#edelin sharp

[lcveblind]

CHARACTER TAG DUMP.

[neonlight2]

Came back a king… and queen

Masterlist

She could taste the water, sweet on her teeth as it slid down her body, washing away the red that had stained her bronze skin. Her arms ache with fatigue, seemingly resting against the surface of the water. Every so often she’d let her fingers break the tension, dipping into the cool blanket of relief. Swirling behind, black as ink, her hair clings to the water alongside the body keeping her back warm. The same warmth that made her legs twitch and ache all the same, yet not from numbness.

She could feel him. The pure opposite of everything surrounding them. Hot to the touch, unlike the water which was so blissfully chilled. Rough and scratched, his fingers made her shiver as he caressed her, mercilessly breaking the smoothness of the water surrounding her skin.

Relentless, he touched her furiously as if to trap her there forever, to make her forget anything beyond the cave which they sought harbor in. Arms wrapped around her so tightly, if it weren’t for his heat and restless habit of roguishness, she would call him a snake. A serpent meant to pull her to the depths. Yet, she knew his nature was truly to hoarder her away like treasure, in a cave where this was all they would do. Where he would bathe her in pleasure.

He’d call her a nymph. Seducing him with every move, every look she graced him with, every single breathe she took in his presence. God he’d worship her like this every day if only she’d let him. He’d have her relaxing against him, beneath him, curling into him as she was now with his hands between her thighs. This was his reward, a space in the heaven within her.

Daemon knew just by the furrow of her brown, the tremor of her lip, and the way she gripped his hair from behind her— she was seconds from letting go.

“Won’t you let me indulge you forever Issa jaesa?”

“We can’t be late Dae.” She practically sung, spinning around as they dashed through the halls by themselves.

Glancing all around them, they could see the castle had grown dull without either of them. Candles half dead with wax drowning the flames. The servants had been all about no doubt. From what Rhaenyra had told them, as well as the letters sent by Edeline, the kingdom was in absolute shambles. Mimicking the worry of Viserys, a king facing war and a father without his daughter.

“They don’t even know we’re here Jaehaera,” he answered with a slight grumpy look on his face. His eyes trained on the pearls dripping off her body.

The people of the islands had crowned them both, but to Daemon’s delight, they took his calling her a goddess to heart.

They believed her a deity. A god sent from the highest sky into the depths of the sea, rising to war and ensuring peace for those that follow her.

So they dressed her in silks white as the sand and pearls that shared a likeness to raindrops in certain light. Falling across her face, waist, and breast. Daemon couldn’t decide who’d be least pleased by her attire, his brother or the green cunt who stood beside him.

Jaehaera tutted at him, a grin taking over her face— teeth sharp and white. “Don’t pout at me, my Prince. I rewarded you, don’t be greedy.”

If it weren’t for her excitement, Daemon knew his will would not be strong enough to withstand the urge to capture and devour her in the corner of this very hall. “It’s my nature. I’d wish you’d except yours.”

Scrunching her nose at him, she turned around and ceased her dancing. Now walking like a soldier, sword resting loosely on her bare hip. “Just behave would you? Let him at least see me safe before you make any outlandish remarks.”

Speeding his stride to catch up to hers, Daemon slipped his hands to her hip, stopping her before the door, where soldiers gawked in awe at the two. Helping her fasten the blade to her side, he let his eyes wander before smiling widely. Pride swelled in his chest upon seeing the mark resting between her breasts. She’d let him place it there. And he wished the world to see it.

“I’ll do anything you ask of me.”

“That’s a dangerous promise—,”

“Vow.”

“What?” She scoffed, staring at his in disbelief.

“It’s a vow. If I break it, you must kill me.”

“Must?”

“You may, if you wish.”

Staring at him, her eyes boiling with intrigue, she ordered, “Announce us would you, Daniel?”

Daemon could hear the guard scrambling to do his job, probably in shock by the sudden order, or more likely in a craze that the princess knew his name. What he didn’t know was that she knew all of their names. It’s something that still drove Daemon mad.

Which is why he vowed to himself to always surprise her. He wanted her to know him, but he needed her to never tire of him.

Thus the nature of their relationship.

“Prince Daemon and Princess Jaehaera have returned!”

The hall, once bustling with lords and advisors, went quiet at the declaration. They all scattered as the grand doors opened, revealing the two most restless dragons the kingdom had ever beheld.

Both approached the king in their own way. Daemon in his usual swagger, leaning back on his heels as he grew closer to his brother. While Jaehaera all but ran to her father, quickly dropping to her knees before him despite his numerous attempts to stop her. She dipped her body to the floor, then offered her sword as if it were her heart.

“Would you put it with your others, my king?”

The spectacle was dawning on all those that watched. Those who knew little but the rumors of the princess were taken aback by her display. Other, however, knew better.

The guards in which she trains with, sir Harwin and Cole, especially found this to be amusing. Knowing she harbored a flare for dramatic expression.

Otto thought it ridiculous. The sight of a princess, baring her sword to the king, having gone to war, and now returning with next to nothing on. It was a scandal. Don’t get him started on the crowns both royals wore.

His daughter, not far from his side, watched Jaehaera with big eyes. She had been amazed with the girl the second she’d met her, but there seemed to be nothing the princess couldn’t do. Her heart yearned to envy, but she could only find herself able to fawn. Over her accomplishments, her strength, her freedom, and how ethereal Jaehaera looked.

She watched with eagerness, waiting for the kings to embrace her, so Alicent may have a moment of her time—

“Get up and embrace your worried father,” Viserys said in a pleading tone, already standing as if he would pull her from the ground himself.

Jaehaera’s head lifted, baring her smile again to the world before hugging her father.

“I will not take your sword,” he stated, making Jaehaera’s heart sink, “you have far more things to do with it.”

“Then take mine,” Daemon threw his on the floor carelessly by their feet, peering at the crowd with a predatory gaze.

Coming back to his senses, Viserys waved his hand, silently ordering sir harwin to place the sword among the many others of his throne. Daemon didn’t miss the teasing glances between the knight and princess.

“You wear a crown in my presence?” His tone was warning, but held no real malice.

“We both do father,” Jaehaera answered, leaving his side briefly to take the Pearl encrusted headdress off. “But only to gift them to you.”

A small smile quirked onto Viserys face, lovingly gazing from his daughter to his brother. “Is this true?”

Nodding, Daemon stepped closer to the pair, a grin of his own growing. “We know there is only one true king of the realm.”

Rhaenyra saw her family whole, totally for once. Her father hugging her brother like children again. And Jaehaera gleefully looking around for her. When their eyes met, Rhaenyra swore her heart fluttered quick enough to make her believe it had stopped.

She had gotten taller. How it’s possible she didn’t know. Before she had left, Jaehaera was only a few inches taller than her, now she could be all but a foot. She had seen her mere weeks ago, yet she had changed so much. Jaehaera always seemed to change every time she left.

Her hair was near her knees and Daemons had been cut. Rhaenyra would hear all about it later.

Running to her with purpose, Jaehaera hoisted Rhaenyra into the air. Clinging to her like a child, the two girls marveled at the other.

Barely letting her go, Jaehaera offered the Pearl crown to her, a grin of determination set firmly. “I want you to have it Nyra.”

And before she could argue, Jaehaera pulled her by the waist as she placed it on her head. “Wear it for me please?”

She knew she would not deny her. They never do.

Alicent watched as her two friends hugged each other, happy and longing at the sight. She knew it would be her turn soon enough, that she mustn’t be impatient, Jaehaera would never forget her. She’d just admire for now, watch as Rhaenyra dawned Jaehaera’s crown, looking somewhat comical yet beautiful all the same. She watched as the raven haired girl towered over the other princess, occasionally caressing her as they gazed at one another.

Alicent would be a fool not to notice the way they looked at each other. With love, pure she still thought, but more all the same. It just wasn’t as blaring as Jaehaera and Daemon’s affections. Only those who truly knew the princesses would know. And she did.

She knew. But she cared little because she was part of that love, or at least that’s what she hoped. That all the time, shared glances and deep conversation, meant something more. Maybe she meant something more?

Her heart leaped when Jaehaera’s eyes flitted her way. The princess smile remained wide, but her eyes sparkled with something new— making a swarm of butterflies erupt from Alicent’s stomach, flying to her mouth. She wanted to scream hello, perhaps giggle like a smitten girl, but she couldn’t. Keeping her mouth closed, she glanced quickly at her father before waving at Jaehaera.

Jaehaera sent a wink in her direction, something not uncommon, she was a flirt and playful at heart, but something didn’t feel right.

It wasn’t until the princess’s brow lifted with a familiar fondness, only to dart away and finally wave at Alicent with a new smile, that she understood. Turning her head to look behind her, Alicent saw her.

Jaehaera’s favorite maid, Edeline— whom her father called a ‘pet’— stood in the shadows, leaning against a pillar with love stricken eyes.

There was the envy, and it was growing, green like an illness. It made Alicent feel sick—

“Have you missed me desperately Ally?”

Alicent jolted at the girl’s quick and overcoming presence. Willing herself to gasp out a ‘yes’.

Tilting her head, Jaehaera observed her friend closely, bringing her thumb to smooth the lines denting her forehead. “I didn’t worry you too much did I?”

Gulping Alicent shook her head, “I’ll always worry, but I trust you to know what you’re doing.”

Smiling gently, Jaehaera ran her hands down Alicent’s, finding her hands to kiss the scars she knew would reappear in her absence. “I’m so proud of you Ally.”

Jaehaera didn’t need to say anything further for Alicent to understand. She’d scolded herself numerous of times for biting and scratching at her finger, knowing Jaehaera would return and be saddened by the image. There were far less than in the past.

Leaning closer to her, Jaehaera whispered in Alicent’s ear, so low that she almost didn’t hear her.

“Go to sleep early, I’ll come see you later tonight. We have much to discuss.”

Then she was gone.

Moving from Alicent’s side, Jaehaera was like a phantom, guiding her young maid to the shadows to disappear with her.

And while she was already willing her eyelids to grow heavy, Alicent couldn’t help but wish for girl to trip and fall from the stair which lead to Jaehaera’s chambers. For she would be in her arms all evening, in the way she wanted to be tonight.

She couldn’t understand how Daemon and Rhaenyra would allow such a thing—

Until she saw their dark eyes following where hers had been.

She realized, they could do nothing but watch.

But she could.

Or rather, she knew someone that could.

…

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood - 96

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 96: Once in grief, heart of black but forced in green IV

AO3 - Masterlist

Daenera’s heart tightened in her chest as her gaze, betraying her will, flicked toward the mirror, catching a glimpse of movement behind her. Her eyes lingered on his reflection for only a moment before she forced them away, tearing her focus from him as if the very act of looking could unravel her composure. Yet, despite her attempt to ignore him, his presence weighed heavily on her, prickling at her skin like an impending storm.

It was as though the air around them had thickened, pregnant with something foreboding–an invisible force that hummed between them. She felt it, the slow and deliberate approach of something inevitable, much like watching dark clouds gather on the horizon, knowing full well that they would soon unleash their fury. The sense of waiting, of being on the brink of something uncontrollable, filled her with a dread she couldn’t shake, and the tension in the room only grew, wrapping around her like a tightening coil.

Aemond stood in the archway, the dim light casting long shadows behind him. He lingered there for a moment, his gaze sharp and unyielding as he silently watched her from the threshold. The tension in the air thickened, and though he said nothing, the very act of his arrival was enough to shift the feel of the room. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he shuffled forward, his movements as quiet and deliberate as always. 

Daenera didn’t acknowledge him. Instead, she turned to Edelin, her eyes locking onto the girl’s as she spoke quietly. “Thank you, Edelin, that will be all. Please inform the kitchens of my preferences for breakfast.”

With a deferential nod, Edelin placed the brush back on the dressing table and stepped back before bending into a short courtesy. “Yes, Princess.” 

Without further word, she exited the room, nodding respectfully to Aemond before passing him. 

Daenera’s gaze flickered to the mirror, meeting Helaena’s eyes as she stood behind her. There was a knowing softness in Helaena’s expression, an understanding that required no words. With a quiet smile, she placed the brush gently on the table and leaned down to press a kiss to the top of Daenera’s head. 

Then, without a sound, Helaena turned and followed Edelin out of the room, leaving Daenera alone with Aemond’s looming presence behind her. 

The air between them grew thick, weighted with the unspoken tension that had become as familiar as breathing. Neither of them acknowledged the other, waiting for one to break the silence–a silent game of endurance. Daenera felt the press of words rising inside of her, a relentless pressure climbing from her chest, clawing up her throat, demanding to be unleashed. She bit her tongue, keeping them from forming there, though the irritation gnawed at her, restlessly stirring beneath her skin. 

She picked up the brush Edelin had left on the table, her movements sharp, and began running it through her hair. There were no knots left to be undone, but the repetitive motion gave her something to do, something to focus on beside the frustration tightening in her chest. 

Through the mirror, she watched Aemond with a sidelong glance. He stood by the chaise, undoing the laces of his doublet, each motion deliberate and unhurried–seemingly unaffected the same way she was. The heavy fabric slipped from his shoulders, revealing the loose undershirt beneath, a muted green that billowed softly around his lean frame. He undid the laces at the collar, letting it hang open, exposing the sharp line of his collarbone. 

He moved to the settee and sat, leaning forward to tug off his boots with a casualness that made her jaw clench. As he bent, the fabric shifted, offering her a brief, tantalizing glimpse of his chest, the pale skin exposed where the shirt fell open. 

Daenera’s gaze lingered too long, and when she tore her eyes away, she could feel the tension inside her constricting, tightening just below her breastbone. The pressure mounted, a storm brewing beneath her skin. 

Her gaze settled on the glass of wine, her fingers curling around its cold, smooth surface. She lifted the glass, feeling its chill against the warmth of her skin, and brought it to her lips. Her heart pounded within her chest–a relentless drumming–as she tipped back the glass and took a deep drink. The wine was bitter, its sharpness cutting through her senses, but it did little to quench the fire that burned in her stomach. 

She gathered her long hair over one shoulder, letting it spill down in a dark cascade before her. The weight of it was soothing, grounding her as she placed the brush back on the table with a soft clink. Her fingers hovered over the small bottles that lined the edge of the dressing table before selecting one–a clear bottle with thick, golden liquid inside. As she moved it, the oil sloshed gently against the glass, the viscosity slow and deliberate. She poured a few drops into her palm, the faint scent of something earthy and sweet rising as she returned the bottle to its place.

Rubbing her hands together, she spread the oil evenly across her palms before dragging her fingers through the length of her hair, smoothing each strand with methodical care. Slowly, as she worked the oil through the curls, she could see them begin to take shape, the frizz softening into defined coils. The motion was repetitive, calming, but beneath it, she felt the tension still building within her.

And then she felt it–his gaze, prickling at the back of her neck. It was as tangible as a touch, creeping over her skin like the brush of a cool breeze. She could feel him watching, his presence heavy and unrelenting, even though he had said nothing. The silence between them remained, thick and unbroken, but his attention clung to her like a second skin. It was unnerving, the way his gaze seemed to demand her notice without him uttering a word, and yet, Daenera remained focused on her task, her fingers steadily moving through her hair, refusing to give in to the urge to turn and meet his eyes.

But the tension between them was palpable, and with every moment, it grew harder to ignore the quiet weight of his presence, pressing in on her from across the room.

Restlessly, Daenera rose from her seat, unable to remain still under the weight of her own thoughts. She crossed the room to the water basin, the soft rustle of her robe the only sound breaking the thick silence. As she reached the basin, rose petals drifted on the surface of the water, delicate and weightless. 

Without hesitation, she plunged her hands into the cool water, the sudden chill a welcome distraction from the heat that simmered beneath her skin. She cupped a handful of water, bringing it to her face, letting the cool droplets trail down her cheeks.

But even the cold water did little to ease the fire burning inside her. It lingered, deep and untouchable, far beyond the reach of mere water and wine. With a sigh of resignation, she wiped her face with a cloth, patting it dry before turning to the hearth. Folding her arms around herself, Daenera moved towards the fire, drawn to its glow. Perhaps standing near the flames would allow Daenera to pretend that the heat enveloping her came from the hearth and not from that restless fire smoldering deep within her, the one that constantly threatened to unravel her self-control. 

The wine she’d drunk only seemed to add to her discomfort, swirling uneasily in her stomach. Though it had been just one glass, it gnawed at her resolve, wearing away at it like the relentless crashing of waves against jagged rocks. Each wave weakened her defenses, bit by bit, leaving her more vulnerable to the emotions she had tried so hard to bury beneath layers of composure.

Daenera stared into the dwindling fire, her gaze fixed on the embers that smoldered in the hearth. There were hardly any flames left, only small tongues of fire flickering at the air as if mocking her. The firewood beneath it glowed white-hot, threaded with veins of bright orange as the flames slowly devoured what remained, leaving only clumps of ash behind. 

The quiet destruction was almost mesmerizing. Her own had not been quiet. It had been loud, violent, and unforgiving–one string snapping after another until everything she had been unraveled. 

She could still feel the echo of it, the harshness of the fall reverberating through her even now. It had started slowly, deceptively gentle at first–the threads of her life pulled taut, one by one, fraying under the pressure. A thread snapped, then another, each one unraveling a part of her until she was left teetering on the edge. And then, in a single, brutal moment, he had cleaved through the remaining strands with the bloody sword of vengeance, severing the last ties that held her together.

The destruction hadn’t been slow or merciful; it had been swift and final. Her carefully woven sense of self, her world, had collapsed around her in a whirlwind of violence and betrayal, leaving her broken and vulnerable. 

And yet, a single thread remained. She could feel it tugging at her. It pulled at her soul, delicate yet persistent–the sensation was agonizing, keeping her tethered to something she did not want.

She became acutely aware of his presence behind her, an almost tangible thing. Even when he moved in near silence, she could feel his subtle shifts, like ripples spreading across a still pond. The space between them crackled with tension, each of his movements brushing against her senses, setting her on edge. Her breath hitched slightly at the soft clank behind her, the unmistakable sound of glass briefly scraping over metal.

Turning slowly, she found him at the table in the center of the room, his back to her as he lifted the pitcher from the tray to pour himself a glass of wine. His movements were deliberate, composed, and yet, the sight of him performing such a mundane task only heightened her sense of agitation. 

The words formed on Daenera’s tongue before she could stop them, spilling into the quiet and breaking the heavy silence. “You’re here.”

It wasn’t a question, but a statement of fact, her voice flat yet carrying an undercurrent of something sharper–something that bordered on accusation. And though the words hung in the air with an air of certainty, questioning what his presence meant for them both.

Aemond’s response came softly, though there was something tight and strained in his voice. “We have to keep up appearances.”

Her heart clenched painfully, a wave of frustration and anger washing over her as she stared pointedly at him. His presence, always so heavy and consuming, only worsened the knot of tension twisting inside of her. She scoffed bitterly, unable to keep the bite from her voice. “Appearances… I hope you don’t expect me to welcome you into bed with open arms and spread legs to ‘keep up appearances.’”

She clenched her arms tighter around herself, as though the simple act could shield her from the way his presence seemed to strip her bare. “Out there, I may play the part of your wife,” she continued, her voice steady, “but I will not keep up the pretense behind closed doors.”

He lifted the cup to his lips, the candlelight catching the dark liquid within, making it glisten. A sneer tugged at the corners of his mouth, as if he expected the acrid taste of vinegar instead of wine. With a deliberate, almost defiant motion, he drained the glass in one gulp, the sinewy contours of his throat working vigorously to swallow the bitter wine. Did the wine give him any solace, or did it churn in his stomach as it did hers?

The room felt smaller than it was, the fire in the hearth casting flickering shadows that seemed to dance mockingly across the stone walls. She quickly tore her gaze away, shaking her head as the familiar sound of him pouring another glass reached her ears, the gentle splash filling the silence between them. 

She stared at the smoldering embers in the hearth, willing herself to stay silent, to keep her thoughts locked inside where they wouldn’t tear her apart. But the words came anyway, slipping out before she could stop them. “Why?”

Her voice was barely more than a whisper, but in the silence, it was deafening.

Aemond’s response was calm, almost detached. “Why what?”

Her eyes flicked back to him, trailing over the sharp edges of his profile as she studied his expression. The flood of questions roared inside her mind, each one battering against her fragile composure. Why did he have to be so filled with hatred? Why did he have to murder her brother? Why would he do this to her? Why would he betray her like this? Why would he give her those vows he could never uphold? Why, why, why did he have to make her love him? Why was he so cruel?

The muscles in his jaw moved beneath the skin as he gritted his teeth, the line of his jaw sharp enough to cut. Yet there was an unsettling softness to the curve of his brow that only made it harder to decipher the emotions hidden beneath the surface. 

His lips, slightly pursed, appeared as though they were caught between restraining and something more dangerous. The corners tugged upward, not quite a smile but something bitter. She couldn’t decide if it made him more distant or if it brought him closer to a vulnerability he refused to reveal.

The emotions she had so carefully buried began to claw their way to the surface, no longer content to remain hidden in the dark corners of her heart. They tore free, surging violently from where they had been locked away, forcing their way up like a storm breaking through fragile walls. She could feel them scraping against her ribs, each breath a struggle as her chest tightened painfully under the weight of it all. Every inhale was sharp, her lungs aching as if the emotions themselves were suffocating her from within.

Aemond continued pouring his wine, the soft clink of the pitcher set aside punctuating the silence. He picked up both glasses, his movements deliberate, almost unnervingly calm. When he turned to face her, his expression was measured, soft, as he finally gazed upon her. The gleam of the sapphire set in his eye socket caught the light, and for a moment, it startled her. The cold, brilliant blue of it gleamed in the firelight, like the night sky stretched across an endless horizon, stars glimmering in the depths of a midnight sun. 

Her heart shuddered, the sight of him–the boy with the stars in his eye–twisting something deep within her. She wished, in that moment, that he had kept the eyepatch on. It would have been easier to face him that way, easier to endure his presence if he kept the mask firmly in place–easier to hate him.

The tension felt unbearable now, the question that had haunted her since the beginning pressing harder against her chest, demanding to be spoken. 

“Why did you insist on this marriage?” 

The answer, she feared, was one she already knew. 

Aemond watched her intently, his gaze inscrutable. The firelight flickered and burned within the cold blue of his sapphire eye, casting shifting shadows across the brutal scar that cleaved his face. It made him appear even more distant, more like a figure carved from stone than flesh–and yet, he was undeniably of flesh. A long, tense silence stretched between them before he finally spoke, his voice low as he came to stand by the hearth. “You know why.”

Daenera let out a derisive scoff, turning away from him with a sharp movement, her side now to him as she faced the fire. The heat from the smoldering wood licked at her through the layers of her robe and nightgown, but still, it couldn’t match the fire that burned far more fiercely within her. 

Anger, frustration, fear, and something deeper swirled together, suffocating her. 

A bubble of incredulous laughter rose in her chest, but it never escaped her lips. It died inside her, curdling into something bitter and sad, a feeling she couldn’t quite name. Tears stung at the back of her eyes, threatening to spill over as she fought to contain her emotions. “No.”

The denial slipped from her lips, but she wasn’t sure what it meant–whether it was a refusal to acknowledge the truth, or an attempt to deny it altogether. “I don’t.”

“I’ve told you before,” Aemond murmured, his voice low and velvety, barely rising above the crackling of the fire. Daenera could feel his gaze settle on her, could feel it tracing the contours of her face, as warm and invasive as the heat radiating from the hearth. It was an unspoken presence, like his gaze could reach out and touch her skin, making it tingle despite the knot forming in her stomach. 

“You want me.” Her words were laced with a scornful edge, the bitterness bubbling up as if it might spill over. Her heart twisted painfully in her chest, tight with frustration and an ache she couldn’t suppress. She felt as though she was teetering on the edge of something dangerous.

“It’s more than that.” His answer came simply, without hesitation. 

Daenera let out a derisive scoff, swallowing thickly.

There was a subtle movement out of the corner of her eye as he shifted, taking a quiet step closer. His presence pressed against her senses, like a shadow creeping over her, dark and heavy, threatening to swallow her whole–so familiar in its embrace. She could feel him looming, his nearness making the hairs at the back of her neck stand, but she stubbornly refused to acknowledge it. Her eyes remained fixed on the smoldering wood in the hearth, her body tense, as if denying him that small victory was the only power she had left. The wood crackled and popped, sending a plume of embers spiraling upward, disappearing into the air. 

“That’s all it is,” she muttered, her voice raw. “Desire.”

The words tasted bitter on her tongue, each one cutting deeper as they left her lips. That was all she had ever been to him–a thing to be wanted, to be possessed. He wanted her like a boy desires a toy, something to pull apart, to claim, to break.

Aemonds words were calm–though there was a note of frustration weaving its way into his voice, almost incredulous, as though he couldn’t believe she was denying that it could be anything more than lust. “It’s more than that, and you know it.” 

Her gaze snapped to him, his words slipping between her ribs like a blade. They grazed her heart with an almost tender caress, working the wounds he had left on it. She despised the way her heart bled for him, how it cut itself willingly on the edge of his words, how it almost welcomed the pain–craving the very thing that would destroy it. 

She wasn’t prepared for the tenderness in his gaze. The sharp, cutting edges of his features–the cold, unfeeling mask he wore like a shield–seemed softened by the flickering light of the flames. The warmth bathed him, smoothing the harsh lines of his face, as if the fire itself was trying to melt the armor he wore so proudly. But even that warmth, that softness, felt like a deception, and she couldn't help but resent how it made her heart falter.

And then she saw it again–his sapphire eye, gleaming in the low light, the vast expanse of stars captured in the stone. It glittered, a swirl of light and shadow, almost beautiful–mocking, in its quiet reminder of everything he was and everything he had done. 

The sight stirred something deep within her. The boy with the stars in his eyes. The boy she was destined to love–the boy that was destined to betray her. 

Her gaze dropped to the glass of wine he held out to her, the crimson liquid catching the firelight. It was a small gesture, yet laden with meaning–an offering of peace, a silent plea for understanding. The wine seemed to shimmer in the dim light, swirling darkly within the glass. 

Something inside her broke. 

With a sudden, violent motion, Daenera slapped the glass from his hand. The wine exploded from the goblet, vivid splatters of red blooming across the fabric like wounds, soaking greedily into the material. Before he could react, she knocked the second glass from his other hand, sending it crashing to the floor along the other. The sharp sound of shattering glass echoed through the room like a crack of thunder, harsh and jarring.

Shards scattered across the floor, glinting in the firelight as they skittered across the stone. A few pieces grazed her bare ankles, leaving tiny stings in their wake, while the spilled wine seeped into her slippers, sticky and cold beneath her heel. Fury surged through her, raw and unrelenting. She shoved Aemond’s chest with both hands, slapping at him in blind rage, her breath ragged as the tension in her body snapped. Each hit was less about hurting him and more about releasing the tempest inside her, the force of her emotions too much to contain any longer.

Aemond didn’t move to stop her–hardly moved at all beneath her blows. He simply stood there, his expression unreadable as the wine seeped deeper into his shirt, the dark stains growing, blooming like terrible flowers. 

“No, no, you don’t get to claim it’s more than that!” Daenera spat, her voice trembling with both fury and anguish. He did not get to claim that it was more than simple desire–not after what he did. How could it ever be anything else?

“Daenera…” Aemond said her name in that deceptively soft, almost tender way, the calmness in his tone only making her anger flare hotter. He didn’t raise a hand to stop her as she slapped at his chest, the force of each feeble hit barely moving him. He stood there, taking it, absorbing her rage without protest, an almost pleading expression on his face. 

“No!” Daenera sneered, her breath growing ragged as anger pulsed through her. Her lungs burned with the effort of containing the surge of emotions that roiled within her. “It’s not more than that–it’s not–” Her voice cracked under the strain, raw with the turmoil that churned inside her. “It is not love! You don’t love me, you can’t. You don’t know what love is!”

As Aemond’s hand shot towards her, Daenera instinctively flinched, a sharp sneer curling her lips, baring her teeth in a silent warning. Her body stiffened, the movement defensive, the anger coursing through her like molten fire. His hand paused midair, hovering between them, a flicker of hesitation crossing his face. His gaze locked onto hers, intense and searching, as if he couldn’t quite believe that she’d refuse his touch–hurt briefly weaved its way into his expression, quickly smoothed into something more intent. 

Daenera held his gaze, unwavering. Yet, despite her warning, he did not retreat.

Slowly, Aemond closed the distance. His calloused fingers grazed her cheeks, igniting sparks where his skin met hers. His palms slid beneath her hair, cupping the sides of her face with a gentleness that contradicted the tension in the air. The warmth of his touch spread like wildfire down her spine, too intimate, too raw, sending a shock of sensation through her. She drew in a sharp, startled breath, her skin tingling under his hands, the touch unbearable and inescapable. 

Instinctively, her hands flew to his wrists, slender fingers curling tightly around them. Her nails dug into his flesh, enough to leave a sting in their wake. Her heart pounded as she stared up at him, wide-eyed and trapped in the intensity of his gaze. His face hovered inches from hers, his expression a storm of emotions–anger, disbelief, and something deeper, something raw that made her breath catch even more sharply.

For a moment, they stood frozen, breath mingling in the air between them. Aemond’s expression was raw, an incredulous frustration etched into his features, his lips drawn tight over his teeth as though holding back something that burned within him. 

“You’ve poisoned me, don’t you understand?” His voice was low, rough, thick with a desire that made Daenera’s heart twist. His gaze flashed with both fury and desperation, the words spilling from him like a dam that had finally broken. “You’re in my veins,” he rasped, his grip tightening ever so slightly, “a poison I can’t purge without bleeding myself dry."

The unexpected brush of his thumb against her skin sent a shiver through her, breath catching in her throat. She had been so focused on the weight of his hands on her face, the intensity of his grip, that the tender gesture felt almost foreign, a momentary break in the storm of emotions that swirled around them.

The scent of wine clung to his ruined shirt, sharp and acidic, but beneath it, the rich warmth of sandalwood broke through, filling her senses. It was an alluring, heady mix, mingling with the distinct scent that was unmistakably his. Daenera’s pulse quickened as her gaze betrayed her for just a moment, flicking down to the sharp cut of his lips. They were soft, yet edged with tension, drawing her in. 

She forced her eyes back up to meet his, where she found his darkened gaze watching her intently, a storm brewing beneath the surface–the pupil of his remaining eye swallowing the soft blue of a morning sky, an endless pit of ink. The intensity between them felt suffocating, her heart pounding against the cage of her ribs. She shouldn’t have drunk the wine; it dulled her defenses, muddling her senses, making her too aware of every pulse, every breath. She felt it settle deep within her, a tingling ache that lingered in the pit of her stomach, making her body betray the anger and frustration swirling within her. 

“I killed your husband for you–for laying his hands on you,” Aemond drawled, his words heavy, insistent. “I’ve spilled blood for you.” His thumb brushed against her cheek, the movement slower this time, more deliberate, as if begging for her to grasp the weight of what he was saying. “I cut my palm for you.” His touch, though gentle, was insistent, lingering as he traced the line of her lips, his eye fixed intently on the curve of them. His thumb tugged lightly at her lower lip, almost reverent in the way he handled her, as though he wanted to imprint his presence there. “I bleed for you.”

Daenera’s breath hitched, a shuddering gasp escaping her as a familiar ache stirred within her, unwanted and relentless. It pulsed through her, in rhythm with the rapid beating of her heart, a feeling she despised but couldn’t ignore. The sensation grew, spreading through her like poison, twisting in her gut and along her spine, tightening with every second she stood in his grasp.

Her nails dug deeper into the skin of his wrists, a desperate attempt to force him away, to threaten him, to reclaim control of the moment. But despite the pressure, despite her silent protests, she couldn’t push him away. Even as a voice in the back of her mind screamed for her to break free, to shove him off, her body refused to obey. She was trapped between the conflicting desires that raged within her–rage, hate, and something darker that lurked just beneath the surface.

His gaze lingered for a moment longer before it met hers. “I gave you my vows, ñuha jorrāelagon.”

My love.

My love.

My love.

The words echoed cruelly in her mind, almost mockingly with each repetition.

She tried to steady her heart, to stifle the fire his touch had ignited beneath her skin. The burning in the pit of her stomach seemed to grow with every passing second–every passing heartbeat–every graze of his calloused fingers against her face. Her fingers, still wrapped around his wrists, could feel the steady beat of his pulse. It thrummed beneath her fingertips, strong and insistent, as though it resonated through her own body, harmonizing with the rapid pounding of her heart.

Each breath Daenera took seemed to cloud her mind further, the world around her blurring at the edges. The soft fabric of her nightgown brushed against her skin with every subtle movement, a sensation that only heightened her awareness of him–of his closeness, his touch, his presence. Her thoughts, once sharp, now felt distant, tangled in the storm of emotions surging through her.

Daenera didn’t want to hear his words–she wanted to shut them out, to bury them deep where they couldn’t reach her. She needed to hate him. She did hate him. She hated him with every fiber of her being.

The thought repeated itself over and over in her mind, a desperate prayer she clung to, as if saying it enough times would make it true. I hate him. I hate him. I hate him. Yet, even as she tried to convince herself, her heart betrayed her, twisting painfully in her chest. The anger she relied on, the fury that had always come so easily when she thought of him, wavered beneath the weight of his touch, of his words.

Her jaw clenched, her fingers still gripping his wrists with a force that surprised even her, as if holding on to the hate would protect her from everything else. But no matter how many times she repeated the words in her mind, the emotion she sought slipped through her fingers like sand. The hate was there, but it flickered, overshadowed by something else–something dangerous, something she refused to name.

I hate him.

“You are my wife,” he said mercilessly. His grip shifted as he drew her closer, even as she tried to pull away, her body betraying her resistance. She instinctively leaned back, trying to create distance between them, but her body betrayed her. Her feet shifted forward of their own accord, inching closer in an attempt to keep her balance, preventing her from toppling over as he pulled her nearer still. The space between them disappeared, and she felt the unmistakable heat of his body radiating into her, fiercer than the warmth of the hearth. It seeped through the fabric of her robe–through the thin fabric of her nightgown, enveloping her in his warmth.

The sharp crunch of shattered glass beneath her slippers echoed in the silence, each shift sending shards skittering over the stone floor like a warning she couldn’t heed. The sound rang out, sharp and jarring, lingering in the air. 

His other hand slid further up, his long fingers grazing the nape of her neck. The touch was light, teasing, but it sent a jolt of sensation down her spine, the small hairs on her neck rising in response. Goosebumps prickled across her skin, betraying her even as she tried to steel herself against him. Did he feel it? Did he feel the effect his touch had on her, the way her body reacted despite her mind’s protest? The questions swirled in her mind, unspoken and bitter. 

“You are mine,” he murmured, his voice low and possessive, the finality in his words sending a child through her, the kind that sank deep into her bones and made her breath hitch. His words felt like chains, binding her to him with an intensity she both loathed and could not escape. She hated him, and yet… his touch, the scent of him, the warmth of his breath as it ghosted over her skin–everything about him pulled her back into the fire she was so desperate to flee.

“That isn’t love,” Daenera forced out, her voice trembling. She shook her head, desperate to cling to the anger that flared hot within her, as though it was the only thing that kept her from crumbling. She gripped onto it so tightly it felt like it was searing her down to the bone.

“Was it love,” she hissed, her grip on his wrists tightening viciously, nails digging in with enough force that it should’ve drawn blood, “when you chased my brother through the sky?” The words were spat with venom, a sharpness that matched the edge of her rage. “Was it love when you murdered him? When you forced me into this marriage?”

Aemond’s gaze darkened, but he didn’t flinch. “You married me willingly,” he retorted, his voice sharp, laced with bitterness. “You cut your palm as I did mine–we shared our blood, and we bear the same scars.” 

He lifted his hand from her face, revealing the pink scar that slashed across his palm, a permanent reminder of the vows they had shared. The scar stood out against his pale skin, a mark of the blood they had both spilled in binding themselves to one another. He held it there for a moment, letting her gaze fall on the scar before his hand moved again, sliding back to cup her face with a firm insistence.

His grip was possessive, almost desperate, as he tilted her head back slightly, forcing her to meet his gaze. “You chose to become my wife.”

His head tilted slightly, a mocking edge creeping into his tone, as if daring her to deny what they had shared. “You were mine from the moment you made that choice. And you loved me too, then.” His gaze softened, almost pleading. “I know you did.”

“I was a fool,” Daenera muttered, her voice low but sharp. His grip tightened in response, as if he feared she might slip through his fingers like smoke, vanishing before he could hold her any longer. She could feel the desperation in his touch–feel the uncertainty of fear in his insistence. 

“I was a fool to think you were capable of love,” she continued, her eyes hardening. “But you’re not. You don’t even know what love is–how could you? You don’t have a heart.”

Aemond’s single eye burned as he stared at her, frustration and fury twisting his features. The silence between them crackled, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. His hand slipped from her neck, breaking her hold as her nails dragged viciously over his skin, leaving angry red marks in their wake. 

Without missing a beat, he grabbed her hand with his long, lithe fingers, pulling it firmly against his chest. His movements were swift and unrelenting as he pressed her palm over his heart, holding it there as though daring her to deny its steady, forceful rhythm. His head dipped slightly, his gaze locking onto hers, unblinking and intense, refusing to let her escape the moment. 

“Can you not feel the beat of my heart?” He asked, his voice rough, almost pleading, as if the thudding beneath her hand was proof of something more than she wanted to acknowledge. His chest rose and fell beneath her touch, the thudding unmistakable–alive, real, and impossibly human despite the monster she believed him to be. 

The steady thud of his heart beat heavily and insistently against her palm–as if in defiance of her accusations, refusing to align with her words. The scar on her palm seemed to burn with the awful truth.

Aemond pressed his hand on top of hers, pinning it firmly against his chest, forcing her to feel the rhythm of his heart, refusing to let her pull away. She tried to withdraw, her fingers curling slightly against his hold, but it wasn’t enough to break free. Her nails skimmed his skin, but there was no space for her to dig them in, no room for the sharpness of her anger to take hold.

His thumb grazed along her jaw, a gentle touch that stood in stark contrast to the intensity of the moment, as he spoke again, his voice low and resolute. “Black though it may be, wretched with sin and monstrous as it is, it belongs to you. My heart is yours.”

Tears burned at the back of Daenera’s eyes, her breath catching in her throat as his words pierced deeper than she wanted to admit. “I do not want it!” Her own heart twisted painfully within her chest. “And I do not believe it.”

With a sudden burst of defiance, she managed to wrench her hand free, the lingering sensation of his heartbeat still imprinted on her palm, a reminder she couldn’t shake. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her chest tight with emotion. 

“This love you claim,” Daenera continued sharply, head shaking, “it is not love. It is possession. It is desire.” Her words cut through the air between them, her eyes locked on his. “You want to claim me like you did a dragon, like something you can own. You don’t love me. You want me–you desire me. That’s all this is–lust, a desire to possess, nothing more. It has always been that. And that’s why you insist on this marriage, to claim me as yours.”

It was easier to hate him if it had only ever been desire. If she could convince herself that it had been nothing more than lust, she could bury the pain, could push it all away. It was easier to believe she had been a fool for thinking it had ever been more than that–a fleeting, destructive passion. After all, hadn’t it started that way? A dangerous game they both had played, reckless and ruinous from the very beginning. It had been doomed from the start, and only a fool would’ve thought otherwise. 

But she had fallen. She had slipped into love without realizing it until it was too late, and now here she was–shattered and broken at the bottom of the pitfall she had stumbled into, the jagged edges of her heart scraping against the truth she didn’t want to face. Desire was simpler, she thought. It didn’t leave you in ruins; didn’t hollow you out like love did. 

“What you want is for me to warm your bed,” Daenera continued, her nails digging into the flesh of his wrist. Her grip slipped slightly as sweat slicked her palm, but she held on, desperate to maintain control–desperate for him to admit that it was desire and only that. “What you want is for me to spread my legs for you and welcome you back into the heat of my cunt.”

Her nails scraped over his skin, leaving behind angry red crescents, blood blooming beneath the damaged flesh. She took a twisted satisfaction in the marks, physical evidence of her fury, as if the pain she inflicted could somehow lessen the wounds he left on her heart.

“What you want,” she continued, her voice trembling, “is for me to forget what you’ve done–to forgive you for it, and pretend it never happened. So that you can pretend you’re not the monster you are. So you can fool yourself into thinking you’re human, that your hands aren’t dripping with my brother’s blood. So that we can play husband and wife, and you get to fuck me like nothing has changed.”

Her other hand bridged the tenuous gap between them, her fingers grazing his thigh before cupping him through the fabric of his trousers. She could feel the warmth of his skin radiating through the material, his cock stirring beneath her touch, already half-hard but rising to full attention at the slightest pressure of her palm. 

With clenched teeth, Aemond drew in a sharp, hissing breath, eye fluttering as she rubbed him. His brow twitched upward as a tremor seemed to roll down his spine. The tension between them thickened as Daenera’s gaze dropped to his mouth, watching his lips part again, releasing a ragged, shuddering exhale that tickled against her face. She slowly moved her palm up and down, feeling his cock through the fabric of his trousers, teasing the hardness that gradually grew more pronounced. 

Her own breath quickened, every inhale stinging her lungs, each exhale heavy with the heat building within her. The ache in her chest spread lower, gnawing at her resolve, threatening to unravel her intentions. 

“This is what you want, isn’t it?” She drawled, watching him intently–challenging him. Her head tilted slightly as she drank in the expression on his face, the way his features tightened and softened under her touch. 

“Daenera…” Aemond said her name softly, a reverence woven into the syllables–yet there was a warning, too, lingering beneath his voice. The sound of it sent a shiver down her spine. His grip on her tightened, his thumb brushing just below the curve of her jaw before slipping beneath it to gently tilt her head upward, commanding her attention. His gaze flicked down to her lips, the intensity in his eye shimmering with desire, barely restrained. 

Daenera’s hand continued its slow, deliberate path along the bulge in his trousers. She felt his breath hitch when her hand slid lower, his muscles tensing beneath her touch. The moment her hand made contact with his skin, the heat of him surged against her palm, burning with a fervor that seemed to seep into her blood. Her fingers wrapped around his sock, hard and throbbing beneath her grip, its warmth searing into her skin as she began to drag her hand down his length. 

In an instant, long fingers curled around her wrist, neither guiding her hand nor pulling her away, just holding onto her, as though he couldn’t decide what to do. 

The fingers that cradled the back of Daenera’s head, where her skull met the nape of her neck, moved with a surprising gentleness, softly caressing the delicate hairs there. His touch was light, almost tender, as though he were savoring each stroke. Meanwhile, the fingers of his other hand brushed over the rapid pulse in her wrist, tracing the quickened beat of her heart with a deliberate slowness. Could he feel how wildly it raced beneath her skin?

Aemond’s gaze locked onto hers, his expression a mix of something softer, almost teetering on the edge of need. There was a vulnerability in his eye that clashed with the control he usually wielded, as though he was silently asking for something even as his hands held her, tethering her to the moment. 

The flesh beneath her palm was burning, hard and heavy, throbbing with need. She could feel the heat radiating from him, the skin soft like silk against her hand as she stroked him. Each drag caused it to twitch and pulse. Another shudder ripped through Aemond’s body, one she could feel beneath her fingertips, the tremor traveling down his spine and into her own body. 

Daenera held his gaze, her lips parting as she exhaled, the warm breath mingling with his. The subtle movement drew Aemond’s attention, and she saw the desire flicker in his eye, intense and consuming–burning with the same hunger as the flames in the hearth. His eyelid fluttered for a moment, a low hum of pleasure escaping his chest as his breath caught, the sound reverberating between them. 

It seemed to slip beneath her nightgown, brushing against her skin like an invisible caress, seeping into her body and settling deep inside her, where the heat pooled between her thighs. The ache of her own desire sharpened, spreading through her like a wildfire, needling at her with every passing heartbeat. 

A part of her screamed for her to stop, to pull her hand away, to push him back with all the force of her anger, to sneer in his face and curse him thrice over for making her betray herself–for making her betray herself with every stroke, every breath that passed between them, every heartbeat. But she didn’t. 

The ache in her chest, that awful, wretched ache, had lived there since the first time she laid eyes on him in the sept–since the moment her fate was sealed. 

It clawed at her, this desire for the man she should despise, the man she did despise. She despised the way her body craved him, the way her heart raced in response to his touch, the way her cunt throbbed at every pulse of her hand along his cock. 

The air around them felt alive, crackling with tension. Their breaths grew heavier, filling the space between them. Aemond’s touch shifted as he leaned into her hand, his head dipping lower, lips hovering dangerously close to hers. He was about to close the distance, his lips ghosting over hers, before Daenera turned her head sharply, refusing him. 

His grip on her wrist tightened, the iron hold pulling her closer, refusing to let her escape the moment. He kept her in place, holding her there as her fingers continued to stroke his cock, her thumb tracing the thick vein that pulsed with need beneath her touch. The sensation seemed to draw a frustrated breath from him, a low, primal sound that made her cunt flutter. 

His forehead dropped to rest against hers, his breath ragged and uneven. A low moan escaped him, the sound trembling against her skin, sending a shudder through her. His voice came out in a low, raspy drawl, “What do you want from me?”

Daenera stilled, her heart thudding heavily in her chest, the rhythm quickening as blood rushed beneath her skin. The question needled at her, weaved its way through her wants and desires. She wanted her brother back. She wanted him to apologize, to feel remorse and regret–to feel guilty for what he had done. She wanted him to tell her the truth–that he was the monster she believed him to be. She wanted him to make it easy for her to hate him, to bury these agonizing feelings that clawed at her insides, prowling through the ruins of her heart. 

But none of those desires surfaced in her answer. 

“I want you to kneel,” she found herself saying, her voice steady but low–a thread of coldness weaved through it. The words slipped out before she could stop them, a command born from a place deep within her, a demand for power, for something she could hold over him. Her chest tightened as she spoke, her fingers still wrapped around him, her body trembling with the contradictions that threatened to tear her apart. 

Daenera watched him closely as he leaned back, his expression unreadable, a veil of silence falling between them. His gaze, however, was piercing, searing into hers as if searching for something hidden beneath the fury on her face. She could still feel him, heavy and throbbing in her hand, the pulsating warmth of his desire betraying the control he tried so hard to maintain.

Her breath hitched as his grip tightened around her wrist, firm and unyielding. Slowly, deliberately, he dragged her hand away from his cock, the soft, heated flesh slipping from her palm like something forbidden, lost. The sudden absence sent a shiver through her, as if she had been holding fire and was not left with nothing but the burn. 

With his gaze locked firmly on hers, Aemond lowered himself to his knees, the flicker of glass shards scattered across the floor catching the firelight with his movement. His knees met the stone with a quiet thud, but his presence was anything but soft. Daenera’s breath caught in her throat as his hands slipped from her face and wrist, leaving her skin burning with the memory of his touch.

Her chest tightened at the sight of him kneeling before her, head tilted back as he stared up at her with a gaze so intense it seemed to pierce through her. He was beautiful, Daenera had to concede, despite the anger burning within her. The sharpness of his face was softened by the firelight, the warm glow caressing one side of his cheek while painting shadows on the other. The curve of his nose stood out, regal and sharp, while his lips parted slightly, revealing a tension beneath his controlled exterior. 

The firelight seemed to cradle him, its flickering glow reflected in the sapphire of his eye, which burned with something dark and wicked–lustful and dangerous. The harsh line of his scar seemed to etch itself more deeply into his skin, a cruel reminder of what made him. 

And yet, his expression was a contradiction—strong, yet vulnerable in a way that left her breathless. 

There was a reverence in the way Aemond gazed up at her, a devotion that seized Daenera’s heart in a vice, tightening painfully around it, threatening to break through her carefully constructed walls. The way he knelt before her sent a shudder through her chest, clutching at her soul in a way that made it hard to breathe. 

Her gaze remained fixed on him, unable to look away, as though something far deeper than desire held her captive. Her heart thudded rapidly, each beat heavy and insistent, as if it were trying to keep pace with the wild thrill that burned through her veins. The heat coursing through her seemed to blunt the edges of her consciousness, dulling her thoughts, making it impossible to think beyond the moment. 

A part of her never expected him to sink to his knees so willingly, so readily, as if surrendering himself to her was the most natural thing in the world. 

Aemond’s hands rested on his thoughts, fingers curling slightly as if to steady himself, his breathing labored. The bulge in his trousers was still pronounced, undoubtedly uncomfortable as the fabric tightened around him. The bottom of his shirt was untucked and ruffled, the fabric hanging loosely around his slender, muscular frame. Each breath he took caused his collarbone to shift beneath the collar of his shirt, the sculpted curve of it exposed with every inhale, further accentuated by the flush of red that stained his cheeks. 

The dark patches of wine that had soaked into his shirt clung to him, mingling with the heat radiating from his body. His face, normally so composed and cold, seemed to shimmer now, the flush of desire beneath his skin making his features even sharper, more alive. His gaze, still fixed on her, burned with something more than lust–it was a need, raw and unfiltered, making her pulse quicken.

His nose was at level with her navel–mere inches from her. 

Any words Daenera might have mustered died on her tongue, buried in the silence that consumed her. Even the spiteful, mocking retorts that usually came so easily lay dead in the graveyard of her mouth, unable to push past the knot tightening in her throat. She was acutely aware of the slick heat pooling between her thighs, a traitorous warmth that coated her skin and slowly trickled down, tickling as it charted a course down her thigh. 

The sensation only heightened her awareness of him–so close, so present, and on his knees before her. Every breath she took seemed to draw him closer, his proximity overwhelming her senses. The sight of Aemond kneeling, head tilted back as he gazed up at her, stirred something deep within Daenera. There was power in it, but also a vulnerability she hadn’t expected to see, a vulnerability that made her chest tighten and her pulse quicken.

The heat between them felt palpable, like a physical force crackling in the air, wrapping around her and pulling her toward him. His presence was impossible to ignore, his body tense, waiting, as though ready to move at her command. The firelight flickered in his eye, casting shadows over his face, but she could still see the raw desire burning there, undiminished by his position on the floor.

For a moment, all she could think of was how utterly undone he looked, how different he appeared from the composed, dangerous man she had come to know. 

As Aemond shifted, his fingers curled against his thighs, muscles tensing beneath the fabric. The subtle movement was accompanied by the harsh sound of glass shards scraping against the stone, the sound ringing in the quiet. His gaze darkened, lashes fluttering briefly, casting long shadows on his cheek as his eye slowly traveled from her face, lingering on the curve of her neck, before drifting down to the exposed skin of her chest, the deep neckline of her nightgown disappearing long before it ended behind the modesty of her robe. 

The way he looked at her was deliberate, almost predatory, as if savoring every inch of her. A flicker of something unreadable passed across his face, a mixture of desire and control, and then his lips curved slightly, a faint but unmistakable smirk playing at the corners. 

It was as if he knew the effect he had on her, the silent war waging within her, and he reveled in it.

She felt it then–a light, feathering touch against her ankle, a soft caress that sent gooseflesh spreading across her body. His fingers, daring and unhurried, drew a slow path around her ankle, the touch almost delicate. Aemond’s eye flicked up, catching hers with a boldness that made her heart sutter. 

His other hand joined the first, slipping beneath the hem of her nightgown and robe, grazing the bare skin of her leg with a gentle, exploratory touch. She remained still, rooted in place by the intensity of the moment, breath quick on her lips. The heat of his hands against her skin felt fervent, each brush of his fingertips sending waves of sensation rippling through her. 

Aemond’s tongue darted out to wet his lips as he shifted closer, his hands continuing their slow ascent, trailing softly over her legs as though testing her reaction. The tension between them thickened with every inch his hands traveled, his touch reverent yet filled with a hunger that crackled in the air around them. 

Tilting his head forward, Aemond gently pressed his forehead to her stomach, the intimacy of the gesture sending a sharp ache through Daenera’s heart. The weight of his head resting against her body stirred something within her, anger clawing its way back to the surface. “Stop…”

She felt the soft warmth of his breath as he inhaled deeply, drawing in her scent, his nose brushing against the thin fabric of her nightgown as her robe fell open, the ties loosened as he nuzzled his head against her. The sound that followed was a low, almost primal hum, one that seemed to reverberate through her and made her cunt flutter around nothing. 

“Let go of me.” Her voice trembled, barely breaking the heavy silence between them, as if she was unsure of what she truly wanted–an escape from the desire that pulled her towards him, or a release from the complicated tangle of emotions that threatened to unravel her. 

But whether he didn’t hear her or simply chose to ignore her plea, Aemond continued as if her protest had never been spoken. He nuzzled his head against her stomach like a dog seeking warmth, his breath hot through the thin fabric of her nightgown. His hands wandered higher, traveling up her thighs, his touch no longer hesitant but greedy, possessive. His fingers gripped the soft flesh, kneading it as though claiming her with each squeeze, the sensation sending sharp ripples of awareness through her body. 

Soft strands of silky hair brushed against her palm as she wove her hand through his hair, her fingers tangling in the silver locks. She gathered a firm handful before yanking him away from her body, her grip tight and insistent. His head jerked back, forced by her pull, exposing the pale, vulnerable flesh of his neck as his head craned back. 

A sneer curled her lips as she glared down at him, her voice cutting through the heavy tension between them. “I said, let go.”

The muscles in his throat worked as he swallowed hard, his teeth gritting briefly in response to her command. Aemond’s jaw clenched, the muscle there ticking as though he fought the urge to resist her. His lips parted as if to speak, but no words came. Instead, his hands fell away from her, the heat of his touch lingering on her skin as though he had branded her with his very presence. The sensation seared into her, leaving her body aching with absence of his grip. 

He sat back on his heels, breath ragged, his hands finding his own thighs as he rubbed them restlessly, up and down, the movement betraying his desire to get his hands on her again. 

A fire burned within Daenera’s chest, searing through her lungs, igniting somewhere deep in the ruins of her heart. The heat of it was fierce, an unstoppable blaze spreading through her body, pooling in her stomach and dripping like molten guilt between her thighs. It ran through her veins, fanned by every breath she took, growing hotter with each second. Anger and desire, hatred and longing, grief and lust–they all swirled together, tangled flames that burned and danced within her like a pyre set alight. She was so sure that, given a moment more, it would consume her entirely, leaving nothing but ashes in its wake. 

Would he still be there, kneeling before her, if she burst into flames? Would he breath a little easier without her fire scorching him, or would he stare in horror as she was consumed, as everything she was turned to smoke and embers? 

The thought clawed at her, as she felt the weight of his gaze still heavy on her, and her heart pounded against the inferno in her chest. 

Was she the fire or the moth?

She wondered if Aemond would mourn the loss of her if she was devoured by the flames–or if he’d watch impassively, as though witnessing something inevitable. Would he still desire her in that moment, still claim her as his, even as she was destroyed before him–even as it was his fire that destroyed her? 

The questions lingered like smoke, thick and choking, fanning the fire inside her, and Daenera could no longer tell where her rage ended and her yearning began. 

She hated the fire he kindled within her. Hated how easily he could ignite it, how effortlessly he made her body betray her. But more than that, she hated the way he stared at her now–eye dark with want, desire and longing laid bare, devotion written in every line of his face. He shouldn’t be looking at her like that. The intensity of it only stroked the flames of her anger, twisting it into something even fiercer. 

With a sharp tug, Daenera yanked at his hair, and a hiss slipped through his teeth. His eye fluttered shut momentarily, as though savoring the pain, as though even her cruelty was a form of pleasure. 

“You don’t get to touch me,” she spat, her voice sharp and cutting, “You don’t get to touch me unless I tell you to.”

A low, raspy hum escaped him, a sound that tickled down her spine like a dark promise. His breath was ragged as he pressed the heel of his palm into the bulge in his trousers, grinding against it with an almost desperate hunger. The sight twisted something wicked inside her, a perverse satisfaction at seeing him brought so low by his desire for her. 

It was intoxicating.

And yet, it made her sick–sick with rage, sick with want.

Without warning, Daenera released her grip on his hair and rose to her full height. She took two deliberate steps back, letting the heated air from the hearth sweep between them–creating a distance that felt both necessary and unbearable. The distance seemed to devastate Aemond, his expression faltering as he shared up at her. His chest rose and fell with heavy breaths, the desire that had filled him moments ago turning into a furrow of frustration and confusion. 

With her heart thrumming in her chest, the rush of her own blood pounding in her ears, Daenera stared at Aemond. She could feel the weight of his gaze on her, thick with desire and possession, as though it had the power to burn her without ever touching her. Slowly, deliberately, she let her robe slip open, allowing it to teeter precariously on the edge of her shoulders. The plunging neckline of her nightgown was revealed, framed by delicate frills that only accentuated the curve of her body beneath the thin fabric. 

The robe caught at her elbows, the final tether holding it in place, but as she turned away from him, the heavy fabric dragged along the floor, brushing against the stone with a soft whisper. Her movement was slow, purposeful, as she let the robe slip from her frame entirely, leaving her clad in the sheer nightgown.

She felt his gaze on her–heavy and unwavering–as she had all evening, all day. It ghosted over her skin like an invisible touch, drinking her in, his presence almost palpable despite the growing distance between them. His eye followed every movement, tracing the contours of her body with a warmth that was both possessive and laden with desire. The sensation prickled along her skin, an undeniable awareness of him that made her pulse quicken.

Daenera didn't know what madness gripped her, a wild abandon that stripped away reason and refined thought, reducing her to something wicked and vicious. It was the same fervor that drove her to lower herself onto the foot of the bed, framed by the spiraling bedposts at each corner. 

The mattress felt impossibly soft beneath her, her fingers sinking into its plush surface as she leaned back, her posture leisurely yet deliberate, every movement steeped in quiet provocation. Her back arched slightly, drawing attention to the curves of her body as she reclined, her nightgown clinging loosely to her form caressing her curves. The sheer fabric teased, offering hints of what lay beneath but withholding just enough for the imagination. 

Summoning her resolve, she finally dared to meet his gaze once more. The swirl of desire in his eye was almost suffocating, filled with raw, unspoken need–the spark of the sapphire gleaming darkly at her. He remained on his knees, still rooted in place, his breathing uneven and ragged as if every second spent watching her was its own form of torment. His brow furrowed slightly, one hand still pressed firmly against the bulge in his trousers, the other clenched into a fist as if grappling with the restraint that held him back. 

The room felt suffocating, the space between them thick with tension. The flickering firelight cast dancing shadows across Aemond’s face, only sharpening the hunger etched into his features. The warm glow of the flames seemed to curl around him, casting his face in shades of deep orange and gold, making him appear as if he, too, were part of the fire that crackled in the hearth. 

Daenera tilted her head to the side, watching him for a long, heavy moment. Without breaking eye contact, she slipped her feet from her slippers, the soft sound barely audible aghast the crackling of the wood in the hearth. Then, with a deliberate slowness, she spread her legs apart–a challenge, an invitation. The light fabric of her nightgown spilled between her thighs, modestly covering her, but the intent was there–provocative and deliberate. 

Aemond’s breath seemed to hitch, and he instinctively raised himself of his knees, meaning to rise from the floor. But before he could do so, Daenera’s voice cut through the silence, soft but commanding. 

“Crawl.”

The single word hummed in the air between them, dripping with power. Aemond hesitated, his eye narrowing slightly as if to gauge her seriousness, but the heat in his gaze remained. She watched him closely, the ache growing as the command hung between them. 

Aemond’s gaze darkened, his lips pressed tightly over his teeth, as if he was holding something back–his pride, perhaps, or the anger that seemed to burn just beneath the surface. His gaze faltered, breaking away from hers, the faintest hint of a sneer playing at the corners of his mouth. She could see it clearly, the agitation roiling within him. His muscles tensed beneath his skin, coiled with the frustration of being commanded like that, the way his teeth ground together as he fought the instinct to resist. 

The distance between them wasn’t far, but it was enough to make him hesitate. He gripped the bulge in his trousers with a growing frustration, his fingers tightening around the fabric as though trying to anchor himself. His gaze flicked back to her, smoldering with a flower that was as much anger as it was desire. 

For a brief moment, it seemed as though Aemond might defy her. His body was taut with indecision, muscles clenched, his pride warring with his desire. The tension in the room was thick, his hesitation palpable, the air crackling with the possibility of rebellion. His jaw tightened, and for a heartbeat, Daenera wondered if he would resist, if he would refuse to lower himself any further.

But then, with deliberate slowness, she drew her fingers up along the length of her legs, her touch lazy and teasing. The fabric of her nightgown bunched and draped in delicate folds as her hands trailed upward, inch by inch, revealing the smooth skin of her calves first, then her knees, and finally the tender flesh above. Each movement was a silent command, daring him to resist–to look away.

The soft glow of the firelight highlighted her skin, the heat of the moment pouring into the space between them as more of her body was exposed. Her gaze remained fixed on him, watching his every reaction, knowing he could feel his own resolve slipping away. 

Slowly, Aemond lowered himself onto his palms, a veil of silver hair falling over his shoulders, his eye burning, locked on her. He began to crawl towards her, his movements deliberate and tense–like a predator stalking over the ground towards its prey. The muscles of his back rippled beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, the collar of which fell open, exposing the sharp curve of his collarbone, the muscles of his chest, coiling with each movement. The soft drag on his knees on the floor, the shift of fabric and the scrape of glass filled the silence. 

The flickering firelight danced across his hunched form, casting jagged shadows that stretched and twisted with his every movement. He crawled toward her, his eyes never straying from hers, dark and smoldering with an intensity that sent a shiver down Daenera’s spine. There was something primal in the way he looked at her–a raw hunger that threatened to consume her entirely, a fire she could feel licking at the edges of her control. It promised oblivion, the kind of heat that would devour her if she let it.

Watching him now, so proud and composed in every other moment, reduced to crawling before her, filled her with a heady sense of power. The sight sent a thrill coursing through her, stirring something deep and untamed. Heat gathered between her thighs, an ache growing that became impossible to ignore. Her body trembled in anticipation, her cunt pulsing with need, clenching around the emptiness that cried out for him.

A small, wicked smile tugged at the corner of her lips as she savored the moment, every movement of his inching crawl feeding her desire. His submission was intoxicating, the fire in his eyes making her feel both vulnerable and invincible at once.

As Aemond crawled closer, his breath shallow, Daenera raised her foot with a deliberate grace, pressing it firmly against the curve of his shoulder just as he was about to reach her. The touch was enough to stop him in his tracks. He halted, settling back on his haunches, glowering at her–almost panting. His hands slowly slid down his thighs, brushing the dirt and sweat from his palms.

She kept her foot against him for a moment longer, savoring the tension that hung between them. Her eyes never left his, even as she slowly lowered her leg, letting the brief contact end on her terms. The firelight flickered across Aemond’s face, casting sharp shadows that accentuated the hunger simmering beneath his composed exterior. Without a word, he reached for the stained shirt clinging to his body, peeling it away with deliberate slowness. He used it to wipe his hands entirely clean, then tossed it aside.

In the flickering glow of the firelight, his bare chest was revealed fully. His skin seemed impossibly smooth in the golden glow, each movement of his body bringing a ripple of muscles to life beneath the surface, like a living sculpture. He was perfection forged in flesh–his physique was lean, defined, every curve and contour accentuated by the dancing flames. 

Daenera’s breath caught for a moment, her fingers itching to reach out, to trace the lines of his body and feel the heat that radiated from him. His bare chest rose and fell with a quiet intensity, each breath deep and controlled as if he was holding himself back, waiting for her to break the silence.

Lithe fingers curled around Daenera's ankle, his touch igniting her skin like a spark to tinder. The heat of it burned through her, making her heart thud so heavily within her chest she feared it might leap out, laying bare the wounds he had inflicted upon it. Her mouth went dry as he gently nuzzled his cheek against her exposed knee, his breath hot and curling over her skin, drawing a line of fire up her leg.

It was unsettling how easily he could make her tremble with such simple gestures, how quickly she could forget herself under his touch.

She lurched forward, her hand flying out to slap him across the face. The sharp crack of her palm against his cheek echoed through the room, slicing through the silence like a blade. The sting radiated through her hand, and for a brief moment, she felt the rush of it–heat prickling across her skin, a jolt of raw energy that made her pulse with dark satisfaction. Without hesitation, she grabbed a fistful of his silver hair, yanking his head back with brutal force.

“Did I say you could touch me?” She sneered, her breath ragged, her voice low and biting.

Aemond’s reaction was immediate and visceral. He released a tight breath that bordered on a moan–the sound traveled from somewhere deep within his chest, rising with a rumble through his throat, reverberating in the air between them. His eye fluttered closed, his breath coming in short, ragged pants, each exhale heavy with something that tugged at the corners of his brow–weariness, perhaps, or a deeper, more aching longing that softened his features in a way she rarely saw. For a moment, the sharp edges of his dulled, leaving behind only vulnerability as he leaned into her touch. 

His voice, when it finally broke the silence, was barely more than a whisper, so soft that it was nearly drowned out by the pounding of Daenera’s own heartbeat. But she caught it–a breathless, almost desperate plea. “Please…”

The single word hung in the air between them, fragile and ruinous. Aemond’s eye opened slowly, meeting hers, and in that instant, something shifted. 

There was something unfamiliar in the way he looked at her–a tenderness unguarded, that cut through the tension and tugged at her heart, making her chest tighten. 

Her grip in his hair faltered, her fingers loosening as the anger and control she’d held onto slipped through her like smoke. Slowly, almost hesitantly, her hand released its hold, uncurling and brushing softly against the side of his head. The roughness of her earlier actions faded, replaced by something gentler, more intimate. 

For a heartbeat, she stayed there, hand resting lightly against his scalp, fingers weaving through his hair in a motion that was more comforting than punishing. The tension between them lingered, but it had softened, the fire dampened by the quiet vulnerability in his plea and the way he looked at her–not with defiance, but with the kind of love that threatened to undo her entirely.

Daenera’s hand drifted down to Aemond’s cheek, cupping it gently. He leaned into her touch, his breath warm as it tickled the delicate skin of her wrist. For a moment, her gaze softened, but then her eyes were drawn to the scar that cleaved through his face, a harsh reminder that made her falter. The sapphire gleamed where his eye should have been, cold and unyielding. A frown began to crease her brow, her instinct urging her to withdraw. 

But before she could pull away, Aemond’s long fingers brushed softly against her hand, pressing her palm more firmly into his cheek, refusing to let her retreat. His fingers curled around hers with an almost desperate tenderness, and he leaned further into her touch, his eye closing as if savoring the touch. 

Then, with a deliberate slowness, he turned his face and pressed a kiss to the center of her palm, his lips burning against the scar nestled there. The sensation sent a shiver through her, the warmth of his breath lingering hotly on her skin. 

Daenera could feel herself slipping, losing her grip on the control she had so fiercely clung to. She knew she was being swept away by a different kind of madness, one that would leave her drowning in regret and self-loathing once the moment passed. But even as her mind warned her, she was already too far gone–lost in the way his hand gently wrapped around hers, pulling it away with a tenderness that disarmed her.

She was lost in the way he guided her to lean back, his touch soft yet commanding, easing her into surrender. Her breath hitched as he inched closer, his movements slow, reverent. When his cheek brushed against her knee, it wasn’t a gesture of hunger or lust but something deeper, almost as though he was seeking her forgiveness in that moment of fragile intimacy.

The firelight flickered, casting warm shadows over his form, and for a heartbeat, all the conflict, anger, and history between them melted away. She was lost in him, in the quiet vulnerability of his touch, knowing full well she’d hate herself for it later–but for now, she couldn’t pull herself back.

Daenera’s eyes fluttered closed, her breath catching as the heat of his skin brushed against hers. His cheek nuzzled softly against her knee, each exhale sending a delicate ripple of warmth across her skin, teasing her senses. His lips followed, pressing tenderly against the inside of her knee–feather-light at first, then firmer, more purposeful as they traveled higher, his mouth leaving a trail of heat in their wake. She could hear the soft, almost reverent sound of him inhaling her scent, drawing it deep as though it was intoxicating. 

His kisses grew more intense as they moved up the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, each one wetter, hotter, more desperate than the last. Daenera’s pulse thrummed in her ears as she felt his tongue flicker out, finding the thin rivulet of her slick that had trailed down from her core. Could he taste the inevitable regret on her skin, or was it lost beneath the taste of desire that coated her inner thighs?

The sensation of his tongue tracing the slick trail toward her center sent a tremor through Daenera’s body, her breath catching as she shuddered beneath his touch. A soft hum escaped her throat, involuntary, as he teased the tender flesh with his lips, nibbling gently. Every kiss, every brush of his mouth seemed to stoke the fire burning inside her.

His other hand, rough yet tender, slipped up her opposite thigh, calloused fingers spreading and kneading the soft flesh as he moved. His touch was both reverent and possessive–the hands of a swordsman seeking the tenderness of worship. Slowly, he brushed his hand higher, teasing along the edge of her nightgown, his knuckles grazing her skin beneath the skin fabric, setting every nerve alight.

Daenera’s breath hitched, her body reacting instinctively to his touch. There was a dangerous grace in the way he moved–so controlled, yet with an underlying hunger that she could feel in every caress, every press of his lips. 

A slow warmth spread over Daenera’s skin, seeping into her with each kiss, each touch. A flutter of excitement swirled deep within her stomach as Aemond’s lips found the soft pink scar on her inner thigh, his mouth lingering there, pressing tender kisses into the plump skin. The sensation made her toes curl, her breath hitching as his hand slid up, gently pushing her knees further apart, exposing her to him completely. 

His nose brushed against the crook of her hip as he nudged her nightgown higher, baring her weeping center to the wavering firelight. The sight seemed to unravel him. He moaned loudly, the sound raw and needy, filling the space between them. His gaze flicked up to meet hers, a smoldering heat in his eye as she looked down at him, the weight of his stare almost unbearable in its intensity. His silver hair tickled her skin as he kissed where her thigh met her hips, his teeth grazing the tender flesh, easing, driving her slowly mad with lust. 

Propped up by one hand on the bed, Daenera used her free hand to grip Aemond’s hair, fingers curling into the silken strands. She tugged, insistent, pulling him towards the place where she needed him the most, where her body ached for him, her cunt slick and desperate with anticipation–dripping with betrayal, the molten guilt running in rivulets down her buttocs to soak into the fabric of her nightgown. 

His mouth descended on her, and the moment his tongue licked up the length of her slit, a loud, unrestrained moan tore from her lips. Her head fell back, eyes fluttering shut as pleasure surged through her, stealing the breath from her lungs. 

Instinctively, Daenera’s thighs clamped around Aemond’s head, her body jerking involuntarily as his lips pressed a hot, open-mouthed kiss against her weeping cunt. The sudden, searing heat of his touch sent a wave of shock through her, her muscles tensing as her breath hitched in her throat. 

Her body trembled as pleasure burned through her, his rough, calloused hands firmly prying her knees apart once again, using his elbows to hold them wide, spreading her open for him. He buried his face in her cunt like a man starved, his hunger palpable in every press of his lips–in every sweep of his tongue, lapping greedily at her. 

When his mouth found her clit, latching onto it with a fierce, sucking pull, an intense shudder wracked through her body. The sharp sensation stole the breath from her lungs, forcing a wheezing gasp from her throat as her head tilted back, eyes squeezed shut in bliss. Her thighs quivered around him, helpless to the overwhelming pleasure that surged through her. 

Aemond took his time, devouring her with a slow, deliberate focus, his tongue gliding through her folds, tracing every inch of her wet heat. A low, guttural groan rumbled from deep within his chest, vibrating against her skin, the sound sinking into her, echoing through her body as though it came from within. The intensity filled her completely, making her body hum with pleasure. 

Daenera’s head fell back as a loud moan squeezed through her lungs. Her shoulder and elbow ached from the strain of holding herself upright, the weight of her body resting entirely on the one arm propping her up, keeping her from collapsing onto the mattress. Her fingers clenched tightly in the bedding, knuckles white as she gripped the covers in a futile attempt to ground herself. 

Her hips instinctively rolled, meeting the rhythm of his tongue, rocking against his face in time with each stroke, as if her body sought more, always more, of the exquisite torture he offered. 

Aemond’s mouth worked tirelessly, dragging his tongue through her folds, lapping greedily at her wetness. He circled her clit, pressing against it in a way tat made her eyes flutter and her brow crease. Her mind grew hazy, blurring the awful truths of the world around them, letting it all fall away. There was nothing but the feel of his head between her thighs, the softness of his skin against hers, the way his hands kneaded her hips–her tights, her arse, as if he could mold her to his will. 

And he did.

His breath was hot, ghosting over her sensitive skin with every exhale, his tongue pressing firmly against her, drawing out the pleasure that made her body arch instinctively towards him. 

The ache deep inside her intensified, and she was swept away to a place where there was nothing but the two of them, a world reduced to the hum of her body responding to his every touch, every movement, as though they were the only beings left in existence.

Amidst the rising tide of pleasure, a fleeting awareness surfaced–the sensation of his hair brushing against her hand, soft and silken as her fingers tangled in it. The contrast between the gentle tickle of his silver strands and the though, heated intensity of his mouth was dizzying, making her tug at his hair almost unconsciously, urging him deeper into her.  

The air between them was filled with the wet, rhythmic sounds of his mouth on her, the soft, slick noise minging with her own ragged breaths. His breath was hot against her, panting between sweeps of his tongue as he devoured her with an unrelenting hunger. 

Daenera’s head lolled to the side, her cheek coming to rest against her shoulder that she propped herself up with, her own hair brushing against her flushed skin in a soft, teasing caress. Her gaze settled on the head between her thighs–Aemond’s eyelashes fluttered delicately against his sharp cheekbones, half his face buried in her cunt, his mouth working to undo her completely. 

The sapphire embedded within his eye socket gleamed wickedly up at her, the deep blue stone catching the light like a sky scattered with stars. 

It taunted her, that gleaming sapphire–mocking her with dark satisfaction, as if it knew how utterly lost she was in this moment, how he was unraveling her, how depraved and utterly wrong this was. Taunting her with the guilt and regret that could come later. 

And yet, she couldn’t look away. She was held captive by its crude beauty and the wickedness that seemed to dance within his gaze–holding her in place, binding her to him as the pleasure threatened to tear her apart. 

Aemond’s tongue circled possessively around her throbbing clit, flat and soft, a deliberate tease that made her hips jerk towards him, breath caught in her throat. He pulled back slightly, and the sight of him, his lower face gleaming with her slick, sent a wave of heat rushing through her. His cheekbones were flushed with a pink tint and his lips were slick, parted slightly as he took a breath. His hands slid down to where her thighs connected with her hips, gripping her firmly as he spread her open, exposing every inch of her throbbing cunt to his gaze. 

The hunger in his gaze was palpable as he looked up at her, his attention entirely on her as she clenched around the emptiness that ached for him. She tugged at his hair, a sharp, insistent pull that urged him back to her, desperate for her to feel his mouth again. And he complied, his lips finding her once more, the heat and wetness of his tongue diving back in as though he couldn’t bear to be parted from her for even a moment longer. The pleasure swelled inside her once again, drowning her in its intensity. 

Red smears marred the pale skin of her thighs, faint and startling. She hadn’t noticed them until then–hardly noticed them even now as her head swam with the feel on him. And it didn’t really matter where they came from, not when he met her gaze–not when his lips curved into a smirk as he lowered his face once more. 

Without breaking their gaze, he dragged his tongue in one slow, deliberate stroke up the length of her slit, sending a jolt of pleasure through her. Her hips rolled in response, a sharp gasp escaping her lips as he swirled his tongue around her clit, teasing her with a flickering rhythm.

Then, without warning, he dragged his tongue back down to her quivering entrance, never once looking away. His long lashes fluttered delicately, brushing against his upper lid as he blinked, the curve of his brow softening his expression. His gaze remained on her, eye dark with hunger and intent, even as he buried his tongue deep inside her. 

The sudden intrusion made her cunt clench tightly around him, a wave of heat surging through her like wildfire. The fell of his tongue inside her were maddening, stealing her breath away.

Each movement of his tongue felt like a spark igniting something primal within her. He explored her with a slow, deliberate precision, his mouth working her in ways that made her toes curl and her breath come in ragged gasps. 

“Mmh,” Daenera hummed, her fingers tightening their grip on the covers, knuckles white as she clenched around him. “Ah, mmnh, fuck,” she gasped, voice breathless and strained with need. “I–I’m so close.”

A loud, desperate moan tore from her throat, the sound raw and unrestrained as the intensity of his tongue forced the air from her lungs. Her legs began to shake and jerk, quivering with each relentless stroke of his tongue as he buried himself deeper, fucking her with a fervent desperation while his nose brushed maddingly against her clit. 

Daenera’s strength faltered, her elbow trembling and finally buckling beneath her as she struggled to remain upright. She lowered herself to her elbow, keeping her other hand in his hair as she was caught between the desire to pull him closer or to push him away. Her breaths came in ragged pants, each one growing more shallow as the muscles deep in her abdomen tightened with every thrust of his tongue. The silver cuffs woven into his braids dug into her sweaty palm, but she hardly noticed, too consumed by the tension building within her. 

Aemond shifted his focus, dragging his tongue up to her clit once more. The sudden jolt made her body twitch, but before she could fully register the loss, he replaced his tongue with two long, deft fingers. 

slowly, deliberately, he pushed them inside her, stretching her tight, quivering core. They curled within her, pressing against the sensitive spot that made stars dance on the back of her eyelids as weaves of pleasure rippled through her each time he grazed it. 

With each thrust of his fingers, curling and stroking deep within her, the coil in her stomach tightened, winding closer and closer to the brink of release. Her legs shook, betraying the mounting tension that had her teetering on the edge, her breath quickening, lips parted as her voice caught in her throat. 

The wet, lewd sounds of his fingers moving in and out of her echoed through the room, the embarrassingly slick squelch only heightened her awareness of how far gone she was. 

His lips latched onto her clit, sucking with a firm yet gentle rhythm, his tongue flicking in a delicate circle around her swollen nub, alternating between soothing brushes and a cruel pressure that made her hips roll off the bed. 

Each touch, each movement, seemed an act of worship. He seemed to savor her, devouring every drop of her with an insatiable hunger that left her gasping, her body writing beneath his touch, as if the only thing that existed in that moment was the way he made her feel–overwhelmed, undone, and wholly his.

The world around her seemed to fade, leaving only the heat of his mouth and the intensity of his gaze, and the way his fingers curled into her, the sensations pulling her deeper into a state of pleasure she couldn’t escape, nor did she want to.

Daenera could do nothing but surrender, grinding herself helplessly against his face, her hips rolling in rhythm with the thrust of his fingers. The burn deep in her stomach tightened, coiling with a fierce intensity, her walls clamping down around his fingers as if to pull him deeper inside her. 

“Oh, gods,” she moaned, her voice ragged and breathless, barely able to contain the desperation in her tone. Her body gave way, collapsing onto the mattress beneath her as her strength failed her. Her back arched off the bed, her spine bowing as her body sought more, the pleasure almost unbearable as she teetered on the brink, lost to the fire that burned within her. 

The tension inside Daenera coiled tighter and tighter, until finally, it snapped. 

A gentle flutter of warmth spread through Daenera’s body, at first soothing, like the comforting embrace of stepping into a hot bath. But that warmth quickly intensified, growing into a fierce wildfire that blazed through her veins, consuming her entirely. The heat ignited every inch of her, burning deeper, leaving her breathless as it surged through her being and tore a broken cry from her throat as the pleasure overwhelmed her. 

For a blissful moment, her mind emptied, all thoughts burned away. The only things she was aware of were the heat seeping into her muscles and bones, the rhythmic clenching of her cunt, and the heavy thud of her heart pounding in her ears. 

The tension that had gripped her so fiercely ebbed away, like a receding tide pulling back into the ocean, leaving her spent and weightless. Her body melted into the bed, limbs heavy as her head spun. 

Even though the fog of pleasure, she could still feel him beneath her hand–the soft tickle of his hair sticking to the seat on her palm. Slowly, Aemond eased his fingers out of her, taking care not to rush, leaving her feeling woefully empty, her body already missing the pressure of him inside her. The slickness of her release smeared against her skin as his hand slid to her thigh, gripping her gently. 

His mouth moved tenderly against her, pressing hot, sloppy kisses on her sensitive, pulsing cunt, soothing the overstimulated flesh with each gentle touch of his lips. His movements were deliberate, offering comfort as much as desire, drawing out the last remnants of her pleasure until all that remained was the soft hum of contentment rippling through her.

Daenera’s eyes fluttered open, her gaze unfocused at first, settling on the ceiling as she lay there. The firelight flickered, casting dancing shadows across the old stone, the cracks in the rock deepening in the uneven glow. Her breath came in shallow, uneven pants, her skin still warm with the heat of exertion, a thin sheen of sweat clinging to her. For a moment she just laid there, lost in the blissful quiet of her mind. 

Her attention slowly drifted to the painting above the headboard, the image of Harrenhal’s black towers looming against a darkened sky, turned upside down as she seemed to lay in its shadow. The towers, blackened and twisted by fire, seemed to come alive in the flickering firelight, the painted flames licking at the stone, much like the real fire that had once ravaged it. 

All at once, Daenera felt herself falling. She had been lost, floating in the clouds, wrapped in the haze of desire, but now she was plummeting–down, down, down–crashing into the cold, unforgiving sea of guilt. The madness of desire receded like the tide, and in its wake, the cold, bitter clarity of realization swept over her, pulling her under, dragging her deep, drowning her in a wave of suffocating regret, pouring into her lungs like ice water. 

She should never have let him get this close. She should never have allowed him to touch her with those hands–those awful, gentle hands that remained stained with her brother’s blood. Her chest tightened painfully, the guilt stabbing at her heart like a blade. It was too much to bear–the way his cheek, wet with her arousal, nuzzled against her thighs, the juncture of her hip, and against the fabric bunched at her lower stomach. The way his hands, so warm and possessive, slid up her thighs and over her hips, kneading the flesh with an intimacy that now felt unbearable. His hair brushed softly against her skin, his breath curling over her like a smothering blanket, greedy and relentless as he inhaled her scent in a way that nearly made her sick.

Shame settled deep within her chest, heavy and corrosive, easing away at her from the inside. He nuzzled against her as if her body was his to claim, his to possess, and that twisted, familiar hunger only deepened this weight. 

Tears stung the back of Daenera’s eyes, burning with the weight of emotions she could no longer suppress. A choked sound escaped her throat as she instinctively reached down, her trembling hands pushing against Aemond’s shoulders, as he nuzzled against her, in a desperate attempt to create distance between them. Her heartbeat pounded loudly, echoing in her ears and chest, each thud sending waves of shame and guilt coursing through her veins. 

Desperately, Daenera scrambled back on the bed, her hands clawing at the bedding as she fought to pull herself away from him. Her heels dug into the edge of the mattress, trying to gain enough leverage to push herself father from his touch. Her movements were clumsy, driven by the rising panic that tightened her chest, making it harder to breathe. She finally managed to break free, sliding out from beneath him, her body trembling as she clawed backward, retreating until her back hit the cold, unyielding headboard. 

Breathing heavily, she bent her knees, curling in on herself, her feet awkwardly positioned beneath her as though she could make herself small enough to disappear, to hide away from what had just transpired. Her hands bunched in the pillows below her, breath coming quick as she tried to compose herself against the storm of emotions tearing through her. She felt raw, exposed, as though everything within her was unraveling, and all she wanted was to escape the suffocating presence of his touch, the reminder of her guilt that clung to her like a shadow. 

And there Aemond was, sprawled at the foot of the bed, his body stretched out over the mattress, his knees still planted on the floor. His posture was almost desperate, one hand still extended towards her, as though he’d held onto her until the very last moment, as though he were still reaching for her even after she’d slipped away. His silver hair cascaded over his shoulders in disarray, strands pulled loose from their braids where she had clutched him tightly and yanked him closer, closer still, grinding herself against his eager, burning mouth. 

A flush of pink adorned his cheeks, almost glowing in the firelight, while the evidence of her arousal–her release–still glistened on his chin, his cheeks, his nose, his lips, almost marking him as hers. The flush had crept down his neck, spreading across his chest, the heat of their encounter seemingly still coursing through him. He hovered there, inches above the bed, his brow furrowed in confusion, bewilderment etched into his features as he looked at her. 

At first, he seemed caught in a daze, lost in the remnants of desire that had overtaken them both. His lips parted slightly, as if to say something, but no words came. He simply stared, his one eye wide, searching as though trying to make sense of her sudden retreat, of the sudden distance that had appeared between them in an instant. There was no hunger in his gaze now, only confusion and the faintest flicker of something more vulnerable. 

She stared at him for a moment longer, her eyes wide and unsettled, heart pounding as the sapphire in his eye socket gleamed back at her. The flickering firelight made it glint like stars of fire swirling in a dark, endless void of azure. There was something wretched and chilling about it, a reminder of the past–of everything she had lost, everything she had been forced to endure.

It haunted her, that sapphire–its beauty twisted by the horror it symbolized. Even in his quiet moments, in the softness he showed, it was always there, a reminder of the violence, the bloodshed, the scars he carried–and the scars he had left on her, the ruination of her heart, still weeping from the blade of his love. And those were scars that would forever stand between them, no matter how close they came or how much they tried to push it aside. 

Aemond lifted his hand, a silent gesture, as if beckoning her back to him, but Daenera couldn’t bear it. She shook her head, her ribs tightening around her lungs, choking her with the weight of her shame. It was suffocating, an invisible weight pressing down on her chest as she fought to breathe. 

Without a word, she scrambled off the bed, her nightgown falling back into place around her though the thin layer of fabric felt like a flimsy shield against the intensity of his gaze. She could feel his eye following her, tracking her movements as he crossed the room. 

Her steps were hurried, desperate, as she made her way to the water basin. Her hands trembled as she dipped them into the cool water, cupping it in her palms and bringing it to her face. She splashed the water over her skin, trying to wash away the lingering heat, the races of him that clung to her. But more than that, she was trying to conceal the tears that brimmed her eyes, stinging as they threatened to spill. The water dripped down her face, mixing with the salt of her tears as they silently fell, her throat burning with the emotions she fought to swallow. 

Daenera’s breaths came shallow and shaky, each one an effort to regain control, but the same that flooded her veins was relentless, drowning her in its cruel grip. She kept her back to him, unable to face the weight of his presence or the echo of what had just passed between them.

The cool water did little to soothe the shame that clung to her like a second skin. Even as she splashed her face and wiped it dry, the heavy weight of guilt remained, suffocating her. She dipped the cloth back into the basin, wringing it out with trembling hands, before lifting the nightgown and bringing the damp fabric between her thighs. Her motions were hurried, almost frantic, as if she could somehow cleanse herself of what had passed. 

But then her heart sank, her breath catching in her throat as she noticed the red splotches smeared across her skin. It wasn’t just the flush from the heat of their encounter–there were smears of blood. The sight of it made her stomach turn, and a wave of panic gripped her. Her heart pounded loudly in her chest, each beat heavy with dread. 

She felt tainted, soiled by his touch, as though the blood of her brother had somehow smeared onto her skin through his hands, his lips, his very breath. It clung to her now, a stain she could not wash away, and she hated herself for allowing it, for wanting him despite everything. 

She scrubbed furiously at her skin, wiping at the blood with desperate urgency, as though he could erase it. But no matter how hard she tried, it was as if the stain wouldn’t fade. It wasn’t just the blood–it was the weight of his touch, the lingering imprint of what had transpired between them, that seemed to cling to her skin. Her movements became more frantic, driven by a need to rid herself of the shame that now consumed her, her mind swirling with the remnants of the moment and his touch lingering on her skin. 

Her skin reddened beneath the rough scraping of the cloth, her frantic attempts to cleanse herself leaving her raw and flushed. The blood was gone, wiped away, but she could still feel it lingering, a strain in her mind that refused to vanish. It clung to her, heavy and suffocating, no matter how hard she tried to scrub it away. 

Frustration and anger boiled up inside her as she tossed the cloth into the basin. The water splashed and stirred as the fabric hit the surface, half of it sinking into the water while the other half hung limply over the edge, dripping onto the table beneath. 

Her chest heaved with the intensity of her motions as she turned around, her gaze falling on Aemond. He remained at the foot of the bed, still on his knees. His face was blank, save for the slight frown that tugged at his brow, but there was no other sign of what was beneath the surface. He had settled back on his haunches now, no longer reaching for her, no longer stretching over the bed in silent plea. 

His presence, quiet and unmoving, only fueled the fire raging inside her. Her heart hammered in her chest, the anger clawing at her inside, a desperate attempt to make sense of her own weakness. 

The heavy sound of her bare feet padding over the cold stone floor echoed through the room as she made her way back to the bed. Her movements were sharp, purposeful, driven by the storm of emotions roiling within her. She furiously shoved the covers aside, her hands trembling with anger as she grabbed a pillow, and without hesitation, tossed it forcefully towards Aemond. 

The pillow struck him square in the face, a muted thud breaking the tense silence, before it fell to the mattress in front of him, laying haphazardly where it landed. Aemond’s hand moved, fingers curling into the pillow in a tight fist, but his expression remained inscrutable–confusion, frustration, anger, and resignation flickering within his single eye as he stared at her. 

“Sleep on the chaise or on the floor–I don’t care which, but I will not share a bed with you,” Daenera snapped, her voice cutting through the tension as she settled onto the bed, ignoring the weight of his gaze as it bore into her. She grabbed another pillow, roughly shifting it into place, her bag rigid, refusing to acknowledge the depths of his stare. She knew he was watching her, torn between emotions she didn’t care to understand–none of them mattered. 

“Savor this memory, Kinslayer,” she spat, her voice cold and sharp as ice. “There will not be another.I may be your wife in name and by law, but that is the extent of it. ”

Her words hung heavy in the air, final and unyielding. She could feel the weight of their implications sinking into the silence between them, an unspoken chasm growing even wider. 

Daenera tugged her feet from the cold stone floor, curling them beneath the covers and pulling the fabric tightly over her shoulders. She lay down, closing her eyes as though shutting him out could make his presence vanish–as if the darkness behind her eyelids could shield her from the weight of the truth pressing in on her. But his presence lingered in the room, thick and unavoidable, the tension between them almost suffocating. 

She heard him stand, the subtle creak of his knees rising from the floor, followed by the sound of his footfalls moving across the stone. The room was quiet, save for the soft splash of water from the basin as he washed himself. Each drip and ripple echoed in her ears, the noise only deepening the distance she tried to create. She could imagine the water sliding off his skin, his face wet from more than just her touch.

Her ears attuned to every sound–the rustling of fabric as he cleaned himself, the shuffling of feet as he moved through the room. Then came the muted creak of furniture as he settled himself somewhere, movements she couldn’t see but could still feel in the quiet that settled over them. Finally, he exhaled, a long, heavy breath that filled the silence, a sound that spoke of resignation–perhaps even exhaustion. Daenera kept her eyes shut, willing herself not to react, to remain still, detached, as if his breath or his presence could no longer reach her. Still, no matter how hard she tried to shut him out, the sound of him lingered in her mind, a presence that could not be so easily banished. 

It was only after the silence had fully settled in the room, broken only by the soft crackle and pop of the hearth, that Daenera finally dared open her eyes. The room was cloaked in shadows, the faint scent of smoke lingering in the air, creating a slight haze within the room as if the night itself had seeped into the walls. The candles had been blown out, leaving no light but the dim glow of the dying fire in the hearth. 

The embers smoldered faintly, casting a soft, warm light that flickered weakly in the darkness, but no flames remained. Daenera’s gaze settled on the hearth, her eyes tracing the dying glow, watching as the last traces of heat slowly faded into the night, leaving only the bare warmth of the ash. It was a hollow comfort, much like the silence that had settled. 

Tears pooled at the corner of one eye, a single droplet slipping free from the other and trailing down her cheek, wetting the pillow beneath her.

Her heart ached with a deep, agonizing pain that reverberated through her entire body, as if the feeling itself had become something physical–sharp, like the clash of steel ringing out in the emptiness of an abandoned chamber. The pain echoed in the growing sense of hollowness within her, each pulse of sorrow a reminder of how deeply he had wounded her–a reminder of what he had done to her brother.

It was cruel, she thought bitterly, that her heart remained as foolish as it was, even after all he had done, after every wound he had lathered upon it. Crueler still was the way she had so easily been lost in his touch, so effortlessly pulled under by the tide of his presence. Her chest tightened with the weight of realization, the shame and guilt entwined with the raw ache of betrayal. She had let herself fall, despite the warnings carved into her soul, despite the blood on his hands. 

And now, in the aftermath, she lay there in the darkness, knowing that no matter how much distance she tried to put between them, the true distance lay within herself–her heart divided, torn by the love she wished she could banish and the wounds she could never forget. 

Daenera’s fingers brushed against the small lavender pouch she had tugged beneath the pillow, its familiar texture grounding her for a moment. It was still there, waiting for her, a silent reminder of what she was going to do. Her hand lingered over it, the faint scent of lavender rising gently into the air, mingling with the dying embers of the hearth. 

Daenera supposed she shouldn’t expect to come out of this unscathed, without blood on her hands. The thought weighed heavily on her, settling like a stone in her chest. As much as she dreaded it, she had resigned herself to the inevitable. Sacrifices had to be made–hadn’t they all made them in some way? How could she avoid becoming monstrous when she was surrounded by monsters? The transformation felt inescapable, as if the darkness was seeping into her, turning her into something she had once feared.

She hated him for making her love him. Hated him for dragging her into the depths of his twisted, monstrous affection, for ruining her with a love that felt more like a curse than a gift. The warmth of his touch, the softness that lingered beneath his cruelty, had undone her, leaving her conflicted and broken.

But more than that, Daenera hated herself. She hated herself for loving him despite everything, for craving what she knew was poison. And she hated what he would make of her in the end–a reflection of his own darkness, a being shaped by betrayal and vengeance, and the inevitable bloodshed to come. 

The weight of it was suffocating, pressing down on her heart, making her feel as though her fate had already been written in blood.

Sooo…. I know Daenera's actions goes against her thoughts, and the other way around--and all I have to say is that she's torn and irrational. She struggles with what she feels and with what she should feel, she feels guilty and lost and it's all a little maddening. She is trying to convince herself as much as Aemond that what they have is only lust, despite the fact that she knows that it's more than that. She is trying to tell herself that it's all it is because that might be easier--lust is just lust, Aemond's actions would be easier if it was just that, love couldn't do this, right? But that's the thing, love can do this and only love can hurt this much.

Anyway, I hope I'm able to finish the AU smuttier version of the wedding night by Friday, but I've been sick for a good few days and haven't made it as far as I'd like. Once the AU as been posted there will be 1-2 chapters left for Season 1 of the story! And it will really set up Arc one of Season 2!

I hope you enjoyed her irrationality <3

[thedreamsmith]

Forged in Dragonfire (Part 6)

Apologies for the time between updates! Between starting a new job and the upcoming HEMA tournament season I’ve been flat out. 

As always, feedback and comments are greatly appreaciated and let me know if you’d like to be tagged in future chapters!

@deadbranch @mswintersoldier

~~~~

Edeline had given serious thought to not attending her next session with Aemond, fearful that the prince would somehow know she had acted upon her most base desires. That his sapphire gaze would spear her very soul; lustful thoughts and actions laid bare for his perusal and judgement.

As the Father would have it, she need not have worried. Upon entering the training yard two days later, there was no sign of Prince Aemond - only a lone steward, wearing the black and scarlet livery of House Targaryen.

The steward handed her a folded note as she approached before dipping into a sharp bow.

‘His Highness, Prince Aemond, sends his sincere apologies.’

She nodded in acknowledgement, sliding a gloved finger beneath the crimson wax to break the seal. The cardstock felt heavy and expensive – something her father might use to correspond with his bannermen rather than for a scrawled note.

I have been summoned to Dragonstone by my lady mother and will not return in time for this morn’s lesson. Meet me in the library at twelve bells - I find discussing theory and strategy much more comfortable with wine and warmth.

My deepest apologies,

Aemond

The handwriting was sharp and precise, with none of the extra flourishes that had become popular among the younger gentry in recent years. Her traitorous heart gave a queer little flutter as she came to the end of the note, where the prince had signed his name. And only his name.

A quick glance told her that the steward had not taken his leave, his face an impassive mask that she hoped meant he had not read the note himself. Had not noted the familiarity that was evident even when one party was absent.

With what she hoped was suitable nonchalance, she dismissed the steward and tucked the note into a pocket in her breeches, where it seemed to burn a hole through the fabric, impossible to ignore. Faced with a sudden expanse of free time, Edeline glanced around at the soldiers already training. It was easy to tell those who had spent the evening deep in their cups - that is if they had bothered to arrive so early at all.

*

Choosing an unused section of the courtyard, she began her usual drills, concentrating on keeping her cold-numbed feet from tripping over the uneven ground. A chorus of laughter went up from a nearby knot of soldiers and a muscle in her jaw jumped, acutely, painfully aware that she was the only woman in the immediate vicinity.

Despite her assurances to the prince, despite that she had never experienced a man’s cruelty - only her father’s reprimanding strikes - it was impossible for a women to exist within King’s Landing, within Westeros, without developing that vital sixth sense needed to avoid the particular danger that men posed.

So when she head the shuffle of footsteps behind her, she flinched away, drawing her sword close, a barrier between her and the rest of the training yard. However when she whipped around, her gaze landed on the startled face of a young soldier, cheeks still round with youth and flushed from the cold.

‘Easy, m’lady.’ The soldier kept his voice low, as if soothing a spooked animal, Flea Bottom accent roughening the ends of his words like a blacksmith’s lave. ‘We jus’ thought you might wanna train with us today, seein’ as the prince isn’t here an’ all.’

He jerked his chin, the gesture drawing her attention to a pair of soldiers near the arming rack, neither of them a summer older than her, if the wispy facial hair and abundance of spots were anything to go by.

‘The name’s Kevan. Ethon and Crann were just about to ‘ave a go wi’ sword and buckler but you can join in wi’ your longsword after.’

‘Just Edeline, no need for formalities.’  Stranger take her – she was acutely aware of the way her own aristocratic pronunciation sounded in comparison, enforced by her mother and her threats of a mouthful of lye.

Kevan must have noticed as well, for his brows rose into his hairline, a smirk ghosting across his boyish features.

‘As yeh wish, yer ladyship.’ Edeline scowled. ‘Everyone saw the way y’ knocked Warrik on his arse – haughty as a Targaryen you were.’

‘Not that it’s a bad thing, mind you. Warrik is a right cocksucker – pardon my language, m’lady.’

‘Edeline.’ She could sense that this would become a theme.

‘Truthfully, the bastard – pardon – needed a good thumpin’.’ Kevan continued, seemingly having not heard her interjection, as he led her over to where his companions were bickering over possession of a truly mediocre broadsword.

Eventually Crann – the taller of the two, also from Flea Bottom, Kevan informed her – won by virtue of his height, after he snatched the weapon and held it above Ethon’s head. With a sour expression she suspected was partly due to his loss, and partly due to his Northern heritage, the pasty soldier snatched up a sabre that had also seen better days and trudged into the makeshift ring.

Prince Aemond had not taught her any sword and buckler, so she had to rely on Kevan’s enthusiastic commentary on the friendly match.

‘Keep your weapons together, yeh useless oaf!’ The soldier beside her sucked in a pained breath as Ethon cut between Crann’s hilt and buckler yet again, snapping upright and out of range before the taller man could recover.

Despite his earlier loss, Ethon proved victorious in his bout; leaving his companion with arms striped with welts and a truly impressive bruise on his right cheek, courtesy of his steel buckler. However, the injured face and ego was swiftly smoothed over by promises of the night’s ale to be paid for by the victor.

And then it was her turn. Apprehension coursed through her as she stepped into the ring opposite Kevan. Her flaxen-haired opponent bounced on the balls of his feet, worn leather boots sending frozen pebbles clattering across the ground. Friendly bout or no, she was at a significant disadvantage; he had watched her train and fight, whereas his style was a mystery to her.

When Ethon called to begin, Kevan exploded into motion – a soldier’s brutal efficiency, lacking any of the elaborate feints or flourishes she was used to seeing employed by knights at tourneys.

The match was over embarrassingly quickly, her scant months of tuition with the prince paling in comparison to the gruelling training demanded of even the lowest-ranking among the King’s army.

Instead of gloating, Kevan offered her a half-serious bow, before launching into an enthusiastic explanation of her faults, with the occasional input from the others. His insight was leagues away from that of Aemond’s; a soldier’s perspective compared to that of a prince, although invaluable nonetheless.

To sweeten the prospect of a rematch, he graciously promised to stop calling her ‘m’lady’ if she could land a clean hit on any of them before eleven bells. Edeline did not believe him for a second, but readied her weapon nevertheless.

*

By the time Edeline had managed to extract herself from her new acquaintances’ raucous company, there was barely enough time for her to wash and change into an outfit more suited to being in the company of a prince.

Prince Aemond was already in the library when she arrived, a heavy book in his lap, dancing firelight gilding his features, a goblet of wine so dark it was almost purple held steadily in one hand.

He did not seem to notice her approach as she drew level with his chair, too deeply engrossed in a world of ink and parchment. The lines of script she could see over his shoulder were decidedly not those belonging to a treatise on martial strategy. A smile ghosted over her lips as she announced her presence with a shallow curtsey, before sinking into the upholstered armchair adjacent to his.

With a motion much like a startled cat, the prince snapped the book shut, a blush colouring the high ridges of his usually-pale cheeks. So, the youngest prince liked to read romance novels? How very interesting.

Aemond recovered quickly, hastily shoving the book out of sight and hefting a significantly larger volume from the table between them.

‘I must apologise again for my absence this morn, my lady.’ Blueish shadows darkened the space under his eye. Exactly what sort of errands did the queen consort have him undertaking? Tensions had been running high among the Great Houses for moons, everyone knew that. With the matter of succession to the Iron Throne at stake, she supposed it was only natural that Queen Allicent would use every tool at her disposal to ensure that her eldest son ascended to the throne, despite the rumours that the king had named Rhaenyra his heir.

The prince did not pry into how she had spent her morning, although she had no doubt that there were already fresh gossip of her unchaperoned antics in the training yard flying around the Keep. Without preamble, he launched into a detailed lecture on the very basics of martial strategy and the principles of how an army was comprised.

The wine was rich and warm in her belly, and the timbre of the prince’s voice alluringly soothing as she followed along with the occasional nod or interjected question. If only her tutors had been this lovely, she thought idly, rather than dusty old relics. She might have been more inclined to spend her time studying rather than covered in soot and iron filings.

*

Despite his obvious interest in the subject, and her desire to prove a diligent student, their conversation gradually strayed to other subjects. She found herself divulging details of her girlhood, seemingly innocuous stories that she had forgotten until precisely that moment; playing in the Godswood of her family’s country estate with her brother and sisters, the sweet buns that their cook made, the handsome duke’s son who had taken her maidenhead in the dusty sunlight of the stables when she was sixteen summers.

The latter was not met with distain, but with a murmured comment that he was glad that her first time had been her own decision. He did not offer up information about his own first tumble, and so she did not pry. Better to let him divulge the meaning behind his bittersweet smile and the thinly veiled pain beneath in his own time.

The prince’s tone grew sombre as he recounted the torment he had endured through into adulthood from his younger nephews, protected as they were from retribution by their mother’s status and power.

‘I can imagine that it must be…vexing to have to tolerate your nephews’ blatant disrespect in silence.’

‘Vexing?’ Despite the subject at hand, there was a note of amusement in the prince’s voice. ‘Come now, my lady, surely the Street of Steel has taught you more colourful phrases than that?’

‘Be as it may, may I remind you, your highness, that it is also imperative that I keep the two halves of my life separate.’

‘But you are not two people, are you?’ Aemond shifted forward in his seat, the pose and intensity of his gaze uncannily reminiscent of his uncle. ‘You are much yourself working in the forge as you are-‘ He waved his hand for a moment as his jaw worked. ‘Dancing with a sweaty lordling.’

She shot him an unamused glance. 

‘And yet there are precious few who would take me as both.’ She turned towards the crackling hearth. ‘A highborn Lord would not tolerate his lady wife spending her days covered in soot and stinking of the forges. Just as a butcher’s son would not be able to understand the intricacies that come with navigating court life.’

‘I am well aware that I am rapidly approaching the time where I must choose which part of my life I am to keep, and which I must discard.’

‘Hmm.’ The soft noise was her only warning as Aemond suddenly rose from his seat, one pale hand extended towards her. ‘Come with me.’

The young prince did not elaborate further as he led her through the sun-soaked halls of the Red Keep then belowground into a web of tunnels that she had never entered. The minutes passed in silence and darkness, the gentle pressure of his hand in hers the only thing she could focus on as they travelled under what seemed like half of King’s Landing. It wasn’t until the air began to warm that she realised where they were headed.  

The walls of the Dragonpit radiated heat as the tunnels deposited them into the great circular hall, topped by the enormous dome that was visible from almost every vantage point in the city.

The Dragonpit was the greatest building in the city, but even so, the enormous bulk of the largest living dragon barely fit within its sandstone walls. Vhagar opened one amber eye as her rider approached, the only sign that she was aware of their presence.

How Aemond had claimed this beast, had gained her loyalty at only thirteen summers…

Panic blossomed in her throat, setting her whole body shaking as she watched the great beast press her enormous muzzle into the prince’s chest. The scent that Aemond always carried with him was tenfold stronger here, a heavy mix of brimstone and smoke, a scent that she had not explicitly linked to his dragon until this very moment.

‘Do you trust me?’ His gaze was piercing, yet there was a vulnerability beneath that stole her breath. With a painful twist of her heart, she realised just how thoroughly this man was baring his soul to her. His very essence, a heart-bond like no other.

Even as her hands shook, she nodded, unable to speak for the unnameable emotion in her throat, in her lungs. She was made of kindling; a single spark would set her ablaze.

His hand covered hers, pressing her trembling fingers against the she-dragon’s warm scales. The great beast gave a low rumble that reverberated through her feet, settling deep within her and stoking the fire that Aemond’s unwavering gaze had lit.

‘I want you to see all of me, as I see all of you. There is nothing about you that I do not accept.’

Afterwards, she would not be able to recall which of them had moved first, only that his hands were in her hair, pulling her to him as their lips met. He held her like she was precious, like she was unbreakable. His mouth was hot against hers, like she had always imagined it would be, fire licking in her veins as his tongue traced her jaw, her throat.

The rumble this time was not Vhagar’s, but Aemond’s, building in his chest and into her own as she pulled him closer. Silver tangled in her fingers, night-dark leather under her hands as she sought purchase, a vessel adrift in a storm. She bit down on the soft skin beneath his ear, his answering groan its own reward as she soothed the sting with her tongue.

Aemond responded in kind, gripping her waist tight enough to bruise as he ground his hips into her stomach. She could feel his desire, the hard length of his cock a maddening presence with their clothes between them, only serving to fuel the desire that was building low in her belly.

Their breath came in heaving gasps, the need to draw air secondary to the need to explore, to press mouths to every plane and curve of the other’s burning skin. The dragon blood in his veins was infectious, filling her with his desire, his need to claim her in every sense of the word.

Edeline watched with fierce satisfaction the prince’s reaction to the undulations of her hips; rocking relentlessly against the straining line of his cock, and as she sucked another mark onto the pale column of his throat, she thought that the Targaryens were not the only ones to have claimed a dragon.

*

By the time they stumbled back to the Red Keep, both thoroughly debauched, the afternoon had grown late, and thin winter sunlight gilded the city sprawling beneath Aegon’s High Hill.

Aemond, ever the gentleman, had insisted that he would not take her for the first time in the dusty warmth of the Dragonpit. Although the suggestions that he had whispered into her ear as they made their way back through the tunnels, of how he did plan to take her, were anything but virtuous.

Edeline, thoroughly sick of propriety, had endeavoured to break his vow, sneaking her hand down the front of his breeches until he had been forced to crowd her against the chalky tunnel wall, wrists pinned above her head in a deliciously strong grip.  

Unsurprisingly, the walk back from the Pit had taken a good deal longer than it had taken to get there.

It wasn’t until they were back within the quiet of his chambers that the heat between them cooled slightly, crystalising into something far more precious. With a shuddering breath, Aemond slowly closed his eye, dipping his head. Wordlessly, she understood what he was asking of her.

Her fingers were steady as she eased them gently, so gently, beneath his ever-present eyepatch, tracing the shallow divot of the scar upwards until it bisected his silver brow. The leather thong fell away, forgotten on the floor as she cupped his face with both hands.

The faceted sapphire was without flaw, glimmering dully where an eye should have been. The flutter of his lashes beneath her fingers, the almost imperceptible tremor of his mouth as she breathed the word that had lived in her mind since she had first laid eyes upon the second son; least loved, forgotten by almost all.

‘Beautiful.’

Edeline stretched as far as she could, pressed her mouth to the corner of his gemstone eye. A beauty kept hidden from the world, a frightened boy’s heart laid bare for only her to see.

A single tear traced a path down his face, dampening her lips as she kissed him, far more gently than the ones they had shared in the heat of the dragon’s lair.

‘Marry me.’ It was not a question. He still had not opened his eye.

‘Yes.’ The single word rode a sigh, barely audible, but it was enough. His answering kiss was a silent roar, a challenge issued to no one but her. She kissed him back like a victory.

Like the shattering of a dream, a knock came at the door, and the wrath in the prince’s eye could have ignited the whole of King’s Landing.

‘Do not disturb me again, unless you wish to feel my dragon’s fire.’ His arms were braced around her, a dragon defending his mate. The thought aroused her far more than she expected.

The voice that answered was timorous, an adolescent squeak in comparison to her lover’s ire. ‘Your mother, the queen, has requested your presence in the throne room at once.’

‘Then tell her I shall be delayed.’ Aemond turned back to her, burying his face in the crook of her neck as he lapped at the tender skin.

‘She insisted rather forcefully, your highness.’ The squire was clearly pissing his breeches at the thought of angering the young prince. But she did feel a flicker of respect that he had not yet turned tail and fled.

‘We will continue this afterwards, I swear it.’ She gently pushed him away, a flash of satisfaction in her breast that she had been the undoing of this beautiful, dangerous man. Sensing that he was still leaning towards locking them in his rooms and not emerging for many long, long hours, she pressed again. ‘I will join you, my love.’

The gentle endearment seemed to finally sway him - with a wordless grunt, he swept his eyepatch from the floor, affixing it in place as he strode to the door, flinging it open to reveal the indeed terrified face of a young palace squire. Confronted with a glowering Targaryen prince, the squire wisely chose to flee, his pounding footsteps receding down the corridor, presumably to alert the queen that her errant son was on his way.

‘We are not finished here.’ Aemond pressed a tender kiss to her forehead as they began their way to the heart of the Keep. Warmth bloomed in her chest as her took her arm in his. She believed him without doubt.

*

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 7

Part 8

[rprambles]

#1 - Foster - (ao3)

Grimmia paces behind the line of squires, narrow gaze watching for missteps as they shadow her fellow knight's form. Any mistakes not caught here could become habit. Could become the one that costs their life. The Knights Dragoon are already too few in number to allow for that risk. She calls a sharp reprimand to one, “Check your footing.” The squire quickly adjusts - and something else does too. Her gaze moves past the squires, to a shadow beyond the yard. Someone else is watching: a spy? Or merely a curious youth? She catches her fellow knight's gaze and nods in the shadows's direction, then picks up her lance as she steps away to investigate.

The shadow belongs to neither spy or awestruck child, but to a young hyur. Not one of her squires, she is dressed in a shabby patched coat and wields a thin length of ash for a lance. Yet she mirrors the squires’ steps with complete focus, unaware of Grimmia’s notice.

Grimma clears her throat and the girl jumps. She doesn’t drop the makeshift lance, rather tightening her grip on it as she stands stock still, staring wide-eyed at the knight.

“What are you doing here?” Grimmia asks flatly.

“Ah… practicing, ser.”

That much was obvious. She sweeps her gaze over the girl again. Lowborn, given her attire, blonde hair tied tightly back out of her face, a dusting of freckles across her nose, and deep brown eyes. She’s seen those eyes before, on someone else. “You’re Edelin, yes?” The girl almost flinches - bracing. Grimmia veers away from the obvious with her next words. “Ferrand’s daughter.”

The girl breathes a sigh. “Yes ser.”

“You’ve grown quite a bit since last I saw you.” It should not be surprising, it had been five or six years since she’d last been to the Ronsard estate. Since there had been a Ronsard estate. That the girl doesn’t recognize her is somehow less surprising. “I am Grimmia Dailemont, of the Knights Dragoon. May I ask why you are shadowing my recruits?”

Edelin swallows, a white-knuckle grip on her ‘lance’. “I want to be a knight, ser.” She speaks like she expects to be laughed at. Most people would laugh, would tell her that most deserters’ families have the sense to keep to themselves in the Brume, would tell her not to waste a knight’s time.

Grimmia is not most people. “Let’s see your form.”

Edelin stares for a moment, then immediately takes a combat stance. Grimmia circles her as she goes through the steps and corrects her as needed in a calm firm tone. She is as green as any of the hopefuls, but she has focus and drive and adjusts quickly at the merest word. She has potential. And Grimmia Dailemont is not one to see potential squandered over politics.

[gaybarbiegirl]

Who's your favorite princess in Barbie and the 12 dancing princesses? Mine was Kathleen for some reason as a kid. Not because she had a lot of character, but I guess it was because she was the middle child of the triplets or smth, idk.

Honestly, having really random characters as my favorites is kind of my whole thing, so I get it lol

As for the 12 dancing princesses, my favorites were Edeline and Blair. Edeline because she was very sharp and sarcastic, plus she openly mocked the duchess, and I really liked that. Blair because I thought the idea of a princess being a super skilled horse rider was really cool. I guess both of them were a little different from the princesses I usually saw in movies back in the day, and it was a nice change of pace for me.

[m0onbean]

kill the prince. chapter 4

category: angst, drama, prince!jinjin AU, fantasy!AU, royalty!AU, knight!AU

pairing: jinjin X female reader

warnings: swearings, mentions of murder

words: 1.5k

note: next chapter is the final chapter!

prompt: Your mission as the head knight of the Silver Kingdom is to kill the Golden prince of your kingdom’s rival: The Golden Kingdom. But it’s not as simple as you thought it would be when you find yourself falling for the handsome prince with a golden heart.

series masterlist

You couldn’t sleep again. Not when you were thinking about your mission, thinking about Jinjin, and thinking about what you should do. Although exhaustion should’ve come and hit you like a hammer, it never did. And you hated that. You wanted to go to sleep to just stop thinking.

And just like the night before, the same pigeon arrived at your window. You’re not in the mood to even interact with your kingdom, but you feel bad for the bird. You stumble to the window, snap it open, take the letter, and slam it back closed. Now that you’re just moody and fatigued, you angrily stuff the letter under your pillow and knock out on your blanket.

It wasn’t enough sleep, but it was something at least. When you wake up, you look at the clock and realize that you’re late for your lesson. You curse at yourself and hop out of bed only to realize that you aren’t in class anymore… You just need to teach Jinjin which occurs after class. After calculating, you decide that you have a good amount of time to prepare for today’s training.

But you hadn’t forgotten the letter. You dig under your pillow and pull the scroll out. The dainty, silver bow that wrapped around the scroll deeply disturbed you. You roll it out and read it carefully:

“Head Knight (Y/N),

Your dear Knight Academy is on the brink of collapsing right now. Head Myungjun has so much debt, he won’t be able to hold the academy up much longer. He doesn’t even have enough money to feed your fellow juniors.

With that being said, we expect your mission to be completed by tomorrow. Or else, you’ll lose your chance of being Royal Knight and maybe even lose your academy that was like a home to you.”

Your crumpled the note in your fist.

Although a skeptical part of you thinks that the royal court was probably just falsely threatening you, you were NOT taking any chances. The Knight Academy is your home. The rest of the students also looked to the academy to avoid their orphanages. The academy is their home, too. And you promised Myungjun you would complete the mission for this reason.

“For the kids,” your murmur as you shred the letter and hide the remains under your pillow. You’re motivated to complete the mission, even if it means having to kill Jinjin.

You walk into the field and immediately see Jinjin practicing by himself. “Sir Jinjin, are you ready for today’s lesson?” you ask in a bored tone. You were going to get this over with.

Jinjin looks up at you with the same cute, puppy eyes. “Averil! Good morning, did you get slee-”

“Can we just start? I’m not going to waste any time today.” You sternly state while picking up the practice sword. You weren’t going to kill him here.

His smile is wiped off his face instantly. It makes your eye twitch, but you have to ignore it. You need to save the academy. But Jinjin being Jinjin… he won’t ever stop being persistent.

“Are you okay, Averil?” he cautiously asks with his eyebrows furrowed. “Did I say something yesterday that made you mad?”

A wave of guilt washes over you, but your motivation was still withstanding like a rock. “No, you didn’t. Sorry, I’m in a sour mood because I lost sleep.” You gently explain so you can quickly finish this lesson.

But Jinjin is smart, and he knows that’s probably not the reason for your anger. Yet he’s also too kind and you look tired, so he does you a favor and stops talking.

During the whole training, you give him clear directions in a monotone voice. No more joking or laughing. No more blushing and off-topic conversations. And when it’s over, Jinjin is completely washed out. You grab his hand to help him stand up, and for a moment you still feel a spark when you touch his soft hand.

“Wow Averil. You almost killed me with today’s training,” Jinjin laughs while wiping the sweat from his forehead. You give him a small nod, but you can’t help the pleased expression on your face. He was training very well and definitely improved from yesterday.

You turn to enter the castle, but Jinjin stops you by grabbing your wrist. “Wait, I know you’re in a bad mood, but can I give you the second half of the castle tour?” Ah, you remember him giving you a castle tour on your first day. He only got through two floors, though.

“Sure, Sir Jinjin,” you reply. It’s better to know more about the castle for when you escape tonight. His face lights up when you don’t reject him and you feel that sharp pain around your heart again. “Meet at the staircase!” he yells before he’s off to go change out of his sweaty armor.

Jinjin guides you to the third floor where all of the royal business stuff occurs. He shows you the many offices and rooms but apologizes when he can’t show you his father’s throne. Nobody is allowed in there unless they are summoned, Jinjin explains.

Although you’re trying to stay cold towards him, he still manages to act all funny and cheery. You give him small responses but he savors them and brightens up whenever you offer him the smallest of chuckles. You can tell that he’s not sure why you’re mad, but he’s still trying his best to cheer you up.

You two climb up another flight of stairs until you notice that Jinjin’s cheeks and ears have turned a bright red. “Sir Jinjin?” you innocently ask.

“U-Uh we’re heading to the floors with the royals’ bedrooms now,” he barely whispers.

Oh.

Carefully, Jinjin leads you to his room and he kinda hesitates before opening it. As expected, it’s very tidy. There’s a king-sized bed with golden sheets, some picture frames of what looks like his family, and a bunch of medals on the walls. You take a closer look and realize that they’re all academic awards.

“Sir Jinjin, you did well in school?”

When you turn around, you see that he’s awkwardly standing near the doorway. “Uh, yeah.” You can’t help but laugh at how nervous he was being. He looks back at you with wide eyes before he starts defending himself, “NO Wait, I’m not trying anything. I just. OKAY, don’t get the wrong- It’s just… I’ve never brought anyone in my room before.”

You look at him in genuine shock. “What?!”

“What?” He immediately shoots back. At this point, he’s gone completely red. He starts stuttering again and you can’t help but widely smile at him for being so cute.

Then you realize that you can’t feel that way. You can’t look at him that way anymore.

This whole day he’s been trying to cheer you up, probably thinking you were mad at him.

You’re not mad at him though. You’re mad at Queen Edeline. You’re mad at the royal courts. You would have never done this if they had just funded the academy. You did this FOR your home, not for the position of Royal Knight.

It’s unfair. You’ve never killed a soul before, yet they’ve sent you on a mission to kill a prince. Why you? Why is it you that has to suffer this? Why do you have to be the one that gets emotionally attached?

You can’t stop thinking about how they should’ve sent someone else. Someone that would’ve been comfortable with killing Jinjin the second they saw him. And that makes you wonder why you even got fucking close to him. Why did you do that? Why didn’t you just get over with it on the first day?

Jinjin doesn’t deserve to die, and that’s the truth. He’s a nice guy who is going to do nice things. He’s going to bring peace. He’s going to free your people.

Why him? Why does he have to be killed? He didn’t do anything.

“Averil, why are you crying?”

You slightly jump and realize that Jinjin’s hand is tenderly wiping a tear off your cheek. And before you know it, more tears are falling. “S-Sir Jinjin…” you try saying but then you break into a sob. Jinjin doesn’t miss a beat. He hugs you closer to him so your sobs are muffled in his shoulder. Your chest heaves up and down as you try to catch your breath between each cry.

He doesn’t know why you’re sad. But he’s there for you anyways.

“M-My heart,” you try telling him while your hiccups interrupt each word.

“What about your heart?” he gently cooes while stroking your hair.

“It hurts…” you finish.

Jinjin doesn’t understand what you’re talking about, but he just continues to stroke your hair and whisper “It’ll be okay” under his breath. He’s insistent on carrying you to your room, but you tell him that you’re strong enough to walk. You didn’t want him to care about you anymore.

You enter your room and shut the door. Tears are still running down your cheeks. You kneel and pull out your silver sword from under the bed.

You were going to kill Jinjin, once and for all.

[searchingforangels]

At some point in your life “don’t talk to strangers” goes out the window and comes back as “stop talking to strangers.” But when you add some nuance and complexity and stir the pot you get a hearty stew of “be wary when you talk to strangers.” 

Like on the ethernet? Dude, you know you’ve got some good friends there. You wouldn’t have met them if you never spoke to them. And hopefully they’re also there because they’ve passed your basic vibe check first. You draw the lines. If your strangers keep them then you keep them as your friends. I like to ramble, have you noticed.

So anyways I was listening to an older guy who was talking at me on the bus. He gave off professor-vibes and kept his hands to himself, so I was fine with him. He hails from a ruined Server, but its Promise wasn’t broken. It was so bad that he can’t bring himself to go back there, apparently. I’ve lived in the Fulfilled Server Edeline my whole life, so I don’t understand what he went through. He was my age when he became a stray. 

“Sounds like we’re both lost”, I said absently, staring out at the things zooming past the window. It was raining outside. 

He paused, and then said something that caught my attention.

“Not all those who wander are lost. Especially not after they’ve made an offer at the crossroads.”

“...What do you mean?”

“4:44 am on a rainy Wednesday, at a place where two roads intersect and there’s a streetlamp in the center. Turn north-east, close your eyes, and toss a coin over your shoulder.”

“And then?”, I turned towards him, focused.

“Then make an offer. Ask for something. Anything you want.”

“...There’s a catch, isn’t there?”

A smirk, “In return you must offer something of equal value. It might be accepted. Might be declined. Or they might take something more than what you originally offered. Your wish will always be granted. But the cost is up to them.”

Hesitant “Them?”

A sharp grin “I hope you get to meet one for yourself.”

At that moment the bus stopped and the guy stood up, still grinning at me. “‘Twas nice talking to you!”

I waved back. He wouldn’t be able to see my smile from behind my mask anyways. I quickly checked that my belongings were still intact, and they were. The guy really was alright, for all his theatrics. I craned my neck to see if he was still at the bus stop he just left to.

He was gone. And I had a lot to think about.

[thevoilinauttheory]

Unbreakable by Fireflight

Sometimes it's hard to just keep going But faith is moving without knowing Can I trust what I can't see? To reach my destiny I want to take control but I know better

( For @rprambles‘s Edelin Sharp! I had a hard time choosing between her and Eloise, but I just love how you portray Edelin’s character - she reminds me of an old character I had. It was nice revisiting that. I hope you enjoy the song as much as I do, and thank you so much for your patience! )

[fuckyeahlara]

7 Spectacular Details About Royal Ascot Ladies Day

The Royal Ascot horse race is entering its third day, with all eyes on the lavish hats, attractive attires, of course, the royals. Day Three of the five-day event is likewise the day of the historical Gold Cup. The Gold Cup is Ascot's longest making it through race, and what is now referred to as Royal Ascot began to take shape when The Gold Cup was first run in 1807. The Gold Cup coincides with what is informally referred to as "Ladies' Day," a term first used in 1823. A confidential poet explained the day as "Ladies' Day ... when the women, like angels, look sweetly divine." However the Ascot doesn't officially recognize the day as Ladies' Day. As the Ascot's director of racing, Nick Smith, described to The Telegraph, they have not described Ladies' Day in any marketing or promotions products. "We are comfortable with the public calling it that, however to market it as such would trigger confusion as ladies' days far from Royal Ascot 2019 are totally various," he said. "We don't have best dressed competitors-- for either sex-- and we don't believe catwalks and such like is what it is about."

What is the Royal Ascot?

Among Britain's most widely known racecourses, Ascot holds an unique week of races in June each year called Royal Ascot, attended by The Queen and other Royals At other horse races in the U.K., Ladies' Days are synonymous with style competitions. At the Kelso Racecourse, which stages fifteen dives components during the season from September through May, there are competitors for categories such as Best Dressed Lady, Best Dressed Couple, and Finest Hat. While there are no competitions at Ascot, according to The Evening Requirement, ladies still take care to dress in an extra attractive look on Ladies' Day to celebrate. Princess Eugenie wore a beautiful floral-print Erdem gown teamed with a boater hat, while vocalist Ciara went with a stylish white Edeline Lee gown. Royal Ascot's spectacular heritage, unlike any other, has made the event the most anticipated and revered the world over. From the arrival of the Royal Procession at 2pm sharp to common singing around the bandstand, with 6 impressive top-class races between, each of the 5 days is unforgettable.

It's a social highlight of the summer, not just for the racing and royalty but also because of the style, style and breadth of entertainment on offer. An option of 4 enclosures, each with an individual character and numerous food and drink alternatives, enable you to curate your own genuinely special event. From exotic street food, gourmet hamburgers and traditional afternoon tea to bring-your-own picnics on the spotless yards and dining from Michelin-starred chefs, the choices for an elegant food experience alone are endless. It's a chance to dress up and enjoy yourself while attempting to break bookies' hearts. To experience it to its maximum, a little preparation will pay huge dividends. Tuesday 19 If you're aiming to experience Royal Ascot at its most royal, the opening day is a must. When the clock strikes 2 the Royal Procession starts and the landaus, led by four Windsor greys, make their way along the Straight Mile, enacting a British custom that extends back to when Queen Victoria was a woman. There is no equivalent event in the racing calendar or certainly the sporting world and, while the spectacle is duplicated every day of the meeting, Royal Ascot's opening day is justifiably renowned as awesome.

For flat racing fans too, this is a day not to miss. 3 Group One races-- the sport's greatest category, with the most significant prize money and the very best horses-- are run: the Queen Anne Stakes, the King's Stand Stakes and the St James's Palace Stakes. Wednesday 20 A more carefully paced day however no less interesting, as it includes the Group One Prince of Wales's Stakes. This is held by lots of to be Royal Ascot's crucial race of the modern-day age: the wealthiest race of the whole meeting with a handbag of ₤ 750,000. And where much better to enjoy it than in the Queen Anne Enclosure? Not as official but just as magnificently composed as the members-only Royal Enclosure-- no stovepipe hats and tails required-- this enclosure uses the perfect and up-close views of the stunning horses, both in the Pre-Parade Ring and the Parade Ring. With Wednesday being a slightly calmer day, maybe look for the different sculpture installations spread around the racecourse, some long-term and depicting past stars of Ascot in their most regal states while others include exclusively for the royal meeting. Home entertainment is omnipresent at Royal Ascot with every day waning around the renowned bandstand, situated in the Queen Anne Enclosure, for triumphant and traditionally British communal singing at 6pm. Thursday 21 One of Royal Ascot's charming eccentricities is that Thursday is not officially called Ladies' Day however Gold Cup Day. However this is unquestionably the day when all eyes are concentrated on the hats, and both traditional and modern display screens of magnificent millinery are most on show. Queen Anne Enclosure guests can display their headwear while enjoying a grilled lobster or champagne afternoon tea at 1768 Grill and Tea Rooms. A best Ascot Events experience to boost your big day, this restaurant was one of several outlets introduced in 2017 to use racegoers a choice for lunch and afternoon tea that does not need reservation ahead of time.

Gold Cup Day is likewise when Ascot's a lot of prestigious race is run-- always a source of high drama as it unfolds over two and a half miles. You can get a fresh perspective on this by enjoying from Royal Ascot's most recent enclosure, The Village, which is open from Thursday to Saturday. Located on the within the track, with the Grandstand providing a background to the day, the Village Enclosure has already ended up being popular with a more youthful, fashion-conscious group of racegoers looking for a modern Royal Ascot experience. 3 phases offer a series of music all the time and, once the racing surfaces, the live entertainment continues until 9pm with a varied collection of shop restaurants and champagne bars to keep the party going and develop a dream of a summer night. Friday 22 The racing stays of the highest quality all week with Friday peaking once again as viewers witness 2 Group One races-- The Commonwealth Cup and The Crowning Stakes. As the weekend nears, racegoers can take pleasure in the glorious environment in the Queen Anne Enclosure and sample from the most splendid range of food and beverage with a last-minute dining experience at James Tanner's Queen Anne Cooking area or by indulging in a Royal Ascot Blush Mixed drink from one of the quintessential bars located in the location. There are numerous artisan food stalls and champagne bars in The Town and Windsor Enclosures, but equally numerous visitors delight in bringing their own picnics. There are, nevertheless, particular constraints that use and the only alcohol that guests may bring with them is champagne or champagne (and a maximum of one bottle per person). Saturday 23 There is no stopping the magnificent racing and the final day is no exception. Its format is a recognisable six-race card staged between 2.30 pm and 5.35 pm. Saturday's emphasize is certainly The Diamond Jubilee Stakes. Its size of field and strong pace offer a thrilling race for all and contribute to the finale of the five-day yearly celebration. Saturday is also an excellent day for children to experience the distinct Royal Ascot atmosphere and enjoyment. Children's tickets can only be bought on the day, with all cash going to Ascot's annual charitable providing.

Booking ahead is advised if you are thinking about a great dining experience in the Royal Enclosure or Queen Anne Enclosure, with a number of restaurants already sold out throughout all days.

What is Ascot ladies day?

The world's most attractive race day. Ladies Day at Royal Ascot is renowned as the greatest day on the British social and sporting calendar. It is worth remembering that lots of days throughout the four enclosures sell out well ahead of time. So strategy early-- and enjoy. Whatever day you choose, Royal Ascot really is like no place else. Each day offers a different experience but always with the exact same style and sophistication that the racecourse is renowned for. Exceptional racing, exhilarating entertainment, splendid food and sartorial beauty can constantly be anticipated. Be sure to inspect the official gown code for your enclosure before you go, look at possible upgrades you can choose to improve the occasion and prepare yourself for among the most remarkable days in the British social-- and horse racing-- calendar. The Royal Ascot definitely measures up to its main motto," Like no place else." A significant event on the British social calendar since its starting by Queen Anne in 1711, the annual race conference, which occurs each June at the Ascot Racecourse in Berkshire, England, stays a heady mix of pomp, custom, fashion, class distinction and, naturally, sport. Formally opened every day by the Queen, in addition to various royals, the most apt way to explain the experience to Americans would be to think of a cross between a royal wedding and the Kentucky Derby, except boozier, if that's humanly possible (by means of champagne rather than bourbon). Though each of the five days has its highlights, Opening Day stays special simply because it attracts a full enhance of royals while also restricting admission to the Royal Enclosure, the most prominent level of participation, to members only. How does one end up being a member of this swank pack? The response is purposely left vague, including a secret recipe of social stature, connections, letters of reference, and, above all, aspiration. On the staying four days, members are permitted to acquire 2 guest badges each per day. Ascot Opening Day was commemorated by the Lerner and Loewe musical, "My Fair Lady," which opened on Broadway in 1956 starring Rex Harrison and Julie Andrews, and later made into a big-budget Hollywood extravaganza, again with Rex Harrison however with Audrey Hepburn changing Andrews. (It's running yet again this season on Broadway at Lincoln Center Theater.).

Both the stage production and the movie featured spectacular depictions of Royal Ascot with sets and costumes by Cecil Beaton, the iconic professional photographer, designer, diarist and royal elbow-rubber. Intensely developed in black and white, the number, particularly in the movie variation, practically stands on its own as a pill of choreography and couture. Today, Ascot Opening Day is a far less mannerist affair, but similarly fashion-aligned. In the rarified air of the Royal Enclosure, tradition reigns supreme in all manners of gown throughout the five-day duration. Men are required to wear a complete morning match with waistcoat and either a black or grey stovepipe hat at all times. Just black shoes are enabled and in an affront to the current vogue for bare ankles, socks are compulsory. Only in 2015, for the extremely very first time in Royal Ascot's history, when the temperature skyrocketed into the 90s, were guys allowed to remove their coats and hats. Otherwise, hats must stay on heads except within a dining establishment, a private box, an enclosed balcony, and a few other designated areas. Ladies must wear a hat with a minimum base of four inches (i.e. no fascinators) and dresses with a modest cut. Pants and one-piece suits are allowed, however again with a caution: pants should be worn with a coat or top "in a matching material." There is a large range of stylish to saucy, but Brits do the "garden party" look quite well, with a mix of bright colors, flower prints and the recent appearance of long, streaming dresses that undoubtedly take their treatments from the younger members of the Royal Household.

How long does Royal Ascot last?

Over 300,000 people make the annual check out to Berkshire during Royal Ascot week, making this Europe's best-attended race meeting. There are eighteen group races available, with at least one Group One event on each of the 5 days. Beyond the Royal Enclosure, each area has its own set of sartorial standards. If the Royal Enclosure is First Class, Service Class would be the Queen Anne Enclosure. There, men must wear a suit and tie and ladies are asked to wear tasteful gowns and a hat. Premium Economy would be The Town Enclosure, with the same gown code as the Queen Anne Enclosure. The Windsor Enclosure is the most unwinded, without any dress code at all. The main website states "lively, interesting and fun" which translates to party main, sometimes rather rowdy. Indeed, every level of Ascot UK is party hearty, no matter whether sustained by Bollinger, Pimm's, or Guinness. The numbers speak volumes. Throughout 5 days, 300,000 participants will have consumed 56,000 bottles of champagne, 44,000 bottles of wine, 21,000 jugs of Pimm's and 60,000 finger sandwiches. For those who do not imbibe, fear not. Likewise taken in are 80,000 cups of tea and 128,500 bottles of mineral water.

No matter which section one is in or what is in one's glass, the mood is extremely buoyant, sparked by the arrival of the Queen and various members of her family in a line of horse drawn carriages. This year, as usual, the Royal Procession entered the park through the Royal Gates noticeable to all off in the distance. The closer the carriages got to the stands, the louder the buzz from the crowd. All at once, the Band of Her Majesty's Irish Guards marched into place to play the national anthem, "God Save the Queen." Thousands of top hats were gotten rid of en masse and the crowd sang, followed by spontaneous applause and cheers that became a cacophony as the Queen's carriage passed, accompanied by nonstop "Hip, Hip, Hoorays!" Resplendent in a jonquil yellow coat and hat, she was accompanied by her kid, Andrew, daughter Anne, and Lord Vestey, Master of the Horse to the Royal Household. Next came Prince Charles with Camilla, Duchess of Cornwall and the Princesses Beatrice and Eugenie. But the loudest cheers this go round were for the occupants of the third carriage, Prince Harry and his new bride-to-be Meghan with Prince Edward and his partner, Sophie. Following the royal arrival, just like halftime at a football game, there's a mad rush for the bars and the washrooms. But instead of beers and brats, it's Bollinger and lobster rolls. Yes, there are a few awesome horse races, accompanied by a remarkable quantity of drinking. But the real show remains in the garden of the Royal Enclosure, which becomes one big celebration, and, naturally, the Royal Box, which hovers over the stands like the bridge of a massive ocean liner. One can easily see the comings and goings through its set of double doors, with riding crop deals with, from a number of viewpoint within the clubhouse, which feels precisely like a shopping center, although it has bars and betting stations instead of stores. One can apparently make a bet pretty much anywhere. In addition to the fixed desks, there are mobile kiosks spread inside the clubhouse and throughout the park. One can even position a bet, albeit prior to 2 p.m. on what color the Queen will use. (In 2015, I won ₤ 15 on pink.) And if one is in the right location at the correct time, the doors to the Royal Box will swing open and a tiny little figure in a vibrantly colored coat and hat will emerge, and walk unaccompanied to the parade ring to present a prize, sometimes a number of times a day. This is why one attends Royal Ascot: to witness firsthand the gravitas, the splendour, the adulation and a little bit of the isolation that accompanies what the existing occupant of Buckingham Palace refers to, sometimes wearily, "this job for life." It's a thrilling and strangely moving thing to see. After all, who requires to binge watch The Crown when one can just binge watch the Queen?

[lcveblind]

"An offworld princess graces the Xianzhou Luofu with her presence..." The lionhearted general moves around his desk and walks down the steps to the holographic sandpit where Edeline is approaching, escorted by two Cloud Knights.

"Madam Yukong greeted you first, I take it? Mm. I must admit, I'm a little jealous." Jing Yuan's rumbling chuckle is deep and his bow low, one hand folded behind his back as he extends his other hand out for Edeline to accept. If she does, he'd bring her hand to his lips to delicately kiss her knuckle, peeking up at her with a playful smile and a glimmer in his sharp golden eye.

"General Jing Yuan of the Luofu Cloud Knights at your service, princess, but please — call me simply by name. I hope the Luofu's first impressions have treated your senses well?"

>:)

When word of the Xianzhou Luofu's arrival reached her ears, the princess wasted no time in her planning to establish diplomatic ties.

Most of it was in part due to her responsibility to her people, for the Luofu—-as had been mentioned by Cadius—-was a warship. With warships came the possibility of war. Should there ever be a chance that the ship's presence prove dangerous, it was naturally within her duty to ensure that the likelihood be minimized for the people's safety. That was to be her priority above all else.

...But perhaps that likelihood was small as is, she thinks, watching the general as his lips brush against her knuckles.

(She does not miss the gleam in his eye. If one looks closely, they may even catch the glint in her own gaze before it disappears.)

"They have indeed."

Coral eyes fall shut, recalling her small journey aboard the ship.

"Madam Yukong is truly diligent in her work, and the people of the Luofu are as lively as they are skilled within their trade. To see the people flourish in such a way... It is a mark of one who leads them well."

The corner of her lips twitches into a subtle smile then.

"Perhaps, if I am permitted so, I may stay to see if such impressions hold still with time."

[aprilpillkington]

Seven Amazing Details About Ladies Day

The Ascot Events horse race is entering its third day, with all eyes on the elegant hats, attractive clothing, naturally, the royals. Day 3 of the five-day event is also the day of the historic Gold Cup. The Gold Cup is Ascot’s longest making it through race, and what is now called Royal Ascot started to take shape when The Gold Cup was first run in 1807. The Gold Cup coincides with what is colloquially referred to as “Ladies’ Day,” a term first used in 1823. An anonymous poet explained the day as “Ladies’ Day … when the women, like angels, look sweetly divine.” But the Ascot doesn’t officially recognize the day as Ladies’ Day. As the Ascot’s director of racing, Nick Smith, discussed to The Telegraph, they have not referred to Ladies’ Day in any marketing or promos products. “We are comfortable with the general public calling it that, but to market it as such would cause confusion as ladies’ days far from Ascot are entirely different,” he said. “We don’t have actually best dressed competitions– for either sex– and we do not believe catwalks and such like is what it is about.”

What is the Royal Ascot?

One of Britain’s the majority of well-known racecourses, Ascot holds a special week of races in June each year called Royal Ascot, went to by The Queen and other Royals At other horse races in the U.K., Ladies’ Days are associated with fashion competitors. At the Kelso Racecourse, which phases fifteen dives components during the season from September through Might, there are competitions for classifications such as Best Dressed Lady, Finest Dressed Couple, and Best Hat. While there are no competitors at Ascot, according to The Night Requirement, ladies still take care to dress in an extra glamorous look on Ladies’ Day to commemorate. Princess Eugenie wore a stunning floral-print Erdem dress teamed with a boater hat, while vocalist Ciara chose a chic white Edeline Lee dress. Royal Ascot’s spectacular heritage, unlike any other, has actually made the event the most awaited and revered the world over. From the arrival of the Royal Procession at 2pm sharp to communal singing around the bandstand, with six exceptional top-class races in between, each of the 5 days is extraordinary.

It’s a social highlight of the summer season, not just for the racing and royalty but also because of the style, style and breadth of entertainment available. A choice of four enclosures, each with a private character and many food and beverage alternatives, permit you to curate your own genuinely unique celebration. From exotic street food, gourmet hamburgers and timeless afternoon tea to bring-your-own picnics on the spotless yards and dining from Michelin-starred chefs, the choices for a splendid food experience alone are endless. It’s an opportunity to dress up and enjoy yourself while attempting to break bookies’ hearts. To experience it to its fullest, a little preparation will pay big dividends. Tuesday 19 If you’re looking to experience Ascot UK at its most regal, the opening day is a must. When the clock strikes 2 the Royal Procession begins and the landaus, led by 4 Windsor greys, make their way along the Straight Mile, enacting a British custom that stretches back to when Queen Victoria was a woman. There is no similar event in the racing calendar or indeed the sporting world and, while the spectacle is repeated every day of the conference, Royal Ascot’s opening day is justifiably renowned as breathtaking.

For flat racing fans too, this is a day not to miss. Three Group One races– the sport’s highest category, with the most significant cash prize and the very best horses– are run: the Queen Anne Stakes, the King’s Stand Stakes and the St James’s Palace Stakes. Wednesday 20 A more carefully paced day but no less exciting, as it includes the Group One Prince of Wales’s Stakes. This is held by lots of to be Royal Ascot’s essential race of the modern era: the wealthiest race of the whole meeting with a purse of ₤ 750,000. And where better to view it than in the Queen Anne Enclosure? Not as formal however just as beautifully composed as the members-only Royal Enclosure– no top hats and tails required– this enclosure uses the best and up-close views of the spectacular horses, both in the Pre-Parade Ring and the Parade Ring. With Wednesday being a slightly calmer day, perhaps seek out the numerous sculpture installations spread around the racecourse, some long-term and illustrating previous stars of Ascot in their most royal states while others feature exclusively for the royal conference. Entertainment is universal at Royal Ascot with every day waning around the renowned bandstand, located in the Queen Anne Enclosure, for triumphant and generally British communal singing at 6pm. Thursday 21 One of Royal Ascot’s endearing eccentricities is that Thursday is not officially called Ladies’ Day but Gold Cup Day. However this is undoubtedly the day when all eyes are concentrated on the hats, and both conventional and contemporary displays of splendid millinery are most on show. Queen Anne Enclosure visitors can flaunt their headwear while enjoying a grilled lobster or champagne afternoon tea at 1768 Grill and Tea Rooms. A best Royal Ascot experience to enhance your wedding, this dining establishment was among a number of outlets presented in 2017 to use racegoers an option for lunch and afternoon tea that does not need reservation ahead of time.

Gold Cup Day is also when Ascot’s most distinguished race is run– constantly a source of high drama as it unfolds over two and a half miles. You can get a fresh viewpoint on this by viewing from Royal Ascot’s newest enclosure, The Village, which is open from Thursday to Saturday. Found on the within the track, with the Grandstand offering a background to the day, the Town Enclosure has already ended up being popular with a more youthful, fashion-conscious group of racegoers trying to find a contemporary Royal Ascot experience. 3 stages provide a range of music all day and, once the racing finishes, the live entertainment continues until 9pm with a varied collection of shop restaurants and champagne bars to keep the party going and create an imagine a summer night. Friday 22 The racing stays of the highest quality all week with Friday peaking again as viewers witness two Group One races– The Commonwealth Cup and The Coronation Stakes. As the weekend nears, racegoers can delight in the marvelous environment in the Queen Anne Enclosure and sample from the most splendid variety of food and beverage with a last-minute dining experience at James Tanner’s Queen Anne Kitchen area or by indulging in a Royal Ascot Blush Mixed drink from among the essential bars located in the area. There are numerous craftsmen food stalls and champagne bars in The Village and Windsor Enclosures, but similarly numerous visitors take pleasure in bringing their own picnics. There are, however, certain limitations that apply and the only alcohol that guests might bring with them is sparkling wine or champagne (and a maximum of one bottle per person). Saturday 23 There is no stopping the amazing racing and the final day is no exception. Its format is a recognisable six-race card staged in between 2.30 pm and 5.35 pm. Saturday’s emphasize is certainly The Diamond Jubilee Stakes. Its size of field and fierce speed provide a thrilling race for all and contribute to the finale of the five-day yearly occasion. Saturday is also a fantastic day for kids to experience the special Ascot Events environment and excitement. Kid’s tickets can only be bought on the day, with all cash going to Ascot’s yearly charitable providing.

Scheduling ahead is recommended if you are thinking about a great dining experience in the Royal Enclosure or Queen Anne Enclosure, with numerous dining establishments currently sold out across all the times.

What is Ascot ladies day?

The world’s most attractive race day. Ladies Day at Royal Ascot is renowned as the greatest day on the British social and sporting calendar. It is worth keeping in mind that many days across the 4 enclosures sell out well in advance. So plan early– and take pleasure in. Whatever day you select, Royal Ascot actually is like no place else. Each day provides a various experience but always with the very same style and elegance that the racecourse is renowned for. Outstanding racing, exhilarating home entertainment, stunning food and sartorial beauty can constantly be anticipated. Be sure to check the official dress code for your enclosure prior to you go, take a look at possible upgrades you can pick to boost the occasion and prepare yourself for one of the most glorious days in the British social– and horse racing– calendar. The Royal Ascot certainly measures up to its main motto,“ Like no place else.” A significant event on the British social calendar considering that its founding by Queen Anne in 1711, the yearly race meeting, which happens each June at the Ascot Racecourse in Berkshire, England, remains a heady mix of pomp, custom, style, class difference and, obviously, sport. Formally opened each day by the Queen, in addition to various royals, the most apt way to describe the experience to Americans would be to envision a cross in between a royal wedding event and the Kentucky Derby, except boozier, if that’s humanly possible (via champagne rather than bourbon). Though each of the 5 days has its highlights, Opening Day remains special simply because it draws in a full complement of royals while also restricting admission to the Royal Enclosure, the most distinguished level of presence, to members just. How does one become a member of this swank pack? The response is purposely left vague, involving a secret recipe of social stature, connections, letters of reference, and, above all, ambition. On the staying four days, members are allowed to acquire two guest badges each per day. Ascot Opening Day was celebrated by the Lerner and Loewe musical, “My Fair Lady,” which opened on Broadway in 1956 starring Rex Harrison and Julie Andrews, and later on made into a big-budget Hollywood extravaganza, again with Rex Harrison but with Audrey Hepburn changing Andrews. (It’s running yet once again this season on Broadway at Lincoln Center Theater.).

Both the stage production and the movie featured spectacular representations of Royal Ascot with sets and outfits by Cecil Beaton, the renowned professional photographer, designer, diarist and royal elbow-rubber. Extremely developed in black and white, the number, particularly in the film variation, almost stands on its own as a pill of choreography and couture. Today, Ascot Opening Day is a far less mannerist affair, however similarly fashion-aligned. In the rarified air of the Royal Enclosure, custom reigns supreme in all manners of gown throughout the five-day period. Guys are required to use a complete morning match with waistcoat and either a black or grey stovepipe hat at all times. Just black shoes are enabled and in an affront to the present style for bare ankles, socks are obligatory. Just in 2015, for the very very first time in Ascot’s history, when the temperature soared into the 90s, were guys allowed to remove their coats and hats. Otherwise, hats must stay on heads except within a dining establishment, a private box, an enclosed balcony, and a few other designated locations. Ladies should wear a hat with a minimum base of 4 inches (i.e. no fascinators) and dresses with a modest cut. Trousers and jumpsuits are enabled, but again with a caveat: pants must be worn with a coat or top “in a coordinating material.” There is a wide range of elegant to cheeky, however Brits do the “garden celebration” look rather well, with a mix of intense colors, floral prints and the recent appearance of long, flowing gowns that clearly take their treatments from the younger members of the Royal Family.

How long does Royal Ascot last?

Over 300,000 individuals make the annual see to Berkshire throughout Royal Ascot week, making this Europe’s best-attended race conference. There are eighteen group races on offer, with at least one Group One event on each of the 5 days. Beyond the Royal Enclosure, each area has its own set of sartorial standards. If the Royal Enclosure is First Class, Company Class would be the Queen Anne Enclosure. There, males must use a match and tie and women are asked to use stylish dresses and a hat. Premium Economy would be The Village Enclosure, with the exact same gown code as the Queen Anne Enclosure. The Windsor Enclosure is the most unwinded, with no dress code at all. The main site says “vibrant, exciting and enjoyable” which translates to celebration main, sometimes rather rowdy. Certainly, every level of Royal Ascot Ladies Day is celebration hearty, regardless of whether fueled by Bollinger, Pimm’s, or Guinness. The numbers speak volumes. Throughout 5 days, 300,000 participants will have consumed 56,000 bottles of champagne, 44,000 bottles of red wine, 21,000 jugs of Pimm’s and 60,000 finger sandwiches. For those who do not imbibe, fear not. Likewise taken in are 80,000 cups of tea and 128,500 bottles of mineral water.

No matter which area one remains in or what is in one’s glass, the mood is distinctly resilient, sparked by the arrival of the Queen and different members of her household in a line of horse drawn carriages. This year, as usual, the Royal Procession entered the park through the Royal Gates noticeable to all off in the distance. The closer the carriages got to the stands, the louder the buzz from the crowd. Concurrently, the Band of Her Majesty’s Irish Guards marched into place to play the nationwide anthem, “God Save the Queen.” Thousands of top hats were removed en masse and the crowd sang, followed by spontaneous applause and cheers that turned into a cacophony as the Queen’s carriage passed, accompanied by continuously “Hip, Hip, Hoorays!” Resplendent in a jonquil yellow coat and hat, she was accompanied by her son, Andrew, child Anne, and Lord Vestey, Master of the Horse to the Royal Household. Next came Prince Charles with Camilla, Duchess of Cornwall and the Princesses Beatrice and Eugenie. However the loudest cheers this go round were for the occupants of the 3rd carriage, Prince Harry and his new bride-to-be Meghan with Prince Edward and his partner, Sophie. Following the royal arrival, just like halftime at a football game, there’s a mad rush for the bars and the toilets. However instead of beers and brats, it’s Bollinger and lobster rolls. Yes, there are a couple of thrilling horse races, accompanied by an incredible amount of drinking. But the genuine program is in the garden of the Royal Enclosure, which becomes one big party, and, naturally, the Royal Box, which hovers over the stands like the bridge of a huge ocean liner. One can quickly see the comings and goings through its set of double doors, with riding crop manages, from a number of viewpoint within the clubhouse, which feels exactly like a mall, although it has bars and wagering stations instead of stores. One can apparently make a bet basically anywhere. In addition to the fixed desks, there are mobile kiosks scattered inside the clubhouse and throughout the park. One can even place a bet, albeit prior to 2 p.m. on what color the Queen will wear. (In 2015, I won ₤ 15 on pink.) And if one remains in the best location at the correct time, the doors to the Royal Box will swing open and a tiny little figure in a brilliantly colored coat and hat will emerge, and stroll unaccompanied to the parade ring to present a trophy, sometimes several times a day. This is why one participates in Royal Ascot 2019: to witness firsthand the gravitas, the magnificence, the adulation and a little the isolation that accompanies what the current resident of Buckingham Palace refers to, sometimes wearily, “this task for life.” It’s a thrilling and unusually moving thing to see. After all, who requires to binge watch The Crown when one can simply binge watch the Queen?

Seven Amazing Details About Ladies Day published first on https://the4th3rd.tumblr.com

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood - 81

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 81: The Fool That Loved You

AO3 - Masterlist

TW: Self-harming tendencies/suicidal ideation. -12K words

Daenera jolted awake, her heart racing in a frantic rhythm as the remnants of fear and dread clung to her with the dark shadows of the receding nightmare. Thunder still seemed to rumble in the recesses of her mind, accompanied by the menacing gleam of sharp, cruel teeth. Blinking against the dimness that enveloped her room, she sat abruptly in bed. With trembling hands, she wiped the tears that had escaped during her unsettling dream, attempting to steady her breathing. 

The night had been a restless ordeal for Daenera, her eyes fluttering open frequently as she tossed and turned, trying in vain to dispel the intrusive thoughts that nipped at her heels and clawed at her consciousness for attention. She dwelled on Aemond’s deliberate avoidance, his refusal to even acknowledge her presence–wondering what could have transpired at Storm’s End to provoke such behavior. 

The most unsettling possibility she could conceive of was that Lord Borros had demanded more that Aemond was willing to concede–perhaps her head or that he marry one of his daughters. These troubling thoughts twisted her stomach as she had attempted to fall asleep. 

She had briefly entertained the idea of persuading the guard outside her door to take her for a walk through the Keep, to let her wander the halls like a restless ghost–hoping to come upon Aemond on one of his nocturnal wanderings. It had seemed like a possibility, as she had found him wandering before. Yet, despite these thoughts, she remained in bed, her resolve faltering before she could even reach the threshold of her chamber. 

As Daenera lay gazing at the intricately carved dragons and birds entwined in flight on the canopy of her bed, a persistent dread clung to her like an unwelcome chill. Her mind spiraled with unanswered questions about what might have unfolded at Storm’s End, each thought fueling the knot of unease in her stomach. 

Frustrated, she rubbed her eyes wearily and let her head fall back against the pillow. Rolling onto her side, she stared into the dimming embers of the hearth, her eyelids heavy, teetering on the brink of sleep when, abruptly, the curtains were yanked open, flooding the room with the bright morning light.

“It is time to rise!” Mertha announced, her voice sharp yet oddly cheerful. “A long day awaits you.”

Daenera groaned, her frustration seeping into her voice as she buried her face deeper into the pillow, her words muffled but laced with thinly veiled insults. 

“What was that?” Mertha chided, briskly pulling away the blanket to usher her out of bed. 

A shiver ran through her as the morning's chilled air hit her skin, dragging her fully from the remnants of sleep. She sat up in bed, her hair cascading down her shoulders in a wild tangle as she leveled a glare at Mertha. The older woman bustled around the room, briskly drawing back the curtains to flood the chamber with morning light. Meanwhile, Edelin entered quietly, bearing a tray with a steaming cup of tea and a modest breakfast, which she set down on the nearby table with a soft smile directed at Daenera. 

Swinging her legs out of bed, Daenera’s feet met the chilly embrace of the stone floor. She quickly slipped into her soft slippers, their soles whispering against the stone as she padded across the room. Approaching the small table, she plucked a grape from the plate and propped it into her mouth. Then, settling into the chair, she wrapped her hands around the warm mug of tea, letting the heat seep into her fingers, offering a small comfort against the morning air. 

“You seem quite worn,” Edelin observed in a low, soothing tone as she picked up a hairbrush and began to gently work through the knots in Daenera’s hair, her strokes methodical and comforting. 

Taking a tentative sip of the tea, the mint’s freshness did little to ease her stomach. “Mertha’s snoring could wake the dead.”

Mertha paused her bustling about, her hands smoothing the bedspread as she retorted sharply, “I do not snore.”

Daenera took a sip of her tea, suppressing a smirk. “She sounds like a congested boar.”

The comment coaxed a suppressed giggle from Edelin, her eyes widening in amusement, cheeks flushing slightly. 

“I most certainly do not!” Mertha insisted, her back a little straighter as she fussed over the pillows with more vigor than necessary, continuing to bustle through the room.

“Have you heard anything from Aemond?” Daenera inquired in a subdued tone as she picked at her breakfast, surprisingly hungrier than she had anticipated despite the persistent knot of unease in her stomach. She started with the freshly baked bread, slathering it with salty butter, and quickly moved on to the grapes, deciding to save the sweet apple and cinnamon tart for last.

Edelin paused her brushing, meeting Daenera’s gaze in the mirror with a soft, apologetic look. “No, Princess. But I’m sure he will come see you when he can.”

Perhaps if she set fire to the curtains…

Mertha, bustling about the room, seemed willfully oblivious to the tension, and placed one of Daenera’s undergowns on the bed, smoothing it out, as she interjected sharply, “Did you hear what I said?”

Responding with a subtle frown and a voice tinged with mild irritation, Daenera swallowed the bite of sausage and answered, “I’ve developed quite the talent for ignoring your voice.”

“You are utterly incorrigible!” Mertha chided, planting her hands firmly on her hips as she approached Daenera. “The Queen Mother has arranged for the finest tailor in all the realm to attend you today. They will be arriving shortly to take your measurements and–what is this? Cake for breakfast?”

Her eyes, sharp as daggers, darted accusingly towards the plate on the table and then to Edelin. “Cake, for breakfast? If you keep spoiling her with such indulgences, she’ll never fit into her wedding gown!”

“I thought today was only for measurements,” Daenera remarked dryly, sipping the tea. 

“And much good that will do,” Mertha snapped back, “if you outgrow those measurements by continuing to eat so heartily!”

Daenera lifted the tart to her lips, her gaze fixed on Mertha through the reflection in the mirror. As she savored the sweet, crumbly crust, she defiantly flicked away stray crumbs from her lips and murmured with a hint of spie, “Make it two tarts tomorrow, Edelin.”

Her mischievous statement held a twinge of hope that perhaps not fitting into her wedding dress might delay the proceedings. She knew, however, that they would find a way to proceed regardless. 

Mertha, catching the rebellious tone, clucked her tongue in disapproval. “I suppose I’ll just have to instruct them to allow a bit more room in your measurements.”

Daenera glared at Mertha through the mirror as the older woman abruptly took the hairbrush from Edelin, dismissing her with a brusque, “Go see if the tailor has arrived yet.” 

Exchanging a sympathetic glance with Edelin, Daenera watched the younger girl nod and leave the room. Once alone with Mertha, her scowl deepened as the older woman's rough hands began yanking at her hair, brushing through it far less gently than Edelin had. Wincing from the sting, she almost spilled her tea during a particularly harsh tug. One day, she’ll rip her right out of the chair, she thought. 

Seeking distraction and information, Daenera ventured a question, her tone cool but pointed. “Do you know what the stance of Storm’s End is now?”

Mertha’s lips tightened into a thin line, her response clipped and dismissive. “Such matters are of none of your concern, girl. Focus on your fitting and leave the politics to the men.”

Daenera’s voice was low but sharp, tinged with frustration as she muttered, “If you had your way, that would be all I could think about.”

Mertha, undeterred, snorted dismissively as she continued to brush Daenera’s hair a bit too harshly. “And rightly so. Matters of politics and war are of no concern for women. A woman, especially one soon to be wed, should concern herself with her household, her husband’s well-being, and the rearing of children–not the squabbles of politics. Look at what happens when women do not fulfill their roles! War and chaos, all because some choose to step outside the boundaries set by the gods. No, you should focus on your duties as a wife and leave the matters of war to the council.”

Daenera’s expression soured as she set down her empty teacup. “So you think women are incapable of balancing power and duty?”

Mertha straightened up, her hands pausing in their work. “It’s not about capability. It’s about priority. A woman’s first commitment should be to her family.”

As the bedchamber door creaked open, Edelin’s arrival marked by the sound of hurried footsteps, she stood at the threshold, her expression fraught with concern–the usually fair skin of her face was tinged with a pink flush, eyes rimmed red as if she’d been holding back tears, her hands twisting nervously as her eyes flicked from Mertha to Daenera and back again. 

“Lady Mertha… I need to speak with you…”

Mertha, who had been vigorously handling Daenera’s hair, paused to scowl in the direction of the disturbance, setting the brush aside. As she marched over to Edelin, her expression shifting from irritation to attentiveness as she approached the visibly distressed girl, she barked, “What is it, girl?”

Turning in her chair to observe the interaction, Daenera noted the rapid change in Mertha’s expression as Edelin whispered urgently. Initially shocked, Mertha’s features quickly settled into a mask of worry and then settled into a grim resignation. The older woman responded in a low tone, her back to Daenera, blocking any chance of reading their lips. 

The seriousness of their exchange piqued Daenera’s interest, her earlier irritation giving way to the growing knot of apprehension in her stomach.

“What’s happened?” She pressed, her voice tight, the sense of forgotten urgency scratching at her consciousness like a shadow just out of reach–she felt it claw at the back of her mind, insistent in its presence, yet elusive. 

Edelin briefly met Daenera’s gaze, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears before she turned and departed, leaving Daenera once again in sole company with the tight faced Mertha. 

Mertha avoided her gaze, busying herself with the preparations for the day, her movements deliberate as she answered, “Nothing you need to worry about.”

As their eyes met, a flicker of pity crossed Mertha’s gaze, deepening Daenera’s sense of apprehension. Had Storm’s End declared for her mother? 

“They’ve arrived to take your measurements,” Mertha finally continued, her voice regaining some of its usual brisk efficiency as she gathered Daenera’s hair to pin it up. The touch felt overtly gentle, noticeably different to her usual brutality, causing Daenera’s heart to sink further. 

Her fingers tightened around the edge of the dressing table, her unease sharpening into pointed concern, her tone laced with skepticism as her eyes met Mertha’s through the mirror. “And that’s all?”

“It’s merely a delay with the fabrics and embellishments, nothing that concerns you directly,” Mertha replied, her voice unnaturally steady as she secured Daenera’s curls with a silver pin. The dismissive flick of her hand as she spoke did little to dispel the tension that had settled between them. 

“A delay?” Daenera pressed, swiveling in her seat to fix her gaze directly on Mertha, who busied herself with adjusting the dress that lay spread out over the bed. “What kind of delay?”

“The kind that makes it difficult acquiring Myrish lace and silk.”

Daenera’s brow furrowed as she contemplated it. “Are you implying there’s a blockade preventing the import of goods?”

Mertha let out an exasperated huff, “Yes, there’s a blockade. Your mother has seen it fit to stop ships from passing through the Narrow Sea.”

Daenera’s mind raced as she pieced together the strategic implications of a blockade. Her heart beat faster with both anticipation and dread. The Velaryon fleet controlling the Narrow sea indicated that they had not only declared for her mother, but were actively strategizing to strengthen her position. The prospect of sealing off the Gullet was even more significant. Such an action would choke off all sea trade routes, a critical blow to the city’s merchants–and thereby the Greens. 

If her mother and Daemon could also secure land routes, King’s Landing would be besieged completely. The city, starved of resources, might have no choice but to capitulate. 

Daenera’s thoughts were still racing with strategy when the tailor and his assistants entered her chambers. Before she could fully realize it, she was standing on a dias surrounded by mirrors, her arms extended as the assistants bustled around her, taking meticulous measurements–the length and girth of her arms, the dimensions of her torso, waist, and hips, even the circumference of her neck and how far from her fingertips to the floor.

As they worked, various fabrics were draped across her shoulders and then whisked away, each evaluated for how well it complemented her complexion, eye color, and the dark waves of her hair. 

As Mertha and the tailor engaged in lively conversation, Daenera stood mostly silent on the dias, feeling little more than a doll in her own wedding preparations. Her opinions on the dress seemed unnecessary to them; after all, it was her wedding dress, yet her choice was conspicuously absent. She understood, albeit grudgingly, their reluctance to let her have a say–fearing perhaps that she might make a bold statement with the dress. 

If it were up to her, she mused darkly, she might have chosen black–black for her mother, black for mourning. Or perhaps, an audacious red. 

The attendants, diligently taking measurements, avoided making eye contact with her, their interactions limited to necessary communication. They adjusted her posture, occasionally called out a number, and swiftly manipulated the fabric. 

As the morning progressed, the sun rising higher in the sky, the effects of restless nights weighed heavily upon her. Her muscles throbbed with fatigue, and her feet ached from standing so long. The monotony of the fitting session gnawed at her, exacerbating the ever-present unease that simmered just beneath her skin. 

Every time the door creaked open, Daenera’s gaze snapped towards the sound, her heart lifting momentarily with hope that Aemond might stride through. Yet, each time, that brief spark of hope turned into disappointment as someone else entered. 

Suddenly, a sharp sting broke through her reverie as an attendant accidentally pricked her skin with a needle. Daenera couldn’t contain her yelp of surprise and irritation. 

“Enough,” she declared firmly, her patience worn thin by the discomfort. “You have your mock-up. There’s no need to keep me standing here any longer–help me out of this contraption.” 

Daenera descended from the dias, weaving through the crowd of the kneeling attendants as she futilely attempted to unfasted the back of the dress herself, her fingers just brushing the fastenings she couldn’t quite reach.

Mertha approached with a reproachful expression etched on her face and a stern whisper on her lips, “You’re being very impolite.”

“And I’ll be downright intolerable if you don’t help me out of this at once,” Daenera retorted sharply.

With a cluck of her tongue, Mertha reluctantly assisted Daenera out of the dress, muttering apologies to the tailor who was busy packing his things. Freed from the mock-up, Daenera retreated to her bedchamber, gesturing for Edelin to follow and assist her into something more comfortable and less constricting. 

As the morning sun cast a warm glow through the window, Daenera observed the weather with a hopeful tone while Edelin began fastening the dress around her. “It’s a beautiful day. We should go to the gardens–”

“No,” came Mertha’s sharp reply as she entered the room. 

“No?” Daenera echoed, brow furrowing. “And why is that?”

“You visited the gardens yesterday.”

“And that means I cannot visit them today?”

Mertha’s stance was resolute, her voice firm. “You’ve been quite irritable today–it’s best if you stay inside. Perhaps working on your needlepoint–”

“I will grow more irritable if confined to this room all day!” Daenera countered sharply. “And if you force me to do more needlepoint I will stab you in your fucking eye with the needle.”

Mertha glared at Daenera, her eyes wide with indignation. Her hands clenched together tightly, as if she were restraining herself from reaching out and delivering a stinging slap across Daenera’s face. “You are not to leave–”

“Why?” Daenera demanded. 

Offering no response, Mertha’s silence hung heavy in the air as Edelin hurriedly finished buttoning Daenera’s dress, then averted her gaze. Daenera’s frown deepened, her mind whirring with suspicions. “Am I to be a prisoner now?”

“No,” Mertha quickly replied, yet her tone suggested otherwise. 

“Then I am free to take a walk, am I not?” Daenera persisted, her voice rising slightly. “It’s a beautiful day, the sun is shining, and it’s warm outside. If I remain hidden within these walls, won’t people start to suspect that I am more a prisoner than a mere hostage?”

Mertha’s jaw clenched tightly, but she managed to say through gritted teeth, “Very well, you wish to go outside? Let us visit the Sept, perhaps a moment in prayer will instill some patience in you.”

“Very well,” Daenera conceded reluctantly, accepting Mertha’s condition. She knew that pressing the matter further would only result in a tedious day spent confined to needlework, all while enduring the relentless droning of the old hag reciting from the Book of the Seven. At least a visit to the sept would offer her a brief escape outdoors, however limited it might be. 

The familiar corridors of Maegor’s Holdfast stretched out before them, the stone passageways draped with the golden hues of daylight streaming through the high windows, alongside the softer flicker of torchlight. The rustle of their skirts echoed off the walls, harmonizing with the distant clamor of the Holdfast’s daily bustle. Servants darted with purpose, weaving through clusters of courtiers who engaged in hushed, earnest discussions. 

Descending the grand staircase, Daenera couldn’t help but notice the weight of many eyes upon her. The familiarity of being watched was not new to her, yet today, it felt different. There was a distinct note of sympathy in the way the courtiers looked at her–a subtle shift in their expressions that did not escape her notice. 

As they reached the landing between the levels of stairs, they passed by a group of ladies. They sank into curtsies, their heads bowed low in a display of respect. Yet, their eyes momentarily flicked upward, casting quick, curious glances at Daenera as if she were a spectacle to behold. No sooner had she passed than the ladies turned to one another, their heads coming closer together in whispered conference, like birds softly twittering over a scattering of seeds. 

The murmurs of their voices, though indistinct, carried a palpable energy of speculation and rumor that hung unsettlingly in the air around Daenera, making her feel as if she were the subject of court gossip, dissected and discussed just out of earshot. 

Although she had grown accustomed to the intense scrutiny of court life–being the focus of whispered conjectures and pointed stares–today’s attention felt markedly different. It was unlike the way they had regarded her during and after coronation, or the whispers that had followed her as she stood vigil over the bodies of her men.

Now, the gazes that slid over her felt heavier, tinged with an unspoken solemnity that seemed to tug at the very fabric of her being–it prickled against her skin, tinkled at the back of her neck and crept down her spine like a cold draft.

Daenera assumed that the shift in their demeanor was due the rising tensions of the blockade being put in place and the realm teetering ever closer to outright war. The wings of words and ravens spread across the kingdom, carrying tidings that drew lines of allegiances and dissent in equal measure. 

As they descended the final steps and entered the inner courtyard, the openness of the space welcomed them with the warmth of the sun. High walls enclosed the area, but above them, the sky stretched out in a vast expanse of clear blue. 

Daenera paused for a moment, tilting her face upward to bask in the sun’s comforting rays. The warmth kissed her skin, offering a brief respite from the undercurrent of tension that seemed to thread through the morning air. 

It was a simple pleasure, yet in that moment, it felt like a rare sanctuary from a gathering storm. 

As Daenera absorbed the warmth of the sun, her brief respite was interrupted by the distinct tap of a cane against stone. The sound drew nearer until Lord Larys Strong came into view, his presence marked by the steady cadence of his approach. His face bore a look of sympathy, meticulously crafted, as his hair neatly combed back behind his ears to frame his soft features. His cold gray eyes fixed on Daenera–all too discerning and curious.

“Such a lovely day for such sad news,” he remarked, his voice tinged with a calculated softness that did little to mask the keen observation behind his words. 

Daenera turned her gaze from the brilliance of the sky to meet Lord Larys’s watchful eyes, a faint smile playing at the corners of her lips, the sun casting her face in a defiant glow.

“Sad news for you, perhaps,” she responded smoothly, “But for me, there’s a certain… pleasure in hearing of the blockade. I do hope it doesn’t squeeze you too tight.”

Larys’s soft smile held a disquieting sharpness, more cutting than any true display of tenderness. He tilted his head, studying Daenera with an unnerving precision. “I refer not to the blockade, Princess. I presumed you’d be more visibly shaken, given the nature of true loss. It’s seldom easy to lose a brother.”

A chill spread through Daenera, her heart plummeting, her stomach knotting with sudden dread. Confusion and a creeping despair furrowed her brow as she faced him, her voice strangely even, “What do you mean?”

His expression softened, cruelly indulgent, as if savoring the impact of his next words. “He hasn’t told you, then?”

Mertha moved protectively in front of Daenera, her tone both reproachful and urgent, “This is neither the time nor the place for such discussions, my lord.”

“He hasn’t told me what?” Daenera pressed, her words almost bit out as irritation simmered beneath her crackling exterior–and fear beneath that. 

“Princess, please–”

Ignoring Mertha’s attempt to intervene, Daenera’s voice rose, edged with desperation, “Hasn’t told me what, Lord Larys?”

“Forgive me, Princess, I assumed he would have informed you himself,” Larys said, clasping his hand neatly in front of him, both placed on the head of his cane, adopting the grave posture of a man tasked with delivering dire news. “Your mother sent your brother as an envoy to Storm’s End…”

“Which brother?” Daenera managed, her voice strained as she swallowed against the bitter knot in her throat–feeling as though she already knew the answer, felt it claw at the back of her mind. 

“Lucerys,” Larys answered, the name dropping like a stone into the silence between them. 

At the utterance of her brother’s name, an icy cold tore through Daenera. Her surroundings blurred into obscurity as her heart hammered violently against her ribs, each beat more painful than the other. She felt an oppressive heaviness way her down, a numbing cold gnawing at her limbs. The world contracted to the agonizing rhythm of her heart and the surge of blood that roared in her ears–like waves crashing upon the shore.

All that filled her mind was his name–it echoed hauntingly within her, reverberating through the caverns of her thoughts. The image of him seemed to slip through her grasp like smoke, elusive and intangible, fading away before she could hold on to any semblance of his presence.

Tears stung in her eyes and constricted her throat as she swallowed hard, struggling to maintain her composure. She fought against the overwhelming urge to break down, striving to keep herself intact despite the pain that threatened to shatter her resolve. 

“There was a confrontation which led to a battle above Shipbreaker Bay,” Larys continued, slowly revealing the information that had been kept from her. His cold gaze did not falter as he watched the impact of his words settle upon her. 

Daenera’s head shook in sharp, involuntary denial, her brows knitting together as she struggled to reconcile the information. 

“No, Lucerys is just a boy, no more than four and ten,” she uttered, her voice breaking under the strain of her emotions. She inhaled sharply, each breath a dagger in her chest. “He isn’t a warrior, he wouldn’t have gone into battle–he was an envoy… he wouldn’t have fought–”

Her voice cracked, betraying her struggle, as a chilling realization traced an icy claw through her mind. It was not yet fully formed but hovered ominously at the periphery of her awareness–something sinister and haunting that threatened to destroy her. 

Larys gave a solemn nod, his head tilting slightly as he studied her face, absorbing her disbelief with a cold intensity. 

“My deepest condolences, Princess,” he said, his voice carrying a somber weight. “But it’s the bitter truth. The death of your brother was witnessed, and Lord Baratheon’s men are currently combing the beaches and cliffs, searching for any remains that might have washed ashore.”

Remains. Washed ashore. Remains. Remains. Remains… 

Daenera’s breath caught sharply, a vice-like grip of dread tightening around her heart. Tears burned at the back of her eyes, threatening to spill, as the realization of a nightmare she hadn’t yet dreamt began to take hold. Her hands clenched together painfully tight, knuckles whitening, nails digging into her own flesh as she braced against the rising tide of anguish.

A hand clamped around her arm just above the elbow, fingers pressing into her flesh as Mertha pulled her aside. She hissed quietly into her ear, “Do not cause a scene.”

She managed to swallow her emotions, lifting her eyes, “I thank you, Lord Larys, for the courtesy of informing me… If you’ll excuse me, I need to lie down.”

She turned and strode through the courtyard, each breath catching in her chest as she suppressed the swell of emotions threatening to break free. Biting back the tears welling in her eyes, she swallowed the cries that yearned to escape her throat. The murmur of footsteps behind her faded against the internal roar of her distress echoing in her ears–howling wind and relentless waves crashing upon the shore. She passed the whispering ladies with a rigid grace, her posture as straight and sharp as a drawn blade, offered no comfort as she made her way back to her chambers. 

Once inside, the doors closing behind her with a soft click, her controlled breath finally faltered, a wheeze escaping her as she stood in the middle of her room, a hand on her stomach, overwhelmed by the suffocating weight of grief. 

“I don’t–” Daenera’s voice faltered, her throat constricting as she gasped for air. The loose dress she wore suddenly seemed suffocating, its fabric scraping uncomfortably against her skin. She tugged frantically at the material, desperate to rid herself of its oppressive embrace. “Get this off me!”

“You need to calm yourself,” Mertha responded sharply, her tone firm yet not entirely unkind. Edelin hurried to undo the buttons of the dress, her movements quick but careful, her eyes filled with concern as she watched Daenera struggle. 

“I’m sorry, Princess, we should’ve–”

“You knew,” she accused, her voice a harsh whisper. “You all knew and none of you told me.”

Mertha met her gaze with a severe, almost sanctimonious expression. “It’s not our place to tell you such matters. You were to be informed in due time.”

The ringing in her ears seemed to echo the rapid pounding of her heart as it throbbed against her ribs. Restlessly, she tugged at the fabric of the dress, her movements agitated as Edelin fumbled with the buttons. It prickled uncomfortably against her, like a swarm of insects crawling over her skin. She began to frantically tug at the dress, buttons straining and popping off as stitches burst, the fabric tearing as she clawed it from her body. The garment fell away, pooling around her feet like a mound of rotten leaves. 

Suddenly, hands–bony and insistent–clamped onto her arms, their pointed fingers digging painfully into her flesh as she was violently shaken. “Compose yourself, stupid girl. You are not some wild animal.”

“Get out!” Daenera snarled, wrenching herself free from Mertha’s bruising grip. 

“We are not to leave you unattended, as you well know,” Mertha asserted firmly, clasping her hands before her. “I understand you are grieving, but that doesn’t justify such behavior.” Her reproachful gaze lingered on Daenera, her voice tinged with barely concealed irritation. “Now, let’s regain our composure and find you a suitable dress. We’ll go to the sept, light a candle for your brother, and pray that his remains are recovered for a proper burial. Even someone like him deserves that much.”

Daenera stared at Mertha.

“Edelin, fetch the princess a dress,”Mertha commanded, turning away dismissively as if the depth of Daenera’s grief was merely another inconvenience in her day. As Edelin hurried off, Mertha’s voice dropped to a murmur laden with cold judgment. “The boy should have known better than to face the Prince and his dragon.”

The remark hung in the air, a stinging indictment of Luke, suggesting his death was merely a consequence of poor judgment–a viewpoint that sliced anew into Daenera’s already aching heart. 

Mertha reached out and placed her hand on Daenera’s arm with a patronizing gentleness, as if she were a wayward child to be ushered away. 

The slap she delivered to Mertha was swift and fierce, the sound a sharp report that left her palm stinging and Mertha clutching her reddening cheek, her eyes wide with shock. 

“I said get out!” Daenera hissed, her voice thick with fury, her words slicing through the air like shards of ice. 

When Mertha hesitated, still stunned and holding her cheek, Daenera seized her by the arms, her grip as tight as Mertha’s always was, and shoved her forcefully towards the door, pushing her and pushing her until her back hit the wood and she stood pinned to it. “Get out, or I swear I will tear you apart with my bare fucking hands!”

Daenera gripped the doorknob tightly, her actions deliberate as she flung the door open and forced Mertha out, sending her staggering backwards. The older woman tripped over her feet and collapsed onto the cold floor of the hallway, with the guard hurriedly crouching down at her side, his eyes wide. Edelin, with a frightened glance back at Daenera, hurriedly slipped through the doorway before it was slammed shut with a resounding thud. 

For a long, suffocating moment, Daenera stood frozen, her entire body trembling as the full force of her grief surged within her, clawing ferociously up her throat. The cruel realization that her brother was gone seared through her mind. Dead. Lost to the depth of a merciless sea.

The cold touch of sorrow seemed unending, a consuming void that beckoned her to succumb. Yet, she resisted, grasping desperately at that fiery rage that still burned within her. As this fury swelled, it seemed to burn everything in its path, the flames burning at her fingertips as her hands clenched into fists in the skirts of her chemise.

He had gone to Storm’s End. 

They were searching for remains.

He had gone to Storm’s End. 

There had been a battle–and they were searching for remains.

Luke had gone to Storm’s End.

Aemond had gone to Storm’s End. 

And he had returned. Cold and distant. 

He had returned.

He had…

Her mind reeled, each thought shattering further into fragments of dread and disbelief, swirling around the devastating truth of loss–and betrayal. Her heart ached devastatingly, as if it were being torn to shreds. The agonizing realizations cascaded through her–one after another. The realizations of his actions, of his betrayal, cut deeply–of what he had done. 

And that her brother was gone. Dead.

A scream erupted from deep within her, raw and filled with all the rage and frustration she had kept locked away–filled with the torment of loss. 

Rage was simpler than grief; it required less of her heart, less of her mind, sparing her from the sharp, icy coldness that grief wrought. 

Daenera unleashed another primal scream, her body collapsing inward as the sound tore through her throat and seared her lungs. She continued to scream, each outcry more raw and heart-wrenching than the last, until her voice grew hoarse and her breath came in desperate gasps. Yet, her rage remained unquenched, burning fiercely within her chest and igniting a destructive fury at her fingertips. She felt an overwhelming need for destruction, a need to unleash the ruin that had befallen her. 

In a fit of anger, she snatched a vase from a shelf and hurled it to the ground, watching the clay shatter against the cold stone floor. It wasn’t enough. Gripping the shelves with trembling hands, Daenera threw them down, the wood landing with a resounding crack upon the stone, its contents spilling and breaking. 

She rampaged through the room like a tempest, tossing everything within reach. She swept objects from tables and shelves with reckless abandon, indifferent to the melody of clattering and breaking that filled the air. Her fingers clawed at one of the tapestries, ripping it from the wall. The fabric split under her force as she tore the iron rod free, wielding it to break havoc on everything else around her. 

Daenera swung the iron rod with violent force, smashing it into one of the decorative vases perched on a side table–the hyacinth flowers scattering through the room as the vase exploded into a thousand pieces. 

Breathless from her exertions, she stumbled and inadvertently caught a glimpse of herself in the corner of her eye. She found reflection repeated in a semi-circle of mirrors, capturing her heaving form from three angles. Her eyes, red and wide with madness, met her own gaze as tears cleaved paths down her cheeks. Her hair, previously restrained, now hung loose around her shoulders, the pin that had secured it lost in the chaos. Her complexion was ghostly pale, mottled with red blotches that stood out starkly against her skin. 

Daenera locked gazes with her own reflection, her blue eyes staring back at her with piercing intensity. In them, she saw only the naivety of the girl she once was–a girl who believed she could dance with flames and escape unscathed. She saw a child who had been seduced by her own illusions, now confronting the harsh truth of her own folly.

Lifting the iron rod, she swung it violently at the mirror. The glass shattered upon impact, sending shards flying that nicked her skin, drawing blood. The reflected image of her face distorted and splintered along with the mirror. Each strike sent reverberations up her arms, pain shooting through her as she relentlessly hammered the iron rod into the mirror–once, twice. Then, turning to the second mirror, she attacked it with the same ferocity–once, twice, thrice. Her breath held tight in her chest, a sneer curled her lips as she unleashed her rage, shattering the third mirror with a single, decisive blow before it crashed to the floor in a heap of glittering fragments. 

Breathless, the iron rod slipped from Daenera’s grasp, clattering loudly as it hit the stone floor. Her hands trembled as she gazed into the fragments of the shattered mirrors, confronting the grim visage of despair that reflected back at her. 

In a moment of anguished impulse, she snatched a jagged piece of glass, its sharp edge biting into her skin as she staggered through the room. Driven by a blind fury, she thrust the shard into the pillows, viciously tearing through the fabric. Feathers burst forth, floating around the room as she hurled the gutted pillow aside and then lunged for another. 

With each tear, she imagined rendering through anything and everything, her rage unfretted and wild. She ripped through fabric as if it were flesh, barely registering the glass slicing into her palm or the warm blood that began to stain her skin. Her actions were relentless, each movement fueled by a tempest of unchecked emotion. 

Amid the destruction she had wrought, Daenera had found refuge in the blinding simplicity of rage. But even the fiercest fire of anger must eventually flicker and die when there is nothing left for it to consume. Standing amidst the disarray she had caused, she felt the flames of her fury dimming, receding to reveal the deep, gnawing hollowness that had expanded beneath. Her wrath had shielded her, but now, as it ebbed away, the cruel emptiness began to suffocate her, a silent, relentless tide. 

She staggered toward the hearth, the hollow pit of despair gnawing at her insides. Gasping in gulps of breath, she stood there, releasing the bloodied fragment of the mirror from her grip. Its tip had broken off in one of the pillows she had viciously torn apart, leaving the shard sticky with her own blood. 

A choked sob snagged in Daenera’s throat as the pain in her heart surged anew. She clutched at her underdress, using the fabric to dry her hands before she swept her hair back from her face, smearing her tears and the blood from the superficial wound on her palm, across her skin.  

Drawing in a deep, shuddering breath, Daenera’s chest heaved under the heavy mantle of her sorrow. Then, with a raw surge of emotion, she unleashed another scream–this one agonizingly shrill, a piercing cry that tore through her throat and echoed terrifyingly against the cold stone. It was a harrowing sound that filled every crevice of the room, a sound that seemed to carve into her very bones, infusing her with the same haunting hollowness that threatened to consume her entirely. This chilling echo reverberated around her–raw with the desolation that gripped her soul. 

Her voice cracked under the strain, and with it, so did her resolve. Daenera collapsed onto the cold, hard floor, her body curling inward as though seeking some semblance of comfort in the stone below. Despite the warmth emanating from the hearth, an icy chill enveloped her, penetrating deep into her bones. Around her, the world seemed to unravel, leaving her adrift in a sea of chaos and despair–alone and slowly, ever so slowly drowning. 

The stranger stripped her of everything with the ruthless indifference of an early winter–taking relentlessly, leaving behind nothing but barrenness in his wake, a desolate emptiness where once there was abundance. 

In a whisper barely audible, born from the depths of her despair, Daenera’s pleas threaded the silent air around her. With fervent desperation, she called out to any gods that might listen–to the old gods and the new, to those long-forgotten gods relegated to mere whispers in annals of history, and even to the obscure, nameless ones whose names she had never before spoken. Her voice trembled with the weight of her plea; “Please…Let him live–let it not be true… Please, let it not have been Aemond…”

Then, the devastating truth she had fiercely denied, the truth she had buried deep within herself, revealed itself–it was a truth she had touched every day, a truth she carried on the palm of her hand, a truth she had dreaded to confront. Now, surrounded by the ruins of her rage, Daenera sat among it’s fragments, burying her face into her knees as tears flowed unrestrained. 

With a trembling whisper, her voice broke through the sobs, “Please… let it not be true. Let it not be by his hand…”

But if there was one thing the gods cherished, it was tragedy. And what greater tragedy was there than to love someone–someone whose hands were stained with the blood of her brother? Their love had been doomed from the beginning, destined for tragedy. Such was the cruel jest of fate. All for the amusement of the gods. 

Daenera’s eyes shifted from her knees to the dancing flames before her. As the tears on her cheeks dried, the fiery path they had taken stung as the fire blazed on, unaffected by her sorrow. It cast a warm glow, sending waves of heat in her direction, striving to penetrate the chill that had settled deep within her. Yet, despite the fire’s fervent efforts, the ice that had settled in her heart refused to melt. The cold inside of her lingered like something terrible. 

Amidst the enveloping stillness that wrapped around her, she caught the faint sound of a voice–a whisper borne on a sigh, tender and fraught with an unspoken ache. It spoke her name as if it were something delicate, uttering it softly, as though afraid that a louder tone might break her entirely. 

And all she could do was listen, her muscles tightening as if to brace against his presence. Her heart pleaded silently, reaching out to the gods in her torment. I can’t bear this. Please… I can’t face him…

But the gods remained silent, deaf to her pleas. Thus, Daenera sought solace in something more primal, something fiercer–the flames. She gazed into the fire, imploring it to ignite something within her, to let its fierce heat sear through her veins and grant her the strength she desperately needed to look him in the eye.

Aemond knelt beside her, his hair like strands of moonlight spilling over his shoulders. His presence nudged her from the depths of her numbing despair. She exhaled sharply, her breath rasping against her dry lips as she forced her gaze away from the dance of the flames–forcing them to his all to reverent gaze. A strand of hair was brushed out of her face and behind her ear, his touch grazing her skin and leaving a trail of heat in its wake. And she felt the awful need to lean into his touch, to seek the familiar comfort it offered, as if it wouldn’t stain her soul with his deeds. 

His gentleness was cruel.

And the way he looked at her was crueler still–his gaze was tender, treating her as something fragile and precious, filled with a desperate reverence that bordered on love.

“Tell me,” Daenera whispered hoarsely, her voice roughened from screaming, a trace of bitterness lining her words as her lips trembled on the verge of tears. Her eyes began to burn anew, tears gathering with a stinging insistence, poised to breach the fragile dams of her composure.“Tell me it isn’t true.”

Aemond’s face seemed almost cruel in its sharpness, the flickering orange light from the hearth accentuating his features, making them seem more severe–sharpening them to a cutting point on which she could cut herself open. 

She searched his face for the answers he had been so reluctant to give. Even now, there was a reluctance, his expression a mask so seamlessly worn, she could no longer discern its edge–could no longer see where it ended and he began; all that was left was a chilling coldness. And though his gaze held tenderness, there was a coldness to him, a cruelty that twisted in her heart as she beheld him. It seemed to swirl within the depths of the sapphire, and seemed to mock her with its icy shimmer. 

She had convinced herself that she had managed to look beyond the facade he presented to the world–beyond his cruelty and resentment, beyond the rage that simmered beneath the surface–that she had truly seen him. Perhaps, she had whispered such assurances to her own heart, comforting herself with the belief that there was more to him. But now, surrounded by the ruins of her shattered illusions, doubt crept in like a cold, insidious fog. She wondered if she had ever truly seen the man beneath his mask or if she had merely deceived herself, conjuring up someone who never existed–someone she had fallen in love with. 

“Tell me it isn’t true,” she repeated weakly, her voice barely a whisper as tears clawed at the back of her throat. Desperation seeped into her tone, raw and palpable–begging for a lie to be the truth. “Tell me that what they said isn’t true–that you didn’t do it.”

His eye were full of terrible confessions.

Her voice cracked under the weight of her plea, the tightness in her chest becoming unbearable. As she looked at him, the truth was written all over the cold mask he wore; the deeds he had committed was clear, and the blood on his hands–hands that now reached out to her, touched her, threatened to stain her very being as they meant to wipe away her tears. 

“It’s true,” Aemond confessed, his voice soft. 

Daenera felt as if her heart was being cut open by the honesty of his words, and a choked sob tore its way through her throat as she turned her face away from him, as if to shield him from the torment that ravaged her. Her brother was truly gone–struck from this world by her lover. He had murdered her brother, her younger brother–the one she had seen into this world, the one she cherished deeply. He was good and brave and sensitive. The brother who had defended them, the brother who had come to her in the night, when he had needed comfort. The brother she had promised to return to so they could soar together on his dragon. How could this be? How could he be gone? 

She turned her gaze back to him, her eyes burning with accusation, “What happened?”

As the question spilled from her lips, a dreadful sensation twisted inside of her–a familiar surge of rage ignited in her chest, clashing violently with the numbing ice that had settled in her heart. Her features twisted into a fierce sneer as she fixed him with a gaze full of fury, seeking answers that would never soothe her pain. “How could you do this?! Why would you do this?!”

Daenera clutched at him with a desperate grasp, her nails digging into the fabric of his shirt as though holding him closer could somehow anchor his presence and replace her pain with comfort. Torn between rage and sorrow, her expression twisted into a sneer marred by the tears streaming down her cheeks. Her voice, caught in a liminal space, was too soft for yelling yet too intense to simply express sadness. 

“Why would you do this?” She asked, her voice raw with disbelief and betrayal. “How could you do this?” Her voice hardened with accusation. “You killed him.”

She watched him swallow, his head turning away from her for a moment, before returning. He looked at her with a tenderness that stung against her skin–his gentleness incongruous, coming from someone who caused her such pain. The inner corner of his eyebrow lifted subtly, his lips parting as he readied himself to speak.

He regarded her with a dreadful softness, his gaze laden with such lovely deference that it cruelly twisted her heart within her chest. This unexpected tenderness sparked an involuntary prickle at her fingertips, stirring a conflicting desire to reach out, to gently cup his face and stroke his cheek.

She despised this sensation, loathed the throbbing of her heart, the tingling in her fingertips, the feel of his collarbone beneath the shirt she clutched so tightly. Torn between the desire to push him away or pull him closer in a clash of conflicting emotions, her hands remained fisted, holding him in place. Yet, when she realized just how close he was, when she saw the look of such deep repentance in his eye that it bordered on mockery, she pushed him away, no longer able to endure his proximity. It felt like the only way to shield herself from the pain he was inflicting, as if the distance could somehow save her. 

The force of her shove knocked him off balance, sending him tumbling backward to land awkwardly on his behind. His hands slapped against the floor to catch himself as he righted his posture, one leg stretched out and the other bent, palms pressed flat against the ground. If it weren’t for the burning shame of it, she might have found him attractive in that moment—if her heart weren’t throbbing with such painful intensity…

“I presented your brother with a choice,” he said, his words cutting sharply through the tense air. His voice was even and soft, the kind a lover might used to whisper sweet nothings. It was all too soft for the words he brought her. “I demanded he put out his eye as payment for mine–that he repay the debt he owed.”

Air rushed out of Daenera’s lungs as she absorbed his words, her heart plummeting to the pit of her stomach. His words descended upon her like a cold blanket of snow, suffocating her with a chilling dread that twisted inside her, threatening to rise up with the bitter bile of utter despair. 

“He refused–”

“He was a child,” Daenera spat out, her head shaking in disbelief, voice trembling. “He was only a child.”

“So was I,” Aemond replied, his voice was firm but lacked its usual sharpness–the underlying rage that Daenera knew simmered just beneath the surface, the same resentment she had encountered before, and the very thing that had undoubtedly gripped him when he had demanded her brother’s eye. This time, however, his tone was eerily calm, unnervingly devoid of the anger she knew was there. “Everyone seems to forget that I, too, was a child when he gouged out my eye.”

The sound that escaped Daenera was something more incredulous and twisted than a mere scoff. “You are a child no longer.”

“Your brother permanently disfigured me. And for years, he has faced no consequences for his actions–years during which the injustice has remained unpunished,” Aemond declared, his voice carrying that note of resentment–a sting that spread across Daenera’s skin like the lick of a flame. “For years, I’ve endured insults and humiliation, years of enduring pain and torment because of what he did… You may think he only took my eye, but he took so much more than that. I wanted him to understand the full extent of what he did to me, and so I demanded his eye in return.”

There was a chilling coldness to Aemond’s tone, as soft as the edge of a blade that had not yet bitten into skin, and yet the softness was vicious in itself as it made his words cut deeper. This subtle ferocity in his voice drove the blade of his words further into Daenera’s heart, each syllable like a whispering slice that left a lasting sting. 

“And that justifies you taking his life?!” Daenera snapped, her voice shrill with disbelief. “He was defending his brother–protecting him from you when you went to cave Jace’s head in with a fucking rock!”

Tears welled up in her eyes, spilling over as her voice quivered with both rage and sorrow, “Did you know he’d sneak into my bed at night, tormented by guilt for cutting out your eye? Even when it was in the defense of his brother?”

Aemond’s face was a mask of impassivity as he absorbed her words, enduring her fury as steadfastly as cliffs withstand the relentless sea. And she thought how much simpler it would be if he were just cruel, if he would sneer at her and pierce her with his biting words as he had done in the past. But he did neither; he offered no sneers, no biting retorts, no cruelty but the gentleness. 

If he wouldn’t be cruel, she would be.

“If only he had aimed lower,” Daenera hissed back. “If only he had slit your throat.”

Her words landed with the force she intended, and she watched as he subtly recoiled, the impact striking his face like a slap, his eye narrowing–the cruelty and bitterness twisting within the cold gleam of the sapphire.

Aemond absorbed her scorn with chilling stoicism–Daenera could see the claws of her words slipping beneath his armor, tearing at his flesh, yet his expression remained cruelly impassive, like a mask carved from porcelain, a mask forged from cold steel. His expression was almost unbearable; she would have preferred him to rage at her, to have his barbed words bite into her skin, to see him unleash the beast she knew lurked within rather than this disconcerting softness that persisted even as her words cut him open.

“I never meant to kill him,” he whispered with such gentleness, the words barely more than a breath, as if spoken in the sacred hush of a sept. Yet they were not in the sept, nor were these words offered to the gods. They were spoken directly to her, with no deity present to bestow mercy, no higher power to appeal to for absolution. It was an admission, a haunting revelation of the truth. 

Daenera stared at him, her eyes ablaze with tears while her heart wrenched painfully inside her chest. Grief gripped her heart with a cruel hand, its claws sinking deep into the soft, pliant tissue, as though he himself was tearing at it, threatening to rip it out completely. She stared at him in utter desolation and disbelief, struggling to fully comprehend his words as his confession reverberated within the hollow chamber of her mind. 

In that moment, he appeared more child than man. His shirt was ruffled, hanging loosely around him–almost falling off one shoulder–to reveal the smooth flesh of his neck and the sharp curve of his collarbone. The expression on his face was open, reflecting more the visage of a broken boy than the monster she imagined him to be. His sapphire eye, no longer cruel but sad, shimmered like the night sky–held the same solemnity of a solitary figure lying bleeding out on a distant battlefield, far from home and utterly alone. 

“I only meant to scare him,” Aemond continued, his voice soft as silk, yet it seemed to encircle Daenera’s neck like a noose. “I wanted him to feel the same fear that I felt when you all ambushed me. I wanted him to feel as scared and powerless as I did when he cut out my eye…”

Hot, scathing tears streamed down her cheeks, spilling over as she contemplated the terror her brother must have felt in his final moments–the very fear Aemond had intended for him. A choked breath escaped her as the pain intensified, feeling as though a blade had been slipped between her ribs. 

He swallowed thickly, his gaze locked on hers, “So, I chased after him. I just wanted him to experience that fear and powerlessness… I never set out to kill him. I didn’t intend to…”

“You… You never meant to kill him…” Daenera echoed, the words struggling to form, as though they fought against being fully realized. She choked on them, choked on the truth–or whatever semblance of truth they held. She choked on his words as if they were poison. She couldn’t decide what was worse–that he had killed her brother, or that he never meant to. That it might have been an accident. 

It was far easier for her to despite the monster of vengeance than it was to accept the notion that it all might have been an accident. How could it truly be an accident when, in some dark corner of intent, the outcome was desired? Was it an unintended consequence, or merely a lie he told himself, a lie he now extended towards her?

“I lost control–Arrax attacked Vhagar–” He began, but her eyes darted toward him, aflame with anger, reflecting a storm of emotions that his words stirred within her. 

“You chased after him,” she spat out, unable to suppress the sneer curling her lips, even if she wanted to, “You pursued him with your dragon. You. What did you think was going to happen?” Her voice trembled with a mix of rage and the grief that threatened to engulf her. “Don’t you dare blame Arrax for trying to protect his rider. He would have sensed his fear…”

Her nails clawed into the fabric of her chemise and the flesh of her thighs as she glared at him fiercely. “I know dragons. I’ve witnessed the bonds they forge with their riders. It was your anger, your resentment that Vhagar reacted to. She would have felt your hatred, and she acted upon it–acted upon your desire for revenge. You didn’t lose control, Aemond, you wanted to kill him. The moment you chose to chase after him, you made your decision.”

Her voice rose as she shoved him, shifting her position, her knees bruising on the cold, unforgiving stone as she let her nails dig into his skin. “You killed him! You did. You wanted him dead. You wanted revenge. And now you’re too much of a coward to admit it–” Her accusations flew like arrows, each word laden with conviction and scorn. 

“Yes!” Aemond erupted with a venom that was all too familiar–that bitter resentment she had seen so many times before. The cruelty in his voice was palpable, each word striking her, burning across her skin as if lashed by a whip. “I wanted him dead–I wanted revenge for what he did to me. I wanted to kill him for it… and I did. I killed him. I am not sorry he is dead–”

If she had allowed it, the sheer heartbreak of his confession would have shattered her so completely that she doubted she could ever piece herself back together. Instead, she allowed the flames of her rage to consume her, feeling it swell within her like a terrible tide. Daenera surged forward, her hand trembling as she gripped the hilt of his dagger. Her knuckles turned white from the strain as she drew the blade from its sheath, the steel hissing in a quiet lamentation. She pressed the cold metal against his throat, its sharp edge lightly teasing his skin, as if eager to taste his blood.

She had wanted his cruelty, desired the sharpness of his claws; she had wanted him to tear into her heart, to rip it apart and reduce everything to ashes, ensuring that nothing could ever grow from its ruin–a complete destruction of the roots he had grown within her, of the blood they had shared. And she had gotten her wish; he had torn her apart, shredded her heart upon his cruelty. 

Her breaths burned in her lungs as she fought against whatever held her back. Her eyes, flickering from his–wide and gentle gaze, almost painfully expectant–to the gleam of the sapphire, a stretch of stars gleaming upon the night sky–the by she was always meant to love… Her had shook as she tried to press the blade deeper into his throat, that savage and cruel part of her awakening–the vengeful darkness that had always lurked within her, thirsting for his blood. 

Her gaze bore into his, laden with the immense weight of grief and loss that felt like a blade stabbing between her ribs, the twisted sensation of love cruelly sharpening the edge as if spilling his blood might spill her own. The blade pressed into his skin, drawing a thin trickle of blood that ran down the pale column of his neck. Daenera struggled against the bonds that restrained her, her fingers trembling as she tried to drive the dagger into his throat–to end everything, to free herself from him, to avenge the brother he killed. 

If she spilled his blood, would it cleanse her of her own sins–the sin of having loved him? The sin of her heart still not realizing what he’s done? 

“You’re a monster,” Daenera hissed at him–as much an insult as it was a reminder for herself. Her free hand clamped down on his shoulder, her nails digging into his flesh as she held him with a fierce, desperate grip as though fearing he’d slip through her fingers. “You’re a fucking kinslayer.”

“I am,” Aemond admitted. He did not resist her; he barely flinched as the accusation hurled at him cut through the air–instead, he sat back, observing her with that dreadful softness. He remained utterly motionless, his head tilted upward so that he could fully face her snarling expression.

Then, she felt it–the soft touch of his hand on her hip, his thumb gently caressing her. How could he be so gentle and yet so utterly heartless? 

The contrast between his tenderness and the monstrous deeds he confessed to twisted inside her, deeping the storm of emotions raging through Daenera. 

“I should fucking cut your throat and be done with you,” Daenera hissed, her voice dripping with venom. “You deserve it. You fucking deserve it.”

“Do it,” he challenged her, his voice a strange blend of daring and resignation. He leaned into the blade as if it offered nothing more than a gentle caress. “Kill me, make a kinslayer of the both of us.”

His words hit Daenera with the force of a slap, jolting her to her core. She bared her teeth at him, struggling against the invisible restraints that kept her from exacting her vengeance–she would slit his throat, she imagined tearing open his chest and ripping out his heart with her bare hands, she would… But then, a terrible, horrifying realization struck her. It crashed upon her like a wave, overwhelming and inescapable, and she recoiled from him. Her scream, raw with agony, pierced the air, clawing its way free from the deepest depths of her grief-stricken heart. This heart, ripped open to reveal the dreadful truth she had long refused to acknowledge, unleashed its pain into the world with a scream as vicious as a blade’s cut and as fierce as a flame. 

How merciless the gods, to unveil such cruel truths at such a time–revealing her heart to belong to a man destined to be her brother’s executioner. Indeed, the gods reveled in their tragedies. 

She wished she possessed the resolve to kill him, to avenge her brother, to rip her own heart out and liberate herself from all that restrained her. Her gaze dropped to the dagger in her hand, the steel catching the flickering light from the flames, and a dark, terrible resolve took root within her. 

With trembling fingers, she clutched the blade tightly and raised it to her own throat, pressing its cold edge against the tender skin he had once kissed. The blade bit into her flesh–then his hand abruptly closed around hers, his grip like a vice of iron, forcibly preventing her from completing the desperate act. 

His expression was one of breathless panic, marred by utter devastation and confusion, shocked that she would even contemplate such action. His brows furrowed incredulously, head shaking in disbelief, seemingly angry at her willingness to spill her own blood.

Daenera seized his wrist, her actions deliberate as she pressed the dagger into his hand, closing his fingers around the hilt. With a resolute push, she guided his hand, forcing the blade against her throat once more, compelling him to hold it there. The blade made contact with her skin, cold and unforgiving; a trickle of blood began its slow descent down her neck.

With the blade pressed against her, a cold murmur crept up her throat, “Murder me like you murdered my brother.”

Aemond stared at her with an expression that was unfamiliar, yet hovered close to fear–the visceral fear one experiences at the thought of losing a loved one, the dread of watching her slip into a realm beyond his reach, accompanied by a devastation that verged on turning into a plea. 

“Go on,” Daenera said flatly, daring him to take action, her voice cold as ice, “murder me like you murdered my brother…”

His head shook slightly, as did his hand, his eye darting between the blade pressed against her skin and her unyielding gaze. 

Her voice rose, “Kill me. You wanted to kill bastards. Slay me as you did my brother, Kinslayer.” Her voice became a desperate yell, shrill like steel against stone. “Murder me like you murdered my brother!”

“I can’t!” Aemond hissed, his voice rising towards a scream as his face contorted with an unbearable anguish–a semblance of something torn from his soul. “I can’t! Don’t you see?” His voice fractured, breaking under the strain as his expression twisted in agony. His voice fell to a murmur, a tortured whisper carrying the weight of his confession: “I love you.”

The impact of Aemond’s confession struck Daenera with the same devastating force as she had used to shatter the mirrors. She felt her heart fragment and splinter tino something unrecognizable. Staring at him, her breath caught in her throat; her head shook subtly, disbelief etching her furrowed brows. How could he say those words to her? How could he tear her apart, destroy her very soul, and then claim love? How could he take her brother’s life and still speak of love? These questions echoed in her mind, each one a piercing howl of betrayal and confusion. How? How could he?

“Daenera,” he uttered her name with a desperate plea, “Please, let go of the blade…”

A trickle of blood seared a path down her neck, igniting something cruel within the remnants of her heart. This sensation grew into a cold, devastating fire that blazed through her chest, curling up her throat and manifesting as a sneer on her lips, words as biting as the blade at her neck, “Kill me now, Aemond. Or I swear to you, I will take from you that which you have taken from me.”

Her eyes burned as she locked gazes with Aemond, searching his face intently. She thought she caught a flicker of contemplation across his features, his grip on the blade appearing to tighten, a tremor traveling up the steel as it grazed her skin–a touch almost cruel in its caress. His eye widened, burned like a funeral pyre, something vicious stirring within him, and for a moment, she believed he might actually do it–might slit her throat and free himself from whatever she meant to him, from the threat she was. 

Yet, he remained motionless, caught in a terrible stillness as though the world had dropped away into nothing. He did not let the blade dig deeper into her throat–and in that moment, she realized that he, too, was bound by the same invisible tethers that had stayed her own hand, that he, too, was captive to the same twisted sort of love she harbored. 

He loved her, she realized with a piercing clarity that was as devastating as it was true. Even as he had confessed it, the sheer impact of understanding his feelings hit her anew. How could he possibly love her when his heart was no heart at all, but a rotten, monstrous thing, festering with hatred? It was cruel, his declaration, like slipping a blade between her ribs and twisting it, all while professing his love. 

Once, such admission might have sparked joy in her; she might have kissed him on his terribly sharp lips, tasted the bitter stain of love on them, and lost herself in the moment, forgetting the lethal threat his love posed to her heart in exchange for the softness of his caress.

He loved her, and the realization was profoundly terrible.

The gods were mocking her, she thought bitterly, to be loved by the very man who had murdered her brother. How viciously cruel fate seemed. 

A surge of spite twisted within the ruins that were her heart, burning and writhing like a living thing. He loved her. He desired her. And yet, how utterly cruel would it be for him to have her blood on his hands as well? Her grip on his hand tightened, pressing the blade closer, letting its sharp edge bite deeper into her skin. She would haunt him, she thought. She would become an inescapable ghost in the back of his mind. 

With a cold intensity she said, “It would be a mercy, wouldn’t it? What’s a little more blood on your hands?”

But he had always been merciless and terribly selfish. 

With a sneer curling his lips, Aemond wrenched himself away from her, forcefully pulling the blade from her. As he did, the blade grazed her skin further, leaving a searing trail of pain along her neck. She felt the heart of it as it trickled down the column of her neck, soaking into the fabric of her chemise. 

The blade clattered harshly against the cold stone, forcefully pinned down by Aemond’s hand as he leaned back, holding himself upright. His expression, a complex mixture of intense fury and profound dejection, was tightly drawn as he stared at her, his breaths short and rapid. 

Daenera let out a humorless, biting scoff, a surge of betrayal piercing her heart. He couldn’t even extend the simple, solemn kindness of mercy. 

“I will make you regret this,” Daenera declared coldly, her voice cutting through the silence. Her words were more than a promise; they were a grim vow, each word laced with venom and a finality that left no room for doubt. She had once spoken similar words to him, but now, they resonated with a steely resolve born from the depths of her pain. “I will make you regret letting me live. I will take from you that which you’ve taken from me.”

Her gaze bore into him, seeking a crack in the facade he presented, something to tell her that her words had struck true. 

His response came chillingly simple, a single phrase that echoed through the room with the weight of inevitability. “I know.”

The words hung in the air, reverberating off the cold stone walls, and for a moment, it felt as if the very castle held its breath. Aemond’s face remained inscrutable–a cold fury settled upon his features–his eye unwavering as he met her gaze with an almost calmness that belied whatever storm that ravaged within him. 

There was no plea for forgiveness, no attempt at justification–just a stark acknowledgement of the dark path that lay ahead for both of them. 

As the flames in the hearth cracked and sputtered with a feverish intensity, Daenera’s heart pounded within her chest with a relentless, punishing rhythm. The cold despair she had kept at bay with her rage now crept upon her with an icy embrace, threatening to engulf her entirely. She turned her gaze to the fire, feeling the heat radiate upon her, warming her cold skin and battling against the ice that threatened to seep into her veins. The bitter sting of betrayal prickled at her heart, a blade driven between her ribs, each beat driving the blade deeper, more devastatingly into the tender muscle–alive with self-destruction. 

It wasn’t merely his betrayal that wounded her; it was the betrayal of her own heart. 

She cursed herself for the weakness that stayed her hand, the hesitation that prevented her from delivering justice in the form of a dagger to his throat. If it had been anyone else, she would have carried out the act without remorse–without a moment’s hesitation, without that awful, cloying feeling of her heart being torn from her chest. But it was not just anyone; it was Aemond, the man she had once believed she knew–the boy with the stars in his eyes, the flame to her own, and the man who had killed her brother in an act of vengeance. 

Unable to bear the sight of him any longer, Daenera turned away, her gaze averted from the face that once held familiarity. The mask he now wore was a chilling reminder of who he was and what he was capable of, as cold and unforgiving as the bite of the blade had been.

The room felt oppressive, the air thick with the weight of her motions. Each crackle and pop of the flames seemed to mock her pain, illuminating the truth that had shattered her world. She could feel Aemond’s gaze on her, a heavy presence she refused to acknowledge. 

The bitter taste of disillusion clung to her tongue, a profound sense of loss settling over her like a shroud. An overwhelming emptiness loomed, threatening to consume her entirely as it gnawed at the fringes of her mind. Hugging her knees tightly to her chest, she sought some semblance of comfort as her eyes remained fixated on the flames before her, the fire’s warmth unable to penetrate the desolation that enveloped her. 

“I loved you too,” Daenera admitted, her voice raw and strained, laden with anguish that seemed to echo off the cold stone walls around her. “I loved you. How terrible is that?” She swallowed hard, fighting back the tears that threatened to drown her. “I hate myself for loving you. I wish I didn’t…”

Her vision blurred, the flames before her a distorted dance beneath a watery veil. “You made me love you, and you killed my brother… And still, there’s some terrible part of it that loves you, as if it’s yet to understand what you’ve done…” 

Tears spilled over, searing tracks down her cheeks, and she fought the urge to claw her eyes out just to make it stop, as though it would save her from the misery of heartache. 

“What does that make me? To still love the man who murdered my brother? Does that make me a monster too, or just a fool–a stupid, naive fool?” She asked with a near scoff, her tone teetering on the edge of something broken and hysterical. “You are a kinslayer… And I…”

They had been doomed from the start. Daenera knew it, but she had been too much of a fool to heed her own judgment. It would always have ended like this, she thought bitterly. How terrible it was, to foresee the end and still walk the path leading to it. Had it ever truly been her choice, or had it been destined from the beginning–destined all those years ago when she paid the witch with her blood? He was the boy with the stars in his eyes, the one she was meant to love–and how terrible that love was. 

Her heart strained within her chest, its rhythm irregular and erratic, sending painful jolts throughout her body. Each pang of agony only emphasized the depth of her love for him. It seemed to pierce her very soul, and she realized that in the attempt to wound him with her words, she had only cut herself more open on their sharp edges.

It was not merely desire or fleeting affection; it was love in its rawest and most devastating form. The weight of it was both awful and horrifying, a torment that threatened to consume her entirely. Deep down, she had always known the truth, even from the moment they had marked their palms and exchanged bloody vows, sealing their fates together. Love had silently woven its thread around their lives. 

“You didn’t even have the courage to tell me yourself–to face me as you ripped my heart to pieces with your vengeance,” Daenera muttered, her voice a broken accusation. The bitterness in her tone was palpable, each word a dagger aimed at the empty space where his heart should have been. 

“I meant to grant you one more night with your brother still alive,” Aemond responded, his voice raw yet strangely composed. As Daenera looked up at him, she saw that he had assumed that cold and collected mask–made of cold, unyielding steel. Was there ever a man beneath that mask or had he always been a monster?

“What you meant doesn’t mean anything,” Daenera said coolly, dragging her eyes back to the flames. “It doesn’t matter now. The only thing that matters is what you’ve done… You are a coward… And I, the fool that loved you.”

Drawing in a sharp breath, she tightened her arms around her knees. Her fragile form huddled as if to shield herself from the pain threatening to unravel her. Like a flower folding in on itself at night, she buried her face in her knees, closing herself off from the world.

The room felt even colder, the silence heavy and oppressive. Each breath she took was a struggle, her chest tightening with the weight of her sorrow and despair. She wished she could disappear into herself, vanish from the agony that consumed her. Her mind was a whirlwind of memories and emotions, each one cutting deeper than the last. The image of his face, the sound of his voice, the warmth of his touch–each recollection was a torment, a reminder of what she had lost in his betrayal. And worse yet, were the memories of her brother, his wide grin and dark curls, the way he sought her out when he needed comfort, how excited he had been to fly with her.

Daenera felt as if she were dissolving into her grief, her sense of self slipping away. The love that had once filled her heart now felt like a curse, a cruel twist of fate that had left her broken and hollow. 

“Let the maester tend to your wounds,” Aemond murmured, his voice gentle and even, yet each word tugged painfully at her heart. She listened to the sound of his footfalls fading as he exited the room, each step echoing the growing distance between them. 

And she remained before the heart, lost to sorrow and despair, her heart a shattered vessel incapable of holding anything but the remnants of a love that had destroyed her and the memories of a brother that was lost to her.

**hyacinth - Grief and Sorrow I must admit, I struggled a lot with this scene. The original scene is vastly different from this one--Aemond was very, very cruel in that one, leaning into the whole monster thing and just taking out all his rage on her, and I couldn't see a way back from it if I had stuck with that scene, so instead you get this. Aemond might be a bit passive in this, but he's fighting to hold it all together and face the way she looks at him, and he's trying to be honest and gentle as he breaks her heart. And Daenera is just lashing out--rightfully so. How awful it took this sort of devastation for her heart to truly reveal itself--to finally realize and admit that what they had was love now that they stand amongst the ruins of it. And how she still feels love for him, because her heart hasn't fully caught up with her mind yet. And the reason she admits it, is just to further drive the knife into HIS heart, because she knows he's longed to hear it, and she wants him to feel its touch before taking it from him, ya know?

[disneynshit-blog1]

9 Great Details About Ladies Day At Royal Ascot

The Royal Ascot 2019 horse race is entering its third day, with all eyes on the lavish hats, attractive outfits, obviously, the royals. Day 3 of the five-day event is likewise the day of the historic Gold Cup. The Gold Cup is Ascot's longest enduring race, and what is now called Royal Ascot started to take shape when The Gold Cup was first run in 1807. The Gold Cup accompanies what is informally referred to as "Ladies' Day," a term initially used in 1823. An anonymous poet explained the day as "Ladies' Day ... when the ladies, like angels, look sweetly magnificent." However the Ascot doesn't formally recognize the day as Ladies' Day. As the Ascot's director of racing, Nick Smith, described to The Telegraph, they haven't referred to Ladies' Day in any marketing or promos products. "We are comfortable with the public calling it that, however to market it as such would trigger confusion as ladies' days away from Ladies Day are entirely different," he stated. "We do not have actually best dressed competitions-- for either sex-- and we do not believe catwalks and such like is what it has to do with."

What is the Royal Ascot?

One of Britain's many popular racecourses, Ascot holds a special week of races in June each year called Royal Ascot, participated in by The Queen and other Royals At other horse races in the U.K., Ladies' Days are synonymous with fashion competitions. At the Kelso Racecourse, which stages fifteen jumps components during the season from September through Might, there are competitors for classifications such as Best Dressed Lady, Finest Dressed Couple, and Best Hat. While there are no competitions at Ascot, according to The Night Standard, females still take care to dress in an additional glamorous search Ladies' Day to commemorate. Princess Eugenie wore a beautiful floral-print Erdem dress teamed with a boater hat, while singer Ciara selected a trendy white Edeline Lee gown. Royal Ascot's spectacular heritage, unlike any other, has made the event the most expected and revered the world over. From the arrival of the Royal Procession at 2pm sharp to communal singing around the bandstand, with six impressive top-class races in between, each of the five days is unforgettable.

It's a social highlight of the summer, not just for the racing and royalty however also because of the style, design and breadth of home entertainment on offer. An option of 4 enclosures, each with a specific character and numerous food and beverage alternatives, allow you to curate your own truly unique occasion. From unique street food, premium hamburgers and classic afternoon tea to bring-your-own picnics on the spotless yards and dining from Michelin-starred chefs, the alternatives for an exquisite food experience alone are limitless. It's an opportunity to dress up and enjoy yourself while trying to break bookmakers' hearts. To experience it to its maximum, a little preparation will pay huge dividends. Tuesday 19 If you're looking to experience Ascot Events at its most regal, the opening day is a must. When the clock strikes two the Royal Procession begins and the landaus, led by 4 Windsor greys, make their method along the Straight Mile, enacting a British custom that stretches back to when Queen Victoria was a woman. There is no comparable event in the racing calendar or undoubtedly the sporting world and, while the spectacle is repeated every day of the meeting, Royal Ascot's opening day is justifiably renowned as breathtaking.

For flat racing fans too, this is a day not to miss out on. 3 Group One races-- the sport's greatest classification, with the greatest prize money and the very best horses-- are run: the Queen Anne Stakes, the King's Stand Stakes and the St James's Palace Stakes. Wednesday 20 A more gently paced day however no less amazing, as it includes the Group One Prince of Wales's Stakes. This is held by numerous to be Royal Ascot's crucial race of the contemporary era: the wealthiest race of the whole conference with a handbag of ₤ 750,000. And where much better to see it than in the Queen Anne Enclosure? Not as formal however just as perfectly composed as the members-only Royal Enclosure-- no stovepipe hats and tails required-- this enclosure offers the ideal and up-close views of the spectacular horses, both in the Pre-Parade Ring and the Parade Ring. With Wednesday being a somewhat calmer day, possibly seek out the various sculpture installations scattered around the racecourse, some long-term and depicting past stars of Ascot in their most regal states while others include exclusively for the royal meeting. Entertainment is universal at Royal Ascot with every day drawing to a close around the renowned bandstand, situated in the Queen Anne Enclosure, for victorious and generally British common singing at 6pm. Thursday 21 One of Royal Ascot's endearing eccentricities is that Thursday is not officially called Ladies' Day however Gold Cup Day. But this is unquestionably the day when all eyes are concentrated on the hats, and both conventional and contemporary screens of stunning millinery are most on program. Queen Anne Enclosure visitors can show off their headwear while enjoying a grilled lobster or champagne afternoon tea at 1768 Grill and Tea Rooms. A perfect Ascot experience to improve your big day, this restaurant was among a number of outlets introduced in 2017 to offer racegoers an option for lunch and afternoon tea that does not require reservation in advance.

Gold Cup Day is also when Ascot's many distinguished race is run-- constantly a source of high drama as it unfolds over 2 and a half miles. You can get a fresh viewpoint on this by enjoying from Royal Ascot's latest enclosure, The Town, which is open from Thursday to Saturday. Found on the within the track, with the Grandstand providing a background to the day, the Village Enclosure has actually currently become popular with a more youthful, fashion-conscious group of racegoers searching for a contemporary Royal Ascot experience. Three phases offer a range of music all the time and, once the racing finishes, the live entertainment continues till 9pm with a varied collection of shop dining establishments and champagne bars to keep the party going and create an imagine a summer night. Friday 22 The racing stays of the highest quality all week with Friday peaking once more as viewers witness two Group One races-- The Commonwealth Cup and The Crowning Stakes. As the weekend nears, racegoers can enjoy the marvelous environment in the Queen Anne Enclosure and sample from the most remarkable range of food and drink with a last-minute dining experience at James Tanner's Queen Anne Cooking area or by delighting in a Royal Ascot Blush Cocktail from one of the essential bars located in the area. There are numerous artisan food stalls and champagne bars in The Town and Windsor Enclosures, but equally numerous guests enjoy bringing their own picnics. There are, however, particular restrictions that use and the only alcohol that guests might bring with them is champagne or champagne (and an optimum of one bottle per person). Saturday 23 There is no stopping the amazing racing and the final day is no exception. Its format is a recognisable six-race card staged between 2.30 pm and 5.35 pm. Saturday's highlight is certainly The Diamond Jubilee Stakes. Its size of field and intense pace supply a thrilling race for all and add to the finale of the five-day yearly event. Saturday is likewise a terrific day for kids to experience the distinct Royal Ascot 2019 atmosphere and excitement. Children's tickets can just be bought on the day, with all money going to Ascot's yearly charitable providing.

Scheduling ahead is advised if you are considering a fine dining experience in the Royal Enclosure or Queen Anne Enclosure, with a number of restaurants already sold out across all days.

What is Ascot ladies day?

The world's most glamorous race day. Ladies Day at Royal Ascot is renowned as the most significant day on the British social and sporting calendar. It deserves remembering that numerous days throughout the four enclosures sell out well ahead of time. So plan early-- and take pleasure in. Whatever day you select, Ladies Day truly is like no place else. Every day provides a different experience however constantly with the same design and sophistication that the racecourse is renowned for. Outstanding racing, thrilling entertainment, magnificent food and sartorial sophistication can always be anticipated. Be sure to inspect the official gown code for your enclosure prior to you go, look at possible upgrades you can select to enhance the event and prepare yourself for one of the most remarkable days in the British social-- and horse racing-- calendar. The Royal Ascot definitely lives up to its official slogan," Like no place else." A major event on the British social calendar because its founding by Queen Anne in 1711, the yearly race conference, which takes place each June at the Ascot Racecourse in Berkshire, England, remains a heady mix of pomp, custom, style, class difference and, naturally, sport. Formally opened each day by the Queen, along with assorted royals, the most apt method to explain the experience to Americans would be to imagine a cross between a royal wedding and the Kentucky Derby, except boozier, if that's humanly possible (via champagne rather than bourbon). Though each of the 5 days has its highlights, Opening Day remains special just due to the fact that it brings in a complete enhance of royals while also restricting admission to the Royal Enclosure, the most distinguished level of presence, to members just. How does one become a member of this posh pack? The answer is intentionally left vague, including a secret dish of social stature, connections, letters of reference, and, above all, aspiration. On the remaining 4 days, members are allowed to buy 2 guest badges each daily. Ascot Opening Day was celebrated by the Lerner and Loewe musical, "My Fair Lady," which opened on Broadway in 1956 starring Rex Harrison and Julie Andrews, and later on made into a big-budget Hollywood extravaganza, again with Rex Harrison however with Audrey Hepburn replacing Andrews. (It's running yet again this season on Broadway at Lincoln Center Theater.).

Both the stage production and the film included incredible depictions of Royal Ascot with sets and costumes by Cecil Beaton, the renowned professional photographer, designer, diarist and royal elbow-rubber. Intensely designed in black and white, the number, particularly in the film version, virtually stands on its own as a pill of choreography and couture. Today, Ascot Opening Day is a far less mannerist affair, but equally fashion-aligned. In the rarified air of the Royal Enclosure, tradition reigns supreme in all manners of dress throughout the five-day period. Men are needed to wear a complete morning match with waistcoat and either a black or grey stovepipe hat at all times. Only black shoes are allowed and in an affront to the existing style for bare ankles, socks are necessary. Only in 2015, for the really first time in Ascot Events's history, when the temperature skyrocketed into the 90s, were males allowed to eliminate their coats and hats. Otherwise, hats should remain on heads other than within a dining establishment, a private box, an enclosed terrace, and a few other designated locations. Ladies needs to use a hat with a minimum base of 4 inches (i.e. no fascinators) and gowns with a modest cut. Pants and one-piece suits are allowed, however once again with a caution: trousers must be worn with a jacket or leading "in a matching material." There is a large range of trendy to saucy, but Brits do the "garden celebration" look quite well, with a mix of intense colors, floral prints and the recent look of long, streaming gowns that obviously take their remedies from the more youthful members of the Royal Household.

How long does Royal Ascot last?

Over 300,000 people make the annual see to Berkshire during Royal Ascot week, making this Europe's best-attended race conference. There are eighteen group races available, with at least one Group One event on each of the five days. Beyond the Royal Enclosure, each area has its own set of sartorial guidelines. If the Royal Enclosure is First Class, Service Class would be the Queen Anne Enclosure. There, men need to use a fit and tie and women are asked to use tasteful gowns and a hat. Premium Economy would be The Town Enclosure, with the same gown code as the Queen Anne Enclosure. The Windsor Enclosure is the most relaxed, without any gown code at all. The main website states "vibrant, amazing and fun" which equates to celebration main, often rather rowdy. Indeed, every level of Ascot is celebration hearty, no matter whether sustained by Bollinger, Pimm's, or Guinness. The numbers speak volumes. Over the course of five days, 300,000 guests will have taken in 56,000 bottles of champagne, 44,000 bottles of red wine, 21,000 containers of Pimm's and 60,000 finger sandwiches. For those who do not imbibe, fear not. Likewise consumed are 80,000 cups of tea and 128,500 bottles of mineral water.

No matter which area one is in or what is in one's glass, the state of mind is extremely buoyant, fired up by the arrival of the Queen and various members of her family in a line of horse drawn carriages. This year, as usual, the Royal Procession went into the park through the Royal Gates noticeable to all off in the distance. The closer the carriages got to the stands, the louder the buzz from the crowd. All at once, the Band of Her Majesty's Irish Guards marched into location to play the national anthem, "God Conserve the Queen." Thousands of stovepipe hats were eliminated en masse and the crowd sang, followed by spontaneous applause and cheers that became a cacophony as the Queen's carriage passed, accompanied by continuously "Hip, Hip, Hoorays!" Resplendent in a jonquil yellow coat and hat, she was accompanied by her child, Andrew, daughter Anne, and Lord Vestey, Master of the Horse to the Royal Household. Next came Prince Charles with Camilla, Duchess of Cornwall and the Princesses Beatrice and Eugenie. However the loudest cheers this go round were for the residents of the third carriage, Prince Harry and his brand-new bride-to-be Meghan with Prince Edward and his spouse, Sophie. Following the royal arrival, much like halftime at a football game, there's a mad rush for the bars and the toilets. But instead of beers and brats, it's Bollinger and lobster rolls. Yes, there are a couple of exhilarating horse races, accompanied by a remarkable quantity of drinking. However the real show remains in the garden of the Royal Enclosure, which turns into one huge celebration, and, obviously, the Royal Box, which hovers over the stands like the bridge of an enormous ocean liner. One can quickly see the comings and goings through its set of double doors, with riding crop handles, from several viewpoint within the clubhouse, which feels exactly like a shopping mall, although it has bars and betting stations instead of boutiques. One can seemingly make a bet practically anywhere. In addition to the fixed desks, there are mobile kiosks scattered inside the clubhouse and throughout the park. One can even position a bet, albeit prior to 2 p.m. on what color the Queen will wear. (Last year, I won ₤ 15 on pink.) And if one is in the ideal place at the right time, the doors to the Royal Box will swing open and a tiny little figure in a brilliantly colored coat and hat will emerge, and stroll unaccompanied to the parade ring to provide a prize, often a number of times a day. This is why one attends Ascot: to witness firsthand the gravitas, the magnificence, the adulation and a little bit of the seclusion that accompanies what the existing occupant of Buckingham Palace refers to, sometimes wearily, "this task for life." It's a thrilling and strangely moving thing to see. After all, who requires to binge watch The Crown when one can merely binge see the Queen?

[pilferingtheheavens-blog]

6 Spectacular Details About Royal Ascot Ladies Day

The Ladies Day horse race is entering its third day, with all eyes on the extravagant hats, attractive outfits, naturally, the royals. Day Three of the five-day event is also the day of the historic Gold Cup. The Gold Cup is Ascot's longest surviving race, and what is now referred to as Royal Ascot started to take shape when The Gold Cup was first run in 1807. The Gold Cup accompanies what is informally called "Ladies' Day," a term first used in 1823. An anonymous poet described the day as "Ladies' Day ... when the ladies, like angels, look sweetly divine." But the Ascot doesn't officially recognize the day as Ladies' Day. As the Ascot's director of racing, Nick Smith, explained to The Telegraph, they have not described Ladies' Day in any marketing or promos materials. "We are comfortable with the public calling it that, however to market it as such would trigger confusion as ladies' days away from Royal Ascot Ladies Day are entirely various," he said. "We do not have actually finest dressed competitions-- for either sex-- and we do not think catwalks and such like is what it is about."

What is the Royal Ascot?

One of Britain's most well-known racecourses, Ascot holds an unique week of races in June each year called Royal Ascot, went to by The Queen and other Royals At other horse races in the U.K., Ladies' Days are synonymous with fashion competitions. At the Kelso Racecourse, which stages fifteen dives fixtures during the season from September through Might, there are competitions for classifications such as Finest Dressed Lady, Finest Dressed Couple, and Finest Hat. While there are no competitors at Ascot, according to The Night Standard, women still take care to dress in an extra glamorous search Ladies' Day to commemorate. Princess Eugenie wore a stunning floral-print Erdem dress teamed with a boater hat, while vocalist Ciara chose a chic white Edeline Lee dress. Royal Ascot's spectacular heritage, unlike any other, has actually made the event the most expected and revered the world over. From the arrival of the Royal Procession at 2pm sharp to common singing around the bandstand, with 6 outstanding top-class races between, each of the five days is unforgettable.

It's a social highlight of the summer, not just for the racing and royalty but also because of the style, design and breadth of entertainment on offer. A choice of four enclosures, each with a private character and various food and drink choices, allow you to curate your own genuinely special event. From unique street food, gourmet hamburgers and timeless afternoon tea to bring-your-own picnics on the spotless lawns and dining from Michelin-starred chefs, the options for a splendid food experience alone are endless. It's a chance to dress up and enjoy yourself while trying to break bookmakers' hearts. To experience it to its maximum, a little preparation will pay huge dividends. Tuesday 19 If you're seeking to experience Ascot UK at its most regal, the opening day is a must. When the clock strikes two the Royal Procession begins and the landaus, led by 4 Windsor greys, make their way along the Straight Mile, enacting a British custom that extends back to when Queen Victoria was a woman. There is no equivalent event in the racing calendar or indeed the sporting world and, while the spectacle is duplicated every day of the meeting, Royal Ascot's opening day is justifiably renowned as spectacular.

For flat racing fans too, this is a day not to miss. 3 Group One races-- the sport's greatest category, with the greatest prize money and the very best horses-- are run: the Queen Anne Stakes, the King's Stand Stakes and the St James's Palace Stakes. Wednesday 20 A more carefully paced day but no less interesting, as it consists of the Group One Prince of Wales's Stakes. This is held by many to be Royal Ascot's crucial race of the contemporary age: the wealthiest race of the whole meeting with a purse of ₤ 750,000. And where better to watch it than in the Queen Anne Enclosure? Not as official however just as magnificently made up as the members-only Royal Enclosure-- no stovepipe hats and tails needed-- this enclosure provides the ideal and up-close views of the stunning horses, both in the Pre-Parade Ring and the Parade Ring. With Wednesday being a somewhat calmer day, perhaps seek out the numerous sculpture setups scattered around the racecourse, some long-term and portraying previous stars of Ascot in their most regal states while others feature specifically for the royal conference. Entertainment is universal at Royal Ascot with each day drawing to a close around the renowned bandstand, located in the Queen Anne Enclosure, for triumphant and typically British communal singing at 6pm. Thursday 21 One of Royal Ascot's charming eccentricities is that Thursday is not formally called Ladies' Day but Gold Cup Day. However this is undoubtedly the day when all eyes are focused on the hats, and both conventional and contemporary display screens of magnificent millinery are most on program. Queen Anne Enclosure guests can display their headwear while enjoying a grilled lobster or champagne afternoon tea at 1768 Grill and Tea Rooms. A best Ascot experience to enhance your big day, this restaurant was one of a number of outlets introduced in 2017 to offer racegoers an alternative for lunch and afternoon tea that does not need booking in advance.

Gold Cup Day is likewise when Ascot's a lot of distinguished race is run-- always a source of high drama as it unfolds over two and a half miles. You can get a fresh viewpoint on this by enjoying from Royal Ascot's most recent enclosure, The Village, which is open from Thursday to Saturday. Found on the inside of the track, with the Grandstand supplying a background to the day, the Village Enclosure has actually already ended up being popular with a more youthful, fashion-conscious group of racegoers trying to find a contemporary Royal Ascot experience. 3 stages use a range of music all the time and, once the racing finishes, the live entertainment continues until 9pm with a diverse collection of store restaurants and champagne bars to keep the party going and produce a dream of a midsummer night. Friday 22 The racing remains of the highest quality all week with Friday peaking once more as viewers witness 2 Group One races-- The Commonwealth Cup and The Crowning Stakes. As the weekend nears, racegoers can delight in the marvelous atmosphere in the Queen Anne Enclosure and sample from the most splendid series of food and drink with a last-minute dining experience at James Tanner's Queen Anne Cooking area or by delighting in a Royal Ascot Blush Mixed drink from one of the ultimate bars found in the location. There are numerous artisan food stalls and champagne bars in The Village and Windsor Enclosures, but equally many guests enjoy bringing their own picnics. There are, however, certain restrictions that use and the only alcohol that visitors may bring with them is sparkling wine or champagne (and a maximum of one bottle per person). Saturday 23 There is no stopping the incredible racing and the final day is no exception. Its format is a recognisable six-race card staged between 2.30 pm and 5.35 pm. Saturday's emphasize is undoubtedly The Diamond Jubilee Stakes. Its size of field and strong pace provide a thrilling race for all and contribute to the finale of the five-day annual event. Saturday is also a fantastic day for children to experience the special Ascot Events environment and excitement. Children's tickets can only be purchased on the day, with all money going to Ascot's yearly charitable providing.

Reserving ahead is recommended if you are considering a great dining experience in the Royal Enclosure or Queen Anne Enclosure, with several restaurants currently sold out across all days.

What is Ascot ladies day?

The world's most attractive race day. Ladies Day at Royal Ascot is renowned as the greatest day on the British social and sporting calendar. It deserves bearing in mind that numerous days across the 4 enclosures sell out well ahead of time. So plan early-- and take pleasure in. Whatever day you pick, Ladies Day actually resembles nowhere else. Each day uses a different experience however constantly with the same style and sophistication that the racecourse is renowned for. Exceptional racing, exciting entertainment, splendid food and sartorial elegance can constantly be expected. Make certain to inspect the official dress code for your enclosure before you go, take a look at possible upgrades you can pick to improve the celebration and prepare yourself for among the most wonderful days in the British social-- and horse racing-- calendar. The Royal Ascot certainly lives up to its official slogan," Like nowhere else." A significant event on the British social calendar given that its founding by Queen Anne in 1711, the yearly race meeting, which occurs each June at the Ascot Racecourse in Berkshire, England, remains a heady mix of pomp, custom, fashion, class distinction and, obviously, sport. Formally opened each day by the Queen, in addition to various royals, the most apt method to describe the experience to Americans would be to think of a cross in between a royal wedding event and the Kentucky Derby, except boozier, if that's humanly possible (by means of champagne rather than bourbon). Though each of the five days has its highlights, Opening Day remains special just since it draws in a complete enhance of royals while likewise limiting admission to the Royal Enclosure, the most distinguished level of participation, to members just. How does one end up being a member of this classy pack? The response is intentionally left unclear, including a secret dish of social stature, connections, letters of reference, and, above all, aspiration. On the staying 4 days, members are allowed to purchase two guest badges each each day. Ascot Opening Day was immortalized by the Lerner and Loewe musical, "My Fair Lady," which opened on Broadway in 1956 starring Rex Harrison and Julie Andrews, and later on made into a big-budget Hollywood extravaganza, once again with Rex Harrison but with Audrey Hepburn replacing Andrews. (It's running yet again this season on Broadway at Lincoln Center Theater.).

Both the stage production and the film included spectacular depictions of Royal Ascot with sets and outfits by Cecil Beaton, the renowned professional photographer, designer, diarist and royal elbow-rubber. Extremely created in black and white, the number, especially in the movie variation, virtually stands on its own as a capsule of choreography and couture. Today, Ascot Opening Day is a far less mannerist affair, but similarly fashion-aligned. In the rarified air of the Royal Enclosure, tradition reigns supreme in all manners of gown throughout the five-day duration. Males are required to use a complete early morning fit with waistcoat and either a black or grey stovepipe hat at all times. Just black shoes are enabled and in an affront to the current style for bare ankles, socks are mandatory. Just in 2015, for the really very first time in Ascot's history, when the temperature level soared into the 90s, were guys permitted to eliminate their coats and hats. Otherwise, hats must stay on heads except within a dining establishment, a private box, an enclosed balcony, and a few other designated areas. Ladies should wear a hat with a minimum base of four inches (i.e. no fascinators) and dresses with a modest cut. Trousers and jumpsuits are permitted, but once again with a caution: pants must be used with a coat or top "in a coordinating fabric." There is a large range of stylish to saucy, but Brits do the "garden party" look quite well, with a mix of bright colors, floral prints and the recent appearance of long, streaming gowns that undoubtedly take their remedies from the younger members of the Royal Household.

How long does Royal Ascot last?

Over 300,000 people make the annual visit to Berkshire during Royal Ascot week, making this Europe's best-attended race meeting. There are eighteen group races on offer, with a minimum of one Group One event on each of the 5 days. Beyond the Royal Enclosure, each area has its own set of sartorial standards. If the Royal Enclosure is First Class, Business Class would be the Queen Anne Enclosure. There, guys need to use a fit and tie and ladies are asked to wear stylish gowns and a hat. Premium Economy would be The Village Enclosure, with the exact same gown code as the Queen Anne Enclosure. The Windsor Enclosure is the most unwinded, without any gown code at all. The main website says "vibrant, amazing and enjoyable" which translates to celebration main, in some cases rather rowdy. Undoubtedly, every level of Royal Ascot 2019 is party hearty, no matter whether fueled by Bollinger, Pimm's, or Guinness. The numbers speak volumes. Throughout 5 days, 300,000 guests will have taken in 56,000 bottles of champagne, 44,000 bottles of red wine, 21,000 containers of Pimm's and 60,000 finger sandwiches. For those who do not imbibe, fear not. Also taken in are 80,000 cups of tea and 128,500 bottles of mineral water.

No matter which section one is in or what is in one's glass, the mood is decidedly resilient, sparked by the arrival of the Queen and various members of her household in a line of horse drawn carriages. This year, as usual, the Royal Procession entered the park through the Royal Gates visible to all off in the distance. The closer the carriages got to the stands, the louder the buzz from the crowd. Simultaneously, the Band of Her Majesty's Irish Guards marched into location to play the nationwide anthem, "God Conserve the Queen." Thousands of top hats were eliminated en masse and the crowd sang, followed by spontaneous applause and cheers that turned into a cacophony as the Queen's carriage passed, accompanied by continuously "Hip, Hip, Hoorays!" Resplendent in a jonquil yellow coat and hat, she was accompanied by her boy, Andrew, child Anne, and Lord Vestey, Master of the Horse to the Royal Household. Next came Prince Charles with Camilla, Duchess of Cornwall and the Princesses Beatrice and Eugenie. But the loudest cheers this go round were for the occupants of the 3rd carriage, Prince Harry and his brand-new bride-to-be Meghan with Prince Edward and his other half, Sophie. Following the royal arrival, just like halftime at a football game, there's a mad rush for the bars and the restrooms. But instead of beers and brats, it's Bollinger and lobster rolls. Yes, there are a few exhilarating horse races, accompanied by a tremendous quantity of drinking. However the real show remains in the garden of the Royal Enclosure, which develops into one huge party, and, obviously, the Royal Box, which hovers over the stands like the bridge of a massive ocean liner. One can easily see the comings and goings through its set of double doors, with riding crop deals with, from a number of vantage points within the clubhouse, which feels exactly like a mall, although it has bars and betting stations instead of boutiques. One can relatively make a bet practically anywhere. In addition to the stationary desks, there are mobile kiosks spread inside the clubhouse and throughout the park. One can even put a bet, albeit prior to 2 p.m. on what color the Queen will wear. (Last year, I won ₤ 15 on pink.) And if one is in the best location at the correct time, the doors to the Royal Box will swing open and a small little figure in a brightly colored coat and hat will emerge, and walk unaccompanied to the parade ring to provide a trophy, often numerous times a day. This is why one attends Royal Ascot 2019: to witness firsthand the gravitas, the splendour, the adulation and a little the isolation that accompanies what the existing occupant of Buckingham Palace describes, at times wearily, "this job for life." It's a thrilling and strangely moving thing to see. After all, who requires to binge watch The Crown when one can just binge enjoy the Queen?

[rprambles]

i want to ramble about my ffxiv mains so here we go!

Eloise Sharp, amnesiac sellsword. She woke up in a field clinic after the Battle of Cartenau with no memory of who she was or why she was there. She never bothered to look into it. She made a home in Ul’Dah and a living as a bodyguard for hire. She’s a classic butch lesbian with a giant axe and a love of naps.

Edelin Sharp, daughter to deserter Eloise Sharp. Her mother abandoned her duties to Ishgard to assist the Eorzean Alliance in their fight against Garlemald. This dealt considerable damage to Edelin and her father’s social standing; they currently live in the Brume. Edelin has dedicated herself to becoming a knight nearly to the exclusion of all else.

Sive Molrocca, Captain of the Discourteous Siren. Originally an orphan in Gridania, Sive had difficulty getting by. She eventually traveled south through Thanalan to Limsa, where she found work on a ship. Post-Calamity she became the captain. She delights in raiding Garlean ships and stealing their tech to take apart and study.

Muunokhoi Qestir did not want to leave the Steppe. But when her cousin wandered far without writing home, she got volunt-told by her aunt to go find him. She’s very homesick and expresses it with grouchiness and dislike of this strange place called Eorzea.