been sure to not get caught. You had watched the children who did get caught and decided that that wouldnt be your portion. Their punishments were always brutal. You remember the little boy who had a finger sliced for each piece of meat he had pocketed. Lucky for him, he only had two. You watched another little girl get her face shoved into the drying mud, and kicked to the side. There were no charitable strangers, no kindness. If you didn't learn it from home, you would learn it out here. The world can be a very cold place. 

In every town market place there are restaurants. Places for people coming through and visiting to stop and rest before continuing the journey. Every local towns person knew that depending on the upkeep of the place, determined the quality of the food. Who needed clear thoughts when you cooked with heart and soul?  The less organized, the better. You were confident that this man didn't care about sitting in a high-end restaurant where they kiss your knuckles and massage your calves. He must be furtive, quiet. The more mess around him, the easier it was for him to blend in. And who didn't like good food? 

As you were wandering, you stumbled across a mother and her child; who you could tell was hers as they shared the same nose. It was rare to see an unattended woman with her child who wasn't selling something. They seemed preoccupied with each other. Her seated on the steps, and her son standing before her. He was mumbling something, using his forearms to rub at his tearful eyes. You couldn't quite catch what he was crying over, but what you could hear was the ooo’s of a comforting mother.  Her touch on his skin soft, her voice calm while the little boy wasn't. He soon lowered his arms, and though you couldn't hear the words being said, you heard the crack in his voice and how unsure he sounded compared to her stable voice. Whether she was feeding him lies you wouldn't know, but judging by her voice  you bet they were sweet. All you knew was that this woman loved this boy. You could see it in her eyes. They held each other close, and she rocked him side to side. Their clothes were torn and looked like they hadn't been cleaned in weeks, and they both looked like they hadn't eaten in that same span of time; and yet they were the richest in this town. The world was cold, but they kept each other warm. You ripped your gaze from their presence. 

It wasn’t jealousy. There was no way this feeling that crawled into your skin was that of jealousy. It was heavier. Your father could provide more, and offered you far more. There was nothing you could ask for that he couldn't reach, even though you never asked for much. He wiped your tears, and fed you. He taught you right from wrong, and so much more. More than any girl your age was supposed to learn. More than those two combined had ever learned. While they sat on cold steps in a dirty town with dirty people, you stood in the shadow of the sun, warmed by his light. What you have, they could never have in this lifetime. What they have, you never did either. Her holding him close. Not telling him to be silent, but letting him cry in her arms.You wondered how soft life would have been to have a mother who comforted her child the way this one did. How gentle would her touch be on your skin compared to her slaps and pinches? How would her words swim through your heart and soul instead of sending you into fight or flight? How would you have turned out differently if you entered the world with love? Who would you have turned into if you were loved by the woman who brought you here? You told yourself it was because he was a young male, and sons are more favored in the household. You told yourself that thoughts like these were useless, and wouldn't help you on this mission. You told yourself whatever you could to stop the question peeking its head around the far corner of your mind. A question you hadn't asked yourself in a long time. “Why didn't my mother love me?”

These were not the times for childish questions, you reminded yourself. You had a father, though not related by blood, much closer than your biological mother. You had a purpose, a mission, an association to greatness. You would never have what they had, but you had more than enough. It would have to fill that void. There was no other option. 

You couldn't enter the restaurant. Though cloaked, you didn't want any attention being drawn to you. A young woman entering a restaurant unattended, and with money spelled out possible problems that you would rather avoid. You just needed to peek into a few. See if he was in there or if anyone was talking of him. He wasn't in the first, and his presence was not known in the second. The sun was growing tired, and the day was becoming less busy. You knew you would have to find a place to rest soon, as the night grows cold and so do the people who walk amongst it. There weren't many options you could choose from, but you knew wherever it was it had to be up above and easy to escape from. Inn’s get ransacked and robbed quite often as some of them don't mind accepting criminal money. There were always brothels but though they provided secrecy, some would speak on a woman entering one who wasn't working there alone. Escaping one wouldn't be as hard though. It would be warm, and more comfortable, despite the possible sounds of erotic pleasure echoing through the night from the other rooms. 

You were beginning to make your decision., walking the line between the chochin lanterns and the dark alleyways. You weren't exactly tired, but you did feel that it would be important for you to rest so that you could have energy to keep searching the next day. On missions like these, excitement would get the best of you keeping you up and late into the nights. You would search and search, forgetting that you were human with needs. One time you went on a bender and searched for a man for days without food or even drinking. By the time you found him, you were too exhausted to think clearly. You still completed your mission. You still found him. 

The day people were dispersing, and those who wandered the night began to reveal themselves. The ladies displayed themselves on the side of the buildings they worked in, flashy attention grabbing attires and all their colors to pull in a lucky customer. As you were slipping between the shadows of the night and the burning lights, you heard a small bell. It wasn't unusual to hear strange noises in the night, but this one was odd. It seemed to only ring every few seconds. Every few footsteps. You thought it odd that someone would attach a bell to their foot, but you’ve heard of stranger occurrences. The bell seemed to be growing closer, they were coming up the street you were walking down. There was no harm in looking, so you kept your eyes on the floor, watching the legs that passed you. 

“Where to next, Master!” These enthusiastic words came from a very large man. You could tell by the way the bell wrapped around his tree trunk legs, but the ground didn't shake with his footsteps. You realized why the bell was placed on him. For someone as large as him, he walked with the lightness of a child. He spoke like one too. Your eyes lifted from his legs to his torso where you noticed he had rounded nubs where his hands should have been. A disabled man, with footsteps as light as feathers, under the apprenticeship of another man. Your eyes drifted to his master.

His head was lowered, hiding his face under the wide brimmed kasa. His cloak covered his body, swaying around him as he walked through the night crowd. He moved like a shadow. Unnoticed. 

You watched the two out of curiosity now. A strange dynamic to witness as only one seemed to be hiding and making himself nearly invisible, the other tagging along while towering over him. The blue cloaked man did not respond to his apprentice, he barely acknowledged his presence. He just swayed through the crowd, the both of you nearing close. 

He had tilted his head up to read a sign on the side of a building while his apprentice rambled and

that’s when you saw it. His eyes. You didn't believe it at first, but you trusted your eyesight in the dark. Hidden behind orange glasses, but you could tell they were blue behind those frames by the way the night lamps hit them. Your heart race quickened, and you felt all the thoughts of rest leave your mind as you focused your attention on him. He was no longer a stranger on this busy road, he was now your target. Studying him in this moment, you noticed the bulge of a sheath under his cloak. He was armed with a sword, this had to be him. Your mood darkened and your eyes narrowed as you were aware of what he planned to do with this sword and how you were willing to do anything to make sure he failed. 

You watched him enter a building after reading the sign, followed by his large bubble of a companion. They had found a place to rest tonight and now you have too. 

[disaster-priestress-sumire]

One of the main themes of The Count of Monte Cristo is the balance between Justice and Vengeance, keeping things under control. He happens to doubt, and he thinks, but he does not lose himself in the vengeance.

"And now," said the unknown, "farewell kindness, humanity, and gratitude! Farewell to all the feelings that expand the heart! I have been Heaven’s substitute to recompense the good—now the god of vengeance yields to me his power to punish the wicked!"

– Chapter 30: The Fifth of September

The count bowed, and contented himself with seeing Villefort to the door of his cabinet, the procureur being escorted to his carriage by two footmen, who, on a signal from their master, followed him with every mark of attention. When he had gone, Monte Cristo breathed a profound sigh, and said: "Enough of this poison, let me now seek the antidote." Then sounding his bell, he said to Ali, who entered: "I am going to madame’s chamber—have the carriage ready at one o’clock."

– Chapter 48: Ideology

"What have I to fear, except from you?" "If you reach your home safely, leave Paris, leave France, and wherever you may be, so long as you conduct yourself well, I will send you a small annuity; for, if you return home safely, then—" "Then?" asked Caderousse, shuddering. "Then I shall believe God has forgiven you, and I will forgive you too."

– Chapter 82: The Burglary

"Oh, enough of this,—enough of this," he cried; “let me save the last."

– Chapter 111: Expiation

The count departed with a sad heart from the house in which he had left Mercédès, probably never to behold her again. Since the death of little Edward a great change had taken place in Monte Cristo. Having reached the summit of his vengeance by a long and tortuous path, he saw an abyss of doubt yawning before him. More than this, the conversation which had just taken place between Mercédès and himself had awakened so many recollections in his heart that he felt it necessary to combat with them. A man of the count’s temperament could not long indulge in that melancholy which can exist in common minds, but which destroys superior ones. He thought he must have made an error in his calculations if he now found cause to blame himself. "I cannot have deceived myself," he said; "I must look upon the past in a false light. What!" he continued, "can I have been following a false path?—can the end which I proposed be a mistaken end?—can one hour have sufficed to prove to an architect that the work upon which he founded all his hopes was an impossible, if not a sacrilegious, undertaking? I cannot reconcile myself to this idea—it would madden me. The reason why I am now dissatisfied is that I have not a clear appreciation of the past. The past, like the country through which we walk, becomes indistinct as we advance. My position is like that of a person wounded in a dream; he feels the wound, though he cannot recollect when he received it."

– Chapter 113: The Past

The count breathed with difficulty; the cold drops ran down his forehead, and his heart was full of anguish. "No," he muttered, "the doubt I felt was but the commencement of forgetfulness; but here the wound reopens, and the heart again thirsts for vengeance."

– Chapter 113: The Past

"Yes," he said, "there is the stone upon which I used to sit; there is the impression made by my shoulders on the wall; there is the mark of my blood made when one day I dashed my head against the wall. Oh, those figures, how well I remember them! I made them one day to calculate the age of my father, that I might know whether I should find him still living, and that of Mercédès, to know if I should find her still free. After finishing that calculation, I had a minute’s hope. I did not reckon upon hunger and infidelity!" and a bitter laugh escaped the count. He saw in fancy the burial of his father, and the marriage of Mercédès. On the other side of the dungeon he perceived an inscription, the white letters of which were still visible on the green wall: "‘Oh, God!’" he read, "‘preserve my memory!’" "Oh, yes," he cried, "that was my only prayer at last; I no longer begged for liberty, but memory; I dreaded to become mad and forgetful. Oh, God, thou hast preserved my memory; I thank thee, I thank thee!"

– Chapter 113: The Past

"Oh, second father," he exclaimed, "thou who hast given me liberty, knowledge, riches; thou who, like beings of a superior order to ourselves, couldst understand the science of good and evil; if in the depths of the tomb there still remain something within us which can respond to the voice of those who are left on earth; if after death the soul ever revisit the places where we have lived and suffered,—then, noble heart, sublime soul, then I conjure thee by the paternal love thou didst bear me, by the filial obedience I vowed to thee, grant me some sign, some revelation! Remove from me the remains of doubt, which, if it change not to conviction, must become remorse!" The count bowed his head, and clasped his hands together. "Here, sir," said a voice behind him. Monte Cristo shuddered, and arose. The concierge held out the strips of cloth upon which the Abbé Faria had spread the riches of his mind. The manuscript was the great work by the Abbé Faria upon the kingdoms of Italy. The count seized it hastily, his eyes immediately fell upon the epigraph, and he read: "Thou shalt tear out the dragons’ teeth, and shall trample the lions under foot, saith the Lord."

– Chapter 113: The Past

"Do you repent?" asked a deep, solemn voice, which caused Danglars’ hair to stand on end. His feeble eyes endeavored to distinguish objects, and behind the bandit he saw a man enveloped in a cloak, half lost in the shadow of a stone column. "Of what must I repent?" stammered Danglars. "Of the evil you have done," said the voice. "Oh, yes; oh, yes, I do indeed repent." And he struck his breast with his emaciated fist. "Then I forgive you,” said the man, dropping his cloak, and advancing to the light. "The Count of Monte Cristo!" said Danglars, more pale from terror than he had been just before from hunger and misery. "You are mistaken—I am not the Count of Monte Cristo." "Then who are you?" "I am he whom you sold and dishonored—I am he whose betrothed you prostituted—I am he upon whom you trampled that you might raise yourself to fortune—I am he whose father you condemned to die of hunger—I am he whom you also condemned to starvation, and who yet forgives you, because he hopes to be forgiven—I am Edmond Dantès!"

– Chapter 116: The Pardon

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood Season 1 Masterlist

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, 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.

Updates every Friday: A work in progress

Chapter 1: A prophecy foretold Chapter 2: Fireflies and Funerals Chapter 3: A debt made Chapter 4: The Arrival Chapter 5: The girl who leaves, the Woman whom returns Chapter 6: The unholiness of burning Chapter 7: Gossip and Needlepoint Chapter 8: Schemes and Artisans Chapter 9: The Feast Chapter 10: Beware the Blood Red Roses Thorns

Chapter 11: Words of a Scandal Chapter 12: The Whore that Lies Chapter 13: On Your Knees Chapter 14: From the Shadows Chapter 15: White Poppies Chapter 16: The Tourney; The Joust Chapter 17: The Tourney; The Melee Chapter 18: Ruination Chapter 19: Tea & Charity

Chapter 20: Sympathies for Maegor the Cruel Chapter 21: Moon Flower Chapter 22: The Ugly Seat Chapter 23: A Woman's Shame Chapter 24: The Boy With the Stars Chapter 25: The Seafarer Chapter 26: Dragonstone Chapter 27: Betrothal Chapter 28: The Sting of Bitter Betrayal Chapter 29: Little Nightshade

Chapter 30: In That House On Top Of The Rock Chapter 31: The Stranger's Company Chapter 32: The Hunt Chapter 33: Brōzi, riña hen narys Chapter 34: There's no measure 'within reason' for women Chapter 35: Pulling the Strings Chapter 36: Boris Baratheon Chapter 37: The Image of a son Chapter 38: Wine and Company Chapter 39: Once in Ivory, to the sound of bells

Chapter 40: Trapped like a Fox Chapter 41: The illusion of choice Chapter 42: Two sinners can't atone from a lone prayer Chapter 43: The Depravity of Desire Chapter 44: Think of the Stars Chapter 45: Blood in the Water Chapter 46: The Boundaries of a Winged Pig Chapter 47: The Vigil of the Old Gods Chapter 48: The Stag that Rages Chapter 49: The Stag hunts the Stag

Chapter 50: The Performance of Grief Chapter 51: Once in front of the fire, two become one Chapter 52: The Funeral of Boris Baratheon Chapter 53: The Hunger of Man Chapter 54: The Funeral Procession Chapter 55: Keeping Alliances Chapter 56: Souls tied, intertwined by our pride and guilt Chapter 57: Wisps of Smoke Chapter 58: A Missive of Ravens Chapter 59: A Claim of Bastardry

Chapter 60: The Last Supper Chapter 61: The Taste of Silence Chapter 62: Waves Chapter 63: In the Eye of the Father Chapter 64: The End of a Noose Chapter 65: A Fool with a Fool's Honor Chapter 66: The Son of Duty Chapter 67: The Daughter of Insolence Chapter 68: The Tempest of a Woman Chapter 69: Birds in a Cage

Chapter 70: The Beast Beneath the Boards Chapter 71: The Tower of the Hand Chapter 72: Ill Tidings Chapter 73: A Woman's War Chapter 74: Salt and Smoke Chapter 75: A Golden Crown of Sorrow pt. 1 Chapter 76: A Golden Crown of Sorrow pt. 2 Chapter 77: Haunted By The Daylight Chapter 78: A Boy And His Dragon Chapter 79: Vengeance Hungers

Chapter 80: The Bloody Hand of Dread Chapter 81: The Fool That Loved You Chapter 82: The Coward's Heart Chapter 83: The Death of A Son Chapter 84: A Sister's Rage Chapter 85: The Red Dress Chapter 86: A Vow of Fire and Blood Chapter 87: The Sworn Shield or The Boy Chapter 88: Cursed Child Chapter 89: Byka Ābrazȳrys

Chapter 90: The Mother's Prayer Chapter 91: The Favor of the Smallfolk Chapter 92: A Mother's Search Chapter 93: Once in grief, heart of black but forced in green I Chapter 94: Once in grief, heart of black but forced in green II Chapter 95: Once in grief, heart of black but forced in green III Chapter 96: Once in grief, heart of black but forced in green IV Chapter 97: Etched in Flesh Chapter 98: Think of Home

[coltermorning]

Of Love and Loss Ch. 5 (RDR2 Fanfic, Arthur Morgan x F!Reader, 18+)

Summary: Needing peace of mind, you search for it in the familiar and find it in the unexpected.

Author’s Notes: Chapter five of this one.

Tags: Arthur Morgan x reader, high honor Arthur Morgan, minor character death, loss of parents, blood and injury, grief/mourning, survivor guilt, strangers to lovers, slow burn, eventual smut, graphic depictions of violence

AO3 Link

~

Of Love and Loss

Five: Fleeting Peace

Word count: 3703

I fear this may be the most foolish thing I’ve gotten myself into to date. The woman, still nameless, is in mourning or grief or both and rarely speaks. Makes me wonder what she was like before all this drama. And here I am, more idiot than guide, leading her toward land unknown by either of us. The blind leading the blind. It’ll be a miracle if we make it out alive.

~

It had been two days, and you still could not stop thinking of that elk, of your father’s words in your ear, of the older man reminding you of your mother. Your mind was running in circles, an endless stretch of memory and reality closing in on each other. The only bit of normalcy to speak of was the return of your appetite.

You had eaten twice since waking on your back in that camp wagon, half whole again, the ability to keep food down born of necessity rather than any sort of want. That had led to your hunger returning, and it burned through you now with a vengeance.

It was night, you and the man had stopped and made camp, and he was cooking meat over the flames of the fire, the smell making you understand why wolves were so drawn to carnage. Your stomach was rumbling with want.

“You want some?” he asked, not even bothering to look up at you. You wished he would—you were sure your hunger was written across your face. But he didn’t, so you were forced to respond.

“Please.”

After cooking it through, he handed you half. You tore into it like a wild animal.

“Glad to see you’re eating again. I was worried this would be a short trip, starting with you starving to death.”

You shot him a glance but kept eating, needing it more than air.

Once you finished, you debated going out to kill something yourself. You were that hungry. But the thought was cut short.

“So. You ever actually been to Nebraska before?” he asked.

“No.” You backtracked, considering. “Once.”

“Which is it?”

“I’ve been once.” If you could call that being. But you didn’t elaborate. He called you on it.

“Well. Ain’t you just full of talk.”

“Always.”

He laughed. The sound drew your attention, nearly startling you. Then you realized what you had said and grew somewhat proud—your old humor finally resurfacing. It gave you the courage to speak a little more.

“My momma got pregnant with me in Nebraska. She and Pa left before they knew, but I guess it counts.”

“I guess it does,” he said. “So you made this journey before, huh?”

“I have,” you said, thinking fondly on your parents so proud to have a child together, wanting to start their lives with no one but you up in the mountains. “Though I can’t say I’ll be much help with directions.”

Arthur smiled this time, a crooked-looking thing. “No, I wouldn’t think so.”

Braving the unsettling feeling you got from talking, you went on. “Have you ever been?”

He reached in his satchel and pulled out a box of cigarettes. “Passed through a couple times. Never stopped long enough to say I’ve really been there.”

“I bet you’ve been all over.”

He stuck a cigarette in his mouth and eyed you. “What makes you say that?”

You shrugged. “Folks you run with. All those wagons.”

He nodded, lighting a match on his boot and bringing it to his mouth, cupping his hand around the flame so the wind wouldn’t catch it.

After he took a long drag, smoke curling up and whipping away, he offered you the box. You waved it away.

“Don’t smoke?”

“Don’t know how.” You said it before thinking better of it, and Arthur’s resulting expression made you wish you had come up with something else. There was a gleam in his eyes, like a boy with a scheme.

“Don’t know how? It ain’t hard.”

You shrugged, cutting off opportunity for him to push. But push he did. He held out the box to you once more. “Take one. It’ll take the edge off.”

You looked away. There was no taking the edge off. Not when the edge was as big as a mountain. A cliff to fall over.

He sat back, stowing them. “Suit yourself.”

The remainder of the night passed quickly. You bundled up in the spare bedroll you’d been given and cut out the cold, cut out everything. You were exhausted. Your side was aching after all the riding. Your whole body was. But that just leant to heavier sleep, which soon came to you quicker than it had in a long time.

You slept the whole night through. You awoke later than usual, though still early. An old habit formed by hard days of work better spent in the mornings.

Sitting up, you took in your surroundings and found Arthur kneeling by the fire. He saw you stir. “Morning. Sun’s up before you this time.”

He was exaggerating about the sun. The morning still had that blue glow to it that only a barely risen sun could make.

You made to stand anyway and sucked in a breath—the pain in your side was going nowhere. You felt your bandages under your layers to make sure they weren’t damp with blood.

“Nigh time you rewrap that anyway,” Arthur said, eyeing your hands.

“It’s fine,” you told him, trying again to stand. This time you managed it, but it must not have been a very impressive show of it. Noticing, Arthur made for you. He stepped into your space, making you retreat into yourself until he lifted your coat from your side, checking your bandages himself like it was any other thing. For some reason, you let him.

“Yeah, I’d say change these.” He stepped back. “Don’t want ‘em getting dirty.”

You stared blankly at him. You had nothing to replace the bandages with.

He gave you an amused look. “Didn’t think I came that unprepared, did you?” He walked over to his horse, pulling out more cloth from his saddle bags. “You make me take you all this way and I’m sure as shit getting you there in one piece,” he said, unraveling the cloth. He brought it over and held it out to you. You took it, glad he didn’t try to do it himself.

Realizing you would have to near abouts undress your torso entirely to rewrap it, you turned away, stepping into the nearby trees. You started shedding layers, each movement pulling on your stitches. You’d never had stitches before. Never been hurt this badly. You suddenly hoped more than anything this man knew what he was doing.

“How long do I have to keep these in?” you called out, finally getting to the bandages.

“The stitches? Depends,” he replied. “Until the skin starts to heal back together. Which in your case may be a while.”

How long was that? You thought to ask but stopped when you got all the wrapping off and saw your injured side again. It was a nasty sight. A giant bruise, black, yellow on the edges. Scraped skin. A jagged red cut with stitches holding it together, nearly six inches long. You could only sit there and look at it a moment, trying your best not to think about how you got it.

“How do you take them out?” you blurted.

“Just cut the knot and pull. Won’t even hurt.”

Like hell it wouldn’t. You had half a mind not to let him near you again.

“How’s it look?” he asked. “Swollen at all?”

Desperate not to look at the wound a second longer, you started wrapping it, not caring if it was green so long as you didn’t have to see it carving up your side.

“No,” you answered. It truthfully wasn’t. A little agitated, but considering the damage, that seemed expected. You probably should have cleaned it a little but used the excuse of there not being any water around.

You finished winding the cloth around your middle, securing it before observing your work. It was shoddy. You let your short chemise back down, and it bunched up where you had tied the bandage off. You let out an annoyed breath, smoothing it over best you could before putting your shirt back on. When you tucked it in, you purposely left it baggy. No need to draw Arthur’s attention, make him feel the need to rewrap it.

You donned your vest and coat, making sure your father’s ledger was still in the inside pocket, and stepped out of the trees.

Arthur turned your way. “You sure it’s fine? You’d tell me if it looked like it was gonna kill you, right?”

You didn’t respond. Even though it didn’t look bad, dying from natural causes didn’t seem like something you could stop. It was a higher hill to climb, one you didn’t care enough to do anything about.

You started making way to your horse when Arthur stopped you with a hand around your wrist. “Right?” he insisted, voice lower. That same commanding voice he had used on the man who had cornered you by the river.

Surprised that he had grabbed you, you yanked your hand away and pushed passed him without a word. It was an odd thing—you didn’t feel fearful like you would if anyone else had grabbed you. You were angry with him. He knew better.

He let out an annoyed groan and a small word that was likely ‘Jesus’ but let you be. And, getting back to the matter at hand, you headed for your horse. You wanted to go on a hunt. The only real hunting you had done since being on your own was the elk hunt, and even that hadn’t been usual enough to sate your desire. You needed the quiet of the land around you, the animals calling out to each other. Nothing else to think on but prey and your father telling you to focus, to breathe out, to shoot. It was peace unlike anything else—something you desperately needed.

You got the spare rifle you had been loaned off your horse, examining it. It was a basic thing. Perfect, really, for its intended job.

“If you’re planning on shooting me with that, I can promise you, I shoot quicker.”

Peace interrupted once more, you closed your eyes and took a breath before turning to Arthur.

“I’m going hunting. Alone.”

“Like hell you are. Feel like getting yourself eaten in the process?”

You narrowed your eyes. “I’ve been hunting for most of my life. I know how to protect myself.”

“I don’t doubt that, but like I said, I’m getting you home in one piece. So I’m coming with you wherever you go. You don’t like it, you shouldn’t have asked me along in the first place.”

“I need…” You couldn’t say it. Not to this stranger. Peace. And how to explain that you could only get it in the woods, surrounded by animals and nothing more.

He waited expectantly, his hands on his gun belt. You huffed a breath, needing him to understand but knowing he wouldn’t. He was too stubborn to give it up.

“Fine,” you said. “You can come. But please stay quiet. I need quiet.”

He quirked an eyebrow but said nothing more.

After taking some ammunition from him for your gun, the two of you left the horses and your small camp behind and set off. You went where sound and sight led you, unfamiliar with the terrain but immediately picking up on a few deer trails. The tall animals usually barreled through the woods in the same places, leaving small tunnels through the trees and low-growing bushes. Even though the tunnels were much less obvious than they would be in winter, you followed them.

Much of hunting was thinking like the animal you chose to stalk. Deer were all instinct, all bursts of speed and subtle power at the slightest noise. Rabbits were less thoughtful but faster still. Anything bigger was normally aggressive, and anything else was not much for hunting. It was a game, a need fulfilled and satisfaction saw through. You found yourself floating along with the feel of it, the first time you hadn’t been weighed down since the fall. Then a loud pop of a stick sounded behind you, and you whipped around.

Arthur stared right at you, almost like he was waiting for you to get onto him for it. Not wanting to make more noise than necessary, you only held a finger up to your mouth to quiet him and continued on.

After enough walking that you reached a place your were sure other humans hadn’t touched in years, you stopped. You knelt and examined the ground, listening hard. There was a lot to stillness. Much more than other hunters realized. So you sat, letting the animals reveal themselves rather than chasing them down.

Ten minutes passed without a thing. Then, slowly, came three deer. They likely smelled you or Arthur, their heads occasionally popping up, their tails twitching. But you stayed still, became the woods around you, waiting for their trust.

They were foraging around, likely searching for food they would need before the snow hit. It made them desperate, and desperation gave way to ill caution. More minutes passed, and they forgot to be afraid of that unknown smell. They walked on far enough that moving your gun to your shoulder wouldn’t be noticed by those round brown eyes. You did so slowly and silently, hardly breathing. You aimed for the doe in the middle, the only one with her side turned to you—the easier shot. You waited a few beats, watching, not rushing. You always used to rush, and your father had called you on it every time. It usually resulted in an unclean kill or spooked game. So you waited, making sure all was in order, hearing your father tell you to be patient before you let out your last breath.

The gun fired, startling the deer and the birds and everything alive. When the deer went down, you weren’t torn apart by it this time. You were proud. You had done everything right, just as he had taught you. A hunt years in the making. You had just never known what the cost of it would be—to be so sure despite being so alone.

“You keep shooting like that, and I’ll start to think you’re some sort of sharpshooter.”

The voice startled you. You were so engaged in what you were doing you’d forgotten the man was there. You turned to him, looking at him without really seeing. Wordlessly, you stood and made for the deer.

Sure enough, it had been a rather impressive shot. The deer hadn’t been close by any means, not to mention the trees spanning the distance between you. You’d hit her right in front of her ears, downing her immediately, just as you had the elk. If it had been a buck, you’d have gone for the heart, but this doe had made it easy on you. You knelt beside her and heard footsteps beside you, then the scraping sound of a knife against leather. You looked up to find Arthur holding his knife out to you. Willingly this time. So different from the elk hunt.

“Thank you,” you managed, taking it from him. You meant it in more ways than one. Despite who he was, talkative and humorous, he had let you be more times than you truly deserved in the short span of the time you knew him.

He didn’t respond, so you got to work.

In an hour, the pair of you were back to your horses with enough meat to last you weeks. Probably the whole trip. Arthur had brought a little of the elk along but left most of it for his people, so this would more than cover you in the meantime. Especially with how cold the weather was turning. That was one thing your mother loved about the snow—meat didn’t go bad in such coldness. Or it took a lot longer to. You silently thanked her for that small knowledge as you packed down your horse.

“May be easier to use one horse to pack,” Arthur said. “We can both ride the other.”

“Not enough meat here,” you said simply. Plus, you didn’t want to ache twice as bad when you were suddenly without a saddle.

“Ain’t you knowledgeable,” he quipped. “How’d you learn all this anyway?”

“Learn what?” You finished with the meat and took some to cook.

“Hunting like that. I thought Hosea was good, but I ain’t ever seen anything like that. You track like a bloodhound.”

Your chest welled with pride. “My father taught me.”

“Well he was a good teacher then.”

You ignored the ‘was’ and went on, happy to brag on him. “He grew up in the country, in the Nebraska plains. He always did want to move to the mountains, but he was already a man of the land before he was even a man. That love of it, that reverence, it made him a good hunter.”

“I’m sure,” Arthur said.

With that, your father’s warm memory running through you, you made for the fire to eat a well-deserved meal.

You were halfway through eating when Arthur asked, “Is that how your father made his living then? Hunting?” It was a curious question, one that made you stare at the man because he said it with such caution. Like he knew better than to be asking it. You wondered why but let it slide. Instead of answering, you tugged the ledger out of your inside pocket and handed it to Arthur.

He fumbled it open, his eyebrows drawing together in confusion over the first few pages. They were where your father had learned his letters, likely scribbled nonsense to Arthur. But he kept flipping and eventually must have reached something he recognized, as he began to read.

You took your last bite of food when he asked, voice full of confusion, “Does this say goat?”

You looked over at him where he sat, poring over the ledger like it was the most interesting thing in the world. You felt pride surge through you once more before getting up to make him show you what he was talking about. “Where?”

He pointed to a spot on a page, and you sat at his side and squinted. The word could have been goat. It could have been a lot of things. Your father had also taken on a peculiar shorthand of his own making that only you and your mother could read. Her more so than you.

“Go back a page.”

Arthur did so, and you spied the date across the top line—May of 1888. The memory made the edge of your mouth tug upward.

“Sure does. That’s the year we had goats. The only year we did. Momma hated them. Here, go back.” He flipped to the page he had asked about, and you pointed to the numbers on the edge of the page. “Some figures for what he sold that month. See the goat line?”

“W…B? Am I reading that right?”

You couldn’t keep your smile at bay now. It was a foreign thing, feeling it stretch across your face. Something you didn’t think you had the strength to do anymore. But you did as you said, “Wolf bait.”

“Wolf bait?” Arthur turned to you, voice full of disbelief. His eyes locked onto you so close that you noticed for the first time how colorful they were. Gemstone green and sea blue. That made you come to your senses, your nerves taking hold. You quickly looked away, though your smile at the memory never quite left.

“Yep.”

“You’re kidding me,” he said. “You fed the goats to wolves?”

You thought of the end line for that year written later in the ledger—the most profitable year your father had ever recorded. You smiled again. “Something like that. They may have gotten loose and…”

Arthur let out a laugh.

“What?”

“Nothing. Just…of all the ridiculous things to make you finally crack a smile,” he said, shaking his head. “I didn’t figure for goddamn goats.”

It was a bit silly, but you suddenly couldn’t keep a straight face. You wondered when the last time that had happened was.

“Then what’s this?” he asked. He pointed to something else in the ledger, and you were swept away from any further thought about happiness or the lack of it.

The pair of you sat together and pored over the pages for what felt like an hour. You couldn’t remember the last time you had felt so riddled with pride over something. It was like showing the very heart of both your parents to Arthur. It was an entire livelihood written down. Your childhood, your adolescence, your adult memories all coming back to you. It was exactly what you needed. The very thing to pull you outside of yourself for a moment, however brief.

It only occurred to you once the camp was packed up, you and Arthur had mounted, and the trip resumed that he had latched onto that ledger on purpose. Not because it was inherently interesting, and not because of any sort of politeness. It was because the ledger had been the first thing to make you speak, truly speak, since you’d met the man. He had picked up on that, on your love of your family before everything had gone so wrong. And he used it to help ease the pain for a little while. You realized then you were wrong about him. He was gruff and overly honest and sometimes flat out mannerless, but he was smarter than you figured for. Or maybe caring was the better word.

While the pair of you made out into another cold day, you were suddenly glad you had picked Arthur to come with you over anyone else. The man who had cared enough to save you. The one who was doing it still.

_________

Chapter six is here.

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