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agentstarkid · 4 days ago

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let me out, chief! i need to have a little chat with those rancid cheeto bitches for a sec 😤 if they so much as breath one stinky breath in her direction so help me God...

(eris i know you mean well bestie, i won't kick your ass yet mwah 💋)

i love how delulu her and azriel are 🤭 like “hehe we are gonna play house hehe but ih8u but not really, ilysm actually—what? who said that? pfffff fight me cuz that's how i show you my love�� 🤪 i mean i get it, they need time and this forced proximity is gonna do them wonders (one of my fave troops btw i always eat. it. upppp.) but i know something they don'ttttt 🤪🤪🤪🤭🤭🤭

CHAPTER SIX | TSOFAS.

pairing: azriel x reader.

word count: 4, 714.

author's note: we are officially in the autumn court now. the vanserras have intrigued me for a such a long time and getting to write about them is so fun because I have so much creative freedom to portray and explore their complicated family dynamics. all in all, the song inspo says it best: take what you want, take what you can, take what you please, don't give a damn, ask for forgiveness never permission; it's in the blood and this is tradition. hope you all enjoy x

♫ tradition - halsey. nav. series. moodboard.

The shadowsinger brooded in silence as the golden carriage brought him closer and closer to his doom.

Azriel was convinced that the Mother was playing a cruel joke on him. The punchline of which involved pretending to be betrothed to her, of all people. He had gone into this mission knowing that the odds were stacked against him as it were, but adding this ridiculous farce on top of everything else was enough to tip the shadowsinger over the edge.

Forget stealing the scepter. Convincing an entire court that he was engaged to a female who was hellbent on making him her sworn enemy would be the most challenging mission the spymaster had ever faced. Regardless, he was determined to approach the task like he would any other — with a clear head and a foolproof plan.

“I need you to tell me everything there is to know about the bride rite,” Azriel said. He hunched over, his dark wings barely fitting within the confines of the ridiculous ornate carriage he was currently crammed in.

“How do you expect me to sum up the most complex and deeply patriarchal practice of the Autumn Court before we reach the Forest House?”

Azriel bristled with annoyance. “Quickly and without complaint,” he said in a clipped tone. “Unless you want Beron to throw us out of his borders before we can even lay eyes on the scepter.”

The assassin scowled at him in return, but seemed to put aside whatever sarcastic remark she was dying to voice to summarize the bride rite. In essence, the tradition revolved around four events. A tea and luncheon hosted by the bride’s family, a tourney in honor of the engagement complete with joust and melee, a hunt that is meant to exhibit the groom’s ability to provide, and finally a betrothal ceremony held in the temple. The passage through the eternal flame, the assassin explained with a scoff, was a formal acknowledgement that the groom had deemed the bride worthy of marrying.

The shadowsinger listened intently, ignoring the tension in the assassin’s shoulders and the obvious fury simmering in her gaze. Azriel couldn’t be sure who she was most irate with at the moment. Eris, for springing this news on them. Rhys, for not informing them of the arrangement in the first place. Or Azriel himself, who had nothing to do with this disastrous turn of events yet still managed to bear the brunt of her wrath.

“We need a plan,” Azriel said when the assassin concluded.

“Did you hear any of what I just said?” she asked incredulously. “The rite is the oldest tradition of the Autumn Court and for whatever deranged reason, the nobles and common folk hold it in the highest regard, which means there is no room for error. They scrutinize every couple with brutal efficiency and swoop in like vultures at the first sign of suspicion. Real couples are put through the wringer and many do not make it to the altar before the end of the rite,” she sighed in resignation. “Face it, shadowsinger. This entire thing is a disaster waiting to happen.”

“Not if we come up with a compelling story.”

The assassin gave the shadowsinger a wide berth. “You’re not honestly suggesting that we go through with this?”

Azriel pursed his lips. “I have never backed out of a mission and I don’t plan on doing so today.”

“This is Beron we’re talking about. Stealing the scepter is one thing, but pulling this off would take nothing short of a miracle. Do you not think the High Lord will find it odd that we can barely tolerate each other’s presence?”

Azriel shrugged. “I’m a spymaster, you’re an assassin. We’re both experts in lying and deception. Surely we can pretend to be betrothed for a few weeks.”

The assassin crossed her arms, seemingly mulling the idea over. Azriel was well aware that he was grasping at straws, but it wasn’t like either one of you had much of a choice. You needed to gain access to the scepter and this was the only way Beron would continue to permit your presence in his borders. Not to mention, the bride rite bound the High Lord to abide by the law of hospitality, which meant that Beron couldn’t inflict any harm upon either one of you for the duration of your stay.

It was a cunning and calculated plan and it reeked of the High Lord’s plotting. Rhys had to have known how angry the assassin would be with him. The lengths his brother had gone through to ensure her safety sobered the shadowsinger. Promise me, Az, his brother had pleaded. Promise me that you’ll keep her safe.

“I’m going to kill Rhys,” she muttered under your breath.

“I’m sure Rhys had his reasons for keeping this from us.” As annoyed as Azriel might be, he knew Rhysand had good intentions. He just wished his brother filled him in on the plan beforehand. “Regardless, we’re here now and we need to find a way to get through it for the sake of retrieving the scepter.”

She sighed. “Right. What’s our great love story, then?”

“It’s best to keep it simple,” Azriel said, ever the pragmatist. “If we stick close to the truth, there’s a less likely chance that we’ll be caught in a lie.”

Azriel tapped his fingers against his knee, plots and schemes flashing through his mind. His shadows curled through his ear, whispering useful information. The memory of his first encounter with the assassin snagged his attention and he began to construct a plan with its foundation.

“We met at the House of Wind when you were visiting for Winter Solstice.”

“When I knocked you on your ass,” she added with a satisfied smile.

The shadowsinger fought the urge to roll his eyes. “You caught me off guard.” The smirk on the assassin’s lips agitated him all the more. “Despite the rather violent interaction, a spark formed between us.”

“So what?” she asked skeptically. “Beron is supposed to believe that I charmed my way into your leathers all those years ago and you only now decided to make an honest female out of me? It doesn’t sound very convincing.”

Azriel frowned. “If you would let me finish, then I’d gladly get to the point,” he responded testily. The corner of the assassin’s mouth twitched in amusement as she gestured for him to continue. “I didn’t pursue a romantic relationship because of the possible fallout it would cause with Rhys. You’re like a sister to him and he tends to be overprotective. But then Feyre freed us from Amarantha’s curse and when you returned home, I decided that I didn’t care any more. I pursued you, consequences be damned.”

The shadowsinger watched as she digested the information. Truth be told, it wasn’t a love story that would rival those novels that Nesta loved to read, but given the circumstances, it was the best Azriel could do. The two of them had enough history together that could potentially overshadow the sudden decision of the betrothal. No one outside of the Inner Circle knew of their rivalry, except Eris apparently.

Azriel tucked that information away for later. He’d have to deal with it eventually.

The assassin tapped her slender fingers against her chin, “You’re forgetting one crucial ingredient in any romance,” she said with a piercing gaze. Azriel raised a brow. He was fairly sure he’d covered the bases. “Chemistry. Devotion. Affection,” she listed rather sardonically.

“That’s more than one,” the shadowsinger couldn’t help but quip.

“Congratulations, you’re capable of basic arithmetic,” she shot back with derision. “The point is, people will expect passion from a betrothed couple and not the someone pissed in my soup expression that you so kindly bestow me with every chance you get.”

The shadowsinger crossed his arms. “I am capable of treating you with civility.”

“Very convincing,” the assassin said with a snort. “It’s going to take more than civility to persuade the court. There’s a certain type of closeness one expects from those romantically involved. If we’re to go through with this farce, we have to commit. We’ll have to appear to be intimate.”

Azriel’s eyes widened in alarm, which made her roll her eyes in exasperation.

“Don’t get your wings in a twist, shadowsinger. I’m not suggesting we have sex in front of the whole court. We just need to act as though we’ve at least seen each other naked, which might I add, your pervy little glimpse in my flat the other day should give you plenty of material to work with.”

At the mention of the incident, Azriel found his imagination drifting to those giant wings tattooed on her back. He could’ve sworn that they had moved, fluttering against her skin like real Illyrian wings, but she had slammed the door in his face before he could further investigate. Azriel was curious about the magic. That was the only reason why he had stared. At least that’s what he told himself.

The shadowsinger brushed the thought away. “Don’t flatter yourself, princess. I was merely admiring the tattoo.” His gaze met the assassin’s as he slid on a smirk that he knew would annoy her. “Besides, I don’t get a female naked unless I intend on finishing the job.”

As petulant as it was, satisfaction coursed through him as the assassin flushed and avoided his gaze. His smile spread even further when she cleared her throat, ignoring the comment altogether.

“Just try to appear as though being in the same vicinity doesn’t physically sicken you.”

It was Azriel’s turn to snort. “Easier said than done,” he muttered under his breath. If looks could kill, he’d currently be six feet under. “I’ll manage. One more thing. If we’re to parade around like some grotesque circus act, you’ll need this.”

The shadowsinger fished around in his pocket before producing an enormous sapphire ring with a silver band. It was only logical for the court to expect a ring and seeing as this was the only one he kept on his person at all times, Azriel presented it with as much nonchalance as he could muster.

How’s that for committing to the bit? he thought drily.

“Where in the Cauldron did you get that from and why are you just carrying it around?”

The ring had a rather complicated history. None of which Azriel was particularly keen on explaining to the assassin. In all honesty, she was the last female he ever thought he’d be presenting it to. Not that anyone else had come close.

He merely waved a hand in dismissal. “It doesn’t matter. For now, it’ll accomplish what it needs to.”

Azriel hesitated for a beat, his scarred fingers twitching at his side. There was a flash of recognition in the assassin’s eyes as she silently held out her left hand. He schooled his features into neutrality as he slipped the ring on. Curiosity danced in her gaze as she examined the enormous sapphire stone surrounded by a crown of sparkling diamonds. The ring fit perfectly on her finger.

A pregnant pause buoyed between them before Azriel quickly withdrew his hand. The assassin’s skin was smooth and silky underneath his calloused palm, but if she was bothered by his scars, she showed no indication. The shadowsinger wasn’t sure if that unnerved or comforted him.

“Remember, we’re madly in love.” Azriel said, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

“With this rock on my finger, I might even be inclined to be pleasant to you.”

The shadowsinger held back a grin. “You’ll have to do more than that, princess. I believe the words you used were chemistry, intimacy, and passion.”

The assassin rolled her eyes. “Like you said, easier said than done. Fortunately for you, I like a challenge.”

“I’d hardly call this fake betrothal a challenge. Weren’t you courted by a vampyr once?”

The mention of her past paramour piqued the assassin’s interest. Azriel wasn’t sure why he’d brought it up. Perhaps because it felt like another mismatched piece of the puzzle of her past. He remembered Serena bringing it up once, urging the assassin to invite the vampyr to Rita’s, but she dismissed the suggestion as though the idea of the male meeting her friends was absolutely absurd. She was notoriously guarded in regards to her personal life, even back then.

Love is a luxury most cannot afford, the assassin had said. Azriel wondered if he was about to uncover the reason for her cynicism during this homecoming.

“I forgot all about Nikolai,” she said, wrenching him out of his thoughts. “He wasn’t all that challenging though. At least he knew not to argue with me.” A pointed look his way. “In any case, I don’t see how my dalliance with the vampyr is relevant, unless you plan on feasting on my flesh.”

Payback for his earlier comment. She really never let anyone have the last word. “You’re incredibly crude, you know that?”

The assassin shrugged irreverently. “You brought it up. Besides, do you really think it’s a wise idea to dig up each other’s romantic histories?” Delight danced in her eyes as Azriel shot her a glare that would have withered the lush forest around them. “Let’s evaluate, shall we? We have a plausible story. A gorgeous ring. It’s time to establish some rules, as all fake relationships are wont to have.”

Azriel raised a brow. “You say that as though fake relationships are a norm.”

His companion sighed in exasperation. “It’s a very common trope,” she explained as though Azriel was the ridiculous one. “Haven’t you ever read a romance novel?”

The blank look he gave her was enough to answer. “Point taken. Anyways, all effective fake relationships abide by a set of rules, which begs the question. How comfortable are you with public displays of affection?” He winced, earning him a long suffering sigh. “A promising start. My people are known to be passionate. Hot blooded. They will likely suspect something is amiss if you flinch every time I come near you.”

“I know how to act affectionately,” Azriel said with a sharper edge to his voice than he intended. He took a deep breath, tried again. “I will play the part of head over heels, lovestruck idiot.” His mouth quirked. “Perhaps living in the same house as Cassian and Nesta will finally pay off. Either way, I’ll behave accordingly.”

“We won’t be sullying any dinner tables in the near future, but you seem to grasp the gist of it.” The double entendre did not escape his notice. “Though I imagine you’ve had ample opportunity to practice during this past lonely winter.”

“Not nearly as lonely as you think, princess.”

“Your hand doesn’t count, shadowsinger.”

“Then neither does straddling that lordling,” he said with a knowing glance. The assassin balked at the statement, narrowing her eyes. As unwise as it may be, Azriel enjoyed baiting her more than he should. “I’ve known you long enough to notice the pattern, Thorne. You never take lovers during an active mission. It’s been months since Rhys sent you to the Western Isles. Perhaps that’s why you’ve been a bit cagey lately.”

To his absolute amusement, the assassin’s face flushed with heat. “Now who’s being crude?”

“Deflecting only confirms my suspicions.”

Not to be outdone, she crossed her arms and huffed with indignation. “Who and when I fuck is none of your business.”

The grin on Azriel’s face grew wider. “Is that any way to talk to your future husband?

“Sleep with one eye open, shadowsinger.”

“With a fiance like you? I’d keep a dagger in bed, princess.”

The assassin retorted with a vulgar gesture just as the carriage shuddered to a stop. From the small window, the looming shape of the Forest House filled the landscape. Azriel thought he saw a trace of apprehension mar her expression.

“Just follow my lead and this godsawful plan may just work.”

The shadowsinger nodded emphatically. “Lead the way, my lady.”

In the twisted maze of the Forest House, you felt lost.

As the carriage rolled up to the behemoth structure looming above the jewel toned trees and rushing waterfall, Azriel stared in awe. There was a time when your younger self mirrored the shadowsinger’s astonishment, full of curiosity and excitement as you first walked through the house upon your first visit, but those days were long gone.

In the present, the high beams and curved archways jutting out from the steep hillside drew sinister shadows beneath your feet, illuminated by the torches lining the granite walls. The Forest House felt cold, empty. Devoid of the warmth that once colored your childhood. It was strange to think that the place you once called home now greeted you like a stranger. You didn’t take it personally. You never belonged here in the first place.

You didn’t belong anywhere.

Up ahead, Eris led the way through the portcullis. You walked in silence as the sentries marched into the fox’s den. Curious glances landed briefly at the sight of you and Azriel strolling side by side. The pairing definitely turned heads — the exiled priestess and the shadowsinger. Villains in their sight. You certainly looked the part in a scarlet corset dress that matched the fiery tone of your hair which trailed behind your back like ringlets of flame, covered by the cloak of the onyx hood that obscured your face.

In similar fashion, Azriel was clad head to toe in his Illyrian armor, the dark leathers accentuating his muscled form and embodying the threatening aura of one of the most feared warriors in Prythian. Those powerful wings of his flared slightly at the attention of the court dwellers, whose eyes widened in fear and shrunk back to let you pass.

At the center of the Forest House, the great hall glittered in all its opulence. The ceiling was enclosed by a glass dome that scattered shades of gold, ruby, and topaz across the polished surface of the mahogany floor. A scarlet carpet embroidered with golden leaves paved the way to the High Lord’s seat of power. Perched on the rosewood throne, the High Lord surveyed you with hateful eyes as you strode up to the dais. A golden wreath of leaves rested on his temple like a crown while his cold stare greeted you like a ghost from the past.

Eris stooped low, crossing his arm over his chest as a sign of respect. Beron gestured for his eldest son to rise. Your cousin took his place behind his father’s throne while the court herald ushered you forward.

“My lord, I present to you Lady Y/N Thorne and her betrothed, Azriel the Shadowsinger of the Night Court.”

As if on cue, you curtsied before the male. To your surprise, Azriel didn’t miss a beat and bowed gracefully as though he had been drilled with the same court etiquette lessons as you had when you were a child.

“My prodigal niece comes to return,” Beron greeted with a predatory smile. “I never thought I’d see the day that you’d haunt these walls again, Y/N.”

Beside him, three red haired males sneered with mild amusement. Your treacherous cousins. Avoiding their gazes, your focus turned upon their patriarch.

Beron Vanserra appeared as he always did — vain, cruel, and proud. His brown hair and rugged beard were peppered with a few white streaks, the only sign that he was well over five centuries old. You immediately noted the missing presence of your aunt, but didn’t dare inquire of her whereabouts. Perhaps the Mother granted you the small mercy of sparing you the pain of a public reunion.

“My lord, it is a pleasure to be welcomed into your court.”

The whispers that swept through the room made your palms itch for your blades. Courtiers and servants alike gaped at your presence as though the Cauldron itself spit you out at their feet. You could feel their stares directed at the bloodstone that hung around your neck rather than your temple. A reminder of your unfinished training.

A hush fell over the crowd as Beron raised his hand. “A court that you seem eager to return to, it seems. When Eris told me of your intent to visit, I was surprised to say the least. It’s been nearly three centuries since your absence.”

Three hundred and twenty seven, to be precise. But who was counting?

You plastered on a saccharine smile. “We were long overdue for a family reunion,” you cooed sweetly, leveling an icy stare at your kin. “I’m sure we have plenty to catch up on.”

The three males had the good sense to appear wary. Though they were unaware of the true extent of your power, your cousins knew enough to avoid getting on your bad side. The presence of Azriel beside you seemed to reinforce the threat you posed to this court should they give you reason to unleash your magic.

“Starting with your betrothal,” Beron said as he inclined his chin towards the shadowsinger. “An interesting match, given the stark difference in your stations.”

The snide comment made you bristle. You and Azriel may not get along, but the thinly veiled jab at his lack of noble parentage rubbed you the wrong way. Never mind that his cruel father was an Illyrian lord in his own right. In Beron’s eyes, illegitimate offspring were beneath the nobility he hailed from. Especially if the child wasn’t publicly acknowledged, just as you weren’t.

The rage you kept hidden away coursed through your veins, causing you to ball your hands into closed fists. Keeping a neutral expression was proving harder than you expected. Luckily, you were spared from having to respond as the male beside you spoke.

“I consider myself lucky to have caught my lady’s attention and even more so to be able to accompany her to the court she once called home.”

Azriel’s hand slipped to the middle of your back. A casual show of intimacy as though it were the most natural thing in the world. The anger clawing within you dissipated as Beron carefully surveyed you. The High Lord appeared to be assessing his next words carefully.

“Welcome to the Autumn Court,” he proclaimed with little warmth. “The law of hospitality binds me to be a gracious host, so long as the two of you remain gracious guests.”

Make one false move and you’re free game, the High Lord’s unspoken threat seemed to challenge.

The shadowsinger gave him a curt nod, meeting his gaze with the promise of violence. The two males stared at one another. Your uncle sizes up the Illyrian warrior, whose cold exterior gave nothing away. Blue siphons thrummed menacingly through Azriel’s armor and only then did Beron relent, remembering exactly what the seven stones contained. The well of power that surged through them.

“Very well then. Eris will escort you to your lodgings so you may have time to settle in. A carriage will be sent to bring you back to the House so you and your betrothed may join the rest of the court for the afternoon luncheon.”

Beron didn’t wait for a reply before rising from his throne and waving a hand in dismissal. The courtiers lingered, shooting curious glances your way before scurrying off to attend to whatever miserable business they had in the Forest House.

“Well, that went about as well as I thought.” Eris exclaimed with a grin.

His brothers peered over his shoulder, their scornful gazes burning holes through your skin. The middle one and the most cruel out of Beron’s sons, sneered in disgust, but stopped short at the reprimanding glare of his eldest brother. With a single foreboding glance, the three males retreated into the main hall. At least your cousin seemed to be in control of his siblings.

“Let’s take the long way, shall we?” He announced, nodding towards the opposite corridor.

You could feel your body freezing up at the thought of walking through these horrid halls once again, but you forced yourself to take one step after the other. Azriel discretely glanced at you, hazel eyes flickering with some unknown emotion.

The walk through your former home dredged up a mixture of good and bad memories. Eris led you to the uppermost level where the atrium enclosing the indoor garden revealed a stunning view of the cloudless sky. Sunlight streamed in through the stained glass, coloring the marble fountain with the brilliance of polished jewels. This place had once been your safehaven and many days were spent lounging by that same fountain with Eris and Lucien, all three of you hiding from your governess and her overzealousness. Back when you were still allowed to sit in on your cousin’s lessons.

Two figures sat side by side under the shade of the enormous oak tree now, straightening when they sensed your presence. Alyanna’s daughters, Fallon and Astor, greeted your approaching party with low curtsies. The fair haired twins were dressed in fine clothing and appeared healthy, but the pallid coloring and blue tint under their eyes told you enough. Being away from home was eating away at them.

“Lady Thorne, please forgive us for our absence during your arrival,” Fallon said. The taller one of the twins inclined her head with an apologetic expression.

“There’s nothing to forgive,” you replied with a warm smile, kissing each of them on the cheek in customary greeting. “I’m only sorry that I didn’t visit sooner. Look at you two, I’m sure the males of this court are eating right out of your hands.”

The twins blushed, their bright cerulean eyes twinkling with delight. “Everyone has been very accommodating, especially Lord Eris.”

“Now, now, I thought we had an understanding,” Eris drawled smoothly. “I was under the impression that we’ve moved past the presumptuous titles, have we not?”

Fallon flushed. You forgot how easily Eris wielded his charm. It was as sharp and dangerous as any sword. “We have, Eris.”

You raised a brow at your cousin, but refrained from commenting. The younger of the sisters fawned over the sapphire stone adorning your ring finger. The jewel reflected the sunlight streaming through the marble pillars, nearly blinding you with its brilliance.

Astor glanced shyly at Azriel. “Congratulations on your betrothal.”

The Illyrian warrior curtsied gracefully and you could have sworn that the priestesses sighed in appreciation.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you both.”

Fallon suppressed a giggle, but straightened at the sight of a High Fae female beckoning them over. You didn’t miss the way Astor’s smile faltered.

“My sister and I must return to our lessons, but we hope to see you again.”

The twins enveloped you into a hug while Fallon not so discreetly whispered, “Handsome and well-mannered. You did well, Y/N.”

The grin that tugged at Azriel’s lips told you that he heard every word. After bidding the twins goodbye, you turned your attention towards Eris.

“Who was that?”

“Ismilda. One hell of a female. She makes our old governess seem like a saint in comparison, but she is under my employ. As long as the twins are with her, no one will deign to trouble them.”

You frowned. “See to it that Ismilda provides them chrysanthemum tea in the evening. The twins don’t appear to be sleeping well.”

Eris nodded, his gaze flickering to the corridor beyond as though he was assessing why he’d missed a sign that you so clearly picked up on from a single interaction.

“I meant what I said before,” your cousin added. “No harm will come to them in this court.”

A surge of emotions coursed through you. Anger coated your tongue, leaving a bile taste in your mouth, but disappointment weighed even heavier than the simmering rage. The words Eris casually tossed around sounded too familiar for comfort.

“Do not make promises you can’t keep, Eris.”

The red haired male opened his mouth, but you cut him off before he had the chance to speak. “I remember the way back to the carriage.”

With the curt dismissal, you left Eris standing in the atrium. Hot on your heels, Azriel remained silent while he followed you through the lower levels of the Forest House.

For once, the shadowsinger was smart enough to stay silent.

₊˚⊹♡ thank you for reading. as always, reblogs, replies, and tags are appreciated. feel free to drop an ask too — i’d love to yap & chat with you all.

taglist: @fuckingsimp4azriel @onebadassunicorn-blog @acourtofbatboydreams @marina468 @ly--canthrope

#azriel x reader

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toms-cherry-trees · 2 years ago

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I saw this just now 😭😭 Ih8u Tumblr

Thank you so much I'm so excited you liked it! HOTD could never handle the sheer force of nature of an evil woman they're going to sugarcoat everything 🥲

Thank you lots for the comment Juli!

Fires of Harrenhal || AemondxAlysxReader

Summary: Secrets and deceive always find their way through the stone halls

Word Count: 5.4k

Warnings: Angst I think? Betrayal. Character death. Very mild NSFW. Canon divergene from both book and show. Mention of war crimes and murder. Idk how else to do this without spoiling. No beta reading I have no one to beta for me

Author's note: Never. EVER in my life had I written something so long. And it has me very anxious. Also I don't know what this is exactly. It is not angst, nor fluff. I don't know. Enjoy!

A gentle drizzle fell from the overcast skies. Fine droplets of water collected on the braids in her hair, beading in her eyelashes, rolling down the curve of her neck to the swell of her breasts. The fabric of the green gown slowly soaked, and the air around her chilled, but she did not feel the cold. The measly mizzle could do little to match the frost spreading through her bones, born from the very depths of her soul, turning her to ice from the inside out.

His emblazoned cloak still hung loosely from her shoulders, heavy and comforting, even though the warmth of his body had been long lost to the rain. His scent lingered, smoke and leather, a faint hint of spiced wine; and something else which is entirely his own, indescribable and unexplainable, but it evoked danger. And death.

Words befitting to the place she stood. Harrenhal had been long cursed, ever since Harren the Black mixed blood in the mortar which kept the bricks together. Ever since the Black Dread torched down the fortress with the King and his sons inside. The passing of the years only added to the jinx. Death and misfortune followed whoever dared to settle within the crumbled and slagged walls. Entire houses and lineages exterminated, most recently house Strong; from the eldest man to the babes in the cradle, put to death by Aemond’s command. All of them but one.

A Strong bastard, from all people.

Aemond’s infatuation with the wetnurse stunned those who bore witness to the affair, and speculation soon arose that the so called witch of Harrenhal had laid an incantation on the Prince, for otherwise it could not be explained that such proper and devoted man, always guided by rules and correctitude, devoted of the Faith, could so brazenly take a lover, an unworthy one at that, while his beautiful, perfect, dutiful wife awaited for his return at King’s Landing. No, Aemond could never.

But he could and he had.

Alys hadn’t been the first one. Others had been fleeting affairs or pleasures of one night, both before and after their wedding. Ladies from the court, his mother companions, town girls, even the occasional maidservant that caught his eye. But unlike with Aegon, they all came willingly, ensnared by the mystery of the one eyed prince. All of them forgotten as soon as dawn broke through, their silence bought with gold or jewels, and a cup of herbal tea drank under the watchful gaze of a maester.

She didn’t let their existence bother her too much. Always keeping her head held high and her gaze ahead, haughty, beautiful and proud. Aemond took great care to not leave a trail of bastards in his wake, unlike brother dearest, and never flaunted them in the open. No, before the court he only had eyes -eye- for his wife. A gentle hand on the waist, glances across the table, a kiss on the hand when they parted, and one in the forehead when they reunited. A most perfect and devoted husband, whose mask fell as soon as the doors closed behind him.

Some days she wished he would openly hate her, because at least it would prove him capable of any feeling towards her. Instead, he only offered her an impenetrable barrier of indifference bordering cruelty. Aemond would walk the Godswood with her, barely rewarding her with a hum of acknowledgement when she tried to engage conversation of any sort. She tried to show interest in his heritage, but he said she would never understand the history without carrying Valyrian blood. When she suggested meeting his dragon, he retorted that Vhagar didn’t take kindly to strangers, citing false concerns for her safety.

Even the bedding he treated like a chore to be dealt with. Methodical, efficient, and dreadfully boring. He laid with his wife as little as possible, just enough to avoid any whispers or bad talking. He would send a servant to inform her in advance that he would visit her bed so she could be “prepared”. A quick affair, his body always on top, not a sound heard other than the occasional creaking of the bed, done. He rolled over and fell asleep before she had finished cleaning herself. Hells, she didn’t hold great expectations of the act, but for a man who took so many lovers she hoped for a bit more effort.

When he became Regent, the weight of the borrowed crown awoke something deep within him, something that had always been there, dormant and expecting for its moment of glory. An obsession with control and power. He became possessive. He had to have her in sight at all times. If he sat the throne, she stood right next to him. When he held council, she acted as cupbearer, but only to serve his cup and his cup alone. If Aemond decided to sit in the library until the hour of ghosts going over scrolls and maps, she had to be there, dutifully waiting by his side until he decided to retire for the night.

They no longer slept separately, since he simply had the maids move all her belongings to his own chambers, while also disposing of things he decided she no longer required, like her childhood dolls, books of fantasy or any gown not made in green and gold. He also kept her diary in the drawer of his desk; it had to be back there every night without fail. She did not know if he read her entries, but decided to not risk it and write only about things he would like. The hours became long, since he allowed her to speak only with people he approved of; very few had earned that trust; and those who did she would rather not speak to. Even her servants had been swapped, her maids and guards replaced with former attendants of the Queen, more loyal to the Dowager than they would ever be to her.

Aemond’s departure for Harrenhal came as a relief, his presence having slowly grown into a suffocating weight on her chest and lurking shadow on her back. As soon as Aegon could rise from bed again, he sent his brother to retake the dilapidated fortress from their uncle, although she suspected it more to be a cock show off; to remind the people that even though the Greens had less dragons, they still had the biggest one.

Aemond requested his wife to accompany him, but Aegon swiftly refused. A warzone is no place for a lady, he said. She did not trust his intentions, but given he could barely do anything other than speak and drink, she felt confidently safe in the newfound solitude, dividing her time between accompanying Helaena, prayers with her good mother in the sept and her own recreations, in which she could now indulge fully, free of her husband’s criticism.

Bliss, however, proved to be fleeting. One day Aegon summoned her while she broke her fast, to his bedchamber of all places. The alcove smelled stale, a combination of souring wine and the sickly scent of various medicines and tinctures, all mixed with the pungent stench of something unidentifiable decomposing somewhere. Perhaps the putrefaction within finally caught up to the surface, and Aegon himself had begun to rot from the inside out. Which wouldn’t surprise anyone, given his current state.

The open letter in his scarred hand and the knavish smirk on his lips gave her a bad feeling. He sat unabashedly naked in his bed, his immodesties hidden only by a sheet soiled with something indescribable. She tried and failed not to look at the ruggish and reddened skin marring his left side, the movements of his arm clumsy and stiff as if Aegon had been coated with tar. Although that probably would have been a kinder fate than his armour melting into his flesh.

When her eyes met his own, she saw a twinkle of delight sparkle on them. A sick pleasure earned from her evident discomfort at the sight of himself.

“Your dearest husband summons you to his side, now that Harrenhal is back under our command. And I, ever the benevolent brother, will allow it”

Suspicion gnawed at her insides. More so when she tried to take the letter from Aegon’s hand, and he kept waving it teasingly out of her reach, displaying surprising agility despite his wounds. Right before she could snatch it away he tucked the paper under the sheets, in a place where he knew she’d never reach out, even under threat of death by dragonfire. His smile reached his eyes for the first time in months as he dismissed her, pleased like a child who got away with a prank.

Sleep refused to come to her that night, forcing her to toss and turn as she went over the day. She didn’t trust Aegon more than she’d trust a dog guarding a roasted pig. Aemond summoning his wife at his side would not be inconceivable; the brother who fulfilled his duty to the Crown and now demanded his prize. But Aegon’s willingness to let her go told a different story. Nothing entertained him more than toying with his little brother, and what better way to do it than denying him access to his wife only because he could.

An ulterior motive had to be there for the King to grant such freedom. Something she could not yet see.

Aegon even arranged her departure himself. A messenger went ahead so everything would be arranged for a proper welcome. The retinue, albeit reduced, included fine soldiers and swordmasters, all dressed in plain cloth and without pomp. Ser Criston himself joined in on the journey, wishing to also meet up with Aemond to discuss war strategies and their next moves.

Green and gold banners and soldiers in formation awaited them in the immense courtyard upon arrival. The whistling of the icy wind through the cracks in the masonry made sounds like the fortress wept and howled, the souls of those who died within the walls using the wind to disguise their lamentations.

The steward and a knight led them inside, up the Kingspyre tower and towards where she assumed her husband awaited. Large double doors of blackened wood stood slightly ajar, allowing a sliver of light into the hallway. The steward pushed the door open and announced Criston and herself. Both stepped into a large dining room, a table laid out with a feast to feed a dozen. Yet only two sat at the table.

Aemond presided over the supper, at the spot of honour in what could only be described as a throne. In his lap sat a woman of milky skin and raven curls, cherry lips pulled into a seductive smirk, her elegant fingers carding through Aemond’s silky tresses. The bodice of the woman’s silk gown had been unlaced, one breast out of the garment and firmly captured in Aemond’s mouth.

She didn’t have time to see Aemond’s face before Criston pulled her away by the arm, his broad form standing between the disconcerted woman and the indecorous scene. But she made eye contact with the black haired woman, the woman who sat her husband’s lap, the woman whose fucking tit he suckled like an indefence infant. Green eyes bore into her own, resplendent and alluring like emeralds. The last thing she saw before the door slammed shut was the woman winking at her, as if they shared a secret.

Everything made sense now; the scattered pieces falling into place perfectly. Aemond had never written. Why would he, when he had a woman keeping his bed warm and his needs fulfilled, a woman whom he craved like a drunk craves a drink. Someone, no doubt a carefully placed spy, had surely written to Aegon to report the affair. And the King, in pain, scarred and woefully bored, allowed himself some entertainment. Soon enough he would be doubling over in laughter at the picture of his perfect brother caught with the Strong bastard’s tit in the mouth.

The tension in the air could be cut with a knife in the days that came. In order to preserve her own dignity, she had to act as if nothing had occurred. She broke her fast every morning with Aemond and Criston, not a single word spoken besides the usual morning greetings. Aemond could not look any of them in the eye, especially not his fatherly figure, who had never gazed upon the prince with such disappointment before. The silent treatment hurt Aemond more than the cut of a sword, that much was evident upon his face. But his wife didn’t feel an ounce of pity for him; in fact, she rejoiced in his shame. She wanted Aemond to feel at least a fraction of the silent disgrace she carried with herself. She wanted him to be the one who had to keep his head down and his mouth shut.

He hadn’t even tried to come to her chambers, aware of the reaction that would await him if the thought so much as crossed his mind. Which is why the knock on her door, late on the seventh night, came as a surprise. On the other side stood no other than Alys, the so-called witch, wearing the same gown of that first day. The wife tried to slam the door shut, but not fast enough to keep the woman out. Alys entered the chamber and sat near the fire, her skirts spread around her as she stared into the dancing flames.

Before she could hurl insults and perhaps something more tangible at the whore, her voice echoed through the alcove. She had never heard Alys talk. Sweet and velvety, every word slipping past her plush lips in a mellow murmur. Even though they stood away from one another, the witch’s words resounded in her ear like a close whisper.

“You are unhappy”

Not a question. An affirmation.

“Unhappy because your husband doesn’t love you like he loves others. Because he refuses to show you care and adoration like you always dreamed of. He doesn't know how to cherish you, and you think you deserve better. You know you do”

Every fibre of her being urged her to scream insults at that brazen whore, to drag her by those perfect curls of hers and push her out the window. Yet she found herself unable to move or speak. Because, deep down, Alys had only said the truth. As if with just one look, she had been able to read her deepest thoughts and laid them out plainly in a way she never could. Tears pooled in her eyes, but her prideful nature kept her from letting them out. Crying in front of her husband’s mistress was a disgrace she would never recover from.

Alys stood, eyebrows knit together and features contorted in what could only be described as pity. Her soft, motherly hands cupped the younger woman’s cheeks, dabbing at the corners of her eyes with her thumbs. They stood like that for a moment, the tension dissolving into a comfortable silence as they assessed one another. At last, it was the wetnurse who broke the spell.

“I have seen your life in the flames. Not even diamonds shine as bright as your future”

The witch gave her a brief kiss on the lips and walked out silently, her steps silent in the flagstone, leaving behind a flabbergasted woman.

After that, Alys came to her chambers every night. And for some reason, she didn’t turn her away, not even once. Maybe because she knew, deep down, that the woman could not be blamed for Aemond’s weakness of mind. Because her words had struck a chord inside her. Because if not her, she had no one to turn to at the moment, alone and isolated in a place where everyone bowed to Aemond’s bidding.

Maybe because she found herself enjoying Alys’ company more than she ever did his.

She found in the witch a friend she never had in the Red Keep. They strolled through Harrenhal together, Alys narrating the story behind those walls, and the lives born and lost there. She taught her about medicinal herbs and plants, knowledge forbidden to them as women. Alys had a voice suited for melancholic songs, and she would sing to the lady as she brushed her hair at night before bed, and before returning to the Prince’s rooms. Shared between two spouses who refused to look at one another, and whose only thing in common was their infatuation with the Rivers woman.

The arrangement felt ideal for her, having found in this odd circumstance the closest thing to happiness she had experienced since the day she recited her vows in the Sept. But Alys kept pushing for reconciliation between her and Aemond, urging her to salvage the feeble bridge of their marriage before it sank into the abyss. She felt unwilling, finding great comfort in not being forced to endure his presence. But Alys brought forth a greater problem, a problem which grew by the day under her dress.

“It is only you who can help me, my girl. One day he will tire of me, and me and my babe will be put to death, just as he did my entire House. He had the infants smothered in their cribs before the eyes of their mothers, and the women bury their children with their own hands before their heads rolled. What do you think he will do to a bastard born of another bastard?”

Panic and rage bubbled in her stomach at the thought of losing Alys. She had been witness to her husband’s cruelty during his time as Regent, which only grew after being given free will at Harrenhal. Servants lashed at the faintest of errors, maids with their heads shaved and fingers broken. Executions on the daily, followed by new servants being forcibly dragged from their homes to Harrenhal to maintain the cycle. Anyone who tried to flee ended with their head on a spike and their body fed to Vhagar. It seemed like the curse of Harrenhal had slipped into Aemond’s mind, filling him with blackness and slowly pushing him to the brink of destruction like many before him. And it disgusted her to no end.

No, she could not allow herself to lose Alys. She needed her like she needed to breathe. She needed those motherly hands braiding her hair, that sweet voice entoning the saddest melodies ever written, the scent of her skin embedded in her pillows to soothe her into sleep as nimble fingers caressed her hair.

For her, she would try.

That night Alys came to her chamber as usual, Aemond with her. Husband and wife stood face to face at last, infelicitous and tense like their first night, their unspoken words lingering heavy in the air. Alys moved to stand behind her, hands on the younger woman’s shoulders. Soft fingertips tracing the curve of the neck, up to the crown of the head and then down to the collarbones; calmness spread through her veins like a salve, warming her to the tips of her toes. Alys’ lips caressed her ear, her words seeping into her brain like smoke and clouding her thoughts.

“Trust me”

Trusting Alys came as easy as breathing. Even as she undressed the lady slowly, taking her time to undo the laces of the bodice and the clasps in her skirts. Peeling away silk, lace and linen, baring soft skin and feminine curves. Aemond’s pupil widened with lust as he stood spectator, witnessing his mistress caress his wife with the greatest love and care. Kisses brushing down the neck and collarbone, gentle hands tracing the curve of the hips and the descent of the thighs, moving over forbidden places as warm lips met into a shy and delicate kiss; tongue against tongue, small sounds of delight escaping through.

When Alys finally passed her into Aemond’s embrace, she whined in protest. Aemond didn’t know how to touch her. His coarse hands were clumsy on her flesh, too harsh where she wanted featherlight, and not enough effort where she wanted more action. When her husband laid her on the bed, nestled between her thighs, Alys sat at the head, kissing, teasing and fondling while Aemond chased his own pleasure amidst grunts and pants. Alys’ hand snaked down her body slowly, between the breasts and past the navel. She screamed her climax into the woman’s neck, legs instinctively wrapping around Aemond’s hips as he too found his release.

The routine repeated night after night, for weeks on end.

And the more they did it, the more she found herself wishing it was just her and Alys; Aemond’s presence having gone from a necessity to a nuisance. His wife no longer wanted him to touch her, and only withstood on the promise that it would be her favourite witch the one to rip the highest throes of ecstasy from her body. This no longer was just about securing Alys’ safety; she wanted her safe and sound, by her side. Forever. And as she said, one night long after Aemond had left them, only one way they could secure such idyllic future for themselves.

The news of the fall of King’s Landing had reached them not long ago. The relief of Aegon’s disappearance alongside his children could not placate the terror Aemond felt at knowing his mother and sister remained at the Keep, now prisoners of Rhaenyra and her mad husband. Aemond wished for nothing more than to climb Vhagar and torch down the Crownlands, burning the last leaf on every tree to retrieve his family. But he stood put, on Alys’ command.

“You do not need to chase the war, my Prince. It shall come to your door through clouds of storm”

So they sat and waited, as day after day passed with sunny and clear skies, the God’s eye reflecting the blueness, waters calm and inviting. A fortnight after Alys’ vision, the night chilled and the wind picked up. She stood behind the lady, a silver comb in hand as she untangled her hair before bed. Her scent filled her nostrils and eased her fears. Picking up her uneasiness, she brewed her tea, which she fed her slowly, one spoonful at a time.

“All will be well, my child. Our troubles will vanish and our futures will be clearer than the waters in the God’s Eye”

That night Aemond didn’t come. That night belonged only to Alys’ and her little lady. To taste in the seclusion of the chamber what would be theirs for the rest of their lives.

The next morning, grey clouds hovered over Harrenhal, the breeze carrying the smell of rain mixed with sulphur. The high pitched dragon cries echoed in the mountains around the keep, alerting of the approaching danger. Aemond emerged from the tower, a vision of black and gold in his armour, his sword hanging from his belt and a cloak with the three headed golden dragon in his back.

First he bid Alys farewell. She whispered secret words in his ear; whatever she said, it made him set his jaw and tighten his fist around the hilt of the sword. Then he moved onto his wife. He had shown himself warmer and more loving since Alys’ intervention, blissfully unaware of his wife’s feelings. He cupped her cheek in one hand and kissed her like never before, humming against the softness of her sweet lips. She fitted his helmet over his head, tucking the silvery white braid away. The first drops fell from the clouds, and he unfastened his cloak to wrap around her shoulders, providing warmth and safety.

“I shall see you at the end” He murmured the words against her hairline, placing a tender kiss upon her brow.

And with that Vhagar rose to the skies with a deafening screech, the flapping of her leathery wings sending gushes of warm wind around Harrenhal’s dilapidated towers, the empty halls and vast chambers echoing with eerie wails that forewarned the battle to unfold. On the opposite side of the God’s Eye, Caraxes appeared as well, high pitched roars and puffs of smoke sent as a warning, his misshapen body cut over the greying clouds. Once more, dragon against dragon would clash in the sky, and tears would be shed in the wake of their fire.

Any witness would assume Aemond had the upper hand, the deformed and younger Blood Wyrm being no match for the considerably larger and more experienced war dragon. But dear Alys’ visions had never failed her, and they wouldn’t betray them now. Nor would the gentle poison she had concocted for the occasion, spread across the wife’s lips just moments before she kissed Aemond farewell, not strong enough to kill, but the right dosage to ensnare the senses and befuddle the mind.

Calm, deliberate steps took her to the top of Kingspyre tower, her path illuminated by the blazing glow of the fire coming in through the windows, the skies tinted in bright hues of red and orange. The wind blew warm and strong as she approached the ledge, ground trembling beneath her feet, reverberated by the clashing of colossal bodies. For a brief moment she feared for her own life when they flew too close to Harrenhal, but the vision had been precise and showed no threat to her life.

Her hands rested on the stone, ancient dust sticking to the sweat of her palms; heartbeat quickened in anticipation. As predicted, in perfect synchronisation, both dragons widened their jaws. Caraxes pierced Vhagar’s throat, while she tore his wing to shreds and slashed his belly open. Both beasts spiralled downwards, locked onto one another. From afar she couldn’t tell, but it seemed as if a small, black blur fell from Caraxes’ back. Whatever it was, it was soon obscured by the spray of water that rose from the Eye as both dragons sank, the gout as tall as the tower she stood in. When the lake finally settled, all that marked the spot of such a great battle were bubbles and steam rising to the surface, and then silence. A silence like never before had existed.

She remained rooted, hands on the stone, eyes fixed on the middle of the lake until the last bubbles popped under the raindrops. She did not move from her lookout post. Not even as the rain fell stronger, droplets hitting her skin like icicles, aiding into the ruined shell of the freshly grieving widow she pretended to be.

A knight came to her, nervous and apologetic, calling her attention with a sharp clearing of the throat. She looked up, rapidly blinking away unexisting tears, and dabbing at her cheeks with the back of her hand. Composed but frail. Dignified even in the face of loss. He waited for any sort of acknowledgement, and when none came, decided to speak.

“We share your sorrow, my Lady, and our thoughts are with you. This has washed ashore, and we thought you may want it” The soldier’s voice did little to sway her, and she didn't even grace him with a look.

The heavy, loaded silence between them was broken by the soft tapping of female slippers and the rustle of stiffened skirts. A brief exchange of hushed words later, the knight left the rooftop; she remained silent and still until she could no longer hear the metallic clanking of his armour.

Alys stood by her side, dark curls fluttering freely in the wind. In her pale hands, resting lightly atop the curve of her swollen belly, was Aemond’s helmet, still in pristine condition, not a scratch upon its surface. The older woman stared at it for a few moments before placing it in her hands. It felt final. Like closing a tedious book, or awakening from a bothersome nightmare. The last word in another chapter of history. A chapter written by their own hands.

Alys called her name, moving to stand behind her. A soft kiss pressed at the nape of the neck, slender fingers running down the length of her spine soothingly, making her shiver pleasantly. The smell of sandalwood, lemongrass and honeysuckle engulfed the girl.

“It’s over” Her words tickled her ear “His name will not be called again, and no good thoughts will be evoked upon his memory”

Another kiss behind the ear, hands on her breasts, pulling her flush against her body “I know your thoughts are troubled, my child, but the right thing has been done. His fire burned too strong, and he would have brought the realm to ashes, including you and me”

Her words were soothing. She was right; Alys was always right. Aemond would have been their demise. They did what they had to protect themselves, and protect the realm. A kinslayer could not be trusted; it had been his nephews before, and any day would be his brother and anyone else who stood between the sapphire Prince and the Iron Throne. He had to be stopped.

“My only regret is that he died not knowing it was me. The one he would have never suspected. I would gladly give all my family’s gold for the chance to tell him, even if it meant paying him visit in the Seven Hells where he belongs”

The neckline of her gown was pushed aside, plush lips leaving a trail of kisses down her neck towards the collarbone, hands sliding down from her bosom to the hips, digging into her flesh.

“Worry not your little head, my girl. That does not matter anymore. His bones will rest forever at the bottom of the God’s Eye. And whatever you wished to tell him, you will soon be able to pass the message along”

Alys and her cryptic words. She loved to speak in riddles and rhymes, unnerving those who heard them and didn’t know better. She only smiled and nodded.

And then the helmet rolled down.

Her hands remained mid aid, fingers curled around nothing, every muscle tense and trembling. She looked down past them towards the crimson stain growing upon the fabric of her bodice, and the sharp length of blade protruding from between her hips, coated in a red so deep it seemed black, viscous drops falling from the tip onto her husband’s last possession.

The scream died in her lips as the dagger was twisted and dragged upwards, effectively slicing her open like a squeaking boar. But she had not made sound, nothing aside a choked cry of agony as the weapon was brought down again, ensuring the cut along to be neat and thorough

“I truly didn’t want things to end like this, my sweet flower” Same gentle voice and soothing tone, words dripping venom and malice mixed with honey and sugar. Her index traced a slow line from her neck down to the point where the hilt of the dagger was pressed against her back, the carved handle still firmly grasped in her hand

“I truly enjoyed our time together, and you could have been so much more. You have the guile and the guts to match, and your mind is a most resourceful place. You could have achieved greatness, and with my nurturing, no one would have been able to stop you”

Both of her tender, motherly hands placed upon her lower belly, right under the fatal wound. The blood soaked her hands, red on white, and she gasped almost excitedly, basking on the feeling of life spilling on the stone. She did not know how her body was still standing. Perhaps it was the witch’s doing. Dragging on her demise, enjoying the wicked pleasure that came along with having power over someone else’s life.

She made a shushing sound against her ear, tenderly rubbing her abdomen in circles as the first tears finally poured from her eyes.

“I see it all, you see. Everything and more. I have seen what lies ahead of you. Trust me, I am sparing you from a lot of pain and grief”

The edges of the world faded to black, vision narrowing until all she could see was the dagger. That and the puddle of her own blood growing at her feet.

“His blood cannot carry on beyond the confines of Harrenhal. Only this cursed place can halt the strength born of his offspring. But there can be only one”

Her voice sounded distant. The last thing the lady saw was the courtyard, far down but growing closer as her body felt weightless in the air.

“Only one son can be born”

#baby mutuals #Juli

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