#determination deliberation and dragons

[detdeldragons]

Probably my favorite quote from How To Train Your Dragon. I actually used this as my high school yearbook quote. Hiccup becomes quite the hero, not by changing anything about himself, but by learning that his way of being and his way of doing things is okay even though it's different.

Check out our creative writing podcast, "Determination, Deliberation, and Dragons" for discussions of books and films like HTTYD, The Owl House, Avatar the Last Airbender, and more! You can find it wherever you get your podcasts.

[daybreakrising]

since hyv won't tell us if neuvi can give visions of any kind to new fontainians or just hydro ones, i'm making the executive decision that he can bc the idea of him being the one to give vautrin his vision is just. let me have this-

(though i won't force this onto any neuvi i write with. if you have a different opinion i'll concede to it!)

[creature-wizard]

Continuing on the topic of connection being not a feeling, but a rather a set of circumstances in which you are engaging and participating, I think a lot of people out there just don't realize how dangerous the way many of us have been taught to think of feelings in relation to spirituality really is.

Like Zan pointed out, Evangelical Christians are taught that positive emotions are actually the Lord moving through them, rather than their own personal reactions to their experiences. Meanwhile, Evangelical church services are deliberately engineered to elicit these kinds of of feelings in people. It's pure emotional manipulation.

Similar ideas are found in New Age spirituality, where "spiritual discernment" is frequently boiled down to "does it make me feel good or not?" People are taught to evaluate politically charged information based on whether it, for lack of a better term, sparks joy. Now, determining whether or not something sparks joy is a wonderful way to decide whether you want to keep your old tea kettle, but here we're talking about information that people will base crucial personal and political choices on.

Meanwhile, New Age influencers do everything they can to make sure they're sparking joy for you. Let's take Paul White Gold Eagle, for example. His videos are constantly talking about things that sound exciting, like messages from archangels, dragons of light, and emerald transmissions. This type of baiting - joybaiting, I'll call it - is meant to hook you emotionally and make you think that this has to be true because it elicits that oooough, shiny reaction. Next thing you know, you've been joybaited into falling down the conspirituality pipeline and you believe some version of QAnon's conspiracy theories.

This kind of thinking is even dangerous in pagan circles. You find yourself thinking about a thing and noticing a lot? You feel an intense pull to study it? You'll find people out there telling you that you have a spiritual connection to it, like, maybe you were part of it in a past life. And maybe you go and get a past life reading, or even undergo hypnosis. And now you, the whitest gal in the surburb with zero familial connections to any Native people, feel entitled to appropriate some form of Native spirituality because you felt fascination with it, or what you thought it was, and now you're contributing to white sage decimation and spreading around some sort of Native-flavored form of neopaganism as if it's actual Native spirituality.

Or maybe you fall in with a neopagan cult leader who uses your fascination to convince you that you knew each other in a past life, and you were led to them in this life so you could continue some important work in this life, and they pull you completely into their bullshit.

Finally, it's dangerous because it encourages stalkers. A lot of stalkers are people with incredibly powerful fixations on others. These types of beliefs get them convinced that their victims are actually their soulmates or twin flames or whathaveyou, and make them feel justified in engaging in stalking behavior.

All of this is why it's important to recognize that connection is a circumstance, not a feeling. Your feelings are utterly irrelevant to whether you are actually connected. What most people take for "feeling connected" is literally just fascination or fixation, maybe reinforced by the Baader-Meinhof phenomenon. Real connection is something you cultivate and build, and it does not exist outside of your actual, physical engagement and participation.

[misswynters]

Aemond Targaryen as your husband: headcanon

[a/n: there are some sensual undertones here so if you don’t wanna read that you can skip it. it’s after the seperator

[note | pls don’t just like, reblog & give me feedback. i don’t want to get shadowbanned

similar | jace | aegon | cregan | daeron | gwayne

Aemond is fiercely protective of you. His intense loyalty means he is always by your side, ensuring your safety and well-being. He often places himself between you and any perceived threat, his hand instinctively reaching for his sword.

Aemond isn’t one for grand romantic gestures, but his love for you is evident in the small things. He brushes your hair out of your face, ensures your chambers are always warm, and leaves books he thinks you’d enjoy on your bedside table.

As your husband, Aemond values your opinion on matters of state and politics. He seeks your counsel in private, trusting your judgment and treating you as an equal partner in all decisions.

Aemond admires your intelligence and enjoys engaging in deep conversations with you. Whether it’s discussing the histories of Westeros, strategy, or philosophy, he relishes the intellectual stimulation you provide.

Aemond respects your strength and encourages you to train with him. He enjoys sparring sessions where you both hone your skills, often leading to playful banter and mutual admiration.

You and Aemond have an unspoken bond, sharing secrets that no one else knows. He trusts you implicitly and confides in you about his deepest fears and ambitions.

Despite his stern exterior, Aemond has a soft spot for you. In private, he’s tender and gentle, often holding you close and whispering sweet nothings that contrast sharply with his public demeanor.

Aemond enjoys gifting you rare and precious items, from intricate jewelry to exotic silks. He takes pride in finding unique treasures that reflect your tastes and interests.

One of your favorite pastimes is riding Vhagar together. The thrill of soaring through the skies, feeling the wind in your hair, and the shared experience of dragon riding brings you closer. Aemond often points out landmarks and recounts stories from his childhood as you fly.

Aemond’s loyalty to you is unwavering. He defends your honor fiercely and would go to great lengths to protect you from harm. His love is intense and all-consuming, leaving no room for doubt.

Through your relationship, Aemond learns to open up more emotionally. Your patience and understanding help him grow, allowing him to express his feelings more freely and strengthening your bond.

Aemond is your biggest supporter. Whether you’re pursuing a personal project or navigating court politics, he’s always there to offer encouragement and practical advice.

Aemond is devoted to your future children. He takes an active role in their upbringing, ensuring they are well-educated and trained. He often tells them stories of his own adventures and the legacy of House Targaryen.

Despite the challenges you face, your bond with Aemond is unbreakable. Together, you are a formidable team, facing the world with strength and determination. Your love for each other is a constant source of comfort and inspiration, guiding you through the trials of life in Westeros.

Aemond’s eye always finds you in a room full of people. The way he looks at you, with a mix of desire and admiration, sends shivers down your spine. His gaze alone can make you feel cherished and wanted.

In private, Aemond’s touches are gentle and deliberate. He traces his fingers along your skin, memorizing every curve and line. Whether it’s a light touch on your hand or a caress along your back, he makes you feel treasured.

Aemond’s kisses are a mix of urgency and tenderness. He captures your lips with an intensity that leaves you breathless, his hands cradling your face as if you’re the most precious thing in the world.

Late at night, when the castle is quiet, Aemond whispers sweet and sultry words in your ear. He tells you of his desires, his dreams, and how deeply he loves you. His voice, low and husky, wraps around you like a warm embrace.

Aemond takes his time when you’re having sex. He believes in savoring every moment, exploring your body with a careful and practiced touch. His focus is entirely on your pleasure, ensuring you feel loved and satisfied.

There’s a powerful, unspoken connection between you. A single look from Aemond can communicate a thousand words. In moments of intimacy, you don’t need to speak; your bodies and souls understand each other perfectly.

After a long day, Aemond loves to hold you close. He wraps his arms around you, his body shielding yours. The warmth of his embrace and the steady beat of his heart are the ultimate comfort, making you feel safe and adored. Giving you the love that his mother didn’t give him.

Aemond is particularly affectionate in the mornings. He wakes you with soft kisses on your neck and shoulders, his hands gently exploring your body as he whispers good morning. These moments set a loving tone for the day ahead.

Aemond enjoys sharing baths with you. The intimacy of washing each other, feeling the warm water and his hands on your skin, creates a deep bond. He loves to see you relaxed and content, and he takes his time, making sure every touch is soothing and sensual.

Despite his duties, Aemond finds time for secret sex. Whether it’s a secluded garden or a hidden room in the castle, he ensures you have moments of privacy to express your love and passion freely.

banner by: @cafekitsune

[moonlight-joy]

Fires of Fate

Fandom: House of Dragon

Summary: Your forbidden love for Jacaerys Velaryon came to light when you risked everything to protect Lucerys from Aemond Targaryen. Jace’s heartfelt confession and Rhaenyra’s blessing solidified your bond, leading to a joyful wedding on Dragonstone. Defying duty, your love forged an unbreakable legacy of unity and strength.

Pairing: Reader/Jacaerys Velaryon

Your love for Jacaerys Velaryon had always been a quiet flame, one you tried to extinguish when his betrothal to Baela Targaryen was announced. The match was forged in duty, meant to unify the Targaryen and Velaryon bloodlines. You accepted it because it was expected, just as Jace did, though the way he looked at you—longing, conflicted, and full of love—betrayed his true feelings. Your bond with him was undeniable, even as the weight of duty kept you apart.

Everything changed on a stormy night when Aemond Targaryen pursued Lucerys Velaryon across the skies. The fragile peace between the Greens and the Blacks shattered as word reached Dragonstone that Aemond had cornered Luke near Storm’s End. Without hesitation, you rode for the cliffs overlooking the sea. Though you lacked a dragon, your determination was unyielding. Luke was more than Jace’s brother—he was yours, in every way that mattered.

When you arrived, the sight froze your blood. Vhagar, immense and menacing, loomed over the stormy sea, her rider intent on terrorizing the smaller Arrax and his young rider. Luke’s cries were barely audible over the roaring wind, and panic surged through you as you shouted his name. Your voice cut through the chaos, and for a brief moment, Luke’s panicked gaze found yours. Your presence gave him the clarity to act, and Arrax dove sharply, narrowly evading Vhagar’s massive jaws and disappearing into the clouds.

Aemond’s attention shifted to you. Vhagar descended, her shadow engulfing you as Aemond dismounted, his movements graceful and deliberate. His violet eye gleamed with amusement, but beneath it was something darker.

“Brave,” he said, his voice low and taunting. “But foolish.”

Your heart pounded, but you stood your ground. “You call tormenting a boy bravery? What would your mother say?”

Aemond smirked, stepping closer. “You think yourself a hero? All you’ve done is delay the inevitable.”

Before you could respond, the deafening roar of another dragon cut through the storm. Vermax descended from the clouds, his wings slicing through the air like a blade. Jacaerys, astride his dragon, landed with a thunderous crash, his fury palpable as he dismounted and stepped between you and his uncle.

“Aemond,” Jace said, his voice steady but cold. “If you harm her, I will kill you.”

Aemond’s smirk deepened, but he stepped back, his gaze flickering between you and Jace. “Another time, nephew,” he said before mounting Vhagar and vanishing into the stormy skies.

As the danger passed, Jace turned to you, his expression a mix of relief and anguish. Without a word, he pulled you into his arms, holding you as though he feared you might disappear. “You shouldn’t have come,” he murmured, his voice trembling. “It was too dangerous.”

“I couldn’t let him hurt Luke,” you replied, your own voice shaking. “I had to do something.”

Jace pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his brown eyes burning with intensity. “You could have been killed,” he said, his hands gripping your arms. “Do you know what that would have done to me? I can’t lose you.”

His words hung in the air, raw and unguarded. Your heart raced, the unspoken barrier between you crumbling under the weight of your emotions. “You won’t lose me,” you whispered, tears brimming in your eyes. “Jace, I—”

“I love you,” he interrupted, his voice breaking. “I’ve loved you for as long as I can remember. And I can’t keep pretending I don’t.”

Tears fell freely now, and you threw your arms around him. “I love you too,” you said, the words a release after years of restraint. “I always have.”

When you returned to Dragonstone, Rhaenyra greeted you, her eyes filled with concern. Jace recounted the events, his voice steady as he spoke of your courage and how you had risked your life for Luke. When he finished, Rhaenyra turned to you, her expression unreadable.

“You saved my son,” she said softly. “You put yourself in harm’s way to protect him.”

“I would do it again,” you replied, meeting her gaze with sincerity.

Rhaenyra studied you for a moment before speaking. “I’ve seen the way my son looks at you. And I’ve seen the way you look at him. Tell me, Y/N—do you love him?”

Your breath hitched, but you answered without hesitation. “With all my heart.”

Rhaenyra’s lips curved into a faint smile. “Then you shall have my blessing.”

Jace stared at his mother, his disbelief evident. “But Baela—”

“I will speak to her,” Rhaenyra said firmly. “This war has taught me the value of true loyalty and love. Marriages forged without them are brittle things. I will not condemn my son to such a fate.”

The day of your wedding was one of joy and fire. Dragons soared above Dragonstone, their cries echoing in celebration as you and Jace stood before the altar. His hands clasped yours tightly, his brown eyes filled with love and devotion.

“You are my heart,” he whispered as the High Septon bound your hands with a ribbon of red and black. “And I will spend my life proving it to you.”

“And you are mine,” you replied, your voice steady. “Together, we will build a future worthy of the Targaryen name.”

The feast that followed was a celebration unlike any other. Lords and ladies from across the realm toasted to your union, their voices mingling with the songs of bards and the occasional roar of dragons. Jace stayed by your side, his hand never far from yours, his smile unguarded and bright.

As the evening wound down, you found yourselves alone on the battlements of Dragonstone, the sea shimmering under the moonlight. Jace wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you close. “I still can’t believe this is real,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your temple. “That you’re mine.”

“I always was,” you replied softly. “Now the world knows it.”

He turned you toward him, his gaze full of wonder. “Together, we’ll build something that lasts. Something our children and their children can be proud of.”

You smiled, leaning into his embrace. “And we’ll do it together.”

The roar of dragons echoed in the distance, their cries a testament to the fire that burned within you both. Your love had defied duty, danger, and doubt, and as you stood there in Jace’s arms, you knew your bond was unbreakable. Together, you would forge a legacy of love, strength, and unity—one that would endure for generations to come.

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[flawseer]

#18 - "Fire"

Smaugust 2024

The last few submissions have been mostly visual, but today I want to do something more text-based. I'm always looking for opportunities to ramble ad nauseam about my headcanons and thoughts, but am usually hesitant if I don't think I can make a subject interesting or particularly insightful.

A few months back I was playing with the thought of publishing a speculative analysis on Pyrrhian dragon breath weapons, and how they might differ between tribes. I got up to the conceptualization stage, but then @sidyashchiy-na-plakhe came out with a better and more put-together version of what I was thinking about and touched on some similar points, so I filed those plans away to not step on any toes. If you're enjoying this type of deliberation, I recommend that you check out his take, as it is very thoughtfully put together with some cool visuals.

But, seeing as I have no other ideas for this prompt, and since it's been a while since then, I'm going to air out my scrapped draft here. I guess this is a mixture between canon information and headcanons, with a bias toward the latter.

General Information

Each of the seven Pyrrhian tribes is capable of using a kind of orally-discharged means of attack. For the purpose of this deliberation, I am going to refer to all of these as "breath weapons", even though not all of them are activated via exhalation. It will make things easier to talk about.

There are three general factors to each type of breath weapon, those being potency, range, and start-up time. In the case of fire breath--the most ubiquitous type of breath weapon on the continent--these would roughly correlate to the temperature of the flames, how far they can travel from the source while maintaining their shape and intensity, and for how long the fire must be stoked inside of the user before it can be expelled.

How developed these factors are differs for every dragon, but the two biggest determining modifiers are constitution and age. Being physically fit will make your breath weapon more efficient--and thus stronger--because you have better control over your breathing after exertion. As a dragon advances in age, the three factors all increase proportionally. A Mudwing hatchling can produce a puff of flame very quickly, but it will barely heat up the surrounding air. An elder meanwhile might take several minutes to get their fire going, but when they do, the result will be fearsome and devastating.

Fire is the most common element on the continent, with four of the seven tribes being able to command it. I will go through those first and then follow up with the other variants .

Nightwing fire is a dark purple in color, due to a slight variation in the gas component that fuels the flames.

The flames have no particularly outstanding properties strength-wise, but they emit comparatively little light, meaning they don't stand out as much against the night sky. This makes them ideal for low-profile ambushing, but very unsuitable as signal flares.

If a Nightwing ignites an object, the flames will gradually lose this characteristic as they will begin to consume the air around them and turn into ordinary, orange fire.

Nightwing flames are sometimes colloquially referred to as "Moonfire".

Sandwing fire is, on average, the least powerful among all the fire-breathing dragons. In terms of potency and range, flames emitted by a Sandwing of 20 years will be roughly equivalent to those of a twelve-year-old from the other fire-breathing tribes.

Their unique advantage is that Sandwings can produce these flames extremely quickly, usually within seconds. If readying fire takes a dragon 30 seconds, an equivalent Sandwing can do it in 5.

While for most other dragons the use of their breath weapon is a deliberate and calculated affair, the severely reduced start-up time allows Sandwings to "shoot from the hip" without having to commit to the action, making them less predictable in combat.

A popular Sandwing combat technique is to open a fight by blowing a quick plume of weak fire into an opponent's face and then using the resulting distraction to strike with their venomous tails.

Skywings command the strongest and purest variation of fire among all tribes. Their flames come out very straight and can maintain their shape over vast distances.

They can "cook" their fire by holding it inside themselves for longer than necessary. While this becomes unpleasant or even painful if done for long, it will increase the temperature and purity of the resulting flames far beyond what any of the other tribes are capable of.

Flames emitted after doing this for long enough will come out with an intense blue color that can cut through stone.

For dragons afflicted with firescales, all of the fire they breathe will be like this, as their bodies are already channeling flames at all times to fuel the burning scales.

Because Skywing fire is so intense, it is at times difficult to control. Skywings who become emotional will often start smoking from their nostrils involuntarily.

Mudwing fire, sometimes referred to as "moody fire", is very temperamental. Its strength will vary widely based on a number of different factors, not all of them fully understood, making it appear random at times.

The most commonly understood factor that influences a Mudwing's fire is the ambient temperature. Mudwings will struggle to produce flames in environments that are too cold (close to freezing weather, very cold water, etc.). This can be partially mitigated by ingesting hot stews, soups, or beverages before fire usage.

A factor that isn't as well documented is that the Mudwing's fire breath and their uncanny healing factor are fueled by the same source. This means a Mudwing's fire will be strongest when they are healthy, and begin to diminish if they become injured, as their body will divert resources away from the breath weapon to prioritize keeping itself alive, functioning, and mobile.

Mudwings hatched from blood eggs have a tendency to develop poor breath weapons, as their super-charged healing factor--while potent enough to outpace most damage sustained from fire--is even more resource-hungry than that of a regular Mudwing.

Icewings don't breathe fire. Instead, they are able to exhale a stream of frost magic. There is nothing I can think of to scientifically explain all the properties of frostbreath as they are presented in canon, especially with regards to Queen Battlewinner. Ice that makes you lava-proof? Nah, this is straight-up magic. All Icewings are born with a small piece of magic and this is how it expresses itself.

Contrary to popular belief, frostbreath is not stronger than firebreath. In terms of general characteristics, Icewings and Nightwings are actually roughly equivalent.

What makes frostbreath more overtly lethal than fire breath is the magical component. When frostbreath comes in contact with living tissue, it will form ice crystals on and inside the surface. All flesh in contact with these crystals will gradually turn necrotic. This process is very painful.

The crystals are very persistent and it requires sustained exposure to intense heat to melt them. The best way to accomplish this is via prolonged bath in warm water (close to boiling). This method, if applied quickly after the injury, will usually result in recovery after a few hours of bathing.

Getting hit while in a situation with no access to warm water is very dangerous and potentially lethal. If treatment does not begin soon after, the crystals will begin to spread, killing more tissue and making recovery increasingly less likely, especially once the injury spreads to internal organs.

It is not uncommon for soldiers who get hit by frost breath and are caught out in the open with no treatment options to cut off the afflicted body part to minimize tissue loss.

Icewings are more resistant to frostbreath than other dragons, but not fully immune. They can succumb to the same injuries.

If an Icewing suffers an intense burn, particularly in and around the face, they become completely unable to exhale frost until the burn begins to heal.

Rainwings do not have a breath weapon. Instead, they produce an acidic venom within their bodies, which can be administered through biting, or launched at targets through a pair of collapsible, hollow fangs.

The gland that produces this venom needs sunlight to develop properly. Once the Rainwing has been exposed to sufficient sunlight, venom production will begin, and may even continue without further exposure, but it is recommended to sunbathe for at least 5 hours a week to keep the gland healthy and the venom potent.

The venom is strongly corrosive and able to dissolve most organic materials like wood, plant matter, and flesh. It is potent enough that, if it enters another creature's blood stream directly (via bite, an open wound, or the eyes), that creature will die within seconds.

The venom's lethality will rapidly decrease once it separates from the user. If it hits surface tissue and has to burn through layers flesh, it will usually lose too much of its toxicity before it reaches the blood stream (though it will still function as acid and be excruciatingly painful).

Rainwings are immune to their own venom, but not the venom of other Rainwings. Mixing a sample of venom with the venom of a close blood relative will cancel out the destructive properties of both.

Seawings are amphibious dragons who prefer to live in water, but can also go on land and exist there in relative comfort for a decent while. Their body contains an organ that stores water, from which it periodically draws to keep the Seawing's skin from drying out.

When under duress, a Seawing can forcefully expel the contents of this organ through their mouth as a pressurized jet of water. While this is not very destructive, it can momentarily stun aggressors and allow the Seawing to retreat to the safety of a nearby lake or river.

If the blast is held inside and charged up similar to the fire breath of other tribes, the Seawing is able to draw from their body heat to increase the water's temperature to scalding degrees.

[kirain]

The air in the room was tense, thick with the heat of Taash's temper, so loud they muffled the clatter of the patrons below. Emmrich stood across from them, his lips parted as though searching for words he'd forgotten. And Vae, who had walked in only moments before, stood between both of them, hands raised as if trying to diffuse a bomb.

"You sabotaged it!" Taash hissed, their arms lashing about. "You deliberately ruined my lure!"

"I did no such thing!" Emmrich shot back, though his voice cracked ever so slightly. "I don't know what you think you saw, but it wasn't—!"

"I saw you!" Taash's voice rose, echoing off the walls. "You think I'm stupid? Think I don't have eyes? I know you did it on purpose! You hated this plan from the start!"

Vae stepped forward, her tone placating. "Both of you, let's calm down. We're not at the Lighthouse, we're at an inn. Taash, why don't we give Emmrich a chance to—?"

"No!" They snarled. "Don't you dare tell me to calm down! I spent weeks perfecting that lure! Weeks, just to distract the dragon long enough to loot its cave. And then he," they jabbed a clawed finger towards Emmrich, "ruined everything by setting off a ballista! The dragon nearly killed us!"

Vae frowned. "That doesn't sound like Emmrich. Why would he purposely rile up a dragon?"

"He tried to kill it!" Taash snapped. "He just missed. But of course you'd take your boyfriend's side."

"I don't need her to take my side," Emmrich interrupted. "Because that's not what happened." He stepped closer, his hazel eyes determined. "I didn't set the ballista off intentionally. It was an accident."

"An accident?" Taash's laugh was bitter, dripping with disbelief. "You're the embodiment of careful. Dainty and precise. So why, now, are you suddenly clumsy?"

Emmrich's jaw clenched as he tried to form an answer. For once, it seemed as though he didn't want to speak, but he exhaled with a defeated, "The dragon... startled me, Taash. It flew closer than I expected, and I stumbled back. My hand caught the trigger mechanism. I didn't mean for it to fire."

Taash's gaze narrowed, their molten-green eyes boring into him. "That's bullshit. You hate dragons. You never want to talk about them, never want to help with them. You wanted to wreck my plan."

"I don't hate dragons," Emmrich said quickly, though his voice carried an undercurrent of defensiveness.

"You don't?" Taash crossed their arms with a scoff. "Oh, right. You're not 'fond' of them. But isn't that the same thing?" Emmrich tried to reply, but Taash cut him off. "Don't sugarcoat it. You hate them," they pressed, their voice dropping to a dangerous growl. "And if you hate dragons, then you must hate me."

"What?" Emmrich blinked, taken aback.

"You heard me," Taash said, marching closer. "Qunari are descended from dragons, right? Do I disgust you, too?"

"Taash, that's ridiculous," Vae tried to protest. "Emmrich would never—"

"Answer me, death mage! You hate me, don't you? You hate me, you hate dragons—you hate everything I stand for!"

"Of course not!" Emmrich vowed, his voice tinged with desperation.

But Taash didn't relent. They drew in a long breath, their chest expanding, then expelled a billowing cloud of fire. The flames scorched the air between them, illuminating Emmrich's pale face and the glister of fear in his eyes. The fire didn't reach him, but he staggered back instinctively, curling into the wall like a frightened animal.

"Taash, stop it!" Vae gasped, grabbing their arm.

The fire died out, and Taash wiped their lips, their expression stormy. "I don't believe a word you say, death mage. Anything related to dragons, you hate," they said coldly, though their gaze faltered when they took in Emmrich's quivering form.

While he and Taash were similar in height, he seemed smaller somehow. He stood frozen, his eyes wide, his chest heaving as if the flames had torn the air from his lungs. His hands trembled, his fingers gripping his robes, and he wasn't able to focus on anything but the spot where the fire had erupted.

"Emmrich?" Taash's voice softened, shame creeping into their tone. They took a step forward. "Did I... did I singe you? Are you hurt? You know I wasn't actually aiming for you, right?"

He didn't respond.

"Emmrich," Vae called, hurrying to his side. She reached for his hand, but he recoiled with a panicked mewl, his body rigid and quaking. "Oh no... not here. Not now." In a rare bout of anger, she turned to Taash and yelled, "What were you thinking?"

Taash's ears drooped, and they looked away, regret panting their features. "I... I didn't mean to do that to him. I was just—"

Before they could finish, Emmrich bolted. He shoved past them both, his boots scraping against the filthy wooden floor as he vanished down the hall.

"Emmrich, wait!" Vae yelled, but it was too late.

Taash stared at the empty doorway, their fists balled at their sides. "Fuck," they muttered, their anger giving way to a gnawing guilt. They looked at Vae, their shoulders slumping. "I didn't mean—I was just pissed. What's wrong with him? What'd I do?"

"Taash..." Vae sighed. She wanted to reassure them, but Emmrich was her first priority. In his state, he could get himself hurt. "Stay here, I'll find him."

"Vae?" Taash said, catching her before she left. "I'm sorry."

"I know."

The night breeze was cool and sharp, a stark contrast to the suffocating heat of Taash's fire and the dense, smoky atmosphere of the inn. Fortunately, Emmrich hadn't wandered far; Vae found him only a few feet from the path, slumped against the jagged edge of a cliff. His hands clutched his chest, his breaths shallow and erratic. She recognised the signs immediately. Emmrich's attacks were infrequent, but devastating when they struck.

"Just... bring him back so I can say it to his face, all right?"

-----

"Darling," she said softly, keeping her distance. She waited a beat before moving closer, her arms extended in a gesture of calm. "It's me. Vae."

His wide eyes flicked towards her, but he didn't respond, his entire body shaking as if crushed by an unbearable weight.

"It's all right," she hushed, her movements steady. "I'm right here. Just listen to my voice. Can you try to breathe with me?" She drew nearer, careful not to overwhelm him, then gradually placed her hands on his arms, her touch feather-light. "In," she demonstrated, taking a deep, spirited breath. "And out."

It took time—agonisingly long moments where his breaths strained painfully—but after a while, her kind persistence pulled him back from the precipice.

"Emmrich?" she said, searching for a hint if recognition in his eyes.

His breathing slowed, though his body sagged with exhaustion. When his knees buckled, Vae caught him, easing him down to the ground.

"Forgive me," he rasped, burying his face in his hands, his shoulders trembling with the remnants of his fear.

"No," Vae said, kneeling beside him. "Don't apologise. It wasn't your fault."

Gently, she coaxed him to lie back, resting his head in her lap. Her fingers moved to his temples, rubbing slow, soothing circles into his skin. His eyes fluttered closed, his breathing steadying further under her tender ministrations.

"Thank you..." he choked. "Thank you, my love."

"Shhh. Just relax."

They sat in silence for a while, the cool wind threading through their hair. When Vae finally spoke, her voice was low, cautious. "What happened in there, Emmrich? What triggered this?"

He hesitated, a streak of embarrassment flushing his face. "It was... everything," he admitted. "The dragon. The argument. Taash's fire. The closed space. It was all too much."

Vae's fingers stilled briefly before resuming their gentle rhythm. "The dragon," she repeated. "I know you don't hate them—you don't hate any creature—but I can tell they unsettle you. Can I ask why?"

Emmrich failed to stifle a groan, his expression tightening, as if some dark memory clawed its way to the surface.

"Stay with me," Vae urged, realising the depth of his pain. "I'm sorry, forget I said anything."

"...8:99 Blessed," he wheezed.

Vae tilted her head. "What?"

"8:99 Blessed," he said again, clearer.

"That was fifty-three years ago."

He nodded, forcing himself to look up at her, his gaze distant. "I was four years old."

"A bit before my time," Vae teased, trying to lighten the mood.

Emmrich's breath hitched as he looked away, steeling himself. "It was the year the dragons came in force," he winced. "They ravaged the countryside of Orlais and Nevarra, burning villages, razing buildings… and killing thousands."

Vae flinched, a dismal understanding settling in. "Your parents," she whispered.

He nodded, his voice trembling. "I can barely recall their faces, but their screams… I remember those. Vividly." With her help, he sat up, his hands folding in his lap, his head hanging. "I told you... a building collapsed on top of them, but I spared you the details." He paused, his nails biting into his palms. "We fled to the Chantry—my parents and I—along with countless others. It seemed an adequate shelter, at the time." His teeth clinched. "But the dragon unleashed its fire on the towers. The exits collapsed, trapping us inside, and the roof... the roof burst into a blazing inferno."

"Emmrich..." Vae's breath caught as she envisioned the horror. "How did you survive?"

"My parents," he said, his voice breaking. "My father broke a stained-glass window, and my mother... threw me out just before the roof caved in. When I hit the ground I looked back, but—" He trailed off, his eyes welling with tears. "I could hear them. Burning. Screaming. And then... nothing.

"Emmrich... I don't know what to say. I'm so sorry."

"I-I tried to help them." He stuttered, gripping his gloved hand. A searing burn echoed in his scars, from his fingers nearly to his elbow. "I tried to dig them out, but—"

"Enough," Vae begged, cupping his cheeks. "Don't relive it, my love."

He closed his eyes, leaning into her touch. "I've spent my whole life trying to forget that day," he whimpered. "But I can't. It haunts me." He chuckled solemnly. "And now... in the age of dragons, I'm nothing but a coward."

"You're anything but," she said, pulling him into a fierce embrace. "Every day you face your greatest fears, and I admire you for it."

Emmrich didn't argue, the sudden motion, the benevolent praise, all prising the grief from his heart. An eternity passed as he clung to her, his face buried in her chest.

"Thank you for telling me," Vae said, only when his sobs subsided.

Emmrich nodded as he pulled away, his face weary but less burdened. "Thank you, my love. Thank you for coming after me."

"Always," she promised. Then she added, "Taash feels awful about what happened. They're worried you're afraid of them now."

Emmrich paused, then let out a dry but playful huff. "Afraid of their temper, perhaps."

Vae laughed, leaning in for a kiss. "I'll let them know you said that."

"Don't you dare," he warned, melting against her lips.

They closed their eyes, exploring each other's taste; Emmrich's hand gliding up to cradle her neck. Vae's presence was his refuge, her arms his sanctuary. She kissed him deeply, held him tightly, and then she pressed her forehead into his, her fervour giving way to quiet concern.

"Are you all right?" she asked. "Really all right?"

"I am now," he whispered, his blushing smile the proof.

Vae matched his smile, warmly. "Then let's get back inside, before we freeze."

Hand in hand, they rose, their fingers entwining as they walked back towards the path.

[novaursa]

Here's my request: Aerion Brightflame has always been creepily obsessed with his shy quiet sister who has always been scared of him due to his treatment of her. He is determined to take her as his perfect Targaryen bride but he already knows that his family will likely turn down his idea of marrying her. So he decides to sneak into her chambers one late night to claim her as his knowing his family will likely have no other choice but to wed her to him after he sullied her.

When questioned about the incident the next day, being the liar that he is, Aerion tells everyone that his sister came onto him and being the kind caring older brother he is he couldn't reject her. His sister tries to say what really happened but Aerion claims that she's lying because she's too ashamed to admit to her behavior the night before. Their father Maekar has always been willfully ignorant of Aerion's true behavior and so he hesitantly believes Aerion's version of events and lets Aerion wed his sister much to his sister's horror.

Consumed by the Dragon

- Summary: Aerion coveted you since he was a boy, and like the dragon he believed himself to be, he took you.

- Pairing: sister!reader/Aerion Targaryen (Brightflame)

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (Aerion is warning just being him)

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

The corridors of Summerhall are dimly lit as you make your way back to your chambers. The evening air is cool, and you pull your shawl tighter around your shoulders, your footsteps echoing in the empty hall. You’ve always preferred the quiet, the solitude of being alone with your thoughts. Here, away from the prying eyes of the court and the watchful gaze of your parents, you can breathe freely, without the weight of expectations pressing down on you.

But tonight, the silence feels different. Heavy. As if the shadows themselves are watching, waiting.

You turn a corner, your heart skipping a beat when you see him leaning casually against the wall, his hair glowing faintly in the torchlight. Aerion. Your brother, your tormentor. His presence in the quiet hallway feels out of place, as though he has stepped out of a nightmare and into your reality.

“Y/N,” he says, his voice low and smooth, a serpentine hiss that slithers through the darkness. His smile is a slash of white teeth, predatory and hungry. “What a pleasant surprise.”

Your heart pounds, your instincts screaming at you to turn and run, but your feet are rooted to the ground, as if the stone itself has come alive and trapped you in place. “Aerion,” you manage to say, your voice barely more than a whisper. “What are you doing here?”

He pushes off the wall, taking a slow, deliberate step towards you, his eyes never leaving yours. “I was looking for you, little sister,” he murmurs, his tone deceptively gentle. “I’ve been thinking about you.”

There’s something in his gaze, a darkness that makes your skin prickle with unease. You take a step back, your shoulders pressing against the cold stone behind you. “It’s late,” you say, your voice trembling despite your best efforts to sound calm. “I should go.”

“Don’t be so hasty.” He moves closer, his body looming over yours, the heat of him seeping through the thin fabric of your dress. His hand comes up, fingers brushing your cheek, trailing down to your neck, your pulse fluttering wildly beneath his touch. “You’re always running from me, Y/N. Why is that?”

Your breath hitches, your mind racing for an excuse, for anything that will get you away from him. “I’m not—”

“Liar.” His voice is soft, a mocking whisper, as his fingers trail lower, skimming the neckline of your dress. “You’re always so frightened. But I would never hurt you, little dragon. You’re too precious for that.”

The endearment, so similar to the words he will use years later, sends a shiver down your spine, dread pooling in your belly. You try to push his hand away, but he catches your wrist, his grip firm but not painful. “Aerion, please...”

He leans in, his breath warm against your ear, and the words he whispers make your blood run cold. “Do you know what I am, little sister? I’m a dragon, trapped in human flesh. I can feel the fire burning inside me, the power coursing through my veins.” His voice is a dark, dangerous purr, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “One day, I’ll unleash it all. I’ll set the world ablaze, and you... you’ll be right there beside me. My queen. My consort.”

You tremble, your heart thudding painfully against your ribs as he continues, his words wrapping around you like chains. “You and I, we’re meant to be together. Blood of the dragon, bound by fire and flesh. When I am king, you’ll rule at my side. We’ll burn anyone who dares stand against us.”

He’s so close, his body pressing against yours, his scent—smoke and something sharp, metallic—filling your senses, making your head spin. His hand slips lower, his fingers grazing the curve of your breast, and you flinch, panic clawing at your throat.

“Aerion, no—” You try to twist away, but he pins you in place, his hand tightening around your wrist, his body a solid wall of heat and strength. He laughs softly, a low, wicked sound that vibrates through you.

“Shh, little dragon,” he whispers, his lips brushing your neck, sending a wave of revulsion and something else—something dark and unwanted—through you. “You’ll see. You’ll love it, just as I do.” His free hand roams lower, his touch burning through the fabric of your dress, and you gasp, your body rigid with fear and confusion.

He murmurs in your ear, his voice a dark, twisted lullaby. “I’ll make you mine, Y/N. I’ll teach you things that will make your pretty little head spin. I’ll make you scream my name, beg for me to touch you.” His words are crude, filthy, the things he describes making your cheeks burn, your stomach churn with a sick mixture of dread and something you can’t name, something that makes you feel like you’re falling, spinning out of control.

His hand cups you between your legs, his fingers pressing against you through the fabric, and you cry out, your body jerking against his. “Please, stop,” you beg, your voice breaking, tears stinging your eyes.

But he only chuckles, his fingers moving in slow, deliberate circles, his gaze fixed on your face, watching every flicker of fear, of confusion, of helplessness. “You’re so sensitive, little dragon. So responsive.” His breath is hot against your skin, his voice a wicked caress. “Imagine what it will be like when I finally take you. When you’re writhing beneath me, begging for more.”

The things he says are vile, each word a knife twisting in your gut, and you can’t breathe, can’t think, your body trapped between the cold, unyielding wall and the searing heat of him. His fingers press harder, and a strange, terrifying sensation builds within you, something that makes your thighs clench, your breath hitch.

And then, as suddenly as it began, he pulls away, his hand leaving you, the cold air rushing in to replace his touch. You’re left gasping, your body trembling, tears streaming down your cheeks as you stare at him, your mind reeling.

He smiles, a cruel, satisfied curve of his lips as he steps back, his eyes gleaming with dark triumph. “Remember this, little dragon,” he says, his voice soft, almost tender. “Remember what I can do to you. What I will do to you.”

And then he’s gone, his footsteps echoing down the hall, leaving you alone, your body shaking, your heart pounding, your mind spinning with the horror of what just happened, of what he plans to do.

You don’t move for a long time, your back pressed against the cold stone, your knees weak beneath you. When you finally find the strength to stumble back to your chambers, you feel hollow, your body numb, your mind struggling to grasp the full, awful reality of what Aerion has just promised.

You know, deep in your soul, that this is only the beginning.

(a few years later)

The candles in your chamber have long since burnt low. The night is quiet, and the only sound you can hear is your own breathing, soft and steady as you lie in your bed, staring at the canopy above. You try to calm your mind, but your thoughts are restless, swirling like the winds beyond the window. You’ve always been anxious in the dark, your dreams haunted by things you dare not name aloud.

The creak of the door startles you, making your heart lurch painfully in your chest. You sit up, clutching the covers close, your eyes wide as they lock onto the figure standing in the doorway. His presence is unmistakable—the silver-gold hair that shines even in the dim light, the sharp, angular features that are both beautiful and terrifying. Aerion.

Your older brother steps inside, closing the door softly behind him. There is a glint in his dark violet eyes, a hunger that sends a shiver down your spine. You’ve seen that look before, in the darkened halls when he would corner you, whispering words that made your skin crawl and your cheeks burn. You try to speak, but the words catch in your throat, your voice a timid whisper.

"Aerion... what are you doing here?"

He takes a step closer, the distance between you shrinking as he beckons with his hand. “Come to me, little dragon.” His voice is smooth, almost gentle, but there is an edge to it, a dangerous undercurrent that makes your pulse quicken with fear.

You shake your head, your body refusing to move. “Why are you here?” you manage to ask, though your voice trembles, betraying your unease. You’ve always been wary of him, your wariness turning to dread as you grew older and his attention on you became more... intense.

His smile is slow, predatory. “You know why I’m here.” He closes the distance between you in a few strides, his hand shooting out to grab your wrist, pulling you to your feet with a force that makes you stumble against him. His other hand cups your cheek, tilting your head up to meet his gaze. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing over your lips. “So perfect.”

You try to pull away, but his grip tightens, his body pressing against yours. “Aerion, please—” Your plea is cut off as his mouth crashes down on yours, silencing you with a bruising kiss. You freeze, your body going rigid as his lips move against yours, demanding, insistent. His hand slides down your back, pulling you closer, and you can feel the hard lines of his body through the thin fabric of your nightdress.

You tremble, confusion and fear warring within you as his hands begin to tug at your clothes, the cool air of the chamber brushing against your skin as he bares you to his gaze. “Don’t,” you whisper, your voice shaking, but he ignores you, his eyes dark and filled with something that makes your stomach churn.

He undresses you with a kind of reverence, his hands lingering on your skin as if committing every inch of you to memory. You want to scream, to push him away, but your body feels heavy, your limbs unresponsive as he strips away the last of your clothing. You are left standing before him, vulnerable and exposed, your cheeks burning with shame.

“Aerion, please, don’t do this,” you plead, but he only shushes you, his fingers trailing down your arm in a caress that makes you shiver. He pulls off his own clothes with a casual grace, his eyes never leaving yours as he reveals himself to you, the heat of his gaze making your skin prickle.

He nudges you back towards the bed, and you stumble, the mattress catching you as you fall onto it. He follows, his weight pressing you down, his body a cage that you cannot escape. “Spread your legs,” he orders, his voice rough, and you hesitate, your body trembling with fear and something else, something you don’t want to name.

His hands are on you then, parting your thighs, his touch firm and possessive. You gasp as his fingers brush against you, your hips jerking involuntarily at the strange, foreign sensation. “You’re always so sensitive,” he murmurs, his voice filled with a dark amusement. “Have you thought about this, little dragon? Thought about me touching you like this?”

You shake your head, a whimper escaping your lips as his fingers slip inside, the intrusion sending a shock through your body. “No, please—”

“Shh,” he breathes, his lips curling into a smirk. “I’ve seen the way you look at me, the way you blush when I’m near. You want this, don’t you?”

You shake your head again, but your body betrays you, a soft, helpless moan escaping as his fingers move inside you, a strange heat pooling in your belly. “Stop,” you beg, but he only laughs, a low, wicked sound.

“I’m going to make you mine,” he whispers, his mouth descending to your neck, his teeth grazing your skin in a way that makes you shudder. “You’re going to scream my name, little dragon. You’ll see.”

He moves over you, his body pressing you down, and you feel something hard and hot against your thigh. Your eyes widen, panic clawing at your throat as you realize what he’s about to do. “No, Aerion, please, don’t—”

But he’s relentless, his hips driving forward, a sharp, searing pain tearing through you as he enters, breaking the last barrier between you. You cry out, your body arching in agony, but he swallows your scream with a fierce, punishing kiss, his hands pinning your wrists to the bed.

“Quiet, little dragon,” he growls against your lips, his voice a harsh rasp. “You’ll get used to it.” He holds himself still for a moment, his breath ragged, and you feel tears slipping down your cheeks, the pain radiating through you, blotting out everything else.

And then he begins to move, his thrusts deep and powerful, each one driving the air from your lungs. You bite your lip, trying to stifle your cries, but the pain is too much, the sensation overwhelming as he claims you, his body relentless, unyielding.

“Mine,” he whispers, his voice raw with need. “You’re mine, little dragon. No one else will ever touch you like this.”

Your body starts to react against your will, the pain slowly giving way to something else, something dark and shameful. You can feel yourself tightening around him, your hips lifting to meet his, and the realization makes you want to die of shame. How can you be feeling this, how can your body be responding to him?

Aerion’s laughter is low, almost triumphant as he feels your surrender. “Yes, that’s it,” he murmurs, his voice thick with desire. “I knew you’d love this. You were made for me, Y/N.”

His words are filthy, the things he says making your cheeks burn, your skin tingling with mortification and a sick, twisted thrill. He moves faster, his thrusts becoming erratic, his breath harsh in your ear as he drives you both towards the edge.

You can’t stop the sounds that escape you, the cries that mix with his name, your body shuddering beneath him as something inside you breaks, a wave of pleasure crashing over you that leaves you gasping, trembling. Aerion’s voice is a harsh, guttural sound as he follows you over the edge, his body going taut above you, his grip on you almost bruising as he spends himself deep inside you.

He collapses against you, his breath ragged, his heart pounding against yours. You feel broken, shattered in a way that has nothing to do with the physical pain, and everything to do with the man lying atop you, his arms wrapping around you in a possessive embrace.

“You’re mine now, little dragon,” he whispers, his voice soft, almost tender. “No one else will ever have you.”

And as you lie there, your body aching, your mind numb, you know he’s right.

Morning comes too soon, and with it the cold, harsh light of reality. You stir, the ache in your body a bitter reminder of the night before. Aerion’s arm is draped possessively around your waist, his body pressed close, his breath warm against your neck. Panic flares in your chest as you remember, but before you can move, a shrill scream pierces the air.

Your eyes fly open to see your chamber door thrown wide, your handmaids frozen in the doorway, their faces pale with shock and horror. The sight of you and Aerion tangled in the sheets, both bare beneath the thin fabric, is unmistakable. You instinctively try to cover yourself, shame and fear flooding you, but Aerion only laughs softly, his hold on you tightening.

“Good morning, ladies,” he drawls, his tone mocking as he props himself up on one elbow, the blankets slipping to reveal his bare chest. “I trust you’re not too shocked?”

The servants avert their eyes, their hands trembling as they drop to their knees, mumbling apologies and making hurried excuses as they scramble to leave. Your cheeks burn with humiliation, your entire body tense with mortification. Aerion watches them go, amusement dancing in his eyes, his lips curled in a satisfied smile.

“They’ll spread the word,” he says, his voice low and pleased. “It won’t be long before Father hears.” He leans down, his lips brushing your temple. “We’ll be married by the end of this moon, little dragon. Just as I promised.”

You swallow the bile rising in your throat, your heart hammering with a desperate, futile hope that this might still be a nightmare. But the stark reality of Aerion’s weight against you, the soreness between your legs, the mocking light in his eyes—all of it is real. All of it is happening.

You try to push him away, but he only laughs again, a low, mocking sound as he lets you go. “Get dressed, Y/N. We’ll have an audience with our dear father soon enough.” His words are a command, not a request, and you obey, your hands shaking as you fumble with your clothes, feeling his eyes on you the entire time.

The morning drags on in a haze of dread. You are summoned to the throne room, your steps heavy as lead as you make your way through the corridors, Aerion’s presence a dark shadow at your side. When you enter, your father, King Maekar, is seated upon his chair, his face a mask of anger and confusion. His gaze shifts between you and Aerion, his jaw clenched.

“Is it true?” His voice booms through the chamber, the weight of his authority pressing down on you like a physical force. “Have you... done what I’ve heard?”

You open your mouth to speak, to tell him the truth, but Aerion steps forward, his expression a perfect mask of remorse and sincerity. “Father, it’s true,” he says, his voice steady and calm. “But you must understand, it wasn’t as it seems.”

Your heart stops, a cold knot of dread forming in your stomach as he begins to weave his lie, each word like a drop of poison. “Y/N called for me last night,” he says, his eyes meeting Maekar’s without a flicker of guilt. “She... begged me to come to her chambers. She pleaded with me to take her innocence.”

“That’s not true!” The words burst from you before you can stop them, your voice desperate and shaking. “He’s lying! He came to me—I didn’t want this, I—”

“Enough.” Aerion’s voice cuts through yours like a blade, sharp and unforgiving. He turns to you, his expression softening in a way that makes your blood run cold. “She’s only ashamed, Father. Ashamed of what she asked for, what she begged me to do.” He reaches out, his fingers brushing your arm in what might seem a tender gesture to anyone else. But you can feel the threat beneath it, the unspoken command to stay silent.

You shake your head, tears pricking at your eyes as you look at your father, trying to make him see, to understand. “Father, please, you have to believe me—”

“We love each other, Father,” Aerion interrupts, his voice filled with a false warmth, a twisted sincerity. “She told me so last night. She said she loves me more than anything in this world, that she couldn’t bear the thought of being married off to someone else. She asked me to make her mine, and I, loving her as I do, couldn’t deny her.”

You stare at him, your mouth dry, your heart pounding so hard you can scarcely breathe. The audacity, the sheer gall of his lie, leaves you speechless. You glance at your father, seeing the uncertainty, the hesitation in his eyes. He doesn’t want to believe it. You can see that much. But he’s always been willfully blind to Aerion’s true nature, to the darkness that lurks beneath his handsome face.

“Aerion, she’s your sister,” Maekar says finally, his voice weary. “This... this isn’t right.”

Aerion’s smile is a thin, cruel line. “She’s more than my sister. She’s my other half. Our blood is pure, Father, as it should be. We belong together, and she knows it as well as I do.” He glances at you, his eyes glinting with a dangerous light. “Isn’t that right, Y/N?”

You feel as though you’re suffocating, the room closing in around you, your father’s gaze heavy on your shoulders. There’s no escape, no way out of this web of lies that Aerion has spun so effortlessly. You open your mouth to deny it again, to scream the truth, but the look in Aerion’s eyes silences you. It’s a promise, a threat. If you say anything more, if you contradict him, there will be consequences. And you know, deep in your heart, that no one—not even your father—can protect you from him.

“I... I don’t...” Your voice falters, the words choking in your throat.

“See, Father?” Aerion’s smile is triumphant, his grip on your arm tightening. “She’s just overwhelmed, embarrassed. But we love each other. We want to be together. Make it right for us. Let us be married.”

King Maekar rubs his temples, his eyes closing for a long moment as if the weight of the decision is crushing him. When he opens them again, they are filled with resignation. “If this is what you both want...” His voice is slow, reluctant. “Then I will not stand in your way.”

The world seems to tilt, your vision blurring as the full horror of his words sinks in. Aerion’s hand squeezes yours, a mockery of comfort, his smile a dark, twisted thing. “Thank you, Father,” he says, his voice thick with satisfaction. “You’ve made us both very happy.”

You can’t breathe, can’t think, as your father’s decree seals your fate. There’s no escape, no way to turn back. Aerion’s grip is a shackle, his presence a dark shadow that you will never be free of.

“Now, little dragon,” Aerion murmurs in your ear as you leave the throne room, his voice soft, almost tender. “We’ll be together forever. Just as it should be.”

His words are a prison, and you are trapped, caught in the web of his obsession, with no hope of rescue. There is no way out. Not anymore.

[witchthewriter]

𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧𝐣𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐝 | 𝐏𝐓 𝟐

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

a/n: So, I've sort of aged up the younger dragons a bit. Not much. And Tyraxes is now a different colour? I've read a few times that he's a bit purple-ish/red.

ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ | ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ ᴵᴵ

๋࣭⭑ 𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐘 𝐆𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐓 ✶⋆.˚

・Grey Ghost is known for being elusive, shy, and distrustful of humans.

・At first, he might keep his distance, circling his rider warily while growling or hissing softly.

・This would not be due to a lack of care but rather his instinct to observe and assess the situation before taking action.

・His sharp eyes would sweep across the area, and his ears would twitch at the faintest sound, ensuring that the injury wasn’t part of a larger trap or attack.

・In all honesty, Grey Ghost's natural instinct is to flee or hide and this would create conflict with his loyalty to his rider. Only for the first event of such kind.

・This inner turmoil would manifest as pacing, soft growling, or circling his rider protectively while he deliberates his next move.

・But he would never leave you on your own.

・Once Grey Ghost realizes the severity of his rider’s injury and identifies that they are in immediate danger (or distress), his protective instincts would kick in.

・His usual elusive nature would fall away, revealing a dragon fiercely devoted to safeguarding his rider.

・Grey Ghost would position himself over or around you, spreading his massive wings to shield you from any threats. His pale, ghostly form would seemingly blend into his surroundings, making it hard for enemies to target him directly.

・His tail might lash aggressively, and he could stomp the ground or snap his jaws at anyone he perceives as a threat.

・While Grey Ghost is typically non-confrontational, the injury of his rider would awaken a primal rage in him if he suspects foul play. His usual avoidance of human settlements or other dragons would be forgotten in the heat of the moment.

・If Grey Ghost identifies anyone responsible for harming his rider, his vengeance would be swift and terrifying. Despite his elusive reputation, he is still a dragon—a creature of fire and blood. His attacks would be calculated, using his natural camouflage to ambush and devastate his enemies.

・He might nudge you gently with his snout, his usually cold and distant eyes change to warmth and concern. If you're conscious, he might emit soft, almost apologetic rumbles, as if to comfort you.

・Grey Ghost would likely carry you to a more secluded, hidden location, away from prying eyes and potential threats. He would be hyper-aware of your condition, moving carefully to avoid causing them more pain or distress.

・Due to his distrust of humans, Grey Ghost might be reluctant to allow even trusted allies near his rider. He could growl or flare his wings at medics or friends attempting to approach, forcing them to convince him they mean no harm.

・If you are taken away for treatment, Grey Ghost would resist at first. But following you closely or circling above.

・His deep bond with you would make it difficult for him to be apart, even temporarily.

๋࣭⭑ 𝐓𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐎𝐍 ✶⋆.˚

・Known for her beauty, grace, and even temperament. Tessarion's reaction to you being injured would be a mix of deep emotional distress and protective instinct

・Tessarion would be instinctively aware the moment you were injured

・Her voice, often described as musical, would take on a mournful tone that would echo her concern.

・Despite her typically calm and composed demeanor, Tessarion’s protective instincts would flare to life in response to her rider’s injury. She would become a fierce guardian, determined to shield her rider from any further harm.

・Unlike more impulsive dragons, Tessarion’s actions would be measured. She wouldn’t lash out recklessly but would unleash her fury with precision, targeting only those she deemed a threat.

・Her flame, described as a brilliant cobalt blue, would light up the area in controlled bursts, warning enemies to stay away. The colour of the flame would entrance and create fear in allies and foes.

・When the threat is gone, she would become very gentle.

・Tessarion would lower her head to nuzzle her rider, her usually powerful and commanding presence softening in an effort to comfort you. Her large, expressive eyes would convey worry and sorrow, a silent plea for her rider to stay strong.

・If her rider were unconscious or unable to respond, Tessarion might grow increasingly agitated, pacing or flaring her wings in frustration.

・Tessarion’s even temperament would make her more likely than some dragons, to allow trusted allies or medics to approach her rider, yet she would still remain watchful and alert.

・She would recognize the difference between friend and foe, especially if her rider had established a connection with certain individuals. She might lower herself slightly to give others better access to her rider, though she would never stray far.

・After your recovery, Tessarion would definitely become more attentive, sticking closer to you during dangerous situations. She would even keep an eye when resting, ready to act at the first sign of trouble.

・Tessarion’s gentle and noble spirit would lead her to express her devotion in quiet moments. Either through soft purring sounds, affectionate nudges, or simply lying beside her rider, she would show her love in physical ways

๋࣭⭑ 𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐅𝐘𝐑𝐄 ✶⋆.˚

・The Golden, would react to you being injured with a combination of raw emotional and unwavering protectiveness. His regal personality would shape his actions, making his reaction dramatic, furious, and deeply loyal.

・Feeling your pain, Sunfyre would unleash a deep, earth-shaking roar, his golden body gleaming fiercely. The roar would serve as both an expression of his anguish and a warning to anyone nearby.

・Sunfyre’s proud nature would make him defensive of his injured rider, viewing your harm as a personal affront.

・He might thrash his tail or stomp the ground in frustration, his distress manifesting in physical displays. His wings would flare dramatically, creating a display of dominance

・Even trusted allies might find themselves at the mercy of Sunfyre’s suspicion.

・If he perceives any danger to you or identifies those responsible for your injury, his response would be swift and catastrophic.

・Sunfyre’s flames, described as golden and almost as radiant as his scales, would blaze brightly as he targets threats.

・His attacks would be both theatrical and overwhelming, meant to obliterate his enemies and display his dominance.

・Despite his massive size, Sunfyre would lower his head to nudge you softly, emitting low, rumbling sounds that carry both concern and reassurance.

・His golden body would give a comforting heat, as if trying to envelop his rider in his presence and shield them from further pain. This warmth could be soothing, both physically and emotionally.

・He would allow medics or friends to help, but only under his watchful gaze. Any sudden movements or signs of aggression toward his rider would provoke an immediate reaction.

・Sunfyre’s reaction wouldn’t end once his rider is treated. The event would leave a lasting impact on his behavior and deepening his bond with his rider.

・After witnessing their vulnerability, Sunfyre would become even more vigilant and attentive to his rider’s safety. He might hover closer in dangerous situations or insist on staying near them, even when resting.

๋࣭⭑ 𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐗 ✶⋆.˚

・Vermax is a spirited and bold dragon known for his youthful energy and eagerness. His reaction would be a mix of emotional distress, protectiveness, and a strong desire to "fix" the situation in any way he could.

・Vermax’s bond with his rider would alert him instantly to their injury

・Once his initial panic subsided, Vermax’s protective instincts would kick in

・If danger were present, Vermax would attack with swift, almost reckless aggression. His flames would burst forth in short, erratic bursts, his movements quick and sharp as he prioritizes eliminating the threat.

・Once the threat was gone, his focus would stay comepletely on you. Landing, he would choose somewhere with cover and natural protection. Getting as close to the ground as he can, you would hop off of him slowly.

・Then, he would position his body around you, wings spread wide and head lowered defensively. Despite his smaller size compared to older dragons, his posture would convey an undeniable determination to protect.

・Vermax would turn to you, and rub his snout on your cheek. He'd show an endearing, almost puppy-like concern for you.

・The green dragon's boldness might lead him to perceive any movement near his rider as a potential threat. He could snap at allies or growl at medics trying to help, only calming once he senses no ill intent.

・Vermax would refuse to leave his rider’s side, lowering himself so his body is near them, even curling protectively around them if possible.

・You would have to give the command to calm him, and let the others help you.

・Vermax’s reaction to his rider’s injury would leave a lasting impression on both his behavior and their bond. The event would serve as a learning experience, shaping his maturity and deepening his loyalty.

・Vermax would become more protective and attentive in the future, keeping a closer eye on his rider during dangerous situations.

・The trauma of this would influence some of his youthful impulsiveness, making him more cautious and deliberate in his actions.

・The experience would solidify the connection between Vermax and his rider, making him even more devoted and emotionally attuned to their well-being.

๋࣭⭑ 𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐀𝐗 ✶⋆.˚

・A nimble and intelligent dragon known for his responsiveness and strong bond with you, he would react to your injury with swift, calculated actions and visible emotional distress.

・Arrax has incredible intelligence and quick thinking. It would make his reaction precise and effective; perfect for a situation like this.

・His instinct is to release a high-pitched, distressed shriek or a series of short roars. These sounds would carry both his fear for his rider and a warning to any nearby threats.

・Arrax’s intelligence would shine in his ability to rapidly assess the situation and prioritize his rider’s safety.

・He would immediately survey the area for potential dangers, his sharp eyes darting around to locate enemies or hazards.

・Arrax would instinctively place himself between his injured rider and any perceived threat, his smaller but agile body coiling protectively around them.

・Despite his smaller size, Arrax’s protective instincts would be fierce. His loyalty to you would drive him to defend you with every ounce of his ability.

・If he perceived danger, Arrax would strike with precision. Arrax’s agility would allow him to outmaneuver larger or slower threats. He could take to the air, swooping low to distract enemies or disorient them with quick bursts of flame and rapid movements.

・He might use his quick movements to dart at attackers, snapping his jaws or unleashing bursts of flame.

・His flame, though less powerful than that of larger dragons, would be controlled and effective, aimed to intimidate or incapacitate rather than destroy indiscriminately.

・Once he perceived the immediate danger to be neutralized, Arrax would turn his attention fully to his injured rider, showing his concern in ways that reflect his bond with them.

・Arrax would prod you with his snout, letting out soft, crooning sounds as if trying to reassure you.

・He would want to be as close to you as possible. Lowering his body next to you, either trying to keep you warm, be a protective presence and somehow take some of your pain.

・Arrax’s intelligence would make him more likely than some dragons to allow allies or medics to approach you, though his protective instincts would keep him vigilant.

・This first time trauma, would leave Arrax different. One, it would deepen the bond with you, change his behavior by becoming more intune with you.

・As well as becoming more attentive to your well-being, staying closer during dangerous situations and reacting more quickly to threats.

・The experience would mature him

๋࣭⭑ 𝐓𝐘𝐑𝐀𝐗𝐄𝐒 ✶⋆.˚

・Tyraxes has a steady, balanced temperament. While his initial reaction might not be as volatile or dramatic as some dragons, it would be no less intense.

・Unlike more reactive dragons, Tyraxes wouldn’t thrash or panic. Instead, he might move slowly and deliberately his calm demeanor masking the depth of his worry.

・Tyraxes’ protective instincts would emerge fiercely in response to your vulnerability.

・If an immediate threat were present, Tyraxes would act decisively, using his flame or physical strength with calculated precision to neutralize the danger without endangering his rider.

・Tyraxes’ obedient and loyal nature would make him especially attentive to your well-being. He would stay close, offering physical and emotional comfort in his own dragon-like way.

・He'd gently nudge you, his large, expressive eyes reflecting his concern. His body heat would radiate toward you,making you feel at ease.

・Tyraxes might also produce deep, soothing sounds akin to a purr, an instinctive effort to calm and reassure his rider.

・His usually calm demeanor would become even more pronounced as he remained perfectly still, a silent but steadfast presence beside his injured rider.

・Tyraxes’ mature and even-tempered personality would make him more likely to allow trusted allies or medics to assist his rider.

・For strangers or unfamiliar allies, Tyraxes would need convincing.

・Unlike more reactive dragons, Tyraxes’ emotional response would be quieter but no less profound. His loyalty and concern would manifest through his steady nature.

・This occurence would strengthen Tyraxes’ already obedient nature, making him even more responsive to his rider’s commands and needs. It would have left a lasting impression; giving him a boost of confidence and moving him into maturity.

・Tyraxes’ reaction to his rider’s injury would be a masterclass in calm, controlled devotion. His docile nature wouldn’t stop him from fiercely protecting his rider when needed, but his response would always be measured and thoughtful.

๋࣭⭑ 𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍𝐃𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐑 ✶⋆.˚

・Moondancer’s bond with you would allow her to sense your injury instantly, triggering an intense and visible emotional response.

・As a slender, quick, and fiercely spirited dragon, she'd react to your injury with a mix of emotional intensity, relentless protectiveness, and tactical ferocity.

・Moondancer’s body language would display a fierce determination. Her head would lower, her teeth bared, and her tail would flick with calculated aggression, warning anyone to stay back.

・Moondancer’s intelligence and combat style would come into play as she deals with any immediate threats to you.

・Moondancer’s flames would cause chaos and destruction. She'd pursue them relentlessly. Her smaller body alloing her to move through tight areas or challenging terrain.

・Once the immediate danger has passed, Moondancer’s fiery persona would soften as she turns her attention to you. Her loyalty and bond would manifest in tender, almost maternal behavior.

・Moondancer would nuzzle you with her slender snout, her usually sharp and quick movements becoming deliberately slow and gentle.

・She'd then make soothing trills or rumbles, her voice taking on a melodic, comforting quality to reassure you

・Her smaller size would allow her to curl closely around you, creating warmth and care.

・When help arrived, Moondancer may not allow others near, especially if she doesn’t trust them.

・However, if you were conscious and able to calm her, Moondancer would reluctantly allow help, though her watchful eyes would remain fixed on anyone near you

・After the event, Moondancer would become more attentive and protective

・Her fiery temperament might become more pronounced in future conflicts, her determination to prevent another injury to you driving her to act even more fiercely.

・The trauma of seeing you injured would deepen Moondancer’s loyalty, making the bond unshakable and the partnership even stronger.

๋࣭⭑ 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 ✶⋆.˚

・Morning's reaction would reflect her spirited, loyal, and deeply protective nature.

・Her youth and bond with her rider would make her response emotionally intense, with her actions blending fiery determination and tender care.

・The pink and black dragon would let out a piercing, mournful cry—loud and desperate. This cry would be both a call for help and an expression of her anguish.

・Morning would become increasingly protective. It would take over quickly as she moves to shield her rider from further harm, regardless of the danger or odds.

・Quickly, Morning would place herself over or around you, using her slender, agile body to create a protective barrier. Her pink-and-black form, usually elegant, would become a fierce and imposing presence.

・If she needed to defend you, her wings would flare wide, forming a physical barrier. Even in her panic, Morning’s movements would remain precise, ensuring you are fully covered and safe.

・Then her next actions would be absolutely destructive. Swift, agile, she would release a breath of flame. Magenta in colour with white swirling through, it would be intensely hot.

・Precise and targeted, she would strike until they were nought but ashes.

・Once the danger passed, Morning’s demeanor would shift from fiery defender to tender caretaker.

・She would curl her body or tail protectively around you, creating a cocoon-like space of warmth and security.

・Morning would create a calm stillness as she watches over you.

・Her expressive eyes would reflect her concern, locking onto you as if willing you to recover through sheer devotion.

・Morning wouldn't like anyone to come near you; even allies. She may see them as threats - her connection with you means she can feel your pain and she doesn't want you to feel anymore. So, she might growl softly or block access with her body

・When you're getting help, she wouldn't be far. Probably much too close. But she wouldn't be able to leave your side.

・This would leave a lasting impact on her. From then on, she would become much, much more protective of you. It would increase the bond, or might bolster Morning’s confidence and refine her ability to act decisively in future challenges.

𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒅𝒊𝒕:

acrosaurotaurus

yok.sa_art

the_art_of_armmy

kennykwanart

𝒈𝒊𝒇 𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒅𝒊𝒕:

@targaryensource, @gameofthronesdaily, @daenerys-stormborn, @fireandbloodsource, @hvitserkk.

[tanoraqui]

Dungeon Meshi Liveblog: Let's Eat!

(That is, let's live, want, connect... oh, you know what I mean by now)

I like how Yaad and the other living villagers can casually talk with the ghosts, because for all intents and purposes they were also ghosts... In fact, those who stayed and spent centuries going through the patterns of life even though all true meaning had been lost long ago were MORE "ghosts" than those who lost their corporeal forms because they wanted to escape so badly that they went wandering... That's so fuckin' good. I wanna eat this writing.

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Kabru just randomly walking out of the bushes the second Laios starts considering politics...love him. He was summoned. His PR spidey senses were going off.

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look at my boy, establishing his own authority.

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Lol this was me when we moved house last month, and my job was to just stand in the new living room and tell people where to put which box or piece of furniture. It's an important job in a task with a lot of people!

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FUCK YEAH, THAT'S MY MAN! HE LOOKS GREAT!

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fucking love the trope of "one savvy friend in the crowd who deliberately gets a supportive chant going." Of course it's Kabru.

Though it's important to note that the first thing someone called was, "The demon-eater's here!", and there was muttering while no one was entirely sure if that was a good thing or not... Kabru didn't start the rumble of the crowd; the rumble of the crowd is unavoidable, and you have to be aware of that. Laios has always been aware of that, he's just never known what to do about it, and so tried to avoid it. But he's not avoiding it anymore - so Kabru started the hype of the crowd.

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They're both right! In order to eat, you need to kill! A memento of a meal IS a spoil of war!

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They're unhappy bros... /laughing

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Shown: man desperately reassuring himself, and psyching himself up to eat this stupid dragon meat

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DADCHUCK. Istg my father has said the same thing to me.

p.s. oh thank god he's fully dressed again. it was indecent.

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Marcille is so resigned to this, and so...determined to see it as her own choice. "We all agreed", "I've got to go" - and I'm sure she does see it as her own choice, in a way, because this is how the world has always worked and she knows that. She knew that going in. Those who do ancient magic are arrested by the Elves of the West, that's just the "natural" consequence. She might've gotten away with it if she'd gone undiscovered, or if she'd stayed in the dungeon forever, but she didn't - she chose to pursue her craft, to save Falin, and to do everything after that, too, and so she implicitly chose the consequence with it. If it's unfair, well, thinking that changes nothing, so it's better not to think it.

Until Laios is like, "Actually, I might have political power now? And I'm SO goddamn tired of myself and people I love being punished just for being different, and interested in unconventional things. Let's try something."

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WELL-FUCKING-PLAYED! GET THEIR ASSES, LAIOS! It's especially great because I'm pretty sure he knows the answers to all of this by now? Power move!

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Is she sitting there completely nude except for jewelry and a short robe. Icons only, honestly. Though "we have the luxury of time" feels like so much of a threat from an elf.

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Hey, you did objectively defeat him! Okay arguably the Lion did but Laios did it first, he just also then talked to him, and got grabbed by friendly vine-tentacles. You didn't kill him, but that's not what Delgal asked for anyway!

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thinking about that post that observed that Thistle's driving madness was specifically getting Delgal home for dinner, to eat all together as a family again, and he wakes up to the sound of the people of the Golden Kingdom eagerly inviting the (new) king to eat, and him responding...crying... What is lost is lost, but life will go on.

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The moment when a character decides to lie to another character for their own good is always so compelling. The little moral quandary microcosm.

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So Yaad did know something of what passed between Delgal and Thistle, that drove Thistle down the path to dark magic. He know what it was his grandfather blamed himself for.

This is SUCH A GOOD AND QUIET-SAD DEATH SCENE, but as a consummate fan of 'actually, living is much much harder than dying, and much more interesting too', I do like to think Thistle lives and has to...figure out what to do with his life. And that 'what to do with his life' ends up including ancient magic mad science with Marcille.

...But honestly, even though that'd be fun for me, it seems almost cruel to Thistle. He's been alive for so long. Those he loved most are gone. He held the demon back from the surface, trapped in those books, for so long, even if it was in no way whatsoever with the good of the world in mind. If anyone deserves this peaceful death in (what he thinks are) his brother's forgiving arms, it's him.

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Unfortunately, my love, as has been ceaselessly proven in this story: that's life.

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Marcille has caught onto one of the major themes! However, this story still isn't in favor of afternoon special Moral of the Story - not of letting the characters wrap things up with a bow, at least. You just go on living and wanting and learning about and connecting with and killing new things, forever! That's how it goes! You never know everything and you're always a little bit starving!

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I really love this grumpy old man, and I want him to stick around and be one of Laios's advisors. He's an old gnome, he'll die as soon as an average tallman would anyway.

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This is a) very touching coming from Mithrun, who is only just regaining his own will to live, and b) almost tautalogical in this story EXCEPT that it is also clear that merely "wanting" doesn't mean you get to continue to live, it only means that you're alive in this moment - you also need to want to live MORE than whatever's trying to kill you wants to live.

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GREAT VISUALS!

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And then it's so small, so small that she could leave it behind entirely but Falin is still so kind that she picks it up anyway! Falin who looks at everyone and everything - ghosts and brothers and mad mages and dead dragons, the latter of whom were both violently oppressing her soul - and thinkgs "I gotta help." She's so good!

I'm really going to need to write a like 2k post-canon character study about how Falin has part of the spirit of a dragon in her chest which unfurls while she travels abroad and curls up again and hides when she's home with Marcille and especially with Laios, and how it's a metaphor for her own independence but also literally there is the spirit of a dragon. At the end of it she figures out how to nurture and commune with the dragon enough to have her own flight-capable wings.

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THIS IS SO FUCKING COOL-LOOKING. AUTOPHAGIC SELF-CREATION FOR THE FUCKING WIN!!

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YYEEEAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!

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fuck it, have a collage, because this bitch-ass website is about to cut off my photos-per-post. It can't HANDLE the sheet joy of Falin resurrection reunion hugs!!

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so many people love her, or at least are really emotionally invested in this now!! /sobs

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Lmaoooo

Laios: wracked with food poisoning because he ate raw walking mushroom Falin: great distress! Marcille: trying very hard to help, also thinking sooo hard that He Is An Idiot. [btw I love how it looks like she takes up holding her hair back with a band] Kabru: having his weekly moment, as he has for the past many years and will continue to have until he dies, of wondering if he shouldn't really have just killed this guy rather than let him become king

Kabru definitely wrote this whole ending narration btw. This is his press release from like 40 years in the future. And those kids! An orc kid and a kobold kid, and zooming out to show kids of other races, all playing together and going to lunch together!!

And then they all lived, and hungered and ate and killed and wanted and sought understanding and connected with one another and were part of the great circle of life, as happily ever after as one can get.

This story truly was delicious...in dungeon!

[detdeldragons]

Bad Batch as Summer Camp Counselors.

I've never been to summer camp, but I think this is right. I just want them to retire and find Tech alive and be happy at summer camp.

[immortalbumblebee]

Chapter 22: Weakest Link

Happy Christmas Eve to all!!

I’m actually writing this on my phone because I left my laptop at home while visiting family…but inspiration hits!

I hope you all enjoy, and have an excellent holiday season, no matter what you celebrate!

Masterlist

One of the traders, a stout man from Shurima, leaned forward, speaking through clenched teeth, a lit cigar dangling from his mouth. Each word was punctuated by a puff of acrid smoke curling around his face like a dragon. “We’re the ones risking our necks here, gents. Sneaking supplies past Piltover’s checkpoints? It ain’t just dangerous—it’s suicidal.” He twisted the cigar to the other side of his mouth, a fresh plume of smoke spilling into the air. “We need more coin up front, or the shipments stop. End of story.”

Sevika was on her feet before anyone else could react, the dull thud of her fist hitting the table echoing in the dimly lit room. “And what? You think we’re swimming in cogs down here?” she snarled, her voice sharp enough to cut steel.

You couldn’t help but groan quietly, the weight of hours spent in this stalemate grinding against your patience. Exhaustion tugged at every muscle, but what else was new? From your spot at the table, you watched the scene unfold, arms crossed, eyes boring into the line of traders opposite you. Next to you, Benzo’s posture was tense, his weariness written as plainly on his face as on his rumpled shirt—usually crisp and professional, now missing a button and sporting deep wrinkles. You move to speak, but Benzo motions for you to stay back.

“Enough,” Benzo snapped, his voice carrying the authority of someone who had been in these trenches too long. Sevika froze, her hand still planted on the table, fingers twitching as if daring someone to challenge her.

Benzo leaned forward, the dim light catching the early creases forming on his forehead. “We all know what’s at stake. If this deal collapses, Zaun suffers—everyone suffers. Your risk is real, Urhak, no one’s denying that. But don’t act like your supply chain doesn’t depend on us just as much as we depend on you. We all bleed when Piltover milks us dry.”

Urhak, the Shuriman trader, removed the cigar from his mouth with a slow, deliberate motion, his narrowed eyes glinting like polished amber. “And we’re just supposed to bleed a little more for your rebellion? Hah.”

“Rebellion?” Another trader, a wiry man from Bilgewater, cut in with a bark of laughter. “We don’ give two shites about yer rebellion. It don’t feed our men. And wit’ Enforcers blockin’ every dock in Piltover, we’re startin’ to wonder if yer deals’r worth the trouble.”

Benzo didn’t flinch, his tone steady but urgent. “We need compromise. Protection for your shipments—more bodies on the ground to make sure they get through. In return, you cut back on the money demands and prioritize essentials: food, medicine, guns. The bare necessities.”

Another trader, a green-haired woman, scoffs. “Protection? Against Piltover? That’s a death sentence.”

“That’s what this revolution’s all about.” Felicia stepped forward, her voice calm but firm, the glint of determination in her eyes unmistakable. “We know what we’re doing. Smaller convoys. Decoys to draw the Enforcers away. It works—we’ve done it before, and you’ve seen the results.”

The Bilgewater trader snorted. “Aye, and look how far it’s gotten ya. Vander and Silco’ve been eatin’ Stillwater slop for what—two years now? Is that the kind of security you’re sellin’ us?”

Alright, you’d had enough.

Before anyone could react, you flicked your wrist, sending a razor-thin shard of metal slicing through the air. Urhak’s cigar split cleanly in two, the lit end tumbling to the floor in a hiss of ash. A tense silence followed as some of the traders instinctively reached for their weapons, but you were faster. A wave of your hands, and their firearms clattered to the floor, skidding out of reach.

You stood, your presence commanding, your voice cutting through the room like a blade. “My associate has been incredibly patient,” you said, the words slow and deliberate. “But I’m done wasting time. Let’s be real—Zaun makes up two-thirds of your trade profits, even with the dock blockades. If you think you can do better elsewhere, go ahead. Pack up your mediocre goods and hawk them to some backwater village. We’ll find traders who don’t waste our gods-damned time.”

The weight of your words settled over the room like a storm cloud. One by one, the traders hesitated, their bravado dimming under your glare.

Benzo turns to you, his movements measured, his eyes narrowing as he leans ever so slightly in your direction. “I thought I told you I had this,” he mutters, voice just loud enough for you to catch.

You meet his gaze briefly and roll your shoulders, the gesture as nonchalant as it was deliberate.

“Urhak breaks the lingering tension, his voice rumbling through the room like distant thunder. “We’ll need guarantees,” he says, his words deliberate. His gaze flickers to his colleagues, who murmur in low tones, their unease palpable. “If the patrols catch us, there won’t be a second chance. No excuses, no do-overs.”

Benzo exhales sharply, but his frustration is aimed squarely at you before he turns back to the table. His composure is a mask, slipping on just long enough to face the traders. “We’ll rotate our people to guard the shipments,” he says, his voice steady. “Small teams, low-profile. No risks we don’t need to take. You hold up your end, and we’ll hold up ours.”

The traders fall into another bout of quiet deliberation, voices hushed but sharp. The Bilgewater representative eventually shrugs. “Don’t be expectin’ miracles. You don’ give us what we need, don’ blame us when it all falls apart.”

Sevika finally lifts her fist from the table, the faint outline of her knuckles still imprinted in the wood. Benzo straightens his shoulders, reclaiming his usual air of authority, and folds his hands in front of him. “Nobody’s blaming anyone,” he says firmly, his businessman tone smooth but grounded. “We’re all in this together. That’s the point.”

The meeting concluded with a fragile patchwork of strained agreements, punctuated by supplementary deals to placate the traders’ endless demands. As they filed out, heading toward the ships that awaited them at the docks, your inner circle lingered. Quiet murmurs filled the air, the tension from the negotiation still simmering in their voices.

You sat apart from the others, your focus buried in your worn notebook. The faint scratch of pencil against paper was a welcome distraction as you tallied the promised inventory of firearms, mentally accounting for time and resources. They’d need inspections, repairs, and modifications—because they never arrived in workable condition.

With a sharp snap, you closed the book and rubbed a hand over your face, dragging your palm down to stifle the mounting frustration. Your new bandana lay limp around your neck, black and distinctly free of bloodstains. You were nearly 25 now… Two years. Two years since they were gone, and it already felt like a lifetime. In their absence, the weight of Zaun had pressed heavier on you than ever.

Piltover’s interference had worsened tenfold. No crossing the bridge without papers. Mandated curfews. Power outages that choked entire districts in darkness. The blockade at the docks was a vice on your trade, tightening every day. And the promenade? A ghost of its former self, crawling with Enforcers. The fighting rings were shut down. Businesses folded under the strain.

Zaunites had always been resilient, but now they were desperate. And desperate people fought back—often recklessly. Without resources, without backup, rebellion wasn’t a fire—it was a spark struggling to catch in the damp.

You adjusted the oversized vest draped over your shoulders. It hung loose, three sizes too big, and though his scent had long since faded, you still found comfort in wearing it. A small fragment of the past. A piece of a world that no longer existed.

“I told you I had this.” Benzo’s voice cut through your thoughts, sharp with annoyance. His frustration lanced through your skull, worsening the pounding ache that had been building all evening. You really needed coffee.

“Do you have any idea how sideways that could’ve gone?” he continued, his tone rising just enough to set your teeth on edge.

You snapped your gaze to him, already irritated. “They still think they can push us around,” you shot back, stepping closer, your voice rising to match his. “And you let them!”

Benzo’s jaw tightened, his teeth grinding audibly. “We don’t have the luxury of throwing our weight around without consequences,” he said, his voice low and hard. “And we can’t afford another enemy right now.” He turned abruptly, his eyes landing on Sevika. “Go keep an eye on them. Run security on their ships if you have to.”

Sevika lingered, her gaze flicking between the two of you, as though calculating whether to push back. After a moment, she sighed and turned toward the door. “For what it’s worth, I’m with Min.”

“I don’t recall asking,” Benzo shot after her. His voice was sharper than necessary, and it drew a pointed look from both you and Felicia.

Before tempers could flare further, Connol stepped in, his calm, even tone cutting through the tension. “Fighting between ourselves isn’t fixing a damn thing,” he said firmly, stepping between you and Benzo. His broad hands rested lightly on your shoulders, as if grounding both of you. “In case anyone’s forgotten, we don’t have the manpower to be a divided force right now.”

Benzo exhaled sharply, his shoulders dropping as his anger softened into resignation. He looked at you again, and you met his gaze.

For a long, silent moment, the two of you simply stared at each other. His exhaustion mirrored yours, the weight of Zaun evident in every line of his face. His eyes, usually sharp with purpose, were dull—drained beyond recognition. You understood the feeling all too well.

Neither of you was Vander. Neither of you was Silco. They had been an unstoppable force, even when they were at each other’s throats. You hadn’t fully understood the weight of their positions until they were gone, ripped from Zaun and sent to rot in Piltover’s cells. Now it was on you and Benzo to pick up the pieces, to hold together the tattered remnants of a revolution that sometimes felt like it was bleeding out faster than you could save it.

The silence stretched, heavy with unspoken words, until Benzo finally looked away. He turned to the others, quietly issuing instructions as Felicia stepped forward to lend her voice to the plan.

And you? You tightened the vest around you again, steeling yourself for what came next. Because there was always something.

“I’m sorry,” you say quietly once the others have filtered out, leaving just the two of you. The room feels heavier without the murmured discussions to fill the space. You glance at Benzo, guilt threading through your voice. “You’re right. I was reckless. Stupid.”

Benzo doesn’t respond immediately. He leans against the table, his arms crossed, staring at a spot somewhere past your shoulder. Finally, he exhales and shrugs. “You got the job done,” he says simply, though there’s no accusation in his tone. After a moment, he unfolds his arms and extends a hand toward you. “I know you miss him. I do too.”

“I miss them both,” you admit, your voice cracking as you clasp his hand. But instead of the firm handshake he seems to expect, you use the gesture to pull him into a tight hug.

Benzo doesn’t hesitate. His broad, stocky arms envelop you, grounding you in a way that words never could. He’s thinner now than he used to be, you knew you were too, the stress of the past two years carving its toll into both of you, but his hugs still feel like home. They always had, since that first day in the dump.

You press your face into his shoulder, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “I don’t know how much longer I can do this without them, Benz…”

His arms tighten around you, a protective squeeze that’s equal parts comfort and reassurance. “I know, Fishie,” he murmurs.

***

One might imagine that living in a warring nation would be a constant thrill, every day a unique and dangerous adventure. And in some ways, they’d be right. But when every waking moment is consumed by survival, by the relentless grind of uncertainty and danger, the days begin to blur together.

Nights are spent patrolling the crumbling streets, ducking under shadows to avoid the cold, watchful eyes of curfew enforcers. By day, there’s the ceaseless clatter of tools as you work on gun engineering and mechanics in the dim light of your makeshift livingroom workshop. Taking care of your parents took considerable time, even with Mikaels improving health. Not to mention actual shift work at the factories you were still employed at. The bridge barriers made it impossible to continue working at Morichi’s, but you still had to make a living. So you took what you could on this side of the bridge, toiling in the suffocating heat and deafening noise of the factories, each shift bleeding into the next.

The loss of Vander and Silco’s leadership wasn’t the only major impact of their incarceration. The loss of income was a huge hit to your day-to-day lives. You managed to scrape by Mikael’s treatments, but food was steadily more expensive, funds were running dry. Numbers were already tight, but now you almost felt strangled.

And then there was the tunnel.

The one project that felt like you were finally doing something that mattered, something right. In a world that seemed to be crumbling at the seams, the tunnel was your proof that not everything had to fall apart.

Engineering the damn thing had been an endeavour. You and Connol had spent countless sleepless nights over that past 24 months slogging through its damp, claustrophobic depths. Every leak you patched, every weak point you reinforced, felt like a small victory.

The leaks were relentless at first. Water seeped in from all sides, turning the tunnel into a slick, treacherous path. You and Connor worked in knee-deep muck, sealing crack after crack until your arms ached and your fingers felt raw. And then there were the weak points—entire sections that seemed one heavy step away from collapse. You reinforced them with steel sheets that you bent and shaped with your own hands.

Months turned into years as the project evolved. It started as a desperate plan to bypass Piltover’s stranglehold, but it became something greater. A lifeline. A sanctuary. It was Felicia who had the brilliant idea of connecting the tunnel to a long-abandoned mining cavern nearby. She and a few of the older minors had mapped the area, their experience with the mines proving invaluable. The cavern was vast, its winding corridors a maze that could confuse even the most determined enforcer. With the connection established, the tunnel transformed into a network—a hidden artery for Zaun. Connected to the mines, but far enough away as to allow for passage without much air corruption.

Slipping into the manhole that led to the tunnel, the muffled sounds of labor greeted you before your boots even hit the ground. The faint echo of crates scraping against the floor, grunts of effort, and low conversations filled the air. It didn’t surprise you to find Felicia already there, gesturing sharply as she directed a small group maneuvering heavy-looking crates toward the mining hub.

“How’s it looking?” you asked, sliding down the ladder and brushing the grime from your hands. Your eyes quickly scanned the wooden crates stacked against the damp tunnel walls.

Felicia turned to face you, her expression softening the moment she saw you. In her arms, a familiar blue-haired toddler bounced excitedly, letting out a piercing screech when her wide, blue-grey eyes landed on you. Powder squirmed and made grabbing motions with her chubby hands, her little braids bobbing wildly.

“Everything’s going smooth so far,” Felicia replied, her voice heavy with skepticism. She shifted Powder on her hip with practiced ease. “Although, little miss over here has been trying to make mischief. As usual.”

You couldn’t help but grin. “Mischief? Her? Nah, not my Pow-Pow,” you said, holding your hands out. Powder immediately launched herself at you with an excited squeal, her tiny arms wrapping tightly around your neck as if she hadn’t seen you in months. You pressed a kiss into her hair, the faint smell of damp tunnel and baby soap filling your nose. “Perfect little angel, you are,” you murmured, gently swaying her in your arms.

Felicia scoffed and rubbed a hand over her face, exhaustion carving lines into her features. “Easy for you to say. She’s been trying to climb the crates all morning. Nearly toppled a stack of rations.”

You chuckled, the sound dry. Powder babbled in your arms, reaching for the pen you always kept tucked into your pocket. You let her grab at it, her tiny fingers closing around the object with triumph. She brought it to her mouth, and you caught her hand before she could start chewing.

“How’s the moving going?” you asked, shifting Powder’s weight onto your hip while you glanced back at the crates.

“The firearms are heading to the mining hub, like you wanted,” Felicia said, motioning to the group lugging the heaviest crates. “I’m splitting the rations and water supply—half near the residential opening so they’re easier to access if things get tight.”

“Smart,” you said, pulling out your notebook one-handed. You jotted a quick note, using Powder’s squirming form as a makeshift desk. Her hand reached for the page, and you tilted it out of her grasp just in time. “And you? How are you holding up?”

Felicia sighed, her shoulders slumping as though the question alone carried weight. “The chem-barons are brutal, Min. You should see the factories down there. People are working longer hours for less pay—and those are the lucky ones who still have jobs.” She ran a tired hand through her hair, her thumb brushing over Powder’s cheek. “It’s hard. Really hard.”

Your chest tightened. You glanced down at Powder, who had abandoned the pen and was now tugging at the frayed edge of your vest. “I know,” you said softly. “You’re not alone in that. If you need a break, come by for meals. Seriously, Fel, we’ll make it work.”

Felicia let out a noise that was half-laugh, half-scoff. “Oh, sure. And when exactly are you finding time to cook for me, Nanny Min? When was the last time you had a proper meal? Or some sleep? No offense, sweetheart, but you look like death.”

You shrugged, the motion heavier than you intended. “What else is new?” you muttered. The exhaustion was bone-deep, clinging to you like the dampness in the air. You weren’t sure you even remembered what it felt like to wake up rested.

Felicia placed a firm hand on your shoulder. “Min, I mean it. You can’t keep burning yourself out like this. We need you. Zaun needs you. But you’re no use to anyone if you collapse. After Niya…we can’t lose you too.”

“I’m handling it,” you said, the response automatic and hollow.

“Are you?”

You hesitated, your grip tightening slightly on Powder. The toddler hummed, oblivious to the tension, and grabbed at your face with sticky fingers. Her palm landed on your nose, making you sigh and shake your head.

“Trust me, Fel. You’re not going to say anything I haven’t already heard from Benzo, Sevika, Mikael, Babette, or my mother,” you said, flicking the pen from Powder’s grasp and sliding it back into your pocket. “I’m handling it.”

Felicia didn’t look convinced, but she let out a low sigh and dropped her hand from your shoulder. “Just… don’t let it break you, Min,” she said. Her tone softened, but the concern in her eyes remained sharp.

You didn’t respond, instead watching as she turned back to the crates and started issuing instructions again. The room settled into a familiar rhythm: the scrape of crates, the shuffle of boots, and Powder’s soft babbling filling the space. But Felicia’s words lingered, heavy in the air.

When had you last eaten a real meal? Or slept more than a few hours? The question tugged at the edges of your mind, but you pushed it away. There wasn’t time for that. There was never time.

“Come on, Pow-Pow,” you murmured, brushing a hand over the toddler’s braids. She looked up at you with a toothy grin, and for a moment, her laughter broke through the weight pressing on your chest.

The echoes of shuffling crates and the rhythmic commands of Felicia's voice faded as you continued to sway Powder in your arms, the hum of the tunnel now a steady background. For a fleeting moment, everything felt almost... normal. As if this could be a day not haunted by the weight of survival or the ghosts of lost leaders. But the crackling tension in the air wouldn’t let it last long.

You glance over at Felicia, her tired yet determined expression etched into your memory. As she coordinates the laborers, directing them with a precision that only comes from years of doing what’s needed to keep Zaun's pulse alive, you feel a surge of admiration. She was right—we need to do this, but at what cost?

Suddenly, the muffled clatter of boots approaching breaks the fragile silence. A figure steps into the tunnel’s dim light, the shadows catching on his messenger uniform–like the one Silco used to wear. You recognize him as a regular, one good at his job. His presence shatters the illusion of calm.

“Min,” his eyes lock onto yours and immediately, you set Powder down, although she stays latched onto your leg. “Been trying to track you down for ages.”

You cross your arms, straightening your shoulders. “What’s wrong?”

“New notice from Topside, get a load of this.” He reached into his vest, pulling out a crumpled piece of parchment that he thrust toward you without hesitation.

You took the note, unfolding it with a quick snap of your fingers. The seal was unmistakable—Piltover. Your stomach churned as you scanned the words.

“In light of the escalating unrest within the Undercity, Piltover’s High Council has decided to implement a tax on all businesses operating in the lower sectors of Zaun. The tax will be enforced immediately. Failure to comply will result in fines, asset seizures, and the possibility of further punitive actions. Tax rates will be determined based on business size and output. Enforcers will begin inspections at once.”

“For fuck’s sake!” The words tore out of you, raw and jagged. You hadn’t meant for the rage to bubble over so violently, but once it started, there was no stopping it. The crumpled parchment landed on the ground with a dull thud as you hurled it, your chest heaving.

Your hands shot up, threading through your short-cropped hair, pulling lightly at the strands as if the pain might somehow ground you. You clenched your jaw, trying desperately to keep the flood of frustration from overwhelming you completely. But it wasn’t working. Every breath felt sharp, shallow, like it wasn’t enough to fill your lungs. The metallic hum of the tunnel around you—normally a distant comfort—felt suffocating, oppressive, as if the walls themselves were closing in.

Why does it feel like everything is falling apart?

Your thoughts spiraled, one after another, crashing like waves in a storm. The tax, the factory work, the constant surveillance, the dwindling resources—it was relentless. No matter how hard you worked, no matter how much you sacrificed, it was never enough. Zaun was slipping through your fingers, piece by piece.

Then you felt it—a tiny hand resting gently on your thigh. It was a touch so light, so soft, that it pulled you out of your storm like a lifeline.

You looked down to find Powder gazing up at you, her big, round eyes shimmering with concern. Her expression was earnest, her little brows slightly furrowed as if she could feel the weight pressing on you, even if she didn’t fully understand it.

“Min-Min,” she cooed, her voice soft, almost like a dove’s call. She stretched her arms up toward you, her small fingers opening and closing in that familiar “grabby hands” motion. It was a plea for comfort, but it felt more like she was offering it.

Your heart cracked at the sight. The tightness in your chest, the pounding in your head—all of it eased, just a little, under her gaze. Powder had always had this uncanny ability to cut through the noise, to remind you of the parts of the world still worth fighting for. Still worth protecting.

You glanced at Felicia, who was now carefully unfolding the paper you had crumpled and tossed in frustration. She scanned the words, her lips moving slightly as she read them to herself. Her nose wrinkled in disgust as the weight of the decree sank in.

“Can they do this?” she asked, her voice tinged with disbelief.

“They’re Pilties,” you spat, the venom in your tone sharp enough to cut. “They think they can do whatever they damn well please.”

Felicia shook her head, slipping the paper into her pocket with a grim expression. “Nobody’s going to be happy about this. The businesses are barely hanging on as it is.”

You turned to the messenger, who shifted nervously under your gaze. “Who knows about this so far?”

The young man shrugged, his wiry frame taut with unease. “Notices are being sent out all over as we speak. Won’t be long before everyone hears.”

“Shit,” you muttered under your breath, exhaling sharply. Your hand instinctively found Powder’s head, your fingers ruffling her messy blue-tinted strands. She babbled contentedly, oblivious to the tension simmering around her.

Your eyes stayed on Felicia and the messenger. “Alright. Time to play crowd control. Spread the word that I’ll be on the Promenade if anyone needs to talk. And tell folks that if anyone’s going hungry tonight, I’ll have a soup on by dusk. Empty bellies are welcome.”

You made a move to leave, already thinking ahead, but the messenger stepped forward, his words rushed and urgent. “There’s something else, ma’am.”

You froze, your stomach tightening. “What is it?”

“A barge,” he said quickly. “Big one. Seen docking from Stillwater.”

The mention of the prison made your heart leap into your throat, your mind racing to places you didn’t want it to go.

“Dropping off or receiving?” you asked, your voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through you.

“Not sure,” he admitted, shaking his head. “Didn’t get close enough to see.”

You clenched your jaw, nodding sharply. “One emergency at a time,” you muttered to yourself before addressing him again. “Keep me updated. The moment you hear anything more, you come find me.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the messenger said, giving a quick nod.

Without wasting another second, you turned and headed off. There was no time to dwell on the possibilities—not with a city on the verge of uproar and lives that needed saving. Your boots echoed against the damp tunnel floor as you strode forward, determination hardening your expression. Zaun had always been a place of resilience, and no decree from Piltover—or mysterious barge from Stillwater—was going to change that.

***

“I’m not cut out for this, Benz,” you mumbled, sliding down the door until you were sitting on the floor, your head resting against the cool surface.

The weight of the night pressed down on you as you shut the door behind you, the muffled sounds of the city outside faded into the background, leaving only the quiet hum of the apartment. It was almost dawn, and exhaustion clung to you like a second skin. People had filtered in and out all night, seeking reassurance, venting frustrations, or just looking for a hot meal. Now, a kitchen full of dirty soup bowls and spoons awaited you, each one feeling like another hit to your dwindling energy.

Benzo, sprawled out on the worn couch, was mid-way through unbuttoning his shirt. The fabric hung loose around his frame as he glanced at you, his expression heavy with his own exhaustion. “I know, Fishie,” he said, his voice quiet but steady. “But what are you going to do?”

You groaned, rubbing your hands over your face. “…Cry?” The word came out half-serious, half-desperate as you stumbled forward, collapsing onto the dusty carpet. The coffee table—your makeshift workshop—rattled slightly, its surface cluttered with dismantled trinkets and half-repaired pistols. You curled up on your side, feeling the sting of your aching muscles as they protested the movement.

Benzo let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head as he leaned back into the couch. “Nah, not you,” he said, glancing over at you with a faint grin breaking through his exhaustion. “You’re too damn stubborn for that.”

You let out a low groan, flipping over onto your back. The musty ceiling above you stared back, a blank canvas for your frayed thoughts. You didn’t even have the energy for a half-decent clap back. “Says you, asshole,” you muttered, your voice barely more than a grumble.

“Hey.” His tone shifted, drawing your attention. You lifted your head slightly to meet his eyes, finding his expression unexpectedly serious. “You’re doing just fine, Fishie. Honest. We’ve got this. The guys would be proud of you—of us.”

His words hung in the air, filling the silence that followed. You stared at him for a long moment before letting out a loud sigh, letting your head fall back against the floor. The ache in your body felt heavier, but his words planted something small—a flicker of hope you didn’t have the energy to acknowledge just yet.

Instead, you turned your gaze back to the ceiling, letting the stillness settle over you both. You didn’t respond, but Benzo didn’t push. The quiet understanding between you spoke louder than words ever could.

“You ever wonder,” you begin, your voice uncertain, the words slipping out before you can stop them. “What would’ve happened if we hadn’t met that day? Back in the trash pit?”

Benzo pauses, his hand instinctively digging into his pocket for a cigar. “Not really,” he says, voice casual as he fishes it out. “Why do you ask?”

You shrug, drawing your knees to your chest as you sit on the carpet. “I mean…it completely changed my life. I was a nobody, some Bilgewater rat fresh off the boat. And now…”

The soft click of his lighter cuts through the stillness as he lights the cigar, the faint glow flickering in the dim room. He takes a long drag, exhaling a ribbon of smoke that curls lazily into the air. The familiar scent fills the space, oddly comforting.

“You’re on our island of misfit toys. Closest thing our people have to a council.” His voice is steady, almost teasing, but there’s a weight behind it. He hums thoughtfully, the cigar bobbing slightly between his fingers. “You should be proud, Fishie. This revolution wouldn’t be the same without you.”

You frown, resting your chin on your knees. “I don’t know about that,” you murmur.

Benzo’s gaze sharpens as he leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. “You’re the smartest out of all of us, Fishie,” he says firmly. “Even with my charm and Silco’s head for strategy. You think any of us have anything close to that engineering brain of yours?”

“I’m good with gears,” you reply, shrugging again. “But…I don’t think I’m supposed to be a leader. All this responsibility? Everyone relying on me, looking to me for answers…I don’t know how Vander and Silco do it. They make it look so…effortless.”

Benzo leans back again, taking another drag from his cigar. He watches the smoke swirl for a long moment, as if searching for the right words. Then, he reaches out, extending the cigar to you.

“Well then,” he hums, a small, reassuring smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “I guess it’s a good thing you’ll always have one of us to help you along the way, right? We’re in this together, Min. I can promise you that much.”

You stare at the offered cigar for a moment before taking it, holding it delicately between your fingers. The warmth of the ember radiates against your skin, grounding you. You look at him, his steady presence like a lifeline in the chaos, and for the first time that night, you allow yourself to breathe.

“Thanks, Benz,” you whisper, your voice barely audible, but he nods anyway. It’s a quiet understanding, a bond that doesn’t need words to be felt. In this crumbling world, you weren’t alone. And for now, that was enough.

The apartment was silent, save for the faint crackle of Benzo’s cigar and the occasional groan of the pipes in the walls. The world outside was stirring—Zaun never really slept—but for a moment, here in this little bubble of exhaustion and cigarette smoke, everything felt still.

Benzo stretched out on the couch, head tipped back, his eyes half-closed as he murmured, “You’re gonna burn out that brain of yours, Fishie, if you don’t sleep soon.”

“I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” you replied automatically, the corner of your mouth twitching into a faint smirk.

“Don’t tempt fate,” he muttered, a hint of humor slipping into his voice.

Just as the quiet began to settle in again, a sharp knock echoed through the apartment. It wasn’t hesitant or unsure like the knocks you’d been getting all night—it was firm, deliberate, almost impatient.

Benzo glanced toward the door, his brow furrowing. “Someone’s got timing, I’ll give them that.”

You sighed, pushing yourself up from the floor with a groan. “It’s probably someone from the Promenade,” you said, brushing off the dust from your trousers. “Maybe they didn’t get the memo I’m done playing soup kitchen for the night.”

Benzo waved a lazy hand, settling deeper into the couch. “Your circus, your monkeys.”

You rolled your eyes and made your way to the door, rubbing at your tired eyes. “Alright, alright,” you called as you turned the latch. “I’m here, I’m here—”

The door swung open, and your words caught in your throat.

Standing in the doorway were two figures you thought you’d never see again, not outside of Stillwater’s cold, suffocating grip. Vander, towering and solid as ever, his broad shoulders nearly filling the doorframe. And Silco, sharp and composed, his eyes glinting with that calculating gleam you’d never forgotten.

The world seemed to tilt for a moment, your mind struggling to process what you were seeing. They weren’t supposed to be here. They couldn’t be here.

“Minerva,” Silco said smoothly, his voice a razor’s edge of familiarity. His lips curved into a faint, sardonic smile as if he was amused by your stunned silence.

But it was Vander who drew your attention, his warm, familiar presence anchoring you to the moment. He stepped forward, just enough for the dim light of the apartment to catch the edges of his worn face. His gaze softened as it met yours, and he smiled down at you, that same reassuring, unshakable smile you’d longed to see for two years.

“Hello, Minnie,” he said, his voice rumbling low and steady like the earth itself. “Miss me?”

[the-fiction-witch]

The Morning After P5

Media - House Of The Dragon Character - Jacaerys Velaryon Couple - Jacaerys X Reader Reader - (OC) Princess Elaena (Daughter of Viserys and Alicent, Arranged Marriage) Rating - 18 + love bites/ biting / kissing / breast play / nipple play / nipple sucking / dom reader / 'pet' / pinv / raw sex / orgasm / Word Count - 1446

Jacaerys obeyed her silent command, moving forward to comply with her gesture, his body moving closer to hers, his eyes watching her intently, waiting for her next instruction.

Elaena smirked and playfully snapped her teeth at him before she pulled his hair down so he kissed her chest

Jacaerys couldn't help but chuckle, his lips coming into contact with her chest. He started to kiss and nip at her skin, his hands coming up to caress her sides,

she squirmed a little gasping as she arched her back "Kiss.. and lick... Like you did down there pet"

Jacaerys obeyed her command without hesitation, He left a trail of hot, wet kisses across her skin, his tongue trailing over the sensitive flesh of her breasts. He took his time, his movements slow and precise, his lips and tongue lavishing attention on her as he followed her order, his body responding to her moans and gasps.

she squealed as she moved his head a little guiding his lips to her nipple, he legs wrapping around his hips "There... that's where you’re needed"

Jacaerys obeyed her guidance, beginning to softly lick and kiss her nipple,

Elaena began to scream arching her back and tossing her head "Jace... Jace!"

Jacaerys continued, his lips and tongue working diligently to bring her pleasure, his body fully focused on obeying her demands. He could hear her moans and gasps growing louder, her body moving desperately against his, and it only fueled his desire to please her even more

"stop... Stop!" Elaena begged,

Jacaerys obeyed her command instantly once again rasing his hands so he wasn’t touching her, pausing his movements and looking up at her, his breath coming in harsh, heavy gasps. His body was on fire with desire, his own need growing with every moan and gasp that escaped her lips, but he held himself back, waiting for her next instruction.

"in… now jacaerys"

Jacaerys took a deep breath, his body trembling with need and anticipation. He moved closer to her, his hands coming up to grasp her hips, his eyes locked with hers as he positioned himself. "As you wish, my sweet," he murmured, his voice a hoarse whisper. He couldn't wait any longer, and with a swift, deliberate motion, he pushed back inside, his body shuddering with pleasure as he did. He held still for a moment, taking in the intense sensations, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he tried to keep himself in check, to hold back from losing himself completely immediately, but it felt so much better, she was so much wetter and squeezing around him in her own pleasure,

this time she screamed and trembled, the first time he'd done this last night she was silent and nervous, and he didn't even satisfy her. But this time... After the work he did for her, she screamed and squealed her hips squirming for attention.

Jacaerys groaned at her response, her screams and squeals driving him wild. He began to move his hips, his movements deep and deliberate, matching her rhythm and pace when she rode him.

she moaned loudly, her hand settling on his lower stomach as they each moved "Yes... Like this my pet... Jace please!"

Jacaerys obeyed her command, his hips thrusting into hers with a steady, insistent rhythm. Her hand on his stomach only fueled his desire to please her even more, her pleading voice fueling his determination to give her exactly what she wanted

"Does this please you, my husband?" She gasped

Jacaerys groaned in response, his body shuddering at her words. Her question, her use of 'husband' only served to intensify his desire and his pleasure "Yes," he gasped through clenched teeth. "Yes, my wife, this pleases me. You please me. Your moans, your gasps, your body... Everything about you pleases me." He groans, “Does this please you, my wife?”

“Yes,” she gasped "touch..." She begged as she squirmed in pleasure

Jacaerys obeyed her plea, one of his hands moving to her wet sensitive slit, his fingers finding fast and pressing against it, his touch light and gentle at first, teasing and tentative

she screamed and squealed squeezing her legs around him,

Jacaerys groaned at her response, her scream and her legs around him heightening his own pleasure. His fingers continued to tease and caress her, his touch growing firmer, more insistent as he sought to bring her to the peak of ecstasy

she arched her back throwing back her head, her hands stroking his stomach desperately

Jacaerys continued, his fingers working diligently to bring her pleasure, as his hips moved his own breath coming in ragged gasps and moans as her hands moved across his stomach, her gasps and moans fueling his determination to bring her closer and closer to release

she suddenly and unexpectedly screamed his name sounding like a wounded dragon she tightened around him and squirted down their bed her whole body trembling and reacting not a single inch of her didn't reached, from the honey glow on her cheeks to her toes curling

Jacaerys gasped, his body shuddering with pleasure at the sight and feeling of her releasing herself. He continued to move his fingers, his body driving into hers, prolonging her orgasm, his own breaths coming in ragged heaves as he watched her body convulse and tremble, completely overwhelmed by the wave of ecstasy. He continued to move his hips and his fingers, his breaths coming in short gasps, his own body aching with the need for release, but he kept himself in check, his focus entirely on her and her pleasure, driving her through the last waves of her orgasm before he allowed himself to find his own. With a low, guttural moan, Jacaerys let go, his body shuddering as he found his release, his breaths coming in heaving gasps as he collapsed on top of her, his body trembling and spent.

Elaena lay mindless and empty of all thought but she began giggling,

Jacaerys lifted his head to look at her, a small smile on his lips as he heard her giggling. He was still trying to catch his breath, his body feeling heavy and sated. "What's so funny?" he asked, his voice rough and gravelly.

"I get it now..."

Jacaerys chuckled, his smile growing wider. He pulled out olled onto his side next to her, still trying to catch his breath. "You get what now?" he asked, his eyes watching her amused.

"sex..." She nodded "I understand why people like it now"

Jacaerys chuckled again, his eyes filled with amusement and affection. He moved closer to her, his arm wrapping around her and pulling her closer to him. "Does that mean I successfully won you over?" he asked, a hint of a smirk in his voice.

she nodded

Jacaerys's smile widened, a sense of pride and satisfaction filling him. He had wanted to please her, to show her the pleasure that she deserved to feel, and it seemed like he had succeeded. He pulled her even closer, his arms encircling her, his chin resting on top of her head. "I'm glad," he said softly. "You deserve to feel good, to feel pleasure."

"thank you, for .. my first... You know"

Jacaerys's smile softened at her words, his hand gently stroking her hair. "You don't have to thank me," he said quietly. "I enjoyed pleasing you. I'm just happy to give you your first, the first of many I promise."

"mhm" she nodded nuzzling close to his chest,

Jacaerys's eyes softened even more, his own arms wrapping around her and holding her close. He pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head, his voice a gentle whisper. "You're mine. Only mine. I only want you."

"jacaerys?"

Jacaerys turned his head to face her when she spoke his name, his eyes meeting hers. "Yes? What is it, my sweet?" he asked quietly, his hand still stroking her hair.

she blushed a little biting her lip "... Again?"

Jacaerys's eyes widened at her request, his heart speeding up in his chest. He had not expected her to want more so soon. "Again?" he repeated, his voice a hoarse whisper. "You want me again?"

Elaena nodded excitedly

Jacaerys's breath caught in his throat at her excited nod, his body already stirring at the idea of being with her again. "Of course, my sweet," he said, his voice husky. "I'd be more than happy to pleasure you again. Anything you want, my wife."

she smiled and pulled his lips back into a kiss

Jacaerys leaned into the kiss, his tongue caressing hers as his hands came up to cup her face. His body was already starting to respond, his desire for her growing with every touch, every taste of her lips. He pulled away slightly, his voice a hoarse whisper. "Get on your hands and knees," he commanded, his eyes dark with desire. “I have a plan my sweet,” 

[blakeswritingimagines]

Next Lesson (Kinktober)

Word Count: 4.0k

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

As the sun set over the horizon, casting long shadows across the room, Jaime stood behind you, his strong arms wrapped around your waist. "One last lesson tonight, pet," he murmured, his breath warm against your ear. "Are you ready to put everything you've learned to the test?" His hands roamed your curves, tracing familiar paths that ignited sparks of pleasure wherever they touched. "Remember, this is for your husband. Show him the woman you've become, the one who belongs to him completely." Your heart raced as Jaime's words sank in, the gravity of the moment settling upon you like a heavy cloak. This was it - the culmination of all the lessons, all the training, all the preparation leading up to this very night. You took a shuddering breath, trying to calm your nerves even as excitement thrummed through your veins. Turning to face Jaime, you met his gaze steadily, determination shining in your eyes. "Yes," you said, your voice clear and unwavering. "I'm ready." With that declaration, you stepped out from behind the screen, presenting yourself fully to Jaime. The silk robe slipped from your shoulders, pooling at your feet in a shimmering puddle. Naked and vulnerable, you knelt before him, head bowed in submission. "Do you think he'll like it?"

Jaime's eyes raked over your exposed form, drinking in the sight of your naked beauty. A low hum of approval escaped his lips as he circled you, his fingers trailing lightly over your skin, mapping every curve and hollow. "Oh, he'll love it," Jaime purred, his voice dripping with confidence. "He's been waiting for this moment, for the chance to claim you fully as his own." He stopped behind you, pressing his body against yours, his hardness nestling against the cleft of your buttocks. "Now, let's get started." With a gentle push, he guided you forward onto your hands and knees, positioning you at the foot of the bed. "This is where you'll greet your husband each night, pet. On your knees, ready to serve him in whatever way he desires." You felt a rush of heat flood your cheeks at Jaime's words, knowing he spoke the truth. This was indeed how you would welcome your husband each evening, a constant reminder of your place beneath him. Submitting to his desires, pleasing him in every way possible. It was both exhilarating and terrifying, the thought of surrendering so completely to another person. But as you gazed up at Jaime, seeing the passion burning in his eyes, you knew you were ready. Ready to embrace this new life, ready to become the wife he wanted you to be. With a deep breath, you nodded, accepting your fate. "I understand," you whispered, your voice trembling slightly. "I'll do my best to please him with everything you've taught me."

Jaime smiled approvingly, pleased with your willingness to submit. He ran a hand through your hair, praising you softly. "That's my good girl," he cooed. "Your husband will be proud of you." Rising to his feet, he moved to stand before you once more, his erect cock jutting out proudly. "Now, let's review one final lesson, shall we? Open wide, pet." With a swift motion, he grasped your chin, tilting your head up as he guided the tip of his manhood past your parted lips. "Show me how well you can suck a cock," he commanded, his voice rough with arousal. "Take it deep, just like you did during our practice sessions." He pushed further into your mouth, holding you steady as he began to rock his hips, fucking your face with slow, deliberate strokes. You opened wider, relaxing your jaw to accommodate Jaime's girth as he thrust deeper into your mouth. The salty taste of his pre-cum mingled with the musky scent of his arousal, filling your senses and igniting a hunger within you. Your tongue swirled around the head of his cock, lapping at the sensitive underside as he continued to pump in and out. The rhythm was hypnotic, drawing you in deeper with each stroke. You focused on the sensation, letting go of any thoughts or doubts, surrendering completely to the act. Your nose pressed against Jaime's pelvis, inhaling deeply as you struggled to breathe around his invading length. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes from the effort, but you didn't pull away, determined to prove your skill.

Jaime groaned in pleasure, his grip on your chin tightening as he fucked your face with increasing intensity. "Fuck yes, just like that," he gasped, his hips snapping faster, driving his cock deeper into your throat. "Take it all, pet. Show me how much you want to please your husband." The pressure built in his loins, his balls drawing up tight as he neared climax. With a final, brutal thrust, he buried himself to the hilt, holding still as his orgasm crashed over him. Hot jets of semen pulsed into your mouth, coating your tongue and the back of your throat with his release. Jaime's thighs trembled, his entire body shaking as he rode out the waves of pleasure, finally collapsing back onto the bed with a satisfied grunt. "Good girl," he panted, stroking your hair affectionately. You swallowed convulsively, working to gulp down every drop of Jaime's seed as it filled your mouth. The bitter taste was foreign yet oddly satisfying, a tangible proof of your submission and devotion. As he pulled free, you released a shaky breath, your lungs craving air after being deprived for so long. You looked up at Jaime, meeting his gaze with a mix of pride and exhaustion. "Did I…did I do well?" you asked, your voice hoarse from the intense oral session. Despite the lingering discomfort, you felt a thrill of accomplishment, knowing you had mastered yet another crucial aspect of your role as a submissive wife. Jaime's praise and the tender way he touched your hair only served to reinforce your sense of pride and belonging.

Jaime's smile was indulgent as he regarded you, his eyes softening with genuine affection. "You did beautifully, pet," he assured you, his thumb brushing gently over your lower lip. "Your husband will be lucky to have such a talented and obedient wife." He helped you to your feet, guiding you to sit beside him on the edge of the bed. "But now comes the most important part of your training," he said, his expression turning serious. "Learning to accept your husband's dominance and control over you, in all things." He reached out, taking your hand in his, his calloused palm engulfing your delicate fingers. "It won't always be easy, submitting to another person's will. There will be times when you'll want to resist, to assert your own desires and needs. But that's when your strength and resilience will truly be tested and are you aware of what to do?" You shook your head, looking up at Jaime with a hint of uncertainty in your eyes. "No, I don't know what to do," you admitted, feeling a twinge of anxiety at the prospect of relinquishing control entirely. "How can I possibly submit to someone else's will when it goes against everything I believe in?" The idea of surrendering your autonomy, of becoming nothing more than an extension of your husband's desires, seemed daunting and even frightening. And yet, as you sat there, hand in hand with Jaime, you couldn't deny the strange sense of peace that had settled over you since beginning this journey. A sense of purpose, of belonging to something greater than yourself. You searched Jaime's face, hoping to find some guidance, some reassurance that you could navigate these uncharted waters. "What if I fail?" you whispered, the fear creeping into your voice.

Jaime's grip on your hand tightened, his expression growing more solemn as he met your gaze. "Failure isn't an option, pet," he said firmly, his voice carrying a note of conviction. "Because I won't allow it. Not while I'm here to guide you." He leaned in closer, his warm breath fanning across your cheek. "Submission isn't about losing yourself; it's about finding your truest self. It's about embracing the natural order of things, acknowledging that some are meant to lead and those who are meant to follow." Jaime's other hand came up to cup your face, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheekbone. "Your husband has chosen you to be his partner, and would you like to know how to make it up to him should you ever mess up?" You blinked up at Jaime, a flicker of hope kindling in your chest at his reassuring words. "Yes," you murmured, leaning into his touch. "Please tell me." The idea of making amends, of proving your worthiness to your husband, filled you with a newfound determination. You wanted to succeed, not just for Jaime's sake, but also for your own. You wanted to explore this path of submission and see where it led you. "How can I make it up to him?" you repeated, your voice barely above a whisper. Jaime's eyes sparkled with mischief as he grinned down at you, his thumb still caressing your cheek. "By offering yourself to him, completely and utterly," he purred, his voice low and seductive. "If you ever stray from the path of righteous submission, you simply kneel before him, bare yourself, and beg for forgiveness." His hand slid down to your throat, his fingers wrapping lightly around your neck in a possessive gesture. "You plead with him to take you, to use you as he sees fit, to remind you of your place." Jaime's grip tightened slightly, sending a shiver down your spine. "And then, once he's satisfied that you've learned your lesson, he'll grant you the privilege of serving him again." He released you, sitting back with a wicked smirk. "Let me hear you beg for your wrongdoings."

You shivered under Jaime's intense gaze, his words igniting a fire deep within you. The thought of baring yourself, of begging for forgiveness and the right to serve, sent a rush of heat straight to your core. You licked your lips nervously, your heart pounding in your chest as you considered his instructions. Slowly, hesitantly, you sank to your knees before him, your hands trembling slightly as you reached for the hem of your dress. "Please," you whispered, your voice thick with need. "Please forgive me for my transgressions." You lifted the fabric, exposing your naked form inch by tantalizing inch. "I offer myself to you, to be used as you see fit." Your cheeks flushed with shame and desire as you bared yourself fully, your breasts heaving with each ragged breath. "Remind me of my place, sir." Jaime's eyes roamed over your exposed body, drinking in the sight of your vulnerability. "Such a pretty little thing, begging so sweetly," he praised, his voice dripping with lust. He stood up, towering over you as he reached down to grasp your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. "Look at me when you speak," he commanded, his tone brooking no argument. "Tell me exactly what you're asking for." You swallowed hard, your mouth dry as you gazed up at him. "I-I want you to punish me, sir," you stammered, your voice cracking with emotion. "Breed me fully, mark me as yours, remind me that I belong to you." Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as you spoke, the raw honesty of your plea hanging heavy in the air between you.

You shuddered under Jaime's piercing gaze, his command sending a jolt of electricity through your body. "Yes, sir," you breathed, your voice quivering with anticipation. "I'm asking you to breed me, to fill me with your seed until it takes root inside me." The words spilled from your lips, unbidden yet undeniably true. You craved his possession, his domination, his complete and utter control over your body and mind. "I want to carry your child, to bear witness to the fruits of our union." You placed your hands on your belly, imagining it swollen with life, with evidence of your submission. "Please, sir," you whimpered, desperation coloring your tone. "Claim me, make me yours in the most primal way possible." Jaime's eyes darkened with hunger as he listened to your desperate pleas, his grip on your chin tightening almost painfully. "As you wish," he growled, his voice rough with desire. Without warning, he yanked you to your feet, spinning you around and bending you over the edge of the bed. You gasped as your breasts pressed against the cool sheets, your ass raised high in the air. "Count them out loud," Jaime demanded as he delivered a sharp smack to your rear. "Each one is a reminder of your place, a testament to your submission." He continued to spank you, alternating between your cheeks, leaving red handprints blooming across your skin. You sobbed and writhed beneath him, the pain mingling with pleasure in a dizzying cocktail of sensation. "Thank you, sir!"

You cried out with each stinging slap, your flesh jiggling obscenely as Jaime's palm connected with your tender skin. Tears streamed down your face, but you dutifully counted aloud, your voice rising higher with each number until you reached twenty. By the time he finished, you were panting and shaking, your pussy throbbing with need. "Twenty, thank you, sir," you choked out, burying your face in the sheets. "I am yours, wholly and completely." You arched your back, presenting yourself to him in silent invitation. "Please, sir," you begged, your voice muffled by the mattress. "Fuck me now, fill me up with your cum." You spread your legs wider, giving him unfettered access to your dripping cunt. "Breed me like the submissive slut I am." Jaime's response was immediate and brutal, his large frame covering yours as he rammed his thick cock into your sopping wet pussy without preamble. You screamed in ecstasy as he bottomed out, his heavy balls slapping against your clit with every savage thrust. "Take it all, you filthy whore," he snarled, gripping your hips tightly as he began to pound into you with reckless abandon. The force of his movements sent shockwaves through your entire being, each stroke hitting that perfect spot deep inside you and sending you careening towards climax. "Yes, yes, fuck me harder!" you wailed, your nails digging into the sheets as you surrendered to the relentless onslaught of pleasure. Jaime's grunts and groans filled the room, punctuated by the obscene sounds of flesh meeting flesh and your own wanton moans. "Gonna breed you so fucking deep."

he growled, his pace becoming even more frenzied as he chased his own release. You could feel his cock throbbing inside you, stretching your walls to their limits as he prepared to unleash his potent seed. "Do it, fill me up, make me yours!" you shrieked, your orgasm building rapidly as he pistoned in and out of your clenching channel. The coil of tension within you snapped, and you came with a keening wail, your pussy spasming wildly around Jaime's invading length. At the same moment, he buried himself to the hilt and let out a guttural roar, his hot cum flooding your womb in powerful jets. "Oh gods, oh gods, yes!" you howled, your body shaking uncontrollably as wave after wave of bliss crashed over you. Jaime's thrusts slowed to shallow, gentle strokes as he emptied himself into your willing depths, marking you as his in the most primal way imaginable. You felt his seed painting your insides, claiming you as his property, and the knowledge sent a thrill of satisfaction coursing through your veins. As he finally stilled, his softening cock slipping free, you collapsed onto the bed, spent and sated. Jaime's weight settled over you, his chest heaving against your back as he nuzzled your neck affectionately. "Good girl," he murmured, his voice husky with post-coital contentment. "You took your punishment well." He kissed along your jawline, his lips lingering on the sensitive skin. "Now rest, my dear. We have much to discuss regarding your future…and the future of our unborn child."

Over the following days, your sessions with Jaime became increasingly intimate, both physically and emotionally. His praise for your progress warmed your heart, and you found yourself looking forward to each lesson with growing excitement. One evening, as you lay tangled together in the aftermath of a particularly passionate encounter, Jaime traced idle patterns on your sweat-dampened skin. "You know, pet," he murmured, his voice low and sincere, "you've exceeded my expectations in every way. Not only do you learn quickly, but you also possess a rare combination of beauty, intelligence, and desire that captivates me." He tilted your chin up, his gaze locking with yours. "I find myself growing quite fond of you, little one…more than before. Our arrangement has become something far more meaningful than mere instruction." Your heart fluttered at his words, a warmth blooming in your chest that had nothing to do with the lingering effects of your lovemaking. "Jaime…" you breathed, searching his eyes for any hint of insincerity. Finding none, you leaned into his touch, savoring the tenderness of his caress. "I never imagined our bond could grow beyond teacher and student. But I must confess, I've developed feelings for you as well." A small smile played at the corners of your lips. "Perhaps it's foolish of me to hope, but…could there be a future for us beyond these lessons? Beyond my impending marriage?" Jaime's expression softened, a look of genuine affection washing over his features. He brushed a strand of hair from your face, his fingertips grazing your cheek. "Foolish? Never, pet. Your emotions are pure and honest, and I cherish them." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "As for your question…I've grown to love you deeply, in ways I never expected. If your heart belongs to me, I would hope you'd gladly walk away from this arrangement and build a life with me instead." His declaration hung in the air, heavy with unspoken longing. Jaime's eyes searched yours, seeking permission, validation, or perhaps simply a glimpse of your true desires. In that moment, the weight of your impending nuptials seemed insignificant compared to the promise of a future with this man who had awakened your passions and captured your heart.

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as Jaime's heartfelt confession washed over you. You reached up, cupping his face in your hands, and brought his lips to yours in a soft, loving kiss. When you finally broke apart, you gazed into his eyes, your own shining with emotion. "I choose you, Jaime. I want to leave this life behind and start anew with you. Marry me, if you'll have me." Your voice trembled slightly, but the sincerity behind your words was unmistakable. In that instant, you knew you were ready to abandon the path laid out for you and forge a different destiny, one filled with love, passion, and the promise of a lifetime spent in each other's arms. Jaime's eyes widened in surprise, a radiant smile spreading across his face as he returned your kiss with fierce devotion. When you parted, he cradled your face tenderly, his thumbs wiping away the tears that had escaped. "Yes, pet, a thousand times yes," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "I'll marry you, make you mine, and cherish you forever." He sealed his vow with another passionate kiss, pouring all his love and adoration into the embrace. As you melted into each other, the world outside faded away, leaving only the two of you, entwined in a promise of eternal devotion. In that perfect moment, you knew that no matter what challenges lay ahead, you would face them hand in hand, united by the unbreakable bond of your love.

With hearts full of joy and promises yet to be kept, you spend the rest of the day and night together, exploring new depths of intimacy and sharing secrets long held close. As dawn breaks, you lie contentedly in each other's arms, the reality of your decision settling comfortably within you. With a sigh of pure happiness, you snuggle closer to Jaime, your breath warm against his chest. "Thank you," you whisper, your voice barely audible above the gentle rise and fall of his breathing. "For showing me the way to true happiness." Jaime stirred gently at your whispered thanks, his arms tightening around you instinctively. He pressed a tender kiss to the top of your head, his lips curving into a smile against your hair. "No, pet, thank you," he murmured, his voice roughened by sleep and emotion. "For trusting me, for opening your heart to me, and for giving me the greatest gift imaginable - your love." He shifted slightly, tilting your chin up to meet your gaze. The love and adoration shining in his eyes mirrored the depth of feeling in your own. "Together, we'll build a life worth living, filled with laughter, passion, and endless adventures." With those words, he captured your lips once more, the kiss sealing not only your love but also the unwavering commitment you had made to each other. Your body responded eagerly to Jaime's renewed ardor, desire rekindling within you like a flame fanned by a sudden gust of wind. You arched into his touch, your hands roaming over the planes of his back, tracing the contours of muscle and sinew. "Make love to me," you breathed against his lips, your voice husky with need. "Show me again how much you love me, how much you cherish me." Your words ignited a fire in Jaime's eyes, and he rolled you onto your backs, his body covering yours as he settled between your thighs. Slowly, reverently, he entered you, his hardness filling you completely as he began to move. Each thrust was a testament to his love, each kiss a seal upon your shared devotion.

As the sun rose higher in the sky, casting golden shafts of light across the bed, Jaime continued to worship your body with a tender passion that left you breathless and trembling. "So good for me." His fingers danced over your sensitive flesh, coaxing gasps and moans from your lips as he brought you ever closer to the precipice of ecstasy. "So beautiful and perfect." Just when you thought you could take no more, he changed the angle of his hips, driving deep inside you and sending shockwaves of pleasure radiating through your core. "Tell me how much you like it." Your nails raked down his back as you clung to him, your cries of rapture mingling with his guttural groans of bliss. "Oh God, Jaime! Yes, just like that!" Your words dissolved into incoherent pleas as he pounded into you, the force of his thrusts pushing you up the bed. "Harder, please! Make me come undone!" The room spun around you, colors bleeding together as your senses narrowed to the feel of his cock stretching you, filling you, claiming you utterly. Your inner walls clenched around him, desperate for release, and Jaime's answering grunt told you he was close too. "Now, Jaime! I'm so close, don't stop!" With a final, brutal plunge, he buried himself to the hilt, and your bodies shuddered as you crested the peak together, waves of intense pleasure crashing over you in a torrent of sensation. As the aftershocks of your climax rippled through you, Jaime collapsed on top of you, his weight a comforting pressure against your sweat-slicked skin. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his hot breath fanning over your pulse point as he struggled to catch his own breath. "Mine," he growled softly, the possessive claim sending a thrill through you even in the aftermath of your shared release. After a moment, he lifted his head, his eyes dark with satisfaction and adoration as they met yours. "Forever and always, pet. We're bound together now, in every way that matters." With a gentle kiss, he rolled off you, pulling you into his arms as you both drifted off to sleep, lost in the afterglow of their forbidden love.

[kckt88]

Scorched Hearts V.

Summary:

'My bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep, the more I give to thee, the more I have, for both are infinite' - William Shakespeare (Romeo & Juliet).

Aemond and Valaena arrive at Storms End and the dragons begin their dance with devestating concequnces for both the Blacks and Greens.

Warning(s): Angst, Drama, Language, Secret Relationship, Funeral, Grief, Mild Threats, Mild Violence, Dragon Battle, Death.

AEMOND x O.C Niece

Word Count: 5079

A.N - Don't hate me, things must be this way for a reason!!

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

Valaena stood next to her brothers, Jace and Luke, her eyes fixed on the pyre where her little sister, Visenya, was being laid to rest.

The crackling flames illuminated Rhaenyra and Daemon as they stood at the head of the pyre, their hands joined in silent farewell to their daughter. All around them, heads were bowed in respect, the weight of grief heavy on the air.

Valaena could feel the cut on her palm sting as she pressed her hand to her stomach.

As she watched her mother and Daemon, Valaena wondered if what she was about to do was too cruel, to subject her mother to yet more pain.

But there really was no other way, Aemond was right there was only one way for them to be together now.

As the final words of mourning were whispered, the sound of approaching footsteps broke the sombre silence. Valaena furrowed her brow and turned, watching as Ser Erryk stepped forward.

He stopped behind Rhaenyra, reaching into his bag and pulling out a gleaming golden crown—that once belonged to King Viserys. He knelt, holding it up with reverence, his voice steady as he swore his loyalty.

“I swear to ward the Queen, with all my strength and give my blood for hers. I shall take no wife hold no lands and father no children.”

Daemon stepped forward, taking the crown from Ser Erryk’s hands. He turned to Rhaenyra, his face filled with fierce devotion.

With a deliberate motion, he placed the crown upon her head, then bent his knee before her, his voice ringing out loud and clear. “My queen.”

The words seemed to resonate through the gathered crowd, and Valaena, Jace, and Luke immediately bent their knees.

Soon, everyone in attendance followed suit, paying homage to Rhaenyra and acknowledging her  as their Queen.

After the funeral, the gathering made their way back inside Dragonstone. The heavy doors of the hall closed behind them, and Daemon stepped forward, announcing Rhaenyra to the assembled lords and knights.

“Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.”

Rhaenyra, now wearing her father’s crown, approached the painted table with determination. “What is our standing?” she asked, her voice sharp and commanding.

Daemon stood beside her. “We have 30 knights, a hundred crossbowmen, and 300 men-at-arms. Dragonstone is relatively easy to defend, but as an instrument of conquest, our army leaves much to be desired. We have sent word to my loyal men in the City Watch. I’ll have some support there, but I cannot speak to the numbers.”

Valaena stepped forward. “You already have declarations from Celtigar, Staunton, Massey, Darklyn, and Bar Emmon.”

Rhaenyra nodded, acknowledging her daughter’s support. “My lady mother was an Arryn. The Vale will not turn cloak against their own kin.”

Maester Gerardys spoke up. “Riverrun was always a close friend to your father, Your Grace. With Prince Daemon’s acquiescence, I’ve already sent ravens to Lord Grover.”

Rhaenyra’s expression tightened. “Lord Grover is fickle and easily swayed. He will need to be convinced of the strength of our position and that we will support him should it come to war.”

Daemon’s eyes narrowed. “I’m going to treat with him myself.”

As the discussions continued, Steffon Darklyn stepped forward. “What about Winterfell and Storm’s End?”

At the mention of Storm’s End, Valaena felt her stomach churn. She tried to steady herself, taking slow, deep breaths to keep from being overtaken by the wave of nausea. But the feeling of unease persisted.

Lord Bartimos stepped forward. “With House Stark, the rest of the North will follow. But perhaps an offer of marriage will convince Lord Stark to declare for the Queen.”

Rhaenyra turned to him, her brow furrowing. “Whose hand do you suggest I offer, my lord?”

Bartimos glanced towards Valaena. “Princess Valaena, Your Grace. She is your heir, and a match between her and Lord Stark would be most beneficial.”

Valaena’s hand instinctively went to the cut on her palm, a reminder of the bond she had forged with Aemond the night before.

She traced the mark lightly with her fingertips, remembering his words, his vow to her. Her heart raced in her chest, but she forced herself to take a deep breath.

"I will agree to the match, mother," she said, her voice steady despite the turmoil within.

Rhaenyra studied her daughter, searching her face for any sign of hesitation. “Are you sure?”

Valaena nodded, her eyes flickering to the painted table. “Yes. I will do what I must in order to support my queen.”

Rhaenyra’s expression softened with pride, and she gave a short nod before turning her attention to other matters.

“And our enemies?”

Daemon’s face darkened. “We have no friends among the Lannisters. Tyland has served the Hand too long to turn against him. And Otto Hightower needs the Lannister fleet.”

Valaena, still feeling sick, forced herself to refocus on the discussion. “Without the Lannisters, you are not likely to find any allies west of the Golden Tooth.”

An older lord stepped forward, his voice blunt but respectful. “Pray forgive my bluntness, Your Grace, but talk of men is moot. Your cause owns a power that has not been seen in this world since the days of Old Valyria. Dragons.”

Rhaenyra’s expression tightened. “The Greens have dragons as well.”

Jace added, “Three adults.”

Daemon’s smirk returned. “We have Syrax, Caraxes, and Meleys. Your oldest children have Silverwing, Vermax, and Arrax. Baela has Moondancer.”

Rhaenyra sighed. “Daemon, none of our dragons have been to war.”

“We need a place to gather,” Daemon replied, eyes gleaming with ambition. “A toehold large enough to house a sizable host. Here, at Harrenhal. We cut off the west, surround King’s Landing with the dragons. And we could have every Green head mounted on spikes before the fucking moon turns.”

Just then, Ser Erryk stepped forward, interrupting the conversation. “Your Grace a ship has been sighted offshore: a lone galleon, flying a banner of a three-headed green dragon.”

Daemon charged past Rhaenyra, barking orders. “Alert the watchtowers. Sight the skies.”

Rhaenyra followed him quickly, but Valaena remained behind, standing with Jace, Luke, and the other lords.

A wave of sickness washed over her once more, and she had to take several deep breaths to keep from vomiting.

As she steadied herself, she noticed Rhaenys watching her closely, a curious look on her face.

Valaena quickly turned her attention to Luke, who was fiddling with one of the dragon figurines on the painted table.

A heavy tension filled the room as Daemon and Rhaenyra returned, their expressions grim. Daemon was the first to speak, his voice laced with frustration. “The simple truth is this: we have more dragons than Aegon.”

Rhaenyra, however, looked unsettled as she added, “I do not wish to rule over a kingdom of ash and bone.”

Valaena, standing with her brothers and the gathered lords, stepped forward, her brow furrowed. “Were terms delivered?”

Rhaenyra nodded, her face betraying no emotion. “If I acknowledge Aegon as king and swear obeisance before the Iron Throne, in exchange, he will confirm my possession of Dragonstone. It will pass to you, my trueborn daughter, upon my death. Jacaerys will be confirmed as the legitimate heir to Driftmark and all the lands and holdings of House Velaryon. My sons, Lucerys, Aegon, and Viserys, will also be given places of high honour at court. And the King, in his good grace, will pardon any knight or lord who conspired against his ascent.”

Valaena’s eyes widened, her breath catching in her throat. Everything Aemond had told her the night before was true.

The offer was generous, but the underlying manipulation was unmistakable. She glanced briefly at Daemon, whose face darkened with anger.

“It’s a farce,” Daemon scoffed, his voice cutting through the room. “Offering you that which you already possess, and I would rather feed all of our children to the dragons before I bend the knee to that drunken usurper cunt of a king-”

Rhaenyra ignored his biting tone, her gaze unwavering. “As Queen, what is my true duty to the realm, Lord Bartimos? Ensuring peace and unity? Or that I sit the Iron Throne, no matter the cost?”

Before Lord Bartimos could respond, Daemon interjected, his voice sharp. “That’s your father talking.”

Rhaenyra’s expression hardened. “My father is dead. And he chose me as his successor-to defend the realm, not cast it headlong into war.”

Daemon’s eyes flashed with fire. “Well, the enemy has already declared war. What are you going to do about it?”

Before the argument could escalate further, Valaena stepped forward, her voice calm but firm. “That is enough. This back and forth is getting us nowhere. The most important thing now is for you to establish who your allies are.”

Just as the tension in the room seemed ready to boil over, a familiar voice broke through. “Quite right, Princess.”

All eyes turned to see Lord Corlys Velaryon, hobbling into the room, leaning on a wooden cane. His weathered face showed signs of recent illness, but his presence was commanding as ever.

Rhaenyra’s face softened with relief. “Lord Corlys, it brings much relief to see you hale and healthy again.”

Corlys cast a glance at the painted table, surveying the situation. “Your declared allies? Too few to win a war for the throne.”

Rhaenyra remained steadfast. “We would also hope to have the support of Houses Arryn, Baratheon, and Stark.”

Corlys raised a sceptical brow. “Hope is the fool’s ally.”

Rhaenyra’s voice grew resolute. “Both Arryn and Baratheon share blood with my house. But all of them swore oaths to me, and soon terms will be delivered to Cregan Stark, offering him a marriage with Valaena in exchange for his support.”

At the mention of her name, Valaena stiffened, but she kept her expression neutral. She had already agreed to the match, but hearing it spoken aloud brought a fresh wave of dread.

Corlys nodded approvingly. “You have the full support of our fleet and house. But what would be more beneficial is a total blockade of the shipping lanes. If we seal the Gullet, we can cut off all seaborne travel and trade to King’s Landing.”

Lord Bartimos added, “When we drain the Narrow Sea, we can surround King’s Landing, lay siege to the Red Keep, and force the Greens’ surrender.”

Daemon’s eyes gleamed with ambition. “If we are to have enough swords to surround King’s Landing, you must first secure the support of Winterfell, the Eyrie, and Storm’s End.”

Maester Gerardys stepped forward, nodding. “I’ll prepare the ravens, Your Grace.”

Jacaerys, always eager to prove himself, stepped forward. “Send us. We should bear those messages ourselves. Dragons fly faster than ravens.”

Rhaenyra considered her son’s words, then nodded in agreement. “Very well. Prince Jacaerys will fly north, to treat with Lord Cregan Stark for the support of the North. Prince Lucerys will go to the Eyrie to see my mother’s cousin, Lady Jeyne Arryn-”

Valaena remembering Aemond’s words, stepped forward and said “-I will fly south to Storm’s End and treat with Lord Borros Baratheon.”

Rhaenyra smiled and nodded “We must remind these lords of the oaths they swore. And the cost of breaking them.”

Valaena stood before the mirror as she worked through the final braid in her dark hair, each strand meticulously woven to stay in place during the flight.

She dressed herself in her riding leathers, the familiar feel of the well-worn material bringing a small comfort amid the tension.

Fastening the chain that secured her red dragon-scale patterned cloak across her chest, she pulled on her gloves, the last barrier between her and the journey ahead.

With a slow breath, she let her eyes drift to her reflection. Her gaze settled on her stomach, her gloved hand hovering there as she closed her eyes, whispering a silent prayer that what she was about to do was right.

Her heart felt heavy with more than just the weight of her mission; it carried secrets, promises, and a growing sense of duty.

A knock on the door startled her from her thoughts. "It's time, Princess," a maid called softly from the hallway.

"I'm coming," Valaena replied. She took one final look around her chambers, a place of comfort and warmth, but now filled with uncertainty.

With a steadying breath, she turned and walked out, her footsteps echoing as she joined her mother and brothers on the balcony just off the grand hall.

Rhaenyra stood tall, her expression both resolute and weary.

As Valaena approached, her mother began to speak, her voice commanding yet tender. "It’s been said that as Targaryen’s, we are closer to gods than to men. And the Iron Throne puts us a touch closer, perhaps. But if we are to serve the Seven Kingdoms-we must answer to their gods."

Rhaenyra’s gaze swept across her children. "If you take this errand, you go as messengers not as warriors. You must take no part in any fighting. Swear it to me now under the eyes of the Seven."

Two servants stepped forward, carrying an enormous holy book emblazoned with the seven-pointed star. Valaena, Jace, and Luke each placed their hands on the ancient tome.

"I swear it," they said in unison, their voices mingling with the heavy air of responsibility that lingered over them.

Rhaenyra handed Jace a rolled-up piece of parchment. "Cregan Stark is closer to your age than he is to mine. I would hope, that as men, you can find some common interest. But I do hope you get a sense of the man to whom I offer your sister’s hand." Jace accepted the scroll with a nod, replying, "Yes, Your Grace."

Next, Rhaenyra turned to Luke, giving him another scroll. "Lady Jeyne Arryn is our kin. I expect you to receive a warm welcome but be mindful of others seeking her favour."

Luke took the scroll from her, his young face serious. "Yes, mother—Your Grace."

Finally, Rhaenyra faced Valaena. "Storm's End is just a short flight from here. Lord Borros is an eternally proud man. He will be honoured to host a princess of the realm and her dragon."

Valaena accepted her own scroll, bowing her head. "Yes, Your Grace."

"Go to it, then," Rhaenyra said, her voice firm, but there was a softness in her eyes.

Valaena turned to leave, but something pulled her back. She spun around, quickly closing the distance between them, and wrapped her arms around her mother in a tight embrace.

 "Avy jorrāelan, muña," she whispered, her voice cracking with emotion (I love you mother).

Rhaenyra chuckled softly, returning the embrace. "You're squeezing me too tightly, sweet girl."

Valaena pulled back, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. "Sorry," she murmured, trying to compose herself.

Rhaenyra placed a gentle hand on her daughter's cheek, searching her face. "Is everything alright?"

Valaena nodded quickly, though her body betrayed her as her hands trembled. "Everything is fine."

Rhaenyra frowned slightly. "You're shaking. If you do not wish to journey to Storm’s End—"

"I must go," Valaena interrupted, her voice firm. "I will do my duty to my queen."

Rhaenyra pressed a kiss to her daughter’s forehead, lingering for a moment as if to pass on strength through the gesture. Valaena gave a weak smile before stepping back.

She turned to Jace, hugging him tightly. "Naejot se hūra se arlī lēkia," she whispered, their bond unspoken yet ever strong (To the moon and back brother).

Jace squeezed her hand in return, his expression sombre. "And to you, sister."

Next, she approached Luke, pulling him into her arms. She removed one of the beaded bracelets she wore and fastened it around his wrist.

"Naejot gaomagon ao ȳgha," she said softly, her voice full of affection. (To keep you safe).

Luke glanced down at the bracelet, his eyes wide with surprise and gratitude. "Thank you," he whispered.

Valaena gave him one last smile before stepping away, her heart heavy as she looked at her mother one last time, committing her face to memory.

Then without another word, she turned and descended the steps leading to the caverns where Silverwing awaited her.

Her pulse quickened with each step she took, her heart pounding against her chest as the cool air of the caverns greeted her. The sound of Silverwing shifting in her lair echoed in the distance

Valaena approached Silverwing, her dragon’s presence filling the cavern with a sense of calm and strength.

She ran her hand along the familiar, warm silver scales, the ridges rough beneath her fingers. “Zȳha jēda,” she whispered softly (It’s time).

Silverwing responded with a determined trill, her eyes glinting in the dim light of the cavern.

Without hesitation, she lowered her massive shoulder, allowing Valaena to climb up and into the saddle.

The motion was second nature now strapping herself in, she tightened her grip on the reins, her heart steady but her mind swirling.

"Sōves," she commanded, her voice strong, and with that, Silverwing lumbered out of the cavern, the ground shaking slightly beneath the dragon’s weight. (Fly).

The cool sea air hit them as they emerged, Silverwing spreading her great wings wide and pushing off the rocky outcrop with a powerful beat.

The rush of air roared in Valaena’s ears as they ascended, circling high above Dragonstone. The island's jagged cliffs and the roiling seas below looked small from their height.

The dark clouds and distant thunder mirrored the tension she felt in her chest.

Soon, she was joined by Jace on Vermax and Luke on Arrax on either side of her, their dragons majestic as they cut through the skies.

They were soon followed by Rhaenys on Meleys. Together, the four dragons flew in formation, their powerful wings moving in synchronized rhythm, the sound like distant thunder.

Valaena cast a glance at Jace and Luke, their figures resolute upon their dragons. Her heart clenched.

Let them be victorious, let them be safe.

One by one, they began to break off. Rhaenys on Meleys peeled away first, banking sharply to the east to patrol the Gullet.

Then Jace and Luke turned their dragons north. Valaena’s eyes lingered on him for a moment longer, knowing how important his mission was.

Valaena turned in her saddle, watching her brothers until they became distant specks against the horizon.

She whispered another prayer under her breath, hoping they would succeed in their tasks—and return unharmed.

With a deep breath, she refocused her mind. There was still much to do. Her own destination awaited, and Lord Borros Baratheon would not be an easy man to sway.

Aemond’s words from the night before echoed in her mind, his voice a low hum as she remembered the plan.

"You can do this” she whispered to herself.

Silverwing responded, her wings beating faster as they adjusted their course southward.

Valaena leaned forward, her eyes fixed ahead, as Dragonstone disappeared behind her.

The rain fell in sheets as Silverwing descended toward Storm’s End, her massive wings slicing through the storm-laden sky.

Valaena’s heart pounded in her chest as the dragon landed with a heavy thud, the ground trembling beneath her. She dismounted quickly, her boots splashing in the mud.

As her feet touched the ground, she reached out, running her hand along Silverwing’s warm, familiar scales.

The heat radiating from her dragon comforted her, the low, contented rumble from Silverwing reminding her she wasn’t alone.

But then, a deeper, more menacing growl echoed across the courtyard. Valaena froze. Her heart skipped a beat, and she slowly turned, her breath catching in her throat.

Vhagar.

The monstrous dragon loomed behind the castle walls, her hulking form visible even through the sheets of rain. If Vhagar was here, that could only mean one thing—Aemond was here, and everything was going according to his plan.

Valaena swallowed hard, her stomach knotting with anticipation and dread. She steeled herself, pushing away the swirl of emotions clawing at her insides. She could not afford to falter now.

The knights of Storm’s End approached her, their armour clinking softly as they trudged through the rain.

“I am Princess Valaena Velaryon, and I have a message for Lord Borros Baratheon, on behalf of Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen.”

The knight studied her for a moment, then nodded. "Come. Lord Borros Baratheon waits in the Great Hall."

Valaena cast a final glance back at Silverwing, before following the knights into the castle. The courtyard blurred around her as the rain soaked through her cloak and riding leathers.

The heavy wooden doors of Storm’s End slammed shut behind them with a resounding thud.

Inside, the Great Hall was dimly lit, the flickering torches casting long shadows across the stone walls.

Lord Borros sat on his makeshift throne, his figure round and imposing, his eyes sharp as they landed on the drenched princess before him.

“Princess Valaena of House Velaryon,” a herald announced, and all eyes in the hall turned toward her.

Her gaze shifted toward the side of the hall, where Aemond stood, his posture relaxed, his hands clasped behind his back.

He was speaking with one of Borros’s daughters, a striking young woman with dark hair and sharp eyes, who seemed completely captivated by him.

Valaena’s stomach churned with jealousy and anger—how dare that Baratheon bitch look at Aemond in such a way, he was her husband, and she was carrying his child.

Valaena took a deep breath and ignored the urge to go over there and slit that bitch from ear to ear, for even daring to look at Aemond in such a manner.

 “Lord Borros, I have brought you a message from my mother—the Queen,” she said, her voice steady despite the storm brewing within her.

Borros chuckled, his voice booming through the hall. “Yet earlier today, I received an envoy from the King. Which is it—King or Queen? The House of the Dragon doesn’t seem to know who rules it!” His laughter was coarse, echoing in the dim hall.

Valaena glanced at Aemond, who smirked at her with a tilt of his head, clearly enjoying the spectacle.

Borros grew impatient. “Well, then. What’s your mother’s message?”

Valaena handed the scroll to one of the knights, who quickly passed it to Borros. The Lord of Storm’s End squinted at the parchment, frowning. He summoned a Maester to read the letter aloud.

As the Maester relayed Rhaenyra’s message, Valaena could feel Aemond’s eye burning into her, though she refused to look at him.

Her clothes were soaked through, and she stood in a small puddle of rainwater, feeling the weight of every gaze in the hall.

Once the Maester finished, Borros leaned back in his chair, rubbing his chin. “Remind me of my father’s oath. King Aegon at least came with an offer: my swords and banners for a marriage pact. If I do as your mother bids, which of my daughters will your brothers wed?”

Valaena hesitated before answering. “My lord, I am afraid that only two of my brothers are of age, and neither is free to marry. They are already betrothed.”

Borros frowned, clearly unsatisfied. “And what of you, Princess?”

Her breath caught in her throat. "Me, my lord?"

Borros leaned forward, his interest piqued. “I no longer have a wife. You are of age to marry and, if you are anything like your mother, I am sure you will give me many sons.”

Valaena’s heart hammered in her chest, and she risked a glance at Aemond. His jaw clenched tightly, and his hand now rested on the pommel of his sword, his face a mask of barely contained fury at the Lord audacity.

“My lord, I am not free to marry either,” Valaena said, her voice firm. “My brother flies north to offer my hand in marriage to Lord Cregan Stark of Winterfell.”

The hall fell silent. Aemond’s eye narrowed, his grip on his sword tightening. The Baratheon girl beside him looked perplexed, but Aemond paid her no mind.

His rage was palpable, radiating from him like a storm, his wife had just declared she had been betrothed to that northern dog.

Aemond had to force himself to calm down, they had a plan, and he had to stick to it, he couldn't let his possessiveness over Valaena ruin what they had practised.

Borros scoffed. “Then you come with empty hands. Tell your mother the Lord of Storm’s End is not some dog she can whistle up at need.”

Valaena dipped her head in a polite bow. “I will take your answer to the Queen.”

As she turned to leave, the wind howled outside, and the storm raged even harder. But before she could take a step, Aemond’s voice cut through the hall like a blade. “Wait, my lady Strong.”

Valaena froze, her heart pounding.

“Did you really think you could fly about the realm, stealing my brother’s throne, without paying the cost?”

She turned to face him, her heart pounding. “I will not fight you,” she said. “I came as a messenger, not a warrior.”

Aemond laughed, withdrawing a dagger from his belt and tossing it at her feet. “Fight would be little challenge. No, I want you to put out your eye. As payment for the one your bastard brother carved from my skull.”

Valaena’s voice was cold, unyielding. “It is not my debt to pay, besides I thought your claim of Vhagar was worth the loss of an eye, you yourself declared it was a fair exchange. Or is your hoary old bitch of a dragon no longer worth it?”

Aemond’s smirk faded. His face twisted with faux anger, her words cutting deep. “You dare speak of Vhagar that way?” he hissed. “You know nothing of what it means to command the largest dragon in the world-”

“Oh, I know a thing or two about dragons,” Valaena retorted. “Do you truly believe Vhagar could withstand a combined attack from Silverwing, Caraxes, and Meleys? She may be the largest, but even she is not invincible.”

Aemond simply stared at her, his expression unreadable as he processed her words.

"-You always seem so eager to remind everyone how large Vhagar is," said Vaelyssa, a sly smile playing on her lips. "-One might wonder if you're trying to overcompensate for other-smaller matters-"

Borros Baratheon’s other daughters who were huddled together beside their father clasped their hands to their mouths and let out a melodious giggle that echoed around the hall, the intent behind Valaena’s comment clear for all to understand.

Aemond charged toward her, picking up the dagger. “Give me your eye, or I will take it bastard!”

Before he could close the distance, Lord Borros quickly rose from his throne. “Not in my hall!” he roared.

Aemond came to a sudden halt, breathing heavily, his eye locked on Valaena.

“-The girl came as an envoy. I’ll not have bloodshed beneath my roof. Take Princess Valaena back to her dragon. Now”

Valaena was then surrounded by guards and as she cast Aemond a look and she saw him nod sharply and mouth a single word—go.

She nodded back before she turned and followed the guards out into the storm and back to Silverwing.

Then without a word, Aemond stormed out of the hall, his boots echoing off the stone floor with each purposeful step.

Lord Borros called out after him, his voice reverberating through the chamber, "Prince Aemond, wait!"

Aemond didn’t stop. His jaw clenched as he pushed past the guards and courtiers that crowded the entrance of Storm’s End, his mind singularly focused.

He wasn’t interested in what Borros had to say. His thoughts were consumed by Valaena and their plan.

Valaena rushed through the storm, her boots slipping slightly on the rain-soaked stones as she reached Silverwing.

Her hands found the dragon’s warm, wet scales, and she pressed her palms against them, feeling the steady rhythm of her companion’s breath.

“Dokimarvose, Silverwing,” Valaena murmured urgently, her voice barely audible over the howling wind. “Lykirī se Rȳbās, tāemītsos naejot se kȳvanon.” (Focus, be calm and listen. Stick to the plan).

Silverwing let out a soft trill, her massive body shifting slightly as if to acknowledge the words. Valaena quickly climbed into the saddle, the leather straps slippery beneath her fingers. She fastened herself in, securing the reins tightly in her gloved hands.

With a deep breath, she shouted, “Sōves!” (Fly!)

Silverwing spread her wings and launched into the sky with powerful strokes, the wind and rain battering them as they ascended through the storm.

Valaena clenched her jaw against the force of the gale, her heart pounding in her chest. Lightning flashed across the sky, illuminating the swirling clouds as they climbed higher and higher.

But then, a roar echoed through the storm, deep and earth-shaking. Valaena twisted in her saddle.

Through the thick clouds, she saw the hulking form of Vhagar chasing after them.

Tugging on the reins, she leaned hard to the left and shouted, “Aderī, Silverwing! Elēnās geptot!” (Quickly, bank left!)

Silverwing responded instantly, banking sharply to the left, her wings slicing through the rain. But Vhagar followed with terrifying persistence.

“Embrot!” Valaena shouted next, her voice straining against the wind. (Down!)

Silverwing tucked her wings tight against her body and dove sharply, cutting through the clouds like a blade.

The sudden dive gave them a burst of speed, and Vhagar, being as large as she was, couldn’t move as swiftly. Valaena glanced over her shoulder, relieved to see the growing distance between them.

The time had come to carry out Aemond’s plan, the only way they could be together, she just hoped her mother in time would understand why this had to happen.

Valaena tugged on the reins and commanded, “Pālegon!” (Turn!)

Silverwing arched through the air, twisting around to face Vhagar once more. The massive dragon loomed ahead, her wings spread wide, dark against the stormy sky.

Valaena braced herself, quickly hooking the spare strap from her saddle to her waist, making sure it was secure.

She reached for the chain that held her dragon-scaled cloak in place, tearing it from her shoulders and letting it fly off into the wind, the heavy fabric disappearing into the storm.

“Gīda, Silverwing” Valaena whispered, her voice calm despite the pounding of her heart. (Steady.)

Silverwing steadied her flight as they closed in on Vhagar, the two dragons hovering in the sky, locked in a face-off.

Rain poured down in torrents, streaking across Valaena’s face, but she ignored it, her eyes fixed on Aemond.

He was there, atop Vhagar, as he raised his voice and yelled, “Drakarys!”

The word reverberated through the air, and flames erupted from Vhagar’s massive jaws, a torrent of fire rushing toward them.

But Valaena was ready as she shouted with all her might, “Drakarys!”

Silverwing answered her call, unleashing a blaze of fire in return. The two dragons’ flames met in the air, clashing in a violent explosion of heat and light.

The storm around them was momentarily drowned out by the roar of the fire, illuminating the dark sky as the two mighty beasts faced each other

TBC

[fanficapologist]

Of Dragons and Maelstroms

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

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

Chapter Seventy-Eight

Maera’s initial instinct was to turn away, her dislike for Alys still lingering. But as she watched the other woman’s distress, a pang of empathy tugged at her heartstrings. With a hesitant step forward, Maera approached Alys, her uncertainty masked by a steely resolve. Though their interactions had been fraught with tension, the sight of Alys in distress stirred something within her, prompting her to set aside their differences, if only momentarily.

"Is it the babe?" Maera inquired softly, her voice laced with worry as she drew nearer to the witch.

Alys nodded, her breaths coming in shallow and labored. "I think my time is coming," she admitted between deep inhalations, her grip tightening on her belly.

Maera glanced back toward Harrenhall, weighing the distance in her mind and silently debating whether they should attempt to make their way back. "Shouldn’t we get you inside?" she suggested, her concern evident in her tone.

But Alys shook her head vehemently, dismissing the idea. "No. The pain is not coming consistently. I will be fine after a moment," she insisted, her voice determined despite the discomfort etched on her features.

Maera observed Alys's breathing through her contraction, her own memories of childbirth flooding back. She remembered the varied experiences she witnessed at Rain House, each labor unique in its intensity and duration. Some women endured the pain with stoicism, while others vocalized their agony. Maera's hand instinctively drifted to her own bump, a silent acknowledgment of the impending journey she too would soon undertake.

True to her words, Alys soon straightened up, a few settling breaths, signaling the end of her discomfort, casting a tender stroke over her bulging abdomen. "I would rather be outside, listening to the Gods. And smelling the lavender," she confessed with a serene smile. However, there was an unsettling undertone to her expression that made Maera uneasy.

A wave of apprehension crashed down on her at the thought of Aemond’s child by Alys being born. Maera was not stupid and knew the dynamics would change when another silver-haired child entered the small court within Harrenhall, with the witch no doubt using her status as mother to the Prince’s first-born child to gain influence.

Breaking the uneasy silence that followed, Maera hesitated before speaking. "What have the Gods been saying?" she asked tentatively, her curiosity mingled with apprehension.

"Many things," Alys replied casually, her gaze sweeping their surroundings once more. "I just want to ensure this is what they want."

Alys retrieved a dagger from her sleeve with a fluid motion, causing Maera to instinctively recoil, her hand protectively cradling her swollen belly. With a swift, deliberate movement, Alys sliced through her palm, a deep gash welling with blood. Maera's eyes widened in horror as she watched the crimson liquid spill from the wound, staining the ground below.

"What are you doing?!" Maera exclaimed, her voice tinged with alarm and disbelief.

Alys met her gaze with an unnerving intensity, her eyes gleaming with an enigmatic resolve. "I must apologize, Princess Maera," she began, her voice carrying an unusual solemnity. "I have been wrong, on many fronts. The vision the Gods put forward to me… I do not think it will come to pass."

Maera's heart quickened with apprehension, her senses on high alert as she warily watched the witch's next move. Alys motioned for her to come closer, and despite her inner resistance, Maera found herself drawn toward the spilled blood, compelled to heed the witch's call. With hesitant steps, she approached, her gaze fixed on the crimson droplets falling from Alys's hand to the stone below.

As the blood pooled and trickled across the rough surface, Maera couldn't tear her eyes away. Each rivulet seemed to carve its own path, weaving a macabre tapestry upon the stone. A sense of foreboding settled over her, the sight of the blood's journey leaving her unsettled and apprehensive.

"Do you see how the blood makes its way through the gaps in the stones?" Alys questioned, her tone solemn yet strangely impassioned. Maera nodded silently, her eyes fixed on the crimson trail.

"It flows freely, going where it is meant to go," Alys continued, her voice carrying a sense of revelation. "But look there," she pointed, her finger tracing the path where the blood ceased to flow, halted by a cluster of obstructing stones. "There are stones in the way of this path. Therefore, the blood cannot pass through."

Maera's brow furrowed in confusion, her mind grappling with the significance of Alys's words. Glancing to the side, the Princess’s green eyes locked onto the knife in the witch’s hand, adorned with sapphires and emeralds. After a few moments, her breath caught in her throat, recognising the blade as her own, previously decorated by Aemond as a gift

Her thoughts spun wildly as she tried to make sense of the situation. How had Alys obtained the dagger? Had she been in Maera's chambers? The violation of her privacy left Maera feeling exposed and vulnerable, a sense of unease settling deep within her. There were two possible solutions; Alys had forced her way in or she had allies within the castle that allowed her entry. Either way, it filled Maera with dread.

"There are obstacles blocking the path of the Gods' vision too," the witch surmised, a small smile playing on her lips. "And they must be removed so the Prince that is promised can come to be."

Maera felt a chill run down her spine as the atmosphere shifted, the air turning cold and ominous. As the dagger glinted menacingly in the sunlight, Maera's mind raced with a thousand unanswered questions, her heart hammering in her chest with panic. Her muscles tensed, every instinct urging her to flee, to put distance between herself and the dangerous woman before her. But fear rooted her in place, her body refusing to obey her desperate plea for escape.

Swallowing hard, she managed to muster a meek question, "What obstacles?"

Alys's smile widened into a knowing grin. "You."

With a sudden, swift movement, the witch lunged forward, wielding the knife in her hand. Maera reacted instinctively, ducking to evade the attack. As she tried to push herself away from Alys, the witch seized her by the hair, eliciting a sharp cry of pain from Maera.

"Get off me, you bitch!" Maera screamed, her voice filled with desperation as she fought against Alys's hold. With a surge of adrenaline, Maera managed to break free, her heart pounding with fear and determination. As Alys attempted to strike with the dagger, Maera intercepted her hand, gripping it tightly to prevent the blade from reaching her heart.

"Through the binding of a son and daughter, the King of Kings will be born, to unite and conquer the world," Alys growled, her eyes gleaming with a manic fervor as she struggled against Maera's resistance. She tilted her head, a twisted grin spreading across her face. "What a shame it is that it won't be your daughter, though. A waste of my efforts."

Maera's blood ran cold at the witch's words, her mind reeling with horror and disbelief. With all her strength, she pushed against Alys, their struggle intensifying as they grappled with each other.

"You are insane!" Maera shouted, her voice trembling with a mixture of fear and outrage as she confronted the deranged witch before her.

Alys pushed Maera back against the tree, the rough bark digging into her back and stealing her breath. Maera’s heart pounded with fear as she desperately tried to fend off the dagger wielding witch. With a surge of adrenaline, she managed to grab Alys’s wrist, but her strength waned against the relentless force of her attacker.

“I am a mother. And I am ensuring the safety of my son,” Alys sneered, her face contorted with malice as she pressed the dagger dangerously close to Maera's skin. “You cannot fault me for that, surely.”

Maera gritted her teeth, her muscles straining against the pressure as she fought to keep the blade at bay. But Alys’s strength proved overwhelming, and Maera felt a searing pain as the dagger plunged into her upper left arm, piercing through muscle and bone with merciless precision.

Agony consumed Maera as she cried out in anguish, the sensation unlike anything she had ever experienced, even in the heat of sparring. Beads of sweat formed on her brow as she struggled against the overwhelming pain coursing through her body.

As Alys attempted to strike again, driven by a sinister determination, Maera summoned the last vestiges of her strength. With a surge of adrenaline, she delivered a fierce headbutt to Alys's face, causing the witch to stagger backward and collapse to the ground in a stunned heap.

Despite the searing pain radiating from her arm, Maera gritted her teeth and applied pressure to the wound as she attempted to flee from her attacker. But as she sprinted past, Alys's hand shot out and seized Maera's ankle, causing her to lose her balance and fall backwards onto the ground among the fragrant lavender. Desperation fueled Maera's actions as she placed her hand on her bump, her senses heightened as she scanned her surroundings for any sign of help.

Alys's bloodied face bore a twisted expression of malice as she crawled closer, her intentions unmistakably sinister. Maera's instinct for self-preservation kicked in once more as she lashed out, her foot connecting with Alys's body in a desperate bid to keep her at bay. But the witch's relentless pursuit proved unyielding as her arm descended once again, driving the dagger into Maera's upper left thigh with a sickening thud.

A cry of agony tore from Maera's lips as she writhed in excruciating pain, the sharp sting of the blade sending shockwaves of torment through her body. Each movement seemed to intensify the searing agony as she fought to protect herself and her unborn child from the malevolent intentions of her assailant.

With trembling hands, Alys withdrew the knife from Maera's thigh, sending a spray of blood across the lavender field. Maera's cries pierced the air as she watched in horror, her heart pounding with terror. Before she could comprehend the next move, Alys's gaze shifted, her eyes narrowing on Maera's swollen belly.

In a desperate surge of maternal instinct, Maera lashed out with her uninjured arm, delivering a fierce blow to Alys's face. The force sent the witch tumbling to the ground, buying Maera a precious moment of respite. Despite the searing pain radiating from her thigh, Maera attempted to stand, her screams mingling with the rustle of lavender in the breeze. Every movement was agony, but driven by sheer determination, she began to limp back towards Harrenhall.

“Someone please help me!” She yelled in desperation.

But Alys was relentless, her laughter echoing ominously, a chilling sound in the quiet clearing. “Who is coming to help, Princess?” she taunted, her voice dripping with scorn as she attempted to pick herself up off the floor, blood covering her face and dress. “Your husband is gone. Your protector is gone. Your brother-in-law is gone. There is no one to help you.”

As despair threatened to consume her, Maera found herself surrounded by the harsh sunlight, her senses overwhelmed by the scent of crushed lavender and the metallic tang of blood. Every breath felt like a struggle, each heartbeat echoing her growing panic.

Then, like a beacon of hope, a familiar shadow fell over the clearing, casting a comforting darkness that offered solace amid the chaos. A loud, guttural roar followed, echoing through the air and sending shivers down Maera's spine. It was a sound she knew well, a sound that promised salvation.

With a thunderous thud, the great blue and black dragon, Ēbrion, descended upon the lavender field, his massive form dominating the landscape. His wings, spanning wide, seemed to blot out the sun, casting a cool shadow over the ground below. The sheer power and presence of the dragon were awe-inspiring, a reminder of the strength and protection he offered.

As Maera limped toward him, each step a battle against pain and exhaustion, Ēbrion lowered his head to meet her gaze. With a soft trill, he welcomed her, offering a sense of security in the midst of turmoil. The Princess reached out to touch his chest, feeling the reassuring warmth of his scales beneath her fingertips. Maera struggled to stay conscious, each breath felt like a battle against suffocating darkness. Her vision blurred, the world spinning around her in a dizzying whirl of pain and exhaustion. With every cough, she tasted the metallic tang of blood, a grim reminder of the wounds she had sustained.

Amidst the haze of agony, Maera's senses sharpened at the sound of Ēbrion's trills morphing into menacing growls. With a surge of determination, she turned her gaze to the great dragon, her loyal companion, who stood tall and imposing, his eyes ablaze with fury.

Ēbrion fixed his gaze on the figure of Alys, the witch who had dared to harm his rider, Maera watched as the air crackled with tension. Alys's eyes widened in shock, her cat-like gaze filled with fear as she met the dragon's menacing stare. In that moment, Maera realized that there was no mercy left to offer, no forgiveness to be found.

“Ēbrion!” The Princess called up to her mount, who turned his head slightly to look at her, but Maera’s gaze remained fixed onto the witch. As Alys locked eyes with her, a flicker of fear and perhaps a tiny glimmer of hope danced within the depths of the witch's gaze. But as Maera's expression hardened into one of anger and determination, Alys's facade crumbled. The hope in her eyes extinguished like a dying ember, replaced by a stark realization of her impending fate.

“Dracarys!” The dragon gladly complied, unleashing a torrent of searing flames upon Alys and the surrounding lavender field. The air crackled with the intensity of the blaze as flames danced and licked hungrily at the once serene landscape. Maera stood her ground, refusing to look away, as she watched Alys and the vibrant blooms around them succumb to the inferno.

In a matter of moments, both Alys and the tranquil field were consumed by the merciless flames, reduced to nothing more than ash and smoke. As the blaze subsided, leaving behind only charred remnants and smoldering embers, Maera’s strength wavered and she slumped onto the ground against her dragon, as the sound of shouting could be heard from a distance. She began to close her eyes, succumbing to the darkness, exhausted and weakened.

“You can rest easy, Princess. The babe is unharmed.”

In her chambers, Maera lay on her bed looking out of the window, the soft light filtering through the glass casting a gentle glow upon her weary form. Her hair, usually meticulously kept, was now a tangled mess, strands falling loosely around her shoulders in disarray. The color had drained from her face, leaving behind a pallor that spoke of the ordeal she had endured.

The room itself bore signs of the recent invasion by Alys, with scattered items lending an air of disarray to the usually neat surroundings. A sense of solemnity hung heavy in the air, a silent reminder of the violence that had unfolded just hours ago.

She attempted to piece together a timeline of events, her mind wandering back to the moments before she had lost consciousness in the lavender field. The memory was hazy, blurred by the fog of pain and blood loss. She vaguely recalled the sensation of Ēbrion's presence, his towering form offering both protection and solace amidst the chaos.

Footsteps approaching had signaled the arrival of the guards from Harrenhall, their presence a welcome relief in her dazed state. Surprisingly, Ēbrion had allowed them to take her from his side, as the beast must have sensed their intention to offer help.

Once back in her chambers, Maester Cain had tended to her wounds with skill and efficiency, her lack of consciousness sparing her the sight of the cauterisation and stitching. Despite the pain and the scars that would mark her body, Maera's thoughts were consumed by one concern above all others—the safety of her unborn child.

Upon regaining consciousness, her first question had been about the well-being of her baby, and the maester's reassurance had brought her a measure of peace in the midst of turmoil. As Maester Cain attended to her, Maera felt a mixture of discomfort and detachment from the light-hearted interaction.

She watched silently as the maester measured her bump and felt for the baby's movements, her thoughts consumed by the recent ordeal she had endured. When the baby kicked the maester in the face, eliciting a chuckle from him, Maera couldn't muster a smile in return.

The weight of what had happened bore heavily on her mind, casting a shadow over the momentary distraction provided by the baby's antics. Despite the assurance of her child's safety, Maera found herself grappling with a whirlwind of emotions. The innocent life within Alys’s womb that had been lost left her questioning her own role in the tragic outcome. She felt a profound sense of responsibility, unsure of what it meant for her identity and her place in the world. The ordeal had left her grappling with existential questions, her sense of self shaken to its core.

As Maester Cain tended to her injuries, Maera found herself engulfed in a whirlwind of emotions. Confusion, anger, anxiety, despair, shock, and a pervasive sense of distrust for others all vied for dominance within her. Yet amidst the cacophony of conflicting feelings, an overwhelming numbness settled over her, cocooning her in a detached state of mind.

Once the maester had finished his ministrations and Maera was made presentable, she accepted his arm for support, feeling the lingering effects of her injuries. Though her mobility would gradually return with time, the wound on her thigh would make walking difficult for the foreseeable.

Rounding the corner, Maera's gaze fell upon Lord Unwin, who swiftly rose from his chair with an air of respect, acknowledging her presence with a nod. Despite the turmoil raging within her, Maera managed to muster a sad smile in return, silently grateful for the semblance of normalcy his presence provided. Taking the seat beside him, she felt a measure of solace in his company, his quiet support offering a beacon of comfort amidst the storm that raged within her.

“Princess, thank the Gods you are alive,” Lord Unwin exclaimed, his voice heavy with relief. Maera found herself unable to respond, grappling with a profound sense of ambivalence. What significance did her continued existence hold in the wake of the harrowing ordeal she had endured? Broken, maimed, and traumatised, Maera struggled to discern any tangible value in her survival, her inner turmoil eclipsing any semblance of gratitude for being alive.

When Lord Unwin reached out to touch her hand, she allowed the contact, though her expression remained distant and troubled. “I have spoken with the guards about their lack of presence today,” Lord Unwin continued, his tone reassuring. “It will not be repeated. There will be no more threats outside nor inside this castle.”

Maera remained silent for a long moment, detached from reality as her thoughts were consumed by the haunting memory of her confrontation with Alys. The details of the guards' presence, or lack thereof, held little sway over her now, offering neither solace nor closure in the aftermath of the witch's attack.

Alys had attacked her cruelly, with the intention to kill Maera and her child. But now nothing remained of the witch, or the babe she carried in her womb. Just the indelible mark of her actions, etched in the charred remnants of the lavender field where justice had been meted out by the flames of Ēbrion's breath. Upon Maera’s own command.

The hatchling will be scorched by dragon fire in the castle of the old Kings Curse

Finally, Maera spoke, her voice barely above a whisper, thick with anguish. “I am a monster.”

The Maester's gentle voice interjected, his expression filled with empathy. “Do not say such things, Princess,” he urged, his eyes conveying understanding. But Maera shook her head, her anguish evident.

“I killed her,” Maera stated, the admission weighing heavily upon her. “I killed her baby. Who was just about to be born.”

“You were protecting yourself. And your child,” Lord Unwin declared firmly, his tone unwavering as he sought to offer solace and justification for Maera's actions.

Yet she continued to grapple with the weight of her actions, she found herself mired in a profound moral quandary. Despite the undeniable necessity of defending herself and her unborn child against Alys's malevolent onslaught, Maera couldn't shake the unsettling parallel she drew between her own actions and those of the Rogue Prince Daemon, who had ordered the death of Jaehaerys and orchestrated the recent attempt on Maera's own life, gnawed at her sense of morality, blurring the line between righteousness and retribution.

Was she truly any better than Daemon, whose transgressions had wrought sorrow upon the realm? The realization that she had extinguished not only Alys's life but also that of the innocent babe nestled within her womb weighed heavily upon her soul, leaving her adrift in a sea of moral ambiguity.

Raised in reverence of the faith of the Seven, Maera found herself grappling with the teachings of the late Lady Gael, who instilled the Mother’s mercy in her daughter. But how could she reconcile her devout faith in the teachings of the Seven, particularly the tenets of mercy and forgiveness, with the stark reality of her role as arbiter of life and death?

The Princess rested her head in her hands, feeling the weight of her guilt bearing down on her. She took a deep breath, attempting to steady herself amidst the turmoil. “The Gods will never forgive me,” she whispered, her voice heavy with remorse. A sudden worry crossed her mind, and she looked up at both men, her expression filled with apprehension. “What will Aemond say?”

Lord Unwin's response was swift and unforgiving. “The Prince should have slain her long ago,” he scoffed, his tone sharp with disdain for Alys and the threat she posed.

Maera furrowed her brow as she thought about her husband, her nails digging into her palm with resentment. Aemond had stated he had never wanted this child with Alys, nor would he acknowledge it when it was born. And yet he was the one stupid enough to lie with her, as well as spare her life even though she had deceived him, allowing the child in her womb to flourish.

The realization that Aemond had left her vulnerable at Harrenhall, to run off into war and fight some battle in the name of duty and glory, exposed to the machinations of Alys, fueled Maera's anger to a fever pitch. She couldn't fathom how he could have allowed himself to be ensnared by Alys's deceitful promises, putting not only himself, but his wife and their unborn child at the witch’s mercy.

The Princess had had enough. Fuck him, she thought. When he returned, if he even did, Maera knew that their relationship had been irreversibly altered by the events that had unfolded, leaving her to confront the harsh reality of their fractured trust and the lingering wounds of betrayal.

A sudden sense of clarity washed over her. Time and time again, Aemond had put his duty, his own selfish wants above Maera, for the sake of some ridiculous prophecy he had convinced himself was real. That was one thing, but putting his vision of greatness about his unborn child’s well-being? That was the final straw.

Despite claims of love or being bound by something greater than themselves, Aemond had possessed her through manipulating Maera’s world. To him, the cost did not matter. Not the cost of her family’s life, not the cost of proposals, not the cost of Maera’s own happiness. Yet she forgave him constantly. But the love she held for the child in her womb was leading her down a different path this time.

Would the Prince truly expect that everything would be fine when he returned? That they could all go back to carry out the fairytale of Prince and Princess bound together by fate and destiny? How could he continuously ask Maera to endure but not expect her fury in return?

There was a moment of heavy silence before the Maester intervened, offering his counsel to the Princess. “You have been through quite an ordeal. I advise bed rest for the next few weeks, and to refrain from riding until the wound is fully healed.”

Maera couldn't help but laugh bitterly at the suggestion. “Then we are vulnerable,” she declared, frustration evident in her voice as she gestured in defeat. “Be it from the north or the west, someone will come for Harrenhall. It is the closest war fortress to King's Landing.”

Lord Unwin stepped forward, offering a solution to bolster their defenses. “Allow me to make some arrangements, Princess,” he proposed, retrieving a scroll and presenting it to her. Unfurling the parchment to reveal a map of Westeros, he continued, “We can move some of our men throughout the Riverlands and station them at various points. This way, warning will come quickly if an impending attack is spotted.”

Grateful for his initiative and support, Maera nodded in agreement. “Thank you, my Lord,” she replied, her voice filled with gratitude for the ally who offered counsel and assistance in her weakened state.

As the nights stretched on, Maera found herself trapped in a cycle of sleeplessness and discomfort. The mental torment of her recent ordeal with Alys weighed heavily on her mind, refusing to let her find respite in slumber. She could not stop thinking about how Alys’s blood dripped onto the stone path, how Alys had attacked her with her own dagger, and how she had ordered Ēbrion to set her ablaze.

Dracarys.

The physical pain from her wounds, despite the Maester's efforts and the milk of the poppy, persisted relentlessly. Every movement brought a fresh wave of agony, making even the simplest tasks unbearable. Maera longed for the oblivion of sleep, yet found it elusive amidst the throbbing ache in her arm and thigh.

Adding to her discomfort was the incessant activity of her unborn child. Despite the turmoil Maera experienced, the babe within her seemed unaffected, its movements becoming increasingly vigorous as the nights wore on. With only two moons left until they would be born, the baby had grown considerably, its kicks now strong enough to jolt Maera with a sharp jab to her ribs.

After a week of enduring sleepless nights, the Maester, concerned for Maera's well-being, finally prescribed her essence of nightshade. Relieved at the prospect of finding some reprieve from her insomnia, Maera accepted the Maester's recommendation and took the concoction with a soothing cup of tea before retiring to bed.

As she settled beneath the covers, the essence of nightshade began to take effect, slowly easing the tension from her body and coaxing her weary mind into a state of tranquility. The weight of exhaustion lifted from her shoulders, replaced by a gentle sense of drowsiness that washed over her like a wave upon the shore. However in the depths of slumber, Maera found herself once again trapped within the confines of a haunting nightmare that she knew all too well.

The throne room of the Red Keep loomed before her, its grandeur and majesty casting a sense of foreboding that chilled her to the bone. The room was vast, with towering marble pillars reaching up to support the vaulted ceiling adorned with intricate carvings and golden chandeliers that bathed the space in a soft, flickering light.

“Muña?” Mother? Maera whispered, tears beginning to stream down her face.

As Maera's eyes swept across the room, her heart constricted with a mixture of sorrow and dread as she spotted the familiar figure of her late mother, the Lady Gael, standing at the foot of the Iron Throne. Lady Gael's once radiant silver hair hung in disarray around her shoulders, and her night dress was stained with crimson blood. Unable to resist the pull of the haunting vision before her, Maera approached her mother with hesitant steps, her heart heavy with grief.

She reached out to her in a desperate attempt to save her from whatever unseen threat lurked in the shadows. But before she could reach her, Lady Gael stumbled and fell, her body crumpling to the cold marble floor with a sickening thud. As Maera knelt beside her body, Lady Gael ominously pointed a finger into the distance, directing Maera's attention towards the Iron Throne itself. Confusion clouded her features as she tried to decipher the meaning behind her mother’s cryptic gesture, uncertain of what significance the throne held.

“Skoros kostagon nyke gaomagon, muña? Ivestragon skoros naejot gaomagon!” What can I do, mother? Tell me what to do! Maera weeped, holding onto her mother’s form as if her life depended on it.

Lady Gael, weakened and dying, reached up to tenderly brush a strand of hair from Maera's face. A feeble attempt at a smile flickered on her lips. “Ziry iksos vējes, Maera. Volpe ondoso Jaehossas.” It is fate, Maera. Foretold by the Gods. The colour then drained from her violet eyes, the smile faltered, and Lady Gael succumbed to the relentless grip of the dream's cruel reality

As Maera knelt on the cold floor of the throne room, her gaze drifted to the steps leading up to the Iron Throne, where an array of melted swords stood as a testament to the power of House Targaryen. But amidst the familiar display, she noticed something amiss. Several objects littered the steps, each one a grim reminder of the tragedies that had befallen her family and those she held dear.

The first to catch her eye was the headless body of four-year-old Jaehaerys, his small form lying motionless as blood pooled around him, staining the marble steps a deep crimson. Beside him lay a small, blood-stained cloth, a poignant symbol of the unborn daughter Helaena had lost, a miscarriage brought on by the anguish of losing her beloved son.

Above them was another lifeless body; The husband of her sister Wynni and one of the perpetrators of the attempt on Maera's life, Lord Alan lay lifeless, his throat slit and eyes vacant, a grim testament to the brutality of the world she lived in, as well as the necessity of the heinous act in order to protect herself and her child.

Beside Lord Alan Tarly's lifeless body lay another gruesome sight that sent a chill down Maera's spine. The charred, burnt remains of Alys Rivers, the witch who had brought chaos and suffering into Maera's life, lay before her. Her flesh was blackened and blistered, smoke still rising from her charred form. Despite the devastation, her decomposed hand cradled her large, blackened bump, a grim reminder of the innocent life lost in the chaos of their confrontation.

As the faint sound of a baby's cry pierced the air, Maera felt a wave of guilt wash over her. The knowledge that she had ended the life of an innocent child to protect herself filled her with a deep sense of remorse. She pressed her hands over her ears, trying to block out the haunting sound, but it echoed relentlessly in her mind, a reminder of the choices she had been forced to make.

When she finally opened her eyes, expecting to see the specter of her mother's death once more, Maera was met with a sight far more chilling. Resting in her lap was the lifeless body of Aemond, her husband, his once-vibrant violet eye now dull and lifeless. Blood oozed from his mouth, staining his colorless face, while his silver hair was matted with crimson.

The sight of Aemond's corpse sent a shockwave of agony through Maera's heart, and she felt as though the world around her was collapsing in on itself. In that moment, she was consumed by grief and despair, the weight of loss crushing her spirit as she stared down at the lifeless form of the man she had loved.

As Maera's consciousness clawed its way back from the depths of her nightmare, she found herself gasping for air, her chest heaving with each ragged breath. A desperate, blood-curdling scream tore from her throat, echoing in the silence of her chambers as she fought to shake off the tendrils of the dream that still clung to her mind.

With trembling hands, Maera reached out to her swollen stomach, seeking solace in the reassuring kicks of her unborn child. The gentle movement beneath her touch served as a grounding force, a reminder of the life growing within her amidst the chaos and turmoil of her thoughts.

But as her gaze swept across the empty space beside her in the bed, Maera's heart clenched with a pang of longing and sorrow. In that moment, all she could think about was Aemond – her husband, her betrayer, the man who had torn her life apart with his ambitions and prophecies.

The realization of how deeply entwined her fate was with his sent a shiver down her spine, filling her with a sense of dread and apprehension. If Aemond were to die – if the nightmare were to become reality – it would destroy her all over again, leaving her adrift in a sea of grief and despair from which she feared she would never escape.

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