#deceit kin | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

baeshijima · 1 month ago

Text

— be still, my beating heart

the world has a rather cruel way of playing its jokes. it paid you no heed amid your desperation, watching passively as your wings were clipped before you could even take flight. and yet, when you began to accept such a fate, you were given new ones to soar and see the world you once dreamed of. the world may be cruel, but it gave you a new meaning and opportunity all the same.

(despite your newfound content, you almost wish you weren't given so many headaches to deal with.)

INCLUDES : king!mydei ; knight commander!phainon ; scholar!anaxa + knight!reader

CONTAINS : gn!reader, 13.5k wc (sobbing pls give this a chance... it's just a number... haha...), royalty!au, fluff (kinda), angst (if you squint), brief mentions of blood, some lore and character exploration fitted into the au (kinda), underlying darker themes (bc royalty aus are scary at times,,,) but still very much sfw !! i think... slight spoilers for their past/backstories (mainly anaxa's if you haven't played 3.2/read his first character story + some details of phainon's alose mentioned in 3.2) with some deviations

A/N : guess who is pushing their knight!reader agenda again !! for the third time :D once again royalty aus my beloved u will always be famous to me o(TヘTo) (also can u tell who is my favourite haha...)

various!hsr ver.

Becoming a full-fledged knight was never your intention, much less the personal knight of the king himself. If life had gone the way you’d planned all those years ago, you are sure you would have laughed in the face of whoever told you this would be your fate.

After all, you? A knight? For the then-crown-prince-now-king?

You?

Ha! As if you would let yourself become something like… like that. A tool, a pawn, a weapon easily disposed of when the cracks start to become too noticeable and the once sharpened edge too blunt to be of any use.

Honour? Integrity? Justice?

What use is there for such lofty ideals in a world where deceit and poison-laced saccharines and empty promises for something greater, something far beyond the scope of your isolated bubble was the only familiarity you had.

You’ve witnessed it countless times — the noble rise and the disgraceful fall of your kin. Having watched your siblings and cousins be subjected to the almost manic control of your family elders, you swore you would do everything in your power to escape their clutches; even if you had to reject everything you knew and start with nothing once more.

And yet, when your desperate attempts to retain your autonomy began to slip through, when your efforts to diverge and leave your own traces in this world were all but thwarted without a moment’s hesitation, the doubt began to settle like morning mist.

Maybe you were never meant for something greater. Maybe you were destined to be overshadowed by your family’s bygone history, dispirited and made to be forgotten by the elders who loathed disharmony in their control. Maybe this path was always fated to be yours to follow, to trudge in the weathered footsteps moulded in the shape of your ancestry. Generation after generation, stuck in an endless cycle of ash and sweat and metal and the suffocating stench of iron. Never to be free.

In the end, you were just a puppet to be controlled, your prodigious talent for the sword an attribute for them to weaponise.

But then he came in like a raging storm, your once gloomy and hopeless world bursting into a vibrancy you never once thought possible. In a seemingly impossible feat your shackles were shattered, a fate which had never been yours to claim suddenly handed back to you by that outstretched calloused hand and kind gaze unfitting for such a battle-haggard boy. Even so, despite such outward expression being a noticeably stark contradiction to the boy’s sharp features, his smile did not waver, nor did his patience for your eventual acceptance of his hand.

Perhaps you are a hypocrite — perhaps you are a spineless fool who cannot break away from the destiny instilled by those elders. But if this decision allowed you to devote your all to something wholeheartedly, to step into a world where those so-called lofty ideals may not be so out of reach, then you would gladly be one; even if it meant walking down a path carved by the very same wretched footsteps you loathed, the imprint of your own the last to be seen from that bygone legacy.

Side step. Downward strike. Duck. Envision your opponent standing overhead, their sword raised with both hands and ready to strike down. Pivot. Parry with an undercut. When they’re off balance, lunge and strike them at their opening—

“What have I said about overworking yourself?”

At the sudden voice, you startle. Luckily, your sword did not drop, and you breathe a faint sigh of relief before turning to the source of the voice. You shouldn’t have been surprised considering you already knew who would have such a profound voice and presence, but seeing your king leaning against the wall of the training grounds still manages to catch you off guard.

With your independent training now interrupted, the adrenaline guiding you through the motions vanishes. Flexing your stiff fingers, you roll your neck while making your way to the sidelines while trying to ignore the weight behind his accusatory gaze. When reaching the benches, you come to a stop, pick up your water bottle, and give a fleeting glance towards the intruder.

“Your Majesty?” you ask, voice lighthearted in a way that tries to ignore the underlying meaning behind his presence. “What are you doing here?”

He huffs. “That’s what I should be asking you.” Mydei regards you with scrutiny, arms crossed and lips pursed as you guzzle your water. “What are you doing here at this hour?”

“Well, I asked you first!” Is what you would counter with if he wasn’t your king. Alas, he is. And so the very apparent status difference between you prompts a much tamer response to spill after having wiped off the excess water clinging to your lips.

“Training, Your Majesty.”

…Perhaps you should have gone with your initial response. Had you done that, maybe the ominous clinks of jewellery would not be steadily growing in volume, nor would the brooding aura of an upset king (your king, you must remind yourself, for you alone put yourself in this predicament) be slowly encroaching on your back amidst a suffocating silence. Eventually he comes to a stop behind you, his presence heavy and lying in wait like a predator watching its prey.

You gulp. Is it too late to run? Most definitely. Will you at least try? You’re not an idiot. (You learned from your first attempt that it was useless to try. It was also very embarrassing. Never again.)

With almost robotic-like stutters, your head turns towards your right — towards the shadow currently looming behind you. When your eyes meet, your mind draws a blank. What were you doing? Where are you? Who are you? Why must you suffer like this instead of some other knight?

But then he parts his lips, narrowed gaze and deep-set frown still etched into his features, and suddenly you’re reminded how tough love is your king’s speciality.

“Are you aware how late it is?” he asks, tone firm.

“Um, I wasn’t exactly keeping track.” Had his glare not darkened, you would have thought that answer to be sufficient enough. Clearly it was not, and you scramble to conjure a more sufficient answer. “If I were to guess, however… quite late?”

“Very. Past dinner, no less.”

Oh. You knew time flew while you were training (the gradual darkening of the sky said enough), but to think you missed dinner? Maybe you’ll be able to snag some leftovers if you’re lucky enough. If not, then you will simply pretend hunger is nonexistent and your problem is solved.

Even so, if your king is known for his horrendously stubborn and competitive whims, then two can play that game!

“That’s too bad,” you sigh. “And here I was hoping I could spar with you, Your Majesty.”

At that, he brings a clawed hand to his head before releasing an exasperated breath. “Don’t be foolish, [Name]. It is late. You should get some food, too.”

“What?” you drawl, a grin slowly appearing on your lips. Raising a gloved hand, you try your best to hide your smile from Mydei’s suspicious expression. “Don’t tell me you’re… scared to lose, are you?”

You don’t even get the chance to blink before he is standing before you, eyes closed and a strained, twitching smile stretching his lips.

"A spar, you say? Sure. Let’s spar."

Well, that was easy. Hurting a man’s ego sometimes really is the way to go.

Making your way to the centre of the training ground with your sword in hand, you begin to think maybe this wasn’t the best method. Sure, you got what you wanted and managed to train a little longer, but having a murderous king standing opposite you and cracking his clawed gauntlets isn’t the most pleasant of visuals.

Well, whatever! You asked for this, so you must see it through; even if you won’t hear the end of it from him afterwards.

Taking a slow breath, you adjust your feet’s positioning and shift to find your centre of balance. Raising your sword at eye-level, you exchange a single nod. With a precise step, you close the distance, and—

Clang!

Within a second, your training sword flies out of your grasp and out of sight. A dull thud is heard, but all you are focused on is the glint shining off the clawed, gold-plated gauntlet as it withdraws from the position your sword once occupied.

Silence.

“...Your Majesty,” you start, voice hesitant as you try to process what just transpired. “Is it just me, or do you seem more agitated than usual?”

Mydei is relatively expressionless as he stands upright and cracks his neck, as though it were just a regular Tuesday.

“Hmph. There is no such word in the Kremoan dictionary. It’s because you skipped dinner to train. Again,” he stresses with absolute certainty you’re almost inclined to believe his words. Almost.

Despite how long you have been Mydei’s personal guard, you are yet to see a single dictionary in Kremnos. With how often he uses that phrase, you would think there would be at least ten of them in the royal library, not the figment of his imagination and temperament of an agitated cat to be his source.

But you don’t tell your king that. Instead, you opt to stare at your sword lying pitifully in a cloud of dust on the opposite end of the training grounds. “I see.”

“Do you now?” he asks, an undertone of scepticism woven within his tone. “Because the last I recall you saying that, you continued to skip dinner for your personal training. It is fine to train, but over-doing it and neglecting your health will only harm you.”

“Yes, yes,” you sigh, peeling off your gloves as you bypass him, heading straight towards the outer ring where your water bottle was previously left. “My king’s natural instinct to take care of his subordinates has triumphed once more. I concede.”

“If you know, then start listening to me.” His head shakes at your theatrics, joining you at the sidelines with your once flying sword now securely in his hand. You retrieve it with gratitude before stowing it away securely and taking another sip from your bottle. He lingers behind you, quietly helping pack away the equipment. You’re not sure what exactly is going through his mind, but you are enlightened soon enough.

“Come drink with me.”

You pause, the hand towel pressing against your neck also pausing in its ministrations as you process your king’s words. “You mean your pomegranate juice with goat’s milk?”

He gives you a strange look — all scrunched brows, narrowed eyes, and a downward curled lip. You’re almost inclined to poke the midpoint of his brows and tell him to loosen up lest he wants to get wrinkles early, but, alas, you fancy not being on the receiving end of his unamused stare for a change.

“What else?”

“You’re right. I apologise for assuming there would be something different for once, O fearsome king of— ow, ow, ow!”

Your words are promptly cut off by the biting cold metal entrapping your left cheek. Despite knowing escape is futile, you still try to free your cheek from your king’s bullying. It, as expected, fails, and so you’re left to do what you do best — complain. “What was that for?!”

“For being so cheeky,” he retorts. For extra measure he gives your cheek another squeeze before letting go. You jump away at the presented opportunity and cradle your poor, abused skin, pointedly ignoring his deadpan gaze and huff at your antics. “Don’t worry. There will be an assortment of cheese and other accompaniments as always.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll meet you in your chambers, Your Majesty.”

As you are about to trudge towards your quarters, his figure steps in front of you and blocks the way. When meeting his gaze, you find him already looking at you in a mix of confusion and mild annoyance.

“Why?” he asks, and you’re left wondering how this man is the king of a nation.

“So I can have a shower and change into non-sweaty clothes…?”

“Just use my private bathroom.”

“But what about my clo—”

“I still have some of your spares from prior visits. All clean,” he quickly adds, possibly seeing your attempts for a rebuttal.

That fiend. Of course he would look so proud of himself knowing you have no arguments, nor the will to argue, left in you. At this point, all you want is a nice shower and some food, all of which he has offered and knows you won’t refuse.

With yet another defeat fresh in mind you release a long sigh, accepting your fate once more as you begrudgingly fall into step with your king who looks far too pleased with himself, if his satisfied smirk is anything to go by.

Seriously, with how often he calls you into his office and personal chambers for a drink or some food, one might think you’re his personal attendant; you may as well be at this rate!

Well, at least he seems to be in a good mood. In the end, that is all that matters to you.

---

A curse. A sin. A stain upon the royal family’s name. That is what Mydeimos, the once celebrated crown prince of Castrum Kremnos, became known as after the prophecy was foretold. Without a question for the prophecy’s legitimacy, his infantile body was cast aside and thrown into the endless abyss by the man known as his father, King Eurypon, while his mother, Queen Gorgo, died by the king’s treachery after challenging him to a duel shortly after his descent.

…Or so he was told by his teacher, Krateros, who followed after him with the Kremnoan detachment after he resurfaced from the endless depths of that river at the tender age of nine. As it stood, Mydei’s childhood evaded him. He knew he hadn’t led a typical life. He'd grown up fighting endless monsters in an attempt to evade death, learned to read, write, and speak both the common tongue and his mother tongue after nine-years-old, and was forced to adapt his newly undying body to the overworld while traversing the lands. The phantom pain of injuries sustained never faded despite its physical evidence stitched anew without a lasting mark. His senses took a while to completely adjust, the new sounds and sensations leaving lasting remnants for days at a time.

And then would come the nights; the nights where he would dream of the mother whose face escaped him. They came frequently — every night, even. Truth be told, the young prince learned most of his fighting through those dreams. Where his mother awaited him by the flickering firelight, a training session would soon follow. They would spar, him left huffing while she remained unperturbed, and the same conversation would flow without diversion. She would praise him; he would ask why they learn to fight; she would give her response; he would question the philosophy; she would eventually relent and agree with his view, explaining her reasons. And, as in every dream, his mother left with the same parting words,

“I no longer put my faith in any oath or doctrine. Now, I have just one role… That of your mother, Mydeimos. Your guardian…”

And then it would end. And every time, the crown prince would wake up, go about his day with the detachment, and futilely hope for a sequel to his dream. But as was the cycle of life and death, that dream repeated endlessly and without cease. There was no closure, no elaboration of wisdom or guidance she departed him with.

While he never fully understood her words, he continued to traverse the lands with his detachment. Life and death came frequently. Sometimes it would be expected, other times it would grab him by the collar and steal his breath. Regardless of the many partings Mydei witnessed, the pain always lingered. That much never changed even as he became older; he just learned to hide the pain better, to not show any weakness.

His travels eventually led him to the territory of an influential family — one renowned for producing highly capable knights, as well as the budding rumours of the elders’ tyrannical control over their domain. Wealth clearly was not an issue, but rather the skewed distribution between the rich and the poor. The detachment was commissioned to put a stop to their oppressive reign and, after having witnessed the effects first-hand, it did not take long for them to purge the land of its dictators.

And then he stumbled upon you, alone amongst the carnage and debris with a listless gaze directed to your former home and a broken sword discarded beside your kneeled form. Maybe it was the spur of the moment — of your untapped potential or even the budding guilt of wrecking everything you once knew — but he was crouched in front of you with an outstretched hand as the words, “Come. Join me to see the birth of a new king,” escaped him before he could dwell on his next destination.

In truth, Mydei was unsure why he felt compelled to see through the territory’s reconstruction and stability. It was none of his business, and his people were not the patient type when it came to aimless pursuits. And yet, upon witnessing your eyes regain some of its light at his proposal, he found himself uncaring of their protests. He would bring order to the land himself if it came down to it.

Luckily, his men agreed and the restoration was a smooth process over several weeks. Poverty was gradually overturned, a democratic system would be established after their leave, and the people finally experienced peace. They were even celebrated in honour of their feats for freeing the citizens from the suffocating ruling, departing the next morning with you as their newest addition under Mydei’s behest.

(You had nothing left, you’d claimed to him the night of the celebration after sharing a drink, having lost your purpose after being caged for so long. He merely gave you a reason to soar once more.)

From travelling with his group, fighting side by side and experiencing losses together, to usurping the throne under King Eurypon’s ruling, you eventually found your place beside him after his ascension to the throne as his handpicked personal knight. The years flew by — some longer, others shorter. But throughout it all, it hadn’t taken long for Mydei to grow fond of you.

Perhaps it was your lost, broken shell he saw fragments of himself in back then among the carnage and debris which caused the first crack in his heart.

Perhaps it was your innate talent for the sword he witnessed first-hand after sparring you for the first time in the open planes to test your abilities for himself.

Perhaps it was how you gazed at him with purpose and renewed devotion, watching from afar as you dedicated yourself to honing your abilities in an effort to be useful to him.

(You would never be a burden, Mydei found himself thinking once. The very notion itself left an uncomfortable stir in his heart.)

Perhaps it was your expression when you first tried his cooking, him growing bashful in the face of your starry eyes after forcing you to take a break during your self-imposed training.

(Mydei was grateful it was nighttime. God forbid he let you see him so flustered just from you enjoying his cooking.)

Perhaps it was when you stood by his side for the first time not as the comrade he travelled and faced numerous hardships with, but as his personal guard who would forever stand by his side.

(Oddly enough, Mydei anticipated your knighting ceremony more than he did his own coronation. For having been raised with the ideology that overthrowing his father and becoming king was everything, the newly crowned king found himself overwhelmed with something inexplicable when you swore that oath before everyone in attendance, touching your knelt-form’s shoulders with the tip of the ceremonial sword, and handing you the kingdom’s royal insignia to proudly boast on your person.)

Perhaps it was when he spotted you chatting with Phainon back when he was a rookie and not yet the knight commander, who would follow you around like a puppy trailing behind its owner and pester you for the smallest of things; joining you to the water fountain, asking to watch you train, helping you with whatever menial task you decided to pick up for the day, somehow convincing you to be his personal instructor — just whatever routine of yours he could slot himself into.

(It struck Mydei as odd whenever the scene of you both together would cause his heart to clench. It was a pain unlike what he was used to experiencing, more akin to the air knocked out of his lungs and pin pricks settling deep within the beating organ. The mere thought of Phainon having your attention alone was enough to agitate the king, but maybe it was your easy acceptance of the starry-eyed rookie’s presence in your life which hurt a little more.)

Perhaps it was that time you threw yourself in front of him to stop an assassination attempt in his room in the dead of night when all but you both and the assassin were asleep, quickly disposing of him before Mydei rushed to catch your wounded form from hitting the bloodied floor before turning to him asking if he’s alright as though he was the one injured. He’d given a withering stare in response, offering no response as he picked you up and placed you on his bed to patch your fresh wounds.

(He’d given you a stern lecturing, reprimanding you for being so reckless and getting injured as a result. You’d quietened down then and offered an apology but, rather than his unintended harsh words, he’s almost certain it was his trembling hands as he tried to bandage your torso, the subtle shake in his voice he desperately tried to mask as disapproval, and the distraught manner he held you in which made you back down.)

Perhaps it was when he’d caught the way that blasphemous scholar started to seek you out on his own, having always been known to keep to himself unless absolutely necessary, even refusing palace summons were you not the one to personally guide him upon his arrival.

(In the beginning Mydei chalked it up to nothing but a passing curiosity during the scholar’s first visit to the palace, his gaze lingering when you walked away. But when Anaxa started to only ask, or demand rather, for you to be his escort otherwise he wouldn’t come to the palace — despite his personality, his discoveries are still one the best — a strange discomfort welled up within him. Sometimes Mydei thought himself to be petty when intercepting you both during the garden strolls, but when reminded of how that scholar would glance at him over his shoulder with a smirk before resuming his bickering with you, he believed some petty acts can be justified.)

Perhaps it was the days he spent by your bedside, gripping your hand as he barked out for all those well-accomplished physicians to do something to rid you of the lethal poison flooding your system while he could only sit and wait and pray for you to survive this, that you wouldn’t leave him alone. Not when you promised to remain by his side eternally.

(Despite running himself haggard, clinging to the fraying hope you would survive the longer the days dragged on, his wellbeing was nothing in comparison to the choked call of his name, voice hoarse from lack of use and eyes misty as they adjusted to the light. Despite all the words and nags and repressed emotions he all but wanted to tell you — because why would you take such lethal poison meant for him when you knew of his high tolerance? How something like that would have affected him far less than it did you? — Mydei deflated with relief when your cold hand touched his cheek in assurance, clutching desperately to the warmth beginning to seep through your palms as proof of life.)

Perhaps… it was nothing in particular; perhaps it was just you. Unapologetically. Wholeheartedly.

But really, if Mydei were to truly pick a moment where this inevitable downfall of his started, then it would no doubt be the day you were both about to reach the main outskirts with his resistance in tow the night before the Kremnos Festival, his goal to overthrow that man within grasp. The day you pledged to be his entirely.

Mydei had no expectations. He merely followed the path he chose and the fate awaiting him at the end of his journey. He was the crown prince. He was soon to be the king who would govern the land and do everything in his power to bring peace and prosperity to his people. Even if it took unimaginable sacrifice, countless losses, and surrendering his own freedom; everything he desperately wished to avoid in this inevitable power struggle.

He had long since accepted what the rebellion would entail.

And yet there in the heavy downpour did you kneel, one fist clenched atop your soaked heart and the other wrapped around the hilt of your sword wedged in the soil. Mydei could not hear anything happening around him; nothing but your clear voice as you made a vow that changed his life from there on out.

“Allow me to be yours, Your Highness. Your sword, your shield, your confidant, your friend… Whatever it is you need, allow me to assume that role. You don’t need to selflessly sacrifice yourself any longer. I pledge to be yours to use however you see fit, so please allow me to remain by your side eternally and fight for you until death itself forces me away.”

(…How could someone look so sure of themself? How could you say those without an inkling of doubt seeping through? How could you put so much trust in him when he himself had many doubts about his own capabilities?)

It was then, through your clear words and blindingly resolute eyes, did Mydei allow himself to dream once more — to hold onto the hope that, at the very least, you would remain beside him. Selfishly, just this once, he wished to have something to call his own without spilling his entire being for the sake of fate.

And so when he knelt down to match your height and accepted your pledge, the then Crown Prince, soon to be King Mydeimos made a vow to himself; to protect you from those who wished harm on you or tried to get you out of the way in an effort to target him, no matter the route it took to do so. Because regardless of the many potential threats that were to come once he purged the castle, the one thing Mydei refused to give up was you.

“Have you found something deserving of your protection as well, Mydeimos?” He faintly recalled his mother’s voice, the familiar words settled deep within his memory. Despite how long he had travelled with the Kremnoan detachment, Mydei could never give an absolute answer to that question. The answer was always there — just out of reach.

But as Mydei stared at you, your warm smile having melted the frigid rain from his subconscious, he could finally answer his mother’s question with full certainty.

Yes, Mother. I have. When I return home tomorrow, you can rest easy.

(Even now, as he watches in amusement when your lips pucker from the sweetness born from his preferred version of pomegranate juice, he vows to keep you safe from the dangers posed from those beyond this room.)

A languid yawn escapes you. Resting in the shade of a large oak tree secluded from the palace, you allow yourself to relax. Dashes of honeyed marigold slip through the gaps of the leaves and paint your leisurely form in dappled warmth.

Barely anyone knows of this spot other than yourself and Mydei (given the fact he is, y’know, the king and all), so you don’t have to worry about being disturbed in your rare, blissful moment of peace and quiet.

Sighing contentedly, you slowly melt further into the lush grass. Now, if only it could be like this every day—

“Fancy seeing you out here!”

…Of course someone would ruin your rare, blissful moment of peace and quiet just when you thought about it. A knight never rests as they say, and whatever higher being is out there looking over you seems rather keen on keeping it that way.

Maybe if you just keep your eyes closed they will take the hint and—

“Uhm, [Name]? I know you’re awake.”

…Darn it.

A resigned sigh escapes you. With great reluctance, you peek your eyes open. Through blurred vision you see a figure hovering over you, clad mostly in white, black and gold. Blinking a few more times and gently rubbing your eyes, the hazy outline becomes clearer, the smudged outlines merging into defined lines.

“...Hello, Commander.”

A bright smile lights up Phainon’s expression after your attention focuses on him, the corners of his eyes crinkling in glee. Really, what need is there for the sun when you have someone who is the very epitome of it right above you?

“There’s no need to be so formal. You can call me by my name, you know…”

“I’m merely treating you with the respect you deserve, Commander.”

The young leader visibly deflates upon your insistence, the upright tufts of hair drooping in tandem. His lower lip further juts out in a pout as he mutters, “Sometimes I wish I were still a rookie. At least you called me by my name back then.”

When catching his sulking mumbles, you merely give him a deadpan stare before releasing a low sigh. Hoisting yourself up, you scoot backwards until you can rest comfortably against the base of the tree. Probably having sensed your nonverbal invitation, he wastes no time joining you under the shade, his prior down-trodden mood instantly wiped off and replaced with an unmatched radiance.

Now, you would never outright admit to having favourites among the knights; that would just bring on more troubles and questions than you would like, and you already have your hands full with some of the people you know. Yet — again, never would you admit this to anyone outright — you could never deny the inherent soft spot you have for the young man. Aside from you being the one to introduce him to this haven away from the main palace years ago, it was probably his stubborn charm and constant presence which inevitably made you grow fond of him. He also has rather amusing reactions to certain things, so much so he can be like an open book at times.

A soft rustle. A gentle jab. You’re snapped out of your reverie when strands of white and gleaming cyan appear from your peripherals.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks, eyes slightly widened and head tilted in curiosity.

“It’s nothing,” you begin. “Just got caught up a little in my… thoughts…” Phainon blinks and tilts his head once more when your voice trails off. Yet you pay it no mind.

This time, you are solely focused on his looks; more specifically, how unusually dishevelled in contrast to his typically neat and tidy appearance.

While his hair being messy is nothing out of the ordinary, you spy more out-of-place strands than usual, all sticking out in sporadic directions. Despite the light colours taking up the majority of his uniform, it usually remains clean even during training sessions. Yet right now, prominent marks of dirt stain the once snow white of his apparel, his collar and cuffed sleeves slightly askew from their usual position. Despite this contrasting appearance, what holds your attention the most is the dark discolouration located on his wrist.

Perhaps noticing your intense gaze focused elsewhere, his eyes follow your stare.

“Oh. When did that happen?” he says, relatively unconcerned for the bruise blighting his skin.

You frown. “Commander, how did you not notice ”

“I suppose I might have gotten a little distracted, haha…” he trails off, sheepish. There is an awkward laugh as he lightly scratches his cheek, his eyes settling everywhere but on you.

Seriously, how is this guy the leading knight commander?

(…Well, actually, someone who can spar with your king for several days and nights in a row is more than qualified to be a knight commander.)

Without warning, you surge forward. Perhaps caught off-guard, Phainon stiffens, frozen in place as you gently hold his injured wrist and bring it closer, turning it over and lightly brushing your thumb over the amalgamation of deep purples and reds and blues.

“...They didn’t do anything to you, did they?”

Perhaps sensing your apprehension, he encloses his hand atop of yours and gives it a soft squeeze. “I am the knight commander, remember? Compared to before, things are different now. Besides,” he adds with a light smile, “it’s been a long time since then.”

His gaze holds yours in gentle assurance, leaning forward slightly. When remnants of his body heat brush against you, a sudden wave of awareness at your lack of distance has you hastily lean back.

“Really, you need to be more aware,” you reprimand, awkwardly coughing as your eyes resume scanning over him intently in search for other possible marrings on his person. “It’s not good to make others worry so much, you know.”

Okay, so maybe you might sound a little hypocritical — but it’s different when it concerns someone else! At least when you do it, it occurs away from lingering eyes, unlike him who practically prances around in his messy appearance.

When you hear no response, you pause. Typically, this would be when he had some playful quip or sly remark about how you’re not any better than he is to retort back with, often accompanied with that charming, boyish grin and teasing gaze of his. Usually, he would give a playful nudge to your shoulder as he recounts the times he found you dishevelled and roughed up with dramatic flair, often in pursuit of getting a reaction out of you before tending to your superficial wounds with a tender touch.

You find none of his usual antics this time. Instead, when you lift your eyes to meet his, there is an uncanny solemnity in his expression, his once spirited and mischievous gaze now shadowed with uncertainty. And when he opens his mouth after a beat longer than you would have liked, a flicker of doubt flashes briefly across his features before it settles into his shadowed contours, disappearing as though it were never there.

“Does seeing me like this make you worried?”

You blink, confused at his sudden switch in attitude. “Huh? Of course it does. Why wouldn’t I be worried about you?”

A beat of silence.

“I see…”

Something creeps into you then. Slow. Subtle. Discreet.

You’re not sure what it is about him. There has always been a subtle quiet nagging feeling in the back of your mind, whispering there is more to him than he lets on.

Is it that friendly demeanour he automatically has on display regardless of who or what he encounters? Or is it how his expression dims when he turns away, eyes dull and expression grave once he no longer has to put up such charades? Is he even aware how frequently his smile does not reach his eyes at times? How he looks as though something unfathomably burdensome weighs heavy on his shoulders as he plays the part of the hero people make him out to be?

…Does he even realise how worried it makes you when that sullen countenance of his has been increasing in frequency in recent times?

With a resigned sigh, you quickly discard such thoughts. Instead, you pat the space beside you before shuffling back down onto the grass in a comfortable position.

“Rest here,” you clarify, prompted by his furrowed expression spurred by confusion. “No one else other than His Majesty knows of this spot, so you can rest comfortably without worrying about onlookers.”

And when his downcast expression shifts into something far brighter as he readily scoots himself closer beside your seated form, you think it’s fine if he never tells you his story. If he can live the rest of his days free with his past behind him, then there is nothing more you would ask of him.

---

Phainon still dreams vividly of that day.

When he closed his eyes, the screams and the wails and the cries of sheer terror rang loud in his ears.

When he closed his eyes, he saw his father fighting to his last breath with a broken sword in hand.

When he closed his eyes, an all-too familiar heat licked his skin and ebbed away in a brief moment of reprieve in this hellish nightmare before returning with renewed fervour.

When he closed his eyes, his mother was in front of him once more screaming for him to run away all the while being ripped apart by those monsters.

When he closed his eyes, a pungent mix of ash and sulfur and iron burned him from within.

When he closed his eyes, his childhood friends were swallowed by the black tide and turned into the very monsters which destroyed his home.

When he closed his eyes, their voices asked, “Why, Phainon? Aren’t we the best of friends?”, their anguish and betrayal evident as he steeled his heart and drove his sword through them to grant eternal peace.

When he closed his eyes, her outstretched arm and final smile dissolved into smoke, billowing away with the ashy wind and distant cries.

When he closed his eyes, that harrowing embodiment of the reaper itself stood before him, a grim reminder for what had been done and what he strove to vanquish.

And then he wakes up. When he returns to slumber, the cycle repeats itself.

Phainon can still remember it. All too well.

Even as he journeyed across the lands to find a sense of belonging — to find a reason other than vengeance to pick up the remnants of his former self and piece them back together to feel whole once more — not for a single moment was he free from death’s shadow. It clung to him incessantly, its vice-like grip unforgiving in its grave reminder of his true purpose, of how the happiness he felt throughout his travels were fleeting remnants of his past hopes, of how the simmering anger and inevitable retribution for his people would come to overpower the temporary relief he’d been desperate to seek refuge in.

Regardless of how much he tried to dispel that nauseating voice, Phainon knew it would only be a matter of time until his psyche would give out.

In the end, his hatred would consume him. Entirely. Irreversibly. Unapologetically.

It continued like that for a while: wander from place to place; temporarily stay in a tavern or a makeshift camp; help the locals in whichever manner he could; build superficial bonds with those he encountered; move to the next destination; repeat.

It was a tiring routine, one which led to constant doubts about his own character and the purpose he had in the world when all was dark and silent, but it was a routine nonetheless.

And so he trudged on, roaming the land with but one clear goal in mind: to become stronger to kill that cloaked reaper.

Amid his wandering, he heard through word of mouth the rise of Castrum Kremnos’ new king. Former King Eurypon was slain in the winner’s duel of the Kremnos Festival, the challenger and recently coronated monarch having turned out to be the crown prince thought to be dead years ago. The tales Phainon heard kept piling up: some discussed the prosperity and improvements accomplished after he took the throne, while others spread exaggerated rumours of his feats on the battlefield.

But if there was one thing which stuck to the young wanderer, it was how strong this king supposedly was; the exact quality he strove to improve.

And that was how he found himself in a spar with said king until there was a victor. After much persistance and persuasion to be let in by the guards stationed at the gate, the king himself appeared at the site of the commotion closely followed by you, who Phainon assumed to be the personal knight he’d heard through various gossip.

King Mydeimos was curt in his speech, something Phainon thought went against royal etiquette. (Maybe Kremnos didn’t bother with trivialities such as etiquette?) But it mattered not, for his one and only purpose was to be part of the royal knights in order to get stronger.

“Stronger?” the king scoffed. There was an almost imperceptible mocking bite to his words, but it was soon forgotten when he tilted his head back with a cocky expression. “Then let us see if you are worthy. If you can best me in a duel, I will accept you as one of my knights.”

Contrary to Phainon’s thoughts, the duel lasted ten days and ten nights. They were both utterly stubborn, a feat he thought no one rivalled him in until that duel. Even so, the young man never realised how exhilarating it was to clash with someone of equal match, to be able to go all out without worry. Strength truly was unlike any other quality, both in the merits it brought and the weight it forced upon the wielder.

The duel came to a draw after the tenth night. It was you who stepped in, adamant in your decision even after Mydei’s bitter mutters. You’d approached them both with water and towels in hand. He never noticed how parched he was, nor the sheer amount of sweat and grime which clung to him until your deadpanned once-over.

(He had never rushed to bathe so quickly before in his life. He had also never expected a king of all people to look bashful at their subordinate’s scrutinising stare. The more you know, he supposed.)

The following morning marked his official instatement as a knight. Mydei, though with a rather begrudging acknowledgment, commended his prowess with a brief comment about his expectations before you stepped forward as his tour guide. The tour of the palace grounds was… efficient, to say the least. You showed him all there was to show, not forgetting to include some side quips about areas to stay away from and shortcuts within its grand structure. And just like that, his first day ended with a hearty meal.

The following days gave way to a few discoveries.

One, were all Kremnoans hard to get along with, or was it just those he encountered? Every time he tried to strike up a conversation with a fellow knight (or warrior, as they liked to call themselves), Phainon found himself on the receiving end of either a blank stare, a gruff response of some kind, or the cold shoulder, all of which left him awkwardly laughing on his own. But it was fine! Most of them were responsive in their own way, and there were some who even initiated the conversation before he did!

Two, they took their training very seriously — more so than he anticipated even after hearing about their battle-oriented traditions. In what he expected to be relatively light sparring sessions turned out to be full on tournaments, each opponent going all out in their matches. Considering who their king was, it really should not have been so surprising. (Then again, he himself wasn’t all that different when considering his competitive streak…)

And three, you were different compared to your first impression. While, yes, you came off as rather cold and stand-offish in the beginning, Phainon’s gaze somehow managed to trail toward you. He noticed you were always standing in the distance in some manner; always observing, always alert and at the ready. From what he managed to catch, you cared more than you let on to your peers whether they knew it or not, as shown through the subtle acts you did for them.

But he’d seen it in your eyes — in the way you sometimes spaced out with an all-too familiar shadowed expression as though the weight of the world was a burden too heavy to carry on your own. And, perhaps, you had noticed it in him as well when you allowed him into your space in quiet, reassuring company.

Maybe it was then when Phainon realised he wasn’t alone in this desolate world. That maybe, just maybe, you could both carry this weight together. (Two is better than one, as they say, so perhaps sharing such deep-rooted burdens could help you both as well.)

And for a while, he believed it.

He believed it when you allowed him to follow after you back during his rookie days. Unlike the king’s impressive brute strength, Phainon found himself drawn to the finesse of your swordsmanship. There was an undeniable artistry in the way you fought, your movements fluid and light as though you were dancing in the air itself. He never knew the way of the sword could be so beautiful, so utterly captivating; not until he fought you. Even when he lost there was no voice of self-loathing echoing within his mind, just pure admiration for you and your skills.

(It was then Phainon knew he wanted nothing more than to learn from you. Under your guidance, he was certain his eventual vengeance would turn successful. You were apprehensive at first. Perhaps you never thought to take on a student before him, hence your hesitance. But it was fine. He was nothing if not stubborn, and could be very persuasive when he wanted to be, which became evident when you eventually relented two weeks after his relentless pursuit with a weary sigh. He’d somehow found himself enjoying your company along the way, eventually making it a habit to tag along wherever you went. You never seemed to mind either.)

He believed it when he stumbled upon your anguished form all by your lonesome. It was in the dead of night. He was unable to sleep and decided a late night stroll and some fresh air would do him some good, only to have come across the scene where numerous training dummies laid in tatters while you were hunched pitifully in the centre.

(Phainon detested his inability to move, utterly frozen and helpless at your tormented cries of self-loathing. He wanted nothing more than to run to you, to kneel down to your crouched form and tend to your wounds, to provide you a comfort he himself wasn’t even sure he was capable of giving. And yet he could do none of what he desired. Instead he only gazed from the shadows in agony as you abruptly stilled, slowly stood back up, grabbed your previously discarded sword, and resumed what you were doing. He couldn’t remember how long he remained there watching you. By the time he regained his senses, dawn had risen.)

He believed it when you stood in front of him against your comrades without hesitation. Phainon knew it would take some time for him to be accepted by the pre-established knight order. They were all familiar with one another before the current king had taken his throne, having gone through unimaginable sacrifice and loss to get to where they stood. As such, he did not mind when they were particularly harsh during the spars against him. But when you appeared and defended him from their assaults, getting angry at the people you were more familiar with on his behalf, Phainon felt as though a new world had been opened up before his very eyes.

(They just wanted to make sure he was strong and capable enough to protect their land and king. He knew that. As such, he had no qualms with their harsh methods of training, even when his hands trembled and his knees buckled under their relentless attacks. If this would prove himself to them — prove his worth that he, too, had a right to stand and fight with them — then he would endure, and endure, and endure. Phainon never liked to rely on the help of others; if he could help it, he would be the one to help all those in need. And yet, in that moment when all said and done where only the two of you remained in the abandoned training grounds, your form crouched and gaze filled with unimaginable concern for him, Phainon found himself not minding being on the receiving end of your outstretched hand if it meant you would fuss over him like that.)

He believed it when you found him during a particularly rough night and let him find comfort in you. He’d been walking aimlessly in the gardens after one of his recurring nightmares in the hopes of cooling off. Phainon wasn’t sure what exactly he was expecting from his decision, but you finding him and offering your shoulder to lean on definitely were not on the list.

(Admittedly, it was a moment of weakness he never intended to show anyone — especially not to you. You were the last person he wanted to be seen as weak to. He wanted to show you the fruits of his labour under your teaching, to show you he was capable of handling whatever was thrown at him. And yet, when you looked at him with that warm, knowing gaze, his head was on your shoulder before he knew it. Maybe… maybe he could allow himself to want something for once. Maybe it was okay to be a little selfish, even if it was just during those brief fleeting moments where only the two of you seemed to exist.)

He believed it when he chanced upon you resting in the garden, your back against the lush grass and head angled towards the sun. He remembered tilting his head at the thought. You always reprimanded him for doing so (“Do you want to go blind?” you would huff and shield his eyes with your hand, unknowing that was the reason he continued such a trivial action), so what spurred you to go against your nags? To find the answer to such a riddle, he took it upon himself to sneak up on you, a cheeky line or two ready on the tip of his tongue to tease you about being a hypocrite.

At least, until he saw what — or rather, who it was you were gazing up at.

Mydei.

Phainon froze, feeling nothing more than a complete outsider.

That was the first time Phainon had seen you so… relaxed? At ease? Happy?

He paused. The word sunk into his conscience, descending into the abyss of his raging thoughts. You never showed such an expression with him. Sure, you allowed yourself to relax in his presence more so than when in others — a feat Phainon held very dear to his heart. You laughed and joked around with him, shed your carefully structured armour the rest of the world was only allowed to see, let him be privy to your vulnerabilities…

And yet — and yet, and yet, and yet — he had never once seen such an expression from you before; you, who seemed so unequivocally content sunbathing with the feared king, who also had an adoring expression the young knight had never seen before.

Phainon would not necessarily call himself a jealous man, nor one who covets what others have. It was ungentlemanly, an ugly vice unbecoming of the chivalrous knight he wanted to be — of who he strived to become. Someone worthy, someone reliable, someone capable of protecting others.

Yet there he was, hidden in the shadows watching from afar with clenched fists, a spiralling mind, and a rotten heart. Amongst the few intelligible thoughts in his chaotic mind, a dark cloud hung above him. Suffocating. Maddening. Unbearable.

Everything he vowed to never become suddenly seemed to be the only voices he could hear. Those revolting voices he once shoved down without a moment’s hesitation lingered a second longer, the words akin to poison-laced honey having sunk into the depths of his psyche before he could snap himself out of the trance and walk away.

If he were to climb to a higher position, to become someone of a more influential status… would he become someone you could rely on like that?

(Even now, as he finds himself fixated on your peacefully dozing form under the oak tree with his hand shielding your eyes from the burning sun, Phainon can only hope that hideous green monster never sees the light of day; at least, not around you.)

Today is not your day.

First, you overslept. Usually that wouldn’t be so bad — after all, who doesn’t need a lie-in every now and then? However, you missed the usual breakfast time, today consisting of your favourites. How did you know that, exactly? Well, your king had ever so kindly enlightened you on such crucial information after instructing you to run twenty laps after showing up to the scheduled training session late. You were rarely late, typically even being an early riser when there was morning training scheduled. But of course on one of the few days you were late, he was there overseeing the session.

(And, of course, since everyone was in attendance he couldn’t let you off without a disciplinary punishment of some kind. Go figure.)

And as if that was not enough, your oh-so beloved king decided to rain on your parade once you finished the laps by reminding you of a certain scholar’s visit, and how you are to once again escort him to the audience room.

Now, you are no stranger to this eccentric man. With how long you’ve been stationed in the palace, it would be more surprising if you weren’t at least acquainted with him. Even more so when considering how familiar you have become with him across the years with his… anticipated visits. At least he always had some rather interesting stories to share each time; some about his students and how “challenged his school of thought” (which he would boast with a proud expression and a rather hearty laugh of sorts), others rambling about how the other scholars in the Grove would get on his nerves with “meaningless drivel” and “unoriginal opinions unbefitting of their scholarly title”, as he would so eloquently put it, as well as even some stories detailing his latest experiments and the progress of ones he had previously shared with you. (And how they blew up in his face. Quite literally.)

Yes, since you’re so familiar with him, surely you wouldn’t have such a hard time finding him, right?

Wrong, apparently. You have been searching for the past hour with no luck — yet another thing added to your amazing day.

“Seriously, where could he be? It’s not as if he has anywhere else to go,” you mutter to yourself, bottom lip caught between your teeth as your narrowed gaze sweeps across the palace gardens for the fifth time.

“Ahem.”

Jolting at the abrupt sound brushing against your ear, you whip around with a hand on the hilt of your sword. Upon seeing that familiar nonchalant face, however, your previously tensed and battle-ready form relaxed. A sigh escaped you as you turned to properly face him.

“Oh. There you are, Lord Anaxa. To—”

“Anaxagoras.”

“—what pleasure do we owe this visit of yours, Lord Anaxa?” you continue, smiling at the visibly unimpressed man.

“Pray tell, are you being sarcastic with me right now?” he asks, arms crossed and expression as monotonous as his voice. “I find it hard to believe you happened to conveniently forget the reasons for my visits.”

“I am in no position status-wise to be as such with you, my lord.”

“I see. So you were.”

“Respectfully, my lord, I was not.”

“Your words implied if status were not an issue, you would be sarcastic. Therefore, you were.”

As though sure in his deduction (which was very much accurate, but you choose to not confirm what he already knows), he crosses his arms with a raised chin, narrowed eye, and a haughty huff; you have all but half a mind to strike him with your sword’s handle. But you refrain with all the self-control you can possibly muster. You would never hear the end of it with how much he tails you during his sporadic visits, after all. He complains enough about Lady Aglaea, the most renowned seamstress across the lands as well as one of Mnestia’s most cherished priestesses, and adding what he nitpicks about you? Yeah. No. You don’t need your ears to be bleeding any time soon.

Sure. He’s always been a little… vain? Prideful? Egocentric? Really, Anaxa is a lot of things, his penchant for getting under people’s skin and uncaring demeanour in regards to that being the key dominating factor. Rumours about him spread like wildfire. Some surrounded his rather questionable methods, but most surrounded his blasphemy. After he arrived in Castrum Kremnos for his first official audience with Mydei, you didn’t find anything of what they said in the stoic young man. Even so, you maintained a cordial distance, unwilling to entangle yourself with someone who had the potential to ruin your king’s reputation.

Well, up until you chanced upon him practicing one of his proposals requesting more funding and magic-imbued equipment for the Grove of Epiphany to a stationed dromas, that is. You hadn’t meant to eavesdrop on him and some of his rather… outlandish propositions meant for his discussion with Mydei, which you would have heard later in the meeting room regardless, but the way he practically waxed poetic in his long-winded speech, paused, then muttered something along the lines of, “No, no. That fool won’t appreciate nor understand such flowery prose. I’ll need to simplify it for him to understand,” all the while feeding and stroking the dromas with an unexpected gentleness struck a chord in you.

After all, someone who treats the dromas kindly in the way he did couldn’t be a bad person, right?

As it turned out, he was just a well-accomplished scholar who could get pretty cynical at times; namely when it came to the matter of the gods. (You’ve heard rumours of one too many complaints officially written by the various temples in Amphoreus. Despite their differing beliefs, they all seem to agree on their mutual resentment for Anaxa, a feat you find oddly impressive considering the sheer number of temples there are in the empire.)

“What has your mind so occupied?” he asks, brow raised and face closer than you last recall it being.

You blink. Once, twice. Without missing a beat, you respond, “I was thinking about how grateful I am to be your escort, my lord.”

“How quick-witted of you,” he says, deadpan. Anaxa straightens up and appears by your side, and you take that as your cue to begin the walk to the audience room.

Contrary to your initial expectations, the walk is relatively silent; peaceful, even. While you find some of his stories to be entertaining (particularly the manner in which he tells them), you feel you deserve some peace and quiet after the morning you had. Ah, the breeze is so lovely—

“So, have you considered my proposal?”

Nevermind. You spoke too soon. The breeze is horrible.

You inwardly sigh, already knowing where this conversation is going from the sheer number of times you have gone through it. “I’m afraid I don’t follow, my lord.”

Once again, Anaxa regards you with an unimpressed stare. “Are you playing dumb again?”

“I don’t know, am I?”

“Well, then. I suppose I’ll have to jog your memory.” With a fist raised to his lips as he gives a — rather dramatic, if you might add — clearance of his throat, the scholar turns to you, a smug grin stretching his lips. “My proposal for you to be my most cherished assistant, of course.”

“Oh,” you begin with a sigh, “while I’m grateful you think so highly of me, my lord, I’m afraid I’ll have to kindly refuse your proposal. Anything outside of the sword is beyond my capabilities, I fear.”

“Hmph. That’s what you always say. So you do remember after all,” Anaxa accuses, a petulant frown tugging down the corners of his lips.

“Perhaps my answer is just unchanging, my lord. My—”

“—loyalty lies with my beloved king. Yes, yes, I have heard it all, so spare me the theatrics.”

You frown. “Don’t—”

“—speak so dismissively about His Majesty or tarnish his name, lest you want to add treasonous snake to your plethora of nicknames, as well. Yes, I have heard that, too. And here I was thinking you would come up with something new after all this time,” he tuts, shaking his head in mock disappointment.

Your eye twitches. It takes every fibre in your being to maintain the strained smile tugging your lips, desperately reminding yourself to maintain composure. “My lord, has anyone told you how insufferable you are?”

Unfortunately, this man has a rather remarkable ability wherein your usual composed demeanour seems like a figment of your imagination.

“Plenty, dear knight. Are you only just now realising that?”

“Regrettably, I am well-aware of your…” you pause, grimacing as you try to find the fitting words, “much-to-be-desired reputation.”

“I’m happy to know you’re so interested in me, enough to be a cause for concern over my wellbeing,” he says. Oh, how you long to wipe that smirk off his face. “Now escort me through the palace gardens. You wouldn’t let a frail scholar such as I wander alone only to become lost in such a vast space or, worse yet, collapse in the middle of it all with no nearby help, would you?”

(‘Frail scholar’ your ass. You’ve seen that man shoot one of those plague-stricken monsters creeping up from behind him with such pin-point precision it would put shame on the battalion — he’s half blind!)

“...You talk too much, my lord.”

“And you, dearest knight, dilly-dally too much. Chop chop, the garden isn’t going to be toured itself.”

Lord almighty above, if my king does not strike down this fiend then so help me.

“You just wished harm upon me, did you not?”

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

“That’s Anaxagoras to you. And your expression says it all. See? When you wish for something to besmirch me, your lips tighten. Your fists also tremble as if you wish to punch me — to which I will give you the benefit of the doubt since I still want you to join me. And also…”

…If Castrum Kremnos doesn’t want to see another incident, it better pray this man does not push your buttons any further today.

---

Anaxagoras was no fool.

He knew what it meant when his parents never returned home, their faces having long since faded from memory while his sister was the only one to remain beside him.

He knew what it was like to live in poverty, barely having the means to scrape by and eat what could be afforded from his sister’s measly income as an animal tamer.

He knew what it was like to lead an isolated life, having watched from the shadows of the trees as his peers frolicked the grassy fields while he sat alone picking at the fallen leaves or found companionship in the dromas.

He knew what it felt like to be wronged, that one priest always seemingly furious with his childlike curiosity and doubts about the oh-so revered gods as he was thrown out of the temple time and time again.

Even when he barely reached the early stages of his childhood development where his cognitive skills became more prominent, he still perceived things well-beyond his years. Perhaps a little too much.

Anaxagoras was no fool, and yet, sometimes, he wished he were.

His sister never blamed him for the trouble he knew tended to follow him. The money she could have used for herself was instead split into basic needs and funds to buy the items he looked at for a second longer during market strolls. Books, screws, heavy pliers, delicate scales… These were some of the few items she bought him with the money she could have used on herself; the money she should have used to treat herself more often. Yet she would merely smile and stroke his head, the words, “Your happiness matters most to me, Anaxagoras. The money can always be earned again,” always uttered without fail.

Perhaps that was when his endless curiosity for life itself manifested, her support his sole pillar.

(Despite all the trinkets she bought which he held dearly, his most cherished item would be the dromas stuffed toy hand-sewn by her, it accompanying him to bed every night without fail.)

And when he had ever so boldly declared he would become the most knowledgeable person in the whole empire— no, the whole world, she took him seriously. Despite believing her encouragement at face value, he truly realised it during one of their market strolls when passing merchants talked about the Grove of Epiphany, a sanctuary devoted to the pursuit of wisdom, caught his sister’s interest.

(He’d memorised that name in secret — the Grove of Epiphany. If, somewhere in the future, both he and his sister could attend together… would their lives be a little easier?)

Then one day she’d sat him down and presented a stash of funds she had kept hidden; his travel funds to attend the Grove. When he’d asked if she would join him, she refused, instead insisting she would continue making ends meet and remain in their remote city-state as a home he could return to.

Anaxagoras believed her.

Of course he did. He believed she would always be there waiting for him, on the receiving end of his letters sent during his time in the academy, there to greet him when he returned during the breaks, appearing at his graduation where he could amass the funds to support her after everything she had done and sacrificed for him all those years.

Anaxagoras believed her.

And so despite the heavy heart of their parting — of being separated from each other for the first time — he clambered onto the carriage of her merchant friend and waved until he could no longer see her. Thoughts of what new things he would learn and experience filled his mind as the carriage trekked onward, the prospect of growing his boundless curiosity instilling hope for a better future in the young boy for the first time.

At least, until word of the black tide having struck his home reached him halfway through the journey.

Anaxagoras never knew true fear until he was rushing back. The bile which would not go down no matter how hard he swallowed; the thunderous beats of his heart having drowned out everything around him; the suffocating grip which clawed at his throat.

When he drew nearer to the place he called home, a sense of foreboding rushed through him all at once as he sprinted harder. It came in the form of a creeping darkness, spreading its tendrils far and wide with nowhere to run nor hide. The panic, the tangy metallic scent, the mayhem, the loss of breath, the smoke, the screams and cries and wails and—

And then the silence. When all was laid to rest, young Anaxagoras found himself fearing the silence more than he did the chaos.

He stumbled at the sight of the corroded ruins, his breath knocked out of his lungs when the dread became too unbearable and rendered him imobile. There was no one to answer his desperate cries. There was no one to console him as he weeped amid the debris. There was no one to wipe away his tears as he silently stared at the area his house once occupied. There was no one to reverse time back to when his sister sent him off to the academy and instead take her with him to avoid the tragedy. There was no one to soothe the rage simmering beneath the despair. There was no one — no god — who answered his desperate pleads for help.

He was alone amid the carnage, the destruction his to bear in its entirety.

When the realisation there would be no help struck, that the gods everyone had revered so deeply would never extend their hand to the likes of him, Anaxa knew he had to take matters into his own hands. It was he who controlled his own fate, not the voice of some unseen being. He had to gain power, and what better way was there than to see through to his enrollment in the Grove of Epiphany? It was every aspiring scholar’s dream to attend and receive education there and yet, for the boy who had lost everything with not even the gods on his side, his only motivation was his beloved sister’s wish for him to attend in hopes for a better life.

The enrollment was nothing special. Perhaps it was his family’s connections, or maybe they just saw the talent within him at a glance, but he got in without hassle. The school lived up to its reputation, knowledge found in every nook and cranny if searched for. His teacher, Empedocles, was understanding and kind, his wisdom far beyond anything Anaxa could have imagined before attending the school.

And yet it wasn’t enough. There had to be something more; something he could dedicate his entire being to.

Then, as though the puzzle pieces fell into place, he came to learn of Thalesus, the First Scholar’s, theory of souls, and how life, as well as the composition, movement, and transformation of matter, all stem from souls themselves. Alchemy, he came to realise, and how it could be the answer he had been searching for all along. After all, since all living things had the same origin, why would he be unable to sacrifice himself to resurrect his sister?

It was the rope he clung to without hesitation, throwing himself into alchemy without pause. His teacher voiced his concerns, but Anaxa took little heed. This was his path — this is what his purpose was for.

Then one day, he succeeded. His left eye was no more, but he managed to see his sister once more… Even if it was for a brief moment. A moment in which she did not say anything, but just the sight of her one last time was enough for him. That momentary exchange soothed his ailed heart in a way he nearly forgot about, and he was able to give a proper send-off with closure.

Despite the resurrection not happening the way he’d planned, Anaxa discovered a new path after his desire had been laid to rest. To continue the study of souls and prove the scholars of the Grove truly knew nothing about the First Scholar’s depth of study.

His achievements soon racked up. He soared academically, brought new ideologies and questioned the tried-and-true. The matter of the gods, however, was what sullied his name.

The Foolish. Demised Scholar. The Great Performer. “A dromas wrapped in finery.” (He never knew why people thought the latter title to be an insult. If anything, Anaxa took that one as a compliment.) He gained many aliases throughout his academic pursuit, but what did that matter? All it meant was people were acutely aware of him, and that was the greatest gift he could have when his whole purpose was to educate them on the real truth of the world.

And when he was soon to establish his own school, the Nousporists, Anaxa was sent as a representative of the Grove of Epiphany to Castrum Kremnos to establish communications. It was there he met you; the personal knight of the newly crowned king.

He hadn’t thought much of you at first. You were merely doing your job to guide him through the palace grounds, ensuring he wasn’t led astray. You hadn’t talked much either. Not that he minded; in fact, he was rather grateful you weren’t the overly chatty type to talk his ear off (there were enough of those back in the Grove as it was). The escort was quick with no detours. Simple and efficient.

He appreciated it, truly. And yet, when you walked away with a quick bow and respectful, “I wish you a pleasant audience, Lord Anaxagoras,” his gaze followed you even after you’d rounded off and disappeared behind a corner. It was an inexplicable feeling, that long-forgotten emptiness back when he lost everything having abruptly resurfaced with your departure.

But he shook it off and walked into the audience room where the recently ascended king awaited. It was merely a scholar’s curiosity. Nothing more, nothing less.

It didn’t take long to note your habits during the two week-long stay at the palace.

Through observation, Anaxa came to realise your tendency to linger in the gardens when you had no immediate duties. With how stoic and business-like you were, it never occurred to him how gentle your expression could become when cradling the flowers. Sometimes when he would take a stroll by himself, he would catch you dozing peacefully under a large tree, your armour shed for lighter and more comfortable clothing.

(Heh. For someone so rigid, you sure had a knack for finding ways to slack off. It was rather amusing when he frequented you more often, sometimes choosing to reveal himself while other times he remained hidden and observed from afar.)

He also observed your rather bad habit of overworking yourself late into the night. He never meant to snoop, but when the crisp sound of a sword slicing through air and haggard pants could be heard in the stagnant evenings, it was natural to let curiosity guide its course. Had it not been for curiosity, he would have never stumbled upon your moments of weakness, where frustration took you by the throat and reduced you to a crumpled heap in the training grounds and he could only watch from behind a pillar.

(Hmph. Really, you were already skilled enough as it was — more so than any knight he had ever seen. Seeing you tell yourself to be better, that you would never be able to protect anyone at this rate… a strange pang pierced in his chest at the thought of you doubting yourself.)

He also noticed how he was the only one you would call by name. Your lower status with the king forbade you from saying anything other than “Your Majesty” or “His Majesty” and, despite how familiar the overly friendly rookie knight seemed to be with you, you rarely addressed him by name. In fact, Anaxa heard his name uttered by your lips more times than that knight’s! Phainon, if he recalled correctly.

(Truthfully, Anaxagoras shouldn’t have been as elated as he was upon the discovery, but the self-assured smirk could not help but to slip out at times when either of the two happened to pass by and catch you saying his name.

…Even when you eventually turned to using a shortened version after he’d annoyed you on a particularly bad day. He would take the small wins, however, as you did use his original name for some time.)

And, eventually, he discovered your stalwart nature. Again, he hadn’t meant to snoop, but it wasn’t as though he expected to stumble across the gaggle of knights discussing his less-than savoury rumours. You were amongst the roster, polishing your sword amid the rowdiness when they turned the spotlight to you asking for your thoughts. Having upset you just two days prior, Anaxa was almost certain you would partake in such trivialities against him — you had been giving him the cold shoulder, after all. Only… you hadn’t. You ended up doing the very opposite. “Please refrain from such ridicule. He is a guest of His Majesty, and it is our duty to remain sharp against unforeseen dangers — not participate in blatant slander.” There was a slight pause, and Anaxa was almost grateful he allowed his curiosity to get the better of him once more upon hearing your next words. “Besides, those rumours seem far too exaggerated. Lord Anaxagoras isn’t as bad as the gossip makes him out to be. A stubborn and prideful man he may be, but he has much passion for his cause; something I find admirable compared to those who only know how to run their mouths with nothing to show for it.”

(He would have stifled a rambunctious laugh at your brazen words, if not for the obnoxious heartbeat that rang loud in his ears nor the rapid flush which rushed through his body. A hand was placed above the erratic palpitations in a futile attempt at calming the restless orgain while the other dragged pitifully slow down his face, only stopping to try — and fail — to cover the trembling grin which split his lips and let loose a few shaky chuckles. Really, he’d thought amid the last breathy laughter, fully slumped and slid down against the base of the looming pillar. You’re making me almost want to be a little more greedy, my dear knight.)

His departure after those two weeks was nothing special. King Mydeimos came to personally see him off, sharing a brief word or two regarding future relations between Castrum Kremnos and the Grove of Epiphany, while the main figures who worked in the palace were by his side. Despite saying his farewells and climbing into the carriage, Anaxa found himself unable to tear his gaze away from you even after the carriage began its trek back. It was reminiscent of when he first met you, and he could not help the quiet laugh which slipped out at the realisation.

It wasn’t until a fair few years later did Anaxa come to realise what that curiosity of his truly was — of what it had evolved into.

It happened during one of those utterly stifling banquets he loathed, all because he had to show face in at least one of them each year. As it so happened, he hadn’t publicly appeared in any for the year. So what did that old coot of a teacher do? Why, he gave Anaxa that familiar smile before kicking him out into a carriage conveniently on its way to the end of year banquet hosted at Castrum Kremnos, of course.

Really, if he had it his way, Anaxa would have spent this precious time cooped up in his office surrounded by all his alchemical experiments — not loitering in the back of the ballroom with a flimsy champagne flute and grimacing at all the gossipmongers surrounding him.

Utterly ridiculous. Did those people have nothing better to spend their time on? He pitied them, truly, to do nothing but waste away in a stuffy room and exchange faux pleasantries with one another.

Having had enough, Anaxa promptly stepped out. The cool evening air was sufficient, and he decided a stroll around the gardens was due. It had been a while since he wandered around on his own, becoming used to you escorting and indulging him with conversation.

Funnily enough, the moment he’d thought of you, you appeared in his peripheral vision. Stood in the distance, side profile visible to him. While he wondered what brought you out to the gardens, he supposed he really shouldn’t have been so surprised to see you in the place he knew you frequented most. And for such a stuffy occasion such as the banquet, he really didn’t blame you for being outside.

Just as Anaxa had smoothed down his suit and cleared his throat in preparation to walk over to you, he froze. The sight he witnessed had him rooted before he could even take one step.

Anaxa had met that brutish king more times than he would have liked. As with his usual outlook, he mostly regarded the monarch with nonchalance, sometimes a slight admiration if a good argument was brought up in their negotiations, and other times a subtle annoyance when his garden stroll-escort with you was interrupted. Yet, seeing you both together under the dim moonlight away from the suffocating crowd and caught in your own world made him feel as though he were imposing on something he should have not. An unfamiliar sensation stirred in his heart. And yet he could not look away, seemingly enraptured.

Such blind, unwavering loyalty... Though a fleeting thought, Anaxa could not help but wonder what it would take for you to direct such beguiling devotion to him instead.

(Even now, as he watches from the sidelines how your unshakeable devotion to your king’s sudden interruption during the garden escort blurs the rest of the surrounding world into an incomprehensible blend of colours, he cannot help the fleeting hope you would one day gaze at him like he was your entire world and more.)

TRIVIA TIME !!

well, more like WORLD BUILDING-SLASH-LORE TIME !!, but i digress. anywho i just wanted to add in this little segment to try and explain the au world a little more, mainly the composition of amphoreus !! this was mainly done for myself bc i kept having inner battles abt whether i wanted castrum kremnos to be the kingdom where everyone resided in with mydei as the sole ruler, or if i wanted amphoreus to be an empire made up of various nations (like how it is in game basically). i ended up going with the latter bc i ended going down an entire rabbit hole creating the world of a fic that most likely won't get a continuation of sorts, but it was fun to imagine and made it a little easier writing the backstories, hehe !!

anyway here are some key notes which hopefully explain it a little more for those interested ^^

Amphoreus = empire

All cities (e.g. kremnos, okhema, etc) are the kingdoms in amphoreus with their own ruler/democracy

Amphoreus has multiple leaders to discuss state affairs (basically hsr main chrysos heirs but not all - like castorice is aglaea’s right-hand in a way + the executioner bc adonia is no longer a nation, or phainon & anaxa who lost their homes) with aglaea as the main/overseeing leader (empress but not really. She just wants to create beautiful clothes ;w;)

if you enjoyed this, reblogs and/or comments are greatly appreciated <33

@milk-violet heres ur tag <33

#honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #anaxa x reader #mydei x reader #phainon x reader #honkai star rail x you #hsr x you #anaxa x you #mydei x you #phainon x you #honkai star rail imagines #hsr imagines

1K notes · View notes

kckt88 · 2 months ago

Text

Imzadi V

Summary:

In the aftermath of Aemond winning the vote and being declared heir to the Iron Throne, Viserys reveals a secret and Lucaera discovers the truth.

Warning(s): Angst, Drama, Jealousy, Language, Marriage, Uncle/Niece Incest, Kissing, Oral Sex, Fingering, P in V, Knotting, Abandonment, Threats of Violence.

AEMOND x O.C NIECE

ALPHA/BETA/OMEGA DYNAMIC

Word Count: 7230

A.N - 'Imzadi - Beloved'

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

Comments, likes, and reblogs are very much appreciated, do not copy/post to other sights without my permission.

Tag List - @jasminecosmic99 @kaelatargaryen @yesterdayfeelings-blog @immyowndefender @0eessirk8 @darylandbethfanforever9 @killua2dot0 @msassenach @xcharlottemikaelsonx @moonnicole @zenka69 @aemondsbabygirl @aphroditesblunt @iamtoriasworld @persephonerinyes

A heavy silence filled the Dragon pit, the weight of Viserys’ words pressing down on all gathered like a living thing.

Aemond barely breathed.

He had won. They had chosen him.

The realization crashed into him, stealing his breath. He had prepared himself for rejection, for another cruel slight in his father’s favour of Rhaenyra.

But the lords of Westeros had spoken, and they had chosen him.

For a moment, nothing happened. No one moved, no one spoke.

Then, a single clap echoed through the vast chamber. Another followed. Then another.

Within moments, the Dragon pit was filled with the sound of applause. Some clapped out of genuine support, others out of begrudging duty.

Regardless of their reasons, the decision was made, and Aemond Targaryen was now the named heir to the Iron Throne.

Aemond stood frozen, his singular violet eye wide, his mind struggling to process what had just happened. He had spent his entire life in Rhaenyra’s shadow, always second, always overlooked.

But now, he was the heir. The Iron Throne was within his grasp.

Lucaera squeezed his hand, but he barely registered it. He only stirred when she discreetly elbowed him in the ribs.

He blinked and straightened, regaining his composure just as Otto Hightower stepped forward, his expression solemn but victorious.

“The ruling lords of the realm will now come forth and pledge their fealty to the named heir of the Iron Throne,” Otto declared, his voice steady and commanding.

Aemond inhaled deeply, stepping forward as Otto began calling the great lords of Westeros.

“Corlys of House Velaryon, Lord of the Tides and Master of Driftmark.”

The Sea Snake stepped forward, his face impassive. He lowered himself onto one knee, his voice strong but unreadable.

“I, Corlys Velaryon, Lord of the Tides and Master of Driftmark, promise to be faithful to King Viserys and his named heir, Prince Aemond. I pledge fealty to them and will defend them against all enemies, in good faith and without deceit. I swear this by the Old Gods and the New.”

The words were spoken, but the hesitation in Corlys’ posture did not go unnoticed. He had supported Rhaenyra, but duty to the realm now bound him to another.

“Jeyne of House Arryn, Lady of the Vale.”

Lady Jeyne stepped forward, sparing Rhaenyra a glance before lowering herself.

“I, Jeyne Arryn, Lady of the Vale, promise to be faithful to King Viserys and his named heir, Prince Aemond”

Aemond could tell she had not voted for him. But she was respecting the decision, and that was enough.

The pledges continued.

“Ormund of House Hightower.”

His kin bent the knee swiftly, his voice firm with unwavering loyalty.

“Borros of House Baratheon.”

The Lord of Storm’s End did the same, his deep voice echoing in the chamber.

Then came the one Aemond had been waiting for.

“Cregan of House Stark.”

The young Lord of Winterfell stepped forward, he unsheathed his ancestral sword slowly, before sinking onto one knee.

“I, Cregan Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, promise to be faithful to King Viserys and his named heir, Prince Aemond. I pledge fealty to them and will defend them against all enemies, in good faith and without deceit. I swear this by the Old Gods and the New.”

Aemond’s eye narrowed slightly as he noticed that Cregan wasn’t looking at him.

His storm-grey gaze was locked onto Lucaera.

Aemond’s fingers twitched at his side, a sharp possessiveness coiling through his chest.

He saw the way Cregan’s eyes lingered—not with open challenge, but with something else. Something that made Aemond’s teeth clench and his pulse quicken.

His singular violet eye darkened as he fought the urge to bare his teeth like a dragon warding off a rival.

The growl that rumbled in his chest was low, nearly inaudible,

More lords stepped forward, pledging their loyalty one by one. The weight of it all settled on Aemond’s shoulders, heavier than any sword he had ever wielded.

Then, the final name was called.

“Rhaenyra of House Targaryen.”

Lucaera inhaled sharply, her gaze snapping to her mother. The crowd fell into an expectant hush.

Rhaenyra did not move. Beside her, Daemon clenched his jaw, his violet eyes dark with barely concealed rage.

A silent conversation passed between them before, at last, Rhaenyra stepped forward.

The whispers started immediately. Would she refuse? Would she defy the vote?

Aemond’s grip on his sword tightened as she hesitated, standing before him and the gathered lords.

Then, slowly, she lowered herself to one knee.

“I, Rhaenyra Targaryen, promise to be faithful to King Viserys and his named heir, Prince Aemond. I pledge fealty to them and will defend them against all enemies, in good faith and without deceit. I swear this by the Old Gods and the New.”

Aemond exhaled, barely aware he had been holding his breath.

The tension in the chamber shifted as Maester Orwyle stepped forward, carrying a golden chain adorned with the sigils of the great houses. He placed it over Aemond’s head, the cold weight settling against his chest—a symbol of his newfound authority.

Then, Viserys stirred.

The frail King grasped the arms of his makeshift throne, pushing himself to his feet with visible effort.

Every breath was a struggle, every movement a fight against his decaying body. And yet, he stood.

His withered hand rested on the hilt of Blackfyre.

His gaze lingering on Lucaera before he spoke:

“I, Viserys Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, do hereby name Aemond Targaryen heir to the Iron Throne.”

Aemond took a slow, shuddering breath.

Then, he turned to face the crowd.

One by one, they began to bend the knee. The sight of it sent a sharp thrill through his blood.

The moment he had never dared to dream of—it was real.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lucaera lowering herself onto one knee.

But Aemond turned sharply.

“No,” he said, his voice cutting through the silence.

Lucaera froze, looking up at him in confusion.

Aemond held out his hand.

“Not you. I want you with me. By my side.”

Lucaera hesitated for only a moment before reaching up, slipping her fingers into his.

As the realm knelt before him, Aemond Targaryen stood tall—with his mate at his side.

As the echoes of the lords' oaths faded in the Dragon pit, Viserys raised his hand and despite the pain in his body, his voice was firm as he declared, "A celebration shall be held tonight in honour of the heir to the Iron Throne." His sharp gaze swept over them before he added, "And I expect my family—all of my family—to attend. No exceptions."

Lucaera did not miss the pointed look her grandsire shot at Rhaenyra. Nor did she miss the way her mother’s jaw tensed before she dipped her head and muttered, “Yes, Father.”

Satisfied, Viserys allowed his attendants to help him into the chair they had prepared, his body too frail to make the journey unassisted. He was carried out of the Dragon pit, placed carefully into the waiting carriage that would take him back to the Red Keep.

Aemond and Lucaera lingered for a moment longer, standing side by side as the chamber slowly emptied.

As they descended the great steps, Lucaera’s eyes found Luke’s. Her twin brother hesitated before he lifted a hand in a discreet wave.

She smiled softly and returned the gesture before stepping into the carriage that awaited them outside.

Inside, they found themselves accompanied by Otto, Alicent, Aegon, Helaena, and Daeron. The moment the carriage lurched forward, Otto turned to Aemond, his expression unreadable.

“Now that you are the named heir, it is time to start thinking about how you wish to rule the Seven Kingdoms.”

Aemond exhaled sharply. “Can’t it wait?”

“The sooner you consider these matters, the easier it will be when the time comes.”

Aemond pinched the bridge of his nose before muttering, “And what exactly should I be thinking about, Lord Hand?”

Otto’s gaze was steady. “Rhaenyra and Daemon.”

Beside him, Aemond felt Lucaera’s grip on his hand tighten at the mention of her mother.

“What about them?” Aemond asked, his voice careful.

Otto leaned forward slightly. “We cannot trust that the former heir will simply accept this decision without retaliation.”

Alicent frowned. “But the realm chose Aemond—Rhaenyra has already bent the knee.”

Otto scoffed, shaking his head. “She only did that to placate her father. She is still a threat.”

Aemond’s eye narrowed. “What exactly are you assuming she will do? The lords voted for me. There are none to rally to her cause.”

“It is not just Rhaenyra we must consider,” Otto said evenly. “There is also Daemon. If she does not act, he likely will. He is reckless, impulsive, and dangerous. He could send assassins in the night.”

Aegon let out a loud scoff, rolling his eyes as he slumped back in his seat.

Aemond scowled “You really think our uncle is that much of a coward? To send another to do his dirty work?”

“It is not about cowardice—it is about being smart,” Otto replied. “You are now the heir. Daemon cannot be seen making an attempt on your life. But if a lowborn sell sword were to slip into your chambers and slit your throat while you slept? And if that man were caught and executed? Daemon would escape the blame.”

A tense silence filled the carriage. Helaena, who had been staring absently at her hands, muttered, “A King bathed in silver as another is shrouded in gold.”

Aemond’s head tilted slightly as he considered her words. But before he could question her further, Otto continued. “Aemond, you need to be cautious.”

Aemond sighed. “And what would you have me do?”

Otto’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Once you are crowned, the former heir cannot be allowed to remain free.”

Aemond’s expression darkened. “You mean for me to imprison her?”

Otto did not blink. “There are also her sons to consider. Bastards or not, they are still Targaryens, and—”

“Enough-”

Lucaera’s voice was sharp as steel, cutting through Otto’s words like a blade.

The tension in the carriage thickened as she lifted her chin, her gaze locking onto the Hand of the King.

“Despite what you may think, Lord Hand, she is still my mother, and they are still my brothers. Aemond is not yet King, and I swear by the Seven that if I hear you whispering in my husband’s ear, and planting ridiculous notions in his head, I will slit your fucking throat in your sleep.”

A stunned silence followed her words.

Then, Aegon let out a loud, boisterous laugh, slapping his knee in amusement. The tension cracked as he wheezed, “Gods, I knew there was a reason I liked you good sister"

Aemond smirked, lifting Lucaera’s hand to his lips and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. Otto, for the first time in years, looked truly at a loss for words.

Alicent, meanwhile, sighed heavily and muttered a quiet prayer under her breath.

The carriage rolled to a halt before the Red Keep, its wheels grinding against the stone pathway. The moment the door was unlatched, Aemond all but flew out, his grip tight around Lucaera’s wrist as he dragged her along with him.

"Aemond!" Alicent called after him, her voice laced with both concern and reprimand, but he paid her no heed.

Behind them, Aegon let out a boisterous laugh, his words loud and lewd. "He needs to get it wet!" he cackled, his amusement echoing through the courtyard.

Aemond barely registered it. His singular focus was Lucaera. The need burned in his veins, his Alpha instincts roaring to the surface, the events of the day, the tension, the triumph, all culminating in an overwhelming urge to claim.

They moved through the halls in a blur, Aemond’s stride long and determined.

Servants quickly stepped aside, heads bowed as he stormed through the corridors, Lucaera breathless at his side. Her heartbeat raced, excitement and curiosity warring within her.

Finally, they reached their chambers, and with a sharp push, Aemond flung the door open before slamming it shut behind them.

Lucaera gasped, caught between exhilaration and surprise. "Aemond, what—?"

Before she could finish her question, his lips crashed against hers, hungry and demanding. He growled low in his throat, the sound vibrating against her skin as he pressed her back against the nearest surface, his hands already roaming.

"I need you," he rasped, his breath hot against her lips. "Now."

Their kiss was rough and vicious. Consisting of teeth and tongue.

Aemond backed Lucaera towards the bed, his hands tearing off her dress until it was a ragged mess on the floor.

It was an eruption of frustration and passion. Hands everywhere, grabbing, scratching, and pulling at one another.

Aemond took a brief minute to yank off his leather tunic and shirt before he shoved Lucaera on the bed, her back colliding with the mattress with a soft thump.

His body covered hers as he sucked and licked the delicate skin of her neck, leaving red marks in his wake.

Lucaera moved her head to the side and moaned loudly as she felt Aemond’s teeth nipping at her mating mark.

Aemond pulled away to unfasten his breeches and push them down, freeing his hard cock.

Lucaera lay back on the bed, her heart thumping wildly in her chest.

Aemond ran his hand up and down the length of himself, eyeing his wife with an animalistic hunger, a smirk on his lips as she parted her legs for him.

As he guides himself to her entrance, Lucaera barely has a moment to adjust before he is pressing his cock forcefully inside and stretching her brutally, causing her to cry out.

“FUCKING TAKE IT!” spits Aemond, wrapping a hand around her throat while the other digs into her hip, pulling her aggressively against him to meet each one of his hard thrusts.

Lucaera can’t think of anything but the intense pounding thrusts that greet her, causing her to wail and moan, causing tears form in her eyes, before running down her cheeks.

Aemond sets a brutal pace, his hips crashing into hers.

“YES! YES! AEMOND!” screams Lucaera.

“FUCK!” shouts Aemond as he feels her cunny clenching around his cock, his knot forming at the base.

As Aemond’s hips begins to falter in their movements, he snakes a hand between their joined bodies, his long fingers expertly circling her pearl, causing heat to bloom across her stomach.

He presses down more firmly, making faster movements against her bud making her shudder, as a sudden warmth crashes over her in waves making her cry out, her cunny tightening around him.

“AEMOND!!” screams Lucaera as her hands claw at his back.

“Fuck!! baby, that’s it come all over my cock!” growls Aemond as he moves to grab the headboard, bracing himself as he continues to pound his hips against hers.

“A-Aemond” gasped Lucaera as he forces his knot inside her.

With a loud animalistic groan, Aemond stills, leaning over his wife, his cock pulsating as he spills his seed deep inside her.

Lucaera and Aemond lay tangled together in the aftermath, the warmth of their shared passion still lingering between them.

Aemond’s fingers traced idle patterns along the bare skin of her back, his touch slow and deliberate. He exhaled softly before asking, “Was that alright?”

Lucaera lifted her head from his chest, a sleepy smile playing at her lips. “It was wonderful.”

Aemond tilted his head, searching her face for any sign of discomfort. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

She shook her head, brushing stray strands of silver hair from his forehead. “No—although, I am rather curious as to your urgency in wanting to take me.”

Aemond grinned, his violet eye gleaming in the dim candlelight. “The way you spoke to my grandsire—I just couldn’t help myself. I had to have you.”

Lucaera chuckled, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. “Well, I’m glad you did.”

He pulled her closer, stealing another kiss before resting his head back against the pillows. Silence stretched between them, comfortable yet weighted.

Aemond could feel the subtle shift in her emotions through their bond, the worry that clung to her like a phantom.

“What’s wrong?” he murmured.

Lucaera sighed, fingers absentmindedly tracing along the ridges of his chest. “What’s going to happen to my mother and brothers once you are crowned King? Your grandsire clearly has his own ideas on the matter, but I want to hear it from you.”

Aemond was quiet for a moment, his expression unreadable. “Providing that she doesn’t rise against me, I could grant her possession of Dragonstone. And upon her natural passing, Jacaerys could inherit it as her heir.”

Lucaera considered his words before asking, “And Luke?”

“He’s heir to Driftmark.”

“And you’d let him remain as heir?”

Aemond shrugged. “That’s for Lord Corlys to decide, not me. Not unless I truly had to.”

Lucaera nodded, pressing further. “And Aegon the Younger? Little Viserys?”

Aemond sighed. “They’re but children. I need not decide their fates now. But perhaps when they’re older, they could hold positions of honour at court.”

Lucaera smirked. “What, like being your cupbearer and squire?”

Aemond chuckled. “Not exactly.”

Lucaera laughed, shaking her head. “Just as well. I can practically hear Daemon’s response—I would rather feed my sons to the dragons than have them carry shields and cups for that cunt of a King”

Aemond scowled. “Really?”

“Oh, yes,” Lucaera confirmed. “That’s exactly what he’d say. I know my stepfather-”

Aemond exhaled sharply. “I looked up to him, you know. When I was younger. Like me, Daemon was the second son, in line to inherit nothing, so he had to carve out a reputation for himself. I admired his skill as a warrior and his rebellion—that he wasn’t afraid to step outside of what was considered normal behaviour for a Targaryen prince- I often wondered what it would be like to face him-”

Lucaera hummed. “It would be a battle for the history books, I’m sure. Although, I dare say you’d probably end up killing each other in some grand, dramatic showdown.”

Aemond smirked. “You have quite the imagination, my sweet.”

Lucaera grinned. “It keeps life interesting.”

Aemond kissed her deeply, before whispering against her lips, “It sure does.”

Later that evening, the air was thick with tension as Lucaera took her seat next to Aemond at the long banquet table.

Aegon was already slouched in his chair, looking bored as he sipped wine, while Helaena sat twirling a fork in her hand, muttering, "A King bathed in silver as another is shrouded in gold-"

Daeron sat next to Alicent, eagerly telling her of his first flight with his dragon, Tessarion, while Otto listened in with a small smile.

Rhaenyra sat next to Daemon, the two of them speaking in hushed tones. Baela, sitting next to Jace, elbowed him, and he gazed at her for a moment before nodding his head in acknowledgment. Luke and Rhaena smiled at her.

Beneath the table, Lucaera felt a hand slip into hers. She glanced at Aemond, his expression as stoic as ever, but the firm grip of his hand spoke volumes.

Her heart quickened, and she gave his hand a subtle squeeze in return, feeling a quiet comfort in his presence.

Moments later, the heavy doors to the hall creaked open, and Viserys was carried in. The entire room stood in unison, waiting as he was gently placed at the head of the table.

Once seated, they all followed, retaking their places, Aemond’s hand once again finding hers beneath the table.

“Wine, Princess?” asked a maid.

“No, thank you—just water,” replied Lucaera. The maid bowed slightly before she left the table, returning moments later with a cup of water.

“How good it is to see you all tonight,” Viserys rasped, a pained yet heartfelt smile on his weathered face.

Alicent, seated beside him, folded her hands in prayer. “Prayer before we begin?” she suggested, her voice soft yet firm. She bowed her head, and the others followed.

“May the Mother smile down on this gathering with love,” Alicent began, her voice carrying over the silent room. “May the Smith mend the bonds that have been broken for far too long. And to my son Aemond and his wife Lucaera—may they have a long and blessed marriage.”

Viserys, still smiling, then continued, “Speaking of marriage, I’m happy to announce that my grandsons, Jace and Luke, will marry their cousins, Baela and Rhaena, further strengthening the bond between our houses.” He raised his cup with trembling hands. “A toast to the young princes—and their betrothed.”

“Hear, hear,” Daemon said with a grin, raising his cup. Lucaera looked over at Otto, his face a mask of barely concealed surprise—clearly, he had no idea of such betrothals being made.

But the air shifted when Aegon leaned over toward Jace, a wicked smirk playing on his lips as he reached for a decanter of wine.

“Well done, Jace. You’ll finally get to lie with a woman. You do know how the act is done, I assume?” Aegon’s tone dripped with mocking amusement. “At least in principle? Where to put your cock and all that. If you want, I can provide you with a demonstration.”

Jace’s face flushed with anger, and he snarled back, “You can play the jester if you wish, but hold your tongue before my betrothed.”

Aegon laughed, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “Or perhaps you could ask Aemond,” he said with a wink. “Judging from the noises that come from his chambers every night, your sister finds herself well satisfied—”

The jest hung in the air, and while Aemond scowled in irritation, Jace’s gaze flicked curiously toward Lucaera, who had lowered her head, her cheeks a faint shade of pink.

Jace’s eyes narrowed slightly, his mind clearly turning over the implications of Aegon’s words, but before he could speak, the sound of Viserys struggling to stand shifted everyone’s attention.

The King rose shakily from his chair, gripping the edge of the table for support. "Today the lords of the realm cast their vote, and tonight we gather together in celebration of Aemond being named heir to the Iron Throne." Viserys paused, taking a breath, and then continued, “It both gladdens my heart and fills me with sorrow to see these faces around the table,” his voice raw with emotion. “The faces most dear to me in all the world, yet grown so distant from each other in the years past.”

With a slow, deliberate movement, he reached behind his head and unclasped the golden mask that had been concealing his disfigurement.

The mask landed on the table with a dull clunk, and Lucaera, still holding Aemond’s hand beneath the table, felt her breath catch in her throat.

Half of her grandfather’s face was rotted away, his eye gone, and his cheek nothing but decayed flesh.

She squeezed Aemond’s hand tighter, feeling his grip return just as firmly.

Viserys’ voice, though frail, was filled with the weight of decades of leadership. “My own face is no longer a handsome one, if indeed it ever was. But tonight, I wish you to see me as I am. Not just a King, but your father. Your brother. Your husband and your grandsire. Who may not, it seems, walk for much longer among you.”

Lucaera's stomach rolled a little at the stench of rot emanating from Viserys. She let go of Aemond’s hand and reached for her water, taking small sips.

Aemond could sense her unease through their bond, and he leaned over, whispering, "Are you okay?"

Lucaera nodded and whispered back, "Just feel a little queasy, that's all."

Aemond placed a hand over her stomach, rubbing it gently.

Lucaera noticed that her mother was watching—her eyes widening in realization— But then,

Viserys spoke again, his voice growing softer. “Let us no longer hold ill feelings in our hearts. The crown cannot stand strong if the House of the Dragon remains divided. But set aside your grievances, if not for the sake of the crown, then for the sake of this old man who loves you all so dearly.”

Aemond’s hand left Lucaera's stomach and grasped her thigh, his jaw clenched at his father's hollow words.

As the dinner progressed, the tension in the room ebbed and flowed. The dinner was supposed to be a celebration of Aemond being named heir, but it didn’t feel much like one.

So, Lucaera rose from her seat and made a toast.

"To Prince Aemond-" she said, her voice clear and strong. "My husband, my Alpha, and the future of this realm. He has proven himself time and time again—a warrior, and a scholar, he will make a fine King, one this realm will be proud of. May he reign with wisdom and strength, and may his rule bring peace to Westeros”

Daemon glared at her as she spoke, but she simply smiled at him and raised her cup to take a sip.

Alicent, Otto, Aegon, Helaena, and Daeron eagerly followed suit, raising their cups and toasting Aemond’s name.

Then, after a moment of silence, Rhaenyra raised her cup to Aemond and drank, with Daemon, Jace, Luke, Baela, and Rhaena following her.

Lucaera sat down and asked, "Was that alright?"

Aemond leaned in, his nose nuzzling her jaw, and rasped, "It was perfect—thank you, my sweet."

Lucaera blushed and leaned into Aemond, giggling as his hot breath tickled her skin, the two of them disappearing into their own world of whispered words of love and affection.

Further down the table, Aegon leaned in close to Baela, his voice low but dripping with arrogance. “I regret the disappointment you are soon to suffer,” he said, his words laced with mockery. “But if you ever wish to know what it is to be well satisfied, all you have to do is ask.”

The air snapped with tension as Jace slammed his fists onto the table and stood abruptly, his eyes blazing with fury.

Aemond's attention left Lucaera and he rose from the table. But Jace forced a smile and raised his cup.

“To Prince Aegon and Prince Aemond,” Jace said, his voice cool yet heavy with underlying menace. “We have not seen each other in years, but I have fond memories of our shared youth. And as men, I hope we may yet be friends and allies. To you and your family’s good health, dear uncles.”

Aegon huffed. “To you as well.”

Viserys, oblivious to the mounting tension, nodded approvingly at Jace. “Well done, my boy.”

Helaena suddenly stood, raising her glass awkwardly. “I would like to toast to Baela and Rhaena,” she said, her tone as detached as ever. “They’ll be married soon. It isn’t so bad. Mostly he just ignores you—except sometimes when he’s drunk.”

Lucaera glared at Aegon, who rubbed a hand over his face, clearly embarrassed by his sister’s blunt honesty.

Helaena, however, smiled sweetly and sat back down as if she hadn’t just revealed the stark reality of her marriage.

Viserys, trying to lighten the mood, called for music. Soon, a sweet melody filled the hall, easing the tension just enough for the moment.

Jace rose from his seat and approached Helaena, offering her his hand. She accepted with a shy smile, and the two began to dance.

Aemond watched for a few moments before he stood and offered his hand to Lucaera. She eyed him curiously, but when he gave her a small nod, she accepted, letting him lead her to an empty space in the hall.

As the music continued, the world around them seemed to fade, leaving just the two of them moving together.

Aemond twirled her gracefully, and when he lifted her off the floor, a soft laugh escaped her lips, filling the air with a moment of joy.

They danced, oblivious to the curious eyes watching them, as if they were the only two people in the room.

When the music ended, Lucaera, slightly breathless, smiled and thanked Aemond before the two of them resumed their seats.

Viserys began to get tired, so the guards moved to take him back to his chambers.

More food was brought out, and Lucaera's eyes widened as a roasted pig was placed in front of her and Aemond.

Then she heard a laugh and looked over at Jace, who had ended his dance with Helaena and was standing beside the table.

Lucaera could feel the rage wash over Aemond through their bond, and before she could stop him, he slammed his fist into the table and rose from his seat, his cup in hand, his expression dark and unreadable.

“Final tribute,” Aemond declared, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “To the health of my nephews, Jace and Luke. Each of them handsome, wise—hmm—strong.”

“Aemond,” gasped Lucaera, but he ignored her, his gaze fixed on Jace.

“Come,” Aemond continued, his smirk widening. “Let us drain our cups to these two Strong boys.”

Jace, his face flushed with anger, snarled, “I dare you to say that again.”

“Why? ‘Twas only a compliment,” Aemond replied, his voice laced with mockery. “Do you not think yourself Strong?”

Jace lunged forward, punching Aemond in the jaw. Chaos then erupted as Luke tried to intervene, but Aegon grabbed him, slamming his head into the table.

“Jace!” Rhaenyra shouted, rising from the table as Alicent yelled, “That is enough!”

Lucaera, upon seeing Aegon manhandling her brother, rose from her seat and grabbed a handful of his silver hair, wrenching him away from Luke.

Aegon wound his arm around her and dragged her away from the table as Jace and Aemond were dragged apart by the guards.

Lucaera struggled against Aegon, but he said, “Feisty little thing, aren’t you? No wonder my brother constantly has his cock in a knot for you.”

Lucaera elbowed him and freed herself from his grip.

Alicent seized Aemond, pulling him aside. “Why would you say such a thing before these people?” she demanded, her voice filled with frustration.

Aemond, his face impassive, simply smirked. “I was merely expressing how proud I am of my family, Mother. Though it seems my nephews aren’t quite as proud of theirs.”

As Jace broke free from the Kings guard, ready to charge Aemond again, Daemon stepped in, his voice calm but commanding. “Wait, wait!” he said, halting everyone in their tracks.

Rhaenyra, her voice sharp, said, “Go to your quarters. All of you. Now.”

Lucaera stepped away from Aegon, her chest heaving with anger as she glanced at Aemond before whispering, “How could you?”

This was her family he was mocking—her blood, her brothers. The bond between them flared with the intensity of her emotions, and she turned swiftly, leaving the room without another word.

Aemond growled as realization struck him—he had wounded her as well. His public teasing of Jace and Luke had not just humiliated them but had also cut into Lucaera’s heart.

Without hesitation, he followed her out of the dining room.

Lucaera stood on the balcony, her arms wrapped around herself as the cool night air brushed against her skin.

The city sprawled beneath her, bathed in the dim glow of torchlight, but she could not see it—her vision blurred with unshed tears.

The door to their chambers opened behind her, but she did not turn. She heard Aemond’s slow, measured steps, as he moved toward her.

Then, his arms encircled her waist, pulling her against his chest, his nose pressing into the crook of her neck.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice hoarse.

At first, she said nothing, only closing her eyes as he placed feather-light kisses along her throat.

“I know you will never care for my brothers,” she finally murmured, her voice quiet but strained. “But what you said back there-it wasn’t just an insult to them, Aemond. It was an insult to me, too.”

His grip on her tightened. “Lucaera—”

She pulled away from his arms, turning to face him. Her brows furrowed, her eyes shimmering with pain. “I know what I am,” she said, her voice cracking. “I know I was born out of my mother’s recklessness. Do you think I haven’t suffered for it? That I haven’t heard every whisper? That I don’t see the way people look at me?” A tear slipped down her cheek, and she shook her head. “I have hated her for it. I have questioned her reasons, over and over again. But I didn’t ask to be born, Aemond. I didn’t ask for any of this.”

Aemond exhaled sharply, as if her words had struck him. He reached for her, but she stepped back, her shoulders trembling.

“All my life, I have endured it,” she continued, her voice rising. “The stares. The accusations. The endless whispers of bastard wherever I go. And I bore it—I bore it because I had no other choice. But you—” her voice broke, “I can’t bear it from you.”

Aemond’s face twisted with anguish. “Lucaera,” he breathed, stepping closer. This time, she didn’t stop him when he gently cupped her face. “I never meant to hurt you.”

“Then why did you do it?” she whispered, searching his face desperately.

He let out a slow breath, his thumb brushing over the tear-streaked curve of her cheek. “Because when I saw that pig, and I heard Jacaerys laughing, I was ten name days again. I was that boy they humiliated, the one they mocked and tormented, the one who would never be enough because I had no dragon.” His voice shook as he spoke, and she could feel his emotions crashing against her through their bond. “I was that boy again, Lucaera. And I lashed out”

Lucaera’s breath hitched as she saw it—the sorrow in his eye, the vulnerability he rarely let anyone see.

A single tear slipped down Aemond’s cheek, glistening in the moonlight. His grip on her tightened, desperate and remorseful. “Aside from Vhagar, you are the best thing that has ever happened to me. And the thought of hurting you—” his voice broke, “-It kills me”

Lucaera let out a shaky breath, her heart clenching at the rawness in his confession. She wanted to stay angry, wanted to push him away—but she couldn’t. Not when she could feel his regret and his love, wrapping around her.

So, she cupped his face, her fingers tracing the sharp planes of his cheeks. “That should never have happened to you,” she whispered.

Aemond let out a shuddering breath, leaning into her touch, his forehead pressing against hers.

“I am sorry,” he murmured again, softer this time.

Lucaera closed her eyes, feeling the steady thrum of their bond between them. And despite the hurt, despite everything—she forgave him.

So, she kissed him, slow and deep, an unspoken promise that no matter what shadows haunted him, she would always bring him back to the light

The knock at the chamber door was soft but insistent.

Aemond stirred beside her, his arms still wrapped around her, but it was Lucaera who turned her head towards the sound.

A voice from the other side called, “Princess, His Grace the King has summoned you”

Lucaera exchanged a curious glance with Aemond. His eye narrowed in suspicion, but she slipped from the warmth of their bed.

Quickly pulling on er robe, and tying it loosely at the waist, before she moved toward the door.

“I’ll come with you,” Aemond said, his voice still rough from sleep.

Lucaera shook her head. “I’ll be fine”

His jaw tightened, but he did not argue. Instead, he sat up, watching as she disappeared through the door.

Ser Erryk, her newly appointed sworn shield, fell into step beside her as they walked through the dimly lit corridors.

The clinking of his armour echoed against the stone walls, a steady rhythm in the heavy silence.

When they reached Viserys’ chambers, the door was opened for her, and she stepped inside.

The stench of rot hit her immediately, thick and cloying. She swallowed against the instinct to recoil.

The room was dark save for the dying embers in the hearth, casting eerie shadows across the grand space.

Her grandsire lay propped up in bed, the frailty of his form nearly lost beneath the heavy blankets draped over him.

But in his gnarled hand, he clutched a Valyrian steel dagger, his fingers wrapped around the dragonbone hilt as though it was the only thing tethering him to this world.

“Grandsire,” Lucaera spoke softly, stepping closer. “You wished to see me?”

Viserys’ eye blinked sluggishly, as though focusing on her took great effort. But when he did, a slow, tired smile spread across his lips.

“Y-You’re so much like her,” he rasped.

Lucaera frowned. “Who?” she asked, easing herself onto the edge of the bed.

“A-Aemma,” he whispered.

Lucaera hesitated, taken aback. “Even with my dark hair?”

“Yes-” Viserys sighed, his breath rattling in his chest. “Even then. You have her eyes. When I look at you, it is almost like she is staring back at me. And sometimes, when you laugh, you sound just like her-”

A strange pang went through Lucaera’s chest. She had never known her grandmother, only the stories passed down-tales of her beauty, her grace, and the tragedy of her death.

For the first time, she wondered if it was his love for Aemma that had shaped everything—the reason for his unwavering favouritism toward her mother, the reason for his indifference toward the children he had with Alicent.

Or was it guilt? The weight of the choice he had made that day so many years ago?

She did not know which answer was worse.

“L-Lucy,” Viserys’ frail voice pulled her from her thoughts. “There’s something I must tell you. Something important. It might be hard for you to understand, but you must hear it.”

Lucaera nodded, watching as he took a slow, ragged breath.

“The histories tell us that Aegon looked across the Blackwater from Dragonstone and saw a rich land, ripe for the taking. But ambition alone did not drive him to conquest. It was a Dream.”

Lucaera’s brows knitted together, but she did not interrupt.

“Just as Daenys foresaw the Doom of Valyria, Aegon foresaw the end of the world of men,” Viserys continued. His grip on the dagger tightened. “It is to begin with a terrible winter, gusting out of the distant North. Aegon saw absolute darkness riding on those winds. And whatever dwells within will destroy the world of the living.”

A chill ran down Lucaera’s spine.

“What is it?” she asked hesitantly. “What’s in the darkness?”

Viserys shook his head. “If Aegon knew, he never said. But he saw that there would be a light, brilliant enough to stand against it. The fire of dragons.”

“The dragons?” she muttered.

Viserys nodded, his breaths growing more laboured. “Whenever this Great Winter comes, all of Westeros must stand against it. And if the world of men is to survive, a Targaryen must be seated on the Iron Throne. A King or Queen—strong enough to unite the realm against the cold and the dark.”

His glassy eyes locked onto hers, and he whispered, “Aegon called his dream, The Song of Ice and Fire.”

Lucaera sat in silence, absorbing the weight of his words.

Then, Viserys reached out with trembling hands, offering her the dagger.

Lucaera hesitated only for a moment before she took it, her fingers curling around the dragonbone hilt. Slowly, she unsheathed it halfway, the Valyrian steel glinting in the dim light.

“The secret is in the steel,” Viserys murmured.

Lucaera’s gaze flickered to him before she slid the dagger back into its scabbard.

“This secret has been passed from King to Heir since Aegon’s time,” he rasped. “You must promise to now carry it. To protect it.”

His bony fingers clutched at her wrist. His grip was weak, but there was desperation in his gaze.

“Promise me this, Lucaera.” His voice trembled. “Promise me.”

Lucaera swallowed hard, her throat thick with something she could not name.

“I-I promise,” she whispered.

Relief flickered across Viserys’ worn features, and his lips parted in a breathy exhale.

“T-Thank you, my girl-”

Lucaera stared at the Valyrian steel dagger in her hands, the weight of it pressing down on her like a shackle.

The words Viserys had spoken echoed in her mind—the prophecy, the destiny, the burden of the throne. But something gnawed at her, something that didn’t sit right.

Her grip tightened around the dragonbone hilt as a thought surfaced, unbidden but undeniable.

She lifted her gaze to her grandsire, suspicion creeping into her voice.

“If this secret is passed from King to heir-” she said slowly, her pulse quickening, “-shouldn’t you be saying this to Aemond?”

A beat of silence.

Viserys’ expression flickered—just for a moment. His lips parted, but no words came.

And that was all Lucaera needed.

Her stomach twisted violently, nausea creeping up her throat as she rose from the bed. Her mind raced, pieces of the puzzle snapping into place with horrifying clarity.

Viserys had named Aemond his heir. He had spoken the words before the entire realm.

But in his heart—in his rotten, withering heart—he hadn’t meant it.

Her breath hitched, her skin crawling.

It was never Aemond. It was never supposed to be Aemond.

If Viserys could no longer name Rhaenyra, then he had settled for the next best thing.

Her.

Not because he thought her capable. But because she was the closest thing left to Rhaenyra.

Lucaera felt bile rise in her throat.

“How could you?” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the crackling hearth.

Viserys’ breath rattled, his lips forming her name like a prayer. “L-Lucaera—”

“How could you?” she repeated, louder this time, sharp and venomous as her hands trembled at her sides. “After everything he’s done, after everything he’s suffered—you still don’t see him.”

Viserys flinched. “I-I’ve tried—”

“No, you haven’t!” Lucaera spat, her disgust boiling over into fury. She stepped forward, her chest heaving. “You named him heir before the entire realm, and yet you sit here, dying in your bed, and still you choose someone else!”

Viserys’ clouded eyes shimmered with something—guilt, shame, regret. “It’s not like that—”

“It’s exactly like that!” Lucaera’s voice cracked, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. “Do you even see him, Viserys? Do you even know your own son? He trained harder than anyone, he studied, he claimed the largest dragon in the world and lost his eye for it and yet you treat him as if he’s nothing!”

Viserys’ breathing grew ragged as he reached out a trembling, withered hand. “P-Please—”

Lucaera recoiled. She had never felt such disgust, such betrayal.

She looked at him now—truly looked at him. Not as a King, not as her grandsire, but as a man.

A frail, pathetic man, whose love had always been conditional. Whose favouritism had shattered a family.

A man who had spent his entire reign failing the ones who needed him most.

Her grip on the dagger tightened.

“You don’t deserve him-” she said coldly.

Then she turned on her heel and left the room without another word.

TBC

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