#hoping my cruel Prince moots see this

[book-girl4evaaa]

Jude: Screw you, Cardan

Also Jude: Screw you Cardan

[eraenaa]

Prince's Whore

Aemond Targaryen x Celtigar Reader

Synopsis: What proceeded as Prince Aemond had made you his whore. 

Warnings: Dub-Con, Harsher Aemond, Mature, Maltreatment, 18+, Fingering, P in V Sex, Not Proof Read

Word Count: 2,789

Prequel: Virginal Whore

“Have you now learned your lesson?” The prince asked, smirking as he saw your hopeless eyes and your bounded arms and legs. It was a last resort he had come to; the past moon, all you did was try to escape him, and Aemond could not stand for anyone getting in between him and what was his. You whimpered as you felt his touch on your bare waist. He had bound your hands with a silk cloth that was tied to the bed frame, and no amount of tugging or thrashing could free you from the shackles of the prince. 

You looked quite ravishing even in your frantic and desperate state— perhaps even more so, the prince thought. Your face was scarlet as pearl tears ran down your cheeks, lips swollen and crying out for release, your chest heaving as you tried to be freed. Aemond could no longer control the surge of unbridled desire coursing through him; it was harder to reign in his depravity when he knew you were his. “Please, please, I beg you, my prince— release me— kill me! Whatever it is… just let me go,” You cried as your dignity could no longer stomach being the prince’s whore. 

Aemond hummed, running his calloused hands along your smooth, supple body, grasping your flesh that was riddled with his marks. “And why should I do that, my lady? Enough with the act… do not pretend you do not enjoy your station here. Dotted and served upon each day and pleasured by me each night. Hundreds of ladies would kill for such a station as yours,” Aemond hummed, ignoring your cries and holding down your body as he placed a kiss on your navel and upwards towards your stomach. Inhaling deeply your scent that was mingled with his. “And why should I let you go? You’re rightfully and completely mine.” Aemond stated and took your heaving tit into his mouth, your whimpers growing louder as the taut bud was raw with attention from him each and every single night. 

You feel more tears stream from your eyes as your body is quick to succumb to pleasure even if your mind tries to resist it. “See how you respond to my touch… I would wager your cunt is aching for my attention, is it not, my lady?’’ The prince hummed and used his pointed nose to trace the apex of your neck, lips grazing your skin, and left a trail of blazing heat. You cried louder but your voice was useless as no one would dare to come to your aid. You feel the prince’s hand trail your thigh, inching dangerously close to your aching core that wept and longed for his touch— going against sensibilities as your cunt was as depraved as the prince’s cock. “Stop— please, I beg you, my prince,” You cried as you thrashed in his hold. Your legs were free from any restraints, and you tried to kick away the lithe yet solid figure of the prince regent, but he was unmovable. 

“Beg louder, my lady; it only makes me want to ravish you more,” He smirked against your lips. Enjoying the further horror in your eyes as you realize that your desperate state was serving as an amusement for the cruel prince. Aemond was playing with you, and never had he found such pleasure in a toy before. You were the prince’s plaything— his doll— his whore. You abruptly stopped your thrashing movements and ceased the desperate pleas leaving your lips, hoping that your silence and stillness would not entice the prince, but it was moot. Whatever it is you do, the prince could not cease himself from needing you. 

Aemond smirked as you quietly stared up at him wide-eyed. He hummed as his hand cupped your cunt, your wetness coating his fingers and palm. “See, you want me as well, my lady. Stop denying it— do you not find it exhausting as you constantly deprive yourself of the pleasure of being completely mine?” He hummed as he circled your sore nubbin. You bit your lip as you were determined not to give him any indication of satisfaction in you, but it was useless as the sound of your arousal echoed through the chambers. “Submit to me— admit that you are mine, and both of us could cease this tiring game,” Aemond sighed as he slipped a finger into your core, your cunt readily clenching around the digit. 

He waited on bated breath as he memorized each movement and reluctant sound that left your plush lips. Continuing to deny yourself pleasure. In a way, it was frustrating for the prince, even if he did find amusement in your resistance. All he wanted was for you to submit— to admit that each part of you belonged to him. Your back arched as your fingers clasped tightly around the cloth that bound them, “Do you wish to come, my lady?” He taunted as he felt your cunt spasming around his fingers. You cried in pleasure but made no reply. “If you wish for release, you know what you must do.” Aemond slowed his pleasurable actions as he saw your eyes roll back in utter satisfaction that you were stubborn enough to deny. 

Aemond used his other hand to grasp your tit, pinching the pebbled flesh, and felt you squirm in search of release. “Say that you are mine, and all that you want shall be yours, my lady.” Aemond hummed as he savored the feel of your skin. You let out a frustrated cry and pulled at your restraints. A moment passed and you still did not give a response. Prince Aemond sighed, removing his fingers from your cunt, and took off his hold on your tit. You whimpered at the loss of sensation of his calloused and cruel touch. “Very well then,” he gritted as his cock painfully throbbed in his trousers. He stood and moved to exit the chambers, denying the both of you release. 

As you watched the departing figure of the prince, your mind admitted defeat and forged any ounce of self-respect and dignity. “I… I’m yours!” You cried in indignation. The prince halted at his steps as he heard the words perfectly clear but still taunted you and made you repeat your submission to him. “I’m yours, my prince. I’m yours to do with as you please,” Your pride stung as the words left your lips, but nothing could compare to the ache in your cunt. “Yes, you are,” Aemond smirked and slowly made his way back to you to relieve you of your desperation. 

You stared upon the ceiling as the prince’s face was burrowed in your neck. Prince Aemond was sleeping soundly, his arms around your frame and caging you in—determined not to let you go, not even in sleep. You feel yourself recoil upon your decision— your submission in exchange for fleeting moments of pleasure. It was not as if you had much of a choice. You could not live freely nor die with dignity— you had not a choice but to succumb to the prince and admit your station as his whore, and perhaps, in time, you could earn a sliver of his trust and when the time comes, flee and live all of this behind. 

You barely slept that night, and when the prince woke, he was surprised to see that you were still deep in slumber. Usually, you would be the first to wake. Aemond brushed away a lock of your hair and placed tender and soft kisses upon your bare shoulder. His touch was feather light as he had no wish to wake you.

The prince offered you much-needed respite, and when you woke, it was midday. A servant glowering down at you in unmasked animosity as she held up your silk robe given to you by the prince. You stayed silent as it was growing harder to ignore the distaste held against by those employed by the prince. “Your bath is ready, m’lady,” she basically spat, and you followed her to the wet room. You shivered as the water was not at all warm, but you bit back your tongue as you did not wish to complain and give them further ammunition to dislike you. You had heard them gossiping the other day, complaining as to why they must serve you as well when you were merely the prince’s whore. You had wished to confront them— implore them to believe that you found no joy in your station and, in truth, you would rather be a scullery maid or a kitchen wench rather than be tasked to warm the prince’s bed. 

You took in a deep breath as they poured piercing cold water atop your head and roughly cleansed you. They were disregarding any pain or soreness that you harbored, not at all minding the bruises left by the prince as he had his way with you. Your teeth chattered, and you felt tears prickling your eyes, yet you still bore it all. You took in a deep breath as they poured water onto you once more, the cold water making it harder for you to breathe; you had barely recovered nor took another breath as they did the action once more, and again for a third time. You felt like drowning as the two servants were relentless in pouring water atop your head, disguising their hostility towards you in the act of cleansing. 

You feel your lungs tighten and your vision further blurry as you wave your hand for them to hinder their actions, but they ignore you. “Enough!” The prince roared, none of you aware that he was standing by the doorframe of the wet room, observing as they bathed you. “Can you not see your lady cannot breathe!” He roared as he noticed the scarlet on your chest and face as a consequence of your lack of air. He stood by the tub you sat upon in an instant, his angered face severing as he realized they bathed you with icy water that did nothing to calm your nerves or the ache in your body. You sat quietly with your head downturned towards the water as Prince Aemond seethed at the servants for their treatment of you. You did not know if you should hinder him from scolding the maids or thank him for defending you as you were silently being mistreated by the help. 

Aemond furiously brushed away the maids and knelt by the tub you sat upon, your frame shivering and your gaze cast downwards. “How long?” He gritted as he cupped your cheek, feeling the coldness of your skin. He moved to retrieve your robe, assisted you to stand, and guided you to the warmth of the hearth. “How long?” He asked once more, and you knitted your brows. “How long what, my prince?” You feigned cluelessness. “Do not act simple with me, my lady. How long have they been mistreating you?” You bit your tongue at the irony the prince presented. Accusing his help of maltreatment when he had kept you in his room and presence against your will. 

“They do no such thing—they… they do their duties,” you say, fearing that if you told the whole truth, the prince would act rashly and lead the servants to resent you further. “Do not lie; that is unbecoming of a lady,” Aemond gritted, and you shook your head. “I am no lady now… I am merely your whore. And they question as to why must they tend to the needs of a girl who is a servant as well.” You gritted, a surge of bravery coursing through your veins as the words rolled effortlessly off your tongue.

Aemond gritted his jaw as your eyes urged him for an explanation that he had none. “You are a highborn lady— how dare you even complain when I have made your stay here comfortable? What ingrate you are!” Aemond spat, and you shook your head, “I am your prisoner, my prince,” You said quietly. Your breath hitched as the prince grabbed your face in his rough hand and made you turn to him. “Prisoner or not, you are still a lady— a lady who has the blood of Old Valyria running through her veins. Mere servants will not question my orders— if I tell them to tend and serve you, they will do so with no complaints.” You held back your tongue, instead focusing on warming yourself further. 

You peeked through your lashes and saw as the prince observed you. You tried to ignore his presence, but it was a task that was impossible. You chewed on your lips and sighed, “I… I thank you for your concern, but it has no place to be bestowed on a person in my station.” You muttered, still having an announce of cordiality as the prince did show an ounce of kindness even though he took advantage of his power. “You are still a lady— my actions are not brought out of kindness but rather the truth of your station.” You frowned, still disagreeing. He kept on insisting that you were still a lady, but that title was stripped from you the moment the prince burrowed himself in your cunt. 

You stayed silent and returned to look upon the fire. The prince sighed and stood, moving to return to his duties for the day. “Could I make a request?” You suddenly asked before he could leave. Aemond paused by the door. “Could I at least right to my father? To inform him that I am live— it need not say where I am and what I had become… but I just want him to know that I still live.” You pleaded, widening your eyes in a plea. The prince did not speak. “Very well. I will write and send the letter myself— but you have my word; your father will know that you still live.”

You breathed heavily as your hips rolled against the prince. You atop of him with his cock buried deep inside your cunny as you both sought out pleasure. Aemond smirked as you tilted your head back, your body rocking against his and your cunt clenching tightly as a telltale sign that you were about to come. He reached to take hold of your tits, squeezing the soft flesh tightly, and the harshness only brought you further pleasure.  

“See how well you take me, my lady? Look at how pleased you are… why have you been so stubborn when you know that this is your rightful place? With my cock deep inside your cunt?” Aemond breathed out; his own climax was fast coming. You only replied with a moan, taking hold of his hands that held your bosom to implore him to keep his hold there. Aemond thrusted against you desperately, “Who do you belong to?” Aemond questioned, only one answer he would accept. You could not comprehend his words, too blinded by the way the prince’s cock was hitting the spot in your cunt that made you lose all your sensibilities. “Who. Do. You. Belong. To?” Aemond gritted, and each word ended with a deep thrust that finally made you hear his question. 

You leaned forward with a desperate cry, “Y… yours. I’m yours, my prince.” Aemond moved his hands to cup your behind and aid your frenzied movements. “Good,” he muttered before kissing your lips as you and him found release. As the haze of your brazen fucking had settled, the prince rested in your arms, him playing with your fingers as you two began to rest for the night.  

“Had you written to my father?” You asked delicately, not wanting to agitate or anger the prince. Aemond hummed, placing soft kisses on your fingertips. “I have.” He confirmed. “May I ask what you had written?” You questioned. Aemond breathed in deeply your scent before he spoke. “I had told him you are alive… that you are still here in Westeros… and you had denounced your allegiance towards my half-sister.” Your eyes widened, not expecting the prince to tell your father such things. “What?” You asked in dread. 

Prince Aemond’s touch moved from your fingers to your face, cupping your heated cheeks. “And I informed him of your station here as well.” You felt like you could faint, the color in your face draining except the flush on your cheeks. “You told him I was your whore?” You questioned meekly. Aemond smirked, his face threading closer to yours. “I told him you were mine.” You could not respond because the prince had claimed your lips as he had claimed each inch of you. 

Tag List: peachysunrize gelacat0413 maidmerrymint aemondwhoresworld fireydragonblood anukulee spacexdrago amanda08319 seamaiden aylasrants blackswxnn dracaryxzs trashpackbitch tomie-it-girl mamawiggers1980 chaosluvr deine-schatz

[laventadorn]

Part 1/2 I was wondering if you had any ideas/headcanons wrt Eileen/Tobias? JK doesn't really go into how they met, but given the little info he gives us its pretty clear the type of marriage they had. But, I was wondering why Tobias acted the way he did. Not that he needs a reason, but I love backstories. Do u have one for the Snapes? Personally, I sawa bit of parallel with how Seamus described how his muggle dad didn't know his mom was a which until after the wedding. I can sort of see...

I wrote one for my first HP fic, in fact! Heavily influenced by Jane Austen lmao

I would change some aspects of this now, but this was the version I dug up from my Ancient Writings: 

(readmore, y u no work)

Eileen’s parents’ marriage was arranged, as many pure-blood marriages are. The Princes were a very old, distinguished line, but impoverished, while her mother’s family was relatively new, in a pure-blood sense, but wealthy. Her parents set up the marriage with Mr. Prince, who was rather older than their daughter, but she agreed to it. However, within a short time she was unhappy, since her husband, raised to frugality, was rather miserly and she was spendthrift; and being younger, she wanted to do a great many things that it was not in his temperament to agree to. When Eileen was about five or six, her mother ran away, abandoning her child and her marriage, eloping to Europe with a lover. Her husband was so humiliated and enraged that he forbade anyone in the household to speak her name ever again. He destroyed all evidence of her existence in the house—the possessions she had left behind, the paintings they’d had commissioned, even renouncing her personal house-elf. Even when he learned, three years later, that she’d died in conditions of poverty and hardship, it didn’t soften him toward her; instead, he only believed she had got what she deserved.

When Eileen was seven, he remarried, this time to a widow, one of the Blacks, who had endured a childless marriage of some fifteen years until her husband was killed rather stupidly trying to learn how to ride a dragon. She had no wealth, but Mr. Prince still had his wife’s fortune, and Mrs. Black’s impeccable bloodline meant more to him in any case. She and Mr. Prince were rather meant for each other, however: both were nip-farthings, both joyless and cruel, and both rigidly traditional. They believed in duty, propriety, and unstinting obedience from their children. 

Mrs. Black, now Mrs. Prince, thought worse of the former Mrs. Prince than even her husband did. To her, a woman’s infidelity was the worst of vile sins, and she pitied her new husband for having married such a filthy whore. She was sorry that the former Mrs. Prince had left behind a little girl, since naturally the daughter of such a whore would turn out just like her. 

But Mrs. Prince was determined to do her duty by Eileen. She raised her to be a proper pure-blood wife—dutiful, obedient, graceful and silent. She beat into her the importance of propriety, telling Eileen how vital it was that she give no one any cause to say how like her mother she was, however much she would surely have the same sort of base, wicked urges as that slut. She also impressed upon Eileen the necessity of marrying into a pure-blood family of stature, since her mother was a fine example of the rubbish that rose to the surface of bad blood.

Within a few short years, the new Mrs. Prince had rewarded her second husband with twin sons. These boys had the benefit firstly of being boys, always a plus in pure-blood families, as well as the added bonus of not having a piece of trash for a mother. The practice of favoring the sons over the daughters was standard in pure-blood families, but the sins of Eileen’s mother worsened her lot. Nothing Eileen ever did was right enough or good enough or proper enough in the eyes of her family; and at school she had no friends, since the pure-blood daughters of Slytherin were fully aware of her mother’s story and had been forbidden from associating with her. Eileen was not pretty, and her home life was too miserable to make her good enough company to compensate for her other defects. Her father pretended she did not exist, her brothers teased and tormented her, and her stepmother ruled her whole life with a fist of iron. 

Eileen retreated into her schoolwork, into books and knowledge. In second year she did make one friend, a Ravenclaw named Constance Marlowe. Constance was a very tranquil person. Her mother was Muggle-born, and she would tell Eileen about her Muggle grandparents. Eileen had never met Muggles. Her father and stepfather loathed them, but they loathed Eileen, too, and loved her brothers and the pure-blood families who treated Eileen as if their cruelty was simply preempting every nasty thing they suspected she would ever do. 

Then in fifth year, while visiting the sea shore on summer holiday, Constance drowned. Eileen went to her funeral, to which many of Constance’s Muggle relatives had come. They looked like regular people, although they dressed funny. After that, Eileen hated the ocean, but realized that Muggles were capable of human thought and speech, which her family had always led her to believe they weren’t.

When school ended, she returned to live at her father’s house, since pure-blood women of her family’s stature did not get jobs; they got married. But with Eileen’s reputation, her looks, and her father’s desire to spend as little money on her dowry as possible, she received no offers. Her blood was not even decent enough, balanced as it was by her mother’s betrayal. So for more than ten years, Eileen lived in her father’s home, a companion to her stepmother, an object of mockery to her brothers and the children they went on to have.

By the time she was thirty, everyone, even she, was certain she would never marry. Her stepmother even came to relax her restrictions, since she had kept Eileen wrapped so tightly out of a duty to maidenly propriety. A thin, unattractive thirty-year-old witch was not likely to be prey to any lascivious attentions or whims. Uncaring now of the reputation she had so viciously guarded, Mrs. Prince let Eileen out of the house for longer periods of time … although she might not have, had she known Eileen was visiting Muggle haunts.

On one of these jaunts, when she was about thirty-one, Eileen met Tobias. She had gone, in fact, to the seaside town where Constance drowned, perhaps out of a morbid desire to torture herself. He was there, too, trying to get away from his life for a bit, since he’d just gotten divorced. 

He had married young when his girlfriend got pregnant unexpectedly. He’d done his duty by her, quitting school and going to work at the mill, but a few months before the day he met Eileen, his wife had sat him down and said she’d fallen in love with some other bloke, but she wanted to do right by Tobias because he’d always done right by her. She and he weren’t in love, hadn’t been since the very early days, even if they’d rubbed along together easily enough, and he said as long as he could keep seeing his girl, they’d be all right. So they divorced amicably, and she married the other bloke, who was a bit older and balding and sort of fat, but a jolly sort, which Tobias had to admit he was not. Lorraine’s new husband looked a bit like Santa Claus to Tobias, and he knew his daughter would like her step-father, if she didn’t already. And although as a young man he’d agreed to the marriage of necessity and had never really been bitter about it, happy enough with his wife and daughter for company, he had wanted more from his life than he’d wound up with at thirty-five: divorced, uneducated, in a dreary, pointless job.

As she was talking with him, Eileen realized she wanted more than anything to get away from her family. She realized how purely she hated them, as if the hatred ran through her blood. She decided to scandalize them utterly: packed up her marriage chest and ran away, to live with Tobias without marrying him, hoping to drive her father and step-mother both to an apoplectic fit, but at least one or the other if she could manage it. 

So she and Tobias simply lived together for a while, until Eileen got pregnant. She had been guarding against this, but the magical world had an old wives’ tale that wizarding babies wanted to be born so badly that sometimes, you couldn’t stop them. When she told Tobias, he wanted to get married, and although she didn’t really, she didn’t want her child to suffer the ignominy of being the bastard of a whore. So they were married, very quietly, only Tobias’ ex-wife in attendance with her family. Not wanting to give birth to a daughter that would live the life she’d had, Eileen mixed a very Dark potion to ensure the birth of a son.

So Severus was born. She put an ad in the Daily Prophet, hoping her family would see it, in case it would give them an aneurism. 

Before Severus was born, but when she was close to due, Tobias asked her if the baby would have magic. Eileen said, “It is likely, but he may not.”

“What happens if he doesn’t?” Tobias asked.

Eileen shrugged. “Then he doesn’t.” She wanted her son to be a wizard, but she was no longer in the magical world; a Squib child would not matter to her now. She had brothers; she was not even the end of the line. 

It was impossible to tell if babies had magic, so for several years after Severus’ birth it was a moot issue. Eileen continued to work spells, because Tobias said he didn’t mind, he actually thought it was pretty interesting. And then one day when Severus was about four or five, he worked magic, and out of nowhere Tobias blew up at the pair of them. Eileen was so shocked she actually flinched away, because although she knew Tobias had a temper, he’d never turned it on her. Severus burst into tears. And then Eileen pulled herself together and reacted, rage and hatred boiling up out of her through her wand, and she turned it on her husband, the way she’d always wanted to do to her brothers, her father, her step-mother, the children at school, and she blasted him across the room and into the bookshelf.

Severus screamed. Eileen stood frozen, looking at Tobias’ unconscious body slumped under an array of books. She blasted them off him and found he was bleeding from cuts all over his front. She hastily flooed them all to St. Mungo’s, where he was swiftly patched up. Although the Healers gave her funny looks, they did nothing to her because she was a witch and he was only a Muggle, and there weren’t legal protections in those days for the Muggle spouses of wizards and witches.

Tobias wasn’t the same after that. Eileen didn’t know whether it was the shock of her turning her magic on him, or Severus’ own magic manifesting, or even the trip to St. Mungo’s, because his face as he looked around the hospital as they left had been haunted. After that, he began to drink more. Although he’d always had a few on the weekends and even more on holidays, he was soon never seen without a drink in his hand or the scent of alcohol on his breath. He wouldn’t tell Eileen what was wrong, and it was impossible to get anything from the mind of a drunk person; even trying it made one disoriented. 

She expected him to leave them; expected to wake up one morning and find him gone, but for some reason he never did. They settled into a life where Tobias would go for days avoiding her and Severus, hardly speaking to them when sober, muttering when inebriated, with occasional outbursts of temper that Eileen would sometimes curtail, but at others simply weather out. As a young child Severus was at first frightened, then hurt, and once he grew older, resentful.

Once, when Severus was about seven, she did wake up in the middle of the night and find Tobias in Severus’ room, watching him sleep. Tobias was just drunk enough to be honest. He looked up at her with haunted eyes and said, “Do you hate that I can’t do it?”

“Do what?” she asked, bewildered.

“What you can do. What he can do. Do you hate me because I can’t?”

Eileen just stared at him. “Is that why you act like this?” He didn’t say anything, just looked back at Severus. “No, I don’t hate you. That would be like hating the sky because it’s blue.”

When he spoke, she almost didn’t hear him. “Sometimes I hate you, though. Both of you.”

It took Eileen much longer than it should have to understand what Tobias was really telling her: that he hated them for being able to do something he never would. He hated them for having the power of magic when he was only a Muggle. That look on his face in St. Mungo’s had been shock at an entire world he’d never guessed existed; and now that he knew of it, he also knew he would only ever be on the outside looking in.

But she had not understood this in time. She resented his drinking; he resented her powers; they resented each other’s resentment. And at the heart of it, they came to hate the other for a second chance that had turned to ash, just as the first chance had. 

Eventually Eileen realized that the same barrier that stood between her and Tobias had blocked him off from Severus, and she simply quit trying to bridge it. She drew Severus into the circle of her magic, eschewing any acknowledgment of the non-magical world he was half a part of. She had always meant Tobias to show him that part, and now Tobias would not. She taught Severus about his magical bloodline, the House of their family’s allegiance, the world he would enter once he was old enough, the powers he would wield. Although she punished him if he looked in her books without her permission, she taught him hexes and curses and spells that would get him respected among his Slytherin peers, that would receive him the notice of families he would need to impress in order to gain entrance into the society that should have been his—both of theirs, had her life gone much differently. She raised him more as she had been raised, in a manner typical for pure-blood daughters: with strictness and not much indulgence, because she’d loathed the men her brothers had become, alternately indulged and ruthlessly punished as they had been, as the beloved sons of two cruel, cold-hearted people. 

In teaching Severus about the world she had left, sending him off into the future he ought to have, Eileen realized she had never been happy in the world of magic. She had known the truth of that, lived it all her life, but never articulated it to herself. But she was not happy in the Muggle world, either; she did not understand it, couldn’t navigate it. It was too vast and unfamiliar for her even to know where to start. As she prepared Severus for Hogwarts, Eileen realized the only time she had been anything close to happy was in that seaside town when she had met Tobias, and she had believed, for a handful of days, that the future would be different from the past.

But it hadn’t been. Now Tobias was gone, and only Severus was left. And even though she had tried her hardest to make it otherwise, she realized that Severus was just as out-of-place as she had ever been; she, the daughter of a whore, the pure-blood wife of a Muggle with a wizard for a son. Severus was the child of two people whose lives had been wasted for them by others; sent as hardly more than a baby into the world of pure-blood politics with such a tiny arsenal of anything they would see as promise, in love with a naïve Muggle-born Gryffindor. If Severus wanted the Muggle-born, he would cut all his chances of entering good society; and if he got the Muggle-born, he would find himself in the midst of people who regarded his magic with jealousy and suspicion.

That was the true curse of the half-blood, she thought. You were always trapped between worlds that didn’t know how to claim you.

.

.

.

*Snape doesn’t have those uncles anymore cuz they died off somehow, and he doesn’t have contact with his dad’s first family. He doesn’t strike me as someone who has a large extended family he pals around with, although I’m sure they exist. I have 1 jillion cousins I know absolutely nothing about, not even their names.  

[lykegenia]

The Things We Hide Ch. 24

Chapter 1 on AO3 This chapter on AO3 Masterpost here

The arrival of the Kyoshi Warriors at the Northern Air Temple caused a stir long before they crested the path mounted on a flock of dusty, footsore ostrich-horses. Fresh from victory in the southern Earth Kingdom, they brought a sense of hope with them that the rebellion was finally gaining ground against Ozai, but it mingled with the same weariness that was starting to infect the rest of the troops, because only three of them made up the party - the rest were still mired in the countryside, fighting, and could not be spared. That even three came told the guards watching them ride into the courtyard that something was going on, some new plan that might see the end of the war. Just as well. There were rumours that the Water Tribe was readying itself to pull its forces, to better consolidate their defences and prepare for the Fire Nation’s inevitable spring offensive. 

 Sokka waited in front of the main doors to greet the three warriors as they arrived, arrayed in the ceremonial armour that marked his rank as the General of the Third Fleet, and betraying the air of solemnity he was trying for by bouncing impatiently on the balls of his feet. 

“Suki!” he cried when the Kyoshi leader dismounted and he could no longer contain himself. He rushed forward and gathered her into a hug. She returned it, squeezing so hard his lungs constricted, even under all the layers of padding. 

“Hello you,” she murmured into his shoulder. “It’s good to see you.” 

“Likewise.” He cleared his throat and pulled out of the embrace, squashing down all the feelings trying to spill from his mouth. ”Commander, on behalf of Grand Master Iroh, welcome to the Northern Air Temple. Once you’ve rested, he would like to see you as soon as possible.” 

Suki nodded. “Of course, General.” 

“This way.” 

He glanced at her sidelong as he led the way through the now-familiar corridors of the temple, with her two fellow warriors following at a polite distance. She limped, and favoured her left side, and beneath the perfect lines of her warpaint a slight pinch at the corner of her mouth betrayed her otherwise calm expression. He would have to ask Katara to check in on her later for some healing. 

“How are things?” he ventured when the silence stretched too far for his liking. 

“Terrible.” She grimaced. “The Fire Nation commander started using prisoners as battle fodder. She has their families working in factories under guard, with the threat that they’ll be killed if their loved ones don’t fight. The royal forces are almost as bad. The requisition gangs sent into the countryside are little more than bandits – they take everything from the peasants, and we spend half our time trying to stop them. If something isn’t done soon there won’t be anything left to fight over.” 

“I’m sure there’s a plan,” Sokka reassured. “The grand master knows none of us can hold out much longer.” 

“How are your people?” Suki asked. 

“They know how to survive on the ice, even without waterbenders, but many won’t make it, and when the spring comes they’ll have no defence against the Fire Navy. This is you,” he added, as they stopped outside an ornately painted archway. “You’ve got bedrooms and a living area, and you’re free to go anywhere in the compound. If you get lost there’s always someone to ask for directions.” 

Suki nodded to her warriors to send them ahead, but hung back, rubbing at a knot in her shoulder. “I should go straight to the grand master, get everything straightened out.” 

“No you don’t,” Sokka replied. He stretched his hand out for her arm. “We’ve waited this long for a plan, we can wait another hour for you to catch your breath.” 

For an instant, Suki looked like she would argue, but then her shoulders slumped and she huffed a sigh that ended in a tired chuckle. ”And when did you become so serious, General?” she asked. 

Startled by the sudden teasing lilt in her voice, Sokka rubbed his hand along the back of his neck. “Well, uh...” 

“And come to think of it, when is it the duty of a general to escort visitors to their rooms?” 

“Maybe I just wanted an excuse to talk to you,” he replied, smirking. “And I wanted to ask you... uh, do you want to do something later? I have something to talk to you about.” 

“Alright, mystery man,” came the reply. Stifling a giggle, she leaned up on tiptoe and pressed a brief kiss against his lips, then smiled wider at the impression of red paint left behind. “I’ll see you after the debrief. 

With a final wave, she retreated into the apartment, leaving Sokka standing in the corridor, face split in a broad, slightly dazed smile. He fumbled in a fold of his tunic and pulled out a small disc attached by tiny threads to a band of woven leather dyed black with maple acorns. The colour might not be traditional, but the images on the betrothal necklace, carved around the tooth of a vanquished unagi, illustrated stories as old as the ice – he had whittled what felt like half a forest trying to get them right – and when he presented it to Suki later he hoped she’d stick around long enough to let him tell her what they meant. He had duties to see to before then, things to distract him from over-worrying about the details of his plan, so he wound the leather cord around the tooth and tucked it away again, already turning his mind to the next problem of his day. 

Zuko stepped out into his path. 

“Gah!” 

The fire prince’s scowl, impressive as it already was, deepened. In the past few days, the healers taking care of his face had declared the wound healed enough to take off the bandage, and the exposed scar, wrinkled and puckered with livid pink flesh, gave him a foreboding, uneven appearance. He had been allowed free rein around the temple by the grand master – some complicated family relation Katara had only half managed to explain – but other than Aang and Haru, nobody had made any particular effort to be friendly. He hadn’t tried very hard to be friendly back, either. 

“Do you mind not sneaking up on people?” Sokka demanded now, as the prince’s arms folded across his chest. “Spirits, I know you’re Fire Nation, but there’s no way you’re being this creepy by accident.” 

Zuko’s lips thinned. “I didn’t know the Southern Water Tribe was polygamous.” 

“What are you talking about?” 

“Maybe it’s just you, then,” the prince pressed. “How many women are you stringing along?” 

“Keep your voice down,” Sokka snapped, with an uneasy glance towards the Kyoshi warriors’ quarters. “And I’ll repeat – what are you talking about? I’m not stringing Suki along.” 

“I’m not talking about her.” 

“Now I’m completely lost.” 

“Katara,” the prince ground out. “She cares about you.” 

Still confused, Sokka shook his head. “Well of course she does,” he tried. “I mean, I know I used to put seaweed in her hair but I’m sure she’s forgiven me for...” 

The pieces clicked. He burst out laughing. 

“I wouldn’t say this was funny,” Zuko growled, drawing himself up. “It’s dishonourable to toy with her feelings –” 

“I’m not –” Sokka wheezed. “I’m definitely not – ew.” He held up a placating hand, doubling over to catch his breath. “Dude, katara is my sister.” 

“Sister?” the prince repeated weakly. 

“I don’t know what it’s like where you’re from, with all those fancy nobles, but in the Water Tribe sibling relationships are not like that.” 

Zuko seemed to be barely listening. His gaze, so sharp before, softened as he turned his mind to this new puzzle. “She’s your sister...” 

The change in tone was not lost on Sokka. “Why do you care, anyway?” he asked, stepping closer. “From what I’ve seen you two pretty much hate each other.” 

“I don’t care,” came the snapped reply. “And if she’s your sister it’s a moot point anyway.” 

But Sokka noticed the uncomfortable shift of the prince’s shoulders, and the way his arms folded across his chest. He narrowed his eyes. “You know,” he ventured, “She’s never told me what happened while you were holding her hostage.” 

Zuko looked up sharply, as if to contradict the phrasing, but there was too much truth in it to be denied. 

“Sometimes she gets this look in her eye, like she misses it, but she never says anything.” 

“She was only there as a spy.” 

“Riiiiiight.” Sokka shrugged, and in a flash of compassion, pointed at the scar. “You know she can heal that, right? You should let her.” 

Zuko only glared at him as he turned and headed to find his lieutenant. 

“Master Katara, do you know who disfigured my nephew?” 

Iroh peered at the young waterbender over the rim of his teacup, his brown eyes sharp and clear despite the rheumy edge around his irises. It was not the first time the pair had spoken in confidence; they shared an appreciation of the arts, which was a rarity in such a remote part of the world, and though Katara might not admit it to anyone else, spending an hour or so with someone who did not hold the Fire Nation in complete contempt was an outlet she sorely needed. This, however, was the first time they had spoken since Zuko’s arrival.

“I can imagine who did it,” she growled. “But even I didn’t think he was capable of something that cruel.”

“Are you truly surprised?” Iroh asked. “After everything my brother has done, or has ordered done, what is one more victim?”

“But he’s his son!” She tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear and stared down into her cup. “I can understand him punishing Zuko for being the Blue Spirit, and spirits, even exiling him makes sense in a way, but that burn was deliberate, to the bone. I know he’s your brother but Ozai is a monster.”

Iroh hummed. “And this might be his final mistake.”

When Katara looked up, scowling at the idea that Zuko’s scar might be nothing more than a tactical advantage, he held up his hands to forestall the accusation. With a grunt, he rose from his seat and paced to the window, and looked out over the barren collection of pale spires and halls that had once housed an entire people. His joints creaked as he sighed.

“You must understand, the Fire Lord is a man who mistakes fear for respect. Where respect flourishes like a tree given care and allowed to grow, fear is like water boiling in a lidded pot that will eventually either spill over or be entirely consumed. People cannot live on fear, they get used to it, and so tyrants like my brother must escalate their actions again and again to maintain what they see as control.”

“But that only works so far,” she finished for him. “There’s a point where people won’t take anymore, and they’ll fight back.”

The old man nodded. “An equilibrium, where the consequences of not fighting are worse than the fear of punishment. By burning Zuko’s face, the Fire lord proved he is incapable of any mercy, and that will make them restless for a new voice.”

“You want Zuko to be that voice,” she guessed. “He won’t do it. He’s too hung up on regaining his honour – he thinks Ozai is right.”

“No, he doesn’t,” Iroh replied gently. “He has suffered greatly, and been thrown from everything he has ever known.”

Katara bit her lip, stifling the desire to argue; the old resentment was still there, the disgust drawn from the comparison between her own people, who had suffered so much, and the Fire Nation nobility laughing in a perfumed garden while they sent their soldiers to die for almost no reason at all. It no longer lanced so deeply, however. Her mind drifted back to those times Zuko had been kind, had shielded her from his sister, and had spared the war veteran punishment because she asked it of him. She had kissed him first during that thunderstorm because he had worried about her, and on that last terrible night he had unmasked himself because he refused to hide his true motives from her.

That part still left her confused, angry, wondering how differently the past few months might have gone if they had trusted just a little more and revealed themselves – would he have turned her over, or could they have found a way to work together and make things better for both their peoples? Not that it mattered now; Zuko hated her.

“If you’re hoping to turn him into some kind of rallying point to stand against his father, I don’t think he’ll be very cooperative,” she huffed. “You’ll have to come up with another plan.”

“No. You know as well as anyone, I think, that the best hope for lasting peace is to break the cycle of violence.” Shaking his head, he returned from the window. “If the Earth Kingdom or Water Tribe conquers the Fire Nation, then it will just be another invading army, another imbalance of power to be exploited. Even if I go, the world will see it as nothing more than a jealous struggle for the throne. Zuko, fighting alongside the avatar, is the only one who can overthrow Ozai without appearing self-interested.”

“Only if you can make him agree to do it.”

Iroh didn’t reply. He merely looked at her over the rim of his teacup, his gaze patient as an owl-fox, and her stomach sank into the floor as she realised just what he intended to do.