#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

[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.

[thetypingpup]

Long haired dragon Hwa balls deep in you and his hair keeps falling into his face and finally he gets fed up and, while still inside you, he leans over to the nightstand and grabs something to tie his hair back. While he's tying his hair you keep clenching around him and it's taking everything in him not to absolutely destroy you

i see this and i raise you: imagine he reaches to grab a hair tie, and his pace doesn't falter for a moment.

imagine his hips pistoning at the same intense tempo, jostling your body with every thrust, pleasure bursting from your centre over and over again. he tires of the hair falling into his face, obstructing his view of you laid out in ecstasy before him. the tickling of hair strands over his eyes is almost enough to make him lose focus, his wings twitching in frustration, so he leans over to the nightstand, reaching for something to pull it back. his hips continue to thrust, the tempo slowed only slightly, but still quick enough to take your breath away. the sight of him gathering his long dark hair, his arms flexing with the effort, is such an enticing sight that you clench around him. he growls, low in his throat, and rocks his hips into your tightening heat. loving the effect it had, you clench around him again, more deliberately this time, just to make him growl like that again. the sudden rushes of pleasure certainly effect him, but they don't throw him off his rhythm. instead, he changes the pace and starts gyrating his hips, keep himself flush against you and grinding his cock deep inside you. the head of his cock practically massages that tender point of pleasure within you and makes you tremble, and your innermost depths mold to the shape of his cock and the bulbous knot of engorged flesh at the base. breathless doesn't even begin to cover what you feel. your head spins, your body completely overwhelmed with ecstasy, and your head lolls to the side, face sinking into the pillow. you can barely keep your eyes open long enough to watch him above you, still fucking you even as his hands are occupied.

"aww, you thought that would trip me up? how cute. just wait til i get my hands free." the flash of his fangs, the sheen of moonlight over his dark horns, and the gleam of his cobalt eyes gives a dangerous edge to his vague vow, and you shudder in excited anticipation.

once his hair is pulled back, nothing obscures the intense expression of erotic determination on his face, determined to keep riding this high and bring you both to your peaks. he pins your wrists down and absolutely rails you, making you choke on your words and sob incoherently. your cries are dampened by the stone walls of your castle tower and propelled into the air through the open window. anyone below can hear you wailing in bliss, can hear his growls becoming loud, blatant snarls as he fucks you relentlessly. his knot pushes deeper and deeper, prodding at your entrance before stretching you out completely, and you scream as he fully inserts himself inside you. circling his hips, he keeps going, grinding into you as if carving out a space for himself within you, the perfect place to plant his seed. you wrap your legs around his waist, drawing him in deeper, practically daring him to cum in you and claim you already.

and with a guttural, animalistic roar, he does just that, filling you to the brim with liquid lust.

[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.

.

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.

.

look at my boy, establishing his own authority.

.

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!

.

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

.

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.

.

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

.

They're unhappy bros... /laughing

.

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

.

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

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

.

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."

.

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!

.

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.

.

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!

.

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.

.

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

.

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.

.

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

.

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!

.

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.

.

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.

.

GREAT VISUALS!

.

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.

.

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

.

YYEEEAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!

.

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!!

.

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

.

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!

[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.

- Paring: 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.

[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,” 

[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?”

[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

[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.

[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.

Notes: wheeewwweeee 😬 I await your thoughts and questions 🖤

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

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

[alipeeps]

Episode 16

I'm ready for the pain. *whimpers* Bring it on...

.......

Whyyyy is Zhu Yan's (much shorter) hair fully grey when he was younger? Is my boy vain? Did he start colouring it as he got older? 😂

Okay so young Li Lun is a sulky bitch. I'm getting "teenager forced to come on a family holiday and determined to hate it just because" vibes...

Why do I feel like I know the dragon mountain god somewhere?

*goes to check MDL*

Meh, he's done this and My Journey to You (which I only got a few eps into before getting distracted) and two movies that I've not seen. So, no idea why he seems familiar.

Though for some reason (his styling maybe - with the braids and the hint of moustache?) he is giving me Nie Mingjue vibes...

Ahahahaaaa they knew in advance that Zhu Yin was skanky!! 😁

Gotta say (I have mentioned it before) I am loving the narrative device they keep using in this show where they flash back to a previous scene and show more of it/detail that we didn't get shown the first time around that completely reframes the current scene and shows that they were expecting this and had stuff planned in advance...

But wherrrre is my boy Bai Jui during all this? Ying Lei asked this earlier and Zhuo Yichen said he should be with Pei Sijing... I took that at the time to mean they still had no idea that Sijing is the spy and thought he was somewhere safe with her... but could it mean that they do know/suspect and they maybe sent Bai Jiu after her, knowing she would spot him and (trusting she wouldn't actually hurt or kill him - which is a big risk tbh?) would have to stay and guard him, thus keeping Bai Jiu away from the fight *and* taking Sijing out of the fight?

Aiya... Ying Lei living up to his potential as a mountain god...

Uhoh, dragon boy is fighting back with his weather-controlling powers.

And Li Lun is just standing there not doing shit. 😂 Like... dude... they are all occupied with either holding the area or spell-casting inside it. You could just walk up and stab em and they wouldn't be able to do much to fight you off...

Oh shit no... dragon dude is not controlling the weather... he's making it night time rather than day...

Which means... blood moon

Oh SHIT!

Welp Zhu Yan pulling in all the malicious qi has at least dealt with the creatures outside the gate... but on the other hand you've now got a MUCH bigger problem!!

Well fuck

So the Baize token was what was shackling Li Lun and that's why he wanted it broken... bullshit about breaking the barrier between the wasteland and the mortal world so demons could be free was just the lie he sold Zhu Yin to get him on board (just like the lie he sold Qing Geng - this is his modus operandi)

God this is glorious imagery...

Goddamit though, Zhu Yan has absorbed all the malicious qi and very clearly lost control but all he does for the longest time is just hover there... he doesn't immediately go on an indiscriminate rampage. I can only imagine him spending all that time hovering just... trying to cling to control...?

And the first person he *does* go for is Zhu Yin, who betrayed him and his friends.

Ugh the dismissive ease with which he shrugs off the mountain god's power...

Oh man, the slow deliberate malice in the way he moves...

I shouldn't be finding this expression hot AF, right?

OMG look at how distressed he is - even after everything Li Lun has done - at seeing his friend be sealed...

So... it was *again* a blood moon that caused Zhu Yan to kill Zhao Wan'er? But... where did the blood moon suddenly come from? Or did it appear *because* Zhu Yan started absorbing malicious qi?

The *sound* in this scene... no music at all... just silence and the over-loud, almost distorted-sounding sounds - slosh of the water from Wan'er's footsteps, her breathing, the washing of the waves....

So. Fucking. Atmospheric.

But wait, in this memory he attacks Wen Xiao and (it looks like?) ?breaks her neck? (Or does he just knock her unconscious?) That didn't happen though in the other depictions we've seen of this scene? Is this memory faked/altered? In fact... how the fuck can Li Lun be showing her a "memory" of shit that went down after he was sealed? He wasn't there to see any of this? I call bullshit! Unless... he somehow stole this memory from Zhu Yan?

Oh SHIT is the blood moon where he killed Wan'er the same one in which he attacked Demon Hunting Bureau?!!

This song by Hou Minghao is so melancholy and haunting... and even more playing over this scene...

Oh what the fuck Sijing actually fighting on the side of the good guys? Or is she...?

Also wtf happened to her boss who was outside the gate. Why has he not gotten involved in the latest shenanigans... he wants Zhu Yan's core still, doesn't he?

Oooh baby bro enters the fray!!

Using Ying Lei's blood to fire up the sword?!

Oooh divine blood, demon blood & the Bingyi clan blood on the sword = maximum effort!

Ooooooh is he faking? I've been slightly spoiled about Zhu Yan giving him immunity to his one word spell... are we gonna get another flashback showing that that already happened and Zhuo Yichen is once again pretending to be in a coma to get the upper hand?

Fuck WHAT?!! You end it THERE?!!!

And it's fucking 3am, I cannot watch another episode, I will have to go to bed and SUFFER until tomorrow!!

[artyandink]

amoralism | ten

SUMMARY: You and Dean Winchester are the top agents from Major Crimes. You’re also assigned as partners on the same case- a crime syndicate is running loose and buying out most of downtown New York. He hates you cause you hate him. You hate him cause you think he got in his position with his daddy’s influence. But this case is personal to one of you more than the other- and you may be getting too personal for comfort.

TW: Agent Dean Winchester (yes, he’s a warning in itself), mention of murder, murder, Knights of Hell but they’re just murderous humans, description of injuries, use of firearms, a mole in the FBI, Azazel, Asmodeus, crime syndicates, (slightly), pressure, it’s a Kevin and Jo episode guys

Song Inspo: Bones by Imagine Dragons

SERIES MASTERLIST

bilingualism

THREE WEEKS AGO:

The dimly lit operations room was filled with the hum of computer monitors and the soft clatter of keyboard strokes. Kevin and Jo, both were hunched over a desk, their eyes glued to the footage playing on the screen in front of them. The grainy video showed the supposed death of Cain, a case that had puzzled them for days.

Kevin paused the video, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his eyes. "Something about this just doesn't add up," he said, his voice tinged with frustration. "We've watched this footage a dozen times, and it still feels off."

Jo nodded, her brow furrowed in concentration. "Yeah, I know what you mean. There’s something... staged about it. But I can’t quite put my finger on it.”

Kevin replayed the segment where Cain was supposedly killed, focusing on the details. "Look at the way he falls. It's too clean. No struggle, no desperation. It's almost like he knew what was coming."

Jo leaned closer, scrutinizing the screen. "You’re right. And check out the angle of the camera. It’s positioned perfectly to capture the whole scene. Almost like it was set up deliberately."

Kevin's fingers flew across the keyboard, enhancing the footage and zooming in on Cain's face. "See that? He’s looking right at the camera. That’s not a look of fear; it’s... calculated."

Jo's eyes widened. "He’s playing to the audience. He wanted us to see this."

Kevin nodded, a sense of excitement building in his chest. "Exactly. But why? What’s his endgame?"

Jo frowned, leaning back in her chair. "Maybe he wanted us to think he was dead. Take the heat off him, so he could operate from the shadows."

Kevin paused the footage at the moment of Cain's supposed death. "That would explain a lot. But it also means we’ve been chasing a ghost. Cain's out there somewhere, and we’ve got no idea what he’s planning."

Jo ran a hand through her hair, her mind racing. "We need to look at this from a different angle. If Cain wanted us to think he was dead, he must have a reason. Something big."

Kevin started pulling up files on Cain, scanning through his known associates and recent activities. "Cain's always been a step ahead. If he's faked his death, he’s probably planning something major. We need to figure out what that is before it’s too late."

Jo nodded, determination hardening her features. "Right. But first, we need to confirm our theory. Let’s see if there’s any evidence that supports the idea that Cain is still alive."

Kevin brought up a series of reports, focusing on unusual activities that could be linked to Cain. "Look at this. A string of unexplained deaths in the last month. All of them have Cain’s signature—decapitation with a single clean cut."

Jo’s eyes widened. "That’s his calling card. He’s definitely still active. We need to alert the higher-ups."

Kevin hesitated, a frown crossing his face. "Wait. If we go straight to them without solid proof, they might not take us seriously. We need more than just a hunch."

Jo nodded, her jaw set. "You’re right. We need to gather enough evidence to make our case airtight. Let’s start with the footage. There’s got to be something we missed."

Kevin replayed the footage, slowing it down frame by frame. "Look here," he said, pointing to a shadow in the background. "There’s someone else in the room. They’re just out of sight, but you can see their reflection in the window."

Jo squinted at the screen, her heart racing. "That’s it. Cain had an accomplice. Someone who helped him stage his death."

Kevin enhanced the image, revealing the faint outline of a figure. "If we can identify this person, we might be able to track them down and get to Cain."

TWO WEEKS AGO:

The sun was just beginning to set as Kevin and Jo arrived at the scene of the latest decapitation. The crime scene was an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town, eerily quiet and shrouded in shadows. They parked their car a safe distance away and approached on foot, their flashlights cutting through the growing darkness.

Kevin’s heart raced as they reached the entrance. He glanced at Jo, who nodded in silent agreement. They needed to be cautious; if Cain was on a revenge mission, there was no telling what they might find.

They slipped inside the warehouse, the scent of decay and stale air assaulting their senses. The beam of Kevin’s flashlight fell on the chalk outline of a body and a pool of dried blood. He knelt down, inspecting the scene with a critical eye.

“Looks like the usual M.O.,” Kevin murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “Clean cut, no signs of a struggle.”

Jo scanned the area, her flashlight revealing the remnants of a violent encounter. “Yeah, but something feels different. This doesn’t seem random. Cain’s targeting someone specific.”

Kevin stood up, dusting off his hands. “Let’s look around. Maybe we can find something that ties this to Cain.”

They moved methodically through the warehouse, searching for clues. It wasn’t long before Jo’s flashlight caught something glinting in the shadows. She moved closer, crouching down to inspect it.

“Kevin, over here,” she called softly.

Kevin joined her, and together they examined the object. It was a medallion, intricately carved with symbols that Kevin recognized immediately.

“This is a syndicate insignia,” he said, his eyes widening. “Whoever this was, they were part of the syndicate.”

Jo’s eyes narrowed in thought. “So Cain’s not just killing randomly. He’s targeting members of the syndicate. But why?”

Kevin turned the medallion over in his hands, his mind racing. “Revenge. Cain’s on a revenge mission.”

Jo frowned. “Revenge for what?”

Kevin’s face grew grim as he pieced it together. “For the death of his wife, Collette, and his brother Abel.”

Jo’s eyes widened in realization. “Of course. Cain’s been harboring a grudge for centuries. The syndicate must have been involved in their deaths.”

Kevin nodded. “It makes sense. Cain’s always been driven by a sense of justice, twisted as it may be. If the syndicate had a hand in Collette’s and Abel’s deaths, he’d stop at nothing to make them pay.”

Jo stood up, her expression determined. “We need to find out more about this victim. If we can identify them, we might be able to connect the dots and figure out who Cain’s next target will be.”

Kevin agreed, pocketing the medallion. They continued their search, hoping to uncover more clues that would shed light on the identity of the latest victim. As they moved deeper into the warehouse, Kevin’s flashlight caught a glimpse of a piece of paper pinned to the wall.

“Jo, over here,” he called, moving towards the paper.

Jo joined him, and they examined the paper together. It was a list of names, each one crossed out except for the last two. Kevin recognized a few of the names immediately—prominent members of the syndicate who had been killed in recent weeks.

“This is a hit list,” Jo said, her voice barely above a whisper. “These are Cain’s targets.”

Kevin nodded, his heart pounding. “And it looks like he’s almost done. We need to warn the remaining targets before it’s too late.”

Jo took out her phone, quickly dialing the number of their superior. “We need to get this information to Sam and the others. They need to know what we’ve found.”

Kevin scanned the list, noting the names and locations of the remaining targets. He quickly pulled out his phone, dialling Sam.

He answered on the second ring. ‘Hey, Kevin. What’s up?’

Kevin took a deep breath, steadying himself. "Sam, we’ve got a situation. It’s about Cain."

There was a pause on the other end before Sam’s voice came through, cautious and curious. ‘Cain? I thought he was dead.’

"Yeah, that’s what we all thought," Kevin replied, glancing at Jo for support. "But we’ve got evidence that he’s still alive. And it’s worse than we expected—he’s on a revenge mission."

‘Revenge?’ Sam’s tone shifted, growing more serious. ‘For what?’

Kevin explained quickly, summarizing the events of the past few hours. "We’ve been investigating a series of decapitations, and we found out that all the victims were part of the syndicate. Cain’s been targeting them because he believes they were involved in the deaths of his wife, Collette, and his brother, Abel."

There was another pause as Sam processed the information. ‘That explains a lot. But if Cain’s alive and out for revenge, that means we’re dealing with a Knight of Hell who’s hell-bent on destruction.’

"Exactly," Kevin said. "We’ve already secured the remaining targets on his hit list, but we need to find Cain and stop him before he kills anyone else."

Jo stepped closer to Kevin, speaking up. "Sam, we’ve got a lead on his location. An abandoned farmhouse on the outskirts of town. We’re gearing up to head there now."

Sam’s voice was firm, filled with determination. ‘I’m on my way. Don’t do anything until I get there. We need to handle this carefully.’

ONE WEEK AGO:

The evening sky was a wash of fading orange and deepening purple, casting long shadows that seemed to pulse with the tension of the impending confrontation. Sam led the charge, his expression grim and focused.

And hoping his hair wouldn’t fall in his face.

The intel Kevin and Jo had uncovered suggested that this dilapidated farmhouse was Cain’s hideout. After weeks of relentless investigation and countless dead ends, they were finally closing in on the man responsible for a series of brutal murders, each victim a former member of a notorious criminal syndicate. Cain’s revenge was nearly complete, and they knew they were running out of time.

Sam motioned for silence as they approached the front door, his eyes scanning the surroundings for any signs of movement. Kevin and Jo flanked him, their weapons drawn and ready. The tension was palpable, each agent acutely aware of the stakes.

Sam took a deep breath, then kicked the door open, the sound echoing through the empty farmhouse. They moved in swiftly, clearing rooms with practiced efficiency. The air was thick with dust and the lingering scent of decay. As they reached the living room, they found Cain seated calmly in an old armchair, a faint smile playing on his lips.

“Looks like you found me,” Cain said, his voice low and steady. “But you’re too late.”

Sam stepped forward, his gun trained on Cain. “Where are the others?”

Cain shook his head, his smile widening. “They’re gone. All of them. My revenge is complete.”

Kevin felt a chill run down his spine. They had been too late. The realization hit him like a punch to the gut. Jo’s eyes were locked onto Cain, her expression a mix of anger and frustration.

“What do you mean, ‘they’re gone’?” Jo demanded, her voice tight with barely restrained fury.

Cain leaned back in his chair, his eyes cold and calculating. “I’ve taken care of everyone responsible for Collette’s death and my brother Abel’s betrayal. Every single one of them.”

Sam tightened his grip on his weapon. “This ends now, Cain. You’re coming with us.”

Cain’s smile faded, replaced by a look of somber resolve. “You think I’m the biggest threat you’re facing? You’re wrong. There’s someone within your own ranks, someone who’s been working against you all along.”

Kevin and Jo exchanged a confused glance. Sam’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening. “What are you talking about?”

“There’s a mole in your organization,” Cain said, his voice carrying a weight of certainty. “Someone who’s been feeding information to the syndicate, undermining your every move.”

Jo’s eyes widened in shock. “A mole? Who?”

Cain shrugged, his expression inscrutable. “I don’t know their identity. But I do know they’re close. Closer than you think.”

Kevin felt a knot of dread tighten in his stomach. A mole within the FBI could explain the many setbacks they had faced during the investigation. But who could it be?

Sam took a step closer to Cain, his voice a low growl. “Why should we believe you?”

Cain met Sam’s gaze, unflinching. “Because I have no reason to lie. My revenge is complete. I have nothing left to lose.”

The silence that followed was heavy with tension. Sam exchanged a look with Kevin and Jo, then holstered his weapon. “We’re taking you in, Cain. You’ll have plenty of time to tell us everything you know.”

Cain didn’t resist as Sam and Jo cuffed him, his expression one of resignation. Kevin’s mind was racing, trying to process the implications of what Cain had revealed. If there truly was a mole within the FBI, they needed to find them before more lives were put at risk.

Back at the FBI headquarters, the atmosphere was charged with a mixture of frustration and determination. Cain was secured in an interrogation room, under constant watch. Sam, Kevin, and Jo convened in a conference room, the gravity of their situation weighing heavily on them.

Sam paced the length of the room, his mind clearly racing. “If Cain’s telling the truth, we have a serious problem. A mole within our ranks could explain why this investigation has been so difficult.”

Kevin nodded, his fingers tapping nervously on the table. “We need to re-examine everyone. Look at their access, their movements, any anomalies in their behavior.”

Jo leaned forward, her eyes sharp with focus. “We’ve already ruled out the usual suspects. We need to think outside the box. Consider people we haven’t scrutinized as closely.”

Sam stopped pacing and turned to face them. “We’ll need to do this quietly. If the mole realizes we’re onto them, they could cause even more damage. Let’s start with access logs and communication records. Anyone who’s had unusual access to sensitive information.”

Kevin pulled out his laptop, quickly accessing the FBI’s internal database. Jo began sifting through recent case files, looking for any discrepancies or unusual patterns.

FOUR DAYS AGO:

Kevin and Jo sat across from each other in the dimly lit interrogation room, the sterile walls echoing with their frustration. The clock on the wall ticked mercilessly, reminding them of how little time they had left to uncover the mole within the FBI.

Kevin sighed, rubbing his eyes. “We’ve gone through the files a hundred times, Jo. There has to be something we’re missing.”

Jo leaned back in her chair, staring at the ceiling as if the answer might be written there. “I know, Kevin. But everyone we’ve investigated so far checks out. There’s no indication of anyone working against us.”

Kevin flipped through a thick stack of personnel files, each one meticulously marked with notes and red flags. “Let’s go over the interviews again. Maybe we missed a detail.”

Jo pulled out a notebook, the pages filled with hastily scribbled observations. “We’ve already ruled out Sam, Benny, Cas, Meg, and Ruby. They’ve all got alibis and their stories check out.”

Kevin nodded, his mind racing. “But what if the mole is someone we haven’t even considered? Someone under the radar?”

Jo tapped her pen against the table, deep in thought. “Like who? We’ve gone through everyone in our immediate circle.”

Kevin stood up, pacing the room. “Maybe it’s someone who’s not directly involved with us but has access to sensitive information. A support staff member, a janitor, someone who blends in.”

Jo’s eyes widened with realization. “You might be onto something. We need to broaden our scope. Look at everyone who’s had access to classified information, even if they’re not directly involved in our operations.”

Kevin nodded, feeling a spark of hope. “Let’s start with the cleaning crew. They’re here late at night when no one else is around. It’s possible someone could have overheard something or found a way to access our files.”

Jo jotted down a list of names. “Alright, let’s split up and start interviewing them. We need to be thorough.”

They moved with renewed determination, ready to uncover the truth.

THREE DAYS AGO:

The break room was quiet, the usual hum of chatter replaced by the soft buzz of the vending machine. Kevin and Jo sat at a small table, reviewing the cleaning crew’s schedules and backgrounds.

Kevin sipped his coffee, his eyes scanning the list. “So far, everyone we’ve talked to seems clean. No suspicious behavior, no access to restricted areas. Cleaning crew was a bust.”

Jo nodded, tapping her fingers on the table. “But we need to keep digging. There has to be a connection we’re not seeing.”

Kevin set down his coffee, leaning forward. “Let’s think about motive. Why would someone want to betray us? Money? Blackmail? Ideological reasons?”

Jo frowned, her brow furrowing. “It could be any of those. Or something we haven’t even considered. We need to think outside the box.”

Kevin’s eyes lit up with an idea. “What if it’s not about the usual reasons? What if it’s personal? Someone with a grudge against one of us?”

Jo looked thoughtful. “It’s possible. But who would have a personal vendetta against us?”

Kevin pulled out a piece of paper, jotting down names and potential motives. “Let’s make a list of anyone who’s had conflicts with our team in the past. Even minor disagreements could be a clue.”

Jo grabbed a pen, joining him in the brainstorming session. “Alright, let’s start with recent cases. Anyone we’ve crossed paths with who might hold a grudge.”

They worked in silence, their minds racing as they compiled the list. It was a long shot, but it was the best lead they had.

TWO DAYS AGO:

The FBI archives were a labyrinth of files and documents, stretching back decades. Kevin and Jo had spent hours sifting through the records, their eyes tired and their bodies aching from the constant strain.

Kevin pulled out another box of files, setting it on the table with a heavy thud. “There has to be something in here. Some connection we’ve overlooked.”

Jo flipped through a stack of papers, her fingers smudged with ink. “We’ve reviewed all the recent cases. Maybe we need to look further back. See if there’s a pattern.”

Kevin nodded, opening the box and pulling out a file. “Let’s start with cases that involved multiple agents. Larger operations where more people were involved.”

They worked in silence, the only sounds the rustling of papers and the occasional murmur of realization. Hours passed as they delved deeper into the archives, their frustration mounting with each dead end.

Jo suddenly looked up, her eyes wide. “Kevin, look at this.”

Kevin leaned over, peering at the file in her hands. It was an old case, one that had involved a large-scale operation against a powerful criminal syndicate. Several agents had been involved, including some who were still with the Bureau.

“This operation was a mess,” Jo said, pointing to the notes in the margin. “Several agents were compromised, and there were allegations of a mole even back then.”

Kevin’s mind raced. “But they never found the mole. What if it’s the same person, still operating within the Bureau?”

Jo nodded, her excitement growing. “It’s possible. We need to cross-reference these agents with the ones currently on our list.”

They worked quickly, their energy renewed by the potential breakthrough. If they could find a connection, they might finally be able to unmask the mole.

ONE DAY AGO:

The surveillance room was filled with monitors, each displaying different angles of the FBI headquarters. Kevin and Jo watched the screens intently, their eyes scanning for any sign of suspicious activity.

Kevin pointed to one of the screens. “There. That’s Agent Harris. He’s been acting strange lately, always staying late and avoiding eye contact.”

Jo nodded, making a note. “And there’s Agent Parker. She’s been spending a lot of time in the restricted areas, even when she’s not on duty.”

They continued to watch, their suspicions growing with each observation. They had compiled a list of agents who had been involved in the old operation and were now focusing their surveillance on them.

Kevin glanced at Jo, his expression serious. “We need to be careful. If the mole realizes we’re onto them, they might make a move.”

Jo nodded, her eyes never leaving the screens. “We’ll keep watching. Sooner or later, they’ll slip up.”

Hours passed, the tension in the room growing with each passing minute. They monitored every movement, every interaction, hoping for a clue that would lead them to the mole.

Suddenly, Jo’s eyes widened. “Kevin, look at this.”

Kevin leaned forward, his heart pounding. One of the agents on their list was meeting with a known associate of the syndicate— Azazel, no less, their conversation hushed and secretive.

“No way.” She whispered, grabbing her phone and rushing to make a call while Kevin stared wide eyed at the screen.

“That’s it,” Kevin whispered. “We’ve got our mole.”

NOW:

You felt numb. You felt… you didn’t know how to feel. In fact, your feet were barely carrying you towards the interrogation room, where you met Sam. He gave you a small nod, reassuring in hopes to calm the rising of bile, venom and blind fury that rose in your gut, threatening to boil over, but you shoved it down for the sake of it.

“He’s in there.” Sam nodded through the door, but stopped you before you could go in full guns blazing, pulling you in for a brief hug, his chin on your head. “Keep your cool, ok?”

“I will.” You assured quietly, and made your way in, your blood turning to ice.

There he was, at the interrogation table, cuffed to the desk. Smirk playing at his pouty lips, sandy hair slightly tousled from not having come quietly, red flannel and knowing look on his face. Green eyes following your every move, every slope of your body as you walked, tongue now tracing his upper teeth.

Dean Winchester. Dean was the mole in the FBI.

“Took you long enough, sweetheart.” He chuckled in a gravelly voice, which you ignored, taking the case file from Kevin with a small nod that said ‘well done’ to him and Jo. They’d been working the case while you were out playing a part in some badly written romance movie.

You cleared your throat, looking him in the eye. “So. It’s you. Why didn’t I see what you were doing?”

“I don’t think you were ever that perceptive, eh?” He grinned at you, clasping his hands together. “Ain’t no game that’s worth it if you ain’t the winner, am I right? But I played you good.”

“You sure did.” You replied, being cold about it the best you could. Your arms folded, jaw set and staring him dead in the eye. “But why did you do it?”

He laughed, throwing his head back before he looked back to you with a smirk. He cracked his Cheshire grin and gave you his best cocky-ass smile, one that made him look like the Devil. But there was only one thing worse than the Devil and that was the Devil in lion's clothing. “Because it’s fun.”

“You had sex with me because it was fun?” You frowned, folding your arms. “You wanted to get me this big win, is that what you wanted? Is this your idea of a big win?”

Dean smirked, leaning forward. “It’s my big win, darlin’. I said I’d get you a win, never said who’s.” Then he chuckled. “My patience’s worn thin. Adiós, sweet thing.”

His cuffs dropped from his hands, a Bobby pin clattering to the floor as the officers yelled out in surprise. Before they could react, they were knocked out with a clean few punches, and Dean had tackled you to the floor, the impact of your head hitting stone making your vision go blurry and the corners of it black.

You felt his lips on yours, further kissing what felt like the life out of you before he pulled back, hearing his footsteps disappear into the hallway along with hells and grunts that followed.

Your vision turning black.

TAGLIST:

@goldngguk @sweetpeachbombshell @slut-for-stiles @staple-your-mouth @daddyscrimsstuff

@dob-4-life @marcis-mixtapez @nonoreas0n @gabrielasilva1510

@lucyholmes13 @pandadork-blog1 @nicolstancu @malusinhaaaa @dybalabandolero

@a-cup-of-nightshade @tomatoessoup @sh0rtcakee @fall-06 @mckaykay-fandoms

@b3th13

@demonxangelomegaverse @deanwinchestersgirl87 @capailluiscedove @i723l-interrupted2323 @niyomiii

@all-the-fan-fic @eviekinevie8 @sunflowerlover57

@1-800-dean-winchester

@darichvep @idk-usernme @supernaturalmarvel3000 @ega2025 @deanbrainrotwritings

@targaryenluvs @bucky-hydra-hoe-barnes @leigh70 @aintnowayboi @ripoffsteveharrington

@gleefulleve @sacrosankta

@riteofpassage77 @eevvvaa @thedevilortheangel @thorsballhair @barbienotdoll

@4e1h3r @wolfieblue03 @kianaleani @vicky199625 @sassyslut2003

@impyrz

@didisull @miwp @lastcallatrockysbar @rizlowwritessortof

@zepskies @angelbabyyy99

@autisticgothic

@yourgoldengirls @deansobsessedgirl @mrsjenniferwinchester

@aylacavebear @lailawinchesterr @brightlilith @arcanaa @hobby27

@lyarr24 @ximm19 @deanbrainrotwritings

@a-girl-who-loves-disney @jeneelsworld @deans-spinster-witch @deanspinsterwitchs-readinglist @kayleighwinchester

@k-slla @muhahaha303 @suckitands33

@dean-winchester-is-a-warrior

@katherineeekai @freefallthoughts @angzls @deans-baby-momma @syrma-sensei

@cheynovak

[nerdanel01]

Substitutionary Satisfaction (18+)

Emmrich Volkarin/F!Rook 4k+ wc | NSFW/18+  Agnes unravels a bit after having to share a tent with Emmrich in the Necropolis five nights in a row.

EXCERPT: In Rolf’s bed, for a brief period of time, all was possible: that neither the professional boundaries nor the age difference between them would stand between them. That Emmrich would one day stop seeing her as a young girl and instead as a woman, that one day he might even love her. 

9:38 Dragon

Agnes had only been in the Necropolis for two weeks—no longer than any of the other expeditions she had undertaken with Ser Volkarin over the years, but it had felt far longer. The last days of their trip had passed with excruciatingly slowness. To Agnes’ great relief, when at last they had ascended, back to the upper levels of the Necropolis where the Mourn Watch remained in permanent residence, it was dinnertime. 

That, at least, was one aspect of her position within the Mourn Watch that Agnes could wholeheartedly embrace. Nevarrans were passionate about food, and the Watchers were no exception; the guard employed a fine cadre of cooks who ensured that the Watchers had three set meals a day, each served at designated, regularly scheduled times in the dining hall. For those Watchers who may have missed meals during their shifts patrolling the Necropolis, the kitchens were always prepared with finely cut cheese and fruit waiting—perhaps even warm bread and a bit of stew if you caught the kitchens at the right time. 

But for once, it was not the complex depth of flavors of the food, nor the full belly that would follow that Agnes looked forward to. The kitchen had prepared one of her favorites—a savory oxtail stew, prepared with spices in the Antivan style—but Agnes had little appetite, picking at her food perfunctorily with her fork. 

Rather, Agnes’ relief came from the fact that the dining hall was (as usual) loud; cacophonous; packed with Watchers. The two long tables that stretched down the narrow hall were packed full. Beside Agnes, Ser Volkarin was regaling Commander Johanna and any other Watcher who cared to listen with the details of their recent trip. 

Which meant, at last, a welcome reprieve from Volkarin’s attention.

The bond between them (ordinarily quite amiable) had come under uncommon strain during this last trip. On the ninth day of their fortnight-length journey, they had lost one of their supply packs under pursuit from yet another of the Necropolis’ uncatalogued denizens. Due to the loss of supply, Agnes had suggested—rather strongly—that they turn back attempt to make an early return to the Mourn Watch. But Ser Volkarin, after taking stock of the supply that remained and determining it was to his satisfaction, had insisted they complete the original expedition as planned.

A consequence of which was: for the last five nights of the trip, Agnes and Ser Volkarin had been reduced to sharing one tent.

If the lower levels of the Necropolis were not so dangerously cold, Agnes would have slept on the floor outside and let Volkarin have the tent to himself, rather than suffer the discomfort of sharing that narrow space. As it was she had spent the remainder of the ninth day dangerously distracted by thought, problem-solving, trying to figure out an alternative to the inevitable. But at the end of the day, when they pitched the tent, when Ser Volkarin slipped inside… Agnes felt she had no other real option but to join him. 

If this unexpected intimacy perturbed Volkarin in the least, he gave no sign. But from the moment Agnes entered the shared tent on that first evening, she felt herself begin to fray. The little sounds Volkarin made when he slept, great contented sighs and the occasional soft snore. The regular rhythm of his breath. His body, close enough to touch deliberately or accidentally—touching her already, really, his back brushing against hers ever so slightly when he drew in a breath. Frightened she would become drunk on the smell of him.

By the twelfth day of the trip, Agnes found herself snapping at Volkarin over the littlest things. Rebuffing his praise of her; rebuking him, occasionally. There was no hiding her irritation from him, and although Volkarin seemed confounded by this sudden change in her demeanor, he was graceful enough not to comment upon it, a fact for which Agnes was most grateful. 

How was Agnes to explain to him that she was irritable from lack of sleep? That she had spent the last three nights awake, back to back with him and stiff as a board, clutching her arms tightly around her own body like a straightjacket for fear of how those same arms might betray her if she allowed herself to slip off to sleep?

Now, at dinner, Volkarin was more than happy to give Agnes plenty of space. Agnes did not blame him. The last day, in particular, had not been pleasant between them. Though they sat side by side at the same long table in the dining hall, they were in separate worlds: Volkarin, chatting excitedly with Johanna about one of the crypts they had come across in the Necropolis and Agnes, exhausted and yet still wound awfully full of tension she could not release, picking disinterestedly at her stew.

“And goodness, the details on the facade of the Van Wyck mausoleum! The vibrancy of the colors, Johanna! I really should show you Agnes’ sketch later, it is a shame we did not have any colored pastels or something of the like for her to try and replicate those incredible hues…”

Unengaged as she was in both meal and conversation, it did not take Agnes long to notice Watcher Rolf was watching her, staring at her across the room from the opposite dining table. At first Agnes thought their eyes had simply met by coincidence. But then Rolf lifted his spoon to his mouth and, eyes trained on hers, licked deliberately and lasciviously along the spoon’s curved bowl. That, Agnes was certain, was deliberate. She fought the revulsion in the pit of her stomach, and repressed the urge to roll her eyes. The man was a total ingrate. But…

“In the Ghentsburg ossuary Agnes found this breathtakingly detailed mosaic of beetle-wings—in the magelight, Johanna, it sparkled like the sea under the sun…”

But that did not stop Agnes from rising to follow Rolf when he left the Dining Hall several minutes later, leaving Volkarin and Johanna behind, following Rolf wordlessly into the dormitories and then across the threshold into his private chamber. 

Rolf’s hands were on her waist the moment they reached the room, before he’d even had the decency to close the door behind them, still open to the hall for anyone who cared to glance inside and see him groping at her. But with Rolf, at least, Agnes felt no burden to hide, nor protect him from the tension and irritation that had been building within her for going on a week. She wrenched herself out of his grip and slammed the door shut behind them. Rolf only laughed lightly in response, somehow childishly amused by the fact that she had no desire to be caught in flagrante delicto by any other Watcher who might care to pass by.

But then Rolf was muffling that laugh against the back of her neck, running his wide hands up the front of her body, thigh to stomach to breasts, and Agnes released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, relaxing back into the touch. He kissed a path from her shoulder to her ear, sucked on the lobe rapaciously as he began to free the buttons on the front of Agnes’ blouse. 

And although all common sense made clear it was Watcher Rolf behind her and no other, Agnes closed her eyes… imagining another room, another’s hands, another’s soft breath on her skin. 

Substitution. A practice highly cautioned against in alchemy as in other magics, where the reaction between elements was so finely calibrated that any errant inclusion could throw an entire spell catastrophically awry. Substituting one herb for a like one could result in a far less effective concoction—or one that was outright dangerous. 

But sometimes, in life, when one did not have access to what one wanted—what one, perhaps, needed—such substitutions, perhaps, could not be avoided.

Behind her, Rolf whispered against her ear, sullying the illusion: “You are so beautiful,” he told her, shelling her unbuttoned blouse off her shoulders, cupping at her breasts.

A hot flash of irritation shot through her. Rolf knew their rules. Agnes turned in his arms to give him a look of darkest reproach, commanding him, “Do not speak.”

Then, she began to push him back towards the bed.

Like most of the great disruptions in Agnes’ life, this recent arrangement with Rolf had come about entirely because of the meddling of her father. 

Now that Lord Halkias had successfully married off all of her younger step brothers and sisters, he had turned his attention back to Agnes: his bastard, eldest child. His spare. At the time, Agnes had not heard from him since she had been dispatched to the Circle at Perendale twelve years ago. In fact no one, neither her father nor step siblings (nor of course Lord Halkias’ wife, who despised her) had written her so much as a letter since she had left the estate at age fourteen. That had suited Agnes just fine, as she was perfectly content to wash her hands of them and the six years she had spent on the estate. 

Suddenly, however, Lord Halkias seemed to have been awakened to the unexpected value of his bastard child. Through no encouragement nor support of his own, Agnes had managed to earn herself a position in the Mourn Watch, one of the most prestigious designations within the Mortalitasi. Among all of his children, Agnes was the only mage. And it seemed he had finally put two and two together, and determined that though he himself might see little worth in Agnes, someone else indeed might—a connection to the Mourn Watch was, among certain elite social circles, a highly desirable thing.

So, at the ripe age of 27, when most other noble women had already had their first if not their  second or third child, Lord Halkias was trying to arrange a marriage for Agnes—a goal which Agnes herself was determined to frustrate. Long ago, however, she had learned the best policy of resisting her father was passive. Rather than challenge him outright, she went on each of the dates that he arranged for her… and followed each with a scathing note to Lord Halkias on why that particular individual was entirely unsuitable to be her spouse. 

Which was how she had ended up, one sunny afternoon in Nevarra City, sitting and sipping coffee and nibbling on cakes with Watcher Rolf. 

Lord Halkias’ had thought himself clever for suggesting the match; Agnes could tell from the tone of his letter. Rolf was a second son of a powerful Cumberland family. Though Halkias made no mention of it, Agnes was certain that Rolf’s family held charter to either a shipping contract or some other mercantile advantage Halkias wished to take advantage of. In addition to that, Rolf was remarkably well matched to her in age (which had not been the case with all of her father’s choices), and he was himself part of the Mourn Watch. Ostensibly, that gave them a level of common ground on which to build a romantic relationship upon. 

But the entire experience had been excruciating. Agnes had not spent much time with Rolf before that afternoon, but things became clear to her within several minutes of sitting down. Rolf clearly thought himself funny; in Agnes’ opinion, he was absolutely not. He also clearly thought himself handsome, with his green eyes and his straw colored hair, which Agnes supposed might have been true if you liked that sort of thing. Worst of all, he had no intellectual depth or curiosity to him whatsoever.

Truthfully, neither Rolf nor any of the suitors her father set her up with had any fair chance to make an impression upon her.  Agnes spent her days with a man she had privately come to think of as one of the most brilliant minds in Nevarra, if not in Thedas writ large. Not only that, he was uncommonly chivalrous and kind... and Agnes would prefer the warmth of his dark eyes to Rolf’s greens any day of the week. 

How could anyone, anywhere, possibly measure up to Emmrich?

At the cafe in Nevarra City, when Rolf had called for the bill, he had asked Agnes when they could see each other again. Either he had failed entirely to observe her total lack of interest in him, or else he was utterly undeterred by it. Perhaps, Agnes mused, in his feeble mind, the afternoon had been a resounding success.

Agnes had paused over the rim of her teacup, surveying him. His confidence, his eagerness, his plain attraction for her, unreciprocated though it might be. 

“Other than passing each other occasionally within the walls of the Necropolis?” she had told him, casually. “We will not see each other again, I am afraid. Not like this, as a potential romantic courtship.” 

“However…” Agnes had continued, hardly believing her own gall, fighting the blush in her cheeks and keeping her eyes fixed on her tea and not on Rolf’s face, “while this brings a swift conclusion to our romantic exploration, that does not mean I would be opposed to a strictly physical relationship. If that were desirable to you.”

Which was how she hand ended up back in Watcher Rolf’s dormitory that very same night, her knees planted in the carpet, her face buried in his lap… imagining that the hand running through her hair and tugging at her scalp was Emmrich’s hand; that the thighs trembling under the pleasure of her mouth were Emmrich’s thighs; that those were Emmrich’s appreciative low groans of arousal. Dripping wet, fingers crooked deeply inside of herself, Agnes had finished even before Rolf had, moaning her release around his cock as her body filled with lightness.

It was an arrangement Agnes had never imagined herself a part of, at that moment, she found herself strangely thankful for it. She had spent the last five nights strung tight with desire, wanting so terribly to act on it, knowing all the same how completely catastrophic that could be for her, both professionally and personally. One way or another, she needed a release.

They had backed up to Rolf’s bed, and he was lifting the hem of Agnes’ skirts. But, “Not like this,” Agnes commanded, turning in his arms to face the opposite direction, bent over his mattress, facing the headboard.

A low huff of something—appreciation? Vulgarity?—came from behind her, and she felt Rolf’s hands palming over her ass as he told her, “You sure do prefer it from behind, Gallatus.”

Facing away from him as she was, Agnes was free to roll her eyes at that comment. What an idiot Rolf was, what an ugly and crass thing to say. ‘No, I simply don’t prefer you, but I am left with no other recourse to scratch this particular itch.’

But the irritation only lasts a moment, soon replaced by a sense of delicious, tight anticipation in her chest at the light chime of metal on metal, Rolf uncinching his belt. Agnes released a long, slow exhale, fisting her hands in Rolf’s bedsheets, and closing her eyes.

Transporting herself.

…Over the years she had only caught the tiniest peeks at Emmrich’s private rooms through his doorway, but the luxurious burgundy color of his bedsheets had pressed itself irrevocably into her memory. And it would smell so keenly of Emmrich, there, just as it had in the tent—like bergamot and pepper and dusty old tomes. Her imagination transfigured the chiming of Rolf’s belt into the clink of Emmrich’s bangles, the bracelets that adorned his arms, the many jeweled rings on his long fingers. 

When he entered her, Agnes was not thinking of Rolf at all.

She was thinking of all the things that she wanted but could never have. Of Emmrich’s hands on her body. The same elegant, well-manicured fingertips that would point out the most fascinating passages to her in whatever book or scroll he was reading; the same tanned, long-fingered hands that caressed her drawings with such reverent wonder (to be looked at once by him the way he looks at her sketches!); the same hands that now dug deeply into the meat of her hips, drawing Agnes’ body back towards his as he sheathed himself totally inside of her.

Agnes’ hand flew to her mouth, muffling the sob of pleasure and sheer relief that flooded through her, the warmth spiraling out from her stomach and flushing out into her limbs. The euphoria of fullness, the wanting in absence, and then the exhilarating rush of fullness again as Emmrich drew her back against him. The wet sound of their copulating, soft living flesh smacking against flesh and skin and meat each time Emmrich’s hips met the curve of her ass. The light rake of his nails down her bare back, his little huffs of breath as he thrust behind her. Giddying, mind-numbing joy as his fingers carefully unpinned the crown of hair around her head, sending black waves tumbling down her shoulders and around her face, running his fingers through it appreciatively.

In no time Agnes was writhing beneath him, arching her back to meet each of Emmrich’s thrusts, leaning into them to drive his cock deeper inside of her. So rapturous so gratifying so good one almost forgot to breathe, but then when one did—! Rockets of pleasure shooting through her body, coiling tight, driving her relentlessly towards her finish. 

Imagining the look on Emmrich’s face. His beautiful eyes, his mouth open and slack with pleasure. The drag of her name in his throat, what it might sound like spoken hoarsely around his satisfaction: “Agnes.”

Climax took her, white lightning of pleasure reducing her body to a trembling, sparkling, magnificent mess—all the tension she had carried in the Necropolis utterly unspooling into a warmth that carried her out of herself into a space of pure bliss, stifling her answering cry—“Emmrich!”—against the back of her hand. 

As the pleasure faded, so too did the illusion Agnes had constructed for herself. Eyes blinking open to Watcher Rolf’s messy quarters, not the precise and homey cleanliness that was the hallmark of Emmrich’s space. Reality creeping back in. 

This was why she maintained the arrangement, why she kept returning to Watcher Rolf though the man objectively disgusted her. In Rolf’s bed, for a brief period of time, all was possible: that neither the professional boundaries nor the age difference between them would stand between them. That Emmrich would one day stop seeing her as a young girl and instead as a woman, that one day he might even love her. But every time—as the pleasure faded, as her heart rate slowed, and her reason was restored—so was Agnes’ certainty that Emmrich would never see her that way. That this—fucking Rolf—was the closest she’d ever get to feeling what it would be like for Emmrich to reciprocate her feelings.

Strange combination. To be so fucked out and spent and tingling with pleasure, and to be utterly heartbroken at once. 

Agnes sniffed, stood, swept her hair out of her face. Then, without a word to Rolf, she turned and began to collect herself, pulling on first her smallclothes, then her multiple skirts, then hunting about the room for wherever it was that Rolf had flung her blouse.

“You don’t have to leave, you know.” Rolf had stretched himself across his bed, naked body glowing with a thin sheen of sweat. “You could stay.”

“Why?” Agnes cast him the most uninterested of glances. “We both got what we needed, did we not?” At last she found her blouse on the floor and pulled it over her shoulders, buttoning up the front and straightening out the cuffs of her sleeves. 

Rolf hesitated. That was unusual. He had an outsized confidence; hesitation was not really part of his playbook. Then he asked her, the tiniest edge of hope creeping into his voice:

“I know that’s what we arranged. But don’t you think this could be more than that?”

He might as well have proposed they pack up and run away to Ferelden together, for the wild look of shock and refusal Agnes gave him. “No,” she answered, immediately, without emotion or empathy, or even the slightest bit of guilt. “Goodnight,” she told him, then slipped out the door.

She had just finished pinning back up the last of her hair, restoring her pristine image of neatness when none other than Emmrich himself rounded the corner, making his way to his own rooms to retire for the evening.

“Good evening,” he greeted her; then added, with a delighted, conspiratory smile, “You left dinner early. Have you been spending more time with your young gentleman friend?”

How was it that nothing seemed to escape his notice—except for her affection for him, which grew more and more impossible to conceal by the day? 

Thinking of the way Rolf had licked his spoon at dinner to summon her, Agnes’ upper lip gave a nasty, disgusted twitch. “He is no gentleman.” Not compared with the gentleman in front of her, the very standard of courtesy and honor, genteel and sensitive. 

Emmrich’s brows knit together. There was a sudden tension around his mouth, a darkness and an intensity in his eyes that Agnes had not seen before. 

“What do you mean?” he asked her, his voice direct and serious, something threatening in his tone. All the charm and joviality stripped from it. “Did he—has Rolf made an unwelcome overture to you? Did he try to force you?”

Protective. That’s what the look on his face was. Worried about her, concerned for her, ready to rise to her defense if needed. The rush of love Agnes felt then was so powerful it dwarfed the endorphin rush of her orgasm only a few moments before.

“No!” she was quick to cut him off, to assuage his worries. “No, it’s nothing like that.” In fact, the thought would have been slightly laughable, had Emmrich not been so visibly concerned for her. Pound for pound Rolf may have had an advantage over Agnes, but there was not a single mage among the Mourn Watch who could outmatch Agnes in close quarters combat. If Rolf had ever tried anything like that, she would have had no trouble putting a stop to it with a swift dislocation of his arm—or worse. 

“Honestly, Ser Volkarin, it’s just that Watcher Rolf is so impossibly dull.”

Emmrich looked at her blankly for a moment, then laughed, all the tension in his face dissipating with that sound. Agnes loved his laugh, a study in contrasts: Emmrich was so civilized and dignified, but his laugh was an almost sinister cackle, and it built upon itself as his mirth swelled. “Oh, poor fellow,” he said, at last, looking almost on the verge of tears, so delighted he was and relieved to hear his initial suspicion was incorrect. “So that will be the end of it, then? His loss, I am sure.”

“Most definitely his loss,” Agnes said, returning Emmrich’s smile. This was what it was meant to feel like between them—the easiness of a well-worn friendship, not the tense bickering that had filled the days preceding. But while the lone, shared tent might have contributed to that bickering, Agnes still new (in the illumination of her post-fuck clarity) that her behavior towards him had been abysmal, and it was entirely her own fault. 

“Ser Volkarin, I’m sorry,” she told him, softening her gaze. “The last few days, I know I have been… less than pleasant, to be around. Our last descent was unexpectedly trying for me, but I will endeavor not to react that way in the future.”

“You are always a pleasure to be around,” Emmrich told her without missing a beat. Such warmth and affection in his gaze. “It is my fault as much as yours. You wanted to turn back; I insisted we press onwards. Forgive me, for my stubbornness. Shall I make it up to you now? Would you like to stop by the study for a pot of tea before we retire? You are welcome to tell me all the ways in which Rolf is an unsuitable match for you.”

How she would have liked that! If she had ever imagined anything happening between her and Emmrich, that was often how she pictured it: late night, all softness and tenderness spilling over into something new and other. The temptation to accept Emmrich’s offer was powerfully strong.

But she was very cognizant of the pressing need for her to take contraceptive herbs with her tea—something that would absolutely not escape Emmrich’s notice, and something she had zero interest in explaining to him.

“As much as I’d like that, I’d better not,” she told him. “After that trip, I am very much looking forward to my own bed.”

“Very well.” Was it just her imagination, or did he look ever so slightly put out by her refusal? “Pleasant dreams, Agnes. See you in the morning.”

--- This piece is Part IV in a series of 11. [ Start from beginning ] [ Read Part V ] [ Nerdanel's Fic Masterpost ]