#dragon blade wrath of fire
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grinbrothers · 9 months ago
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Dragon Blade: Wrath of Fire - Wii Wonders!
Souldin's wonderful review of the Wii game; Dragon Blade: Wrath Of Fire! Premieres at 9PM BST on 19/6/2024!
Welcome to a review of the fiery hack and slash game, Dragon Blade: Wrath of Fire. Have fun through action packed levels swinging your sword, or Wii Remote, in human terms.
Wii Wonders Season 2 Cover Art by AngelAik0: https://www.deviantart.com/angelaik0/art/Commission-Nanka-872606281 Wii Wonders Story Art by xXxSai: https://www.deviantart.com/starteam2017/art/Commission-for-Sould1n-811636274 Wii Wonders Controls Art by Ang_YUSOX: https://www.deviantart.com/starteam2017/art/Commission-Nanka-811758731 Wii Wonders Gameplay Art by Seasickjelly: https://www.deviantart.com/starteam2017/art/Chibi-Monochrome-Commission-Nanka-831774583 Wii Wonders Conclusion Art by Sakka-sama: https://www.deviantart.com/sakka-sama/art/Com-Nanka-833535376 Dragon Blade: Wrath of Fire is exclusive to the Nintendo Wii.
Date Made: 11/1/2024 to 27/1/2024 YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCXCFgLZmjBeMCt-QbSoDhVA Tumblr: http://grinbrothers.tumblr.com/ Twitter: https://twitter.com/GrinBrothers
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missglaskin · 1 year ago
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Yandere Aegon's Conquest (platonic) headcanons
AKA Aegon, Visenya and Rhaenys as your yan!parents + Aenys and Maegor as your yan!Brothers
Characters: Aegon the conqueror, Visenya Targaryen, Rhaenys Targaryen, Maegor & Aenys Targaryen, Orys Baratheon
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Note: Adopted and female!reader, toxic relationships, some interpreted romance/incest, Fire and Blood spoilers
You may have joined the Targaryen family through any of them. Brought to King's Landing as an offer, a hostage from Dorne. Whatever the reason was, you have now become the obsession of three dragon riders.
Naturally, there was some opposition at first. It's enough to keep a whole kingdom together; with lords either bending the knee willingly or by force, having the faith tolerate their marriages, and now they bring a child into the fold who didn't seem to bear much resemblance.
Yet despite widespread opposition, there was utter silence when it became evident what would happen if someone were to comment on your legitimacy. It's frightening to face Aegon's wrath, but he and his sisters combined; downright terrifying. 
They tended to differentiate when it came to ways of parenting. You would have likely been overindulged if it weren't for Visenya, who adopted a stricter role in place of Rhaenys and Aegon. On the other hand, it's Aegon who adopts the role of the meditator, keeping the peace whenever his wives come to disputes.
Orys is the only one Aegon truly trusts along with his sisters and despite Rhaenys and Visenya sharing Aegon's trust, they're not exactly thrilled about sharing you with anyone else. It’s noticed how quickly Orys steps into the role of an uncle, adding more fuel to the gossip (being Aegon’s brother). Like everyone else, he's just as protective and is more than willing to personally handle anyone who dares to cross you. But also similar to Aegon, beyond being protective, he's pretty laid-back. During your younger years, he'd times have you seated on his lap or playfully throw you up in the air.
As mentioned, Visenya is fiercely protective and sometimes may come off as a bit harsh, but her intentions are solely for your well-being. Her kingsguards are not only ordered to protect the king but are specifically trained to protect their little princess. She’s involved in your education, ensuring that you embrace your ‘Valyrian’ heritage. 
Each day she’ll have you rehearse your words, recount the history of your family house, and fulfill all your supposed duties. It’s Aegon and Rhaenys who urge Visenya to give you a break from time to time (not just because they want to spend time with you). Visenya also insists on training you despite her brother and sister’s wishes. Rhaenys thinks your gentle hands shouldn’t touch a blade with Aegon claiming you’re protected enough.
While they might disagree on many things, both Aegon and Rhaenys agree with Visenya's idea of giving you your own dragon egg. Given as a gift on your nameday. And even if the dragon hatches and you may never ride it, they are sure to let it recognize you as their owner; to let it be yours and yours only. Besides it’s further proof to the rest of the kingdom that you’re indeed one of them.
Like Visenya, Rhaenys is very much involved in your life and rarely lets you out of her sighs. She’s much smothering and the most affectionate out of her siblings, known to watch you with great fondness and expect to be praised for even the smallest accomplishments.
Rhaenys takes charge of your wardrobe, dressing you in the colors of House Targaryen and embellishing you with all sorts of jewelry. The many songs she has ensured to be dedicated, praising your elegance and beauty that they are believed to have passed down generations.
That’s not to say Aegon isn’t involved, he is but tends to be overshadowed by his sisters; finding himself stuck in the middle of their disagreements. Despite this, he makes his stance known and will use all types of excuses to steal you away. Aegon goes as far as making you his cupbearer, though while the council members are hesitant to take you away from the king's side. Only Orys dares to have you come and fill his cup.
They often find themselves in childish arguments on who you should ride with. Aegon occasionally claims victory, it helps Baelrion is the largest. In fact, whenever any of the siblings go for a flight, they are likely to bring you along. During their shared flights, they would showcase all sorts of tricks like getting close to the water or letting their dragons spit fire in the open air just to witness the excited look on your face.
Aegon spoils you (rotten) and is ready to fulfill almost all your whims and desires. While he’ll gladly gift you with jewelry and gowns like Rhaenys, Aegon is more inclined to make grand gestures like contracting statues and naming things in your honor. If you were to ask, he'd happily construct a bathhouse, a vast garden, you just need to ask.
Aegon is surprisingly someone you find it easy to turn to whenever you get in trouble, along with Uncle Orys. He's perfectly fine with you doing your own thing, playing away while he watches from a distance.
Despite their occasional arguments, at the end of the day, they are united through their care for you. You mean everything to them, and though each may express it differently, they all just want to see you happy and safe.
Adding Maegor and Aenys into the mix just makes everything more chaotic. While it's not much of a hidden secret that Rhaenys and Visenya favor you, they attempt to keep it subtle. Aegon isn't very adept at hiding it, and there have been discussions where he expresses the desire for you to be his heir instead. However, by the Westerosi tradition, Aenys is the expected heir.
Aenys and Maegor are particularly attached to you, even when their parents clearly seem to favor you. Being a bit older than Aenys, Rhaenys actively encouraged the bond between you two. She always insisted your small self to hold him and it became well-known among the castle servants that baby Aenys would cry until you came at his side. 
The death of Rhaenys threw everything into chaos. Visenya and Aegon, if possible, became even more protective, god forbid if Dorne were to make an attempt (or try to bring you back). You became the outlet for their grief, with Aegon demanding your presence more than ever. Aenys clung to you for comfort, a child who doesn’t seem to fully understand where his mother went. 
A year or two passed before Maegor was born, and he was already different from the start. Aenys, always smaller than the other kids, remained easily carried by your child self even as he grew. You'd lift him up on your back as he squealed with delight, but Visenya would scold you; your back could get hurt and Aenys is heir, he must be expected to behave like one.
Maegor, on the other hand, was bigger than most kids, with round and full cheeks that you couldn't resist poking and pulling. Similar to Aenys, he constantly demanded your attention, but unlike Aenys who cried, Maegor caused tantrums, pushing other kids you interacted with and throwing things until he got the attention he sought.
A rivalry started between the brothers, and more often than not, you found yourself in the middle of it, but it was mostly one-sided with Maegor often starting the conflicts. Moreover, Aegon directed most of his attention toward Aenys with kingdom duties and all, leaving you mostly with Maegor and Visenya.
Unlike Rhaenys, who didn't have the time to mold her son, Visenya did. She made sure that her son knows that it’s his duty to protect and care for you, deeming Aenys as weak in her eyes. Maegor learned to value you above all else. Sparring was no longer necessary, as according to Maegor he’ll be the one to protect you from now. In one incident, Maegor attacked a noble boy who had jokingly insulted you. Aegon and Visenya never punished him, with the excuse that Aegon didn't want to cause a scene.
Aenys, much like his mother, is naturally affectionate. Openly embracing you in front of the entire court or hold your hand as you walk together. Such displays of affectionate were a never-ending lecture from Visenya and Aegon and all it did was fuel Maegor’s jealousy. 
As all three of you came of age, there was a flood of suitors vying for your hand in marriage. Aegon would use any excuse to deter them, but deep down, he secretly wished to wed you to Aenys but he knows Visenya might insist on Maegor instead, further fueling the rivalry between the brothers. The reactions of your brothers toward your suitors only intensifies, with Maegor eagerly challenging anyone who seeks your hand and Aenys wearing a mask of happiness for you while secretly desiring to have you all to himself.
It becomes even messier if the brothers are wed to other women. Alyssa and Ceryse, in particular, feel the pressure to be on your good side, knowing that a gesture from you could sway their husbands in your favor. Despite being married to them, the wives can't shake the feeling of being the "other women". The awkwardness is heightened by Aenys, who insists on you being close to his children, going so far as to let you be one of the first to hold baby Rhaena. 
The family was struck with a moment of grief upon Aegon's death, leaving Visenya as the sole parent. With Aegon, and even Orys, no longer present, Visenya had the freedom to enforce her regulations and expectations without interruption. Maegor, being a wild card, proved difficult to control. Despite Aenys' perceived weakness, he stepped into Aegon's place, not directly opposing Visenya and Maegor but making it clear that you were a line not to be crossed. Your place is to be with him and his family, by his side in council. 
Aegon's death set off a chain reaction, fueling the underlying war within the family that had already been brewing.
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novaursa · 2 months ago
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Legacy (of dragons and gods)
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- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.
- Pairing: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister
- Note: Canon events have been altered to compliment the plot for this story.
- Rating: Explicit 18+
- Previous part: the march
- Next part: dragonfire
- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @luniaxi
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The Lannister procession had stopped for the night along the banks of a winding river, its waters sluggish under the pale light of the waning sun. The camp spread out like a sea of crimson and gold, with soldiers pitching tents and stoking fires, the metallic clink of armor and the murmur of voices filling the evening air. At the center of it all, beneath the largest tent adorned with a golden lion on a blood-red field, Tywin Lannister sat at the head of a table, his mood as cold and unyielding as the steel dagger he turned between his fingers.
The air within the tent was stifling, thick with the heat of the gathered torches and the heavy silence that followed the latest report. Kevan Lannister sat to Tywin’s right, his face pale and set in a stern frown. Jaime stood near the tent flap, his armor dull beneath the flickering light, his expression impassive. Between them, the messenger—a frail man in dusty robes—shifted uneasily on his feet, his gaze flicking nervously between the powerful men before him.
Tywin’s voice, when it came, was low and dangerous, like the first rumble of thunder before a storm. “Repeat what you just said.”
The messenger swallowed hard, beads of sweat forming at his brow. “M-my lord, the High Sparrow… the Faith has taken hold of the city. King’s Landing is no longer under full control of the crown. The Sept has been fortified, and the Faith Militant patrols the streets.”
Tywin’s knuckles whitened as his grip tightened on the dagger. “And my daughter?”
The man visibly flinched at the icy edge in Tywin’s voice. “Queen Mother Cersei… she was arrested, my lord. The High Sparrow accused her of sin and impropriety, and…” He faltered, choosing his next words carefully. “She has been made to atone. Her… walk has already taken place.”
There was a beat of silence so heavy it felt as though the air itself froze. Kevan let out a soft breath, his face etched with disbelief and anger, while Jaime remained silent, his jaw tense as he looked away, refusing to meet his father’s gaze.
Tywin’s expression, however, was unreadable, his green eyes fixed unblinkingly on the trembling messenger. “You will tell me every detail,” he said coldly.
The messenger hesitated, but there was no escaping Tywin’s command. “The queen was stripped of her clothing and marched from the Great Sept to the Red Keep, barefoot and unarmed. The people were… merciless, my lord. They hurled insults, food, stones. The walk lasted hours.”
Tywin’s grip on the dagger finally stilled, his eyes narrowing. “And you allowed this to happen?” His voice barely rose, but the fury in it was enough to make Kevan stiffen.
“The Faith controls the city, my lord,” the messenger stammered. “The crown has lost its power.”
Tywin’s silence was thunderous. He turned his gaze to Kevan, whose face was carved in stone. “This is the result of my daughter’s arrogance. Her foolish decisions have not only humiliated herself but sullied the name of House Lannister. She has given our enemies something they will not soon forget.”
Kevan nodded curtly. “The Faith must be dealt with. This cannot stand.”
“And it will not,” Tywin replied, his voice as sharp as a blade. His gaze snapped to Jaime, who still stood motionless by the tent flap. “You have nothing to say, Jaime?”
Jaime finally turned to look at his father, his face unreadable. “What would you have me say? That it should never have come to this? That I warned her?”
Tywin’s lip curled faintly in disgust. “Your warnings fell on deaf ears because you failed to command her respect.”
Jaime’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
Before another word could be exchanged, a deep, thunderous roar echoed across the camp, cutting through the murmurs of men and the crackling of fires. The ground beneath them trembled faintly, and every man within the tent turned sharply toward the sound. Outside, voices rose in alarm, and the shadow of something vast passed briefly over the canvas walls of the tent.
Kevan shot Tywin a concerned look. “The dragon.”
Tywin straightened, setting the dagger on the table with deliberate care. “Dismiss the men,” he commanded curtly.
Kevan opened his mouth to object but thought better of it, rising swiftly to usher the remaining guards and the messenger out of the tent. Jaime lingered for a moment, glancing toward his father, but Tywin waved him off with a sharp flick of his hand. “Go.”
Once the tent had emptied and silence returned, Tywin rose from his seat and strode to the entrance of the tent. He stepped outside into the fading light, the faint chill of evening brushing against his face as he looked up toward the source of the disturbance.
Viserion descended from the darkening sky, her great wings beating the air with an almost deafening rhythm. The fires of the camp guttered and danced wildly in her wake as she landed with a massive thud just beyond the edge of the tents. Her cream and gold scales gleamed in the twilight, and her neck curved as her golden eyes fixed on the men who scattered in fear at her arrival. Smoke curled lazily from her nostrils, and her chest rumbled with a sound so deep it made the earth itself shiver.
And then you appeared, sliding smoothly from the dragon’s back, your dark riding cloak billowing around you as you landed with practiced ease. You placed a steadying hand on Viserion’s snout, murmuring something softly to her before turning to face Tywin.
Tywin stood his ground, unflinching even as Viserion’s great eyes fixed on him. The anxiety in the camp was felt, men watching from the shadows as the Lord of Casterly Rock and the dragon stared one another down. For a moment, it seemed as though Viserion might let out another roar, but at your touch, she stilled, the smoke in her breath dissipating as she settled.
“Tywin,” you greeted coolly, pulling back your hood to reveal the silver cascade of your hair. The wind carried faint embers and the scent of smoke, as though the dragon���s fire lingered on your skin.
Tywin’s gaze did not waver as he took in the sight of you and the creature at your side. “Your arrival was… dramatic.”
“Viserion does not know subtlety,” you replied smoothly, stroking the dragon’s warm scales. “Neither do the Lannisters, from what I’ve learned.”
Tywin’s lip twitched faintly, though it was impossible to tell if it was amusement or irritation. He stepped forward, stopping just a few paces away from you, though his gaze remained locked on Viserion. “Is she so wild that you cannot control her?”
“She is not wild,” you countered sharply. “She is mine. She answers to me.”
“And yet her presence unnerves my men,” Tywin said, his voice cold. “You do not need to remind them of their place.”
“Then perhaps they should find their courage,” you replied pointedly. “The dragon will be with us in King’s Landing. They had best learn to accept it.”
Tywin’s gaze flickered briefly to you, something sharp and considering in his expression. “We’ll see about that.”
You stepped closer, your violet eyes steady as you looked up at him. “What is it you summoned me for, Tywin?”
He studied you for a long moment, as though weighing his words. “The city is no longer what it was,” he said finally, his voice low and clipped. “The Faith has seized power, and my daughter—has humiliated this house through her recklessness.”
You frowned slightly, sensing the anger simmering beneath his carefully measured tone. “What has happened to her?”
Tywin’s expression darkened. “She was paraded through the streets, stripped and shamed for all to see. It was a spectacle. A disgrace.”
You exhaled softly, a flicker of pity passing through you despite everything. “And you blame her for this.”
“I blame her for giving our enemies the means to harm us,” Tywin snapped. “Power demands discipline. She has forgotten that.”
You tilted your head slightly, your tone measured. “And what of the Faith, then? What do you plan to do about them?”
Tywin’s gaze was hard, unrelenting. “I will deal with the Faith as I have dealt with every other threat to my house.”
“And me?” you asked softly, your voice almost a challenge. “What do you plan for me and Viserion in the capital?”
Tywin’s lip curled faintly. “You will stand where I tell you to stand, Y/N. And your dragon will serve as a reminder to those who would oppose us.”
You met his gaze, unflinching. “I hope you know what you’re inviting into that city, Tywin. Fire does not play by the rules of men.”
Tywin stared at you for a long moment before his voice dropped to a soft, dangerous murmur. “Then we will ensure the fire serves our cause.”
Viserion shifted behind you, her chest rumbling faintly as if echoing your thoughts. You turned back to the dragon, running a hand along her warm scales. “Be careful, Tywin,” you said quietly. “Fire is not so easily tamed.”
Tywin watched you for another moment, then turned sharply away.
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The soft light of candles flickered inside the tent as Tywin Lannister ducked through the heavy flap, the air still tinged with the chill of the evening. Outside, the camp buzzed faintly with the sounds of men settling in for the night—boots on dirt, the crackle of fires, distant voices murmuring—but inside, there was nothing but quiet. A welcome reprieve.
The tent was a well-ordered sanctuary. Rich crimson fabrics lined the walls, the Lannister sigil subtly embroidered into their folds. The centerpiece was a sturdy bed with a carved wooden frame, draped in thick furs and silken sheets. Across the room, Damon slept soundly in his crib, his soft breathing barely audible beneath the gentle hum of the wind outside. The sight of his son—safe, warm, untroubled—brought the faintest softening to Tywin’s otherwise stern features.
You sat by the small table, clad in a loose gown of black and silver that cascaded around you like a midnight cloud. Your hair tumbled over your shoulders, illuminated faintly by the golden glow of the lantern. At the sound of his arrival, you glanced up, your violet eyes catching the light and shining with that unspoken challenge you always seemed to carry.
“Your men are watching Viserion like she might swoop down and devour them whole,” you remarked quietly, a faint smile tugging at your lips as you sat back in your chair. “Is she making them nervous, or are you?”
Tywin snorted softly, the ghost of a smile flickering across his face as he began to remove his crimson cloak, hanging it on a nearby hook. “The dragon unnerves them, as does her rider. It is a good lesson in fear.”
“And what of you, Lord Tywin?” you asked, tilting your head. “Do I unnerve you?”
He shot you a look that could have flayed lesser men, but there was no true sharpness in it. “Not nearly as much as you would like to believe.”
You laughed softly, shaking your head as you stood, walking toward him with deliberate grace. “It’s been a long day. You must be exhausted.”
“Exhaustion is a luxury,” Tywin replied simply, though there was no denying the faint relief in the way he rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck. His gaze flicked briefly to Damon, still asleep in the crib. “He is well?”
“Fast asleep,” you replied, glancing toward your son with a softness that did not often appear in your voice. “It seems he takes after you. He barely stirs, even with the roar of a dragon.”
Tywin’s lips twitched faintly, as if considering a retort, but he let it pass. Instead, he stepped toward the table and poured himself a goblet of wine, the liquid dark as blood beneath the candlelight. “Tomorrow will be a day history records,” he said finally, the weight of his words deliberate. “Our arrival in King’s Landing, with a dragon at our side—it will not be forgotten.”
You folded your arms across your chest, the playful edge fading from your expression. “That depends, doesn’t it?”
Tywin turned toward you, brow arching faintly. “On what?”
“On how it goes,” you replied smoothly, stepping closer until only a breath of space separated you. “If the city welcomes us with open arms, it will be a moment of strength. If they resist, if they see us as a threat…” Your voice trailed off, your gaze steady. “The histories could tell a very different story.”
Tywin’s jaw tightened, though his voice remained calm. “Then I will ensure they see it the way I intend them to.”
You reached out, your hand brushing lightly against the front of his tunic. “You always did believe you could shape the world to your will.”
Tywin’s green eyes locked onto yours, the flicker of heat behind them unmistakable. “Because I can.”
“And what will you do with me?” you murmured, your voice softening into something huskier. “Am I to be part of this vision of yours? A Targaryen astride her dragon, or something far less… mythic?”
He set his goblet down with deliberate care, his hands coming to rest on your waist, pulling you just slightly closer. “You are my wife,” he said, his voice low but firm, as though that truth alone carried all the weight in the world. “And you are more than myth. You are fire made flesh.”
The words sent a shiver through you, heat pooling low in your belly as you looked up into his face. Tywin Lannister, cold and unyielding to the world, was a man of stone to everyone but you. With you, there was something deeper—something raw, something burning just beneath the surface. And in moments like this, when the world outside fell away, you saw it in him.
“Then claim me,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.
His gaze darkened with desire, and in an instant, his hands tightened on your waist, pulling you flush against him. His lips descended on yours, firm and demanding, sending sparks across your skin as you melted into the kiss. Tywin was not a man prone to tenderness; he kissed with purpose, with possession, and yet there was something almost reverent in the way his hand came up to cradle your jaw.
You responded in kind, your arms winding around his neck as you pressed closer, your body molding to his. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging gently as you deepened the kiss, feeling his breath catch ever so slightly. When you pulled back, lips swollen and breath shallow, you looked up at him with a wicked smile.
“Undress me,” you whispered, your voice a challenge and a plea all at once.
Tywin’s gaze roamed over you, his eyes dark with hunger as his hands moved to the laces of your gown. He was deliberate, each tug of fabric exposing more of your skin, his fingers lingering where they brushed against you. He lowered the gown slowly, letting it pool at your feet until you stood before him, bare but for the faint glow of firelight against your skin.
“You are exquisite,” he murmured, his voice rough with restrained need.
You stepped forward, your fingers moving to the buckles of his leather doublet, loosening each one until you could push the heavy garment from his shoulders. You tugged at his tunic next, your touch lingering against the hard planes of his chest and the scarred strength of his body. When he stood before you, equally bare, the fire between you seemed to burn hotter.
Tywin’s hands slid to your hips, his grip firm as he guided you toward the bed. You stepped back with him, the furs cool against your calves as he eased you onto the mattress. He followed, his body pressing over yours, the weight of him grounding you as he braced himself above you.
You reached for him, your legs parting as you drew him closer, the anticipation thick between you. “Tywin,” you whispered, your voice soft and wanting.
His gaze met yours, his green eyes locking with your violet ones as he lowered himself. You felt him press against you, the sensation sending a thrill through you as your body arched instinctively beneath him. He entered you slowly, his movements controlled, deliberate, as though savoring every inch of you. Your breath hitched, a soft moan escaping your lips as he filled you completely.
For a moment, he stilled, his face hovering just above yours as you both adjusted to the intimacy of the moment. You reached up, cupping his jaw as you whispered, “Don’t stop.”
Tywin’s control began to fray as he started to move, his thrusts steady and powerful, each one drawing a gasp or a moan from you. You met him with equal fervor, your hips rising to meet his rhythm, your nails dragging lightly down his back as the pleasure built between you. His mouth found the hollow of your throat, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses there before trailing up to claim your lips again.
“Mine,” he murmured against your mouth, the word rough and possessive.
“Yes,” you breathed, your voice breaking as you clung to him, the world outside fading to nothing but the two of you.
The pace quickened, the tension coiling tighter with each movement, the fire between you consuming everything. You cried out softly as the pleasure crested, your body trembling beneath his as he followed moments later, his breath ragged as he buried himself fully within you.
For a long moment, neither of you moved, your bodies still entwined as you caught your breath. Tywin finally shifted, rolling onto his side but keeping you close, his arm draped possessively over your waist. The quiet of the tent wrapped around you like a blanket, the faint sounds of the camp distant and unimportant.
You turned your head to look at him, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw as you whispered, “Do you still think you can control fire?”
Tywin’s lips twitched faintly, though he did not open his eyes. “I control what matters.”
You smiled softly, pressing a kiss to his temple as you whispered, “We shall see, my lord. We shall see.”
And with that, you closed your eyes, the weight of the day finally giving way to the warmth of sleep, Tywin’s steady breathing a comforting presence beside you. Outside, the fires burned low, and the dragon watched, her golden eyes glowing in the dark.
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The air in Cersei’s chambers felt stifling, heavy with the scent of lavender oil that did nothing to soothe the throbbing ache in her body or the sharp sting of her pride. She sat on the edge of a cushioned divan, draped in a simple gown of muted black. A far cry from the golden silks and rich velvets she had once worn as queen. Her golden hair—shorn during her walk of atonement—barely grazed her shoulders, and her face, though still beautiful, was pale and hollowed with weariness.
Tommen sat nervously beside her, perched like a boy who no longer knew how to comfort his mother. His hands fidgeted in his lap as he glanced toward Qyburn, who stood silently near the hearth. The man had been her most trusted ally since her fall, but even he could not erase what had been done to her.
“Mother,” Tommen spoke softly, his voice tentative. “You shouldn’t stay cooped up in here. The maesters say you should—”
“I know what they say, Tommen,” Cersei cut him off sharply, her tone brittle. Her green eyes turned to him, and her expression softened—just barely. She reached for his hand, her grip weak but insistent. “I am not hiding. I will not cower before them again.”
Tommen nodded faintly, though his youthful face betrayed his unease. “We still have Margaery,” he offered quietly. “She’s in the Sept. You told me the Tyrells were weak. If Tywin—” He faltered, unsure if the word still applied. “If Grandsire returns, he’ll make things right, won’t he?”
Cersei let out a bitter laugh, the sound sharp and hollow. “Your grandsire will see what I’ve done and scorn me for it. He’ll act as though it’s his house they mocked, not mine.” Her voice turned cold, a faint tremor of fury beneath it. “He’ll set the world right as he always does—through fear, not shame.”
Qyburn cleared his throat softly, stepping forward. “My queen, if I may. Tywin Lannister’s return could provide you with a path to redemption. There is still strength in your name.”
Before Cersei could answer, a loud blare of horns echoed from outside the Red Keep. The sound was sharp and jarring, splitting the quiet of the morning like a blade. Tommen jumped slightly, his head snapping toward the window, where the banners of the capital fluttered lazily in the breeze.
“What’s that?” he asked, his voice high with worry.
Cersei straightened, her back stiff despite the lingering pain. “Horns,” she murmured, a shadow crossing her face. “A summons.”
The door burst open before another word could be spoken, and Varys stepped inside with his usual calm grace, though his expression was far from serene. His eyes darted briefly to Tommen before settling on Cersei. “Your Grace,” he began, his voice low and urgent. “Lord Tywin has returned.”
Cersei’s face remained still, though her nails dug faintly into the cushion beneath her hand. “So soon,” she said coldly. “And what has brought such a spectacle with him that the horns must scream about it?”
Varys inclined his head, his tone careful. “Your father does not travel lightly, as you know. His banners march through the gates as we speak. But…” He hesitated.
Cersei’s gaze snapped to him. “But what?”
Before Varys could reply, a sound pierced the air—high, unearthly, a shriek so terrible that it seemed to silence everything else in the world. It echoed through the walls of the Red Keep, reverberating like a distant wail of doom. Tommen clutched his ears with a cry, and even Qyburn startled visibly.
“What in the name of—” Cersei began, but another shriek cut her off, louder this time. Outside, chaos erupted. Horns blared anew, more frantically now, and distant screams carried on the wind. The sound of boots thundering across the courtyard and the cries of panicked soldiers filled the air like a rising tide.
Cersei stood quickly, ignoring the ache in her limbs as she crossed the room to the window. When she looked out, her breath caught in her throat.
The streets of King’s Landing swarmed like an anthill kicked apart. People scattered in every direction, pointing toward the sky. Guards yelled orders that fell on deaf ears, their swords raised uselessly. In the distance, high above the city, a vast shadow passed across the sun.
And then she saw it.
A dragon.
Viserion’s cream and gold scales gleamed like molten fire in the morning light, her massive wings stretched wide as she soared high above the capital. Her shadow swept over the streets and rooftops, darkening everything it touched, and for a moment, it seemed as though the very air stilled in her wake. She circled the city, her movements graceful and deliberate, her shrieks echoing as though announcing the end of all things.
“She’s circling,” Varys said softly, his gaze fixed on the sky with something akin to awe. “Three times.”
Cersei’s fingers gripped the edge of the window frame tightly, her knuckles white. “Is this Tywin’s doing?” she asked, her voice trembling with fury. “Did he bring this to my city?”
Varys’s gaze remained calm, though his words were clipped. “Yes. And it appears he means to make a statement.”
As Viserion completed her second circuit, the shrieks grew louder, almost deafening. The city below had descended into chaos—citizens dropping to their knees in prayer, others fleeing into doorways and alleyways. Mothers clutched their children, and soldiers, pale-faced, stared upward as though witnessing the stuff of nightmares made flesh.
The dragon dipped lower, her wings sending gusts of wind across the streets, rattling shutters and banners. And then, as she began her third circle, she turned sharply toward the Sept of Baelor.
The Sept loomed in the center of the city, its grand dome a beacon of the Faith—and a fitting perch for a creature of fire and fury. Viserion beat her wings powerfully, rising higher before descending with deliberate grace. Her talons curled as she landed atop the dome, the metal groaning under her weight. Her body coiled, tail curling down one side of the structure while her wings folded tightly against her back. From the streets below, she appeared like a living statue of destruction.
The city watched in stunned silence, awe and terror mingling as one.
Cersei took a step back from the window, her breath shallow as she turned to Varys. “Where is she? Where is the Targaryen whore who rides that beast?”
Varys did not flinch at the venom in her tone. “Your Grace, it is Lady Y/N. She has returned with your father. On his orders, I presume.”
Cersei’s face twisted with fury, though it was undercut by something far more dangerous: fear. She turned back to the window, her lips pressing into a thin line as she watched the dragon remain perched atop the Sept, her eyes scanning the city as though she owned it.
“She circles us like prey,” Cersei murmured darkly, her voice trembling with rage. “And my father allows it.”
Tommen crept closer to the window, his wide blue eyes fixed on the dragon with awe. “It's… beautiful,” he whispered.
Cersei spun on him, her voice sharp. “It's a weapon, Tommen. And don’t you forget it.”
Outside, the horns continued to blare, but the panic had begun to ebb as soldiers recognized the banners of House Lannister streaming through the city gates. The gold lions marched in disciplined formation, banners unfurling like rivers of blood and gold. The Lannister host had returned—but with a dragon at its back, the city would never see it the same way again.
Cersei turned away from the window, her face pale and taut with anger. “Summon the council,” she snapped at Qyburn. “And find out where my father is. I want answers.”
Qyburn bowed quickly and exited the chamber, leaving Varys standing in silence beside the window.
“This changes everything,” Varys murmured softly, half to himself as he looked out at the dragon. “Fire has returned to the capital.”
Cersei sank heavily onto the divan, her hands trembling faintly as she curled them into fists. “And so has my father.”
She stared blankly ahead, her voice dropping to a low whisper. “I will not let him take everything from me.”
But even as she spoke, the faint shrieks of the dragon echoed again in the distance, a sound that promised power, chaos, and a future that no one—not even Tywin Lannister—could fully control.
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The streets of King’s Landing trembled under the boots of marching soldiers. The sound was thunderous, echoing off the stone walls of buildings and the cobbled streets as Tywin Lannister’s procession carved its path toward the Sept of Baelor. The golden lions of House Lannister gleamed in the sunlight, their banners streaming like rivers of fire and blood, punctuated only by the green-and-gold sigils of House Tyrell fluttering in time with the wind. Lord Mace Tyrell, stout and beaming, rode at Tywin’s side with all the self-importance of a man convinced of his own worth.
The city had quieted. Fear still lingered thick in the air—fear of the dragon that perched atop the Sept like an ancient god made flesh—but there was also the growing hum of curiosity. Windows cracked open, and desperate eyes peered down from rooftops as the procession approached the grand square before the Sept. The people were quiet, hushed, too afraid to jeer, too in awe to cheer.
At the head of it all rode Tywin Lannister, his crimson cloak billowing in the wind, his golden armor polished to a mirror’s sheen. His face was cold, composed as always, though his green eyes carried the weight of expectation, the certainty of a man who did not come to parley but to rule. Beside him, Mace Tyrell bounced slightly in his saddle, his bearded face twitching nervously as he glanced toward the looming form of Viserion still perched atop the Sept.
“Your dragon is a fine deterrent, Lord Tywin,” Mace muttered, tugging nervously at his green doublet. “The Faith will surely see reason now.”
Tywin did not look at him as he replied, his voice clipped and firm. “They will see what I tell them to see.”
The Sept loomed before them, its massive steps already filling with robed figures. The Faith Militant gathered like a black tide, armed with spiked cudgels, spears, and shields marked with the seven-pointed star. The sun gleamed off their crude armor, their faces hidden beneath thick hoods, yet the fervor in their posture was unmistakable. At the head of them, emerging from the shadowed entrance to the Sept, came the High Sparrow.
The man was as Tywin remembered him—frail, weathered, his simple robes of grey and beige hanging loosely from his thin frame. But it was his eyes that held a strange power, the unwavering gaze of a man who believed himself unshakable. He moved slowly, his hands clasped in front of him as he descended the steps. The Faith Militant parted for him like water, their presence unyielding but silent as the grave.
Above them, Viserion moved. The dragon let out a low, rumbling growl, the sound vibrating through the stone beneath their feet. With the practiced grace of a creature far more agile than her size would suggest, Viserion began to climb down from her perch. Her talons dug into the sides of the Sept, causing great plumes of dust to rise as bits of stone crumbled under her weight. She slithered to the square below, wings furling close to her body as her long tail swept the ground with ominous finality.
Atop her back, you sat tall in your saddle, silver hair gleaming like molten silk in the light. The dragon’s motion was fluid beneath you, and when Viserion’s massive body finally came to rest upon the square, her wings curled neatly, and she let out a low, ominous hiss. You were a vision of power—your black riding leathers embroidered with Valyrian sigils in silver thread, the saddle a masterpiece of black and gold.
The High Sparrow stopped mid-step, his gaze fixed not on Tywin Lannister, but on you and the beast at your command. For the first time, the faintest flicker of uncertainty crossed his otherwise serene expression.
Tywin reined his horse in at the foot of the Sept steps, dismounting with practiced efficiency. His polished boots struck the stone square as he turned sharply to face the High Sparrow. Mace Tyrell followed clumsily, huffing as he struggled to dismount with his dignity intact. Behind them, the Lannister and Tyrell men fanned out in disciplined ranks, swords at their sides, their banners snapping in the wind.
The High Sparrow inclined his head faintly, his weathered face calm. “Lord Tywin,” he said, his voice soft yet clear enough to carry across the square. “It has been some time since you last darkened the steps of the Sept. What brings you to this holy place with such… pageantry?”
Tywin’s lips curled faintly, the expression cold and humorless. “The Faith has overstepped its bounds, as foolish men often do. I have come to see that order is restored.”
The High Sparrow’s gaze did not falter. “Order, my lord? Or obedience? There is a difference.”
“Semantics do not concern me,” Tywin replied curtly. “You will surrender Queen Margaery back into the custody of her family. You will dissolve your hold over this city and the throne. Do this, and you may yet live to see another sunrise.”
The gathered Faith Militant bristled at the words, their grips tightening on weapons, but the High Sparrow raised a hand, calming them. He turned his attention to you now, his gaze lingering as though assessing something far older, far more dangerous than the man standing before him.
“And you,” he said softly, addressing you for the first time. “A child of fire and blood, astride a creature of chaos. Tell me, do you serve the lions of House Lannister willingly? Or have they chained you as men have always sought to chain beasts?”
You smiled faintly, unbuckling yourself from the saddle and sliding gracefully down Viserion’s side. The dragon shifted slightly at your absence, but remained still, her golden eyes locked on the gathered men before her. You stepped forward, your boots striking the stone square as you came to stand at Tywin’s side.
“I am not chained,” you replied coolly, your voice carrying easily. “And I am no beast. I stand here because I choose to.”
The High Sparrow tilted his head slightly, something unreadable flickering in his gaze. “Then you choose to stand with those who corrupt and defile. With those who believe power grants them the right to rule without faith, without penance.”
Tywin’s voice cut through like a blade. “Save your sermons for the fearful and the weak. I am neither.”
The High Sparrow turned back to him, his expression calm once more. “And yet you come here demanding surrender. Why? Because you hold swords? Because you bring a dragon?” He gestured toward the Sept, the great dome behind him rising high and holy above their heads. “This is the house of the gods. No beast, no army, no man is greater than the Seven.”
Tywin stepped forward, his presence looming like a shadow cast across the square. “The gods cannot save you from what comes next, Sparrow. Nor will your Faith Militant hold against my men.”
The High Sparrow held his ground, though his followers shifted uneasily behind him. “You are a man of numbers and gold, Lord Tywin, but you do not understand faith. Faith cannot be cut with swords. It cannot be burned with fire.”
A sound interrupted him then—a low, guttural rumble that seemed to rise from the earth itself. Viserion shifted her great head, her golden eyes narrowing as she bared her fangs, smoke curling lazily from her nostrils. The sound of her growl carried across the square like a warning, sending chills down the spines of those gathered.
The High Sparrow turned slightly to look at the beast behind you. For the first time, his voice faltered. “Dragons do not belong here anymore.”
You stepped forward, your voice calm but edged with steel. “They belong wherever we will them to be.”
Tywin glanced at you, the faintest flicker of approval in his gaze before he turned back to the High Sparrow. “You have until sunset to decide, High Sparrow. Surrender Queen Margaery, dissolve your militant farce, and relinquish control of this city. Defy me, and the Faith will burn.”
The High Sparrow’s gaze lingered on both of you, his expression unreadable. “The gods will decide,” he said softly. “Not men, and not dragons.”
Tywin did not reply. He turned sharply, motioning for his men to hold their positions as he stepped back toward his horse. You lingered a moment longer, your gaze meeting the High Sparrow’s. For a moment, it seemed as though he would speak again, but he did not. Instead, he turned and ascended the steps of the Sept, the Faith Militant closing ranks behind him.
You glanced at Tywin as you rejoined him, your tone low. “Do you think he’ll surrender?”
Tywin’s expression was hard as stone. “Men like him never surrender willingly.”
“Then what happens next?” you asked, your voice calm.
Tywin glanced back toward the Sept, his gaze lingering on Viserion as she loomed like a living weapon in the center of the square. “Negotiation,” he said quietly. “And if that fails, fire.”
You said nothing, but as you looked back at the great dome of the Sept, you could not shake the feeling that the High Sparrow’s defiance would be his
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The Great Hall of the Red Keep was a cavernous expanse of cold stone and flickering torchlight, its gilded edges dulled by years of neglect and turmoil. The Iron Throne loomed at its far end, a jagged monstrosity of twisted steel, a reminder of power as cruel as it was absolute. Today, the room buzzed with quiet tension, courtiers and guards lingering in uncertain clusters as the sound of heavy Lannister boots echoed through the long hall.
Tywin Lannister entered first, flanked by rows of his crimson-cloaked guards, each step measured and deliberate. His polished armor glinted in the light, his crimson cloak trailing behind him like a mantle of blood. At his side, you strode with equal confidence, your black riding leathers and silver-threaded cloak still dusted with the residue of dragon flight. Every eye in the room turned to you—whispers rising like a storm—but none dared to linger too long on the sight of the dragon bride of the Lion of Lannister.
A distant, haunting roar shattered the murmurs, sending a ripple of fear through the gathered crowd. The sound echoed over the castle walls, reverberating through the Red Keep with primal force. Viserion’s massive shadow swept across the narrow windows of the hall as she circled above, her shriek a declaration that fire and power had returned to the capital.
Tommen sat on the Iron Throne, his small frame swallowed by the immense seat of swords. His face lit up with joy and relief at the sight of his grandsire, the golden curls of his hair catching the dim light as he rose to his feet. “Grandsire!” he called, his young voice breaking the silence as he all but ran down the steps of the dais to meet him.
Tywin’s expression softened—slightly—as he stopped to face his grandson. Tommen’s small hands reached for him, clutching his grandsire’s armored forearm as though anchoring himself. “I knew you’d come,” Tommen said breathlessly, his blue eyes wide. “They said you were still marching, but I knew you’d come.”
“You are a king,” Tywin said, his voice steady and calm as he studied the boy. “A king should never doubt the strength of his house.”
Tommen nodded fervently, smiling. “It’s stronger now. You’re here. And… and the dragon is real, isn’t it?”
Before Tywin could reply, another voice cut through the air—sharp and biting.
“So it *is true,” Cersei said, her tone dripping with venom as she descended the steps of the dais. She wore a gown of dark gold that hung loosely on her diminished frame, her face pale, her hair shorn and harsh against the sharp lines of her features. But despite her weakened state, her green eyes burned with resentment as they landed on you. “The Targaryen whore and her beast have come to King’s Landing under your banners, Father.”
The room fell silent at her words, the tension thick enough to choke. Even Tommen flinched, turning to look at his mother in confusion. You said nothing, though your expression remained cold, your violet gaze meeting hers without so much as a blink.
Tywin did not look at her immediately. Instead, he turned to one of his men and gestured curtly. “Take the king to his chambers. He does not need to be here for this.”
“Grandsire—” Tommen began, but Tywin’s gaze flicked sharply toward him, brooking no argument.
“Go, Tommen,” he commanded softly, though there was steel behind the words. Tommen hesitated, glancing between his mother and his grandsire before reluctantly following the guards who ushered him out of the hall.
As the doors closed behind him, Tywin turned fully to face Cersei. His presence seemed to darken the hall itself, his expression one of pure, cold fury.
“Watch your tongue, Cersei,” he said, his voice low and even, yet it carried through the hall like a physical blow. “I will not have my return marred by your pettiness.”
Cersei’s lip curled, though a flicker of uncertainty crossed her face. “Pettiness? You bring dragons and Targaryens into my city, and you call me petty?”
“Your city?” Tywin’s voice turned sharper, his words slicing through her like a knife. “Is this the city you claimed as your own when you were paraded naked through its streets? The city you surrendered to the Faith Militant through your arrogance and your utter lack of discipline?”
Cersei recoiled as though struck, her pale face flushing crimson. “I did what I had to do to protect our family!”
Tywin advanced toward her, and for all her bravado, she stepped back, her eyes wide. “Your recklessness has humiliated this house. You invited the Faith into power, thinking you could wield them as a tool. Now, they rule your city while you cling to scraps of pride and wounded vanity.” His voice grew colder still. “And in your folly, you lost the respect of every lord who might have stood by you.”
Cersei’s mouth opened as though to retort, but Tywin cut her off with a sharp gesture. “Do not speak.”
She faltered, her teeth snapping shut as she seethed in silence, her fists clenched at her sides.
Tywin turned slightly, his gaze shifting to you where you stood calm and unbothered. “Lady Y/N is here because I brought her. She is my wife and the mother of my heir, and her dragon now stands as a symbol of our strength.” He turned back to Cersei, his words a final blow. “You will accept that, or you will leave this city entirely. I will not tolerate your undermining of what must be done.”
Cersei’s chest heaved with barely contained fury, her face pinched and red, but she said nothing.
Viserion’s roar split the air once more, louder this time as she flew low over the Red Keep, her wings casting vast shadows across the throne room. The distant cries of startled courtiers carried faintly through the heavy windows.
The silence that followed was absolute.
Tywin’s gaze remained fixed on his daughter for a long moment before he turned away dismissively. “Return to your chambers. You are no use to me here.”
Cersei froze, her face twisting with indignation. “Father—”
“Go,” Tywin said sharply, his voice leaving no room for argument.
Cersei’s hands trembled at her sides, her mouth opening and closing as though searching for words that would not come. Finally, she turned on her heel, her movements stiff with humiliation as she strode toward the doors, her shorn hair catching the light like a tarnished crown.
The room remained deathly silent as Tywin turned back toward you. His expression had softened—slightly—as he regarded you with a measured calm. “We have work to do,” he said quietly.
You nodded faintly, stepping toward him. “The Faith Militant will not yield easily.”
“No,” Tywin agreed, his voice like steel. “But they will yield.”
The doors to the throne room closed behind Cersei with a heavy thud, and Tywin’s presence seemed to fill the hall once more. The Lion of Lannister had returned to King’s Landing, and with him came the fire and fury of the dragon at his command.
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cherryclitgirl · 3 months ago
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The Gods II
Pairings : Maegor x reader
Warnings : abortions, child loss, young pregnancy
Notes: brief mention of y/n
The days following the Death of king Maegor’s oldest son and heir where filled with sorrow. The two men responsible for the cold murder were caught fleeing Kingslanding with Aegon’s head on a sack. Maegor’s wrath was inevitable, putting multiple members of the faith to the blade, torturing the head of the kings guard for failing to protect his son. He tortured the two men to death, but it was still not enough. No one dared to step in his way. Adding fuel to the fire, the queen mother Visenya died of a sudden illness. Allowing dowager queen Alyssa and her two young children Jaehaerys and Alysanne to flee from Dragonstone, in return Maegor tortured Viserys to death.
He did everything but comfort his wife. The young girl was consumed with grief, she refused to eat or sleep since the death of her son. She grew paranoid of the shadows, believing the gods would come for her remaining children. When they slept, she didn’t. She would sit in bed clutching Aegon’s toy dragon, when she closed her eyes she could still hear the sound of her son’s muffled cries. The sound of the flesh cutting under the blade, her poor babe. Ripped off her arms so easily. The death of her brother Viserys only made her grieving worse. She began to neglect her motherly duties, as well as her children.
Baelon being the second oldest did not understand why he could not find Aegon. Rhaenor would cry for hours for no apparent reason in the arms of his wet nurse. The new born Rhaella having grown accustomed of being breast fed by her mother would not accept the milk from her wet nurse.
Queen Ceryse having be shut off by Maegor and the young girl, tried multiple times to speak with her. But the young girl refused to speak with anyone. That was until she managed to sneak into her room with the wet nurse who begged the young girl to feed Rhaella.
She saw the young girl standing by the large window holding Aegon’s funeral shroud. The burning of the body had yet to be done, as no one dared to intervene the grieving of the young queen and the cruel king.
Queen Ceryse did not know what to say, how to start. She stood watching the young girl for a moment. She didn’t have the courage to tell the poor girl that it was she who went to Maegor. Despite trying her best to deny it. It pained her when Maegor married his niece. It pained her even more when girl fell pregnant quickly. Seeing the girl bear four healthy children was a stab in the heart for Ceryse. Sending her away with Visenya was the least she could do. It gave her time to be with Maegor and pray that she would fall pregnant. But now her actions, her greed, her jealousy had consequences. “ The gods punished us, they punish me” she thought as she snuffled and wiped her tears away.
She didn’t have the heart to tell the poor girl she had completely forgotten to tell the guards to stand by the door. “It was never my intention to cause harm to you or your children “ Ceryse sniffed softly. The young girl had been condemned to punishment far beyond her understanding. Ceryse gulped and continued talking “I had every intention on telling the guards, protecting the sanctity of you and your children was my first priority”. Not matter what what Ceryse said, she knew it would never be enough. The girl was not at fault. She was innocent.
The young queen slowly looked back, “What they did-“ she said wanting to hold the poor young girl. “It doesn’t align with my personal beliefs of the faith “ she spoke hoping to sooth the girl. The young girls eyes fell on Ceryse’s necklace.
Ceryse clutched her necklace, she regretted wearing seven pointed star necklace, after all was the faith militant that killed Aegon. The young queen said nothing, but beneath those hurt and red eyes, was just a girl, who lost both of her of her brother, her son, and whose mother and sister were nowhere to be found.
Ceryse slowly walked to the girl “What you saw that night” she sighed softly trying to reach and hold the girl “when you came into Maegor’s room-“ The young girl gently shoved Aegon’s funeral shroud into her arms. “This is for my boy” she said walking past Ceryse.
Meagor insisted that both his son Aegon, and his mother Visenya were burned at Dragonstone at the same time. Many lords of minors and great houses traveled to the Dragonstone, although very few were present during the burning of the bodies.
Baelon stood by his mother watching the body of his brother burn away into ashes. His mother held his hand tightly. Baelon felt his mother’s grief, his heart clenched watching her cry. He’s only response, was too cry was as well. Baelon the bitter the history books would call him.
- - - - - - -
Alyssa had fled to Storms end with Jaehaerys and Alyssane.They were promised to be housed and welcomed by Lord Rogar shortly after fleeing . Rhaena had fled with her daughters shortly after the death of her husband Aegon. Alyssa had yet to receive word from her and her whereabouts. Her second daughter was but a walking corpse of sorrow and grief trapped in the hands of Maegor. Viserys had been tortured to death by Maegor. Her grandchild murdered in cold blood.
It was what they did to her sweet girl that pained Alyssa. Her poor daughter a victim of a crime she did not commit. She watched when Maegor took her to marry. She was there when her girl of ten and five gave birth to her first child, only to return months later pregnant again and again. She watched and could not save her.
She could only pray that Jaehaerys would take the throne. Save his sister and her children. Allow them to be free from Maegor’s grasp.
Alyssa exited the wheelhouse she had managed to pay for. The guards of house Baratheon stood with their Lord Rogar. She looked up as the rain began to fall on her face. A sight of freedom, a bitter sweet freedom. Unfortunately her daughter could not experience it. Oh her precious y/n, how much she adored the rain. She would’ve enjoyed dragging Aegon and Rhaena into the courtyard to play in the falling rain.
Before Alyssa could take step another step towards Rogar she fell to her knees. The hard rain fell on her;mixing with the salty tears that rolled down her cold cheeks. She could only remember times where her six children were together. Sitting at the long table together as Aenys wished for it to be. They were contented. A happy family, a good family. Maegor took that from her.
She cursed his name, desperate and angry she cried, her nails clenching into her palms. She wished for nothing more than to run, get her daughter and grandchildren and give them the freedom they deserved.
- - - - - - - - - -
In 45 AC shortly after the construction of the red keep and a year after the death of three year old of Aegon. Baelon Targaryen at just four summers old was officially named heir of the iron throne and prince of Dragonstone. A large tittle for a small boy who did not understand the it’s great significance. Soon after the announcement Maegor took his wife to her chambers. Her arm wrapped around his they walked past Ceryse. Her relationship with the girl had become strained and unpleasant.
“Baelon will marry Rhaella” Maegor firmly told as he left his wife’s bed. Y/n sat up from the bed lifting the sheets up to her bare chest. Her long silver hair covered her shoulders, weakly guarding her naked body “She’s barely one ” she muttered.
Maegor looked back at her “Let her be promised to him from a young age” he replied coldly. “I have let you name our children, let you pampered them with love, so they grow weak and feeble. He spat moving closer to the bed. He sat down close to her “You have no say on the matters “ he said firmly.
“Why keep me here then” she asked him. Slowly she was regaining the strength that was once taken from her. Although she still mourned the death of her son, the constant overlooking of those who surrounded her made her regain what she once lost. Her desire to fight. Not for Maegor, not for the crown. But the her children.
Maegor looked at the girl for a moment, his hand twitching to reach over and tighten itself around her neck. He liked her better when she did not question him. But something had changed in her, he knew it , he felt it. It had taken him off guard when she first rode him. He still remembered her hands on his large bare chest. The way she looked when she moaned. She was not just riding him to please him, she was doing it to please herself. Something in their marriage that had never happened. She was no longer callow and afraid , she took him for her own pleasure. For every night that he spend with Tyanna or Ceryse he would spend ten nights with y/n. Ultimately, he stopped visiting them. Solely focusing on his young wife. She would take him good. facing him , on her back, on her knees, his cock down her throat, the things that made him proud.
He didn’t answer her question. The silence between them felt long and unease. He pulled the silky sheets further up her bare chest.
He stood up and began butting up his breeches “You have been faithful, despite the circumstances you remain at my side, that’s why I keep you here”. He reached for Blackfyre and held up to her, the sharp end pointed at her. “I assume even when I’m gone you will carry me in your thoughts”. Unfortunately he was right. Despite her being deathly afraid of him and after years in his cruel grasp.She developed fidelity and compassion for him. Strongly believing he would protect her. Maegor knew this, he used to his advantages. Fueling his wife with lies and deceptions. Believing she had no one else to turned to , knowing she would do anything for her children. Maegor believed she will do anything to have Baelon on the throne. He offered her a seat in the small council to serve as his advisor. This did not go over lightly with Tyanna, but to her misfortune, Maegor did not care. He wanted her close, manipulate her as he always wished. Maegor left her chambers leaving her covered with the sheets of their aftermath, alone in the large empty room. Despite her enjoying their intimate moments the constant act of enjoying his company felt foreign to her. But it was necessary for her survival. Although the developed feelings of safety and compassion for him were strong. Something inside her opposed them.
The morning shortly after he left her trusted maid drew her a bath, and carefully cleaned and washed her. The warm water kissed her skin as the sponge glided down her arms and on her back. Her maids soft fingers caressed her scalp with gentleness, soothing away her turbulence. Kiara was her most trusted maid.She was gentle and attentive, appointed by grand maester Benifer himself. Kiara was fiercely loyal to her queen .
“Does my queen wish for a moment alone?” Kiara asked her as she brushed the last of her hair. The queen looked at her maid through the mirror and nodded “please “ she said softly. Kiara nodded, she made sure her queen had everything she needed before bowing and leaving.
She was to await someone, who always came after a night with Maegor. Moments late the door of the chamber opened, y/n looked to see Grand Maester Benifer standing by the door holding a something covered with a small cloth. He looked back the door as it shut and made sure no one was looking as he unveiled a small round cup with a lid. “Good morrow your grace”. He bowed his head at her and slowly walked to where she was. His wary expression was noticevale as he placed the cup on the table. “Good morrow grand maester” she said watching him place the cup on the table. The tea’s vapor dancing on top of the cup. “As requested “. He watched her slowly take the cup and smell it before she drank it slowly. She never enjoyed the taste of the sour taste, it burned her throat as she drank it, pausing here and there.
“If I may your grace” he spoke solemnly “ This happens to be the third one you’ve taken” he said in a hush voiced. “If the king find outs.. this is treason, killing potential heirs-“ Maester Benifer was cut off by the y/n who placed down the cup. “I’m aware…grand maester, but the king has three healthy heirs” despite her justification, the act was still immoral and distasteful to some. “ But his desires are not mine…this is my choice, my right “ she said firmly.
Grand maester Benifer nodded and looked down “What you do for your children your grace… it’s admirable…your labour will not unheeded go ” he promised her. He covered the cup with the cloth again. He had brewed the tea for her, and advised her when to take it. He was well aware of the risk that came with aiding the queen, but he would take that risk and more.
Unfortunately for him, and for the young queen it was not Maegor’s wrath they ought to be afraid of. For the gods tend to not be satisfied with only one son.
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damneddamsy · 5 months ago
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renegade | aemond targaryen x oc (part ix)
a/n: Silverwing being ride-or-die is my new favourite trope
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Princess Aemma Velaryon's death reached Dragonstone only after her forlorn brother, Prince Lucerys, feverishly searched the seas and skies alike for any sign of her or Silverwing. All he came upon of her was the shredded length of her velvet cloak by the shores of Shipbreaker's Bay, his sister's sweet lavender perfume lost to the salt of the sea. He had clung to it like it was his lifeline, and that's how they found him in the Sea Dragon tower, within Aemma's chambers—crying his eyes out and calling out to her.
Luke sobbed deeply, pulling at his hair. "It should've been me."
Queen Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon walked in on Luke, eager to see her children again, and eventually registering his undone suffering. Once the mother noticed the familiar article of clothing—formerly her own—she went insensate. Her shoulders shook, composure gone to ashes, and sank to her knees. Daemon was stoic to the scene, save for his hand that went to direly fist at his sword.
The older prince spoke first, relieving the tension. Despite his grave face, his tone was forbidding, intending to burn. "Who the fuck did this?"
Luke's upper lip curled, his hands clenching at his sister's cape. "Him."
Nothing else needed to be said. The reality of who was capable of executing such treason was well understood, though uttering his name was like spitting venom.
Rhaenyra roared out with the visceral fury of a dragon, and once that drained, she was but an empty vessel. She heaved a solemn breath, palming at her abdomen. The misery that wracked her labours was far less cruel than whatever this was, the anguish overwhelming, her chest aching with the burden of mourning two daughters, their deaths igniting the flames of war.
When she tearily looked to her side, Daemon had disappeared.
Prince Daemon had been conditioned to barbarity and grief, so much they were welcome drinking companions of his. Aemma was no different to this addition. In her, he saw echoes of his own turbulent youth—the same steely determination, the same unpredictability, the restless drive to remain an enigma to those around her. Perhaps it was this reflection of his own wild spirit that spurred him to seek out grisly revenge.
Daemon's warpath toward Caraxes suddenly stopped as he saw him standing before the painted table. The hollow swordsman. The one-eyed kinslayer. A mirror of Daemon's worst motivations. Here stood the rider of the beast that had slain his daughter.
Daemon unsheathed Dark Sister without hesitation, the Valyrian blade slicing through the air with a menacing swish.
"Poetic justice or self-destruction?" he muttered, masking his fury.
Aemond bore a black smile, barely lifting his lips. "Depends on which of us you ask, uncle."
X
Rumours had begun to spread that Aemond Targaryen had defected to the Blacks. Some even called it a surrender. Perhaps it was the stabs of a prickling conscience, the blood stains of love in his hands, or the affliction of sorrow that had overtaken him, making him ready to face the wrath of a grieving mother—and his own death. Bereft of his truest calling, shattered by dreams he had destroyed with his hands, the one-eyed prince swiftly concluded that life held no meaning without his princess. He intended to follow her footsteps soon enough, to fulfil the conclusive detail of their promise: never to part from Aemma henceforth.
Without Aemond and Vhagar, King’s Landing had become perilously vulnerable. The soaring pall of the largest and most terrifying dragon no longer loomed over the capital, and it was clear to all that their strongest defence was now absent. The Greens' was evidently morale staggered. With Vhagar’s absence, Rhaenyra’s forces could bring the fire with seven dragons and fewer consequences, and rumours of dissent spread throughout the city. The Greens were losing their grip, outmatched in numbers and firepower, leaving the smallfolk exposed and the city teetering on the edge of defeat.
Terrible fables spoke of King Aegon and Aemond One-Eye’s grandiose schemes to slay the false queen under the guise of begging for mercy. But these tales were discredited when it was revealed that Aemond had been imprisoned in the chambers of the late princess—a ruthless move orchestrated by Queen Rhaenyra. It was, in every sense, a final sentence.
“If that savage snake truly loved her,” Rhaenyra had said vengefully to her husband, “then that place will drive him mad. Let his evil haunt him. I want to see the fear in his eyes when I burn him.”
Yet fear was not something Aemond would entertain. He would sooner fall on his sword than show terror before his wretched half-sister.
Over time, however, he did fall—deeper into madness consumed by the unfamiliarity of being locked in the space that had once been Aemma’s. The burden of memory became the iron bars and chains of this prison. Numb to everything else, he wandered her chambers aimlessly, haunted by her absence. She was everywhere and nowhere at once—in the vanity, where strands of her hair clung to her hairbrush; in the bureau, where her meticulously folded maps and lists remained undisturbed; and in the faint perfume that lingered in the air, forever scenting her dresser.
A full moon's cycle passed before Aemond began hearing her voice. A breathy echo, a laughing whisper, a figment of his broken mind. With each crash of the waves against the jagged rocks beneath her balcony, he would catch that soft, familiar sound: My friend.
The echo eased him in ways nothing else could, drawing a smile to his face. If this was madness, it was madness he welcomed. My love, he thought, and in that moment, he would’ve gladly surrendered to it.
Jace was the one who finally confronted Aemond, his vengeance boiling over upon his return from the Vale. Sword in hand, he cornered the one-eyed prince in his sister's chambers. What was surprising was how the captive did not baulk at the sight of the angry prince. He simply tilted his head, offering his neck and awaiting the onslaught.
"Fucking murderous cunt," Jace spat, barely above a whisper, trembling with restrained fury.
Aemond was inured now. It resounded in his mind with every breath, a constant reminder of what he'd become. His gaze remained distant, vacant as he met Jace's stare.
"Mount your dragon," Jace ordered, dripping with disdain. "I only spare you this avail because of how dearly Aemma loved you."
Aemond didn’t even blink. It took more effort than expected to form words after days of silence.
"I will not fight you," he muttered, voice gravelly from disuse. "So, get it over with. Finish me."
But Jace wasn't about to grant him that release.
"You're coming with me," he growled, eyes blazing with wrath. "I won't believe my sister is gone until I see it with my eyes. Find me Silverwing, and only then will you get what you so desperately crave."
Aemond turned away, blinking back a rare sting of emotion clouding his vision. He had been so benumbed, that the sensation sliced him raw. His jaw clenched, forcing his voice through the anguish tightening his throat.
"Silverwing sank beneath the waves."
"Then she should've washed ashore by now," Jace snapped, his tone sharpening. "Or been spotted near Storm's End, or found by sailors off Driftmark. Someone would've seen her. I will not grieve with my family until I know for certain. Until I’ve seen damning proof."
Aemond’s teeth ground together in frustration. "My hope ended with her."
"Hope?" Jace sneered, the word wresting bitterly in his mouth. "Know this, uncle—gods forbid I find what I seek, you won’t just be dead to the realm, you’ll be nothing more than a relic of a prince no one will remember."
X
We cannot know the ancient minds of dragons. They were not merely instruments of war—they were beasts of chaos, as unreliable as the gales they rode. A bitter reminder of how little command Targaryens truly held, even over their own beasts. Yet, the Good Queen's Silverwing had always been distinct from the others—gentler, some would say, with a serenity that belied the strength coiled within her shimmering, pale-scaled body.
Her loyalty to her peaceful rider ran deeper than bloodshed or battle, for it was not assumed upon command or duty but of a friendship that transcended power. It was instinctual, a mutual loneliness that they shared. Silverwing had intuited Aemma’s presence since her first touch upon her scales, the soft whispers of affection, the implicit trust.
Following Aemma's descent from her dragon's saddle, the waters hit her hard, churning her into the abyss. Just as the waves threatened to pull her deeper, Silverwing cut through them, her talons outstretched, and in a swift, precise motion, she plucked Aemma from the depths before the sea could claim her entirely. Silverwing’s grip was painstaking, cradling her rider’s limp form between her sharp talons, ensuring she was protected. With a great struggle, Silverwing battered her wings against the storm, fighting the ocean’s pull, lifting them both back into the air, finding cover above the storm clouds.
And now, in the quiet of this remote sanctuary, camouflaged against rocks, their bond held firm, even as Aemma lay unconscious amidst the mud and grass, suspended between life and death.
The old dragon sensed more than the warmth of her rider's skin when she nudged her snout against her constantly, letting out a low, concerned rumble. She felt the pulse of her heart, flimsy but steady, the rhythm of her breath, shallow but resilient. Every beat, every rise and fall of Aemma’s chest was a call to Silverwing, one that she refused to neglect.
Silverwing would shift her body closer at night, nestling Aemma to the earth, her massive wing folded protectively over the young princess' limp body like a shroud of safety from the bitter storms and the chilliness of dusk. Her fiery breaths ghosted over Aemma, keeping her warm.
Days turned into nights, and nights into days, but Silverwing never left, only venturing far enough to find sustenance, returning quickly, her eyes scanning the skies for any threats that might approach. But none came. The world remained unaware of the little hidden firth by the hills and the fragile life it cradled.
Silverwing’s troth was not just an animal instinct—it was a devotion to the one person who had never treated her as a mere beast. For nigh on a week, Aemma had doted on her, spoken to her in the tongue of Old Valyria, just as Alysanne did, with the same reverence and care, and Silverwing, in turn, had taken her into the skies, free from the burdens of the mortal realm.
In this isolated place, far from the throes of war, Silverwing held the last vestige of hope for her rider’s survival. It wasn't until a dark-haired sailor had stumbled upon their refuge that the mighty she-dragon let out her first roar in a while.
Addam of Hull hadn't expected much that day. He had set out on his small boat with nothing but the hope of catching enough fish to feed Driftmark's shores. The oceans had been restless ever since the bloodshed over Shipbreaker's Bay, and his mind had drifted as the waves lapped at the sides of his skiff. He cast his net, whistling a well-known sea shanty, letting the salt air fill his lungs, when something unusual caught his eye, beyond a small inlet of water rambling away from the beach.
A flash of silver. A rustle in the trees.
As his little skiff crept closer and into the currents of the slight strait, Addam’s heart surged. There, nestled within the protective embrace of the rocks, lay a great silvery-blue dragon that was the name on everyone's fuller lips—Silverwing. Her glittering hide was unmistakable, though it bore the wear of days spent at the mercy of the weather. She lay low to the ground, her immense wings tucked tightly around something as if guarding a prized jewel.
Addam wasted no time. He rowed forth, with all the strength he could muster, his mind racing. Could it be? Could Princess Aemma have survived the hand of fate, the cruel sea, her murderous husband, and the relentless storm? Could it be that Rhaeynra's heir was very much still alive?
As he drew nigher, disembarking his boat and clambering up the rocks, Silverwing raised her head, her auburn eyes locking onto him with a vicious intensity. She cautioned him with a low rumble, ready to spew out her ire.
For a moment, Addam feared she truly might lash out, mistaking him for a foe, but she did not move. Instead, she took a prudent sniff and juddered her head, softening almost.
Eventually, she unfurled her wings narrowly, revealing the motionless form of Princess Aemma cradled beneath her. She was drenched, emaciated, tattered, bruised, and her silver hair matted to her gaunt face, but her chest rose and fell.
There was yet life in her. Barely. All alone. No one else. Just Silverwing standing vigil over her as if she’d been guarding the princess all these days. Ten days.
"Gods be good," Addam murmured.
Silverwing shifted away, stooping into the rocky niche, as if to offer her rider to him, but kept her weather eye on him. Addam made quick work of it, lifting her carefully into his arms off the wet ground. She was light, too light, but she stirred faintly at his touch.
"Princess?" He was unsure if she could hear him.
As he carried her back toward the boat, shrouded her in the coils of his nets, her fiery guardian observed the sailor, her vigilant eyes never leaving Aemma’s form.
She pierced a startling trill at her rider's saviour.
Addam jerked in shock, nearly dropping his docking ropes.
Silverwing rose off the ground, and shook herself off, wings beginning to unfurl as if preparing to take flight.
"You—er, stay," Addam stammered, desperately gesturing with his palms, trying to convey some form of command to the dragon.
He knew full well he was speaking to a creature that answered to no man but her rider, and she was not going to let just anyone snatch the princess away unless she was certain they meant no harm.
Carefully, Addam took a step closer, heart thudding in his chest as he bowed his head to the dragon.
"I'm not here to harm her," he said softly as if Silverwing could understand his plea. "I want to save her."
For a long moment, the dragon stayed unmoving, watching him closely, casting her own unfamiliar judgement. Then, with a slow and deliberate movement, she backed away scarcely.
"Thank you," he whispered, though he wasn’t entirely sure if he was thanking the dragon, the gods, or fate itself.
X
Returning Princess Aemma in such a state to her kin on Dragonstone would have them questioning Addam's heartening intentions toward her. Rather than have them cast their vile aspersions on him and taint his shoddy name further, the brothers knew it was only proper to nurse the princess to health before anything else. The secret of Aemma's survival would remain closely guarded for a while longer.
"She thinks I'm her father," Addam quietly shared with his brother, Alyn, upon the fifth evening of secretively nursing Princess Aemma in their meagre home. It had been a total of sixteen days since she was believed deceased.
Alyn raised an eyebrow, glancing over at the small, makeshift room where their heir to the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms lay in a thrifty cot, wrapped in linen blankets and tended to with great care. Her condition had steadily improved, but she remained barely conscious and frail.
"What do you mean, ‘she thinks I’m her father’? Is she delirious?" He asked.
Addam leaned against the doorframe, picking off the herbs from his thumb. "Perhaps she seeks comfort. And she finds it in the late Laenor."
As they spoke, a soft groan emanated from the cot, interrupting them. Aemma stirred, her dark eyes fluttering open briefly before closing again. Her lips moved silently, murmuring incoherent words. Addam and Alyn exchanged a glance, their choices harshening.
Alyn's brow furrowed. "How is she then?"
"Better than expected," Addam replied, shaking his head. "Her fever broke, I've stopped feeding her milk of the poppy. She recalls her mother often. The poor thing had nearly cracked every rib in her chest, the healers had to brace her spine with wood until yesterday. The blood of Old Valyria heals quick, I suppose."
Alyn nodded, absorbing the solemnity of his brother’s words. "And the dragon?"
"Stays close, hovers around the Driftmark groves. I've been feeding her, too," Addam said, shaking his head with a small, wry smile.
Alyn clapped his brother on his back, grateful for him. "How are you faring?"
Addam shrugged casually. "I’m doing what I can."
"Good. Keep watch," Alyn instructed, nodding at him. "On the morrow, I’ll prepare a fresh supply of herbs and check on the guards. There's only so long that we can keep her out of prying eyes."
Addam sat by the firelight in the hearth, his eyes constantly drifting to the young girl as she lay nestled beneath the heavy blankets, adjusting them around her again, his movements careful, almost tender. Every now and then, Aemma would stir, her brow twitching in her sleep, speaking illegibly. The flicker of the flames stained her face in hues of gold and shadow, silvery hair glinting, making her seem almost unearthly, untouchable. She could not have been older than fifteen, an age no child should have to raise battlements in a war.
“She’s strong,” Addam murmured, more to himself than to anyone in particular. “Stronger than I imagined.”
"A future queen," Alyn said. "There's hope for her yet."
X
The second sons of the Blacks and Greens, Prince Jacaerys Velaryon and Aemond Targaryen, were unlikely allies as they scoured the realm despite their bitterness, united on a front to find a whiff of Aemma or Silverwing, searching high and low, from the misty mountains of the Vale to the shadowed peaks of Harrenhal and the foggy forests of the Riverlands. Every whisper of a silver-blue dragon sighting raised their hopes, only to be dashed moments later.
The weight of Aemma's absence dangled over them like a blade. Jace was fierce, relentless in finding that damned dragon himself, dead or alive. Maybe they were on a wild goose chase, led astray to not confront the reality that awaited them. Every dead end with clueless lords and fishermen was a new wound, yet he never yielded.
Their unwavering trepidation whenever the folk and lords saw Aemond cut deeper than a lash of a thousand scorpions. Each glance was a reminder, a searing echo of his own words to Aemma that fateful night: "Better to be feared than scorned." But now, as their suspicions pressed down on him, the question gnawed at his memory—was it really? The cold satisfaction he once sought had curdled into something far more bitter, and he found himself wondering whether 'fear' had ever truly been the answer, or if it had only left him more isolated, more empty.
Aemond, however, wore a stoic mask over his understanding of the truth, though beneath it, the torment tore at his soul. If Aemma's room had been perfect chaos, this was his purgatory. His nights grew sleepless, plagued by the recollections of his mistakes, the sight of her empty saddle still burned behind his eyes. He carried the guilt like a second skin, abrading when it got too thin. A little part of him was driven to heed Jace, an insignificant confidence, not by burden but by desperation—a need for redemption, to see her alive, to prove to himself that she had somehow survived.
Now, close to five nights, it had become custom for Jace, drunk on grief and rage, to drag his feet outside Aemond's pitched tent, embracing his shining sword, fighting his morals. Fighting the inevitable. Jace never spoke to Aemond directly, but his accusations found a way into his earshot.
"Aemma was good. Peaceful," he would hear Jace lament. "She had dreams. She was our sunshine. Now she’s out there somewhere, alone in death. Or worse. And you, of all people, claim to be the one who loved her? You never did. You fucking murderer. Selfish cunt."
This night, a familiar darkness flickered alight in Aemond. Unfailing despair powered him to react. He walked out of his tent, stepping forward in a threat until Jace's raging face was inches apart, his sword slipping from his grasp. His single eye narrowed.
"Say it again," Aemond dared, his voice low and cold. "Say that I do not love her. Say it, bastard."
Jace shoved him by his chest, his rage boiling over. "You threw her away like she was nothing! For your treacherous family! You never gave a fuck about her, and that is the truth!"
Aemond stumbled back but didn’t fight back. How could he, he had nothing left to withstand. His mouth twisted in pain, but his voice remained hard.
"Hate me all you want. Blame me. Strike me down. Your words hold facts. But don’t think for one second that your fury burns hotter than mine. Or that your love for her transcends mine own."
"Fuck you!"
Jace shoved him again, shouting out his rage, this time harder, the power of his wrath pushing Aemond back a step. And again and again, until Aemond fell back into the mud. Back again to ten years ago, when a spiteful Aegon had towered over him, Sunfyre peering over his shoulder mockingly.
Jace met his gaze, the two facing eye to eye, the consequence of years of rivalry and betrayal still fresh between them. But beneath it, there was something else now—shared desperation, grief that only they could understand. The closest brother of Aemma and her husband.
Aemond's breath hitched, bearing himself with his palms, the words barely escaping through his gritted teeth. He looked Jace in the eye, his jaw tight.
"I have nothing left. Seize your sword and end it all."
Jace leaned down, seething, his voice trembling with scorn. "Look at where your absolution got you. Begging your foes for death. Pathetic."
Aemond’s hand twitched toward his dagger on instinct, his face a storm of rage and remorse. He had been so accustomed to being on his back, bearing through the punches thrown, facing defeat, now when he was made to encounter this yet again.
"Yes. That is all you see," Aemond agreed, his expression darkening. "All you ever see. Aegon, Rhaenyra, you. A pathetic boy too sightless for power. I've belonged nowhere but with Aemma all my life"—his voice cracked—"and now she's gone, too. And I am left trapped in this resenting world."
Jace stayed quiet, breathing deeply.
"I could not save her," he whispered, the words hollow as they left him. "No atonement will ever free me from this, even while I chase forgiveness from a ghost. I will never know peace again until my last breath."
His trembling fingers unsheathed his dagger and threw it to Jace's feet. "Make your shot count, nephew. Plunge it into my other eye, and take what is due. I do not care anymore."
Jace’s mouth opened, but no words came out. He took a step back, torn between fury and pity, his expression unreadable. He looked away, blinking back tears as if the significance of Aemond’s words was too much to bear. He couldn’t bring himself to speak—there was nothing left to say.
"You don't deserve peace, not even in death," Jace eventually whispered before walking away.
X
The air was dense with the scent of salt and damp wood as Aemma lay in a bed draped with soft linens, the faint sounds of the lapping waves against the rocky shores of Driftmark echoing in her ears. Her body felt heavy, as though weighed down by an invisible force. Pain coursed through her like a vicious tide, abrupt and relentless, yet there was a warmth surrounding her that whispered of safety.
Fingers of consciousness began to weave their way through the fog enveloping her mind. Flashes of memory flickered like distant constellations—Silverwing’s fierce wings, the chaos of the storm, and Addam’s urgent voice calling her name. She struggled against the haze, her heart pounding with the remnants of fear and desperation.
"Aemma." The voice broke through her reverie, softer now, tinged with concern.
She fought to open her eyes, the effort feeling monumental. Slowly, her eyelids fluttered, and the dim light of the stuffy room began to emerge. A figure stood at the foot of the bed, cloaked and hooded, shrouded in shadow.
A wave of shock washed over her, and before she could fully grasp the situation, he lunged forward, pressing a warm hand to her lips to silence her gasp. Heart racing, Aemma’s gaze narrowed, the edges of her memory sharpening.
"Ssh, my love," he shushed her.
She recognized the intensity in his gaze, even from beneath the hood. He hovered close, his presence both alarming and strangely familiar. His silver hair rolled off his neck and shoulders, catching the light and casting shadows that accentuated the depth of his expression. One striking violet eye shone through the darkness, piercing and filled with emotion, while the other was shrouded in shadow.
“Aemond,” she murmured, her voice barely a whisper, like the faintest breeze. It felt like a lifetime since she had last spoken, her throat dry and cracked.
He flinched at the sound of her voice as if she had struck a nerve. Slowly, he lifted his head, an indigo eye swirling with a charged storm—pain, regret, and something darker lurking beneath the surface.
His voice was as firm as steel, yet equally gentle. "We've done our parts here. You’re coming with me, and this time, forever."
X
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felassan · 6 months ago
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New BioWare Blog post:
"Journal #6 Lethality and Levelling An inside look into Rook’s Warrior combat Hello everyone, Since our summer reveal in June, we’ve been reading all the great excitement for the game and listening closely to what you’d like to see next. Our reveal trailer showed off the prologue and very beginning of the game, and now we want to shift our focus to higher level combat. Today, we’re going to cover our game’s combat system, looking at how Rook and Companions can be built up to meet the perils facing Thedas, using deep RPG systems. This starts with choosing a desired class as there are three main classes to select from when creating Rook: stalwart Warrior, deft Rogue, or spell-slinging Mage. This blog and accompanying videos will focus on the Warrior class, and we’ll have more to share on the other classes before launch."
"PREPARE FOR BATTLE By choosing Warrior, the fighting style revolves around close range combat and defense. Skills, Traits, Runes, and Abilities are customizable to best suit that type of playstyle. The loadout will have slots for Abilities, accessed from the Ability Wheel. Picking which Abilities from the many in the arsenal to bring into battle is a strategic choice made for each encounter, and they can be swapped out anytime, except during combat. For some added depth, there are up to three equipable Runes. Runes provide a variety of control, utility, or additional damage to synergize with your build. While in combat, all three Runes can be cycled through and activated. There are a wide range of potential Abilities that are unique to each Class and can be customized by spending Skill Points. For example, the Warrior class will have certain abilities that deal fire damage. Players can plan their build around this, and each skill point spent could be in pursuit of this build. Each step taken is designed to augment Rook and/or Abilities. Eventually, Rook will gain access to Specializations, which grant powerful Abilities, unique to each Specialization. These Specializations will also provide a unique Ultimate Ability (more on that later below) tuned to the theme of that Specialization, so a Warrior specializing as a Grey Warden Champion will gain access to the devastating incendiary Warden’s Fire that launches a flurry of searing strikes that ignite foes like tinder. This is the best Specialization Area for defeating darkspawn, an enemy that many Dragon Age fans know well. Check out all the Specialization Areas below (minor gameplay spoilers) and we’ll have a separate spotlight on progression later as well."
"Warrior Rook Specialization Areas: Reaper - Become night's blade. Steal life and risk death to gain incredible, unnatural abilities Slayer - Leap into the fray. Wield massive, punishing weapons while rushing enemies to deal devastating blows. Champion - Be the shield. Shrug off damage while summoning righteous fire down on enemies. Rogue Rook Specialization Areas: Duelist - Draw your steel. Parry and dodge past enemies to gain strength with every strike. Saboteur - Set the stage. Deploy explosives and turrets that devastate enemies, then pick them off with arrows. Veil Ranger - Hunt the enemy. Snipe enemies from afar using artifacts that charge arrows with dangerous, powerful magic. Mage Rook Specialization Areas: Death Caller - Embrace the dark. Drain life from enemies and cast spells that writhe with the essence of death itself Evoker - Call the void. Freeze enemies in their tracks, then summon the deepest cold to tear them apart. Spellblade - Be the storm. Channel potent spells for close-quarters combat infused with lightning's wrath."
COMBAT BASICS Now let’s talk about the foundations of the combat system. The four core moves that all three classes share include jump, dodge, light attack, and heavy attack, which can all be chained together. Rook can dodge at any time, even mid-attack, which adds fluidity to the combat. Is taking damage or dealing it better at that moment? Light attacks do quick damage and build small amounts of stagger; heavier attacks are slower and build more stagger to your opponent. Once enough stagger is built, the enemy will be rendered more vulnerable to all incoming damage and allows Rook to perform a takedown.  Each of these attacks (light and heavy) can be charged by holding down the button to deliver a more potent version of the strike. For example, a heavy attack can be charged while using a staff to unleash a magical wave of destructive energy. Attacks can also be triggered while sprinting and/or jumping to add depth and fluidity to combat. In addition, each class has ranged attacks, blocks (or parries, if timed properly with the right weapon set), and the ability to control Companions’ combat strategy. Each Class also has two distinct weapon sets, which can be swapped seamlessly in the heat of battle. This drastically changes the available move-sets and strategies. Heavy attacks remove Armor Barrier (denoted by a yellow bar) faster, and ranged attacks remove Shield Barrier (denoted by a blue bar) faster. There is also the Stagger meter (denoted by a lavender bar) which builds as hits are landed against an enemy. Stagger creates opportunities for bonus damage and special Takedowns.  The Ability Wheel pauses the fight for more precise control over Rook’s own abilities and those of their Companions, and where those tactical RPG elements come into play. Players can use the Ability Wheel to assign Companions to attack specific enemies, individually or together. Abilities can also be bound shortcut keys to keep the action flow going, instead of always bringing up the Ability Wheel. Vulnerabilities and resistances of enemies can also be seen while targeting enemies in the Ability Wheel. For example, Darkspawn are weak to fire damage."
"BUFFS, DEBUFFS & CROWD CONTROL Some Abilities apply buffs or debuffs to help you in the fight. For example, Davrin has the Heroic Strike Ability which applies the Overwhelmed debuff to enemies. This will increase the enemies’ Stagger and make it easier for Rook to perform a Takedown. There are also Area of Effect Abilities to help the party defeat large groups of enemies. Controlling the field of battle is a key consideration in Dragon Age: The Veilguard. Players will need to consider which buffs/debuffs or crowd control Abilities will work best for each situation.   Abilities require Class Resources (Mana, Momentum & Rage) to be able to use. Each class primarily builds up their Class Resource by dealing damage with basic attacks. In addition, each class has a secondary way to build their Class Resource - Warriors build Rage by taking and dealing damage, Rogues build Momentum by dodging attacks and parrying successfully, and Mages regain Mana passively over time.   Warriors who go into battle with a sword-and-shield build, will have access to the Shield Throw Volley. By landing a Heavy Attack on a Shield Throw return, the shield will ricochet, taking out multiple enemies. This sequence can repeat up to three times, causing a devastating ring of damage around Rook. This attack works well against swarms as well as distant adversaries. Other ways to manage distant enemies lean into Companion abilities, such as Davrin’s Death from Above to send Assan, his griffon, to attack enemies. Warriors also have the Grappling Spear Ability to pull enemies close for an easier victory. With these tools, attacks can be chosen based on the type of enemy and the situation to dispatch foes in the most optimal way, especially on higher difficulties."
"PRIMERS, DETONATORS & ULTIMATES Many Abilities include some type of coordinating effect and serve as either a Primer or a Detonator that can result in devastating combo attacks when properly executed with the Companions. These Ability combos can be set up in the Ability Wheel.  Finally, you have your most powerful attack: Rook’s Class Ultimate Ability. Doing damage to enemies increases your Ultimate Meter. The Ultimate Meter won’t fully fill during smaller skirmishes, because they are designed to decimate a significant swath of the battlefield or the toughest bosses.  All of these options combine together to create a rich combat experience that is highly customizable. The entire Skill Tree is also fully refundable, and Skill Points can be redistributed. We encourage you to try out multiple builds, use different Abilities for each mission, and change up the Companions you bring into battle. These videos have highlighted several of the ways that players can achieve strategic combat in Dragon Age: The Veilguard. We’ve put them all together in case you wanted to see them back-to-back. Check out the full video below! there’s a lot to explore in the game and a lot more to talk about. We’ll have more to share on the Rogue and Mage before launch, as well. Next week, we look forward to companions week, along with another Discord Q&A planned for August 30th where we can answer more of your questions about the game. Chat soon!             — The Dragon Age Community Team"
[source] <- video links at link
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elguritch-art · 6 months ago
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Silfr Life Stages
Wanted to do a bit of a lineup through the prominent points in time that Silfr's gone through, the guy's been through A Lot.
Some more in depth explanations/lore ramblings below:
"Birth"
Silfr was born of a profaned ritual of a heretical branch of the Dragon Cult, from the soul of a stillborn infant "Dragon God", and the body of a discarded Warrior.
Silfr's first memories are the scent of blood, jumbled mixtures of knowing this body was too big, but the soul within too small, the body too weak but the mind too strong, everything, everything, wrong, wrong, wrong.
Scales were barely visible and only a stripe across the eyes, the fingers, and a barely formed tail originally, along with visible scarring and a blind eye!
Pre ER
Healing and growing stronger under the care of the Cult, Silfr, at the time referred to only as the "Dragon God", was put on a pedestal, cared for as more of an object of worship then a person.
Silfr knew very little, for the most part following the Cult's dictations, but still something deep within knew this was not right. Silfr ated the weight of responsibility and worship put into the air Silfr breathed, and began to question if the Dragon God had really been reborn into this inhabited flesh, or if it was something worse.
Scales over the top half of Silfr's face, but not quite onto the ears yet, along with fully covered hands, a slightly longer tail, and scars starting to shrink and fade.
Start of ER
Silfr finally worked up the courage to flee the Dragon Cult after waiting for the flesh to grow strong enough to swing a blade, a gesture both extremely foreign and new, and something deeply buried as a comforting, welcome motion.
The garb of a Confessor was the first and only thing Silfr was able to find to escape the Cult, and very early on picked up the Reduvia as a first weapon after receiving aid from Yura upon being attacked by Nejirus not long after escaping.
Scales cover the top half of Silfr's face, ears, and up to the elbows, tail is almost as long as Silfr's legs, and scars are fully gone. Left eye is still blind. About 5'8" tall.
Mid-Late ER
Growing in confidence as a warrior, Silfr's buried frustrations, mixed with the constant fear and paranoia, and the newly consumed Dragon Hearts culminates in Silfr becoming a creature of wrath and silent anger, taking everything out on almost every living thing crossing Silfr's path.
The Dragon Heart Communion starts awakening and unlocking Silfr's inherent draconic abilities, increasing Silfr's already existing abilities for fire breath, along with allowing magic, scarlet rot, and frost breaths as well, and slight transformations with claws, horns when emotional, and the start of the half-transformation.
Scales more prominent on face, covers up to shoulders, and tail is noticeably larger and harder to hide. Slitted pupils and sharp teeth emerge, and Silfr more commonly has smoke breath when speaking. About 7' tall.
Post SOTE
Now a calmer, serious, more confident warrior, though still has moments of a temper flaring and draconic behaviors. Silfr still fears the Cult and it's attempts to reclaim their Dragon God, but has grown massively in both size and strength, along with finding refuge in the Shadow Keep, finally granting a semblance of peace.
Has also grown into an identity Silfr finally considers a unique identity that Silfr owns, and was not created by someone else. Silfr, the Dragonblooded. Silfr, the Dragon of the Shadow Keep. Silfr, The Impaler's Consort. All titles Silfr forged without the Cult, and identities Silfr holds dear.
Post-Bayle and the consumption of Bayle's heart, Silfr fully entered the form of the Dragon God (or what could be it), for the first time. It was through the efforts of Messmer, enlisting the aid of the Dragon Priestess, that after twenty-four days of agonizing reverting of the transformation, bit by bit, that Silfr returned to a familiar form, though not unscathed.
Scales fully cover top half of face, with permanent two sets of horns, and pointed ears. Small scale spikes on jaw, and small tusks. Scales fully cover shoulders and up to mid thigh, collarbones, and Silfr's entire neck and throat. Tail is quite large and often drags on the floor, and Silfr has a pair of infantile, underdeveloped wings that are kept bound due to chronic pain (With Messmer's help for it.) About 8' tall.
:) The little bracelet is one of Messmer's and was gifted to Silfr upon accepting the offer to become a consort to Messmer's claims of Lordship.
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jacktheeldergod2 · 23 days ago
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You stumble upon a poster advertising a free item given to whoever purchases an apple from the orchard towards the northeast. Pick your new treasure
The red cap of a gnome. It shall render you invisible at will
A dead leprechaun's copper treasure pot,containing the ancient coins and trinkets he once guarded. As its new guardian you must never sell them,but you'll be blessed with fortune if you let historians study these artifacts free of charge
A scarf made out of the hide of a pooka. It'll grant you the fae's ability to turn into animals,though make note that all these forms of yours will be black with yellow eyes,and slowly black patches of fur will appear on your skin and your eyes will turn yellow themselves until you need the scarf no longer to shapeshift
A merrow's hood which will allow you to swim the deepest depths
A carving knife made out of tungsten. Everything it cuts while the holder has malicious intent will die or end up being destroyed,wether it's an elephant or a building
A necklace from which hang many jester hat emblems,upside down crucifixes and pentagrams. While wearing it you can make anyone get mad with anyone,from annoyance to animalistic wrath
A jester's hat that makes you unaffected by laws. Whether no one sees you or the cops die immediately when trying to catch you,as long as the hat is on laws and rules shan't apply. People getting mad with you and picking a fight doesn't get cancelled out however
A jug of liquid fire,burning bright blue. Upon drinking it you'll be able to become a dragon. Wether a half dragon half human,a horse sized or a plane sized one,wether a classic,hydra or a lung style dragon,you'll be able to become it. Your scales will be a calm lavender,your flame burning so hot it's blue,your fangs and breath poison,your eyes able to petrify or hypnotize. And never will you lose again unless an army of planes comes to tear you from the skies
A silver lined katana with yellow and black hilt and a reddish tint upon the blade. While owning it you will be as strong as an elephant,you'll be able to survive your head cut off and put it back on
A magic tome called an elementalist's manual. Inside are details on how to control the elements,how to spark things aflame,to make the water overflow and a storm gather. While there's no meteor swarm or big nuke spell the potential this art would have if it was passed on is greater than what any archwizard of a fantasy novel or shonen character could ever accomplish with their powers
A willow wood whistle carved into the shape of a femur bone. It can make the horrid sound of a banshee's screech for it contains a banshee's vocal cords. While owning it you'll be able to commune with the dead and spot who shall die in the next month
A knight's armor,shield and longsword, bearing bloodstains instead of a house's emblem. As long as you own it and help the people you'll age 100 times slowly and for every evildoer you slay another year will be added to your lifespan
@1969chevycamaro @whereserpentswalk @everythingismadeofchaos @techiekittie @trashsouppossum @your-average-toast-enjoyer @ononpetitecroissant @polkadotsunshine @ana-isnt-dead @sentient-marshmallow-woman @drunkensynodoffoolsandjesters @doyoudreamofwater @dackychansworldofhoshino @dh-ng @decoysender @foxundermoon @frozen-antifreeze @gloriousvermin @kinkshame-puncher-666 @leavesswaytoday @victusinveritas @mmmmmmky @mun-urufu @moonsfavoritedaughter
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graceofagodswrath · 2 years ago
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She tore across the fields, the deserts and the oceans. She destroyed villages, cities and empires. She jumped across planets and worlds, ravaging, killing, burning. Nothing could stop a woman with such rage in her soul.
And a mother’s wrath in her bones.
It had been peaceful. An out of the way back world planet, green and bright. An oasis form of the planet earth. And it was a secret. A secret she kept between her and her child. A little boy, sweet as can be. With swirling black curls atop his head and big honey brown eyes, he’d stare at the only home he knew with playful awe. He’d dance while she tended to the garden, sing as they walked the wood’s paths. He’d ask a million questions about a million things, and she rarely grew tired of it. He filled her days with entertainment and happiness, and she filled his with knowledge and play.
But all good things end. That is the universe’s constant cycle. She came back from a mountainous trip to find her home ravaged, and her boy gone. She tore through the ruins, a woman of green spirits no longer. Now, she was fire and brimstone. A mountain of storm.
It didn’t take long for her to find the tracks. She called back to her dark past, the one she ran from to keep her child in a net of safety. It only did so much good. So she called back that dragon fire fury of her warrior days, and hunted down those scavenging fools who’d taken her only treasure.
And caught them she did. She stormed their ship, all metal and fang, claw and bullet, sweeping through them like a hurricane. Blood and carcasses painted the bridge in eerie art.
But she did not find her boy. However, She did find her next target. And it would not be long until they’d tasted the rage of her blades.
So beware the venomous scorn of a woman.
And the hellfire of a mother’s wrath.
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ladythornofrivia · 1 year ago
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Kingdom of Fire & Blood || (Part Three)
🐉 MASTERLIST 🐉
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summary: modern!reader bloody and beaten up but the prince interrupted the scene.
pair: aemond x reader
warnings & disclaimer: smut, violence, p in v sex, sexual content, aemond being arrogant, modern reader doesn’t know how the world of GOT works but is a Aemond stan, praise kink, breeding kink, spitting kink, voice kink, fluff, angst—family drama, oral sex, hate sex, stalking, jealousy, virginity loss, obsession, reader being sassy and aroused, sweet moments with reader and aemond. Reader is a huge GOT & HOTD fan. Pro-Green, Reader is a green supporter. Aemond becomes king instead of Aegon. (P.S. Alys who? I only know Aemond x Reader)
a/n: please read chapter 2 before reading chapter 3 to know what’s happening. I hope you don’t mind long chapters.
Chapter Three: The House of Black & Green
~ Aemond’s POV ~
Thunder and rain barraged outside the Red Keep. So does Aemond’s heart, thundering and disoriented, clashing like the volcanos in the Doom of Valyria.
Aegon, on the other hand—surprisingly—stopped drinking; silently looking beyond the carved hole and examined the events unfold.
A gush of blood tainted onto the stoned floor when Ser Marrow thrashed your body forward, collapsing with a wet thud.
In the house of the dragons, Targaryens and Velaryons immediately stood from their seats, watching the events unfold. Ser Marrow huffed with his might, abiding for the Targaryens to come to an understanding with Ser Marrow’s reasons.
Alicent rose onto her feet and hoisted you up, but only meet halfway by you sitting up, bleeding as Alicent untied the blindfold and shielded you with her arms, as if Alicent has regret something in the first place.
“Explain yourself, Ser Marrow,” Alicent demanded, brows furrowed in ferocious temper.
Rhaenyra got up from her chair at a slow pace, mouth opened with terror at your current state. She knew that you were hurt from the battle; poisoned by the blade piercing through your youthful flesh.
“I was only doing good for the realm, to keep the peace intact,” Ser Marrow explained. “For Targaryen dynasty!”
“Lady (y/n) rescued my daughter from falling off the bridge, and you call it a ‘threat’,” Alicent defended.
Rhaenyra contained her wrath when Ser Marrow spoke for the ‘good of the realm’. “She saved my son,” she scolded him. “If it wasn’t for her, my son would’ve been killed from the wretched fools.”
“Yes, the wretched fools that this thing brought to the Red Keep!” Ser Marrow accused. “People are dead because of this monstrous bitch!”
Rhaenyra shook her head. “Ser Marrow, you forget yourself. What in the Seven Hells are you thinking? Beating her to a pulp, causing an uproar in the room was no good of excuse for you to gain sympathy of your ranking from us! Why do you think so highly of yourself? Have you had no shame on what you’ve caused?”
Ser Marrow hesitated for a moment, looking at you, then looking back at Rhaenyra. “I only did my duty, princess. Should she stay here in King’s Landing, death and destruction will bring upon the Targaryen line.”
“She did what she had to do to keep my family safe—”
“She’s a monster!” Ser Marrow bellowed. “A monster hiding beneath the human skin. She’s isn’t ordinary! Dangerous and filled with malice and lascivious intents to destory Westeros!”
Rhaenyra sighed, shaking her head. Prince Daemon, who stood the corner of the room, watched the events unfold.
Meanwhile, Alicent still embraced you tight, lessening the anxiety you were trying to suppress.
Aemond watched you from afar. Even awake, he found himself focused on your features—all fragile with grace and beauty within quietude. Droplets sank onto your tainted dress and your once immaculate hair has disarray from hair pulling. Aemond kept his composure and cast his sentimental aside.
Behind him, Aegon took notice of this, but said none; only amusement etched onto his drunken face.
“How dare you raised your voice against me, your future Queen, an heir to the Iron Throne and Seven Kingdoms?!” Rhaenyra declared.
Ser Marrow chuckled. “We all know in our hearts that you will never be queen or inherit the throne like that Rhaenys bitch, stringing along in a comfortably life with that old and weak man like that Sea Snake fucker!”
Everyone’s eyes snapped at his statement. Even Aemond’s and Aegon’s—halt from their tracks.
“Oh yes, surely you think it’s time to realize that you, a woman with big tits, hideous face and a loose cunt will never stand a chance against the son to rule to Seven Kingdoms on the Iron Throne. Sons are meant to rule, never the daughters.”
Rhaenyra had gone pale.
The silent gasps ensued.
Alicent stood up and approached Ser Marrow. “Remove your cloak and sword; you are hereby exiled from Westeros and reside at the Wall.”
Ser Marrow snorted without batting an eye on Alicent. “I don’t take orders from an ugly, vicious cunt.”
Alicent withstood her ground. “I won’t ask again, Ser Marrow.”
Anger blazing, Aemond make haste outside of the secret passage to enter the room, but Aegon hauled him back.
“Release me, brother. I have no time to indulge with your silly antics,” Aemond warned.
Aegon clutched Aemond’s arm tighter. “You’ll get in trouble. In more ways than one,” he warned back.
“Since when do you give a shit about your younger brother other than your wine and whores?” Aemond yanked his arm off from Aegon and entered the scene without noticing him; everyone is too focused that they’re unaware of Aemond’s presence hidden behind the thick pillar, his sword in hand, with his watchful eye, he was waiting for a moment to strike.
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~Your POV~
Clutching your stomach as you were urging not to cough more blood. Behind you, the shadow overcast the ground, revealing Rhaenyrs Velaryon offered you a comforting smile and hands on your shoulders, though appearing more apologetic and saddening.
“Ser Criston, take Ser Marrow and escort him outside the Red Keep at once,” Alicent demanded in a low tone.
Ser Marrow shoved Criston back; Criston held his sword on his throat as the other guards in the room held their swords directly in front of Criston and Marrow.
“I will take no part in this charade,” Ser Marrow replied.
“Stand down now, good sir,” Criston said. “And walk away from the Red Keep.”
Ser Marrow. “This is your doing, Criston! If you haven’t brought that bitch here in the Red Keep, I would’ve still be part of the Kingsguard!”
“This is your own choosing to beat Lady (y/n),” Criston responded, apathetic.
“If only the monster hadn’t save the Rhaenyra’s bastard son, the succession to the Iron Throne would be secured. But he’s no son of the late Prince Laenor”—chuckled—“no, rather both monsters brought great ruination.”
For once, you’re glad Jace isn’t here.
“Fuck you,” you choked, blood spattered. “Admit it, you couldn’t handle a woman who bested you.”
Ser Marrow’s mouth clenched so tight, veins protruding from his neck. “You vile, insolent de—”
All the guards’s swords lowered, except for one blade tip kissed on Marrow’s neck with a pointed end. “A war hasn’t even begun and you’ve beaten a young maiden. Do you really think that have you a chance of walking out alive,” a voice said. “I dare you to say the word “demon” again, Ser Marrow.”
All their eyes turned to Aemond, who was looking down, gazing at you.
Though your eyes nearly dwindled, you heart beat pounded against the cage in your chest at the sight of him.
“Aemond, what are you doing here?” Alicent asked, rushing to his side, tugging the upper sleeve of his leathered jacket.
“I was only here to defend her,” Aemond answered with a droned hum. “After all, she saved my dear sister,” Aemond said coolly without averting gaze away from Ser Marrow, though given the exception of looking towards you ever so benign.
“Get back out in the hall, Aemond. This is no fight of yours; Ser Marrow must stand down and leave from the Red Keep,” Alicent said, frantic.
But Aemond ignored her, deepened the blade. “If you touch her again, there will be war.”
Everyone held their breath as they watch Aemond, his cautions ingrained into their minds.
“Aemond,” Alicent hissed, nudging him.
Aemond lowered his blade, and as soon as he did, Ser Marrow rushed towards you with his fist high up, but the sword cleaved Marrow’s head into two, leaving the guards already held their swords to disarm Aemond, as the table clanged loud; one guard bled from his head; Aegon slammed the guard down from trying to stab Aemond on his blind side, and held a short sword; the blade’s tip scraped the guard’s cheek.
“I wouldn’t do it again if I were you,” Aegon said to the guard and caught sight of you with a faint smirk on his wine-stained lips.
Prince Daemon lazily made his way to the crowd to retrieve Rhaenyra as the guards collected Ser Marrow’s body. But before that, Aemond said, “Feed Ser Marrow’s corpse to Vhagar. His service is no longer needed.”
Spectators stared in awe at the sudden events; not one utter a word of objection or sputter disagreement with the one-eyed dragon prince, as Aemond swept his sword clean with a cloth, not sparing a glance to anyone.
Once he sheathed his sword, Aemond advanced towards you and lifted you up, leaving everyone staggered at his proclamation for you.
Taglist: @galactict3a @toodlesxcuddles @daonenonlysandman @hufflepuff1700 @me753 @fredskum @danika1994 @colored-tr-panels @valeskafics
@ aemondswifffeeeyyy - all rights reserved
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moondustgleam · 6 months ago
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Every Armor Description in TDP: Xadia
There will be no accompanying visuals on this post, the designs are already on my blog under the individual character's tags. This is a compilation of all of them for people who don't want to scroll through all the images to get to the juicy lore. I reccomend everyone read Rayla/Runaan's, Callum/Karim's, Claudia's, and Soren/Viren's if you care about the show's lore.
They're organized by order they appear in the hero select menu in TDP: Xadia, region, and type of armor if you were wondering.
Rayla & Runaan’s Armor
Firebrand Wraps - Seize what is yours and burn away the rest.
Firebrand Waistcoat - Meant to keep the heat out!
Firebrand Runners - Let your colors shine in the light of the Sun.
Shadowblade Gloves - An assassin knows she holds fate in her hands.
Shadowblade Cover - An assassin knows she is already dead.
Shadowblade Footpads - An assassin knows we are all, in the end, alone.
Nightsky Grips - The Nightsky Bandit had no interest in the Great Climb, only in its climbers’ pockets.
Nightsky Vest - While the others sought a single treasure, he had his pick of plenty.
Nightsky Buckleboots - Only the Nightsky Bandit ever grew rich from the Great Climb - and his feet never left the ground.
Amaya & Zeph’s Armor
Katolian Gauntlets - “We are the hands of our kingdom…”
Katolian Surcoat -“...we raise blades, we bear shields, we carry the scars of the past…” 
Katolian Greaves - “...but we are the strongest when joined with others.” - Katolian Soldier’s Oath
Nightguard Gauntlets A relic of long-ago warriors who served the Dragon Queen, Luna Tenebris.
Nightguard Brestplate The Nightguard vanished with their Queen, but their spirits remained.
NIghtguard Sabatons Now they roam the Moonshadow Forest, searching for Luna’s heir.
Stormrunner Gauntlets - Maybe you could punch the Eternal Storm in the face!
Stormrunner Cuirass - Armor that really says, “Come at me, Eternal Storm! Bring it on!”
Stormrunner Sabatons - You know what? The Eternal Storm could use a good kick in the butt, too.
Callum and Karim’s Armor
Flamedance Tassels - Dance, little flame, dance to a silent song.
Flamedance Chemise - Warm our hearts and bodies, keep our spirits strong.
Flamedance Sandals - Dance, little flame, dance - for the night is very long.
Illusionist Handwraps - “Most people believe that reality is truth and appearances are deceiving…”
Illusionist Amice - “...but the Moon Arcanum tells us we can only truly know the appearance itself…”
Illusionist Treads - “You can never touch the so-called reality that lies just beyond the reach of your own perception.” -Lujanne
Feathered Wrists - Let nothing clip your wings.
Feathered Jerkin - Let nothing weigh you down.
Feathered Footwraps - Let nothing keep you from the sky.
Claudia’s Armor
Dawnheart Maniple - No shadows escape the wrath of the Sun at its zenith.
Dawnheart Amice - You buried your shadows deep - but the Light sees them still.
Dawnheart Slippers - When the darkness in you burns away, what remains?
Silvergrove Bracers - The traveler told a breathless tale: a village, there one moment and gone the next.
Silvergrove Vest - Impossible, they laughed at him: the forest’s magic has simply played a cruel trick.
Silvergrove Boots - But when the Moon is dark, is she not still there in the sky…?
Daybreak Reach - “I found my lover weeping, gazing up at the night skies…”
Daybreak Doublet - “... I took his hands in mine and said, my darling, dry your eyes…”
Daybreak Walkers - “...the dark is not forever, love! The sun must always rise.” -Skywing Song
Janai’s Armor
Golden Knight Vambraces - Gold, for the Sun’s light.
Golden Knight Hauberk - White, for her radiance.
Golden Knight Treads - Red, for her power.
Moonfire Grips - Some say the Moon is the Sun’s shadow, a pale imitator, a sad reflection.
Moonfire Tunic - Some say the Sun kills the Moon hen she dares grow bright enough to challenge her radiance.
Moonfire Greaves - The truth? The Moon and the Sun are sisters, a fire charred between them.
Empyrean Gloves Some - Great Climbers keep an open mind about strategy.
Empyrean Brigandine - One path to victory is to beat everyone else to the prize…
Empyrean Stompers -  …another path to victory is to beat everyone else with your fists.
Soren and Viren’s Armor
Blacksteel Grips - Something echoes in the metal.
Blacksteel Aegis - Does it sing, or does it scream?
Blacksteel Boots - What did they bury down there beneath the earth?
Ghostfeather bands - “Bit by bit the moon fades away, then bit by bit it will brighten again. That is our cycle.”
Ghostfeather Treads - “...for those who will come after you, think on all you will give them.” - Lujanne
Ghostfeather Tunic - “For those you have left behind, think on all they have given you…”
Skyblazer Vambraces - A group of elves called the Skyblazers were the first to ever attempt the Great Climb
Skyblazer Collar - Their ambition drove them higher, higher, and higher still…
Skyblazer Sandals - …but hubris brought them down again.
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grinbrothers · 2 months ago
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Wii Game Rankings! - Wii Wonders Season 2!
Souldin has reviewed many a wonderful Wii game in Season 2 of Wii Wonders and will now discuss and rank them. Prepare for Wii Wonders Words; it's Premiering at 9PM on 15/1/2025!
Shantae 1/2 Genie Hero Art by 3kkio: https://www.deviantart.com/3kkio/art/COM-Day-At-The-Beach-760982074 Dragon's Crown Pro Art by ShimayaEiko: https://www.deviantart.com/shimayaeiko/art/Dragon-Crown-Pro-Commission-795750580 Subnautica Art by Beabop: https://www.youtube.com/c/Beabop307 A Hat in Time Art by xXxSai (STARteam2017): https://www.deviantart.com/starteam2017/art/xXxSai-Commission-for-Sould1n-2-884439623 No Straight Roads Art by AngelAik0: https://www.deviantart.com/angelaik0/art/Commission-Rocking-show-917721771 Okami Art by Comfybeansqwq : https://www.deviantart.com/duckadoodles/art/Okami-Commission-964227643 Nier Automata Art by WhiteNamikaze: https://www.deviantart.com/whitenamikaze/art/COMMISSION-Nanka-and-2B-1036832538 Wii Wonders Season 1 Cover Art by Patdarux: https://www.deviantart.com/patdarux/art/Commission-Nanka-banner-OC-825702059 Wii Wonders Season 2 Artwork by AngelAik0: https://www.deviantart.com/angelaik0/art/Commission-Nanka-872606281 Wii Wonders Season 3 Artwork by ScarletSpy: https://www.deviantart.com/samidarescarletspy/art/Wii-Wonders-Cover-Art-Commission-998158723 Nanka with Sign by ShySamArt: https://www.deviantart.com/shysamart/art/Commission-Nanka-966702081 Endlate by Locke3K: https://www.youtube.com/@l3kkoi Tea Sampled: Valley Tea Breakfast Tea
Date Made: 11/1/2025 YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@grinbrothers/featured   Tumblr: http://grinbrothers.tumblr.com/ Twitter: https://twitter.com/GrinBrothers
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kradogsrats · 7 months ago
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so having painstakingly leveled up every single fucking character in all three regions to see their regional gear flavor text, some of it just... fucking TORMENTS me, I am TORMENTED
Rayla, Moonshadow Forest - Shadowblade set:
An assassin knows she holds fate in her hands.
An assassin knows she is already dead.
An assassin knows we are all, in the end, alone.
(Naturally, Rayla and Runaan have the same gear sets.)
Callum, Far Reaches - Feathered set:
Let nothing clip your wings.
Let nothing weigh you down.
Let nothing keep you from the sky.
(Slightly less naturally, Callum and Karim have the same gear sets.)
Viren and Soren, Moonshadow Forest - Ghostfeather set:
Bit by bit, the moon fades away, then bit by bit it will brighten again. That is our cycle.
For those you have left behind, think on all they have given you…
… for those who will come after you, think on all you will give them. — Lujanne
(Yes that is just a TTM quote from Phoe-Phoe's rebirth ritual SHUT UP I'M EMOTIONALLY COMPROMISED, anyway Soren and Viren share all the same gear ha ha kill me.)
Claudia, The Border - Dawnheart set:
No shadow escapes the wrath of the Sun at its zenith.
You buried your shadows deep - but the Light sees them still.
When the darkness in you burns away, what remains?
Claudia, Far Reaches - Daybreak set:
I found my lover weeping, gazing up at the night skies…
… I took his hands in mine and said, my darling, dry your eyes…
… the dark is not forever, love! The sun must always rise. - Skywing Song
Janai, The Border - Golden Knight set:
Gold, for the Sun’s light.
White, for her radiance.
Red, for her power.
Janai, Moonshadow Forest - Moonfire set:
Some say the Moon is the Sun’s shadow, a pale imitator, a reflection.
Some say the Sun kills the Moon when she dares grow bright enough to challenge her radiance.
The truth? The Moon and the Sun are sisters, a fire shared between them.
Amaya, The Border - Katolian set:
We are the hands of our kingdom…
… we raise blades, we bear shields, we carry the scars of the past…
… but we are strongest when joined with others. - Katolian Soldier’s Oath
Amaya, Moonshadow Forest - Nightguard set:
A relic of long-ago warriors who served the Dragon Queen, Luna Tenebris.
The Nightguard vanished with their Queen, but their spirits remained.
Now they roam the Moonshadow Forest, searching for Luna’s heir.
(Amaya shares gear with Zeph but lbr no one cares.)
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novaursa · 2 months ago
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Legacy (dragonfire)
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- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.
- Pairing: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister
- Note: There are unspecified time jumps that go back and forth.
- Rating: Explicit 18+ (death scene)
- Previous part: of dragons and gods
- Next part: contingency
- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @luniaxi @alkadri-layal
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The square before the Sept of Baelor was a sea of unease. Hundreds of citizens of King's Landing had gathered, their anxious whispers rippling through the crowd like dry leaves rustling in a storm. The massive steps of the Sept loomed above, flanked by the grim figures of the Faith Militant, their crude armor and spiked cudgels marking them as zealots loyal only to their cause. Opposite them, an immovable wall of crimson and gold—the Lannister men, their polished armor shining under the sun—stood ready. Beside them were the Tyrell soldiers, banners of green and gold fluttering in the breeze like delicate silk juxtaposed against the steel beneath.
The High Sparrow emerged last from the shadow of the Sept, his frail form dwarfed by the host of his followers. His hands were clasped before him in a show of humility, but the fire in his gaze betrayed his resolve. He was a man unbending, unafraid.
Before him stood Tywin Lannister, unyielding as ever, his crimson cloak flaring slightly in the breeze. At his right was Mace Tyrell, puffed with self-importance, while at his left, Lady Olenna Tyrell stood with her sharp-eyed scrutiny, the faintest curl of disdain on her lips. And you, the Targaryen bride of the Lion, stood beside Tywin with the imposing form of Viserion looming just behind you. The dragon’s golden eyes watched the square, unblinking, her massive wings tucked close to her scaled body, though her tail coiled faintly with anticipation.
The people in the crowd murmured prayers and gasped softly at the sight of the she-dragon, their gazes darting from the beast to you—silver-haired and dark-cloaked, a figure as regal as you were terrifying.
Tywin’s voice shattered the quiet, carrying across the square like a blade cutting through silk. “High Sparrow,” he began, his tone calm but carrying the weight of authority. “Have you come to your senses, or must I continue to demonstrate how futile your resistance is?”
The High Sparrow tilted his head, regarding Tywin with that infuriating calmness he wore like armor. “I answer to the Seven, Lord Tywin,” he replied, his voice soft but carrying. “Not to you. I am here only to speak for the gods.”
Tywin’s jaw tightened slightly, but his gaze remained steady. “Then let us speak plainly. Queen Margaery Tyrell is to be released immediately. She has been falsely imprisoned, humiliated for the sake of your petty zealotry. You will relinquish your hold over this city and return to the shadows where you belong.”
A murmur swept through the Faith Militant at the demand, hands tightening on weapons. Behind Tywin, Olenna’s lip curled in disdain, her cane tapping against the stone with quiet finality. “Release her, you pompous fool,” Olenna muttered loudly, though her voice carried only to those nearest her.
The High Sparrow, however, did not yield. “Your daughter is a sinner,” he said, turning his gaze to Mace Tyrell, who shifted nervously beside Tywin. “Her pride and lies brought her low. The Faith cleanses sin, my lords, and the people of this city have seen her crimes. Would you now undo the justice of the gods?”
Tywin took a step forward, the faint scrape of his boots against stone audible in the heavy silence. “Justice?” he echoed, his voice laced with icy disdain. “You call this chaos justice? You have turned this city into a breeding ground for fear and fanaticism. The gods do not command you—they are your excuse. You twist their words to suit your own power.”
The High Sparrow turned his gaze to you then, his calm eyes alight with something unreadable. “And you,” he said softly. “You stand with this man. You command a beast of flame and blood, yet you would march against the will of the gods. Do you not fear their judgment?”
The crowd hushed further, heads turning to look at you. Behind you, Viserion stirred faintly, the ground trembling as she shifted her weight, her claws scraping against the stone square. Her rumbling growl resonated through the silence, low and ominous, a reminder that she was there—waiting.
You stepped forward, your violet gaze fixed on the High Sparrow, unflinching. “The gods?” you replied, your voice clear and sharp. “The gods have no claim over me. Dragons bow to no one—not kings, not gods, and certainly not men who preach with lies on their lips.”
A ripple of shock swept through the crowd. Some gasped audibly, others began to murmur fervent prayers. Even Mace Tyrell paled, his mouth opening to object before Olenna silenced him with a sharp look.
The High Sparrow’s expression darkened ever so slightly, his hands still clasped but his voice turning colder. “Pride,” he murmured. “The sin that brought your ancestors low. It will bring you low as well, child of fire.”
You smirked faintly, tilting your head. “The last men who threatened me met their end in ash.”
The High Sparrow’s gaze sharpened. “And do you think you are above the wrath of the gods? I see you for what you are—an abomination. A woman who clings to power she cannot hope to control. The gods will strike you down, just as they strike down all who defy them.”
Tywin’s voice cut through the rising tension. “You overstep, Sparrow. Tread carefully.”
But the High Sparrow ignored him, his focus entirely on you as he stepped forward. “Turn back from this path, dragon-rider,” he said, his voice rising, carrying over the crowd. “Turn back, or the fires you wield will consume you—body, soul, and name. Just like your father.”
Behind you, Viserion let out a sharp hiss, her head lowering, smoke curling from her nostrils as her eyes locked onto the High Sparrow. The Faith Militant tensed, their hands gripping weapons, but they did not move. The crowd murmured in fear, shrinking back, as though sensing the rising storm.
You stepped forward again, your voice unwavering, your command absolute. “Enough.”
Viserion growled louder, her tail sweeping across the stone with a deafening scrape.
The High Sparrow stopped, his calm mask breaking for the first time, a flicker of uncertainty in his gaze as the beast behind you loomed closer.
“You speak of fire consuming me,” you continued, your voice low but carrying across the square. “But it is you who stands in the path of the dragon.”
The High Sparrow opened his mouth to respond, but you did not give him the chance. Your voice rang out, clear and commanding.
“Dracarys.”
Viserion responded immediately, her head snapping forward as she opened her jaws. A torrent of fire erupted from her throat, a blinding stream of gold and crimson that roared across the square. The heat struck like a physical force, searing the air as the High Sparrow’s final scream was drowned by the sound of the flames.
The Faith Militant staggered back, their faces lit with horror as the fire engulfed the High Sparrow, consuming his frail form in a heartbeat. His robes disintegrated to ash, his figure silhouetted for the barest moment before collapsing into a charred ruin.
The crowd erupted in chaos. Cries of terror filled the square as people scattered, falling over one another to escape the inferno. The Faith Militant turned, panicking, their courage broken as they dropped their weapons and fled.
Viserion roared triumphantly, the sound shaking the very stones beneath your feet as she lifted her head, smoke rising from her maw. She unfurled her wings, sending a blast of wind across the square that scattered ash and dust.
Tywin did not flinch, his green eyes watching the destruction with cold calculation. He turned to his men, his voice cutting through the chaos. “Seize the remaining Faith Militant. Let no more harm come to the people.”
Mace Tyrell gaped, speechless, while Olenna allowed the faintest of smiles to curve her lips. “Well,” she murmured, her voice wry, “it seems negotiations are over.”
You stood tall before the flames, Viserion coiled protectively behind you, her golden eyes fixed on the city she now commanded. The people of King’s Landing would remember this day. They would remember the dragon who burned a god’s servant to ash.
And as the fires died down, Tywin stepped beside you, his voice low and steady. “The city will see order restored,” he said. “One way or another.”
You looked out over the square, your gaze unyielding. “And they will learn to fear the fire.”
Viserion’s rumble echoed in agreement, her presence a shadow over the broken remnants of the Faith. The gods had been defied, the High Sparrow silenced, and in his place stood power—raw, untamed, and absolute.
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The Sept of Baelor had become a cavernous monument to silence. Its grandeur, once a symbol of the Faith’s unyielding power, now bore the weight of fire and fear. Smoke lingered faintly in the air, the smell of charred stone and ash clinging to the gilded arches and stained glass windows. The Faith Militant who had dared hold the Sept were either scattered, seized, or burned. The holy place now belonged to those with strength—not faith.
Tywin Lannister strode through the great doors of the Sept, his crimson cloak trailing behind him like the bloodied shadow of victory. You walked at his side, your silver hair still tousled by the wind and faint smudges of ash marking your riding leathers. Behind you, Lady Olenna Tyrell and Mace Tyrell followed, flanked by the Tyrell soldiers who had taken control of the square and now guarded every entrance to the building.
The clink of armor and echo of boots against marble filled the space as the procession moved deeper into the Sept. Candles still burned on the altars to the Seven, their light flickering uneasily as though afraid of the men and women who now strode through these sacred halls. The massive statue of the Crone—her lantern raised high—seemed to watch, its stone face impassive to the carnage that had unfolded moments before.
Tywin’s sharp gaze flicked ahead as a pair of Tyrell soldiers emerged, escorting Queen Margaery Tyrell between them. Her delicate wrists were still bound with rough cords, and her once-pristine gown hung in tatters, dirt and tears streaking the fine fabric. Her hair fell loosely around her shoulders, her face pale and drawn from days of imprisonment. Yet her eyes—so like her grandmother’s—held a quiet fire as she looked up at the people who had come for her.
“Margaery!” Lady Olenna’s voice cracked through the silence, a mix of fury and relief. She pushed past the guards with surprising swiftness, her cane tapping against the marble as she reached for her granddaughter. “Bring her to me at once, you oafs!”
The soldiers hesitated only briefly before releasing Margaery’s arms. She stumbled slightly, the weakness in her legs betraying her, but Olenna caught her with a surprisingly steady hand, holding her upright. “There now,” Olenna murmured sharply, brushing strands of hair from Margaery’s face with uncharacteristic tenderness. “They didn’t break you, did they? No, of course they didn’t. They couldn’t possibly.”
Margaery let out a shaky breath, her voice soft and hoarse. “Grandmother…”
“Quiet now,” Olenna said firmly, though there was no bite in her tone. “Save your strength for later. We’ll have you cleaned up and presentable before long, I promise you that.” She turned her sharp gaze to Mace, who hovered nearby, his face pale with worry. “Stop gawking like a buffoon and fetch her some water!”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Mace stammered, waving frantically at a nearby attendant to fulfill the request. “My sweet girl, they’ll pay for this. I swear it.”
Tywin watched the scene unfold with cool detachment, his sharp gaze lingering on Margaery for a long moment before he spoke, his voice carrying through the Sept. “You are fortunate,” he said evenly, addressing the young queen. “Were it not for the actions taken today, you might still be rotting in that cell.”
Margaery’s gaze shifted to Tywin, and despite her exhaustion, there was steel in her tone as she replied. “I would have endured.”
Olenna turned her head sharply, her eyes narrowing. “Endured? My dear, endurance is for fools and martyrs. You are neither. You are a Tyrell, and we do not endure. We survive.”
Tywin’s lip curled faintly—whether in approval or amusement, it was difficult to say. He gestured to the guards nearby. “Remove her bonds.”
The Tyrell soldiers obeyed without hesitation, cutting the cords at Margaery’s wrists. She winced as the circulation returned to her hands, but she said nothing, merely inclining her head in gratitude as her grandmother steadied her.
You stepped forward then, your voice calm but clear. “The High Sparrow is dead. His hold over this city is broken.”
Margaery’s gaze turned to you, her expression unreadable as her tired eyes took in your form—the silver hair, the riding leathers still smudged with ash, the quiet power you exuded. “And his Faith Militant?” she asked softly.
“Scattered,” Tywin replied curtly. “Or dealt with.”
A faint tremor of relief crossed Margaery’s face, though she quickly masked it. “And the king? My husband—Tommen?”
“He is safe,” Tywin answered with authority. “He has been taken to his chambers, where he belongs. You will be reunited shortly.”
Olenna’s lips pressed into a thin line, her sharp eyes fixing on Tywin. “And what now, Lord Tywin? Do you intend to restore the crown to its rightful place, or will you allow another pack of zealots to take its reins?”
Tywin turned to face her fully, his expression hard as stone. “Order will be restored,” he said simply. “The Faith will not rise again.” His gaze shifted to Margaery. “You will return to your duties as queen—nothing more, nothing less.”
Margaery inclined her head faintly, though her eyes betrayed a flicker of unease. “And the people?”
“The people will learn to trust their king again,” Tywin replied coldly. “Or they will learn to fear him.”
Olenna huffed softly, though she said nothing further, merely offering her granddaughter a supportive arm as they turned to leave the hall. Mace bustled behind them, his face beaming with relief as he chattered about preparations for Margaery’s return to the Red Keep.
Tywin turned to you then, his gaze sharp and considering. “It’s done,” he said quietly, though there was no triumph in his tone—only certainty.
You glanced back at the wide doors of the Sept, where the light of day poured in like a judgment of its own. “The Faith may be broken,” you replied softly, “but this city will not soon forget what happened here.”
“They do not need to forget,” Tywin said, his voice unwavering. “They need only remember who holds power now.”
A faint growl echoed from outside, the sound unmistakable as Viserion’s shadow passed over the Sept once more. The light flickered, and the gathered soldiers below turned their faces to the sky, murmuring in awe and fear as the dragon’s presence lingered.
You turned back to Tywin, your violet eyes meeting his green ones with quiet resolve. “Fear may win you silence, but it will not win you loyalty.”
Tywin’s gaze remained steady. “Loyalty is earned in time. Fear ensures time to earn it.”
You did not argue, though a part of you wondered how long fear could hold this city together before it crumbled again. But for now, it was enough. The High Sparrow was ash, Margaery was free, and the Sept had been reclaimed.
As you followed Tywin from the halls of the Sept, the murmurs of the crowd outside grew louder. Some whispered of fire and dragons, others of a lion’s return to power. But all of them watched the sky, where Viserion circled, her presence a reminder that fire had come to King’s Landing once more.
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The halls of Meereen’s Great Pyramid were quiet, save for the rustle of silks in the warm, perfumed breeze that rolled through the open windows. The sun burned high over Essos, but within the chambers of Daenerys Targaryen, a storm was brewing. Shadows of fluttering banners danced on the polished stone floor, as if the air itself held its breath.
Tyrion Lannister stood near the long table, a goblet of wine in his hand, though he had barely touched it. His sharp gaze lingered on the map of Westeros sprawled across the table’s surface—a place that, though vast and fractured, seemed far closer now than it had for years. Across from him, Daenerys Stormborn, the Mother of Dragons, stood with her arms folded tightly over her chest. Her silver hair gleamed in the light, cascading down her back like a river of moonlight. Her violet eyes burned with intensity as they fixed on Tyrion.
“So it is true,” she said at last, her voice calm but edged with an undercurrent of fury. “The High Sparrow was burned alive by dragonfire.”
Tyrion inclined his head slightly, his voice measured. “Word travels fast, even across the Narrow Sea. The High Septon and much of his Faith Militant reduced to ash in the shadow of the Sept of Baelor.” He paused, swirling the wine absentmindedly. “A show of power, certainly, but one not entirely unexpected.”
“And the dragon?” Daenerys pressed, her voice rising ever so slightly.
Tyrion met her gaze, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “Viserion, yes. Your sister’s dragon, though it seems it has found itself in the service of my father.”
Daenerys’s eyes narrowed, her frustration evident as she turned to pace toward the window. “Viserion is no one’s servant. Dragon flew to Westeros for my sister, not for the Lannisters. Viserion is her dragon—my family’s dragon.”
Tyrion let out a dry chuckle, though there was little humor in it. “Perhaps. But dragons do not care for banners or bloodlines. They care for their riders. And your sister… is married to my father.”
Daenerys stopped, turning sharply to face him. “And you believe that makes Viserion a Lannister asset?”
Tyrion lifted his goblet and gave her a pointed look. “Dragons, as you say, bow to no one. But perception matters, Your Grace. My father did not merely burn the Faith Militant—he made a statement. He paraded your sister’s dragon through the skies of King’s Landing, and the people saw. They now see fire, and they see a lion standing beside it.”
Daenerys stared at him, her face hard and unreadable. “So my sister stands with the lions, then? She abandoned her blood?”
“Not by choice,” Tyrion countered, his voice softer now. “Or have you forgotten why she survived Robert’s Rebellion at all?”
Daenerys’s gaze darkened, and she turned back to the window, her hands tightening against the ledge. “Is it true? What they say? That Tywin Lannister smuggled her to the North—into the hands of the Starks?”
“It is,” Tyrion replied, his tone somber. “My father may have hated Aerys, but he was nothing if not pragmatic. He saw the writing on the wall. He knew Robert’s wrath would burn your sister as surely as it burned the Red Keep, so he acted. The North was far, and the Starks, honorable to a fault. It was the safest place for her.”
Daenerys turned back to him, her violet eyes searching his face. “And you believe he did this out of the goodness of his heart?”
Tyrion arched a brow, the corner of his mouth curling into a sardonic smile. “Tywin Lannister does nothing out of kindness. He saved her because it was the logical choice—and perhaps because some part of him could not see her slain like the rest. But his actions saved her life. And if what we hear is true, that same life now rides at his side, dragon and all.”
The Mother of Dragons fell silent for a long moment, her expression unreadable. “Does he love her?” she asked finally, her voice barely above a whisper.
Tyrion blinked, startled by the question. “Tywin Lannister is not a man given to displays of affection,” he said carefully. “But…” He hesitated, the memory of his father’s cold, calculating eyes flashing in his mind. “I think he values her more than he lets on. Perhaps even more than he understands himself.”
Daenerys frowned, her gaze distant as she absorbed his words. “And her son—my nephew?” She looked back at Tyrion. “Damon. I have heard whispers of him. What do you know?”
Tyrion set his goblet down and sighed, his tone turning more reflective. “Not much. I saw him once—briefly—before I left King’s Landing.”
Daenerys’s gaze sharpened. “When?”
Tyrion looked away for a moment, as though recalling the scene. “It was the night I escaped the Red Keep before they could execute me,” he said quietly. “I slipped into her chambers, thinking I might look at my father one last time… and perhaps find some answers.” His lips quirked faintly before his expression sobered. “But what I found was… unexpected.”
Daenerys stepped closer, her curiosity piqued. “What did you see?”
Tyrion let out a slow breath. “She was asleep beside him—my father, I mean. I had never seen him so still, so… human. It unnerved me.” He glanced at Daenerys, his expression thoughtful. “And there, in the cradle at the foot of the bed, was the boy—Damon.”
Daenerys’s expression softened, her voice a whisper. “And what was he like?”
Tyrion smiled faintly, a touch of wistfulness in his tone. “A babe, as all babes are. He had silver-gold hair like hers and, when he stirred, his eyes opened—mostly violet, like yours.” He paused, his voice quieter now. “For a moment, I thought I saw my father’s shadow lean over the child. As if even then, he was preparing to make the boy his heir.”
Daenerys turned her gaze toward the window, staring out across the vast horizon where the Narrow Sea stretched toward Westeros. “My sister’s son,” she said softly. “A dragon raised among lions.”
Tyrion regarded her carefully. “He is a babe now, but the world will watch him as he grows. Tywin will see to that.”
Daenerys nodded faintly, her expression resolute as the wind brushed her silver hair across her shoulders. “Then I must watch as well.” She turned to Tyrion, her gaze unyielding. “Viserion is my family’s dragon. And Damon is blood of my blood. If Tywin Lannister thinks he can wield them for his own ends, he will learn that dragons cannot be chained.”
Tyrion tilted his head, studying her with an unreadable expression. “Let us hope, Your Grace, that your sister sees the same truth before it’s too late.”
The room fell silent again, save for the wind that whispered across the stone. In the distance, the faint cry of gulls echoed over the city of Meereen, but both Tyrion and Daenerys stood still, their thoughts stretching across the sea to Westeros—where fire had been unleashed, and the game of thrones was far from over.
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The Red Keep was quiet in the aftermath of the previous day’s chaos. The air still carried a faint scent of smoke, lingering like a ghost in the hallways, though life within the castle had resumed with nervous efficiency. The servants walked in silence, their eyes darting toward the windows as though expecting the shadow of the dragon to return at any moment.
In the Tower Hand, the animosity was far less quiet. The room was cast in shades of amber as the morning light filtered through the narrow windows, illuminating the stern edges of Tywin Lannister’s face. He sat at his heavy oak desk, fingers steepled before him, his eyes cold and watchful. Across from him stood Cersei Lannister, her back rigid with fury, the remnants of her humiliation from the past months simmering just beneath the surface. Behind her, near the hearth, Jaime Lannister leaned against the mantle with his arms crossed. He said nothing, though his gaze flicked between his sister and father with growing discomfort.
The silence stretched just long enough to grate on Cersei’s already frayed nerves. Finally, she spoke, her voice sharp as broken glass. “You dare reprimand me after everything you’ve done?”
Tywin’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Mind your tone, Cersei.”
“My tone?” Cersei stepped forward, her golden hair catching the light like a tarnished crown. “I held this city together while you were off parading your Targaryen wife through Westeros! Do you think I wanted to stand before the gods and the people—alone—humiliated and dragged through the streets like some common whore?”
Tywin’s gaze remained unwavering, but his voice dropped to a dangerous calm. “And whose fault was that?”
Cersei’s face flushed crimson, her nails digging into the edge of the desk. “You left me. You abandoned me here to fend off enemies from all sides. You took your golden son and left for Highgarden. You sheltered a dragon under our home—under Casterly Rock!” Her voice rose with every word, edged with desperation. “And how convenient that the beast flew across the world to perch on your Targaryen bride’s shoulder!”
Tywin’s eyes flashed, and his hands flattened against the desk as he rose to his full height. “Do not presume to lecture me on matters of power, Cersei,” he said icily, his voice cutting through her anger like a blade. “While I was securing alliances and stamping out rebellion, you were inviting chaos into my city. The Faith Militant rose because of your folly. The king was placed in danger because of your arrogance. You were given stewardship of the capital, and you failed.”
Cersei faltered for a moment, her expression caught between rage and hurt. “What was I supposed to do? Sit idly while the Tyrells schemed against me? While enemies whispered in every shadow?”
Tywin’s lip curled faintly. “Your paranoia does not excuse incompetence.”
Cersei’s fists tightened as her voice trembled with fury. “You speak of paranoia, but you weren’t here. You don’t know what it’s like to live surrounded by vipers, always waiting for the next betrayal.” She looked over her shoulder briefly, her eyes scanning the room as if expecting someone to emerge from the walls. “Sometimes, I think Tyrion lingers here still—hiding somewhere, watching, waiting. I can feel his shadow behind every door.”
Tywin’s expression remained unyielding, unimpressed by her ramblings. “Tyrion is no specter haunting your failures, Cersei. He is gone. You would do well to stop chasing phantoms and focus on the enemies standing plainly before you.”
Cersei let out a bitter laugh, the sound harsh and hollow. “How fortunate for you that you can dismiss my struggles so easily. After all, you’ve built yourself a fine life, haven’t you, Father? A Targaryen bride to bear you more sons. A dragon to burn away your problems. You’ve abandoned me—us—for her, for that fire-blooded witch.”
Tywin’s gaze darkened, his voice dropping to a menacing calm. “Careful, Cersei. My patience with you grows thin.”
Cersei’s breath hitched, her anger giving way to something closer to desperation as she turned toward Jaime for support. “And you? Do you have nothing to say? Nothing to defend me with?”
Jaime, who had remained silent thus far, shifted uncomfortably by the hearth. His golden hand tapped lightly against his elbow, and his expression was tight, torn between loyalty and truth. “What do you want me to say, Cersei?” he asked finally, his voice low. “That Father is wrong? That you didn’t bring this on yourself?”
Cersei’s eyes widened, betrayal flashing across her face. “You take his side?”
“I take no side,” Jaime replied quietly. “I’m just tired of all of this.” He gestured vaguely at the room, at the Red Keep beyond it. “We’ve made enemies everywhere, Cersei—more than I can count. And while you claw at shadows, Father does what he’s always done: he ensures we survive.”
Cersei’s lip trembled as her fury returned. “So you see nothing wrong with what he’s done? With her?”
Jaime’s gaze flicked to Tywin, his face unreadable. “What I see is a dragon in the sky and a city that now fears it. If that means peace, then so be it.”
Tywin’s gaze shifted back to Cersei, his voice as unyielding as ever. “You will accept the realities of our situation, Cersei. My marriage strengthens our position. The dragon ensures our dominance. I did not abandon you; I saved you. If you cannot see that, then you are blind.”
Cersei’s shoulders sagged slightly, her anger now tempered with helplessness. “And what of me, then? What do I do now, Father? Stand in my chambers and pretend this city doesn’t hate me?”
Tywin regarded her for a long moment, his voice steady. “You will do as you are told. You will present yourself as the dowager queen—composed, dignified. The people must see unity in this family. I will not have your petty grievances undermine what we have built.”
Cersei opened her mouth to respond, but Tywin’s raised hand silenced her. “Enough. You will not speak of this again. Not to me, and certainly not to anyone else.”
Jaime pushed himself away from the hearth, his posture rigid as he moved toward the door. “Are we done here?”
Tywin inclined his head sharply. “Go. And take your sister with you.”
Jaime glanced at Cersei, but she refused to look at him, her eyes locked on the far wall. He let out a faint sigh before turning to leave. Cersei lingered for a moment longer, her face pale and taut with barely restrained anger. “This isn’t over, Father,” she muttered, her voice low. “It will never be over.”
Tywin did not reply. He simply watched as she turned and swept from the room, her steps echoing down the hall like fading thunder. When the door closed behind her, the room fell into silence once more, save for the faint crackle of the hearth.
Tywin sat back in his chair, his hands folding over the polished wood of his desk. His gaze lingered on the door for a moment longer before he exhaled sharply, his face betraying nothing.
For all her fire, Cersei remained a child in his eyes—one who refused to see the world for what it was. He had secured the power she could not; he had given House Lannister fire and dominion. And he would not allow her pride to burn it to the ground.
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The air in the solar was heavy with the scent of fresh flowers—Queen Margaery’s doing, no doubt—bouquets of bright blooms set in vases across the room to banish the memory of gloom and ash that had lingered within the castle. A soft breeze fluttered the curtains, carrying the faint sounds of life returning to the city beyond.
At the center of the room, you knelt on the thick carpet, your silver hair falling in loose waves over your shoulders as you tickled Damon’s chubby feet. The babe squealed in delight, his high, toothless giggles filling the space like music. Damon was a healthy, happy boy. His silver-gold hair glimmered in the sunlight, and his eyes were wide and curious as he wiggled on the blanket spread beneath him.
“Did you hear that?” you teased, grinning down at him as you gently tapped his belly. “Such a fierce laugh! A dragon’s laugh, is it not?”
Damon cooed, flailing his little arms as his tiny hands reached for your fingers. He caught one in a tight, surprisingly strong grip, tugging with determination that made you chuckle softly.
From the divan nearby, Lady Olenna Tyrell watched the scene with a critical eye, though there was unmistakable fondness in her gaze. “It’s always the little ones,” she mused, leaning on her cane. “They smile at you sweetly and steal your heart before you even notice.” Her tone turned wry. “And before long, they’re walking, talking terrors who rule over everyone.”
Queen Margaery Tyrell, seated beside her grandmother, smiled softly at the words. She looked much improved, her hair brushed to its shining glory and a rich gown of emerald silk draping gracefully over her frame. Though shadows of her imprisonment still lingered faintly in the hollows of her cheeks, the life in her eyes had returned.
“I think he’ll be a fine lord one day,” Margaery said, her voice gentle but confident. “With such a mother guiding him.”
You looked up at her, surprised by the sincerity in her tone. Margaery’s gaze was warm and steady as she inclined her head slightly. “Thank you,” she said softly. “For what you did—for freeing me.”
You smiled faintly, though something heavy tugged at your chest. “I only did what was right. No one deserves to be caged, least of all you.”
Olenna snorted softly, tapping her cane against the floor for emphasis. “Spare us the modesty, dear. You set fire to a godly nuisance and knocked some sense back into the city. That’s more than most would dare.”
“Viserion set fire,” you corrected lightly, glancing toward the open window as though expecting to see the dragon’s cream-and-gold form pass by. “I merely gave the command.”
“And that’s precisely the point,” Olenna countered, her gaze sharp as ever. “The command matters. You wield fire, my dear, and that makes all the difference.”
You turned back to Damon, who had managed to grab one of his toys—a small lion carved from polished wood—and was now gnawing determinedly on its ear. His eyes shone with curiosity as he turned the toy in his small hands. For a moment, the weight of the world lifted, and you allowed yourself the quiet joy of watching him.
Yet your thoughts drifted—unbidden and dark—to the vision you’d seen at the High Heart. The Wall, impossibly vast and ancient, shrouded in mist and shadow. The frozen ground beyond it crawling with death, a tide of pale, hollow faces marching under the banner of an endless night. You had seen fire battling ice, dragons against death, but even then, the outcome had been shrouded in uncertainty.
You swallowed, turning your attention back to the present, to the warmth of the sun and the laughter of your son.
“What troubles you?” Margaery’s voice broke the silence, soft and perceptive.
You looked up, forcing a smile. “Nothing that needs to trouble you now.” You hesitated, then spoke carefully, your tone quieter. “But when the time comes, will I have your support?”
Olenna raised a brow, her gaze narrowing slightly. “Support for what, exactly?”
You glanced at Margaery and Olenna in turn, your gaze steady. “When Westeros is faced with something far greater than crowns, banners, and blood feuds. When the world will need fire to combat the cold.”
There was a pause, Olenna watching you closely while Margaery tilted her head slightly, curiosity flickering across her face. “Are you speaking of rebellion?” Margaery asked carefully. “Or something else?”
“Something else,” you replied, your voice firm but vague. “I cannot yet say when or how it will come, but I’ve seen the signs. When it does, fire must stand ready.”
Olenna’s lips pursed as she considered you. For all her crude tongue, she was not a woman who dismissed warnings lightly. “I’ve lived long enough to know when someone speaks with conviction,” she said slowly, her tone thoughtful. “And you, dear, are not one for empty words.”
Margaery nodded faintly, her expression softening. “If such a time comes, you will have my support—and that of House Tyrell.”
Olenna made a dismissive wave of her hand, though her gaze belied her flippancy. “I’m too old to march anywhere, but I’ll ensure the banners are raised if you ask. Consider it a promise—one rarely given, I assure you.”
Relief warmed your chest, though you kept your composure as you inclined your head graciously. “Thank you.”
Damon let out a happy squeal, as if voicing his approval, waving his wooden lion triumphantly in the air. You laughed softly, scooping him up into your arms as he giggled against your shoulder.
Margaery’s gaze lingered on the babe, her expression wistful. “He’s beautiful,” she murmured. “And strong. The realm will know his name one day.”
You kissed the top of Damon’s head, the softness of his hair brushing against your lips. “He is my greatest joy,” you replied quietly, though your words carried an edge of steel. “And I will see him safe—no matter the cost.”
Olenna tapped her cane again, nodding faintly. “Then we are agreed. For now, we play the games set before us. But when the time comes, we’ll be ready.”
You smiled softly, though your gaze drifted to the window, to the clear blue skies beyond. Somewhere in the distance, Viserion’s faint cry echoed—a reminder of the fire that lingered at your command.
And in your heart, you knew that fire would be needed before long. The vision of the Long Night had been no idle dream. It had been a warning. And when the cold crept southward, threatening to swallow the world, you would ensure the fire was ready to meet it.
For your son. For the realm.
And for the future yet to come.
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The chamber of the Hand of the King was a place of quiet authority, its walls lined with maps, ledgers, and reports, all illuminated by the faint flicker of candlelight. The faint scent of ink, wax, and parchment lingered in the air—a mark of the constant work that defined Tywin Lannister. Here, where decisions shaped the realm, the man at its center sat, as composed and calculating as ever.
Tywin was at his desk, quill in hand, as he signed a final document with a flourish. The Lion of Lannister looked utterly imperious, clad in a dark crimson doublet adorned with gold embroidery, his presence an unshakable force. A small stack of sealed scrolls lay to one side, ready to be dispatched to lords across Westeros, while his unfurled map of the kingdom dominated the table.
You stood quietly at the far side of the room, watching him with curiosity and something softer. Tywin rarely stilled for long; his mind was always at work, and yet here he was, quietly overseeing the duties that he had reclaimed with an iron grip. Since his return to King’s Landing, the city itself seemed to be breathing easier—or perhaps, more cautiously. It was difficult to tell.
“You’ll exhaust yourself,” you said finally, breaking the silence.
Tywin glanced up, his sharp green eyes settling on you. “Exhaustion accomplishes nothing. Work must be done.” His voice was calm, even, but there was no mistaking the faint edge of weariness in it.
You moved toward the desk, your footsteps soft against the stone floor. “You’ve reclaimed the city, Tywin. You’ve reestablished order, stamped out the Faith, and silenced the murmurs of rebellion. Can it not wait a single evening?”
“Reestablishing order is not the same as securing it,” Tywin replied without missing a beat. He set down his quill, his gaze steady. “Loyalty must be maintained, weaknesses identified and corrected. Power is not a fleeting thing to those who understand how to wield it.”
You tilted your head slightly, stepping closer until you stood at the side of his desk. “And what of you? Are you to wield power until you collapse over that desk one day?”
The faintest flicker of a smile tugged at the corner of Tywin’s mouth—a rare, fleeting expression. “I am not so frail as that.”
“No,” you agreed softly, your tone carrying a touch of warmth. “But even lions must rest.”
Tywin said nothing at first, watching you with that calculating gaze of his. You had long grown used to the weight of it, how he measured everyone in silence before responding. Finally, he exhaled softly and leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. “And what would you have me do? Lounge about while the realm crumbles into complacency?”
“Lounge?” you echoed, allowing a faint smile to cross your lips as you circled the desk. “I would never dream of accusing you of such a thing, Lord Husband.”
His gaze tracked your movements as you stepped behind his chair. Resting your hands gently on his shoulders, you could feel the tension in him, the weight he carried in the stiffness of his posture. Slowly, you began to knead at the fabric of his doublet, your touch light but purposeful. “You are allowed a moment of peace,” you murmured. “The realm will not fall apart in the space of an evening.”
Tywin’s shoulders shifted beneath your touch, though he said nothing. For a long moment, the silence held between you—comfortable, familiar, though tinged with something unspoken. You moved back around to stand before him, meeting his gaze with a softness that few others ever dared to show him.
Without a word, you stepped closer, leaning down and wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders. It was a simple gesture, one you knew Tywin Lannister did not often receive, nor expect. You held him gently, your cheek resting against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart beneath the fine fabric of his doublet.
For a moment, Tywin remained still, his sharp mind likely questioning the intent of this rare show of affection. And then, almost imperceptibly, his hands moved. He brought an arm around your back, his touch steady and uncharacteristically careful, returning the gesture with a restraint born of years spent hardening himself against the world.
You closed your eyes, savoring the moment of calm. The weight of his arm settled around you, and you felt, for the first time in days, as though the fire and chaos of the world beyond these walls had quieted.
“Your father would call this foolish,” Tywin said quietly, his voice breaking the stillness.
You smiled faintly against his chest. “My father would call most things foolish.”
Tywin let out a soft, low hum—something that might have been the barest hint of amusement. His hand lingered at your back, unmoving, as though he had forgotten to let go. “Affection rarely wins wars,” he said, though the edge in his tone had dulled.
“And yet,” you murmured, lifting your head slightly to meet his gaze, “it sustains those who fight them.”
For a long moment, Tywin regarded you, his green eyes softer now, though still sharp with thought. “You think I need sustaining?”
“I think you are human,” you replied, your voice steady. “No matter how much you pretend otherwise.”
Tywin said nothing, but his gaze lingered on you, as though taking your measure once again. Finally, he shifted, his hand dropping gently from your back as he leaned away. “You are insufferably stubborn,” he said, though there was no real bite to the words.
“As are you,” you countered lightly, stepping back with a faint smile.
He let out a quiet huff of breath, straightening in his chair as he regarded the stacks of work before him. “This is what keeps us alive,” he said, gesturing to the documents, maps, and orders laid out like pieces on a game board.
“And this,” you replied softly, resting a hand over your heart, “is what keeps us whole.”
Tywin glanced up at you then, and for once, there was no retort. His gaze softened—just slightly—and though his lips did not curve into a smile, the tension in his shoulders seemed to ease. “One evening,” he said finally, his voice quiet but firm. “No more.”
You smiled, inclining your head in satisfaction. “That will do, Lord Husband.”
He watched you for a moment longer before turning his attention briefly back to the papers on his desk, though his movements were slower, less driven. You had seen through his armor—cracks that no one else would dare look for—and for once, he did not seem to mind.
For tonight, at least, the lion would rest.
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Note
Ok so this one a little different but I wanted to see what you can do with it
Can I request a yandere alduin x reborn Dragon Born reader x yandere playtonic pryox
So the reader was alduin mate and pyrax little sister ( i can not remember how to spell that Dragon name the one that on the throat of the world with the Gray beards) but during the war she was killed but she reborn as a dragon born and not only that but got married. And pyrax is torn on helping his sister and joining alduin.
And reader not happy with them and she married a Dragon Slayer
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Blood in the Water (Yandere! Alduin x Reader x Platonic Yandere! Paarthurnax)
“We’ll never get free
Lamb to the slaughter
What you gon’ do when there’s blood in the water?
The price of your greed, is your son and your daughter
What you gon’ do when there’s blood in the water?”
- Blood // Water, granson
Paarthurnax knew you.
The dragon had always been told that he read too much into others, searching for things that weren’t there - trying to gain a better understanding of someone by peering into their soul. Well, he liked to believe he could.
But you were different, he knew you. From the moment you climbed his mountain, your very soul spoke to his; like a flicker of fire light after trudging through an endless snowstorm.
This must be a malicious plot, he told himself, remaining guarded with his icy gaze even as he longed to approach you with all the gentleness of the world. Perhaps the Greybeards had decided it was time for Paarthurnax to pay his dues, or the Blades had finally gotten to him… anything would be more plausible than her soul returning.
“Why have you intruded on my solitude, mortal?” He questioned harshly, your shocked and fearful gaze almost making him regret it.
Still, you were able to catch your bearings and face him - something most mortals would not do. “The Greybeards sent me. I am the Dragonborn.”
Ah… perhaps this was Akatosh’s way of punishing Paarthurnax for his misdeeds.
Although Akatosh often did not play by his own rules, there were usually only two ways for a Dragonborn to be birthed into existence: a dragon and a human breeding, or the soul of deceased dragon being reborn into a human.
He shouldn’t have been surprised, not when he really thought about it. Whilst it was unlikely for you to be reborn - what will millions of other dragons who could have been reincarnated - but out of every dragon he had ever met, of course it was you. Dragons could only be reborn because their souls were made of far sturdier stuff than mortals, the very substance refusing to dissipate. And you had the strongest soul of all.
Strong enough to put up with Alduin, after all.
Alduin, the very thought brought unrest to Paarthurnax’s stomach, his insides squirming at the idea of Alduin knowing of your return.
By all rights, Paarthurnax was supposed to help the Dragonborn - you - defeat Alduin and stop the dragons from once again taking over the world. Alduin and his subordinates would give Paarthurnax Oblivion, of course, fighting fang and claw to have the Dragonborn’s head on a pike. But the Dragonborn was a larger threat to most dragons than they were to the Dragonborn, very few having the ability to stand against them. With enough training, perhaps the Dragonborn even stood a chance at defeating Alduin, especially if they wanted to see another day.
However, if you really were her, well… that complicated everything.
Alduin had always ruled with an iron claw, leaving the mortals alive only out of necessity and sinister amusement. His tyranny was not reserved for mortals, either, even the dragons themselves fearing Alduin’s wrath. After all, if he grew tired of the world, he could simply destroy it.
But even Paarthurnax had feared Alduin after your death.
Alduin had always enjoyed ruling, conquering, entertaining the idea for centuries rather than destroying the world and allowing birth for a new one. But when you’d been killed, it was like the dragon stopped caring - as if any emotion aside rage had been beaten out of him. Alduin decided to destroy the world because his had been taken from him.
You, however, had always been kinder - far kinder than an average dragon. No one really knew why, perhaps it was because Paarthurnax and, eventually, Alduin had always shielded you from the world. As the World Eater’s mate, you weren’t expected to lift a claw.
It had been heartbreaking when you discovered just how much Alduin (and Paarthurnax, although he tried to forget that) terrorised the mortals. You just couldn’t understand why Alduin - your Alduin, who always showed you nothing but kindness - would inflict such horrors on those who could not fight back. That was the start of Paarthurnax’s guilt.
You begged Alduin to stop and, because it was you, he compromised - allowing the mortals to exist without being burned down at every move. But some of those mortals took Alduin’s mercy for weakness and formed the building blocks for the revolution.
A revolution where you had been killed.
Paarthurnax almost wanted to side with Alduin after watching you, one of the only dragons who gave a damn, be killed. But, in your dying breaths, you begged Paarthurnax not to fall with Alduin into vengeance. After all, why should all the mortals be blamed for the act of few?
For you, Paarthurnax helped the mortals and ceased the end of the world, dreading the day Alduin would return.
But now you and Alduin were both back and, for once, Paarthurnax had no idea what the outcome would be.
“Have you encountered the World Eater, Dovahkin?”
“I haven’t,” you replied, as he thought; if Alduin had found you before Paarthurnax, you’d never be allowed to stray from the World Eater’s grasp.
Paarthurnax sent you on a “quest” then, to “prove your worth and skill”. In reality, he needed time to think, to gather the thoughts racing through his mind and figure out what he planned to do. It was also to get you away from the throat of the world because Paarthurnax had a strong feeling he would be paid a visit from Alduin.
He was proven right when the black dragon landed on his mountain, quiet anger radiating from his scales.
“The word is true, then. You have returned,” Paarthurnax mused, trying his very best to mask the wariness that was etched in his veins. The ancient tongue felt good, like an old friend he hadn’t spoken to in centuries. He had missed having dragons to communicate with.
“Where is she?” Alduin demanded immediately, voice as commanding and ferocious as Paarthurnax remembered. He didn’t have the strongest thumm for nothing.
“I am unsure what you mean, brother.”
Alduin growled, a warning no doubt. “I am not in a gaming mood. Tell me where my mate is, Paarthurnax.”
“What would make you think she has returned?” Paarthurnax asked casually, the lie easily rolling off his tongue. “She died with the war.”
Paarthurnax knew he was poking a hungry, vengeful bear but, if it meant keeping Alduin off your trail, he would make that sacrifice.
“Cease your treacherous lies, her soul calls to mine. I can feel her very essence. If you do not reveal her presence to me, Skyrim shall burn.”
Well, Paarthurnax would lose no sleep over that. Not if it meant your well-being. You were far more precious than the whole world.
Eventually, Alduin left after his fire clashed against Paarthurnax’s, the throat of the world fortunately remaining upright. Now, Paathurnax just had to pray to Akatosh that you stayed far from Alduin’s reach.
——
Vilkas wrapped his arms around you as your back sunk into his strong chest, nuzzled in his warmth and the comfort of the thick blankets. He placed a gentle kiss on your shoulder, making a smile grace your face - the crackling of the fire lulling you to sleep.
“You frightened me today,” he said gently, nose resting in your hair.
“How so?” You replied tiredly, eyes still shut.
“You went into that cave all by yourself and I though…” he sighed. “I thought I lost you.”
You turned your head to look at him then, an almost amused smile on your lips. “You know I can handle a dungeon, right?”
He should have known that, considering the many times you, he, and Farkas explored the deep crevices of Skyrim together. Fighting tooth and nail against the Silver Hand to bring safety and glory to the Companions.
Of course, that was a different life.
“I am allowed to worry about you,” he defended, almost pouting, wrapping his hand gently in your hair. “This Dragonborn stuff… it is not easy, or safe. I want you to be safe.”
You practically shrugged. “I still believe it was mistake.”
He sighed again, tired of already having this conversation a million times. “It was my no mistake, my love. You absorbed the dragon’s soul.”
“And you killed it.”
The Companions had been a home for both of you, especially Vilkas. But he had found a new home with you, one where he didn’t feel the need to constantly fight and kill. For you, he left the companions.
You’d tried to convince him to renounce his wolf form too, explaining that he did not need to live with the constant hunger and bloodlust. He said he would, one day, but he was scared to be vulnerable - especially when he’d left all he knew. You let the matter drop, giving him time to adjust.
You had been accepted into the Companion’s inner circle, given the opportunity to take the wolf form and transcend mortality.
It didn’t work.
Almost immediately, your body burned, forcing the blood from your lungs, coughing it up as if you were drowning. You had passed out and were sick for nearly a week, as if your body simply refused to change its form.
Vilkas had been in charge of nursing you back to health then, and the two of you quickly fell for each other.
At least you were finally given an explanation; the dragon in you denying any other form of blood or soul that would change you.
Regardless of what did or did not happen, Vilkas left the companions and, although he already had an abundance of money saved up (enough to let the two of you live comfortably for the rest of your lives), he became a hunter. Or, more specifically with what had happened to the world, a dragon hunter.
The return of dragons had been daunting for everyone, but not Vilkas. He saw people cowering in fear and found it in his heart to help them, even at the risk of his own life.
You were just there at the right place and right time (or wrong place, wrong time, depending on how you looked at it) and, suddenly, you were the Dragonborn. The person destined to stop the end of the world.
It should have been Vilkas - he was the one he wasn’t afraid of the beasts, who could slay them without so much as a bat of an eye. Perhaps you were strong - even compassionate in the right circumstances - but, selfishly, you did not want the weight of the world on your shoulders.
You did not want to have to face the World Eater.
Paarthurnax had been frightening enough, and he didn’t even want to kill you. How in the divine’s name were you supposed to defeat Alduin? Perhaps that was it - the divines had given up on this world, deciding to mock the chance of survival by throwing them a useless Dragonborn.
“It should have been you,” you often whispered to Vilkas, in the dark of the night when your false bravado left you and only the insecurities remained.
“I will be with you every step of the way,” he would always reply without fail, gently placing a kiss on your skin and holding you close.
You wished he hadn’t promised such a thing because, as you stood in the snow shivering to the bone with a ginormous black dragon flying above you, all you could think of was Vilkas’ safety.
Paarthurnax told you that the secret to defeating Alduin would lie within the Elder Scroll, which was located in the outskirts of Skyrim where no one dared to venture.
So how had Alduin found you? Was he not supposed to be eating the world?
Perhaps Alduin found you unassuming, weak even, because his fire was targeted solely at Vilkas, the nord panting from the constant dodges.
However, one thing you knew you were skilled at was archery.
Your hands shook from the cold and the fear coursing through you, but you did your very best to hold the bow steady, shutting one eye to gain a better perspective on where the arrow would it. You released the string, a flicker of pride running through when it hit its target.
Of course, that was snuffed out when Alduin’s furious red gaze shot to you.
Vilkas yelled out your name, warning you to move as the dragon approached you faster than you thought possible. In a flash, a claw closed around you and your world turned black.
——
Dragons mate for life.
Alduin always believed the sentiment to be stupid, preferring to mount and fuck whoever he deemed worthy. There was no need to risk his own convenience and concern for the sake of attachment.
But then there was you.
Paarthurnax had always had far too much mercy for a dragon, practically allowing his emotions to rule him. Even so, no one expected him to take a younger, abandoned dragon under his wing.
Without even being seen by most, you had become a common conversation topic - none of which was flattering. From what Alduin had heard, you were the runt of the litter, by all means. Abandoned for your inability to grow. Paarthurnax kept you shielded from the words, and even sharper teeth, of the dragon world.
It wasn't until about half a century later when Alduin first saw you - when, under Paarthurnax's mentorship, had you become fully fledged dovah. The spark was instantaneous, Alduin immediately filled with a possessiveness he had never before experienced.
You were his at first sight - nothing Paarthurnax or anyone else did would change that.
And you really were the most captivating creature Alduin had ever met; filled to the brim with life and excitement and curiosity. Perhaps he didn't show it very much but you held his beating heart in your claws, and he was willing to risk that so long as you stayed his. And you did - you were lovely, and extraordinary, and his.
Until you weren't.
Alduin was used to anger. He had felt and understood rage, the need for vengeance. But he never thought he'd experience sorrow - he had always mocked those who felt such a thing, claiming it was a weak emotion that a true dovah would never feel. But then you had been stolen him and his heart hurt.
Ruling had always satisfied him, enjoying every being bowing to him in fear and awe - his ability to do so was the only reason he never ate the world... until there was you, of course.
The world - or at least those who understood what being the World Eater entailed - took a breath of relief when he mated with you; finally the World Eater had something to tie him down, to make him want to keep the world turning.
But then you had been murdered by those mortal scum and Alduin decided that if he couldn't have you, the rest of the world wasn't permitted to live.
However, it seemed Paarthurnax never truly cared for you, disrespecting you and your memory by siding with the mortals and sending Alduin into a time loop.
When he first returned, Alduin was filled with rage, preparing himself to hunt Paarthurnax down and kill the traitor. But then he felt it - felt you. Your soul - as long as it had been - called to his, begging him to find you.
And find you he did, even if you were in the clutches of some mortal half-breed bastard.
It didn't matter; if the World Eater wanted something, he took it. Even if you were kicking and screaming.
----
I'm so sorry that took so long, and the abrupt ending. This was mostly just set up but I'm actually really interested in this concept so, don't worry, there's gonna be a part two! Thanks for reading and I hope to see you there.
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angelynmoon · 11 months ago
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"It was forged in a Dragon's fire." Merlin grinned at Lancelot.
There was alot Lancelot wanted to ask about that, like how Merlin got close enough to a Dragon's fire and lived to tell about it but Merlin was already handing the Dragon's blade to him and taking Lancelot's.
"You're better off using it, Kilgarrah will have to sulk about it." Merlin told him.
Again Lancelot had questions, like the Dragon had a name and it was still alive, but those would have to wait since he had a Warlock to protect.
Lancelot decided he liked the Dragon's blade and he wondered if he could request his own, surely the one in his hand had been meant for someone else, likely Arthur, but it felt right in his hand as Lancelot defended Merlin from the Immortals' swords.
Then they were in the throne room and they should have known it would be guarded.
Lancelot looked at Merlin and nodded, the Dragon's Sword ready as they continued, so focused were they on getting to the Cup that they didn't register the sound of the warning bell ringing as they fought.
Lancelot letting out a gasp as he took a hit to his shoulder, luckly not on his sword arm.
Merlin looked at him but Lancelot shook his head, motioning to the Cup, he'd be okay, the others might not be.
Merlin knocked the Cup from its podium as the doors burst open, the men whose blood now spilled across the throne room floor exploding in bright light as the Cup clattered to the ground.
A shout of rage left Morgause and she threw Merlin at a wall.
Lancelot forced himself up to get between them when Merlin laid on the floor gasping, he hoped nothing was too injured, Lancelot had seen men be thrown like that and never walk again, he couldn't let Morgause hurt Merlin.
"Get out of my way, boy." Morgause snarled.
"No." Lancelot said, ignoring Merlin's quiet gasp of his name.
"I am a High Priestess of the Old Religion." The woman smirked as Arthur and the other Knights entered the room from behind the throne and Morgana entered the same door Morgause had, "What do you hope to do against me?"
"Sir Lancelot, your Oath." Merlin said as he shifted to sit against the wall he'd been thrown into.
Lancelot glanced at him, Merlin was giving him the same look he'd given him when he'd Knighted him, so proud, so loving, even as his arm rested across his chest, he likly had several broken ribs.
"Your Oath." Merlin said again.
Lancelot nodded and turned back to Morgause and Morgana, who now stood next to her sister, hand up preventing Arthur and the others from coming to their aid.
"And I am a Knight of the Old Religion," Lancelot said, taking in the way Morgana frowned and Mogause stiffened, "A Knight is sworn to valor, his heart knows only Virtue, his blade defends the helpless, his might upholds the weak, his word speaks only truth, his wrath undoes the Wicked."
As he said the last line Lancelot swung the Dragon's Blade at Morgause while she incanted a spell that hit the Shield Merlin had cast over him.
The Blade hit Morgause in the stomach.
And she laughed, "No mortal blade can kill me!" She shouted.
Lancelot tore the Blade out of her, watched her stumble back.
"Then you should know that this Sword was forged in a Dragon's fire." Lancelot said as he watched her fall.
"NOO!" Morgana screamed as she grabbed at Morgause, her cry echoing against the walls, shaking them, making dust spill down.
"Merlin!" Lancelot cried as he turned to gather him up, the man still sitting on the ground.
"Lancelot." Merlin whispered, "We can't leave Morgana, we can't."
"Percival." Lancelot turned to the large man who had fallen into step next to him, "Grab Morgana."
Thankfully the man did not question him as he grabbed the woman and threw her over his shoulder.
Merlin pressed a hand on her ankle and she screamed as her magic was locked away, though the damage had been done and the Castle still shook.
Lancelot felt the moment Merlin passed out and swung him fully into his arms, Gwaine taking his sword so he could hold Merlin better against him as they ran.
Once in the Courtyard Gwen and Gauis both ran to them as the Castle continued to shake.
"What happened?" Gauis asked as he motioned Lancelot to lay Merlin out.
"Morgause threw him into a wall, it must have hurt him badly because he did not stand back up." Lancelot explained.
"Let me go, you peasent." Morgana shouted as she fought Percival's hold.
"Why did you bring her?" Elyan asked, glaring at the woman.
"Lancelot told me to grab her." Percival shrugged, making Morgana yell more at being jostled.
"Morgana." Arthur said quietly.
Morgana glared at him, "Don't think being my brother will save you."
"I miss you." Arthur said softly, "You used to be my best friend, the person I could confide in, where did that woman go?"
"She never existed." Morgana snarled, "She was lied to and hunted and betrayed."
"Arthur." Merlin said sluggishly as he woke, "The bracelet, I think Morgause enchanted it to manipulate Morgana."
"When did you discover this?" Gauis asked as he forced Merlin to stay laying down.
"When she first stared wearing it, Gwen said she wasn't acting the same, she was restless and quicker to anger, so I researched it and had Lancelot look in to personality enchantments in other kingdoms, sometimes they are used to make opinionated women dolcile." Merlin explained.
"You think Morgause enchanted it to make Morgana angry." Lancelot concluded.
"Yes. The Morgana we knew would never turn on the lower people." Merlin said softly.
Arthur and Gwen looked hopeful.
"Fine." Gwaine said and stormed over to wrestle the bracelet off of Morgana's wrist.
She fought him until the metal was no longer against her skin and then she went still.
Percival pulled her off his shoulder to set her on her feet and followed her down as she crumpled.
"What have I done, Arthur, Arthur, I'm so sorry." Morgana said as she began to sob, "I killed so many people, I tried to kill Uthur!"
"Well, a lot of people have tried to kill Uthur." Merlin joked.
"Merlin!" Gaius scolded, even as he let Lancelot help him sit up so he could wrap his ribs.
"I'm still angry at you!" Morgana shouted at him, being held back from throwing herself at him.
"Yeah, that's fair." Merlin agreed as he put a hand over Lancelot's where he'd grabbed the Dragon's Blade.
Morgana stilled, "'That's fair'?"
"I poisoned you, admittedly it was to break the curse on Camelot that Morgause used you to anchor, but still, I hurt you and it's okay to be mad at me." Merlin told her.
"Oh." Morgana exclaomed softly, "She wouldn't have done that if she really loved me, would she?"
"No, Morgana, she wouldn't have." Gwen said softly as she sat next to her friend.
"I hurt you too." Morgana said, "I'm so sorry, I tried to kill you because I was jealous."
Gwen paused, not sure what to say.
"I'm going to teach you everything you need to know to be a good Queen, and maybe you can forgive me?" Morgana asked, hopefully.
Gwen smiled and pulled her into a hug, "You're going to be my sister when I marry Arthur, I suppose I have to."
They both started to laugh quietly.
Arthur cleared his throat, "Unfortunatly, Morgana did use Magic and Magic is against the Law in Camelot."
"Arthur!" Gwen cried as she clung to Morgana.
"Lancelot." Merlin said, making Lancelot sigh as he stood between Arthur and Morgana, Sword in hand.
"Sir Lancelot." Arthur frowned.
"I can't let you harm her, Sire, it goes against my Oath, she's," Lancelot looked down at her and her fearfilled, teary eyes, before turning back to Arthur, "She's helpless, Sire."
"She's a Witch." Arthur argued.
"I bound her Magic, Arthur, she'll only Dream until I realease her." Merlin said as he stood up, ignoring Gauis' protests, coming to stand with Lancelot.
"Lancelot, you are a Knight of Camelot, stand aside."
"Yes, but I am a Knight of the Old Religion first, I swore an Oath to defend the helpless." Lancelot told him.
"You said something like that to Morgause." Gwaine said thoughtfully, "she seemed unnerved by it."
"Because the Old Code is binding, to go against it is to forfit your life." Gaius explained as he stood to go tend to Uthur, who stared at nothing "When the kings of old realised that many Noble Houses could not survive taking such an Oath they got rid of it's use."
Arthur looked at Lancelot and his position in front of Merlin and Morgana and at Gwen's pleading eyes.
"Fine, but she goes nowhere without an escort, if she does she'll be locked in the dungeons for a week." Arthur said, frustrated.
"What about her Magic and the Law?" Leon asked, having been silent until now.
"Oh, fine, I guess I'm lifting the Magic Ban as well, it wouldn't do to spare only the Royal family, I'm not a hypocrate." Arthur cried out.
"Well, there's one thing in your favor then." Morgana teased.
Arthur pointed a finger at her, "Do not make me regret this, Morgana."
"I won't." Morgana promised as she clung to Gwen.
"As for you Merlin, when were you going to tell me you had Magic?!" Arthur shouted.
"To be fair, I've never told anyone." Merlin said.
"Don't make me put you in the stocks." Arthur threatened.
"Don't make me set my Dragon on you." Merlin countered making everyone turn to look at him.
"I'm sorry, your Dragon?" Gwaine asked.
Merlin paused, "So, um, I may or may not be the Last Dragonlord since my Father Died and I inhereted his powers."
Merlin shrugged and winced as his hand came up to cradle his chest.
"We're going to have a long talk later." Arthur sighed, "For now, let's salvage what we can and make a camp. Merlin, you and Gwen babysit Morgana, Percival, you Babysit Merlin and Gwen."
"Yes, Sire." Percival nodded.
"Everyone else, split up, see what you can find, and be careful." Arthur told them, pleased when they split into pairs without him needing to tell them to.
Gwen stood to help Merlin sit down and pulled him close to her and Morgana.
"So, tell us all about how Sir Lancelot took your virginity, was he sweet and gentle or does that hide a more rougeish nature?" Gwen asked.
"Gwen!" Morgana cried, offended.
Merlin almost sighed in relief at getting out of answering.
"You know you're supposed to start by asking what the first kiss was like." Morgana said and turned to look at Merlin expectantly.
"Well..." Merlin began, knowing there was no escape as even Percival was looking at him curiously.
Eventually they would fall asleep, after giggling over the men they loved or in Morgana's case the knight she was never allowed to pursue, perhaps, in time she might be able to win his heart as he'd always held hers but for now they slept and in the morning a new beginning would rise with the sun.
--
A/n: is this an excuse for Morgana to not be evil? You betcha. Is it also me wondering why Merlin didn't give the Dragon Sword to Lancelot, you know the skilled swordsman, and fixing it? Yep. Yeah I know it was probably Kilgarrah making hin promise but he can just be a sulky Dargon about it. Also Merlin does get Lancelot his own Dragon Blade for the Anniversery of his First Knighthood. The other's whine about it so Merlin teases them by getting them daggers and calls the baby swords since they're being babies about it. They get anniversery Swords too but baby swords first.
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