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calder · 1 year ago

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Released in 2010, Obsidian Entertainment's Fallout: New Vegas actively concerns itself with the realities of gay existence, and is widely recognized as a noteworthy work of queer science fiction. New Vegas extensively examines social attitudes towards homosexuality among the game's major factions, and primarily conveys this lore through gay and bisexual characters describing their own experiences. It also allowed the player to mechanically set the Courier's sexual orientation. By taking both available perks, the player character can be bisexual. By choosing neither, the player can opt out of seeing flirtatious dialogue options.

Uniquely, Fallout: New Vegas explores homosexuality in the context of wasteland societies, and touches upon related issues. The core theme of New Vegas is that the desire to recreate the past is driven by irrational nostalgia, and any endeavor to manifest past glory is dangerous and doomed. The social issue of homophobia is used as a demonstrative example. The resurrection of corporate and military power structures presents new avenues for Old World problems such as institutional homophobia to reemerge. One of the many issues that divide the New California Republic and Caesar's Legion is the latter's open persecution of gay people. The NCR is described as tolerant and even accepting of same-sex relationships, though acceptance tends to fall off the further one moves away from the developed, urbanized core of New California. In recent years, the Republic's rapid economic transformation has led to an unforeseen erosion of the humanitarian ideals which it was founded to serve. In practice, to recreate America was to take on its shortcomings and its sins. As subsistence scavenging has dried up, the people of the NCR increasingly turn to wage labor, entrepreneurial venture, or military enlistment to keep their families fed. Meanwhile, their government enacts morally corrosive imperialism (narrative verbiage), their dominion expanding indefinitely as their infrastructure crumbles from within. This has led to a profit-based imperial monoculture which must conquer, consume, and coerce to perpetuate. As personal politics and service labor grow in importance, people find themselves more inclined to present as "normal" in the interest of financial stability and political expedience. A loading screen visualizes this culture of artificial social normalcy: the portrait of President Aradesh on the NCR 5$ bill neglects to depict his unibrow, earring, and facial scarification, overall portraying the once-chieftain so cleanly-cut as to be unrecognizable at first glance. He also appears to be wearing a collared shirt or suit as opposed to the robe he wore in Fallout.

In the Legion, Caesar has mandated that every legionnaire take a wife and produce children, citing high infant mortality rates and the constant need for soldiers, and going as far as instituting child quotas. He treats human beings as a resource to be exploited for war. Ostensibly in this aim homosexuality has been declared a capital offense punishable by death. Historically, routine demonstrations of violence towards women and gay people are a deliberate feature of fascist societies, the only logical cultural conclusion of a government devoted entirely to war and control. In Forlorn Hope letter 9, an NCR soldier wrote wrote the following to his boyfriend:

Dearest Andrew, Writing this seems pretty morbid, but tomorrow we march into the no man's land between our camp and Nelson, which is crawling with Legion. The Major insisted I write this damn "if you get this, I'm dead" letter so here it is. What a crock. I have the luck of the devil and your love on my side, so I'll be home soon. Keep the porch light on for me. We'll party in New Vegas when I get back. I love you. —Devin

Devin believed he would prevail over the Legion because his love would keep him safe. He was found dying or dead on the battlefield, the letter was found on his body. In a post-release patch, the injured soldiers were removed from the battlefield for performance reasons, and never re-implemented. Driven largely in reaction to the Legion's hyper-masculine posturing and misogyny, rumors persist across the Mojave that gay male relationships are not only common within the Legion, but condoned. These rumors are repeated commonly in NCR society. A closeted NCR Major mentions that the Legion is "a little more... forgiving" about close male "friendships," speaking in a hushed tone to avoid suspicion. At the same outpost, the player can encounter Cass, a bisexual civilian woman. She may flirt with a male Courier, who may imply they are gay, prompting her to imply gay men are more common in the Legion. Even as gay men fight and die in the name of love under his command, NCR General Oliver may remark to Courier Six at the Second Battle of Hoover Dam: "If you think after all that's happened, I'm going to grab my ankles and take it like the Legion..."

This writing pertains to institutionalized homophobia which manifests in practice though power structures and social interactions without being written into law. Simply put, in his derogatory remark, the general expresses to his army that military surrender is gay, much like their gay enemy. From the brevity and bluntness of this remark, it's clear that this sentiment is already well understood among his ranks. Logically, to project strength in the eyes of such a leader, one might also project homophobia by scrutinizing and harassing one's peers and subordinates. In this atmosphere, the expression of homophobia is not only normalized, but materially incentivized. For the ambitious, it becomes a tool, and a way of casting shame upon rivals. For the closeted, homophobia becomes a survival tactic, hoping to throw scrutiny off oneself. This is why Major Knight is immediately frightened when a male Courier flirts with him. He is so profoundly alienated that he romanticizes life as a gay man under the Legion. The Legion punish homosexuality with death, and yet Knight characterizes them as more "forgiving" than the NCR. Through these apparently disparate events, the audience can trace how a distorted perception of gay people emerges among insecure men in a military environment, and subsequently becomes ingrained in the corresponding civilian culture. At the 188 Trading Post, a lesbian from the Brotherhood of Steel named Veronica also wryly remarks that she believes legionaries have gay sex about as often as straight sex. She also notes that this only applies to men, as women have no rights whatsoever in Legion society. In this aside, she conveys a pre-existing frustration with lesbophobic social norms. Veronica also mentions that the people of her bunker would rather she remain on the surface. The Mojave Brotherhood of Steel has no official policy prohibiting homosexuality, but an implicit attitude among its dominant members that their limited numbers require everyone to have children to avoid extinction. Numerically, this may seem logical on the surface, given their reluctance to recruit outsiders. However, given their tiny population, this is an ineffective countermeasure, as they do not have nearly enough members to maintain genetic diversity for more than a few generations. This approach is not universally supported by all family units within the Brotherhood, but every individual is ultimately at the mercy of the elder. Veronica was in a lesbian relationship, but they were quietly separated by Elder Elijah, due to the dominant culture of enforcing heterosexual pairing among their population.

Caesar's law has not ended homosexuality within his domain. Despite the obvious risks, some legionaries have continued to pursue relationships behind closed doors, especially given their access to slaves. So long as members complete their societal obligations and fulfill the child quotas, they are able to pursue romance with other men in secret. Homosexual relationships in the faction are noted as being relatively equal compared to the average Legion husband and wife, in a "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" sort of open secret policy. Gay legionaries must always make sure to keep their activities hidden. A centurion was once almost caught fraternizing with the teenage boy he had chosen to tend his tent. Despite previous "romantic" intentions, he quickly resolved to dispose of the slave to dispel suspicion. Had they been caught together, the centurion would have been charged with homosexuality and sentenced to death. This story is only known because the enslaved young man, Jimmy, managed to escape execution. Further illustrating the cruelty intrinsic to Legion governance, it's stated that homosexuality was the crime, and not the rape of a young slave; in fact, it seems Jimmy was forced to contribute to the child quota despite being a gay teenager, and the experience left him traumatized. He has resolved to never have sex with another woman, as the very notion triggers memories which fill him with disgust, and (in his own words) makes him feel like a slave all over again. The Strip is indifferent to gay people, viewing them as another opportunity to make caps. Both the Gomorrah and the Atomic Wrangler are interested in maximizing profits, and their prostitution services cater to clients regardless of their orientation. The openly gay Jimmy works at nearby Casa Madrid, but there is some tension among his peers due to his co-worker Maude's blatant homophobia. She supposes he's "okay, for one of those," and if propositioned by a female Courier, Maude will direct them to Sweetie for such "perverted" services. Pretty Sarah must regularly intervene to keep the peace among her staff.

The Followers of the Apocalypse, well-read punks who seek to embody healing through anarchistic values, are not concerned with gender. Most are openly and casually sexually active. Upon meeting Courier Six, Arcade Gannon offhandedly makes his gayness known, unprompted. The audience must face the fact that Arcade's apprehension of the Legion is far from abstract; under Legion law, he would be put to death. One possible ending gives further insight into Caesar's hypocrisy: should the player sell Arcade into slavery and leave Caesar alive, he will keep Arcade as a personal physician and philosophical advisor. They intellectually spar at length, and Caesar grows singularly fond of him. Accordingly, Arcade imitates the historic suicide of Cato the Younger by disemboweling himself. The Legion's remaining medics attempted to save his life, but none were Arcade's equal. Caesar understood his doctor's final gesture of contempt, and mourned him for months.

New Vegas ventures further into themes of healing from the trauma of sexual violence, from the perspective of a lesbian character. Corporal Betsy, an NCR sharpshooter, is a rape survivor, and suffers with PTSD from the incident. Her unprocessed trauma has manifested as a maladaptive tendency to aggressively and explicitly proposition the women she encounters, in an effort to reassert a sense of control. This defensive hypersexual impulse has negatively impacted her ability to connect with other women. A male superior officer notes that her behavior is inappropriate for anyone of her stature, but abstains from disciplining her out of sincere concern for her mental health. The Courier can help her begin to recognize these problems, and convince her to seek treatment from Doctor Usanagi at the New Vegas medical clinic, which proves helpful to her as she processes and heals from her trauma.

In Old World Blues, the Think Tank are five floating brains in jars who express themselves by waving robotic arms bearing screens depicting facial features. Before the War, they were federal scientists who committed crimes against humanity in the name of weapons development. Each is stuck in some sort of neuro-bionic feedback loop which prevents them from moving forward with their projects, mentally binding them to their central laboratory. Walking through their homes at Higgs Village, it's clear each was deeply neurotic before they were transformed into floating brains. Now without bodies, they attempt to maintain the illusion that they are exempt from sexuality as purely mental beings, but each displays obvious interest in the human form. They have codified this shaming with the term "formography." Most of the men are obsessively defensive over their complete disinterest in penises, which they talk about constantly. However, the shameless Dr. Dala shows overwhelming interest in observing and recording any and all human functions. Already androgynous in her pre-War life, Dala has taken to self-identifying as a "gender neutral entity" (though she is not known to use they/them pronouns). Regardless of the Courier's gender, they may coquettishly scratch themselves, clear their throat, and stretch in front of Dala until her biomed gel decoagulates. Dr. 8 also responds positively to graphic masturbation advice from Couriers of either gender. The X-8 research facility is ostensibly a massive immersive shrine to Doctor Borous's hatred of Richie "Ball-Lover" Marcus, a long-dead child who bullied Borous centuries ago. He also clings to his resentment of one Betsy Bright, who refused to attend a dance with him, supposedly so she could "go smoke with RICHIE MARCUS." Clearly arrested in development, Borous has literally built a temple to the fantasy of torturing his adolescent romantic rival and feeding him to dogs. His frozen, static characterization of the jock Richie Marcus as a "pinko-commie" who "likes balls" reflects the shallowness, pettiness, and overall misanthropy underlying his patriotic identity. It remains apparent throughout Old World Blues that the Think Tank are all chronically sexually repressed, which is inseparable from the values of the violent and judgmental pre-War culture which created them. With time and isolation, this ingrained repression has manifested as various intense and deranged psychosexual behaviors, including rage-fueled homophobia, voyeurism, and the obsessive performance of puritanical pretense.

____

“Although I’ve been out for a very long time, I made a conscious effort to be out with relation to this project, as I wanted to be visible as a lesbian in the game industry. New Vegas itself is, I think, one of (if not the) best games out there in how we treat homosexuality – and all of that is very intentional.”

“If my work on FNV, if my being out has helped even one gay person, then I have succeeded.” — Tess “Obsidian’s Gay Cowgirl” Treadwell

____

written (with help from other editors) for fallout.fandom.com/wiki/LGBT_representation_in_the_Fallout_series criticism welcome

#fnv

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simkoos · 1 year ago

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as a cc creator you often look back at your old creations and think "yea i could've done that so much better lmao". that's kind of been my mindset for the last couple of months. so i decided to clean up and revive (yet again) some of my older cc collections!

meshes have been fixed (some objects didn't even have all lod's or shadowmaps smh) or moderately edited to conform to my current aesthetics

textures have been hugely improved along with better color palettes, neater normals and speculars

please delete all old files before adding these! they will replace in-game but you cannot have the old versions and the new versions installed at the same time.

~~~

12pm includes 6 items just as the originals. the panda bank is now functional if you have ravasheen's 'in your safe piggy bank' mod installed.

fps includes 3 items. (you can find the originals here) both video game consoles require city living.

home includes 8 items, originally 6. both the shelves and desk have way more slots for extra storage!

liselotte includes 6 items. the original set is still available here if you prefer that instead. not a lot has been changed except for minor edits to the folded towels and a mesh replacement of the toothbrushes. also i've left out the bath robes since i personally don't have a use for them since that one bg recolor update lol.

plant mom includes 11 items. one of my all time fave sets, which can be found here, again if you prefer that.

study group includes 14 items now, 6 more than the originals. i've added accessory backpacks for all ages except infant and toddler. and now the deco backpacks can be used as storage if you have ravasheen's 'hoarders simnonymous' mod installed.

switch includes 11 items. everything is basically the same as in the original post. only a few minor touches here and there. i added a thermostat, which requires seasons. and a newly added electrical outlet with safety plugs. all light switches are functional if you have the bathroom clutter kit and littledica's functional light switch override.

~~~

download (always free on patreon)

#the sims 4 #ts4 #sims 4 #s4cc #ts4cc #s4mm #ts4mm

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itsabouttimex2 · 1 month ago

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What do you think would make Odysseus a yandere?

I think it would happen right after he drops Scamandrius from the walls of Troy.

That little baby, already so loved that he had inspired a nickname from his father, his people- “Astyanax”, detailing what he; as the firstborn son of Troy’s heir apparent, was set to become- king, ruler, overlord.

And Odysseus kills him.

Not because he wants to, but because he is, at the end of the day, just a man. A selfish man who loves himself and his soldiers and his home, but not nearly as much as he loves his son and his wife.

The only thing that breaks him from the harrowing thought that a like-minded man might be doing the same thing to his own son miles away is a broken wail cutting through somber silence.

Odysseus turns, feet heavier than his heart, hesitant to see not what, but who he already knows is behind him.

Andromache running towards him. He sees her, wrapped in loose white robes, arms held close to her chest, tears running down her face, closer and closer to him- barefoot and broken.

And realizes that she’s not coming at him, not coming for revenge or catharsis or some measure of score-settling, but instead she’s headed for the rim of the stone wall that her son was dropped from, intending to plunge the same misty heights and fade into the swallowing vale below.

She leaps in a blitz of white silk, looking so much like an angel descending that Odysseus nearly misses his chance to reach for her in a sort of awe- though her enthralling beauty pales in comparison to his Penelope, it spurs him to try and catch the grieving wife, mother, queen.

The Itchacan king reaches for her hands and snags a bundle of white instead, accidentally tearing it from her grasp and leaving her to plummet without whatever had been so dear that she would take it to the grave held against her heart.

And after the shock has worn off, after his soldiers have moved from wide-eyed gasping and into solemnly shaking their heads at the waste of good life, after Polites calls for him to please come down and come back to the ship, Odysseus takes a moment to unwrap that little bundle with a heavy heart.

Another child, even younger than the first, blissfully asleep in spite of the carnage and ruin around them.

This time, there’s no god or soothsayer or prophet to chime in his ear an order or command, leaving Odysseus on the edge of a very welcoming ledge, contemplating his decisions as the soldiers below grow anxious at the grief in their captain’s eyes.

Polites coaxes him down again, this time even more gently, so the king wraps you back up and heads for the stairs.

His second-in-command waits for him at the beach, having paid last respects to both Andromache and her beloved son, both wrapped in a tattered sail and covered in rocks to keep all but the most determined of predators away- he and his brothers-in-arms did what they could, and even now spill wine in the sand around them.

It’s not much, but they did their best. That’s all any man can do in this situation.

Eurylochus doesn’t like the haunted look in his captain’s eyes, how his fingers twitch around the bundle of cloth, how he can’t bear to look at the impromptu grave of two innocent souls.

Nobody does.

But the deed is done, the blood is spilled, and dawn breaks soon. There’s no time for questions, no time for further delays. Home is waiting.

Six hundred families are waiting for six hundred tired soldiers, hoping to welcome them with open arms and settle for boring times.

So there’s no hesitating or comprehending or deciding. The bundle doesn’t protest, and neither do his men. No one questions the impromptu addition to the crew.

A living reminder of all the children they orphaned, even if indirectly. Bringing you along is a form of penance that none confess to wanting.

Odysseus holds the infant close as he returns to the ship, wood creaking under the boots of soldiers boarding in lockstep, heavy as his conscience and heart.

…he’ll need to think of a name for you.

#Platonic Yandere #Yandere Epic #Yandere Odysseus #Polites #Eurylochus #Andromache #Astyanax #Scamandrius #Yandere Father

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fawninthesnow · 5 days ago

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𝐎𝐟 𝐒𝐚𝐧𝐝 & 𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝: Pt 1, Sands of the Conquered

Lucius Verus x fem!

Summary: Former Gladiator, Emperor Lucius, takes his rightful property-- the wife of his conquered enemy.

Warnings/Contains: fem character, slow burn, f4m, smut, unprotected sex, spit as lube, cock warming, public hum!l!, h@nd jobs, no proofreading, etc

a/n: slowburn warning!

SPOILERS for GLADIATOR I, II

Follow, like & Reblog pls

She had not known of the terror down in the city square. All she saw was smoke. A single, continuous line of smoke coming from miles away. The woman held her robe and squinted harder. The warning flame? No, who would come here. Through rain and drought to the East of Africa, Somalia. Any man, any army would be a fool to do so.

In her slumber that night, she tossed around in cotton sheets, hotter than usual. Slick and sticky sweat stuck to her skin, and her mouth was agape, breathing harshly to cool herself down. Hooves clomped on the pathway and bright torches held in the hands of savage men, forcing themselves onto her property. The shout of a command echoed through her open foyer. The woman rose from bed, gasping for air. “We are here on account of the Holy Roman Emperor and Court. Any man, woman or child! Show yourself!” The woman left her bed and with her infant daughter, slipped into her wardrobe, trying to calm her breath. “Show yourselves or we will burn this home to the ground.” As they shouted, making her ears ring, she shut her eyes. From the shelf inside the wardrobe, she grabbed a bottle of orange liquid.

“Please forgive me.” Into her daughter's mouth, the woman spilled a bit of the medicine. The girl fell into a deep sleep and rested on the young woman’s bosom.

“I can hear your breathing.” A voice, deep and unwavering, spoke into the small gap of the wardrobe doors. “I hear two.” He said playfully. Chills ran down her spine as he stood only a few inches from her.

The mother shut her eyes. “I- I’m so sorry…” She said softly. The emperor opened the wardrobe and helped her out by hand.

They sat together on plush cushions. Her bench was across from his. “This is a beautiful home…”

“Thank you, emperor…” Her gaze stayed on the floor. Even in her peripheral vision, all she could see was his feet.

“I am…not here to kill you.” His men waited outside each entrance, watching over the quaint home. “Your husband, he did something bad. You seem young so I’ll explain things softly.” She nodded, his accent coating his words. “He betrayed the people of Rome, my people. He was a murderer and a manipulative man. Unfortunately, your husband died by my hand outside of the city.” She cried onto her child’s clothing, holding onto the baby tightly. “I am aware he has many wives…and you are the youngest.”

“If you are here to hurt my baby or strip me of my titles, please spare us.”

“I am not here for that. How old are you?” The young woman did not speak for a few moments, “I asked you a question.” Emperor Lucius said sternly.

“I am seventeen.” Her voice just above a whisper.

“Not yet twenty-five. Excuse me, Miss.” She nodded. He stood and stepped outside. After a while of words and laughter, he came back inside. “I’ll have you.” He said in the foyer of her home. For the first time, she raised her head to him, the gold, leather and bronze armor on his body, the golden laurels on his head, the rings on his knuckles, although rough and scarred from battle. “Put her on a horse with the child. We leave now.” The young woman rushed to grab a wrap for her baby, enveloping herself inside of it before they raised her up on a horse behind the emperor.

With each hour, the men would offer her bread, cheese, fruits– exotic and domestic, pastries, and soups, all to which she declined. When they would stop at dining halls, she stood in the corner, rocking her child. She peeled the skin off grapes with her teeth before feeding it to the girl. She did the same with rye bread before offering the little girl water from the flowing drinking fountain outside the dining hall. After, the woman gently caressed the baby’s cheek before giving her the sedative again. Soon, the baby rested on her shoulder as she sat on the side of the fountain.

The men were rowdy, mostly drunk. Swords, spears and other weapons were thrown about carelessly and armor was left on horses and against the wall. “You need to eat.” The emperor brought the woman a plate.

“I am not hungry.”

“She can’t be the only one that eats.” The woman took the plate from his hands and sat it to the side. “You must understand, you are my responsibility now. I killed your husband, so now you are my property. You need to eat.”

She spitefully sucked her teeth before standing, “I am my own woman. I have been for months.”

“Your breasts are but tender buds, and you nearly fell off the horse more times than I can count. You are not nearly a woman.”

“My husband made me a woman! How dare you.”

“Your husband gave a child to a child.” The young woman’s lips pressed, and her gaze fell. “Yes, you are mature, in many ways, no doubt. However, you are what I say.”

She raised a hand to the guard and servant he assigned to her. “If I am yours, why should I be watched over by these men. Why-”

“Don’t raise your voice at me.” He lifted her chin to allow his eyes to bore into hers. His were a shade of dusk blue, seductively terrifying. “They are here to protect you, not babysit. But if you’d like, I will dismiss them.”

“I- I,” She looked around the town at the commoners watching the campaign of men and the emperor. Their clothes were but scraps, and their frames were frail. Over by the entrance to the dining hall, armored men threw food towards a herd of people, desperate and savage. She held her baby tighter. “They may stay.”

“So be it.” He spoke softly, stepping closer to the young woman. “Her name?”

“Yasmeen.”

“May I hold her?” The woman hesitated before offering the baby to the emperor. The man held her in his arms gently as if her skin were made of wet paper and her bones of thin glass. “She’s beautiful. What a creation…you should be proud.” His thumb traced over her cheeks and forehead before his hand enveloped her small head. The child nuzzled in his palm; a bit of her saliva went down her cheek as she rested. “I was told you had a son when I set out. Macrinus, he didn’t live to see the birth of her, I guess.”

“Nearly all of us, his wives, were left with girls.” She nervously looked over the child’s expression.

“Baby girls are just beautiful…he should have been grateful.” His fingers rub the child’s soft hair and kiss her forehead before offering the child back to her mother. “Eat or I'll take her away this time.” He would never do such a thing, but it made her obey him.

At dawn, she was awoken by a servant, “The Emperor needs you outside now, the men are ready.”

Emperor Lucius gathered his men, some stood by their horses, others sat on top. The young woman left the sleeping quarters in a gown and shawl, her long curls flowed down her backside and towards the floor as she cradled her child in her arms. “How did you sleep?” He asked after helping her onto his horse. She began to wrap the baby to her breasts using long cloths in order to use her hands to hold sturdy onto his sides.

Pt 1: End, read more on ao3!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/61397305

Follow, like & Reblog pls

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littlegusto · 7 days ago

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mini-kids-clothing-shop · 11 days ago

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flowerandblood · 8 months ago

Text

The Fall from the Heavens (26)

[ canon • Aemond x Strong • niece female ]

[ warnings: mention of sex, incest, smut, angst, swearing ]

[ description: A cool distance turns into friendship and more when two children see that they can find refuge and understanding in each other. However, naïve dreams collide with the reality in which every event has consequences and what once could have been love becomes a dark, newly painful obsession. Angst, sexual tension, obsession, violence, madness, very dark Aemond. ]

The story in this series is an alternate reality from the oneshot Stay and love, leave and die, in which Aemond reads the letters his niece has sent to him over the years. They are the same characters and it shows what would have happened between them − I have changed the background story from their childhood slightly for the sake of the plot.

Characters & Series Moodboard Lady Strong Moodboard Aemond & Lady Strong Moodboard Aemond & Lady Strong Childhood

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

Jace remembered perfectly the day his little sister was born. Laenor had led him into his mother's chamber that day, holding his hand, saying that she was very tired and they couldn't spend much time with her − he had insisted on seeing her because he was delighted to finally have a sibling, a brother to play with and be friends with.

His mother, the future queen, smiled softly at the sight of him, her white hair loose and in disarray, her face red from sweat and exertion.

She held out her hand to him and he hugged her, peering curiously at the infant she held clutched to her chest.

"He's so tiny." He said in disbelief, brushing the baby's finger with his own − he smiled when he saw the baby's hand clench into a small fist with its quiet purr.

"She. You have a little sister." He heard his mother's amused voice; he furrowed his brow at her words and rose, angry and disappointed.

"− wait, comrade −" Laenor called out after him, but he refused to look at her.

She was a disappointment to him.

For the first few months, he had pretended not to hear her cries or squeals from their mother's chamber − even though Rheanyra had spoken to him and encouraged him to meet her, he had refused to do so, recognising that no little girl interested him.

"It was supposed to be a boy." He muttered regretfully while playing with his large, wooden, black dragon, pretending that the stacks of books were the great hills over which he flew on Balerion. His mother smiled at his words and combed her hand through his dark curls.

"That is what the gods have decided. She may be your future wife."

Jace put down his toy, looking at her in surprise, not understanding what she meant.

"Am I going to have to kiss her?" He asked in disgust, recalling the stories Laenor sometimes read to him before bed, in which great knights freed beautiful women from the paws of monsters, only to fall in love with them later and be bestowed a kiss by them.

His mother smiled involuntarily.

"Don't think about such things until you're a grown man. No kissing for now." She giggled, pinching his cheek. He smiled lazily seeing her warm expression, the motherly love that beat from her.

That night he went to the chamber where she slept for the first time; he leaned over the cradle, glancing at her plump little figure wrapped in a white robe and a small headpiece. Her eyes opened suddenly and he was terrified that she would burst into tears − she, however, merely clutched her small feet and began to rock from side to side, looking at him curiously.

He smiled involuntarily at this sight and tickled her belly with his finger. Her squeal and loud giggle answered him, her eyes lit up in joy, her little body all the way up in euphoria. He laughed seeing this, repeating his gesture, thinking she was like a small animal, a puppy or a kitten.

He decided that at the end of the day she wasn't so bad and stopped pretending she didn't exist.

Until Luke was born he had treated her as if she were a boy, driving their mother to despair every time they both returned sodden with mud and sand after another battle with Aegon and Aemond.

He had always felt that his uncles disliked him, and even though they were of a similar age to him, he did not feel comfortable in their company − nor could he hide his jealousy at the sight of their snow-white hair, proof of who they were.

Looking at his father and mother, he could not comprehend why his hair was not that shade.

Rhaenyra explained to him that it was surely because of the Baratheon blood that also flowed through their veins, and although he was disappointed, the sight that he was not the only one, that his sister and Luke looked similar to him, comforted him.

The first time Aegon laughed sincerely at what he said occurred when he called his sister a hamster. The comparison came to his mind when she took air in her mouth and furrowed her brow − he uttered it thoughtlessly, and his uncle burst out laughing and patted him on the back.

"− gods, you're right − and those big eyes of hers −" He sneered, and although he saw that his sister lowered her gaze, embarrassed, he continued, eager to hear more words of praise from his lips.

"− she has just as much sense too −" He added, seeing his uncle throw him an amused, mocking look suggesting that he agreed with him.

He felt a squeeze in his heart when he noticed out of the corner of his eye that his sister had turned and walked away, passing through the cloisters towards their quarters without even giving him another glance.

He turned around and noticed to his surprise that he was not the only person to notice her leaving − his other uncle, Aemond, led her away with his eyes and then threw him a look full of despise, from which he felt discomfort.

He pressed his lips together at the thought that he was the heir to the throne and, unlike him, had his own dragon.

Who was he to look down on him with such superiority?

He decided to remind him of that and share that thought with his brother.

Aegon's involvement in their little joke surprised even him − his uncle thought it was an excellent idea. He argued that his younger brother was too sullen and serious for his age, that he was sapient and could use a little lesson.

As he listened to Aegon convince him that they had found a dragon for him, as he saw the hint of hope and the shy, embarrassed smile of excitement on his uncle's face, he felt for a moment that perhaps they should not do this.

However, it was too late to retreat − Luke ran deeper into the cave, and came out a moment later, leading by a rope a large pig to which they had attached self-made wooden wings early on.

"Behold! The Pink Dread!"

He saw that his uncle froze and turned pale as they burst out laughing, swallowing this humiliation with difficulty − his eyes glazed over and reddened, his gaze again blank and distant.

He knew they had broken him.

That same day he mentioned it to his sister, and her reaction angered him.

"You are cruel." She said resentfully.

Which side was she on?

"He's forever looking down on us because he has white hair. He's constantly making excuses and bragging about what he's read in those silly dusty books of his." He snorted, playing between his fingers with the gold coin their grandfather had brought him from another of his trips overseas.

He blinked when his sister simply rose from her seat and walked out, leaving him in a state of shock and displeasure − he decided, however, that these were just normal female emotions and would surely pass her until supper.

He loved his father, but he also greatly valued and respected Ser Harwin Strong. He was a stocky, tall, handsome man who could fight very well. He often spoke to him or helped him practice by sharing stories of his duels in tournaments and hunts.

He thought then that he would like to be like him one day.

He knew that he was a close confidant of his mother and often saw them together, however, his father seemed not to mind, so he considered this condition perfectly normal and did not bother.

After a few weeks, the will of their King fell upon them like a bolt from the heavens, and their mother informed them of it during one of their suppers together.

"− your grandfather and our King has decided today that, to strengthen our lineage, we will betroth your sister to your uncle, Prince Aemond − let us raise our cups for this −" She said, glancing towards her daughter, his sister smiling broadly at her words, happy.

What?

"− what do you mean? − why? −" He asked, feeling discomfort in his stomach and a cold sweat on his back.

They wanted to gift him his sister as a consolation because he didn't have a dragon of his own?

"− your grandfather wants peace to reign in the kingdom after his death − such a marriage in his eyes will strengthen our family and our bonds between each other − of course, the marriage will only happen when your sister is of the right age −" She said calmly, looking at her daughter with tenderness, taking an unruly strand of her dark hair from her face.

"− did you agree? −" He asked his little sister in disbelief, and she nodded quickly, as if it was the happiest day of her life.

"− yes − I'm very pleased − I'm fond of our uncle −" She said quickly, putting a piece of roast on her plate, describing how worried she was that she would have to marry someone much older than herself.

He stared blankly ahead, clenching his hands into fists, bitter and disappointed.

Had she really never considered him as her husband?

After all, he was her elder brother; in their lineage such marriages were obvious.

He dared not, however, defy the will of the King himself.

His resentment towards his uncle increased with each passing week seeing that, against his wishes, he was not being harsh and unpleasant to his sister − on the contrary, he seemed to have softened in her company, his face, though still pathetically proud, also expressing curiosity and affection.

He felt rage in his heart at the thought that they could really have wished to bring about this marriage.

However, the cup of bitterness overflowed the moment he saw his sister kiss him.

They were both too certain that no one could see them − he watched them from the corridor through a window overlooking the library.

His sister was standing by the bookcase, saying something to him, and he stood up and walked lazily over to her. He rose on his tiptoes and apparently reached for a book that stood too high for her. She smiled broadly as he handed it to her, her hand traveling to his shoulder.

He swallowed hard as her lips pressed against his, and as soon as she pulled away, her uncle grasped her cheeks in his hands and kissed her again, deeper and longer.

He fled to his chamber and burst into tears with rage, dropping all the objects standing on his table, disappointed and humiliated that although he was to become King in the future, someone else was taking away something that in his mind was his right.

He never wondered what kind of love he had bestowed upon her and whether it was the form of affection that usually bound married couples; he knew that he would care for her and be good to her and that was enough for him.

She was his sister and he would never hurt her.

She, however, looked only to her uncle and it was to him that she gave her heart and mind.

He didn't know what he felt when Luke slashed his face that night when their uncle stole Vhagar − horror, shame, satisfaction and relief all mingled in his mind into one.

On the one hand, he was overjoyed that he had taken back what in his mind should have been his, on the other he was embarrassed and distraught at the confirmation of his fears that had long smouldered in his mind.

It was Harwin Strong who was their father.

To his seed he owed his dark curls.

He was a bastard.

He tried to turn his thoughts away from considering what this meant for them, focusing on the fact that his sister would surely no longer want her uncle for a husband, and their paths would part.

This is exactly what happened.

Still, what he had planned did not happen, and his mother decided to change her plan and marry her off to their cousin, Lord Arryn's son, to strengthen her support in the North of the kingdom. Again, he felt a wave of disappointment, however, this time he was not so jealous − he knew that she had no love for their cousin and that he was certainly no threat to her.

"What's my little sister doing?" He asked with amusement, startling her completely, sitting bent over her desk − she quickly grabbed the parchment she had just been writing something on and tucked it under the table, looking up at him with wide eyes.

"Are you writing a letter to someone?" He sneered, raising an eyebrow, standing over her with a smile. She swallowed hard and looked down, thoughtful.

"I write poetry. But I don't want anyone to read it." She muttered, and he sighed quietly and nodded, acknowledging that he wasn't going to force her to do anything.

"Would you like to go for a walk along the beach? It's beautiful weather." He encouraged her; she, however, shook her head, no longer bestowing a single glance on him.

"No, forgive me. I'm tired."

He pressed his lips together at her rejection, which he had faced again and again since they had moved to Dragonstone.

Even though he tried to get close to her, to understand her and comfort her, she still didn't want him.

He was ashamed to speak of his feelings with his mother or stepfather, much less Luke, however, to his surprise, his closest confidant turned out to be Baela.

"I don't understand her. It seems to me that she still misses him, even though he has certainly forgotten her by now. I have heard that he is a cold, vain, self-obsessed man. He's always been that way, treating her only as an object, a consolation prize. Now that he has a dragon he doesn't need her." He said angrily − his cousin sighed heavily at his words, looking at him with understanding.

"When people part in anger and don't close a chapter, it's hard for them to move on. Perhaps she knew him in a way that is unknown to us. He's always been withdrawn into himself." She muttered disapprovingly, fiddling with the wine cup in her hand, gazing thoughtfully into the blazing fire.

He smiled at the thought that he was certain she recalled the impetuosity with which her uncle had punched her in the face with his fist that night when he lost an eye. Baela looked at him, raising her eyebrows.

"What's that look?" She asked and kicked him under the table with her foot. He giggled at her reaction and shook his head, lowering his gaze to her fingers.

"I would have been better for her. I would have really cared for her. Maybe I wouldn't have given her everything she needed, but at least with me she would have been safe." He said with a tiredness from which his companion sighed heavily. He lifted his gaze to her as her hand grasped his and squeezed it.

"I know." She replied softly.

He swallowed hard, feeling a pleasant warmth in his lower abdomen as he saw her soft, misty gaze, feeling her warm thumb stroke his palm. He grunted as he felt his manhood pulsate in his breeches at the thought that, indeed, his cousin was a very fine woman.

He had always liked her sharp tongue and confidence.

"Have you ever lain in bed with a woman?" She asked him suddenly, and he drew in the air loudly, shocked, feeling that his cheeks had certainly turned red with shame.

He didn't know what to answer.

He didn't want to humiliate himself with words that he had absolutely no experience in these matters knowing that she had a more liberated approach to these affairs.

Daemon, as her father, had expressed no dissent, so who was he to lecture her?

She sighed quietly, seeing his reaction, or rather lack thereof, and rose from her seat, turning her back to him, gripping the ties of her bodice with her hands.

"I need you to help me."

Baela was a calm and patient teacher − it seemed to him that she took great satisfaction in his lack of understanding of what she was actually doing to him as she sank down on his swollen manhood again and again with a moan of delight − her brown naked skin glistened wonderfully in the light of the blazing fire, her white curls falling over her shoulders in disarray, her full lips parted in obvious desire from which he felt his fulfilment approaching embarrassingly fast.

She made sure he didn't fill her with his seed, letting him instead come down on her abdomen with his low moan of pleasure, his length pulsating and twitching in her hand for a while longer. He licked his lower lip dry with emotion, looking at her in disbelief, a soft, shy smile on her face.

"− you're beautiful −" He whispered, and she giggled under her breath and kissed him in a way from which he felt hot in his heart.

She made him forget, at least for a moment, what was happening around them, finding in her both friend and lover, the confidante of all his secrets.

She was not jealous of his sister − on the contrary, he had the impression that she understood the source of his anger and disappointment, herself having no intention of explaining to him what she was doing and with whom.

It seemed to him that their relationship and its freedom suited them both.

Of course, they both knew that in the end they would experience a marriage that would inevitably be purely political, and they understood what that entailed.

Then their grandfather was injured on one of his expeditions, and Vaemond Velaryon challenged his younger brother's rights to the throne of Driftmark.

Knowing the truth about his parentage and at the same time refusing to accept it, he became enraged, sad and depressed at the same time − Baela's words of comfort that they would find a solution and not allow themselves to be intimidated did not reassure him.

Once again, his uncle and his family were trying to take their inheritance from them.

His return to King's Landing was a shock to him; to his disappointment, he felt like an intruder there, and it seemed to him that was exactly how he was perceived by everyone.

He felt a drop of cold sweat run down his neck, his stomach twisting with discomfort when he saw his uncle in the distance, wielding his sword as if it weighed nothing, easily defeating Criston Cole, pressing its blade against his neck.

He was tall, muscular, his long white hair, proof that he was in fact a Targaryen partly tied at the back of his head with a black ribbon, his jaw long and sharply defined, his gaze wild and cold, terrifying.

He smiled mockingly at the sight of them, playing with the hilt of his sword between his fingers as if he wanted to devour them.

He felt ashamed at the thought that he was terrified.

And then his uncle spotted their sister in the distance − his heart beat harder at the sight of their expressions.

It seemed to him that this reunion years later had caused them pain, as they both froze, breathing heavily, looking at each other as if there was no one else around.

His uncle hummed under his breath and turned away, nodding at Ser Criston, taking another swing with his sword.

Even though he hadn't cared what happened to her for so many years, even though he had humiliated her at supper by calling her Lady Strong, she had confessed in front of everyone that her place was with him.

He looked at her in disbelief, wondering what she was doing, why she had stooped to courting him when it was obvious that her uncle had neither respect nor affection for her.

After a moment, he heard his uncle's cold, trembling, deep voice.

"So it is decided, father. We will marry."

"How could our mother agree to this? How could she let her stay there?" He asked furiously, circling around his chamber in Dragonstone; Baela sighed heavily, turning her head away. She looked at him finally, hesitation in her gaze.

"I didn't tell you because I knew it would only enrage you and you wouldn't leave her alone." She said tiredly − he halted in half-step, looking at her over his shoulder, feeling his heart pounding like mad.

"You didn't tell me about what?" He asked dryly, frustrated and concerned.

Baela let out a loud breath, shaking her head. They were now betrothed, and although he thought they both seemed to have accepted their families' decisions with relief, he couldn't rejoice.

"My father told me that she had been sending him letters all these years. That the same night we arrived in the Red Keep she spent the night in his chamber."

He stared at her dully, feeling that it made him sick to his stomach, as if he were about to vomit, his face taking on an expression of disgust.

So she didn't write any poetry then, he thought with regret and pain.

"− how could she do this − expose our mother to humiliation and gossip −"

"Jace. She never stopped loving him. I think she's naive too, but you'd have to be blind not to see that she never really accepted it all. I don't know what I think about it myself." She admitted, running her hand over her face.

"You don't know what you think about it? I'll tell you. Our uncle will play with her and take advantage of her, and then he will put her up to ridicule and hand her over to us. He won't marry her." He growled angrily, burying his face in his hands, wondering how she could be so foolish, how she could believe that he had sincere intentions about her.

"The matter of succession is on a knife-edge. Perhaps our grandfather is right? A union between our mother and the Queen could really ease the situation." She muttered, clearly looking for anything comforting in the situation, which he completely failed to understand.

Had everyone around him lost their minds?

"My uncle who thinks we are bastards is supposed to alleviate the situation? He will never agree to let me sit on the throne and I am supposed to give him my sister?" He asked in disbelief; Baela tightened her lips at his words, frustrated.

"You speak of her as if she were an object. It's always been that way."

He felt an unpleasant shiver run down his spine at her words, every muscle in his body tensing like a string.

"What do you mean?" He asked coolly.

Baela sighed heavily, clearly trying not to explode and form her thoughts so as to be honest but not cruel.

"You think she was born to fulfil your whims? That the fact that you are her eldest brother gives you precedence to lie in bed with her?"

He felt himself blush with shame at her question, shocked.

Discomfort and arousal surged through his lower abdomen at the thought.

"Do you think that's what I mean? I'm just trying to…"

"Yes, Jace. I've never witnessed you ask her how she feels, what she needs. I am fond of you, but you are a selfish boy, not a man."

He felt ashamed at the thought as tears gathered under his eyelids at her words, a terrible, cold shudder shook his body, his heart began to pound like mad.

You are a selfish boy, not a man.

Her words so offended him that he stopped speaking to her despite her pleas, and then the thing he feared most happened.

The King was dead, Aegon had stolen her mother's throne and his uncle had imprisoned his sister.

They had made a mockery of them.

He had been right all along, but no one listened to him.

"Forgive me, Jace." Baela muttered, placing her hand on his shoulder. She knelt beside him, sighing heavily, laying her head on his thigh, and he involuntarily stroked her hair, feeling superiority, feeling strength.

He was going to fight for his mother's crown and bring his sister home.

In order to do so, at the behest of their mother, he flew to Winterfell to ask Cregan Stark for his support in this cause, reminding him of the oath his father had taken before her.

The North seemed to him a beautiful and wild place, so far from what he knew − the snow-covered hills, the austere fortresses of dark stone, the robes that looked only grey, black or brown around him gave him a sense of modesty and space.

Lord Stark's nature appeared to be similar to his, and the few days he had spent in his company hunting and riding horses had actually made him feel good − he felt like someone worthy with him, a true heir to the throne, not a bastard.

It was this feeling that, seeing the young Lady Snow from afar, he allowed himself to be enchanted by her charms and lay in bed with her.

Like a real man.

When he arrived back in Dragonstone he learned that Luke had just returned from Storm's End and that he had seen their sister.

"You flew after him? You flew after him knowing he could imprison you, use you as your mother's weakness? Fucking fool." Growled Daemon, shocked and horrified by his naivety, burying his face in his hands, unable to look at him.

"Daemon." Their mother rebuked him, all pale, her hand clenched on her womb. "What happened next?"

"He brought her. Someone hit her, mother, and I think she tried to take her own life. There were cut marks on her wrists." His brother muttered, and he felt his heart stop, he and Baela looked at each other quickly.

She had tried to take her own life.

Because of this bastard, his sister could be dead.

His hands clenched into fists at that thought.

"And then?" Pressed Daemon in an impatient voice.

"I told her to run away with me, but she didn't agree. She told me to tell you that she loves you and that she remains faithful to you, mother." He mumbled and he slammed his fist on the table, feeling fury and rage boiling up inside him.

"That fucking bastard purposely made her stay. He planned this, he never had any intention of marrying her!" He growled red with anger − Daemon threw him a single, drawn-out look.

"And then what? He let you just walk away? No one else saw you?" He continued, pretending not to have heard his outburst.

"N-no, I was surprised, but no. Forgive me, I had to see her, make sure that she is still alive." Luke said. Daemon sighed heavily and leaned over, placing his hands on the top of the stone table, thoughtful.

"Bring me a parchment and a quill. I need to speak with my nephew."

Baela followed him into his chamber in an attempt to calm him down.

"How can he want to pact with that fucking traitor? His brother stole my mother and his wife's throne!" He shouted in her face − his betrothed dropped her hands in a gesture of helplessness.

"Since he let them meet, maybe there is something to it. My father knows what he's doing, I trust him. I believe he will bring her home."

"You're naive. You always have been."

"And you're vain. You always have been."

He pressed his lips together at her words, feeling his heart pounding like mad, feeling like something was about to explode inside him.

"I met a woman in Winterfell who I took to my bed." He muttered finally, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye.

Part of him wanted to hurt her, and part of him wanted to be honest with her.

That was what they had promised each other.

Baela laughed at his words in disbelief and shook her head − he had a feeling he saw a shadow of regret in her gaze, but he wasn't sure if it was because of his confession or because she understood why he said it now.

"If you wish, I'll relate to you how I spent my time in your absence, but I'm not sure you'll be able to look into this guard's face afterwards." She sneered, lifting her chin high, looking at him defiantly. He felt a wave of hot shame and anger surge through his body.

"After we're married…are you going to continue this?" He asked uncertainly and she cocked her head to the side.

"If you are not faithful to me, I will not remain faithful to you. You are dear to me, but don't think I will cry for you. Certainly not like your sister cried for her uncle. Part of me has always envied her that she experienced such a deep feeling in her life even if it burned her from the inside for so many years." She said with a kind of regret from which he felt a squeeze in his stomach, but he answered nothing to her words.

He knew that they did not love each other.

They were close and felt comfortable together, but they weren't mad about each other.

He believed it just had to be this way.

He waited impatiently along with his mother and the others gathered for Daemon to return from his meeting with their uncle, simultaneously terrified and angry that they were speaking with traitors instead of fighting.

When they heard the squeal of Caraxes in the distance his mother stood up, pale, holding her hand on her womb again, as if remembering the time when she had carried her only daughter under her heart.

His other sister had died before she was even truly born.

When Daemon stepped into the main hall everyone was already waiting for him; he sighed heavily, placing his Dark Sister on the table top, folding his hands in front of him, straightening.

"Your daughter married her uncle of her own free will. My nephew has conveyed to me that his brother-cunt will relinquish the throne he stole from you if it is your daughter's children and his who become heirs to the throne or, in the event they do not conceive a son, ours − Viserys and Aegon. He demands the exclusion of Jace, Luke and Joffrey from the succession." He said dispassionately. He looked at his mother seeing that she had run out of words.

"− mother − this is −"

"− leave us − all of you −" She ordered.

"− mother − this is my inheritance − mine −" He began, but felt Baela's grip on his arm.

"− Jace − that's enough −"

He sat in his chamber thinking only of the fact that his mother was just contemplating whether or not to agree to deprive him of his inheritance, to acknowledge that he was her bastard despite the fact that he was her firstborn son, despite the fact that Laenor Velaryon had acknowledged him as his heir.

"− Jace −" Baela muttered, seeing his condition.

"− leave −" He said. He heard her sigh heavily as she approached him with a rustle of her gown, kneeling at his feet.

"− Jace − I'm on your side − I always have been − don't you see me as your companion? − your friend? − your lover? −" She asked with a pained expression that startled him. He lowered his hands and looked at her − his palm rose to her cheek, which he stroked with a tender, slow gesture.

"− you resent me − you don't see me as a man, but as a child −"

"− that is not true −"

"− I don't want your pity −"

"− Jace −"

"− you were right − I don't want to frustrate you and I understand all the accusations about me that you've made − my whole life I've been trying to be someone I'm not −" He finally replied, his betrothed's fingers grasping his hand and squeezing it.

"− that's what I mean − stop pretending − be honest with yourself −"

"− do you want me to be honest? − very well then − my mother has never asked my opinion on any important matters − Daemon treats me as if I am an imbecile and mocks me − I am both a first-born son and a bastard − my uncle wants to deprive me of everything, he wants me to be a nobody and why? − because when I was a child I gave him a pig? − god, I regret it, it was a cruel joke − I regret that he lost an eye, I regret that a dragon didn't hatch from his egg − but even if I had said that, what good would it have done − he would have laughed at me saying I am a weak cunt −" He muttered and burst out sobbing like a small child, hiding his face in his hands. Baela embraced him and cuddled his face into her oil-scented neck, stroking his hair.

"− I am grateful to you − I am grateful to you that you are honest with me − I am grateful to you that you have never lied to me −" She whispered and he wept softly, tightening his hands on the material of her gown feeling that the closeness of her body brought him solace.

"− I am grateful to you too − forgive me for not being what you deserve −" He mumbled, sniffling loudly, trying to calm the convulsions of his body and his ragged breathing.

"− I forgive you − I forgive you and ask for your forgiveness −"

When his mother came to his chamber that evening, he knew what decision she had made even before she opened her mouth.

"− Jace −" She began, and he turned his head away, panting with rage, burning tears of humiliation under his eyelids.

"− after all this − after all you've sacrificed − are you going to let them win? −"

"− how would I be a just Queen if I thought only of myself instead of the good of the kingdom? − any other solution will mean war with our own kin − is there anything else more displeasing to the gods? −" She muttered in a breaking voice in which he could clearly hear that she herself was suffering immensely.

"− you let them dictate their terms −" He said in disbelief, looking at her at last. His mother pressed her lips together at his question.

"− no − I intend to impose my own demands on them – none of them will be allowed to sit on the throne − none of them will wear the crown − they will be rulers-regents until their son, the rightful heir, is born −" She replied, forcing herself to be calm.

"− and if no son is born to them? − will you exclude me from the succession then? − your first-born son? −" He mumbled in pain, hitting his chest with his palm. Rhaenyra drew in air loudly, her eyes red from tears of pain and grief.

"− it's my fault − not yours − me and Laenor really tried, but −"

"− I don't want to hear it − I won't listen to it − why did you let me come into the world? −"

"− Jace −" She mumbled − he heard the rustling of her gown as she took a step towards him, but he held up his hand showing that he didn't want her to come near him.

"− I will leave Dragonstone to you − it belongs to me and I can give it to whomever I wish − no one will challenge your rights in this case, you will finally be able to live the life you deserve −"

"− I was meant to be King −" He hissed, and she swallowed hard.

"− as was I − but perhaps we are not meant to be − pride steps before a fall −" She said drily, her chin lifted high.

"− what does Daemon have to say in the matter? −" He asked lowly.

"− he is furious, but he will do as I command − just as you −"

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toms-cherry-trees · 1 year ago

Text

Not Worthy Of You || Aemond Targaryen x Reader

Summary: An unexpected visitor at night brings some clarity to the last months

Word count: 2.9k

Warnings: Mention of B&C and Storm's End. No beta reading

Author's note: This was supposed to be short. This was supposed to be 1k words. But I got carried away. Enjoy!

The candles had long died out, and only dying embers remained in the smouldering fireplace, too feeble to give the room any light. Piercing darkness entered through the gaps in the drapes, the moonless night shrouding the Red Keep in a thick, ponderous veil of black. Not a sound disturbed the quietness of the Holdfast, nor the peace of those sleeping in it.

You stirred in the bed, the sheets rustling and a pleasant tingle spreading through your body as you stretched your limbs lazily. You felt well rested, perhaps for the first time in many moons. It had been a long time since you last woke up naturally, instead of being forcefully taken from your slumber by aches, cramps, and most recently, little cries throughout the night. At that thought your eyebrows furrowed, and still partially asleep you rolled over in the bed, your hand searching in the darkness for the little wooden cradle by your side.

Your fingers only found emptiness, the abandoned blankets still holding your newborn’s warmth.

Whatever drowsiness lingered in your mind soon dissipated as worry crept upon you, settling like a heavy weight atop your chest. You sat upright with such haste you felt faint, having to hold onto your head until the bright lights vanished from your vision. Fright quickly overcame your senses. You double checked the crib, pulling blankets out and looking under your bed, as if somehow the babe, barely a fortnight old, could have climbed out and hidden somewhere without you noticing.

Desperation clouded your thoughts, your heartbeat quickening and your breath coming in shallow pants. You scrambled from bed, barely having half a mind to grab a robe; the parky night air covered your skin in gooseflesh. You headed for the door, the call for help ready to sprout from your lips, when the smallest, softest of coos drew your attention to the opposite side of the chamber.

Now that your eyes had adjusted a bit, you could vaguely make out the shape of a person sitting in front of the large windows in a sturdy rocking chair your family had gifted you when they received the news of your impending motherhood. Slightly hunched forward, gently swaying back and forth, the rockers barely made noise against the thick carpet they laid upon. At first you believed it to be the wetnurse, who usually sat there to feed the baby, but you had specifically requested to have no servants in your chambers at night, wishing to carry the bulk of the childcare yourself. Hoping that that way you would feel more connected to your child, instead of staring at it like a foreign being that had been dropped on your lap by the Mother. Lovely, yes, and so dearly loved, but foreign nonetheless.

Soon it became obvious, however, that it was not the wetnurse, nor a maid, the one who sat in the chair. The dark figure sat tall, shoulders muscular and long legs stretched out, rocking the chair with a lazy sway of heavy boots. Oppressive panic stole the breath from your lungs at the vision of the unknown man, his arms positioned in a way that could only mean he currently held the infant in his embrace. The memory of what had recently happened to Helaena and her sweet child remained fresh in your mind.

You considered screaming for help, but not even a choked cry managed to come forth. Or maybe it did, and you just couldn’t hear it above the frantic hammering of your heart, rumbling in your ears like menacing war drums. Blindly you sought a weapon, any means of protection you could grasp to defend yourself and your child. Your trembling fingers gripped tightly the handle of an ornate letter opener you so happened to have left in the nightstand. You tried to swallow, but found your mouth to be as dry as the Dornish deserts.

Your feet barely made a sound in the flagstone as you carefully approached the intruder. Your mind overflowed with horrifying images of what had occurred to sweet Helaena. Even though you had not been witness to the act, the whispers reached you nonetheless, despite the Dowager Queen having carefully instructed the servants to not mention the crime near you, for fear of upsetting your mood and spoiling your health, right in the middle of your seventh moon of pregnancy. Despite the efforts, the nightmares lasted for weeks, fuelled by the clamour of your good sister’s wails as she escaped her chambers at night and wandered the halls calling for her lost son.

Slowly, as if wading through mud, you approached the chair. But it seemed the distance lengthened with each step, or perhaps your imagination had fooled you and you remained rooted in the spot. Your brain overflowed with horrific scenarios, a million outcomes to the situation, and the hopeless need to cry out, even if your mouth refused to open. As your eyes finally adjusted to the pitch darkness, however, you noticed silvery white tresses covering the person’s shoulders, and a thin dark strap wound around the head. The arm carrying the weapon lowered slowly, and the letter opener slid from your sweaty grasp onto the floor. Although weightless, in the silence of the night, the little piece of metal resonated like thunder.

The man didn’t flinch nor move to seek the source of such scandal; his smooth voice echoed in the chamber, a careful murmur to be heard without waking the baby.

“Abrazȳrys”

The familiar term of endearment should have calmed your nerves, but the word spoken so abruptly made you jump in your spot, hand coming to your bosom as your heart raced, as if ready to escape from the confines of your chest and make a run to safety.

“Seven hells, husband. You scared me half to death” You protested, pressing your cool palms against your heated cheeks and taking slow breaths. An immense wave of relief washed over you, mixed with an overpowering sense of weakness; all your energy had been consumed in the eternal moments you thought yourself and your child in danger, and now it took all you had not to collapse on your knees.

“My sincerest apologies, wife” He replied with a tone of propriety so usual in him, as if he merely apologised for bumping on you in the hallway, instead of scaring the living daylights out of you. His violet eye met yours as you moved within line of vision, taking seat in a low cushioned bench against the wall.

The bundle of blankets wrapping their firstborn appeared small and radiant against the dark planes of Aemond’s chest; the child tightly tucked in shades of green and trimmings of gold, chubby cheek snuggled against the warmth of her father’s body as she slept soundly. It amused you how easily the girl cozied up to Aemond, considering that, as far as you knew, they had not met before.

Fifteen nights and fourteen days had passed since their daughter Daenys came into their arms, letting her powerful cries be heard throughout the halls of Maegor’s Holdfast as the hour of the bat reached its peak of darkness. The child stunned those who helped bring her forth into the world, having been born with her eyes open, the right one violet like a Targaryen, and the left one with her mother’s colouring. A full head of silvery hair mixed with stray wisps of darker hues, giving her a colour no one could quite describe.

The day of her birth, her father shone in his absence. He evaded the Holdfast as if it were a cursed place. First he escaped towards the sparring yard, demanding to be taught the usage of a bastard sword, and turning a deaf ear to Cole’s comments that he should be with his wife. When the pestering became unbearable he tried to see his sister instead, but his wife’s screams echoed through every hall, making it impossible to ignore. Defeated and overwhelmed, he turned towards his dragon, far away from everyone. The smallfolk saw the massive shadow of a winged beast soar the skies, framed by the last rays of the setting sun as if engulfed in a fireball. Sight of him was lost with nightfall, but the dragon’s cries could still be heard, hidden behind clouds.

Aemond would have remained airborne until sunrise, had not young Daeron been sent out to pursue him and inform him that his wife had brought forth a most precious healthy girl. But not even such joyous news managed to lure the Prince back to the Red Keep. He flew again, towards unknown destination, not to be seen until the following day, well after the sun had begun its journey across the sky. Yet instead of rushing towards his family, he locked himself in the library, buried between books and scrolls until past dinner.

His attitude puzzled many around the court. Even if he perhaps found disappointment in the gender of his firstborn, his commitment to avoid his wife and child surpassed all levels of understanding; whispers began to spread of all sorts, most showing support to the beloved lady than to him. Some even said it was for the best; who would want a kinslayer to come near a newborn anyway?

No one could come even close to understand the why of his actions..

He had not been the same since Storm’s End. After his return, while his brother rejoiced and his elders frowned in worry, Aemond found himself numb, cold even, as if the icy winds and gelid rain that accompanied his flight that night had seeped into his bones. He only recalled broken fragments of what had occurred after he flew in pursuit of his nephew; the rattling of the saddle chains against the wind, Valyrian words shouted into the storm he did not remember pronouncing; a feeble, pathetic little fireball blown into Vhagar’s eyes, not doing more harm than a pebble would against the mountain. The horrific crunch of Arrax’s bones under ferocious jaws, as whatever remained of him and his rider floated down towards the restless sea.

The horrifying knowledge that his actions had caused the death of not one, but two boys.

After that, he shut himself more, if possible. He refused to see anyone, spending days and nights alone in his chambers, permitting only the presence of a servant to bring him his meals and news from the outside, isolated like a common prisoner. He abandoned his marital chamber, moving instead to the ones once meant for his wife; connected by a door he kept permanently locked and blocked.

His mother attempted to coax him out with gentle words and his grandsire with stern reproaches. You knocked on his door at nights, softly whispering his name, almost like a plea. He saw your shadow under the door, pacing or sitting on the floor against it, waiting for something to happen, to at least receive a word of acknowledgement; but night after night your hopes crumbled into dust, and soon you gave up. There’s no helping someone who doesn’t want to be helped

Yet a flicker remained, that the ice would melt with the fire of newborn life. That the cries of their so awaited child would break the trance Aemond had submerged into and return him to his senses.

He opened his door that day, yes, but only with the intention to flee.

And now, without warning or explanation, he showed up in the dead of the night, hidden by darkness like a lowly criminal, pushed by some unknown force to finally hold the being that had changed his status from man to father.

You sat with your hands on your lap, patiently awaiting for an explanation. Yet Aemond didn’t move, nor spared you a second glance; his whole focus on Daenys. His eye fixed on her soft features, arms protectively around her, holding her with dexterity you did not yet possess, but he had acquired with his little brother and his niece and nephews. One arm around the body, the other under, lithe finger cradling her head and gently caressing the silvery hair. Even in the dark, you could see the enthrallment in his gaze. The fearsome warrior Prince, wrapped around Daenys’ minuscule finger

“Husband?” You called out softly, trying to attract his attention

“I heard her cry” He replied, his thumb brushing across Daenys’ cheek “Whenever she cries I hear her from my chamber. You always tend to her so quickly, almost as if you awake before she makes a sound” You blinked fast, perplexed. You never imagined he could hear from his chambers, but again, Daenys had a pair of lungs that could be heard from across the city if you wanted to.

“But she cried and cried tonight, and nothing happened. I thought you could not settle her, but I didn’t hear your voice like when you speak or sing to her. So I came”

You wanted to be embarrassed that he had heard that too, but instead focused more on the fact that if Aemond knew all of that, he lingered at the door whenever their daughter cried, wishing to know what was happening with her. For a moment you imagined him with his ear pressed to the wood, holding in his breath to not miss a sound.

“She kicks a lot when she cries” He commented “I thought she wanted to be fed, or was cold. But you were asleep and I didn’t want to wake you, and I-” He swallowed before continuing, His index traced the baby’s features, from the roundness of the cheeks to the sharpness of the nose, a perfect match of his own.

“I took her in my arms and she settled. I suppose she didn’t want to be alone”

His voice held amusement. As if he could not believe his daughter, his own blood, could find comfort in his embrace. He had expected her to kick and scream and alert the world that a monster had come for her. But she didn’t. She just snuggled close to him and drifted off to sleep, lulled by the safety of her dad’s arms.

You felt your heart ache for him, as you finally began to comprehend some things. The why of Aemond’s distance. He had killed a boy. His bastard nephew, and the object of his ire, but a boy nonetheless. Because of that, Jaehaerys had been lost. And now he feared something similar would find his girl, for it seemed that a path of tragedy and blood followed his every step and dragged those close to him into the same fate.

You stood, not without difficulty, and moved to stand behind him, one hand on his shoulder. He shifted position, holding Daenys on one arm and holding your hand with the other, thumb caressing your knuckles. They remained in silence, both staring at the fruit of their love with adoration only a first time parent can conjure.

“She’s beautiful” He whispered “Gevie hae se hūra”

You only understood ‘gevie’, and that sufficed to make you smile. You leaned down until your chin rested atop Aemond’s shoulder, cheeks pressed against each other “She’s perfect. And she looks so much like you”

“Only the good parts” He replied, almost a bit harshly, the mere notion of his daughter resembling him setting him off. But soon he relaxed as Daenys stirred, mouth open in a quiet yawn which left her tongue trapped between her lips.

“She will be the best of us” You commented, your arms coming under his own to hold her. To hold them both; Aemond needed your support as much as the babe did. Right there, maybe even more.

“I will hurt her” He whispered, barely audible, his grip on Daenys tightening as he leaned down, his forehead against hers as he closed his eye. “If something bad happens to her, it will be on me”

“You would never” You rushed to reply, a coil tightening in your throat. How could Aemond think such a thing? He could never. You knew it. You knew it from the moment you saw him with the child in his arms, that he would burn down the entire country to safekeep that little girl

“Directly or indirectly, but I am dangerous for her. I’m not worthy of her” Sorrow laced his words, a sentiment foreign to your husband, who always held his emotions carefully and kept them well hidden under a mask of serene indifference. Seeing his vulnerabilities surface felt wrong, as if you had witnessed something private, a crack in the surface of an indomitable mountain. But he had no privacies with you; you were his wife, and you were meant to know him whole.

You moved to crouch before him, hands cradling his face and forcing him to meet your firm gaze “You are her father. The Gods blessed us with this gift because they deemed us worthy of her. And I know you won’t let anyone touch a single hair in her head, because they will be ash and dust before they can even get close” This time, you flattened your forehead against his, never letting go of him “You are worthy of this. Of her. You are worthy of good things”

His eye closed and he leaned into you, your bodies together shielding Daenys, keeping her warm. You two remained there for who knows how long, in silence, holding each other again after so long apart. It was him who broke the spell, his hand coming to circle your waist

“Let’s put her to sleep” He replied in a soft whisper “And then I’d like to sleep in your bed, if my lady wife will have me tonight”

You smiled without meaning to, feeling his warmth spread over you

“Tonight and every night. All the nights you want”

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