#does she not get a lot of betrothal offers???

[alicentofhightower]

being the targtower’s youngest sister would include…

pairings: platonic!alicent hightower x daughter!reader, platonic!aegon targaryen x sister!reader, platonic!helaena targaryen x sister!reader, platonic!aemond targaryen x sister!reader

synopsis: what it’s like to be the youngest daughter of the green queen.

includes: reader being the only somewhat normal targtower, i went overboard on aegon’s are we surprised, might be ooc, sorry for how short alicent’s is i wasn’t feeling much inspo for her

a/n: one of my favorite things about alicent’s dynamic with her children is that they all represent a part of her: aegon, being used for politics, helaena, her innocence that she used to have, and aemond, her rage and thirst for power. so i decided to have reader represent alicent’s devotion to her family and her “duty”. hotd is so weird abt character ages so for my sanity aegon is 20, helaena is 18, aemond is 17, and reader is 16 in this. forget daeron pls

Alicent

Alicent has incredibly complicated relationships with her children. They are mirrors of her anguish, but her blood nonetheless. She will protect you and your siblings with her life, if necessary, but she also cannot look you in the eye without a pit of guilt settling in her stomach.

She feels nauseous when Viserys has you betrothed to a Lord from the Crownlands, but apart of her is satisfied with the match, though only because it means you will be allowed to stay in the Red Keep instead of leaving her.

She is just as gentle as she is with Helaena as she is with you. You are one of the only good things that have come from her. She cherishes you. When word of your pregnancy spreads through the Keep, Alicent orders an abundance of maternity gowns for you from Myr. She will always, without fail, offer you a guiding hand when going up large sets of stairs.

By all means, she is not a perfect mother, but she does what she can. She gifts you lots of her own accessories, like the hairnet she wore during Aegon’s second nameday celebration. Helaena is her “dearest love”, and you are her “sweetness.”

Trying to include you in her own private matters is one of the only ways she can spend time with you. She takes you to the Sept with her when she can, though her eyes are always averted from you.

That is one of the other strange things you’ve noticed about your mother; she can never make eye contact with you. Perhaps it is because you are with child just as she was at your age.

When the time comes, she cannot be by your side to hold your hand while you give birth. It’s improper. But she is overjoyed that both you and your son are healthy.

— “You have done well, my sweetness,” Your mother whispers, voice soft and melancholic and warm. Grand Maester Orwyle, bless him, had propped you up on great plush pillows after you’d finished your labors. He’d quietly congratulated you and helped you get comfortable in your bed, then had left you to rest.

She sits on the edge of your mattress, right by your side, thumb gingerly tracing your cheek. The forest green she’s clad in brings out the auburn of her hair. “The babe is a beautiful one. A handsome son for the realm. I am… proud of you.”

Articulating her thoughts has never been her strong point. It is the hour of the owl now. The only sounds you can hear are the padding of raindrops against the tall windows in your chambers and the crackling of the hearth.

“Aegon’s birth came quick for me as well,” She mutters, almost to herself. Peculiarly, she clings to the little ways you are alike to one another; they are fading as the days pass by. Her brows furrow as her mind begins to race.

Your firstborn sons’ births had come with ease. You were both married off far too early in your lives. In girlhood, you had both favored naive stories of brave knights and pretty ladies and romance. You both committed yourself to duty to further the family—

She stops the list she’s making in her head there. Far more resolutely than before, as if putting a wall around herself again, she kisses your forehead and retracts into herself.

“I shall leave you be. Good night.”

Aegon

For Aegon, news of a new sibling is unsurprising. It’s the same old thing to see his mother waddling around the castle, belly swollen. He’s a little indifferent when you’re born.

As a teen, though, Aegon is certainly the type to smack you a bit too hard in the training yard and then shush you, begging for you to hit him just as hard before you wail too loud and one of your mother’s handmaidens hear and alert her of it.

It makes him feel shameful, the first time you see him drunk, stinking of the whores of Flea Bottom and sweat. You promise to not tell anyone of it, if he, in exchange, does not do it again. He still does. You still do not tell.

After the events of Driftmark, you are the one to cut his hair short. Seeing Aemond bloody and bruised had frightened you, caused you to weep in front of the crowd in the great hall, and you’d tearfully asked Aegon if you could sleep in his bed together that night. He forces you to help him trim his waves the next morning as “repayment”, though he did not actually mind it.

You grow closer as you become older. To Aegon, you are the only one who has a semblance of faith in him; your mother was constantly repulsed by him, as was your grandsire and own father. Aemond had given up on him a long, long time ago, and Helaena focused on the children far more.

On his better days, Aegon likes to fly on your dragons together. Seeing you windswept and almost free is strangely satisfying for him; he misses when you both hadn’t been burdened by what your parents had put on you. In the dead of night, he likes to imagine what life would have been like if he hadn’t been forced to marry Helaena, and you your “fat, old husband”, as he put it.

Speaking of, he’d made a great fuss at your wedding. That was the angriest he’d ever saw you; he’d drunk himself half to death at the celebration afterward, made a fool of himself when he got into a fist fight with one of your husband’s brothers. Even the bards had stopped singing to stare at the spectacle. You’d almost lost your voice that night from how loud you’d yelled at him, asking when he’d ever think of anyone but himself, cheeks flushed from deep embarrassment.

“You know of my apprehension when it comes to large events such as these, and yet you cannot steel yourself for one night for my sake? What will you do when Jaehaera is married? Light the castle aflame?”

(You do not know the reason he’d done such a thing was to make such a big scene your consummation ceremony would be an afterthought. That, and the fact he was drunk and angry.)

Some part of him feels guilty when you get pregnant. He knows, deep down, that he had no part in it, and he could not control your fate, no matter if his efforts were weak or strong. But he was still your elder brother, was he not?

One day, while you sit in a rocking chair and he plays with the twins in their nursery, you tell him, “I should like for my son to be like you.” Aegon says, quietly, that yours will be better than he ever was, with you as his mother. He vanishes back into the Street of Silk soon after that.

One of his best qualities is being able to make light of anything, and he does just that after your labors, laughing at how disheveled you are and kissing your forehead. It’s hard not to laugh with him.

Days later, at his coronation, you are the first he looks to for approval, after your mother. The subtle nod you give him makes him wonder how you would’ve reacted if he had been successful in running to Essos. He hopes neither Aemond or Cole told you of what he’d said.

After becoming king, Aegon grows to value your input more and more. On his council, he feels you are the only one to genuinely listen to his concerns and thoughts when it comes to winning the war, and so he ignores the disapproving looks the men around him give him when you come to the meetings.

He does not mention your dragon when discussing battle plans, almost seems to ignore it when Lord Jasper brings you up; your dragon is great and strong, and he knows he will have to utilize you one day, but he refuses to think of it until it’s absolutely necessary. His mind has already been spoiled by what he has seen in brothels and taverns, and he imagines it will only further be by the sights of war. Aegon will do everything he can to avoid what happened to him happening to you.

The assassins Daemon hired infiltrate the Red Keep. They kill his son, leave with his head in a sack. Aegon rages and drinks and rages. He will not allow even you to see his tears, but he cannot stop them from soaking the cloth of your dress when you hug him tenderly, as if afraid he’ll slip through your hands like sand.

Bile floods into his mouth when Otto suggests wheeling his son’s body through the city to secure the approval of the smallfolk. The image of you insisting on going instead of his mother is burned into his brain. “If you will force Helaena, then at least spare Mother and allow me to go,” You’d begged. It does nothing.

As foolish as he can be, Aegon is also not one to forget what others have done for him. You were the only one who’d taken his side against your grandfather. He is glad he was not forced to marry you, glad that he did not force you to a brothel as he did Aemond; he is glad that he has not ruined you.

Aegon’s visits to your child become less and less frequent. He loves the boy dearly, like he’s his own, but he cannot stand to look at him. It’s only a reminder of what happened to his little Jaehaerys.

Rook’s Rest destroys him. He does not even need to tell you that it was Aemond who did it, you just seem to know. There is no way for him to verbalize that he is listening to you while he is in his milk-of-the-poppy induced coma, but he does appreciate the stories you tell him while sitting at his bedside.

He specifically forbids you from looking at him while the Maesters change out his bandages, but he’ll allow you to sit on the other end of his bed with your back to him and hold his unburnt hand while they do so.

— “I feel a monster,” He admits to you one night while you light a candle on the stand next to his bed. You’re clad in a warm nightgown; many whisper that winter is coming, and it’s hard not to notice with how cold the breezes have been lately.

“Why is that?”

“You know why.”

You can’t even fight the scoff that comes from you, and you turn back to him with a frown etched deeply into your face. “You should not. You are king.”

Aegon rolls his eyes. “That did not stop our cunt of a brother from burning me like the Conqueror did Harrenhal.”

Huffing, you smooth out your dress, then walk to the other side of the bed and slowly crawl on. You’re careful not to move around too much, so as to not cause him any more injury, and sit next to him, back against the headboard. You bring your knees to your chest and wrap your arms around your legs. His eyes are slightly glossy when they meet yours.

He takes a sharp breath. “…If it had been my decision, I would have named you regent.”

You laugh incredulously at that, shaking your head. “They set aside Mother for Aemond. They would have forced you to do the same.”

Aegon raises his remaining silver brow. “I am not as feeble and weak-minded as Father. I speak truly. It is you I trust the most.”

Helaena

Helaena is perhaps the least expressive out of all of your siblings, but even she felt happy when Mother’s babe had come a girl.

She does genuinely appreciate that you do not judge her and make fun of her behind her back; she has never felt like she has been able to fit in with her ladies-in-waiting.

As mature as she is, Helaena does like to indulge girlishly sometimes; she enjoys matching her gowns with you, as well as hairstyles and (light, so as to not overstimulate her) jewelry.

Observant and introspective, Helaena also has a great memory. If you tell her you’ve had a fascination with direwolves as of late, or have particularly enjoyed reading about Valyrian history, suddenly the dresses she gifts you will subtly be embroidered with subtle little wolf icons or ancient Valyrian imagery. She is very thoughtful.

Unbeknownst to most, she also gives very good advice. There have only been a handful of times her council has not helped you. Wise and empathetic, she is, and she is always willing to listen to you explain your troubles while she plays with one of her bugs.

It pains her to see you inflicted with the same fate as she was; married off to a man you had no love for, forced to be his incubator. Just as it was during Aegon’s coronation, her head is bowed at your wedding. She does not want to look at your doom.

Despite this, she is perhaps the most supportive of you during your pregnancy; she likes suggesting names for the babe as well as crafting him little clothes for him to wear when he is born.

Although you do not understand her prophecies, it does quell her anxieties a bit that you at least listen to them instead of dismissing them like all else do.

When noise gets to be too much for her, you are the first to cover her ears with your hands, guiding her to the lush gardens of the Keep to breathe. You are the only person she has a likeness of boundaries with; when she does not want to be touched, you leave her be. It’s why you are the sibling she is fondest of.

Her hand immediately flies to grasp yours when Meleys erupts from the boards at Aegon’s coronation. The look on her face had confused you. She’d appeared fearful, but simultaneously also put at ease, as if she’d known that this was going to happen.

After Blood and Cheese, she cannot find rest at night. She takes to pacing about the Red Keep, almost looking like a ghost; pale and silver and paranoid. Despite the fact that it distracts you from your own slumber, you insist on her staying in your chambers with you. She still paces, never sleeps. Some nights you even walk with her around the castle.

— “This one will not live,” She blurts out randomly, interrupting you from one of your tangents, confusing you. She never interrupts you, always listens to whatever your qualms are for the day without complaint.

“What?”

You feel like you’re about to burst; partly from the grand lamb you had for your midday meal and from how heavy the babe in your belly feels. She seems surprised that the words had actually come out of her mouth.

She pushes her face closer to the fly she has somehow managed to capture in her palm, a perturbed glint in her eye. “I do not think this one will survive.”

You decide to indulge her, tilting your head to the side from where you sit across from her, lounging on a velvet sofa. “Why is that?”

“The art of the spider is subtle. It shall trap another in its web.”

(Later that day, you can only wonder if she was speaking of Lord Vaemond after he’d been beheaded by Prince Daemon from behind.)

Aemond

Aemond can barely remember the day you were born, much less the day a celebration had been held for Mother’s pregnancy.

Alike to his siblings, Aemond is not one to forget what you did for him when you were children; how you always offered to take him on rides on your dragon before he’d claimed Vhagar, how you were the only one uninvolved in the “pink dread” incident, how you cried for him after he lost his eye.

After the loss of his eye, Aemond begins to put a wall around himself. Unfortunately, that does include you. Before Driftmark, you were closest with him, but afterward, you had slowly drifted toward Aegon; nevertheless, he shows his affection for you in his own way.

However, he does keep the little gifts you’ve given him over the years safely hidden in his chambers, away from the eyes of curious maids and servants, like the eyepatch you’d embroidered a little Vhagar in in the weeks after his eye was cut out.

When Vaemond’s head is cut off, Aemond immediately places a hand on the pommel of his sword, lest Daemon himself attack you next. When he becomes regent, he is the one who orders you to be given a sworn protector. He is the one who’d help you learn Valyrian when you struggled, even after all your lessons.

Aemond never, never shows much affection to anyone in the family publicly, but he doesn’t mind it if you place a hand on his forearm or his own hand. He prefers it if you keep things like cheek or forehead kisses private in the sanctity of your or his own room.

In his immediate family, you are perhaps the most normal of all, which does make him seek out your company the most. The mornings after he seeks out Madame Sylvi’s assistance are the mornings he spends the most time with you. The shame of it all almost eats him alive, and you are a welcome distraction.

Additionally, the one-eyed prince does genuinely appreciate how you show your devotion to the family, though of course he’d never verbalize it. Almost every training yard session he has, you sit on the balcony, embroidering a dress or two while he swings his sword at Criston’s morningstar.

Your wedding to some old Crownlands lord was a memorable one, mostly because of when Aegon had pinned your new brother-by-law to a table and began beating him senselessly. Aemond was the one who had pried him off, mercilessly tugging him by the collar of his doublet away from the man.

You become pregnant quick. Aemond says that when your son is born, he will bring him to meet Vhagar himself, stating that a “new Targaryen babe should learn the ways of his predecessors”.

As the moons pass by, the Maesters order you to bedrest. Your elder brother likes to visit during his free time, sometimes bringing a book with him to read or nothing, just to converse with you quietly. You are the only “quiet” Aemond has ever known.

When Rhaenys bursts through the boards at Aegon’s coronation, Aemond’s palm finds your wrist, gently grasping it with his long fingers.

Just as your mother does, you begin to shun Aemond after Luke’s murder. It does not make him resent you as much as it does Alicent, but it does make him spiral a bit quicker.

Many a time have you slept in Aemond or Aegon’s bed because of nightmares. The only time he’s ever slept in yours was the night Aegon had found him in the brothel with Sylvi. You had not been awake when he’d crawled into bed with you, just laying beside you and shutting his eye. He makes sure to leave before you wake. Aemond does not know that you were quite aware of his presence, but had chosen not to say anything. If Aemond of all people had decided to find sleep in your bed, something awful must’ve happened. Why take that moment of respite from him?

He knows that you know he burned Aegon, but he does not ever bring it up in a conversation with you, much less acknowledge it. However, Aemond is observant. He notices the fearful glint in your eye when he is around you, now, but this is what he has always wanted, has he not? To rule?

— Aemond is with you the morn after Blood and Cheese, standing in one of the Red Keep’s balconies as you watch the wagon carrying your mother and Helaena depart. Your eyes are sunken in from crying, cheeks swollen; you wear a veil of mourning yourself, though there is no crown settled on your head. The way you lean over the railing to peer at the ground, the way your back is hunched, the way you grieve so openly.. it does not befit a princess. It does not befit someone from the Targaryen family, someone who is supposed to use honeyed words and cunning tricks to protect themself from the environment of King’s Landing.

You sniffle. “Where were you?”

Aemond’s eye goes wide. A deep pit was already settled in his stomach, but it only seems to get worse at your questioning. Even his throat seems to tighten up, make it impossible for him to even choke out an answer.

“When news of… the boy spread,” You begin, “I went to find you myself. But you were not in your chambers, nor in the library. Where were you?”

“Patrolling.” It’s an obvious lie. He regrets it the moment it comes out of his mouth, jaw clenching immediately. There was no use in patrolling at night, when he could barely see anything. His hand unconsciously squeezes the stone railing.

He’s ready to leave with haste when you nod to yourself, face blank and detached from reality. “…I won’t tell anyone,” You mutter, just loud enough for him to hear. “Wherever you were.”

[foldingfittedsheets]

My betrotheds mom is big in the SCA and does tons of hand sewing and period accurate clothes, she’s got several custom made outfits and enters competitions with her special projects.

One of them she meticulously researched and created a custom glove. I have no idea how much work goes into such a thing other than A Lot but whenever she tells us stories about these competitions she’s always slighted in favor of flashier offerings.

Her most recent endeavor was some kind of stiff collar. I’m not going to embarrass myself pretending to know the specifics but the original ones back in the day used layers of fabric and whale baleen to get a nice strong silhouette. She researched the crap out of it and wrote up a report to go along with the item.

At the judging one of the judges commented, “Well, it’s alright, but it’s so disappointing that it’s not fully authentic, why didn’t you use whale baleen?”

She sputtered out, “Well, if you’d read my report you’d know it’s because it’s illegal!”

[arachine]

— ❝on this fateful night...two hearts danced.❞ ˚₊✩‧₊

ᥫ᭡ pairing :: neteyam sully x human! reader

ᥫ᭡ synopsis :: in omaticayan culture, a young na’vi male does not yet become a full fledged adult until he passes one of two rites of passage: 1) choosing an ikran, and 2) carving a bow from the wood of Hometree (and/or choosing a woman). reader is now 20, and the only man she’s ever loved is expected to choose a wife soon. one day when she overhears a rumor concerning neteyam and the first woman in line to betroth him, reader is struck with grief, ultimately venturing off deep into the forest where she knows nobody will follow her—somewhere forbidden. however, unbeknownst to her, a certain someone follows her trail…

ᥫ᭡ genre :: mature

ᥫ᭡ general tags :: 18+ (explicit sexual content, explicit language), angst, fluff

ᥫ᭡ content warnings :: characters aged up to 20, use of alcohol, inebriation, size kink (kinda), vaginal fingering, oral sex (f receiving), male masturbation, overstimulation, riding (no penetration), m/f ejaculation, squirting…i took some things out but i think that’s it?

ᥫ᭡ notes :: what a long week this has been…but we made it! i cannot believe the first thing i post after being on hiatus for months is blue alien sex. anyway, i hope you all enjoy. also, be mindful that the dialogue switches between formal and casual. it’s something that i noticed neteyam and kiri do a lot in the movie. for what reason? idk…but the big font after the read more is intentional bc ik some ppl complain that the small font hurts their eyes :3

ᥫ᭡ word count :: 7.2k

— playlist :: spotify link

“You have been wandering off by yourself a lot lately…” 

There goes that attentiveness, you could never put anything past her—Kiri, that is. She was just too good (to a fault), and though her keen eye and emotional intelligence were extremely useful, they were also the most aggravating traits about her. 

Now, you could just tell her the truth about the place you’re always wandering off to, and you also could confide in her about the thing that’s been plaguing your mind recently—but you don’t, because you know better.  

For a split second, though, you hesitate telling her. The lean girl tilts her head, eyes flitting between your face and the satchel in your hands. Smoothly, you pull the satchel across your body and shift it to rest behind you—out of sight. 

Kiri seems to notice your apprehension, and so, she peels her eyes from the bag, offering you her full attention by resuming eye contact once again. If she has even the slightest hunch that you’re hiding something, she doesn’t voice her suspicions.

“Well, I won’t pry, sister. You know that I am always here to listen,” she reassured, reaching out a gentle hand towards your face. You let the tips of her fingers graze your cheek, the warmth of her hand providing transitory comfort. 

The two of you exchange sweet smiles before you pull away. It was getting dark, and the longer you stayed here, the harder it’d be to avoid the very thing you were trying to get away from—the very person you were trying to get away from. 

“I know, Kiri,” you grabbed her hand, encasing it between your own, “I know…but—I have to go. I promise I’m alright. I’ve just…been doing some thinking, and I think I gotta sort some things out with myself before I can be around the rest of you, you know?” 

There’s a silence between the two of you, and you’re not exactly sure if she’s taken offense to what you’ve just said, or if she’s carefully choosing her words. You decide on the latter though, because the last thing you want to do is make her feel as if she’s done something wrong, or if anyone has done something wrong. This was entirely on you; you and your stupid, selfish human heart. 

“Yes, I know what you mean,” she replies, squinting her eyes. Again, there’s a silence, but you can tell she still has something to say, like she’s mulling it over. “Will you at least be here tonight? You know, for the big feast? Everyone will be here, even Neteyam,” the girl tsks playfully, shaking her head as she walks circles around you. 

Immediately your body stiffens, and she responds to this by teasing you, “Or, I could just save you something…or maybe i’ll ask Neteyam to save you something since he’ll be the most important man tonight.”

“And why would you do that?” the words leave your tongue before you have the chance to process them. It reads rather defensively, but you ignore it. “I mean, why—why ask Neteyam?” 

“Because he’s your friend…” kiri pokes you, “because you love him,” she whispers, only this time her voice is a lot more serious, a lot quieter—a whisper. This is when you get that feeling again. 

That weird, achy feeling that leaves your stomach in knots and your throat all puffy. The sensation is debilitating—suffocating, and the only way you know how to ease it is by doing what you had set out to do in the first place (though, you were swiftly interrupted).

“Don’t be silly, Kiri,” your smile drops solemnly, “we’re…friends, just friends. Besides, he’s going to be spoken for soon. There are a lot of Na’vi women who would make fine mates…” Your voice decrescendos into the forest night air, the conversation lasting a lot longer than you’d anticipated. To stop your solemn mood from being expressed outwardly, you quickly turn around, looking back once to speak.

“Anyway, I have to go now. I’ll see you later.” Kiri nods and waves bye, her eyes watching as your small frame disappears out of her family’s tent. 

A cacophony of voices and music fall on deaf ears as you make your way through the village. The preparation is beginning, but all you can think about is him. Him, him, him. 

And ever since you overheard a rumor that Neytiri and Mo’at had chosen the next in line to become tsahik after Neytiri, your heart stopped beating…because you knew. You knew exactly what this meant—the end.

Neteyam was to be a future olo’eyktan, after all. And in Na’vi culture, the future head of the clan and the future spiritual representative were to be betrothed. You knew that, and yet, you couldn’t fathom it. Because then it’d be the end. 

The end of your late night rendezvous, the end of your special talks, the end of your banter, and your clandestine glances—your whispers. The ones that were quiet, and innocent…the ones that tingled the shell of your ears. Meant for him and you only. 

It was selfish, really. Stupid. You knew the day would come when he’d have to grow up and fulfill his duties as a Na’vi male. Just not this soon though, you wanted to hold onto him a little longer. And if drinking your pain away to preserve those precious memories could do that, then you’d do it. 

Lost in your train of thought, you don’t register that you’ve walked yourself right into the heart of a crowd until you bump into a young na’vi child. Apologizing, you then attempt to squeeze through the sea of bodies, tapping lightly on people’s legs until you reach the front. The people were cheering, celebrating the hunters’ return and the game that the Great Mother had graciously given them. 

Slowly, hunters had begun pooling in from the forest on direhorseback. Then, they started coming in clusters, all ululating, and pumping their fists in the air while holding their dead game in the other. Your head turned in awe as each hunter rode past you, the energy of the people so contagious that your sour mood was starting to dissipate, even if just a little. 

Thinking that was the last of the riders, you begin walking again, but the sound of heavy hooves striking the ground halt your movements. Turning your head back to the trees, you see something moving behind the shrubbery, and then enters none other than the man of the hour: Neteyam. If the people weren’t cheering before, they were definitely cheering now—especially since he’d managed to catch an adult sturmbeest (which was a difficult feat). 

The direhorse strides slowly through the crowd, and stops in the centre on Neteyam’s command. Nobody can take their eyes off of him, and neither can you. He just looks so strong, and masculine—like his father, even though he’s the spitting image of his mother. Neteyam puts his hand into the air before he dismounts his horse and ushers the people to settle down, and eventually, they do. 

He points to the sturmbeest that his direhorse is carrying back to be prepared. “Tonight, my brothers and sisters…” a pause, “we dance! we sing! we feast!” His words excite the villagers again, uluations so loud that your ears begin to ring. Just as you’re about to turn away, his eyes meet yours—he smiles. And there it is. That achy feeling in your chest. 

He wants to say something, reaches his arm out to you as if he were silently telling you to wait up, but then a girl strikes up a conversation with him. At first, you’re not entirely sure who it is—and you shouldn’t even care—but then you do a double take and your heart sinks a little more. It was Tsimandi, the girl rumored to be his betrothed. 

From this distance, you can’t hear what they’re talking about, so you watch intently. He’s got his head thrown back in hearty laughter, and she’s touching him—actually touching him, her hands wrapped around his forearm in an attempt to pull him further away. 

You think if you stay a second longer you’ll actually become a pile of liquid where you stand, so you take this opportunity to slip away while he’s preoccupied. 

When Neteyam looks back, he notices your absence. Squinting, he looks around in search of you, and then he sees what looks like a person disappearing into the thick of the forest. Just what is she doing?

“I apologize, Tsimandi, but I must do something,” he begins backing away, a genuine expression etched onto his face, “I will see you tonight, at the feast!” 

“Oh, o-okay,” she mutters but he’s already run off. Neteyam calls for his direhorse and waits at the edge of the forest until it comes running towards him. Before he can mount it and follow you, someone calls out to him. 

“And where are you going?” the voice queries, tone laced with suspicion. He recognizes who it belongs to and sighs. 

“Nowhere, sir,” he dismounts, meeting his father’s eyes, his mother also accompanying him. 

“Yeah, I’d hope so. The people are throwing this feast for you, or have you forgotten?” Jake gives him a once over, eyes still boring into his son. 

“No, sir. I have not forgotten,” the boy lowers his gaze in embarrassment. 

“Good. Go get ready, knucklehead.”

With each trudge through the forest, you were losing more and more sunlight. You’d walked about halfway to your destination when you remembered the bottle sloshing around in your satchel. 

Usually, you waited to drink the liquid there, but you decided given today’s strenuous events, you’d have some now. A reward, you tell yourself. Taking the bottle out of the bag, you lift your mask from your face briefly, twisting open the top and taking a big swig. 

No matter how many times you did it, the taste always made you gag. Bourbon—is what they called it. It was equal parts bitter and pungent but it did the trick. Helped you to relax, to forget. The first time you came across it, it was by pure accident. 

You’d been somewhere you shouldn’t have been, doing things you shouldn’t have been doing. But one thing led to another, and soon enough, you were inebriated for the first time. 

By the time you drink half of your weight in liquor, you reach your destination. The old shack. After what happened with the Sky People, Jake’s first rule as olo’eyktan was to prohibit anyone from entering. 

Even being somewhere remotely around the area was forbidden. But you were no stranger to disobedience, you’d come here once with Lo’ak (which was your first time actually). 

Though, you didn’t get to explore much because Tuk had spoiled your fun by telling Jake. That day was one of your favorite memories, you think. Jake couldn’t stop yelling at the two of you, but all you could do was laugh. Nothing was really even funny, but you couldn’t help it. Seeing Jake’s eye twitch at your outburst only exacerbated it. 

Lo’ak was getting the worst of it, and Neteyam fell victim to Jake’s nagging too for not ‘being there’. After a while, he’d dismissed the bunch of you from his tent and as soon as you were out of earshot, the three of you went into a frenzy of laughter. You think back fondly on those memories, all the ones that include Neteyam, that is. 

“God, there isn’t a second when I’m not thinking of you…” you sigh in exhaustion, extending an arm out to open the shack’s door. Reaching in your satchel, you pull out two jars full of glow worms (you’ve found that two jars are enough to light up the shack). Ambling over to your favorite spot, you open a cabinet and reach for another bottle of that bitter liquid you willingly put into your body. 

It’s still a wonder to you how well preserved these bottles remained over the years, and you’re pretty sure you’ve heard Norm or someone mention that the older the liquor, the better it tastes (which was a lie, but alas, you down another shot). 

“Wooo,” a cough erupts from your throat, “yep, still nasty.” 

At this point, the liquor is starting to take effect. Warmth radiates throughout your entire body, and you can feel your limbs gradually getting heavier. Being drunk had to be one of your top three favorite feelings. 

It either made you: sad, tired, or giggly (maybe even all at once). But now? Now you were feeling sleepy, so you groggily trudge over to one of the beds in the shack. 

As soon as your body hits the plush, a cloud of dust filters through the air. It was incredibly disgusting, but you’d slept in worse places. For now, you would lay here…succumbing to a sweet slumber. 

Neteyam had gone home without fuss as promised. Go and get ready. Well, he was doing exactly that now, exchanging his previous attire for that of something more formal. He rolled his eyes and huffed. Sometimes his father could just be a…

“Son of a bitch,” the boy snapped, his frustration reaching its peak. He’d been standing in the tent for about 10 minutes trying to figure out this headpiece his mother had laid out for him, but could not for the life of him figure it out. 

Giving up, he throws it to the ground and takes a seat with his head in his hands. Kiri slips in shortly after his outburst, bending to the ground to retrieve the item. Hesitantly, she walks over to her brother. 

“If you needed some help, you could have called, brother.” Neteyam lifts his head up from his hands to see Kiri towering over him, his eyes breaking contact with hers as she sits down next to him. There’s a pregnant pause, but it doesn’t last for long because Kiri is already opening her mouth to speak.

“What is troubling you?” She asks, forcing Neteyam to turn his back to her so that she can place the headpiece onto him properly. He inhales deeply, then exhales.

“I do not know…I saw (your name) earlier and…” Kiri hums, encouraging him to continue, “and—she had this strange look on her face.” 

“Look? What do you mean? Was she angry? Sad?” 

“I have never seen it before, sister. She usually looks happy when she sees me…but this look was different,” his voice is almost inaudible when he finishes. Kiri ponders for a bit, tilting her head as if she were mentally putting the puzzle pieces together. 

“How come you did not speak to her?” Kiri makes her final adjustments to the headpiece, ushering Neteyam to meet her eyes. 

“I was going to…I tried to, but Tsimandi found me before I could,” he fiddles with his fingers. Kiri takes note of his disposition, and she frowns empathetically. Clearly, whatever was going on with you two was something you had to work out together. This wasn’t like either of you! 

“But it was not just today either,” he continues, “she has been distancing herself for awhile, have you noticed?” She laughs at this, nodding her head.

“Yes, she has been acting a little strange lately. I think I might know what is troubling her, brother,” the girl takes his hand into her own. “But I cannot tell you. This is something that concerns only she and you…”

Neteyam squints his eyes in confusion, muttering a ‘what’. His mouth opens to speak but he is swiftly interrupted upon Jake and Neytiri’s arrival. He looks to Kiri for some clarification but all she says is: ‘go, go, you have a feast to attend’, followed with a, ‘find her later’.

“Well? Come on, the people won’t wait for your blue ass all day will they?” Jake teases. Neytiri slaps his arm, scolding him playfully. 

“Ah, my son, my beautiful son,” she pads to where he stands, taking his face into her hands. “It is time to go, we must celebrate you.”

Jake nods, flashing a quick wink of approval. Together, they all walk out of the tent and through the village where they’re instantly greeted with colorful luminescence, loud music, and food. All things that have been so generously prepared for him. By the time they make it down to the Tree of Souls, everyone halts their cheering to hear what Jake has to say.

“Tonight we eat,” a pause, “in honor of Neteyam’s mighty victory!” Jake grabs his eldest son’s hand, raising it in the air. “He led his first attack against the Sky People and made it back without any casualties!” A sudden roar of praise erupts from the crowd. 

Everyone is chanting his name, and clapping, but even amidst all this praise, he can’t help but to think about you. What does all of this matter if you’re not here to celebrate with him? 

You’ve been by his side since the two of you could walk, so where are you now? The thought saddens him, but he can’t wear his heart on his sleeve tonight. Not when there’s so many people here just for him. 

“For the past 20 years, my son has always been just a boy to me. But now I realize…he is a man—and he has proven himself in front of the eyes of Eywa,” The former marine glances down at his son, eyeing him in admiration. “Enough talking, let us feast!”

Laughter and songs fill the warm, breezy nighttime air. It’s been about two hours since the celebration commenced, and Neteyam has just about made his rounds to every important family. 

He smiles warmly as he looks at the scene in front of him: children playing and dancing by the fireside, putting on elaborate performances for the adults still filling their bellies full of food. Everyone is lively—happy, a testament to tonight’s success. 

Mo’at is pleased by this especially, she tells him that ‘this is what the people needed’—you know, to boost morale. At some point, when nobody is watching, he slips away from the party to walk around. Unbeknownst to him, someone has seen him. 

“Getting tired?” a voice questions from the shadows. Out comes Kiri, revealing herself from behind a leaf. 

“Yes, exhausted actually,” he jokes, disconnecting his braid from his direhorse. “No, but I need to find (your name). She has not come back and it is dark.”

“I figured you would leave early, that’s why I covered your ass and told Dad you were not feeling well,” the feline-like girl smirks. 

“Do you have an idea where she might be?” 

Kiri takes a moment before answering, “I’m not sure…but for some reason, I have a hunch that she’s at the old shack,” Neteyam furrows his brows in confusion. 

“Why do you think she’s there?” he queries, “I mean, it is forbidden.” Kiri offers him a shrug.

“I don’t know but if you’re going to find her, do it now while dad still thinks you’re not feeling well.”

With that, he thanks her for the intel and mounts his horse, disappearing into the thick of the forest. On the way there, his mind conjures up just about every possible scenario that might explain your absence. 

Were you upset with him? Did he do something or say something that you didn’t like? He wishes he could just read your thoughts because right now, his heart is pounding so rapidly within the confines of his chest, that he thinks it’ll explode. 

This wasn’t like you two, everything was always so easygoing. Being with you was easy, like breathing. But this? His heart couldn’t handle this. Yeah, there’s been some distance between the two of you recently but not due to his own volition—it was duty. If he could spend every second of his life by your side, just being kids, laughing with you, playing with you, he would. 

He’s trying to recount these last few days, weeks—months. Trying to pinpoint when exactly things got like this between you…pinpoint when you stopped smiling at him with that smile that made his head all fuzzy, and his heart race like a kid running for the first time. 

“Ah, everything’s going to shit, buddy,” he sighs, rubbing the side of his horse, “I don’t know what is wrong.” His mammalian companion grunts empathetically, stopping in its tracks at the edge of the forest when it sees the abandoned link shack. Neteyam doesn’t bother scolding her, because even the animals know that this place is forbidden. 

“Alright, I will see you later, okay? Stay here,” he pats her, disconnecting the bond. From this distance, he can see that there seems to be some sort of light illuminating from inside the shack. 

That alone already confirms Kiri’s hunch. The closer he gets, the more his stomach feels uneasy. He doesn’t even know why he’s nervous, but he attempts to ease his mind (and body) by telling himself that it’s only you. He’s talked to you one on one hundreds of times, so what’s the difference now?

Noises in the distance rouse you from your ephemeral repose. When you stand up, your head spins with the room, causing you to instinctively reach out for the nearest surface available. Whatever was outside had better be non-threatening, because you were not in the condition to be fighting—let alone standing. When you were drunk like this, you couldn’t even hurt a fly. 

“Fuck, I’m gonna have the worst headache soon,” you huff quietly, still aware that there might be someone or something outside. The noise is getting closer, and you’re running out of time to find a hiding spot. 

Quickly, you grab the closest thing you can to defend yourself (which is literally a jar of glow worms), and crouch down below the window. When you lift your head just enough to see outside, the makings of a silhouette cloud your vision. 

“Shit, shit, shit,” you whisper-yell, tightening your hold on the jar. Lifting your head up again, you notice that the figure is not in the spot it was previously. Then, the knob to the shack twists, and now it’s opening, and—

“(Your name)?” 

You pause your attack, slowly dropping your hand (that’s holding the jar) to your side. A flood of relief washes over you once you register who the voice belongs to. Rising from the ground, you open the door fully to see Neteyam standing in the doorway. 

“I almost killed you, you know!” you raise the jar, pulling him inside of the shack. 

“I think it would take more than a jar of worms to kill me,” he teases. Rolling your eyes, you continue ushering him further inside, leading him to an area where you can sit and talk. 

“What…what are you doing here?” you finally ask, folding your arms across your chest. Neteyam towers over you from this height, so he accommodates you by dropping to his haunches. 

“I was worried about you,” the boy confesses, “what are you doing here? Why were you not at the feast?” Suddenly, you don’t really feel like talking anymore. Even though the adrenaline from before was still pumping through your veins, so was the alcohol in your system. You’re not so sure you’d be able to keep your composure long enough to answer without exposing your truest feelings. So, you decide on deflecting. 

“Aren’t you the man of the hour? I think you should go back to the party before daddy throws a fit. We both know how he gets when his perfect little son isn’t at his every beck and call…” As soon as the words spill from your tongue, you wince. It came out meaner than you meant, and the last thing you wanted was to give him shit for being a caring friend. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t—I didn’t mean that,” you apologize, sitting down on the bed. All he does is sigh, but he takes this opportunity to enter your space, gets all close until his body is nestled between your legs. 

“I know…I know, but I want you to tell me what’s wrong, hm?” his fingers lift your chin, “so I can fix it.” 

“Can’t fix this, ‘Teyam,” a saltine droplet ribbons down your face. Your head is tilted up with his fingers, but you can’t even force yourself to meet his gaze. God, how pathetic did you look right now? 

Here you were, inside an abandoned shack, drinking your body weight in liquor…all while a celebration was being thrown in your best friend’s honor. And for what? Because you were jealous? Because you liked him—loved him? 

You knew that eventually your relationship would shift. That he’d take on his duties as the future olo’eyktan, and you’d just be his human friend he hangs with from time to time. How stupid could you be to think things would stay like this forever?

“Hey, hey, hey,” he soothes, both hands now cupping your cheeks, “don’t do that. Do not shut me out. We’re not like this, (your name), you used to always talk to me about things.”

Things. You’d talk about things. But those things were not like these things. And if he knew what things you were thinking about, the things that involved him…then you two would never talk about things again. 

You’re curious, though. What if you just told him? Just told him about all the days you’ve loved him, all the nights you’ve stayed up thinking of him—all the stars you counted wishing for him? At least then, the burden of keeping such a secret would stop weighing so heavy on your heart. 

“I..” a breath, “I heard a rumor.” The boy hums, encouraging you to continue. “I heard your mother has chosen her successor.”

“Is that what this is about? Why does this bother you?”

“Because you know what this means! We both know what this means, don’t be dense, ’Teyam,” you droop your head in sorrow, coaxing him to just lift it back up. Only this time, his hold on your face is a lot firmer. His eyes are fiercer.

“No. I don’t, so just tell me.”

“You’re gonna be the future olo’eyktan, and we both know that the future clan leader and the chosen tsahik are to be betrothed,” you start, “there will be no time for me! No more late night talks, no more exploring, no more secret whispers…I mean, I get it, you have duties to fulfill but…I wanna be selfish a little longer. Can’t I be selfish a little longer?”

You say the last line while meeting his gaze. You’re teary eyed and shaking, but you try your best to keep any semblance of composure you have left intact (though, it’s failing). His expression is indiscernible. 

It makes you nervous. Sick. And now you’re forcing yourself not to throw up because…the realization that you just told someone your deepest, truest, most vulnerable feelings makes you physically ill. 

“Oh, god, I’m sorry. Forget what I jus—“

“Are you serious? You don’t get it do you?” Neteyam’s head falls forward, a little chuckle slipping past his lips. His hands leave your head and slither down to your hands. He takes them into his own, eyeing you while kissing the knuckles of each. 

The act is incredibly intimate, sends white-hot electricity down the column of your spine. Renders you speechless. All you can do is sit there, too scared that if you move or speak, you’ll shatter into a million little pieces. 

“I have duties, yes…but my heart is already spoken for. Always has been.” 

“What are you saying, ’Teyam,” your head snuggles into the warmth of his hand. You know exactly what he’s saying, but you want to hear him say—

“I see you,” he whispers in your ear, “you are my most beloved.” The warmth of his breath tingles the shell of your ear, it takes the strength of a thousand men to not scream. 

But in this moment? In this moment you want to kiss him. You want to kiss him silly, actually, but you quickly remember the thing on your face preventing your lips from connecting with his. There are truly evil forces conspiring against you.

“I want to kiss you,” you admit solemnly. 

“Oh, you don’t know how many nights I’ve spent dreaming about kissing you. Too many,” he jokes, “but I’m afraid if we remove this, you’ll die.” 

“Then you don’t have to kiss my lips,” a silence, “you can kiss me anywhere you’d like. Anywhere.” 

His green eyes flitter between your face and your body, and then his hands are on you, forcing you to lay back against the bed. You lift your head up and lean back onto your elbows, watching through lust-filled eyes as he begins his ministrations. 

He starts from the bottom, works his way up real slowly—too slowly. He’s showing restraint, and while you appreciate the fact that he’s worshiping your body like a devoted follower worships their deity, you want him to ravage you. To eat you up until there’s nothing left but bones. 

“’Teyam, please…” you breathe out impatiently. Like the cocky-brat he is, he ignores your pleas, only laughing into your skin. 

“Shh, be calm.” The plush of his lips trail up the plains and pastures of your body, up your calves, your thighs (he spends the most time there), and then comes to a stop at the crest of your breasts. His fingers fiddle with the cloth covering your chest, lightly tracing the edges that rest just beneath your mounds. 

A tease is what he is. And you didn’t have the time for a tease, so you figured you’d help speed up the process by removing it. Sitting up, you untie the makeshift top and let it fall to your lap, smirking deviously as if you’ve done something so naughty. 

“Thought I’d help you,” you grin, wrapping your hands around his neck, “Please, no more going slow…I think we’ve been going slow for twenty years, don’t you think?” 

And he gets the hint, once again resuming his assault on your body, but this time with more fervor. More urgency. He’s kissing you everywhere, licking wet stripes over your chest, and leaving love bites in the places where he’s kissed you. Right now he’s acting on his most basic, primal instincts—he’s claiming you as his mate—in the only way he knows how to. 

The feeling of his hands on your neck, back, thighs and waist send you into oblivion. But then his hands are creeping up to your tits, deft fingers twisting and kneading, and oh god, you’re seeing stars. The addition of his mouth doesn’t help either.

“You’re so,” a kiss, “beautiful,” a suck, “perfect.” Neteyam kneads one breast while his mouth works on another. He plops down onto a pert nipple, using his tongue to draw circles around the area, his saliva acting as a salve. 

A moan (that comes out more like a disgruntled sigh) vacates your throat, and his eyes widen in excitement. The sight of his tail swaying in the background makes you giggle. Cute, you think. 

Even though what the two of you were doing wasn’t innocent, you couldn’t help but to feel all giddy. Reaching a hand out, you place a gentle palm on the side of his face. 

You trace the contours of his nose, his cheekbones, smooth over his jaw, and then stop at his lips. Your thumb grazes them, first the top, then the bottom—learning. Committing them to memory, how they look, feel, and move under your thumb. 

Neteyam is unmoving while you continue to run your finger across his lips—save for his hand, which slowly begins traveling south to your thighs. Experimentally, you push your thumb inside of his mouth, pressing the digit down on his tongue before tracing his cat-like canines. This moment is particularly special, because now it’s you who’s doing the admiring. 

The free hand that’s not inching towards your core, skillfully removes the loin cloth around your hips. Immediately, he’s met with your bare sex. It’s smooth—wet, so incredibly wet that it has his cock twitching, and his hands eager to touch you. He wants to taste you. Feel you, all of you. 

“I—,” a slender finger rubs your slit, “mmf, see you,” you mewl, cupping his cheek. Neteyam’s eyes widen, he wants to hear you make that sound again…and again, and again, and—

The boy repeats the action. Watches your abs flex and tremble from the touch, and your thighs close in on his arm. Using the other hand, he gently pulls them apart and leaves three open-mouthed kisses: one on your inner thigh, one on another, and then a final one at the top of your mound. The heat from his nostrils make you full body shiver; suddenly, being the only one completely bare is slightly bothering you. 

“Do not cover yourself. I want to see you,” his hand finds your cunt again, a long finger pushing into you ever so slowly, “…want to hear those sweet sounds again.” 

A soft sigh leaves your lips as you watch his digit push further into you, the drag of a knuckle against your slick walls aiding in the pleasure. You can’t help but to wince at the intrusion, because shit, this was a lot more than what you were used to—using your fingers, that is. 

You also suppose penetration would be off the table considering humans and Na’vi were never meant to mate, but it doesn’t prevent you from fantasizing about it anyway. How big was it? Did he touch himself? Use his hands and picture yours? 

The thought of him hunching over, rubbing one out, all slick with sweat and pre has your head all dizzy. Your mouth is practically salivating at the mental image you’ve conjured up in your head of him fucking your face, but you know it would never fit. There really are evil forces conspiring against you…

Neteyam’s finger reaching the hilt brings you back down to reality. A forceful thrust that coaxes you to gasp sharply and grab his forearm. After patiently waiting for you to adjust to his size, he begins to move. He sets a steady rhythm, pulling out slowly, then pushing back into you with the same velocity. 

Eventually, his movements become less hesitated, and more calculated. Instead of steady and slow, he begins increasing the pace of his thrusts, then graduates from speed to incorporating force. 

Every delve of his finger, every deliberate drag and prod has fire pooling in the depths of your belly. Squelches and whimpers ricochet off of the metal walls, and fuck, his dick won’t stop twitching. 

It’s grown considerably harder in these past few minutes, and all from just hearing you vocalize your pleasure. When the stretch stops feeling like a stretch, and starts feeling like a ‘give me more’, that’s when you encourage him to add another. And of course, he indulges you. 

The same time he pushes another finger in, is the same time he starts rubbing himself. He’s not even really aware of it at first, it’s mindless. He’s just so entranced by you, and the sounds you’re making, the things you’re saying, the way your cunt’s sucking in his fingers—

Fuck. He just finished all over himself. He doesn’t let that deter him though, keeps fingering you through his post-orgasm, taking care of you until you come undone on his fingers. 

And the sight is amazing, he can’t stop gawking at the way your hole flutters around him, and the nectar-like liquid that drips down the length of his fingers and onto the bed. He wants to taste it. 

“Can I taste you?” he asks. You’re in such a daze that the question doesn’t even register, suddenly too preoccupied with breathing like you’ve forgotten how to. 

“Huh? Wha—ohhhh.” His tongue licks a long stripe up your slit. He concentrates the tip at the bottom, lapping at the essence that leaks from there, and then circles back to your puffy bud. Experimentally, he prods it with his fingers, rubbing it in tantalizingly slow circles. 

The combination of his tongue and his fingers almost feel overwhelming, you feel like a puppet on a marionette with the way he’s maneuvering your legs around for better access. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was a starved man. 

His mouth is slick with drool, and his hands are pressing down so firmly onto your thighs, that you’re sure a handprint will be there for you to discover in the morning. His tongue feels so good on you, so nasty. 

The picture is obscene, unlike anything you’ve ever witnessed before. But the thing that’s really getting to you are the sounds he’s making. Grunts and groans, expletives and mumbles. ‘So good’, ‘perfect’, ‘beautiful’…it has your head spinning and your fists gripping for the sheets beneath you. 

There’s a knot in your abdomen pulled taut like a string of twine. You can feel it twisting and pulling, ready to come undone at the drop of a pin. The more he works on your slit, the more the temperature rises in the shack. 

Was the room always spinning? Did your body always run this hot? It feels like you’ve been thrown into a furnace, and the only source of coolness is the wetness that his tongue provides. 

“‘M gonna, mmf, ’s too much!” you jab at his hand in an attempt to push him away. He’s relentless though, still sucking harshly, and teasing, ramming his thick fingers up against your gummy walls. 

It feels different than when you touch yourself, more intense. Like something’s sitting heavy on your bladder. Then, snap. The string in your abdomen unravels, bringing forth a flood of ecstasy. 

“’Teyam!” you sob, back arching to the ceiling. When he pulls his fingers out, a stream of clear liquid seeps from your cunt. He’s awestruck, staring in admiration as your sweat kissed chest rises and falls rhythmically. 

“Look, your legs are shaking,” he points, biting down a laugh, “why are they shaking?” 

“Oh my god, shut up!” you feign offense, pushing him backwards with a chuckle. He pretends to be wounded, rubbing his back dramatically, ‘oohing’ and ‘owing’ as he does so. When you finally sit up, your eyes naturally fall to his loincloth, a wet ringlet contrasting starkly against the beige textile. 

“Hey…” your voice is hesitant, but teetering on the edge of curiosity, “Can I try something?” 

The boy silently nods his approval, shifting his position on the ground when you amble over to him. A look of confusion molds onto his face following the events that involve you plopping down onto his lap and laying him down. He goes to speak but you interrupt him. 

“Your turn, right? Can’t put it in, but…I can still make you feel good,” you say, tugging on the piece of fabric that separates your sex from his. Eagerly, he removes it for you and lets the item fall haphazardly to the ground. 

It’s big, so big—and pretty too. A beautiful blue hue that matches the rest of his body, paired along with a blushing teal tip that’s oozing pre. You want to know what he tastes like on your tongue…

“So pretty.”

Heat rises to his cheeks, and his tail takes an aquiline form, quivering in rapid movements. His usual, over-confident disposition was slowly dissipating under your intense gaze, and you reveled in it by mocking his bashfulness. 

“Awe, the little kitty’s shy,” you mock, tickling his side. 

“Stop it, I don’t look like those Earth things,” he laughs, pushing your hand away, but to no avail. You continue to dodge his attempts to stop you, tickling him here and there until he accidentally bucks and pulls you down against him. Embarrassingly, you let a whine fall from your lips…still too sensitive down there, you guess. 

There’s a shit-eating grin plastered on his face now, you hate it. “Who’s making noises like a kitty now, huh?” With this, he takes the liberty to do it again, pressing you down hard against his length. 

The feeling of your bare cunt against him is electrifying, probably (definitely) not better than him being inside you, but the next best thing. This was supposed to be your thanks to him. But now he’s taken full charge—maneuvering you back and forth, gripping and kneading—it’s cruel.  

For someone who’s never mated with anyone in his life, he’s sure moving you around like he has. His hands are all over you—thighs, hips, waist, breasts, it’s almost overwhelming. Every touch, addled with the buck of hips, brings forth a new sensation that is better than the last. You think this would be a good way to go out, right on his cock. One last hurrah before the morbid inevitable. 

“You f-feel so good, (your name),” his voice is breathy, “r-really good.” Neteyam’s grip on your arms is vice, partly because he can feel his climax approaching, but mostly because he can tell you’re growing tired. 

Swiftly, he changes your positions to where you’re laying on your back and he’s crouching over you. The tip of his head smoothes over your folds when he pushes up, and before he draws back, you can see just about where his dick would rest if he were inside of you. 

“I’d be all the way up here,” he presses down just beneath your breastbone, “you’re so tiny.” It sounds so dirty, but you know ultimately he’s just making an observation—regardless, the comment has your stomach churning in excitement. 

The both of you watch in fascination as he sheathes himself up and over your cunt, moaning in unison when the tip of his mushroomy head catches against your bud. Euphoric, he thinks. He never imagined that something could feel this good, let alone without connecting bonds. 

Still sensitive from earlier, it doesn’t take too long for you to reach your peak. Neteyam knows that your arrhythmic breathing is a tell-tale sign, and he helps you get there by cooing words of encouragement. 

He goes back and forth between ’I got you’s and ‘it’s okay’s, leaving trails of kisses down your body in his wake. The second you finish, you’re pulling him down onto you tight. Moaning and whining into his ear, whispering those same words of encouragement that he whispered to you prior.

“So good, ‘Teyam,” you claw at his back, “keep going, want you to feel good too.” And he does. Unrelenting in his attack against your sex, he comes with a few more pistons. 

You eagerly welcome him into your arms when he drops from exhaustion, and hold him there until your erratic breaths synchronize. The both of you are disgustingly sweaty and sticky, but even so, you feel at peace. 

You bask in the tranquil quietness of the night, just staring at each other. Soft caresses and soothing hums. Then, Neteyam speaks. 

“On this fateful night, two hearts danced…” he whispers, grabbing your hand to hold it over his heart. 

“What does this mean?” you smile at him. He ponders over it and then explains. 

“My songcord…I want to tell this story,” he starts, “the night when two hearts became one.” 

A crystal droplet cascades down your face, “that sounds beautiful.”

© arachine 2022

[starshideurfics]

Thirsty Thursday - Ring My Bell

steddie, omegaverse, flagging/signaling culture, mdni 🔞

Based on a fun worldbuilding convo in the SHOM discord that’s still buzzing around my head. Credit to @itcanbepalped and @jeffgoldblumsmulletinthe90s for vibing on this one

Steve’s parents never wore rings. They said it was gauche; very new money of them.

“Why bother with jewelry on your fingers that will get banged up on your hands when you can wear a necklace,” Clarissa would say when she spotted someone at the club with a ring, or god forbid two! Her own betrothal and bonding necklaces were layered, drawing the eye to her bite.

That was the whole point of a necklace. Either it emphasized a bonding bite, or it highlighted the fact that the wearer’s bonding gland was intact.

Steve had been given a necklace after he presented, a simple gold chain with a bejeweled padlock.

Pretty fucking gauche if you ask him.

Steve wouldn’t have worn it, but it was expected. Plenty of omegas wore something similar; he’d rather have his grandmother’s old claddagh ring, but his mother said it was low class.

So he wears his necklace every day, a reminder that he belongs to his father until he is mated. Then, he’ll belong to his alpha. Legally. At least until Congress hot its act together and passed some of the proposed equity laws.

Maybe his mom was right, rings were more easily lost. They tainted the scent of your hands with harsh metal.

It’s just that he’s seen some interesting ones, shapes so far beyond the standard lock, circle, and eternity knot. Meanings far more individualized than his necklace.

Which is why when the pups start following after Eddie Munson, Steve really notices his rings.

He gets what the book means. Or, he thinks he does. Munson doesn’t wear blockers, ever. His scent is an open book.

And the skull could be one of those gothy, ‘I mate for life’ things.

But the pig makes no sense. And no scents. Pigs don’t typically have a smell worth advertising.

The ring on his right hand is so simple in comparison that Steve gets stymied there, too.

He drops it, not wanting to reveal his interest in anything to do with Eddie Munson.

Steve is perfectly ready to let it stay a mystery until the night he comes to pick Dustin up after Hellfire only for Eddie to be the only one left in the lot, hauling his stuff out to his van. 

“Sinclair got his permit; your chuckleheads all went with him so he could show off.”

“Oh,” Steve says dumbly, only for his brain to catch up and spit out, “And they’ve never heard of a phone?”

“Real butthead behavior on their part,” Eddie agrees with a smirk. “Anyway, sorry you came out here for nothing.”

“Eh, could be worse.” Steve’s thinking monsters or g-men.

Of course, Eddie doesn’t know that. He gives Steve an appraising look. Then he surprises Steve. “I could make it up to you,” Eddie says with a crooked grin.

“How?” Steve asks, swallowing back the ‘not your fault’ that almost slipped out automatically. Because it kinda is.

Steve wouldn’t be here if not for Eddie’s club and the hold it has on Steve’s merry band of twerps. So he’s open to whatever Eddie’s offering to make them square.

He shouldn’t be surprised when Eddie pulls a joint from his pocket, sets it in his mouth to light, and inhales.

He holds it towards Steve as he blows out a stream of smoke. “We can hang, take the edge off your night.”

Steve takes the joint. Eddie grins and skips over to his van, opening the back door and giving a joking bow.

Steve laughs. He didn’t expect to be charmed so easily.

But he is, and after a couple hits he feels relaxed and loose in a way that would be fine in the safety of his bedroom, not so much when he has to drive.

He’s going to say as much, tell Eddie he should clear his head, when his eye catches the shine of silver on his fingers.

It’s like his brain isn’t connected to his mouth as he asks, “Why the pig?”

Eddie looks up from the box of cassettes he’s looking through and furrows his brow. “Huh?”

Steve’s brain must be cut off from his body too, since he reaches out and snatches up Eddie’s left hand.

“The pig,” Steve says, tapping on the offending ring. “Like, the book and the skull I think I got, but I’m coming up empty on the pig.”

“I’m surprised you knew it was a book.”

“But it’s book-shaped!”

“You mean rectangular?”

“But it is a book right?”

“Yeah.”

“So that’s about your scent,” Steve feels smug as he says it.

“I don’t smell like books,” Eddie says, clearly confused. “That’d be pretty awesome, though. Old books smell nice. Unless they’ve been in a basement too long.”

Steve nods sagely. This is obvious wisdom. No one wants to jump your bones if you smell like a musty basement.

Then he remembers his point. “You don’t smell like books, you are a book. Easy to read your scent ‘cuz you don’t wear blockers.”

“Don’t like ‘em. Make my head all fuzzy, and not in a fun way.”

“And the skull is a ‘til death’ thing right?”

“It’s actually a vampire skull.” Eddie points out the elongated canines. “You know, ‘the eternal kiss’ or whatever. I think bites should mean something.”

Steve nods again, feels a weird pull low in his belly. “That’s cool. Not enough alphas I know have that opinion.” He’s seen too many broken bonds at the country club and his father’s company Christmas parties.

Seen too many couples who shouldn’t have bonded in the first place.

“So, what’s the pig?”

Eddie looks down where Steve is still holding his hand. “Ever heard of a truffle hunter?”

“Like the chocolates?”

“No, the mushrooms! You’re rich, don’t you know about fancy mushrooms!”

Steve shakes his head, feels dumb. 

But Eddie just accepts his ‘no’ and moves on, “Well, they’re these rare mushrooms, and pigs like to eat them, so they’re really good at sniffing them out. And that’s me. I fully plan to sniff out my scentmate, and until then…” He shrugs. “Plenty of hot omega pussy to smell.” 

As soon as the words are out of his mouth, Eddie slaps his right hand over his whole face in shame. “Shit, sorry. Not appropriate in front of an omega. Or anyone. I promise I’m not a creep trying to get in your pants.”

But Steve’s mouth has gone dry. He wears blockers still, for work, the scent neutralizing deodorants and perfumes good at covering up his scent. The only place he doesn’t apply it is his crotch, because no one should be getting close enough anyway.

Suddenly he wants Eddie to be close enough.

He’s still holding Eddie’s hand, can still smell the edge of his woody scent over the weed. “It’s okay,” he says. Turns Eddie’s palm toward him and brings it to his nose.

The metal smell is there. But also pine and herbs, deepened by dark musk. His tongue darts out for a taste.

His hand mostly tastes like skin, a little like salt and smoke, but the scent is still there. Makes him want more. He pulls back, looks at Eddie who is staring at him with awe on his face.

“Okay, Mr. Trufflehunter, how do I smell?”

“You’ve got blockers on-”

“Not everywhere.”

His movements are slow, giving Eddie every chance to back out as he slides his fingers into Eddie’s hair, gripping the side of his head, and guiding him down towards Steve’s crotch.

Towards his wet pussy.

continued in part 2

[impossiblycolorfulpanda]

The way Bryke treats Zutara shippers in general is just slightly disgusting. Making fun of them whenever the opportunity arises and using the ship as the butt of jokes too many times like… that’s a solid 70% of your fanbse you’re making fun of. They’re the reason you’re even on the map. Shut up Bryke. I don’t know about 70% of the fanbase, but even if it were only a small portion it’s still just…rude and unprofessional to mock your fans? I think about this a lot because I was 16 when the show ended and I know a lot of other Zutara shippers were also teenage girls, and Mike and Bryan were adults. Two grown men making fun of teenage girls who liked the show and the characters they had created. I don’t care how “obnoxious” some of the fans might have been to them - and I’m sure there were fans who were also out of line - but Mike and Bryan were the adults and they chose to act like children, and mean, spiteful children at that.

Ya telling me, and you know what else? They are a big reason why Zutara is so popular in the first place. Bryke are the primary showrunners, what they say goes, they are in charge of approving/allowing what scene goes in the series.

They didn't have to make Zuko say "I'll save you from the pirates" right before trying to uncharacteristically bargain with Katara with an uncharacteristically clam demeaner while unintentionally proposing to her, since the necklace reveals to be a betrothal necklace.

They didn't have to let Zuko and Katara be locked in a cave together with crystals that almost look similar to the crystals from the cave of two lovers. They could've been locked in two jail cells far away from each other.

Speaking of which, Oma and Shu didn't have to be colored red and and blue respectively in one of the flashback scenes (the red one even looked like Ozai) and have their respective nations be at war against each other. You could tell they really, really wanted that story to parallel to Kataang but did a piss poor job of it. For one, Aang and Katara's nations never fought each other, not like how the Fire Nation and Water Tribes were going at it.

Zuko didn't have to be vulnerable with Katara in that cave and briefly explain his banishment and still act calm around her. She didn't have to offer to heal her scar with the only spirit water she had. Jet's ghost be like. "Are you kidding me?! Thanks a lot!" Katara didn't have to be the very first person to touch his scar before bringing the water out and Zuko didn't have to let her touch it and neither of them had to stand their for 5 seconds as the music amps up.

Katara understandably threatened to waste Zuko if he looks even slightly suspicious, and yet she pays no mind with Zuko bringing both Aang and Sokka to life threatening side-quests beyond Katara's supervision, both of which end with Aang getting over his pyrophobia and Katara and Sokka being reunited with their father and Sokka reunited with his girlfriend. Bryke let all of this happen.

Zuko didn't have to be the one to give Katara the means to find emotional closure and finally overcome her trauma. Katara didn't have to open up to him about the much more grisly details about her mother's death and have Zuko compliment her mother's bravery, all before Katara finally decides to forgive Zuko.

They didn't have to have June tease about Katara and Zuko dating multiple times. They didn't have to allow Zuko and Katara share the "parental figure for the gaang" mantle. They didn't have to spend the last scene Aang and Katara have before making out with them having another heated argument while Zuko and Katara spent their time working together to usurp Zuko's way to the throne.

They also didn't have show parallels/symbolism, after parallels/symbolism, after parallels/symbolism.

It's Bryke's fault that Zutara caught so many people's attention and they have the nerve to mock and ridicule them for disagreeing with their personal self-insert fantasy that does not matter to the narrative. The whole thing with basing Kataang off of a little boy having it down bad for an older big-sister-like figure who doesn't feel the same way doesn't help Bryke's case at all either.

[velieditss]

Forbidden Desires

Pairing: Davos Blackwood x Bracken!reader

Summary: He hates you, he really does, but no more than you.

An: Bombastic side eye, criminal offensive side eye👀

This is the second chapter, you can check the first one here: Ch1

Davos stood by the window of his room, watching the carriage as it slowly made its way along the winding path. His forehead and hair were beaded with sweat; the pain coursing through his body numbed even the wound he still bore. The night before, he had been informed that one of the Brackens had stopped at a nearby inn, just a few hours away.

The message, distorted after passing through several hands before reaching him, did not specify which of the Brackens was on the way. Davos hoped it was one of the brothers, ready to settle the matter, but he doubted it. King Viserys's envoy had assured him that the Brackens would follow the king's "suggestion." Suggestion!

The anger still burned within him over how that "suggestion" had been conveyed and the blatant threats that accompanied it. Yet, the king’s envoy seemed indifferent, as if he cared little how his words were received or the chaos they might unleash; he was simply doing his duty.

Beside him, Alysanne was not watching the carriage but observing Davos with a furrowed brow. She was the only one in the family who had not received the news with pessimism; to her, it was a well-deserved punishment for what they had brought upon innocent people. In short, a fate worse than death: having a Bracken for a wife.

“You need to get back to bed,” Alysanne said in a tone that brooked no argument.

“Stop giving me orders just because you think I’m weak. Did you send that letter to our father? I’d prefer he learns of the king’s abominable demand from me, not through rumors, in case this goes public.”

“Of course, it was the first thing I did when our guest left,” Alysanne replied with the confidence of someone who always fulfills their duties.

Davos was sure that, along with the letter, his sister had sent a detailed account of what had happened, not omitting a single detail that could further tarnish his image before their father.

Benjicot, despite his young age, had the spirit of a warrior and did not fear the Brackens; in fact, he had played a key role in the three duels that took place. But he was too young to marry, and Alysanne... Davos would rather sacrifice himself than allow his sister to suffer such a vile fate.

At least, if the Bracken girl was under their roof, they could keep an eye on her and maintain some advantage. But if Alysanne were the one betrothed, they couldn’t protect her in that madhouse.

For all these reasons, and because they would lose half of their fortune if they disobeyed, Davos had not offered any of his siblings to comply with the king’s order.

Alysanne shook her head in exasperation.

“I offer good advice, not orders. It wouldn’t hurt you to listen to me once in a while. But don’t count on me to drag you back to bed if you collapse. I’ll get the servants to do it.”

“I’m not going to die, and I’m not so weak that I can’t throw you out of my room,” Davos retorted with a hint of irritation.

“Tell that to the Bracken girl. I’m sure she’s spent half the week praying for your death,” Alysanne replied, pointing at the tiny carriage in the distance. “And yes, you are weak. You’re sweating like a horse and can barely put on your trousers…”

Davos turned his back and pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation.

Alysanne used to keep him on his toes, both verbally and physically, and he used to be grateful for it, but not now, not since he had returned home with that cursed wound. The previous one had been a mere scratch; this one, however, worsened every day.

He didn’t need a grand maester to tell him; he knew the wound wasn’t healing as it should. He had regained some strength after losing a lot of blood, only to be struck down by fever again.

Returning home had been foolish; he should have stayed near where he was injured to receive treatment, but he didn’t want word to spread that Raylon had almost ended his life. He would rather die than give a Bracken that satisfaction. And it could still happen; he felt half-dead, though more from the damn fever that wouldn’t break.

The anger didn’t help either: having to face the king’s threat and the enemy at his door while in this condition only fueled his rage.

“Put her in one of the towers when she arrives,” he told his sister in a tense voice. “Until I decide what to do with her.”

Alysanne crossed her arms, annoyed by his tone, as if she were a mere servant rather than the sister who had raised him like a son.

“The order you received was to marry her,” Alysanne pointed out dryly.

“I won’t do it,” Davos replied firmly.

“So you’ll reject her?” she asked, raising a dark eyebrow. “I warn you, you’ll be sacrificing your share of the fortune, and you’d better not touch mine.”

Davos shook his head.

“I won’t sacrifice anything, because it won’t be necessary. She’ll hurry back home, and the Brackens will face the consequences when she does.”

“And how do you plan to make her leave?”

“There are ways to scare off women like her,” Davos responded, giving her a grim look.

Alysanne raised an eyebrow again, skeptical.

“Very well, but do I need to remind you we only have one remotely habitable tower?”

“Well, she won’t have trouble finding it, will she?” Davos replied, his tone as dry as Alysanne’s.

Alysanne was about to leave the room but stopped and, in a serious tone, warned him:

“You’re not at war with that girl; you’re at war with her brothers. Mistreating her will do no good.”

“She’s a Bracken. They’re all the same, even if I’ve never seen her. And she serves an important purpose: she’ll make Raylon and Olyver Bracken lose their lands and fortune.”

A spark lit up Alysanne’s eyes.

“I’m glad to see you’re not as crazy as you seem. Sorry, I mean that you’re acting with some logic.”

“This isn’t a good time to test my patience, Aly,” Davos warned her. “I need my riding clothes. I won’t be home when the enemy knocks on the door.”

“The maester said you should stay in bed,” Alysanne said, sighing in frustration.

“I’ll rest once I’ve calmed my anger with a ride.”

“You’ll need the maester if you insist on riding! For the old gods’ sake, Davos, be reasonable. Your stitches will tear, and your horse won’t like the smell of blood.”

“There are many things my horse doesn’t like, including you. How he’ll react to the blood remains to be seen; and now, enough with the bad omens. Don’t try to stop me, just this once.”

“That’s what you told me a week ago, and now the old gods are sending you a Bracken as a wife,” Alysanne retorted, her frustration spilling over before Davos could protest.

“I’ll fetch the maester and then deal with your ‘bride.’”

Davos slowly made his way to his dressing room.

“She won’t be my bride,” he muttered disdainfully.

Alysanne headed for the door and, without turning back, promised:

“I’ll have her placed in the least comfortable room we have.”

“In the tower,” Davos insisted.

“Fine. But it doesn’t have a bed.”

“Then let her sleep on the damned floor!” Davos exclaimed.

With that order, the door slammed shut.

𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎

The imposing three-story manor had a façade clad in dark grey stone, almost black, though it might have been the moss or ivy covering it that contributed to its somber appearance. From a distance, it was difficult to make out the details. Two towers rose majestically at the corners of the large rectangular building, giving it the air of an ancient, fortified castle. In front of each tower stood a massive tree, both in full bloom, whose branches obscured the rest of the estate, plunging it into an even deeper mystery.

“It looks like a sad, gloomy, and intimidating place,” you thought with a shiver.

The path to the house was lined with trees, though they were arranged irregularly, as if planted without a precise design. Ivy climbed the dark grey exterior walls, but it had been meticulously trimmed in front of the front windows, leaving the interior visible without obstructions. Above the main entrance, you could see a large, circular stained-glass window, though from the outside you couldn’t discern if the glass formed any image. On either side of the double doors were well-trimmed bushes, giving an impression of order that contrasted with the melancholy of the place. Eavesdropping under the windows wouldn’t be easy; they were too high.

One of your servants helped you down from the carriage. You smoothed your bronze-colored pelisse, which reached your knees, and glanced down to make sure the hem of your dress was in place, barely covering your shoes. You decided against wearing the hat in your hand, and at that moment, the sun peeked timidly through the clouds. «Is that a good omen?» you wondered. But perhaps not; it simply meant that, at least for now, it wasn’t raining.

“They should have seen or heard us arrive and would be out here to receive us. Their staff leaves much to be desired if we have to knock on the door,” you murmured, looking around with a mix of irritation and unease.

«Could we have the wrong house?» you thought with a knot in your stomach.

«Hopefully...»

The thought was almost a prayer. It was also possible that this was a subtle way of letting you know you weren’t welcome, but you chose not to say it aloud. You’d had a knot in your stomach for days, but at that moment, the sensation intensified. You feared you might vomit right there; the servant who had to clean it up would despise you, and that wouldn’t be a good way to start, in case you were allowed into the house. The servants waited for the order to unload your trunks, but you were paralyzed, as if anxiety had completely trapped you.

Your destination was in sight, so close you could almost touch it. Within an hour, you would meet your future husband, if he was even there. The emissary had assumed he was, but what if Davos Blackwood wasn’t home? What if he hadn’t even been informed of the marriage? That could mean a postponement! And that, far from worrying you, seemed perfect. Perhaps you would meet some Blackwood’s... or perhaps not. Maybe Lord Blackwood had been warned of what would be demanded of his son and had decided to remain inaccessible indefinitely, thus avoiding the news. Or maybe you’d love living there, as long as Davos didn’t show up, leaving the house to you alone. Or, in the most delirious of dreams, all the Blackwood’s would already be dead, and you could live happily in their home without anyone bothering you.

Ten minutes passed, maybe more. It seemed no one was home that day. Or maybe the Blackwood’s didn’t have servants... Excuses, more excuses. You knew well they were an eminent and wealthy family. This was undoubtedly a rejection. If they didn’t open the door in the next few minutes, you’d be back at that inn, celebrating your victory and freedom. You’d tell everyone you had survived the worst of fates, and that the gods had always been on your side. But if things didn’t go well... well, then the vision of the rock, the cliff, and the sea returned to you. Life wasn’t that good if you thought about it carefully.

You straightened your shoulders and gestured to your maid to knock on the door. She advanced uncertainly and raised her fist, almost losing her balance when one of the doors suddenly opened, leaving her about to punch the air. You shot a furious glance at the man standing in the doorway and remained silent. One look was enough to know that, for your good (or bad) luck, the Blackwood’s had indeed sent someone to receive you.

“My lady awaits you,” the servant said in a dry, direct tone. There was no apology, no greeting, no question. His attitude confirmed his position; you only knew he was a servant by the clothes he wore.

You glanced sideways at your maid before following the man, who seemed to share the same disdain for you as the rest of these lands and their inhabitants.

“Excuse me, why did you take so long to receive us?” you asked as you took hold of your dress’s hem, walking with your head held high to avoid showing weakness. “What was the dilemma that made you ignore us?”

“My lady wanted to ensure the rooms were clear before inviting you in,” he replied without turning around.

«Your lady?» If you remembered correctly, you had been told that Samwell Blackwood was a widower.

“Cleared of what?” you asked, confused.

“Of furious encounters.” The man spoke so low you weren’t sure you heard him correctly.

You didn’t understand anything and weren’t sure you wanted to.

When you passed between two columns flanking the vestibule, you entered a two-story hallway with a grey marble floor. Above the dark wood paneling covering the white walls hung tapestries; you observed that they were portraits of men and women, some of whom wore clothing from eras before the Conquest. You assumed they were the ancestors of the Blackwood’s.

“Will you take me to your lord?” you asked, stopping to observe each face and story depicted in the wall decorations.

“Lord Samwell is not here; I will take you to my lady, his daughter, Lady Alysanne,” he replied indifferently.

Ah, so it was the eldest Blackwood daughter who had taken charge of the house. This didn’t lessen your apprehension; on the contrary, it heightened your fear of what might happen.

The servant opened large doors and ushered you in as if you were a prisoner about to receive your sentence. The first thing your eyes caught was the silhouette of a woman with beautiful black curls, standing by a window where sunlight streamed in.

The Blackwood’s, like the Bracken’s, shared similar characteristics among them, or so you’d been told. The only thing that indicated you were in front of Lady Alysanne Blackwood was her fine clothes and the direct, unwavering gaze that scrutinized you mercilessly.

In that context, you felt like a true criminal.

You made a small curtsy, barely bowing.

“Welcome,” she said in a tone so cold and indifferent it made you feel like an insignificant insect.

“Thank you,” you replied, your voice quieter than you expected.

The silence that followed was terrible and suffocating, a space where you both observed each other, trying to decipher the other.

“I’ll show you to your room,” Alysanne finally said, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

You glanced at your maid, who looked just as uncomfortable as you did.

“Will I be able to see Lord Davos? Could you take me to him?” you asked, hoping to meet your future husband and resolve the situation as soon as possible.

“I cannot do that. When he’s ready to see you, he’ll call for you.”

“Today?” you insisted, clinging to a thread of hope.

“Perhaps not.”

You grimaced, but in reality, the fact that this would only delay the inevitable brought you some relief.

You passed several double doors that likely led to the drawing rooms and dining hall, and finally reached the grand main staircase. Some splashes of color on the white walls made you glance back toward the vestibule. The round stained-glass window above the door cast blue, red, and yellow beams of light on the walls. The window’s glass formed an image: a sable escutcheon with a dead weirwood tree.

The emblem was part of the family crest; once at the top of the staircase, Alysanne led you to the right, down a wide carpeted hallway that had doors only on one side. You understood that these rooms faced the back of the castle. Soon you turned a corner and walked down another corridor that led back to the front of the house. Some doors on either side of the hallway had been left open to let in light. It was evident that the house had numerous rooms and was more extensive than it seemed from the outside. At the end of the hallway, Alysanne stopped in front of a spiral staircase.

“Where does this lead?” you asked.

“To a barely habitable tower with no bed.”

You tensed and waited, but she didn’t move and simply stared at the dark spiral staircase for a few moments. Then, without a word, she turned and led you back down the hallway and into the other. As she passed the door at the far end, she glanced back at you and your maid and put a finger to her lips, indicating that you should remain silent; then she approached the next door, just to the right of the staircase. Alysanne entered the room and opened two windows, allowing a light, fresh breeze to enter. You followed her, feeling a sudden curiosity about the view before you. From your position, the tall hedges you had seen from afar surrounded a vast garden, whose green, well-kept lawn gleamed under the sunlight.

Winding paths crisscrossed the garden, bordered by flower beds overflowing with roses and other vibrant blossoms, an explosion of life and color that stood in stark contrast to the austerity of the house.

“You're less troublesome than I expected,” Alysanne remarked suddenly, pulling you from your reverie. “And you're pretty. If you're clever, you might just survive here.”

The tone of her words unsettled you; you couldn't tell whether they were meant as a compliment or a warning. Should you feel flattered or insulted? Alysanne's words hung in the air as you turned to look at her, searching for some clue in her expression. But her eyes remained fixed on you, scrutinizing, as if trying to decipher your deepest thoughts.

You felt her gaze like a weight, as though she were trying to unearth every one of your secrets, those you wouldn't even dare to confess.

“I’ll take the brunt of Lord Davos’ anger for not placing you where he ordered, but I’d rather not wake him just yet, so try to keep quiet,” she added coolly.

Reality struck in an instant: you weren’t placed in this part of the castle out of courtesy or jest. Alysanne had made this decision deliberately, without explanation. A shiver of dread ran through you as you realized you were much closer to Davos than you had anticipated.

“Please, I’d prefer a room farther from his, even one in that tower,” you said, trying to stay calm despite the rising panic inside you.

Alysanne smiled, and though it appeared kind, there was something in her expression that told you Lord Davos' anger didn’t concern her as much as she had implied moments earlier.

“Nonsense. Most of the rooms up here aren’t regularly cleaned unless they’re occupied by guests. This is the only vacant room that’s clean and doesn’t have a permanent ‘Do Not Use’ sign hanging on the door.”

Her response left you stunned. You had been so focused on your own anxiety that you hadn’t even noticed whether there were signs on the doors in the hallway.

“Why is Lord Davos sleeping at this time of day?” you asked, trying to mask your nerves with curiosity.

“I’d be surprised if he were,” Alysanne replied, already heading for the door. Without pausing, she added, “I’ll have your trunks brought up.”

The door closed with a swift bang, leaving you alone in the room. You had barely had time to thank her, and now you found yourself lost in unsettling thoughts. Was Davos as ill-tempered as your brothers? Should you move cautiously, making sure not to disturb his rest? A cold sweat trickled down your back as your gaze settled on a second door, barely visible in the dim light of the room.

That door connected directly to Lord Davos' room, a possibility that morphed into a series of alarming thoughts in your mind. What if the man decided to enter while you were sleeping, without warning? The idea that he might pounce on you in the middle of the night took root in your mind, filling you with growing unease.

You were trapped in a strange place, in a house you barely knew, with a man on the other side of the door who, for all you knew, could be a true monster.

Maybe it would be better to tie yourself to that rock and throw yourself into the sea…

Want more?

Part 3

Check my Masterlist

[just-some-random-blogger]

may i request for an angst to fluff fic where y/n's family arranges and forces her to marry into the house of targaryen just to rid of her in a way that it is beneficial to them. she's heard rumors about her soon to be husband, Aemond, and is scared of their family in general but all of that was just thrown out of the window when she finally meets them and sees how he is around his mother and sister thinking she'd rather be a part of this family than her own <3 (smut or no smut, it doesnt matter, as long as we are loved)

Under The Bridge

Aemond Targaryen x Reader

Summary: Your parents described your betrothed as a troll, a gremlin, a monster, the perfect candidate for their wretched, useless, stubborn, first born child. Finally, they said, their daughter would be good put to good use.

Word Count: 2k+

Warnings: fem!reader, mentions/depictions of domestic violence, big bro!aemond my love, angst, fluff, typos, etc.

A/N: ok i think im going to get carried away writing this [update] yep i got carried away Tagging: @pinksirensong @deniixlovezelda

I thought it quite fitting for the day to be wretched. After all, it was the day I would be sent away to be married to a man I did not know to please my parents; my father, that pulled his hair out every time I bested my potential matches, and my mother, who slapped me in an attempt to correct my impetuous behavior.

Yes, finally I would find my use and help my family regain prestige and wealth.

Neither cared to escort me to the carriage out of our decaying estate. The storm had been too strong and the mud puddles too many.

I had my one bag gripped tightly in my arms and cared little for the skirts that were soaking up brown water beneath me. I shouted over the sound of thunder and rain when I ran over to the hooded man, "greetings, my lord, I-"

"I am the envoy of your prince here to pick you up, my lady," he calls under the darkness of his cloak. I could not see his face.

"I see," I say, not at all disappointed that it was not my betrothed that was picking me up, "what is your name?"

He does not respond and so I repeat my question, louder, "what is your name, ser?!"

"Charon," he calls.

I pull my head back, "are you here to take me into the underworld?"

He does not react, so I assume he does not understand my joke. He only pulls back and opens the carriage door for me.

I sigh and hastily get in, slumping down, pulling my heavy skirt, wet with rain and mud, closer to me. He shuts the door with a thud. A few moments later the carriage begins to move.

I busy myself with reading on the way. It was all that I packed, my books. My mother thought she managed to throw them away, but I switched the contents of my bag with my clothing with my books before she could. Anyway, I never cared for my ugly dresses. I figured since I was marrying a prince, he could get me at least one dress to change into. That was more than enough.

The ride was pleasant on my part; I could read in silence, with no interruption, no father to scream at me, no mother to chase me around, and yet as we passed a hump, I was shaken into reality, a reality that the driver, Charon, was manning the carriage outside in the rain.

This was why, when we rain cleared, I knocked on the closed window by the driver's seat and called out for him.

He does not respond.

I rap my knuckles harder, "Charon?"

I am slightly startled when the opening is slid open. He does not say anything. I huff and reach for the sandwich in my bag, sticking it out to the window, "it has gone cold but it should still taste nice. It will help to keep you warm, eating something."

I await as the man twists in his place.

He does not respond still, and so I push my arm out further, "if you would like another, I can give you the one I packed myself. I ate a lot before leaving," as a final act of deviance.

He takes a moment to think of my offer it seems. He finally takes it and I feel his callused hand on mine. I do not miss the bandages on his fingers and palm. I wonder how he got injured.

I vaguely hear him thank me. I mutter again for good measure, "just knock if you want the other."

I start when the knock comes, dropping the book I was finishing onto my lap. I shift in my place and move to reopen the closed area, grabbing my sandwich as I did. I however turn to my side when I the carriage door opens.

I am suddenly faced with a dark haired knight. He bows to me, offering a hand out as he greets me in regard. He proceeds to introduce himself, "Ser Criston Cole, at your service."

"An honor," I nod, straightening myself up, "ser Cole."

He surveys the carriage then turns back to me, "allow me to help you down, my lady."

I place my things back in my bag and take his hand, hopping down next to him, causing mud to splatter on his uniform. We both still when it happens. The shrill chastising of my parents replay in my mind.

"I-"

"An honest mistake, your majesty."

My lips part, "I am not you ma-"

"You are to be wed to my prince in a fortnight," he says, reaching out to my bag as he continues, "you will be soon enough." Criston adds. Once he has my things, he shuts the door, then looks at me, "allow me to escort you to your room."

I nod, sneaking a look past him, looking for the man that brought me here, "where did Charon go?"

"Charon?"

"The driver," I turn back to him, "I meant to give him my sandwich," I say, reaching for the said thing in my bag.

Criston turns from my sandwich to me, brows furrowing, "the... driver has gone to finish his other duties."

I nod, unwrapping the food, "do you want it?"

His lips form a small smile, "a generous offer, but I have already eaten."

I purse my lips, rewrapping the thing, placing it back in my bag. Criston offers his arm out to me. I link arms with him and pull my shoes out of the mud along with my crusty skirt that was getting dirty all over again.

When we reach the entrance, Criston pulls away from me, insisting I walk in first.

Once we are inside, he walks a foot away from me, silently leading me off to my room. I sniffle as I take in the ambiance of the place.

Criston turns to me and I turn to him as he says, "I will have a bath prepared for you."

"Thank you," I smile, "could you have them lend me a dress as well?"

He furrows his brows and I do not wait for him to ask, "I only packed my books, you see."

He turns to my bag as he says this, "ah," he turns back to me, "I thought your clothes were merely stiff."

I snort, breaking into a laugh.

I notice how Criston's shoulders relax and how his nostrils flare slightly.

We take a left to a well-lit corridor. Criston opens the door for me once we reach the room. He places my things on a table as I make my way towards a vanity, seeing just how disheveled and wet I was.

"The servants will come to attend to you soon."

"Than-"

"Thank you, ser Criston," a commanding voice calls, startling me in the process. A red haired woman walks towards me, nodding to the knight in regard. Criston returns the sentiment before offering me the same thing and walking off.

"Apologies for startling you," the woman says, hands clasped in front of her.

I bow, eyes downturned.

You are not too look any of them in the eye if you wish to live, do you understand?

"Not at all, queen mother," I speak as I hear my pulse quicken in my ribcage.

The woman walks over to me, the Hightower colors are bright in her dress. I gulp, knowing what would come next. I hold myself back from stepping away.

"Let me look at you," she announced, reaching out for me.

I suck in a breath and catch her gaze when he takes my cold face in her warm hands. Her brown eyes are wide as she takes me in, the curve on her cheeks and jaw resemble none of the vicious remarks my father told me about her. Her pursed lips barely move when she speaks, "my, your mother was just in her musings of your beauty."

I clench my jaw.

"Surely then, I expect you to be as astute as she makes you out to be," she utters, pulling her hands away, "prince Aemond is truly a fair match for you."

I nibble on my lower lip, recalling the disgusting words my father had to offer about the said prince, "I am honored by your regard, Queen Alicent."

"Yes," she sighs, "well, you must hurry and get cleaned up." .

The moment she speaks this, it is as though the servants were summoned, and not that it was a happy coincidence.

I turn my eyes back to the floor as I bow again.

"My son said that he would wait for you in the gardens."

I nod, "I will head there the moment I am ready, your grace."

"Very good," she speaks one last time before heading off. Once she is gone and it is only me and the servants, I release the breath I held out of instinct.

The point between my bath and my going to the gardens was blurred by the vivid recount of my dreadful parent's words against the family I was marrying into.

Just close your eyes if his face is too much to bare. Turn your face away when you are coupling. The smart head you like claim to have will do you no good there. Just be silent and obedient and you will keep your head.

I snap into reality when I hear the sound of laughter once I reach the open space. I see two heads of light blonde hair just past a few shrubs. That must be the witch-sister my father was talking about.

I could not hear what they were conversing over, but it was clear that they were having a moment. It would be most improper to barge in on them.

And yet as I stood in my place, I thought of what would be the consequence if I did not show myself.

I gulp in air and walk over to them, "your majesties."

I hold my breath when they turn to me. I don't know what I was expecting, but I was not expecting a smiling, eye-patched prince and a beaming princess with a flower in her hair.

The next happening came to be all too quickly.

"Would you like to see my spider?" the woman calls, dashing over to me with a large black spider in her hand.

I recoil at her words, and before I could turn her down, she places the long legged thing onto my shoulder, making my eyes grow wide and my body to freeze into a brick. It took everything in me not to smack the insect away. What would happen if I kill the princess's spider?

I clench my jaw and my fists tightly, gulping the lump in my throat.

Perhaps it could kill me first.

"Helaena!" the man calls, dashing forward, grabbing the insect on my body, handing it back to her sister. I shiver and step back once I am free of the creepy-crawly.

Helaena looks up at her brother and knits her brows. He begins to tell her something in a foreign tongue and whatever it is makes the woman's face dampen. She turns to me, bowing with a pout, "apologies, my lady."

I shudder then suck in a sharp breath, "I..." I feel my chest tighten when she removes the flower in her hair. She was like me, rebuked for something she liked.

I force a confidence voice after gulping heavily, "I am honored to meet your spider," my breath hitches, "but I do not like spiders."

"What a shame," she says rather dejectedly.

"Perhaps it be best if you go back to your chambers," her brother mutters as the spider begins to crawl up her arm.

I step back at the sight of it.

She nods, "perhaps."

I move farther when she passes me, mostly because her shoulder near me was where the spider was perched on.

I watch as she leaves. I sigh at the sight of her fluttering hair.

When I turn to the prince, I reel back when I find him stood so close to me. Upon seeing my reaction, he does me the courtesy of stepping back as well.

I heave from my mouth then bow, "prince Aemond."

He watches me as I rise then offers me a quick nod. He sighs, placing his hands behind him, "I am thankful you did not squash her spider."

I cringe at the thought, "I'd have squashed it on my skin," I shake my head rapidly, "that would be no good."

For a moment, he only looks at me. I only manage a few seconds before needing to turn away from his gaze. I only turn back when he raises his hand out, "care to walk with me?"

I reach for his hand, and it is only then that I realized that he had bandages on. I turn to our joined palms then back to his face.

He catches how I observe him and this grip on me tightens as he visibly stiffens, "a riding injury."

I debate his words, wondering how he would get injured like that.

He proceeds to answer me as if he heard my thought, "my dragon, Vhagar, was flying fiercely upward. It was hard to keep hold. I had blisters for days."

I pull back when he releases my hand. I turn to his arm when he offers it to me instead. I place my palm on his bicep as we continue to walk off.

The next moment, I suddenly realize why the bandages on his hands were striking to me.

"You," I turn to him, "are Charon."

He keeps his gaze upfront.

I cannot help but smile in amusement over his obvious reaction to my words-- not reacting. I allow my lips to release a chuckle, "you were gauging me."

"..."

"Worry not," I look out to some flowers by the side, "I too am scared to get married."

I feel him turn to me, but I do not feel like returning his look.

"Is it marriage," he calls, "or me that you are scared of?"

I take a moment before turning back to him; his one eye is expectant and I swear I see his covered one twitch. "Both," I utter simply, "but at least now that I know that we're both scared, I have found a semblance of solace."

We continue walking in silence after my admission.

I await for him to burn my words, to wholeheartedly disagree with my verdict, much like all the other men that I was jostled into, lest they find themselves caught agreeing with a stupid woman. I am surprised that he does nothing and merely continues walking with me in silence.

He catches my shocked reaction, it seems, and raises his nose, "I was concerned."

I softly snort in humour, "as one would be."

His lips curve slightly into a smile but he does a good job of making it unobvious, "I was concerned you would be haughty, vain, irritating."

"And you decided I was not in the silence of our travels?"

He ignores this, "I am aware your parents are eager for the alliance because your coin has run low."

"That," I tilt my head, "amongst other things."

Aemond narrows his eye, "like what?"

"Well for one, they are overjoyed to rid of me," I pull a smile before breaking into a smile.

I catch the expression that twists onto his face. He does not believe me. He furrows his brows in challenge, "you mother speaks nothing but exaggerated ideations of you."

I shake my head as I chuckle, "and I am glad that it has landed me a husband who cares for his sister."

He stops upon hearing this. I turn to him when he does. He pulls away from me to place his hand behind his back again. I watch him as he looks off and sucks in a deep breath.

"I will not ask much of you," he mutters, slowly turning back to me, "I wish to only fulfil my duties; I require of you to do the same is all."

Aemond's face is sincere, or at the very least he looks and sounds as though he is in that moment. I nod at his words, placing my own hands behind my back, "indeed I am glad my mother could at least do this one thing for me."

He raises his chin, hands falling to his sides. He shifts on his leg as a breeze blows past his blonde hair. He nods, "come, there is more to see in the gardens."

[echooefrost]

TGS MEDIEVAL AU :0

Is this Historically accurate? no. Does that matter? no.

Alright, This is gonna be a lot, so thou shalt be warned

In the Au, Robert is a prince and Lanyon Sr. is the King, they rule over a small kindom somewhere in England - name TBA (so not like real monarchies which rule over entire countries etc.) The premise is basically; The Lanyon's personal/private doctor recently passed away so they call in a new doctor/chemist from Scotland - did you guess? yep, It's Jekyll. Hyde exists before Henry/Edward meets Robert (I haven't worked out the exact logistics about it yet, but I will) Jekyll/Hyde are more Chemists/Alchemists than Doctors but they are both still very good doctors regardless (so they don't really wear the 'plague mask' thing) I aged only Jekyll, Hyde and Lanyon down to about their early 20's so it matches around the original timing of when J&H met Robert in TGS. There are other smaller reasons but they aren't to important, all you need to know is that it doesn't really change anything

Lanyon is betrothed to Everly from a neighbouring kingdom -this is where it differs slightly from TGS, it's a political marriage not a lavender marriage. Neither Robert nor Everly are happy about this however, they are both only children in royalty so they don't really have an option.

Hyde is essentially the local gremlin that has in-built eyebags and a sense to sell you things not very discreetly that he probably shouldn't be selling. His Cape is comedically large and has a very extensive collection of illegal powders, drugs, and other nefarious items. Almost everybody knows Hyde becasue at some point they have all needed some rare item from him. - this is where the blackfog comes in (yes it exists!) the Blackfog is basically the same but Hyde really wants to go so he can buy/sell lots of items for his little side-business he has going on, however Lanyon Sr. is opposed to it and it's existence because well... illegal.

*Hyde also goes by: The Spirit of [insert Kingdom's name] at night (soooooo original, ik)

Jekyll stays pretty much the same, He really cares about his reputation so he can move up on the social ladder and create his own Science business at some point, and I mean he doesn't want to make a fool of himself in front of the King of all people, that wouldn't be a very good look, would it?

In this universe, The lodgers are all citizens of the small kingdom and they all sort of have different occupations/roles in the town. They can't all be scientists, but do not fear because they still as equally crazy and chaotic as before. Rachel is the Lanyon's personal chef but she also helps run the bakery in town with Mr. Doddle. Jasper looks after most of the animals and creatures in the kingdom, he used to be a farmer but moved to get away from home. I am yet to work out how Jekyll and Jaspers relationship dynamic stays the same in this universe but I will figure something out.

There is A LOT of Jekyon and Lanyde going on here, so I've got something for everyone, (there may or may not be a masquerade at some point...) and it's not just centred around romance, there is lots of other plot stuff happening so do not fear my ace/aro friends (or just people who aren't a fan of romance)!

That's most of it for now... I'll draw some more stuff at some point and give some extra details, If you have any questions please ask (my asks are open) I'd love to hear from you all!!! Don't be afraid to offer any suggestions or other criticisms. Maybe I'll write a fanfic one day who knows, we will see.

Thanks for listening to my rant (*^▽^*)

*Footnote - I don't think you guys realise how hard it was to make hyde not look like either A.) a fucking elf or B.) Link. Did I succeed? not sure.

[flowerandblood]

The Impossible Choice (13)

[ Aemond • Targaryen x Baratheon! • female ]

[ warnings: sex content, smut, angst, physical violence ]

[description: Aemond comes to Storm’s End to choose his future consort. However, Lord Borros Baratheon presents him with only four of his five daughters. Being attached to his youngest child, he does not want to marry her. The prince, however, thwarts his and her plans with his decision. This is slow burn, with a lot of dark angst and sexual tension. (Anon Request)]

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Previous and next chapters: Masterlist

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He felt as if the events of years ago were flying before his eyes. The closer the date of the arrival of his bastard nephew and his whore mother approached, the more clearly he saw each incident, analyzing it, remembering exactly every detail of every humiliation that he had suffered as a child.

He hated returning to it, but he couldn't bring himself to stop.

He went through the same process almost every night.

He always began for some reason with the most humiliating event, to which his brother had put his hand – the moment when he truly believed that Aegon and his nephews wanted to do something for him.

That they had found a way for him to have a dragon too.

That they would support him.

And then Luke disappeared into the darkness, only for her to emerge.

The Pig.

The Pink Dread.

That's when he felt it, the cold sweat and his heart standing in his throat, his hands trembling, the almost girlish tears of humiliation in his eyes.

His face went from full of curiosity and hope to stony and expressionless and it stayed that way forever.

He had never forgiven Aegon for humiliating him along with them, that he had contributed to what he had become and what he had lost. He did not stand up for him, as his older brother would have done.

Jace would never let anyone else mock Luke.

Even if they fought amongst themselves, Luke was his younger brother and Jace protected him from the others.

As usual, he could only go to his mother with his unhappiness; his father would only trivialise his words, saying that they were just ordinary, boyish taunts, that as a man he couldn't care less about such things.

Fortunately, to his relief, his mother, as usual, showed him understanding; she embraced him and comforted him, assuring him that one day he would have his dragon too. He did not believe her; he understood that she was only talking about it to comfort him.

Then Helaena, sitting next to them, looking ahead, said:

"He will have to close one eye."

Helaena often said things that he didn't understand, nevertheless, he liked her. He didn't spend much time with her because she was a girl, complicated women's issues and problems were beyond him, nor did he recognise that it was his concern as a man, as he thought of himself at the time, to delve into it.

If his mother had decided that they should marry, he would have done his duty.

He would be proud that, as a Targaryen, he would extend their pure blood with her.

He would treat her better than Aegon.

He would care for her.

She would be safe with him.

However, his parents had decided otherwise, and she had been handed over to his brother to be damned.

He had sympathised with her from the moment of their betrothal, but there was nothing he could do.

He thought that her destiny, like his, was to be miserable.

Then Lord Strong, father of the bastard children of his half-sister, died in the flames in Harrenhal, and although he repeated to himself that he felt satisfaction, saying that it was good that he died, when he saw Jace at Laena Velaryon's funeral, he approached him wanting to offer his condolences.

He thought that even if they were bastards, he was still their father.

He was unable to get the words out.

They just looked at each other, but he had the feeling that Jace understood what he wanted to say.

And then he heard Vhagar's roar from the distance, saw her large silhouette in the sky.

He thought that she was summoning him.

That it was the gods giving him a sign that his time had come.

The world's largest untamed dragon was waiting for a new rider.

In Rhaena's place he would not have waited a second, given the opportunity.

He concluded that if she didn't want it, he would take it.

He fled the fortress at night, watching carefully beforehand what place the dragoness had chosen for her lair, running a large distance between grasses and sands.

Finally he saw her, lying and sleeping a stony sleep, as big as a mountain, feeling his fingers tingle with excitement, fear, terror and joy.

He thought that even if he died, it was worth a try.

And he succeeded.

He returned on Vhagar to the fortress, feeling like a triumphant man for the first time in his life.

He considered it a huge achievement to tame a dragon that had not been attached to him since childhood.

He thought that his mother would surely cry with emotion and embrace him, that perhaps even his father would do so, at last proud of his great success.

And then he came across them.

A whole bunch of angry children, four against one.

He said, as he actually thought, that Rhaena had her chance and wasted it.

Then Beala hit him and the scuffle began.

He thought that they would never humiliate him again.

No bastard could stand in his way.

When he felt a burning sensation on his face and hot liquid on his cheek, when he suddenly lost sight in one eye, he collapsed, terrified, unable to hold back a scream. This drew the attention of the guards, who, seeing him, begged the heavens for mercy and took him to the maester.

He already knew what awaited him.

Not even a cup full of poppy milk could dull him enough to endure the pain of his eye being cut out of his skull. His mother and Aegon could not bear to watch; the maester put a piece of wood in his mouth to keep him from biting his town tongue and tied him to a chair.

He wriggled like an animal in the snare, involuntarily trying to escape the blade, and realised that he would remain a man without an eye for the rest of his life.

A cripple.

By the time the maester had finished sewing the wound he was no longer crying or screaming; he sat in the chair, staring calmly ahead, dulled by the poppy milk, listening with a faint smirk to Jace's complaints about him calling them bastards.

He was surprised when Aegon took his side for the first time in his life, mustering the courage to say to their father that there was no lie in that accusation.

His father had failed him then for the umpteenth time in his life, focusing more on the accusation itself than on his suffering.

It didn't matter to him that he had lost an eye, only that the children of his whore-daughter were considered bastards.

Everyone knew that they were Lord Strong's bastards, and he played the fool anyway.

He lost any residual love for his father that day – or so he told himself, in order to accept his rejection more easily – and never again sought his father's attention.

His mother instead, like a lioness, threw herself at his half-sister, showing him once again that she was the only person that he could trust with his secrets and his heart.

He didn't, however.

He loved his mother, but he did not share his thoughts with her.

He locked them away in the chest of his mind and threw them into the abyss, sinking for years under the weight of these events into himself, feeling as if he were a huge black hole with no bottom or end.

However, the evening before Luke arrived in King's Landing he felt that he needed to speak to someone or he would completely loose his mind.

For him these events were like a stinging, unhealed wound that kept opening up as if someone had sprinkled salt on it.

Sitting by the fire in his chamber, musing, he could smell in his nostrils the scent of his wife who was sitting on his bed, reading a book in silence.

He thought that perhaps speaking to her would calm him down.

It did, but gods, nothing calmed him more than her body.

When she was riding him, brushing his face sweet, warm kisses, looking at him so tenderly, with such understanding, when he dug his fingers into her soft hips, imposing a fast, brutal pace on her, panting along with her, he felt fulfilled, desired.

He had never thought that with such a defect his future wife would truly want him as a man and a lover.

His wife, however, seemed not to notice the absence of his eye.

He never took off his eye patch in front of her, and she did not force him to do so.

At first he had feared that it would slip off his face in front of her, and he had had to drink a full cup of wine at their wedding feast before their wedding night in order not to think about it.

It didn't matter to him now.

He wanted to believe that it wouldn't change anything.

It was only when he came deep inside her with loud gasp of relief and she embraced him tenderly that he managed to fall asleep for a while. As soon as he woke up, however, everything started all over again.

He saw the cave again, with Luke coming out of it, holding his pig dragon on a string.

The Pink Dread.

The next day he left before dawn without waking her, like every morning wanting to practice with Ser Criston hand-to-hand combat. He knew that they were likely to arrive any moment, feeling rage, curiosity and satisfaction at the same time.

He was not wrong.

After a few hours, picking out a new shield, he noticed out of the corner of his eye the silhouettes of two young men, a large, maniac grin appeared on his lips when he recognised those lush, curly, black-headed boys.

Fucking bastards.

They stood up to watch him fight, clearly not recognising him at first. He pushed against Criston with such ferocity that he barely dodged his strikes and when his blade was finally at his neck, there was a round of applause of recognition all around them. Criston smiled at him, clearly pleased with his progress, nodding.

"You will soon be winning tournaments, my prince." He said with a paternal pride that he didn't like.

"I don't give a shit about tourneys." He said dispassionately, turning the hilt of his sword in his hand with a light movement, pushing it away from his neck. "Nephews −"

He began, the dangerous smile on his face that didn't reach his eye, his gaze directed towards the horrified faces of his nephews, who looked at him in disbelief.

Never before in his life had he felt such wild, maddening satisfaction.

They were terrified.

The gods were just.

"− have you come to train?" He asked with undisguised hope that he was about to humiliate one of them in front of the crowd.

He could feel the wonderful adrenaline flowing fast through his veins, his heart pounding like mad.

His whole being was ready to crush them.

Suddenly, the sound of trumpets rang out.

The great gate opened and Vaemond Velaryon and his entourage entered the courtyard; he grinned with satisfaction at the sight of him, glad that he would be able to watch from the sidelines this theatre being played out between him and his bastard nephew.

After training he waited for his wife outside her chamber, circling impatiently with his arms folded.

Though his face was impassive, he could not hide his excitement.

For some reason the thought of her being beside him, of her promising to be his ally aroused him even more.

When he saw her he regretted that they didn't have more time, so that he could spill his seed inside her once more before they went to the throne room.

She wore her richest gown and most beautiful jewellery, her hair entwined in a multiple, intricate braid, framing her head wonderfully. She approached him and bowed before him humbly, a gentle, comforting smile on her face.

But there was no time for that.

He wished he could fuck her.

They moved towards the Throne Room to join his family; his grandfather stood proudly next to the throne, ready to sit on it in a moment.

He thought with amusement that the whole thing was some kind of farce and there was not a single person among them who could be considered impartial and fair.

Pathetic.

He listened to Vaemond's statement with dangerous smirk on his lips, watching Luke's reaction out of the corner of his eye.

He thought that he was a terrified, shaking child, hiding under his mother's skirt.

And then his father walked into the throne room.

He thought with disappointment, grinning widely, that his father had never loved any of his children the way he loved his first daughter.

He looked like a wraith in his golden mask and emaciated, ravaged face, stooped, hunched over, barely moving with his staff.

He felt a squeeze in his throat at the sight and realised with pain, that he had not stood up for him when he needed him but had been able to rise from his deathbed for his whore half-sister.

They didn't count.

They were the children of the wrong mother.

He knew from the moment his father arrived that the matter would be decided in Rhaenyra's favour, and he was not at all surprised by the amused chuckle of his brother, who was surely thinking exactly the same thing as he was.

When Vaemond shouted that the whore's children were bastards and finally someone called things by their name, he felt hot wave of contentment and fulfilment flow through his body.

He knew Velaryon was a fool and could have bid his tongue farewell, but it was still wonderful to hear it spoken aloud.

Husband of his whore-sister or not, Daemon Targaryen, unlike his father, was a true dragon.

He drew in a breath, shocked, and intuitively shielded his wife with his body, hearing her squeal, feeling her hand tighten on his arm, as his uncle swung and cut Vaemond's head in half with one, sure cut.

He never seen someone dismember someone with such a sure cut before.

His sword, his Black Sister matched his personality.

He defended his wife's honor without thinking, instinctively, just as he had shielded his own wife.

His madness.

It was at that moment that he realised that he should see how his wife felt about this sight, surely terrified; he glanced at her of the corner of his eye and saw that she was looking at him in worry, her lips pressed into a thin line.

He swallowed heavily, feeling a clench in his stomach at the thought that she had seen something on his face that he very much did not want her to discover.

Despite these events, the feast ordered by his father-king had not been cancelled; he felt sick at the thought of sitting with these traitors at the same table, however, his mother had asked him and his brother to make an effort.

When his father was brought inside on a lectern and seated in a large wooden chair, they all took their seats; he noticed with amusement and a twinkle in his eye that Luke and Rhaena were sitting across from them.

He thought, placing his hands in front of him to pray as requested by his mother, that this was an exceptionally satisfying coincidence.

During his prayer he imagined forcing Luke to pull out his eye.

He felt the heat spill throughout his body at the thought, a pleasant tickling in his fingertips that made him shiver. He opened his eye; Luke stared at him from a distance, but seeing his gaze he immediately turned his head away.

He felt like laughing at the sight.

Then his father began to speak; he was throwing around platitudes about one strong crown, about the family coming together for the sake of the kingdom.

He thought in the back of his mind that his father was a dying, naïve old man, living in his illusion from which, however, no one was going to awaken him out of sheer pity.

Everyone knew that this supper was to let him pass away in peace of mind, but then would come the fire and blood.

The first toasts began to be given and the atmosphere relaxed a little, he, however, had the feeling of a rumble in his head.

He felt like a predator who had already spotted the weakest prey and who was monstrously hungry.

He wanted to rip this boy to shreds, to make his whore sister cry over him the way that his mother had cried over him when he lost his eye.

He rose slowly from his seat and silence fell around them. He looked at his nephew expectantly, measuring him with a challenging gaze, while Aegon returned to his seat and grunted as if nothing had happened. Jace hesitated and licked his lips, a forced, polite smile on his face.

His eye glanced anxiously towards Jace when he saw Aegon rise from his seat, he cursed in his mind at the sight of his face leaning over Baela's shoulder, clearly displeased at his proximity.

He said for sure, as usual anyway, something inappropriate and Jace suddenly slammed his fist on the table, rising, his chest rising and falling anxiously.

He lifted his cup and raised a toast to their health, saying something about their wonderful shared childhood. He pressed his lips together at his words, impatient, looking away with fury.

Fucking craven.

He glanced at her of the corner of his eye, seeing that she was looking at Jace and Helaena, warm smile of satisfaction on her face.

As he sat back in his seat, music echoed around then; he and Aegon cast communicative glances at each other as Jace rose to ask Helaena to dance. She accepted his hand happily, immediately rising, moving with him to the back of the chamber.

He then realising that he had completely neglected his wife in favour of wallowing in his own, dark thoughts.

He felt his whole body tense up, every hair on his body rising in rage.

She was pleased that Jace had humiliated his brother in front of everyone.

In any other situation, with anyone else, he would have grinned with contentment himself, he would have appreciated her concern for his sister's happiness.

Not with them.

But not today.

She had promised him that she would be on his side.

He placed his hand on her thigh and firmly dug his fingers into her skin hidden under her gown, as if to remind her of his presence. She shuddered, startled by his sudden, intense touch and looked at him questioningly, clearly frightened.

"What made you so happy, sweet wife?" He hissed low, the menace in the click of his tongue, his eye black, his grasp strong and sure. He saw her swallow hard, she knew him well enough by now to know that he was furious.

She did not meekly lower her gaze as usual, looking at him confidently, her partially exposed breasts rising and falling in uneven breaths.

"The fact that a man has finally treated our princess the way that she deserves to be treated." She whispered with emphasis, furrowing her brows.

He felt a shudder run through her, her lips parted in disbelief as his hand lifted with a sharp movement her skirt and slipped between her thighs, closing on her hot, throbbing womanhood. She gasped and grabbed his arm, shocked, trying to stop him. He chuckled lowly at the sight.

He thought that if they had been alone in his chamber he would have explained to her what he expected of her.

He shuddered, snapped out of his reverie, quickly tooking his hand away, seeing surprised that someone had approached them. He pressed his lips together, barely swallowing his saliva, noticing who it was, shocked.

His fingers brushed against her bud, sliding down between her soft, slick folds.

He knew she felt it, her cheeks scarlet, drop of sweat running down her beautiful, slong neck. He his manhood reacted at the sight with aggressive throbbing pulsate hard, ready to possess her from the morning.

Daemon held out his hand to his wife, looking at her with a smile, something in his eyes that concerned him. He felt his heart start pounding hard.

"My lady." He said with emphasis, not even saying what he desired . He saw his wife quickly turn a questioning gaze towards him, but he was unable to get anything out, his lips tightened into a thin line.

He had told her not to speak to his nephews, but he had said nothing about his uncle, and to object loudly now, at the table, would have shown him to be weak and jealous.

Therefore he could only watch helplessly, furious, as his wife placed her trembling hand on his and moved with him towards Jace and Helaena dancing in the distance.

He glanced quickly at his half-sister, wanting to see if her reaction was likened to his, but she was discussing something with her father with a smile, making it seem as if her husband dancing with another woman didn't bother her at all.

He swallowed loudly at the thought that when he was a child he had overheard the ladies of the court chatting with each other about how Laena, Daemon and Rhaenyra sometimes slept in the same bed.

He quickly looked away, trying not to pay attention to the smirk on Luke's face that flashed before his eye and looked at his wife dancing with his uncle.

He felt a squeeze in his stomach seeing that they were conversing with each other, his uncle's gestures respectful, gentle, almost affectionate.

It made him sick to think that he might have desired her.

That his half-sister wouldn't mind if he took her to their bed.

He clenched his hand into fist, trying to calm his breathing.

It felt to him that this short dance had taken an eternity; relief surged through his body as they both bowed to each other and his wife sat down next to him again.

He didn't look at her, reaching for his cup, taking a greedy sip of wine from it.

She wanted to touch his hand lying on his thigh under the table, but he took it away from her with a quick, impatient gesture.

"Don't touch me." He hissed, unable to control his jealousy, uncertainty and fear, his gaze fixed on his uncle, chatting contentedly with his wife, putting food on her plate.

He stood up, furious at the thought, glancing at his surprised mother.

He thought that he had to take her immediately.

To feel that she was his, to fuck her, to fill her with his seed.

To remind her and himself that he was the only one she desired, and not his handsome uncle with both eyes, the greatest warrior in all Westeros.

He walked out into the corridor, hearing her quiet footsteps behind him and looked around. When he saw that they were completely alone, he grabbed her violently by the arm and dragged her into a side alley, slamming her against the wall in one sharp motion, turning her back to himself.

"My wife felt unwell. I will escort her to her chamber." He said dryly. His wife threw him a surprised look but seeing his murderous gaze she stood up docilely, bowing her head.

His mother asked him if she should summon the maester, but he just moved towards the entrance, expecting her wife to follow him.

All he could hear was her loud, accelerated breathing as he pulled her skirts up, forcing her to bend over and buck her hips towards him, her trembling hands clenched on the stone wall.

"Now I'm going to show you what I think of you dancing with my uncle and how much I appreciate the concern that you expressed for my sister this evening." He hissed, untying his breeches in a quick, sure movement, lowering them just enough to free his sore, swollen erection. He heard her breath quicken at his words, her whole body quivering in anticipation.

"It runs in our blood." He snarled mischievously, lifting her gown higher, so he could see her thighs and what was between them.

"She deserves a moment of happiness. Your brother is a monster." She said coldly. He pressed his lips together at her words, feeling his insides twist in rage.

He knew that there was truth in her words, but it didn't matter now.

A grin of satisfaction appeared on his face as he saw her pink, throbbing entrance, glistening from her moisture in the firelight. He slapped his hand over this sensitive place and she squealed softly, surprised by the sensation that was at once painful and pleasurable.

She sobbed loudly and tilted her head back as opened her folds with his thumbs and forced his way inside her with one, sure thrust of his hips, filling her completly. She mewled when he began to root into her with impatient, greedy pounds, struggling to keep her balance, clasping her hands on the wall, her cheek pressed against it in an expression of utter helplessness and surrender.

"Fucking knew it. Who made you this wet?" He growled, feeling his manhood throb hard at this perverted sight. His fingers began to tease her, brushing against her pearl in a light motion, spreading her wetness all over her slit.

"My handsome uncle or your monstrous husband?" He hissed and slapped her there again, getting the same, almost innocent reaction from her, the quiet, girlish moan that she tried to stifle in fear of someone catching them.

He could see her misty gaze, her sweet, puffy lips parted in desire, he knew that expression.

She fucking wanted it.

His cock slid in and out of her with a loud click of their juices, their bare skin slapped against each other again. He watched this sight as if enthralled, panting loudly, spreading her slick folds wide on his length, her fleshy, hot walls clenching wonderfully against him, sucking him inside.

He leaned his hand against the wall, his other hand clenching on the soft skin on her hip, speeding up his pace, only broken, sweet cires came from her mouth echoing through the dark corridor, lit only by a single torch.

"− come on, say it − say it − ah − say that you hate me − what a monster your husband is just like his brother, taking you when and how he wants to −" He growled out, slamming into her brutally, the loud, sticky, lewd click of their moisture making his aching cock throb hard inside her.

This position and place, his frustration, his fear, her scent, her sweet moans made him feel that he wouldn't last long.

She had to hate him, because it was impossible to love him.

"− say it and I'll give you what you want − fuck − come on, you can do it −" He exhaled encouragingly, realising that it was as he said.

It had to be.

She had to love him, because she had no right not to love the prince.

She said nothing.

Instead she began to whine his name in such a way that a low, quivering gasp escaped his throat, his fingers twirling around her pearl, all sticky from their shared juices, her hips responding fervently to his every violent thrust that rubbed against her upper wall, driving her mad. He squeezed his eye shut, an expression of desperation on his face as he felt his fulfilment approaching.

"– I don't hate you – you're not a monster – you're not like your brother –"

"− say it − say it, say it, say it! −" He growled, but she just came, her body bent like a string, a loud, surprised moan ripped from her throat.

Her walls began to squeeze him so greedily that he simply reached his peak inside her, panting hard, his lips parted in relief, his hips rooting into her for a moment longer, prolonging his pleasure, spilling his hot seed inside her. She swallowed loudly, her whole body trembling in front of him as he heard her soft, raspy voice.

_____

Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

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[sayafics]

Envious cravings - Part 2

Sorry for the long wait on this chapter!

Unfortunately, this chapter was so long I had to split it into 2 parts, so Part 3 will be up soon, I promise!

That also means Part 2 does not contain smut. However, I promise lots of lovely Criston x OC, Daemon x OC, and smut moments in part 3 ❤️

Part 1

Masterlist

The days had passed by slowly, a treacherous peace imbued in the air of the Keep as the Blacks and the Greens existed in peace.

That did not stop Visenya's mind from racing every passing second, did not stop her from hesitating with every word and every breath - fearful she would say something wrong, do something wrong. Terrified she would anger her uncle, and he would expose her dalliances to all the Court, for them to mock and humiliate her.

She had thought distancing herself from her dearest Knight would help, but it only caused an ache to fester in her heart as she ran into his arms in the shadows of her chambers only days later. She blubbered and whimpered in his safe embrace, unable to speak of the secret Daemon held over them both.

No. If she was to tell him Daemon knew, Criston would wreak havoc - he would go on a rampage and hurt everyone in his path to get to Daemon.

Or perhaps he would leave her all together and choose his white cloak over her love.

No. She did not want such a possibility to be in question.

Criston could not know.

He couldn't.

Visenya spent countless nights praying whilst Criston dozed upon her bare chest. She traced shapes across his back and massaged his scalp as fervent pleas and frenzied whispers passed her lips.

She prayed this would pass and that Daemon would forget. She prayed the Blacks would leave the Keep and return to Dragonstone.

She prayed and prayed and prayed.

It seemed that the Seven had not been as attentive as she'd hoped - for it was only mere days later a rumble of excitement danced through the Keep.

A wedding, her handmaidens spoke.

A Lord from House Lannister, the knights muttered amongst themselves.

Lord Jason Lannister, it was announced in the Small Hall that night, had been offered the hand of a Targaryen Princess at King Viserys' behest.

But Rhaenyra was wed with children, and so was Helaena.

Oh.

Oh.

Dread settled in the pit of Visenya's stomach at the news, her face pale and hands trembling.

From his place behind her seat, standing tall and proud, Criston ground his teeth in a bid to prevent slurs and seething protests from escaping his lips.

Lord Jason Lannister was a hunter and a warrior, a man far too proud and arrogant of his accomplishments and his family name.

A man much too old that had once proposed to Rhaenyra only to be turned away - a man that was ancient in comparison to a Princess as young as Visenya, but of course the rotting corpse of Viserys Targaryen saw no such discourse in such a match, with his child-bride Queen at his side.

Viserys announced that the betrothal was to take place the next day, staring at his daughter with a stubborn smile even as his flesh peeled away. Visenya could only nod as nausea bit at her throat, so quick she had been handed away. So fast she would be sent away.

Tomorrow, he had said.

Tomorrow, and she would no longer see her brothers and sister.

Tomorrow, and she would have to leave her mother.

Tomorrow, and she would no longer be Criston's.

One day, he had said. But it seems he was far too late now.

Visenya had cried herself to sleep that day, tiring herself out after she berated her Shield, after she begged him and pleaded with him, after she pushed him and yelled at him, after she told him to leave and begged him to stay.

Criston was ready to ask her to elope, for them to run away in a manner that he had asked Rhaenyra once. But he knew she would refuse, just as her half-sister did.

Criston had asked Rhaenyra as a saving grace for his shattered vows, to restore his honour and keep the fraying threads of his life together.

Rhaenyra denied him in favour of her riches and her crown.

But Visenya? He would ask her out of love, out of undying devotion and utter adoration.

But Visenya would stay out of loyalty to the Greens, terrified to leave them to be torn and ravaged by the Blacks.

She could not leave Aegon, her dearest twin. Could not leave him to be burdened by a throne he did not want.

She was older than Aegon, but Aegon was a boy - thus, the responsibility of claiming the crown as its rightful heir bypassed her and fell upon her breaking brother's shoulders.

Visenya could not leave him to bear such a weight alone - she was too loving, too kind, too caring. So Criston knew he could not ask such a sacrifice of her, knew she would not be able to bear the distance between herself and her brother. He knew she would not say yes - not to this.

***

"Are you ready, Princess?"

Criston's words were sombre from behind the doors, his throat tight as he waited for a reply.

Visenya stared at her reflection in the mirror - eyes flitting across her dusted cheeks, the rubies that weighed upon her throat like droplets of dragon's blood, the thick and velvety crimson of her gown that seemed to darken in contrast to her pale hair that was let loose down her back with three intricate braids meeting at the back in a poor reflection of a crown.

Her eyes burned at the sight - today would be the day she lost Criston forever. Jason Lannister would be welcomed to the Court with open arms, and use her as a brooding-mare in exchange.

"Princess?"

Still no word. Terrified her voice would break as she called out to her knight, she made her way to the doors instead.

Her hands trembled as she creaked the door open, just enough for Criston to peak inside. His shoulders fell with visible relief at the sight of her, knowing she was alive and breathing, even if she was not happy.

He could not help himself as he marvelled upon the sight of her, eyes roving over her figure as his breath caught in his throat and he heated within his armour.

He coughed harshly, aware of the eyes of the King's Guards beside him as they waited for him to usher the Princess out so they could escort her to the banqueting hall safely - "Princess," he looked crestfallen now, as though the words he was about to say had shattered something within him, "it is time."

Visenya took a shaky breath, nodding softly as her hands came to fidget with her hair - "you look beautiful."

Criston's softened whisper caused tears to well in her eyes, her throat ached as her chest weighed heavy - would this be the last she heard of his sweet words?

Even if Lord Lannister had decided to live in the Keep, which was unlikely in itself, he would not let another man breathe near her - a virgin princess was far too good of an opportunity to lose to another.

A bitter tang tasted upon her tongue, all this hassle and all this hurt simply because she was a virgin.

Visenya looked towards the ground, trying to hide her flaming cheeks from any onlookers as she smiled faintly at Criston's words.

"Come. The Queen is waiting outside the hall for us."

Us.

Oh, how she wishes it was Criston she was to wed tonight. How she wishes it was him her father had said yes to. How she wishes it would be him who fathers her children. Him who brought her desires to life. Him who loved her and cared for her and adored her.

Visenya stayed quiet, unwilling to speak, knowing she would do nothing but break. She simply nodded at the man, her eyes waning with terror as she stepped back from the door so he could push them open further.

Criston could have fallen to his knees at the sight - perhaps he would have, did they not have witnesses as of this moment.

But he knew better - he recalled his vows and prayed fervently to the Seven to help him stay bound to them.

He held out his arm for the Princess to take, guiding her towards her fate with a withering heart and a miserable soul.

***

The Queen dismissed the King's Guards with a scattered wave, walking slowly towards her daughter and Ser Cole - there was a grave look upon her face, as though she was staring into a reflection as she gazed upon her daughter.

Alicent had worn white at her wedding, a symbol of her purity and her intact maidenhead.

Visenya wore red, bathed in blood as though she was nothing more than a sacrificial lamb to a ravenous beast.

Gone was the dragon. In its place remained a girl, so young and so unprepared, she was not sure how to say no anymore. Unsure of how to beg for what she wanted, who she wanted.

Criston could not complain. He had kept quiet just the same - he held a scrap of hope that despite her marriage to the Lord of House Lannister, the King would ensure Criston continued to protect the Princess and stayed at her side.

It was that dwindling ounce of hope that had him bite back his tongue, fearful of saying a word lest it mean he was to remain in the Keep whilst she was shipped away.

Alicent's smile wobbled at the sight of her daughter, so beautiful and so brave, her eyes watering as she cupped her face in her hands - "you look so beautiful, my sweet child."

Visenya leaned into her hold, eyes closing tight to stop tears from leaking down her face. Still she didn't speak a word.

Alicent placed a soft kiss upon her head, and the arm that was wound around Criston's tightened - "come, my dear girl. The King is waiting."

Alicent turned towards the lumbering doors, the post empty as Alicent hoped for a moment of privacy with her daughter - she was not sure why. Perhaps it was to see if she truly wanted this - Alicent was sure she didn't.

But even then, to deny would make no difference as Alicent had lost her power in Court the day Viserys had chosen Rhaenyra over Aemond.

Alicent's hand reached towards the doors to rap her knuckles against it and call to the knights to part them open. Instead, a gasping breath caught her attention.

"Princess!" Criston watched her in alarm - Visenya had only taken a few stumbled steps towards her mother before she had stopped, taking one gasp full of air before another.

A hand came and pounded upon her chest, the first words she had spoken all day came crashing out in an agonised whimper, "I cannot breathe."

Alicent rushed back in a flurry, pulling her daughter from Criston's grasp to hold onto her shoulders firm, "Visenya, you must calm down."

"No, n-... no, cannot breathe. Please, mother."

Her skin flushed red as the tears flowed endlessly - no, she could not do this, she couldn't.

Not when she knew she didn't love the Lannister Lord. Not when she knew the man she did love stood only a mere few inches away.

Alicent was at a loss of what to do, her heart aching at the sight of her child in such a state of fear and panic, "my child. My sweet girl, I need you to breathe. Take slow breaths for me."

Visenya only shook her head vigorously, her breaths coming out fast and shallow as her skin began to blanch under the wobbling lights of the flamed torches that set the Keep alight.

Criston found he could not watch any longer, hands moving on their own accord to gather the girl in his arms and pull her close.

Alicent's hands fell to her side as she watched the scene in confusion, brows furrowing, and her heart sinking as she watched Ser Cole cup her daughter's face in his hands, tilting her head up to meet his gaze.

His eyes were soft, they were quiet and warm as they met lavendar hues pooled with dread and misery. Visenya's harsh breaths felt hot against his skin, and he found his eyes flitting between her panicked ones and parted lips with worry.

"Breathe, Visenya."

Her name was a quiet whisper upon his lips, as though he wanted to savour the taste of it upon his tongue, as though he did not want others to hear the precious name and repeat it to undeserving ears.

Visenya trembled in his grasp, her hands leaving her chest as she wound them around his wrists and closed her eyes tight. Her head shook minutely, her breaths now ragged gasps as she lost herself in her tumbling thoughts.

She felt something soft brush against her head, her eyes opening just in time to see Criston press his head against her own as his hands pulled her closer to him.

"Come on, love," he pulled her hands towards his chest, exaggerated breaths leaving him as he looked into her eyes and through her soul, "breathe with me."

Visenya leaned into his presence, trying so hard to copy every breath and every movement. Trying so hard to stop her trembling hands and stand on steady feet.

Alicent watched their kinship with a heart of dread - her daughter was in love with her knight, a realisation which made Alicent fester with guilt, knowing she could not stop Visenya's undeniable future.

The girl would have to marry, and it would be to a Lord not to a Knight.

It would be to Jason Lannister and not Criston.

The minutes ticked by, but Visenya's tears slowly dried as she composed herself. Her hands never left Criston's plated chest, and his hands never slipped away from her twitching grasp.

She pulled herself back to stand taller, her face flushed red from the tears and panic but also from embarrassment. To have broken so quickly and openly, Visenya almost felt ashamed to meet her mother's gaze.

She could hear Alicent's approaching steps, and every whisper in her head became a blaring scream to let Criston go, lest her mother grow angry at the betrayal the knight had committed. But there was an incessant part of her, frail and timid, that could not bear to part from him so soon.

A weightless hand pressed against her cheek, and Visenya's eyes fluttered closed at her mother's voice - relief flushing through her body.

"Come, my child."

The three simple words had Criston relaxing under Visenya's touch, unsure of why the Queen had not acknowledged his closeness to the Princess and punished him, but far too grateful to question such a thing aloud.

It was Criston who stepped away now, eyes falling to the ground in submission to the vows he made that continued to loom over him.

Visenya's hands fell to her sides, fingers twisting in the soft fabric of her gown as she nodded in dissent, a grim smile upon her face.

***

The banquet was flourishing, Courtiers and Lords, Ladies-in-waiting and maids, even the knights were participating in the festivities. All except a sour-faced Shield who stood behind the Queen on guard, watching the Princess grimace as Lord Lannister spun her around the hall in a graceless frenzy.

Criston gritted his teeth at the sight of Lannister's wandering hands and sly whispers, he stood straight as his eyes lay fixed upon the Princess instead of attending to his duties and guarding the Queen from potential harm.

Daemon watched the seething and rageful knight from his place at the table, Rhaenyra at his side with his hand clasped between two of her own and placed upon her swollen belly. Daemon's lips quirked into a shrewd smile as he watched Criston's hands clench into fists when Lannister dipped the Princess low to the ground and shamelessly gazed down the valley of her breasts.

He gave Rhaenyra's hand a light squeeze, pulling his hand from her tightening grip to saunter his way to the Knight. He reached for a goblet, before thinking twice and reaching for another - the good Ser would need a drink, was he to watch his lover be pawed at by a man he envied.

The wedding would take place soon, the dreadful pair would exchange their vows, and their marriage would be sealed in the eyes of the Kingdom. And then, it did not matter how much Ser Cole glared and sputtered, for the Princess would no longer be his to claim.

Daemon could have almost laughed at the idea of a heartbroken Criston wandering through the halls of the Keep, so lonely and miserable.

But there was a part of his mind that blinked back to the night he had caught the pair in the throws of passion, remembers how he touched himself to the sound of her sighs and climaxed at the sight of her pleasure. He remembers her pliant body and her rasped moans.

Daemon had kept the secret to himself, so sure an opportunity would present itself to him where he could wring the sin for all its worth and bathe in the rewards of keeping such a twisted secret.

But following Criston's raging gaze to find the Princess still trapped in the wily arms of an undeserving Lord, Daemon felt a scratch of envy wedge itself in his throat - a bitter and burning sensation that spread through him, causing him to look away and pretend as though he had felt nothing at all.

Criston had not taken her maidenhead, and if she were to wed tonight, it seemed Jason Lannister would stake his claims upon it instead.

Daemon drew close to the man and stood with his back against the wall, taking careful sips from his goblet as he held the spare out to his left.

He tutted when Criston did not acknowledge him, a wretched smirk pulling across his face as he goaded - "one drink shall do you no harm, good Ser. Perhaps then you can stray your gaze from my little niece."

Criston stiffened at his words, shoulders straightening as his glare shifted from Lannister's cooing over the girl to the ground beneath his boots - "I am merely exercising caution, my Prince."

"Ah, of course. A brave knight indeed."

Criston could hear the mocking tone beneath his words, but he held his tongue so careful to draw attention to their conversation.

"Take it."

Criston simply turned to look at Daemon, a blank stare upon his face.

"As your Prince, I believe you are obliged to indulge me."

A mocking grin broke out on Daemon's face as Criston nodded his head with a clenched jaw and snatched the goblet from his outstretched hand, "of course, my Prince."

"Good. Drink your fill, I believe my niece will not be needing your keen attention tonight."

Criston made no move to drink from the goblet, his hands wrapping tight around it as his knuckles blanched at the force.

"After all," Daemon continued, a lecherous lilt to his voice as his eyes swam with amusement, "my darling niece shall no longer be a virgin tonight."

Criston held his tongue still, breaths escaping him in ragged breaths like smoke from a dragon before it roared its burning flames. He threw back the goblet with a mighty force, dismissing Alicent's wary glances that she threw over her shoulder at the unexpected pair.

Criston gritted his teeth, expecting flavoured wine in place of the sour ale that burned in his throat.

Daemon gestured for another drink to be brought, this one stronger than the last and Criston threw it back with an ease that should not be found in a man who had taken such sanctimonious vows - but he had already broke one, what harm would another do?

"Do you think she is excited?" There was a touch of laughter to Daemon's words, crazed by the idea of pushing the Knight further off the edge with every word despite how bitter the words sat upon his tongue, an added fuel to his own envious cravings.

"Do you think she is ravenous?" Daemon couldn't stop his words, couldn't stop pushing and prodding and hurting. "I think the brat would scream, do you not? I think she would be upon her knees begging the Lord Lannister for such-"

His words were cut off as the gobelt was shoved into his chest. He stumbled sideways at the force as a wild laugh escaped him, and his eyes followed the seething form of an unchained beast.

Criston shoved past Lords and Ladies, growled at his fellow knights who approached in question, glared at the Queen who called for him to return to her side.

His eyes were fixed now upon one place, one person.

Visenya. His Visenya. His Princess.

And upon her was a wretched leech, a venomous serpent who was undeserving of holding such an angel in his embrace.

Criston reached for the pommel of his sword, eyes blazing with the fire of a thousan suns as he cast it aside. The clang of the metal against the tiled grounds startled those around him, and their frozen figures and aghast stares were what dragged the attention of his Visenya and that vile beast beside her.

Visenya's brows furrowed in concern, a soft frown upon her lips as she tried to move closer towards him, his name a whisper upon her lips.

Lannister held her by the wrist, his grip so tight it made her whimper, and it made Criston seethe.

Before Lannister had an opportunity to pull the girl behind him and draw his sword out to cut Criston's head from his shoulders, the Knight had launched forward - a powerful blow was thrown against the Lord's face, and ever the hunter and warrior that he was, the old man collapsed to the ground with a painful groan.

Lannister had dropped Visenya's hand, and she paused for a moment where she stood. She wanted to reach out to Criston, to have him hold her and reassure her that this wedding would not go through, but a sea of eyes were upon them and whispers already began to spread.

Criston's eyes met her own, his gaze roiling with unbridled possessiveness and anger - anger that Lannister had touched her, anged that Lannister believed himself worthy of marriage to her, anger that Lannister could touch his princess all he wanted and Criston had to hesitate even in the darkest shadows of the Keep.

Criston searched her eyes, there was a breath that was long and heavy, and Visenya knew what he was searching for - she nodded.

Criston's head snapped back to the Lord, who was stumbling upon his feet as he spewed a littany of curses. Criston bared his teeth, an animalistic snarl escaping him as he lauched after the man once more.

For every blow the Lannister Lord landed, Criston would return with eight more. He disarmed the weakening warrior, and in the midst of a screaming crowd, he pulled the man to the ground and climbed atop him - he railed upon his with relentless blows, uncaring of the witnesses, of the fear because Visenya had said it was okay. Because Visenya had also wanted this.

Vinsenya watched her dear and daring knight beat the man half to death with morbid fascination - she felt as though she should be terrified, felt that she should be sickly and horrified.

But something twisted with her gut, something that had her cheeks flush as she pressed her thighs together when a familiar heat spread between her legs.

There was something arousing about his brutality, something tantalising and tempting about his possessive nature and undying fidelity.

Even as the crowd grew rowdy around her, she found she could not make her eyes leave the sight of her raging, angered knight. Of her Criston.

It was not until a hand wrapped around her forearm that she snapped out of her sinful fantasies, breath catching in her throat to meet the narrowed eyes of an amused Daemon.

He tugged the girl closer until her chest was pressed against his own, and he leaned in close, his breath hot against her cheeks, which flushed a heavy crimson - "I have to say, I did not think of him able to go this far. But, dare I say, little niece - you look ravishing. I can see why your loyal dog would risk his life to keep you to himself."

She swallowed roughly, thinking of what to say to deny his claims despite knowing Daemon had seen Criston pleasure her from his place within the walls. But then her heart stuttered to a pause, 'risk his life.'

That was what Daemon had said.

But, what did he mean by such a thing.

It was as though Daemon could see the confusion painted across her face, and he tutted with a pitying smile. Daemon's hand found her face, squeezing her cheeks roughly as she winced. He brushed her lower lip, biting his own at the sight of the reddened flesh before blinking himself free of his desires.

He twisted her head roughly, his grip unrelenting even at her startled gasp and dreadful cry - "no!"

Daemon wound his arm around her waist, anchoring her back against his chest as he freed her aching cheeks from his grasp.

Visenya watched in horror as the King's Guards tore Criston off the Lannister Lord, Otto Hightower yelling commands to have the knight taken to his chambers, to be confined within them until the time was right to call for a hearing.

He would be sentenced for such an attack - House Lannister would ensure it.

Would his title be stripped from him? Would he be sent back to the empty lands he came from? Or would he be sentenced to death?

Her heart sunk at the thought, eyes burning with tears as she saw the raging man meet her gaze with no ounce of regret and an endless river of love and promise.

Behind her, Daemon tightened his grip around the girl, a quiet shushing that calmed her despite her best efforts to ignore it.

Daemon turned the girl to face him, drawing her closer as she hid her face in his chest and allowed her fearful whimpers to escape freely. Her hands were twisted into the fabric of his fine tunic, just as his hands were tightened around her waist.

Rhaenyra watched the pair with a haze of confusion and anger, unwilling to lower her gaze even when Daemon had searched to find her still upon her seat at the table with a hand resting atop her swollen belly. But with a whimpering girl in his arms, holding onto him despite being so fearful of him, Daemon found he did not care for his wife's furious gaze.

One thing was for certain now, Daemon would not allow his darling niece to wed the House of the Lions. She was a drgaon, through and through - she would not submit to anyone but her own kind, Daemon would ensure it.

Taglist: @hangmanscoming @marihoneywk @serving-targaryen-realness @unicoreads @heartb8k2 @flirtymoonsblog @whimsicalfungi @ahristata @alixxhere @hotvillainapologist

[legitalicat]

Out of Time

Chapter 7 - "Letters of Life and Love"

AN: Sorry for the long wait, lots of stuff going on in the personal. Also I may update the picture now that we have a new hairstyle for Jace lolol

If you love this header go check out zaldritzosrose for more amazing work! She is tagged on the series masterlist and on my welcome post!

Find the series masterlist here!

Summary: Tales of the past can help shape the future.

TW: blatant talks of past self harm, canon typical incest, Jace being tooth rotteningly sweet, talks of basically everyone being in love with everyone

Relationships: Jacaerys Velaryon x Twin!Reader, talks of just about every other ship imaginable in this story

Word Count: 3.8k

Aemond did not take it any further as we flew on Vhaela. He told me it was so that I could focus on flying, since it had been so long. Whether that was the truth, I wasn’t sure but I wasn’t entirely convinced. Yet, I didn’t particularly care.

Soaring through the skies on Vhaela’s back was perfect. The chill in the air stung against the skin of my face. The supple leather of the saddle she wore rubbed against my inner thighs. We passed birds who moved out of the way in perfect time with our approach. Today was the day I was meant to take to the skies.

I truly believed that the gods, whether they be the old or the new, made certain moments perfect. There had just been too many moments in my life that were so good there were no other explanations. This flight on Vhaela, the first time I flew on her, the first time I slept with Aemond, and the night I lost my maidenhead to Jace. How could I expect that much good to come from anything but divine intervention?

Aemond accompanied me the rest of the week so that I may fly, though he did choose to fly on Vhagar. We never went far, never past Felwood to the south or Duskendale to the north. Though in my bones I longed for more. I don’t imagine I would ever fly enough to be satisfied. In the sky I was free. Free from obligation and duty, free from the pains of my soul.

Free from the wretchedness that is Mother preparing me for this feast.

It felt as though I should’ve never agreed to it to begin with. I didn’t want every Lord in the seven kingdoms ogling me once again. Especially if word got out that my betrothal to Jace was no longer official. Men would see me as an opportunity to get close to the throne, maybe even have their children sit it one day. The thought disgusted me.

“Daemon, Rhaena, and Baela have returned from Driftmark. Your sisters are very anxious to see you,” Mother told me as she braided my hair. We were in her chambers, the door being propped open once we were dressed to allow a breeze. Today was warmer than usual.

I watched her reflection in the mirror as she moved. Sometimes I wondered if she thought of me as a doll. That is not to say anything against her parenting or the care she has given me, but it does cross my mind. She took every opportunity to dress me and fix my hair until I was perfect. Or as perfect as I could be.

“Step sisters,” I corrected her.

Rhaena and Baela may view my brothers as theirs but they made sure that I understood I was not their sister. Mother and Daemon always assumed part of it was Baela having a crush on Jace and Rhaena’s loyalty to her twin. I tried to offer to her that she could marry him and become Queen one day, begging with her that I would give anything to be their sister. But it was never about Jace.

Rhaena had been too kind and timid to say it to my face but Baela never had any problems with such. It was all about Vhagar and the role I played in Aemond claiming her. They claimed I showed no loyalty. That we were cousins and I should’ve convinced Aemond to allow Rhaena the chance to claim her first. They never listened to me when I told them he would’ve done it whether I was there or not. And they also never took into account I did not know them at that point. Yes, we were cousins, but they grew up far from King’s Landing. I grew up with Aemond at my side. Was he not owed my loyalty more?

“You are all women grown now,” she told me. “Surely you can move past this.”

“Mother I love the way you love your children, Baela and Rhaena included, but you need to realize a lot of us are far more capable than you think,” I said so firmly her hands took pause. “They are not the victims in anything, not more than I or Aemond. Yes, Rhaena did not have a dragon as a child but neither did Aemond until he claim Vhagar, and I waited longer. Yes, Baela and Rhaena lost their mother as children, but the four of us lost both men who could count as our father and I wasn’t even allowed to mourn. Rhaena and Baela started the fight that night on Driftmark because of their entitlement and Aemond lost his eye. The three of us did not get along during our girlhoods but not because of anything that I could help.”

“Darling,” she whispered. Her hands continued their motions, finishing the intricate braid.

“I offered Baela to take my place, did she ever tell you that? I thought if it was about Jace and her then I could deal with not marrying him so I could have sisters. It was never about that, it was about me telling the truth of Aemond losing his eye,” I told her. Tears started stinging my eyes as I spoke about things I swore I would never admit bothered me.

My entire life I always felt I had to be perfect. The perfect princess who would be the perfect queen. This kept me from having many emotional outbursts. The closest I ever got to crying in front of others was when tears forced themselves into existence as they did now. My pain was my own and I did not need others to experience it.

Jace always called it unhealthy. He said one day I would explode with the years of feelings I kept inside. I had always thought he was full of shit until I began to realize that physically harming myself made the pain in my chest ease. When I made a fist so tightly that my fingernails became so deeply embedded in my palms I started to draw blood, I was concerned at first. Until I realized I felt better. I referred to it as my pressure relief.

It became a growing concern. Jace caught me taking a knife to my thigh once when he had come to question why I was avoiding him. He was appalled at what I was doing. I tried to explain it was nothing bad, that I was merely caring for myself. He did not see it that way. He held me that night late into the night.

That was the night I gave him my maidenhead. I wasn’t sure you could fix someone by loving them hard enough. But gods, that night he tried. Looking back, it was awkward and clumsy, neither of us really knowing what to do. We were fifteen, nowhere near marriage, and Jace had always said I would be his first, so neither of us had any experience or had been taught anything. Though, I would not change anything about it. Thinking about it made me miss him more than I had the entirety of these last few weeks.

“You always stand up for every other child yet you do not stand up for the ones who need it most. I do not know if it is because you think I am strong enough to handle it, but I need you to come to my defense too. Not allow Jace to punish me in the ways he always does whenever I have displeased him. Not assume I can handle Baela and Rhaena isolating me for doing what was right,” I whispered, blinking rapidly to get the tears to go away. “Does Daemon know how close Alicent and you are?” I asked, trying to change the subject.

Her jaw clenched for a split second. If I were not looking for any sign that I may be right, I would miss it. With that simple little movement, I knew that even if she denied it to me, I was right.

But then she eased and smirked at me. “You assume he is not involved?” she asked.

My eyes widened. That was enough asking questions for now.

“Aemond has asked I do not announce that your betrothal to Jacaerys is on pause,” she told me after a few moments of silence. I must have had a confused look on my face because she chuckled and then continued. “He says if other lords know, they will try something idiotic.”

“Smart man, he is,” I whispered. “But they will know something is going on when Jace ignores me as he has done for weeks now.”

“It was not my intention to ignore you, my sun,” Jace’s voice sounded in my ears. I turned to my left and saw him standing in the open door way. “Did nobody tell you? I got pulled away to Dragonstone and have only just returned an hour ago.”

“I think I would know if you had gone to Dragonstone,” Mother said before I had the chance to respond.

The more I thought, the more I believed that Jace had not been here. I had been at breakfast and dinner before anyone else and he had not been there. Whenever I sent someone to get him, they merely said they could not find him. Mother and I were so used to Jace being rather dramatic when his feelings were hurt, so his avoidance of anything to do with me had not come with questions. I was merely used to it.

He sighed rather loudly, an exasperated type of sigh. It sounded like an old man whose grandchildren were irking him and trying to get him to tell him stories of war. Perhaps he had grown.

“Then it is my fault for entrusting Joffrey to tell you both. He was there when I got the letter. I would have told you myself but the matter was urgent,” he said, walking over to us.

Mother had just finished pinning the braid. She had wrapped it around itself on the back of my head. It was a hairstyle her mother did for her before she had died, in fact doing it the morning of her death. She learned to do it and wore her hair this way the day she was named heir. It felt special

When I stood from my seat to face him, I noticed his jaw drop a bit. He looked me up and down many times over. When Alicent brought this dress to me this morning, I was a bit skeptical. It was a very fancy dress made of black silk and decorated with blood red rubies. It had a matching black silk cape that fastened around my neck, leaving only the area just above my cleavage visible. I wore earrings made of silver and a jewel called green tourmaline, a beautiful green with secondary tones of blue. It was, apparently, the closest one could get to a Velaryon House colored stone. I wore black shoes that bared the top of my feet, giving the style of my bed slippers but more durable. The outfit was modest, not showing enough skin to be considered indecent, but yet the fabric clung to my every curve in a way that felt completely indecent.

“You are so beautiful,” he said quietly.

“I feel a bit like a ham stuffed in a stocking,” I whispered, biting her lip.

“You are not a ham,” he said before offering a smile.

He was in a rather lovely outfit himself. His shirt was made of matching black silk, though it did not cling to him in such a way. It was fitted, giving him shape but hiding the further intricacies of his body. He was wearing fitted pants as well, making me blush a bit at how amazing his body looked in them.

“So what business did you attend in Dragonstone?” I asked him, raising an eyebrow.

“Sheepstealer was causing more trouble than usual,” he told the both of us. “As Prince of Dragonstone, the concerns of that island are mine own.”

Before Mother could say anything, I hugged him tightly. “Next time come get me yourself. If I am to be your Queen I need to be involved with your matters,” I said instinctually.

It occurred to me after I said it that I may not end up as his Queen. The possibility of that had never been present in my mind. It was always our plan in life that we would rule side by side, never one without the other. Any other reality made me ache.

My heart ached and it felt ridiculous. I am stuck choosing between two men that I love with everything in me. If I wanted to be really technical, I have three choices, though I could not name how I feel about Aegon. They love me the same. How silly it felt of me to be saddened by either possibility when no matter what I would love happily.

“I apologize, my sun,” he said quietly, hugging me to him just as tightly. “You are right, of course. I cannot hope to be a good King if I do not consider my Queen’s words on every decision.”

My heart fluttered against my chest. He still considered our marriage an inevitability, not just a possibility. He still thought of us being married and ruling together.

“Allow me to stay with you until it is time for your entrance?” he asked me. I nodded eagerly.

Mother looked between the two of us. Her gaze settled on me, her eyes searching my face. I gave her a subtle nod. She needed to know I had to be with him.

When she left the room, the doors still wide open behind her, I leaned into Jace’s arms. The world felt calm when he held me. The universe knew, somehow, that he was who I needed as my twin. He and I were balanced perfectly.

“You truly thought I was ignoring you?” he asked once I pulled away.

I looked down at the ground for a moment before looking back to him. He was looking at my with sad eyes. It hurt my heart to see him look like that.

“Yes. I thought you were upset enough that you were punishing me,” I told him.

He nodded and took my hand in his. “I’m sorry. Both for making you think that, and for what happened that night. It was not my place to act in such a way.”

“In truth, I think it is more your place than Aemond’s,” I admitted to him. I sighed quietly then looked to him. “You had a point. You are my twin, who I am formally betrothed to.”

He smiled at me. His smile was beautiful in a way that one had to see to understand. If you could imagine the way the prettiest sunrise makes you feel, that is how his smile makes me feel.

“You know, I like that you’ve grown your hair out. It’s quite curly, and you look amazing,” I told him. That simple of a compliment was enough to make him blush.

Jace and I felt so different than Aemond and I felt. With him there were no games. No constant battle for control. Our love for each other was simple and pure, uncaring of who was in control. I longed for the days when he was the only one who held a piece of me. It was so much simpler then.

“You always used to beg for me to grow it out,” he said with a smile on his face.

“And I was not wrong to,” I told him, smirking at him. “You look handsome. Classical. Like the prince from a fairytale.”

He reached his hand out towards me. I took it immediately, our fingers intertwining. He had somewhat of a sad smile on his face even though his eyes were sparkling like they normally did.

“It was never about us, was it?” he asked me. I couldn’t help the confusion that crossed my face at his question. “I mean…you are able to be complete with all of us, yes? Me, Aemond, even Aegon. The different sides of you that we all see, that is what makes you whole, and so it was never about one of us being better than another, but it was all about you feeling completed.”

As he spoke, he squeezed my hand. My throat felt as though it was beginning to close. All I could do was nod. I had no argument, no further explanation for him.

When Jace pulled me to sit on his lap, I could feel tears begin to prick at my eyes. The way he was so adamant about holding me close scared me. It almost felt like he was about to tell me he was done, that he didn’t want me anymore.

“I wish I could be the only one you need,” he said softly, placing his hand on my cheek. “I could never make you unhappy, issa dāria, and I thought giving you the time to find which you wanted would be the way to make you happy. But I realized something.”

“If this is your way of explaining to me you do not wish to marry me anymore, please just say it outright. This feels more cruel,” I whispered, letting out a shaky breath.

He shook his head softly. “Not at all. I could never love anyone else. I merely want to say that I have realized you have told me what would make you happy since we were children, and I was too selfish to ever consider it.”

My brain tried to understand what he was saying, to really grasp his meaning. But I could feel my heart banging against my chest as though it could already sense his next words. There was no way he was actually about to say it, was there?

“If marrying both Aemond and I is what will make you happy, I will no longer fight against it. I do not know how everything will work, I do not know how Aegon will fit into it, but I know that I love you and you love me. In the end, that is all that matters to me,” he told me, wiping away a tear that I had not been aware escaped my eye.

My entire life I had been begging for this. My entire life I knew that I was always meant to be with them, that my fate intertwined with theirs. I had convinced myself it was selfish and impossible.

I looked everywhere along his face, trying to find any uncertainty or reluctance. Yet, no matter how desperately I searched, there was none. He spoke the truth and his mind was made up.

“I imagine you already have thoughts as to how you wish it to work,” I whispered. He smiled at me and leaned forward to give me a gentle, albeit brief, kiss.

“Ideally we wait for certain things. You and I marry and give ourselves a couple of years so that we can have a child without question. I will not try to stop you from being with either of them in that time, I merely hope you will respect me enough to take precautions. Then after a couple of years, you and Aemond marry in the Valyrian tradition. Everything else I figure we will take it as it comes,” he said softly, running his thumb over my cheek again and again.

“And you truly love me enough for this?” I asked him. If there was any part of him that had any doubts, I could not ask him to do this.

“When I was in Dragonstone, I found letters. Many more than I ever thought had been shared, and in truth I should not have read any of them. But they were letters that Mother had received from Daemon, from our Aunt Laena, from our fathers, even from Alicent. All of these letters were discussing life and love in ways I had never thought of such,” he told me.

I placed my hand on the one of his that rested on my cheek. Simultaneously, I was pulling him further into me while holding him. He did not need to say anything else about them.

While I had not seen any from Alicent, I did once find nearly a box stuffed with letters. It was hard to piece together everything without Mother’s words, but I had an idea. Letters from Daemon and Laena talking about longing for Mother’s company, how they should have always been raising us and Rhaena and Baela together from the start. Letters from Ser Harwin, which I am almost certain he would hide for her to find instead of them being sent with a raven, describing her beauty and how she glowed when she was pregnant, thanking her for giving him such blessings. Ser Laenor’s were always phrased as though he was talking to his dearest friend, describing to her the beauty of the sea on the few trips out he went on after their marriage.

I could not honestly say I understood all the implications of them when I first read them. If I were being honest, they confused me more than told me anything. But when I thought back on them, I felt similarly to Jace. They teach more about love than most are willing to openly admit. That love does not always mean you find one person and that was it, after that person you were doomed to be alone.

“And your plans for you?” I asked him. I needed to know. If for no other reason, than if I felt too strongly about him talking about being with someone else, I couldn’t take him up on this. It had to be fair.

“I told you, I will never love anyone else,” he told me with a firmness that I had never heard from him. It was very Kingly of him. “I was not with anyone while you were away, but not because I never tried. After a couple of years, I tried. I tried to find love, I tried to find someone that could make the pain of losing you manageable. But after every person I met, I came to my chambers alone, still praying to every god imaginable you would be returned. I never even got so much as a kiss because any person I spoke with just made me ache more for you.”

“My darling, I never thought it could be so difficult for you,” I whispered. “All I’ve ever wanted was for you to be happy.”

He kissed me softly. It truly was the best way to shut me up. And this kiss felt so good. It was like it was the beginning of everything.

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Hi there! I've seen you get many requests based on songs. A few days ago "My body is a cage" by Arcade Fire popped up on my old ipod and It'd been a while since I had listened to it but I love it and the image of angsty Aemond came to my mind instantly. You probably have a million requests ongoing but if you find the time and motivation I'd be delighted. 🖤🖤🖤 lots of love to you

You requested this in July, and I only just now getting to it! Sorry, sorry, sorry! Thank you for being patient. This is now an active WIP and I wanted to give you a sneaky peek.

My Body is a Cage

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x f!reader Warnings: Heavy angst, death.

Summary: When Aemond goes to Storm's End to offer a betrothal between his younger brother, Daeron, and one of Lord Borros Baratheon's daughters, he does not anticipate the arrival of his nephew, Lucerys, nor does he anticipate murdering him. He seeks comfort and reassurance in the arms of his betrothed, but soon finds she has neither to offer to a kinslayer...

Moodboard by the wonderful @flowerandblood. Full fic coming soon. No tag list. Please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications.

[rise-my-angel]

It is much easier for me to believe that Lyanna was manipulated by Rhaegar in some way, if not outright kidnapped. You won't believe me but I have seen people argue that since we know her personality was like Arya's so how could she "allow" herself to be kidnapped 🤦🤦 as if Arya doesn't get kidnapped so many times. The biggest evidences though for Rhaegar being a sinister figure are found all over Sansa's story. Bael-ish kidnaps Sansa, Joffrey sings a song for her and Marillion offers to make a song for her, calling her a rose, and all these men sexually assaulted her. Tyrion on their wedding, wears rubies and he forcibly married her.

My best guess for what actually happened is that the only way in which Lyanna "allowed" herself to get kidnapped, was by not pulling out a sword she didn't have/was not trained to even use, and fight back against grown men trained in combat.

So, here's my theory:

What likely happened, (in my opinion just to cover my ass), is that Rhaegar at the tourney at Harrenhal gifts the crown of love and beauty to the already betrothed 14 year old Lyanna, since he likely knows that Elia will not be able to have more children after Aegon is born, considering she known to be prone to illness and was in medical distress for some months after giving birth to Rhaenys. And at this point he is obsessed with this prophecy and he thinks he needs three heads of a dragon, i.e three children born of his line. And he will need a third child from someone after Elia can't give him more. So, he chooses Lyanna and has to bide his time.

It isn't an unreasonable guess to say that it probably was becoming more well known that Lyanna didn't want to marry Robert due to his irresponsible appetite for bedding many women. It makes sense people could put that together, Lyanna is dedicated to her family and Robert would undoubtedly be unfaithful their entire marriage. If Rhaegar has developed an obsession with her being the one to provide him that third child, it makes sense he learns she is unhappy in her betrothal.

Likely somewhere around the Vale is where this happened, considering the timeline of where all of the Starks currently were at the time she disappeared. So when she is in the south, Rhaegar has a lot more resources to do this. So he waits for a time Lyanna is alone and approaches her. Now she's just a 15 year old girl now suddenly alone with the Crown Prince, likely as intimidated as she is a little star struck considering who he is. Rhaegar needs to lure her away far enough that she won't just run for help. So he promises that as the prince, he can help legally break Lyannas unhappy betrothal for her but does not tell her how.

Offer her something she wants without details and get her to come with him. By the time Lyanna likely put together this isn't what she thought it was and that she's too far away from her family to be safe, is when the actual kidnapping occurs. She goes with him willingly thinking he wants to just help her with something in her life, with no way of knowing he was about to separate her from her family.

By the time Lyanna realizes she is in a bad situation, she's too far away from anywhere she knows to get help and has no choice but to go with him. She is 15 years old, she's just a girl now fearing for her life if she tried to run or fight now. And by the time he takes her to Dorne, he keeps her in a tower with three of the best Kingsguard to ensure she does not escape and no one comes to get her out. He then stays there until he knows shes pregnant, a situation she also likely did not fight back on because of how isolated and powerless she already is here. She is all alone, fighting back could mean her life.

Then of course, word gets out of what Rhaegar has done, Brandon Stark, who has no way of knowing he's taken her to Dorne, goes to Kings Landing to try and demand his sisters return, accompanied along with their father to help and the rest is history.

Make no mistake. They never spoke before that day.

Rhaegar was the Prince and heir to the Iron Throne, who is married to a Dornish Princess and now has 2 children of his own including his own son and heir. Lyanna is a 14-15 year old girl, and the firstborn daughter of a major Northern house who live a thousand miles apart in completely different regions of the country. They would NEVER have been able to share any correspondence together and no one knew or would have found out long before that day.

Ravens dont just fly to the person the letter is for, it goes through a system of people, usually a Maester who facilitates the incoming and outgoing letters, who then either himself or a squire, hand delivers the letter to the correct person. Note most times especially in the first season, when important letters are delivered to the Starks its by either Maester Luwin or Grand Maester Pycelle, and the letters seals have already been opened, hence why they know who to deliver the letter to. Example: How would Luwin have known the letter at the start of the series was from Lysa or how would he have known it specifically was for Catelyn if he did not have to open it first to read its contents to find out.

SOMEONE in the Stark household would have realized that the 14-15 year old Lyanna was receiving letters from the Prince, if not just someone important from Kings Landing, and stepped in then and there. And if he wrote her out of the blue, the first thing Lyanna would have done was tell her family that the PRINCE had sent her a letter. We know the Starks are all very honest with each other, if he wrote her out of the blue, she would've told her brothers.

Also, there are spies everywhere in Kings Landing. If Rhaegar was sending secret letters, someone would've found that out and to whom. Note Catelyn had said she doesn't trust a raven to carry the words to Ned about the attempt on Brans life, or her saying Lysa's head would be on a spike if the wrong person read her letter about the Lannisters. Meaning even she well knows that it is very easy for letters to get into the wrong hands.

Someone (lets be real, probably Varys) would have learned Rhaegar was sending letters to Lyanna. Which in the well over a decade after her death, would have said something to SOMEONE that they were sharing correspondence. Davos line in season 2 of "Lord Varys knows what you had for breakfast three days ago. There are no secrets here." Is clear cut enough to imply that even a man who grew up in Flea Bottom, knows that if you live in Kings Landing, Lord Varys knows you and your secrets already.

Rhaegar was not sending secret letters to Lyanna and no one knew or no one said anything in the conflict that followed or in the decades since.

Lyanna did not run away nor go to him willingly, she would have no way to even communicate with the Crown Prince and heir to the Iron Throne without a single soul learning that information. Her family would have found out and the Starks would have done something about it then and there.

Lyanna likely went with him thinking that he was taking her somewhere reasonable to help her legally end a betrothal she didn't want, not knowing it meant he was taking her away from her family and by the time she realized, she was likely too powerless and in lands she's never been in before to try and run.

Also Lyanna deeply cares about her brothers. The story of the Knight of the Laughing Tree is all the evidence needed to show that she is deeply loving and loyal to her family and the people of the North. She would not run from them just beacuse of a betrothal she didn't like, she loved her brothers dearly.

She was taken from them. She was tricked into walking into a kidnapping under false pretenses. Rhaegar was a fully grown man in a position of great power who used Lyanna's young naivety and venerability to his advantage.

Lyanna did not need to be carried away kicking and screaming for it to still be a kidnapping.

Also the idea that Lyanna did not want to marry Robert because he already had bastards and slept around, would leave her entire life and family behind to run away with a man who is married with 2 children is braindead.

And if I even hear the word annulment, I will explode into rage like I'm Oberyn Martell's fucking head.

[gwenllian-in-the-abbey]

Let's say Visenya had been born earlier (say 127 AC) and survived/healthy, do you think it would have been plausible/a good idea for Aegon and the Greens to propose a match between little Jaehaerys and Visenya as part of the peace terms?? The biggest issue is the Velaryons though.

Ohh, good question! I think it would have been a good idea to propose a match in the peace terms if Visenya was alive. If we're talking show!Rhaenyra, who seems to be more inclined towards at least considering the peace terms, that would definitely have helped. The counteroffer would then be for Jaehaera to marry little Aegon in return, so that basically you have two betrothals which can essentially function as a hostage exchange. Daemon and Rhaenyra's line continues on the throne through Visenya, and both sides have something to lose by starting a war. In this situation Rhaenyra has also not just suffered a traumatic stillbirth right before she receives the terms, so emotions might not be running quite as high.

The Velaryons are a problem but I could see it going either way with them. If it's the show version of Corlys and Rhaenys, by episode 10 they're both pretty done. Corlys outright says he's throwing in the towel, they should pack their things and go back to Driftmark, and it's Rhaenys who convinces him to back Rhaenyra because she believes Rhaenyra is considering the good of the realm. So I think that if Rhaenyra accepted the peace terms, the show version of Corlys and Rhaenys might go for it. Maybe they'd try to angle for different matches for Baela or Rhaena (Aemond? Daeron? maybe they'd try to negotiate a Jaehaerys/Baela match instead of Visenya? She's about 10 years older so it's not ideal but it could work), but they might just let it go.

The one who really loses out here is Jace, but the peace offer does allow Rhaenyra to pass Dragonstone on to him as his own holding, which is not a bad deal at all. My friends and I often joke that Rhaenyra was offered the deed to the nuke factory and in the long term that actually gives her and her line a lot of power, so maybe Jace and Baela as Lord and Lady of Dragonstone would work out.

If it's their book versions I think nothing was going to get Rhaenyra to accept those terms. She doesn't even consider them for a second. But show!Rhaenyra? It might have worked.

[atopvisenyashill]

For an AU, Robert has a legitimate firstborn daughter from a brief marriage before his parents died and he was betrothed to Lyanna Stark. She lives in Storm's End until Robert chucks her at Edmure Tully. They have one infant daughter together. 1) How does the King in the North situation go down if it does? 2) Stannis try to make his niece queen? 3)Renly (given he would be closest to her)? 4) How much harder does Tywin hit the Riverlands?

i don't think robb would declare himself king in the north in this scenario. i think the ending "crowning" scene would be them crowning this daughter. she would be young, 20 or less i imagine, and probably got shuffled off to edmure because she fights constantly with Cersei. I imagine Cersei's ymbq paranoia starts acting up around this girl, and the girl herself probably hates Cersei the way Sansa and Margaery do, so getting shuffld off to Edmure would be a happy fate in her eyes - Riverrun is gorgeous, Edmure isn't old and ugly, she gets to have a marriage befitting a princess. Robb mostly gets crowned because Stannis is nowhere to be found and the North is sick of getting fucked over by Southron politics, so if they have an heir Right There Waiting in this girl, proof that she's fertile because she's already had one healthy child, and she has a strong husband they all seem to like in Edmure, I can absolutely see the northern lords being happy with crowning her.

i do think stannis might try to make her queen over himself. he clearly believes that naturally shireen comes before renly in the line of succession because he makes it a point to offer jumping over shireen in the line of succession. however, this is a massive change in how stannis would approach everything - he can't just hide out at dragonstone, he needs to contact robert's daughter, which involves contacting the tullys, and by extension contacting ned. at the same time, stannis sees rhaenyra s an usurper so i do wonder if he would see this daughter as an usurper of himself when he has melisandre whispering in his ear. IF he decides to go with crowning her, however, i do wonder if stannis perhaps casts himself as her Hand, her Aemon the Dragonknight, her Septon Barth - a sort of legendary leader to protect her. Oof, idk tbh but either Stannis starts looking just soooo fucking bad by naming Shireen as his heir while actively fighting a female claimant with a better claim than he has, OR he has to somehow work with the North and Riverlands...

RENLY imo, would for sure 100% crown his niece. I think like you said, they would be closest because they'd be about the same age - I think it's not unlikely he suggested she marry Willas but Robert shot it down for Edmure - and Renly is not "above" so to speak crowning a woman; he had wanted in the first place to have Margaery seduce Robert so Robert could have true born heirs, after all, so Renly isn't interested in being king so much as he's interested in continuing to be close to power. If he's already fairly close to his niece, than I think what he does is have the Tyrell forces join up with the Riverlands and the North, likely either pushing for his niece's daughter to marry like, Garlan's eventual child or a Tyrell cousin (maybe straight up marrying her himself? it's a huge age gap but it's not the worst age gap we've ever seen) to solidify that alliance. This is honestly a win for the North because if Renly and the Tyrells are on their side off the bat (because of the Edmure-Baratheon tie) they are looking a lot better at the outset of the war.

BUT HERE COMES TYWINNNNNN. Because YEAH he is fucking the riverlands UP so even if robb looks better at the beginning of the war, tywin is hitting HARD, tywin isn’t underestimating robb, tywin is going scorched earth right off the bat. the riverlands is like mad max world, it’s insane and bloody and fucked up.

[strangedreamings]

S3E5 virtual screening (spoilers abound)

Netflix, the next time you do one of these, could you give us a timetable first? Waiting TWO AND A HALF HOURS from the time the "doors" opened was too much.

I'll do a full list of my thoughts tomorrow with my 2nd watch of E5. I just want to say a few things now.

First, while Claudia is an AMAZING actress, Eloise couldn't fake an emotion if her life depended on it.

Everyone in the show is overestimating how much a lump sum of £5,000 is. (For any Pride and Prejudice fans out there, the Queen is offering the equivalent of half of what Mr. Darcy makes in a year.) In today's money, it's £557,927.67/$714,001.19 USD. It's a lot of money, yes, but only enough to live on for decades if you live very frugally. Cressida is young and has expensive taste, £5,000 won't last long for her. Still, it would be enough to get her away from her parents and her betrothed, which is all she cares about right now.

Glad to hear Gregory is going to Eton, so does this mean we won't see him for a few seasons?

At least Pen TRIED to tell Colin, ELOISE.

The sex scene was exactly what a first time should be, I especially loved their laughter.

I kinda want Eloise to be the one to tell Colin, then the shit will really hit the fan. Pen telling him is much better for their relationship, but El telling him is more dramatic and we know how Shonda feels about The Drama™.