#impassioned-grief

[seth-whumps]

characters breaking the facade: a collection

Calm and impassive caretaker who usually never says anything more reactive than eyebrow raise gripping an offender by the collar and spitting pure venom in their face

Brawny characters who are usually sarcastic and shield-like going completely, entirely dead silent. Grave ashen face. Hopeless eyes

The comic relief team member crying. Eyes that are used to being filled with light tipping tears over the edge onto their cheeks. Helpless, silent, pretending it isn't happening

In that same vein, leader characters sobbing. Harsh and unhesitant heaving crying, every ounce of heartbreak and grief tearing them open

Stoic and serious characters curling up next to a caretaker and allowing themselves the warmth of being comforted. Possibly even falling asleep on their shoulder

Medic caretakers who don't know what to do. Uncertainty barely suits them; their hands are trembling uncontrollably; their words are slurred with how fast they're speaking. Panic in their lungs

i love it when you push a character past their facade. break. them.

[teaspoonnebula]

There's this series of Sherlock Holmes figurines that I see sometimes and they make me absolutely feral.

I would expect if a company is thinking of making Sherlock Holmes figurines they have a couple of choices - either do the characters in generic poses, or choose some key moments from the canon stories to depict.

But that company didn't do that. They were just straight up "let's make fanfiction in figurine form."

Some of them aren't so strange, like...

This makes sense! Holmes and Watson are in Baker Street, round their fire place, and they are dealing with "A most mysterious case." This isn't from a specific story, but it's generic enough that it could apply to many stories.

But then you get things like...

WHO IS THIS MAN? WHAT HAPPENED?!! The figurine company just made their own Sherlock Holmes OC and had Watson looking grief-stricken over him while weird blonde Holmes stands impassively by.

What else are Holmes and Watson known for? Oh that's right, accosting random children.

I'm always on the lookout for more of them, they just amuse me so much.

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

In the Wake of Silence

Aemond x unnamed wife | HOTD Big Bang

Summary: Aemond and his wife endure a loveless, arranged marriage. His wife, haunted by bearing witness to the events of Blood and Cheese, seeks respect and support from her indifferent husband. The Prince, troubled with his own demons that triggered the Dance, struggles to meet her basic needs. Political intrigue and personal grief threaten to tear them apart, but his wife demands recognition and partnership, a fraught path, hoping to find respect where love has failed. | Word Count: 8.8k~ | Warnings: angst, child death, spoilers for hotd s2 ep 1, dub-con, mentions of miscarriage, canon-typical violence/misogyny

A/N: my submission for this year's HOTD Big Bang! Thank you to the lovely @ewanmitchellcrumbs for the artwork, and for organising the event alongisde @emilykaldwen. Please do show all the love for other lovely writers/artists over @hotd-bigbang, you're all in for a treat!

The first light of dawn barely touched the horizon as Aemond Targaryen slipped back into the Red Keep. His movements were stealthy and deliberate, the echoes of his footfalls swallowed by the cold stone corridors. The scent of the brothel, flesh and sweat, still clung to him, a reminder of the night’s escape from the relentless pressures of court and marriage.

As he approached his chambers, the atmosphere within the Keep struck him as strange. It was too noisy, too chaotic for the early hour. The usual stillness of the dawn was replaced by the frantic rustling of armoured feet and the distant, muffled cries of distress.

Turning a corner, Aemond's sharp gaze took in a disturbing scene. Members of the Kingsguard were dragging servants and courtiers from their rooms, shouting orders and spreading panic. The confusion and terror were palpable, a stark contrast to the serene darkness he had left behind.

"What in the Seven Hells is happening?" he muttered to himself, quickening his pace.

Aemond's mind raced, trying to piece together the reason for such commotion. He rounded another corner and saw more guards, their expressions grim and unyielding as they secured the doors of the royal nursery. His heart skipped a beat, an inexplicable sense of dread washing over him.

His steps became more urgent, the clamour growing louder as he neared his chambers.

He pushed open the doors and immediately noticed something was amiss. A draught hit his face, a wall he had never known was in fact a doorway was standing ajar. His eye scanned the room, taking in the disorder. His belongings had been disturbed, gold coins taken haphazardly from the table. Papers were scattered, and the lingering scent of unfamiliar presence clung to the air. Something rancid.

His expression remained impassive as he made his way through the halls. Kingsguard rushed by him, towards Helaena’s chambers as well as maidservants with newly washed blankets. When he reached his mother’s chambers, Ser Criston gave him a grave look, but stepped aside. Inside, his mother was bent over her table, her long chestnut hair falling in waves either side of her face to hide her moist eyes and sheer exhaustion. His grandfather, Otto, was seated, his spine as straight as his face. 

At the sight of him, his mother paused, her eyes filling with a mix of relief and fear.

“Aemond,” Alicent began, her voice trembling.

His eye flickered about the room, a habit, taking in the darkness that lay within her chambers, in his blind spot the drapes still pulled tight to push out the sun, the rumpled bed sheets. 

“Mother,” he answered, “what has happened? My wife–”

Alicent’s face paled at the thought of having to revisit the hellish night she had only just left behind. “They came in the night. For Helaena’s boy…” she trailed off, “Jaehaerys is dead.”

Aemond’s blood ran cold, the weight of her words sinking in. His mind flashed back to his ransacked chambers and the passage he had found ajar. A passage even he had not known existed.

They had come looking for him.

And when they could not find him…

“And my wife?”

Alicent wiped her cheeks gently, inhaling as if to draw strength, “she was there, with Helaena and the children…”

The realisation hit Aemond like a blow. The assassins had been mere steps away from her. The thought of his wife in such proximity to danger, witnessing the horror of Jaehaerys’ murder, was almost too much to bear. The indifference he had maintained toward her now felt like a cruel and taunting weight.

“We must not be shaken by this,” Otto insisted, somewhat firmly, coldly. “We need to remain strong and act decisively."

“Not be shaken? They murdered my nephew, and my wife was there. This is no small matter.”

Otto’s eyes narrowed, his tone becoming sharper. “And that is exactly why we must remain composed, Aemond. Panic will only serve our enemies. We need to show them that we are not easily broken.”

“They came for me, Grandfather. When they could not find me, they killed an innocent child. My nephew. My wife could have been next.” His words were like arrows, laced with poison. “And how fares the King? Is he as composed as you wish?”

“The King’s composure is of no concern to you, Aemond. Your duty is to protect this family and this realm, not to question the King’s state of mind.”

“You speak of strategy while my family bleeds.”

There was a marked silence. Aemond was wound tight. His grandfather, while known for his clever strategy and had served many Kings as Hand at this very moment, was as detached emotionally as one could possibly be, and only saw how this tragedy might benefit their claim.

“And where was our Kingsguard while all this took place? Where was our vigilance when they slipped through our defences?”

He noted his mother’s still stance, her eyes unmoving from a single spot in the room, her hands, needing something to do, rose to her necklace, tight with worry and anxiety.

Otto said nothing for a moment. “We shall not be caught off guard again. Every measure will be taken to ensure our security.”

“I am sure your grandson will thank you for it now,” Aemond shot back.

“We will protect the ones who remain,” Otto retorted. “But we must do so with clear minds and steady hands. Emotions will not serve us in this fight.”

A tense silence hung between them, the air thick with unspoken words and clashing wills. Alicent stepped forward, her voice a fragile thread of calm amidst the storm. She took his hand, so large in her own it seemed near impossible that he could possibly be her son. Her large brown eyes were misty with tears. 

“The Hand is right. We must be united in this,” she uttered quietly, trembling. 

All Aemond could manage was a tired sigh. There was no use argumentation. For better or for worse, his grandfather was the King’s Hand, and if the King was indisposed, incapable of making rational choices, the members of his court had no choice but to obey.

“Where is my wife?”

Alicent hesitated, her expression pained. "She is with the maester," she finally replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

“She is hurt?”

"No,” was her quick answer, “but do treat her gently," she said softly.

His frustrations at that moment were only tempered by the knowledge that she was not harmed. The relief briefly gave way to unease at the knowledge of what his wife had witnessed a night he himself was pressed to another woman’s flesh.

He moved, walked, existed, for some time without really realising.

"She witnessed the attack, my prince," the maester began, his voice steady despite the gravity of his words. "She was with Queen Helaena and her children when the assassins struck. It was a brutal and sudden assault. She managed to escape physical harm, save a small cut on her neck I have treated, but the emotional toll is severe."

"She is in shock," the maester continued, his gaze sympathetic. "Physically unharmed, thankfully, but emotionally... she has endured a great trauma."

Aemond nodded tightly. His mind raced at the thought that he had been out of harm’s way while his family and blood suffered horror beyond comprehension in their own home.

"Is there anything else?"

The maester hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "There was some... spotting," he finally said, his tone gentle yet hesitant. "Not indicative of her cycle. It may have been due to the stress and trauma she endured."

He couldn’t deny the slight sinking of his heart at the implication. Understanding the maester’s unspoken words, that his wife may have even been with child, added yet another devastation to the evening’s toll.

The maester nodded towards a door. "She requested to be alone. I advised her to rest, but she insisted on waiting for you."

Aemond swallowed hard, steeling himself for the sight of his wife, knowing that the rift between them had deepened with each passing moment of his absence. Of his continued absence, in their marriage.

He entered the chamber as if navigating a dragon's lair. It was dark with the curtains drawn, the only light coming from the dim glow of the hearth. Her figure was seated by the mantle, her back to him, still in the same dress she had worn the evening before.

He called out to her, but she did not face him.

“How kind of you to return from your nightly excursion.”

Aemond felt the hot frustration at the nape of his neck, his defences prompted. His jaw tightened at the accusation in her tone. “I had matters to attend to,” he said coldly, not bothering to disguise the edge in his voice.

“Matters,” she echoed in disdain.

“What I do in my leisure is my business. You know this.”

She finally turned to face him, her eyes blazing with anger and hurt. “While you tended to your 'business,' I was here, witnessing the murder of our nephew. Is the first thing you have to say to me a poor excuse for your absence? And not perhaps a soft word in grief and comfort?”

Aemond’s expression remained stony, though a flicker of unease passed through his eyes. “I know what happened, and it should never have come to that. But do not think to judge me for seeking solace elsewhere.”

Her face crumpled somewhat, the pain evident in her eyes deepening, “I do not judge that, Aemond. I simply ask for respect and loyalty–”

“I have given you my name and protection–”

“It is not enough!” She rose her voice, which seemed to suck all the energy from her lungs, “not when I am left to face these horrors alone. Your sister lost a child. As did I–”

Her mouth pulled shut, her eyes drifting as if she had said too much for her frail heart.

His eye narrowed, a mixture of shock and defensiveness flashing across his face. “I did not know.”

She looked away, her shoulders slumping in defeat. “Of course you didn’t. You were too busy with your whores to notice.”

“Mind yourself–”

“Or what?” She snapped, “you will ignore me? As you always have done? Ignore your responsibility to your family? To me?”

It was rare she was ever able to best him with her words alone. But her next ones rendered the tall Prince completely silent.

“You have never been here, truly. I have been married to a ghost, a shadow that drifts in and out of our chambers but is never truly present.”

The weight of her words hung heavy in the air, the silence between them filled with the echoes of their shattered relationship. Aemond’s expression softened for a moment, a flicker of something almost like regret in his gaze, but it was quickly replaced by cold resolve.

“I am a Prince of this Realm. My duties extend far beyond you. This marriage. You will have to accept that.”

It was a neat trick Aemond did often, he would open his mouth and Otto Hightower’s words would slip out between his lips.

She closed her eyes, a single tear slipping down her cheek. “Then go. Do what you must. But do not expect me to wait for you, not anymore.”

Aemond hesitated, his hand twitching as if he wanted to reach out to her but didn't know how. The door closed with a resounding thud, leaving her alone in the darkness, the weight of their broken marriage heavy on her shoulders.

Why must it solely have been her burden to bear.

So she remained, the dim light from the hearth casting long shadows on each wall and tapestry. Her mind wandered aimlessly through her grief, reliving the horrors of that fateful night. The sounds and visions of her memories fueled the terror that gripped her even still. The pain of her own lost pregnancy, discovered too late, was a dull, constant ache in her heart. The exciting, blossoming swell of motherly intent had been snuffed out as quickly as it had been lit.

And the loneliness of her failed marriage only deepened her sorrow.

“The Mother knows.”

She blinked hard, but still heard the firm knock at the front of her mind. Two foreboding men who clearly did not belong in those parts of the Keep, one pulled harshly at Helaena’s arm, the other  grabbed her from behind, yanking her to her feet. A cold blade pressed against her throat, and she gasped, her eyes wide with terror. Helaena let out a muffled scream as Cheese, smaller but no less menacing, held a knife to her neck. Two pairs of frightened white eyes flickering terrified in the darkness.

“She’s the Queen,” the smaller figure, dark curls stuck to his forehead, sneered against Helaena. 

“A son for a son, he said. Well, does she look like a fucking son to you?”

She winced, his palpable violence felt through the pressure of the blade to her throat. Her breath felt like fire, her throat dry, the words spoken between the two men felt as if they were conversing in a language unknown to her.

“Prince Aemond ain’t here,” the other let out a cruel laugh, gesturing to the two cots with Helaena’s twins somehow sleeping deeply through the struggle. “We need to get our head and get out.”

Helaena could barely utter words, just winces and whimpers for mercy.

The man behind her was reluctant to release his grip. And through her body, an equally trembling voice broke loose.

"If you wish to hurt Aemond, take me," she said, her voice steady despite the terror coursing through her veins. "I am his wife. My death will wound him deeply."

She felt her breath still, two fierce blue eyes, shimmering with violent need, met hers from over Helaena’s shoulder. “So much loyalty for a man who is not even here to protect you. How touching.”

The man behind her peered at her face, his foul breath hot against her skin in a way that made her skin crawl. “So, you are the wife," he sneered, the cruel smile returning. "But we were promised a son. One who carries Hightower blood. You are useless to us.”

Helaena whimpered, her eyes darting to the cots where her children slept soundly, unaware of the nightmare unfolding around them. The smaller of the two pressed his blade a little harder against Helaena’s neck, drawing a thin line of blood. "Maybe we should kill them all," he suggested, his voice dripping with malice. "Just to make sure we don't miss the right one."

The larger laughed behind her, a low rumbling sound the deepest in the Seven Hells. “Imagine his pain when he finds her body cold in his bed." He loosened his grip slightly, letting her feel a false sense of relief before tightening it again. "Or maybe we should kill the boy first, let her watch the consequences of her husband’s crimes.”

She was only let go then, her neck aching as blood rippled to the surface, a superficial cut, but one that stung nonetheless. She watched with wide eyes, unease. The blade that was at her neck caught the light of the candles briefly.

“They both look the same. Which one’s a boy?” he asked with a trembling excitement. 

No.

Two hooded eyes, craving bloodshed and death, turned to Helaena, who stood similarly vulnerable. “The Mother knows.”

The room seemed to tilt and sway, the walls closing in around her, sounds muffled as if her ears were submerged underwater. She saw Helaena’s tear-streaked face, the anguish in her eyes as she was forced to point out which of her children was the boy. The assassins crowded the bed, dark shapes looming over the small, innocent form lying there.

Her heart pounded in her chest, each beat a painful reminder of her helplessness. She wanted to shout out, to offer herself in place of the child, but the reality of her situation silenced her. Perhaps the smallfolk knew too well that Aemond cared little for his wife. That her sacrifice would mean nothing.

It felt like a nightmare, each moment stretching into eternity. She followed behind Helaena, Jaehaera hugged to her tiredly, limbs heavy with dread. The corridors blurred together, each step a struggle against the overwhelming sense of doom. As they neared her chambers, she broke away, her heart pounding with a desperate hope that Aemond had returned.

She burst into her chambers, the door slamming against the wall with a resounding crash. "Aemond!" she called out, her voice trembling with panic. The silence that greeted her was deafening, a void that swallowed her cries. Her breath came in ragged gasps, the weight of the night's horrors pressing down on her. "Aemond!" she screamed again, her voice breaking with desperation.

But the chambers stood empty. She stood there, the cold emptiness of the room closing in on her, offering no comfort, no solace. Her heart pounded in her chest, each beat a painful reminder of her solitude. She stumbled forward, calling out his name once more, her voice echoing off the walls. "Aemond, please!"

The darkness seemed to close in around her, her hopes extinguished like a dying flame. She sank to the floor, wrapping her arms around herself, trembling violently. The silence was unbearable, a stark contrast to the chaos that had engulfed her only moments before. "Aemond..." she whispered, her voice barely more than a choked sob.

The tapestry on the far wall was slightly askew, the ends flailing in the draught. A cold realisation washed over her. This was where they began. This is where the assassins had come in. A sick sense of vulnerability swept over her, making her stomach churn. They had been here. She was not safe anymore.

Her heart raced faster, and she felt a sudden, sharp pain shoot through her abdomen, doubling her over in agony. She gasped, clutching her stomach, the intense cramp sending waves of nausea through her body. The pain was unlike anything she had ever felt, a searing agony that stole her breath and left her gasping for air.

"No," she whispered, her voice breaking with a new kind of desperation. "Please, no."

But the loss was immediate.

She whispered Aemond's name one last time, her voice a fragile thread in the vast emptiness.

A gentle voice broke through her trance, pulling her back to the present. “My dear, can you hear me?”

She blinked, the room coming into focus. Alicent, her mother by marriage, was seated before her, concern etched deeply into her features with a drink cradled in her hand. Her dress was different, her hair braided in a manner that did not resemble that terrible evening.

How many days had passed? What had she eaten? Had she seen Aemond since that morning?

It was frightening, to exist without remembering.

Alicent repeated her name softly. “I’ve been calling your name.”

She turned to look at her, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. “I apologise, I... I was just thinking.”

Alicent sighed. “I know, dear. I cannot imagine the pain you’re in. But you mustn’t let it consume you.”

She nodded, but couldn't help but feel both frustrated and powerless. How could she not allow this to consume her, when she could still feel the twisting in her chest and the hollowness that had deepened since that night. “Of course.” Was all she said.

Alicent gave her a sympathetic smile, reaching out to gently squeeze her hand. “You’ve endured so much. More than anyone should have to bear. And I know it feels impossible now, but time will help.”

It felt as if ‘time’ was merely Aemond's mother's way of shifting responsibility. As if the effort were not needed in this mortal realm, and decided entirely by the Gods.

It was unfair, she thought. To have been abandoned by them in her time of ultimate need.

Alicent retreated, shrinking as she felt her despair, “Helaena is deeply hurt. She is sensitive, and this tragedy has cut her deeply, naturally,” Alicent trails off. “Perhaps you might go and see her. It might help both of you.”

Would Helaena even want to see her? She had not tried, reasoning that she and the King had enough to deal with. The death of their child. One another. The dark omen that loomed over the Keep.

She had not wanted to intrude on her suffering, despite feeling it so profoundly herself.

“Aemond has his own way of dealing with grief,” Alicent added suddenly, “it may not be the way we wish, but he is still young and finding his path. His responsibilities weigh heavily on him.”

She could have laughed. The only decent smile she would have broken in an age. Responsibilities.

It seemed the Dowager Queen truly had no idea what any of her own children were thinking or doing at any given time. And for that, she could not help the simmering resentment.

She masked it simply with a polite nod, acknowledging but not believing. Alicent’s face tightened with the strain of balancing her loyalty to her son and her compassion for her.

“I understand your grief, my love. I truly do. But you must try to understand his burdens, as difficult as that is. He has a duty to the realm, and sometimes that means... sacrifices.”

Her eyes were dry from nights of endless crying, and she felt them strain as she turned her head to Alicent, as if she could not quite believe what she had said. As if Aemond's words were perfumed and spilling from his mother's mouth.

“And that is what I am?” 

“You are a part of this family, and we must all find a way to support each other. I cannot excuse his actions, but I can ask for your patience and understanding. For all our sakes.”

It was not an answer to her question. Merely a dismissal. She swallowed hard, the bitter taste of resignation settling in her throat.

For a moment, she stared down into her cup of warm tea, untouched. Watching the rich brown ripple, for she could not stand to look into the bitter shade of Alicent's any longer.

“It is all I ask,” Alicent uttered gently, as if she was aware of the tentative string she walked upon. 

She nodded slowly, the weight of expectation pressing heavily upon her. She forced herself to meet Alicent's gaze, searching for any sign of genuine compassion or understanding. There was some, but it was overshadowed by the stern duty that ruled the Dowager Queen.

Alicent gave a sympathetic smile, “you have shown great strength, my love.”

She nodded again, though she felt anything but strong. The days had blurred into nights, and each moment seemed to stretch endlessly before her, a relentless parade of sorrow and duty. She was exhausted, worn thin by grief and the constant strain of maintaining a facade of normalcy.

Where was strength, in witnessing a brutal crime?

Where was strength, when losing a child that had barely lived?

Where was strength, in the waning tide of a failing marriage.

She had said to Aemond that it felt as if she were married to a ghost. But the more time went by, Lords and Ladies tiptoeing around her, their glances quick and measured, she felt very much the ghost herself. As if they see her, feel her presence, but do not hear her speak or breathe as if she were alive.

As much as she did not value the Dowager Queen's opinion of Aemond and their marriage, she struggled to cope with the unending trauma of her presence for Prince Jaehaerys’ murder. The nightmarish memories haunted her days and nights, an ever-present shadow that refused to fade. Each scream, each drop of blood, each moment of terror replayed endlessly in her mind. The palace that had once been her home now felt like a prison, its walls closing in around her.

The loss of the pregnancy was distant, but she still felt the fresh kick of it as if it were recent. It was a silent, aching sorrow, compounded by the knowledge that Aemond, the father, remained indifferent. The possibility of what could have been gnawed at her, the child a symbol of hope now lost forever.

With the child, she could at least have been useful, she reasoned. Her duty would remain paramount. But as Aemond grew less and less present, slipping into the arms of those he would rather share the warmth of his flesh with, it seemed less and less likely he would wish to try for another child with her.

Yet another thing her husband could take away from her. Her purpose.

The absence of this feeling had made her desperate for reconnection. She visited Helaena's chambers every day, requesting the Kingsguard stood straight at the door if she might speak with the Queen. But every time, he said the same thing.

“The Queen requests to be alone at present.”

Each visit, each attempt, ended in heartbreak. The closed doors and silence were a painful reminder that while she was not alone in her suffering, but also not welcome in her attempts to bridge their mutual anguish.

She felt her heart lurch into her chest when she returned to her chambers, finding an unfamiliar presence rummaging around the ornate oak cupboards. The figure, however unseen in this part of the Keep, possessed the silver moonlit hair she knew so well, but short, unkempt and choppy.

Her shocked gasp seemed to draw the King’s attention, and he turned, his clothes askew, face swollen and sunken from tears and wine consumption.

“Y-your Grace–” she found her words, giving a polite curtsy, trying to calm the hammering of her heart.

“Apologies for the intrusion,” he muttered, twirling a newly found decanter of wine in his hand. “The servants will no longer allow me to have my fill.”

She swallowed, her hand dropping from her chest, away from her thrumming pulse. “Of course, Your Grace. Help yourself at your leisure.”

Aegon’s gaze finally met hers, and for a brief moment, she saw the depth of his anguish. The loss of his son had shattered him in ways that wine alone could not mend. He took a long, unsteady sip from the decanter, the liquid sloshing slightly as his hand trembled.

“Is there anything I can do to help, Your Grace?” She asked softly, unsure if her presence was a comfort or a burden.

Aegon let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Unless you can bring back the dead, there is little anyone can do.”

Silence fell between them, heavy and poignant. Aegon’s words lingered in the air, a cruel reminder of the shared grief that bound them both. He realised, too late, that his careless remark had cut deeper than intended. He had lost a son, but she, his sister by marriage, had also felt a profound loss.

Aegon cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably. “I... I apologise. That was thoughtless of me.”

She shook her head, her expression softening. “We all speak from our pain, Your Grace. I understand.”

Aegon leaned against the table, his eyes bloodshot. “Where is Aemond?”

She hesitated, her gaze dropping to the floor. And that seemed an answer enough. She felt her cheeks get hot, in his presence, the guilt seemed to grow and grow.

Why could it not have been her that night. She has mulled over the question several times.

“I am sorry…” she choked out, wiping her cheeks when moisture nipped at her sensitive skin. “I could— could have done more—”

Aegon’s expression softened, the bitterness in his eyes giving way to a rare moment of understanding. “It was not your fault. None of this is your fault.”

There was a beat of silence as he approached, the decanter hanging lazily in his grip at his side. He looked exhausted, as if all the fight had left him.

“I thank you…for being there for Helaena and Jaehaera,” he murmured, as if the Keep’s walls had ears, “my sister has a gentle temperament, and you are much like a natural born sibling to her.”

The silence that followed was heavy with shared pain and an unspoken understanding. For a moment, their grief became a silent bond between them, a fragile thread of connection in the midst of their suffering.

Her voice broke the silence softly. “I only wish I could do more, Your Grace.”

Aegon opened his mouth to reply, but the appearance of Otto Hightower in the doorway halted him. Aegon’s eyes widened slightly, and he quickly hid the decanter behind his back, trying to conceal it. With a curt nod to her, he slipped out of the chamber, leaving her alone with Otto.

She surmised perhaps, Otto had given the King a sharp gesture, inviting him to leave. And she steeled herself for the man's oppressive and yet firm presence, and turned to face him.

Otto stepped into the room, his gaze sharp and calculating. He glanced at her, noting her flushed cheeks and the way she quickly composed herself.

“I hope I am not interrupting.”

She shook her head, the brief moment of awkwardness fading. “Not at all.”

Otto’s eyes swept over her, lingering momentarily before returning to her face. “I came to ensure you are managing well under the circumstances.”

Just what reaction might he expect from her? To be scaling the walls with madness?

“It is said that people often find unexpected strengths in times of hardship, though it seems some have less experience in harnessing them.”

Her fingers tightened where she held them in front of her and tried her hardest not to mirror the feeling in her expression. “The weight of grief is heavy.”

“Indeed. It is important to remember that appearances can be deceptive. And, it would be unfortunate if this…response were to become an impediment rather than a motivation.”

Her shaky exhale did little to ease the tension in her body.

“I appreciate the reminder, Lord Hightower.”

Eager to see the back of him, she made no attempt to offer wine or tea. She did not want this emotionless, self-serving attitude to further darken the doorway of her chambers.

And she thought as she listened to the Lord Hand’s footsteps echo softly down the hall, that she now realised where her dear husband inherited this trait.

Aemond lay in the dimly lit room of the brothel, the scent of incense mingling with the faint aroma of sex and wine. His eye drifted shut at Sylvi's fingers through his hair, running the silver strands through them as if it were silk illuminated by pale moonlight.

Sylvi, with her deep, knowing eyes, watched him closely. She had always been good at reading him, understanding the depths of his turmoil without needing words.

“You are troubled,” she said softly, her voice a soothing balm in the quiet room.

“None more than is usual.”

“Tell me,” Sylvi countered, not letting him evade the truth.

“Daemon sent them to kill me,” Aemond’s voice was low, but his attention seemingly elsewhere, “I was out.”

“You were with me,” Sylvi reminded him, her fingers still tracing soothing patterns on his scalp.

“In truth, I am proud that he considers me such a foe. That he seeks to murder me in my bed.” Aemond’s voice held a mix of pride and bitterness, the conflicting emotions evident in his eyes as he looked up at her. “He is afraid of me.”

“As well he should be,” Sylvi said with a sickly smile, her fingers pausing for a moment, her body leaning closer to brush her breath against his lips. “The boy has grown into a man.”

“No. Not here.” Aemond pulled away from her intimacy, creating a physical and emotional distance. Sylvi sensed there was another truth Aemond was not displaying, and there was a thin, tentative line she had to tread as the man before her curled his legs to his chest.

“And what else?” she inquired, making no attempt to touch him.

Aemond’s gaze dropped to the floor, his fingers clenching and unclenching as if trying to grasp an elusive thought. The room felt colder, the flickering candlelight casting long, unsteady shadows on the walls. His usually composed facade was cracking, and the turmoil within him was evident in the tension of his jaw and the furrow of his brow. He struggled to find the words, each breath he took seeming heavier than the last.

“They came for me. When they couldn’t find me, they killed my nephew. And my wife... she was there to witness it all.”

"That must be an unimaginable burden to carry."

Aemond continued, his voice growing harsher, as if he expected Sylvi to be more…insistent of his guilt. “I was supposed to be there, but I was not. I was here. And she... she suffered because of it. My sister also.”

But there was little the other woman could say to quell the storm within. It was a complicated one, as it was always with Aemond she had begun to find out. While it was clear there was no love in this tumultuous marriage, the thought that she had endured such trauma while he was away, seeking solace in the arms of another, gnawed at him relentlessly. His absence had cost his family dearly, and the weight of that realisation was almost unbearable.

“And how do you feel?” she asked softly, her voice barely more than a whisper.

“How do you think I feel?” he snapped. He took a deep breath, trying to rein in his temper. “I am angry. My wife slips further into grief, not that she was ever truly close to me. And I do not know how to reach her.”

“Anger is natural, given everything that has happened.”

He shakes his head, the words seem empty. “And what is to be done about it. She lost a child that night,” he recalled bitterly.

Sylvi regarded him with a knowing look, her eyes glimmering softly in the dim light. Her voice was gentle, almost melodic as she spoke. 

“Perhaps, if she were to fall with child again, it would lift her spirits.” There was no recognising the subtle manipulation in her voice, nor did he realise the depth of what he had just revealed. He simply nodded, lost in his thoughts.

Sylvi’s fingers traced patterns on his arm, her touch light and soothing. She was planting a seed, one that could lead to healing or further heartache, depending on how it grew. “You have the power to change things, Aemond. You can give her hope again.”

“I do not know if I have hope to offer her.”

Sylvi tilted her head slightly, her eyes studying him with a blend of sympathy and curiosity. “She is your wife. She is still your responsibility. Even if you don’t love her.”

Aemond’s face hardened, a bitter edge creeping into his voice. “Love is for peasants who wish to fuck without sin.”

Sylvi's gaze softened, though there was a hint of steel beneath her calm exterior, and perhaps a catching of some offence. “And what of duty? Even in the absence of love. And perhaps, through fulfilling it, you might find something worth holding onto. New life can often pave a new path.”

Aemond’s eyes narrowed, but the weight of her words hung heavily in the air, the hollow ache of his failure sitting like a stone in his chest. 

“I suppose duty is all that remains.”

The conversation with Sylvi weighed heavily on his mind, her words about duty and new life echoing in his thoughts. As he reached the door to his wife's chambers, he hesitated for a moment, his hand hovering over the handle before he finally pushed it open.

She was sitting by the window, staring out at the darkened sky. She didn’t turn to look at him as he entered, her grief-stricken face illuminated by the moonlight. The room was silent, save for the soft rustling of the curtains in the night breeze. He watched her for a moment, noting the listlessness in her movements, and he took a deep breath, steeling himself for the conversation he had been avoiding.

“I need to speak with you.”

She looked up from where she sat by the window, her eyes dull and unresponsive. “What is it, Aemond?”

He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “We need to try again. For a child.”

Her reaction was immediate, her eyes flashing with a mix of disbelief and anger. “You cannot be serious.”

“I am,” he replied, his voice steady. “We have a duty to our house, to ensure its future.”

“Duty,” she spat the word like it was poison. “Is that all you ever think about? Our child, the one I lost, does it mean nothing to you?”

Aemond’s jaw tightened. “It is not about that. It is about moving forward. We cannot dwell on what we have lost forever.”

She stood, her hands trembling with the force of her emotions. “You think I have not tried to move forward? Every day I wake up and try to put the pieces of my shattered life back together. But you... you have not been here. You do not understand what it’s like.”

His eyes narrowed, a flicker of frustration crossing his features. “I have my own burdens. My own ways of dealing with them.”

“By disappearing to the brothels every night?” she shot back, her voice rising. 

He had never seen his wife like this, never. With her, there was an element of submission she had always offered, and she never complained, not once, before. Her eyes were so expressive he could read them like a tome. And in this moment, when she had said what was at the forefront of her mind, something she would dare not voice mere moons ago, he watched as her mouth slipped shut and she shrank back in on herself, sensing her words had widened their ever-expanding emotional chasm.

She looked upon him as if she were afraid of his response. But expectant.

Aemond took a step closer, his expression hardening. “This is not just about us. It is about our family, our legacy. We need to try again.”

Her shoulders slumped, the fight draining out of her. “I cannot snuff my pain out like a flame, Aemond. I cannot…pretend everything is well and start over like nothing happened.”

“I am not asking you to forget,” he said, his tone softening slightly.

But he was asking her to cast it aside. And for what?

“Why, Aemond…” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Why do you care so much about an heir when you cannot even care about me?”

The silence that sat between them was an ugly one, borne of years of regret and guilt, like a festering wound that refused to heal. It stretched and twisted, warping the air between them, heavy with unspoken truths and broken promises. The weight of it was suffocating, pressing down on their chests and stealing the breath from their lungs.

He opened his mouth to speak, but words failed him, leaving only the bitter taste of unspoken confessions. He could almost hear the whispers of the smallfolk, the cruel gossip that had spread like wildfire through the castle walls, rumours of her inability to bear a child, seeded by a careless word in a brothel. The knowledge of it gnawed like a disease, a constant reminder of her perceived failure, exacerbated by Aemond’s apparent indifference.

Aemond’s gaze was hard, his jaw set in a rigid line. The vulnerability he had shown moments before was gone, replaced by the cold mask he wore so well. “Because it is what is expected of me,” he replied, the edge in his voice returning. “We all have our roles to play. I must ensure our future, whether I like it or not.”

He began taking off his doublet, the heavy garment sliding off his shoulders with a practised ease. The action was mechanical, almost detached, and it sent a shiver down her spine as she realised his intention.

"So soon...?" she said quietly, blinking the moisture from her eyes. Her voice was barely above a whisper, heavy with the weight of her sorrow.

Aemond paused for a moment, his hands stilling on the laces of his shirt. He looked at her, truly looked at her, and for a fleeting moment, something akin to regret flickered in his eyes. But it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, replaced once more by the cold determination that had come to define him.

“We cannot afford to wait,” he said, his tone softer but no less resolute.

Her heart ached with a sorrow so profound it felt as if it might swallow her whole. She wanted to scream, to rage against the unfairness of it all, but she knew it would be futile. Instead, she simply nodded, the movement small and resigned. She moved to the bed, the weight of her grief pressing down on her with every step and when Aemond joined her, the distance between them became palpable even in their proximity. There were no tender words, no gestures of comfort; just the cold, stark reality of their duty. His touch, impersonal.

She tried to steel herself against the emotions that threatened to overwhelm her, knowing that this act was not born of love, but of necessity. And in that moment, the chasm between them seemed wider than ever, a silent testament to the love they had never truly known.

He did not look at her, did not seek her eyes. His mind was elsewhere, already thinking of the future he was so determined to secure. When it was over, Aemond pulled away, the silence between them more deafening than any words could have been. He dressed quickly, his movements efficient and unfeeling. She remained where she was, her body and spirit drained.

Her own form felt nothing like her own as she righted herself to sit up, pushing her skirts back down her legs, armouring her skin as if she needed protection over every inch of her. Aemond stood, his back to her, barely a silver hair out of place, fastening his breeches with a meticulousness that seemed almost cruel in its precision.

“Do you find comfort in their arms because you cannot stand to be close to me?”

Aemond's shoulders tensed, but he did not turn to face her. “I do not know what you want of me,” he replied, his voice distant and cold, like the draught seeping through the cracks in the ancient stone.

“I want to be respected as your wife. Your equal.” Her plea hung in the air, laden with the weight of unmet expectations and unfulfilled promises. 

“I cannot change what has happened. I did not know how to be there for you then, and I do not know now." He finally turned to face her, his gaze meeting hers with a mix of frustration and resignation. “I do not know how to be that man. I have failed you, and I may continue to fail you. But I will try to respect you as my wife, if nothing else.”

Her shoulders slumped under the weight of his words, the fight draining out of her. The acceptance in her voice was tinged with a profound sadness, the acknowledgment of a life destined to be lived in the shadow of duty rather than the light of love.

“Very well. If that is all I shall ever be.”

Some time passed, each day blending into the next in a haze of routine and muted sorrow. Servants and guards whispered as she passed, their sympathetic glances and hushed tones adding to the heavy silence that surrounded her.

The bloom of spring flowers went unnoticed, their colours a stark contrast to the grey fog that seemed to envelop her mind. She was supposed to track the days, to know when her moon blood should come, but time had lost its meaning. The markers of her cycle were swallowed by the same darkness that claimed her thoughts. 

“The summer of a woman's years is a short season. It passes by in the blink of an eye. Toyed with by this momentary value.”

Her mother had always been blunt about her words. But now, more than ever, with the taunting explosion of colour and vibrancy outside, she felt as if her season was closing in, like a prison she could not fight.

Some evenings, as she sat alone in her chamber, she felt a familiar ache low in her abdomen. It was a dull, persistent pain, one she knew all too well. She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath as she tried to steady herself. Was it her moon blood, or was it something else? The uncertainty gnawed at her, but she could not bring herself to seek answers, to go to the maester to confirm. The prospect of hope was too painful, the fear of disappointment too great.

Life or loss. There was an element of control she could grapple to, by simply not knowing.

As usual, her Lord Husband remained absent from her life. Perhaps it was just as well she did not know, and that he did not inquire.

It was a pleasant enough evening in any case, spent mostly by the fire, the light of the flames serving to assist her in the delicate art of her embroidery. A pastime she would otherwise spend with Helaena in days passed. Since calling to her chambers most days in the immediate aftermath, in truth, she had rarely tried to urge her to accept her presence. Reasoning that in time, perhaps the troubled Queen would make her way back to her, in body and soul.

She felt her whole jump in her seat in shock, the door to the chambers swinging open and then shut with a loud thud. For a short moment, it brought her back, the horror making her heart hammer against her ribs, fully expecting to see two figures darken her doorway once more. 

But her wide eyes only looked upon the lone figure of her husband, his face a mask of anger and humiliation. As usual, he had ignored her presence entirely and went straight to the decanter on the table, pouring himself a generous measure of wine. Unusual behaviour from her distant husband. He sat down heavily in the chair by the hearth, taking a long drink, his movements tense and jerky.

She knew better than to ask, given the state of their fragile bond. Fearing perhaps the reaction she would receive. Instead, for a moment, she watched him silently from the corner, her own heart heavy with grief and pain. Despite her suffering, she felt an irresistible pull to reach out to him, to try to soothe the anger radiating off him in waves, almost palpable in its intensity.

Her steps were soft and deliberate as she approached him cautiously, each footfall muted on the cold stone floor. The air between them felt charged, thick with tension. Aemond didn’t look up from the drink in his hand, his gaze fixed on the swirling crimson liquid. His fingers gripped the glass with a white-knuckled intensity, as if the drink was his only anchor in a sea of turmoil. She reached out tentatively, her fingers brushing lightly against his shoulder. The contact was gentle, but he stiffened, his posture becoming rigid under her touch. Yet, he did not pull away, a silent sign that he was at least willing to tolerate her presence.

“You do not have to,” Aemond muttered, his voice low and strained, a mixture of resignation and weariness. “I have given you no reason to.”

“I know,” she replied softly, her voice barely more than a whisper. The words were simple, but they carried the weight of her empathy and unspoken concern.

He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, the movement slight but significant. A flicker of something unidentifiable crossed his features, perhaps it was vulnerability, or perhaps a fleeting moment of regret. She met his gaze with unwavering softness, her eyes reflecting a deep understanding that transcended the barriers between them. The lines of her face were etched with sorrow, yet there was a tender resolve in her expression.

With a hesitant motion, Aemond took her hand, his grip warm against her chilled skin. He turned his face into her hand, not kissing it, but letting the skin rest against his lips in a gesture that was both intimate and detached. As if he was silently thanking her for her presence, for her effort to reach out despite the emotional chasm that lay between them.

She let her hand fall away slowly, stepping back to give him the space he seemed to need. The small, almost imperceptible shift in his posture, a release of some of the tension, indicated that her gesture had made a difference, however slight.

Aemond took a deep breath, the sound escaping his lips like a weary sigh. The tension in his body eased slightly, and he became aware that while they might not be aligned in love, his wife understood him in a way few others did. She grasped his pain and anger, and she reached out to him despite everything that had transpired between them. He gave her a small nod, a silent acknowledgment of her attempt to bridge the gap between them, a gesture that spoke volumes more than words ever could.

She returned the nod with a gentle inclination of her head, her eyes meeting his with a flicker of hope and understanding. They didn’t need many words; the shared silence between them was enough to convey their fragile understanding, a tentative first step toward mending the rift between them. The quiet was a balm, a soft promise of potential reconciliation, though it remained unspoken.

Her heart seemed to lift, the rest she received later that evening somewhat fruitful. And though Aemond left in the early hours of the morning the next day, she recognised that he no longer visited the brothel, busying himself instead in the library most evenings. It was a small victory, but one she clung to, rightly or wrongly. 

The servants were even more palatable that morning, with sweet words and even sweeter smiles for her. Dressed in a gown she favoured the most, she felt her mood ripen.

She was gently roused from her reverie by the sound of quiet footsteps approaching her chamber door. A soft, hesitant knock followed, and the door creaked open. Standing in the doorway was Helaena, the Queen, accompanied by her only living child, Jaehaera. The sight of them was a poignant reminder of both the life and loss that threaded through their lives.

Helaena’s eyes were red-rimmed but held a glimmer of resolve and determination. Her composure was fragile, but there was a soft strength in her presence. Her heart ached at the sight of them. 

“Sister.”

She rose from her seat, her movements slow and deliberate, a sign of the emotional and physical exhaustion that still clung to her. Helaena stepped into the room, her gaze meeting hers with a quiet understanding.

“I thought we might spend the day together,” Helaena said, her voice steady. “As we used to.”

Her eyes softened as she looked at Helaena and Jaehaera. The gesture was more than kind, it was a lifeline extended in a sea of shared sorrow. 

“I would like that very much,” she replied, her voice barely more than a whisper, yet imbued with genuine warmth.

For a while, the three women sat together in silence, the room filled with the soft murmur of their breathing, the occasional rustle of fabric and the icy dropping of a needle. It was a quiet that spoke of shared pain and tentative hope, a small balm for their wounded souls. Helaena rarely spoke, apart from the quiet mutterings she herself was used to in her dreamy presence.

They, Helaena and Jaehaera, were a reminder that there were still threads of connection and understanding that bound them together. The day held the promise of comfort and perhaps, slowly, the possibility of healing.

From the doorway, Aemond watched them, his face was an unreadable mask, but his expression betrayed a depth of emotion, regret, longing, and a faint glimmer of hope. His gaze lingered on his wife, who held Jaehaera with a tender protectiveness, and on Helaena, whose hazy mutterings were soothing musings to the silent exchange of grief and solace.

He took a step back. For the first time in a long while, he felt a stirring of something he could not quite name, a hint of what could be if he only allowed himself to reach out and grasp it.

General Taglist: @1lluminaticonfirmed @aemondsfavouritebastard @all-for-aemond @bellstwd @blackswxnn

@blairfox04 @buckybarnesb-tch @castellomargot @cl-0-vr @eddieslut69

@emmaisafictionwhore @eponaartemisa @hb8301 @jamespotterismydaddy @justbelljust

@minholy223 @mochi-rose@natty2017 @nenelysian @nixiefics @primonizzutto

@qyburnsghost @randomdragonfires @risefallrise @sheshellsseashells

[tritoch]

i have seen people be like "if you think what the dawntrail protagonists do in zone six is valid you have to conceded emet's approach/perspective was valid, what you do is basically what he does" and it's like...nah. it's obviously intentionally very similar ("it's like poetry, it rhymes") but there's some key differences:

emet is disgusted by sundered life, which he sees as inhuman, and longs to return to the unrecoverable past. so he does seven(ish) planet-wide genocides. the endless aren't new life, their ability to grow and learn is specifically in question (at the very least they are fundamentally incapable of taking in new sensory experience of certain forms), they're shades from the unrecoverable past, and you are destroying them in favor of those still alive.

also, we aren't disgusted by them nor do we think anything is fundamentally justified if done to them (everyone pretty much no-sells cahciua "we aren't alive so it doesn't matter if you kill us :)," in fact). we don't have like 12,000 years and the most advanced magic known to anyone alive. we are forced by serious exigency to destroy them due to a political impasse with their leadership's policy re: resource extraction. this tonal difference is in fact extremely important.

the endless themselves seem pretty ambivalent about the whole deal. they're bored or they're wary of the way their world keeps shrinking, and it's very explicitly neither a functioning society by any recognizable human terms nor a paradise.

related to the above, basically every named endless turns to the person most relevant to them (cahciua to erenville, krile's parents to her, namikka to wuk lamat, otis to you) and is like, huh, i really appreciate having this moment of grace at the end of my journey to see that it was all worthwhile and to resolve my lasting regrets, but i understand what you're here to do and yeah, it's probably time for us to go. (does the writing put a finger on the scale by doing this? sure, but the writers also designed and built the scales and everything they're weighing on them, so i find it hard to discredit any one aspect for being the writers' invention.)

finally uh no one in the party has kids with the endless or lives a full human lifetime as one of them lol.

it's important to remember that emet was definitely at least somewhat lying about not seeing the sundered as real people. the fact that he has "lived a thousand thousand of your lives . . . broken bread with you, fought with you, grown ill, grown old, sired children and yes, welcomed death’s sweet embrace" makes everything he did soooooo much crazier than what you do. if i managed to convince an endless to fall in love with me and i had a kid with them and i loved that kid so much that their death threw me into a permanent grief spiral then like. yeah i guess i would have to be like "well hats off to emet, folks." but luckily the game doesn't make you do that.

even if you insist everyone in living memory was a full living person that we killed, you're still weighing like a city of people versus 7+ planet-wide mass murders. you do not under any circumstances got to hand it to him.

living memory absolutely is evocative of everything that happens in shadowbringers. but rather than placing us in emet's shoes, it forces us to relive what we already did, to really fully face up to what we have done by promising to remember emet's culture after destroying any chance of its return. after two games going hard on the hope part of the game's central theme of hope arising from grief, now we're doing grief. we are forced to see the past of our memories not as a cold, ghostly art deco cubus-plagued socratic method hellscape but as the most beautiful technicolor theme park where everyone's happy and no one's sad and there's parades every day and your parents are alive and they love you so much. and then the game's conclusion is, yeah, you were still right to let go. in fact, you were and are morally obliged to let go. the living were and are worth more than the dead. our grief in letting go of them may be immense and turns our world to bleak nothingness for a time, and that is important to recognize, but at the end of the day our most pressing duty is to those we can yet save, not those we have lost.

[dcxdpdabbles]

Alfred's Boy Part 4

"Master Bruce, would it be alright if I had someone over?" Danny's soft voice breaks the chatter around the table. Bruce is honestly surprised to hear the boy speak up without prompting. It takes him a moment to answer how unexpecting the request is.

The boy seems to think his silence is an answer, for he ducks his head and brings up his shoulders. "Nevermind. It was stupid. I'll tell Clockwork to forget it."

"No. No. This is your house as well, Danny. You can invite any of your friends. I'm just surprised Clockwork would allow you to contact guests from your old home." Bruce assures. His eyes flicker to the rest of the table, showing how everyone is focused on their own plates, but all conversation has died.

He is sure half of his children are attempting to develop super hearing with how much they are straining to eavesdrop.

"He's not really a friend, per se." Danny pushes some of his food to one side of his plate. It's a nervous habit Bruce had realized he does when speaking of his old home. Not just food but anything he can fiddle with, as Danny seems unable to hold still when nervous. "Wes and I have....a history, you can say. Clockwork said that he was allowed to visit because he knew what was happening but wasn't too involved with the situation. Not like Sam and Tucker, my best friends, or my sister Jazz. "

A history? Oh no, was this "Wes" an ex?

Bruce looks again at his youngest and fights a wince at Damian's dark sneer as the boy stabs his broccoli. Please let Wes just be anything but an ex. He doesn't want to follow the other kid around to make sure he doesn't have to fight off his children from bringing him harm.

Dick speaks up, likely thinking along the same lines. "I'm glad you can still have someone to see you! When will he be here? Will he be alright with Gotham's....everything?"

A smile is fighting at the corner of Danny's lips, and Bruce swears he can hear his children's hearts shatter as the boy flushes slightly. "Trust me, Wes can handle a lot. Clockwork said he would let Alfred know the details if Master Bruce agreed."

The butler pulls out an old-looking pocket watch. After checking the time, Alfred snaps it close with an impassive smile. "Clockwork will have the boy here in three days. I believe Danny will have a few days off then to enjoy his company?"

It's not really a request, but Bruce still nods. "Of course."

Danny's entire face lights up. It's the most joy he's seen on the boy's face since his arrival. "Thank you, Master Bruce. Thank you, Alfred. Can you please excuse me? I want to prepare his room."

"Of course, dear boy," Alfred nods his head. Danny is gone in a flash, a secret smile pulling at his lips. He waits a few seconds, so Danny's footsteps can fade away before leveling a stern stare at everyone at the table.

Bruce straightens his back out of reflex when that all-knowing stare passes over him. He barely contains a sigh of relief when Alfred slightly lingers on him to transfer his gaze to Damian.

He feels terrible for his son but cannot step between the butler and him. Damian will have to fight this battle on his own.

"I trust everyone here will not give Danny or his guest any grief during his break." It's not a question. It's a camond. Everyone shivers slightly out of fear.

"No."

"You don't have to worry about me"

"I have some stuff to do."

"Of course not Alfred."

Alfred doesn't precisely threaten them, but he does make his eyes a little darker "Danny's guest will not find shadows following him."

A few of his kids look heartbroken, while Jason has an expression of manic glee blooming on his face.

The following night, Danny is asking for ideas on where to take Wes on his tour. Apparently, both are from a small town and are used to having fewer options for entertainment.

"Kids usually either went to the mall or the local burger place. The mall wasn't even that big too, so after a while it got boring" Danny admits.

"You have to take him to Batburger," Jason tells Danny. Bruce fights the urge to leap over the table and punch his child. Jason knows that Danny hadn't gone to the restaurant so a lot of his siblings had been dreaming of taking the boy on a date there.

He's just rubbing salt in the wounds at this point.

"I think I will. I'll take him to museums too. Wes loves history." Danny writes some ideas down in a little notebook. He's taken to carrying it around, brainstorming a perfect weekend there.

Bruce had glanced at it earlier that day, when Danny had been busy cleaning and had read, "Make out point- Dick said the stars are the clearest there."

He almost had a heart attack. For all that Danny was Alfred's boy, Bruce still felt very protective of Danny like his own. He did not want his somewhat son to be going to any place with the name make out point.

No one speaks after that- primarily due to his younger children trying to shift their sobs and the older ones trying to comfort them without letting Danny notice.

Eventually, Cullen gets up from the table, excusing himself with a half-baked excuse of needing to do homework, and Harper chases after him. The two are followed by Tim- whose eyes are glossy- Steph, who looks to be biting her lip. Duke, whose hands are curled into fists, and Damian, who stomps out like a bull about to charge.

Bruce leaps to his feet but is stopped by Dick, who pats his shoulder. "I got this."

"The plot thickens," Jason says before he, too, goes after his siblings. For all his teasing, his second oldest adores his brothers and sisters, so he'll be there in their time of need.

"Is something...wrong?" Danny asks after a moment of hesitation. "I can tell Clockwork and Wes not to do the visit."

"No. You have Wes over. We talk." Cass tells him, giving the boy a wink as she, too, steps away. "Tonight, all ice cream."

"Yes." Alfred sighs. "I do believe that would be best. A frozen treat to soothe the pain of heartbreak. I'll bring up the tubs for everyone in a moment."

Bruce fights the urge to bury his face in his hands as Danny spring to his feet offering to help with the ice cream, unaware he is the cause for the comfort food.

Despite the apparent tension in the manor, the promised weekend does arrive. Danny is beside himself with excitement. He's not wearing a suit for once- he's gotten to copying Alfred in a misguided attempt at a butler uniform- and is wearing street clothes.

Besides, when the first day, Bruce has never seen Danny in street clothes. He's surprised that Danny dresses like a punk rocker- complete with a black leather jacket, big combat boots, and various chains.

He looks like the type of person fathers warn their daughters away from. Bruce hates how that only makes more of his children bestowed.

Danny had given everyone a happy smile when Bruce handed him the keys to one of his sports cars- he saw no reason why Wes and Danny should take a bus to the airport when he had plenty of vehicles to lend him. Alfred had allowed the boy to go alone since Danny needed to go through a particular gate for Wes.

Apparently, Clockwork would be sending Wes on a private plane. It burned not to know who Clockwork was or what he did, but Bruce fought the urge to snoop to get Alfred to stop glaring at him.

"I bet you he's not even that great," Tim grumbles, stuffing a chocolate cookie into his mouth. "Bet you he's ugly."

"With buck teeth" Steph adds stealing her own cookie.

"He likely never even seen a sword," Damian spits.

"Come on guys, I know it sucks, but we can't just dis on Wes 'cause Danny likes him," Duke says though it's not very convincing, seeing as he dropped over the couch in a depressive slouch.

"Why are all the good gays taken?" Cullen sighs, ignoring the meta.

Bruce opens his mouth to offer some comfort or maybe lecture them, but the front door opens before he gets a chance. Everyone sits up only to slump down as Dick strolls in with a cheerful smile. They all glare at him, which makes Dick flauter in his steps for only a second.

"They're waiting for Danny," Bruce tells him. Dicks smile regains his cheer as the oldest throws himself on the couch.

"He's outside with his guest. Lovely guy."

"Is he ugly?" Tim asks hopefully. His dreams are dashed as Dick shakes his head.

"He could be a supermodel."

"Of course, he can."

Jason snorts from behind a book. Bruce knows he is not reading it, simply by the fact he hasn't turned a page in the last ten minutes- his son speed reads whenever he adores a book- and is likely enjoying the show.

The door opens again, this time accompanied by two sets of laughter. An unfamiliar voice wheezes "-Dash then reads out love poems he wrote about Phantom!

"No!" Danny gasps. "Not Dash Baxter. What did the other A-listers do in retaliation?"

"Nothing that's the crazy part. They had poems too!"

The two voices are carrying, so Bruce has a few seconds to prepare himself. So do his kids, who all sit up at attention, a few with not as welcoming expressions as he would like. The voices round the corner, and Bruce looks at Wes first.

Dick was right. He's a handsome young man with ginger hair and flickers of freckles. He is dressed similarly to Danny, but a little less black and slightly more burnt orange to add color to his punk look. A worn-out backpack is swung over his shoulder while the same arm is tugging along a suitcase behind him.

Wes is also holding Danny's hand with a free hand.

Damian makes a slightly wounded sound that digs a dagger into Bruce's heart. His baby's first heartbreak.

Danny looks surprised to see them all, seeing as the family usually prepares to go out as the Bats at this time- but he smiles widely after a moment. "Everyone I like you to meet Wesley Weston. Wes, this is my boss, Bruce Wayne, and his kids, Dick Grayson-wayne, Jason Todd-Wayne, Casandra Wayne, Tim Drake-Wyane, Stephine Brown, Damian Wayne, Cullen Row, and Harper Row."

Wes smiles at them, waving the hand he has interlocked with Danny. Bruce winces as most of his kids give half-hearted greetings. Thankfully Alfred is in the kitchen and misses their terrible manners.

Wes pauses and squits at the youngest of the house before he sighs. "Of course, it happens in this dimension too."

"What?" Danny asks confused

"Danny and I aren't dating," Wes tells the room, ignoring the startled boy he's launched onto. "Danny just needs to have physical contact for his mental health. So we hold hands. He also needs to have someone sleep with him. Otherwise, his core doesn't recharge correctly."

"Wes!" Danny protests. "They don't know about cores!"

"Oh," Wes shrugs, waving his hands at them, "Never mind. Processed as normal, Danny and I will cuddle in his room. Danny lead the way."

Alfred's foster son flushes a bright red but quickly tugs the guest away. Jason shakes from unrestrained laughter as Damian stabs the table on which he is sharpening his knives.

Bruce yells after the two boys.

"The door stays open, Danny!"

"Master Bruce, it's not like that!" Danny yells back, mortified, and Wes breaks into impish laughter.

"I hate him," Duke hisses, and Bruce gives in to the urge to bury his face in his hands.

It's going to be a long weekend.

[triluvial]

Feyd knows he'll likely never be able to marry Reader, however much he might wish to. He really thinks he's accepted that her family is loyal to Leto Atreides, and the woman who owns his entire heart would never be permitted to accept a proposal.

Then he hears that Reader was in Arrakeen, her father visiting Duke Leto when Rabban and the Sardaukar arrived to wipe house Atreides off the face of the galaxy. Her body isn't recovered, but then a lot of bodies weren't recovered. The political divide that once seemed so impassable now, with the benefit of hindsight and grief, just looks stupid and petty.

There was no point to the slaughter. Anyone could tell the Atreides never would have betrayed anyone. The lot of them have more honour than sense. Reader died for nothing more than an old man's paranoia. As the days drag on from the announcement of her death, grief begins to look more and more like rage.

Reader is in the desert. It's hot, and sandy and she's fucking pissed.

[libingan]

—beneath the mask.

summary: in your love, simon finds the strength to shed his ghostly mask, becoming a man once more—a man who dares to feel and hopes to heal.

a/n: im out of horny juice. im so drained. sometimes i forget this blog exists, but im back yall!!!! have some soft simon moments

the first time you saw him, the sight of him—a figure swathed in black, his eyes cold and impassive behind a mask—was like meeting a living shadow. ghost was more than just a soldier; he was a specter of war, a manifestation of relentless duty and unyielding resolve. his presence was imposing, his movements precise and calculated, embodying the essence of a machine built to fulfill its purpose with ruthless efficiency. in every battle, ghost was a legend—an entity to be feared, his name spoken in hushed tones, evoking a mixture of awe and dread.

but as you ventured into his world, you discovered the layers beneath the imposing exterior. it was through the quiet moments between chaos that you began to see the man behind the mask—the fragile human who had long been overshadowed by the ghost he had become. your love was a beacon that cut through the relentless darkness, illuminating the parts of him that had been buried under years of combat and emotional suppression.

your touch was the first sign of his transformation. each caress was like a soothing balm to his battle-worn soul. when your fingers traced the contours of his face, feeling the rough texture of scars and the tense lines of his jaw, it was as if you were mapping a landscape of pain and resilience. the warmth of your skin against his was a stark contrast to the coldness of his soldier’s facade. he could feel the gradual melting of his defenses, the rigid walls of ghost beginning to crumble under the gentle pressure of your affection. with each touch, he felt a flicker of something he had thought was lost—hope, tenderness, the possibility of healing.

every kiss you shared was a sacred exchange, a promise that even in his darkest moments, he was still capable of feeling deeply. your lips, soft and yielding, pressed against his with a reverence that spoke volumes. the way you kissed him—slowly, deliberately, with a tenderness that seemed to erase the harshness of his past—was a revelation. each kiss was a quiet rebellion against the ghost’s indifference, a testament to the warmth and love that could still exist within him. these moments of intimacy became sanctuaries where he could shed his armor, where he could allow himself to be vulnerable, to simply be simon.

your words were a lifeline, a gentle stream flowing through the arid landscape of his emotions. each whispered reassurance, each tender declaration of love, was a lifeline that reached into the darkest recesses of his heart. you spoke with a softness that cut through the noise of his inner battles, finding the places he had buried under layers of stoicism and grief. your voice, rich with understanding and compassion, was a melody that drew him out of his shell, inviting him to share the quiet spaces where his true self could emerge. you spoke of futures he had only dared to dream about, of a life beyond the battlefield, and each word was a seed of hope planted in the fertile soil of his heart.

when you looked at him, your gaze was a tender invitation to step away from the shadows that had long defined him. your eyes, filled with warmth and unspoken promises, offered him a vision of a life where he could be more than just a ghost. in your gaze, he saw the possibility of redemption, of a future where he could be loved not for his legend but for who he truly was. your eyes reflected a future where he could be seen, valued, and cherished—something he had thought was beyond his reach. through your gaze, he learned to see himself not as a weapon of war but as a man deserving of love and affection.

you became adept at recognizing the subtle shifts between the two facets of him. there were moments when the cold, unfeeling ghost would recede, and in his place, you would find simon—the man who could be softened by your touch, who could be moved by your kiss, who could find solace in your words. there was a depth to his gaze then, a vulnerability that he rarely allowed himself to express. you could feel the weight of his past lifting with each embrace, each moment of connection. when he held you close, there was an intensity in his touch that spoke of a longing to be more than just a shadow, a desire to be fully present in the warmth of your love.

ghost was a soldier, a figure forged in the crucible of war, who could take lives with a cold, detached efficiency. but simon riley was the man you loved—a man who had endured unimaginable hardships and emerged on the other side, still standing, still fighting for a sense of normalcy and connection. with you, he could let go of the ghost, if only for a moment. he could find solace in the sanctuary of your embrace, where the world’s harshness faded, and he could simply be simon.

in the quiet moments you shared, when the chaos of the world outside seemed to dissipate, you would find him surrendering to the peace you offered. he would bury his face in the crook of your neck, his breaths steadying as the rhythm of your heartbeat became a lullaby that soothed the restlessness within him. in those precious seconds, he was no longer the ghostly figure of war, but a man deeply entwined in the present, finding peace and comfort in your arms.

with you, simon riley could be vulnerable. he could drop the pretense, lay down his weapons, and allow himself to be loved. you provided him with something no battlefield ever could—a place of refuge, a space where he could heal and hope. you were the light that pierced through the darkness threatening to engulf him, the one who saw through the mask and loved the man beneath it all.

and in return, simon gave you everything he had left to give. it wasn’t always easy; the ghosts of his past often tried to reclaim him, and the weight of his history would press down heavily, making it difficult to breathe. but even then, even in those moments of darkness, he would find his way back to you, drawn by the promise of something more, something better.

with you, he could be simon riley, and for a man who had spent so long being nothing more than a ghost, that was everything.

[dearorpheus]

"I think I am beginning to understand why grief feels like suspense," C. S. Lewis wrote after the death of his wife. "It comes from the frustration of so many impulses that had become habitual. Thought after thought, feeling after feeling, action after action, had H. for their object. Now their target is gone. I keep on through habit fitting an arrow to the string, then I remember and have to lay the bow down. So many roads lead thought to H. I set out on one of them. But now there's an impassable frontierpost across it. So many roads once; now so many cul de sacs."

— from Didion's The Year of Magical Thinking, with excerpted passage from Lewis' A Grief Observed

[hussyknee]

(alt included in all images)

Another thread by Senator Ben Ray Luján here.

A book on the subject (haven't read it myself):

One of the sources in another one of Alisa's furiously impassioned twitter threads have been debunked, so I didn't include that. But she claims that her own family was caught in the fallout zone when her mother was a baby, which eventually led to her and large numbers of her community developing cancer. It's human for that kind of grief to be caught up in inaccuracies. People are already being ghastly and racist to Hispanos and Indigenous people criticizing the hype for the movie. They're not attacking Oppenheimer for being Jewish, they're criticising the erasure of the human cost of these bombs and the continued valorisation of the U.S military's actions in World War II as some kind of moral saviourism.

While Oppenheimer himself believed that the nuclear bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki were morally justified (they had planned to drop them on Germany except they surrendered before they could), he also felt had blood on his hands and regretted his role as the "Father of the Atomic Bomb". He spent the rest of his career vehemently opposing further development of thermonuclear weapons and the hydrogen bomb accurately predicting the concept of mutually assured destruction. This eventually made him a victim of Senator McCarthy's Red Scare and his clearance was revoked. I haven't seen the movie (Christopher Nolan is the kind of casual white racist I avoid on principle) but people who have seen it say that it doesn't glorify nuclear weapons and depicts the man himself with the complex moral nuance that seems to be accurately reflective of his real life.

The backlash to Indigenous and Hispanos people's criticisms and to people pointing out that Hiroshima and Nagasaki were genocides is also frustrating because...both world wars were a clash of genocidal empires. The reason they were world wars is because the countries colonized by Japan, China, the European powers and the US were all dragged into it, whether they wanted to or not. Jews were one of the many colonized peoples that suffered in that time, who were left to die by everyone until they could be used to frame the Allied powers as moral saviours, establishing a revisionist nostalgia for heroism that powers the US military industrial complex to this day.

As early as May 1942, and again in June, the BBC reported the mass murder of Polish Jews by the Nazis. Although both US President, Franklin Roosevelt, and British Prime Minister, Winston Churchill, warned the Germans that they would be held to account after the war, privately they agreed to prioritise and to turn their attention and efforts to winning the war. Therefore, all pleas to the Allies to destroy the death camp at Auschwitz-Birkenau were ignored. The Allies argued that not only would such an operation shift the focus away from winning the war, but it could provoke even worse treatment of the Jews. In June 1944 the Americans had aerial photographs of the Auschwitz complex. The Allies bombed a nearby factory in August, but the gas chambers, crematoria and train tracks used to transport Jewish civilians to their deaths were not targeted.

(Source)

Uncritical consumption of World War II media is the reinforcement of imperialist propaganda, more so when one group of colonized people is used to silence other colonized peoples. Pitting white Jewry against BIPOC is to do the work of white supremacy for imperialist colonizers, and victimizes Jews of colour twice over.

Edit: friends, there's been some doubt cast on the veracity of Alisa's claims. The human cost to the Hispanos population caught downwind of the nuclear tests is very real, as was land seizure without adequate compensation. However, there's no record I can yet find about Los Alamos killing livestock and Hispanos being forced to work for Los Alamos without PPE. There is a separate issue about human testing in the development of said PPE that's not covered here. I'm turning off reblogs until I can find out more. Meanwhile, here's another more legitimate article you can boost instead:

[chillypowder]

Shadows of Doubt

Pair: Ayato Kamisato x Reader

Genre: Angst, no Comfort

The scent of cherry blossoms mingled with the faint aroma of incense, a familiar comfort in the Kamisato Estate. But the familiar beauty felt suffocating tonight. I sat on the veranda, watching the koi dance in the pond, their movements mirroring the restlessness in my heart.

“You look troubled, my love.”

Ayato’s voice, a soothing melody, cut through the quiet evening. He stood beside me, his presence as comforting as the warm glow of the setting sun.

'It’s just…,' I started, my throat constricting with a wave of emotions, 'this life.'

His eyes, the same shade as the twilight sky, held a gentle, understanding gaze.

“We are the Kamisato clan. Our responsibilities are great, and our standards even higher.”

His words, though intended to comfort, felt like a stone in my stomach. It was true, our lives were ruled by duty. Our every move scrutinized, every decision weighed against the well-being of Inazuma.

But it felt like the burden of responsibility was crushing me. Every day felt like a relentless race against time, a constant struggle to maintain the facade of perfection. We were puppets in a grand spectacle, our personal lives a mere footnote.

“Haven’t I given enough?” I finally whispered, the words echoing the unspoken frustration churning within me.

He frowned, a flicker of concern crossing his face. “We must uphold the legacy of our family, my love. That’s the oath we swore.”

I looked at him, his face etched with a familiar stoicism, a mask that hid the true person beneath. “But what about us? What about our marriage, Ayato? When do we get to just be… us?”

His voice hardened, “Our duties are paramount. It’s the price we pay for the honor of bearing the Kamisato name.”

The coldness in his words shattered the fragile peace I’d clung to. It was always about the family, about Inazuma, never about us. My voice cracked as I choked back the tears, the frustration finally reaching a breaking point.

“This is all just a facade, Ayato! A performance for the sake of upholding some fragile illusion of perfection. Where’s the real Ayato in all this? Where’s the man who promised me a life we could build together?”

A silence fell, heavy and suffocating, as I waited for his response. He looked at me, his eyes mirroring the pain in mine, yet his face remained impassive.

“You’re being sensitive, my love.”

The word, so carelessly thrown, pierced me like a shard of glass. It was a familiar dismissal, a way to brush aside my concerns, to silence my desperation. I realized then, with a crushing clarity, the extent of my delusion.

I had married the Yashiro Commissioner, not the man behind the mask. I had traded my heart for a title, my life for an illusion.

With a shaky breath, I stood up, my body trembling with a mix of anger and grief. “I’m done, Ayato. This charade, this constant struggle for approval, for perfection, it’s exhausting. I need more than the title of the Kamisato wife. I need a husband, a partner, a love that doesn’t come with a price tag.”

Without waiting for a response, I turned and walked away, my footsteps echoing the finality of my decision. As I left the Kamisato Estate, the once comforting scent of cherry blossoms turned bitter on my tongue, a reminder of the love I’d left behind. It was time to find my own happiness, even if it meant walking away from the gilded cage of my marriage.

[kckt88]

baiser de la mort.

Summary:

'The innocents are always the ones to suffer during times of war'

Aemond and Y.N grieve for the loss of their son.

Warnings - Heavy Angst, Drama, Langauage, Child Loss, References to Death, Grief, Mourning, Mental Health, Delusions, References to Smut, Suicide, Dark Aemond, Mention of Non/Con use of Moontea, Death.

AEMOND TARGARYEN x Y.N

A.N - baiser de la mort - Kiss of death.

Word Count: 4654

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon or Fire & Blood characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used.

Comments, likes, and reblogs are very much appreciated.

Tag List - @jasminecosmic99 @kaelatargaryen @yesterdayfeelings-blog @immyowndefender @0eessirk8 @darylandbethfanforever9

Y.N stood at the window, her hair unkempt and wild, her eyes glazed with a haunting emptiness as she clutched a blood-stained blanket to her chest.

Her precious son, Aerys, was gone, ripped from her in the most violent of ways. Assassins had come in the dead of night, seeking retribution against her husband, Aemond, for the death of Lucerys.

But it was her innocent boy who had paid the price for his father’s crime.

Y.N couldn’t eat; she couldn’t sleep. She was a mother without her child, her heart shattered beyond repair. The once vibrant woman now stood a ghost of herself, consumed by an unbearable grief that echoed through the silent halls of her home.

The world outside continued on, indifferent to her pain, while she remained frozen in that moment of loss, her soul forever scarred.

Aemond sat with his head bowed and his hands trembling. The weight of his grief pressed down on him, nearly suffocating.

It was his fault, all of it. That fateful day at Storm's End, he had lost his temper. The bitterness and pain over the loss of his eye had reached a boiling point. He had chased after Luke with Vhagar, intending to frighten him, not to kill him.

But Arrax, had attacked first and Vhagar, in her fury, had snatched the two of them out of the sky and torn them to shreds. The image of that violent moment played over and over in Aemond's mind, an endless nightmare from which he could not awaken.

He was sorry for what had happened, but he couldn't take it back and now his son had paid the price for his actions.

He would never forget his wife's screams as she held their son's lifeless body in her arms, her cries of anguish piercing through the night.

Even now, the haunted look in her eyes tore at his soul as she slowly lost herself to the unbearable grief. It was his fault. He had done this.

Aemond's heart ached with a remorse so profound that it seemed to consume him. He could not escape the shadows of his own making, the regret that gnawed at him every waking moment.

His son was gone, and nothing could ever make it right. The price of his anger was too steep, and he would bear the weight of it for the rest of his life.

Aemond's fists clenched at his sides, his eyes burning with a fury that matched the intensity of his grief. His grandsire, stood before him, suggesting with cold pragmatism that they should parade his son's body through the streets of King's Landing.

Aemond could scarcely believe the audacity. How dare he propose such a monstrous display?

"Do you hear yourself?" Aemond spat, his voice trembling with rage. "You wish to parade my son's body through the streets like some grotesque trophy for the smallfolk to gawk at? He was my son, not a pawn in your political games."

Otto's face remained impassive, but his eyes were steely. "The people must see the cost of Rhaenyra's ambition, Aemond. They need to know who is responsible for this tragedy."

"It wasn't her," Aemond growled, his voice breaking. "It was me. I killed Luke-I drew first blood”

In the end he was persuaded by his mother, to allow his son's body to be paraded through the city.

The procession moved slowly, the atmosphere thick with sorrow and tension. The streets were lined with citizens who stood in quiet respect.

They watched as flower petals were scattered in the air, a delicate contrast to the grim reality of the event. The petals fell gently, almost mockingly, on the solemn parade.

In a dark carriage that followed the procession, Y.N sat hunched beside Alicent. Her gaze was distant, fixed on some unfathomable point in the space before her.

She wore the grief like a cloak, her face an ashen mask of silent torment. The parade’s spectacle did nothing to pierce her numb shell; she remained unresponsive, lost in her sorrow.

When the procession finally reached the pyre, Aemond, his face pale and drawn, gave the command to Vhagar, with a voice that trembled but held a resolute edge.

The dragon's fiery breath ignited the pyre, sending a column of flame skyward. The flames consumed the pyre with a fierce, unrelenting hunger, and the smoke billowed up into the grey sky, carrying the last remnants of their son away.

Even then, amid the crackling fire and the tears of onlookers, Y.N remained silent. She did not react to the sight of her child's remains being turned to ash. Her grief had rendered her mute, a mother broken beyond the reach of words.

The chasm between him and his wife, Y.N., grew wider by the day, an abyss of grief and guilt that he couldn't bridge.

Once, they had shared a good marriage. Aemond had been hesitant to take a wife, but she had been kind and patient. She listened to him, held him, loved him. And he had loved her in return.

They had often indulged in the pleasures of the marriage bed, Aemond loved nothing more than devouring her sweet cunny until she cried and screamed his name and then sheathing himself within her warm wet heat.

Given the frequency in which he spilled his seed inside her they were blessed with their son. Such a little thing he was, but so perfect, his silver hair and amethyst eyes.

Now, his son was gone, and so was the woman he loved. Y.N. wouldn't look at him, wouldn't speak to him.

She had stopped taking care of herself, spending hours staring out of the window, still clutching their son's bloodied blanket. Aemond felt a deep, helpless frustration. He wanted to help her, to reach out and pull her from the abyss, but he didn't know how.

Otto's suggestion had only poured salt into the wound. Exploiting his son's death for political gain had been abhorrent to him. But he had given in and allowed the spectacle and he felt even worse for it.

He approached the window where Y.N. stood, her gaze distant and unfocused. He reached out, his hand hovering just above her shoulder, but he couldn't bring himself to touch her. The distance between them seemed insurmountable.

"Y.N.," he whispered, his voice filled with a sorrow so deep it felt like it would swallow him whole. "I'm so sorry. I don't know how to fix this. I don't know how to help you."

But there was no response, no flicker of recognition in her eyes. She was lost to him, just as their son was lost to them both.

The war between Aegon's Greens and Rhaenyra's Blacks raged on, each day bringing new horrors.

Amidst the chaos, Y.N.'s behaviour began to change in unsettling ways. She started talking as if their son, Aerys, was still alive. She would call for him, her voice filled with a desperate longing.

"Aerys, where are you my sweet? Come to your mother," she would say, her eyes scanning the room as if expecting him to appear at any moment.

Aemond's heart ached each time he heard her. He would gently try to remind her of the painful truth.

"Y.N., Aerys is gone," he would say softly, his voice breaking with sorrow.

But she would turn on him, eyes blazing with anger and confusion. "Why are you saying such things? It's a cruel joke, Aemond. Our sweet boy is still alive. Stop tormenting me."

The tension between them grew, Aemond's helplessness deepening with each passing day. He watched as his wife slipped further from reality, her mind a fractured mirror reflecting the past and present in a chaotic swirl.

There were moments when she would remember, and those moments were the most heartbreaking of all.

She would collapse, her screams of grief echoing through the halls, chilling everyone who heard them. "He's gone! My baby is gone!" she would wail, her voice raw and ragged.

Aemond would hold her then, rocking her back and forth, trying to offer comfort where there was none to be found.

The once vibrant woman he had loved was now a shadow of herself, caught in an endless cycle of denial and despair.

Aemond struggled to maintain his composure, the weight of his guilt and sorrow threatening to crush him. He was fighting a war on two fronts: one against their enemies, and one within the walls of their home.

In the rare quiet moments, Aemond would sit by Y.N.'s side, his hand gently holding hers. "I wish I could bring him back," he would whisper, his voice filled with a pain that mirrored her own. "I would give anything to see him again, to see you smile."

But Y.N. would simply look at him with vacant eyes, lost in a world where her son was still alive, and her heart wasn't shattered.

Aemond knew he had to be strong for both of them, to navigate the war outside and the turmoil within. Yet, with each passing day, he feared the war would take them both before they could ever find peace.

Y.N.'s descent into madness grew more volatile with each passing day. Her grief and confusion often turned into fits of rage, and Aemond often bore the brunt of it.

She would lash out at him, her hands striking him with a surprising force, her screams echoing through the halls.

"Why are you doing this to me?" she would cry, her voice filled with anguish. "Why are you letting this happen? Bring Aerys back! Bring my son back!"

There were times when the guards had to restrain her, their gentle attempts to subdue her only making her struggles more frantic. "Let me go! I want my baby! Aemond, make them stop!" she would scream, her eyes wild with desperation.

Aemond stood helpless, watching as his beloved wife was held back, her mind lost in a labyrinth of sorrow and rage. The sight of her, once so composed and loving, now so broken and tormented, tore at his heart. He longed to reach her, to pull her back from the brink, but he didn't know how.

In the midst of this turmoil, his grandsire approached him with a proposition that made Aemond's blood boil.

"Perhaps it would be best to send Y.N. away," Otto suggested, his tone coldly pragmatic. "She could become a septa, and we could annul the marriage. You could form new alliances that would strengthen our position in the war."

Aemond's anger flared, his fists clenching at his sides. "I will not set her aside," he growled, his voice low and dangerous. "I have already lost my son; I will not lose her too. And I certainly won't allow you to use me to forge alliances elsewhere."

Otto's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing more. He turned and left, leaving Aemond to wrestle with his despair and his resolve.

He knew that his wife's condition was deteriorating, but he refused to abandon her. She had been his strength, his confidant, and his love. He could not—would not—let her go.

Returning to Y.N.'s side, Aemond knelt before her, his heart breaking at the sight of her tear-streaked face. "I'm here, Y.N.," he whispered, his voice choked with emotion. "I'm not going anywhere. We'll find a way through this. I promise you."

But her eyes, once so full of life and love, were vacant and unseeing. She murmured incoherent apologies, pleading to be a good wife, to make things right, not understanding that the world around her had irrevocably changed.

Aemond gathered her in his arms, holding her tightly as she wept. He vowed to himself that he would protect her, that he would fight for her.

The war outside was brutal, but the war within their hearts was even more so. And in this, Aemond knew he had to stand strong, for both of them.

Aemond stood in the doorway, his heart heavy as he watched Y.N. sitting cross-legged on the floor. She was speaking softly, her voice carrying a gentle, loving tone that once filled their home with warmth and joy. Now, it only brought a deep, aching sadness.

"Aerys, you did so well in your lessons today," she praised, her eyes fixed on an empty spot before her. "I'm so proud of you, my sweet boy."

Aemond swallowed hard, his throat tight with emotion. He wanted to reach out to her, to pull her back to reality, but he knew it would only cause her more pain. She turned to him then, her eyes filled with a desperate hope.

"Aemond, aren't you proud of our son?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly.

Aemond nodded weakly, forcing a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Yes, Y.N.," he said softly. "I'm very proud of him."

She smiled, a brief flicker of the woman she once was. Aemond's heart shattered anew, the weight of his guilt and sorrow pressing down on him like a crushing tide.

He watched as she continued speaking to their son who wasn't there, her words a mix of encouragement and gentle admonishments.

"Aerys, remember to practice your letters. Your father and I know you can do it. You're such a clever boy," she said, her eyes shining with a love that was now directed at a ghost.

Aemond felt a deep, gnawing helplessness. He couldn't bring Aerys back, and he couldn't pull Y.N. from the abyss of her grief.

All he could do was be there, a silent witness to her pain, hoping against hope that somehow, they would find a way to heal.

For now, he would nod and smile, pretending along with her, because it was the only way he could offer her any semblance of comfort. And as she spoke to their son who wasn't there, Aemond silently vowed to stand by her, even if she never truly returned to him.

Aemond was seated at the council table, his mind only half-focused on the discussion of troop movements and supply lines, the Velaryon blockade in the Gullet was proving troublesome and food was becoming scarce.

His brother had suggested taking Vhagar and Sunfyre to burn the blockade, but their mother and grandsire urged caution.

Citing the dangers of unleashing the dragons during the war and the devastation they would reign down from the skies.

But he as only half listening, his thoughts were constantly with Y.N., wondering how she was faring in his absence. Suddenly, the door to the chamber swung open, and a guard hurried in, his face pale and anxious.

"Prince Aemond," the guard said, bowing quickly. "It's your wife, Y.N. She's—she's wandering the halls, calling for your son."

Aemond's heart sank. He rose abruptly, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. "Where is she now?" he demanded.

"The gardens, my Prince."

Without another word, Aemond left the council meeting, striding quickly through the corridors, his heart pounding.

As he approached the gardens, he could hear Y.N.'s voice, tinged with a frantic desperation.

"Aerys? Aerys, where are you, my sweet boy? Come to mummy!" she called, her voice trembling.

He found her among the flowers, her hair a wild mess, her bare feet dirty from the garden paths. She was dressed only in her nightgown, her eyes wide and searching.

She turned in circles, her hands outstretched as if she could catch hold of their son if she just reached far enough.

"Y.N.," Aemond called gently, stepping towards her. She didn't seem to hear him, her attention entirely focused on the invisible presence of Aerys.

"Come to mummy”

Aemond moved closer, reaching out to take her hand. "Y.N., it's me, Aemond. Let's go back to our chambers."

She looked at him then, her expression shifting from hope to confusion. "Aemond? But Aerys—he's calling for me. I need to find him."

He swallowed hard, his grip on her hand gentle but firm. "I know, my love. But it's time to come inside. We can look for him together later."

Tears welled up in her eyes, her panic giving way to a heartbreaking vulnerability. "I’m a good mother. I just want to find my baby."

"I know," Aemond whispered, his own eyes filling with tears. "You're the best mother. Let's go inside now, please."

Slowly, she allowed him to guide her back through the halls, her steps hesitant and reluctant. He kept a protective arm around her, his heart aching with every step.

As they reached their chambers, he helped her sit down on the bed, her fingers still clutching at his hand as if he were her lifeline.

"Rest now, Y.N.," he murmured, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. "I’m here. I won’t leave you."

She looked up at him, her eyes reflecting a flicker of recognition and trust. "Promise?"

"Promise," he said, his voice firm despite the sorrow that threatened to overwhelm him.

As she lay down, Aemond sat beside her, holding her hand until she finally drifted into a troubled sleep. He watched over her, his resolve hardening. He would protect her, care for her, and love her through this madness, no matter how long it took. He had already lost his son; he could not lose his wife too.

Sometimes, Y.N. seemed to come back to herself. Her eyes would clear, and for a brief moment, the woman Aemond had loved so dearly would return.

On those rare occasions, she would look at him with a haunting clarity, her voice trembling as she asked, "Aemond, have I gone mad?"

Aemond would hold her close, his heart breaking anew each time. "No, my love. You're not mad. You're grieving. We're both grieving."

But no matter how he tried to comfort her, the moments of lucidity were fleeting. Soon enough, she would lose herself again, retreating into the depths of her sorrow and delusion.

One night, Aemond woke with a start, his heart pounding in the darkness. He reached out, but Y.N. wasn't beside him.

Panic gripped him as he looked around the room, his eyes finally settling on the open window. Y.N. stood there, her nightgown fluttering in the cool breeze, her gaze fixed on something far beyond the walls of their chamber.

"Y.N.," he called softly, rising from the bed. "What are you doing?"

She turned to him; her face illuminated by the moonlight. "I can hear Aerys," she said, her voice filled with a desperate longing. "He's calling for me. I need to go to him. I need to be a good mother."

Fear surged through Aemond as he crossed the room in quick strides, his hands reaching out to take hold of her. "No, Y.N.," he said firmly, pulling her away from the window. "Aerys is gone. You can't go to him."

She struggled against his grip, her eyes wild with grief and confusion. "But he's calling for me-can’t you hear him?”

Aemond's temper flared, the weight of his own sorrow and guilt crashing down on him. "Aerys is dead!" he shouted, his voice cracking with anguish. "He's not coming back!”

The words hung in the air, a bitter truth that neither of them could escape. Y.N. stopped struggling, her eyes widening in shock.

Aemond fell to his knees, his body wracked with sobs as he finally gave in to the overwhelming grief that had consumed him since their son's death.

"I'm sorry," he choked out, his hands covering his face. "I'm so sorry, Y.N. I didn't mean for any of this to happen. I don’t know how to stop this pain-I don’t know how to make it go away”

Y.N. knelt beside him, her own tears falling silently. She gently stroked his head, her fingers running through his long silver hair in a soothing gesture.

"It's going to be okay," she whispered, her voice fragile but filled with a deep, abiding love. "We'll find a way through this. Together."

As the war progressed, the Battle of Rook's Rest had left Aegon grievously injured.

In the aftermath, Aemond was named Prince Regent, a heavy mantle he bore with a sense of duty and an unspoken grief that never quite left him.

Yet, amid the chaos of war, there were glimmers of hope. Y.N. seemed to come back to herself a little more each day.

They had began to lay with other again, the first time since their sons death had been slow and gentle, with Aemond trying to savour the feeling of his wife’s wet heat wrapped around him again.

But as the days went on, the physical intimacy of their relationship became something more, it became a brief distraction from their shared grief and more often not, Aemond would find himself pounding inside his wife with a series of deep penetrating thrusts.

He would take any opportunity he could to be inside her, no matter if it was in their shared chambers, the gardens or even the council room.

Things seemed like they were changing, that maybe the cloud of darkness was finally lifting, that maybe there was chance.

But one day, when Aemond was deep in discussion, making plans to take back Harrenhal. The room buzzing with the urgency of war strategies a guard burst in, panic written across his face.

“Your Grace, it's Y.N. She's at the window and she won't come down."

Aemond's heart sank, dread clawing at his chest. He thought things were getting better, that they were slowly healing.

But as he raced back to his chambers, a cold fear gripped him. He should have known better. He shouldn't have fooled himself into thinking it would be that easy.

Bursting into the room, he saw Y.N. standing on the ledge of the window, her hair blowing wildly in the wind, her eyes distant and unfocused. His breath caught in his throat.

"Y.N.!" he called, trying to keep his voice steady. "Come back inside. It's dangerous."

She turned to him, her expression a mix of sorrow and resolve. "I-I’m with child again," she said, her voice trembling. "I don't want to lose this babe like we lost Aerys. I want to be a good mother, to protect my child."

Aemond took a step closer, his hands outstretched. "I will do everything in my power to ensure our child's safety. Please, Y.N., come back inside."

But her eyes darkened with a painful clarity. "Had you done that before, Aerys would still be alive. How can I trust you to keep your promise now?"

Aemond's heart broke at her words, the weight of his guilt crashing down on him. "Please," he begged, his voice cracking. "I can't lose you too. I need you."

She shook her head, her eyes filling with tears. "I can hear Aerys. He calls for me."

Before he could react, she let go of the window ledge.

Time seemed to slow as Aemond lunged forward, his scream of anguish tearing through the air. He reached out, but it was too late. Y.N. fell, her figure disappearing from sight.

Aemond's scream of horror reverberated through the chamber as he raced to the window, his heart pounding in his chest.

He looked down and saw Y.N.'s body splayed on the ground, unmoving.

He lurched back from the window, his legs carrying him faster than they ever had.

Aemond tore through the corridors, the screams of maids and ladies echoing around him as the reality of what had just happened spread like wildfire.

Bursting outside, Aemond fell to his knees beside Y.N. The blood pooling around her, spilling in different directions.

Never had he seen so much blood in his life.

His hands shook as he reached down gently, lifting her into his arms. Her warm sticky blood staining his clothes and skin.

“Y.N” sobbed Aemond.

Y.N.'s eyes fluttered open, and she gasped, her voice barely a whisper. "I can see him, Aemond. I can see our sweet boy-he’s here"

Tears streamed down Aemond's face as he held her close, his voice breaking. "Go to him, Y.N. Be a good mother. Be with our son, he needs you"

A faint smile touched her lips as she looked up at him, her gaze softening. "I love you," she whispered, her breath faltering.

"I love you too," Aemond choked out, his heart breaking with every word.

Y.N.'s eyes closed, and with a final, shuddering breath, she passed away in his arms.

Aemond held her tightly, his body shaking with sobs as the world around him seemed to crumble. The weight of his grief and guilt was unbearable, the loss of his wife and son a wound that would never heal.

The days following Y.N.'s funeral were a descent into madness for Aemond. The raw, unhealed wound of his grief festered into something dark and malignant.

In the wake of her loss, he marched on Harrenhal, his heart consumed by rage and a desperate need for retribution. On the way many houses in the Riverlands fell to him like a storm, his soldiers cutting down anyone in their path.

Soon houses were nothing more than charred ruins, echoing with the screams of the dying and the roar of Vhagar as he laid waste to those who dared to raise their banners for Rhaenyra.

At Harrenhal, he slaughtered everyone he could find, his blade never without the stain of blood.

Alys Rivers was the only one spared, left to wander amidst the wreckage of the charred ruin she called home.

Aemond's heart was a cauldron of fury, his every action a reflection of the unrelenting torment he felt inside.

The memory of Y.N. and their son haunted him, their spectral forms appearing in his dreams and shadows, reaching out to him but slipping away before he could touch them.

Each night was a cycle of torment, their voices echoing in his ears, demanding answers he could not give.

In a desperate attempt to quell his rage and sorrow, Aemond turned to Alys. Their encounters were brutal and dispassionate, a violent outpouring of grief and anger.

He would not look upon her face as he sheathed his cock inside her, and he would not kiss her. Each time he lay with her, he was left feeling sickened, the physical act a poor substitute for the love and solace he had lost.

In his dreams, Y.N.'s spirit raged at him, her face twisted in anguish and betrayal, accusing him of infidelity and disrespect.

The final blow came when Alys revealed that she carried his child. The news was a knife to his heart, a reminder of all that he had lost and could not reclaim. In his torment, Aemond could not bear the thought of this new life, a product of his grief and anger.

In a cold, ruthless act, he had seized Alys and forced moontea down her throat, she had raged and struggled against him, but he was unmoved. His gloved hand pressed over her nose and mouth to ensure the child would never see the light of day.

He was no longer who he used to be, his heart and soul lost to the void of grief, he had become a monster and there was nothing left for him anymore.

Once she had recovered from the loss of her babe, Alys had cursed his name and he welcomed it.

Even as he mounted Vhagar, seeking a final confrontation with Daemon, and Caraxes. The two dragons clashing in a maelstrom of fire and fury, their roars shaking the heavens.

Amidst the chaos, he heard Y.N.'s voice again, softer this time, calling for him. Her voice was a haunting melody of love and loss, drawing him closer to an end he didn’t want to escape.

He reached out, feeling her ethereal touch, the blade plunging through his skull, and as the darkness closed in, he felt Y.N.'s hand in his.

[novaursa]

The Last Fire

- Summary: You survived the fall in the desert, and now it's up to you again to decide where your story leads or ends.

- Paring: sister!reader/Aegon I Targaryen

- Note: This part contains two new possible endings that were requested. Pick your poison. These events happen after The Last Flight, and these two short stories are part of The Broken Crown series. For all parts in one place, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (just to be safe)

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround @fiction-fanfic-reader @fireandblood-mharmie @poisonedsultana

Ending where Y/N survives the fall, but still dies.

The last thing you remember is the unbearable pain, the world spinning out of control as you and Tesaerix plummeted toward the unforgiving sands below. Her agonized roar still echoes in your mind, a terrible sound of agony and desperation. The impact had been a blur of fire, darkness, and then nothing at all.

When you wake, it is to the sensation of a dull, throbbing pain that pulses through every inch of your body. The air is thick with the scent of herbs and smoke, and your mouth is dry, lips cracked. Your eyes flutter open, struggling to adjust to the dim, unfamiliar light. Stone walls loom around you, cold and unwelcoming. A Dornish castle. Your heart sinks.

Your first instinct is to move, to fight, to escape, but your body betrays you. Sharp pain lances through your side as you shift, and a low, involuntary groan escapes your lips. Everything hurts. Every breath is a struggle, every thought fogged with the weight of what has happened. You reach for your belly, your hand trembling as it finds the emptiness where there should be life. The child is gone. A sob rips through your throat, raw and jagged. The loss is a hollow ache, a void that you cannot fill, no matter how hard you try to pull the shattered pieces of yourself together.

A guard standing at the door turns at the sound, his expression a mix of surprise and something darker—satisfaction, perhaps. His armor gleams in the dim light, the crest of House Martell emblazoned on his chest. He watches you struggle with an impassive gaze, offering no words of comfort or aid.

“How long?” you manage to rasp, your voice barely more than a whisper, rough from disuse.

“Eight days,” the guard replies, his voice flat. “You’ve been unconscious for eight days.”

Eight days. The weight of it settles over you like a shroud. Aegon must think you are dead. The thought of him mourning you, believing you lost, brings a fresh wave of pain. You try to imagine what he must be feeling—the grief, the rage. It’s almost too much to bear.

You attempt to sit up, but your body refuses to cooperate. Every movement sends sharp stabs of agony radiating through your limbs. The guard takes a step forward, a warning in his eyes.

“Stay down,” he commands, his tone brooking no argument. “You’re under orders not to leave this chamber.”

“Orders?” you ask, your voice trembling with a mixture of fear and anger. “From whom?”

“Princess Meria Martell,” he replies. “You are to be held here until he decides your fate.”

Your fate. The words chill you to the core. You are a prisoner, a trophy to the Dornish princess, held captive in the land that has stolen so much from you. Your dragon, your child. The realization hits you like a punch to the gut, and for a moment, the hopelessness is overwhelming. You close your eyes, fighting back the tears that threaten to spill.

But you cannot afford to break. Not now. You have to survive. You have to find a way out, a way to let Aegon know that you are alive, that you are still fighting.

The days pass in a haze of pain and frustration. You are too weak to move, too broken to plan an escape. The guards change shifts, faceless men who bring you food and water, who watch you with the wary eyes of those who know they are in the presence of something dangerous, something they do not fully understand.

One evening, as the sun sets below the horizon, you hear it—a low, distant rumble. Your heart skips a beat. It is a sound you know well, a sound that has haunted your dreams since the day you fell. Dragonfire.

You push yourself up, the pain almost unbearable, but you force yourself to ignore it. You stumble to the small, barred window, your breath coming in ragged gasps. The sky is a dark canvas painted with flames, the unmistakable black silhouette of Balerion the Black Dread soaring above, his jaws spewing torrents of fire that rain down upon the castle below.

“Aegon,” you whisper, your voice breaking. He has come. He has come to avenge you, to burn this place to the ground in his wrath. But he does not know—you are still here. Panic surges through you, cold and sharp. You pound on the door, shouting with what little strength you have left.

“Help! Someone, please!” But no one comes. No one hears. The guards have fled, the castle descending into chaos as Balerion’s fury turns stone to ash and sand to glass.

The flames grow closer, the heat becoming unbearable. The walls of your chamber begin to crack, smoke seeping in through the seams. You cough, your lungs burning as you struggle to breathe, to think.

You have to escape. You have to find a way out. But there is no time. The fire is everywhere now, the heat scorching, the air thick with the acrid scent of burning flesh and wood. You stagger back, your legs giving out beneath you as the ceiling above begins to splinter, molten rock falling like rain.

In your mind, you see Aegon’s face—his eyes dark with grief, his jaw set in that way that you know means he is barely holding himself together. You want to reach out to him, to tell him that you are still here, still alive. But the words stick in your throat, lost in the choking smoke and searing pain.

The door to your chamber bursts open, flames licking at the edges, and you know this is the end. There is no escape, no hope. You close your eyes, a single tear slipping down your cheek as you surrender to the inevitable.

“I’m sorry, Aegon,” you whisper, the words barely audible over the roar of the fire. “I’m so sorry.”

The flames engulf you then, and the world fades to black.

The great hall of Aegonfort was cloaked in an uneasy silence. Servants moved quietly, casting nervous glances at the somber figure of the King. Aegon Targaryen sat on his throne, a shadow of the man he had been. His face was pale, eyes haunted, the lines of grief etched deeply into his features. Each breath felt like a burden, each moment a struggle to maintain the stoic facade he had been forced to wear since that day.

He had returned from Dorne victorious, or so it seemed to others. But victory felt like ash in his mouth. The fury that had driven him to lay waste to Sunspear had given way to a hollow emptiness. The cries of the dying, the smell of burning flesh—all of it haunted him, because none of it could bring you back.

It was then that a servant approached, holding out a small, sealed scroll with trembling hands. “A message from Princess Meria of Dorne, Your Grace.”

Aegon took the letter, his fingers almost numb as he broke the seal. His eyes scanned the parchment, and as he read, his blood turned to ice. The words blurred, but their meaning was unmistakable. You had been alive. Captured, held prisoner. And he had—without knowing—burned you alive in his wrath.

He staggered back, the letter slipping from his grasp and fluttering to the ground like a dying leaf. The world spun around him, his knees buckling as the weight of the revelation crashed over him. His vision dimmed, and he would have collapsed, had Visenya not been there, her strong arms wrapping around him, steadying him.

“Aegon!” Her voice was sharp, full of concern, cutting through the fog that clouded his mind. Rhaenys was there too, her face stricken, rushing to his side.

“Aegon, what’s happened?” Rhaenys asked, her voice trembling. She reached for him, her hands gentle but insistent, trying to draw his gaze to hers. “Please, tell us.”

He could barely speak. The words lodged in his throat, a jagged knot of guilt and horror. His body trembled uncontrollably, a tremor that started in his hands and spread through him like a plague. His eyes, wide and filled with unspeakable anguish, locked onto the faces of his sisters, searching for something he could not name.

“I—I killed her,” he choked out, his voice breaking on the last word. “I burned her alive.”

The silence that followed was absolute, the kind of silence that is born from disbelief, from horror too deep to comprehend. Visenya’s grip on him tightened, her face ashen, her eyes reflecting a grief that mirrored his own.

“No, Aegon,” Rhaenys whispered, shaking her head, tears spilling down her cheeks. “That can’t be true. You wouldn’t—”

“She was there,” he whispered, his voice hollow. “In the castle. Alive. And I... I didn’t know.” His words faltered, breaking under the weight of his confession. “I thought she was gone, and I...” He buried his face in his hands, a raw, strangled sob tearing from his throat. “Gods, I killed her. I killed them both.”

Rhaenys’ hands flew to her mouth, a sob escaping her lips as she stumbled back, her legs giving way as she sank to the floor. Visenya’s face hardened, though her eyes shone with unshed tears. Her grip on him remained firm, as if trying to hold him together when everything else had shattered.

“Aegon,” she said, her voice breaking through the haze of his despair. “You didn’t know. You couldn’t have known.”

But her words felt meaningless, empty. There was no solace to be found in them, no absolution for what he had done. He had let his rage blind him, had let his need for vengeance consume him, and now the price was beyond bearing. The child—your child—gone forever, as he believes it was taken by his own hand. And you... you, whom he had loved more fiercely than life itself, gone because he had failed you in the worst way imaginable.

His body shook with the force of his grief, tears he could no longer hold back streaming down his face. “I killed her, Visenya,” he whispered, his voice a broken thing. “I killed her and our child. I... I’ve destroyed everything.”

Rhaenys reached for him then, her arms wrapping around him, pulling him close as though she could somehow hold the pieces of him together. “Aegon, no,” she wept, her voice a soft, desperate plea. “It wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t have known.”

But the truth of it was a knife twisting in his gut. He had believed you dead, and in his fury, his pain, he had become the very thing he had sworn to destroy. He had let his grief turn him into a monster, and in doing so, he had taken everything that mattered.

Visenya knelt beside him, her hand resting on his shoulder, her touch a steadying force amidst the chaos. “We will get through this,” she murmured, though her voice shook. “Somehow, we will.”

But Aegon knew there was no coming back from this. No battle to fight, no enemy to conquer. The enemy was within him, a darkness he could never escape. The flames of Balerion’s wrath had claimed more than just stone and flesh—they had taken the very heart of him, leaving nothing but ashes and ruin.

And so he wept, there on the cold stone floor of Aegonfort, his sisters by his side, but no comfort to be found. The King of the Seven Kingdoms, broken by his own hand, mourning the woman he had loved—and lost—twice over.

Ending where Y/N survives the fall with her dragon near Sunspear.

The air was filled with the acrid scent of smoke and blood, the heat of battle suffocating even in the high sky. Tesaerix’s wings beat heavily, each movement strained, her breaths coming in labored, ragged bursts. You could feel her pain through the bond you shared, a deep, searing ache that tore through your side as if it were your own. She had been struck, the harpoon lodged deep in her flank, just beneath her wing. Her roar of agony still echoed in your ears, a sound that would haunt you forever.

“Hold on, girl,” you whispered, your voice trembling as you leaned forward, your hand pressing against the warm, slick scales near the wound. Blood, dark and thick, oozed from the gash, and your heart clenched with fear. “Just a little longer.”

Tesaerix let out a low, rumbling growl, her muscles tensing beneath you as she angled downward. The ground rushed up to meet you both, but her descent was controlled, her movements careful despite the pain wracking her body. You clung to her neck, every jolt sending fresh waves of agony through you both, but you held on, murmuring soft words of encouragement.

The landing was rough, her massive form crashing down onto the rocky terrain outside of Sunspear with a jarring thud. The impact jarred you from the saddle, sending you sprawling onto the ground. Pain flared through your side, and you gasped, your hands instinctively moving to your swollen belly. The baby. The fear that gripped your heart was cold and sharp. You forced yourself to take a breath, wincing as you struggled to your feet, pain lancing through your body.

“Tesaerix…” You turned to her, your heart breaking at the sight. She lay on her side, the harpoon still embedded in her scales, her eyes half-closed, her breaths shallow. You stumbled toward her, your hands trembling as you reached out to touch her snout, your fingers brushing over her warm, familiar scales.

“We made it,” you whispered, tears blurring your vision. “We’re safe now.”

But even as you said the words, you knew they were a lie. The sound of approaching footsteps and the clatter of weapons made your heart sink. You turned, your body tense, as a group of Dornish soldiers surrounded you, their spears raised, their faces hard and unyielding. Behind them, riding in a litter shaded by silks, was Princess Meria Martell, her gaze sharp and calculating as it swept over the scene.

“You are far from home, Targaryen,” she said, her voice carrying over the tense silence. “And in no position to bargain.”

You straightened, ignoring the pain that shot through your side, your hand still resting protectively over your belly. “I am Queen Y/N Targaryen, wife of King Aegon. I demand safe passage for myself and my dragon.”

Meria’s lips curled into a cold smile. “Demands, is it? You are in no position to demand anything, child. You and your dragon are prisoners of Dorne.”

You glanced at Tesaerix, her body still and trembling with pain, her deep red eyes flickering weakly. Chains were already being brought forward, heavy iron links that were meant to bind her, to keep her grounded and helpless. The thought of her, proud and fierce, being chained once more like a common beast made your blood boil.

“Please,” you said, your voice breaking despite yourself. “She’s wounded. Let her be treated, and I will come with you peacefully.”

Meria studied you for a long moment, her eyes narrowing. Then she gave a curt nod. “The dragon will be tended to, but she will remain under guard. And you will come with us, now.”

The soldiers stepped forward, and you forced yourself to stand tall, even as fear and pain threatened to overwhelm you. Tesaerix let out a low, pained growl, her eyes locked on you as the soldiers approached, her body tensing as if she would rise and fight, despite her injuries.

“No,” you whispered, your voice firm as you placed a hand on her snout. “Stay, Tesaerix. Stay.” She let out a soft rumble, her massive head lowering to the ground, her eyes closing as if to conserve her strength. You turned back to the soldiers, your heart aching, but you forced yourself to move forward.

They escorted you into Sunspear, through winding streets that echoed with the murmurs of the people, curious and wary as they watched the procession pass. You kept your head high, your gaze fixed forward, refusing to show any sign of weakness or fear.

They led you to a chamber in the castle, its stone walls cool and unyielding. The door closed behind you with a heavy thud, the sound of the lock sliding into place echoing through the room. You were alone now, a prisoner in an enemy’s stronghold.

The days blurred together, each one filled with a growing dread. Your thoughts were consumed with worry for Tesaerix, chained and wounded outside the city. You paced the confines of your chamber, your mind racing with thoughts of Aegon, of what he must be feeling, believing you lost. You could only hope he would find out the truth before it was too late.

On the fifth day, Meria visited you. She stood in the doorway, her expression inscrutable, her eyes lingering on your belly before meeting your gaze. “Your dragon will survive, though her wing may never fully heal,” she said, as if discussing the weather.

Relief washed over you, though it was quickly followed by a fresh wave of anger. “And what of me? What do you intend to do with me?”

Meria tilted her head, considering. “You are valuable, Targaryen. As long as you remain with child, your life is safe. But know this—I will use you to ensure Aegon’s compliance. The war has cost too much already.”

You clenched your fists, fighting to keep your voice steady. “And if I lose the child?”

“Then your fate will depend on my whim,” she said simply, her eyes hard. “Do not try to escape, Y/N. Your dragon may be chained, but even a wounded beast is dangerous. And if she dies trying to save you…” She let the implication hang in the air, the threat clear.

Rage and fear battled within you, but you forced yourself to remain calm. “I will not try to escape,” you said, the words bitter on your tongue. “But if you harm her, there will be no place in this world you can hide from my husband’s wrath.”

Meria’s smile was thin, humorless. “We shall see, my lady.”

As she left, you sank onto the hard bed, your body trembling with exhaustion and despair. The days that followed were a blur of pain and uncertainty, your thoughts constantly turning to Aegon, to Tesaerix, to the fragile life within you. You had to survive, for their sake. You had to find a way to endure.

Outside, you knew the chains that bound Tesaerix were a constant reminder of your captivity, her pain mirroring your own. But you were both still alive, still fighting, even if only by clinging to the hope that Aegon would come, that he would find you before it was too late.

And when he did, you swore to yourself, you would make them all pay for what they had done. For every wound, every chain, every day of fear and suffering. You would see Dorne burn for this. You would see them all kneel before the fury of the Targaryen fire.

Princess Meria Martell sat in her chambers, the heavy stone walls of Sunspear pressing in around her like the weight of a great, immovable burden. She drummed her fingers on the polished wood of her desk, her eyes scanning the letter she had penned days ago. She had offered the King a simple exchange: your life and freedom in return for Dorne’s autonomy. It was a calculated risk, a gamble meant to end the bloodshed that had ravaged her lands and threatened her people.

But the answer she received was not what she had expected.

The messenger had barely finished delivering the news when a sudden, deafening roar echoed across Sunspear, shaking the very foundations of the castle. Meria’s heart froze. She shot to her feet, her blood turning to ice as a servant burst into the room, his face ashen with terror.

“Dragons, Your Grace! They’re here!”

Panic seized her. She swept past the servant, her silks rustling as she hurried down the corridors, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps. The stone walls seemed to close in around her, her mind racing with fear and confusion. Aegon wasn’t supposed to come, not yet. Not like this.

Reaching the balcony that overlooked the city, she pushed open the doors and stepped out into the blazing sunlight. The sight that greeted her was one she would never forget. Balerion the Black Dread hovered above the city, his massive wings blotting out the sun, casting a dark shadow over Sunspear. Below him, Vhagar and Meraxes circled, their screeching cries filling the air as if announcing the coming storm.

And there, on the edge of the city, near the main gates, was Tesaerix. Her golden scales glinted in the harsh light, her massive form still and tense, the iron chains that held her stretched taut. But Balerion was descending toward her, the great beast’s eyes glowing with a dark, dangerous intent. With a mighty roar, he landed beside her, his immense claws tearing through the chains as if they were no more than threads.

Tesaerix let out a guttural snarl, her wings unfolding cautiously as the last of her bindings fell away. The sight of the great dragon, wounded yet still fierce, stretching her wings and shaking off the restraints, sent a shiver down Meria’s spine. She knew then, with a clarity that burned like ice, that she had underestimated Aegon Targaryen. This was not a king who would bargain or yield. This was a man who would see the world burn before he let anything be taken from him.

Meria turned, heart pounding, as she saw the three figures approaching the castle. Aegon, Visenya, and Rhaenys dismounted just outside the gates, the air around them shimmering with the heat of their dragons’ breath. The ground trembled beneath their feet, the power of their presence undeniable, terrifying.

She forced herself to move, to descend the stairs and meet them at the entrance. Her guards flanked her, their faces pale, their hands gripping their spears as if holding on to the last shred of their courage. She stepped forward, lifting her chin, though her heart raced like a caged bird.

Aegon’s eyes met hers, and the fury she saw there was like a living, breathing thing, coiled tight and ready to strike. His face was a mask of barely contained rage, the lines of his jaw clenched so tightly she thought it might shatter.

“Princess Meria,” he said, his voice low and cold, as if he were spitting the words through gritted teeth. “You dare to hold my wife captive and then try to negotiate with me?”

Meria swallowed, trying to keep her voice steady. “I offered you peace, Your Grace. An end to this war. Dorne in exchange for—”

“For my queen? For my child?” he snarled, stepping forward, the raw power radiating from him like heat from a forge. “You think you can trade lives with me, like some merchant haggling over goods? I am no man to be bargained with.”

Visenya’s eyes were like chips of ice, her hand resting on the hilt of Dark Sister, the sword gleaming wickedly in the sun. “You will release her, and our unborn nephew or niece, now,” she said, her voice a quiet, deadly promise. “Or Sunspear will burn until it is nothing but a memory.”

Rhaenys’ usually warm, vibrant presence was overshadowed by a seething anger. “Do not mistake our patience for weakness, Princess,” she said, her voice taut with restrained fury. “You have made a grievous error.”

Meria raised her hands, trying to project calm. “I do not wish for more bloodshed. I swear to you, Y/N is unharmed. She and the child are safe.”

“Safe?” Aegon’s voice was a roar, his eyes blazing. “Chained like a beast, held in your dungeons, with her dragon bound outside like a common animal—that is your idea of safety?”

Meria took a breath, forcing herself to hold his gaze. “I needed to ensure that Dorne would not be crushed under your might. I needed leverage.”

“And now you have none,” Visenya cut in, her tone sharp as a blade. “Release her. Or I swear by the gods, your city will burn until there is nothing left.”

Meria hesitated, her mind racing. She had known this moment was dangerous, but she had thought she would have time, that she could control the situation. Now, looking at the three Targaryens before her, their dragons looming like harbingers of death, she realized just how badly she had miscalculated.

She nodded, slowly, her voice quiet. “She will be brought to you. Unharmed.”

Aegon stepped forward, his face inches from hers, and she could feel the barely restrained fury radiating off him like a physical force. “If I find one scratch on her, one sign that she or my child has been harmed…” He let the threat hang, his eyes burning into hers with a promise of utter destruction. “I will reduce this city to ash and bone.”

Meria shuddered but nodded again, turning to give the order. As she did, she glanced back at the dragons, at Balerion, who stood protectively near Tesaerix, the massive beast’s eyes glowing with a deadly intelligence.

She knew then that there would be no mercy, no second chances. If she failed to deliver, if she tried to deceive them even slightly, Sunspear—and all of Dorne—would be lost to the wrath of the dragons.

And so she prayed, silently, that her people would not suffer for her misjudgment, and that you would be returned to your king unscathed. Because if not, there would be no place in this world that could hide her from Aegon’s vengeance.

[dgrailwar]

Round 13, Day 3 - At The Grail

The tension in the air was palpable. The next few motions were unspoken, but inevitable with a clear impasse. The Gunner gripped his shamisen, grinning. The Ruler's grip on her banner tightened. The Avenger summoned his burning blade. The MoonCancer readied her great axe. The Alter-Ego raised one of her bladed legs.

An agreement wouldn't be reached.

So, they were going to settle things the old fashioned way.

"Wait--"

With a stretch, the Alter-Ego smirked, eyeing the other Servants.

"Oh, whatever. We can sit here and talk about logistics for hours, I know two Servants who aren't gonna budge. So... You know, let's get rid of those two, and then we can work out where to go next, okay?"

"Then we're fighting to kill. It was nice chatting with you all, but I think we're beyond friendly conversation. The Master's want to make things work, you don't. You're outnumbered, so either fall in line, or face the consequences."

The Gunner reached into his pockets, grasping a few colored vials within his fingertips, each one trembling with suppressed power.

"The Age of Gods is over, and that includes the reign of monsters. As Heroic Spirits, our job is to push humanity forward, not drag it back into darkness. If you can't accept that much, then I have nothing more to say to you. May God have mercy on your souls."

The Ruler said, slowly spinning her banner as she began to pace, preparing herself for whatever was to come next.

With a laugh, the Avenger stared down the Ruler, keeping his movements counter to hers.

"This is how we push humanity forward, Ruler. Your flaw is that you're too stuck in your ways. This is the purpose of our summoning! If you wish to go against it, then you'd best stay on guard!"

"Good grief, you're all nuts. Ruler's the only one talking sense! This is more than just taking a risk, this is trying to drop a nuke on society! I hate to pull divine rank here, but as an avatar of Namasthetu, I can't just let this slide. C'mon, Mushika!"

' … '

"Let them fight, Echidna. This is the nature of Servants. Regardless of the specifics, the instinct is the same-- they're still battling over the right for the Grail."

And with that, five forms surged forward--

And a grand battle began.

A simple vote! No bonuses, no boosts, just the pure mana of the Masters!

[sensualnoiree]

Tarot and Astrology: The Numerological Connection

Numbers In Tarot, each number holds a specific energy and meaning, enriching the interpretation of each card.

1: New Beginnings. The spark of potential, initiating action, and starting new endeavors.

2: Pairings & Choices. Balancing dualities, making decisions, and experiencing tension between opposites.

3: Creating & Connecting. Collaboration, expansion, and the synthesis of ideas and energies.

4: Stability & Security. Establishing foundations, seeking order, and dealing with immovable aspects.

5: Instability & Crisis. Disruption, conflict, and the challenges that bring growth and change.

6: Community & New Normal. Harmony, integration, and adapting to a new equilibrium.

7: Reflection & Assessment. Introspection, reevaluation, and warnings about justifying questionable actions.

8: Speed & Power. Momentum, strength, and the exercise of influence and control.

9: Independence & Solitude. Self-reliance, contemplation, and the culmination of personal journeys.

10: Completion. Fulfillment, the end of cycles, and the transition to new phases.

Number and Suit Combining numbers with suits provides specific insights into different aspects of life

1 + Cups: Abundance, New Love, Attraction. The beginning of emotional fulfillment and romantic ventures.

1 + Stones: Material Gain, New Job, New Investment. Starting new financial or career-related projects.

1 + Swords: Mental Clarity, Victory, Success. Fresh insights, triumphs, and intellectual breakthroughs.

1 + Wands: Urge to Create, New Projects, Ideas. The drive to initiate creative endeavors and pursue passions.

2 + Cups: Romance, Love, Partnerships, Connection. Deepening emotional bonds and forming meaningful relationships.

2 + Stones: Making a Choice, Juggling Resources, Endless Change. Balancing practical concerns and making important decisions.

2 + Swords: Compromise Needed, Stalemate in Negotiations. Finding balance in conflicts and navigating mental impasses.

2 + Wands: Determination, Planning for the Future. Strategic thinking and setting long-term goals.

3 + Cups: Friendships, Support, Celebration with Others. Social connections and joyous gatherings.

3 + Stones: Apprenticeships, Teamwork, Collaboration. Cooperative efforts and collective achievements.

3 + Swords: Heartbreak, Betrayal, Grief. Emotional pain and the challenges of overcoming loss.

3 + Wands: Optimism for Success, Working with Others, Waiting for Future Results. Anticipating progress and collaboration.

4 + Cups: Boredom, Apathy, Missed Opportunity. Emotional stagnation and unrecognized potential.

4 + Stones: Hoarding, Greed, Seeking Long-Term Security. Material conservatism and protecting assets.

4 + Swords: Look Within, Rest and Recovery. Healing, contemplation, and taking a break from activity.

4 + Wands: Good Times Shared, Public Celebrations. Joyous events and communal success.

5 + Cups: Dwelling on the Past, Grief, Disappointment. Emotional loss and the struggle to move forward.

5 + Stones: Financial Trouble, Isolation, Insecurity. Economic challenges and the need for resilience.

5 + Swords: Self-Destruction, Victory through Deceit. Moral conflicts and the cost of unscrupulous actions.

5 + Wands: Competition, Conflict, Challenge. Struggles for dominance and the drive to overcome obstacles.

6 + Cups: Gifts, Simple Pleasures, Happy Memories, Reunions. Nostalgia and the joy of revisiting the past.

6 + Stones: Giving and Receiving, Financial Prosperity. Generosity and mutual support in practical matters.

6 + Swords: Recovery from Hard Times, Moving On, Starting Over. Transitioning away from difficulties.

6 + Wands: Victory, Triumph, Popularity, Respect. Recognition and the celebration of achievements.

7 + Cups: Wishful Thinking, Illusion, Temptation. The dangers of unrealistic fantasies and distractions.

7 + Stones: Long-Term Projects, Patience, Commitment. Sustained effort and dedication to goals.

7 + Swords: Cutting Corners, Betrayal, Deceit. Ethical dilemmas and the consequences of dishonesty.

7 + Wands: Self-Defense, Stand Your Ground. The need to protect one's position and assert boundaries.

8 + Cups: A Turning Point, Voluntary Withdrawal. The decision to leave behind what no longer serves.

8 + Stones: Work Enjoyment, The Process of Mastery. Finding joy in diligent effort and skill development.

8 + Swords: Powerlessness, Feeling Trapped. Mental constraints and the need to find liberation.

8 + Wands: Sudden Change, News Out of the Blue. Rapid developments and unexpected information.

9 + Cups: Wishes Coming True, Having More than Enough. Fulfillment and the realization of desires.

9 + Stones: Self-Sufficiency, Financial Independence. The rewards of hard work and autonomy.

9 + Swords: Anxiety and Depression, Nightmares, Insomnia. Mental anguish and the need for emotional healing.

9 + Wands: Finding Your Strength, Maintaining Boundaries. Resilience in the face of adversity.

10 + Cups: Family Contentment, Happiness, Security. Emotional fulfillment and stable relationships.

10 + Stones: Building a Legacy, Investments, Retirement. Long-term success and material stability.

10 + Swords: The Worst is Over, Hitting Rock Bottom. The end of suffering and the beginning of recovery.

10 + Wands: Putting Your Needs First, Heavy Burden. The importance of self-care amidst responsibilities.

follow for more astro insights like this and head on over to @quenysefields or instagram sensualnoiree to book a session with me :)

[writing-for-life]

Lupē

Finally, finally I manage a Calliope/Morpheus fic (the Sandman Rarepair Fest had to come along to kick me into gear). It’s just a short vignette, but I hope I did them justice because they will always be the OTP to me. The prompt is Hurt/Comfort.

You can read on Ao3 or here. And no matter where you read, your kudos, comments, shares and reblogs are so appreciated and help writers to get their stuff discovered 🖤

Lupē (616 words) by Writing-for-Life Chapters: 1/1 Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Calliope/Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Calliope/Dream of the Endless, Calliope & Dream of the Endless | Morpheus Additional Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, Reconciliation, Past Relationship(s), Rare Pairings, Canon Compliant, During Canon, Canon Related, Canon Rewrite Summary:

Calliope had wept for him so many times, and she felt the tight grip of grief resurfacing. She had mourned the laughter that would never echo through these halls again, the stories of his father he would never pass on to children of his own, the promise of a future shattered. […] And she was tired of mourning, of a grief that felt like it was hers alone to bear.

Lupē

The moon hung low in the sky, casting a silvery glow upon the twisted spires of the castle. She had not returned here since that fateful day.

The Gatekeepers stood before her, eyes like onyx reflecting the aeons they had witnessed. Last time, they had been impassive, their voices cold as they denied her entry.

But tonight, something had changed: They recognised her.

"Calliope," the wyvern’s voice echoed through the mist. "You seek the Lord of Dreams."

She nodded, and her throat felt so tight she could barely swallow. "I come to speak to him."

Calliope's fingers trembled. She remembered the bitter words they had exchanged—the accusations, the tears. Later, Oneiros had been unyielding, her attempts to speak to him ignored. She was not even sure what would have happened had he acted differently then; the thought of bringing forth an apology entered her mind and was as quickly dismissed. She felt her hands ball into fists, bitterness resurfacing.

No, this is not the time.

The guardians exchanged glances, their expressions unreadable. "Why are you here, muse?" the hippogriff asked.

She hesitated. "Our son's absence binds us, even in sorrow."

There was no more talk, no further interrogation. The gates just creaked open.

Calliope stepped across the threshold, and her footsteps echoed on the stairs and the marble corridors. With every step, her heart picked up pace until it was racing so fast she could hardly catch a breath.

The door was as she remembered—unchanged, the wood dark and polished, etched with symbols whose meaning she understood and yet didn’t.

Just like him.

But that wasn’t true. He had been changed when last they met. Familiar yet different, faint echoes of what once she loved—and hated.

Calliope pushed the door open, and the air itself seemed to hold its breath. For a moment, she wondered what she had expected to find. How she had expected him to greet her. And then she knew that this was exactly it:

His back turned on her, no sign of movement, frozen in space.

She crossed the room, her breath catching in her throat, unable to speak.

She didn’t have to.

"Calliope," he whispered, still not turning. There was a rawness to his voice, even in that whisper, that caught her unaware.

She reached for him, without any hesitation, and while it surprised her, it felt right. As her hand touched his shoulder, he flinched subtly, but he didn't pull away.

When he finally turned, his eyes held galaxies, and their shared history was etched on his face—the pain, the longing—it was all there, laid bare.

And it was hard not to see Orpheus in him. Hard not to remember how he had told him stories, his voice like a melody spun from darkness and light, stardust and moonbeams, while the boy’s laughter would echo through the halls of the castle, and his cries for more brought a moment of happiness to everyone who heard it.

And then it was gone.

Calliope had wept for him so many times, and she felt the tight grip of grief resurfacing. She had mourned the laughter that would never echo through these halls again, the stories of his father he would never pass on to children of his own, the promise of a future shattered.

She had sung dirges and sought solace in memories, but they only deepened the pain.

And she was tired of mourning, of a grief that felt like it was hers alone to bear.

In that moment, his eyes searched hers. “You came.” And perhaps, they were seeking answers and forgiveness.

“You called.”

And perhaps, they were also holding the faint glimmer of hope…

[run-little-hero]

TW // Gun mention, knife mention

Villain never pictured feeling so content at the end of their life. Supervillain is dead and most of their team has been apprehended, but approaching their own demise feels only bittersweet. It helps to know their death will be delivered by such beautiful hands.

Sirens and screams are distant, muted. Villain is facing away from the door to the roof, staring over the edge of the high-rise. They hear the door’s rusty hinges creak open, followed by gentle footsteps.

Villain takes a breath. “Fitting way for this to end.” They turn to face Hero. “I wouldn’t have anyone else.”

Hero steps forward, brows bent and lips quirked in an aching smile. Villain is drawn to the sight of them, stepping away from the edge and closer to their fate.

“Don’t fight me, Villain. Just come quietly, it’ll be easier that way.”

“Into custody? A prisoner of the Agency?” They huff. “You can’t deny me my freedom, you know that. There’s only one way for this to end.”

Hero shakes their head. “I’d never do that to you. You’ll have to kill me first.”

How brave. Villain wonders if Hero really means it. If they’d still keep that promise staring down Villain’s handgun.

They don’t act on that impulse and instead, clasp their hands behind their back. “It seems we’re at an impasse.”

Hero looks to be on the verge of tears. It rips through Villain’s heart like nothing else. “How can you ask this of me?” Hero whines.

“How can you ask me to let myself be captured? I’d rather die than subject myself to that.” The anger rises in Villain’s voice. “You know what they do to those of us they capture. Don’t act like the Agency is so merciful.”

“I—“ Hero chokes. A few tears have fallen from their eyes. “I can’t lose you.”

Villain laughs, a strained, awkward sound of grief. “Well you should’ve thought about that earlier.” They can’t feed into Hero’s affection. “Maybe a better hero wouldn’t have gotten so attached.”

“Stop it,” they spit. “You can’t make me want to hurt you.” They walk forward, taking Villain in their arms. “Please.”

“Hero…” They close their eyes. This is enough for Villain—to die knowing someone cares so much. To perish in love and treat death as an embrace. “Hero, I—“

Bang. Bang. Bang. A metal thud sounds repeatedly against the door. Hero must’ve locked it.

“They’re here.” Villain takes Hero’s hands. “Please. I want it to be you,” they resign.

Villain stares into Hero’s eyes as their hands break contact and Hero reaches for something at their waist. Adrenaline is coursing through Villain as they try to regulate their breathing, teetering on the edge of life and death. The banging on the door gets faster and louder in their ears. Finally, they close their eyes as Hero snakes an arm around their waist. They prepare for the sting of a knife, the explosion of a gun, the inevitable impact of their death.

“You’re the only person I want to save.”

Hero is gentle with them, as always. Villain doesn’t know if they’ll ever get used to it.

Hero grips Villain tight and runs them both to the edge of the roof. Before Villain can take it in, Hero fires a grappling gun at a neighboring building. They’re pulled into the air together, and Villain hardly gets a glimpse at the heroes who busted through the door before they’ve disappeared.

—

snippet #7