#it’s more ash silver blue

[leawesomesloth]

why do I love this man

[cassioppenny]

making a list of last names i thought up and last names i need to eventually figure out

red ketchum

green ketchum

blue oak

ethan ???

kris ???

lyra ???

silver tajiri

brendan ???

may birch

wally ???

lisia ???

dawn kurusu

barry ???

lucas ???

hilbert ???

hilda ???

cheren kurusu

bianca ???

rosa ???

nate ???

hugh ???

serena ???

calem ???

shauna ???

trevor ???

tierno ???

elio ???

selene ???

hau ???

gladion ???

lillie ???

gloria clover

victor clover

hop laventon

marnie lotus

bede amaryllis

juliana ???

florian ???

nemona ???

arven ??? (changes depending on timeline)

penny colress

[silverselfshippingchaos]

hmm... let's talk s.oulc.alibur characters

[acourtofquestions]

Kingdom of Ash

Chapters 36-37

Had it been like that in the iron coffin?

Aelin gave no indication that the smothering dark bothered her, and had shown no inclination to illuminate their way. Hadn't even summoned an ember.

But the Little Folk, it seemed, had come prepared. And within heartbeats of entering the pitch-black river passage, blue light had kindled on a lantern dangling over the curved prow. Not light, not even magic. But small worms that glowed pale blue, as if they'd each swallowed the heart of a star. They'd been gathered into the lantern, and their soft light rippled over the water-smooth walls. A gentle, soothing light. At least, for her it was so.

Before Aelin had been given an ancient Faerie Queen's crown, her birthright and heritage.

The queen had stashed Mab's crown in one of their packs, as if it were no more than an extra sword belt. She hadn't spoken, and they had not asked her any questions, either.

Instead, she'd spent these past few hours sitting in the back of the boat, studying her unmarked hands, occasionally peering into the black waters beneath them. What she expected to see beyond her own rippling reflection, Elide didn’t want to know.

He'd crawled after Maeve on the beach to save Aelin. And he had found her during her escape-had ensured Aelin made it out. Did it wipe away what he'd done in summoning Maeve in the first place? Even if Maeve had set the trap, even if he hadn't known what Maeve intended for Aelin, did it erase his decision to call for her?

The last time they'd spoken as friends, it had been aboard that ship in the hours before Maeve's armada had arrived. He'd told her they needed to talk, and she'd assumed it was about their future, about them.

But perhaps he'd been about to tell her what he'd done, that he'd been wrong in acting before Aelin's plans played out. Elide stopped twisting the ring.

He'd done it for her. She knew it.

But the queen sitting silently behind them, no trace of that sharp-edged fire to be seen, nor that wicked grin she'd flashed at all who crossed her path ... Two months with a sadist. With two sadists. That had been the cost, and the burden that Aelin and all of them would bear.

That silence, that banked fire was because of him. Not entirely, but in some ways.

The collar had not been real. But the army Maeve had summoned was.

A blink into the gloom was the only indication that he was aware of her every movement. Aelin breathed in his scent, let its strength settle into her a bit deeper.

Their paths would meet again, or they would not. And if he found the final key and then brought it to her, she would pay what the gods demanded. What she owed Terrasen, the world.

Yet if Dorian chose to end it himself, to forge the Lock ... her stomach churned. He had the power. As much as she did, if not more so.

It was meant to be her sacrifice. Her blood shed to save them all. To let him claim it ... She could. She must. With Erawan no doubt unleashing himself on Terrasen, with Maeve's army likely to cause them untold grief, she could let Dorian do this. She trusted him. Even if she might never forgive herself for it. Her debt, it was supposed to have been her debt to pay.

Perhaps the punishment for failing to do so would be having to live with herself.

Having to live with all that had been done to her these months, too.

The blackness of the subterranean river pressed in, wrapped its arms around her and squeezed.

Different from the blackness of the iron box. The darkness she'd found inside herself.

A place she might never escape, not really.

Her power stirred, awakening. Aelin swallowed, refusing to acknowledge it. Heed it.

She wouldn't. Couldn't. Not yet. Until she was ready.

She had seen Rowan's face when she spoke of what his deception with the collar had prompted her to do. Had noted the way her companions looked at her, pity and fear in their eyes. At what had been done to her, what she'd become.

A new body. A foreign, strange body, as if she'd been ripped from one and shoved into another. Different from moving between her forms, somehow. She hadn't tried shifting into her human body yet. Didn't see the point.

Sitting in silence as the boat was pulled through the gloom, she felt the weight of those stares. Their dread. Felt them wondering just how broken she was.

You do not yield.

She knew that had been true—that it had been her mother's voice who had spoken and none other.

So she would not yield to this. What had been done. What remained. For the companions around her, to lift their despair, their fear, she wouldn't yield.

She'd fight for it, claw her way back to it, who she'd been before. Remember to swagger and grin and wink. She'd fight against that lingering stain on her soul, fight to ignore it. Would use this journey into the dark to piece herself back together-just enough to make it convincing.

Even if this fractured darkness now dwelled within her, even if speech was difficult, she would show them what they wished to see.

An unbroken Fire-Bringer. Aelin of the Wildfire.

She would show the world that lie as well. Make them believe it.

Maybe she'd one day believe it, too.

Days of near-silent travel passed.

Three days, if whatever senses Rowan and Gavriel possessed proved true. Perhaps the latter carried a pocket watch. Aelin didn't particularly care.

She used each of those days to consider what had been done, what lay before her.

Sometimes, the roar of her magic drowned out her thoughts. Sometimes it slumbered. She never heeded it.

They sailed through the darkness, the river below so black that they might as well have been drifting through Hellas's realm.

She hadn't asked him why he remained in his wolf's body. No one asked her why she remained in her Fae form, after all.

Rowan straightened, eyes sparking at her question-or at the fact that she'd spoken at all.

He'd kept by her these days, a silent, steady presence. Even when they'd slept, he'd remained a few feet away, still not touching, but just there. Close enough that the pine-and-snow scent of him eased her into slumber.

Silence at the order, even from Rowan. Aelin pointed to the lip of shore by the cave mouth. "Stop the boat," she repeated.

The queen had been reckless before Cairn and Maeve had worked on her for two months, but it seemed she'd had any bit of common sense flayed from her.

"Well, I don’t have any, so forgive me if I remain alert." No, she'd once told him that while magic flowed in the Lochan bloodline, she had none to speak of. He'd never told her that he'd always considered her cleverness to be a mighty magic on its own, regardless of Anneith's whisperings.

"It will take time for her to readjust."

She stared at him with those damning eyes.

He braced his forearms on his knees. "We got her back. She's with us now. What more do you want?" From me, He didn't need to add Elide straightened.

Elide straightened. "I don't want anything." From you.

This was where they'd have it out, then. "How much longer am I supposed to atone?"

"Are you growing bored with it?" He snarled.

She only glared at him. "I hadn't realized you were even atoning."

"I came here, didn't I?"

"For whom, exactly? Rowan? Aelin?"

"For both of them. And for you." There. Let it be laid before them.

"I told you on that beach: I want nothing to do with you."

"So one mistake and I am your eternal enemy?"

"She is my queen, and you summoned Maeve, then told her where the keys were, and you stood there while they did that to her."

"You have no idea what the blood oath can do. None."

"Fenrys broke the oath. He found a way."

"And had Aelin not been there to offer him another, he would have died." He let out a low, joyless laugh. "Perhaps that's what you would have preferred."

She ignored his last comment. "You didn't even try."

"I did," he snarled. "I fought it with everything I had. And it was not enough. If she'd ordered me to slit your throat, I would have. And if I had found a way to break the oath, I would have died, and she might very well have killed you or taken you afterward. On that beach, my only thought was to get Maeve to forget about you, to let you go-"

"I don't care about me! I didn't care about me on that beach!"

"Well, I do."

This was what came of opening that door to a place inside him that no one had ever breached. This mess, this hollowness in his chest that made him keep needing to make things right.

"Resent me all you like," he said, damning the hoarseness of his words. "I'm sure I'll survive."

Hurt flashed in her eyes. "Fine," she said, her voice brittle.

He hated that brittleness more than anything he'd ever encountered. Hated himself for causing it. But he had limits to how low he'd crawl.

He'd said his piece. If she wanted to wash her hands of him forever, then he would find a way to respect that. Live with it.

Somehow.

Gratitude shone in her eyes.

Rowan only gave her a nod. Don't worry about it.

Yet Aelin turned away, shutting off that silent conversation as she surveyed the space.

Time. It would take time for her to heal.

Even if he knew his Fireheart would pretend otherwise.

So, Rowan looked, too. Across the tomb, beyond the sarcophagus and treasure, an archway opened into another chamber. Perhaps another tomb, or an exit passage.

"We don't have time to find a way out,"

Rowan murmured as she strode into the tomb.

"And the caves remain safer than the surface."

"I'm not looking for a way out," she said in that calm, unmoved voice. She stooped, swiping up a fistful of gold coins stamped with forgotten king's face. "We're going to need to fund our travels. And the gods know what else." Rowan arched a brow. Aelin shrugged and shoved the gold into the pocket of her cloak. "Unless the pitiful clinking I heard from your coin purse didn't indicate you were low on funds."

That spark of wry humor, the taunting … She was trying. For his sake, or the others' maybe her own, she was trying.

Rowan gave the Lion a slashing grin. "You heard the lady."

A flash ruptured from where Fenrys had been sniffing at a trunk of jewels, and then a male was standing there. His gray clothes worn, but intactin better shape than the hollowed-out look in his eyes.

Aelin paused her looting.

Fenrys's throat bobbed, as if trying to remember speech. Then he said hoarsely, "We needed more pockets." He patted his own for emphasis.

Aelin's lips curved in a hint of a smile. She blinked at Fenrys—three times.

Fenrys blinked once in answer.

A code. They'd made up some silent code to communicate when he'd been ordered to remain in his wolf form.

Aelin's smile remained, just barely, as she walked to the golden-haired male, his bronze skin ashen. She opened her arms in silent offer.

To let him decide if he wished for contact. If he could endure it.

Just as Rowan would let her decide if she wished to touch him.

A small sigh broke from Fenrys before he folded Aelin into his arms, a shudder rippling through him. Rowan couldn't see her face, perhaps didn't need to, as her hands gripped Fenrys's jacket, so tightly they were white-knuckled.

A good sign—a small miracle, that either of them wished, could be touched. Rowan reminded himself of it, even while some intrinsic, male part of him tensed at the contact.

A territorial Fae bastard, she'd once called him. He'd do his best not to live up to that title.

"Thank you," Aelin said, her voice small in a way that made Rowan's chest crack further.

Fenrys didn't answer, but from the anguish on his face, Rowan knew no thanks were in order.

They pulled away, and Fenrys cupped her cheek. "When you are ready, we can talk."

About what they'd endured. To unravel all that had happened.

Aelin nodded, blowing out a breath. "Likewise."

She resumed shoving gold into her pockets, but glanced back to Fenrys, his face drawn. "I gave you the blood oath to save your life," she said. "But if you do not want it, Fenrys, I ... we can find some way to free you—"

"I want it," Fenrys said, no trace of his usual swaggering humor. He glanced to Rowan, and bowed his head. "It is my honor to serve this court. And serve you," he added to Aelin.

She waved a hand in dismissal, though Rowan didn't fail to note the sheen in her eyes as she stooped to gather more gold. Giving her a moment, he strode to Fenrys and clasped his shoulder. "It's good to have you back." He added, stumbling a bit on the word, "Brother." For that's what they would be. Had never been before, but what Fenrys had done for Aelin .. Yes, brother was what Rowan would call him. Even if Fenrys's own—

Fenrys's dark eyes flickered. "She killed Connall. Made him stab himself in the heart." A pearl-and-ruby necklace scattered from Gavriel's fingers.

The temperature in the tomb spiked, but there was no flash of flame, no swirl of embers.

As if Aelin's magic had surged, only to be leashed again.

Yet Aelin continued shoving gold and jewels into her pockets.

She'd witnessed it, too. That slaughter.

But it was Gavriel, approaching on silent feet even with the jewels and gold on the floor, who clasped Fenrys's other shoulder. "We will make sure that debt is paid before the end." The Lion had never uttered such words not toward their former queen. But fury burned in Gavriel's tawny gaze. Sorrow and fury.

Fenrys took a steadying breath and stepped away, the loss on his face mingling with something Rowan couldn't place. But now wasn't the time to ask, to pry.

Aelin continued picking her way amongst the treasure, however. She'd been more selective than the rest of them, examining pieces with what Rowan had assumed was a jeweler's eye. The gods knew she'd owned enough finery to tell what would fetch the highest price at market.

"We should go," he said. His own pockets were near to bursting, his every step weighed down.

She rose from a rusted metal chest she'd been riffling through.

Rowan remained still as she approached, something clenched in her palm. It was only when she stopped close enough for him to touch her that she unfurled her fingers.

Two golden rings lay there.

"I don't know the Fae customs," she said.

The thicker ring held an elegantly cut ruby within the band itself, while the smaller one bore a sparkling rectangular emerald mounted atop, the stone as large as her fingernail. "But when humans wed, rings are exchanged." Her fingers trembled-just slightly. Too many unspoken words lay between them. Yet now was not the time for that conversation, for that healing.

Not when they had to be on their way as swiftly as possible, and this offer she'd made him, this proof that she still wanted what lay between them, the vows they'd sworn ...

"I assume the sparkly emerald is for me," Rowan said with a half smile.

She huffed a laugh. The soft, whispered sound was as precious as the rings she'd found for them in this hoard. She took his hand, and he tried not to shudder in relief, tried not to fall to his knees as she slid the ruby ring onto his finger. It fit him perfectly, the ring no doubt forged for the king lying in this barrow.

Silently, Rowan grasped her own hand and eased on the emerald ring. "To whatever end," he whispered.

Silver lined her eyes. "To whatever end." A reminder-and a vow, more sacred than the wedding oaths they'd sworn on that ship.

To walk this path together, back from the darkness of the iron coffin. To face what waited in Terrasen, ancient promises to the gods be damned.

He ran his thumb over the back of her hand.

"I'll make the tattoo again." She swallowed, but nodded. "And," he added, "I'd like to add another. To me—and to you."

Her brows flicked up, but he squeezed her hand. You'll have to wait and see, Princess.

Another hint of a smile. She didn't balk from the silent words this time. Typical.

He opened his mouth to voice the question he'd been dying to ask for days now. May I kiss you? But she pulled her hand from his.

Admiring the wedding band sparkling on her finger, her mouth tightened as she turned over her palm. "I'll need to retrain."

Not a single callus marked her hands.

Aelin frowned at her too-thin body. "And pack on some muscle again." A slight quiver graced her words, but she curled her hands into fists at her sides and smirked at her clothes—the Mistward clothes. "It'll be just like old times."

Trying. She was dredging up that swagger and trying. So he would, too. Until she didn't need to any more.

Rowan gave her a crooked grin. "Just like old times," he said, following her out of the barrow and back toward the ebony river, "but with far less sleep."

He could have sworn the passageway heated. But Aelin kept going.

Later. That conversation, this unfinished business between them, would come later.

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

I Put A Spell On You.

‘Smoke’wants you back, and he’ll do whatever it takes.

(Part one maybe?)

I put a spell on you

Because you're mine

You better stop the things you do

I tell you, I ain't lying

I ain't lying…

Word got around that Smoke was back in town. You couldn’t miss him with his snazzy suit’s silhouette characterized by broad shoulders, a high waist, and wide-leg trousers. A quintessential element in a man’s wardrobe. The whispers traveled to many ears, but it was only one pair he was concerned with.

Rosetta Scott.

A dilly he’s obsessed with. His soft-spoken jazz singer. She ended their relationship when Smoke decided to up and leave New Orleans with his ill-tempered identical twin brother, but he promised he’d be back and to write him. After two years, he’s back and ready to stake his claim on his woman.

Smoke hopped out of his Cadillac 16 cylinder wearing round, small sunglasses with wired frames. He removed his 8-panel hat and shut the door behind him. Smoke took a long drag of his blunt while staring straight ahead with a lopsided grin.

The reflection within the circular lenses of his dark frames was one he’d missed for years. A living tapestry of culture, history, and an unmistakable passion for life. This place, with its rhythmic streetcars and the spicy aromas from its kitchens, isn't just alive; it breathes stories at every corner.

Stretching his long legs with a purposeful gait, his expensive gaiters picking up dirt, Smoke pushed open the withering, wooden, hinge doors leading into a lively establishment. The smell of fish fry, sweat, cheap cologne, weed, and sex titillating his nose caused a wide grin to spread across his thick lips. He slowly removed his sunglasses, revealing piercing, brandy-eyes and a primal desire.

There she was. Doing what she loved. He was joyful. Proud.

laidback with rhythmic flexibility.

That husky breathy tone.

Her vocals always had a very raw unedited feel which made her songs feel more real and personal. She also tends to use harmonies and layering which sometimes gives the song a drowning all consuming affect.

The silk of her flowing silver slip seemed to mold into her hourglass frame. The premium fur shawl she wore hung loosely from her glistening shoulders. Her lips the color of ox blood stained the mic in front of her. The swing and blues notes with complex chords blending with her sultry voice had everyone on that floor dirty dancing.

Smoke broke his eyes away reluctantly, taking off his suit jacket, placing it on the back of a chair. He ashed out his blunt and placed it in the front pocket of his crisp, white button down. Smoke made his way towards the bar, unbuttoning his sleeves and his shirt along the way.

“Yes, daddy! Play that saxophone!”

“Sing it Rose!”

“Let’s Jive!”

“Ooooweee! If it ain’t Mr. Smoke Stack himself! Come over here!”

Smoke chuckled deeply before dabbing up his uncle and the owner of the establishment; Buck. His liquor breath and gold teeth were two things you remembered about Big Buck. Or, how he’d like to call it ‘I’m Big Buck and I like to fuck’. And boy did he get his share of pussy. He had eight kids to prove it.

“Look at my nephew! Now hold on…where is your twin?” Buck’s yellowing eyes wandered around in search of him.

“He’s handlin’ business. No time to settle. You know how he get. I had to break away tho’ I got business to ‘tend to.”

Smoke accepted a glass of whiskey and took a long sip. It burned so good down his throat.

“Yeah, uh-huh. We know why’s you here! That gal. You know she’s seeing someone else, right?”

The corner of his upper lip fluttered with disdain at the thought of another man touching his bitch. Smoke wasn’t having it. One look into his eyes, she’d fall into his lap again. Wet puss and all. She wrote him often. Sent him pictures. He’d gotten them all. So, was she doing all that while messing with some squat-ass fool?

“Gimme the low down, Buck.” Smoke insisted impatiently.

“Aight, nephew. Another?”

Smoke raised his glass, “hold the hail. I don’t need no watered down shit. I’m tryna get swacked.”

Buck’s gut laugh filled the cramped space between them.

“You remember Phonzo?”

“Shid, not pussy ass Phonzo? C’mon now gal…”

“Damn straight. He wines and dines her. Buys her shit…”

“She using.” Smoke replied.

He turned his eyes on her again. She looked so damn fine. Mmm. That body was nice. He could smell her perfume on his mustache. That amber scented flesh. Smoke knocked the rest of his drink back and stood from his seat at the bar. She ended another song and received a standing ovation. Smoke pushed his way towards the front but before he could get there, a man reached out to help her down. Her joyous laugh made Smoke’s stomach churn.

“Put me down, baby! I had too much to drink!”

“it’s Smoke Stack!”

All eyes fell towards the handsome gangster. Smoke ignored all except those pretty, doe eyes that locked on him with utter shock. Short and stacked. The finest woman in all of Louisiana. Ain’t no way she’s giving all that to Phonzo. Smoke pressed forward, his penetrating eyes racking over Rosetta’s frame. It was easy to tell the twins apart because one had a noticeable scar on his face and the other didn’t.

“Well I’ll be,” Phonzo secured his arm around Rosetta’s waist tighter, “Smoke. What’s shaking, man?”

Smoke’s lips remained tightly sealed and his eyes never left his Rosey. Tension was thick in the air like the sound of the powerful double bass.

I love my moonshine whiskey

Better than I do my man

I love my moonshine whiskey

Better than I do my man

You got have your beer in your bottle

Give me my cool kind hands…

“Rosey…”

Rosetta parted her deep-red lips to speak.

“Smoke…”

That voice. He’d missed it.

Smoke Stack was seeing red.

“Get yo’ hands off my woman, Phonzo.”

“You think you can just show up? This ain’t your woman anymore, Smoke. You proved that when you left her for the taking. Go on somewhere now…”

Phonzo attempted to walk away with Rosetta in his grasp, but Smoke swiftly grabbed her hand, swinging her over towards him with an expert twirl of her beautiful frame. She collided with his sturdy chest, her eyes staring up at him.

Rosetta was still trying to pick her jaw up from the floor. She couldn’t believe Smoke was back. The familiar warmth of his much larger and more powerful frame sent images swirling through her mind of the times they’ve shared. She hadn’t received a letter from him in almost a year. Every single day she worried herself about him. However, Rosetta had entertained the thought of being with Phonzo. Tonight would have been the night that she would have given Phonzo a taste of what Smoke Stack dicked down. It was an act of desperation.

“Rose! Whatchu doin’ gal? Don’t let this fool back into your life!” Phonzo reached his hand out for her to take, “I won’t leave you like he did. Remember? I promised that trip to Chicago. We can pack up and catch a train!”

“I’ll take her to Chicago, to Trinidad, Paris, wherever my money goes, she goes. You had your fun tryna get what’s mine. I suggest you fade, Phonzo…”

Um, make me another two bit pint

Um, make me another two bit pint

'Cause I've got my habits down

I'm gonna wreck this joint…

“Let’s go,” Smoke had a strong grip on Rosetta’s hand as he placed her in front of him to walk away.

Rosetta finally gathered her thoughts. She halted her footsteps inches away from the bar.

“Hold on, Smoke,” She pointed a red nail at him sternly, “How dare you show up here like this?! I haven’t heard from you in over a year! You can’t just walk up in here and whisk me away like some night in shining armor! Who do you think you are?!”

“Says which? I’ve written you!” Smoke shouted back.

“I ain’t get one letter in a year!”

Smoke kisses his teeth, “That’s some bullshit and you know it. Maybe the letters got mixed up…none of that matters now, baby. I’m back. For good now…”

Buck and another bartender watched the two of them go back and forth with amusement.

“We’ll see how long that lasts!” Rosetta sassed.

A gun clicking had Smoke on high alert. He pushed Rosetta behind him and turned, staring down into the barrel of a pistol. Phonzo was sweating bullets. He had two of his lackeys behind him, posted up like they were ready to do damage. Rosetta clung onto the sticky bar top, peeking around to see what the ruckus was about.

“Time to knock you off that high horse. You and that brother of yours don’t run shit ‘round here no more. Give me back my bitch, and we can get back to jivin’.”

“Excuse me?!” Rosetta argued, “I got your bitch—”

“Rosey, relax, baby. Daddy got this.” Smoke looked from the pistol pointed at his chest, to Phonzo with a sinister smile, “You off the cob or something, Phonzo?”

“You tryna make me look pussy in front of my boys?!”

Smoke tilted his head to size up his ‘boys’.

“They shakin’ in they boots just like you. C‘mon now, Phonzo. We can do this the easy way…you put that steel down, and walk away. I came for my woman and that’s it. Pick yo’ self up and use those bony-ass pegs and leave.”

Laugher erupted around them. Patrons watched on like it was a live performance. Phonzo always hated being the laughingstock. No one took him seriously. People tolerated him because Smoke and his twin skipped town to handle business.

“I ain’t going nowhere!” Phonzo yelled.

He pressed his gun into Smoke’s chest hard.

“Nigga, you ain’t got shit—”

Smoke picked up a bottle of Jack Daniels and cracked it over Phonzo’s head. When Phonzo dropped to his knees with shards of glass embedded in his face, Smoke snatched his pistol up and pointed it at the two men that were once standing proud. They both shared a look with each other before bending over to pick Phonzo up.

Smoke placed the pistol in the waistband of his slacks and snatched a handkerchief out of his pocket to clean up the blood that seeped from a gash in the palm of his hand. People were used to violence ‘round here. Too drunk, high, and horny to care about Phonzo bleeding out onto the floor. Buck didn’t blink an eye as he shined a new glass before pouring a gentleman a glass of top shelf whiskey.

“Get ‘em out. Don’t come back, nigga. I’ll use your pistol to put a bullet in yo’ head fuckin’ wit’ me!”

Phonzo—delirious and bloody—was dragged out of the juke joint by his two loyal men. Smoke knew that as soon as Phonzo regained consciousness, he’ll be on the hunt for him. Smoke was ready.

Smoke took a seat at the bar and pulled Rosetta into him. Blunt between his lips, glass of whiskey in front of him, Rosetta gave him a light, watching her daddy with lust.

You know I can't stand it

You're running around

You know better, baby

I can't stand it 'cause you put me down

Oh, no…

“Smoke, Daddy…”

Rosetta took the blunt from between his lips and hit it. He watched her with low, hazy eyes. All he did was walk through those doors. She was at his mercy like he’d never left.

“You’ll really take me to Paris?”

Smoke accepted his blunt, “I’ll take you all over the world, baby…listen, I know I got some makin’ up to do, but don’t you ever do no shit like that again, hear me? I’m a always come back to you…”

“You right about that makin’ up,” Rosetta giggled, “We got all night though. Phonzo was my ride home…”

“Here, go grab my jacket and we can go.”

Smoke tapped Rosetta on her rump and pointed to where he placed his suit jacket. He paid his tab and promised to be back to catch up with his uncle. Rosetta returned and Smoke grabbed her by the hand, ushering her out of the juke joint and into the murky night.

_______________

Smooth leather seats, a pistol on the dash, windows rolled down.

Rosetta and her fur shawl sat elegantly next to a hunk of a gangster. She admired the stain of her lipstick on his cheek when she stole a quick kiss while he opened her door for her.

She missed her Smoke Daddy so damn bad. It hurt to the bone. Smoke could feel her pretty eyes on him and he glanced over to her, giving her a dimpled smirk filled with mischief. They were halfway there to her apartment above a boutique.

“I missed you, Rosey. So much.”

I put a spell on you

Because you're mine…

“Where did you go?”

Smoke took a moment to respond.

“…My brother had business in Texas. Then we picked up some jobs throughout the south. Made enough money to last us a lifetime…Made some bad choices, but I’m richer. Stronger. Ready to sweep you off yo’ feet. I want you to travel the world and sing to audiences bigger than that hole in the wall. Serious, gal.”

Rosetta blinked away tears.

“Don’t do none of that, baby. No crying…”

“I’m just glad ya ain’t dead somewhere in a ditch!”

Rosetta accepted a clean handkerchief from Smoke. She dabbed her eyes to avoid messing up her makeup.

“I made a promise to get back to you and I meant that.”

Rosetta exhales, “I know, daddy…I just…I’ve been so touch starved. I would’ve given Phonzo all of me if you hadn’t shown up…”

Smoke’s nostrils flared and he looked at her with those dark eyes that made her clench her thighs.

“Phonzo don’t know what to do wit’ all that. And you belong to me. All of you. You make that pussy cum while Daddy was away?”

“Yes…but it wasn’t enough. I miss the fuckin’ we used to do…”

Smoke’s Cadillac slowed to a stop in front of the boutique Rosetta’s mother owned. She worked there for extra money, but now that Smoke was back, she didn’t have to work. Smoke opened her door and helped her out. Shutting it, they walked towards the shop and Rosetta opened the door with a single gold key. Smoke observed his surroundings with a sharp eye before following her inside. It was dark, but the moonlight ignited a path for them leading towards a narrow staircase leading up to Rosetta’s apartment that she shared with her mother.

She had some privacy for now since her mother went away to visit family in Baton Rouge for a week. The boutique was closed until she returned. Rosetta opened the door and flicked on a light. It was exactly how Smoke had remembered it. Small and cozy and blessed by a woman that practiced root work. Rosetta walked into their small kitchen and opened the fridge to grab a pitcher of water. She poured a glass for Smoke and herself.

“You can stay for a few days until momma comes back. It don’t matter how grown I am, she don’t like men over…”

“I get it. I’ll have a place to stay. Then you can leave here and be wit’ me.”

“Smoke…”

Smoke finished his glass, sat it on the counter, and pulled Rosetta close. His hands caressed her back and dragged down to cuff her cheeks. Eyes locked on her face, he brought his plump lips to her own, pecking them with soft kisses. Rosetta whimpered and shifted, slightly raising one foot. Smoke hooked his strong arm around her trim waistline. His other hand squeezed the flesh of her plump ass.

“You always know just how to push my buttons, don’t you, Rose? Couldn’t wait for daddy to come back?”Smoke asked with his lips barely touching hers, “That’s alright, though…Im gon’ remind you just who you belong to...”

Suddenly, Smoke delivered a series of sharp smacks to her behind without warning. Rosetta gasped as she felt the sting of each slap. 

“Smoke, I’m sorry…I didn’t fuck him…I swear.” Rose pleaded.

“But you gave ‘em hope. If I hadn’t shown up…”

His wide hand lifted her silk dress over her ass and he went to town whacking each cheek—left, right, left—the pain increasing. Rosetta buried her face into his chest, her lipstick staining his shirt. Smoke palmed her cheeks hard, savoring the heft of that juicy flesh in his rough hands.

“Damn,” Smoke stared over her shoulder and down at her rump, “this big ass…mmm…mmm…mmm…I wanna look at that pussy, baby…I still have that picture of your pussy in my wallet…”

Rosetta set up a camera and took photos of herself nude before sending them off to whatever address Smoke told her to send it to. He’d beat his fat dick every night to all her photos. He stole a pair of her panties as a reminder of her scent. Anything to keep his sanity.

“You do?” Rosetta stared up at Smoke.

“Yeah,” Smoke retrieved his wallet from his pocket. He presented the photo to Rosetta. It had cracks in it from being folded, but her hairy mound, phat clit, and glistening folds stood out against the black and white, “She still nice and bushy?”

Smoke had a thing for hair. He hated whenever Rosetta would do a clean shave. Since he’d been gone, she’d started shaving again. Luckily, there was enough hair there to satisfy his desires.

“Not too much, daddy…”

“Mm,” Smoke flicked his tongue against her lips.

“I want you to do it to me, daddy…”

“Do it all night long, baby?”

“Do it to me, papa…”

Smoke’s dick jumped and stretched to proportions he couldn’t handle.

“I wanna suck on that pussy first…”

Rosetta’s clit twitched at the thought of Smoke slurping on her pussy cat until she was wrung dry. She had a lot for him to drank up. When she first laid eyes on him tonight, the wetness soaked through and created a slippery, sticky mess. Those big lips and that thick dick…

“Let me smell it,” Smoke picked Rosetta up and sat her down on the cramped counter space, “Spread your fuckin’ legs you sexy, bitch…”

Rosetta made quick work of her thighs spreading wide and limber. Smoke could see a big wet spot in the crotch of her cotton panties. He didn’t waste time stroking the outlines of her fat lips that strained against the fabric. Smoke chuckled before slipping her panties to the side. His fingertips graced coarse hair covered in slick and heat. Beyond that was a clit made to be suckled.

“Shit, she still get nice and wet for me,” Smoke admired the shine on his thick fingers before bringing it to his nose to take a whiff, “fuccck,” He pushed his fingers into his mouth and licked them clean, “Fresh pussy…taste so good…”

He was down on his knees with his fingers tangled in her panties to keep them out of his way. Rosetta brought one leg up and it opened her lips more for him to eat. The humidity of that kitchen had their brown skin glistening beneath the dim, yellow, lamp lights. Smoke spread her lips and stared into her pussy. Rosetta stroked his slick-back, begging him to put his face in it.

Smoke buried his nose in it first. He rubbed her clit with the tip of his nose before using his lips to encase her clit and suck. He sucked nice and slow to warm her up, but then he created a vortex so tight with his lips Rosetta almost fell from the counter. The sucking came at a rapid pace—precise and intense.

“Uhnnn,” Rosetta gasped and moaned, “Daddy!”

Rosetta stroked her pussy many times to one of her favorite raunchy tunes. Jump Steady Daddy by Lucille Bogan stayed on repeat whenever she rubbed on her clit to the thought of her Smoke Daddy. She missed when he would come to her late at night, sneak in her bed and eat her pussy. She loved it when he would be on his knees, holding her weight up and fucking into her.

Love me, daddy

Love me all the time

Love me, daddy

Love me all the time

And if you love me like I did

You'll be that jump steady man of mine…

“Yes, ooh, daddy, papa,” Rosetta’s thighs shook out of her control, “Ima cum…Ima cum…”

The thin straps of her silk slip dangled from her shoulders and perspiration trickled down her spine. She didn’t have time to prepare before she was creaming down Smoke’s chin. All he did was suck her clit. He came up for air, lips dripping wet and face glistening with cum.

Her nipples poked out through her slip, teasing Smoke’s eyes. He was as hard as stone, unable to bear the feeling anymore. Smoke stood and picked Rosetta up from the counter, carrying her towards her room. The door was ajar, so all he needed to do was nudge it and he was walking inside. He didn’t bother closing the door. Smoke placed Rosetta on her back, climbing on top of her and sticking his tongue in her mouth.

Rosetta smoothed his button down shirt over his shoulders and Smoke pulled his arms through. He had on a white beater that clung to his muscles like plaster. Smoke broke his lips away and trailed kisses down her neck until he was at the tops of her breasts. Rosetta arched up into his chest, soft moans music to his ears.

Smoke used his teeth to yank the rest of her slip down, revealing 34 C breasts with large nipples that reminded him of chocolate-covered gum drops. Rosetta dragged her nails through his hair, messing up the smoothness of it, revealing waves. Her updo had come undone, finger-waved hair falling into her eyes. The salty, sweet taste of her skin caused him to growl.

“Daddy…I wanna taste that dick…”

With a deep exhale, Smoke stood up. Rosetta sat up on her knees with her dress around her waist and went to work undoing his slacks. She pushed down his boxers and his pants in one motion, his dick bobbing out like a pendulum and hitting her on the chin. Rosetta admired how girthy and veiny her daddy’s dick is. She licked up the precum before it was wasted and with her eyes on him, she wrapped her lips around him and sucked.

“Ahhhh…There you go, baby…that’s how you welcome me home…suck this big boy…gobble it up…”

Her soft hair in his grasp, Smoke’s toned hips pumped her throat. He curled his top lip, revealing golds, grunting at the feel of her tight throat.

“Ugh, fuck, baby…the best dick suckin’ bird in N’awlins…”

Rosetta giggled in response. She prided herself in her skills. Sucking dick and riding dick was her specialty. Smoke licked his lips, eyes barely open as he watched her. He tilted his head and started drilling her mouth. Loud gagging noise started, Rosetta’s once pristine makeup now running down her face.

“You’re so beautiful wit’ my dick in your throat, baby…make daddy cum…so I can fuck that pussy…”

His girth increased, Rosetta’s jaws tightening. She grabbed hold of his balls and worked her neck like no other. Smoke chewed on his bottom lip and threw his head back.

“Hmmm….mmmmmm….”

His hips spasmed out of control. Rosetta almost choked on his thick cum. She had to spit his dick out just to swallow what she could. The rest painted her chest.

“Turn that ass over,” Smoke stepped out of his pants and with one hand on his long dick, he pumped it, “On your knees, gal.”

Rosetta brought that ass in the air and arched her back deep. Smoke stood behind her with a big dick swinging. Rosetta hadn’t felt it in two years. She was afraid. Shaking with fear. He had to open her up again.

“Use them big girl words and tell me what you want,” Smoke slapped her cheeks around, “Where you want this dick?”

“Daddy, fuck me!” Rosetta begged.

His dick aligned with her ass and with his big hands he tucked it higher. Smoke grunted and slapped her bouncy cheeks.

“Ouch! Papa…” Rosetta cried, more from surprise.

It hurt so good. With hands as large as his, he managed to cover a wide area of her ass, leaving behind a burning sting that only made her wiggle her ass against him. Smoke rubbed her down before digging his fingers into the flesh, spreading her wide, and thrusting into her.

“Oh, my! Smoke!”

Rosetta’s ass recoiled and bounced off of Smoke’s sturdy hips. He had her by the hair, keeping her back arched. That man was fucking her like he was fresh out of jail. His thick shaft gave her stretch and his length made her feel it in her stomach. The sound of her wet pussy matched the skin-slapping.

“Big dick on you! Fuck!”

Smoke let go of her hair and grabbed her hips. Rosetta looked back at him with her mouth agape and brows knitted together in disbelief. His hair had puffed up and some strands fell over his forehead. He looked wild and sexy. Muscles flexing, golds flashing, eyes unblinking.

“Keep fuckin’ me, papa! Fuck this wet pussy, daddy! Oh my goddddd—”

Rosetta fell forward and buried her face in the sheets.

“Uh-uh,” Smoke brought one leg up, leaned over her, and wrapped a hand around her throat, “You can take this dick. Get that shit you want so bad,” Smoke said.

Every cry or whimper that came out of her mouth, he responded with an evil chuckle or a groan of his own in her ear.

“Grip me up like that…good girl…that’s it baby…”

Rosetta felt hot liquid trickling down her thighs. Tears brimmed her eyes and her body seized up with her release. Smoke withdrew his hips and got down behind her to lick her up. He licked her thighs, then trailed his spit to her folds. He rolled her onto her back and scooted her towards the edge of the bed. Ass hanging off, legs thrown over his shoulders, Smoke put that dick in her pussy and pounded up into her with sharp thrusts that had her toes curling.

“Oh, shit!” Rosetta and her swinging titties couldn’t handle it, “Damnit, Smoke! I’m cumin’ !!!!!”

Scooting her onto the bed, he pile-drived her into the creaky mattress. Folded in half was an understatement. She stared down the valley of his impressive body at his dick.

“Big Daddy!” Rosetta pressed her feet into his chest, “Fuck me good! Take this pussy!”

“This my fuckin’ pussy…”

Smoke slammed into her before dropping down to kiss her soft lips again. His thrusts turned into modulated pumps that caused her to gasp. Each time his dick would enter her, she would gasp with surprise. Smoke nibbled on her pouty bottom lip and stared into her eyes longingly.

You know I love you

I love you

I love you

I love you anyhow

And I don't care

If you don't want me

I'm yours right now…

“Cum for me Smoke Daddy…”

His forehead furrowed and with one more sharp thrust, he erupted deep in her womb.

———————-

[oneeyedlove]

King of the ashes.

summary | Moons had passed since your last quarrel with your estranged husband, the events of Rook’s Rest bringing you together one more time.

pairing | Aemond Targaryen x oc!reader, Jacaerys Velaryon x oc!reader (platonic).

tags | 18+, MINORS DNI! Unprotected sex, PinV, arguing, oral sex (f receiving), mentions of death, Targ!cest, ANGST/little comfort, ooc Aemond (probably). SPOILERS

wordcount | 8.5K - i am so sorry

note | All the valyrian i use comes from a very shady translator so there probably are a lot of mistakes, if you have any input or helpful information pls tell me. I got really excited writing this but I feel the last part is a bit rushed, sorry about that! Any comments, likes and reblogs are appreciated! <3

Find part 1 here

[ gif by @gameofthronesdaily ]

124 AC

The afternoon sun spilled its light upon the tearful eyes of prince Aemond Targaryen, almost if mocking his heartache through its refulgent heat. The young boy sheltered himself in a seemingly abandoned corridor of the Red Keep, seeking solace from the cruel hoax imposed on him during his lessons. He could still hear them, their words — “The Pink Dread”. Such title roared in his ears, humiliation engulfing the silver prince as he forced his cries back into his throat. His mother had failed in her feeble attempts to comfort him, her attention focused solely on punishing his nephews for their so called savagery — even if it was clear this had Aegon’s name written all over it.

The worst part was that she had witnessed it. She hadn’t laughed or joined them in their persecution, but he could not bear the thought of his weakness being exposed before her. Hers was the judgment he feared most after all, she was the only one he could truly call friend.

Aemond hadn’t taken notice of a blue covered figure that watched him until she sat at his side, her weight shifting the cushions of the settee beneath them. His eyes refused to meet hers, hoping to conceal his shame as he hugged his knees against his chest. The girl stared at him in silence, her back resting on the wall whilst her feet dangled over the edge of her seat.

“Aem…” Aelora finally spoke, the softness in her tone melodic as a ballad.

“What do you want?” He asked, his voice lacking its usual warmth.

She had been made aware of Aemond’s displeasure concerning the dearth of a dragon to call his own through countless protests, his state being one of constant anger towards what he deemed his fault. It was also known by her that he would grow to be the most estimable dragonrider of them all, for none were devoted to learning and practicing as he was — it was only a matter of patience. Thus, when Aelora’s eyes caught sight of the swine inside the dragonpit, her brothers knew their mother’s chastening would be nothing compared to hers.

“My brothers are fools, I wish to apologize on their behalf.” She brought her hand to hold his, a gesture of innocent assurance.

“You did not deserve it.”

The boy slowly drifted his eyes from the window to lay his gaze upon her, his heartbeat quavering at her touch. Nevertheless, her kind words couldn’t erase his shortcomings — he couldn’t accept charity for his ridicule, he wouldn’t.

“I… I have no need for your pity.” As much as he tried, he failed to stop woe from consuming his voice, as well as his demeanor.

“I don’t pity you.” Grasping his hand tighter, she looked at him through furrowed brows.

“You shall have a dragon. One even bigger than Sunfyre, I know it! In the meantime you can help me with Lyrrax, even fly with me once she’s big enough!”

It was evident her enthusiasm was a childish one, an effort to install hope over the sorrow that buried his thoughts — but she had no care for it. She noticed as a smile pulled at the corners of his lips, even as he tried to suppress it. She wasn’t the one who owed him an apology, and yet there she was, offering her own dragon for an olive branch. His gaze flickered down at their hands, her smaller one over his, and he intertwined their fingers. The tension in his shoulders visibly eased, for Aelora’s presence was reassuring and tender.

“You truly believe I'll claim one?” He asked, unable to hide the fleeting shadow of optimism that burned in his eyes.

“I am certain of it. We are Targaryens, the blood of the dragon. You just haven’t found the right one for you.” A smile crept its way onto her face, her cheeks rosy and plump with eagerness.

Aemond scanned the girl before him, his expression almost vulnerable. The feeling of indignity was one familiar to the young boy and he had enough of it. He contemplated her words for a moment, and for once allowed himself to consider she might be right.

“Perhaps you're right. Perhaps I lack patience.” He let out a deep breath, as if letting go of the bitterness that had taken hold of him.

“You would do well to remember I’m always right.” The smug grin on her face earned herself only a rolling of eyes in response.

“Come on. I know something that will lift your spirits.”

Her words had barely escaped her lips before she burst through the corridor, tugging the prince’s hand as they ran. Hurried footsteps clashed against cold stone as Aelora strided through the maze of indistinguishable aisles, her gaze occasionally flickering towards the boy behind her. The smile that stubbornly weld itself onto Aemond’s face had transformed into a beaming grin, the sound of her angelic giggles clipping away the sullenness from his features.

A deafening thump alerted the prince of their whereabouts, the wide entry of her bedchamber welcoming him inside. He stepped in and curiously observed as she struggled to close the wooden doors, trapping the pair of them in concealment. The calling gesture of the princess hand woke him from his trance as he marched towards the illustrated wall beside her bed.

“Wait, what are you doing?” His head tilted in confusion whilst he fixated his lilac eyes on her hands. Her palm grazed the intricate designs on the stone, finally encountering the familiar crease on the surface — she pushed it, a dimly lit passageway staring back at him.

“Its Maegor’s secret tunnels!”

Aemond's bewilderment had quickly given way to wonder and awe. The maesters had taught him legends of Maegor's construction schemes, rumored to be an intricate labyrinth hidden beneath the Red Keep, but he never dreamed he would get to see them for himself.

“What?! How in the Seven Hells did you find them?”He asked, his voice tinged with disbelief.

“A fortunate accident.” She shrugged.

“I was hoping to find the way to your apartments and surprise you but I reckon it cannot be done anymore.”

“You’re mad!” His gaze quickly flickered back to Aelora.

His eyes, violet in the soft daylight that cascaded through the nearby window, studied her almost warily, as if to gauge a reaction from her. He received no such thing. The princess brought her hand to his once again, carefully establishing themselves inside the narrow corridor as the heavy stone shut behind the two. Aemond allowed himself to be pulled along, not even protesting in favour of the tunnel. He observed the strange architecture through their route, the dim light that filtered through small gaps, and the strange cobwebs that had taken form. The limb that remained in hers seemed to squeeze it almost possessively — out of fear, or out of eagerness, Aelora could likely tell.

The hairs atop the young royals’ heads twirled at the light breeze that embraced them, the scent of saltwater filling their nostrils. A moss covered archway revealed a small, damp cavern. As they entered, rugged walls formed by weathered rock surrounded them and an opening that lead directly onto the beach offered a panoramic view of the shoreline and the rolling waves beyond. Beams of sunlight streamed in through gaps, illuminating the cave's interior with a soft, ambient glow. Their feet grazed the sandy floor underneath them, scattered with small shells and pebbles, remnants of the sea's presence. Inside the serene and veiled space, a true connection between land and ocean can be felt — a fitting discovery for a princess of House Velaryon.

Aelora’s brown orbs searched for the boy’s lilac ones, a wide grin spread on her face as she squeezed his hand tenderly.

“So… What do you make of it?”

Aemond was quietly impressed, his head tilting back to look up at the ceiling of the cave, eyes roaming across the stalactites that hanged over them, a small gasp escaping his pink lips. He slowly peeled his hand from the princess, walking over to the opening to look out at the sea.

“How — how did you find this place?” The young prince questioned softly, his head turning back to look at her with an almost admiring gaze.

“It is unimportant. We can confine ourselves here whenever we like! The others do not know about it — I’m halfway certain no one does.”

A small, pleased smile tugged on his features just at the thought of using the cave as a hideaway; a private place, just for himself and Aelora. He hums quietly under his breath, in slight agreement.

“Our secret?” He extend his pinky towards her, indicating for her to do the same.

“Ours.” She smiled as she locked their fingers together in a silent promise.

A silent minute exchanged itself between the pair, the linger of a childish oath tickling their skin. The future memory would cling to their hearts for years to come, a longing fondness drowning them each and every time — except they had no knowledge of it as of the moment, being too focused on the possible amusement that would certainly come from the cavern’s discovery.

“I can best you to the shore!” Aemond wasted no time as he sprinted to approach the broken waves at the end of the beach.

“Wait!” She shouted, avidly picking up her pace to match the boy’s, his long limbs giving him a considerable advantage over the girl behind him.

It had been an entire afternoon of nothing but running, chasing, and exploring together. The young prince had forgotten his troubles and worries completely, instead focusing on the thrill of catching a slippery, wiggling sand crab. The cold feeling of the seawater against his skin didn’t bother him either, nor did the wind whipping at his silver hair as they sat building sandcastles. By the time dusk began to settle, the two children had become completely filthy with sand, mud, and water. Their garments were most likely ruined from the seaweed’s smell, fact that would assuredly earn them serious reprimands from their mothers. Yet, he could not remember a time when he felt so alive.

As they returned to the cave, the sunset’s glow reflected in the wet stones inside, a sense of comfort enveloping the rock-strewn cavity. Aelora’s gaze fell upon the young prince before her, his valyrian grace never yielding to his disheveled appearance. She observed as he bent down, a sharp ore emerging in his hand.

“What are you doing?” She questioned through a mess of rumpled braids.

Aemond glanced up to look at her, smiling softly. With careful movements, the boy carved into the rock, his free hand resting against the stone wall for balance. After a moment, the four letters of their initials were carved into the stone. The scribbles “A.T.” and “A.V.” were jagged and a bit uneven, but still clearly visible.

”Leaving a marking… to remember.”

---

129 AC

Bleeding. Bruised. Brokenhearted. Those were the exact words to describe the state in which princess Aelora Velaryon arrived at Dragonstone. The crimson liquid that gushed out of her right side was courtesy of a Kingsguard during his desperate attempts to put a stop to her fleeing — the remnants of his white cloak hanging from Lyrrax’s teeth were evidence of the retribution he earned. The loyal she-dragon landed crudely, sharp claws sinking in the placid sand as her screeches blended with her rider’s whimpers. The princess could sense the pain inside the beast’s mind, their unbreakable connection making their emotions into one.

Pellets of rain grazed her face as she crawled up the endless stairs towards the peak of the islet, the translucent droplets mixing with tears of her own. The young woman’s sobs were filled with tales of disloyalty. She had betrayed her family, her duty, and worst of all, she had been betrayed by him. The one who stood before the gods of Old Vayria and pledged his unyielding love for her. The one who she had deemed worthy of the deserting of her kin. The one who promised her a future beyond the carnage of war. And yet he was the first to commence bloodshed. Her devotion had not been enough to subdue Aemond’s thirst for revenge — but how she wished that it had.

The mud on the soles of her shoes stuck to the stone floor, leaving behind a trail of shame as she entered the intimidating fortress. Her name and titles thundered inside her ears as the voice of a guard announced her arrival, though she hadn’t actually heard him. Her tormented psyche fevered with dread, fearful of the reactions she would receive due the forsaking of her own blood. All the eyes of her mother’s Small Counsel widened at the sight of the princess, distress and grief scattered across their faces. Her gaze flickered to the silvery locks on Raenyra’s head, the woman’s back turned to the room.

Aelora’s steps were slow and somber, as if her soul had faded and the lifeless carcass of who she was moved against her wishes. She skipped past Daemon at her mother’s side, lacking the nerve to meet his stare. Finally, she reached the bereaved woman before her, brown meeting lilac in a lachrymose gaze. Their pale hands intertwined in haste, and the once composed tears transformed into loud sobs as the young princess collapsed to her knees, begging for Rhaenyra’s forgiveness. Blood and teardrops met in the Black Queen’s dress, staining it as she knelt in front of her daughter. She brought up her palm to caress the side of the young woman’s face, the maternal touch conveying a juvenile yearning in Aelora’s heart.

“Oh my sweet girl.” Her mother whispered as anguish imbued her words.

---

The moons that followed Luke’s death were arduous for the princess, constantly having to prove herself before the family that once accepted her. Rhaena and Rhaenyra had silently recognized Aelora’s circumstances, acknowledging she grieved for a husband as well as a brother. Baela had hesitated in the endorsing of her cousin but surrendered to her pleads nonetheless. Daemon barely addressed his wife’s daughter, his hatred for his nephew fused inside the resentful stares he gave her. Despite her best efforts to cope with her standing, it was Jacaerys’ unyielding disregard for his sister that slayed the woman’s hope of mending their bond. The storm behind the prince’s eyes was well hidden inside his stoic expressions, seemingly unaffected by Aelora’s prayers for his recognition. It was only in the afternoon before their grandmother’s departure for Rook’s Rest that the siblings found each other.

The soft rustle of parchment echoed through the otherwise silent library, a salty breeze infiltrating itself through the window. The princess sat by the unlit fireplace as her gaze swept across the leather-bound books scattered inside the numerous shelves, each and all replete with the history of House Targaryen. The smell of dusty, old tomes was a bitter comfort in the midst of her morose silence. She had accustomed herself to this moments of solitude, seeking solace inside her soul. At heart, her deepest fantasies scampered free, picturing a simpler life as a commoner — untethered by the Targaryen name and relieved from the torment of the constant shadow of war.

Aelora was chased back into reality as Jacaerys’ presence made itself known. The young man invaded the room like a blizzard, his cold glare locking upon her figure as she rested over the armrest of the settee. Her eyes glistened with heartache once she felt how profoundly hostile her brother had become, turning on his heel to abandon her presence. The woman’s voice trembled as she spoke, her words pleading and vulnerable.

"Jacaerys, wait...please."

He halted, his shoulders tense as he looked back at her. The expression on his face was hard to read, a mixture of ire and pain etched into his features.

"What do you want, Aelora?" His voice was cold, the distance between them palpable.

"Have I stooped so low in your graces that my presence offends you? We are family, Jacaerys. Can we not even speak?" Her voice was laced with a hint of desperation as she asked.

"You ask for words as if they could undo what has already been done." His expression hardened, his jaw tightening at her words.

Aelora got to her feet, her legs trembling under her weight. He spoke as if it had been her to murder Luke, not Aemond. Her eyes met his as she stood, her voice wavering with a mix of sorrow and anger.

“Do you truly believe I have not been made aware of that?!”

“Every day of my miserable existence is plagued by guilt. I close my eyes at night yet sleep eludes me, for the ghost of Luke haunts my every thought!” She grew restless at every word, tears forming in her brown orbs as she gestured frantically through phrases.

“I know I failed him, as I failed you and our family… But don't forget I too lost a brother that day.”

Jacaerys stood frozen in place, his grief still bubbling within him and yet his heart ached at the sight of his sister's tears. Her words cut through him like a dagger, his own teardrops threatening to fall.

"Luke is gone, Aelora, and your presence here only serves as a reminder of that fact." He took a step backwards, his jaw clenching as he struggled to control his emotions.

“You cannot blame me for what was not my doing. I was Aemond’s wife, not his conscience — albeit my best efforts.”

"But you married our enemies, sister! Do you truly believe your actions have no consequences?"

"You stood by while they plotted against us and our family. How can I not blame you, when you chose to bind your fate to theirs?" A hint of anger flashed in Jacaerys' mournful eyes as he continued.

“i admit i have made my bed and I must lie in it, but you speak of matters you do not understand.” She crossed her arms over her chest, as if she could shield herself from his hatred.

“He swore to me…“ Her voice cracked, heartbreak swallowing her words.

“He swore to avoid this — to stop this insane feud. He is an oathbreaker as well as a kinslayer and he made me a fool!”

The room was still tense but as Aelora's sobbing grew heavier, something shifted within Jacaerys. He stepped closer to his sister, and without a word, pulled her to him, wrapping his arms around her in a tight embrace. His body was warm against her chilly frame as he held her close, almost protectively. Their grievances seemed to dissolve in that moment, replaced only by a shared sorrow as her tears dampened his shoulder.

“Do you hold love for him, still?” He whispered.

“Only for the memory of who he used to be.”

The prince held Aelora a little tighter at her admission, his chin resting on the top of her head as they remained locked in their embrace. He could feel the weight of her broken heart and the ache it left her with. His wrath had dimmed, replaced by a sense of care and familial loyalty.

"Memories are not enough… Promise to break him should you get the chance"

“I will.”

Neither of them knew, but she lied.

Rhaenys, The Queen Who Never Was, met her fate by the hands of the newly appointed Prince Regent, Aemond Targaryen.

Meleys, The Red Queen, had her head paraded through the streets of King’s Landing.

And Aelora, Aemond’s beloved nightmare, sent him a raven.

“We must speak. Find me at ghost’s hour where salt meets memory.

A.V.”

---

The stars twinkled outside the formidable walls of Dragonstone, nightfall enveloping the island in its deep shadows. The approach of ghost’s hour disrupted the princess’ heartbeat inside her chest, her previous conviction giving way to fright as she slithered into the network of caves where the dragons nested. Aelora called out to Lyrrax, her voice wavering with a mixture of stress and uncertainty. As the great beast appeared before her, its wings unfurling, she couldn't help but wonder why she had sent the meeting request at all.

The dragon’s own tension could be felt through her scales as the princess climbed onto its back, the weight of her decision settling on them like a heavy cloak. As they soared through the night sky, Aelora's thoughts were consumed by memories of Aemond and his treachery. The image of him flying over her grandmother’s corpse haunted her mind — the cold, merciless expression he conveyed twisting her guts. She questioned her own judgement in seeking him out, even as her heart yearned for the man who once pledged his undying love and protection. She looked back at Dragonstone, its familiar walls and towers illuminated by the silvery moonlight; she was abandoning her blood for him once again. The princess could only surmise she was either possessed by madness or a true lovelorn fool.

The frigid roar of wind traveled across her face as Lyrrax’s wings scraped over the tide’s surface, saltwater droplets cutting into her skin as well as her pride. She knew her grandmother would never forgive her for this, it was likely none would; she was an idiotic excuse for a Targaryen if she thought seeking the slayer of so many of her kin was justifiable. The burden of loss hung heavily on Aelora's soul as she took in the landscape before her. The faces of Rhaenys and Luke, forever etched in her mind, fueled a mix of anger and trepidation inside the young woman. Her thoughts swirled with a maelstrom of emotions as she soared towards him, recollections of the past playing out like a tragic play as her brown orbs focused upon the once affectionate site of King’s landing.

With practiced grace, Aelora guided the dragon into a smooth descent, its blue wings beating against the air as its claws set down on the shore of Blackwater Bay. The sound of their landing was muffled by the night, its velvety darkness swallowing the pair by the quiet that enveloped the world like a thick, black blanket. The crash of the waves greeted the princess’ ears as she dismounted, struggling to catch her breath and steady her emotions. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, the young woman caught sight of the familiar cave that laid ahead, its entrance like a dark maw in the cliffside. The jagged edges were illuminated by the silvery glow of the moon, sending shadows dancing across the rocky surface.

Bittersweetness engulfed Aelora’s frame as the memories memories of her secret rendezvouses with Aemond brimmed in her mind. Every step she took towards the cave was like a blow to her legs, feeling shaky and unsteady. Doubt gnawed at her spirit as if a persistent rat, her stomach flipping with every crunch of the sand beneath her feet. Yet, she pushed forward, determination fueling the princess even as her disheveled heartbeat hammered against her ribcage.

The sight of Aemond standing amongst the shadows caught Aelora off guard, the dim light emanating through the cave's entrance barely illuminating his form — she had thought to be the first to arrive. Before she could stop it, a slight gasp escaped her lips and her eyes widened in disbelief. He looked different, somehow. He seemed further villainous and wearied, the once familiar spark in his eye now replaced by a bold robustness. His sharp and handsome features were now harder, almost rugged, as if her absence had left its mark on him. Swallowing hard, she acknowledged the stark contrast between the nostalgic sentiment that nearly overcame her a moment ago and the tense silence that now enveloped them. They stood opposite each other mutely, both frozen and locked in each other’s gaze.

“Wife.” He greeted, his voice grazing her earlobes like the finest of silks.

“That title does not fit me any longer.” She replied coldly.

His lilac eye examined Aelora’s frame from head to toe, her cloak hiding black leather garments — most likely dragonriding attire. She looked skinnier than he recalled, the shadows only enhancing the redness of her eyes. Aemond could not help but wonder whether she had been weeping during her journey there, grief tackling her psyche as well as her build. The princess demeanor turned stiff, arms crossing as she stood clearly on edge.

“You remain mine, before gods and men.” His gaze flickered with something akin to resentment.

“Kinslaying is a rather suitable ground for an annulment, i should think.” She said, removing the cloak from her head, allowing her braid to cascade over her shoulder.

He froze, the muscles on his neck and jaw tensed. His first reaction is one of anger, clenching his fist as he prepared hateful words inside his throat. But as he looked her in the eye, his wrath melted away into something much more dangerous and devastating — something fragile. All he could see was the girl he grew up with, the girl who stood by him at his boyhood. The woman who whispered sweet nothings amongst the vows of their wedding. The woman who played silly songs on the harp and sang with the loveliest voice he'd ever heard. The wife who's hands he dreamed of at night.

“So eager to rid yourself of the shame affixed to my reputation… And yet, you request my presence with equal vigor.” He stood with his hands behind his back, swallowing any desires that threatened to get the better of him.

“It is my understanding you have become Prince Regent.” She tried to ignore his jabs, the truthfulness they held hitting a sore point inside Aelora.

“The betrayal of your brother becomes you. Yet another broken oath in your conquest for the throne.” She returned his insults, the knowledge of his ambition stirring something within the prince.

“You speak of broken oaths. And what ought I call the oaths you have broken? The promises we made when we married in front of Heleana and the Gods?” His one eye darkened, taking a step forward as he kept his tone controlled.

“Your hypocrisy is staggering.” He shook his head, jaw clenched as he spoke.

“My hypocrisy?!” She could feel the anger boiling her blood, as if fire consuming wood.

“Your sanctimonious preaches fail to erase your true nature, Aemond. Naming yourself Targaryen whilst the sigil of our house is paraded through the streets as if some vainglorious prize of war!” Her voice turned to screeches as it echoed through the stone walls of the cave.

“You may call me a bastard if you wish to, but my blood honors Old Valyria far more than yours.”

Aemond’s hand shot to her wrist, gripping it tight enough to leave marks on the skin underneath. His single eye was wild and livid, the scar around it turning his gaze even more menacing. He moved a step closer, the scent of him overwhelming her — mint and leather mixed with a hint of smoke, the familiar essence blurred her senses in a wave of longing. The princess hid her weakening behind a wrath curtain, the disdain she held for the twisted version of him that now stood before her casting their love aside.

“Watch your tongue, Aelora.”

“Or else? Will your murder me as you did my brother? My grandmother? I can see the conqueror’s dagger in it’s seath, evidence of yet another attempt at fratricide!” She accused him further.

“Have you not done enough? Must you ravage our family and yourself in your thirst for power?”

The hand that gripped her wrist traveled up to the back of her head, grabbing the braided hair. Yanking it softly, he pulled Aelora even closer, his lilac orb flickering over her expression.

“I am Prince Regent as the Gods intended.” He hissed into her ear, a dangerous edge to his voice.

“My reign, unlike that of Aegon, will be glorious — my rule absolute. And you, wife, will be by my side when I sit on the Iron Throne.”

Aelora’s eyes betrayed her as water began to brim in their edges, a horrified gleam passing through her forming tears. A hand cupped his left cheek as she scanned him, a desperate search for the man he once was. The man she longed for each night. The man who was the source of greater heartache than she had ever felt in her life. The man who was also the root of her most joyous moments.

“Your ambition shall be your demise, husband. I was yours before all of this, before your perverseness overcame your affection for me.”

“The crown may sit upon your brow, but i have sufficiently torn my heart to shreads in my attempts to remove you — even if you are my weakness, I will never belong by your side once more.”

”No wrath or cruelty is capable of subduing my craving of you, issa vēzos (my sun).” He leaned into her touch, letting his eye flutter at the feeling of the soft skin of her palm against his cold cheek.

In that moment of contact, he seemed so vulnerable, and much younger than his years. He was weak. A pathetic, love-sick man, and he could not bring himself to care. Aemond leaned his head against hers, their foreheads connecting as his gaze softened.

“I am plagued by thoughts of you and I, each reminiscence a torment to my soul.”

“Come back to me, be my Queen and rule by my side. Our love will be known forever through the Seven Kingdoms, your belly swollen with our child ensuring our line shall never be forgotten.”

There was a moment of silence as Aelora absorbed his words. He was offering her a chance at a life she had dreamed of, one full of passion and legacy as their offspring lived on after them. But it would be an existence consumed by greed, she knew it. There could be no going back after what he had done; Lucerys would never be uncle to her progeny and Rhaenys wouldn’t be there to counsel her through hardships. Their family was torn from the beginning, the tapestry of their lives further lacerated by his actions. And she couldn’t betray her blood again.

“I would do anything for you.” He begged.

“Would your bend the knee to my mother?” Her voice was shaky as the lachrymose gaze she held shattered, its translucent shards falling through her cheeks.

"I will give you anything. Anything within my power to give." His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper.

"But not my crown."

“Then there shall be naught left to ask, issa hūra (my moon).” She sent him a smile, albeit a woeful one.

Aemond opened his mouth to protest, but knew it would be in vain. He was so close to her that he could feel her breath on his lips, the feeling slowly driving him mad. He had imagined Aelora’s face, her curves and her voice each night he had been forced to spend alone — and here she was, right before him, but he couldn’t have her. The thought of how this could be the last time he held her without being shoved away made him pull her to him, his arms wrapping around her like vines.

The princess found herself unable to resist as she pressed her head against his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat a comforting presence in the silent cavern. She clung to him tightly, her fingers gripping his clothing like a lifeline in a storm-tossed sea. For a moment, they stood there, holding each other without a word. The moons of distance melted away, replaced by a shared sense of desperate longing to be close again. Despite the comfort and familiarity of his embrace, she knew deep down that he would never surrender — his path set on the course of war and the bloodshed it entailed. The pain and loss they had faced would forever stand between them, but it did not matter tonight. Concealed by shadows inside the stone walls surrounding them, their grievances and broken oaths would dim at the radiance of their burning passion. For a brief moment, the pair would be one once more.

Aelora’s head parted from the warmth of his frame as her gaze followed the line of Aemond's jaw, her brown orbs traveling upward until they reached his mouth. A sharp breath hitched within her throat as she remembered the soft touch of his lips against hers, butterflies rattling in her stomach. In that moment, she was transported back to the blissful months of their marriage, when their intimacies were full of love and promise. The need to feel the familiar touch of his skin against hers consuming every inch of her being.

The prince’s mind and body were on fire. He could feel her gaze raking over him, like a caress to his spirit. The mere sight of his estranged wife in his arms making his heart pound wildly in his chest. His good eye watched her mouth as she swallowed, his one trackmindedness fixated on everything about her. He could see the memories, the same ones he saw every night, flashing through her gaze. His fingers reached up to brush a strand of her brown hair aside, her once perfect braid now half done as the long locks threaten to escape. His hand trembled with how badly he wanted to feel her body, to trace his hands over her curves and kiss her neck, as he had done countless times before.

Aelora's restraint snapped with a sharp tug as she pulled him down towards her, their lips finally meeting in a desperate, ardent kiss. A muffled gasp left her lips at the familiar touch, her body responding instinctively as she pressed herself against him, hungrily devouring his taste. The prince’s sense of control collapsed like a house of cards, his tongue slipping into her mouth as he held her close. He was a man starved, his palms roaming over her frame, as if trying to commit every curve to memory.

Aemond's hands began to roam under her cloak, his fingers tracing over the round hips hidden underneath. He could feel the heat of her desire through the thick fabric, his own body aching to devour her whole. The fingers on his left hand fiddled over the clasp of her mantle, yearning overcoming his senses as he tossed the fabric onto the delicate sand.

Before he was able to protest, Aelora broke their kiss. Her eyes glistened with arousal as she watched his lips, reddened and bruised from the hastiness of their embrace. Her nimble hands found the buckle of her leather doublet, shivering as the absence of the rougher material revealed her chemise underneath. The sheer linen did little to protect the princess’ frame from the cold breeze that made its way through the cave’s entrance, her nipples stiffening at the feeling. The young woman felt no grief for her modesty as Aemond’s eye watched her carefully, a glimpse of a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. She continued to undress, slender fingers slowly untying the laces on her breeches. Her boots met the rest of her dragonriding garments on the jagged rocks by the cavern’s wall, leaving the princess in only her smallclothes.

The silver prince was left breathless by her actions, completely entranced by the sight of her exposed chest, every contour of her body on display through the translucent fabric. His eye drank in the sight and he could feel his blood rushing to a southernmost point. He wanted to worship her, to kiss and nibble her skin — to make her cry out his name until the only thing she could remember was the feel of him against herself. At this moment, he was no longer Aemond Targaryen, Prince Regent and Protector of the Realm; he was a dog at her heel, eager for her calling. His gaze never left hers, staring at her vulnerable state as he mirrored her actions. First he removed his baldric, steel clinking as his dagger and sword fell to the ground. Then, he slowly undid the various buckles on his black jerkin, his breeches following suit. He did not waver as her brown eyes found his stiffened manhood; for he hadn’t cared to remain in concealment as she did.

Aelora’s gaze followed her husband as he approached her again, his hands reaching out and his fingers gently sliding up her bare thigh. She felt him press further into her, his cock pushing itself snugly against her core. He leaned in until his mouth was just beside her ear, his breath warm against her neck as he bit the skin softly. There was no denying she was his, her soul forever branded by his sinful devotion; the princess would never trust a kinslayer twice over, but she couldn’t help but love him.

“Vestragon ao’re ñuhon. (Say you’re mine.)” His voice was barely a whisper but it was as much a command as a plead.

“Vestragon ao’re nykeēdrosa ñuhon, gīda sepār syt kiza bantis. (Say you’re still mine, even just for tonight)”.

“Nyke aōhon. Ēva tubis ōños. (I am yours. Until daylight)”. She answered, lips trembling as the words escaped her.

A primal possessiveness engulfed the one eyed prince, the part that had always longed for her roaring in victory. At that very moment, he felt that there was nothing in this world that he would not do for her. He took her mouth in another kiss, their tongues clashing in a more feral and desperate manner. Aemond lifted her, his calloused hands digging into her plump arse as she wrapped her legs around his waist. Her fingers gripped at his silver locks, his sudden responde sending waves of languor across her limbs. He moved her onto the cloak that was on the ground, the velvety sand welcoming her weight over the fabric as he covered her body with his.

Aemond continued his path of kisses down her body, his hands wandering over her breasts and waist and his mouth leaving more marks in its path. He could feel Aelora shudder in anticipation, her hips arching against his as he moved closer to her core, the air heavy with the scent of her nectar. He halted, taking in the sight of her before him. It had been so long — too long — since he had laid eyes upon her like this, and he relished in the way she already looked completely wrecked by his touch alone. The prince finally reached his ultimate goal, his lips finding her mound as he licked a stripe across the sensitive flesh. He let out a low moan at the taste of her sweet ambrosia on his tongue, a loud whimper emanating from her lungs in response.

The young woman’s hair laid carelessly on the ground, grains of sand intertwining into the brown mess as she arched her back in pleasure. She cried out as he grabbed her thighs, spreading her further apart and burying his face between her legs, his tongue exploring her in ways she had missed for many moons. He could not get enough of her, his lips and tongue trailing silent prayers over her most sensitive spot as his name left her lips. She felt her walls clench as he barged inside her cunt with a long finger, adjusting to the once familiar feeling. Shivers ran down her spine in satisfaction as Aemond synchronized his movements, the overwhelming pleasure bringing stars to her eyes.

A lilac eye never left her face, watching every expression that played across her features. Her mouth parted in pleasure, each gasp and moan fueling the fire of the prince’s own arousal. He had longed to see her like this, writhing underneath him, his name on her lips and his touch on her skin. The memories of her had haunted him in his nights alone, but now, in this moment, he was finally able to worship her like the god given treasure that she was.

Aelora's cries grew more intense, her hips bucking against Aemond's skilled mouth as pleasure mounted within her. Her thighs trembled slightly, its muscles tensing in anticipation of the release that was quickly approaching. Each touch and movement only served to bring her closer to the precipice of pleasure.

A loud cry echoed through the cavern as she climaxed, her body shuddering and her fingers digging into the ground in a desperate attempt to anchor herself. As the waves of ecstasy washed over her, she felt as though she had been transported to another realm. The connection between them was somehow stronger than it had ever been before, their souls dancing to a passionate melody.

When Aelora finally gasped for air, the prince slowly moved up from her core, his body hovering over hers. He watched as she recovered from the rapture he had given her with a dark and vainglorious smirk. With his elbow holding himself over her, he pulled her leg to rest on his hip as his eye scanned her features. Her hand moved to cup his cheek, the tip of her finger caressing his reddened scar as she furrowed her brows.

“Nyke gaomagon regret ziry. Skoros nyke vestretan se mōrī jēda. (I do regret it. What I said the last time.)” She apologized, regret brimming in her brown orbs.

Aemond leaned into her touch, his good eye closing at the gentle touch of her hand against his skin, it felt nearly as soothing as a balm to his weary heart. The mention of the title she had bestowed upon him sent a chill through his spine, his monstrous behavior had earned the words even if they had maimed him. His face turned to press a soft kiss into her palm, before opening his eye to look at her again.

“It is of no importance.” His voice was rough and low as he spoke.

Aelora softly tugged at the straps of his eyepatch, earning a trembling exhale from him in response. The touch of her delicate fingers on his malady sent a wave of fear through his spirit. She removed piece of leather, revealing the puckered, scarred skin where his eye had once been. He found himself unable to look at her for a moment, the feeling of vulnerability consuming him in the dim light of the cave. The princess looked deeply into the sapphire gem in his socket, tenderness engulfing the kiss she placed upon it.

Aemond's touch was gentle as he took her lips in his, not waiting for her response as he gripped her hip and turned her on her stomach. His eye roamed over the expanse of her back, tracing his fingers over the smooth surface of her skin, leaving a trail of gentle caresses in its path. It was a stark contrast to the frenzied way he had touched her previously, this touch was far more tender, almost reverent in nature. His body pressed against hers as the length of his manhood rested on the small of her back, buring into her skin. He leaned down, his mouth finding her ear as he moved closer.

“Azantys ñuha sindigho, issa vēzos. (I have missed you desperately, my sun)”. His breath was warm against her skin as he whispered.

Aelora arched her back as she felt the tip of his cock breeching her dampened slit, her knees propping her hip upwards in search of contact. His arm reached under her, squeezing one of her peaks as he fully entered her. The pair let out breathless moans as Aemond moved against her, leaving no time for her adjustment. The sting of pain she felt had been nothing compared to the ecstasy of his length inside her, finding herself unable to focus on anything but the feeling of being around him.

The prince’s thrusts grew harder, his body moving against hers in a rhythm that was both frenzied and yet somehow controlled. Her moans and sighs filled the air, his own breaths coming quick and sharply as he took her with a wild abandon. He buried his face in her neck, biting down on the soft flesh as his hands buried into her hips.

“Avy jorrāelan. (I love you)” Aelora murmured between ragged moans, her hand reaching to grasp his hair.

His eye widened slightly at her words, a thrill rushing through him at having heard them coming from her lips once again. His lips found the base of her jawline, pressing a kiss to the sensitive skin. His cock kept reaching further into her cunt as their flesh moved together with a rhythmic thrust, like the rise and fall of waves on the shore.

“Avy jorrāelan. Avy jorrāelan. Avy jorrāelan.” Aemond mumbled repeatedly in between thrusts, his words a fierce declaration of their love. He continued moving inside her, his heart racing in his ribcage as his pleasure overcame physical bounds.

Every thing about this moment was singled out from any other they had shared. The grief, pain and betrayal that coursed through their marriage dissipated amongst the dragon fire that burned within the pair. It all faded away, and all that was left was this, the feel of her skin against his, the sound of his muffled whimpers in her ear, the desperate way he repeated her name over and over. This moment felt like the calm in the middle of a storm, a rustle of the ashes of their love.

Aemond could feel his peak building, his movements becoming more urgent and frantic as he chased the pleasure he sought. His breaths came out in ragged pants, mingling with the sounds of her gasps in the air as his length clashed inside her. Aelora sensed the twitching of his manhood, threatening to spill his release inside her walls. The mere thought tightened the knot that had formed in her belly, reaching the edge of her desire.

Aemond sent a few more thrusts into the brown haired woman underneath him before both found their release simultaneously, their movements slowing as they both rode out of the ecstatic trance that washed over them. The prince’s face was buried in Aelora’s neck, a guttural moan escaping him at the force of his own pleasure. Her body shivered at the feeling of his seed drowning her cunt, pearly tears streaming down her leg as she whimpered.

The lovers stayed silent in an adoring embrace after he disconnected their bodies, a wave of comfort washing over them. For a while they simply laid there, basking in the afterglow of their passion, their frames entwined in a tangle of limbs. It was a strange sort of peace, one that they both knew wouldn't last once the sun rose — but for the moment, they were content. The night stretched on, each hour passing in a blur of whispered words and slow hands. Aemond and Aelora clang to one another, as if they could melt into one if they only held tightly enough. The threat of daylight and the inevitable parting loomed over them like a dark cloud on the horizon, anguish settling inside their hearts.

As the hour of the nightingale approached over their secret sanctuary, the prince and princess began to break away from the blissful haven that enveloped them. There were no words to be spoken as they both dressed silently, the sound of rustling fabric and soft breaths filling the air between them. The weight of war and the knowledge that this moment was fleeting hung heavily in the air. Aemond felt a pang in his chest as he looked towards her, a mute wish in his heart that they could stay like this. To be locked in this moment forever, away from the world that demanded so much from them. But he knew that was not possible. Soon, they would have to return to their duties and obligations — this feeling would become nothing more than a memory.

As they stood before each other fully clothed, their eyes met in a bereaved gaze — sorrow for the love they shared engulfing them. Aelora stepped closer to him, holding his hand softly, almost in a cowardly manner. She had no words for the man who was her everything, the man who had her in every way possible, and she was ashamed of it. His free hand moved hesitantly to hold her cheek, his eye flickering over her face, taking in every feature. He wanted to burn the image of her into his mind, to remember every detail about her, down to the smallest freckle on her nose. His thumb traced her soft skin as he leaned in to press a soft, lingering kiss to her lips, as if to say “I will be with you forever”. Tears began to form at the corners of her brown orbs as she abandoned his touch. The sound of the rustling sand underneath her feet echoed through the cave as she reached its entrance, her form never escaping his stare.

She halted at the stone archway, her silhouette framed by the soft silver light of the moon. The night air was cool on her skin as she turned to look back at Aemond, the feel of their passion still lingering in the air. For a moment, they simply stood there, eyes meeting in the darkness. She ached to say something, to find the words to convey the maelstrom of emotions that raged within her. In the end, she simply smiled, bittersweet and knowing.

“Should we meet on the battlefield, I can’t hesitate.” Her voice came out a whisper.

“I won’t hesitate to kill you.” She repeated, to herself or to him — Aemond didn’t know.

The prince’s breath had grown a little shallow at her words, a frown forming on his face. The idea of their next encounter being on the battlefield, facing off against each other like enemies was a thought that pained him, even though he knew it was a possibility. He wanted to tell her that he wouldn’t hesitate either, that he would fight her with everything he had if they ever met in battle, but the words stuck in his throat. He simply nodded in acknowledgement.

Once again, she left him. Aemond would be a King without a Queen, half of his soul forsaken in his search for power. It had to be worth it.

Bur they wouldn’t meet again, not in the context of war or any other.

She would meet her demise alongside her brother in the Battle of The Gullet. Fighting hard like a Strong, dying besides her dragon like a Targaryen and laying to rest at sea like a Velaryon.

He would grow mad at her perishing, ire overcoming his every sense. And he would eventually be slayed by her stepfather at The Battle Above God’s Eye.

Their love was epic, a fierce tale of forbidden passion that would never be written about inside history books. The only legacy they would leave behind had been scribbled onto a stone wall years before.

A.T. & A.V.

---

Taglist: @onlyrealjoy @siriusblackssun @adombtch

[esoteric-chaos]

Spring Equinox Masterpost- Spoonie Witch Friendly

Art Credit: Anastasia Catris

The Spring Equinox, also called the Vernal Equinox or Ostara, is usually celebrated between the 21st of March in the Northern Hemisphere (In the Southern Hemisphere around September 20th or 21st)

In 2024, Ostara and the Spring Equinox land in the Northern Hemisphere on Monday, March 19th.

The Spring Equinox celebrates the arrival of spring. Celebrating balance, growth, and new beginnings as Winter has finally ended.

Spring Equinox Correspondances

Colours

Light Green

Lavender

Sunny Yellow

Light Blue

Pastel Pink

White

Herbal

Lemongrass

Daffodils

Tulips

Violets

Apple Tree

Cherry Blossom

Primrose

Birch tree

Hyacinths

Dandelion

Garlic

Ash tree

Jasmine

Edibles

Honey

Salad greens

Spring veggies

Fresh berries

Mead

Herbs

Eggs

Seeds

Bread

Edible flowers

Quiches

Custards

Maple

Animals

Hares

Baby Chicks

Snakes

Robins

Bees

Butterflies

Phoenix

Ram

Crystals

Fluorite

Moonstone

Silver

Aquamarine

Clear Quartz

Amazonite

Symbols

Bonfires

Flowers

Rabbits

Eggs

Seeds

Baskets

Flowering or Tree Buds

Lambs

Birds

Spiritual meanings

Purification

Cleansing (removal of stagnant energy)

Growth

Transition

Motivation

Balance

Birth

Good fortune

Kindness

Joy

Fertility

Scents

Coconut

Citrus

Floral scents (rose, lilac, jasmine, etc)

Herbal scents (rosemary, basil, mint, etc)

Gods / Goddesses / Spirits

Eostre –  (Anglo-Saxon)

Aphrodite - (Greek)

Gaia - (Celtic)

Gaea - (Greek)

Venus - (Roman)

Athena - (Greek)

Aurora - (Roman)

Eos - (Greek)

Isis – (Egyptian)

Freya - (Norse) 

Persephone - (greek)

Cybele - (Roman)

The Green Man - (Celtic)

Odin – (Norse) 

Osiris – (Egyptian)

Pan – (Greek)

Thoth – (Egyptian)

Adonis – (Greek)

Apollon –  (Greek)

Apollo - (Roman)

Need some suggestions to celebrate? I've got you covered.

High energy celebrations and ritual

Deep cleaning of the hearth and home

Nature hikes

Visiting farmers markets

Making preserves

Create a fae garden

Create a seasonal altar

Abundance/Prosperity ritual

New beginnings ritual

Low energy celebrations 

Wear pastels

Create flower crowns

Light a candle with scent correspondence

No spoon celebrations 

Opening a window

Journaling Prompts

Keeping hydrated

Drink floral tea

Rest

How you celebrate the holiday does not matter. You can choose to do any activity that feels right. These are only suggestions and remember that you're enough no matter what.

Also please note some stuff is UPG. A great book is Year of the Witch by Temperance Alden for honouring the celebrations and if you wanted to work more seasonally. It's not Wiccan-based and has plenty of resources for every witch.

Feel free to post how you celebrate in the comments or reblogs!

Want to see more of my posts? Check out my Wheel of the Year Masterpost or my Main Masterpost.

[the-modern-typewriter]

The Blue Key

On her first night in her new home, after a lavish dessert of strawberry cheesecake and cream, her new husband handed her a clinking set of keys across the dining room table.

“You can go anywhere in the house,” her husband told her, “except the basement.”

He showed her the key to the basement. It was midnight blue.

“Why? Is the basement where you keep the bodies?” she asked, with half a smile.

He didn’t smile back. “Do you promise me?”

She studied him carefully, feeling the weight of the basement key in her hand.

There were many keys to the house - hefty ornate keys for their front and back doors, a pretty gold one for their bedroom, a dozen little silver and brass ones for any other lock in the house that she might come across. Windows and cabinets and the like.

The basement key was almost insubstantial against her palm. Negligible. The sort of key that was easily lost, that looked like it might belong to a doll house more than a proper estate.

She couldn’t read his expression.

“You can’t tell me what’s in there?”

“I will know if you open the door,” he said, “and everything that we are will end.”

She laughed again, uncertainly, because the words were surely absurd and certainly not like him. He could have simply told her it was dangerous and so best avoided, or not given her the key to the basement in the first place. She doubted she would have given it all that much thought among all the other rooms.

Yet, his words instead piqued curiosity.

Once again, he did not smile. He stared at her solemnly, with a hint of something haunted that she had only caught flickers of during their courtship.

The laughter died in her throat.

He had been like something from a fairy tale from the moment they met; Prince Charming to pluck her out of the ashes of her drab life, even if she knew he had been married before. Everyone knew. Just as none of them had expected him to pick her. She had no experience in the running of manor houses, and no especially outstanding beauty nor fortune of her own to make up for that fault. In short, she was nothing like his first wife.

But, she had made him laugh, and she had liked him. God, how she had liked him – and liked him still – with such blushing ferocity that it almost made her dizzy.

Her new home was enormous, and beautiful, and filled with the kind of impossible luxuries that she had never even dared to dream of having. It was filled with him. She was nothing, and nobody, and he had given her the keys to be something and somebody else. Someone better. What was one small forbidden key against all that?

She knew the preciousness of privacy. Sometimes a secret could be the only thing that was really yours.

“Okay.” She bit her lip, and started to unhook the key from the ring. “Would you like it back, then? Just to be sure.”

He recoiled as if she’d drawn a knife on him and shook his head.

“Keep it,” he rasped. “Keep it safe. Keep it locked. Let it be forgotten.”

But from that moment on, though, she never really forgot about the blue key for a moment.

***

The library was probably her favourite room in her new home. It was astonishing to be able to have an actual personal library, stocked from soft-carpet and gleaming hardwood floor to cavernous ceiling with walls upon walls of books of every kind. The orphanage had maybe three books, worn and ancient, each crumbling a little more with every reading.

There were lots of stories in her husband’s books about girls with keys, girls with curiosity, heroes with something they were not supposed to look at under the pain of death or something worse.

Psyche with Eros, who was told without explanation not to look upon her perfect and mysterious host, for there could be no love without trust.

Orpheus, forbidden to glance back at his love, lest he lose her for good.

Pandora, with her strange once unopened box of evils and hope, told it was hers.

Eve, with her curiosity, with her knowledge, lured into plucking that shining forbidden fruit.

Bluebeard too, of course, with his many murdered wives, all told not to seek out their bloody predecessors behind his secret door, because – why?

Because it was a game of female obedience? Because it gave a predator an excuse to do what he did best, when he knew from the first instance that his victims would have to know? He chose them, after all. And why did they look, those wives, against all warning?

Because the uncertainty was unbearable? Because it was their home too? Because they loved the man they married and wanted to know everything there was to know of him? Maybe they wanted to save him. It was never cruelty.

The two of them were happy, her husband and her, as blissful as newlyweds were want to be.

In the evenings they would cuddle before the roaring fires, night caressing the windows, and he would read aloud from his favourite passages or play music. In the days he would work, or leave on some business or other, and she would wander the labyrinthian corridors alone and explore the many treasures tucked away behind his many locked doors.

The library could have lasted her years, but she found a room with a ceiling made of magnifying glass by which to observe the stars, a swimming pool built into the rock beneath the entrance hall, a lush garden bursting with colour that she could tend to in the sunshine.

There were servants to take care of the day-to-day running of the building, and so he did not seem to desire any particular purpose of her except to be his wife. Except for her to live in his home, in their home, and enjoy his easy company and the gifts he gave her. She found ways to keep busy. To contribute.

Thus, it took her many months to walk down towards the basement, to first look upon the door that she was not allowed to open. Spring had turned to the first icy breaths of winter.

The door was painted the same midnight blue as the key, and immaculate in condition. The lock was tiny. A dark slither, a crack, in something otherwise quite lovely.

She pressed her hand against the door and the wood was warm compared to the cool, slightly stale, underground air that filled her chest.

She dropped a hand into her pocket, fingers closing unerringly around the blue key. She tried not to touch it, not to think about it, but she had come to know it instantly by shape and feel alone. It was simply so odd to have a key so small. She had half expected the door would be in miniature too.

How could he possibly know, if she opened it? In some tales it was magic. The key would betray her. He would know by seeing it. But her husband did not want to look upon the key, he had never even mentioned it once after their first dinner.

What then was in the basement? Something so terrible that she could no longer love him? Or perhaps it was empty. Perhaps it was structurally unsound. Perhaps it was simply a test on if she would allow him that one thing that was his and his only.

She leaned down, and pressed her eye to the keyhole with a hammering heart. She didn’t know what she expected to see inside, exactly – a skeleton, or some ghoul staring back at her, or some hidden vault even. There was only darkness. Nothing to see. She straightened again, unsure if the painful feeling in her lungs was breathless relief or airless disappointment.

She walked back up the stairs.

She turned over the pages of stories in the library, and turned the key over and over in her palm, and wondered which of those many tales she was in.

***

“I think,” she said one night, as they lay in bed. “That it bothers me more that you will not tell me, than anything that could possibly be in the basement.”

He stiffened on the mattress next to her.

“Is there something I could do,” she rolled onto her side to face him, “so that you would know you could trust me with the truth?”

His expression was half-hidden in the dim light, his body made unfamiliar by slashes of moonshine slicing through the curtains. His blue eyes were open, staring up, away from her.

“You promised me that you would not dwell on the door.”

“No.” She reached out, tracing her fingers gently along the curve of his jaw, coaxing him to meet her searching gaze. “I promised I wouldn’t open it. There’s a difference.”

He snorted, but tipped his head towards her hand, planting a kiss to her knuckles.

“Can you at least narrow down the possibilities?” She pressed into the silence, because kisses were sweet but they were not an answer. “Is it something I shouldn’t see? That you don’t want me to see? Something that – I don’t know – can’t be let out? Are you the secret guardian of a nightmare world?” She attempted another smile, but it wobbled shaky. “Just give me something, and I’ll leave it alone. I just want to know. I need to know. Whatever it is – whatever it could possibly be – you don’t have to carry it alone. We’re supposed to be a team. That’s what marriage is.”

“Is my word not enough for you?” He sounded tired. “Is everything I have given you not enough?”

She scrunched up her nose at him. “You’d be happily blind, if it were you?”

“Ignorance can be bliss.”

“If you wanted me ignorant, why tell me about the key in the first place? You know me.”

They’d met on account of her curiosity, of her straying to places that she wasn’t supposed to be. He’d been visiting the library of one of the great colleges, reserved for great men like him, and she’d snuck in aching for a glimpse of the world.

Her husband said nothing.

“When you first gave me the key…” She swallowed. “You looked scared.” Her fingers, which had often brushed his in the library stacks once upon a time, grazed his pulse. It was racing. “I would fight monsters for you. Even if you’re the monster.”

As the silence stretched, she thought he might say nothing again, until the silence had grown so large that they might never reach each other across the abyss of it.

“I love you,” he said. His voice cracked. He caught her hand, entwining their fingers together, and squeezed. “Goodnight.”

The seconds ticked by into minutes, into she didn’t know how long.

“Is it a curse?” she whispered, into the dark. “If you’re not allowed or able to tell me, squeeze my hand twice.”

“Oh my god.” His voice was muffled, then, as he pulled a pillow over his face and wrenched free of her. “It’s two in the morning, darling. Go to sleep.”

***

She watched the door diligently for about a month. She didn’t think her husband had some poor creature locked up in the basement, but if he did then one would assume that either he would have to visit, or have the servants visit, in order to provide his victim some form of sustenance.

Nobody visited the basement door except her. There could not be anything living on the other side.

At least, not unless there was some other second secret door and tunnel system, hidden somewhere on the grounds. She didn’t see anyone vanish to one of those either, though. Would she, if it wasn’t on the grounds? How large a conspiracy could a little blue key possibly hold?

Would it count as ‘opening the door’ if she made a hole in the wall next to the door? 

She remembered her husband, in the college library the first time they met, spying the collection of ghost stories she’d been straining to reach. He’d grabbed it off the top shelf for her, easily, a glimmer of amusement curling his lips.

“I never really got these stories,” he’d mused. “If it were me, I would simply not have gone into the haunted house in the first place. Or, one look at a ghost and – no, no thank you. Goodbye! Have a nice life.”

She’d gaped at him.

He’d shrugged at her, and handed her the book. “But I can see that you’re a braver soul than me,” he said. “Sneaking into a place like this uninvited.”

She’d accepted the volume, clutching it protectively to her chest.

“Well,” she’d managed. “People like you are already invited everywhere, aren’t they? So you don’t have to be brave.”

He’d startled into a laugh.

She’d wondered if he would expose her to security, wondered if she should have denied it, wondered how he’d seen through her so swiftly and –

“Don’t worry.” He’d already been turning away, with a last lingering glance at her. “I can keep a secret.”

She’d only learned later who he was, and that it had been a month since his wife had died.

How, exactly, had his first wife died? The papers had said ‘tragic accident’, but there had been no witnesses. He didn’t talk about it, or about her.

No. She was being ridiculous. Maybe she had only imagined the flicker of terror on her husband’s face, the way he had flinched from the key, the rough urgency in his voice. Whatever it was, whatever it could possibly be, was not worth sacrificing what they had. There were other rooms; a dozen of them!

She buried the damn key in the garden. Out of sight, out of mind. Better that than completely losing her mind over something that probably had a completely rational explanation. Love was a leap of faith. 

She woke up the next morning to find the blue key back on the key ring, still covered with a fine sprinkling of dirt.

***

Her least favourite stories in the library were the ones about fate.

Maybe some people found such notions encouraging, comforting even in their reassurance that all of the suffering in the world was for a reason and that people could have some incredible purpose laid out for them. She’d always found the idea to be like quicksand beneath her feet, sucking her down down down trapped.

For, if it was fate, there could be no real escape. No chance. No hope.

She kept returning to the story of Bluebeard, tracing variations and retelling with the blue teeth of her blue key.

Maybe, if she was Bluebeard’s final wife, she would open the door and ultimately inherit a grand fortune, and recover from the trauma of falling in love with someone who wasn’t what they said they were.

What if she was only the second wife though, or the metaphorical third? What if her fate was to be some dead thing written only to add background colour to someone else’s happy ending?

It was all well and good of her husband to claim he would never go into a haunted house, but such declarations only really worked if one knew they were in a horror story instead of something else.

“Do you think, maybe,” she asked her husband as winter turned back to spring, “that we could go away somewhere?”

They strolled through the gardens, his arm wrapped protectively around her frail shoulders. Ever since the key incident she had found it difficult to sleep, to eat, to not find herself worrying about the door like worrying a hangnail until she tore off bloodied scraps of her own skin.   

The house, which had once seemed so large to her, had turned into something suffocating. She had no friends in the area, and however far she went along the grounds in the lonely hours of her husband’s working, the door would always be there for her and the key would always be in her pocket. The questions, the creeping doubts, would buzz in her brain like flies swarming a corpse.

“Go away?” He seemed surprised. “Is there something else that you need?”

She had tried simply hiding the key, then stayed up all night staring at the key ring laying on her bedside to try and catch the culprit who’d dug it up from beneath the roses.  One of the servants must have brought the damn thing back, right? Perhaps, the housekeeper? She got the impression that the severe woman had never really approved of her, never liked her. She was not as impressive and perfect a candidate as his first wife had been.

She had seen nothing, but when she fell finally into an exhausted slumber, the key had been waiting for her.

“I just thought it might be nice for us both to get away for a while,” she said. “A holiday. You’ve been so busy with your work.”

She had tried burning the key. It did not burn.

“There is a lot to do,” he said. “This is a large estate. It takes – management, a lot of care.”

“Perhaps I could help you?”

“It is not your burden, darling.”

“But it’s yours? A burden?”

The key, whatever it was, had to be of some supernatural origin. Of that she was increasingly certain. Well, the ghosts were in the house, so to speak, and he wasn’t leaving! He wouldn’t look at her, his attention fastened on the first snowdrops shoving their heads from beneath the hard earth.

“Tell me,” she said. “Or come away with me, please.”

He glanced at her, then.

She reached into her pocket and held up the blue key.

He turned away, quickening his pace as if he couldn’t wait to get away from it too.

“Where,” he said the next morning, “would you like to go, love?”

At the sea side, she tossed the key into the water when he wasn’t looking. If it was the servants, if there was any chance that something in the house was messing with her, with them, then even its evil reach could surely not reach beyond the borders of the property?

It was better for a while, after that. They were both lighter on holiday, away from his family home, with all of its history and responsibility.

The house on their return, waiting for them as it always was and would be, felt new and full of possibility again. They kept laughing over their first dinner back and fell asleep still high on love and freedom and everything they were supposed to be.

The next morning, impossibly, the blue key was on the key ring again.

She started to cry.

“I’m sorry,” her husband said. The colour had leached, stricken, from his handsome face. He looked older. Exhausted, too. His eyes were dark. “I wish—” He fell silent. He reached out to her, and she recoiled. “I’m sorry.”

“You wish what?” It came out whip sharp.

He said nothing. 

She shook her head, the laugh on her breath not really a laugh at all. Of course, he would still not tell her.

“If you don’t tell me,” she said, “everything that we are will end. You understand that, don’t you?” She fumbled the key off the ring and hurled it onto the sheets between them. It sat there, so disgustingly innocuous looking, a glint of blue among the white. “This isn’t fair. This is – sick. Take it back.”

“I know.” He folded his arms, less great man, more frightened child hugging himself. He stared down the key like an old enemy. “I know.”

“Or,” she said. A plea edged into her tone. “We could leave. For good. Let this house, let that door, be forgotten. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

He shook his head, less ‘no’ and more ‘I can’t’ and more ‘I’m sorry’.

She squared her shoulders, even as his slumped. “Tell me, at least, if I should go. You love me, right? If there was something rotten in that basement, you would want to protect me from it, wouldn’t you?”

“You can go,” he said. “If that’s what you want. That’s always been your choice.”

She stared at him.

He looked haunted, hunted, and he had known all along that the key would always end up back on the ring, hadn’t he? That was why he hadn’t simply taken it off when he first gave them to her. She would have thought he didn’t trust her if he’d never given her the keys to her own home at all too, wouldn’t she?

She debated leaving him. She debated walking out the house and – what?  

He looked so broken.

She sighed, the defiant fury sluicing off her shoulders too. She rounded the bed and craned up on her toes to kiss the lost furrow of his forehead.

“Just ignore it,” he said, clutching her hands. “Just ignore the door, and we can be happy.”

“Darling,” she said. “You don’t seem happy here.”

She kissed his lips, like packing up a suitcase, and snatched the blue key back up off the sheets.

Then she went down to the basement and opened the door.

[novaursa]

I love your writing! Could you please do one where Targaryen reader (it can be Rhaenyra's sister) is taking Gwayne for the first time to meet her dragon and takes him for a ride. Thanks

The Wild Heart

- Summary: You introduce Gwayne to your dragon, Grey Ghost.

- Paring: targ!reader/Gwayne Hightower

- Note: The reader is the younger sister of Rhaenyra and bonded to the dragon Grey Ghost. I've broken my own rule about 1000 words here, but since you guys like Gwayne so much, I've decided to expand this a bit more. Enjoy.

- Rating: Mild 13+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @deniixlovezelda @duck-duck-goose2 @aadu2173 @holdingforgeneralhugs

You stand on the edge of the ridge, the sea breeze tangling itself in your silver-blonde hair, lifting strands into the crisp, salt-filled air. Below, the waters of Blackwater Bay shimmer like molten silver, catching the light of the setting sun. Behind you, the Red Keep is barely visible, a hulking shadow against the vast sky. But it's not the castle that holds your attention today—it’s the man beside you, Gwayne Hightower, and the dragon that waits in the distance, somewhere between the clouds and the sea, hidden in the wilderness just beyond the Dragonpit.

He stands close, his expression serious, but you can feel the underlying excitement radiating from him. Gwayne has heard the tales, the whispered stories of your dragon, Grey Ghost—wild, elusive, temperamental. Unlike the dragons housed in the Dragonpit, Grey Ghost has never truly been tamed. He lingers along the coast and cliffs, only returning when he chooses. Not a single rider before you had ever claimed him, not until you.

You glance at Gwayne, studying his face as the wind picks up. His strong jaw is set in a determined line, and his eyes, a bright shade of blue, seem darker in the fading light. He’s dressed in his Hightower armor, though you both know he’s not here for battle. The armor is more a shield for his nerves, a thin veil of control in the face of what’s to come.

"Are you ready?" you ask, your voice quiet but firm, just loud enough to be heard over the gusts of wind.

Gwayne turns to you, and for a moment, a flicker of something—perhaps doubt, or wonder—passes across his face. But it’s gone in an instant, replaced by a faint, teasing smile. "As ready as a man can be to meet his future wife's dragon," he replies, the words tinged with amusement, though there’s a touch of nervousness there too.

You smile at that, a small curl of your lips. "Grey Ghost isn’t like the others in the pit. He won’t simply obey because I will it. He’s… unpredictable." You let the words hang in the air for a moment, hoping to prepare him for what’s coming. "But he’ll listen to me. Trust that."

Gwayne nods, though you can sense the weight of his uncertainty. He’s seen dragons before, of course. As a member of House Hightower, he’s familiar with their majesty and their danger. But this is different. This is your dragon, your bond. And Grey Ghost is no mere dragon of the pit. He is wild fire made flesh, with wings of smoke and ash.

You take a step forward, motioning for him to follow as you descend the rocky path that leads to the clearing below. Your boots crunch against the stones, the sea below crashing against the cliffs. Gwayne is right behind you, silent now, his presence a steady warmth at your back. Together, you approach the place where you know Grey Ghost waits.

As you round a bend in the path, the clearing opens up before you, vast and wild, with tall grasses swaying in the breeze. And there, at the far end, resting in the shadow of a massive stone outcrop, lies Grey Ghost.

Even from this distance, the size of him is breathtaking. His scales, a smoky grey that gleam faintly in the dying light, seem to blend with the rocks around him, making him appear almost ethereal, as though he’s part of the landscape itself. His wings are folded close to his body, but you know their full span would darken the sky if he chose to spread them wide.

Gwayne inhales sharply, and you feel his awe as though it were your own.

"Gods," he murmurs, almost under his breath, as he gazes upon the beast.

You step closer, your heart quickening with the familiar pull of your bond. Grey Ghost stirs, his massive head lifting as he senses your approach. His eyes, burning like molten gold, lock onto yours. There’s recognition there, an unspoken understanding, but also a warning—a reminder of his wild nature.

You stop a few feet from him and extend a hand, palm up, in a gesture of peace. "Come forth." You speak in the High Valyrian tongue, your voice steady, commanding.

Grey Ghost watches you for a moment longer, then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he rises to his feet. His wings unfurl slightly, the leather-like membranes rustling in the wind as he stretches his neck toward you. There’s a rumble deep in his throat, a sound that vibrates through the ground beneath your feet. But he does as you bid, moving forward with a grace that belies his size.

Gwayne stands frozen at your side, his breath caught in his throat, though his hand instinctively moves to the hilt of his sword—a gesture of protection more than aggression. You place a calming hand on his arm, shaking your head gently.

"He won’t harm you," you whisper, though you’re not entirely sure if you’re saying it to reassure him or yourself. "Not if I’m here."

With slow, deliberate movements, you step closer to Grey Ghost, your fingers brushing against the rough texture of his scales. He is warm beneath your touch, like the heat of a roaring fire contained within his massive frame. Grey Ghost’s eyes never leave you, and for a moment, there’s a connection, a silent exchange of trust and respect.

Turning back to Gwayne, you gesture for him to come closer. "It’s alright," you say softly. "He knows me. And now, he must know you."

Gwayne hesitates, his hand still hovering near his sword, but after a brief moment of consideration, he takes a step forward. His gaze never leaves Grey Ghost’s hulking form, his caution palpable. Slowly, almost reverently, he reaches out, his fingers brushing against the dragon’s side, just as yours had moments before.

The air between the three of you seems to still, the wind dying down as though the world itself is holding its breath. Grey Ghost rumbles again, a low, deep sound that resonates through the ground, but he doesn’t move. He allows the touch. 

Gwayne exhales, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly as he keeps his hand on the dragon’s scales. "He’s… magnificent," Gwayne says, his voice barely above a whisper. "I’ve never seen anything like him."

You smile softly, feeling a swell of pride for both your dragon and for the man standing beside you. "He is," you agree, your voice filled with warmth. "And now, he knows you. We are bonded, all three of us."

Gwayne turns to you then, his eyes meeting yours, and for a moment, the world around you seems to fade away—the cliffs, the sea, even the dragon. It’s just the two of you, standing on the precipice of something new, something shared.

"I never thought…" he begins, his voice trailing off as he searches for the right words. "I never thought I could be part of something like this. With you, and with him."

You step closer to him, your hand finding his, your fingers intertwining. "You are," you say softly, your voice full of certainty. "We’re a family now, Gwayne. You, me, and Grey Ghost. Nothing will come between us."

The wind whips around you as you stand before Grey Ghost, the great dragon looming like a mountain of muscle and smoke. His golden eyes, burning with an otherworldly light, follow your movements as you step back, placing yourself beside Gwayne. The sun has set below the horizon now, leaving the world bathed in twilight, and the only sounds are the crashing of the waves far below the cliffs and the steady, rhythmic breathing of the dragon.

Gwayne stands beside you, his hand still resting on the dragon’s rough scales. His expression, a mixture of awe and anticipation, is hard to miss. He’s faced battle, seen the dangers of war, but this—this is something entirely different. You can sense the excitement beneath his calm demeanor, the way his hand trembles ever so slightly as he brushes his fingers against Grey Ghost's side.

"You’ve never flown before," you say quietly, watching him as his eyes trace the dragon's form.

He turns his gaze to you, the corners of his mouth lifting in a faint smile. "No. Never." His tone is light, but there’s a seriousness beneath it, a readiness that makes your pulse quicken.

Grey Ghost shifts his weight, the massive bulk of his body rumbling like distant thunder as he crouches low, the leathery membranes of his wings unfolding slightly. He is waiting, waiting for your command, and though you feel his wildness, his untamed spirit, you know that in this moment, he will listen to you.

You take Gwayne’s hand, feeling the warmth of his skin against yours. "Do you trust me?" you ask, though you already know his answer.

He doesn’t hesitate. "Always," he replies, his voice steady, his eyes locked on yours.

You squeeze his hand gently, then release it as you step toward Grey Ghost. With practiced ease, you place one hand on the dragon's flank, the other gripping the harness that’s fastened around his neck and shoulders. You swing yourself up onto his back, settling into the familiar place between his powerful wings. The leather beneath you is warm, and you can feel the rise and fall of his breathing beneath your legs.

You look down at Gwayne, who is still standing at the dragon’s side, his expression now unreadable.

"Come," you say, holding out your hand to him. "You won’t fall. I promise."

For a moment, he hesitates, glancing from you to Grey Ghost’s immense, heaving body. But then, with a nod of determination, he steps forward, gripping the harness as you had shown him. With a bit of effort, he hoists himself up behind you, his arms instinctively wrapping around your waist as he settles into place.

You can feel the tension in his body, the uncertainty of being so high above the ground, but there is also trust—trust in you, trust in the dragon.

You glance back at him, offering a reassuring smile. "Hold on tightly. The first flight is always… exhilarating."

Before he can respond, you lean forward and place your hands against Grey Ghost’s neck. "Fly!" you command in High Valyrian.

With a roar that shakes the ground beneath you, Grey Ghost unfurls his wings, the massive span of them catching the wind in a sudden, powerful gust. The muscles beneath you ripple as the dragon gathers his strength, and then, with a single, mighty leap, you are airborne.

The world falls away beneath you, the cliffs and sea nothing but distant shapes as Grey Ghost ascends, his wings beating with a rhythm that you can feel deep in your chest. The wind tears at your hair and clothes, the rush of air so loud it drowns out all other sound, but you don’t mind. This—this is freedom, the sky opening up before you, endless and vast.

Behind you, Gwayne holds on tightly, his arms firm around your waist. You can feel his heart pounding against your back, the thrill of the flight coursing through him as it does through you. The dragon rises higher, soaring above the clouds, and for a moment, you are suspended in the sky, weightless and free.

Grey Ghost lets out a triumphant roar, a sound that echoes across the sky, and you laugh, the exhilaration of the moment filling you with joy. You glance back at Gwayne, his face flushed from the wind, his eyes wide with wonder.

"Are you alright?" you shout over the wind, your voice barely carrying in the rushing air.

He grins, a wide, genuine smile that lights up his entire face. "This is incredible!" he calls back, his voice filled with awe and exhilaration. "I never imagined…"

His words trail off as Grey Ghost dips suddenly, his wings folding slightly as he begins a rapid descent, plummeting toward the sea below. You feel Gwayne’s grip tighten around you, his breath catching in his throat, but you don’t panic. You know Grey Ghost, know his every move, and this—this is part of the ride.

At the last moment, just before you reach the surface of the water, Grey Ghost flares his wings, catching the air and leveling out. The sea stretches out beneath you, the waves glistening in the moonlight, so close you can almost touch them. The dragon skims the surface, his claws barely grazing the water, sending up sprays of mist as you fly.

You laugh again, the sound of it lost to the wind, and Gwayne’s laughter soon joins yours. His tension is gone now, replaced by the sheer thrill of the flight. He leans into the movement, trusting you, trusting the dragon, and for a moment, it feels like the three of you are one—a single being soaring through the sky, untethered and wild.

After what feels like an eternity—and yet, not nearly long enough—Grey Ghost begins to climb again, his powerful wings lifting you up, up, up, until you are soaring high above the sea once more. The land is a distant memory now, the world below nothing but a blur of blue and grey.

You turn your head slightly, glancing back at Gwayne, who is still grinning, his eyes alight with excitement. "This is only the beginning," you say, your voice soft, though you know he can hear you over the wind.

He meets your gaze, his expression suddenly serious, though the joy still lingers in his eyes. "I’ll follow you anywhere," he says, his voice steady, filled with quiet resolve. "Wherever you go—whether it’s the skies or the earth—I’ll be with you."

Your heart swells at his words, and for a moment, you are overwhelmed by the depth of his devotion. You reach back, placing your hand over his where it rests at your waist, your fingers intertwining with his.

"And I’ll always have you by my side," you whisper, though the wind carries your words away.

Grey Ghost lets out a soft rumble, a sound that vibrates through both of you, as though he, too, understands the significance of this moment. Together, the three of you fly on, the stars beginning to twinkle above, as the night stretches out endlessly before you.

[sebastianswallows]

Nobody's Darling — 3. The Night

— PAIRING: Benny Cross x F!Reader

— SYNOPSIS: Benny comes across a girl walking alone in the middle of nowhere and offers her a ride to the nearest town. They stop at a motel.

— WARNINGS: fluff, angst, smut, body worship, oral (f receiving), gentle dirty talk in the way only Benny could do, pleading and begging and basically m!sub

— WORDCOUNT: 3k

— A/N: Continuation of Part 2.

Benny turned on the lamp as she closed the door behind her, bathing that corner of his bed in a faint light. It was enough for her to see the shine of the sweat on his stomach and the specks of dirt across his tanktop as he pulled it down.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to —”

“It’s fine,” he said, pulling up his jeans with one hand while with the other he reached for his smokes. He had a look in his eyes as he gazed at her that scared and excited her at once.

“— I should go, I’m —”

“Why?”

“What?”

“Why should you go?” he asked in that smooth tone of his. A voice with no worries, no schedule or concerns. It was almost childishly innocent.

“Well, I…” She hugged herself and looked him up and down. His full lips closed around the cigarette and his eyes red-rimmed and dark. His knuckles were wet and his legs were still spread wide, toes curling in the dirty socks. “I clearly, erm, interrupted something.”

“No,” he said at length. There was a hint of shyness there but she couldn’t tell if those were shadows on his cheeks or a real blush. “Not interrupting if you’re invited.”

“What?” she asked, sounding a bit more harsh than she meant to.

Benny looked up at her from underneath his thick blond lashes and it completely disarmed her. He tapped the ashes gently in a trey beside his leg and although she expected to see from him a smile or some indication of what he was thinking his lips stayed dour, pouting a little, and closed. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, hugged the blanket tighter around her shoulders, and started eyeing the door.

“So then why’d you come here?” he asked once he saw her planning her escape.

“I don’t know… I guess I couldn’t sleep.”

“You felt lonely?”

“Yeah… I guess so.”

“Me too,” he said, eyes gazing at her softly from behind a veil of smoke. “Why don’t you sit down?”

She looked around. His room wasn’t that different from her own, except the chest of drawers had a door loose and the curtains were half-eaten away by moths. His boots sat by his bed and his decorated jacket was thrown across the armchair in the corner, its silver buttons shining in the low light. She walked over slowly and sat down, wincing at the ashy smell of those red cushions. This is mad, she thought to herself. Why don’t I just leave?

Benny had a stillness to him that was different from how he’d behaved around her before. She let her gaze trace his round shoulders and the hint of his muscled chest, and she could just about see hints of what was underneath his jeans, left unzipped and unbuttoned. When he caught her gaze he smirked.

“You don’t gotta look away if you don’t want to,” he said, a note of hope in his tone.

She shook her head anyway and let her hair fall to cover her face.

Benny got up and snuffed out the cigarette among a pile of many more. She felt a tickle running down the back of her leg and nervously reached down — it was a bead of sweat. The sound of cicadas and lone cars passing by outside was a surreal backdrop to the sound of his footsteps coming closer. Instinctively she raised her legs and braced them on the armchair, covering herself with the blanket like an owl upon a branch. Benny stopped when he saw her and lifted his hands in a sign of peace. Slowly, she relaxed her limbs again and let her muscles loosen. All night he had been nothing but kind, patient, and giving. If this was an act, it was the best she’d ever seen. Even now as she sat half-naked in his room she found it hard to fear him. Those blue eyes looked down at her with boyish wonder, longing, and as much frailty as she felt within herself.

“It’s ok… I’m glad you came.” He stepped a little closer and kneeled before her, reminding her once more of a knight, and braced his corded arms on either side of her as he looked up into her eyes. “You don’t wanna see more of me?” he asked, as gentle as can be. “Cause I wanna see more of you…”

It was suddenly as if everything inside of her was made of air and floated upward making her heart swell, her vision dance, and choking her. Benny watched for any sign she wanted to withdraw or run away but she was frozen stiff before him. His hand moved slowly across the armest until it reached her fingers peeking out from underneath the blanket.

“What were you doing when I came in?” she asked, trying to ignore the way his fingers entangled with hers.

“Thinkin’,” he said.

“You think with your hands?”

“Mhm…” he rumbled, a smile tugging at his lips. “Thinkin’ about you.”

His grasp then went up to her wrist, and then her forearm, and slowly travelled higher until the blanket fell away from her. She found herself curling her legs a little tighter but Benny just moved closer. He peeled the edges of the blanket off as if she were a fruit and bared her to his eyes in that dull yellow light. His head bent, confusing her, and then she realised he was smelling the skin of her knees. She almost didn’t notice his hands going up her arms, toward her shoulders, when he started rubbing his cheek against her legs.

“You’re sweet,” he said. “Didn’t think you’d smell so sweet…”

“You’re too close.”

He looked at her with wide, sad eyes and moved away. A shard of disappointment pierced her heart when, for a moment, she thought he’d really listen, that he’d leave when she was just getting used to his presence, his body, his voice — but then, with disarming fluidity, he dragged his fingers down her arms, pulling the straps of her slip away as he plopped down on the ground.

“B-benny!”

His hands went to her knees then, pushing them apart. She didn’t know whether to cover her chest first or shove him away and ended up doing a strange mix of the two that didn’t get her anywhere. His hands were still all over her, caressing her as if she were his gal, and his eyes lost their sweetness when he started looking at her breasts. His large hands caressed her thighs but he wasn’t looking underneath her skirt, at least not yet.

“I swear I ain’t gonna hurt you,” he rasped. “Honest…”

He licked his lips and gazed with longing as her nipples puckered. When she wrapped her hands around herself and tried to pull the straps back up he looked into her eyes again, and he seemed so disarmingly sad she thought he was about to cry. She’d never gotten that reaction before from a man, not one that she rejected… But Benny didn’t get angry, didn’t lash out, he didn’t even frown at her. He just stayed there, kneeling before her, his hands kneading her thighs, looking up at her like a motherless child yearning for love.

“What are you going t-to do?”

“I just wanna touch you,” he said with a shake of his head, loose blond threads shadowing his eyes. “Been thinkin’ about you all night, and when I saw you in the doorway I thought… I thought that I was dreamin’. And I don’t wanna wake up.”

Her arms tightened around her chest, covering her breasts, but in spite of herself, she started to relax. Benny felt it underneath his hands and groaned softly in approval. His warm and sticky palms went up her thighs and almost reached her core but he just parted them until he could fit between her knees. He lowered his head to rest it on the inside of her thigh and then that innocent look he had before was twisted by a licking of his lips. His fingers curled into the edges of her panties and before she could say anything or twist out of his grasp he pulled them down.

“Lift for me,” he said in a warm voice as he looked into her eyes again, and her traitorous body listened.

He pulled her panties off her legs and threw them far behind, then rested his cheek on her thigh while his other hand eased her other leg further away. She shivered as she felt her wet core meet the cool air of the room.

“You’re so pretty,” he whispered. “Been wantin’ to see more of you ever since you got on my bike.”

She felt his thumb brush up and down the seam between her thigh and mound, and as if a winter chill came over her she started shaking. Benny’s worried eyes looked into hers again and his hand stopped when he saw the panic that was in them.

“Shhh… It’s ok,” he soothed her, rubbing his stubbled cheek against her knee. “You feelin’ good?”

She nodded, although she wasn’t sure it was the truth.

“I won’t do anything. Look, I’m just sittin’ here.”

And he was. She couldn’t even see below his waist and she knew he was still clothed, his whole body bowed before her in something like a supplication, but she felt so weak for him, so scared and vulnerable. He could tell, and when his fingers moved again they were a little gentler. The calluses around his thumb just scraped the edges of her folds and when he looked down at her core again and pressed just slightly, parting her, he paused.

“Fuck, would you look at that,” he whispered to himself. “So damn cute… So pretty…”

“How can you say that?” she groaned, covering her face with her hands. She blushed hotly and at that moment there was nothing she wanted more than to crawl into a hole and die. Since when did she visit men at night and let them look at her like that? Let them undress and touch her?

“What do you mean? I…” He chewed on his lower lip and pawed hungrily at her hip as he kept spreading her, kept playing with her plush folds to reveal more of her to the sallow light. “I feel like the luckiest guy in the world right now.”

Benny’s touches became more insistent and he eased his way closer, kissing a path up her thigh while keeping his gaze fixed on her core. He sucked in a breath when he saw her clit peek out and she groaned in a mix of excitement and humiliation.

“S-should I move to…” She wanted to ask if she should get on the bed but somehow the thought of it made her feel sick.

“Just stay here,” he said, entranced, his thumb playing with her hole. “Lemme look at you…”

With a sly motion, he moved her other leg and hooked it on the armrest, making her slide slightly down and become even more exposed. Her hands went away from her breasts to hang onto the backrest and by this point, her slip was just a band across her waist. Benny moaned low in his throat, his eyes skipping from her eyes to her lips, her puckered nipples, then down between her legs again. Her face heated up more and she squirmed with the strange realisation that he felt spoilt — just from looking at her. He got close enough that she could feel his breath fanning over her folds, tickling the matted hair that covered her, sucking in her taste. He gasped when he felt the warmth radiating off of her straight against his lips. It was as if he could kiss her without touching.

“Benny,” she gasped, her whole body trembling as she felt his breathing quicken, the sensation of it making her core throb. She clung to the armrest with one hand while the other went down to get lost in his hair.

“You ever look at yourself?” he asked as his thumb kept petting her, playing with her cloying wetness. There was something darker in his eyes now, and she knew he meant to tease her. “I mean really look at yourself, you know, in the mirror…”

She swallowed the knot in her throat and she tried to shake her head.

“When you touch yourself, maybe,” he added, looking up at her. “Do you ever do that? Use your fingers on your little spot… Right here?” He asked as he brushed his thumb against her clit from top to bottom, petting it.

Her back arched against her will and her eyes closed in pleasure. She’d never felt more vulnerable, and yet so completely safe. He wanted her, it took a while for her mind to catch up to the reality of it — and everything that meant — but he did. It was dizzying, to feel desired, to feel worshipped. Benny kept looking at her with the same insistent fire, his face both innocent and lewd in a way she’d never seen before. His lips looked sinful, parted like that with his heavy breathing fanning over her, but his eyes, so big and pleading, made her feel not just wanted but loved.

“Go on, tell me,” he purred, biting his lower lip to chasten his smile. “You ever touch yourself, baby?”

“S-sometimes,” she whispered, her head leaning back to sink into the cushions. Every logical part of herself told her to get away, to close her thighs again, but her body wouldn’t listen. It occurred to her that maybe she liked being looked at…

He hummed at her admission and lowered his face again, pressing his lips into the inside of her thigh as his fingers quickened. With a slick sound, he nudged his thumb underneath her clit and raised it slightly until it peeked out of its hood. His touch was so careful she wanted to cry as he rubbed its little head, watching it swell before his eyes. Just when she felt herself about to burst he moved his attention lower and nudged his thumb into her hole, pressing on the side of it to force it open just a little more.

“Fuck, you’re throbbin’…”

“Yeah…”

“You liked that, hmm? Liked me playin’ with your little clit?”

“Damn it, Benny,” she whimpered, squirming in her seat as she felt herself grow wetter with desire and sweat.

“Say it for me, will ya?” he smiled, planting kisses up and down her thigh.

“I can’t…”

“Why not, baby? What’re you afraid of?”

She couldn’t answer that, couldn’t put into words how torn she was between what she wanted and what she allowed herself to want. But he seemed to figure it out anyway, and with the softness she’d come to know from him he circled her throbbing hole, the edge of his thumb sometimes brushing right against her clit and shocking her with pleasure, while his other hand spread across her thigh and held her.

“You afraid of me?” he asked, silkily rising to his knees with his gaze fixed on her hole.

She shook her head and managed a weak, “No.”

“Afraid of yourself?”

She paused, and after thinking it through decided that wasn’t it either. “No…”

Benny’s finger paused at her entrance while his other hand brushed up and down her thigh as it was stretched across the armrest. He was close enough that she could smell him, that mix of salty-sweet and hints of gasoline and leather — the same scent that used to turn her off not two hours ago now drew her in like candy. He brushed both his hands from her knees up her thighs in a teasing, long caress while he fixed his eyes upon her mouth. When she dared peek down at him she saw the pleading in his eyes, the hunger, but she refused to admit to herself that she wanted to give him what he needed — a kiss.

When his hands reached the apex of her thighs, he hooked both thumbs into her hole and pulled it taut, letting her wetness leak down between her cheeks like a naughty lick, then he leaned forward and placed his lips upon her clit. She gasped and arched her back, fidgeting and fussing, but his grip turned firm, palms spreading across her ass to hold her there for him like ripe fruit while he tasted her. Her fingers tightened in his hair but it only made him kiss her harder, lap her up, his soft lips and the short bristles of his beard playing strangely across her most sensitive place. She moaned, her sounds turning frail and needy, but just when he stopped rolling her clit around his mouth, he moved a little lower and stuck his tongue straight into her stretched and throbbing hole.

“Benny!” she yelped, her face growing red and hot and feverish with shame.

He purred, suckling her down like a treat he’d long been waiting for, tilting his head slightly until his hair was tickling her thigh. He kissed her entrance as though he were making out with her, and with each insistent press of his lips, each moan that sank into her, she felt a shiver building in her tummy like a swarm of butterflies.

“Stop,” she moaned, feeling her core heating up and a flutter slinking all the way from there down to her thighs. “Stop it… Please…”

With a growl, he pulled away. His lips seemed fuller and sticky and he looked up into her eyes as he ran his tongue across them, licking her wetness from the corner of his mouth. She took in greedy breaths as if she’d just been saved from drowning and her mind slowly came back to the reality of what they were doing. Benny sat at her feet, restless and needy and more obedient than she’d expected a man of his size to be, and she felt herself torn in two between what he wanted and what she thought herself capable of giving.

[butterbabyflapjack]

ＣＨＡＯＳ ＨＥＡＲＴＳ

[ PAIRING ] Messmer the Impaler x hornsent princess!reader

[ SUMMARY ] Messmer is feared throughout the land. Your world, his flame has razed; your family gone, yourself his prisoner. He’s given you every reason to hate him. So why does heat flood your veins at his touch? Doth your wretched heart crave his to come and claim you?

[ RATING ] explicit, 18+

[ WARNINGS ] enemies to lovers as an extreme sport, mutual pining, snake bites, light bondage, monsterfucker, inhuman anatomy, size difference, hurt and comfort, passionate sex, hate sex, dark romance, slow burn, minor character death, attempted rape (not by Messmer), canon typical violence and warfare, more tags to come

✧˖° read here or ao3

CHAPTER 1

[ AUTHORS NOTE ] Soooo I did not mean for this to be so long. I got carried away–I can't help myself. And I’m sure there's parts which are messy since editing chapters this long melts my brain so I hope you’ll forgive me <3 Enjoy!

This land was not always weighed by death. Not always wrought by ash and ruin.

The Impaler, Messmer, changed that. Inked his name to its cause. Proud, it seemed, to wear the flame-soaked flag his crusade waved in the broken halls of your people.

He changed a lot of things in what would become his land of shadows, and always in manners most cruel.

The people feared him.

You feared him.

Ear craned to whispers of his name.

You lived a sheltered, privileged life, despite your lust for ungilded freedom, and your father wouldn’t tell you the state of things, how close this war had gotten. He often told you nothing at all, in truth, beyond the length of your duties as a woman and sole daughter of his house. But you feared the worst–for yourself, for those around you. Feared that death was fast approaching, for something of it shivered in the air, made its mountain calm taste ashen. And what is calm, if not what veils the savage storm which lies beyond it?

Something was coming. Of this your nightmare’s warned, though it seemed no one would voice their shared concerns. Playing fool to the obvious, as though to hide from truth would keep it from ever finding you.

You needed your brother; your only and cherished sibling. Your kin and closest friend. Needed to speak with him about your worries, needed to salve them, but he’d been garrisoned near Rivermouth for nearly two moons, a sentry against the threat of Messmer’s men–but no longer.

Today was the day he finally came home.

Your heart swims with warmth at the notion, as for days and nights you’ve fretted he may never return.

He was practically your twin, your brother Sven. People often believed such was true, though you were younger. And his imminent arrival was your first thought upon waking. To embrace him safely your sole intention when throwing yourself from your dusky blue bed at the silver of dawn, wrestling inside the arms of your emerald overcoat. Slipping on dirtied shoes your father would be ashamed of with all the clumsy, stumbled excitement of an eager child.

Sven is home…!

You were anxious to see him, even if your intentions of doing so well before your father ineluctably found him were far from merely greeting him home.

With this in mind, you rushed from your private chambers. Down through the broad, stone-floored hallways of your family’s hold, and knew not how you knew his procession arrived, only that you knew. Perhaps it was the song of the field birds, or those of the surrounding pines; that small forest which surrounds your sprawling, mountainous city. Or perhaps it was merely his presence in the air, something clung to the leaves like dappled dew, but you knew; Sven was home. He was safe, and you meant to keep it so.

The chill of the outer courtyard couldn’t receive you fast enough as you rushed past servants and guardsmen out into the dawn. The courtyard filled with horned mounts and war carts, brimming with the sounds of armor and hooves, as inside the gates amasses your brother’s wearied men at arms. And when you see Sven slipping off his steed alongside them, you fail even to call his name. Something catching in your throat as you merely bolt toward his presence, with him too distracted loosing his horned steed’s bridle to see you bounding there. Informed with a breathless grunt upon you tightly seizing him that you’ve come to greet him, swarmed by a hug that might seek to wring him of his very life. 

After tensing in bewilderment, he laughed; his exhales shaking you. “Someone’s eager to greet the dawn.”

“I’d be eager to see you no matter what time it is,” comes your mumbling in his chest.

He clasps one solid arm around your far more fragile form, bronze armor twisting leather joints as he brings you to his ochre-draped chest. Holding you there for warm moments, before shifting his hold somewhat in effectively prying you off him.

He surmises you a moment, as though confused by such fierceness of emotion. Eventually smiling softly. “Good morrow to you as well, dear sister.”

“You’re home,” is all you can muster, like you can’t quite believe it still, and a chuckle harbors once more in his throat.

“I’m home,” he agrees, quite simply. “Had you room for doubt I would be?” 

To this, you withhold response.

He lacks the helm of his fellow horned warriors, of whom it seems what remains of his regiment’s traveled here. Donning instead a fabric mask he now pulls from his nose and face; dark, shoulder-length hair spilling past his crown of two goat-like horns, their curves spiraling toward the sunlight.

He seems to decipher your worries as you eye his men, as you eye him ; giving your chin a small pinch in the effort to snatch you from them.

“I’m well,” he assures you. “You worry far too much.” Glancing at the vine-twisted keep far behind you, he wonders, “Have you told father of my arrival?”

Your expression’s wry. “Has it been so long you’ve forgotten I’m not entirely witless?”

One corner of his lips quirks as his hand shifts to your hair, ruffling it up a bit despite your instant protests. “Happily, it has not. And I’m glad of it. I’d prolong his inevitable criticisms for as long as possible.”

“I’m rather offended you hadn’t told me of your arrival, however,” you point out whilst slapping his giant, armored hand away, to which his dark brows pinch incredulously. 

“I only just arrived! I hardly know how you knew it.” 

Pressing back your responding grin, you shed the skin of levity in favor of matters more severe; ones you’ve rushed here to find him for in the first place.

“Come,” you tell him, in the guise of welcoming him home. “You must be tired. And before our unfortunate father finds you, I have questions of your time at the blockade.”

And though Sven sighs, he doesn’t stop you–allowing himself to be pulled by one hand toward the keep whilst his soldiers behind him toil with horses and armament; some greeting family, others guiding their horses back home. 

“Of course you do,” he mutters, unenthused. “Though I assure you father’s relayed the state of things well enough.”

He hasn’t, and Sven must know that. Your father confides in you nothing. He loves not your gender, preferring you’d been yet another son, and nor does he love you were born without horns. He thinks less of you. Sven can’t deny this unfortunate truth. And he won’t worm his way from your questions by playing fool to it.

“I’d rather hear it from you,” you state, forcing tension from your tone. 

Past chamber after chamber, you drag him searching for one vacant of any eyes that might spot you. And though Sven’s much taller than you, it’s like he’s dragging his feet in some useless attempt to dissuade you.

“My, you’re slow,” you chastise, leaning more weight toward your aims, more or less lugging the tall man forward. “Have you suffered so greatly on your journey that you now walk as a feeble old man?”

He rolls his hazel eyes, though at your taunting, his pace rises to meet yours all the same. “I’ve only just arrived,” he complains. “Have we not time to tarry?”

No, you bite back from saying. Instead steering him inside a broad, open storeroom where you two can be alone. We don’t. 

The room is quite barren, many of its supplies shifted elsewhere in support of the war. And after glancing about in ensuring your privacy, you turn and stare up at your brother hard.

He looks at you with subtle perplexion. Meeting your solemn gaze as all lightness is slowly bled of him.

“What troubles you, sister?”

You’re not sure what to say. Knowing the words, yet somehow sure he will resist them.

In your troubled silence, he takes your arm in reclaiming your wandering gaze again, guiding your worry more toward his. 

“What is it?”

Your mouth presses flat before you manage to force the words out.

“We have to get out of here.”

A crease weighs his brow. “What do you mean, get out of here?”

“I mean it isn’t safe here,” you tell him with more insistence in every second drawn on. 

You steal another glance at the opened doorway beside you, before taking his hand to steer him deeper into the room, away from what prying ears might hear you.

“I’ve heard whispers,” you state, in a whisper all your own. Staring up with desperation, attempting to wring the truth from his dodging hold. “The Impaler…”

Sven’s forearm tenses, though you press on.

“He’s reduced Moorth to naught but ruin, has he not?”

Jawline growing tight, some faint darkness glints his eye in a way suggestive that he did not want you to know this.

“We’ll take the city back,” he says, but you won’t have his dodging.

“Father insists our paths of trade aren’t broken, but I’m not the ignorant simpleton he thinks I am,” you say, fearful and sullen. Determined for whatever ugly truth. “He’s incinerating everything, isn’t he?”

“Who?”

“You know who!” your voice now raises. “Stop treating me like some blissful, ignorant child!”

In his reluctance, silence follows, though you read him well enough. Know your brother better than anyone. And you see something beyond the stone-wall of him splinter.

“That’s why you’re here, then… Isn’t it?” you press him, as your nervous heart still trembles. “To defend these halls… Belurat far beyond them… There’s nowhere else to fall back to. He’s ransacked everything else.”

He doesn’t immediately respond. Instead studying you with the hesitance of not knowing what to say, how honest to be with you.

You demand full honesty. “Tell me it isn’t true.”

Through his tension, he says not anything. 

Biting the inside of your lip so harshly it stings, you take both his hands in yours, squeezing harder than you mean to.

“We have to go,” you insist in one breath, unblinking. Hushed enough to hide such treason from any walls that may have ears. “We have to leave the city. Now. We’d be fools to wait any longer.”

The line of his jaw turns to stone as he studies you. 

“And go where?” he wonders at last, voice bladed against you. “There’s nowhere in reach where Messmer’s flames cannot find us.”

You’re left without answers, for there are none for such an impossible thing.

“We’ll find a way through the shadow veil,” you insist in desperation; disheartened to hear his weary scoff. Gripping his hands still tighter to win his ear. “I’ll tear the bloody thing apart myself if I have to,” you persist, not knowing if you even can, if such a thing is possible. “I’ll–”

“Enough,” your brother halts you, with such uncharacteristic firmness it stills your tongue at once.

A flicker on his brow seems to regret his harshness of it, though he carries on unyielding even so. “There’s nowhere more safe than inside these walls. And even were there not, who are we to abandon our people here? While we ourselves flee for spurious safety in the night?”

Our people…

The notion ties labyrinthine cords inside you. For though you care for your people–our people–don’t want them to suffer Messmer’s wrath…

Some of your people’s practices are those of pure horror. Traditions and rituals with shamans–with people–you’ve always found barbarous. Beyond what one can bear. Impossibly cruel.

Still. Even with the bad, there is good here. Hundreds of innocent lives that might be snuffed out. 

But when it comes to their lives, or your brothers…

You choose your brother’s every time, without question. Over every single soul that elsewise exists.

You hold Sven’s gaze as obstinately as he holds yours. “I’m leaving,” you say. “Tonight. And you’re coming with me.”

He regards you still more discontentedly, as some thread inside him fails in tearing through. And when he pulls his hands from the unyielding strangle of yours, there’s the smallest smile forced to his lips that might’ve convinced anyone other than you. 

“I understand your disquiet,” he says. “Truly, I do.” He brushes back some hair behind your ear, as if this alone might cease this war inside you. “But such depth of concern is unfounded. Worry not, dear sister... Messmer’s forces will not reach our city. Nor will the Tower Settlement fall.” 

As you frown, his thumb swipes your chin as though to swipe the shape of it from you.

“You underestimate me,” he says, with a glisten to crinkling eyes. “I’ll protect you, as I always have. As you know I always will. In this, you can be certain. And with it allow this matter to rest.”

You merely scowl at him. “You’re… You’re being stubborn… pigheaded… I–”

He laughs before frustration lets you finish. Drawing you to him. Hugging your scowling close whilst he strokes the back of your hornless head with playful fingers.

“I’ve heard tell of my being such,” he agrees, lightly. “Enough that I fear it must be true. The pigheaded prince, they call me.”

His embrace is comfort enough that your fears are near forgotten. Though it slips through your grasping fingers all too swiftly as he lets you go, with guidance toward the doorway where the two of you both entered. 

It’s obvious that he would see this conversation’s end, while you consider it hardly started.

“I also fear our father’s already loathe to’ve not addressed me,” he says, with this in mind, though with little relish. “I’m sure I’ll be his unwilling captive in the war room at least till dusk. After which…”

He pauses just before the doorway, turning you toward him with gentle hands.

“I expect you to sit with me at whatever feast he’s surely hosting.”

Your attempt at jest’s still murky with clouds of doubt. “A feast… I suppose your presence warrants as much...”

His eyes, even now, cast a sparkle. “Is that doubt on your tongue?” he ribs you. “My presence warrants several feasts, at least. Lavish ones, where the whole of the city stumbles home drunk from them.”

You look away, in no mood for his usual liveliness. And his fingers grace your upper arms in catching your gaze once more. Eyes passing between your worried ones.

“Be at peace, dear sister,” he says, with firmness reassuring, even now. “Leave worry with me. I won’t let ill befall you.” He gives your arms a squeeze. “Save me a spot at the table tonight, will you? Near some comely friend of yours. I could use a lovely distraction.”

You fight back the smallest smile in response. “I’ll have no part in you breaking some poor girl’s heart again.”

“Then I’ll take care not to break it this time,” he teases. 

As he’d guessed, you did not see your brother again till the world became swallowed by night.

Your father’s great hall is thunderous. Partiers laughing, people jeering, as though the only one worried is you.

How can they all be so ignorant of what death approaches?

You wish you could shrink from it; this jovial place. But you’re not one to cast aside a more pleasant reunion with your brother than the short one you shared this morning, so you stay, beside his and your father’s empty seats at the longtable as instructed.

As a man slick with sweat reaches toward you across the table for yet another leg of lamb, a darkened presence hovers just behind where you sit.

“Is this seat taken?”

The boldness, to ask such a thing of your brothers chair. Only a nitwit would speak such stupidity, and you turn to see said nitwit standing there.

He’s older, with a tangle of horns on his brow. A thin smile and small eyes, with teeth greased with the ale which surely prompted this.

Yet another, it would seem, after your affluent hand. As if your father hadn’t plans to sell you to whoever’s hand flattered his own most. 

“Yes,” you say brusquely, turning away more rudely than you mean, though you find it hard in that moment to care. 

You grab the flask of ale before you and suck it down as though you mean to drown in it.

Wherever is your damnable brother?

Wiping amber from your lips with an unladylike hand, you endeavor to breathe some fresh air. Standing up far too quickly, to the effect of nearly toppling over, and it’s no wonder you don’t often drink liquor.

Wavering your way from the hall, you make your way out into night. Out, through the courtyard, knowing not where you wander, only that you’d rid yourself of all raucous and smell of that festivous hell.

Ale warms your veins, yet you still rub gooseflesh from your arms as you wander in your long-sleeved gown up the stairway of the keep’s curtain wall, thinking to look out at the darkness beyond the sprawling city’s light.

The breeze is stronger up here, on the wall’s utmost walkway. Curling the length of your skirts in about you, tugged to and fro with the wind's invisible hands. And you stare outward, full of worry, not aware that you aren’t alone.

“Didn’t know I’d have such fine company.”

It’s a gruff voice which greets you, and you turn with a start, though it’s only a grizzled guard who addresses you. A graying old man with kind eyes and a knobby head of horns. Is your father so wanting of forces he’d pluck some greybeard from his bed to man the bailey?

“Apologies,” you say, “I didn’t mean to interrupt your watch.” Vacillating a moment, before adding, “I’d stay a while, if you’d allow it.”

His eyes crease as he smiles, pushing himself up off the half-wall he’d previously leaned upon.

“Stay as long as you like,” he says. “There’s naught much to look at. Boredom’s making me numb.”

Your attempt to return his smile falls short. “I fear I may fail to salve boredom, if that’s what you hope. I’m not presently much for conversation.”

He quirks a grandfatherly brow. “Long night?”

If he wasn’t so kindly, you might be aggrieved he’s still insistent on chatting away through the night. But as it were, you just sigh. Staring out into the darkness beyond the city. 

“One longer has yet to grace me.”

“Say no more,” he says, understanding. “The quiet’s a balm for such things.”

Relieved, you take him up on such advice.

You stay on the wall with this stranger who feels somehow a friend for some time. Likely longer than you ought to. And it thaws you, inch by inch, of that worry which clings; enough till you finally clear your throat to speak, to somehow return this man's kindness. Though as you turn to say a word, a flicker of light in the distance instead captures your focus.

Standing straighter, you're drawn like a moth to that faraway glisten. Watching as one glimmer turns to four. Then a dozen. Then more. Unable to turn away from whatever those pinprick lights are as they loom so far across the horizon, like stars dragged over ground. Asking the graybeard, “Do you see that…?”

You hear the old man’s armor shifting as he seems to adjust his gaze.

“...Aye,” he says at last. “I see it.”

You cannot look away. And how some flickers of light can distress you, you fail fully to grasp or name why. “What is it?”

Silence, as the graybeard beside you stares.

“...M’not sure,” he utters at length. Perturbed, a touch, it seems. “Though whatever they are… They're getting closer.”

Reaching one grizzled hand toward his neck, the old man grasps a silver looking-glass from where it dangles upon his chest, raising it in scanning outward. And with a glance at him, you wait with bated breath for word of what's seen.

“...Too dark to see for certain,” he murmurs, his tone more weighed than before. His eye staying glued to his contraption. “...There’s perhaps two dozen… N’whatever they are, they’re too large to rightly be torches…”

For stretching moments, he stares outward, as do you. Until finally he offers you his looking-glass, slipping its delicate chain off from round his neck.

“Take a look,” he offers, and in disquietude you do, not so much as thinking to decline him. Something raising every fine hair on your skin, though the reason eludes. 

You see…

…Flames.

The distance holds them small, in the palm of its night-drenched hand, though with every second passed they grow larger. Wavering midst the shadows, as if lumbering side to side; as though flame itself's somehow walking.

You peer past the lens to stare with the naked eye again. And it's then you first feel it. The ground come so slowly to life. A sensation so subtle at first you cannot hear the distant thuds which crescendo each minute vibration, more and more, til you cannot deny them. A sort of hum. A twisting of earth. More rhythmic with each second dragged on.

Despite how vague and far those groans of earth, whatever could be their cause flashes images of horror inside your mind. Of something you’ve only heard tell of; a wickedness only since dreamed. Of machines, gnarled and vast, designed with the fuel of bodies. Tall as any tower. Barred as any gael. Fashioned for death and the installation of fear in any soul hapless enough to look upon them.

Just its image painted in your mind inscribes fear in you now, as was its architects intention.

You stumble back a step, eyes growing wide in the darkness as you stare at those ever-growing flames. And though you lack any proof of their purpose, some piece inside you knows what they are. Why they’re here.

The looking-glass tumbles with a delicate plink from your grasp, while the man beside you’s expression draws confusion.

“What is it?” he asks, but you’re already running. Down the bailey’s length, down stairs, through the courtyard's growing dim.

Sven.

You hear the graybeard’s horn sound behind you, and though you should find relief in what little solace its call to your father’s forces might bring you, you cannot care. It matters little. For surely those golems grow nearer with every lumbering step, and there’s nothing you or your father’s dwindling men can do to stop them, not if all tell you've heard about Messmer is true.

The ground further shakes, undeniable in what it might bring you, as you enter the sconce-scattered castle. Fighting the length of your damnable skirts as you bound in through the hallways as fast as you can, as already panic clouds your vision.

Messmer will feed your bodies to his golems one by one. Impale all others. Leave your ashes to rot on a graveyard of spears, your tombs like a forest. Your corpses charred black, with faces frozen in whatever terror his flames found you in; whatever anguish his spear brought before the mercy of death.

You run still faster; in past the broad, opened doorways of the dining hall, where merriment’s paused in favor of scattered, flummoxed eyes and panicked questioning, though even that you find hard to hear.

You need to find Sven. Need to drag him to any place far from here. You have to protect him, as he always has you–even from himself if you must, and such is his dauntless, stubborn pride that you likely will.

There’s no stopping what may come, you should have dragged him from this place far sooner, you–

You're too late.

You were too late–dammit, you–!

Reeling as you turn one hallway’s bend, you're forced to shove your way past those filing into the corridors; servants, guardsmen, guests, all traveling with purpose or else questioning if you're under attack. And it's nothing short of a blessing catching eye of Sven's height lingering above the masses, as he likewise spots you; gaze alight with relief as he fights his way toward you.

Lodged within the crowds of mismanaged havoc, he takes your arm and drags you further into the keep, beyond the rising panic of those behind you. 

The ground further quakes. Iron chandeliers overhead further quivering. 

How close must they be now? Those colossal, wandering flames?

“I saw them,” you tremble as Sven further leads you, knowing not where he guides, too dazed to question. “I saw them, Sven. The furnaces. I–I couldn’t–they were so far away, but they–”

“I should have sent you away this morning,” he says, almost to himself, which does nothing to allay that viperous terror twisting through you. Sounding to wrest up whatever hope he has left whilst adding, “Though it’s not too late.”

It’s then that you realize he’s leading you in the direction of the stables.

You seize his wrist; stopping him in his tracks as his impatient, worried expression turns across one shoulder, his gaze alone questioning whether you’ve succumbed to sudden madness.

“I won’t leave without you,” you tell him, knowing already his intent. That he’d send you off and remain behind here. As of course he would, seeing reason to fight, though you won’t allow it.

This stubborn, stubborn man.

He doesn’t answer. Instead attempting to drag you on again, though you dig your heels in as sediment trembles from the rumbling walls all around you. 

“I’m not leaving without you!”

You don’t mean to shout, but you do. 

He looks at you as though you’re a war he’s already lost.

“I can’t leave while the city needs defended,” he argues, resolve fused to his every sinew. 

His valor is nothing short of infuriating.

“Then I’m staying with you.”

“No, you’re not!”

“Should you put me on a mount I’ll simply ride right back,” you protest, gaze growing wild. “You can’t make me go anywhere unless you ride by my side in ensuring it!”

His look is of utter frustration. But as horns blare and some distant, bone-deep tremor once more shakes the earth, inspiring a ripple of far away screams in the castle, there isn’t time to dissuade you. And with an agitated breath, he diverts course in leading up a set of winding stairs–those leading toward the hallway of your bedroom, where he guides you with swiftness.

“Stay here,” he says, ushering you inside your chambers. Seeming barely to accept such a compromise. “Bar the door. Remain hidden. I’ll return for you.”

The rapid beating of hooves and heels sounds far below your bedroom's balcony window, and too soon Sven's turned to leave, with you grabbing his wrist before he is able. “Don’t go! Don’t… Don’t go out there, Sven…!”

Tears burn your eyes, their threat overwhelming your lashes, and the resolve of Sven's own expression crumbles somewhat to see it.

He takes your face gently in his both hands while you plead with him once more, “Don’t go…” Steering you just a touch closer in placing a kiss upon your brow.

“Do as I’ve told you,” he bids, resolutely. “Allow no other entrance. I’ll return here as soon as I’m able. You have my word of this.”

And with this, he is gone. His warmth left on your cheeks as tears spill where his touch had been.

You staunchly refuse the cruel suggestion of your heart; that this may be the last time you see him. Uncertain how you’ll barricade your door with no lock on its innermost side, though you’re desperate to keep your mind busy, to heed Sven’s instructions. So with great effort, you squeeze yourself in behind your bed’s massive headboard, barely managing to shove it inch by awkward inch away from the stone-hewn wall. Shoving with all your strength until the mass of it blockades the doorway.

Time is as much a weapon as any sword. And as you wait for your brother's return, heart tangled by vines in your chest, you seek to pry yourself from terror enough to stumble out onto your balcony, where night wraps you up in its arms.

The song of steel and iron grows ever louder from down below. Your view half-concealed by the edge of the castle. Horns sounding more in the darkness. The rumble of beasts and mounts and men shaking into the ground. And your strained eyes grow wider upon seeing a haze of flame glowing just outside the city, bewitching the air to a blistering hellscape of dancing cinder and molten fog.

Such a harrowing sight overwhelms you.

Whatever has come, it is here.

Your hands grip desperately to the terrace’s balustrade as the world around you abruptly lurches in place, and with a vicious crack one section of walls round the city erupts into pieces, struck by some mammoth blow beyond what your vision can see. Stones tumbling like naught more than ash as a behemoth lumbers in through the wreckage. A mountainous cage of a being, weighed slow by its body of metal; stomach burning with the piled corpses of past feasts. Its silhouette singed against darkness, twisted by hundreds of arms reaching out through the bars of its belly; burned slow enough to long to be free.

You long to look away, yet can scarcely remember to breathe. The cities outmost towers growing brighter with ashes and flame in a nauseating dance of destruction that would see all before it laid waste, as behind the crushed path of each furnace, Messmer's forces are free to bleed in. 

The city you've known all your life slowly transforms beyond all recognition. Your sense of time broken, sands scattered to the wind, as you watch the growing onslaught in horror. Your pupils shrinking from a vicious, sudden trail of horrid brightness as tendrils of flame lick the air, weaving through it, met soon by a chorus of screams that grow shrill before melting. Lungs scorched in a firestorm that sets the very sky on fire, and you've never seen anything like it. Like a dragon assaults your city, though even they cannot wield such a vicious flame.

You can do nothing but watch as fire tangles through buildings and streets. Your fingernails digging into your palms till the marks left behind may soon bleed.

Sven…

You… You can’t just stay here, sequestered in your room like this-!

You have to find him,

You have to help him–!

But if you leave, how might he find you amidst the chaos?

You have to stay here. He needs to know where you are when he surely comes back, for he will. He’ll come back. His word was given.

Villagers run through the streets as flame leaks its way its alleys; into the very reaches of your father’s keep, as its bailey comes crashing at the slam of a furnace golem’s gnarled excuse for a fist. And as your world shakes you hear Messmer’s men storming in through the courtyard. Hear the clashing of metal grow near. The screams of terror in hallways, all while fear tears through your bosom like an animal clawing to get out.

Where is your brother?!

It feels as though an eternity has held you breathless in its clutches, and as the sounds of war draw nearer, your walls feel to close in.

Footsteps soon sound within the corridor behind your shuttered doorway. Soldiers grunting, weapons clattering to the ground beside a distant woman’s shriek. And then the handle of your door’s taken hold of. The wood of it shuddered by what seems an impatient hand; rattled against how your bed keeps it fully from opening.

Your attention hones tightly toward it.

Sven…?

It remains as a thought, your throat’s tautness not letting you speak it. As you watch in a silence that would strip all reason raw while the door falls eerily still.

You’ve no time to react before your chamber’s entrance blasts violently open in a hailstorm of splintered wood and flame, whipping the room with embers as you stumble back and scream from the ruined blockade of your doorway. 

Snowflake cinders hang loosely in the air as your eyes strain through the rubble, and you know not the man who stands there in the wreckage, whose outline swirls amidst wisping smoke, though he’s wearing Messmer’s red. A pointed helm adorns his looming outline, its steeple skyward, and from his breadth a dripping crimson cowl falls lapping at his heels. Armored head to toe in blackened steel save the shape of his slowly smiling lips as he beholds you. And though you can’t see his gaze through the intricate, beak-like visor he wears, you you can feel his curious eyes scanning over your shape.

“Well… What have we here,” he croons above the distant hymn of bloodshed; that war below now muted by growing unease. “A hornless trollop all alone in her chambers… Tucked away, it would seem, just for me…”

His cruel lips curve as you instinctively falter from him, recoiling further toward the terrace at your back, even when its height would further trap you.

The man steps in through your doorway's ruin, unperturbed by anxious lack of welcoming him in.

“You aren’t quite as foul as the rest of them,” he observes, almost to himself. In no real hurry to approach you, as instead he makes a game of dread. Bits of broken wood twisting beneath his heavy, prowling footsteps as he draws ever closer, and though you glance to the ravaged doorway behind him, with him its gate its passage feels to shrink.

“Not the talkative sort?” he wonders, idly, with a falsely exhaustive sigh. “What a pity… I'd hear your tearful pleas, were it up to me.”

His drawing nearness springs a trap in you, and unthinkingly you try to flee. Though as you bolt in sprinting past him you find he’s far faster than you could have believed.

He’s snatched your wrist in his harshly armored grip before you can even flinch, his every finger steel and pointed. Flinging you without mercy onto the rubble of your bed as a cry tears from your chest, your body shaken as you tumble. 

“Such a morsel I’ve found myself,” he breathes, becoming feverish as a predator above prey. “You do look hornless… Though I’d be sure of it. Let us see if you have any defilements in places I haven’t yet seen, hm?”

Terror wraps fists around you, and though you scramble to get up, to run, he’s on you in an instant. The weight of him shackling you down against your ruined mattress on the floor. The snakelike scales of his ruby tabbard scraping up your kicking legs as he roughly straddles down your writhing form, and though you strike his half-masked face in desperation it does naught but scrape your fingers raw.

He laughs at the attempts to dissuade him. Snatching your wrists and squeezing until you fear your bones might crack.

“There’s that flame,” he croons, tone gleefully debased. “I thought for a moment you’d bore me. How long might that tiny flame flicker before tamping out, I wonder?”

With hungry hands, he grips and tears the flowing fabric of your gown at the seams, ripping it from your thighs as alarm makes you mindless, has you kicking out wildly in the attempt to be free.

“Let me go!” you scream, voice stripped by panic. “Let me go! Get off of me–!”

His breathy laughter’s a horrible thing. But all at once it’s frozen in his throat; locked away as his muscles all seize. Its cruelty marred instead to a painful choke, something congealed, as a swing of metal shears the air behind him, slashing through what seems his severed spine.

His form grows rigid with the realization of death. Wavering in how he pins you, before slumping down like a lifeless tree whilst your lungs are crushed beneath him. And though you fight to claw him off, his weight of steel proves too much for your waning strength.

Some hand seizes the cowl which drapes the dead man’s neck, tearing his body from you. And with a gasp of needed breath you’re overcome to see Sven, like a beacon above you; his red-slicked sword in hand.

Blood and ash fill the lines of his handsome face. Concern whiting his brow as he reaches down to take your shell-shocked hand.

There’s little time to coddle you.

“Are you hurt?”

Tension cleaves to every inch of you, though as you struggle to swallow, you also strive to nod your head. 

“I’m… I’m fine.”

The need to thank him once again for saving you, as it seems he always does, trembles past your mind with you too overwhelmed to fully grasp it. And Sven’s jaw is hard as he holds your trembling hand, his fingers weaving through your own.

“Come,” he says, not wasting words. Towing your stumbling fragility with him from the horror of your chambers. 

You haven’t made it far at all before the clamor of many footsteps resounding in these hallways soon assails you. And round the corridor's bend, just several yards before you, comes a cluster of soldiers in regalia you don’t recognize, so they must be Messmer’s men. Led by a knight in red like that of your bedroom.

Their party pauses upon sighting you, as does yourself and a stiffening Sven. His giant hand gripping yours more fiercely.

Silence, as time strips thin and the lot of you warily eye one another.

“You there,” the red knight says, his voice like brass. “You are the son of the false, impure king, unjustly throned in these lands, I presume?”

Shifting slowly forward, Sven secures himself one step before where you stand, stricken beside him.

“Would that I were,” he says, ever defiant. “What difference does it make?”

The knight before you slowly smiles, though its quick to fade away. 

“We’d make a sigil of your broken body in the courtyard,” he says. “I’d hoped to fell you outside. Alas, we must now drag you there, instead.”

The line of Sven's shoulders grows taut, before abruptly he shoves you from him, your hand stripped from his–pushing you further behind him.

“Go,” he orders, not glancing back. “Run.”

You tremble, and cannot move but to shake your head. Salt soon stinging your vision. Unwilling to obey him.

“No–”

“Go!” he shouts, yet still you cannot heed him. Will not heed him.

The red knight tilts his chin, gesturing three soldiers carry on before him. And already your brother’s sword is raised; knocking back one spear that would see him dead, and then the another. Repelling blows as each comes raining in, trading strikes through the bedlam.

He holds them off for much longer than any man rightly should, such is your brother, such is his mastery of sword. Sweat soaks his brow, blood spilling through his armor with every blow he fails to break. Felling two of Messmer's men as two more are sent by the man in red to take their place, and you're terrified he’ll tire before the end of them. 

You scarcely notice, at first, how beneath his steps bubbles forth a glowing pool of red.

You watch in pure horror as flames like vines slowly leak up through the cracks of the floorboards, tendrils of searching crimson, while Sven’s too caught by battle to heed them. And the moment you cry out for him to run is already a cry too late, as those flames burst forth with sudden violence. Flinging from their center a massive spear, pierced up from the very ground he stands on, as though formed from the shadow of his feet.

The spear flings forth with impossible strength, goring high into the ceiling like the shoot of a savage, crooked tree. It’s hilt still buried in the ground as its speartip thucks up high in the timber above you; piercing through Sven's middle, metal lifting through his ribs.

His body's rigid where he hangs, high above where once he'd stood fighting. And you forget what feeling even is as his body gradually falls limp. Sword slipped from wilting fingers. Clattering to the ground so far below his hanging feet.

All you can see is him and that spear he hangs on. An awful monument to a moment that will live with you forever. And you stare at this nightmare of him; balking backward. Stare, as your heart crumbles into pieces, and you can do nothing else. 

Sven…

You can’t find breath enough to even cry his name, though it trembles in the pit carved where your heart and lungs once lived.

Those soldiers still alive before you part within the haze that strangles your breath, making way as someone else approaches, though you hardly notice as you stand there. Defeated. Tears blurring your vision to a melted, burning thing. 

….Sven…!

He cannot hear those cries you fail to utter. And even should you scrape them from your chest, he’ll never hear your words again. Nor your larks. Nor your laughter. 

Just this once, you might've protected him. Just this once. Yet here you've failed him. 

“Do not prolong the inevitable,” a low, serrated voice condemns from midst your shrouded torment, and you blink away what tears you can, straining through grief to see a dreadfully towering man, so tall no common hallway could ever hope to hold him.

You’ve only heard tell of Messmer. That his hair is red as bloodied fire. That his eye, his only eye, is as gold as Marika’s sins. That two winged snakes adorn him, with agile minds and bodies it seemeth all their own. And yet even those two snakes now watch you, along with their wretched master. Their emerald eyes trained to your every movement, though you shift none.

You bite back your tears; anguish giving way to anger. Your jawline like glass, so hard and close to splintering, but still you’ll grit your jaw up at this red-maned savage as though on his neck you were clamping down, tearing the very life from him.

His captain steps forward, but Messmer’s lengthy, muscled arm raises scarcely enough to halt him in place, though his order's immediately heeded. And though his captain’s face lay hidden behind a snake-like helm so similar to Messmer’s own, you can sense the confusion which braces through him.

“Not her,” says Messmer, so low you scarcely hear him. And you stare, at this monstrous man, while he meets your gaze with what seems not an ounce of pity. 

His eye, you admit, is a strangely beguiling thing. Like a spell that might dissect the furthest reaches of you. Its gold so strangely brilliant, like a pinprick of flame, gnawing through the darkness.

“...Take her,” his deep voice at length breaks through the enchantment of his gaze, and you at once feel panic swell at such an order. “We couldst use another specimen for the storehouse.”

And then, he is gone; turned without another word said, as though he matters of much more import to attend to than whatever in any hell his decreed fate as ‘specimen’ might bring you.

You far prefer death.

When Messmer’s captain comes for you, obedient dog that he is, you immediately try to run only for your gown to snag you back within his clutches. And as he lifts you beneath one arm like a satchel of wheat, you snarl and you fight with every bit of strength remained in you; transformed into a hopeless, feral thing. Clawing at his legs, biting at his wrist despite his armor blunting every blow at him, until he slaps you so hard your vision blurs and all sound’s replaced by the ringing of your skull, your body hanging momentarily limp.

It does no good, your fighting, though you scream and writhe and fail to stave back tears as you’re carried from your father’s ruined castle.

The world outside is smoldering waste.

All is fire and ash. 

You see no one else left living.

You have nothing.

Nothing.

This demigod of flame has taken everything from you. Has burned away your heart to an ashen pit. And while you are still living, you will do everything within your power to gift him the very same.

[ AUTHORS NOTE ] f’s in chat for Sven, rip gone too soon 😔 I actually felt really bad killing him, but I wanted to give you a legitimate, visceral reason to hate Messmer so he had to go. Anyway thanks for reading! I’d love to hear your thoughts 💕

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 1: Am I More Than You Bargained For Yet]

Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra's wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook's Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother's life. Now you are in the lair of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting...

Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, violence, serious injury, a brief history of burn treatments, alcoholism/addiction, references to sexual content (18+), a wild Sunfyre appears, catching feelings for literally the single most inappropriate man on the planet.

Series title is a lyric from: "7 Minutes in Heaven" by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter title is a lyric from: "Sugar, We're Goin' Down" by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 5.3k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

💜 I’m going to tag like a bazillion people since this is the first chapter of a new fic, but I WILL NOT TAG YOU AGAIN unless you ask me to. I hope you are all doing well, wherever you are in the world! 💜

@doingfondue @catalina-howard @randomdragonfires @myspotofcraziness @arcielee @fan-goddess @talesofoldandnew @marvelescvpe @tinykryptonitewerewolf @mariahossain @chainsawsangel @darkenchantress @not-a-glad-gladiator @gemini-mama @trifoliumviridi @herfantasyworldd @babyblue711 @namelesslosers @thelittleswanao3 @daenysx @moonlightfoxx @libroparaiso @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @mizfortuna @florent1s @heimtathurs @bhanclegane @poohxlove @narwhal-swimmingintheocean @heavenly1927 @echos-muses @padfooteyes @minttea07 @queenofshinigamis @juliavilu1 @amiraisgoingthruit @lauraneedstochill @wintrr13 @r0segard3n @seabasscevans @tsujifreya @helaenaluvr @hiraethrhapsody @backyardfolklore

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged in future chapters! 

You scream when he grabs you, this lightning strike of a man with a grip like an animal trap that splits bones. He pulls you away from the soldier you’re soothing—a young dark-haired Norcross, disoriented, doomed, his intestines spilling out onto the grass and blood on his lips—and through the forest of smoke and corpses and pine trees. Your eyes sting and water, your boots snag on gnarled roots. When you yelp and stumble to the earth, the man drags you upright again. You struggle like a beast with a blade at its throat, cold, serrated, pressure on the jugular. You shove and scratch at him, trying to plant your boots in soil strewn with gore and glowing embers.

“Stop, stop it, you’re hurting me!”

“Hurry up.”

“You’re going to break my wrist—!”

He wrenches you around to look you full in the face, and only now do you know who he is. A gasp hisses through your teeth; the acrid air in your lungs vanishes. Every muscle and tendon and ligament of you is taut with horror, tight enough to snap. It’s like meeting one of the Seven, the Warrior or Stranger or Smith, a shade you know only from myths and nightmares. It’s like being led to the executioner’s scaffold. His long silver braid hangs over one shoulder. His eyepatch conceals the childhood maiming that left him half-blind. There’s blood and ash on his scarred face, a ruthless breed of fear in his remaining eye, icy blue, creek-shallow, soulless. The man clasping your wrist is Prince Aemond Targaryen. “I’ll break your neck if you don’t come with me now.”

He does not wait for your protest or acquiescence. You couldn’t give it anyway. Your muddied boots move numbly as he tugs you forward, this man they call Aemond One-Eye, a monster, a murderer, a kinslayer. The earth is littered with carnage from the battle, charred ribcages and disemboweled horses, scattered armor and severed limbs. Ashes fall from the smoldering treetops like dark snow.

What does he want from me?

Rape seems unlikely; everyone knows Prince Aemond’s deviancies do not run in that direction. He is cold, hateful, dispassionate, made of stone. He does not lust for anything but power and retribution, fire and blood.

To kill me?

But why not do it here, now? There is a sword hanging from his belt, a dagger in one fist. There is no reason to wait.

To take me prisoner? To feed me to his dragon? To torture me for information?

Surely there are more knowledgeable people around to torture. What use could you be, a healer, a woman? Unless…

Unless he knows who my father is.

You glance down at the fabric band looped around the upper half of your right arm, the only mark you wear of your house, stark white banner, skittering red crabs. It is soaked through with blood. It is unreadable.

Someone is shrieking, but not like a dying man. He has too much fight in him for that, too much glass-clear agony, unwanted blistering consciousness. He screams like someone being flayed, gutted, burned alive. You’ve only ever heard this sound once before. You choke on the greasy, putrid, metallic sweetness of scorched human flesh as it sears down your throat, not knowing if it is real or remembered.

There is a tent in the midst of the pine trees, fluttering canvas that’s green like emeralds or jade. The wind is picking up; you will need to evacuate soon. The cinders will spread and the forest will blaze. Somewhere a dragon is roaring, wounded and mournful like the cry of a lost child. The screams of the man grow louder; they fill your skull like a fever, scalding and senseless and red. Aemond yanks the tent flap aside and pulls you in. And when you breathe it is nothing but the sickening miasma of burnt flesh, coppery blood, suffering, sweat, ruin.

He’s writhing on a wooden table, the man the Greens call king. It has to be him: white-blond hair down to his shoulders, blue eyes and fine aristocratic bones. Two ancient, shaky-handed maesters—hastily commandeered from the defeated House Staunton, you assume—confer nearby, clutching glass bottles of milk of the poppy. A man in armor is cutting tatters of clothing from the so-called king. When he lifts the fabric away, skin sloughs off with it. Aegon wails, struggles, begs him to stop. Aemond goes to his brother and carves away scraps of melted leather and charred cotton with the swift blade of his dagger.

“Shh, shh, don’t fight us, we’re trying to help—”

“Aemond, let me die,” the burned man rasps. He is trembling violently, he is half-mad with pain. Meleys’ flames claimed a swath of his right cheek, his neck and chest and back, his arms down to his wrists, his belly to the crests of his hip bones. “Please. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want it to hurt anymore. Don’t try to help me. Just let me die.”

Aemond looks back at you. “Can you treat this?”

He thinks I’m a Green, you realize with panic, with relief, with terror. And of course he would: you had wandered into the Greens’ side of the battlefield and therefore did not surrender or flee or die with the other Blacks, you were tending to a Green soldier when he found you. Aemond the Kinslayer would not comprehend the notion of service to humankind without a line drawn down the middle of it, of uncategorical compassion.

“Can you help him or not?!” Aemond shouts; and you know that he is not just afraid but shattering, spider-leg cracks inching across a window or a mirror. Perhaps the Greens have souls after all.

You shed your paralysis like daylight erases the stars and approach to examine the so-called king. You do not touch him; still, he whimpers, sobs, quakes like waves in a storm. “He needs more milk of the poppy. A lot more of it.”

“Yes,” Aegon agrees immediately. His streaming eyes—a bleak, murky blue like the sea off Claw Isle—list to you, agonized and grateful.

The maesters gape. “More could kill him,” one says. And they are petrified of being blamed for it. They are plagued by visions of Aemond hacking off their heads and displaying them on spikes above the stone walls of captured Rook’s Rest.

“No drawbacks at all then?” Aegon manages between moans.

“If his pain does not abate, he will die of shock,” you say. “He must be unconscious.”

“Knock me out,” Aegon pleads, pawing at Aemond. “Tell them, tell them.”

Aemond looks to the man in armor: dark-haired, olive-skinned, Dornish. Sir Criston Cole, you realize. The Hand of the King. The Kingmaker. After a moment, Criston nods. “Do it now,” Aemond orders the maesters.

Grimacing, grim, they pour the opalescent liquid into Aegon’s mouth. He gulps it down as quickly as he can. “Enough,” you tell the maesters. Instinctively, you reach out to comfort Aegon: a palm rested lightly on his forehead, fingers threaded through silvery hair that’s filthy with soot and blood. You should hate him, but you don’t. When you look at the Greens’ broken king, you cannot see a murderer, a usurper, a depraved hedonist, a consumer of innocence. You can only see a man worn threadbare by ill-advised bravery.

“Hello, angel,” Aegon murmurs as he gazes up at you, a ghost of a smile on his lips. His eyes really do remind you of home: ocean currents like iron, fog like flint. “Welcome to the end of the world.” And then he’s out, extinguished, eclipsed.

Servants bustle into the tent carrying heavy buckets. “What is that?” you ask.

“Pork lard,” one of the maesters says. “For his wounds.”

“No, no, no, some of these burns are nearly down to the muscle. They’re too deep, too fresh. Lard is for later, to help with scarring, although olive oil or rose oil would be better. He needs to be cleaned with vinegar diluted with water. Or red wine, if that’s all that can be found.”

“Vinegar?!” one of the maesters exclaims.

“It helps prevent infection. Nobody knows why.”

The same maester turns to Aemond, imploring him. “My prince, I can assure you, the Citadel recommends pork lard or cow dung as topical cures, or both used alternatingly. There are also reports of cases where frogs have been helpful, warmed in oil and then rubbed on the affected area.”

Criston blinks. “I’m sorry, you do what with the frogs…?!”

They’re going to kill him, you think. Not with malice, but with stupidity. A wasted life, a wasted death. You demand of the maester: “When was the last time you treated burns this severe?”

He glowers at you, sharp dark eyes like flecks of onyx in a nest of wrinkles. And you know you’ve won when he replies: “When have you?”

“My brother was burned in a housefire started by an upturned lantern. It was five years ago, but I remember the direness his injuries. And what was done to save him.”

Silence in this tent the color of summer: green grass, unsinged trees. Aemond waits for the maesters to produce some astute rebuttal. When they cannot, he orders the servants: “Vinegar, water, rags. Now.” They dash off to oblige him, wide-eyed and quivering like small dogs. Then Aemond looks to you. “What next?”

“His wounds should be treated with honey and then bandaged. The dressings must be changed frequently, at least once per day. He must be repositioned so the scar tissue does not immobilize his joints. He will suffer, it cannot be avoided, but he should suffer as little as possible. Listen to him when he says the pain is too much. Let him sleep. When he is awake, he must drink plenty of fluids. He is losing water through his burns, and it must be replaced. Milk is preferable. Tea and fruit juices are good as well. Some wine is acceptable if that’s what he likes best.”

“And it certainly is,” Criston mutters. You’ve heard the same: that the Greens’ king is a drunk, an adulterer, a coward, a ghoul. You cannot speak to any of this. You know him only as someone who is horrifically pained and sick to death of fighting. Again, without thinking, you comb your fingertips distractedly through his hair as he lies unconscious on the table, bleeding from everywhere. He’s so young, so breakable, so unlike the monster you’ve been led to believe he is.

“Get honey and bandages,” Aemond tells the maesters. They depart, casting each other incredulous glances: Are these our new overlords? Men who heed the wisdom of impetuous young women filthy with blood and earth?

“I’ve heard salt can be helpful for wounds,” Aemond says. “They used it on me when…” He gestures to his eyepatch, to his scar. Lucerys Velaryon took that part of him in self-defense; at least, that is what you have always been told. But you’ve read enough to know that for every event, there are at least two stories. Whatever the truth is, Luke paid for that eye. He paid, Rhaenyra paid, the world continues to pay the price over and over again.

“Because it dries. It absorbs moisture.” You skim your palm over Aegon’s forehead, without lines of fear or anguish as he sleeps. There is a ring on his left hand, a gold dragon with glinting dots of jade for eyes. You twist off the ring so it will not hinder circulation as his fingers swell and give it to Aemond. “But burns weep as they heal. They need to be wet. If they get too dry, they will crack open and fester.”

“Is that what happened to your brother?” Aemond asks.

“Where we did not pay enough attention. The backs of his knees, the soles of his feet.”

“But he survived.”

“Yes,” you tell Aemond; and you can see how desperately he is searching for hope in your face, your words. “He did.”

The servants return with buckets of water, handfuls of rags, glass bottles of vinegar that is cloudy and rust-colored.

“What’s it made from?” you say.

“Fermented a-a-apples, my lady,” one of the boys sputters. He watches Aemond out of the corner of his eye like sheep look for the shadows of wolves. He shivers, he sweats. This boy, who last night was fetching meat and mead for Lord Staunton, has heard the same stories you have: the degenerate king, his murderous brother.

“That’s fine then.” You haul over one of the water buckets and Criston helps you lift it up onto the table. You empty half a bottle of vinegar into the water, mix it by wobbling the bucket back and forth, and then soak a rag in the pungent liquid. “You can help,” you tell Aemond and Criston. “Dip a rag in the bucket, wring it out, then press it to his wounds. Remove any dirt or scraps of fabric. But don’t rub. Try not to damage the skin he has left.” You demonstrate: dabbing at flesh that is torn and bloody and blistered, a black-and-ruby wasteland that at best will leave him irreparably scarred and at worst will swallow his life like ships sink in storms.

Tentatively—with hands at ease with killing but not tenderness—Aemond and Criston join you, studying your movements and imitating them with great care. There is a sniffle, a teardrop that falls onto Aegon’s filthy but unburned left hand and glistens there like a splinter of glass; you are alarmed to see that the Kingmaker is weeping.

“Criston,” Aemond says gently. “We are doing everything we can for him.”

“Since the day he was born, I promised…”

“I know.”

“Your mother…”

“I know,” Aemond says again, and you think: The Greens aren’t demons, they aren’t savages. They’re just patchworks of memory and flesh and suffering, the same as any of us. “He will live. And his sacrifice won us a victory today.”

As you tended to wounded men caked with blood and pine needles, you saw them tangled above in the overcast sky, scales of scarlet and gold and an ancient muddy viridescence. There were flames and shouts, and then all three dragons hurdled towards the earth and out of view. “The Red Queen?” you ask Aemond, mindful to keep your voice perfectly level.

“Dead,” he says: dark satisfaction, fearsome pride. “And so is her rider.”

“The gods are good.” You are amazed at how easily it slips out, a reflex of self-preservation while your mind is elsewhere. Does my father know yet? Does Rhaenyra, does Daemon, does Corlys? People will be searching for you soon. If you do not appear from the smoke and chaos of the battlefield, your eldest brother Clement will come looking with his sword in hand. Everett, scarred and unagile but clever, will be pouring over maps to see where you might have ended up.

There is no suspicion in Aemond’s face when he glances over at you. He is gingerly cleaning soot and charred strips of ruined skin from Aegon’s chest, which rises and falls in deep, slow breaths. “Which family is yours?”

House Celtigar, but you can’t tell him that. You scramble for a noble family of the Crownlands whose accent you share, whose history you have been taught, whose men fight for the Greens but are not so distinguished that Aemond will know them well. “House Thorne.”

He nods. “Are you one of Sir Rickard’s sisters?”

You startle. Perhaps you have chosen the wrong disguise. “Far less illustrious than that. Just a cousin.”

The two maesters return, their archaic hands piled high with linen bandages and glass jars of honey, a fiery gold like sunset. “Set them down over there,” Aemond orders, pointing. He has a presence, it cannot be denied. He is tall, fierce, swift yet calculated. He moves like a man who has killed once, twice, again until it is no longer something that keeps him awake at night. It is something that has become a part of him like arteries or bones. “Prepare a room in the castle.”

“For Prince Aegon?” one of the maesters says, then quickly corrects himself. “I mean, for the king?”

“For until we decide what to do with him.” Aemond stares at Criston. Criston stares back, his dark eyes huge and shiny. There is a war to be waged, but Aegon will not be able to help them. Not for months, at least. Not ever, if he dies. The maesters disappear again, grumbling to each other. Unwelcome tasks, unwelcome guests.

Rhaenys is dead, you think as you work. It doesn’t feel real. Meleys is dead. Hundreds of Black soldiers are dead. Rook’s Rest is the Greens’ greatest victory yet, and one they desperately needed. This war is nowhere near over. And the betting odds keep changing.

You say to Aemond and Criston: “Help me turn him. We must clean the burns on his back as well.”

They listen, they obey, they help you because helping you means helping Aegon. When he is washed as well as he can be, you spread a thin sheen of shimmering honey over his wounds—an amber river that will trap moisture and discourage inflammation—and wrap him in bandages. The only burn you leave uncovered is the one on his right cheek. It creeps up over his pale face like red tentacles, curling and grasping, hungry, insatiable. They match now, you think. Two brothers, two scars.

Criston assembles a group of Green soldiers and Aegon is carried in a litter to the castle that serves as the seat of House Staunton, once allies of Rhaenyra, now traitors, now dead men walking. Outside rain has begun to fall, putting out flames born from dragonfire. The pine forest is saved; wounded men lie in the dirt with their mouths open hoping to quench their thirst. By the time Aegon is placed in an opulent bedroom with a view of Blackwater Bay, he has already bled through his bandages. You clean him again, bandage him, dribble milk of the poppy down his throat when he begins to stir and whimper. Aemond gives you command of a makeshift fleet of caretakers: the two requisitioned maesters, three maids, servants to bring food, drink, bandages, wood for the crackling fireplace.

My family is searching for me, you know as you battle to save their enemy’s life, this maybe-king with silver hair and eyes like deep water.And then: I cannot leave him. Not now, not yet.

In the night, as cool rain patters against the ocean and Aemond and Criston are slaughtering House Staunton men down in the castle courtyard, you dose Aegon with milk of the poppy every few hours. The maesters refuse to take responsibility for it; if the king is poisoned, it will be you who swings from a rope for it. You hold cloths dripping with cold water to his forehead. You feed him nibbles of bread and venison when he is conscious enough to eat, cinnamon tea, pomegranate juice, goat milk. You inspect him for any signs of infection. You braid a small lock of his hair before you’ve stopped to consider why you’re doing it.

And when no one else is watching, you untie the bloodstained armband of your own house and burn it to ashes in the fire.

~~~~~~~~~~

Someone is jostling you, grabbing at you. You fell into an exhausted, sporadic sleep in the next room long after midnight. It’s morning now; warm sunlight blooms like flowers on your face, yellow roses and buttercups and daffodils. When your eyes open, they are sore and unfocused. Aemond is a blur of white hair and black leather. He is tugging on you again, his lithe fingers like a vice around your forearm.

“Stop it, get off me!” You shove him away. He waits, bemused. “You can’t keep dragging me around like this!”

“Why not?”

Because my father is one of the wealthiest men in the Seven Kingdoms. Because I may not have silver hair or a dragon, but if you cut me open the blood of Old Valyria would spill out like red waves. Because the man I am pledged to marry is good at killing, very good at killing, maybe even better than you. “Because I’m a noblewoman. I’m a lady.”

“You don’t act like one,” Aemond counters. “Ladies flee from blood and gore. Ladies are nowhere to be found on battlefields.”

“I like being useful.”

“Then I have brought you a gift. You are needed now. Aegon is asking for you.” And then, when you hurry out of bed, finding your footing on chilly wood floors: “Well, that certainly got you moving quickly.”

“He’s in pain?”

“Not especially, from what I can tell. I think he just wants you.” Aemond glides out of the bedroom. You follow him to Aegon’s chamber. The Greens’ king is propped up in bed on a great mass of pillows, bandaged, limp, eyes glazed and barely open. There are men huddled around him. You recognize Criston, though not the other ones, some old and some young and all in armor. You hope that none of them are Sir Rickard Thorne.

You feel Aegon’s forehead for fever. To your relief, he is no more than modestly warm. He catches your hand, holds it tightly, doesn’t let go. After a moment’s hesitation, you sit down beside him on the edge of the bed. There is a curl of his lips, just a whisper of a smile, just a phantom of one. Aemond glances at you and Aegon with mild interest, then turns his attention to Criston.

“Aegon,” Criston informs the king, patiently, like a good father would. “We have to move you back to King’s Landing.”

“No,” Aegon says. His voice is so low and weak that he’s difficult to hear.

“Your recovery will be long and arduous,” Criston explains. “Aemond and I will be needed in combat. We cannot stay to guard you. The Blacks may try to retake Rook’s Rest. You staying here is not an option. King’s Landing is safer. It is well-supplied, it is protected. And we have our own maesters there who will help tend to you.”

“Can’t leave,” Aegon croaks. “Sunfyre.”

“Aegon—”

“I can’t leave without Sunfyre,” he forces out with immense effort. Then he gasps and moans, tears pooling in his eyes. You offer him milk of the poppy; he guzzles as much as you’ll allow him to have.

Criston sighs. “You can’t stay. And Sunfyre can’t leave. One of his wings was nearly ripped off, he’ll never fly again. We have no way to transport him, he’s too heavy.”

One of the armored men mutters: “And that’s assuming he wouldn’t incinerate anyone who ventured close enough to try.”

“Where is he now?” Aemond asks the man.

“Down on the beach, my prince. Eating dead soldiers.”

Criston shudders. Working in close proximity to dragons has not given him a liking for them.

“Can’t leave him here,” Aegon whispers, shaking his head.

“You must,” Aemond says.

“What if it was Vhagar?”

“I’d leave her. I’d have no choice.”

Aegon frowns, squeezing his eyes shut. It’s all too much for him. “Not the same.”

No, perhaps not; Aemond’s dragon may be the largest and most lethal in the world, but Aegon’s bond with Sunfyre is said to be what legends are built of, words written in ink and stone. You watch the agonized confliction on Aegon’s drawn face: can’t leave, can’t stay, can’t fight, can’t run. You say softly: “Could Sunfyre be assigned a detachment of guards?”

Aemond looks at you as if just remembering you’re here. “What?”

“Men could be tasked with ensuring the dragon is secure and fed. From a safe distance, of course. They could report on his health. Then perhaps when he is stronger, he can be reunited with the king.” The king. Again, it stuns you how easily the treason rolls out, like waves bubbling over rocks and sand.

Aemond turns to Criston. “Could it be done?”

“I don’t foresee many men volunteering for the task. But it could be done, yes. Sure.”

Aemond asks his brother: “Would that make a difference?”

Aegon’s eyes drift to you. They are churning with sluggish, clunky thoughts, heavy burdens to bear on raw shoulders. The braid that you wove absentmindedly into his hair is still there. “Alright,” Aegon agrees at last. “I’ll go.”

“Good,” Aemond says. “We leave at dawn tomorrow.” Then he looks to you. “You will come south with us.” His tone invites no argument. He doesn’t even conceive of it as a possibility. Why would you refuse? Why would you, a purportedly devout Green, shy away from the opportunity to nurse your king back to health? You bow your head in compliance. You wonder what is being discussed in the Black Council; you wonder what your father is thinking, what Everett believes happened to you.

“But I have to see him first,” Aegon says.

Aemond does not understand. “See who?”

“Sunfyre.”

“But you can’t walk to the beach,” Criston says. “You can’t walk anywhere.”

Aegon grins, showing his teeth. His dazed, deep blue eyes glitter mischieviously. His hand has not disentangled itself from yours. “Then carry me.”

The deal is struck, like a face minted onto a coin or a bolt of lightning meeting the earth. Soldiers transport Aegon down to the stony, mist-sopped shoreline. Blade-sharp agony is flooding back into his face, but he refuses more milk of the poppy. He wants to be awake when he gets there. He wants to be himself.

The soldiers cannot get too close to Sunfyre; no one besides Aegon can. He is helped off the litter and then tries to amble across the wet, grey sand. After a few steps he collapses. You rush to him, dodging Aemond and Criston’s grasps as they try to stop you.

“No,” Aegon says when you attempt to help him to his feet. He is panting from the pain, his face flushed with torment and exertion. His white-blond hair whips in the wind. “Do not follow me. Not even if I pass out, not even if I’m dead. I don’t know what Sunfyre would do to you.” And then he crawls forward alone on his hands and knees.

Waves crash, spraying saltwater into the air. Crabs scuttle over rocks. Gulls swoop low to claim mouthfuls of flesh from bloated corpses in worthless uniforms. The dragon known as Sunfyre the Golden is curled up on the beach. Many of his metallic scales are singed; the pink membranes of his wings are tattered like lace. His right wing hangs at a ruinously odd angle. You would know how to set that if he was a human. And you could do it without the threat of being reduced to ash and history.

Sunfyre unravels as Aegon nears him, long angular face rising, frayed wings settling by his sides. You have seen dragons before, of course—Syrax, Caraxes, Arrax, Vermax, Meleys—though never from this close. They horrify you. You cannot look at them without thinking of the devastation they sow like a plague, of how they so unmistakably no longer belong in this world.

Sunfyre’s head stretches out towards his rider, a half-dead man kneeling in wet sand and wearing only bandages and loose cotton trousers. Beside you, Sir Criston Cole sucks in a noisy, nervous breath. Aemond watches Aegon, his face like stone. His hair hangs in long, damp waves.

Aegon embraces Sunfyre, clinging to him, resting his face against the dragon’s. They stay like that for what feels like a very long time. Then Aegon crawls back to you, sobbing with pain by the time he is lifted into the litter. You give him milk of the poppy and he accepts it eagerly. He is unconscious again within seconds. Down the beach, Sunfyre looses a soft desolate cry like a plea: Don’t go. Don’t leave me. You might never come back.

~~~~~~~~~~

The drivers have been instructed to proceed slowly and with caution; still, the carriage pitches and jolts as you traverse the Rosby Road towards King’s Landing. In addition to the caravan’s most precious cargo—the Greens’ fragile and intermittently sentient king—it transports also two severed heads: Lord Simon Staunton’s in a basket, and Meleys’ in the bed of a mule-drawn wagon. High above in slate-grey clouds, Aemond and Vhagar are safeguarding your progress. Criston rides on a monstrous warhorse just outside the carriage. You are leafing through a book that you found in the castle library at Rook’s Rest: anatomy, surgery, sicknesses and cures. Aegon is bandaged and heavily medicated in the cushioned seat across from you. While servants flit in and out frequently, you are the only passengers in the carriage at the moment. You do not know that Aegon is awake until he speaks.

“Sinful,” he says. His voice is groggy, only half-here. He is gazing blearily at the illustration on the open pages of your book: a quite detailed naked man, his arteries and veins mapped like the roads of Westeros, his cock bare and sizeable.

“It’s informative,” you reply in your own defense, smiling.

“My father would have hit me for looking at something like that. If he’d noticed.” Aegon smirks, resting his head against the back of his velvet seat. His hair has been scrubbed and rinsed by servants, the braid you made for him undone. “He probably wouldn’t have noticed.”

“Mine has a great love for all books.” Bartimos Celtigar is eternally turning pages: computations, records, revenue. He does not just sit on Rhaenyra’s council. He is her Master of Coin. He funds her war effort, he fuels her like wood to a fire. “Besides, I have seen naked men in person. No book can scandalize me now.”

A little twitch of his silvery eyebrows: fascination, amusement. “He does not lose sleep over your spent innocence?”

“He has other things on his mind presently.”

“Like what?”

Like helping Rhaenyra win the war. You find a different truth to tell him. “Some men consider one daughter to be too many. My father has four. His attention is thoroughly divided.”

“He doesn’t like you?”

“He likes me plenty. He just doesn’t need me.”

Aegon nods. His eyes travel over you slowly and meditatively, not leering but learning, memorizing slopes and angles, taking you in like he’s never been able to before. He is in the brief lull between doses of milk of the poppy: lucid enough to speak but not so much that he can feel the full extent of his injuries. “Are you married?”

This is a bit of a fraught subject. “I am betrothed.”

“Oh,” he says, with what might be disappointment. “And he wouldn’t rather have you home right now? Putting all that knowledge of male anatomy to good use? That’s difficult to believe.”

You peer evasively down at your book. “He has a role to play in the war. I’ve been given permission to serve in my own way until it is over.”

“Permission,” Aegon echoes. He finds this interesting. He studies you for a while before he asks, his voice gentle: “What’s wrong with him?”

“Nothing. He’s honorable, he’s brave. He’s marvelously formidable. He could carry you around like a sack of potatoes.”

Aegon chuckles, a slow reflective laugh, curiosity, intrigue, something to think about besides the fact that he’s missing half his skin. “Do you fear marriage?”

What is the answer to that question? Do you even know yourself? “I fear being possessed. And having no remedy if the circumstances are not to my liking.”

“You can’t get one of your three superfluous sisters to marry him instead?”

You smile faintly. “No, we’ve met. He chose me, he favored me. I’m not sure why.”

“Probably because you’ve read all there is to know about cocks.” Aegon grins, drowsy and crooked and playful. “Who is he?”

“Just a man,” you say. You can’t tell Aegon more than that. It would give your Black affiliations away.

You are betrothed to the Warden of the North, Lord Cregan Stark.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Ian McDonald's "The Wilding"

I'll be in TUCSON, AZ from November 8-10: I'm the GUEST OF HONOR at the TUSCON SCIENCE FICTION CONVENTION.

Ian McDonald is one of those absurdly brilliant novelists that just leave me wondering the actual fuck he manages it. How does he cover so much ground, think up so many compelling characters, find so many gracenotes, conjure up so many complicated emotions?

McDonald burst on the scene in the late 1980s, with the 1988 novel Desolation Road and then his 1989 Out On Blue Six, a slick, stylized cyberpunk-meets-Orwell tale that overflowed with beautiful prose, technomysticism, and sly jokes that hid sneaky truths that hid even more sly jokes:

https://memex.craphound.com/2014/01/20/out-on-blue-six-ian-mcdonalds-brilliant-novel-is-back/

By my count, McDonald has now published twenty books – mostly novels, but a couple short story collections (and the most amazingly demented, Tom-Waits-inflected teddybear murder comic imaginable, 1994's Kling Klang Klatch):

https://irishcomics.fandom.com/wiki/Kling_Klang_Klatch

McDonald's work is truly globespanning. While he's made his mark on the Martian soil, and overtaken the moon with the Luna trilogy (his definitive rebuttal to Heinlein's Moon Is a Harsh Mistress) he is widely adored and much-awarded for the glittering, futuristic versions of Brazil (Brasyl), Tanzania (the Chaga series), and India (River of Gods).

Indeed, McDonald's imagination has roamed so far over the Earth and the solar system that it's possible to overlook his fantastic reimaginings of Ireland, the land where he was raised. There's his Philip K Dick Award-winning 1991 novel King of Morning, Queen of Day, a swirling, mythopoeic novel of Celtic mysticism:

https://www.baen.com/king-of-morning-queen-of-day.html

And then there's 1992's Hearts, Hands and Voices, which is lowkey one of the best novels I have ever, ever read – a scorching science fictional allegory for The Troubles, but with the gnarliest biotech weirdness you can possibly imagine:

https://archive.org/details/heartshandsvoice0000ianm/mode/2up

McDonald's books cover so much goddamned ground, but one feature they all share is a prose styling wherein every sentence is at least 20% poetry, a fraction that somehow, impossibly, rises to as much as 150% in certain especially shiny passages.

Like this passage, which opens The Wilding, McDonald's new horror novel that marks his first return to Ireland since 1992:

Autumn lay on the great bog in silvers and tans, late purples and duns.

The sun rose above the tall ash saplings and feral sycamore. It called the birds into full voice. Stabbing shrills, tumbles of notes, the flutes of dove-call, frantic ticking hisses, song upon song. In hedgerows and copses, among the pale foliage of the birches, in the weave of deep willow and the bramble fastnesses, each bird called and was heard. In this season the peatland held the day's warmth through the night and on the bright, clear mornings rivers of mist formed, filling the subtle hollow places in the exposed cuttings, the bogs and fields. High sun would dispel it but at this hour half of Lough Carrow lay mist-bound. Each blade of grass hung heavy with dew, the clumps of sedges were already browning, the bracken curling and crisping.

A pair of horns lifted above the willow scrub and out-grown ash hedges of the Wilding. Polished tips caught the low sun and kindled as bright and keen as spears.

https://www.gollancz.co.uk/titles/ian-mcdonald/the-wilding/9781399611503/

Oof.

I would drop everything to read Ian McDonald's grocery lists but after that opening, I wasn't going to put this one down, and I didn't, reading the whole thing on yesterday's flight home from my gigs in Atlanta this week.

The Wilding is (I'm pretty sure?) McDonald's first horror novel, and it's fucking terrifying. It's set in a rural Irish peat bog that has been acquired by a conservation authority that is rewilding it after a century of industrial peat mining that stripped it back nearly to the bedrock. This rewilding process has been greatly accelerated by the covid lockdowns, which reduced the human footprint in the conservation area to nearly zero.

The story's protagonist is Lisa, a hard-case Dubliner who came to the bog to do community service after a career as a crime syndicate driver for hire, a woman who never met a car she couldn't boost and pilot in or out of any tight situation. After years in the bog, she's ready to start a new life, studying Yeats at university, indulging a late-discovered love of poetry that has as much to do with her redemption as her years in the wild.

Lisa's last duty before she leaves the bog and goes home to Dublin is leading a school group on a wild campout in one of the bog's deep clearings. It's a routine assignment, and while it's not her favorite duty, it's also not a serious hardship.

But as the group hikes out to the campsite, one of her fellow guides is killed, without warning, by a mysterious beast that moves so quickly they can barely make out its monstrous form. Thus begins a tense, mysterious, spooky as hell story of survival in a haunted woods, written in the kind of poesy that has defined McDonald's career, and which – when deployed in service of terror – has the power to raise literal goosebumps.

There's a lot of fantasy that deals with Celtic mythology, including McDonald's own King of Morning, Queen of Day, but the vibe of that stuff tends to the heroic and romantic – sure, there's the odd banshee, but in the main, it's mischievous wee people, pookas, and leprechauns. More fey than fear.

But Irish mythology in its raw form is terrifying. The monsters of Irish storytelling are grotesque, mean, remorseless, and come in every shape and size. Some authors have done well by going back to the bestiary for the deep cuts. When I was a kid, I must have read John Coyne's Hobgoblin fifty times (mostly because it was about D&D, which I was obsessed with). I haven't read this one since I was about 12, and I have no idea if it'd hold up today, but it left me with a deep appreciation of the spooky multifariousness of monsters who dwell in Ireland's bogs:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hobgoblin_(novel)

The Wilding is a suspense novel, which means there's no way to really sum up the plot without spoiling a lot of the affect, but suffice to say that McDonald brings large swathes of deep Irish lore to the surface, and it had me reading as fast as I could and wanting to put the book down and hide.

What a writer McDonald is! The fact that this is the same guy who wrote last year's stunning secret-history/solarpunk/uncategorizable wonder that was Hopeland beggars belief:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/05/30/electromancy/#the-grace

Read you some Ian McDonald novels, is what I'm trying to say. This one is only available in the UK, if that's not where you are, consider mail-ordering it. Looks like they've got stock at Forbidden Planet for £19 plus £18 shipping to the US. Worth every penny:

https://forbiddenplanet.com/424306-the-wilding-hardcover/

Tor Books as just published two new, free LITTLE BROTHER stories: VIGILANT, about creepy surveillance in distance education; and SPILL, about oil pipelines and indigenous landback.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/10/25/bogman/#erin-go-aaaaaaargh

[mawidixon]

"I will be your light in this cruel world"

Daryl x fem!reader

one-shot

Genre: fluff

Setting: Season 5 - Alexandria

Warnings: Twd violance (killing walkers and other stuff), swearing

Summary: Daryl never thought about marriage until he stumbled upon a beautiful ring in an abandoned jewelry store. From that moment, he put all his effort into making the engagement special.

A/N: I love that one-shot! I wanted to write Ink and Ashes first, but I just needed to write this!

@mawi22 I don't want my work to be modified, copied, or any of this kind of stuff without my consent!!!

It was one of those days when nothing seemed to happen and all the time was wasted. Daryl was on the run, alone because you were assisting Carol in cooking a meal for the rest of the people. To make matters worse, you had accidentally cut your leg while in the woods and you could not run in case of anything. Daryl, the hunter that he is, was now walking on a street that looked as if it had been abandoned. Attached to his belt were several rabbits that he had killed during the day.

The street was deserted; the closed shops bore testimony to what they used to be some time back. Cracked wooden panels and peeled paint spoke of a different reality that no longer existed. Daryl’s eyes shifted from one store to the other, the archer was ever vigilant. He was not only hunting for food but he was looking for anything that could be of use back in Alexandria.

He walked around each shop with purpose, looking for groceries, food tins, medicine, utensils, clothes, and other items. The rabbits followed the movements of the man, a small sign that he was successful in hunting. With every twist of the handle of a door and every crunch of his boots on the floor littered with debris, his senses were heightened. Daryl was determined; Alexandria required much more than food, and he aimed to make the people there as ready as they could be.

Soon, Daryl approached a destroyed jewelry store, its windows shattered and the door barely hanging on its hinges. With a cautious glance around, he pushed the door open, the jingle of a broken bell echoing eerily in the silence. Inside, the store was a chaotic mess, but remarkably, the displays of rings, necklaces, and other jewelry remained largely untouched. As he stepped further in, Daryl's eyes scanned the glittering pieces. Gold, silver, and other precious metals lay scattered about, some adorned with diamonds, others with various gemstones. The price tags, still attached, revealed their former value—these items had been incredibly expensive. In the old world, Daryl wouldn't have given them a second look, their opulence far removed from his everyday concerns. But now, in this new world where rules no longer applied, he could take whatever he wanted without consequence. Yet, the question lingered: what was the point?

Daryl continued his search, moving from display to display, his mind occupied with thoughts of Alexandria and the group. He checked behind counters, opened drawers, and scanned the room for anything useful. He was about to leave, dismissing the jewelry as unnecessary, when something caught his eye.

In a dusty display case near the back, a beautiful gold ring with a shiny sapphire gleamed faintly. The deep blue stone seemed to capture the dim light perfectly, drawing him closer. Daryl's thoughts immediately turned to you. He remembered the welcome party in Alexandria, how stunning you looked in that blue dress, the way it brought out the color in your eyes. The sapphire reminded him of that exact shade. He stood there for a moment, the ring in his hand, feeling an unexpected wave of sentimentality. In the chaos of their current lives, moments of normalcy and beauty were rare. This ring, this small token, could bring a bit of that back. He imagined your face lighting up when he gave it to you, a symbol of something good amidst the turmoil.

With a newfound resolve, Daryl slipped the ring into his pocket and left the store. The day, which had started as long and monotonous, had suddenly gained a new purpose. He continued his search of the abandoned street, but now with a hint of a smile, knowing he had found something special for you.

"I dun' know when to give 'er this ring," Daryl said, his rough voice barely a murmur as he twirled the sapphire ring between his fingers. The deep blue gem caught the light, casting small reflections on the walls of the dimly lit room.

Rick, leaning against the doorframe, glanced at the ring and then back at Daryl. "You've been together for a long time," he said, his tone gentle but firm. "Maybe it's time to propose to her." Daryl shook his head, a mix of uncertainty and self-doubt clouding his usually stoic expression. "Nah, she gonna say no," he muttered, his gaze fixed on the ring. Rick stepped closer, his brows furrowing in concern. "Why do you think like that?" he asked. "She loves you, man. And you love her. What's the problem?"

Daryl let out a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping slightly. "It's jus'... things ain't never been normal for me, Rick. I ain't used to all this," he gestured vaguely with the ring, indicating the weight of emotions and commitments it represented. "What if I ain't good enough for 'er?" Rick's expression softened. He placed a reassuring hand on Daryl's shoulder. "Listen, we've all been through hell and back. None of us are the same as we were before all this. But what you have with her, that's real."

Daryl glanced up, meeting Rick's eyes. There was a flicker of hope in his otherwise guarded expression. "Ya really think she'd say yes?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. Rick nodded firmly. "I do. She's stuck by you through everything, Daryl. That means something. She sees the good in you, even when you don't see it in yourself."

...

After that talk with Rick, Daryl began seriously thinking about how to propose. He knew it had to be perfect, something truly special. Unsure of how to go about it, he sought advice from Carol and a few others. Carol, always insightful and supportive, offered him some ideas and shared stories of heartfelt proposals she had witnessed.

With their guidance, Daryl finally crafted a plan. He remembered how much you loved daisy flowers, and he knew of a meadow not too far from Alexandria where plenty of daisies grew. It was a place you often spoke about with fondness, a reminder of simpler, happier times. He also knew the perfect spot to propose—a secluded lake nestled in the middle of the forest. This location held a special place in his heart, reminding him of your gentle touch and the soft kisses you often placed on his forehead. The tranquility and beauty of the lake made it the ideal setting for such an important moment.

Determined, Daryl set his plan into motion. He decided to tell you he had arranged a special date, something to brighten your spirits and provide a brief escape from the harsh realities of their world. On the day of the proposal, he rose early and made his way to the meadow. There, amidst the tall grass and wildflowers, he carefully picked a bouquet of the freshest, most beautiful daisies, picturing the delight on your face when you saw them.

"Y/N! You really dun' have to do make-up. Remember we're goin' to the forest," Daryl called out from behind the door, his voice carrying a mix of impatience and affectionate concern.

Inside the room, you were transforming yourself into a vision of beauty. With careful precision, you applied your makeup, enhancing your features with subtle touches. Your eyes sparkled with a hint of eyeliner, your lips a soft shade of pink. As you finished, you turned to the beautiful long white dress that Jessie had given you. The fabric was soft and flowed gracefully around you, hugging your figure perfectly and making you feel elegant and radiant.

You slipped into the dress, smoothing it down and twirling slightly to see how it moved. The dress was more than just clothing; it was a piece of the old world, a reminder of times when dressing up was a regular part of life. In this dress, you felt a connection to those memories, a sense of normalcy that was rare in these harsh times. True, you were heading into the forest where walkers could be lurking, but you felt confident. Your experiences had honed your survival skills, and you knew you could fight and run if necessary, even in a long dress. The dress might be unconventional for such an outing, but it made you feel special, and you wanted to hold onto that feeling.

You took a final look in the mirror, admiring the transformation. The long white dress accentuated your grace and poise, and the makeup highlighted your natural beauty. With a deep breath, you turned towards the door and opened it. Daryl stood there, his rugged features softening as he took in your appearance. His eyes widened slightly, a mix of surprise and admiration flickering across his face. He scratched the back of his head, looking a bit flustered.

"You look...amazing," he said, his voice sincere and a bit husky. "But you sure 'bout that dress? We might have to run."

You smiled, feeling a rush of affection for him. "I'm sure, Daryl."

Daryl chuckled, shaking his head. "Alright, jus' stay close to me."

You nodded, and together you stepped outside. The late afternoon sun cast a warm, golden glow over Alexandria, and the path to the forest beckoned. As you walked beside Daryl, the dress swaying with your movements, you felt a sense of excitement and anticipation. Whatever the day held, you were ready to face it, with Daryl by your side and a touch of elegance to remind you of the beauty still left in the world.

You had been walking for about ten minutes when you finally reached the place by the lake. The forest seemed to part just for you, revealing the serene expanse of water nestled among the trees. The wind gently swayed the leaves, creating a soothing rustling sound, and the lake's surface was calm, reflecting the late afternoon sky like a mirror. You and Daryl found a spot by the water's edge, where the grass was soft and inviting. As you sat down, you couldn't help but wonder if Daryl had scouted and cleaned up this area beforehand. There were no walkers in sight, save for maybe two or three in the far distance, making you feel surprisingly safe and at ease.

Settling onto the grass, you let out a contented sigh. The tranquility of the place was mesmerizing, and you felt a rare sense of peace wash over you. Daryl sat beside you, his presence warm and comforting. As you talked and laughed together, he reached out and rested his hand on your thigh, a simple gesture that always made you blush. His touch was gentle yet possessive, a silent reassurance of his affection. You glanced at him, catching the way he was looking at you. His eyes were filled with a mixture of admiration and tenderness that made your heart flutter. The intensity of his gaze left no doubt in your mind-Daryl adored you. Each look, each touch, spoke volumes of his love and devotion.

The conversation flowed easily between you, interspersed with moments of comfortable silence. The sun was beginning to set, casting a golden glow over the lake and the surrounding trees. You leaned back on your hands, your dress spreading out around you like a halo, and took in the beauty of the scene. The soft hum of nature, the warmth of Daryl's hand on your thigh, and the serene ambiance of the lake combined to create a perfect moment. Daryl shifted slightly, and you turned to look at him again. He seemed a bit nervous, his usual calm demeanor tinged with something else. He took a deep breath, and you felt a sense of anticipation build.

"Y/N," he began, his voice low and earnest. "There's somethin' I wanna ask" Your heart skipped a beat as you saw him reach into his pocket. The world seemed to slow down as he pulled out a small box and opened it to reveal a beautiful gold ring with a sparkling sapphire.

"Will ya marry me?" he asked, his voice filled with hope and love.

Tears welled up in your eyes as you looked at the ring and then back at Daryl. This moment, in this beautiful place, was everything you had ever dreamed of. With a joyous smile and a heart full of love, you answered him.

"Yes!" you said, your voice trembling with emotion.

He slipped the ring onto your finger, and you both leaned in for a kiss, sealing the promise of a future together. The lake and the forest stood as silent witnesses to your love.

As you admired your new ring, you noticed Daryl seemed a bit uneasy. "You okay?" you asked, your voice filled with concern.

"Yeah...jus' I forgot 'bout..." he muttered, sighing heavily. You gave him a look that immediately coaxed the rest of his words out. "I wanted to give ya daisy flowers but I fuckin' forgot. 'M sorry," he admitted, his eyes dropping with a hint of regret.

Your face softened, and you laid a gentle kiss on his cheek. "You can give me them at home. There's nothing to be sorry for."

Just then, you both heard a cracking sound. Daryl immediately stood up, crossbow in hand, ready for action. Emerging from the trees were six walkers, their movements slow but menacing. Without hesitation, Daryl shot four of them with swift precision. You sprang to your feet, adrenaline coursing through you, and with swift, practiced movements, you took down the remaining two, leaving your dress and pretty face splattered with blood. Despite the gore, you smiled triumphantly. Daryl looked at your blood-stained dress and shook his head. "I could've shot them all, darlin'. No blood on your dress was needed."

You glanced at the lake and chuckled. "Maybe a quick bath?" you suggested, a mischievous glint in your eye. Looking at your future husband, you smirked and grabbed his hand, trying to pull him towards the water. "Come on!" With a playful laugh, you both stumbled into the lake, the cool water washing away the blood and grime. The sudden chill took your breath away, but the laughter and the joy of the moment kept you warm. You felt the weight of the world lift as you splashed around with Daryl, the man you loved.

The atmosphere was perfect, filled with laughter and light. You looked at Daryl, his hair wet and his eyes twinkling with happiness, and felt a surge of love and gratitude. This man, who had been through so much, was your friend, your partner, and soon, your husband.

As you floated together in the lake, the setting sun casting a golden hue over the water, you felt an overwhelming sense of peace. The feeling that you would soon be married to the man you loved filled you with joy. You knew that no matter what challenges lay ahead, you would face them together.

You are his light and hope for a better tomorrow.

[grnherbs]

behind closed doors.

eighteen plus, mdni

an: my first "proper" fic back in months, I'm so sorry :(( also sorry it's not anything re or related, I've been so reinvested in peaky blinders lately :{ i hope you enjoy anyway, ily lots xoxox. also this is much shorter than i thought so rip.

he pushes your head down into the ground and wraps calloused fingers around your wrists, the bend of his knee in the back of yours as he holds you down. "pinned you again, darlin, haven't i?" he teases, moth by your ear, the accent rolling off his tongue.

he places his hand into his pocket, pulling out a prerolled cigarette and placing it between his lips, before lighting it with the embellished silver gas lighter, one hand still holding your wrists together, swallowing the seemingly tiny frame of your wrists in those veined hands.

the scent of aftershave and cigarettes filled your senses and you inhale somewhat, taking in the familar scent of your friend .

"and where do we go from here, eh?, sweetheart?" he teased, the ever pressing feeling of dirt sticking to your cheek which was smoothed into the floor of the room, feeling amplified tenfold under the sensitivity and passionate embarrassment you were feeling.

"missed you," you whine pathetically out to the older man, words falling on deaf ears as a dark chuckle proceeded to fall from his lips, before he licked them, leaning down and kissing behind your ear, nose rubbing against the back of your neck, sending a shudder down your back, not unfelt by him.

"you're so easy t' work up, all i gotta do is look at you and you're mine, don't i?" and you nod again, breath hitching. he took a drag of the cigarette, flipping you over to straddle his legs either side of yours, placing the cigarette between your lips.

your faces were inches away from eachother and the smoke from your exhales merged together, soft fog settling between you, before dissapating, his harsh blue eyes shone through regardless.

in the next moment his lips were on yours, a surprised squeak leaves your mouth and he smirked into the kiss, parting your lips with his tongue as the smokey taste reverberated into your mouth once more. the kiss was tough but soft, moulding together with every movement as you lay beneath him.

his hand lazily made its way down your body, laying on instances, caressing your throat, your collarbones, your chest.

"c'mon then, lemme show you why you're mine" he coldly states, bringing his mouth to your neck, undoing buttons on the work shirt you wore, until you lay exposed to him, cold air prickling at your nipples and he raises an eyebrow before moving down to kiss them, cigarette long forgotten, lay sizzling in the ash tray to the side of your head.

his long fingers stay tracing your sides, drawing figures and he dotes or your nipples, a whine escaping your mouth "shit..." you exasperate, feeling his pride bouncing off his activity, egging him to carry on his ministrations and he does.

he pulls your shirt fully off now, chucking his cap to the side and moving his lower body up to completely lift your skirt, not bothering to even pull it off. he shuffles down and you hear a laugh as he plunges a finger into you, wet slick covering them and you gasp, gripping his wrist and tears brim in your eyes, he shushes you, kissing your jawline and begins to move his finger in slow movements, stretching you out as much as possible, enjoying the pulse of you wrapped around it.

"my gorgeous fuckin girl ey?" he retorts, watching you writhe around upon him "this needy for a fucking finger, and you just wait till i stick my cock in you, innocent girl" his dark drawl echoes in your head and you feel drunk from the sound of it, before you notice he's slipped another finger in and begins fucking you with them, lewd sounds filling the air, along with the explicit sounds leaving your own mouth.

"t-tom what if someone hears us" you whine up into his chest and he shakes his head "let 'em, let 'em hear what a fucking whore you are for me" he leans down again, kissing your forehead "whatever happens behind closed doors darlin'"

his fingers reach spots you simlly couldn't and the euphoria of the high hits you, cheeks reddening as moments tick by, watching him;watching you.

he removes his fingers before you climax, pushing your knees apart with a tap of his palm on yout outer thigh, obediently you know what he wants now, used to the routine which follows now. he unbuttons his trousers, almost excruciatingly slow, eyes fixed upon you the whole time, barely even bothering to pull them down past his knees, as he's fucking into you in seconds.

his hips jut into you with a quickened pace, sweat resting upon his brow as he buries his head in your shoulder again, huffing out a string of curses by your ears, the eroticism increasing by second. "s-shit!" you cry out, moaning even louder now, sloppily moving your hips in time with his too, synchronised, entirely in the moment together.

he strokes your hair from your forehead as he leans upon his forearm to gather more momentum, fucking into you with force now, his own breath becoming shallow and his pace becoming sloppier, trying to hold out for longer, groaning about how good you feel in your ears.

the build up in your stomach rising and falling and rising again, each time closer and closer to the brink of falling over the edge. "tommy, please, i, i want to, need you" and he soothes you again, nodding, his own high approaching as he helps you ride out your orgasm, legs clenched round his waist, pulling him in, clenching around him as he cums deep within you, a content sigh leaving his throat, collapsing upon you.

you lay breathless for a moment, his body on top of yours and you both pant with exhaustion, whilst you lazily stroke his hair, eyes heavy and heat lingers in the air.

he plants a kiss on your collar, leaving you smiling and you bite your lip. he nudges in further and you close your eyes. content within the moment.

[marthawrites]

The Post-Flying Gift

Daemon Targaryen x Rhaenyra Targaryen x fem reader

Can be read as a one shot but reads best to pt 3 to "Whore, Pet, Lover"

Word count: 2.2k+

About: A rare fully sunny day beckons Daemon and Rhaenyra to fly their dragons above Dragonstone for hours. You are more than happy to watch them in flight. When they return, their dragonblood runs hot.

Includes: Continued slice of life plot, canon incest (this is canon Daemon and Rhaenyra), f/f, pet play undertones, dumbification understones, pussy eating, vaginal fingering, Daemon is stealthy, m/f, implied dick sucking, implied facefucking, aftercare

Note: Hello lovely reader! Apparently it's been nearly a year since I wrote "the gift that keeps giving". WILD. I definitely wanted to revisit this little mini series because my Daemyra brainrot is always real. As always, reader is non-descript. Please, enjoy! ♥

-

A warm sun glinted off Caraxes’ crimson body as he flew above the ocean of Blackwater Bay with Daemon at his reins. So red, and so swift was he against the blue sky, that he appeared to rend the sky with each passing by. Chasing and playing with the Blood-Wyrm was Rhaenyra upon the yellow-scaled Syrax who shone like burnished gold in the sunshine. They’d been flying at least two hours now–perhaps longer.

You had a perfect view of the Black Queen and her Prince Consort from where you stood upon their private balcony overlooking all of Dragonmount. Castle Dragonstone was as much your home now as your previous home had been. You were a birthday gift for the Queen. Deemed “the prettiest whore in all of Westeros” by Daemon Targareyn. A whore you were, then, and now, their little pet. They’ve never treated you badly. You’d never given them a reason to. Oftentimes in the sweet afterglow of your shared pleasures you daresay you are their lover: more than a whore and more than a pet.

Turning inside, you tidied their martial chambers and made sure to have clothes laid out for them for when they return from dragon riding. They both had special garb to fly in. Dragon smell was a very distinct thing, and in your experience even the most skilled servants had a hard time fully ridding the stink. A platter of herb roasted fish, tart berries, and salted root vegetables also sat awaiting their return. 

With a goblet of wine in hand, you returned to the balcony to watch them in flight. Scanning all over where your eyes could see–and double checking–you didn’t see, or hear, them anywhere. They might finally be done, you thought, and a smile twinkled up to your eyes.

A windswept Rhaenyra was the first to return. Silver strands of hair fell from her once neat braid giving her a wonderfully disheveled appearance. “Your Grace!” You said excitedly.

Rhaenyra grinned, beginning to take her leather riding gloves off. Her eyes were bright and wild. “Hello sweet love.” Flight had a way of elating her like none else could. Her riding garb was a mixture of wool and leather, both ash in color, and embellished with black dragonscales. Silver accents paled only in comparison to red gems highlighting the whole set up: coat, tunic, gloves, pants, boots. Aside from her rich Targaryen gowns, this was her favorite attire. “Did you enjoy watching my husband and I fly together?”

“Always! I could watch you both all day from the balcony.”

Matching Rhaenyra’s eyes, a wild smile took over the rest of her features; something dark and mischievous alike. A challenge and a dare. Proud and amused. “Out of all the gifts my husband has ever gotten me… you are my favorite. By far. My darling little pet,” she cooed as she opened the front of her coat and began unbuckling her belt. She sat in a chair and bent to work the lacings of her boots loose. Kicking them off, she sighed contentedly. “Mayhaps one day I will take you asaddle with me on Syrax. Would you like that?”

If watching your Queen begin to undress didn’t get your blood pumping, then her suggestion of flight surely did. “You mean it?” You asked, half dumbfounded by her proposal. “I would love nothing more!”

Her legs were bare, now, and she tossed her coat over to a nearby chair. The only thing she wore was her linen undershirt and smallclothes. She leaned back comfortably against the chair, legs outstretched and crossed at the ankle, and  she beckoned you over with one hand. “Come,” she said with a tilt of her head.

The sly little smirk upon her mouth had your belly doing flips as you walked to her. She was so lovely, and radiant, and tension sparked in the air between you two as you stepped between her legs. “Shall I redo your braid?” You asked softly, doing your best to keep your eagerness at a reasonable level. You really didn’t want to seem completely pathetic. Though, Rhaenerya knew how pathetic you could get for both her and Daemon; the glint of her expression told you she noted your anxious yearning.

Leaning up and forward, she gently cupped your face between her warm palms. With fluttering lids she pressed her lips to yours. Soft. Devious. “Not yet,” she whispered between sensuous kisses. “I don’t think that’s what you’re really interested in right now, is it?” 

Between Rhaenyra and Daemon, you didn’t know which one enjoyed making you blush more. She could see right through you. And, assumedly due to the thrill of flying, she wasn’t shy of putting you right on the spot. You shook your head and sighed blissfully against all of her kisses. You could kiss her until your lips were chapped and still kiss her more. “Not really…”

Her laugh was warm honey dripping down your spine. “I didn’t think so. Good girl for being honest about it.” Once again she leaned back against the chair as she looked at you with pride. But, the darkness of lust shadowed her features. “Flying is truly magnificent. It makes me feel… powerful. Invincible. And free.” As she spoke, one hand curled into your hair and began to gently urge you down. “It makes me feel good,” she added, raspy. “Be my good pet and keep making me feel good.”

Any thoughts you might have had going on in your brain were quickly shut down upon Rhaenyra’s request. You kept your eyes on her and shuddered with delight. You followed her downward push until you happily knelt right there in front of her–right between her parted legs. You pressed both hands up her thighs while planting kisses all along the smooth insides. “I love making you feel good,” you said to her, and she answered with a curl of her fingers inside your hair. You smiled; thoughts already dissipating from your brain.

“Such a pretty, sweet thing looking up at me like that,” Rhaenyra cooed approvingly. She shifted her hips slightly, just enough to make your ministrations easier.

The Black Queen smelled like a dragon. On anyone else you’d hate the sharpness of it. The stink. But on her? Somehow, it was perfect. Between the salty sea air on her skin, unclouded sun rays in her hair, and saddle leather where you knelt, she was the Dragon Queen. Tension rolled through your body until it left the buzz of excitement behind in each place it lingered. You were humming from the inside out. Purring. Rhaenyra’s pretty pet. Leaning down, you sat on all fours in front of her, now. You kissed her covered cunt where you knew her clit was.

The softest of a sigh left Rhaenyra’s mouth. “Tease me any longer and I’ll forbid you from watching us for the next fortnight,” she threatened.

“Yes, your Grace,” you simpered. Curling your fingers beneath the waist of her smallclothes, you pulled them fully down and off. Now there was nothing stopping you from what you both wanted. You repeated those same kisses over her pearl; each longer, softer, your lips parting more and more with each until you tasted her on your tongue. 

“There you are,” she rasped. Looking down at you she smirked triumphantly. She ran her fingers through your hair and said, “keep going. Keep making me feel good.” 

A whine broke from you and your tongue slid up through the fullness of Rhaenyra’s slit. When you saw how her head tipped back in bliss, your own head went brainless–focused now only on her pleasure. You lapped, and circled, and gently sucked, over and over again, your whole attention solely on her and her pleasure. Each of her whines, moans, and inhales of breath sent goosebumps pebbling atop your skin.

Make her feel good. Make her feel good. Make her feel good.

You loved the way she tasted. You loved the way she reacted to you. You loved the way she idly stroked through your hair, or pulled it, or held onto your ears. She was never shy in her passions, and neither were you. 

You lavished her clit until your jaw ached, but you never let it stop you. Rhaenyra’s sounds of pleasure were coming quicker now, sharper, and you knew she was getting close. It was then you delicately slipped a finger into her and began to work her from the inside, too.

“More,” she half stammered.

You added a second and moaned against her. It was only then that you realized how wet you were. How utterly soaked and needy your own cunt was. It clenched around nothing, your bud practically throbbing, your thighs pressing together to give you some minor relief from the pent up tension knotting in your belly. Yet never once did your own hand wander to that incredibly yearning space between your thighs. Your eyes were rolled closed. Only Rhaenyra’s building climax mattered. 

More. More. More.

She shuddered when she came undone around your fingers and upon your mouth. Her orgasm was sweet against your tongue; you dripped with self-satisfaction. It continued to roll through her in waves until the aftershocks had her panting softly. But, even still, you gently licked over all of her. Not enough to overstimulate her, but enough to keep her peak going as long as it could. You moaned softly all throughout; purring.

So lost in bliss, and so focused on your Queen, you hadn’t noticed anything else. You didn’t hear the door open or close. Never did you hear the soft scruff of leather on stone. Nor did you take note of a presence behind you. It was only when you felt fingers pressing into you that you paused to think. Those weren’t your fingers. No. They were too big and felt entirely different than your own. You gasped; desperate. Looking over your shoulder you nearly crumbled.

“Valzȳrys” husband, Rhaenyra whispered with half-lidded eyes.

“Ābrazȳrys” wife, he answered. “You two are having all the fun. Have you any idea how fucking wet your little pet is right now?” As if to make a point, Daemon worked his fingers just right to make you squelch. It was borderline obscene.

Your face was hot and for a moment you thought you’d come right then and there. Your spine dipped lower, presenting yourself to him as he knelt behind you.

“Oh… and how pretty she moans.” Daemon crooned, easily sliding two fingers in and out of you at the most devastatingly wonderful pace. “Did she make you feel good?” He asked Rhaenyra, continuing to finger fuck you from behind.

Rhaenyra grinned wide and smiled breathlessly. “Very.”

“That's our girl.”

You shamelessly pushed back against his hand. You were so slick he could have easily slipped a third in. Despite how well you did, however, you didn’t want to seem greedy, and so you took all that you could from those two fingers. 

“Shall I let her come, or do you wish to see her tears first, my Queen?” 

Dread dropped in your stomach because you knew exactly what he meant by that. Rhaenyra fucking loved to watch Daemon edge you until you were crying and begging for release. It was one of the darker games they liked to play with you. If at any time you wanted the game to stop–everyone knew–all you had to do was ask. Yet, never once had you brought the edging to an early end. As much as you hated it, you also fucking loved it. And so did Daemon. 

Rhaenyra shook her head, still basking in the afterglow of climax. “She did extremely well today. Let her come as she pleases.”

That’s all Daemon needed to hear. He indeed pressed a third into you and gave you exactly what he knew you liked. The tension in your belly sunk deeper, and wound tighter, and had you blabbering near gibberish until it snapped. Liquid warmth filled all of your limbs. Storm static clung to each of your nerves. Your pulse pounded in your fingertips. The force of your peak had you collapse forward until your cheek lay flat on the rug-covered stone floor. You panted, dizzy. 

Daemon gave your backside an approving smack. “A very good girl.”

You smiled softly at both of them relishing in the adoration they had for you, and you had for them. Leaning back up, you gently laid in Rhaenyra’s lap and allowed your eyes to close for a few moments. It wasn’t until Daemon called you that you woke. How long had you dozed off?

“Hm?” You asked.

“Crawl to me,” he said from where he sat in a chair, nude from the waist down with his doublet open. He was already hard.

You didn’t have to be asked twice.

You crawled to him and knelt between his thighs, looking up at him sweetly, obediently.

“Now it’s your Queen’s turn to watch. You know how much she likes watching. I don’t have to edge you to make tears fall from those pretty lashes, hm?”

Shaking your head with a tiny smirk, you knew exactly what he meant. With the sweetness of Rhaenyra’s climax still on your tongue, you took the Rogue Prince deep into your throat. You let him fuck your mouth how he wanted to until tears and saliva smeared your face, and and his seed overwhelmed the taste of your Queen.

It was in the sweet afterglow of these pleasures, where you all laughed, drank wine, and shared meals, that you truly felt like their lover.

-

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