#golden dragon foot

[scribeofskyrim]

Turdas, 19th of Last Seed, 4E 201

I have made a grave tactical error. The leather tent kept me dry, but it did next to nothing for the cold. That wouldn't be a problem, except I didn't grab firewood or an axe good for chopping wood when I was in town. Luckily, I have soup - eating as I write - but I'm going to freeze to death if I don't get out of the weather. There’s a bend in the road not far from the tower. I’ll take a peek and if I see the Barrow, I’ll head there. If not, I go back to Riverwood and gear up properly.

-------

It would be nice if I could go a few days without horrible monsters trying to kill me or ancient mysteries coming to light.

That’s not too much to ask, is it?

Right now I’ve set up my bedroll by a large gate somewhere hopefully at in the bottom of Bleak Falls Barrow. It’s a bit early for sleep, but this feels like as safe a place as any to pass the night, and it gives me time to write and relax. Besides, there’s a lit brazier here, and it’s actually sort of cozy. In it’s own way.

First off, I’ve found the golden dragon’s claw, but it’s really more like a foot. I mean, it has toes and everything. There are claws on the foot, but it’s clearly not just a claw. Nothing like I expected, but it doesn’t matter. Lucan can call it whatever he likes once I get paid.

Well, like I said before, I decided to take a look around the bend in the road, and the Barrow was right there! There were three bandits outside, but they gave me some trouble because I was just too cold to do much.

Is it too morbid of me to say that I briefly considered burning the bodies to warm myself up? Does that make me mad? Or is that just how a person’s mind goes when they’re desperate?

I wanted to explore more out there, but as I said, I was freezing. I could barely open the door, I was shaking so hard.

Inside, I first saw a bunch of dead skeevers surrounding two dead bandits, and then I noticed a campfire! There were live two bandits at the fire, a man and a woman. They were arguing about an elf who I assumed hired them. He’d gone ahead of them and she was worried that she wouldn’t get her share of the pay.

I want to say that I normally fight fair, but let’s face it: I don’t. I’ll cheat and use every advantage I have. I was still shivering, so I poisoned my bow and hoped for the best. I managed to kill them, but not before they got a few good hits in.

I warmed up, then looted everything I could find and stored what I didn’t want to carry in a chest that probably used to belong to the bandits. I’ll come back for the goods later.

There was a stairway going down into the Barrow, so down I went. Yes, I looted urns, but it’s not like they’re using it. There were a lot of skeevers, embalming tools and scraps of linen for wrapping bodies, too. I don’t know why that surprised me. It is a barrow, after all.

What did surprise me was the poison dart trap. I was creeping down the stairs towards an open chamber when I saw a bandit in the room ahead. He pulled a lever on the floor in front of a portcullis that blocked the way ahead. I heard the darts go off, and he died almost instantly.

I mean, it makes sense that the high-status people would be buried deeper underground with lots of treasure, so I shouldn’t be surprised at the traps, but still… They’re still active after who knows how many centuries?!

Are all ancient Nord barrows are like this?

In the room with the portcullis, there were two massive stone faces on the wall, with another one fallen onto the floor. Each one had an animal symbol in its mouth. There were three spinning columns to my left, each side decorated with a different animal.

It was clearly a lock, and those heads had the key in their mouths.

Here’s one of the heads, and the symbols from the columns:

How witless was that guy? A child could have figured that out. And why have such a horrible trap when the solution is so obvious? A well-made lock and a solid door would do a better job, I think.

I spun the columns to match the animals in the mouths of the stone faces - Snake, Snake, Whale – and pulled the lever.

I admit I was still ready to jump out of the way of any poison darts. The gate opened, and I went through. There was another lever that closed the portcullis behind me. I found a handy book titled “Thief” in the next room, along with a few other things.

Other than a few skeevers, it was pretty quiet until I got to an area covered in cobwebs. As I was burning my way through them, I heard a man yelling for help. I stepped into a large chamber (cave?) that was covered in cobwebs, like that place under Helgen, and the biggest spider I’ve ever seen in my life dropped down from the ceiling.

That thing was easily bigger than a draft horse, and I ran back the way I’d came. The room had two archways leading into it, both smaller than the spider. There was no way it could fit through to get me, and one of the archways was conveniently covered in a lattice of thick roots that I could throw fire through!

It took a while, and I did get poisoned a bit, but I eventually wore it down to where I could finish it off with my axe. I glimpsed the yelling man once or twice. He was at the far end of the chamber, trapped in webs and screaming himself hoarse. It was distracting, to say the least.

The man, a Dunmer, said his name was Arvel the Swift, and that he knew the secret of the claw and how it “worked”. He said he’d show me if I cut him down. I was tempted to kill him and then just take the claw, but I cut him down.

I would say that I should have killed him, but it didn’t make much difference in the end. Like I thought, he jeered at me and bolted deeper into the Barrow as soon as he was free. I followed him, and upon rounding a corner I heard a creaking, crashing sound, then a familiar scream.

Silence did not follow. There were shuffling footsteps and this barking, cough (?) like air in an old bellows. I peeked around the corner, and saw a dead warrior with glowing blue eyes walking around Arvel’s body, carrying a drawn sword. The room it was in had open niches cut into the walls, and most of them held bodies. Some were just bones, and some were wrapped. Most were bare, but there were a few with armor and weapons.

The undead warrior hadn’t noticed me, so I shot it.

Now, I’ve heard of the dead rising, but I’ve never seen it before. I used to believe, like everyone I’ve ever talked to about it, that the dead can only rise while under the control of another person. They’re zombies, and they can’t think or make decisions. They just do as they’re told, like evil puppets.

As soon as my bow made a sound, the armored dead woke up and got out of their little alcoves like they were getting out of bed.

By the Eight, I actually felt my blood run cold. I always thought that was just an expression.

I managed to kill them, I think. Will they get back up later on? Were they truly dead to begin with? They were pretty rotten, so I’m sure they were people who died, but how are they still guarding their tombs? It was only those with weapons, so maybe that’s just… How they were? Are their souls just sleeping and waiting to be called to fight? Is it just their Will left behind in their bones? Am I going to find some powerful Necromancer on the other side of this door tomorrow?

I shouldn’t be thinking about that so soon before bed. I’ll give myself nightmares!

So – Arvel. Once I “killed” the zombies, I went over to his body. He was in a heap near a large, spiked gate, not far from a VERY suspicious-looking carved stone in the floor. Clearly another trap.

He was fast, but not too swift.

He had the claw, and a journal. His journal said that the claw wasn’t just a decoration, like Lucan had thought. It was a key, and that I needed to find the “Hall of Stories” to use it. I looked over the “claw” and saw a bear, a moth, and an owl on the bottom of the foot.

Here’s the “Golden Dragon Claw” and the markings on the bottom.

See what I mean? It’s not a Claw, it’s a Foot. Yes, Golden Dragon Claw sounds very mystical and exciting, like that “Hall of Stories” in Arvel’s journal, but it’s still a foot.

These markings look like the ones on the spinning column locks from before. There’s probably another set of those and more poison darts up ahead. At least whoever made the lock for this key had the good sense to not put the key in carvings almost as tall as I am.

Now, I could have turned around right then and there, gone back down the mountain, and returned the foot to Lucan and gotten my reward, but Arvel’s journal made me curious.

Well, that and the idea of more loot. Hopefully I’ll find some behind whatever door this foot unlocks.

Which brings me to here. Not much to tell other than fighting more zombies. Some of them did use magic, though. I had no idea anything undead that wasn’t a vampire or a lich could use magic! Is there something in the water here in Skyrim?!

I also found a trap between rooms that was less of a trap and more… A barrier? There was a short hallway that had three blades on pendulums in it, swinging at even intervals. They weren’t triggered by anything that I could see. I heard them moving before I got to them, and they weren’t going that fast. It was kind of easy to step through and avoid them.

Is it really a trap? It wasn’t hard to get through, so maybe it’s just there to scare people off?

There was a pull chain beside the door once I got through, and it stopped the blades.

If the undead down here can fight and use magic. I’m sure they can use a door or a chain like this. It won’t stop them. This is to keep out people like me.

What’s down here? What am I going to find tomorrow?

[farceargon]

I just realized the snake statues in the church of Eiglay have wings and clawed feet.

This feels significant somehow (whoops I hijacked my own tags).

Either way fantastic choice in decoration they look like if you smooshed an eagle and a snake together. Would have one in my room.

[helicoprinus]

i wish vacationing to another flight didn't come with a 1500g price tag. i'm partially considering switching flights but i don't want to go through the whole deal only to find out i don't like the new one and want to go back but have to wait 6 months And scrounge up *1500* gems on top

(tags of this post veer into a personal vent about my first time being a sheet attendant, just a head's up)

[writing-prompt-s]

You are a blacksmith, renowned not for your weapons, but for your armor and shields. One day, the King and his Royal Guards step foot into your workshop. He hands you a bag full of golden coins and gives you only one command. "Make me a shield that not a Dragon's claws nor breath could pierce."

[teaboot]

OH FUCK YALL THOUGHT I WAS *ARMED GUARD*????

BRUHHHHHHHH

I'm the lowest level licensed security you can hire

I work foot patrol for shit like wet cement, construction sites, malls, libraries, outreach centers, and local events

My job is, essentially, human scarecrow

I am not permitted to carry a gun.

I am not permitted to carry a taser.

I am not permitted to carry pepper spray.

I am not permitted to carry a baton

I am not permitted to carry a knife or any multitool containing a knife

I don't have a plate vest

I'm not permitted to make any physical contact outside of administering first aid or in self defense, which must be made in minimal force required to ensure personal safety

I escort employees to make bank deposits, ask aggressive or violent people to leave, and take notes on safety hazards in patrolled areas

If someone bleeds, throws up, or takes a dump somewhere they shouldn't, it's between me and the custodian to make sure nobody slips in it bay bee

It is none of my business if someone is doing drugs. If they aren't an active danger to themselves or others then they're golden

ADDITIONAL INFORMATION

If you're selling drugs in clear view I will ask that you please do that elsewhere, ideally with more discretion. End of interaction

If you are using drugs in clear view I will tell you *exactly* where the property ends so you can smoke your bong 3 feet outside of that line where I can't do shit if someone complains. End of interaction

Site Security is not police. It is not LPO. Someone could point you out as you run off the site and say "I saw him shove a microwave down his pants and walk out" and it would be approximately none of my business.

THINGS THAT ARE MY BUSINESS

Overdose in the bathroom. I will verbally check twice that you are conscious, and if I get no response I will warn that I am coming in to check on you. If I find you on the ground I will again try to speak to you, warn that I am touching your shoulder, and give you a jiggle. If I can't wake you up I roll you into recovery and wait for paramedics.

Threatening or harassing staff. You cannot make passes at the highschooler operating the pretzel stand. You cannot tell the bank teller you'll "track him down eventually". The lady at the nail salon said she didn't want to marry you six times now and now I'm your problem

Abuse, endangerment, or neglect. If you leave your baby on the sidewalk so you can shop by yourself then I will be the jerk who ruins your day. If you hit your kid I will become very much your problem. If you locked your dog in the car with the windows rolled up six hours ago and it isn't getting up when I tap the window I'm gonna be the biggest pain in the ass you'll see all day

Safety hazards. Don't shoot off a bottle rocket in the parking lot. Yes it's very cool and you probably won't hit anything important but there's a pretty big empty lot like six blocks away man, what if you nail a kid or something. If you wanna take your bearded dragon to the food court, keep him in your coat or in a carrier. Climb the telephone pole on Tuesday because thats my day off

Client complaints/concerns. Boss says you've been here living in your car for three days and it's time to move on. You and I know it's been a month but between us if you switch locations every couple days around the lot she won't catch you again till at least May. As long as you don't leave a bunch of trash laying out we're good.

END NOTES

If you have tattoos on your face, throat, or hands and you wanna pull something you gotta be so incredibly discrete, is so incredibly easy for Law Enforcement to track you down you have no idea. I know like 3 guys with face tattoos in town, one of them's been my buddy since highschool and the other 2 were introduced to me like "watch out for a guy with a star on his cheek, his name is Patrick Sturblish, he's 43 years old and I saw him pocket a redbull once".

Always assume someone is operating the cameras live.

The courts are so insanely overwhelmed all the time, if you nab something small and vital like bandages, tampons, underwear, whatever and don't have a long list of priors usually even a cop won't bother trying to charge you. If I can't tell you not to steal for the consequences then at least don't get cocky about it

In my own experience if you walk into a big store and straight up tell someone "I don't want to steal but I need this very badly" then usually someone will find a way to get it to you

If someone tells me you're stealing on camera I will let you know that someone caught you and it's your last chance to put stuff back before they do something

If you pull a weapon on me or someone else while I'm working then I'm required to inform police so please don't do that thank you

[violet-eng]

F!reader spoils Lil Dragon!Zhongli... at first | Fluff🧸 (with dragon)+ 🔞 (with human Zhongli)

🎨by: @nagarnia_art and @JeanGreyCG

Summary: You're doing some research in the woods, looking for certain minerals, when you feel some tiny tiny eyes staring at you. After Zhongli morpps from a dragon to a human, things get a bit... hot...

Tw: with human Zhongli smut 🔞, PIV. Insinuations of breeding season, with dragon Zhongli just some cute Dragon behavior bc I ended up traumatized after writing some angst.

•┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈••✦ ● ✦••┈┈┈┈┈┈���┈┈•

Your research is going well. Your reports to the Fontaine Science Institute were successful during your last expedition, earning you praise from your superiors. You have been living in Liyue for over six months. After learning about minerals that can emanate energy, you sought out information to educate yourself on the subject. 

The rocks in Liyue seem to have a memory, possibly due to the work of their Archon or as a natural result of high evolution and energetic vestiges from ancient wars. 

Zhongli, the Parlor consultant, had told you about a spot at the foot of a valley that might interest you, and you were amazed. You had no reason to doubt the man's wisdom. You had formed a deep bond of friendship with him because you admire his extensive knowledge about everything. You set off almost immediately. He had offered to accompany you, but you had refused because you prefer to do your research alone, surrounded by nature and away from the attractive distraction that Zhongli could become.

Your friend is attractive, in a way that you tried to express in your letters to your friends at Fontaine, but never succeeded. Your banal words and names do not do justice to the physique of this man of unshakable character, steely sense, and tenacious gaze. You could not bear to make a mistake in his presence during the expedition, not because you were clumsy, but because his figure moved your senses, your ground, and betrayed your own perceptions.

So, as you walk through a pleasant area of foliage, covered by the fierce, scorching rays of the sun, you decide to let your guard down, to take off your jacket and your gloves. You use a ribbon to tie up your hair as you walk on, arriving at the place Zhongli had shown you beforehand. The passage is strangely comfortable, very suitable for a quiet investigation, full of strange figures of small rocks of irregular and curious shapes.

Under the canopy of large trees, you spread out your arsenal of tools on the grass, put on your protective visors, and get to work. Sequencing the rock profile takes little time, your agile skills allowing you to avoid unnecessary pauses or clumsy backtracking typical of an amateur. Then you take the samples, tiny particles that do not alter the correct and productive nature that King Geo has protected for years, and while you wait for the filtering to finish, a strange sensation runs down your spine.

You had let your guard down during your experiment, letting the peaceful appearance of the place convince you, something very unprofessional on your part. So you turn to the side and feel a presence. Among the bushes, you spot a pair of curious little spheres, and you jump as the leaves rustle in the presence of an unknown being. 

A deep relief washes over you as the creature in question appears on the scene. A small dragon, microscopic in physiognomy compared to adult forms, with curious eyes and a golden tail twisted into a spiral. Its little paws make furrows in the ground, its face dejected, as if it had been caught doing something illegal.

"Little one, have you been watching me all this time?" You ask the cute little creature, who hides his head between his front paws, realizing he can't do it with his tail, which isn't long enough.

"Come here, don't be afraid of me," you whisper, approaching it cautiously, holding out your hands.

The dragon gathers itself in its own anatomy, growling low, sounding almost like a common cat, you can't help but laugh at it. You bring your fingers up to the growling pellet and stroke its head, right between its underdeveloped horns. You notice a puff of breath coming from the little guy's nose.

"How cute, you liked that, didn't you?" you laugh as you stroke his head and then his back, causing the miniature dragon's tail to wag.

"Come, sit with me, we'll have to wait a long time until the filtering is finished," you take him in your hands, on your palms.

"Wow... I've never seen one of your species so small... and those scales," you comment, bringing your face close to the reptile's, "I'd swear you have very, very soft skin, you're very rare, uh," you add, while you turn to your tools, which emit a strange smell.

You leave the dragon on the ground and approach your machinery, no, nothing out of place... well, now you can turn your attention to the little guy who... what is he doing?

You notice the tiny creature rubbing against your foot, making strange squeaks. It's... it's mating with your shoe? You burst out laughing and shake your foot, pushing it away and picking it up again.

"You horny little bugger," you say, poking him in the nose, "I forgot that your species is in mating season. I regret to inform you that you will get nowhere with me, I am not of the same species... ours is impossible."

A sad sigh escapes from the little animal's chest, and you notice how its whole face becomes depressed, its horns and ears seem to droop in deep disappointment.

"Don't cry," you say, putting it on the ground in the grass and lying down in front of it, "we can play if you want, to distract you a little”.

That got his attention, because he looked at you again. He walks up to you with his little paws and puts one on your nose, he starts to sniff you with that little button in the middle of his little face.

"Ohhh... do you want a little kiss?" you ask, flooded with tenderness, "I would do anything to make you happy" you say, placing a tender kiss on the dragon's forehead. Is like a puppy...

The dragon retraces his steps, accelerating and rolling his head in madness. You see him writhing in place, as if he had suddenly fallen ill, and then... poof... a golden flash and a trail of smoke,  ike the one he had just exhaled through his nose. A faint wave of heat and a faint smell of sulfur as a figure began to form behind the column of smoke.

You straightened up in your seat as the column disintegrated, revealing the very embarrassed image of Zhongli, covering his mouth as he coughs, with traces of smoke and golden flames escaping from his throat.

He is wearing little clothing, a tunic of the same color as the skin of the dragon you spoke to earlier... is that perhaps...? 

"You," you point an accusing finger at Zhongli, and he looks at you with flushed cheeks, "what was that? Aren't you going to say anything about it?" you say to the man, appearing to be annoyed, although in reality, seeing him in that outfit has aroused something pleasurable in you.

"Well?" you insist.

"Are you going to give me that kiss or?" he interjects, his voice still weak and embarrassed.

His embarrassment fades for the next hour, during which he relentlessly thrusts himself into you, waiting for your boring explorer machine to end.

The filtering of the rocks continues, the particles falling into the vessel like sand in a crystal clock. The small machines emit tiny clicks and a faint plume of smoke and gas. The rumble of the cycle's drumbeat advances in rhythm with your moans as you feel Zhongli sink deep into you.

You lie on the grass, your pants and panties around your ankles, your hands on your head clinging to the foliage, your waist encircled by Zhongli's large hands holding you steady so he can work his way into your pussy. You feel his pelvic bone against your center, his balls against your skin, and then he pulls away to enter again. Gently, lovingly, afraid to break you and hurt you. He's painfully slow, but how good it feels.

You hear him make low, rasping noises as faint plumes of smoke rise from his nose, as when he looked like a dragon. His cock twists inside you, slapping against your cervix, massaging your wet, warm depths that mold to the shape of his member. You feel the warmth rush down your legs, an electric current coursing through every fiber of your limbs, your chest heaving in desperation.

The orgasm hits you both at the same time, decorating Zhongli's cock with a white ring as his cum spills into you like thick ropes from his ecstasy. He pulls back your panties and pants, leaving a chaste kiss on your cheek.

"May I mark you?" he asks with a look of honor, his face sublime and devoted.

"Don't even think about it," you say, joining in, noticing the sadness in his eyes, "we weren't even supposed to do it. It was just supposed to be a kiss and that's it," you seem to scold him, though it's you who's scolding yourself for being so unseemly and impetuous, though damn... you've enjoyed it so much... ....

Sensing your hostile tone, Zhongli wraps himself up and immediately transforms into his small reptilian form.

"Please stop being so dramatic," you express, leaning against one of the tree trunks and letting out a laugh. "Come back... I don't want to wait alone," you say, crossing your legs and putting your jacket down.

Zhongli, the dragon, approaches you with short steps, due to the length of his small legs, and climbs onto your lap, where he rubs the fabric of your coat, nestling into the fabric to take refuge, and lets out a yawn before closing his eyes and settling down for a nap. You stroke his back and coo to the little creature, feeling him purr like a cat.

"How cute you are when you sleep," you laugh, stroking his nose, causing him to bite your finger, "did you just mark me without my permission?" You ask, but he just squeals and jumps off your lap, looking for a way to escape. You catch him with your coat and throw it at him like a fleeing rat, but he manages to escape and hide in the bushes... you don't see him again for the rest of the afternoon, but you know that when you return to Liyue Harbour you will demand an apology, an explanation... and maybe a round two.

[whereserpentswalk]

Reblog to let the demon come to you. Like to enlarge their power.

[shaisuki]

📌 day four: body worship + taiju shiba

for a man who can easily destroy someone with his fist, he sure is tender with you. treating you like you were a fragile glass. easy to break, cracking under the pressure of a touch.

taiju can be everything but he doesn't fit in the definition of gentle and befitting the synonyms of soft. he's rough, brutal, a sadist. who relishes in the cries of his opponents, laughs at someone's demise and no ounce of mercy to his enemies. took a hundred of beatings still he wasn't one on the floor bleeding as they cling for their life. you saw how violent he can be and how dangerous he is and if he allows it, he can hurt you in many way but taiju was never the reputation he upholds when it comes to you.

the room's dim but it was enough to see each other in his spacious bedroom. sitting in the foot of his king-sized bed, wearing a sheer silk night gown. the length stopping at the middle of your thighs and the man who claims to be your lover towers over your form. silent and calm unlike to his usual expression that is ready to snap at any moment and to crush the bones of whoever provoked him.

he leans down to cup your face. not doing anything but to admire the soft features of your face. the innocence is plastered on them and he slowly kneels in front of you. his hulking figure still dwarfing over you despite being in the half of his height.

the former leader of the black dragon is kneeling in front of you. it was like a sinner and you were the saint he's confessing his sins to. praying for forgiveness and was ready to do whatever you want just to bestow the forgiveness he longs for and you were baffled. taiju had never shown you this side of his despite the multiple intimacies you both shared. he was dominating. controlling whatever he set in motion and you will only be molded as he wants.

“taiju?” you call out to him. confused at what he was doing. you were nervous about it. the swirls of his tribal tattoos are a delight to see in his skin. everything's huge about him. hus muscles bulging at whatever place it was meant to be. he didn't respond to the call of his name. the low rumble akin to a growl coming to his throat is all you received.

a woman like you should be worshipped. it took him many tries and blamed it on to his blindness of the truth. took him a long time to fully see what really you are in his eyes and he was on the brink of insanity how he have ignored you for long and as an act of repentance for the sin he committed. he will adore you, rever in your presence and he'll reach the heaven with you.

he knelt before you. cradling your foot in his hands. raising it for him to kiss it. his lips brushing to your toes. he slowly ascents to where your calf is. his nose brushing on the skin and leaving featherlight kisses. his rough palms grabbing the flesh in your calf before putting your foot on the ground again. your breath hitched when he looks at you lwith those golden yellow eyes of his. his gaze leaving yours to resume kissing all the place untouched by his lips.

you were slowly losing yourself when you feel him nibble the skin inside your thighs. his palms splayed to the surface of your outer thighs and it made you giggle a bit. the size of his huge hands isn't enough to cover the expanse of your thighs doubling in size at the placement.

the small lingering touches was enough to drive you crazy but to taiju, it wasn't enough. he needs to feel every inch of you. show that every part of your body is loved. despite the callousness in his hands from years of brawling, he knows the every bump of your body. the scars and the stretch marks decorating your thighs like it was lighting streaks. he made sure they are kissed, properly worshipped. it belongs to you and when taiju decided that he loves you, loving you wasn't enough. he needs to breath in the air as same as you and if you decide to betray him like what delilah did to samson, he'll ask you to do it again. the difference you weren't delilah and he wasn't samson. if you can't love him, what's the point of his life.

the strange feeling and yet, familiar slowly engulfs him. the coldness of your skin warm against him. he hears every breath you take from his ministrations and the low curse coming from your sweet mouth. he slowly lifts up your nightgown. revealing your soft, fat pussy glistening in wetness of your own slick.

his large hand grabs the underside of your thighs and lifts it up, placing your soft legs in his shoulders. the skin in your thighs are smooth. he just rubs his cheek to feel them before taking a lick until his tongue slowly inches towards your glistening cunt. slow, deliberate licks are what his tongue are capable of, he can do better than this but he only wanted to take it slow this time. feel the softness and the taste in his tongue. warm and saccharine sweet it is and he stops. it's only a taste and he can do more of it later.

he must be god's favorite child. the divine one have given him you and despite all the things that he had done — he was blessed with you and taiju was more than happy to please you with whatever your heart desires. spoils you to the highest of heavens that there's always a smile on your face.

the bed dips with the added weight of his body. hovering above you was taiju. the blue and white strands of his hair dangles above you. his stare intense while looking at his wife beneath him. he could lose his self forever to you before that he needs to feel you. worship you with his lips that you will know tonight and for the rest of the days that he's only devoted to you and only you.

the straps of your night gown is flimsy similar to a thread to his large hands as he slid them down from your shoulder to your arms. slipping it off below your body until your upper body is exposed to him and taiju known for his appetite, licks his lips in delight. he leans down to meet the soft skin of yours begging to be licked and touched by him. leave them with his hickeys and bruises. a reminder that it belongs to him. a lifetime of devotion a man can give to someone but to taiju, a night of devotion to you is worth a lifetime. and he had loved you for many lifetimes that could exist.

taiju leans down. the tip of his nose brushing to the pulse in your neck. descending down to your collarbones covered by your supple skin and then his lips dragging between your breast and stopping until he reaches your round stomach.

the flesh around the areas flat when you're laying in your back but in the slightest movement it moves. it ripples and it jiggles and you feel hot under the gaze of your husband. he had shown you many times how much he loves the part that you sometimes deemed as ugly but it was his favorite and you let him do whatever he wants with it.

the flesh spills in his thick fingers when he grabs them and taiju revered on it. he makes sure to love this part of your body the same he loves. so he makes love to it. his tongue's hot. leaving hot trail marks, he sucks on the parts where your stretch marks is prominent. kissing the scars on them and he didn't stop until he was contented.

the weight of your body is he welcomed a long time ago. you were only a mere centimeters taller than him in this position. his lap as your seat. eye leveled with your chest and this is the only time you can look down on him. his hand rubbing circles on your plush stomach and other is on your back.

“fucking divine.” he speaks and you've gone bashful when he compliments you. there is nothing more beautiful to taiju with your expression. he kisses you on your jaw and groaning when you tug on his hair. “make love to me, tai.” you murmur. kissing his cheeks and he melts at it. a man's weakness is his wife.

grinding on his erection, soaking it with your juices and he curses cause you're asking so sweetly for him and what kind of man he is if he couldn't give what you want and with the guidance of his hands, you finally sank to his cock. he slowly moves his hips. kissing your arms and then, then.... he couldn't think no more. being plagued by his thoughts of you and this sensation that he's connected to you.

he wants it to be like this every night and day and he'd worship you again and again until his last breath.

[queenofheartlessdreams]

Scorned Sympathy ( Aegon II Targaryen x Reader)

Fandom: House of the Dragon, Aegon II Targaryen x Fem! Hightower! Reader

Summary: Alicent Hightower's sister has always hated the King, and transversely, he has hated her back. But, that all changes after he returns from Rook's Rest.

Word Count: 3.1k

Warnings: none? I think, I don't know, its HOTD but mostly hurt/comfort and fluff

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They say that burns are a sacred death. The death of  dragon riders, honoring them among the living, and the dead. In his history lessons, Aegon had heard it was peaceful. Yes, there was supposed to be a screaming,  agonizing pain, but as flesh burned away, it took nerve endings with it, leaving them to feel nothing, numb. 

But Aegon hadn't been so lucky, he had only wished he had died back on the battlefield, died on impact of the flames. Then he wouldn't have had to suffer through spiraling to the ground, snapping his bones, or feel his armor being peeled away after it had merged with his flesh. He wouldn't have had to sleep nearly every hour of the day, waking up only to experience excruciating pain, relearning to walk when every step made him cry out in agony. 

The once comforting walls of his bedroom had turned into a torture chamber as he was forced to his feet by the Maesters, only to hobble around the confinements of those walls, good hand gripping the cane with enough force to drive splinters in his hands and cause his knuckles to turn white.

He cried out as the Maester pushed him into another step, holding him upright as best he could. Larys Strong stood in the patch of sunlight in the room, giving him an angelic halo, ironic as it was his devilish idea to make Aegon start walking so soon, only weeks after he had returned to the Red Keep.  

"Impressive," the club-footed man says, heads turning in his direction, "But I'm afraid you must work harder."

Aegon screams as Larys reaches around his other arm, cries of pain sounding like twisted laughter as together, they move him another step. Burned tissue stretched as they did, a blinding pain seeping through his barely-healed broken leg. 

The men pause in their persistence as the large bedroom doors swing open, silver-draped guards pushing them back to reveal the figure of Y/N, the youngest Hightower daughter. Her frame was draped in a long black gown, tied around her center with a golden chain that stopped several inches above the hem of her skirts. Long copper hair draped down her back, just as her eldest sister, yet that was where the similarities stopped. 

While Alicent was looked up to, a regal Queen of the realm, her sister had all but denounced her high-blood status, working in the streets as a herbalist, giving medicine to the poor, healing wounds, and delivering children. It wasn't until Viserys had died that Alicent welcomed her into the castle, for her protection, she had explained, though no man nor woman would dare to touch the 'witch'.

"Return the King to his bed, my Lords," the woman says, striding into the room, hands folded neatly in front of her gown. 

"The King must regain his strength, my Lady, he must practice," Lord Larys calls over his shoulder, dismissing her command.

Y/N smiles curtly at his defiance, "How would you like to disfigure your other foot, Lord Layrs?"

The man stops, struggling out from underneath the King's arm, "The King-"

"The King is too busy moaning in agony to give a shit about what you think," the woman interrupts, a boldness frowned upon in the castle, "Return him to bed, and leave us. I'm sure there are whispers to attend to."

Reluctantly, the Maester carries Aegon to his bed, allowing him to fall back onto the sanction of his covers. The Maester moves to lift the King's legs, despite his protests, earning a painful cry as they hit his sheets.

Vhisrya watches as the King rolls to his untainted side, arms curled up against his chest in defeat, body trembling as whimpers escape his scarred lips. The Maester exits quickly, Lord Larys slowly following, glaring at her with every step. It is only when she hears the large doors latch shut behind the men that she makes her way over to the King's bedside. He resembled a small child more than a man, curled around himself in loosely fitted clothes, eyes squeezed shut as his body shook.

He takes a ragged breath as he senses her presence beside him, eyes opening just the slightest to glare at the black-clothed woman, "Come to finish me off, witch?"

The witch makes no remark against him, only motioning for the boy to sit upright in the bed. He does so, grunting in pain, bracing himself on his good arm as he slides up to prop his back against the headboard. 

Y/N makes note of his trembling hands, the way he still insisted on putting up a bitter front despite not being able to move even a foot without collapsing in pain. It reminded her of his father. 

Regardless, she reaches for the buttons of his nightgown, pulling them apart hastily till his chest was exposed. Blistering red wounds stretched across the expanse of his left side, charred and black in some places, while in others, the skin had been cut away in jagged marks from separating melted armor from the King's flesh. 

"What-what are you doing?" Aegon trembles, fear lacing his voice. 

The woman's eyes move from his chest, to his face. He watched as they drifted from his swollen eyelid, to the top of his head, where silvery-blonde hair parted from vibrant burns, to where his ear once was, reduced now to a small lump that opened into his eardrum. He knew it was hideous, he wouldn't lie to himself, trying to persuade his own mind that he was still the beautiful boy the kingdom worshiped. He knew that if he healed, he couldn't even be seen in a pleasure house, not even the whores wanting to be fucked by a monster such as himself.

"Your grace?"

A soft voice draws him out of his own mind, one that was nearly unrecognizable coming from the woman beside him, "I have an ointment, one that should assist in healing your burns. But, I require you to remove your sleeves."

"Can't", Aegon grunts, talking becoming an exhaustion.

"I can assist you," the woman cooes, dragging the soiled fabric down his good arm first.

Aegon whimpers as her hand moves to his burned side, gently peeling the fabric from his neck, then down his shoulder, drawing near his bicep. He could feel the fabric stick to his skin, the pus that leaked from his wounds drying, attaching itself to the coarse fabric.

"I'm going to lift your arm," the woman says, earning a series of pleading "no"'s as she does.

The prince groans in pain, feeling the blistering skin stretch, muscle burning as she peeled the fabric away from his body, letting it pool around his waist.

Y/N could see the King's murderous gaze as she finished, pulling his arm back immediately, heavy breaths filling his chest, followed by shaking exhales. 

She makes haste, placing a mortar on the nearby table, filling it with oils and herbs, grinding it till the scent fills the room, overwhelmed by lavender. The King watches as she pulls a small vial from the pocket of her dress, opening it to reveal a nearly clear, thick liquid.

"What is that?" the King asks, the filth of his mind overpowering common sense.

Y/N looks back to the burned man, unaware he was watching her, "It's dragon saliva. Something in it prevents the dragons from being burned when they breathe fire, and proves itself to assist the healing process quicker than the Maester's brew alone. It only took me so long to bring it to you as your brother won't let me near his dragon, Sunfyre has not returned from Rook's Rest, and Helaena won't speak to me as she thinks I had something to do with your son's beheading."

Her last words come out as an aggravated shout, making the boy flinch. With a deep breath, she regains herself, carrying the mortar to his bedside, black dress fanning out on the sheets beside him, "I apologize, your Grace. You all think of me as some plague here to ruin the sanction of your home, yet Alicent refuses to let me leave the castle walls."

It was strange, hearing his mother's name be used so plainly, everyone else referred to her as the Queen, even Aemond and him referred to her as  "your Grace". 

Aegon clears this throat as the woman begins to spread the paste across his chest. It burned at first, but not to the level of the Maester's concoction. Perhaps dragon saliva was the key.

"She believes you would flee to Rhaenyra, aid her conquest for the crown," he grunts, intently gazing at the greenish mixture spread across his skin.

"And she is right," Y/N states plainly, "Rhaenyra is the rightful heir to the Iron Throne, and you have usurped her crown."

"I could have your head for that," Aegon jokes, a faint smile, one of the first since he had returned, spreading across his lips. 

The woman smiles back, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as she continues to coat his torso, " I could have already had yours."

"Why haven't you, then?"

The hand that holds the brush hesitates, as Y/N searches for an answer. In all honesty, she has had many opportunities to kill the man, yet the thought never truly crossed her mind. She takes a deep breath before continuing her strokes, "You may be a monster- the sins you have committed are so terrible that you'd burst into flames if you ever set foot in the Sept. But, I know you did not choose to be King, just as I did not choose to waste away in this castle. I do not wish to punish you for something you cannot control, you have suffered enough."

Aegon says nothing, only faint whimpers coming from his lips. His breathing stilled as the woman traced a line of ointment across his face, delicately placing it across the edge where untouched skin met charred flesh. His body jolts as she accidentally brushes over an open wound on his cheekbone, where his helmet had melted, merging itself with his flesh. Despite how careful the Maester had been when removing it, deep gashes still marred his face. 

The King yelps in pain, eyes shut as the oils burn their way through his open wound, sending a new wave of intense pain across his face. His body curls against itself, a position he found himself in more and more often these days. But rather than digging the nails of his good hand into the palm of his fist, he found a softer, more delicate hand in his , softly stroking the back of his hand with her thumb, "I'm sorry."

Aegon whimpers, the comfort of her touch calming the scarred boy. It was rare that he obtained touches like these, not even from his mother, despite how much she claimed she loved him. No, she was more focused on being Queen than being a mother.  His wife was the same way, more fascinated with her bugs than her husband, only laying with him when they were forced to produce an heir, before returning to her own quarters in solitude. He would watch Helaena with their own children, interacting with them, holding them, reading to them, only wishing that his mother had done the same. 

So Aegon welcomes the warmth of the witch, clutching her hand with the intention to never let go until his scars had healed and he could hold his head with as much dignity as a true king. "Tell me a story," Aegon whispers, distracting himself from the pain that stretched across his body with every breath.

Y/N smirks, placing the mortar between her legs so she could continue placing the ointment with his hand still clutching her own. 

"Once upon a time, there was a beautiful Princess, who was locked away in a tower guarded by a fierce dragon. Her parents, the King and Queen, missed her dearly, and declared that any knight who were to rescue her from the dragon's keep, would marry the lovely Princess.

Not far from the kingdom lived a beast, alone. He was happy that way, till a power-hungry Lord wished to take the beast's land for himself. Upset, the beast made a deal with the Lord, in exchange for his land, the beast would rescue the Princess from her dragon's keep, so the Lord may marry her. True to his word, the beast saved the girl, yet as they traveled back to the Lord's castle, the beast found himself falling in love with the Princess."

Beside her, Aegon's breath slows, muscles relaxing against her grip, yet his violet eyes stay fixated on the woman. He listens to her intently, soft voice ringing through the silent room, as airy as wind blowing his curtains in the night. 

"One night," Y/N continues, brushing the ointment across his scarred forearm, "The beast sought to confront the Princess, yet when he came to her cabin, he heard vile words coming from her mouth, ones solely describing such a monster as the beast. Furious, he gave her to the Lord, returning to his swamp alone. Yet, he couldn't forget the Princess, as even if she despised him, he loved her. So, he returned to the Lord's castle the night of the wedding.

As the sun fell that night, the beast watched as the beloved Princess transformed before his eyes, to a beast herself. Cursed by a witch many years before, the Princess turned ugly, monstrous, every night, the curse only to be broken by true love's kiss.

Together, the beast and the Princess slayed the Lord, and wed that night. Yet, when she kissed the beast, her appearance remained disfigured. The Princess then realized, that love's truest form was not based in beauty, but in happiness. She returned to the swamp with her beloved beast, and the two lived happily ever after."

Vhisrya finished her story with a smile, placing the brush back in the mortar. She looks down at the King, whose eyes were shut. For a moment, she thinks he has fallen asleep, but Aegon grunts, indicating he is still conscious, "Was there a moral to that story?"

He had only thought of the question after listening to one of Jaehaerys's lessons, one of the few times he was sober while the sun was still high in the sky. It made him feel like a child himself, curled along his tutor's side as she read him tales of past Kings.

The woman beside him rolls her eyes, placing her hand atop his own, "The moral is that even though someone may appear hideous, it does not make them a beast."

A deep flush overtakes Aegon's body, understanding her words. Still, he purses his swollen lips, "What if one's insides are as hideous- as hideous as their outsides?"

"Then that is truly a monster," Y/N replies, watching as the boy's face turns to a scowl.

A few moments of silence pass before the woman lets out a heavy sigh, "The beast was known for killing villagers set foot near his swamp, yet after he rescued his bride, he never killed again. He changed, Aegon, and you can too."

A chill is sent up Aegon's spine when she says his name. Like the rest of his court, she only addressed him "your Grace", and even when she did refer to him indirectly as "King Aegon", spite laced her words, bitter as poison. In every sober moment he had believed that she had hated him, yet her presence and aid in his time of need dismissed the notion from his mind entirely. 

Not even his mother had looked at him for this long, or made conversation so kind. Aegon had seen her, several times, hovering behind the Maester's as they tended to his wounds, yet she never dared to approach him, so close to his gnarled flesh. He couldn't blame her, he knew it was hideous, and the Queen's stomach was not meant to see such obscenities. 

In all honestly, neither should Y/N, but her previous line of work made her accustomed to such sights. The King swallows thickly, pain stretching up the left side of his neck, causing him to let out a small whimper. 

He feels the woman's hand stroke through his matted hair, hair that hasn't been brushed, or even washed in days. It shamed him, that he was incapable of keeping up his own appearance, needing the hands of servants to take the place of his own in combing his hair, washing him, dressing him, feeding him. 

"Will you stay with me tonight?" he whispers, discarding the last bit of dignity he held.

Y/N looked to the boy below her. There was a vulnerability in his eyes that she had never seen before, a glisten of sadness, despair, hopelessness. "Of course."

Aegon grunts as the weight shifts on the bed as she lays beside him, on his good side, not wanting to damage him in his slumber. The tormented King watches as she discards her jewelry on the furthest bedside table before fluffing a pillow to join him in the bed. Her long hair splays across the pillow as she grasps his hand, leaving several inches between the two of them. 

"Come closer," Aegon pleads, pulling gently on her hand, as much as his muscles would allow without excruciating pain.

"I don't want to harm you," Y/N says quickly, concerned etched in her features. 

"You won't" Aegon replies, sinking into the warmth of her body pressed against his own.

His body aches from his burns, the ointment only soothing his pain so much. It was nights like this, when Aegon couldn't sleep, when his body caused him so much trouble that he trembled and moaned until the morning sun rose. But as he curled against the woman, his pain began to subdue. He knew it wasn't literal, that her presence made his hurt go away, but he wished to believe it that simple, that she was his cure.

Y/N listened to his wheezing breaths slow as she held him, hand tight in her own. She felt the King's nose bury itself against the nape of her neck, a small grunt escaping his lips. She could feel his  chest rise and fall against her own as the King falls into a dreamless slumber. 

Darkness fills the room as the final candle burns low, the witch finally closing her eyes for her own rest, holding the broken, tortured boy in her arms, keeping him safe through the night. 

[eggtargaryenii]

EAST OF THE SUN | PART II

You were a disgrace to House Targaryen, the product of an impulsive wedding between a lost prince and some Essosi whore. You had little social capital within the Red Keep and few prospects for marriage, but that was alright. You were perfectly happy to stay out of the game of thrones, wed some politically relevant lord of Alicent Hightower’s choosing, and die in peaceful obscurity. Unfortunately for you, Prince Aemond had other designs for your future.

11.1k words, aemond x fem!reader x jacaerys. childhood friends to lovers (except it's cousins), political drama. chapter warnings for targaryen incest and themes of xenophobia/racism and misogyny. see part I for full story details. dividers from @/cafekitsune.

V. STRENGTH

Jacaerys was a child when he found out that he was a bastard and his mother was a whore.

Bastard. Whore. Even before he understood those words, he knew that he was different, somehow. That he was not enough. The lords and the ladies in the Red Keep always stared at him and Luke when they walked by, clinging to their mother’s skirts. They whispered whenever Ser Harwin Strong spent his afternoons with them in the training yard, putting wooden swords into their tiny little hands and teaching them how to swing. They covered their mouths to hide their laughter whenever his father, Ser Laenor Velaryon, took Jace out riding, steadying him on his pony. Pay them no mind, Jace, his father always said. They're only staring at you because you will someday be king.

So Jace closed his ears and focused only on Mother, Father, Ser Harwin, and Luke.

But the older he got, the harder it was to ignore the whispers. Bastard. Mongrel. Son of a whore. A wonder that his dragon egg even hatched. I've never seen any Velaryon who looked like that. He don't look like no Targaryen prince, methinks. Look at that hair. Look at those eyes. He can only be a bastard.

He can only be a Strong.

It wasn't all bad in his family, at least. Queen Alicent always looked at him with contempt, but his grandsire kept her from saying anything. Sometimes his uncle Aegon would bully him about it, but then he would leave Jace alone whenever he was teasing Aemond instead, so all Jace had to do was join him in making fun of the scrawny boy. And whenever Aegon and Aemond teamed up to point out Jace’s bastardy, you would stop both of them. You would gently scold Aemond and that would make him quiet, but with Aegon you would throw things instead. (Oops, you said once, after dropping the Seven-Pointed Star on Aegon’s foot. Sorry, my hand slipped. I'm afraid that book burns my heathen fingers.)

You always defended Jace like that.

Jace’s mother was a whore, and he later learned that yours was too. Maybe that's why you were so nice to Jace, even though the lords and ladies of the Red Keep scorned you worse than they ever did him. To Jace’s wonder though, you never seemed bothered by it.

It doesn't matter who our parents are, Jacaerys, you told him once. We’ve got dragons. We’re Targaryens. So long as we play our cards right, no one can ever touch us.

But what if my blood isn't enough? he would mumble. What if Vermax doesn't let me claim him? What if I cannot fly? He did not have silver hair and pale eyes, the features of a Valyrian king. Perhaps his bastardy and Andal blood made him less of a Targaryen. Could a mongrel tame a dragon? Could a bastard sit the throne?

Could a Strong ever take to the skies?

You smiled at him whenever he asked. You can do all of those things, Jace. I promise. I can't help you with most of them—but at the very least, I can help you learn to fly.

So he found himself on your dragon, seated behind you, his hands tight around your waist. I've never seen Wildfyre so happy to have someone ride him, you laughed. Not even me!

The dragon clicked and grumbled and turned his head to look at Jace, golden eyes approving. Then Wildfyre’s great wings started flapping, his roar thundering through the skies, and suddenly Jace found himself rising higher and higher, the muscles of the great creature rippling beneath him. King’s Landing was getting further away, shrinking; the clouds were getting closer, and Jace felt a chill as the cold damp of them soaked into his clothes. A freezing wind whipped through his hair, felt like ice to his bones, but he screamed and screamed with laughter, heart dancing as he clung to you.

Once you'd steered Wildfyre through the clouds, drifting into the warm twilight, you turned back and threw him a smile.

See? you yelled. Only a Targaryen could be so fearless on dragonback!

Fearless, you called him. He clung to this word: Fearless. I must be fearless. I must not fear my duty. I must not fear the succession. I must not fear the court.

In truth, though, Jace was afraid. He was afraid of being a bastard and he was afraid of losing the Throne, of ruining his mother’s claim. But you were so good at dispelling it all. You were so good at making him brave.

So when his family was sent to Dragonstone indefinitely, he nearly wanted to throw up—because it meant he could no longer see you. He sought you out soon after the decision was made, nearly running through all of Driftmark’s grounds before going to the Queen’s rooms, where he knew you would be.

He found you by Aemond’s bedside, talking to the injured child as he slept. Your fingers threaded through his silver hair; you whispered Valyrian into his ears, soothing and pretty and soft. Jace wished he could understand it, but his mother never spoke it around them. Ser Harwin, being an Andal, only knew the Common Tongue, and so that was the language that Jacaerys had inherited instead the language spoken by kings.

Jace begged to you in his lowly, mongrel tongue, ugly and stiff unlike the melody of Valyrian: “Come with us, please. I know you'll like Dragonstone. No one will stare at us there, no one will whisper. You'll be happier for it.”

He was not surprised when you said no. There was no way you would ever leave Aemond, but he asked anyway, again and again.

“I can't do this alone,” he kept saying. “I need your help. I don't know how to be strong like you. How to be fire and blood.”

You smiled at him. Stepped away from Aemond’s bedside, then took his hands in yours.

“You need not worry, Jace. Your mother will guide you.” Your fingers were so gentle on his. “You will grow into a fine prince, an heir befitting the Iron Throne. And when you do, you can come back to the Red Keep—and you can take me to Dragonstone then.”

Jace tried very hard not to cry. Ser Harwin had made a promise like this before he left his mother—that he would reunite with Jace someday, that he would stay by his side then. But he had never come back, had been taken by the fire at Harrenhal, and then Jace found himself mourning a man whom he was not allowed to grieve—because Jace was not allowed to be a bastard, and so Ser Harwin was not allowed to be his true father.

But he did grieve. He hated losing Ser Harwin, and he could not bear the thought of losing you too.

“You’re not lying?” Jace asked. “You're telling truth?”

He knew it was a childish thing to ask, but you seemed not to mind. You only threw your head back, laughed. “Yes, I'm telling truth! It is my dream to get away from the Red Keep someday, Jace.” You looked at him, almost amused. “I’m counting on you to save me from the Hightowers, my prince.”

And Jace could not help but think, as you departed for King’s Landing and he for Dragonstone, how much he longed to do that. How badly he wanted to take you away from the place that called you both the children of sin, from the people that called him a bastard and you a whore. He wished he could have sworn it as an oath, for then you would know how seriously he would take it.

I will become a fine prince someday, he vowed privately, watching your ship grow smaller and smaller, then finally as it was swallowed by the mist. I will become an heir befitting the throne. I am a Targaryen, made of fire and blood. I am a Targaryen, no matter who my father was.

He woke up everyday and repeated those words like a mantra. Tried not to think about the possibility of failure—tried not to wonder if the lords and ladies of the Realm would revolt should he ever sit upon the throne. If the throne itself would reject a bastard, its edges cutting into his mongrel flesh. It was a solace that he heard you every time he questioned himself: It doesn't matter who our parents are, Jace. Only a Targaryen could be so fearless in the sky. You have a dragon. You have a dragon. You have a dragon.

He had a dragon.

“I have you, Vermax,” he would murmur to the creature in his clumsy Valyrian, and Vermax would rumble at him, reassuring.

The years passed. You exchanged letters with Jace, kept in touch, but the distance felt like a yawning cavern between you still. The older he got, the less certain he became that you ever thought about him the way he thought about you. After all, he was a child when you left; you were nearly a woman grown. Thinking back on it, you had obviously treated him like a child too, holding his hands and trying to soothe his fears with empty words.

Grow up, Jace, he told himself, every time he received a raven and found your letter shorter than the last. Forget about it.

And he did, for a while. He focused on his studies, his swordplay, his duty to the Realm. Several name days passed, and suddenly he was a man grown. His mother was speaking to him of potential betrothals, of Starks and Tyrells and the noble daughters of other great houses. His stepfather was telling him to see the whores in Spicetown since he refused to disgrace any of the servants, and their silks and perfumes were dizzyingly fragrant as he bedded them. The serving maids of Dragonstone and all the distinguished ladies who visited laughed and smiled pretty around him, fawning over his status—for even if he was a mongrel bastard, he was still a Crown Prince.

Jace found himself utterly disinterested in all of it.

Curiously, in some of those moments, he would suddenly think about your letters—shorter and shorter, fewer and far between, but coming still. Hello, cousin. How fare your studies? I find myself the object of whispers once more; what an exciting life people think I must lead. Last month I was leading Ser Criston astray and making him break his oath of celibacy; this month I am carrying Prince Aemond’s child. I wonder whom I will seduce with my temptress ways next month. Perhaps it will be Septa Falyse, or the High Septon himself!

Jace could hear your laughter in your words: carefree, lighthearted, just as you always were when it came to your reputation. But it left a bitter taste in his mouth, thinking of all those rumours, of all those people speaking ill of you. Of knowing he could not return the favour of defending you as you once did him, now that the sea separated the two of you.

The whispers, though, were not something a Crown Prince should be worrying about, and you were not someone an Heir should be thinking about.

Grow up, Jace, he kept telling himself. Forget about it. Forget about it. Forget about it.

But when the day came that he finally had to return to the Red Keep—he could no longer forget.

As he boarded a ship to King’s Landing for the first time in years, he found himself remembering the words you once spoke to him when he was a child—the ones he clung to for years. They felt so fitting now that he’d learned of the Hightowers’ designs for you, of what the Hand intended to do.

You will be a fine prince someday, you'd said. Take me to Dragonstone then. Save me from the Hightowers, my prince. 

He would see you again, Jace thought. And if you so much as breathed the word, he would do everything that you asked of him all those years ago: steal you away from the Red Keep, protect you from the petty court that so often mistreated you, give you immunity from the family that spurned you both. Because now that he was a proper prince—a Targaryen, black hair be damned—that was something he could do.

He could save you from the Hightowers.

VI. JUDGEMENT, REVERSED

The coming of Princess Rhaenyra and her party was met without announcement, nor fanfare.

Were it not for Jacaerys’ letter to you, you would not have even known that they were going to be in King’s Landing. The tourney was coming up soon—less than a fortnight now—but their presence had nothing to do with it. Supposedly, Prince Daemon had some urgent business to discuss with the King and the rest of House Targaryen. Even Princess Rhaenys had joined them. What would be important enough for the Lady of Driftmark to leave her home was a mystery to you.

Until such matters made themselves clear, however, you would not worry over them. You were only thinking of meeting Jacaerys again. Although you'd received many messages from your first cousin over the years (his preferred raven now knew you well enough to squawk your name), letters were simply not the same as seeing one in person.

And of course it was impossible to see Jace in person. Queen Alicent became oddly bitter every time you requested leave to visit Dragonstone, and Wildfyre was always mysteriously chained up after such conversations. Aemond, as well, despised his half-siblings too much to meet with them during any of your visits to Spicetown, and he never let you go there yourself either.

You are a young woman, and it would be unsafe for you to venture out alone, Aemond always said. If you must go to Spicetown, I will accompany you and guard you from any… unsavoury characters that you may meet.

You had the sense that he was referring more to his nephews than any bandits or rapers, for it seemed not enough to him for guards from Dragonstone to be sent to accompany you.

You looked forward to seeing Jace again, unfettered by neither Aemond nor the Queen. You wondered what the awkward and insecure little prince was like nowadays, what sort of person he'd become. But as you had not heard any word of Rhaenyra’s arrival, you did not go to receive him at the gates—so you spent the day like you would any other. You broke your fast alone, neglected your needlework, neglected your prayers, and resentfully studied household stewardship. You loitered in the throne room, watching the Hand and the Queen settle various petitions. Today, it was mostly smallfolk worried about the price of food, a couple of petty land disputes between minor houses, and an interesting request from House Tyrell to legitimise a bastard—some knight who had served in the Dornish Marches. For some reason, Ser Criston kept looking at him with disdain.

Then, as a reward to yourself for your hard labour, you went down to the training yard in the late afternoon.

Your favourite pastime was watching Aemond practise his swordplay in the afternoons. You used to go for moral support, to encourage him whenever he was beaten—which he always was, because of his previously short and scrawny stature—but now it was always to encourage him whenever he clobbered his opponents, for he always did.

Ser Criston used to scold you for your attendance, saying that a young lady should busy herself with other activities. “You should be studying the Seven-Pointed Star right now, my lady,” he once said, probably at the behest of the Queen. “The violence of the training ground is not something that a woman should be witnessing so often in any case. Bloodshed is usually upsetting for the fairer sex.”

“I know not what you are talking about, Ser Criston,” you replied. You clapped Aemond’s shoulder then—drawing murmurs from onlookers, because hand-to-shoulder contact between cousins was scandalous if you were the one initiating it—and added, “there is nothing more important to me than witnessing Prince Aemond’s improvement on the battleground.”

Ser Criston gave you both questioning looks. “And why would it be so important to you, my lady?”

“Well,” you replied cheerfully, “Aemond and I have an agreement that if ever I am charged with murder, I will prove my innocence via trial by combat and he would be my champion.”

Ser Cole gave you an incredulous look. “Do you plan to commit murder, my lady?”

“No, Ser. It is merely a contingency in case someone should frame me for it. You never know what might happen with all the plotting and scheming in this Realm.”

You were actually speaking truth here: you and Aemond did come to this agreement soon after Prince Daemon Targaryen was taken to trial for the murder of his first wife, which he won by combat. You then went into an anxious spiral about what you should do if you hated your future husband and he was stupid enough to fall off a horse and die like Rhea Royce. Who would save you from a similar accusation?

Aemond immediately volunteered himself, perhaps too eagerly.

“You need not worry about me, Ser Cole,” you said upon seeing his perturbed face. “I wouldn't actually ever commit murder myself. You would know, since Aemond would prove my innocence.”

Aemond’s lip curled. “She would never be found guilty of any crime in the Realm with me as her champion,” he affirmed. “I think it is fair that the lady should be allowed to watch the sword representing her, is it not?”

Ser Criston could hardly deny a royal prince, so he merely sighed and picked up his morning star. “Whatever my prince wishes,” he relented. “Come—let’s give your lady a show.”

The knight had not since protested your presence on the training grounds. Ser Criston hardly even glanced at you today as you approached, weaving through the sparse crowd of knights, squires, and spectators while he and Aemond began their warmups. You were searching for a spot that would serve as the best view of their match, and it was pure accident that your gaze happened to land on an unfamiliar form among the hustle and bustle.

It was not the clothes that struck you—for they were plain, a nondescript black cloak over an equally dark tunic—but his face. Dark curls framing finely carved, fair features. An aquiline nose, a pair of delicate lips curled into an interested smile as he spoke to some companion you could not see. He looked like a Northman, possibly a Stark or an exceptionally beautiful Blackwood. You wondered if he was one of your potential suitors.

Naturally, you had to go introduce yourself. Purely to show your hospitality as a lady of House Targaryen, of course.

“Excuse me,” you said, in the clearest and prettiest voice you could manage. “Pardon me for the interruption, Ser, but I don't believe we’ve ever met.”

The stranger turned to you, his expression quizzical, but reflecting pleasant surprise. As soon as he laid eyes on you, his brows lifted—and a brief silence passed as you took in each other’s appearances.

You were only certain once you saw the three-headed dragon brooch on his cloak.

“Cousin?” the two of you asked simultaneously.

“Seven hells, Jace, I didn't recognise you at all!” you blurted out. You then glanced at his companion for the first time. Sure enough, it was his little brother—still young, but certainly not the small child you remember. “Luke! Gods, you've grown up too! I had no idea you’d arrived!”

Jacaerys made an irritated expression that was comically familiar despite his comically unfamiliar face. “The reception to our arrival was… subdued. Not etiquette to the standard that I would have expected of the Red Keep.”

“Ah. A folly of the Queen, I'm sure.” You smiled at them both. “Forget about her. I'll give you a proper welcome after this match—take you around the old haunts and whatnot. Wildfyre will want to say hi, too.”

“Match?” Jacaerys asked, but he was quickly answered by the violent clang of steel against steel.

Jace’s noble countenance dissipated as he moved into the crowd, beckoning Luke to follow. An excited grin spread across his face as he watched the two figures sparring furiously—as if he were again a child, spectating as Ser Harwin or the other knights of the Kingsguard fought with one another. Ser Criston and Prince Aemond were in another league altogether, of course—perhaps not in skill, but in savagery. They moved viciously and lethally, not bothering to hold back. The swing of Criston's morning star carried brutal weight, but Aemond was himself a lithe weapon, his body honed for the sole purpose of killing. You were unsurprised when his blade ended up pressed against Ser Criston’s throat.

“You'll be sure to win the tourney next week, my Prince,” said Ser Criston, but Aemond did not smile.

“I don't give a shit about tourneys,” he said, and you had to hold back a snort. Perhaps not when he was younger, but he absolutely did give a shit about tourneys nowadays. Not the pageantry or the petty social trappings, of course—but the reputation. Prince Aemond would be loath to seem craven or weak before the knights of the realm, and so he had no choice but to sign up for every tourney in King's Landing and crush every opponent he met.

Your amusement wore off when you noticed Jace and Luke beside you—how tense they'd gotten, how Luke was inching behind Jace. You could not blame them. Aemond had never forgiven Luke for taking his eye, no matter how many times you counselled him to lay it aside lest his rage drive him to madness. It chilled you how he spoke of Lucerys when reminded of it.

Even now, you discerned a subtle anger in Aemond’s body—tightly controlled, but there nevertheless—as he approached.

“Nephews,” he said, “have you come to train?”

Not even a greeting, you thought. Well, he does take after his mother in some ways.

“I'm afraid we’re only here to visit today,” Jace said, and you were surprised at the clean but sharp edge to his words. You did not know he could sound so much like a prince. “We must first attend to urgent matters before we’ll have any time for leisure.”

“I wasn't aware that the Crown Prince would consider swordplay a leisurely activity,” Aemond remarked. “Those princes who are truly of fire and blood, at the very least, do not.”

Fucking hell. Not even two minutes and the bastardy talk had already started. There was fury in Jacaerys’ eyes, and you stepped in before Aemond could fuel it.

“Jacaerys must be one of the few men of fire and blood who are also capable of diplomacy,” you said dryly, “as I know you are, Aemond, when you wish it.”

Aemond gave you a careful look, seeming more amused than anything else. “I wish it when my lady does.”

You smiled, placated. “I always like diplomacy. Hospitality, too. I'll be showing Jacaerys and Lucerys around before our family meets tonight—you are free to join if you wish.”

From the way the two brothers tensed, it was obvious that Aemond was absolutely not free to join. Your cousin had the grace to decline: “Thank you for the invitation, my lady, but I will give you the space to host them. You are better suited for it than me.” He glanced at Jacaerys, and said, “Do make sure you return her to me before it gets too late. I would worry about my cousin if she were out after curfew.”

Jace gave him a look that was as curious as yours.

“You need not worry. You know I would not let any harm come to our cousin.”

Aemond hummed, giving you a meaningful glance that you completely did not understand. “I’ll look for you at dinner.”

“I’ll be… sure to find you?” you replied with uncertainty, still reeling from his words. Return her to me. Aemond left before you could ask him his intent behind the phrase—because he always spoke with intent.

Jacaerys, himself, also seemed confused. “I didn't know my uncle was courting you,” he said, and you gave him a startled, bug-eyed look.

“He isn't,” you said quickly. “Queen Alicent would sooner die than let me besmirch the reputation and honour of her son.”

The elder prince frowned. “He was certainly acting like it, getting all possessive.”

“I suppose Aemond never liked it whenever we spent time with you,” Lucerys observed, looking somewhat anxious.

“He didn’t,” you now remembered. “Don't feel too bad, Luke. He was always like that even before he lost his eye to you.” Aemond loved to monopolise your time as a child and grew sullen whenever someone else had your attention—as if you were being wrongfully taken away from him and would never be returned. Sometimes you felt like a toy being fought over, tearing at the seams. “I guess he never grew out of it.”

“Childish of him,” Jace observed, watching his uncle’s back as he readied himself for another match. “Makes me inclined to take up all of your time tonight.”

You snorted. “That’s childish of you, too. Come on, let's go—at least catch up with me before you and your uncle maim each other.”

“I wouldn't do that to him,” Jace protested.

“I know. It was only a jest,” you reassured him. But an uneasy pit grew in your stomach as you thought of the way Aemond carried himself just now—how none of that lethal violence left his body as he approached his nephews.

It struck you then that you weren't so sure if the reverse was true.

VI. THE SUN

When you were alone with Jacaerys, his presence felt oddly familiar.

It was unusual, given that the prince was so different now. He had grown, and you had expected things to be strange and stiff between the two of you, but the conversation came easily once Luke departed. Jace’s laugh was the same as you remembered. His smile was the same. He rode on dragonback with you, his arms firm around your waist and his front pressed tightly against your back, and—

—that didn't feel the same, actually. You tried not to think about how he felt against you, how he had obviously grown lean and hard with muscle. It made your stomach flutter in a way that felt suspiciously similar to your reaction to first seeing Cregan Stark at court. You concentrated on the memory of the awkward, insecure boy with whom you had grown up, whom you could have never fathomed attraction to. Jace was the heir to the throne—you absolutely could not consider him desirable.

Also, if your stomach kept twisting like that, you would surely steer your dragon wrong and make all three of you crash.

Wildfyre, at least, did not see him any differently; he allowed Jace to ride him without complaint, and once you all landed outside the Kingswood, he kept clicking and prodding at your cousin with his massive snout, making the prince chuckle.

“I think he missed me,” he said.

“I’m not surprised. You were his favourite.” You glared at your dragon. “Traitor,” you groused in Valyrian, and Wildfyre snorted in response. You sighed. “Look at that attitude!”

“I think he's quite lovely,” Jacaerys said, voice smug. Wildfire crooned, as if in agreement, and snaked his long neck around Jace’s back, rubbing against him like a cat. You gave them both a dirty look.

“Sometimes I think you claimed him behind my back,” you complained, even though you could feel the bond between yourself and Wildfyre, warm and alive like a shared heartbeat. It had been present since the day you were born, as if it had formed while you were still in the womb. Still, there was a period of time before your official claim where Wildfyre adored Jace so much that you were convinced he would abandon you.

“You know that's not true. He's like a puppy around you.” Jace patted Wildfyre’s snout fondly, and the great old lizard chuffed like a dog. You saw the resemblance. “Vermax hatched in my cradle and he’s not nearly so affectionate with me.”

“Vermax is a sweetheart.”

“To you.” The corner of Jacaerys’ mouth lifted. “Remember how he nearly roasted Aegon the one time? And he never let Aemond near him, either.”

“Dragons are influenced by the feelings of their riders,” you pointed out dryly. “Vermax only detested them because you did.”

“Perhaps.” Jace scratched Wildfyre, fingers scraping against glimmering, emerald scales. The spoiled creature rumbled in a way that nearly sounded like a purr. “Are you saying that you’re as fond of me as Wildfyre is, then?”

Your mouth opened, then closed. You were glad that the two of you were alone and outside of the city. If anyone overheard you, or glimpsed your reaction, your reputation would have just been shattered forever. Worse yet, Jacaerys’ amused smile looked terribly handsome to you at that moment. You could not help but think, Well, I wouldn’t mind being pet by you either.

“I suppose your company is tolerable,” you said lamely.

Jace, of course, was not at all fooled. He turned to Wildfyre and said, in what you guessed was meant to be the Valyrian language, “We both know better, don't we?”

Wildfyre clicked in agreement, but your own reaction was not nearly so kind.

“My god, Jace,” you said, wincing. “Was that supposed to be Valyrian?”

He grimaced. “Was it that bad?”

“Terrible. What on earth is your mother teaching you? She's so fluent.”

“She never spoke Valyrian around us when we were children,” he explained, “so I never picked it up. Mostly, I learn from the maesters.”

“The maesters?” you repeated, appalled. You slipped into your native tongue, the timbre indignant: “No wonder you speak so poorly. You can't learn properly from maesters. You need to learn from someone who lives and breathes in the language!”

“There aren't many people in Westeros who do,” Jace replied in the Common Tongue. The two of you began to volley: Jacaerys in the language of Westeros, and you in the language of the old Freehold.

“Move back to the Red Keep. I'll teach you.”

“You’ve tried already. You were a poor tutor, remember?”

“You were a poor student.”

“That doesn’t change your own abilities. Could you even explain any basic grammar to me right now?”

“...you don't need to know grammar to talk.”

“No, but you need it to learn.”

“If I talk at you enough, you’ll pick it up eventually.” You gave him a mournful look, then tested his ear for your mother tongue: “However you do it, you should make more of an effort, Jace. You are a Targaryen, and a dragonlord besides. Valyrian is the language of your forefathers. How can you not know it?”

Jacaerys went quiet. “You know I have always tried,” he said, “to live up to my heritage as best as I can. I have neither Targaryen nor Velaryon features. People look at me and they see an Andal…”—he hesitated—“that is, they see a Strong. I have to show them I am more than that.”

Guilt gnawed at you. “Then I'll help you,” you said gently, in the Common Tongue this time. “Though truthfully, neither the language you speak nor the colour of your hair changes your blood.”

“Only you and Mother have ever thought so.” He looked away. “Apparently people used to think that my dragon egg wouldn't even hatch.”

You put a hand on his shoulder. “Yet it did, and every unbonded dragon responds to you. Vermax and Wildfyre can both attest to your claim and heritage.” You gave him a reassuring look. “Anyway, cheer up. You have more talent at the language than Aegon, silver hair be damned. His Valyrian is shit awful.”

Jace laughed. “Is it really so bad?”

“You’ll see during the meeting tonight. Aemond and I will force some Valyrian out of him—look forward to it.”

His smile faded. “I need to talk to you about that. The meeting, I mean.”

You made a face. “You know I don't want to speak of politics right now, Jacaerys. I'd rather talk about literally anything else, in fact.”

“It would be unwise to do so.”

“I live every day trying to be wise in matters of the court. Please let me be unrepentantly a fool for once.”

Jace gave you a sorry look. “Could I spend the rest of the day in leisure with you, I would. But it would be a disservice to you not to tell you, cousin. It is why I asked for time alone with you in the first place.”

“You wound me, Jace. I thought you asked it for you missed me.”

“Cousin.”

��Alright, alright. Let’s hear it.”

He breathed deeply. “There will be an announcement, one that involves you. In truth, the Hand said to keep the matter quiet until we could meet as a group, but I didn't think it was right, and neither did my mother. The Hightowers are trying to hide from you what Prince Daemon discovered.”

You gave him a curious look.

“What did he discover, then?”

VII. DEATH

The world felt so distant.

The Targaryens were seated around the Small Council table. King Viserys was absent, his mind addled with milk of poppy, so the Hand sat in his seat while his daughter stood at his side. As if in interrogation, you were at the other end of the table—the object of everyone’s scrutiny—clad in a neutral blue.

It was a powerplay. Jacaerys had predicted that the Hightowers would do it, and he tried to help you prepare. You had planned together what you should say, but the Stranger had stolen your words, your focus, your wits. Otto Hightower spoke and his voice sounded far away, as if your ears were stuffed with cotton. Your heavy breath and pounding heartbeat drowned out all other noise, thrumming alongside your bond with Wildfyre. It was singing with a pain to match your own, for the feelings of a dragon are always influenced by their rider—and he, too, had loved your father.

Otto kept speaking. You did not know why he was even here, really, nor Queen Alicent. Princess Rhaenys sat to your left without Lord Corlys, because this was a Targaryen matter—a grief shared only by those of fire and blood. The Hightowers were outsiders.

“...we must allow ourselves time to grieve your father,” the Hand said, “but the matter of his inheritance should be quickly settled.”

“What?” you asked, voice faint. This is what Jace said would happen, you thought. I should not be surprised.

But here you were—speechless, stupid.

The Princesses Rhaenys and Rhaenyra bristled. Prince Daemon, who sat on your right, openly scoffed. Helaena looked down, and even Aegon had the grace to keep his eyes on the table. He was feckless, a lecher, and he always quarrelled with you—but he was not cruel. He was not cut from the same cloth as his grandsire.

Even he disapproved.

Jacaerys was next to you, standing tall like a sentinel. Aemond watched from across the room, near his mother, in a shade of green so dull that it was nearly black—but green nevertheless.

Why was he not beside you instead?

“Please,” you managed to say, voice quiet. “I would like to hear the news from Prince Daemon himself.”

“As you should. This was not news that should have been delivered by a Hightower.” The Rogue Prince did not bother to hide his derision. “I was treating with the lords in Pentos, and they brought to my attention news of your father’s ship—the one that disappeared when he sailed for Lys. It came to light recently that pirates and sellswords accosted it. They sacked the ship, sank it. Then they took your father for ransom, but apparently he died not too long after from his wounds. Here is the proof.”

And sure enough, he laid before you what was unmistakably your father’s sword. It had been presented to him by the Lyseni while he was being hosted by the First Magister: a weapon from the former Valyrian colonies of Essos. Your mother had been by his side when he received it. In Westeros, she had been considered a common whore, but in Lys, she had been his beloved concubine—yes, a former bed slave, but respected nevertheless. She had thrived in the Lysene court.

You took the blade into your hands, unsheathed it halfway. It was pure Valyrian steel: ancient ore folded many times over, otherworldly hues rippling in daylight. Unlike the Valyrian swords kept by the Westerosi houses, this one had a name carved into it by a Qohori smith: Siglitanor. A word borrowed from Lysene Valyrian, a name chosen by your mother. The letters were as red as the Qartheen jewels encrusted into the guard, which was fashioned with Volantene elegance.

It was, through and through, a sword of Essosi antiquity.

For nearly ten years, you imagined that your father was somewhere in Lys, carrying this sword and speaking its language every morning, every night. Avy jorrāelan. Avy raqan. Ñuha ābrazȳrys. He would whisper these words into your mother’s ear in a courtyard somewhere, their plates filled with persimmons and mangoes and peace. He went to Lys and loved her too much to return. Yes, he abandoned you, but it was to take care of your mother, who deserved nothing less.

And now—now, this sunlit vision was turning to dust before you.

“Your Pentoshi friends—who told them this news?”

“Myrish sellswords who drank too much and bragged of their exploits. The Pentoshi thought I would like to know of their crimes against the Iron Throne and brought them before me. They're being held on Dragonstone now.” Daemon, for a moment, seemed reflective, and the sharp edge of his words softened slightly. “Your father was a skilled diplomat. It was his work that kept the Triarchy in line for so long. He died, and they soon after turned on us—and everyone else in the Narrow Sea. Pentos felt the loss of him as much as we did.”

“Yes, your father was quite the man,” the Hand agreed. “He was also skilled with his coin. He amassed great wealth in the Iron Bank, all profit from the Narrow Sea and the Free Cities. The Iron Bank was never forthcoming with information until now—they thought him alive and kept this from us—”

The coin is mine, Jacaerys coached you to say. It is my inheritance. I will go to Braavos myself and oversee the wealth. By the laws of the Realm, a daughter should inherit her father’s lands and wealth in the absence of a son.

“What happened to my mother?” you whispered instead, still staring at the sword. It shared its name with the mythical blade forged by Azor Ahai, tempered by the blood of his lover. Your mother had been a fervent follower of the Red Temple; when your father asked her to name the sword, she chose to honour her faith.

Would R’hllor really have let her die?

“Yes, your mother,” Lord Hightower said. “Your mother is gone, of course—the Iron Bank was willing to make the assumption after seeing the sword and the prisoners. And as such, yours is the only name that they have listed in ownership of your father’s coin—”

“We may speak of the Iron Bank in a moment,” you said bluntly, interrupting him. “What happened to my mother?”

Queen Alicent breathed in deeply. She clearly meant to chide you for your tone, but Prince Daemon answered before she could, himself unbothered.

“The sellswords mentioned that a woman was present,” Prince Daemon relayed. “She was saved by one of the guards, and the two of them were never caught. The sellswords did not chase them for ransom—they thought her a common whore.”

Then a whore is not such a bad thing to be, you wanted to laugh. Though you had never thought so anyway, because if your mother was a whore, then surely a whore was something to be cherished and pampered. You had always imagined her in a beautiful manse across the sea, hanging on your father’s arm. The two of them were supposed to be laughing in the sun as they drank Myrish wine and wondered how you were doing. They were supposed to be making plans to return to King’s Landing someday, to see you when they received news of your betrothal. You wrote to them everyday when you were a child, asking them what sort of man who they'd like to see you marry. You sealed the letters and asked the sailors passing through Blackwater Bay to take them to your parents in Lys. I don’t know where they are, you admitted to the seamen, but it can't be hard to find a Targaryen prince. The sailors would agree, pat your head, and give you a persimmon or a mango or an orange. You did this day after day after day—because surely your mother would reply to your letters eventually.

Surely, your mother would never forget you.

“Is she alive?” you asked.

“Perhaps. Likely not. The Narrow Sea was a brutal place before I conquered it.”

“But if she survived, where would she have gone?”

“The ship was overtaken at Bloodstone, so likely Tyrosh.”

“Not King’s Landing?”

Daemon gave you a long look. “I will warn you against any wishful thinking, girl.”

It wasn't a wish, you wanted to say. It was a promise. Your mother loved you. She wept when she was forced to leave. Someday I'll come back, she said in Lysene Valyrian, kissing you on the brow. When your grandsire is long dead, I will return and see you again—R’hllor will assure it. And until then, He will protect you.

Your father was supposed to love your mother enough to stay with her. Your mother was supposed to love you enough to someday return. But now your father was a skeleton on Bloodstone, and your mother was lost at sea.

And you—you were all alone.

“I grieve for your loss, my lady,” the Hand said. “But we must turn to the matter of the Iron Bank. That coin was grown from the wealth of the Crown, and as such, it belongs to the Crown.”

“You really have no shame,” Daemon sneered, but the Hand did not flinch.

“The animals of the Reach are plagued with sickness this year. Food has risen in price, and the smallfolk are suffering. Time is of the essence. If the Crown could find the coin to alleviate their burden…”

“The Crown has its own coffers,” you said quietly. The Hand paused, as if surprised by your resistance.

“The coffers are not limitless.”

“The coffers should be managed well enough for hard years.” Your eyes burned hot, but they still met Otto Hightower with hard steel. “If the Master of Coin has misstepped in his stewardship of the Crown’s wealth, I see no reason why I should pay for it.”

“It would not be your wealth being paid. It is wealth belonging to the Iron Throne. Everything from the coin in Braavos to the sword in your hands—”

You could not help it: a laugh escaped you. “You mean to take even my father’s sword from me?”

“It is an heirloom belonging to House Targaryen, so it should be inherited by a man of House Targaryen. Dark Sister was passed to Prince Daemon and not to Princess Rhaenys, was it not? A lady has no use for a sword.”

“An heirloom?” You could not help it—you rose to your feet and held up the blade, and it shone true in the light of the sun. Helaena and Luke visibly recoiled at the bare steel, while Jace watched you carefully. “You think this is one of the swords brought over before the Doom? You think a Mormont or a Stokeworth would have a sword like this? Tell me, Lord Hand—can you read the name engraved here?”

“There is no need, my lady, for you to lose your temper—”

“It says Siglitanor. Do you know what it means? Can you even pronounce it?”

“The name has no bearing on its owner. You are fixating on irrelevant matters, my lady. I caution you not to be so irrational. The issue at hand is the inheritance of the sword, not its name.”

“The name bears relevance to the inheritance, Lord Hand,” you ground out. “It means Lightbringer, named after the sword wielded by the Lord of Light, R’hllor.” Alicent shifted visibly at the mention of your heathen god, her brow knotting, and pressure mounted in your throat, your heart. “No Westerosi heirloom bears the name of this sword, nor its craftsmanship—you may check with the maesters yourself. The sword was a gift bestowed upon my father by the Gonfalioniere of Lys. In his absence, it belongs to my mother, and in her absence, it belongs to me.” You laughed. “You wish to gut me of everything my father left to us, with no respect to our history or our rights.”

“Your father misunderstood your rights, as do you. He represented the Iron Throne in every excursion to the Free Cities, so all wealth and treasures he acquired should be returned to the Iron Throne. And let me remind you, young lady—when the law is misunderstood or transgressed, there are consequences for the criminal.”

You stared at him, incredulous—for while the Hightowers have never loved you, they have never openly threatened you.

The words hung heavy in the air, oppressive to all. Aegon was practically withering; Jace, tenser than you'd ever seen. Aemond appeared unbothered, his expression precise in its neutrality, and this cut deeper than any words from Otto Hightower ever could.

No one dared speak until the Queen cleared her throat.

“Father,” Alicent interjected, watching you carefully. “I do not think it wise to act rashly. The lady is our kin, and we should allow her some grace. Perhaps this is best solved through a formal petition. Let us give the girl a chance to grieve, then present her case to the Throne—if she will even want to make one afterward.”

“And who will oversee the petition?” you asked carefully, trying to control your voice.

Alicent delicately replied, “I will see to it that you are given a fair trial.”

“A difficult task,” you parried, “given that the Hand has overseen most petitions in the past half year while the King has been abed with illness.”

The Hand finally showed his displeasure, his tone severe when he said, “The Queen, in her grace, is offering you a means to avoid punishment for the theft of Crown wealth. It would do you well to show some gratitude.”

You tried desperately to suppress the strangled noise in your throat. Someone touched your shoulder. You glanced to your side; Jacaerys was looking at you, his dark eyes as calm as stone and earth, and you breathed deeply, the knot in your chest untangling some.

“Of course,” you finally replied. “Thank you, my Queen, for giving me the chance to defend myself from these accusations. I shall accept your proposal.”

Alicent nodded. “We find ourselves right now in grief and high passions as we mourn the loss of your father, but we will need time and prudence as we settle this dilemma he left.”

You nearly laughed. Grief is your excuse? you wanted to spit, for it was clear to you—and likely most people in the room—what was going on.

Only Prince Daemon had the nerve to voice it.

“Do you need time to settle this dilemma,” he asked, “or time to regroup? Clearly, you thought the girl would yield to your demands today while you blindsided her with grief. It appears you now need a new strategy.”

The Queen’s jaw ticked. “Good-brother, you misunderstand me. Inheritance law is complex and often at odds with compassion. It would be cruel to wrest away her father’s belongings from her”—Alicent glanced at your sword—“but at the same time, the laws of the Realm must be respected.”

“Fuck the law,” Prince Daemon snapped. “My idiot cousin got himself killed at sea and his sword was acquired by force. It belonged to the sellswords for years before I acquired it by way of gift. It now belongs to me”—you gave him a watery, furious look, but it soon dissipated, replaced by surprise—“and it is now my decision that it should belong to my cousin’s daughter.”

You stared at him, uncomprehending. Mollified. Daemon spoke then in Pentoshi Valyrian—not so different from Lysene Valyrian, but inscrutable to speakers of the Dead Valyrian taught in Westeros: “Viserys and I grew up alongside your father. We knew him well. He would have wanted Lightbringer to go to you—not these vultures.”

Daemon switched back into the Common Tongue as he took his leave, pale eyes cold on Otto Hightower.

“I will see you again during my niece’s petition, Lord Hand.”

VIII. KING OF CUPS, REVERSED

You did not go to dinner that night.

After the meeting in the Small Council room, you could not wait to get away from your family—Targaryens, Velaryons, Hightowers, and all. You kept yourself poised as you excused yourself, but you broke into a run as soon as you were out of sight, your father’s sword grasped tightly in your hand.

You knew it was a childish thing to do, to run away to Blackwater Bay and cry your eyes out. It was nearly as childish as the way you had just spiralled and crashed and burned in front of the Hightowers in that room, living up to every judgement placed upon you. A heathen who worshipped the wrong kind of god. A perpetual foreigner. The pathetic daughter of a lost whore and a dead prince—someone of such little social consequence that the Hand saw you as easy prey for your coin.

In the back of your mind, there was a growing list of things you meant to do to fix it all. You needed to ask Prince Daemon what rhetoric Otto Hightower was likely to bring up during the petition, for no one had politically jousted with that man more than he. You needed to steal all the ledgers of your father’s ventures in the Free Cities before Tyland Lannister could think of having them confiscated. Perhaps you should even appeal to Princess Rhaenyra for her aid, since her husband was going to be supporting your petition.

Most importantly, you had to think of how to maintain your standing with Queen Alicent while fighting for your inheritance. It would not do to win your petition now only to be met later with harm.

It was a long, intimidating list. You knew you should go back to the Red Keep and attend to it. But now the sun was getting low, a violent blood orange in a dimming sky, and you were still weeping bitterly on the rocky shore. You thought of all the passing ships you'd watched from this spot, all the persimmons and mangoes you cradled in your hands as you hoped your letters would reach your parents. Telling yourself that one day your father would return, and your mother not too long after.

You didn't even know why you were still in this fucking castle if your parents would never come back.

Prince Aegon found you like this: wailing into your arms, cussing out the Seven, cussing out the Iron Throne, cussing out Otto Hightower, shivering because the light was low and now you were getting cold.

“Hello, dear cousin,” he greeted, slurring. He made his way toward you, stumbling through the rising tide before stepping onto the rock you were seated upon. He reeked so badly of Arbor wine that you stopped crying just to wrinkle your nose.

“Gods,” you said, revolted, as he sat down beside you and threw an arm around your shoulders. The last thing you needed was his grimy hands on your ass, which seemed to be their favourite spot to rest. “Get away from me, Aegon. I'm in no mood to humour you today.”

Aegon was so drunk that he yielded instantly when you pushed him: he yelped and tumbled onto his side, landing in a puddle of seawater and weeds. You would feel bad for him if you, too, weren't covered in the stuff—the tide had grown high and now your feet were soaked in it.

“I came to comfort you, and this is how you thank me?” Aegon whined.

“Since when have I ever wanted your comfort?”

“Since you are now in need of it,” Aegon said. He pointed at you. “You are in a miserable state.”

“Thank you for your astute observation, my prince.”

“Don't be so cold. Let me console you. Or if you won't let me console you, at least join me in my cups”—he held out a wineskin, which you suspected was nearly empty anyway—“and we can toast your father.”

“Keep my father’s name out of your fucking mouth,” you spat. “Is this your way of taunting me, Aegon? Rubbing salt in the wound that your grandsire and mother just left?”

“Gods, no. You think I wanted any of that to happen? You were not the only person who ran away as soon as that meeting ended, cousin.” Aegon uprighted himself, his knees knocking against yours. You did not push him away this time. “My grandsire—he’s not a very kind man, is he? And as for Mother… well, you know how she is. You are not the first person to be on the receiving end of either of their… machinations.”

“Are you trying to console me? Because it feels more like I’m meant to be consoling you.”

“I would not be opposed if you did,” he wheedled.

“Well, I'm not going to. Go away, Aegon.” You squinted at him. “How did you even know where to find me?”

“My dear brother was worried about your absence at dinner, and only grew more fretful when the Strong bastards said they had not seen you either. He was nearly in tears, sniffling pretty like the Maiden, when he begged me to help him find you.”

Despite yourself, you guffawed at the image that Aegon had just conjured up.

“He said you'd either be feeling sorry for yourself in the dragonpit or you'd be feeling sorry for yourself by Blackwater Bay. I did not feel like wading through dragon dung, so I chose to look here while Aemond combs the tunnels.”

“Well, you've found me. Now you may go.”

“How am I to leave such a sorrowful, beautiful maiden alone?”

“Quite easily, actually. I may throw you into the sea if you don't.”

“No matter—I will swim back to you.”

“With the state you're in? Ser, you will drown, and I will be accused of murder.”

Aegon shrugged, opening his wineskin and taking a deep draught. “That's all well and fine. I'll be free then of the Red Keep, and you would walk away scot-free. You would not be found guilty—simply request a trial by combat, and my brother would be your champion. He will surely slay any foe who challenges you.”

You gave him a curious look. “Aemond told you of our private joke?”

“Err, no? I just think it’s quite obvious the man would kill for you.” Aegon gave you a confused look. “My brother makes jokes?”

“Yes,” you replied, but then you thought more about it. “No. It’s more like I make japes, and he smiles stiffly, and at times he humours me.”

“Ah, that sounds more like him.” Aegon took another swig of wine. “He’s always been a mirthless lad. I've no doubt you will be solely responsible for any joy in your union when it is formalised. Speaking of which, why has my mother not yet announced a wedding feast for the two of you? Surely she cannot mean to let you give birth to a bastard. She may not love you, but she would not disgrace you either.”

You put your face into your hands. “I cannot do this today, Aegon. Leave me. You may report back to your brother and let him know that I'm feeling sorry for myself out here.”

“No, my lady, I told you—I cannot simply leave.”

You gritted your teeth. “Why not?”

Aegon flailed wildly, wine swishing in his hand. “What if you walk into the sea while I'm gone? I would never recover from it. No, cousin, I will keep you safe until my brother emerges from the dung pit.”

“How chivalrous of you. I will not be drowning myself any time soon, though—I must first face your grandsire in that petition.” You quieted at the thought. Aegon’s buffoonery had distracted you for a fleeting moment, but now you were thinking once more of all the dread and the grief and the fury. “Seven hells. Give me that.”

Aegon smiled at you as you snatched the wineskin from him.

“See, my lady? There is nothing that a drink cannot fix.”

You snorted. “Will it fix this inheritance business for me?”

“I mean for it to fix mine.” Aegon began to pick the seaweed out from his breeches. “Perhaps if I drink myself blind often enough, my mother will disinherit me. Then Rhaenyra and her bastards can sit themselves on that blasted chair and I'll be able to live in peace.”

You were so wrung out that, for once, you could not find it in yourself to dance around the topic of high treason. “The Hightowers will never let you get away from the Iron Throne,” you said plainly. “They’ll never be secure unless you are suffering in that chair. Or your brother, if I should first drown you.”

“Please, cousin. Don't make me beg.”

A laugh escaped you despite yourself. Aegon did not bother to hold back his own amusement, giggling openly.

“You know,” Aegon said, after his chuckles died down, “it may not be an option for me, but you could do it.”

You raised a brow. “What? Throw myself into the sea?”

“No, no! No drowning on my watch!” Aegon threw a piece of seaweed at you in reprimand, which you dodged. “I mean to say—you can run. Fly away on dragonback. Go to Braavos and get all your coin. Exile yourself in Lys and spend the rest of your life in decadence. God knows”—he groaned, sounding wistful—“it is what I would do.”

You considered his words. You had always stayed here for your father, and for your lack of coin and supporters. But your father was now dead, and you had so much coin that you had no need for supporters. “I suppose I could.”

“You'd need to go now,” Aegon said. “I would not tell a soul. Not even my brother.”

“Why help me?” you asked him, suspicious. The two of you had never been all that friendly. Close, perhaps, in the way that non-stop quarrelling would make two siblings close—but not friendly.

Aegon shrugged, as if unsure himself.

“Perhaps the day will come when I will wish to go to Lys and enjoy all the beautiful women there, far from the throne,” he slurred, “and when I do, I shall call on my dearest cousin to host me.”

“Surely, brother, you would not disgrace your sister-wife like that,” a third voice interjected. You and Aegon nearly jumped, seawater splashing around your feet. When you turned around, you saw Aemond—smelling strongly of brimstone and smoke, but not dung, you were glad to notice. He did not seem nearly so happy, giving you a long, severe look. “You were not at dinner.”

It all came back, then—the green tunic, the place next to his mother, his unreadable expression as he watched your humiliation in that council room. The memory robbed you of all your mirth.

“My apologies, Prince Aemond,” you said bitterly. “I lost my appetite when I learned of my father’s death and your grandsire’s machinations to steal his wealth.”

Aemond did not reply immediately. Aegon loudly cleared his throat, then somehow got onto his feet. He swayed from the wine and stumbled in the darkness of nightfall, but managed to walk away nevertheless.

“Well, now that you have each other’s company,” he announced, “I shall take my leave. Take care not to let our cousin walk into the sea, brother. It would break my heart.”

“You tried to walk into the sea?” Aemond asked sharply, and you sighed, tired.

“No, Aemond. It was only a jape. A bad one.”

“Hm. My brother does have a poor sense of humour.”

Aemond offered you a hand, and you studied it warily. When you did not take it, he finally said, “I did not know what my mother and grandsire planned to do in that meeting. The news of your father’s death was as much of a surprise to me as it was to you.” A pause. “Though I would wager you had warning and counsel from the blacks.”

“Jace warned me because he cares about me. I did not receive help from Rhaenyra's faction—do you really think I would care to involve myself in petty spats over the throne?”

Aemond hummed. “I know my nephew has great love for you, but it was not him to whom I was referring.”

A blinding, hot flash of anger rendered you speechless for a moment—how dare Aemond drag succession politics into this? But the rage quickly passed, giving way to clarity. For it must have been a great sum that your father had in the Iron Bank, if Otto Hightower desired it. And if it was great enough for him to seek, then it was also great enough for Princess Rhaenyra to do the same.

Aemond watched as you pondered this, your eyes dropping to your soaking, seaweed-ridden feet.

“Fine. You're right. But why didn't you come to my side once you realised what was happening?” you asked quietly. “During that meeting, I mean.”

“It would not have helped you.”

Yes, it would have, you wanted to cry, I'd have felt better for it. But Aemond was too smart and too serious to entertain such childish notions: you knew he was speaking in purely strategic terms.

“No,” you admitted, “but it would not have hurt, either.”

“Alicent cares greatly about the appearance of unity among our family. Were I to break it, she would cease to trust me, and it would be that much harder for me to help you.”

“And how would you help me?”

“What would you want to be helped with?”

You looked up at him balefully. The money, the inheritance laws, the petition—there was no way that Aemond could do anything about any of it, not without alienating his mother. You had half a mind to ask him to throw you into the sea after all, but based on his earlier reaction, he would likely lock you up in your room if you made such a jape.

With nothing else in mind, you simply said, “I don't want to give up this sword.”

He arched his brow. “Is that all?”

“Yes. Well—no.” You brought a hand to your temple. “It’s more complicated than that. I do want to give up this sword, eventually. But to someone worthy of it.”

You stared at Lightbringer, trying to imagine it in someone else’s hands. Hands that did not belong to your father, but someone who loved you as much as he.

Laughable, as the Hightowers would never let you marry for love.

“Here is what I think, Aemond,” you started. “If this petition works out in my favour, all of my suitors will suddenly be from houses allied with your mother’s faction. I will be made to marry a lord who is in Otto Hightower’s pocket, and he will inherit my father’s sword—and all of that coin in Braavos, too.”

Aemond considered it. “It is fair speculation. You do know how my grandsire thinks.”

“Well, I was raised by his daughter.” When Aemond did not argue with you, you bleakly asked him, “What should I do, then? When I am married to a man who intends only to steal from me, on behalf of the Hand?”

“You could always pray for your lord husband to fall off his horse. I would make sure to prove your innocence after the tragedy.”

You stared at him, as gobsmacked as Aegon was earlier. “Aemond, did you just tell a joke?”

“Would it bring you any comfort if I said no?”

You made a noise that was something between a laugh and a sob. When Aemond offered you his hand again, you took it—standing with his help, shivering as your body was exposed to the night wind. A cloak smelling of smoke and ash was placed on your shoulders, and you gratefully accepted it.

“You no longer wish to marry,” he guessed, watching you fumble with his mantle.

“I wish to marry someone of my choosing.” You found that no words in the Common Tongue could quite capture your anguish, so you relied on your Valyrian: “I did not mind the idea of being used by your family, so long as I could live safely. But I cannot bear the thought of anyone using what once belonged to my father. It is”—your voice broke, but you did not cry—“all I have left of him and my mother.”

“I understand,” Aemond replied, his Valyrian soft, lacking its usual cunning edge. “Focus on your petition for now. Worry not about your betrothal. I will handle it.”

You closed your eyes. You had no idea what he could do, but you trusted him. Aemond was brutally efficient in matters of court and power; you could rely on him.

“Alright,” you said. “I shall count on you.”

The nighttime breeze swept your body again; you shivered, still wrestling with the cloak. Aemond evidently tired of watching you struggle; he brought up his hands and straightened the mantle out for you.

“Are you really thinking of leaving?” he murmured. You blinked, not understanding. “You and my brother—you spoke of leaving for the Free Cities.”

You gave Aemond a long look. His expression was inscrutable, but certainly not happy. There are few people in this world who would worry about me, he had said not long ago. And you had told him, not long after: Just know that you can always write to me, no matter how far away I am.

If you left for Lys, that would no longer be true. You imagined Aemond alone at court, dealing with whatever designs his mother and grandsire had, with only his drunk brother and strange sister for allies—and you, an entire sea away, missing every letter the sailors were meant to give you.

“I could not,” you confessed. “Even if I tried, I think I would eventually have no choice but to return to you.”

He hummed. “Good. I fear I would not have been as kind as my brother in conspiring for your escape. You might have found yourself in trouble with me.”

“Another jest from you?” you remarked. “What a strange day this has been.”

Aemond’s mouth curled, but he did not reply. He merely fastened his cloak of ash around you until it was tight around your neck. And for a moment, in the strange and unreliable light of the moon, his smile looked almost unsettling.

END PART II

notes: oh god this chapter was so long now that I'm looking at it posted as one piece (versus ao3 where I split it up). you are truly my ride or die if you read all that. but anyway, below are some notes to help clarify parts of this chapter in case you are confused-

clarifying ages:

There's 2-3 year gap between the reader and Aemond/Jace

Jace in the first scene is initially 10, and you are 13 (text refers to you as “nearly a woman” since it was ye olde times, but you were really both kids)

In the present day, the characters are all in their late teens/early 20s.

timeline and other notes:

This chapter (and story overall) diverged slightly from show canon; Corlys Velaryon has not yet gotten injured so the Driftmark succession petition has not happened. This is still the blacks’ return to court for the first time in years though, hence why some of the events played out similarly to that episode.

Jace feels a little more mature in this chapter than he did in the end of S1 (he is closer to how he behaves in S2), and that is because of two things: (1) he is aged up slightly so he is naturally more mature; (2) I thought he was hotter in S2 and wanted to write about that version of him instead lol

[just-some-user-hunny]

Bastard readers dynamic in the family...

(Implied yandere targarians, heavily implied fem!reader)

With Daemon, it's full of one-sided hostility and fire. Ever since he took you from your little home, with your little bed of warm scrapped fur and the comforting presence of your mother, he's been the monster. The monster that snatched you away. His abduction seemed very... Him, to begin with. Spontaneous, mad, rebellious. But something in him drove him to take you. His blood, his dragonfire. Aegon may allow his little silver haired bastards to roam and survive on scraps, but Daemon is too proud of his blood to do so. You are his. His daughter. Your rebellion and fight against him does deal him pain, but it also drives him further. You may deny it as much as you like, but you are his little mirror. His reflection of spitting fire and anger. From a teary eyed toddler stomping their foot, to a mirthful teenager with poison in their eyes- it matters to him. His little dragon.

And since dragons share their emotions with their riders, these controlling and obsessive feelings do not limit to only Daemon. Ceraxes is an extension of your father, another pair of eyes and a tongue of fire that always hovers and opresses you. As a little child, Daemon often took you to ride dragon back upon the blood wyrm- a form of bonding as he liked to put it. Ceraxes would chirp and fixate on you, his mirthful grin wide like a shark as he stares at you. He purrs and growls in your presence, seeing you as a precious extension of his rider. His little human. He's very protective of you, but also very controlling. You step a foot out of line and he's hovering over you like a frightening serpent. There's no fire in his throat, but his frightening teeth glint in warning.

Rhaenyra adores you. You'll be the daughter she never had, and although at first she was furious to see her husband return with a screaming kicking bastard child in his arms, it didn't take her long to fall in love with you.

Although she adores her sweet boys, a small discreet part of her yearned for a precious little daughter of her own. A little girl to dress and adore and spoil, to give her everything. Rhaenary is a warm and loving person towards you, often placating your little sobs and warbled pouts with taking you in her arms and hushing you with soft loving words. Everything is alright, you're ok. If she's not soothing you with motherly words, then she's showering you in gifts of dragon glass figures and dresses. She herself adores her jewels and gowns, so she sees it only fitting that you too get the same luxurious treatment.

Syrax is doting and sweet to you, just like her rider. You're the only other person besides Rhaenary who may touch her. The golden dragon would preen and coo at you whenever you are within her line of sight, bowing her head low for affection. She purrs and coos, huffing hot dragon breath into your face to make you smile- even just a little. She allows you to touch the rough scales on her face, her own smile almost matching the warmth of your stepmother.

Dragon Rides with rhaenary are always more tolerable- the days are always warm and tame, blue skies and her wings riding upon blossoming clouds of gold and lavender. Rhaenary holds you close to her, a buckled harness added to her saddle especially for you.

Viserys is old and soft, and although his presence has always remained as the silvery old willowed man who sits upon the frightening throne made of jagged blades and glinting metal, he has always been passive with you. As your uncle, and the king, hes always handled you with a soft yet dismissive hand. He may not always acknowledge you that often, but when he does, it's always pleasant and filled with ramblings of creative art mediums and whatnot. If you were to ever show interest in his built figures and constructions, he'd be delighted. He may be your first influence into creative outlets- either it be through painting,embroidery, calligraphy, or to his hopes, figure making. Despite your bastard heritage, he's rather accepting of you. His brother is wild and untamed, always off doing something peculiar and explosive- you are the least destructive thing he's created by far. You are also a source of joy for his daughter, Rhaenary, so he cannot be too harsh upon you living in DragonStone.

Balarion is long gone, his monstrously large skull glinting in golden candlelight within the cold stone walls. But viserys often ponder over your fascination with the war dragons remains, and you may get an earful of old stories that sang their songs long ago. Aegon the conqueror... The black dread with midnight flame... Bringing kingdoms to their knees or reduced to piles of ash. Your heritage is a painful one, dear, but it is powerful. You have the blood of Aegon the conqueror in your veins. You have the blood of the dragon. Be proud of it, for you have no choice.

Jacaerys and Lucerys, despite being shocked and confused by your arrival- like any wide eyed little children, grew to love you. They watched with their dark eyes as Prince Daemon returned with a shrieking and sobbing little girl, clutching the skirts of their mother and whispering little words or confusion and curiosity. Who's that? Where's her mummy?

Even when they are made aware of your bastard heritage, they still love you. Jace will often murmur words of encouragement to you when he sees you look upset or down about something, and Luce will happily take you by the hand and lead you off to read and teach you high valarian. You're off-putting at first, still upset with your new living situation. Because they're not your brother's, you don't know them! Your brothers are back at your house, probably still wailing for your return. As a child you were probably filled with stubbornness, often attempting to stray from their sights, hoping to sever any form of connection before it can begin- both from rebellion, but also from fear of betraying your own little siblings. But these boys are stubborn too, and want to do things with you like any brother would. They want you to read to them. To watch them train, to practice languages and swordsmanship, to watch them ride their dragons and impress you with dragonfire and daring swoops. To them, you're their sister. Just please- give them a chance?

I'll probably get more Cannibal stuff out, but I thought the dynamic of bastard reader within the family would be interesting. I don't often see people expanding on the relationships one would have with their forced families dragons either, considering the dragons are very emotionally connected with their riders, I thought it'd be interesting to expand on this idea!

Also I may do more with team green, but I'm still figuring out what kind of relationships the reader would have with them. I'm definitely making bastard reader close friends with Helaena, she's honestly the chillest person in that whole family 😅

[art-from-within]

ER hc: Demigods in Love

(TW its long. Long.)

If they had a big fat crush on you and fell in love with you, they wouldn't say it outright at first but there would be signs

Morgott:

He becomes more catty-chatty. He usually cloaks his feelings of extreme self loathing(leading him to believe he deserves nothing and distance himself from things that bring joy, fear of rejection etc) with a rain of sour quips and old age scoldings, a technique he would definitely utilize all the same(and fail horribly) to suppress new trifling emotions arising within him, feelings he dare not indulge in for his own sake and everyone else's.

But despite his harsh words and taunts, the fact is not missed on you, that he is there. He is there, and for all his talk of finding you so lowly, he bothers to address you and your 'meager flame'

"I see thee little tarnished," he will say "smould'ring with that wretched flame of ambition" he will repeat this often, but the emphasis on 'little' changes with time. It is those little things, those minute slip ups, that itches a part of your brain.

Malenia:

She becomes more stiff around you. She is already taciturn enough, but around you she becomes stiffer than every statue in haligtree combined. But in those rare moments when she does address you, her voice becomes more softer than usual. Sometimes you catch her head nodding towards you gently. Other times you find her standing guard outside your door, though she will refuse to admit it was nothing else but that. Keeping you safe is her love language.

She will also make sure to always have the most fresh med needles stuck in her before she ever steps foot into your vicinity. Anything to make sure you don't get even the slightest WHIFF of her rot...poor valkyrie. She really tries.

Mohg:

He becomes more...clingy. And by clingy I meant he stalks you (a mogh classic).

He isn't audaciously obvious with it, no he is never obvious with anything. But as I said, there are signs. Bushes and trees seem to rustle more than usual. Warm beverages left on your table with no owner in sight, roses blooming during the wrong seasons and WOULD YOU LOOK AT THAT??? Somebody who is TOTALLY NOT MOHG just healed your student rune debts?? Ahh! Good heavens!!! Who could have done this??? Definitely not the rich demigod omen who lives 2 broken buildings away that seemingly always knows when you need a heat pad hmmmm

Despite all this though, it seems this amount of clinginess is inversely proportional to the lines of dialogue he will spare you i.e. the harder he falls for you, the more he stalks and the less he talks (tldr of another hc post, that welcome guest speech of his is totally scripted and he can’t function outside said script). His confidence leaves him when he sees someone he cannot risk losing. He also love bombs you, with all intentions meant. Anything material, you have it. Its almost like he can read your mind (he is in your bloodstream).

He functions on the mindset that nothing in this world is selfless, and that love can only be bought and not earned. He 'bought' the love of his sanguine nobles through promise of power...he straight up kidnaps his 'doctors', who now love him(they are all mad with bloodlust). The albinaurics are there (for miquella). He is truly convinced that he cannot be loved without reason, so he does all this extra crap to cook up said reasons. Local omen has yet to discover consent out of the shunning grounds. Maybe u can change him 👍or make him worse.

Godwyn:

He gives you golden privileges….Godwyn wouldn’t outright confess his love for you on first sight, but I imagine he would be the SECOND (Rykard being first) most forthright man in this sea of bashful tsundere personages. Aside from his flirtiness increasing by 10 folds, He will let you ride Fortisaxx. Must I even elaborate further? There are noble men in Leyndell who would sell their cock and balls for that opportunity, but he straight up goes “hey you wanna ride my dragon” wink. Fortisaxx is best wingman, drops hints to help his brother/friend/(lover?😏) out. Considering he has a whole lineage, and i really doubt the omen twins received any action in the lore, he is the most experienced when it comes to love, and he has learned the best way to deal with it is just be chill.

Bonus points if you catch him drunk, the comedy you would play witness to would be legendary.

Godrick:

He will let you touch him. …

Pre grafted Godrick:

would be a total tsundere straight up. He has 0 confidence in himself, and his old and wrinkly ass has only known rejection by that point to not have any qualms about confessing. Throw in an odd sense of aristocratic pride into the mix and you have got a noble who looks and acts like he is competing his way into a guillotine. He is quite rude, and if he is got a single talent up his sleeve, it is without a doubt his ability to drive anyone into a frenzy(no three fingers needed) with his snarky quips alone. He is physically not up there, but by words alone he could burn bridges (and he has). Perhaps he gets this talent from his great great great great great great great great great grand uncle who, rumors say, also rules over Leyndell! He is a small crooked paranoid little freekle frackle that clings onto what we would call Ancien régime mindset and lifestyle

Given this context, the first sign that something is awry is that he lets you be near his viscinty. He is still snarky, with all the thou-s and thee-s sprinkled in. But he lets you near him. Hmm that’s odd. You thought Ettiquette 6600038 stated no non royal was allowed to walk beside him-OH and he is staring right into your soul. Thats also weird. You thought he hated the commonfolk? Did he just hold your hand? Granted he was terrified by the lightening, but still…hm… and he just tried cooking for the first time?? Ended terribly he burnt the kitchen down. He did all that for himself he says…you hear a “yea right” from a very brave soldier of godrick, never to be seen again. He gives you a suspiciously customized hankerchief, embroidery of (insert your fav flower here) when you catch a cold. Never asks for it back.

Post grafted Godrick is mostly the same, but more crazy with a 10% increase in confidence. For one, its been 24 hours and he has yet to tear you apart from limb to limb which is something. “Unfit for grafting” he says. yea right.

...

He also shows you his gore Godfrey goon shrine, your quality of life depends on the tone of your laugh. He lets you bathe him (wow you touched him…or some dude’s entire torso which he stole.) and Gostoc doesn’t fuck with you like he does with others. Good. Good. He trusts you enough to complain abt some tantalizing trespasser omen loitering infront of his castle named ‘Margit’. Which sounds awful lot like Morgott. He hasn’t clicked the dots and he most likely never will.

Radahn:

He lets you ride Leonard.

Radahn is the type of guy who is beyond friendly with anyone, so when he does something which would so obviously be labelled affectionate coming from others, it is generally dismissed as an act of friendship. He remembers your birthday and holds a surprise party which is VERY COOL, but he also hosts birthday parties for everyone else….which is also cool… He suffers through the friendzone for a while with grace.

But when he offers you a ride on his dear Leonard, that darling steed of his that he treats like his heir apparent? Yup, that very horse, is when the gears in your mind unclog. His highness Prince Leonard has always been a boundary none dare cross, but here he is granting you a safe passage to jump right through. He lifts you up with ease, and places you on the saddle. And when you smile, he smiles even wider. Signs eventually bubble up to the surface. He laughs more often around you, completely at ease. When drunk he regails you with tales of bygone heroes and his own aspirations to be one. Reply with “but you already are one” and you will catch him lag for 5 seconds.

He keeps you close by during expeditions, and even during social gatherings. He uses his gravity magic to help you/your siblings indulge in some 0 gravity fun. And during less crowded evenings, he arranges fun getaways with friends, except its just you two this time...and here on out. Oddly enough though, the closer he gets to you the more you find yourself isolated at your job etc. You start finding your posts more empty. Which is odd since you did remember there were 2 other people assigned at this pla- AND its general Radahn with 2 roasted exalted flesh in hand! Wonderful.

One can only speculate how he uses his powers as head general...

Bonus point if you like cats. He will bring his cats for a wash to your house (another excuse to see you)

Ranni:

She spills tea.

This one is easy since we have in game canon content as reference. At first she is secretive. She introduces herself as "renna", and maintains a professional distance. But as time passes and she comes to warm up to you, that distance is chipped away by her own doing. She confesses to her many well hidden secrets, dark secrets like how she played a hand in the night of black knives or her more lesser secrets like stealing her mom's books, giving young Radahn a bobcut in his sleep, mischiefs with Rykard etc. Her trust in you, that you will keep her word between you two, is the sign. Anytime the topic steers towards anything remotely romantic though, she transforms into a bashful tsundere

"Noooo don't open that box from that chamber in this location you don't want to marry me noooo" (gives you the key to that box). Also "take not the ring from this place, the solitude beyond the night is better mine alone." Is code word for "please marry me I am very lonely".

Rykard:

ОНОНОНО

Pre Snake Rykard:

He shows you his sex dungeon

Yea. The most forthright admirer award goes to! PRAETOR RYKARD! Rykard seems like the type of guy who has this very thick professional exterior, that betrays his true perverse nature. You sit down with him and think

"wow, what a well rounded individual! Yes he is rough around the edges, but he dresses nice, he speaks well, he looks lordly enough albeit dark circles, he is good with machines (he doesn’t tell you that he names them 'abductor virgins' 💀) hmm surely he isn't some perverted freak with dungeons and torture rooms in his house"

and then he offers you a tour of his house and peels off his skin like a snake fresh out of hibernation and every fibre of your being tells you to run as fast as u can. Think Tywin Lannister but it's obvious somebody's been slipping drops of mercury into his coffee. His stern facade hides a lecherous mind

It would go something like this. He is wearing his tywin lannister inspired drip, while riding his very high horse. He bothers to look down from his very high horse at which point he sees you. Double take. He approaches you with the confidence of an absolute slut, but its coated with enough regal varnish to make them barely acceptable in public. Something like "Good evening Fair lady/good sir, I see thou art unchaperoned this low in the evening. May we escort you somewhere safe?". You don't really understand what he is getting at first, until he offers to give you a tour of his beautiful rich and lavish manor. And like, he isn't lying. It's beautiful. It's rich. It's lavish. On top of a fucking volcano? It’s always the fucked up bitches with tastes like look at Mohg?! 10/10 (I had rank him second to Mohg in dripmaxxing). But the deeper you venture into his abode, the crazier the tour becomes. And then you watch this man peel his layers of civility strata by strata, with each new chamber easing him into his true self until ultimately what is left is a crazed man with a crazed look pointing at a literal dungeon with very suggestive toys. Tanith is there.

The pros though is that he is a good lover, and father. Stressing on Father, because you are gonna make him one. (Magic world if you are a male reader. Anything is possible)

Post Snake Rykard:

Ooooohhh togethhhaaaaaa we prossspeeerrr untuu eterniteeeeeeeee become fameeelee?

( he is giving you a choice which is a show of love. Choose your next words very carefully)

Godfrey:

He lets you dress his scars.

He recognizes that familiar feeling of love, and his age and experience has taught him that fighting it will be more painful, so he just lets it be instead. Despite his bloodlust and barbarism, which resurfaces here and there, he is surprisingly courteous in casual settings. Being married to a goddess you find out, is a lonely existence. Is there any love between the two? Questions that will storm your mind as you do good on the honor of dressing his wounds. You can feel the eyes of his golden beast watching over you. Such an act had intimate undertones back in his homeland. Do you understand?

HONORABLE MENTIONS:

Miquella:

He doesn't 'slip' up any 'signs' no he LITERALLY stabs you with it(out of desperation), but you are still oblivious because he looks like your 8 yrs old baby cousin with a bug addiction(Those wings are real y/n)!He tries to appear his real age by snatching every opportunity provided to show the vastness of his mind and wisdom, but ends up giving young Sheldon vibes. He tells you straight to your face that he loves you like "no other", but he just gets swaddled in your lap like a baby. Not enjoying this experience.

Messmer: Don't know anything about him to write 3 paras (for obv) but the vibes he is giving right now is that he is less pookie bear than imagined, and impaling isn't just a hobby but his way of life. Going off of the trailer, I had say if he had a crush on you, he would be as straight forward as Godwyn, but with a more sinister bent. He would let you play with his snakes...maybe burn you deep to leave his mark...?

[eldrith]

˗ˏˋ A Golden Cup ˎˊ˗ Jacaerys Velaryon

jacaerys velaryon x targtower fem!reader [part four of a golden cage series.] words: 14.2k. synopsis: The chains of faith are not so easily cast aside. notes: we are soooo locking in to trauma in this chap. we are soooo drinking from teacups and gossiping with our friends. we are sooooo going to an awkward dinner party. we are sooooo teaching our boyfriend how to pray. we are sooooo scared & sooooo miserable! this is sooooo unedited! but sorry to the people who are here for smut bc there is none in this chapter. enjoy the plot <3 xoxox (pretend i didn't disappear for half a year tyvm) warnings: emotional complexities. unreliable narrator. maybe premonition. canon-typical violence/blood/injury, angst. character death. religious trauma, all kinds of trauma, inner monologues, kissing and some fluff. doubting religion AND the crown. foreshadowing if that's a warning requests closed. this is for my irl roommate & personal kissing mannequin @dipperscavern . & for the loml & other kissing mannequin @systraes . you are the void i shout to. fate into flesh or whatever they say idk. febu previous. series masterlist. masterlist.

PEACE FINDS YOU IN THE MOST BIZARRE OF CIRCUMSTANCES. 

It has followed in every step of life – the moment a foot slips from a stirrup, a smile in the first drop on dragonback. Quiet prayers whispered through the torrential downpour on the night your brother slayed Lucerys; Patient words under the scrutiny of the Queen’s entire court. A hand, unwaveringly gripped around sharp steel as your betrothed pointed his sword down your nose. 

Perhaps it is a simple and base instinct, some quiet mechanism within the folds of your skittish mind – or, even more likely, a small cry out for mercy to the gods who watch upon those simply caught in the trappings of circumstance. 

You were just a young girl, barely old enough to steadily hold yourself upright, when they’d placed the babe in your arms. 

Such a small creature. Fresh from the womb, the Septas had pressed him to your chest, murmuring you would be fine for a few minutes; that you had the wisdom of the Mother already, although you'd hardly seen three name days pass yourself.

His skin was so very soft – wisps of those paled curls, the very same that grow from the crown all your siblings, glinted so gently in the muggy heat of afternoon; little shining threads of gold caught in the glaze of sunbreath. 

And that violet gaze, locked up at you; an innocence so premature, so unassuming. 

It had arrested you, that gaze: Devotion, love, those pure things which he only just learned and had yet to truly understand. All because he knew not any other way; a warmth that had entrapped you within your mind, reeling to recall any similar expressions of affection from your mother nor father at any point in your small life. 

You’d come up with scraps: A half-prideful stare from your father, the whisper of Rhaenyra on his breath; your mother’s approving glance when you turned your nose at the presence of the boys wearing cloaks of blue and curls of deep umber. But Daeron - so little, so loving; it had sent such distraction through you that you noticed not as his skin grew rather flushed against the blanket, as his wails grew louder by the short-passing moment. 

Your mother wrapped him herself – that, you’d noticed; in lovely cerulean stitching, etched with small embroideries of towers and dragons – but in your admiration of such needlework, his cries became shallow gasps and wails. 

You’d known not what to do; entranced in such a calm, paralyzing shock – you’d never seen such light go out of a gaze, never heard such wails taper into pitiful whimpers. 

Fear slapping your spine rigid, a solemn beat of your heart as you stared helplessly, flooded with an arresting, unnatural calm. 

The Septas returned not moments later, and you still thank the Gods to this day that they did. 

Daeron’s breath had been faint – and later that night under the blanket of dark, you’d wondered with tears in your eyes if he’d gone and met the Stranger while still in your hands, if just for a moment. 

But the Septas returned.

The blankets had been ripped away and you’d remained in the corner, hands frozen still in the shape of his little bundle, eyes wide and fingers trembling. There’d been nothing within your mind as you watched the Septas scream for the Maesters, as they rushed to cool the expiring soul of your young brother – a wash of calm, in the fear that’d gripped you so tight. 

You’d not understood until much later - only when the Septas whispered while you hid behind curtains thicker than your hair. He’d nearly died. 

After all, one should know better than to trust children with children. 

“Princess.” 

And her voice comes to you in a song; or perhaps, a warm memory of silkspun silver tresses and a dreaming gaze – of gentle hums, of clicking legs, of fingers tracing delicate wings through golden cages. 

“Princess.” 

You swear, you could feel her fingers trace your spine now- 

“Princess.” 

Your eyes open; less than startled, though your inhale is sharp from your nose. 

The tub is warmed with water, and you are bathed gently within it. Your sister is beside you, her gown a deep charcoal; a shade of burnt ash, of rusted spikes somewhere far below where you sit.

Her vision swims in the reflection of your bathwater; You suck in a breath. 

“Helaena.” You whisper, blinking away the smudged drops of bathwater from your face.  

A quiet moment. 

“Pardon me, my Princess?” 

Your blink is languid – water sticks to your lashes, clotting your vision until your sweet sister beside you nearly looks like a spider; then, she is a snake – a strike of fear, and sharp spokes which jump up towards you at the end of a long path, and you’re falling – another blink, and you jolt. 

Helaena is gone; instead sits Elina, your handmaid. She watches with widened eyes as she tends to your tresses with a comb and soft hands. 

A gentle shake of head, the motion snagging a tangle within the spokes of the comb – but you do not wince, eyeing the girl beside you with a bizarre stare. The world is cloudy; not only the skies above, but your own vision, your foggy mind. 

“I’m–” You blink again, fighting a sheepish fluster from your cheeks – two other girls in your chambers attend to you, as well. One, scrubbing your nails, the other across the way, preparing evening tea – and they too have paused, hands slowing as they turn to watch you with owl-eyes. 

Your lips flounder for only a moment. “Pardon me. I thought… I was recalling memory, I suppose. Of… the Red Keep.” You admit dreamily – you’re unsure why you admit such foolish delusion, though the two girls beside you keep their eyes focused nonetheless. 

The maid across the way quickly turns her head away when you seek her; and with quick fingers, she pulls her sleeves over a glimmering spider’s silk scar. An inkling of recognition, slipping away in the afternoon breeze; she measures a dark red herb into a small steeper before the ridges of her spine straighten slowly. Outside, a bird calls. It sounds like a cry. 

“Have you slept much as of late?” Elina wonders from beside you, a wisp of blonde peeking from her tied hair. She is a sweet girl – the fondness you hold for her is one tinged with only a piling guilt these days, one which adds in each passing moon. You clear your throat, unoccupied fingers trailing through the ripples upon the water. 

A spiced aroma grows within the steamed room – the handmaid has begun pouring your tea, and it bleeds a crimson colour into the teacup. A flash of familiarity in the sweep of her face, though you blink and it is once again gone; It is not often you do not particularly recognize one of the members of household, though perhaps as of recent, such politeness has gotten away from you. 

“Forgive me,” your voice is a dream of a far away land. “The Queen’s council has left me…weary this evening.” You admit, sighing.

In the quiet passing of time, eventually your nails and body are cleansed; your mind troubled with thoughts of marriage – but more so with lips, cherry and bitten, with a voice low and murmuring; with a warm gaze turned sharp in the fall of eve; of whispered words and promises in a room floating with ancient dust.

With a quieted voice, you dismiss the maid to your right.

Only moments before the tea is set for you, its tendrils curling up viciously and out towards your open window; the scent is spicy, foreign. “Is this a new blend?” You wonder aloud - the girl with skittish eyes nods, a small squeak from her throat, “Yes, Princess.” She affirms. “A gift from the Queen herself. In congratulations.” Her voice warbles, fingers twitching – a vision of nerves in court, of fingers against a dress of gold.

And there, in the mirror of her anxiety, is that phantom limb once more; a memory lost to a life that is far gone now. 

You hum, transfixed on the steam which curls out in spools over the stone table beside the tub. A peculiar gift from the queen – the tea swirls opposite the steam of your bath, and its scent tethers you to the heavy pull of your spine. Your stomach rumbles in interest.  

She bows and takes her leave; it is not until you are once again alone with Elina that you speak once more. Through the peace of eveningfall, you ask her of her love again – and as always, she flushes like a rose. 

The island breathes in green, slowly blinking a sunset of orange and pink; Elina whispers of the boy she loves as tendrils of scented oils climb into your nostrils and soothe the aches in your muscles. It is a tale she has amused you with many times but one you have not grown weary of either. 

A fisherboy from the east coast of the island – a sweetheart since her age of ten, if there ever was such a thing; he has brown curls, an upturned nose, and a laugh like the raucous sea. 

Though times have indeed changed, perhaps just as much for the common folk as for you in your ivory castles; with the influx of wartime supplies to the island across the sea, she must only dream of him now; and her tales of youthful kisses and chivalrous walks upon a shoreline grow melancholy as you stare out the window before you, Moondancer’s shadow echoing in the rippled waves of the tides far away. 

In the dawn of her tale, she murmurs gently, eyes glancing to the shore. “He says he’ll marry me after the war’s end.” 

It is quiet for a long moment. You find nothing to say to her words.

It does not last long – after the final whispers of his name die on her tongue, she clears her throat, endeavoring to wrangle through the knots and tie back your hair. “Something troubles you, Princess.” There are more words waiting on her hesitant tongue; she does not release them. 

It is a moment of gathering thought in which you decide she is far more friend than anyone else upon this rock – and that, even without her station, perhaps she’d endeavor to listen to your troubles anyways. “It was decided this evening,” You inform her in a rather formal tone, “that I am to wed Prince Jacaerys after all. Our marriage will be quite soon, and before all of the smallfolk on the Island.”

And then, an afterthought as you gaze to the peeking wander of ships headed west, “perhaps Driftmark, as well.” 

Her hands slow in your hair, breath puffing upon the crown of your head. “-That is… quite wonderful news,” She agrees, though her tone bleeds through false words; she knows you all too well, it seems. “A royal wedding will bring a much welcomed recess from the times we live, my Princess.” 

Her words fall hollow into the empty chasm of your wounded heart. Sardonically, you smile to your sullen reflection in the pooled bath below. A wedding… while the kingdom prepares to bleed. 

Words, those buzzing pests of voices from the council not an hour past: “-And we are to assume that a royal celebration might distract the masses from the acts committed? From the war that brews?”

There’d been sharp looks shared at the news of you and Jace’s resurrected betrothal at council this afternoon; half-surprised, half-concerned glances from both your cousins across the Painted table, though you could not bring yourself to return their gazes. For Daemon’s stare, much too hot and much too amused, burning into the side of your visage; the slippery serpent he is, eyes glancing between you and Jacaerys, taking in the rigidity of your spines with a mirthful glee. 

It would have been more excruciating yet had not the discussion been propped by more relevant topics to discuss, as to the efficacy of your union having any effect at all on the tides of war. 

The realm watches, Lord Corlys had assured, many lords await the wind to tip the scale. Their marriage is not about turning heads. 

Indeed, it is not - and such a burden even in youth, your betrothal was: A thin bridge held together by the grasp of youthful hands that did not wish to touch, an abyssal gap fractured into splintered verdant and carmine shards. 

And in these more forgiving moments, when you may wish to let yourself down easy; what an inconsolably crushing weight on shoulders no older than ten and two. For all of those nights you spent lying awake upon sheets of down, wondering up at the swimming dark of the ceiling why the gods had chosen you as your mother’s branch of olives - as your father’s forgotten dove, the small creature who’d always been seen as the shadow of others. 

This marriage is not about turning heads, Lord Corlys is correct. Now, it is about swaying swords. 

And the thought had been floated – a fickle thing, some brush by way of wind through the chamber doors – boats, they’d said. Tidings. 

“-to cause a shift. The Sea Snake’s blockade at the Gullet strangles the trade routes. King's Landing starves, yet Aegon dines easily in the Keep.”

Indeed even now, in the syrupy aftermath of the council, you must admit it is a clever move. 

“Along the wedding celebrations, we send boats – as far as the Capital.” Though it’d been your own voice speaking such words, there coils such gripping guilt within you. And there’d been Queen Rhaenyra, nodding solemnly. The boats, to be laden with food - grain, salt, preserved meats; a gift from Dragonstone, tidings from a fruitful green and black union. 

Their rightful Queen’s heir; a gift from him and his new wife, the Prince and Princess of Dragonstone. 

In recollection, your brows furrow. “There is much more to be done than attend some wedding. It surely is not of much interest to the smallfolk in these times.” You sniff, brushing hair from your face in the swirling quiet. “Especially for the Usurper’s sister.” 

The hand within your tresses pauses at your words; for a moment, only the sea breathes.  “But the smallfolk love you.” She sounds nearly startled by your words, as if the sheep of thought had yet to cross her mind’s pasture. 

You’d laugh, if you had the gall - the smallfolk? The smallfolk have never had the luxury to hate you, nor to love you; never truly had much power to do anything but bend beneath your heels. It is how it has always been. 

In youth, a procession had spurred your urge to reach towards a commongirl who had called your name. The sun was high in the sky, and she, a girl of your age – it was then that your kinslayer brother had ripped you back into the cart with a sharp glance. They do not love you, he’d snarled; They are dogs at the foot of a table. Grateful, for scraps discarded from the hands that feast. 

As it is, you are incredibly discomforted by Elina’s words, and perhaps it shows on your face – for she falls silent, instead beginning a series of braids from the crown of your head. 

“The smallfolk endure us.” You murmur, “Because they have to.” 

She does not much respond, and in the silence you hear the voices of the council, reverberating in the breaths from your lungs. 

“In every tavern, at every hearth from here to Stoney Sept - the people will speak of your union, of your generosity. The Queen’s heir and his wife – gifting the smallfolk with life.” 

Perhaps it is the most prevalent way to avoid bloodshed – noble bloodshed, that is – though it sits incorrectly in your chest. “A gracious gift – the masses will surely remember the ones who saved them from the crimes of war.”

Moondancer flies across the setting wildfire of eve, and you grow more pensive and dreadful by the minute. 

“Your tea grows cold.” Elina observes with a concerned glance. 

You cannot help the faint smile that befalls your visage at her concern; though you have no interest in its contents, you see her lingering stare, the interest in a pursing of lips. Steam spills from the saucer – it smells of wonderful spices from Essos.

“You have it,” you decide after only a moment, eyes fluttering shut as she finishes the braid upon your left temple. 

You feel her hesitation in fingers, hear it in the surprised giggle she belies. “Oh, no, my Princess, it is for you.”

You smile at her uncertainty, keenly aware of her similarities to the golden-locked sister you left across the sea. “I insist, Elina.” You nod, gesturing to it, eyeing the tendrils of steam which rise from your heated skin. “Go, now. You must have it, it smells much too pleasant to be wasted.” 

Her grin is bright when she gives in – and with a giggle that you nearly reciprocate, she lifts the teacup to her lips; a long sip, one which heats her cheeks perhaps at the action of using utensils higher than her station. Her flickering eyes and giddy cheeks are endearing – the tea is red upon her lips for only a split moment as she pulls it away.

She enjoys her cup while you leave the bath – a preparation she aids you with while still reposed by the table upon your insistence; supper has been called, and you must meet your family once more for a rather excruciating celebratory feast. 

Despite your trivial woes, the evening falls in serenity; you, Elina by your side, sipping gently on tea and whispering about the beasts in the sky. 

YOUR GAZE FINDS HIM BEFORE HE IS EVEN AWARE. 

Jacaerys, with a templed posture down the flickering hall, a soft clinking of fine leather and metal. A set jaw, one that turns in his sweep – and then eyes of amber find yours. There is a light within them you can still yet see, like feathery papered wings, drawn to your own flickering flame. 

A less hurried stride – though no less purposeful than your own – Jace slows his pace when your eyes lock, far enough that his tousled curls blur around the edge of your vision. 

Beneath the sleeves of your mahogany gown, your fingers pluck at skin; you still your own pace, swallowing under the weight of silence heavy around you.

There’s a brief moment of recognition, some momentary breath from both parties – and yet after a glance from both pairs of skittish eyes, the hall is deemed empty of lingering stares. 

And quite rapidly, the distance between you and your betrothed shortens. 

It is bizarre, your pull – and yet you stop only a step away, closer than you’ve been since the Painted Table this afternoon in such heated fervor.

A twitch in his hands, a shift of his weight – he is rather awkward now, and you bite your lip as you both hover in the middle of the stoned floor. Your hands ache to feel his heat, though you linger in your yearning, waiting with baited breath and heated cheeks.

Your name, syrupy and unsure, is the only thing to fall from his lips. 

The Prince’s eyes flicker between your own, head declined just enough to stare straight into your own gaze. You’re arrested only momentarily before you snap back to the present, clearing your throat – a rush of heat through you at the soft turn of his gaze, the downturn of his brows that more than likely mirrors your own expression. 

There is so much to say. 

“Hello.” You select dumbly; though it is received with a small flicker of amusement, some repressed grin that yields a soft turn of dimple in his grin. 

“Hello,” He echoes, and it is too much at once – his soft echo of your own awkwardness, the huff of amusement you share. Your face turns hot under the memories of activities held in common between you just hours ago, at the stupidity of your hushed tones, the odd giddiness as if between childhood lovers finally permised to embrace: But that is, as ever it could have been, not the case. 

And then, in the groaning whispers of falling nighttime, in the empty hallway, you and your betrothed reach an understanding. 

Dark eyes turn upon yours and you sway just so upon your feet, unsure if speaking would worsen this feeling that dances on the tip of your tongue.

And when he is quiet, when he is just as unsure of what to do as you are, he is so very handsome. 

A curved jaw, the turned slope of grace he shares with his mother; and a fire within his gaze that sets you warm. Are you truly of the opinion that my actions are driven by nothing more than desire?

Your lips press tight as you cast your glance away, the chiding ramble of your mother in your mind: Rather hypocritical. You sin. 

Your inhale is sharp; the amber that flickers over your face, a look twisted in pity – you clench your teeth, clearing your throat. “Jace.” You perhaps plan on guiding your foolish jolts towards conversation in a certain fashion; though his brows lift, a flash of concern through his stare. 

His lips, glossy upon the light of torches, press together in some twistedly alluring mix between a smile and a frown. 

A hand finds yours; palm warm, soft against your own, and it sends your mind reeling; so delicate a touch. Your brows lift only slightly, fingers lacing with his own after your eyes flick over his tailored shoulder warily. 

“Are you…” He does not continue for a brief moment, instead urging closer with half-step — your spine straightens, swept in the woody scent of the forested Dragonmont that accompanies his presence, towered by his imposed height, charmed by the searching warmth in his eyes. “-are you alright?” 

He finishes his canvassing in a bent whisper, with knitted brows and pouted lips. After all, it is an odd question — one you’re unsure how to answer; and it lingers, heavier than perhaps it was proposed. Yet Jacaerys waits patiently, teeth worried within the cushion of his bottom lip.

The sting of embarrassment — of a hawkish stare from the rogue prince, the shame, the stupidity of limbs tangled in the dusty light of day — a spoil of some war of bodies upon a table, of fingers knotted in desperation. 

And your answer comes easy as ever in a nod and a forced, falsified fable, a lie so often told through your teeth. “I’m fine,” You murmur, “Are you?” 

Perhaps it is this moment it hits the prince before you; with a gaze that trickles in a slow leak to the floor separating your pointe shoes from his own boots, he hesitates. 

“…I’m not sure.” 

It’s a vulnerability; a gaping wound, putrid flesh forgotten in the sun, that festers with each passing day — I don’t know, you agree — I don’t know, but I am scared. 

It has never done well to reopen a wound not yet healed. 

Your thumb runs over roughened knuckles, his fingers twitching within your grasp, jolting at your very faint touch, though you pretend not to notice. 

He seems to find words to fill the absence of sound in the halls. “It’s been some time, but I… tried speaking to them.” His eyes flick away as red lips press together. Your stare must be a breath too blank, for he continues, “–The gods,” He elaborates; your brows raise at his candor. “I suppose for some guidance.” He decides. 

His words find you with surprise; not particularly due to what he says but rather for the sheepish way in which he delivers the information, as if unsure how you’ll react. He searches for something, you realize; perhaps the same very thing absent in your own heart. 

His eyes are wide, specks deep through a ring of ambered honey – though some twisted thing, that same seed that unfurled and sprouted within your older brother; that envy – it blossoms in your chest, unruly and vicious. 

“The gods don’t listen,” you retort swiftly, a sardonic grin flickering miserably across your smile. 

His head tilts slightly, eyes narrowing in faint surprise; it’s only now that you register your previous words, a slithering lick of shame curling up your spine. 

“No?” Jacaerys wonders – a flicker of surprise that you are not foolish enough to believe is any semblance of disagreement; rather Jace’s preconceived notion that you ring true still among the devout. 

Your cheeks are warm, and his eyes are low upon your face. Does he see your mother staring back at him? 

A clearing of your throat as you nod, “Not to me, at least,” the edge of your voice is mercifully smoothed by something almost playful; your fingers shift within his grasp, brushing over the calluses on his knuckles. “Perhaps you’ll have better luck, my Prince.” You smile – and though he delivers a less than skeptical look, you’re thankful for his restraint. 

And of course, the very dimple of his you so admire blossoms upon his smile when he looks down in the scarce light. “Let us hope then, Princess.” 

And despite yourself, a jump within your stomach at his tone, a skip in your heart. Some giddiness, perhaps in reaction to the dread which surrounds the castle, leaks through your chest.

As though deciding within his mind, he looks back to you, clearing his throat. “I know that– that we’ve not had much time to ourselves,” He starts, “Though I’d hoped we could–” 

But as his mouth opens once more, footsteps: A sharp laugh muffled only by the separation of stone walls; and then your cousins round the corner, their smiles bright. 

Perhaps through some instance of habit, your hands drop each other immediately – you, pulling back and Jacaerys taking a half-stagger towards the wall at the startle as if mere children caught stealing bread from a feast table – both of you glancing down the hall with burning visages. 

A weak breath from your lips as you clear your throat uncomfortably, nodding to them as they wave down the tunneled hall. 

But Jacaerys’s invitation, half-swallowed by the ignominy of unexpected company, still draws necessity from your gut. “We should, Jacaerys,” you agree with a murmur, sending him a small nod as you turn to him once more. 

He need not elaborate; you know well enough he wishes to speak in private. “Perhaps on the morrow?” You suggest, fighting the tension of strained courteousness. 

A press of his lips in a concealed, tight-lipped smile brings forth a dimple to the curve of his cheek; a flutter at the sight as he casts his gaze down once more, awaiting your approaching cousins as their conversation tampers to greet you. 

DINNER AWARDS NO REST OF TENSION FOR YOU AND JACAERYS. 

The hall’s table is set in a long stretch; The scrape of dishes against forks, the crackle of the hearth – you drown in it, not well used to such calm manners of gathering; more oft than not since you arrived upon the island have the feasts with the crowned family ended in sharp tongues and bitter stares. Such instances are, momentarily, absent from the dinner tonight. 

Candles drip tallow slowly from their silvered limbs across the walls, backlit and outshined by the bright licks of peat flames – and you, sewn together by the numb acceptance of change, resign quietly in your chair to be gawked at in some form as plans are proposed, rather casually, for the location of your upcoming union to Jacaerys. 

At the head Queen Rhaenyra sits – and with a fold of her hands, nods towards a proposed setting. “Perhaps we hold the ceremony here on Dragonstone," she suggests, “Once more, a Targaryen marriage on Targaryen soil.” 

It is a thought you’d given little attention – spare for this afternoon as Elina had sipped upon your tea and you’d laid your eyes to watch the free churn of silvery purple wings against the sun in the distance. 

And a voice from aside Queen Rhaenyra, slumped in the frame of his chair. “I might remind you that the sept here isn’t exactly grand. It gathers dust with each day.” 

The mention of the Sept bristles you; There is a rippling agreement through the table, though with a spare glance to your side, you find Jacaerys fixated upon the vegetables before him, eyes far-off and consumed. Rhaenys carries the same bemused practicality as you’ve always known within her as she begrudgingly agrees with your uncle. “Nor has it seen a ceremony in years. It could hardly hold enough folk for our intentions.” 

And the thought of the sept – its cold, hardly adorned walls which whisper in echo to your own quiet prayers; a place uninhabited by any besides the Septas and your own festering thoughts. 

The goblet in your hand is gilded with curves of thorned flowers along the base of the cup, your visage corrupted and warped in the golden reflection. You can only stare back at your warped countenance in hopes the conversation will soon end.

It is your cousin’s voice from across the way which gains your attention next, as the contents of your cup slip into your stomach. “It may gather dust,” Rhaena agrees rather gently, casting a quick glance at you, “But it’s hardly abandoned.” 

And if the many pairs of eyes were not already upon you, they find you then; Lord Corlys, sitting at the far end of the table, hums. 

“There is but one person who keeps that sept from falling entirely to ruin.” His eyes land on you not unkindly – and perhaps in desperation, you find some kind of warmth in his words, as if to acknowledge a quiet dedication he perhaps admires, or simply acknowledges. Your cheeks burn in the shadow of the woman left across the sea, who sits dowager and whispers prayers into the wind of your dreams. 

Though in turn of their intentions of setting you at ease, the thought sends a new wave of guilt swirling through you, well-aware of the true purpose of visiting the sept so habitually.

A faint smile curves on Baela’s lips, and she leans forward. “Perhaps it would be appropriate, then? Breathe new life into it, make it…” Though it seems any hope leaves as she trails off, aware of the tepid spirit that surrounds the wedding, of the uncomfortable breaths that fall in tandem from your lips and Jacaerys’.

 “...Sacred again, in a way.”

The thought is wholly unpleasant to you; perhaps in your mother’s stern voice in the back of your mind, whispering sharp daggers of criminality into your veins. 

Daemon chuckles softly, a sardonic smile tugging at his mouth as he glances at Rhaenyra. “Forgive me, but the future king and queen marrying in a sept nearly swallowed by time is hardly a fitting legacy.” His gaze flickers to you, as though assessing how you might take such a slight; you level him with a stare mirrored in equivocation. The king consort lifts a shoulder. “We’d hardly want it to feel like a funeral.”

A needle carefully placed to sew a new line, red and thin. He aims for the eyes with his sharp point; some stirring amusement within his stare that causes your stubborn proclivities to roar, but you know better than to let temptation unravel you. People much worse than him have tried. 

We’d hardly want it to feel like a funeral. 

“If it were more frequented, perhaps it wouldn’t feel as such.” You choose instead of the lash of tongue you reign in; the words are sharp and whipped relentlessly – a vision of your mother in green, spilling her words from your tongue as easy as letting a breath into your lungs. 

The table falls quiet at this, and in a cold wash of shame, your eyes fall back to the table.

Around you, wary eyes flicker; in a sickness bouting through your stomach, a youthful Jacaerys’ words follow your echoes: It’s like she opens her mouth and her mother speaks through it. 

It is a moment in which shame floods the features of your face; and you, awkward as a newborn doe, swallow back your pride. 

The room is quiet, but through your embarrassment you register a sudden pressure against your leg; A warm surprise of pressure against your calf. 

It is, in a moment of breath, merely a boot sliding against your gown and pressing against your leg under the table. A gesture of reassurance. It is your nature when your gaze flicks momentarily to the prince sat beside you – his jaw remains terse but his gaze has grown quite warm when he returns your glance. 

A small nudge from him in the quiet moment; and with a swallow of affinity, you nudge Jacaerys back. His lips twitch just so; you pretend not to notice. 

It is only a breath of a moment after that you realign your face into a more serene expression – and with that, you feel a tinge of pride, breathing through the ravaging sea of spite that crashes against the cliffs of your heart. The blood of a Hightower is thick in ambition, you’d once heard Lord Corlys say; perhaps, he is correct. 

The smile upon your face might be plastered, but it is radiant. 

“Apologies. Though I appreciate the dramatics as always, Daemon,” You address the man with a thinly veiled tone of respect, “Perhaps we should find somewhere… more large. Alive. To gather a larger crowd of folk.” 

It is the smallest of gestures — a soft victory within some inlaid battle of words — but you sense Daemon, for all his sarcasm and derision, recognizes it as such. His mouth curves slightly, but the tilt of his eyes does not soften, nor does the rest of Jacaerys’ foot against your own slide away.

There is a brief silence at the table as the meal is served; roast lamb, stew with wild rice, fish – and a few more cups of wine for you and your intended both – in which Daemon proposes a toast. 

“To the realm’s future,” He lifts his cup; the others follow suit, as you lift yours with a stare burnt into the man’s jaw. “And to the union of our future King and Queen. May you have a long, happy marriage.” 

The words from his lips have scarcely fallen before you see the tense ridge of Jacaerys’ spine, one which straightens your own in a rise of hackles. It is a harmful thing, really – and with a practiced grace, you and Jacaerys both receive the toast with smiles and kind words.

And it would be a lack of verity if you said you did not feel a growth of warmth through you when Jacaerys turns his cup to you, sharing a small glance and smaller grin. 

It is a private thing, a quiet moment: A hand, reaching across a tumultuous river. You grasp it back with a clink of your goblet to his own. 

The dinner rolls on; the sun is well past its set into the horizon, and even with the light of candles brings you a breath from the oppression of daylight. The food is hearty, enjoyable – it is unlike the many times you’d sat at this very table, surrounded by eyes which saw you a serpent. 

And the poison which drips from certain cups this evening is not that of distrust; nor those of old wounds well festered and sored: No, they are instead some foolish urge to prod a slumbering beast, to dangle a fool by his ankle atop a spire and laugh. 

In a shimmering glance away from your warped reflection in the boat of gravy before you, a voice brings you to the surface. “I’d assume it would,” Daemon agrees half-heartedly to some forgotten sentence from his daughter; he sits forward, “Though there is much to plan for beyond merely the smallfolk. We must gather arms from the Houses, as the Prince reminded us at council earlier.” 

At the mere mention of his title, a stiffness grows once more in Jacaerys’s gaze, though he tamps it down with a measured exhale; a rather thin line to thread now, as you stir your tea and watch its tendrils of steam crawl from its cup.  

 “All is merry to plan a wedding. Though perhaps some of us will find some plans to put our passion to good use beyond the Painted Table.” a glance to you and Jacaerys both, his eyes mirthful, “Yes?” 

A moment too late you register your own irritation; the gall of your uncle to believe he has any right to dangle such foolish deeds over your heads – as if he himself is any vision of the Father. 

The thread has been pulled; Jacaerys unravels shortly. 

“–If you have something to say, Daemon,” Jace’s voice is controlled in that threadbare way it can be, and his jaw is clenched sharp enough to reflect the light of the hearth behind you. “–then speak plainly,” His voice is low and volatile, “We all tire of your riddles.”

In a rush of shock – or perhaps worry, should Daemon take Jacaerys’s challenge in its face-value, your hand flies to the side.

You find yourself grasping Jace’s forearm below the table, a warning or comfort - Perhaps something in between. 

His hand flexes just beneath your grasp, though he does not shake it off. 

Murmurs and clink of silver slow around the table; your eyes meet the Queen’s, and with a helpless blink, you look away. In the wake of Jacaerys’ hiss, Daemon’s brows lift, eyes flickering deviously between you and Jacaerys. “Dare I?” He wonders, the sparred bounce of gazes at the table alarming you. “I merely remind us all, there are matters to consider besides the wedding. After all, some bonds are forged long before vows are spoken–”

“-Enough.” You snap; it is a sharp whistle of wind over a peak, though it does enough to quell the tension that courses through your betrothed’s muscles. 

“Right,” A voice deep from down the table, and Lord Corlys shifts upon his seat, “There are more pressing matters at hand than whatever game you’re playing.” 

Daemon chuckles under his breath, lifting his goblet again in mock surrender towards you, murmuring into the rim, “Pressing matters indeed.” 

Your blood boils; but in lieu of any burst of emotion, Jacaerys simply turns to you with a gaze more molten than honey atop a boilpot; an exasperated glance, one of disbelief and a vague sense of panic.

You respond with a subtle, helpless shake of your head – an acknowledgement of your shared misery, one that nobody else in the room is keen to. And then in some exasperated moment, a flicker of amusement in his stare, shared only with you. You share it in return. 

An odd thing, to keep close the simmering truth, a thing so wrong and iniquitous. Jacaerys takes your hand and squeezes it gently under the stone table before dropping it to reach for his cup. 

And though the conversation around you carries on rather rocky, you bathe in the silence for the remainder of the dinner. 

JACAERYS ACCOMPANIES YOU AFTER THE FEAST. 

Though not explicit, you see the glint in Rhaenyra’s eye when he offers his arm to you – and it is not until you’ve rounded the corridor away from the stone drum do you and Jacaerys drop the masks woven onto your visages, the tense square of shoulders – and your hand uncurls from the crook of his elbow as a cat would wake from slumber. 

A memory from a time so recent, though it feels ages ago – Jace and you, walking quietly towards your chambers; though tonight, you have warm cheeks from wine and not from the remnants of his lips.

It is not until you approach your doors, with your swordsman posted outside, that you slow to murmur, away from wandering ears. 

Your hand stops at the crook of Jace’s elbow, coaxing him a step closer as you sigh. “Daemon is…a vexing character.” You put it rather lightly, some form of apology or complaint lodged within your throat. “I often wonder if he lurks in corners merely in hopes of stumbling into matters that are not his,” You attempt a joke – though your heart thumps oddly at the word matters, and you ignore it steadfastly. 

Jacaerys huffs, clearly just as thorned as you are by the entire evening, though a direct tick of his lips lets a breath pass before his murmur. “Like flies to shit, that one.”

His bluntness chips away at the emotions swirling within you; and a surprised laugh escapes your lips, bubbling into something warm. 

Laughter pools from you before you can stop yourself.

Jacaerys, perhaps startled by your reaction, looks to you; at the sound his own face lights up – a genuine, bright smile. A smile which softens his features, which gives way to those boyish looks that are so often concealed beneath princely decorum and furrowed brows. 

And in a soft mix of laughter, Jacaerys’ chuckles murmurs as unfeigned as your own giggles – in the fading of the harmony, your eyes catch the sight of the guard at your door; his eyes flick away, and you swallow back the heat rising in your chest. 

There is a mountain of words unspoken between you and Jacaerys. Though it is a late hour, and there are many things to be done in the morrow; so Jacaerys, with a hesitant touch, takes your palm into his grasp swiftly, eyes glancing to the stone beneath your feet. 

A thumb brushes over your knuckles – and then he bends, his lips ghosting over the back of your hand; an earnest gesture, perhaps, as it heats your face more so than the wine did at dinner. 

Your hand falls to clutch your skirts when he steps away, amber pools of honey taking in your own gaze, searching perhaps uncertainly for your response. You smile in a poorly concealed heat of awkwardness, clearing your throat as if that might ease the moment. 

“Sleep-” He clears his own throat, “Sleep well, Princess.” 

You nod as he turns, watching the glint upon his glossy tresses in the torchlight. It is only as he’s taken a step away that you respond, calling to the rich slope of his shoulders. “–You too, Prince Jacaerys.”

THE PRESENCE OF YOUR DREAM IS IMMEDIATE. 

The wind is sharp in the lick of shadows; and you know you’re not in the realm of the living, no – you’re melded to the ground upon which you stand, stranded in a field of bones. A figure stands just ahead – a girl with pale hair that drips over a gown of gold; your sister turns to you.

Helaena’s eyes, painted in a flickering violet stare as you stagger; paled lips crack open,  though no sound escapes - only the flutter of wings, delicate, fragile, frantic. 

A butterfly, circling above her head. 

A deep unsettle leaks into your subconscious as the sky above, an inky chasm, shifts just so – and the butterfly flutters; climbing frantically upwards, yet looms above a monstrous, scaled form that growls with ancient breath. You cannot seem to warn the butterfly of the impending jaws above, and it strikes fear through your quivering breast. 

It is not until you’ve pulled your legs from the gnarled roots of ricages and spines which litter the ground that you reach Helaena; her eyes, slipped as dying stars anchored on a bright heat that rumbles in breaths high above. 

Wings turn to ash above you; they find your inhale, seeping into your lungs in one quick gasp. The butterfly is gone – its papery embers burning away into your blood. 

Hands, cold and spectral, shove you back into the darkness; you fall upon bones which crack in whispers of your name below your weight, and Helaena steps forward, her lips still moving in whispers you cannot hear. 

Her hands hold a chipped teapot; an old one, with etchings of flowers and dainty ladies washing against a peaceful brook.

It is cracked, though. And with her absent stare, you watch in horror as out crawl spiders from the teapot’s fissures – into her palms, skittering down her arms, crawling up her neck.

Your scream is silenced by an echoing crack of ancient stone; a tower in the distance, cracking in half as a shadow falls from high above where it kisses the clouds, a thunderous plume in the wake of its descent. The ancient breaths from above grow hot with unrest as ashy wings of butterflies fall to bless the decaying ground around you. 

“The girl,” Helaena mouths, her voice swallowed by the rising wind. There is a searing pain in your eye - the glint of a knife, a breath forever held by the crashing of some distantly cold waters. “The girl.”

You wake with a gasp, tangled in your sheets, the remnants of the warning still burning in your ears.

The girl. 

A jolt to the living realm brings a trickle of clammy sweat down your chest; the hearth across the way is surprisingly stoked and well alive.

And then, a strangled noise – a groaning mewl, some doe struck by a hunter’s bow, awaiting the mercy of a quick knife. 

The edge of the room stirs with movement and you’re jolted with shock – you blink sleep from your eyes with the gust of wind upon dust-blown streets, sitting up with a thickening pulse. You leap out of your skin when your vision adjusts to the light of the hearth in the room, a gasp flying from your lips in fear. 

At the foot of your bed, a spectre of a girl  – hair loose, her skin ashy in the moon’s whisper; a gasp from a mouth much too crimson as she sways upon uneven footing. 

“Elina?” You croak, heart within your throat – but that gasp, again; and she is doubled over, breathing in sharp gasps. Unease awaits you in the cavern of your chest. 

“What’s happened?” You ask quickly, rising from the sheets with a shaky fear. 

There is no response: but the girl stumbles forward, her throat beginning to pulse unnaturally – you leap to your feet, wider awake than ever before. 

“P-princess,” she chokes out, her body trembles - fingers fall against the post of your bed frame, her voice weaker still than her hallowed visage. “I– didn’t–” but her breath is not correct; it heaves out laborious, sickly. 

Her eyes meet yours, and your heart sinks below your stomach; a drop of crimson rolls from her nostril, and then a cough full of wet blood that sputters into her palm, darker than you’ve ever seen.

“S-something’s wrong.” her voice, desperate. Bare feet slap against stone as your hand grasps her arm; skin yields clammy. Panic pulses through you – her lips are a frosting purple, marred only by stretch of bloody string which pulsates from her nose and has begun to drip its way upon her dress. 

Your chamber doors are heavy, though you rip them open and spit into the hallway, shaking as the dredges of murky sleep are wiped away by alarm. 

Your shout is sharp as a dying hound, “Fetch Maester Gerardys!” You tremble as you nod to the guard, “Now! And alert the Queen– tell,” You look down the hall, unsure what to do, breathing ragged and sporadic, “Tell Jacaerys, tell–” 

A yelp, startled as a kicked kitten from behind you and you can only stop yourself, snapping back to your maid’s side, letting your chamber doors remain open as the guards rush down the corridors. 

Elina’s frame collapses as you reach her; you fall to your mattress, pulling her into your arms with shaking breaths – and she, with weak effort, presses her hand into your own. 

There is no such moment for you to do anything but sit; and so you do, a sense of numb calm washing over you as you coo to her, wiping hair away from a sheened forehead. Her head lolls heavy against your shoulder, tears soaking the sleeve of your nightgown – veins protrude, purple and ghastly, from her eyes and forehead, spreading down her chin under a trail of blood. Any offer of water is slapped across the stone floors of your bedchamber. 

“I’m scared,” she whispers, her voice trembling as she curls closer to you, her breath coming in shallow, pained gasps. “It hurts.” 

Your throat tightens – her eyes are wide, terrified; a gasp of striking resemblance to that haunting stare from your dreams.

You can only hold her tighter, cradling her head against your chest as if you could shield her from whatever is eating away at her from the inside; though she has begun a series of horrifying convulsions, and you scramble to remember any such prayer for the sick in the recess of your cobwebbed mind. 

“I can’t… I can’t remember-” You mutter helplessly, fingers shaking as you stroke her hair, whispering useless comforts as her body shakes against you.

Her hands are tight; wrapped in a clutched embrace, her muscles spasm and kick, marring you with short bursts of pain as you hold onto her, your own tears falling onto her face as a violent foam of bloody saliva begins to brim through her paled lips. 

“No-” You hiss, palm cupping her cheeks – but the blood spreads, it taints; eyes have rolled back, her body convulsing as blood pours in a leak from her nose, drips of crimson tears from the corners of vacantly yellowed eyes. Trails of it foam over your grasp from her mouth – choking, she’s begun, and you’re helpless to watch, your breaths eerily calm in the wake of her gasping gurgles. 

Maester Gerardys enters first; followed closely by three pairs of feet slamming against stone, but still you rock gently, a horror encasing your mind as you stare at the girl, stilled in your arms. 

Your lips are still mumbling, though your chest burns in the need of breath that will not come; the small bird of a girl in your arms, her blood staining your pillows, her heart stilled after a rapid acceleration and a heaving rattle of breath through blood-stained teeth. 

You do not let go of her when Maester Gerardys arrives to your side; with a wail and a panicked grasp, you shoot daggers towards the man with a snarl; a cornered hound. 

Your name rolls gently from hesitant lips, though, and it arrests your panic. 

Jacaerys is just beside you – clad in a sleeping tunic and trousers, cheeks flushed, eyes wide in concern. Your grip loosens around Elina at Jace’s whisper; And when you back away, his arm is around your waist, pulling you away gently. 

Queen Rhaenyra, hand over her breast as she watches; and Daemon, eyes dark as he stares from the girl upon your bed to the blood that stains your hands. In the light of the hearth, Jacaerys lights the few candles beside the bed, and you watch with a hitched breath broken only by the sound of your quiet sobs. 

 Maester Gerardys pulls back from her figure, his voice laced with a gentle, perturbed sorrow. “She’s with the Gods.”

Time escapes you.

Your fingers shake in the fabric of Jacaerys’s tunic as he holds you steady, easing you onto the settee across from the hearth; he remains as Daemon and the Queen repose in succession. 

And when Rhaenyra’s palm finds the stillness of your knee, as your stare smolders into the roar of flames before you, Daemon’s voice is shockingly gentle, quiet. “What happened?” He asks – and you stir only then from your halted fear, glancing to where Maester Gerardys and the guards gather the body from your sheets. 

Your lashes flicker, and though the press of Jacaerys’ thigh upon your own is warm, you cannot look away from Elina’s stained blonde hair, tresses marred by a thick paint of blackened blood as it sways in the arms of the guard passing by. 

The girl, you hear your sister’s voice whisper. You swallow thickly, shaking your head faintly.

“I…” You croak, shaking your head, “She… woke me. Elina. She’d helped me prepare before I went abed – she acted rather normal, though she’d mentioned a stomachache…” Your brows furrow as a distant memory strikes you. “Her pupils were the size of saucers.” 

They had been, truly. Pupils blown wide, her lips slick with saliva she wiped with a sleeve – and a whisper, once more as she undid the hair she’d braided into place just hours before – we’ve kept the chambers quite sweltering this evening, haven’t we, My Princess? 

“Did she act any differently?” 

Your mind stumbles in its tirade down a dark staircase of trivial moments through the day; And then, some horrifying thought that pierces your stomach, paranoia rippling through you. 

“Tea.” You murmur, shaking your head, “The tea you gifted me, that’s all,” You murmur, eyeing Queen Rhaenyra. A blank visage flickers in the lick of flame beside her, though her countenance furrows in unfamiliarity. 

A slight shake of the head, a bewildered breath from her breast – she need not say it; the tea that was served was not from her. Three pairs of eyes watch you, though in your panic, you jolt upright, only aware of the sleepgown you wear once Queen Rhaenyra places a blanket upon your shoulders. 

“-I was served a new tea this afternoon,” You glance at the table in the corner of your chambers, where the odd girl had prepared it. “I- I was told it was a gift, from the Queen–” in a sickening memory, you exhale, “she drank it this afternoon. Elina. It was prepared by a new handmaid who said she’d come from the kitchens, though I swear I’d–” 

And it is as if the storm breaks.

In a flash of a moment, memories flood through you in a pounding horror; the girl with her wrist scarred, flickering eyes behind doors of the Hand of the King. 

A sea away, and moons ago yet – a green gaze that ducked away when you and your siblings haunted the halls of the Red Keep, and young, dutiful ears which listened to each word uttered by you and your kin. 

“She was there. The Red Keep.” You utter, eyes burning a hole through the stone table, mouth open. The shoulder that brushes your own tenses; a shared glance between the three that you nearly miss in your dissociation. 

Daemon is upon his feet within moments, voice barking at the men who crowd the room – an order of the kitchens to be torn apart in search of a tea, red and spiced; and to find the girl with the scar on her wrist. 

THE MORNING COMES. 

It always does; despite it all, the morning comes – and this time, it kisses your shoulders with a chill, seeping into bones weary and plastered heavy to foreign sheets. 

Not foreign, particularly – for you know the softness upon you as though a touch of a familiar palm, the quirk of a familiar boyish grin. And you wake slowly, eyes heavy enough to keep you asleep, but you wake smelling of him. 

You are not sure what weakened part of you reaches out – to find him, in the chasm of darkness that returns as you do to consciousness; but your hand drifts over the empty space where he should be, only to find a soft crumple of parchment left in his place.

Before your eyes open, you already know.

His absence does not surprise you, nor does the cold weight of realization that settles upon your chest. 

The girl. A poisoned cup; the last shuddering rattle of breath from a sweet friend. Dreams of the sister you left, of a thick thread that wound your wrists and tethered you to hands that wanted nothing; a murder of an innocent because of… 

Your eyes are weary, and they burn. 

Jacaerys brought you to his chambers last night when your shaking slowed; after Maester Gerardys checked upon your tongue, tracked the flickering motions of your eyes, heard the beats of your heart. Jacaerys had not followed Daemon out the doorway upon some warpath once the whisper of poison fell from Maester Gerardys’ lips – he’d remained instead with a hand hovering over yours, his eyes upon his mother, who had taken you into her side as a mother would a hurt child. 

You recall, as you stir under his sheets, how you’d heard his heart beat beneath your ear last night - too steady, too forced.

The rhythm, a caged fury for the sake of a girl who’d barely looked at him without baring her teeth; a buzzing regret for the unripened detestation harvested towards her over fields of youth past. Guilt can be a fickle thing. 

And it is indeed a frequent visitor at the doors of your mind; it slides in through the cracks when you sit up in bed, head pounding, aching for sustenance though the thought of food leaves your stomach hollowed in fear. 

The note is unfolded slowly; Jacaerys’ hand is scribed with no lack of care, though they are quick, speaking of duty and matters with Daemon.

Though he says nothing explicitly, you know. The handmaid who prepared your tea yesterday - they search for her, or worse, they have already found her; and what is left now is that cold calculation of the Father: of justice.

With a shiver, your fingers twitch to your sternum - some odd remainder of a habit formed in youth, watching your mother clutch her seven-pointed-star round her neck in times of strife. You come empty-clutched instead - a seven-pointed chain that’d been casted into the ocean  along with the ring your mother gifted you for your nameday many moons ago, now. 

Jace’s request sends a strike of warmth through you as you blearily read the scrawled words to send Ser Steffon to fetch Jacaerys when you wake. 

Maester Gerardys, too, is mentioned, and the thought of him fussing over your health makes your chest tighten; there is no such relief in the notion being tended to, not now – not when your heart crawls up your throat; a creeping spider up the spout of a teapot, a coil of serpent wrapping around your neck. 

Blood still clings to the gown you’d held Elina in, as it sits rumpled and untouched upon the floor of Jacaerys’ chambers – you wear a simpler one now, retrieved from your boudoir by the hands of your betrothed.

You leave the mound of furs and sheets behind in a slow slide towards the window upon Jacaerys’ far chamber wall. 

The fog still clings stubbornly to the sea, curling like a serpent over the rocks, refusing to retreat beneath the morning light. 

It is not the attempt on your life – that itself has yet to soak through the surface of your ever-porous skin – but rather the absence of the voice which rouses you from slumber each morning, who combs and styles your hair; who bathes you, who laughs with you, who whispers. She is gone. 

Along the distance, the fog eats at the fishing villages; mere dots, no larger than gnats even when you squint. You wonder where Elina’s love lies, and if he woke with the same emptiness in his heart that you did. 

Below Jacaerys’ window lies a glance at the Sept of Dragonstone; a pierce in your chest that calls upon the emptiness of your heart. 

You do not heed your betrothed’s wish to seek him when you wake; instead, you pull round the cloak draped along the table beside you, tying it doubly to account for its larger size; and you slip past Ser Steffon, who watches and trails behind you at a measured pace. 

IN SOME LINGERING SHAME, YOU’RE KNELT BEFORE THE GODS BEFORE DAY FULLY BREAKS. 

It is not until you step out into the bailey, wrapped in a cloak that is not your own, does the sky split and begin to weep. It laments its sorrow upon the walls as you blink hard ahead, hoping to cease the endless churning of torment spiraling in your mind. 

When you find yourself within the dry stone walls once more, the cloak remains upon your frame – a comfort, in its lingering scent; or a repentance, in its damp chill upon your shoulders. 

The gods watch as you kneel in silence; the storm blossoms, cackling at some ancient jest in the sky, and you keel over in your grief, sinking to the soil buried far below the stone.

The Maiden’s face watches you – and in her, you see Elina; in that sweet laugh, the ceaseless effort to remain your handmaid, your friend – despite it all. And the reward she was given for such trust, such loyalty: To die on a mattress of the one she served, one final breath sacrificed for the truth:

It hurts. I’m scared. 

“Elina,” You whisper with watery words, watching the candle before you light in flame. Your throat constricts. That sacred little lamb, taken upon the altar of your very own mattress. 

Innocence, a token offered to gods who never answer – and, mutedly, you wonder. That death was sent for you, after all – so how would you look, eyes wide and unaware of the sharpness of a blade descending towards you?

Across the hall, someone slinks through the shadows. Smoke swirls. A candle is lit with shaky hands. 

And there is the blue lamb, too, you think - the one I could not save either. Fingers shaking, pressing the flame against the wyck beside it; it catches with only an extra breath. 

“Lucerys,” You whisper, watching the candle flicker.

And nothing changes. 

The rain falls outside. The pit lingers within your stomach.There is a scuff – perhaps a Septa, crossing somewhere behind you. A heavy door drags open from the Bailey outside, and in a breeze of the world’s breath, someone enters. 

You duck your chin in prayer, that way you did in childhood under the watchful gaze of your seven-pointed mother. 

Today, you worry. 

Like some favored cup that you’d grasped too tight, afraid it would fall from your clutches and break into thousands of shards – and how instead you’d watch it shatter in your protective, ignorant grasp. Red rivers of disbelief from a trembling palm; pain, that naive version of love. 

Father - you look upon his statue, disbelief in your heart. I worry that love is merely a mirror of violence. 

That pathetic something – that yearning, an empty chasm that blossomed even in the days of your youth – with cheeks still cherubic and eyes still bright; five children, white of hair; youthful play, ruddy cheeks, fattened legs. Giggles and breathless yells from behind curtains – from a time when whispers were nothing more than a playgame. 

The Crone remembers – and you wonder, then, as you look upon stone shrouded in a cloak. What has become of them, now? Of any of you? 

And who are you, but the sister who fled? Who are you, but the one who haunts the halls of the Black Queen, with blood of emerald and a dragon that could turn on them in a moment’s notice? 

Fingers grasp the stone before you, and white wax drips in slow tears. Crone – you gaze into eyes carved in sorrow, of sagacity unreachable. I worry that wisdom comes only when it is too late. 

In your youth, you’d been gifted a plant in an achingly beautiful painted Braavosi pot; the joy of your nameday, you’d insisted upon tending to it. It’d been hours – each day, admiring its pebbled leaves, bursting with budding fruit from within. Hours curbing away the prying, destructive hands of your elder brothers and cousins, of sitting in awed silence watching the leaves change in the sunlight with your sister.

And then came the day you’d woken to its dead leaves. In your devotion, obsession, you’d given it too much water. Mother – you look upon her statue, disbelief sewn far into the creasings of your heart. I worry that my care only brings ruin. 

The face of mercy watches you, and it brings nothing but a tremble of hatred through you. 

A flash of your own resentment – and of the tarnished beauty which once beheld your own visage, marred by the presence of you upon his side. Despite efforts taken by others to ensure otherwise, you will still remain forever haunted; forever wondering how you could dare stand with Jacaerys when you so taint the memory of his lost brother. 

It is a horrible thing, the chain of fate. 

A fate written long before you two were placed into cradles as babes, far before you two were given each other’s name as a promise, then as a threat, then as a promise once more. Smith – your heart aches, and it aches for what is to come. I worry that I cannot shape what I wish to mend. 

It is the most difficult perhaps, to regard the young woman etched in stone to your left. 

In her face is each that you’ve ever come to know. Baela, the first and best of your friends upon this island; Rhaena, the girl whose company you seek with the knowledge that she will regard you as kin, not adversary. 

The humming of your sweet sister in her chambers; in quiet harmony with the buzzing of insects, needles pricking her fingers and singing softly to the blood that beads from her flesh. You’re nothing like Helaena, your mother said. And what tragedy, you think as you consider the draped innocence of the Maiden aside you, what a regret that is. 

 And your mother, for all that she isn’t – for all that she is. For the girl she lost in her youth; for the distaste, perhaps, in the aspects of you that much too echo the girl she once called friend – through some the absent admiration of a father who held you close, who whispered Rhaenyra instead of your own name when he spoke of his love and admiration. 

That name, too – still after these years a stinging sore of regret, jealousy; Rhaenyra, the name you cannot help but reach toward, hand forever extended into emptiness. Rhaenyra, the one you’d picture when you watched yourself in the mirror as a girl, tilting your chin as if there were already a crown upon your head. 

Rhaenyra – you’re just like Rhaenyra, your father would whisper, proud; and it is, indeed, why your mother watched you with serpent stares, why your family turned chin upon you each time you dared speak her name in years after.  

Perhaps there is no particular malice in the end. 

You are no fool to believe that Rhaenyra resents you for what has been done by the hands of your blood; but knowing you are bidden forgiveness is not the same as accepting it. And in that festering void within your breast, the one which vies for affection, for the love of a mother’s touch, for acceptance – there lies one small residual pool of envy. 

 Rhaenyra, Helaena, Alicent, Baela, Rhaena, Elina – your throat, tightening as you consider then your very own name, that cursed name that falls from lips spitting and serpentine; what are you, to them all? 

To the girls here on the island who wear red and black maid uniforms and speak with you like you are one of their own, just to die by the hand whose grasp searched for your own throat? 

Maiden, you wonder with worried eyes, I worry I will swallow the women I love. 

There comes no such reply, but still you remain in folded grief for some time.

The rain falls outside the stoned walls of the Sept, but in here you remain dry. The island is drinking – or perhaps it cleans itself.

It is a pity you are not there with it. 

A candle burns out, and in a shaky lump of grief, you move to relight the wyck. 

The doors behind you scrape against the stone, and a wet onslaught finds your ears as you shiver in the breeze. Your fingers shake against the stick, watching the flame dance. 

“Lucerys,” You say once more, voice less of a whisper and more a plea. 

The clink of metal behind you startles your focus – you turn to face the visitor with an open mouth and wide eyes. In a breath of panic, you start. 

A boy, shrouded in the swimming shadows of the Sept’s rounded columns – waterlogged breaths, curls that breathe with his chest, alive, sinking, but alive – and the slip of water rushing around him, swelling like the tide as he moves from the shadows. 

Luke, you almost call out – but the black of the tunic catches with the silver scars of a wettened sun  – and there, a familiar face, searching eyes, the lick of a tide in the slope of his nose. 

Jace. 

The pearls of lost memories sink to the depths and you are no longer with that ghost – but instead alone with the Gods and with your betrothed. 

There is no greeting, but instead the locking of your eyes to his in acknowledgement – and he approaches you as you turn back to the altar, hands clenched to avoid their shake. 

“–Do they listen today?” He wonders, breaking the shell of silence; a tentative thing carried through the space of the Sept, a ripple on a calm pool. And though he delivers the query with all intentions of seriousness, you cannot help the small blushing of warmth that floods your cheeks at his recalling of yesterday’s spite. 

The gods don’t listen.

You crack the first smile, toothless and small – but he almost eagerly follows suit; and in the small grins shared between you, there is a breath of peace. 

“Not any more than they have before, I’m afraid.” You affirm, brushing invisible dust from your sleepgown; it is only when his eyes dip over your frame do you register the cloak you still don, its embroidered sigils of red and black upon the nape of your neck and boyish scent still clinging in the aftermath of the dampened path to the Sept. 

You have made no motion to rise to him; though he indeed, still as a pole, has remained without effort to sink to you either, and so you stare up at him. Jacaerys clears his throat, eyes flicking to the two lit candles before you and back to your gaze. “I’d hoped you’d send for me when you woke.” He whispers, some kind of warmth blossoming upon his cheeks. 

You watch the flush stain his skin with some assurance; a live boy stands before you, swaying upon his feet, hands perched upon the pommel of a sword and eyes lit with some hesitant kind of hope. You nod absently, “I didn’t much feel like being poked and prodded.” 

You’d meant by Maester Gerardys; though in a moment, you see something almost like amusement reflect in Jacaerys’ eyes – though he nods, concealing his dimpled grin and a small laugh. “I cannot hold you to blame for that.” 

In the silence, a gap of beamed gray sunlight finds his tresses; and streaks across one amber eye of his, melting in warmth as he watches you warily. You swallow down the part of you that blossoms at a face so beautifully made, and you wonder how he sees you now. 

“Why do you come?” His question strikes you once more in the quiet walls. 

Perhaps a Septa crosses the way – though your sights are anchored on Jacaerys and his wandering tongue as he glances towards the stony faces staring down at you. He, with an absent voice, continues: “If it’s not for them?” 

You swallow hard, fingers knotted like roots within your lap. A ruminating silence, until your voice finds its quiet whisper. “The chains of faith are not so easily cast aside, I suppose.” 

His gaze follows your own to the statue of the Mother, looming before you; a shift upon his boots as rainwater slides down the leather to kiss the stone floor. 

“And I know here no one will disturb me.” You add as an afterthought, some attempt at humour in the dreary silence, “Some say this Sept is gathering dust these days.” 

Your words achieve their desired effect: The prince gives you one of those rare smiles, hands held in some mocking surrender. “I am not some.” He defends; to which you nod with a rare smile of your own. 

“No, you are not, Jacaerys.” 

It comes much warmer from your lips than expected – the moment passes thickly between you. A rusty memory, to converse so casually with each other – a talent perhaps still being honed, though you feel a birth of warmth in his presence, against the shell of cold that this day has woken. 

Still he steps closer, hesitant in footing but deliberate in air, and you tilt your head, curious. “Still,” he speaks, “I hope you might… Let me join you.” 

In the moment following, his gaze flickers to the altar; then rises uncertain back to you. His words are awkward, falling hesitantly from his lips, yet still genuine; with their insistence strikes within you a tenderness that must have been absent for far too long. An effort.

“You wish to pray?” you wonder, brows suspended in your surprise. 

He merely nods, fidgeting with the edge of his sleeve; a boyish vision despite the burden of his station weighing around him – and your heart skips. 

“If you’d show me how,” he says, quieter yet; and a half step towards the altar so that you are nearly in line, you on your knees and he wavering in his height. “I’ve never been quite… good enough at it. Septa used to take me by the ear and scold me when I was young.” 

It’s a memory faint but easily recalled in your mind – Jacaerys and Lucerys, with youthful smirks plotting across the altar. A shove, a snort concealed in hands folded to prayer – a pious posture from you, though your eyes flickered so often to their whispered snickers, pressing your lips together when the Septas struck across the back of their heads. 

You take in the sincerity of his expression, the slightly placated feeling that has spread from the rare childhood memory so lacking in strife; and how he stands before you, as if asking permission for something far more intimate than prayer. 

Slowly, you incline your head, gesturing for him to kneel beside you. “Alright, then. Come.” You instruct shakily. 

The sword lies first upon the stone; then comes the sinking of his knees, slow to drop; you resist a squirm, the sight of him joining you sending a quiet warmth through your chest. 

It is quiet when he finds himself knelt aside you, hands loose and lips bitten. His tunic brushes your cloak – though you piously fold your hands, looking forward once more if only to avoid the heat that has inconspicuously grown upon your cheeks. 

A beat, then two. Slowly, through a glance, his hands fold like yours, though they shake in the reflection of the dreary sunbeams. 

Outside, the rain ravages the walls; your breaths fall in quiet releases, echoing each other in the dust. 

“I’m not sure what to say,” his voice is rough as it interrupts the silence; a cascade of shivers involuntarily tumble down the ridges of your spine. You’re struck with some spare memory of hands, warm against the line of your back as sleep took you last night; hands that have taken their own time to slide over planes of goose-prickled skin, that have held, and wished, and reached. 

Your eyes fall to the candles, unable to meet the gaze searing into your profile – it strikes you, the peculiar kindness of it; the bittersweet, stilted understanding that ties your heart to his own. 

There is that lingering feeling – that knowledge that, should last night have gone peacefully instead and you’d woken to Elina with comb in hand, Jacaerys would not be here; But still, he’d still have such warm, open eyes – such pouted lips, such a face carved by worry and patience. A change, rung through the effort made to be by your side; You scrub the thought from your mind and clear your throat. 

“I often start with a blessing,” you whisper into the air before you, “These days, it’s been for the realm.” At this, he says nothing; harboring a rather absent stare into the flickering candles. 

His hand drifts to the light; and soon, it wavers with the flickering flame of an incense stick. His hand suspends, hovering in apprehension, but then his voice comes in a quieted whisper. “For the realm,” he echoes your words. 

You do not dare glance at him; though in the corner of your vision sits his profile, softened by the gentle glow of flame and backlit in the torrential gray leaking from outside. Vulnerability drips from plush lips as he moulds over the words he endeavors to speak; and a moment of silence yourself as you shift, the emptiness in your chest warmed by the presence of his heat. 

He whispers his prayer quietly, and you do not wish to impose; you remain beside him, blinking hard against the rising guilt that crawls up your throat, that reminds you of soft girlish smiles and gentle boyish laughs. 

You do not hear his words, but you feel the gentle rumble of them from his chest to your own as you begin a silent whisper of prayer, Elina’s name falling from your lips.

And then comes the song of your voices, hushed and solemn in the Sept; it is in its way just as similar, just as reverent to choruses sung by your lips shared in the past – though for instances much different than now. 

“–For those I’ve failed,” his voice washes into your consciousness, head bowed low and words whispered for none other to hear. Your eyes open at this; pulled from the depths of your own swirling grief, your head bowed in a beat of regret and vision flashing with a blue lamb, submerged in the cold sea. 

Palms, damp and shaky, press to the stone altar. Your eyes find his, open and wettened with memory; it strikes your heart. “Now, I’d pray for the future,” Your voice, so quiet, faint. “That it might be more… kind than the past.” 

His swallow is silent, but you see his chest expand with a breath. The air, so heavy in the weight of shared grief. “For the future,” he echoes once more; and his gaze, though still fixed on the flickering candles, seems distant – seeking out a vision only he can see. 

His tongue swipes over his parted lips, brows furrowed in a soft emotion; you cast your gaze to the candles burning before you. He hesitates, his voice faltering before it firms again, quiet still in the empty Sept. “That I might be worthy of it. Of the realm, and–” His voice tapers off only momentarily. “ –And of those who are beside me.” 

It is in the breath that his small confession catches your breath almost imperceptibly; your chest tightens at his struggling tension of jaw, of that countenance so often set with the sternness of duty. 

There is a softening in his glance to the side, not nearly reaching you, but perhaps trying – something so close to vulnerability that it makes your heart lurch.

His gaze meets yours after a final moment, and in them you see your own reflection, your own yearning heart that beats against the restraints of awkwardness, of regret, of grief and of disdain. 

His gaze is yours, and it feels like it has been for some time. 

“That’s–” Your voice comes choked, uneven; you take a moment to gather yourself once more, cheeks flaring as you hold his stare. “A noble thing to wish for.” 

The tension between you hums into the heavy silence of the Sept. You should look away — ought to, even — but you don’t; for it is a miraculous thing, to gaze into one’s eyes and feel yourself stare back. 

Perhaps his hands fall first, but yours fall just after – and in the silence, your heart slams in your throat, mind hazy with the feeling of being seen and known. A furrow, gentle and longing, of his brow as he watches you; a ghost of his hand upon your arm, trailing along the cloak’s embroidered sleeve. 

Perhaps you lean first, or perhaps he does. 

It is not until your breath brushes his lips and his warms your own that you give in to the ache in your breast; And it is clumsy when your mouth finds his own. A kiss born not of passion but of some grief, some shared loss, some unbearable weight of what cannot be undone and what looms in the weight of crowns upon your heads and a war of fire and blood upon the weeping horizon. 

There is some hesitancy that, if ever before, has grown between you; a soft caress of his neck with your quaking palm, a warm presence of his hand upon your hip, turning you towards his kiss. Your hands grasp without thought, without purpose – a search for life in a crumbling plane of ruin. 

Salt upon your tongue, your nose slides upon his own; a fragile solace, this connection is. 

But the haze of such vulnerable intimacy is dissolved in a breath: Jacaerys stills completely, and his warmth is gone from you in the very next moment. 

“Jace,” You murmur as he shakes his head gently; a wet gaze between you, though you’re unsure whose it is. Perhaps both. “No,” His voice is strained in that quiet, pained way you recall – from early days finally released from your cell below the castle, from nights when the agony persisted in heated glares and serpent tongues.

He does not look at you before he rises, movements slow, deliberate – and you take the moment to gather your own mind, to swallow down the rush of surrealism that has fallen into lead upon your stomach. Seven stony faces watch you as you rise beside your betrothed at the altar, a slump in your shoulders that mirrors his own. 

“I shouldn’t have,” He admits, shaking his head as his hand tentatively grasps your own; his palm is moistened with the tremble of regret, and you swallow down whatever stab of guilt rushes up your throat. A squeeze in return; a flush of embarrassment upon your cheeks as the remnants of his lips linger upon your own in some dizzying breath. 

You shake your head as you brush nonexistent dust from your nightdress. “I shouldn’t have, I-” 

“Please,” He murmurs; a plea, true and genuine – and he tugs your hand just so. “I am sorry.” 

It is surprising to see such earnesty from him, though his words bring about a warmth to your chest. It goes unspoken, as so often things between you do – now is not a time for such recklessness; and though Jacaerys might perhaps be a sole comfort while the world weeps, you know now is not the time to escape in such securities. 

Your nod is gentle, as is the kiss you deliver to his warm cheeks. They grow even more red in the absence of your lips. 

“It's alright,” You agree, clearing your throat at the sudden memory of his lips, plump and warm, against your own. 

Though with his words dissolves any distraction you’ve sought in the previous moments: “There is something else,” He explains, “I come with word from the Queen and Daemon.” 

Despite his hand in yours, dread welcomes you once more into its embrace. 

“They’ve found her?” You wonder; and there once more crashes a bout of anxiety into your ribs. His eyes swim – pity, perhaps, hiding in the folds of gold, of reverence, of verity. 

He nods only slightly, eyes searching between your own.

“Yes.” 

A breath catches in your throat – some odd angst of mourning for your adversary, then; to the girl she perhaps was before your grandsire wrapped his talons tight around her. Jacaerys lifts his hand, and soon your hair is brushed behind your shoulder. 

“You do not need to go.” He promises, “I can have the dragons readied, or tea sent to the library. Or I could have a bath drawn–” 

Kind suggestions; though you shake your head sharply, glancing to the Father and then meeting Jace’s stare. “No,” You protest, hand dropping his own to gather yourself. “But will you–” A cleared throat, biting your lip at the pain that echoes through the empty caverns of your chest. The words do not come commonly; an odd thought, some secret in front of the gods - and so you whisper in that tongue you both share. “Kessa ao māzigon lēda nyke?” 

Will you come with me?

His lashes tangle in a slow blink, though he acquiesces immediately to your request. “Of course. Hēnkirī.” 

Together. Your swallow is thick, and the pit of your stomach eats at you. It is a slow march to prepare your leave; the beating of a heart not your own, faced upon the gates of some shadowy fate – but the hand in yours warm and guiding, and his voice is slow and quiet. 

Bells ring in the near distance, and in their warbled way, they sound of wedding bells. Some part of you blossoms reborn, a bud at the first breath of spring after years of winter; Jacaerys sends you a smile, and it is soon mirrored upon your own visage.

Fate is a peculiar thing, yes - but you are relieved that Jacaerys is the name of yours.  

And even when you and your betrothed pull up each other's hoods in preparation for the rainfall, you do not realize that you’ve just risen from below the watching shadow of the Stranger. You do not realize that the shrouded figure has watched over your every prayer; and when you turn, you do not notice as its shadow follows the train of your dress. 

You do not notice the snuff of the two candles, blown in the wake of your leave - and you do not feel as the Stranger watches you leave the Sept, arm in arm with Jacaerys. 

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[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Choiceless Hope in Grief

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x f!reader Warnings: Angst, smut. Word count: ~2k

Summary: Following the events of Rook's Rest, Aemond seeks refuge in the only person he has left.

Author's note: Day five of Smuffmas - fireplace and face fucking. No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications.

“He is waiting for you,” Lysa informed her, poking her head through the gap in the soft linen of the curtains that afforded her privacy while she bathed.

She sighed at the interruption, loathe to be pulled from the relaxation that the warmth of the jasmine infused water afforded her. Taking her time was a luxury she often indulged in, her rank and demand within Mother’s allowing her to keep her clientele waiting. However, this particular patron was one that insisted upon punctuality, and his status ensured no leniency for this particular rule.

The steam that wafted up from the tub obscured her view slightly as she peered over her shoulder at the serving girl. “Has he been prepared?” she asked, not wanting to rise from the water until absolutely necessary.

“Yes,” Lysa nodded, “exactly as you instructed. And he has had his draught,” she added, lifting up the empty tray that perched precariously upon her upturned palm, as if to emphasise her point.

“And the payment?” she enquired, turning away and leisurely lifting a leg from the bath, pointing her toes up towards the ceiling and watching as the wetness of her skin glistened in the candlelight.

“Paid up front,” Lysa informed her, “two golden dragons and a silver stag.”

She raised an eyebrow, her leg dropping back into the bath with a splash as her lips parted in surprise. That was more than double what he usually paid her. “Any particular requests?” she asked, attempting to mask the apprehension in her voice, as nerves fluttered in her belly. When patrons paid so handsomely, it was usually in anticipation of services that were considered illicit, even for the Street of Silk.

“Just the usual,” the serving girl replied, shifting from foot to foot with impatience, “shall I tell him you need a minute?”

“No need,” she insisted, with a dismissive wave of her hand, “I shall be there momentarily.”

Lysa disappeared from the gap in the curtains, and she rose slowly from the tub as water dripped down the curves and planes of her naked body in rivulets. She didn’t bother to dry herself – high status clientele often preferred tangible proof that the women they had purchased for the evening were clean. She draped a silk robe of emerald green around her body, tying it closed at the waist; the fabric clung to her dampened curves, accentuating the shape of her breasts and hips. She pulled her hair free of the clasp that held it fastened to the back of her head, allowing it to fall in soft, loose waves around her shoulders. She would ordinarily go to the effort of braiding it, however, with the considerable amount that had been paid for her time this evening she decided that it would not be wise to keep him waiting any longer.

Sliding her feet into slippers, she walked quickly through the pleasure house. The heady scent of fragrant oils and incense hung in the air, doing little to mask the pungent aroma of sex and sweat, instead they clung together, creating an oppressive feeling of humidity.

Moans of pleasure, giggles and the slap of flesh against flesh floated out from each curtained partition as she passed, the thin drape of fabric doing little to protect anyone’s modesty, though all occupied within were too far gone in their carnal acts to mind.

Since having been burst in on by his brother and his retinue a month ago, the man she would be entertaining this evening had insisted upon more private quarters for his subsequent visits. He had been granted use of Madame Sylvi’s personal bedchamber for the services he paid for – an unusual privilege for paying customers, but one that Sylvi had been more than willing to offer to ensure his continued custom.

She pushed into the room, the warmth of the lit hearth heating her still wet skin as she stepped inside, allowing the wooden door to close heavily behind her. Though Sylvi had gone to great lengths to decorate the room with vibrant coloured silks, plenty of candles and plush sheepskin rugs, it did little to distract from its modest size. The space was just large enough for a double canopy bed, a modest table and chair, and the small fireplace that was kept lit day and night to keep out the chill and scare away the rats.

There he was, just as Lysa had said he would be. His pewter cup had been drained of the milk of the poppy it had once contained and now sat upon the table. He knelt, stripped bare, in front of the cracking fire – Prince Aemond Targaryen – the most fearsome dragon rider in all of Westeros, kneeling before a common whore as though their roles had been reversed. In this room they were, at least that was what he paid her for.

She allowed her eyes to linger upon his lithe, yet chiseled physique. Though his hair was loose, hanging in long, silver strands around his sharp features, it did little to obscure the sapphire which sat snugly within his left eye socket - the gemstone glimmered in the firelight, reflecting the dancing of the flames.

She stepped in front of him, gazing down upon him as she crooked a finger beneath his chin, encouraging him to look at her. She could tell from the lack of focus within his seeing eye that the opiates had begun to take their effect, and this pleased her; he was always so stiff, much too closed off before it did, which made her job harder. He was more pliant like this.

His hands reached up to rest upon her hips and he pressed his face into her lower belly, cuddling tightly into her, the tip of his nose flush against her soft flesh. She moved her hand away from his chin, bringing it to rest upon the crown of his head and gently stroked his hair. They remained like that for several moments, the only sound in the room was the occasional crack of a log on the fire.

“They have made me prince regent,” he finally said, his voice muffled against her robe. He pulled back to gaze up at her, his expression was soft, almost tired looking, “are you proud of me?”

Her eyes studied him carefully, taking in the darkness beneath his eye sockets. She knew that for Aemond to be made regent, the king would need to be indisposed, but Aegon had been in excellent health on the many occasions he happened upon this particular establishment in recent weeks. “How did you come to be made prince regent?” she asked softly, trailing her fingertips along his prominent jawline.

Aemond’s eye fluttered closed as he leaned into her touch. She watched the bob of his throat as he swallowed, before looking up at her once more. He answered as a child would when being asked who spilled their milk. “He fell from his dragon,” he said simply.

“How?” she pressed more insistently, tilting her head slightly as she stared intently down at him.

“He was in the way,” Aemond whispered, snuggling his face back into her belly, his grip on her hips tightening ever so slightly.

“In the way of what?” 

She combed her fingers through his hair, watching how the paleness of it shone in the firelight. It was easy to envision how Targaryens considered themselves to be closer to gods than men, when their hair resembled spun silver.

“He was not supposed to be there,” he murmured against her robe, “he would have ruined everything, Rhaenys would have killed him.”

A pit of dread formed in the pit of her stomach at the mention of Rhaenys. She had seen the dragon’s head that had been paraded through King’s Landing, an ill omen if ever there was one. Of course Aemond would have been the one responsible, not Aegon. She felt foolish for not having realised sooner.

“So, what did you do?”

“I burned him,” he replied simply, pulling back to gaze up at her once more, “and I will burn you too if you tell anyone.”

It made her blood run cold how effortlessly the threat tumbled from his lips, how little awareness he had of the consequences of his actions or the true weight of the power he wielded. It was almost childlike to witness, which made it all the more terrifying.

“I will not tell a soul,” she reassured him, cupping his cheek, “but you must realise that what you did was wrong. Did you want to kill your brother, so that you could take his place?”

He lowered his gaze, his brow furrowing as he looked pensive for a moment. “I…no…no, I do not think so. I just wanted him out of the way. But I am better suited to rule than he is, and I will never even get to wear a crown.”

“Be that as it may, even princes cannot simply take whatever they please whenever they please.”

“My own mother thinks I tried to kill him,” he said, looking back up at her, “I see how she looks at me, she is afraid of me. She said I am too impulsive to rule.”

“And what do you think?”

One of his hands moved from her hip, slipping inside the opening at the bottom of her robe and gently stroked her thigh, causing a shiver to run through her. Her core throbbed in anticipation for what she knew he was silently asking for. “I want only what’s best for her. To protect my family. To win this war.”

“That is good,” she whispered, and gave his hair a tug at the roots, making him hiss through his teeth. “Now show me just how good you can be.”

She widened her stance slightly, allowing her thighs to part, as she urged him forward by his hair. He went eagerly, pulling open her robe and using his thumbs to spread open the damp folds of her sex. A groan reverberated through his chest as he swiped a broad stroke with the flat of his tongue against her sensitive flesh, causing her to sigh softly, her head tilted back slightly.

“That’s it. Good boy,” she urged, holding him in place by the back of his head as she ground her hips against his face, working herself upon his tongue as he flicked the tip of it feverishly against her swollen pearl.

The sensation made her thighs tremble, the steadily building ache made it an effort to stand, and she wondered fleetingly how he was not uncomfortable having knelt for so long. The thought was immediately pushed from her mind as he latched his lips upon the delicate bundle of nerves and suckled hard. She mewled, bucking her hips, anchoring him to her with the vice like grip she held upon his roots.

His hands moved to her hips once more, holding her steady as he plunged his tongue inside of her, the tip of his nose adding additional stimulation to the outer parts of her, as he thrust the muscle into her repeatedly. Her skin grew hot and clammy with exertion, exacerbated by the crackle of the flames within the hearth.

The coil within her grew taut, and as though sensing it, he pulled out of her with a lewd squelch of saliva and arousal, redoubling his attention upon her bud, alternating between precise kitten licks and forceful sucks.

Finally, she cried out, holding him tight against her as she shuddered in ecstasy. White hot waves of pleasure rippled throughout her body as her inner walls spasmed with the force of her peak. Only when the final tremor had coursed its way through her body, did she release Aemond’s hair and allow him to draw back.

She gazed down at him, her mind now felt as foggy as his must. He was a vision of beauty, staring up at her, lips and chin shiny with her slick, his pupil dilated with arousal, as his cock stood rigid between his thighs.

“Are you proud of me?” he asked, repeating his question from earlier. “Yes,” she breathed, “my good boy. I am so proud of you.”

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[niteshade925]

April 13, Xi'an, China, Shaanxi Archaeology Museum/陕西考古博物馆 (Part 2 - Shang and Zhou dynasty):

A 1:1 replica of a Warring States period (476 - 221 BC) horse chariot that was unearthed in an ancient tomb in Gansu province. The original artifact was made of lacquered wood, decorated with gold, silver, bronze, turquoise, and other semi-precious stones; it's basically the "Lamborghini" of its time. This replica was just sitting in the hallway in between exhibition halls, and it's very big:

Another one of my favorites, which is also one of the stars of the museum. These are called xizun/牺尊, which are animal-shaped bronze wine vessels (notice the lid on its back). This particular pair is "deer-shaped", but also has patterns on the sides that look like bird wings and paws that look like those of predators. Ugh they are so cute...🥺

A Western Zhou dynasty (1046 - 771 BC) "lunch box" made of bronze, called a luxu/录盨. It was found inside of a Western Han dynasty (202 BC - 8 AD) tomb, indicating that even Chinese people from 2000 years ago had an interest in collecting artifacts from earlier times

More bronze food/wine vessels from Shang dynasty (1600 - 1046 BC) and Zhou dynasty (1046 - 256 BC). Top one is called a gui/簋, bottom left is a gu/觚, and bottom right is a jue/爵. The tall-footed wine vessels can be used to warm up wine before drinking, by heating it with a small flame placed between the feet.

This is what a complete set of bronze vessels from Shang/Zhou dynasties looks like. This particular set, called "fanjin and thirteen vessels"/柉禁十三器 (translated as "Altar Set") is currently at the Met. This diagram below gives the name of each vessel:

Bronze chariot decorations with turquoise inlays. The bronze would have looked golden back then

A little bronze dragon. Cute.

Late Western Zhou dynasty pendant made of jade and agate beads called a yupei/玉佩, and from what I can gather, this one should be part of a necklace, which would be one heavy necklace indeed. I feel like a lighter modern replica might go well with sweaters though:

Left: necklaces, bracelets, and armlets from Spring and Autumn period (770 - 476 BC). Right: another jade and agate yupei from Spring and Autumn period, but this one was probably supposed to be hung from the waist.

This one is known as the Rui Gong ding/芮公鼎 or "Cauldron of Duke Rui", which is a bronze tripod ritual vessel (known as ding/鼎). It is inscribed with the text "内(芮)公乍(作)铸口宫宝鼎，万年子孙永宝用", which roughly translates as "Duke Rui cast this treasured ding, may his descendants use it for ten thousand years to come".

More bronze vessels. The top two are ding/鼎 vessels. Sidenote: notice the right one......does it look familiar? I'm pretty sure the rectangular ding is one of the inspirations for the design of TotK's temple of time. Also note the design patterns...I'm fairly certain these are the inspiration for TotK's aesthetics. TotK's Zonai script is also clearly inspired by Seal script/篆书 (I do want to make a post on this but my hands are pretty full atm)

Gold decorations on accessories:

An (incomplete?) bianzhong/编钟 (bronze bell set) and bianqing/编磬 set. The pentagonal stone chimes on the bottom are part of the bianqing.

A paper that studied the oldest face cream found in China (link to the article on Nature for those who have access).

Wadang/瓦当 (decorative roof edges) from Warring States period featuring various animals and mythical creatures, and their moulds:

[ddostoyevskyy]

How To Train Your Dragon

Zhongli

note: idk, this just came to me at 4am.

Zhongli in his prime were unstoppable and in order to calm his system down, he always find his way through your shared home, on your shared bed, finding you sleeping peacefully under his silk sheets — he just wanted to kiss you, except — the Geo Archon doesn’t know how to kiss. So, with the help of your pace, you teach the raging dragon in your arms to kiss you.

warnings: heavily suggestive but nothing to explicit, making-out, just teaching Morax how to kiss — on his almost Archon form 😶, blood mentions but nothing too murderous, Zhongli has fangs, biting/marking

1.7K words

MASTERLIST

Part 2.

It was the way how Zhongli’s heavy breathing cut through the silence of the dawning night where the moon is illuminating on his golden eyes — glowing and trembling as it gazes on a sleeping form on his bed under his silk sheets. The sight of you, his lover sleeping peacefully is only making him shakened up more as his sharpened claws reached for the blanket, tugging gently to test waters — and you softly stirs awake at the sound of something panting and growling on the foot of the bed.

Your blurry eyes had taken upon the sight of a raging dragon, golden eyes staring intently on your form and his usual dark hair is longer and disheveled; the sight of your lover’s true form is something you are not quite used to wake up to. You were quite taken back at his form, yet you gently sit up, still drowsy as you reached up to him — the smell of musk mix with mountains takes upon on his scent as he crawl towards your embrace, immediately burying his face on the crook of your neck.

“‘Li?” You mutter his name and he lowly growl and you shuddered at the vibration that sends your body shocks.

You don’t know what’s gotten into him as he used his body weight to push you down on the bed, your back gently making contact with the soft sheets as he inhaled on your scent, muttering something incoherent before his large hand made contact on your thigh, the coldness of his hand made you gasp as you tried to push his face away from your neck to look at him, yet he stilled, pushing his face more deeper in your neck as his hand travels upward under your night gown, his claws slightly prodding on your skin and you sighed in sensation.

“What’s wrong?” You asked him, but he remained silent. His hand now lays on your waist as his other arm travels behind your back to the back of your neck to pull you close. You could feel his chest flushed on yours slowly calming down until his breathing became steady in rhythm — your breathing is now shallow when you feel his fingers caressing the skin on your waist and his cold lips touches the skin of your neck. It made you shivered.

“H-Hey now.” Your voice cracked and you heard him mumble your name lowly as he finally raise his head, his eyes still glowing as he stares intently, yet again, his honeyed eyes oozing with an intimidating gaze yet they stared lovingly in your face, scanning until it landed on your lips and you stared at him in bewilderedment.

This man, your lover, is not really good at kissing.

He mumbled something you didn’t quite captured with your ears as he leaned in, lips crashing on yours as he peck around your lips and you let out a breathy chuckle. His actions on your lips were contrast on how his hands work on your body — he’s squeezing, caressing and digging the skin of your waist as you relishes on the feeling of his cold hands. Yet, his lips are still moving uneven on you and you lowly laugh.

“What’s the matter?” He finally spoke up as you put an arm around your eyes, grinning. “Darling?”

“You..... that’s not how to properly kiss someone,” You finally let out between laughter and his eyebrows furrowed as he remove your arm that blocked your eyes. He stared at you. “I don’t have any idea about kissing too. But, I have a knowledge enough to tell you, it wasn’t the way to kiss someone, My Lord.”

His lips purse at the endearment as you cupped his face between your hands, caressing his skin as you noticed the rough patch of a reptile skin besides his cheeks. This is not the first time you’ve seen him in his true form, but seeing his golden eyes glow as he stared at you gently.

“Open your mouth.” You instructed as he stares at you like a lost child as he obliged, parting his lips before you pull him close to you, wrapping your arms around his neck as your lips crashed to each other, catching his upper lips between yours — he take a sharp breath as he follow your lead, a slow set pace as your lips finally move in sync and you inhale when you felt his cold hands travel on your skin again.  He hummed in your mouth and you sighed when his teeth scrape on your bottom lip — you forgot how sharp his canines in his true form.

“Z-Zhongli — wait.” You mumbled on his lips as you put a finger on his chin to stop him and he grumble. You appreciate the passionate hunger written on his handsome face, honeyed eyes burning with passion and swollen lips parting in a panting mess. You can’t believe that this man is a God — only to crumble on your embrace and begging for your touch as he looked majestic with his seductive gaze he’s sending you.

He dives back on your lips, now caressing the skin behind your thighs and you sigh at the feeling of his cold hands contrasting on your warm skin. He’s holding you closely, chest pressed together as he sighs in your mouth — before you decided to use your tounge too. He unexpectedly let out a melodic sound of pleasure, feeling the warm muscle envelop the insides of his mouth as you felt his canines graze haphazardly on your tounge and the grip you had on his dark hair tightened at the electric sensation that runs in your body as he felt the goosebumps appear on your skin.

He follows your pace expertly, moving his tounge and intertwining it with yours as you let out a moan when he slowly and surely, started to learn how to properly make out with you without feeling any pain — his lips are now moving at a desperate pace while, you, on the other hand is now hardly keeping up with his pace — he learned pretty quickly — all in a while he’s been touching you until everything stopped.

You open your eyes in instant when you felt the warm of his mouth disappeared, but it was followed by your panting when he lowered his head to peck at your cheek, down to your lips, to the side of your jaw as his tounge travelled there down to your neck. You could feel his warm, heavy breath on your skin, the sudden nervousness that surrounds you were unavoidable as he licks a certain spot, before you could feel his sharp teeth prodding on your skin and you gasp.

“Hah — Z-Zhongli, wait!” You told the dragon that was clinging into you and all while, he stopped at your command, yet you didn’t totally push him away.

“Ah — I.....”

“I apologize, darling,” He sighed, burying his face on your neck. “I went overboard.”

You scrunched your nose — he’s too cute. How can you resist the handsome dragon laying in your arms?

“N-No. What’s the matter to you tonight? Did something happen?” You asked and he shook his head on your neck, feeling his head move side by side as he embrace you.

“Nothing, darling. I’m just too embarrassed to ask you to teach me how to kiss.” You externally squeal at his confession, biting back a laugh that will surely embarrass the Geo Archon more.

“Well, I guess, I’ve trained my dragon well after all, right?” You replied and he hummed, the low sound vibrating on your chest and you sighed in contentment, caressing his dark hair before you halted when you felt his tounge on your skin again. You gulped, trying hard to think of a way to distract him when you felt his sharp teeth grazing on your skin.

“Z-Zhongli, baby.” You whispered enough to let him hear your hesitations and he assured you silently, intertwining your hands as he set yours besides your head, your other arm still circled around his neck and the back of his head. He started with a peck on your shoulder blades, before his lips wandered and stop just right on the crook of your neck as his breathing got intenser.

He lightly graze his tounge on a spot and you whimpered, eyes closing at the feeling until he started to suck on a certain spot that had your mind swirling with the heavy sensation — because it’s been a while to have him in your arms again. He didn’t know how to kiss, so he would always makes his lips contact with either a kiss on your knuckles or on top of your head — and as gentleman as he is, he never forgets to peck on your forehead.

But, tonight, he begs to differ as his hands roams in your body, his whole weight pressing on you adding a hazy feeling tingling on your body — because you can feel all of him; from his mouth, his broad shoulders, his chiseled chest, and the bulge that was forming on his pants — pressed just right on your torso as he sucks and licks on your neck.

He could smell your arousal, the sheen sweat forming on your body that added to the taste of your skin makes him go feral when he finally felt you relaxed — he sinks his teeth on your flesh just enough to break the skin and you gasped at the sensation; it was so unexpected that you don’t have time to complain when he’s all and lapping on the blood that was seeping on the mark he made that you were sure is hard to cover.

He raised his head to stare at you, admiring his work of art on your neck as his fingers graze on the spot and you whimpered when he lightly pressed his teeth mark. He seems satisfied, yet when his eyes landed on your swollen lips, he turned lost yet again.

It seems like you have to train your dragon into another level of pleasure again.

Disclaimer; This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

All Rights Reserved 2022 © ddostoyevskyy. Do not repost without permission or plagiarized.