#johanna swan

[maryaandmorevna]

A Song of Swan and Dragons V.

Read on ao3

Summary: Following Princess Rhaenyra as one of her ladies-in-waiting, Arianne Swann was woefully unprepared upon arriving at the Red Keep. No scroll or tome could have captured the astounding amount of gossip that thrived within the Targaryen court. For a mere lady like her, it felt as though she had made a catastrophic blunder before even having the chance to place her pieces on the board.

Yet, if she allowed her heart to guide her—especially toward the man it had chosen—Arianne believed she could endure anything and emerge triumphant. Prince Jacaerys Velaryon would one day be king, and though her father often said that hope was a fool’s errand, she dared to dream she might one day be his queen. If only his boor of an uncle would stop tormenting her.

Chapters: 5/? (59, 462k)

Warnings: safe for now, canon-typical sexism, the story will get progressively darker and will include explicit content, canon character death(s), dubcon, noncon, it's war folks

Tagging my dear @lacebvnny, hope you like it! Also, my dear beta @kyonkyon69!!!

I., II., III., IV.

V. Tōma

“The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves.”

—William Shakespeare

(Aemond)

.

Aemond was irked.

He clicked his jaw, following the glaringly pink fabric of Lady Swann's skirts and the crimson end of the girdle trailing along them as she disappeared between the courtiers. Who did the little courtesan think she was?

He cared not for her terrible company!

Aemond was rather attempting to excuse himself as well - his impeccable breeding and station all but forced him to continue conversing with her ladyship - so she did not have to invent an entire little charade to escape him.

There was no doubt in his mind that she understood how the taxation system worked — and that she might have been the only fool to read through Tyland's verbose and entirely tedious treatise.

Why would she waste time on matters of coin? Any Lord worth his salt had a steward to manage accounts and allocate resources. Did she fancy herself a Florence Fossoway?

Aemond scowled.

It was his day that was ruined!

He traced the ornately decorated pommel of his sword. It felt jarringly different than the silken warmth of Arianne Swann's skin.

Targaryen prince groaned and continued on his way. He passed the Grand Hall and went to Holdfast. This was merely a delay. He hated delays.

Of course, he had not meant to seize her wrist, it was —

Simply a momentary lapse of judgment.

His blood was incited from sparring all day.

Well, it was her fault. Infuriating wench, testing his patience and good graces.

He happened upon her as he strode to his chambers for a fresh change of clothes after the morning drills in the training yard. It had been a fairly lucrative morning, though the squires who served as his opponents could not say the same. Not when he had a point to drive home.

Aemond tried to focus on perfecting his techniques, as Cole advised, but the moment he saw those mongrels of his whore-sister, his muscles ticked. Jace and Luke kept to themselves, testing various swords and chatting with knights who were either unaware or cared not, that they were in fact bastards stealing Aemond's birthright.

Aegon's birthright. The One-eyed prince had to remind himself. But by extension, his as well.

At least the younger Lord Strong, a filthy craven, had not dared to stare at him directly. Mayhaps he remembered, Aemond thought while shoving Cole's squire violently to the ground, that he owed him a debt. 

A debt of blood that should be repaid in kind.

His useless father, The King, had not even deemed it fit to punish Luke for maiming his son.

"I cannot grow him another eye."

"No," Aemond recalled screaming and weeping while the maester cut his stitches.

"But you could have made it fair. An eye for an eye."

They were observing him, and it only fed Aemond's rage like a fattened lamb.

The squire yielded and the crowd gathered around him cheered.

"My Prince, shall we practice your parrying?" Criston Cole helped the man off the ground.

"Against me, for their sake."

Aemond took the offered shield, fixing his stance. He preferred facing Cole above all, as the man kept him on his toes, leaving no time to ruminate on veritable stupidities — like how Lady Swann's waist had fit so perfectly between his hands.

The way a rogue curl escaped her braided chignon, grazing the soft curve of her neck.

"It is merely practice." Criston paused after taking the blow from Aemond's vehement riposte.

"What weighs on your mind?"

He lowered his sword.

Aemond held his answer at bay — his sharp eye flicking toward Lucerys Velaryon, who was fruitlessly attempting to knock a weapon out of his brother's hand.

The older bastard at least knew how to fight properly.

What little challenge would it be to duel the bastard who took his eye! He could settle his grievance with one strike of his blade to the bastard's neck.

Alas, his mother had her own designs that required restraint.

"They will not be here for long."

Aemond stared at Cole, his silvery eyebrow twitching. He loathed not being privy to everything discussed behind the council chamber's double doors.

"Mother decided to welcome Vaemond Velaryon. He will petition for Driftmark's seat. Successfully."

Ser Criston fixed his padded gambeson, unwilling to commit to words.

His subdued reaction only confirmed it to Aemond — the theory that had crawled through his gritted teeth was indeed correct.

Their parrying continued, though the One-eyed Prince's thoughts veered like a warhorse.

What happy occurrence in this blighted world would it be — the bastards being stripped of the things they unlawfully seized as theirs and Rhaenyra shown for what she truly was. An old whore hiding on Dragonstone, where the Realm cannot witness her depravity.

Aegon's birthright would be restored. A bitter reminder flitted through his mind — Aegon would not even care. Just as he did not care when he shamed Helaena with his revels and his whores.

"Her Grace, the Queen will be fair in her judgment. As will your grandsire." Cole concurred.

Certainly, they will. The corner of Aemond's shapely mouth twisted. Depending on the number of Lords they might alienate.

He raised his shield high to defend against the blow. Cole made a quick turn and struck again, from the left — almost forcing him off balance.

The One-eyed prince cursed and repositioned himself.

It would serve that proud wench right if his nephew's true parentage were discussed publicly.

He cleared the sweat from his forehead.

A bastard and whore's granddaughter. What a lovely pair.

Aemond blocked Criston's diagonal strike and huffed.

What did he care about what happened to Saera's granddaughter? Her insult from last night was dealt with — his blood burned while he lectured the custodian to keep better watch over rare tomes — and he resolved not to spare a thought on her anymore.

She was nothing. A hayseed from the Marches.

Once Criston concluded they were done for today, Aemond's left arm trembled from holding a heavy shield steady under hundreds of blows.

He went to the armory to clean his blade until he could discern his visage in the polished metal.

His fingers hovered over the scar that split his right cheek in two. The deep red gash tugged at his attention, the rough ridge of it an ever-present reminder of that night. He often envisioned himself doling out justice for his mauling, his fingers bloody from tearing the disgusting bastard's eye out.

Fair.

He could gift it to his mother, a payment for her suffering long overdue.

She had wept over his loss, his disfigurement.

She had raged and raged but to no avail. His eye was gone and no one answered for it.

Alicent Hightower was not of the blood of the dragon and so Aemond could not blame her for failing to realize the sacrifice was worth it.

Vhagar was worth an eye, an arm, a leg — anything to him.

"You are still my handsome boy, Aemond. My loyal child."

She had cradled his face in her warm hands, her thumbs gliding softly over his cheeks.

"You are my son, the king's trueborn son. A scar does not change this." Her touch lingered at his temple, her thumb brushing over his brow in gentle strokes. Aemond buried his face into his mother's shoulder — careful to avoid pressing against the wound, still oozing through the bandages — and inhaled the myrrh and rose her hair was perfumed with.

How much he adored the comfort of those thick, curling strands.

When he was a babe, he would tug at the ringlets, watching them spring back into place.

"An eye will not change this."

Alicent had promised, fingers pressing into his shoulders, grounding him.

"When the time comes for marriage, you will not lack for prospects. This changes nothing—"  She shook him lightly as if she somehow knew Aegon had taunted him that he was now frightening maidens with his face. Aemond wanted to tell her that he cared not because it meant he frightened their enemies too.

"You will have the loveliest lady at court, if you wish it." The Queen promised.

"They will see me cold in my grave before I let them diminish you."

Aemond pulled away slightly, frowning.

"What does that matter?" he asked quietly.

"I will wed as is my duty. I care not whom."

His chest ached as he witnessed the unadulterated pride brimming in his mother's eyes.

Yet now, years later, he tried to ignore the most rotten of thoughts. It could be this — this defect, this ugliness—that had kept lady Arianne from accepting his invitation.

The eyepatch hugging the contours of his face hid the worst of it.

He scowled at himself.

This was imbecilic.

 After all, he was a man, not some fragile creature to be undone by a mark.

Not to mention, Aemond did notice the occasional lady casting bashful glances his way, batting their eyelashes —  and, if they managed to exchange words, flattering his Valyrian looks and his skill with the sword. It was the Targaryen Prince himself who ensured their aspirations advanced no further.

He would be damned by the Seven before allowing some vapid, sycophantic harlot to elevate herself at his expense.

It was past midday meal when he departed the training grounds, climbing stone steps and passing several spacious hallways on his way to the Holdfast.

It was rather happenstance that he decided to take a shortcut through one of the inner courtyards.

How could the gods force him to suffer her presence after the humiliation she had caused him?

Arianne Swann stumbled upon his path serendipitously because he was determined to avoid her and waste no thought on her after last night.

She was crying.

Red-faced and trembling, she was rushing along the colonnade, the hem of her pink woolen dress swishing frantically around her ankles.

Aemond found himself leaning against the cool marble pillar, his pale eye taking in the way her luxuriant curls tumbled in disarray, glinting like auburn embers under the shifting light.

The longest strands reached her svelte waist, adorned with a ruby-red silk girdle, the color of flame and fire.

Its sheen was as bold as blood, sashaying down her skirts.

When he saw her trip over her own feet, Aemond could not stop himself. His throat moved before reason could restrain him.

She was amusingly furious. Did she think he would deny it?

He wanted her to know. To understand that no one could slight him and walk away unscathed.

Least of all, a mere woman of no consequence.

She pointed her dainty finger at him, as though she had a right to demand anything of him, her sovereign — and Aemond's blood sang.

It surged through his veins, like molten fire, an intoxicating rush that dried his mouth. His good sense was affected by something primal, something he couldn’t name, coiling deep in his chest like a serpent.

Arianne Swann was a slight, delicate thing, with dark long lashes and a heart-shaped mouth — an infuriatingly insolent mouth.

What admirable mettle, to insult him to his face.

“Malevolent arse!” she hissed, venom dripping from every syllable. He couldn’t help but think that perhaps it was her grandmother's blood that burned so hotly within her. So alike his own.

He resolved to have this matter finished after last night — after making sure she paid for her transgression of refusing his generous offer — and here she was again, forcing the most distasteful thoughts to occupy his mind.

Aemond had more important matters to deal with than this unwelcome fancy. Finding a way to gouge the bastard's eye out without angering his mother, for starters.

He did not need this courtesan diverting his attention from enemies that were now occupying half the Holdfast.

A beguiling little spitfire pretending to be an innocent swan.

He was being sent to hell, in High-Valyrian no less. A tongue that, for him, was as familiar as his own breath.

She had formed the sentence correctly, yet her accent was downright atrocious.

Aemond’s lips curved faintly at the sound despite himself.

He knew he should have chastised her for it, but at that moment, his afflicted reason found her strange pronunciation oddly endearing— unpolished and wild, like a hatchling flailing through its first flight.

Something febrile and voracious twisted in his chest when Arianne, emboldened by her not-so-righteous fury, invaded his space. He could not be the only one afflicted by this unreasonable pull. Why else would she dare tread so close?

One-eyed Prince felt the heat of her proximity, the fierce determination in her eyes, and it ignited something far darker within him.

He wanted to bed her.

Even worse, he desired to listen to her harangue about the Siege of Norvos and discover a new expletive she would bestow him with after, inevitably, he corrected her flawed understanding of archaic High Valyrian.

His hand twitched at his side, every muscle in his body demanding action, and before he could think, his arm shot out to capture hers.

His fingers closed around her delicate wrist, more carefully than he cared to admit. Arianne Swann was just a woman, and he did not think he could derive pleasure from injuring one of her kind.

He was no Aegon.

The sudden contact was like a shock of cold fire, setting his skin alight.

She prattled about Iron Islands as if she did not understand what he implied less civilized men would take from her.

Was she so sheltered as to not understand that if men like himself did not keep order her life would have been miserable?

Aemond released her, irked that he was spurred into such an undignified reaction.

She ought to be thanking him, a trueborn Targaryen prince, rather than antagonizing him — his family was the protector of the Realm.

Rather than provoking him with that Lyseni-looking silk accentuating her waist.

Aemond examined the offensive fabric, sliding his thumb over its texture.

Blood was everything to Valyrians, and blood was red, ruby-red, and scorching.

Did she know? There should have been copies on Dragonstone, but with her lack of High-Valyrian...

He knew though.

Aemond pored over a multitude of scrolls pertaining to the Freehold. Some were brought by Aenar himself when he came to Dragonstone.

Before the doom, crimson girdles were bestowed by the Archon of Oros, a dragonlord from one of the twoscore ruling families, to his favorite wife — or his most prized concubine.

The girdle was a symbol of devotion, a mark of the highest favor, worn to signify one’s status as the most cherished of all.

It spread to Lys over time.

What business did it have draped around Arianne Swann's waist?

She was a nobody. She could not have known —

His lip curled with distaste, though his pulse quickened.

Did his bastard nephew know this? Was it a token of affection? Pathetic, really —

It was a flash of caustic spite that brought the insult — a Lyseni courtesan — to his throat, shoving it through his vocal cords.

Aemond saw the way her hand tightened, the flush painting her cheeks.

She was rattled, he could tell.

Would her cheeks color further, he wondered — the thought came with an almost shocking intensity — if he were to unwrap that silk from her waist, to feel its smoothness slip through his fingers, to see it fall away from her body, revealing what lay beneath.

No —

The sheer stupidity of lust astounded him.

Yet, as his disciplined reason rejected further musing on claiming Lady Arianne as his mistress, his blood thrummed at the thought.

The image of her, unwrapped, lying bare and pliant, seared through his thoughts with an unsettling fervor.

The One-eyed Prince didn’t want to allow her this leverage. To grant her residence inside his thoughts would be akin to a defeat.

He barely knew her — except that she had fun while playing cyvasse, and that she read Gawen, Gawen for fuck's sake, one of his favorite accounts on the Conqueror's reign, and thought a hundred dragons descending on Quarlon was worth losing sleep over.

He barely knew her and his instincts demanded he shove a dagger through the side of Tyland Lannister's neck.

She feigned ignorance, but he was not so naive as to believe she could pore over a scroll detailing the benefits of seigniorage while failing to understand taxation.

Aemond's jaw clicked.

Did she play the simple, devoted maiden for his nephew too? That would explain why the gossipers simpered how lovely a couple they made.

The One-eyed Prince stomped to the Queen's apartments.

Couldn't she have pretended simple for him too? That way he wouldn't have spared another thought for her. The Court was full of simpletons, some of them women, and he never felt anything but disdain for them.

"Prince Aemond, Your Grace."

The Kingsguard announced him before he entered the Queen's drawing room.

"Aemond." Alicent rose to her feet from where she sat, discussing matters with the Hand. The rich emerald folds of her gown shimmered with gold-threaded embroidery, tracing delicate patterns of fiddlehead ferns spiraling down the long, draping sleeves.

Her hands squeezed at his forearms gently, yet Aemond felt their reassurance nonetheless.

"Mother."

His tone softened.

"Grandsire," Aemond greeted, nodding toward the tall, commanding figure reclining on the chaise.

"Where is your brother?" Otto Hightower inquired, his voice measured but edged with expectation.

Drinking himself half to death, or dirtying the sheets of some whore.

"I reckon you know it better than I do." The Prince declared levelly.

Aegon was predictable if anything.

He would disappear for days at a time, and then re-emerge — filthy, hungover, his coin purse emptied. They should have never made his sweet sister marry the moron.

Alicent shook her head. After a pause, she turned to him once again.

"We will hold the petition over Driftmark's inheritance. One moon from now—"

"I know," Aemond interjected. "You were not going to let this opportunity slip when Vaemond Velaryon himself presented it."

The Queen's face bloomed with quiet worry, subtle yet unmistakable.

"While those people are here, you must look after Aegon. If he were to be discredited in any way —"

"I always do," Aemond replied, his voice even as a wave of bitterness lapped at his innards. He would, of course, ever the wastrel's loyal shadow.

The dutiful soldier.

Protecting his brother was a burden as constant as it was unwelcome. If only they could see that Aegon would never change, that he would have been a much better fit —

"Go on then, grandson." Otto dismissed him. "We have more matters to discuss."

Aemond's nostrils flared.

"What about the Strongs? Their very presence defiles the Keep. Rhaenyra flaunts them openly as if daring us to speak the truth!" He sneered.

"They ought to be thrown into the Blackwater Bay."

Alicent shook her head.

The One-eyed Prince was irked by their restraint. Lucerys Velaryon, the bastard who owed him a debt, was here. When will the debt be paid?

"You will do no such thing." The Hand's tone turned sharp, brooking no argument.

"This is not the time for rashness, boy."

"Aemond understands that." his mother interjected gently — her fingers brushing lightly against her son's upper arm in a fleeting, grounding touch.

"He has never faltered in his duties to the family and the crown."

The praise washed over the One-eyed Prince like a warm bath — stirring some desperate yearning he could never quite silence.

Aemond blinked.

The warmth evaporated when his gaze returned to his grandsire, made cold by the bitter truth. No amount of loyalty or sacrifice would change his place with Aegon.

"Nor will he." Otto set the goblet on the small table.

"Borros Baratheon is yet to have a male heir. Jason Lannister has five unwed daughters. Your hand, boy, might just become a very valuable tool in winning those to our side."

Aemond opened his mouth, but no words came. A tight pull settled beneath his ribs, uncomfortable and unyielding, as though something ancient within him bristled at the thought.

Vhagar was awake.

"Mother. Grandsire."

He inclined his head stiffly, excusing himself from the room.

Servants bowed low as he strode past, their eyes carefully averted. A familiar throbbing in his left temple only infuriated him more.

Marry Borros Baratheon's daughter!? Solely so a son he sires upon her can be named as an heir to Storm's End — not even to carry a Targaryen name. 

His firstborn son, continuing a legacy not his own!

The indignity gnawed at the inside of his skull.

He, a trueborn prince of the valyrian blood, condemned to live as a mere consort, awaiting the day their son would come of age to wield authority?

It punctured a wound in his pride so deep he shook from it.

The pain behind his left eye socket intensified.

Aemond did not even particularly wish to be married — not to some stranger, some lady fearful of his scar or too awed by his prestige. He already despised this unknown woman simply because he would have to bother with her feminine sensibilities.

Besides, who would look after Mother and Helaena if he were to be sent away to play husband to some frigid wench?

Who else would protect them? Aegon?

When he reached his chambers, he yanked off his boots with swift, irritated motions.

The bed dipped beneath his weight as he sank onto it.

For a brief moment, Aemond's sore muscles flooded with a rare, primal contentment.

Vhagar must have been devouring something to her liking — he felt the sharp pull of her voraciousness through their bond.

A living, undulating line beginning somewhere in the pool of his consciousness, puncturing through the back of his skull, and ending beneath the emerald scales.

Vhagar was his, the only creature who had ever truly recognized his worth, his grasping blood. A dragon had chosen him, after years of mockery and humiliation.

And not just any dragon — Visenya’s pride and joy, a beast unlike any other, fiercer and mightier than all her living kin.

He had been prepared to face death that windy night on Driftmark — to face her fire and ruin and be torn asunder by it, when she closed her gargantuan maws and allowed him to climb onto the saddle.

Vhagar claimed him, just as he claimed her.

Another wave of pain blossomed behind his temple, searing and relentless, crawling down his cheekbone like molten iron. His eye socket throbbed, rebelling against the cold touch of the jewel lodged within.

Aemond could practically hear her roaring from a shared ache.

With a weary sigh, he reached up and removed the eyepatch, setting it aside.

What use would siring sons even serve? For them to watch their birthright stolen by a whore of his sister and her bastards.

Aemond's jaw tightened at the thought, bile picking at his insides.

His thoughts flitted to Arianne Swann. To her green eyes and ruby-red silk hugging her svelte waist.

He shook his head sharply, as though the motion could banish the image.

For a while, he thought of nothing, following the pulsating pain in his left temple.

Those first weeks after the injury were nothing short of a nightmare — the gaping hole had to be cleaned constantly, and there was only so much milk of the poppy a boy of ten and two could take.

Three grown men had to hold him down as the Grand Maester scraped and scoured the raw flesh.

Helaena would bring him strawberries and fruit tarts after, and even Aegon could not find anything to laugh about for a few hours.

The first time they tried to fit the gemstone into the healed wound, Aemond shrieked so loudly that his agony echoed all the way down to the black cells beneath the Keep.

Missing straw dummies with a sword and being told it is what it is, boy, you've lost an eye was worse than the pain.

Aemond could not accept that.

A man who rode the largest dragon in the world could not be a weakling.

Day after day, he escaped to the training yard, despite his mother's protests. Even if it meant he now found himself worse than Aegon and his lickspittles — the young squires who fawned over his brother and followed his every word.

He snuck out even after the evening meals to the gardens of the West Wing, face still wrapped to keep his wound safe from the dirt, a cloak over his hair — probably the single useful thing Aegon ever taught him.

There, far from the laughter of the other boys and his mother's worried gaze, he practiced striking the tree bark, undisturbed, as the West Wing was mainly used to host visiting lords who had business with the Crown.

One time some sniveling girl-child almost ruined his little scheme. Her dress was black— some childish frock— and her hair bound in a net. At first, Aemond thought she might be a novice of the Faith.

Annoying as she was, asking him if he was crying — "I am not crying, you stupid toad! Leave me alone!" — she did give him his lucky handkerchief.

It was a rather ridiculous notion, as he did not believe in such things.

Yet, the day after he hit the straw dummy three times in a row, and the Grand Maester finally concluded the cleanings, torments were no longer required.

So he kept the stupid handkerchief, carrying it with him until he became someone who needed not something as fickle as a stroke of luck to beat anyone.

Aemond groaned at the insistent throbbing now circling his entire head.

It flared less these days, his eye socket adjusting to the pressure of a cold, smooth jewel pressed against its flesh at last.

But it was rather stubborn tonight. Trickling down his cheekbone and denying him rest.

Aemond wasted the night chasing sleep, limbs tangled in sheets.

Thoughts blurred into fragments — he felt the icy sting of air as he soared leagues above the earth, the cold bite of a blade slicing across his cheek, the unyielding weight of a sword in his grip, the fragility of a wrist caught between his fingertips, the heady rush of victory, and the clout of vēzos rhaenisar.

Rest eluded him, slipping further from his grasp with every passing moment.

By the hour of the wolf, his frustration spilled over like a roaring volcano.

He shoved the sheets to the floor and rose from the bed, bare feet striking the cold stone.

He had not touched the milk of the poppy in months, priding himself on withstanding pain without it — but it seemed now he would have to, lest the first light find him tired and haunted.

Only half a cup. No more than once per moon. Never more than half a cup.

Only the weak —

One day, he would collect his debt.

The One-eyed Prince succumbed to rest and woke in time for sword practice. Though without memory of the strange, disjointed poppy-induced dreams.

Lady Arianne crying because her crimson girdle does not fit.

Her belly swollen with a child.

Bastard's bastard.

A malformed little wyvern.

Bastard's bastard's bastard's —

The child has silver hair.

The noose tightens—around Aegon's neck. Around Helaena's neck. Around his mother's neck.

His—

Dark Sister is crimson with his family's blood. He is better, better —

Daemon lies dead with Aemond's sword in his throat.

He is plucking Lucerys Velaryon's eye out. It rests in his palm, slimy and round.

Arianne Swann tells him to go to Seven Hells.

Tells him the child is his.

Tells him he looks handsome with the iron and ruby crown of Aegon the Conqueror resting upon his head.

And then, with inexplicable certainty, he is wrapping a silken girdle around her waist, as red as blood coursing relentlessly through their veins.

.

.

.

(Arianne)

.

' Dearest father, I have some news —'

Arianne stared at the parchment for some time before deciding to crumple it and add it to a growing pile of discarded letters.

'My beloved papa, some unsavory development —'

'—Please do consider that I am the one who is informing you.'

" I cannot tell him! Or mother!" She crowed in frustration. The first light meant she would have to leave her chambers soon.

What awaited her was a daunting list of duties to be performed impeccably.

Arianne could not afford any mistakes after yesterday.

She would prove to Rhaenyra that she was the best possible good daughter she could have asked for. If only keeping away from Jace was that easy.

What was she supposed to tell him? Who was she supposed to attend banquets with? Some other man?

Her father's letter was curt and lacked instructions on how she should proceed regarding possible betrothal. Donnel Swann was clearly occupied with something. Arianne just wished he had told her what it was.

"I swear it is only a vile slander." She muttered, dipping her quill into the ink.

"I should write that in the letter."

Miriam clicked her tongue.

She was busy braiding her lady's hair into a simple, long plait.

"You did have the book you were not supposed to have here."

Arianne huffed.

"I did not steal it! That evil...bothersome Aemond lied!" Her voice soared into a grating shriek. Arianne tossed the quill, crafted from a goose feather, and clamped the ink pot shut.

She needed to replace her quill, it was getting rather dull.

She had one made with swan feather, but loathed to put it to use as quills of swan feathers were the best and sought-after by scribes for their durability and fine tips. Stonehelm boasted no less than five and ten lakes on its lands, making it one of the only areas in the Red Watch — and the entire Stormlands — fit for the large bird on the Coat of Arms of her house.

The Slayne rushed nearby — violent and so very wide — towards the Sea of Dorne.

Arianne would sometimes fall asleep to the clashing sounds of the river's gurgle and the storm-carried waves crashing against the stony shoreline.

She had not realized how much she missed the simplicity of her home.

"I've heard that name a dozen times since yesterday." Miriam interrupted her musings with an exasperated sigh.

"And you will hear it more!" Arianne hissed. "How have I offended the Gods for them to send me that...that Stygai demon to humiliate me! Princess Rhaenyra now holds me to be a corrupting influence upon Jace!"

Aemond.

Gods, what an annoying twat with an annoying name. Self-important, duplicitous slanderer!

"Who is he again to Prince Jacaerys?" Her maid stroked her chin questioningly.

"These Targaryens have strange family trees—"

"An Uncle."

The curt reply had Miriam's countenance settle into puzzlement.

"Ought you not be on good terms with him then?"

Arianne glared at her.

She wanted to inform her father of other things, though. Her conversation with Ser Tyland Lannister proved most enlightening. The ideas he peddled in his treatise had merit in her opinion.

Arianne knew Lord Donnel would certainly dismiss her taxation proposals for their vassals — he preferred things to be done as they always had been.

Undeterred, she reopened her ink pot and set to writing her musings.

We could implement a variable tax rate— adjust it depending on the harvest yield — to ease the burden on the smallfolk in lean years and collect surplus revenue in good ones. That surplus, in turn, could be reinvested...in our case constructing irrigation channels to draw water from the Slayne and boost the fertility of our rather poor fields.

Arianne frowned as she considered the idea—it sounded like something a mad maester might propose.

Levies were fixed obligations, the dues a vassal owed his liege in exchange for protection and governance. They were not meant to fluctuate with a vassal's own fortunes.

A droplet of ink fell from the tip of her feather, slowly spreading across parchment like a shadow.

But easing the burden in lean years would be beneficial, because...Taxing already burdened smallfolk would only strip them of the meager resources they need to secure food and invest in their own productivity. A hungry man only obeys one lord, his stomach. It could incite riots.

She could discuss this with Jace at least, he would not call her mad or deem her presumptuous. And perhaps, comforting as it was, she was not the only one inspired by Tyland's treatise.

One day, when she becomes Queen — If, Arianne, it is very uncertain if — she will fight tirelessly to implement laws and reforms that will benefit the Realm.

"You should eat." Miriam plopped onto her bed, rubbing her eyes.

Arianne folded the parchment, deciding to finish the letter in the evening, and grabbed a few bites of cheese and freshly baked bread.

She spent the morning debating about silk quality with Lady Celtigar. In the end, they came to an accord — Princess Rhaenyra needed both the purple and the blue. Her dresses should be the richest in the realm. A message must be sent.

Arianne had not seen Jace since yesterday. Since her princess told her her son was fond of her.

It was a problem, apparently.

"She will be my betrothed."

As soon as her heart leaped with girlish hope, the dim, harsh, unforgiving voice of the future queen quashed it down.

"Dragon's blood runs hot — do not encourage him. His heart belongs to the Seven Kingdoms."

Arianne pursed her lips.

Seven Kingdoms could not love him back as she could.

And her heart was capable of loving both him and the land, she was sure of it.

They had not done anything uncouth, and she firmly believed she was not encouraging him to disregard his duties.

Besides, if their betrothal happened, would it not be preferable they were fond of each other?

Arianne moved through the hallway quickly, her thoughts consumed with a thousand things at once. Well, she did have to figure out solutions to more than a few problems.

First, her image among the courtiers. Yesterday's lapse could not be allowed to happen again. She will heed Rhaena's advice to the best of her ability. In the future, they will know her for herself, not for things she could neither choose nor have any control over.

There, somewhere, far from the shadow of Saera Targaryen's legacy looming over her, far from the dreadful reality of some unnamed, boring, ugly husband, there existed an idyllic life by Jace's side.

Arianne saw herself, sitting in a dress of rich, dark brocade embroidered with both swans and dragons — surrounded by a coterie of lords and ladies while they discussed matters of governance.

One day, she would fill the Keep with maesters, philosophers, and esteemed septons.

With the Queen's authority, she could invite Selyssa Morrane  — a renowned woman philosopher from Braavos known for her argument that the rigid, singular conception of self is the root of suffering — to enrich the halcyon courtly life Arianne envisioned.

She waited outside the library for the younger princes.

It reminded her of the second problem, the book problem.

It seemed that, for now, her misfortune with The Fires of the Freehold was not a subject of gossip — and for a few who had asked her, she feigned shock and mortification. 'How could I have ever gotten my hands on a tome of such rarity, my lady Broome. I would not understand anything!'

Yet it was not what weighed on her mind.

It was the third problem. Rhaenyra's approval.

Was it truly so damning that Jace might feel something for her — a twinkle of something she dared not to name, lest she commit a sin of desire.

Yes, a voice as austere as her mother’s whispered in the back of her mind. It would be damning if the Crown Princess intended to wed you to Prince Joffrey once he came of age instead.

The Seven would not look kindly upon a woman who longed for one brother while being bound to another.

The songs never ended well for those caught between kin.

A midday meal had already passed when she made her way to the Royal Sept.

Arianne crossed the yard, gathering her unembellished skirts so as to not dirty the hem.

She opted for a modest attire of dark grey — the same woolen frock she arrived in.

The Sept was a circular structure, situated near the stables, but towering over them.

It was larger than the one in Stonehelm, with high windows and twelve rows of benches for worshippers to pray and contemplate on the Seven's mercy.

She lit a candle at the Mother's altar, praying for her family —  guard them while they journeyed on the Kingsroad, shield them from bandits and other unsavory folk.

Arianne glanced up at the high vaulted ceiling, wondering if some of the mercy could fall on her before standing up.

Next to the marble altar of the Mother was the Father's statue. She watched as the flame flickered on a newly lit candle, before lowering herself on her knees.

Arianne prayed he judged her justly for she was no thief.

She prayed he judged Aemond Targaryen for telling lies. For accusing her of...gallivanting around the Keep. He unfairly labeled her a hussy!

Arianne mentioned all the insults he so cruelly spat at her to the Father Above, including mocking her dress, saying it was not decent (it was!), and comparing her to strawberry tart. How rude!

She blinked several times before glancing up at the tall, marble statue.

Judge us all justly Father Above, and punish his rotten, hideous heart!

She could still feel the weight of the One-eyed Prince's attention, pressing against her spine like an overly-tight girdle.

What satisfaction had it given him to meddle in her affairs? To make her stand before Rhaenyra like a common thief and bear witness to her princess' disapproval?

Arianne realized she would constantly have to be wary of Rhaenyra’s caution — it tightened like an iron chain about her neck. Would she ever be allowed the honor of Jace escorting her to feasts again?

'I do not wish to marry some other lord. I want to marry Jace.'

Praying to the Crone was a fleeting rite. She merely begged for wisdom, since her usual route to solving problems was barred to her here. Ever had Arianne sought solace in the library’s tomes, where the wit of greater minds offered practical solutions to most things.

 She lit another candle and placed it among the melting vax underneath the Maiden's feet.

'It is your day soon, Fair Maiden. Prince Jacaerys Velaryon is dear to my heart. But if that is too presumptuous of me... if he is not to be mine, grant me a husband worthy of reverence....who is not too old, who is diligent in his studies, and sharp of mind. Please not a simpleton like Bryen Caron.'

Arianne swallowed.

'Please, Fair Maiden. A husband whose loyalty would not falter with shifting winds. Of noble blood and good House. A warrior who faces peril without flinching, for what good is a lord who cannot protect what he loves?'

Her chest rose and fell with a long breath.

Such things mattered to women of the Marches, where steel was as common as a song, and men were measured by their readiness to defend what was theirs.

She bit her lip, hesitant. 'Tall, if it pleases you Maiden... and not cursed with a face that frightens horses.'

The flicker of a smile tugged at her lips, fleeting as the candlelight.

'Not a boy like Joffrey Velaryon or Eddard Leygood. I do not wish to wait years to be kissed! Oh, Fair Maiden...I would truly need him to command power — if it is not a sin of ambition to seek so — because, well, if he cannot reign in our vassals, they will run as they please and diminish our lands...'

She pouted.

'At least he ought to compel them to heed my counsel and leave governance to me then—  '

"You are new." The soft breeze of a voice spoke from her left.

Arianne glanced sideways, noticing a young woman kneeling by the statue of the Crone.

"Pardon, my lady." She answered honestly.  "I do not know your name."

The lady offered a small smile. She was clad in a lively green gown bedecked with white embroidery — her hair was a stark contrast, it fell almost to her hips in the darkest shade of brown.

Pearls crowned the top of her head in neat, shimmering rows.

"Elisa Stokeworth."

Arianne returned the smile. A white lamb on a green field, holding a golden goblet. She memorized most of the houses and heraldry when her brother had to. House Stokeworth had once boasted a Lord Alyn who served both Aegon the Conqueror and his son Aenys as Hand of the King— though she wasn’t sure how many generations had passed since.

"I'm Arianne Swann."

Elisa's large eyes widened.

"You are far from home!" It seemed she knew her houses as well.

"Are Marches as dangerous as they say? Are you here to marry?"

Arianne blinked several times, surprised by the sudden question.

"I would not say so. Our Keep has really thick walls...and watchtowers. The Dornish had not invaded in years. All our men are trained in arms from boyhood."

She glanced up at the Maiden's serene face.

"I suppose I am here for marriage. Are you?"

Elisa smiled, her pale cheeks creasing with dimples.

"Yes. So, I'm praying for my father."

Her father? To the Crone? Arianne’s brows arched.

"That the Crone grants him wisdom in choosing my husband," Elisa explained with a conspiratorial chuckle.

Arianne stifled a laugh with the back of her hand. How did she not think of that?!

"I ought to pray for that as well."

She nodded with wry amusement.

Elisa rose gracefully, smoothing her gown.

"Well met, Lady Arianne. I hope the Crone and the Maiden grant us both good husbands."

"And to you, Lady Stokeworth," Arianne replied, her smile lingering. However, it was not until she left the Sept that she realized she had forgotten to implore the Maiden for a kind husband.

She paused on the threshold, considering whether to return but ultimately decided against it.

Her father had once told her that kindness did not serve a man well. Enemies would carve it from his bones and wear it as a triumph.

Arianne concluded she could be kind for them both.

The rest of her day was rather filled with more duties.

She worked through the large pile of letters for Princess Rhaenyra, sorting them into categories of different importance. She read to Prince Viserys and helped him paint the stables of his Dragonstone miniature.

She did not inquire about Jace's whereabouts, and she recited from The Seven-Pointed Star with Lady Massey.

Not even her Septa — a very old and strict woman named Meria, who had been in Stonehelm for as long as Arianne could remember anything — would find fault in her conduct today.

The Maiden's Day was approaching, which meant every maiden would have to light a candle in the Sept and know the correct prayer. The night before a banquet would be held and an honorable man would escort each young unwed woman.

Arianne had been hoping Prince Jacaerys would be her escort, but now it seemed that could not be.

Her excitement about it evaporated.

The banquet was also a symbolic gathering before the holy day of the Maiden — a day to be spent in quiet contemplation, praying, performing purification rites, and visiting the Sept.

By the time Arianne stepped out of Rhaenyra's drawing room, the weight of her tasks had left her weary and faint with hunger.

She plopped onto her bed once in her chambers, holding up the parchments Miriam had left on her vanity during the day. A letter from her aunt Johanna that she was thrilled to read as it had been weeks since Arianne wrote to her, and a note rolled up into a tiny scroll.

She twirled the letter in her hand, admiring the pretty seal her aunt had.

The Black Swan of Lys.

Two black waxen swans, their elegant necks forming a heart.

Arianne unfurled the note first, wondering who'd —

My lady Arianne, will you meet me in the Godswood before supper? Though you have every reason to be mad at me, I am still hoping you will.

- Jace

She stood up so quickly that the room spun around her.

Arianne tossed Johanna's letter onto the bed to be read later, and frantically tried to neaten her messy braid. Oh, she despaired at the unremarkable gray frock she wore.

She did not think she would even see Jace today!

Now there was no time to change into something nicer and call for Miriam to help her lace the dress.

Arianne sighed, giving up and settling for tying a slender, silver chain around her waist. The links were delicately wrought and adorned with small moonstones.

It took her some time to find the correct way to Godswood. The Keep was still alive with servants rushing around winding passages carved from the ancient red stone.

Once she reached a corridor's end, a grand arched doorway opened into the Godswood.

Arianne halted, breathing in the fresh air of damp earth and wildflowers.

She descended a dozen stone steps when a deep, thunderous bellow seemingly echoing from leagues away, startled her.

She lifted her gaze to the bleeding sky— though dusk was more breathtaking from Stonehelm’s towers— and beheld a massive, dark shape gliding over the Keep.

A dragon.

With wings so large they momentarily blotted the firmament.

Arianne's mouth fell open, her skin pricking with goosebumps as she followed its eastward flight. 'Is that...Dreamfyre? No...Vhagar?'

Her heart quickened with both wonder and a rush of disbelief.

Living on Dragonstone had numbed her to the regular presence of dragons, and she recalled once witnessing the Old King’s and the Good Queen’s dragons emerging together from their cavern to hunt. Yet this creature was truly behemothic — a vision that made her blink and recall, with a shiver of awe, the gargantuan skull of Balerion that Jace had shown her.

Arianne sighed, willing her legs to move over the soft moss.

She saw a familiar figure pacing under the Wisteria Arbor, his silhouette caressed by the amber glow of the late afternoon sun. The hanging blossoms swayed gently, lilac and violet trembling with each passing breeze.

She hesitated for a moment, debating whether to approach her prince.

Her toes curled inside her shoes.

When she read his message, she had come — rushed, even — before her mind could truly grasp the implications of meeting him here. Alone.

It felt... decidedly clandestine.

The note, the secrecy, the defiance.

Arianne tried to ignore the illicit tremor that nestled in her stomach.

Princess Rhaenyra explicitly told her, no — ordered her, to keep her distance from her son. What was this, if not encouragement?

She ought not! Even if it was Jace.

And yet, the forbidden nature of it sent a thrill through her, licking the nape of her neck, trailing down her spine.

Arianne felt her palms grow clammy as she took a few tentative steps.

He turned at the sound of his name, his brown eyes gleaming, warm as melted amber.

"Arianne," Jace murmured, a smile catching at the corner of his mouth.

"You came."

"Did you think I would not?" She asked, puzzled at the relief in his tone. Arianne took in his black tunic, the hint of Velaryon blue embroidered at the cuffs. Jace was taller than her, his shoulders were broad, and he appeared every inch the prince he was, both of fire and sea.

"I rather hoped you would." He admitted, raking a hand through his unruly curls before offering her a smile.

They fell into a short silence filled only by the distant rustle of leaves and the faint birdsong above.

Jace cleared his throat and offered his elbow so that they might walk together.

Princess Rhaenyra's warnings aside, her father would have a fit.

It was one thing to traipse the rocky shores of Dragonstone together, when everyone knew when and where they went, but meeting secretly in the Godswood was another matter altogether.

Slowly, hesitantly, she slipped her fingers around his forearm. His sleeve was soft beneath her touch.

Jace let out a breath, so faint she might have imagined it, then covered her hand lightly with his own.

"I am truly sorry about the book." He spoke somberly once they reached the great Weirwood. Its pale, veined trunk was as wide as both of them standing next to each other.

"Arianne, I swear that I did not think you could be blamed —"

"It is not your fault." She interjected, shaking her head. How could he even think she blamed him? It was his abhorrent uncle who ruined everything!

"And you should not have interfered on my behalf."

"Of course, I should have." Jace countered, voice firm.

"But —"

"Do not think about it." He tapped the back of her hand, his touch featherlight. Arianne met his dark-lashed eyes, a glimmer of warmth touching her cheeks. Just as the words of gratitude formed inside her throat, Jace frowned.

"Wait, What did my mother tell you?"

She gulped.

"Nothing really —"

"Arianne." He pressed gently and turned toward her so that she could not evade his gaze.

Lady Swann inhaled before huffing in defeat.

Somehow it did not seem like she should speak with Jace about this.

For the first time in her life, she lamented wasting time sneaking inside her brother's lessons to listen as her father lectured on the logistics of supply lines and the advantages of high ground. What use was knowing the merits of natural chokepoints and the fortifications of Nightsong and Horn Hill, if she did not know how to navigate her way into a prosperous betrothal?

She ought to have asked for a tutor in the art of conversation, like the one Rhaena had — a polished Pentosi who could make her charming and teach her how to sidestep questions like these without truly answering them.

Would Princess Rhaenyra ever forgive her if she found out?

"That I...ought to...keep a proper distance from you," Arianne muttered at last, glancing at the blood-red foliage above their heads.

Jace stilled, before a veritable laughter — boyish, unguarded, and as pretty as silver bells, erupted from his throat.

Her spine tensed.

She had braced herself for disappointment, perhaps even argument...but not this. Her curly-haired Prince was not angry. If anything, he seemed almost amused.

"So the same thing she told me." Jace chuckled wryly.

"That we are rather close. "

Their eyes met, and for a moment, neither of them spoke.

Arianne’s breath caught — just slightly — as a strange, fluttering tension settled between them. Was it the weirwood and those strange gods the northerners revered, or the way his earthly brown irises brimmed with something fervent?

Her fingers tightened where they rested against his arm.

"She told you to keep your distance from yourself?" She tilted her chin, tone deceptively light.

Jace rolled his eyes, an impish grin dancing across his face.

He unfastened his cloak, spreading it between the gnarly roots before lowering himself onto it.

Her prince patted the spot beside him in silent invitation. Arianne sensed her lips forming a smile as she gathered her skirts and sank down next to him, the weight of the cloak cushioning her from the cool dampness of the earth.

It wasn't until their shoulders touched that she realized it might have been inappropriate of her. For all the space the great roots commanded, they sat close. Closer than they ought to.

Closer than her septa decreed was scandalous.

Jace exhaled, tilting his head back slightly, his dark curls brushing against the pale bark of the weirwood.

"I will not, though." He murmured. "Stay away from you."

Arianne's throat locked, her cheeks burning. 

Did she hear him right?

The pulse in her veins rushed — his words touching some tender, fragile place beneath her bones.

She found herself unable to react in any other way than to pretend the mossy ground was of particular interest to her.

"Unless...it is what you want, my lady." She heard him say after some time. Her fingers curled slightly against the fabric of her skirts.

Jace had left her an escape, a polite way out.

I expect you not to encourage him. The words were sensible. Logical. They were the expectations of the world she had been born into. Marriage was a duty, not an idle dream.

Her teeth sank into the tip of her tongue.

The very thing she was ordered to avoid was the one thing she wanted.

"D-do you?" Jace rasped, voice barely above a whisper when she remained quiet.

Arianne lifted her gaze to him, finding something raw in his expression, something earnest.

"I… No—" she faltered, the word sticking to her vocal cords like a caramelized pear.

"But I would not… wish to disobey my princess."

Jace sighed, dragging a hand over his jaw. He momentarily turned his fervent gaze away, staring into the distance as though weighing his next words.

"My mother rather thinks I'm the disobedient one." He shook his head before turning to her.

"Do you know who tattled?"

Arianne blinked, caught off guard.

"N-no." She lied, though with a good reason. If Jace were to argue with Aemond on her behalf, it would only serve as further proof of her troublesome influence. She had little desire to be caught between the tensions of the Targaryen family. Well, at least until she married. Then she will plot Aemond Targaryen's exile.

A shadow slid down Jace's face, his nostrils flaring.

"When I find out, I will make them rue the day they were born."

His voice was measured, but it carried the weight of an oath.

Arianne swallowed the lump in her throat, felt the strain around it. The sheer sincerity in his tone unsettled her. For a moment, she nearly told him the truth — damn the consequences. She wanted Aemond to pay.

Yet before she could muster a proper reply, Jace suddenly straightened, his lips curving.

 "Wait, I almost forgot." The thrum of his voice turned airy as he reached into the folds of his tunic, retrieving a small, carefully wrapped parcel.

"I have something that will make you feel better. Give me your hand."

"Ah - What?"

Undeterred, he lifted her hand himself, calloused fingers brushing against her palm as he placed the small bundle there. Arianne felt his warm touch linger a moment longer than necessary, but she rationalized it with her own wishful thinking.

She unwrapped the parcel carefully, the scent of lemon and sugar wafting up to meet her.

A lemon cake.

Soft and golden, with perfectly round edges.

"I...Thank you, my Prince." Arianne murmured, overcome with strange timidity at the gesture.

She took a small, delicate bite, savoring the tangy taste of lemon on her tongue. Oh, she itched to devour it, but she was not a mannerless peasant.

Then she took another bite, equally dainty — earning her a chuckle from Jace.

He nudged her playfully, enticing her cheeks to redden.

"Do not hold back, my lady. I know you are fond of them."

Arianne shot him a glare, though the corners of her lips twitched.

"It is called manners." She recited.

With a small shrug, Jace leaned back, crossing his arms loosely. She dared to glance at him ever so often as she enjoyed her cake. How handsome he was! His full lips were slightly parted, and it incited the most reprobate reveries in her mind.

The kind that made her wonder how would his mouth feel upon hers. 

Warm? Finer than Volantene silk? As tender as rain?

The fairytales seem to agree on one thing, though — once a gallant knight kisses his lady love, all her troubles come to an end. They marry and live happily, ever after.

Ridiculous, Arianne scolded herself. Firstly, Jacaerys Velaryon is a prince, not a knight. Besides, the stories never delve into the sheer amount of work needed to smoothly run a large household. The tithes, the grain reserves, the proper positioning of fortifications... Happily ever after is a lot of work, really.

 Jace shifted slightly, moving his leg just enough that it brushed against hers. Her muscles locked at the fleeting contact.

Arianne flushed crimson.

"She will be my betrothed."

A shiver passed down her neck. Ought she ask him about that? What if he hadn't meant it? Hope is a fool's errand, her father often lectured.

Swallowing hard, she tried to regain control, pushing the thought aside.

Instead, she focused on something else, something she felt no shame in discussing with him.

"Oh, I have this idea about taxation..." Arianne broke the silence, her fingers tracing idly the patterns on the cloak she was sitting on.

"Well, Ser Tyland inspired me, but—"

Jace's attention was immediate, his keen eyes not straying from her face while she monologued.

 "I see a few problems there," he replied thoughtfully, tapping his index finger against his lips.

"Though you are right that it might be a better way of collecting taxes, perhaps."

Arianne's eyebrows knitted together.

"Problems?" Her voice faltered, a note of dejection threading through it.

"The great Lords will not take kindly to the Crown now telling them they must accept less than what they are entitled to from their vassals, just because the year was poor," Jace explained.

"But… if you're a King, then they have no choice in the matter," Arianne countered, slightly irked. Some of those lords could scarcely read! They sure enjoyed living peacefully in their lands under the protection of a Crown, while the Marches stood as a defense against Dorne.

Jace shrugged lightly, his rueful smile returning.

"I suppose," he admitted. "Yet I’d prefer to have them cooperate with me, thinking it is their own will."

Arianne’s gaze hardened, and she spoke without hesitation, the words flowing from her with surprising force.

"They have to cooperate with you. Your word is law. The reforms we want—" She halted abruptly, realizing what she was implying.

"I mean... the King should change the realm for the better, regardless of what the lords think."

Jacaerys Velaryon chuckled, his brown eyes glimmering with amusement.

"You— Arianne— are a pretty tyrant, if I may say so." He regarded her with a peculiar expression.

Her heart seized and she was at once disarmed and at a loss for words. Tingling warmth flooded her cheeks, her skin simmering under the weight of his words. Pretty. But...tyrant?

The words seemed to war with each other in her mind.

She couldn’t quite figure out whether she should be flattered or embarrassed.

Her lips parted, but she couldn’t find the right response.

Instead, Arianne settled into an awkward silence, her gaze lowering as she tried to regain her composure.

As if the gods decided to punish her impudence, she thought of Aemond Targaryen.

" If the men who court you listen to such rants, you will remain an unwed maiden until you die."

The weight of those words now hit her like a stone, sinking into her marrow.

Jace, her own Galladon of Morne, as if sensing her discomfort, shifted slightly, his voice softer as he spoke.

"We could work through the details of your tax proposal once this lawless attempt at seizure of Luke's inheritance is dealt with. After we return to Dragonstone," He suggested, hand brushing his dark curls off his forehead.

"My mother might like the idea too—"

As soon as he had finished speaking that sliver of dread, that stone sank even further.

Arianne froze, bile biting at her stomach.

She suddenly realized with unsettling clarity that Jace still believed things would remain the same  — that the easy companionship they had now, with shared ideas and laughter, would continue on their journey back to Dragonstone. That she would return to Dragonstone with him.

Like this.

Unwed.

They would stroll side by side, exchanging words about books and politics, enjoying sunsets, and poring over famous cyvasse matches.

But the truth...life was not a song, nor a fanciful tale. The truth was that she would not return with him. Not as Rhaenyra's lady-in-waiting. She would have to marry before the year was out, Jace or no Jace.

On that, her parents would hear no arguments.

"My father should reach the capital by the moon's end," Arianne said delicately, though the words felt heavy in her mouth.

"S-so, I doubt I would be returning with your mother's household."

Jace stared at her, confusion passing over his features.

He studied her for a long moment, brow furrowing in thought.

"He intends to marry you off."

Arianne nodded slightly, glancing at her feet, an awkward heat suffusing her face.

"I am ten and eight, almost," she said, voice faltering with the truth. "I should have been married two years ago."

'You are the only reason I am not.'

She pored over the shapes the gnarly roots made on their descent into the earth — her bravery vanished into thin air, and Jace fell silent.

'Please, say something. Anything.'

Arianne smoothed her skirts, drying her palms against them.

How utterly unfair that she could topple a kingdom on a cyvasse board, yet the campaign to seize her future seemed ever out of reach. She loathed it. Sometimes, being a woman felt like a deliberate slight from the gods.

Princess Rhaenyra was truly an exception. Heir over her brothers. A Queen to be in her own right, not as consort to a King.

The first time Arianne learned of it, she felt envy coiling around her lungs.

Her father would sooner torch Stonehelm than have her inherit it over her older brother. Even if she read faster, remembered every supply route through the Boneway, and could argue whether the Free Cities thrived better under merchant princes or elected magisters, it meant little.

Robb was a man, and that alone made him worthy. He could swing a sword with ease, while Arianne — if she even managed to lift a longsword — was more likely to trip and spill her own insides before she ever cut down an enemy.

She barely dared to lift her verdant eyes from the ground, but when she finally did, Jace was still watching her, as though piecing together something unsaid.

If she wished to be powerful, it would have to be through a husband.

Even Alysanne needed Jaehaerys.

"Two years ago we were exchanging letters, do you remember?"

Of course, she did.

They sent each other the occasional letter ever since they met years ago. Arianne's then visit to Dragonstone was brief — and mostly spent imploring Rhaenyra's oldest son to reach her the scrolls from high shelves of the magnificent library. It was the first time she had seen dragons, and the memories of that day still lingered, vivid and surreal.

She nodded and Jace continued, "You told me your aunt sent you a cyvasse set for your name day."

A small laugh escaped her lips. That felt like another lifetime ago.

"I was devastated." Jace went on, a grimace passing over his visage. "Because it was my idea too. I've racked my mind over a gift for you. So, I —"

"Sent me a finished copy of Balder's The Edge of the World," Arianne said, tone sprinkled with mirth.

"I have it with me, you know. It is a good read when I want to be afraid."

Jace sighed, his dark lashes fluttering. "Of course you do."

Arianne grinned at him before her expression softened.

It sounded sweet, the image of Jace pacing and musing about a gift for her.

"You mentioned in one of the letters that the island fascinated you." He added, defensive.

"Because they are supposedly cannibals —"

"Supposedly."

"Well, Maester Balder thinks so," Arianne noted. "They invaded the nearby Skane and killed all the men before feasting on their flesh. Some passages are truly nauseating. Skagosi practice the first night and when they lure ships to their shores, the sailors are ripped apart and sacrificed in their savage rites."

"Gods." Jace shook his head with a faint smile.

"This is not what I wanted you to think about."

"I'm...sorry? Jace?"

"Arianne, what I am attempting to...say, is that I've admired you since forever."

A bird chirped nearby.

Her heart jumped to her throat.

A bout of fever crept up her face as Arianne fumbled for something to say.

'Jace. He just...he said... gods, what am I supposed to say?'

Her mind whirled, and for a moment, she wondered if she should simply faint like a proper lady — He can kiss me awake...

Prince Jacaerys shifted, his body angled so that he faced her now.

His eyes were dark like obsidian while he regarded the flushed, creamy skin of her cheeks.

“When we were children,” he continued, his voice soft yet steady, “it was friendship, of course. But that month you were with us on Dragonstone... That was the most fun I had. You were clever— and so curious about everything. I remember you cried when Vermax ate that lamb—"

Arianne squinted, now glaring at him.

"I did not!"

"You did." He declared, lips spreading into a teasing smile.

Her thoughts flashed back to that moment. Luke, Rhaena, and even Jace had all laughed when she suggested a more humane method for delivering the lamb to Vermax as if such a notion was laughable.

Dragonkeepers frowned at her, uninterested in hearing her prattle.

She’d wanted to avoid the bloodshed, the poor thing was screeching, unaware then of how deeply they understood dragons while she knew nothing.

It was when Lady Baela unexpectedly visited her family at Dragonstone that she learned the truth.

Most dragons loved to hunt.

The struggle, the fight, was what fueled their appetite.

Moondancer would not wish to eat a carcass, Baela had explained casually, smoothing down her beautiful silver locks, just as I would not care for spoiled meat. The harder the prey fights back, the sweeter it becomes. It drives them into a frenzy, you see. It makes the kill all the more satisfying.

"You also wanted a girl dragon." Jace declared slyly, shaking her from her thoughts.

His large, warm palm closed over hers.

"One that Vermax would like. So we could see each other even when my mother became Queen."

"Jace!" She yanked her hand from his grasp, mortification rushing through her.

"Do you wish to embarrass me further?"

Her only response was a callow grin.

"I said we could do that if we married."

Arianne’s breath lodged, trapped inside her chest.

She didn’t know what to say. if only she were taught — oh, no, no, because her pulse rushed into her ears, rippling and wooshing against her skull —

Didn’t know how to say anything at all.

Jace exhaled, his grip finding hers once more, firmer this time. His fingers curled around hers as if drawn by some invisible pull that he had resisted long enough and could do so no more.

His thumb brushed against the back of her hand, tracing perfect, insistent circles.

"When you stepped off that ship…" He hesitated, wetting his lips before continuing. "I thought I was dreaming. You were not a child anymore."

She sensed the faintest tremor in his grasp.

"You were beautiful, Arianne."

The words nearly undid her.

Arianne's eyes widened, her vision swam.

Gods.

The heat that flooded her skin felt unbearable, forcing blotches of crimson upon her cheeks and the delicate line of her throat. She wanted to look away, to will herself into composure, but his gaze held her captive — deep, steadfast, poring over her face as if he was commanded to paint her portrait.

Then, perhaps realizing he had been staring too long, Jace abruptly averted his eyes, straightening.

He released her, his hands falling to his sides.

"If you do not share my affections, please speak now, my lady." He declared in grave tones, the apple of his throat bobbing.

"And I will never mention it again."

Gods.

Arianne found herself teetering on a precipice, the ground crumbling beneath her feet.

She walked barefoot into the sea and was caught in a riptide, as voracious waves dragged her further away from the shore — the land filled with duties, Rhaenyra's orders, and sins of the ancestors — until it vanished into the horizon.

Turbulent and murky, it lured her like a siren because it was what she wanted all along.

The waves could drown her.

The rich, endless depths of his dark eyes could drown her too.

Arianne exhaled, her heart walloping.

"You know a lady should not hear such things without a chaperone present, my Prince?" she said, aiming for levity, though her voice wavered at the edges.

"Arianne."

Her name left his lips like something painful.

She dared not look at him.

Her fingers dug into the silken fabric of her skirts.

She could not look at him.

"I do share them." Arianne susurrated.

"Affections, I m-mean. I admire you —"

Before she could stumble further over the words, Jace reached for her hands, gathering them very tenderly between his larger ones.

"Jace —"

He brought them to his lips. Arianne sucked in a quiet breath as the heat of his mouth caressed her hand, slow and deliberate, reverent even.

How soft his lips are. Gods, it feels like a sin.

 Arianne swallowed, wallowing in the heat of them. The warmth seeping into her skin, lingering, lingering — as if her prince meant to burn his devotion into her.

She had never been particularly devout, though she performed her duties to the Seven with care.

But at that moment, in Kings Landing — a disastrous, awful place she did not belong in — Arianne could not help but feel that Maiden herself had heard her prayers and answered them.

[bentknife]

my boss walking into my office: hey i know you’re really busy today, do you have a moment?

me who’s been reading fanfiction for the last 4 hours: uhhh i think i can spare a few minutes

[newwavesylviaplath]

at least we're no longer pretending, i heard you got your happy ending.

[fyreflys]

Believe it or not I can write comedy. Sort of. (Please tell me I’m funny. I love Johanna Mason she’s a fucking shithead and she’s MY shithead)

[snippet from ch3 of my fic Swan Upon Leda, ch2 linked in my pin]

[mvndrvke]

@perceivedpast​ said : “i won’t trust myself with you.” johanna + bella

“Johanna, you know I trust you.” Bella reaches out her hand towards Johanna. “Please come here. I know you would never hurt me. It was an accident.”

[hyperions-light]

Hmmm something I love when I play Veilguard is

There are sequences where I just feel like the people making it were having so much fun, you know?

Like the part when Johanna first appears in Emmrich’s quest and her hand scuttles across the room to her!

Or when Razikale transforms! When Lucanis does his crazy swan dive to stab Ghilan’nain!

When Rook uses the ballista to impale Ghilan’nain, and then Elgar’nan freezes time!

When Lace touches the Lyrium dagger and gets the power of the Titans!!

It just feels like someone showing you something and saying, “Look! Isn’t this so cool!”

Their enthusiasm is so palpable I have to be excited too!

Yes!! It’s SO cool! That was sick as HELL!

Did you see Lucasan rising from his slumber!! Did you see the Darkspawn Horde waiting outside the ribcage of the dead dragon for Rook and Davrin!! Did you see Neve repelling an attack from a GOD!!

It’s so much fun!

[thoughtsfromlayla]

26 Ways of Taking You Series Masterlist

26 Worlds, 26 ways of pleasure

All of these stories are not connected so you can jump around as you like. There will only be 26 prompts in this list, one for each letter of the alphabet.

MDNI - 18+! This entire series is explicit!

Each piece will go into deeper warning tags, please be mindful of your consumption!

♡ Yours, Layla

Main Masterlist

⋆ ˖ ⁺ ‧ ₊ ☽ ◯ ☾ ₊ ‧ ⁺ ˖ ⋆

A for Aphrodisiac (18+): ~2.2k words

✧ On a quest to save your little brother, you and your fated companion Dream of the Endless, run into a small problem in Aphrodite's Temple.

B for Breeding (18+): ~1.7k words

✧ You, Swan Maiden of the Lake become King Morpheus's favorite concubine, but it's not enough.

C for Cockwarming (18+): ~770 words

✧ You and Dream come to a compromise after you asked for some "space." It never ends well for you, does it?

D for Doggy (18+): ~2.9k words

✧ How does an Endless teach you a lesson? Maybe on your hands and knees.

E for Edging (18+): ~4k words

✧ Hell hath no pettiness like a woman ignored.

F for Face Sitting (18+): ~1.4k words

✧ You've waited for 106 years for an apology. So an apology you shall receive.

G for Grinding (18+): ~700 words

✧ Your famous last words: "until my thighs fall off"

H for Heat (18+): ~1.5k words

✧ Dream comes back victorious, helm in hand, after his duel with Lucifer but he comes back to you amidst a horrible heat.

I for Incubus (18+): ~2.9k words

✧ You suppose the deal technically went correctly, but when the incubus said he required your life force, you thought he meant... well your life.

J for Joyride (18+): ~1.6k words

✧ You meet an absolute dream boat after coming out of the theaters with your friends. He promises you the ride of your life.

K for Kleptomaniac (18+): ~1.5k words

✧ You, Lucienne, and Johanna Constantine have decided to go on a girl's trip. Therefore, Morpheus was not invited and in his desperate yearning to have you by his side again, he steals something of yours.

L for Lactation (18+): ~1.7k words

✧ Pregnant with his child and in pain, Morpheus helps release some stress.

M for Muzzle (18+)

N for Neighbor (18+)

O for Offerings (18+)

...

...

...

More to be added soon ❀❀❀

[katiemay-025]

I Know You Well

~~~~~

~~~~~

Summary: The 3rd Quarter Quell twist has been revealed and after the initial shock wears off, you have a conversation with your lover and fellow victor where you both promise that no matter who gets reaped, there would be no volunteering. Johanna will make sure of that.

wc: 2.5k

Warnings: 18+ mdni, use of y/n, violence, ptsd, swearing, Ifem!reader think that’s it.

An: I should probably make a banner for Johanna or something. Also I think I sent this head cannon to someone’s ask but I don’t remember whom I sent it to. :/

This probably would have been better as a blurb but oh well.

~~~~~

Johanna sat on the couch rolling her eyes and groaning at the sight of Katniss’ wedding gowns being presented to the audience. Her feet were propped up on the coffee table that you made and she had nothing on except a pair of fuzzy socks. “Ugh disgusting! What flock of white geese had to die for that dress?”

You chuckle at her words as you were cutting the bell pepper for dinner. “Do you mean swans, honey?”

“Absolutely not, she does not deserve swans.”

There were a total of 6 dresses to choose from and Cinna announced to the crowd that they could vote for which dress Katniss should wear. Johanna made another snide comment about making the Girl on Fire walk out in a suit of mud and call it a day. “They would definitely like that.”

“Katniss would not. I’m not too sure she’d be as comfortable as you being naked.”

Johanna cupped her own breast with a smirk. “At least I show myself off instead of being bought for it. What are they going to do? They can’t take it from me if I give it out for free.”

You tilted your head in acknowledgement of her words. It’s something you learned as a victor, watching others do the same. Finnick acted cocky as a defense mechanism. Enobaria sharpened her teeth to defend herself from the Capitol. Hell, you had done it, fiddling with your pocket saw out in the open. It was effective in scaring people away but it also gave you horrible flashbacks to your own game. What does that say about your view of the capital if you decide to willingly traumatize yourself again? Even so, after years of doing it, you’d only get flashes of the dark memory instead of a full blown panic attack. Exposure therapy at its finest.

Anyway, immediately after Cinna finishes his campaign for Katniss’ wedding dress, Snow took the podium on the raised balcony overlooking the city circle. “Why the fuck is he on our screens? As if voting for a wedding dress isn’t torturous enough.” Johanna groaned.

You put your knife down. The living room was a good 50 steps away from the kitchen counters and you placed your hands on the back of the couch watching intently. To you, the twist wouldn’t matter, you’d still have to mentor who ever the twist catered too.

“Ladies and gentlemen, citizens of Panem. This is the 75th year of the Hunger Games. When the charter of the Games was written, it dictated that every 25 years there would be a Quarter Quell… to make fresh for each new generation the memory of those killed in the rebellion against the Capitol. The Quarter Quell was reserved for the Games of special significance.”

Johanna sat up in her seat fiddling with the hilt of her axe. You noticed the slow movement of her thumb over the wooden handle before she took a breath.

“On the 25th anniversary, each district was made to vote on the tributes who should represent it. In the 50th anniversary, as a reminder that two rebels died for every Capitol citizen, each district was required to send twice the tributes to the arena. And now on the 75th anniversary of the Rebellion, we honor our third quarter quell, as bestowed to us, by the signers of the Treaty of Treason.”

A small wooden box is carried onto the balcony by a boy dressed in white. You watch as President Snow opens the box and retrieves a yellow sealed envelope. “As a reminder that even the strongest cannot over power the Capitol, on this 3rd Quarter Quell Games, the male and female tributes are to be reaped from the pool of existing victors of each district.”

The room froze, you and Johanna not daring to break the silence. Your eyes widened and you forgot to breathe. Chills traveled down your spine. Johanna reacted first gripping her axe and swinging it at the television projector with a scream, smashing it to pieces.

Your heart plunged to the ground. You were going back. Tears welled in your eyes and a lump found its way to your throat. The walls closed in around you and before it could crush you, you rushed out of the house.

Your foot caught each other on the way down the steps and you caught yourself with your hands and knees. The bushes beckoned you to them and you crawled over before dispensing the bile caught in your throat.

The fall was so fast you didn’t notice the glassy rocks that cut your knees. Only after you crawled to the log storage did you notice them. Smears of blood oozed out of your wounds and sticky red liquid coated your fingers.

Your hand began to shake.

The First Kill was never something you could get over. Her name was Olive and there was a sponsor sent to you on the 5th day, she was nearby and tried to take the gift from you. She tackled you to the ground and after a few moments of tussling in the grass, you found your saw and lodged it deep into her neck. Her blood trickled down coating your fingers as you pulled on your weapon to slice her neck. She died choking on her own blood. Your hands stained red and no matter how much you tried to scrub it off, it always remained on your hands.

Even now, as you frantically scrubbed your hands in the shed sink, it wouldn’t go away. The harder you rubbed the redder your hands got. That was how friction worked but in your state of delusion, it all looked the same.

The cascade of water stopped. As you moved your hands to the faucet, gentle hands cradled yours. A small whimper escaped your lips. You were going back. You were in the pool of existing victors. But so was Johanna. Your head snapped up spotting the younger girl focused on your reddened hands.

“Johanna.”

She let out an unamused chuckle. “I fucking trashed the house.”

“I assumed so.” You whispered. “I rubbed off the skin on my hands.”

Johanna hummed as she traced her thumb over the injury. “I know.”

You raised your arms to her to hold her face. “I need you to promise me something. Do not volunteer for me.”

She met your eyes with her own fiery ones while tilting her head. “One of us has to go in. Like hell, I’m going to let it be you.”

“I can handle myself, that’s why I’m telling you not to volunteer.”

“If you don’t volunteer then I won’t volunteer.” Johanna bargained. You went quiet pressing your lips into a thin line. Just like you knew her well enough to know she’d volunteer, she knew you well enough to know you would to. It was hypocritical so you agreed.

Johanna kept her unwavering eyes towards you. You matched her gaze until you found a soft glint in her eyes. Your shoulders relaxed as you looked a way. A deep sigh escaped your lips. “Fine, whoever gets picked for the reaping gets picked.”

“Great but we’re training for this. I am not going to have a rusty tribute as my mentee.”

~

Your heartbeat echoed in your ears and thumped against your rib cage. Your legs were wide enough for Johanna to fit between them. She stood in front of you playing with your hair as you buried your ear into her chest. Hers was almost as fast as yours but there was comfort in wrapping your arms around her.

You didn’t want to let go of Johanna. The thought of having to watch from the sidelines where you physically couldn’t protect her. The pressure in your chest felt like a bubbling volcano, stress building up before an eruption.

Usually the silence with Johanna was comfortable being able to be in the moment, in her arms. This time, the silent air was heavy. The small ticking of the clock reminded you of the looming possibility of going back to the arena.

You loved her. You made a promise not to volunteer but you had to. You had to protect her. Blight and Old Spruce came to pick you up for the reaping. When they knocked, Johanna gave you one last squeeze to your hand to comfort you. She made it a habit to hold your hands when you slipped into a memory lapse to keep you from rubbing the skin off your hands. In return you stocked and supplied the wooden logs for Johanna to split when her anger rose.

You snuck her a peck on her lips before the four of you trudged to the town square where the entirety of District 7 awaited the victors. The hot July sun did nothing to ease your worries as it heated your arms. You rocked onto your toes as the escort stepped onto the stage. It was ironic being an eligible tribute again. Seven years ago you dreaded for the slip to say your name and now seeing all the faces of District 7 on this raised platform, you prayed it was your name being called.

“Ladies First.” You stood staring out to your home. After these next moments, your life would never be the same. Either you get reaped and survive the loss of your closest friends turned enemy, Johanna is reaped and survives, you are reaped but die or Johanna is reaped but dies. The loss of it all would turn anyone insane.

Technically, you didn’t promise, you only agreed because it would get Johanna to not volunteer. So you could and you would. To your right, you could see Johanna eyeing you and you returned a glare.

“The female tribute from District 7 is...” He paused for dramatic effect and your heartbeat rose in your throat. Let it be me. Let it be me Let it be me. “Johanna Mason.” Your heart plummeted before turning your head to the escort. You weren’t going to accept this.

Before you could even open your mouth to object, you felt a sharp pain on your nose and a small pop in your neck from the force. Your head hit the ground and everything went black.

When you came to, you were on the train staring straight at Blight across from you on the table. “What the fuck happened?”

“Oh she’s back.” Spruce called. “You were out of it for about 30 minutes.”

“What do you remember?” Blight asked.

“Johanna was reaped and then it felt like my nose exploded.” You say wincing at the pain on the bridge of your nose. You groaned holding your head.

“Doc says you got a broken nose and a concussion.”

“Where’s Johanna?”

“The peacekeepers restrained her in her room.” The escort called. “She knocked you out in one go. She must’ve been so pissed that she was picked.” You shared a look with your fellow victors. The escort hadn’t been here to watch your relationship with Johanna. Both of you were great about hiding your relationship during the annual hunger games.

“So which of you got reaped?”

Blight took a deep breath. He took a swig of his alcohol laughing at the ridiculousness of it. “Can’t believe they’re making me go back after 20 something years.”

“So you and I are mentors.” Spruce solemnly said patting you on the shoulder. “Should I take Johanna?” He asked keeping up with appearances. Ironically it was like the 71st Hunger Games again. Mentoring was set by priority. Old Spruce had said yes to mentoring while the others said no meaning you had no choice but to mentor Johanna. This time you could choose her.

“No. No I’ll talk to her.”

“Take things slowly okay, you took a big fall.”

“Yes dad.” You joked. Dad was nice, ‘Old Spruce’ was pushing 65. He had been your mentor during your games and continued to take care of you afterwards.

The walk to Johanna’s room was short luckily. A peacekeepers stood outside the door and you smiled at him. “Hi I’m here to talk to my mentee.” He looked at you and stepped aside. As soon as the door slid closed, you looked at Johanna. “You fucking bitch.”

She turned her attention to you from the fuzzes of green zooming past the window. A soft smile plastered on her face. “You promised you weren’t going to volunteer.”

“Technically I didn’t. I agreed so you wouldn’t volunteer. We didn’t shake on it or pinky promise or sign a contract so….”

“You were going to volunteer.”

“Yes.”

“Great I’m glad I know you well enough.”

“Decking me in the face was part of the plan?”

“Absolutely.” You stared at her unamused. “Don’t look at me like that. We both know we were going to break that promise to protect the other. Maybe you planned that all along or it was a last minute thought but I saw the look on your face. I anticipated it and knocked you out before you could.” Johanna told shrugging her shoulders as she walked towards you.

“You broke my nose.”

“It’s better than you dead.” Johanna countered. “I said I wasn’t going to let you go back in. I made that promise to myself and I kept it.”

“What do I do if I lose you? Do you think you’re the only one who loves in this relationship.”

Johanna held onto your waist. “First, avenge me. Second, none of us want the other to go in but someone is going to be forced to. I’m sorry, I’d rather it be me than you. You would be safer.”

“Safe is a relative term and when did you become such a sap?”

“Oh you know, since I started dating the best girl I’ve ever met.”

“Shut up.”

“Why don’t you make me.”

You closed the gap and let your lips meld with the younger girl. Slowly, the two of you walked towards her bed. She sat on her bed and you climbed on top of her with little room to breathe. Johnna wrapped her arms around the back of your neck to bring you in closer deepen the kiss. She flipped you over before nuzzling her face into your neck.

You held her in your arms playing with her hair. Lulling yourself to sleep. “Don’t die okay.” You whispered.

“I won’t.”

“I do hope you break your nose though.”

“Ugh get over it.”

“No! Although it was a smart countermove.”

“Thank you. I thought long and hard about it for all of 5 seconds after you first told me not to volunteer.”

“Well that’s the last time I trust you.” You joked.

“You love me.”

“I do. I know you do too.”

“Yeah, I do.” Johanna sighed. The both of you laid motionless embracing the other, enjoying the moment.

[ellswritings]

Masterlist ;)

*= smut

The Hunger Games

Imagines

Finnick Odair

Wasting All These Tears On You

Don’t Be Late

Love and War

Peeta Mellark

They Don't Know About Us

Katniss Everdeen

Johanna Mason

Haymitch Abernathy

Worse Things

Cato Hadley

Marvel Sanford

Clove Kent

Coriolanus Snow

Sejanus Plinth

Series

none yet :(

Teen Wolf

Imagines

Scott McCall

Stiles Stilinski

Derek Hale

Jealousy, Jealousy

Peter Hale

Chris Argent

Lydia Martin

Issac Lahey

Allison Argent

Malia Hale/Tate

Liam Dunbar

Kira Yukimara

Series

Lupus Nox- S1 Cast, Prologue, S1 E1, S1 E2, S1 E3, S1 E4, S1 E5, S1 E6, S1 E7, S1 E8, S1 E9, S1 E10, S1 E11, S1 E12

The Maze Runner

Imagines

Thomas

Newt

Minho

Gally

Aris

Brenda

Sonya

Harriet

Series

none yet :(

Marvel

Imagines

Steve Rogers

Sparks Fly

Tony Stark

Snowflake

Bucky Barnes

Loki Laufeyson

Natasha Romanoff

Clint Barton

Logan Howlett

Peter Quill

Misery Loves Company

Gamora Ben Titan

Peter Parker

Peter Parker (TASM)

Thor Odinson

Michelle Jones-Watson

Wanda Maximoff

Pietro Maximoff

Series

none yet :(

Once Upon A Time

Imagines

Regina Mills

Emma Swan

Killian Jones

David Nolan/Prince Charming

Peter Pan

Rumplestiltskin

Neal Cassidy/Baelfire

Series

none yet :(

Bridgerton

Imagines

Anthony Bridgerton

How To Be A Heartbreaker

Colin Bridgerton

Benedict Bridgerton

King George

Simon Bassett

Eloise Bridgerton

Series

none yet :(

Harry Potter

Imagines

Harry Potter

About Time

Ron Weasley

Hermoine Granger

Fred Weasley

George Weasley

Remus Lupin

Sirius Black

James Potter

Like I Can

Draco Malfoy

Lucius Malfoy

Tom Riddle

Luna Lovegood

Bellatrix Lestrange

Series

none yet :(

Glee

Imagines

Finn Hudson

Sam Evans

Jesse St. James

Quinn Fabray

Santana Lopez

Brittany S. Pierce

Rachel Berry

Mercedes Jones

Mike Chang

Noah Puckerman

Series

none yet :(

Criminal Minds

Imagines

Aaron Hotchner

Undercover Heat

Spencer Reid

Derek Morgan

No Place Like Home

Emily Prentiss

Jennifer Jareau

Matthew Simmons

Luke Alves

Kate Callahan

Series

none yet :(

9-1-1

Imagines

Evan 'Buck" Buckley

Eddie Diaz

I Knew You Were Trouble

Bobby Nash

Athena Grant

Howard 'Chimney' Han

Maddie Buckley

Series

none yet :(

Gossip Girl

Imagines

Chuck Bass

Nate Archibald

Dan Humphrey

Serena Van Der Woodsen

Blair Waldorf

Carter Baizen

Series

none yet :(

Pitch Perfect

Imagines

Jesse Swanson

The Flirting Game

Beca Mitchell

Chloe Beale

Bumper Allen

Cynthia Rose

Benji Applebaum

Donald Walsh

Fat Amy/Patricia Hobart

Series

none yet :(

WWE

Imagines

Roman Reigns

Cody Rhodes

Fight Me

Jey Uso

Jimmy Uso

Solo Sikoa

CM Punk

Seth Rollins

Rhea Ripley

AJ Styles

Damian Priest

Series

None yet :(

Miscellaneous

Chandler Bing

New Years Eve

We Can’t Be Friends

[cryptfile]

ᝰ FANDOMS I’M CURRENTLY WRITTING FOR:

those marked in colored letters are the ones i’m currently simping on. Feel free to send promps, requests of characters or anything honestly. Always nice to recieve a message! / This list will be updated regularly so you guys can know what i’m into, also, if I forgot someone.

THE BOYS

Billy Butcher, Soldier Boy, Victoria Neuman, Starlight/Annie January, The Deep, A-Train, Frenchie, Sister Sage, Queen Maeve, Firecracker, Homelander, Hughie Campbell, Kimiko.

GEN V

Cate Dunlap, Jordan Li, Sam and Luke Riordan, Marie Moreau, Emma Myers.

HOUSE OF THE DRAGON

Rhaenyra Targaryen, Daemon Targaryen, Alicent Hightower, Jacaerys Velaryon, Aemond Targaryen, Aegon Targaryen, Harwin Strong, Criston Cole.

MARVEL

Loki Laufeyson, Sylvie Laufeydottir, Moonknight x3, Hawkeye/Comic!Clint Barton [recasted as Oliver Jackson-Cohen], Yelena Belova, Kate Bishop, Scarlet Witch/Wanda Maximoff, Pietro Maximoff, Steve Rogers, Matt Murdock/Daredevil, Deadpool, Peter Parker/Spider-Man’s in general, X-Men’s in general, Thor Odinson, Carol Danvers, Tony Stark, Doctor Strange, Bucky Barnes, Fantastic Four, Adam Warlock, Ant Man, Druig, Natasha Romanoff, and more since there are too many characters, feel free to ask!

HARRY POTTER

Remus Lupin [marauders era, post I war, nothing weird], Sirius and Regulus Black [marauders!era], James Potter [usually recasted as Dev Patel], Draco Malfoy, Theodore Nott.

BRIDGERTON

Eloise Bridgerton, Anthony Bridgerton, Benedict Bridgerton, Colin Bridgerton, Francesca Bridgerton, Daphne Bridgerton, Simon Basset, King George.

THE BEAR

Carmy Berzatto, Sydney Adamu, Richie Jerimovich, Luca.

TWILIGHT

Carlisle Cullen, Charlie Swan, Bella Swan, Edward Cullen, Alice Cullen, Rosalie Hale, Emmett Cullen, Jasper Hale, Leah Clearwater, Alec and Jane Vulturi, Benjamin.

YELLOWJACKETS

Natalie Scatorccio, Jackie Taylor, Shauna Sadecki, Van Palmer, Lottie Matthews, Taissa Turner, Misty Quigley.

GRISHAVERSE

Nikolai Lantsov, Kaz Brekker, Alina Starkov, Matthias Helvar, Aleksander Morozova / The Darkling, Nina Zenik, Inej Ghafa, Malyen Oretsev, Zoya Nazyalenski.

DAISY JONES AND THE SIX

Daisy Jones, Karen Sirko, Billy Dunne, Warren Rhodes, Eddie Roundtree.

THE HUNGER GAMES

Peeta Mellark, Finnick Odair, Young!Haymitch Abernathy, Katniss Everdeen, Johanna Mason.

STAR WARS

Anakin Skywalker, Qimir / The Stranger, Kylo Ren [yes, I have a type], Shin Hati, Han Solo.

MISC

Rafe Cameron [OBX], James Beaufort [Maxton Hall], Drew Starkey, Dean and Sam Winchester [Supernatural], Aaron Taylor Johnson in most of his roles aka Kick-Ass or Bullet Train, Robin Buckley [Stranger Things], Steve Harrington [Stranger Things], Rick Flag [DC], Harley Queen [DC], Battinson [DC], Art Donaldson, Mike Faist, Nicholas Chavez.

[reinekes-fox]

Interactive WIPs w Demo

FAQ

Want to support me? Here is my Patreon! Or buy me a Kofi!

Grey Swan I - Birds of a Rose

The Divine Flock. Some call them crazy, some even dangerous. Some even say the cult is hiding dark secrets. But, in all your life you have yet to find one. After all you should know should there be any dark secrets: you are a member after all! A member, not only of the Divine Flock, but also of the Avis Academy, the best school the cult has. Your life is quiet and follows a strict routine, at least until two Strays from the outside, the normal, world are allowed in the normally so closed off grounds and as a newly appointed Wing it is your job to keep an eye on one of them. With their arrival some of those dark secrets may finally come to light…

You ARE not playing as a BIRD!!!

New demo https://cogdemos.ink/go/3761

Some words before you play and TRIGGER WARNINGS: Most of those will only be active in the game due to a specific choice made by player! Due to the cult enviroment, the “typical” homo/trans/bi/a-phobia, sexism, abuse. Also blood and needles (with the option to be scared of needles so it won’t be shown), sexual abuse (only after two very clear warnings in game). Birds are only used in symbolism, basta.

Genre: Urban Fantasy, Dark Academia.

Moniker for MC: Wing MC.

Genderselectable MC: cis male or female, trans male or female. However due to growing up in a cult, MC wont know that trans is a thing/what it means, this is something MC can learn about. The same goes for sexual orientation: play as gay, bi, straight, aroace or ace, but be prepared for consequences.

Pick your level of devotion: be a devout follower of the teachings of the Divine Flock, reject it partly or wholly, or simply not care. All of it will have consequences.

Choose one of various school clubs, your volery, and get an unique storyline. Ranging from dance to school security, to managing your social media page.

Important people: Your flock, a group of younger pupils you were responsible for before the Strays arrived. You may not be their Wing on paper anymore, but you still hold a special place in their heart! They do miss you and are looking forward giving you a present on your birthday!

Your volery: whichever volery you joined, you are going to met pupils that are just as enthusiastic about your chosen interest as you are! Some more than others.

Your parents. It’s another question if the relationship between you is good, but important it surely is!

ROs: Fuchsia King

Chase Watson

Wing Droznik Juschka

Astor Rapace

-only for Owls: Wing Astoria Rapace

-only for Peacocks: Marter

-only for Swans: Elrond/Estelle Falkenflug

-Vampire route: Sebastian Voss

-AMAB Raven RO: Marcel Rabenschlag

-Heron RO: Amelia Fern

Grey Swan II - Hawks and Doves

Unless otherwise stated you are playing as a normal human! Two legs, two arms, internal organs, hopefully a brain too. We will see how much of this organ stays intact after state propaganda, will we?

Someone once said that you were the most happiest youth in the world after the Great Heartbeat, that had shattered the old world. Earlier you would have agreed in a heartbeat, wearing the light green uniform of your state youth organisation. But now? When war has come to Avistrions shores and news reels show only destruction ?

Choose your gender, way of thinking and stance while growing up in a religious dictatorship on the giant island Avistrion. Be a devout follower of the Divine Flock, the only thing that survived the earthquake that devastated the earth. Or be the Vulture, trying to rip it to shreds, while wearing the badge of youth leadership… where will you be when war strikes your so closed off country? Which side will you be on when it ends? Will you even survive long enough to see the outcome?

Moniker for MC: Fugol MC.

ROs

Agon Falkenflug Adler/Weihe Habichtklau

Johanna/Nikola Arra

Grey Swan III - Wisteria Birds

Wisteria Birds (fantasy, drama, angst)! Currently on pause.

You are beautiful, trained in art and music. You are deadly, trained in the unique weapons that no one except you can use. You are dying. Kept alive by the very same thing that keeps you save from others abusing their power over you… You have no rights. But you can do whatever you want, even kill, without having to fear any consequences. You are the most pleasant death that anyone can wish for. You are an artwork. And all you are supposed to be is look pretty, show of your owners wealth. But oh, you could become so much more…

You play as a highly specialised trained entertainer… an Artwork, expensive companion to the rich and noble ones in Aklant, a country with rigid rules and unspoken laws, strict class divide and obsessed with anything that shows how rich they are… or at least let them appear rich. Artworks themselves are outside of this all, freed from all those social chains, but not seen as human… maybe its time to change that? Or leave the status quo as it is, up to you!

Moniker for MC: Artwork MC.

ROs:

Fauconniers, your potential buyers:

Chevalier Armand Sanson Alexandre Desrosier Others, you may work together with one or more of them? “Mouette” Sanglant du Verdier

You have been a Hound, the human companion of a vampire, for years.

Until you find yourself among the undead and masterless after a night where everything went wrong… leaving you with no other choice but to move back in with your parents.

ROs (will expand)

Theo Grimm

Agent Rosa Caleb

Marian Viorel

Citadel of dancing birds

Ghibli inspired! Mainly Howls moving castle.

You play someone from our world who ends up in another world! Since this is an aspect I greatly enjoyed in the book and was really sad they didnt include in the movie, there will be chances of jumping between the worlds (and of course becoming a magician too!).

ROs, some are locked into specific magic combinations:

Opera Job and changing into Animals: Santu Cajarin

Changing into Animals: Rosalind Eagledancer

[maryaandmorevna]

A Song of Swan and Dragons

I cannot believe I'm writing another fanfic (PoW will be finished I promise!) but here we are.

This fic is the result of @lacebvnny and me RP-ing, and everything about OC (Arianne) and the plot can be credited to both of us. She has a few snippets written on her blog so check it out.

The story is safe for now, but it will get progressively darker. The warnings will be updated.

A Song of Swan and Dragons ch.1

Following Princess Rhaenyra as one of her ladies-in-waiting, Arianne Swann was woefully unprepared upon arriving at the Red Keep.

No scroll or tome could have captured the astounding amount of gossip that thrived within the Targaryen court. For a mere lady like her, it felt as though she had made a catastrophic blunder before even having the chance to place her pieces on the board.

Yet, if she allowed her heart to guide her—especially toward the man it had chosen—Arianne believed she could endure anything and emerge triumphant. Prince Jacaerys Velaryon would one day be king, and though her father often said that hope was a fool’s errand, she dared to dream she might one day be his queen.

If only his boor of an uncle would stop tormenting her.

I. Mēre (ao3)

II. Vōs, III. Hare, IV.Izula

(personally, I find ao3 better to read, but the chapter 1 is here under the cut as well)

129 AC, King's Landing.

A moon before the matter of Driftmark’s inheritance was to be settled, Crown Princess Rhaenyra returned to the Red Keep— Accompanied by her consort and children, she sought to solidify her position as heir apparent and rally support for her son, Lucerys Velaryon, as the next Lord of the Tides. Her ladies-in-waiting traveled with her; the youngest among them was Arianne Swann, the only daughter of Lord Swann.

Too young to serve as a true confidante, the princess had the girl be a companion of her stepdaughter and sons, as Arianne was of valyrian descent through her infamous grandmother, the exiled princess Saera. 

I.

(Arianne)

“There you are, my lady.” Miriam fussed as soon as her lady appeared in the doorway. Arianne was still clad in her woolen frock and dark overcoat she arrived in, her thick, long hair in disarray.  The ardous day allowed her maple-hued ringlets to free themselves from the confines of the braids.

“There is but little time to dress you for the feast!” The older woman’s eyebrows knitted together and she pointed towards the several different fabrics that lay draped over the bed. Most of them in Arianne’s house colors – black and white, representing the dual swans.

“I had to help Lady Celtigar settle the young princes,” Arianne sighed, unbuckling her overcoat. Her chamber was arranged simply enough, but thankfully, the bed appeared large and comfortable. Princess Rhaenyra left Dragonstone in quite a rush, and so did all of her ladies and staff.

Arianne packed most of her dresses, a few thin books she was allowed to snatch from the library, and her prized possession—a cyvasse set with lapis lazuli squares, Aunt Johanna’s gift for her ninth name day.

“Mayhaps the black one with the feathers?” Her maid crossed her arms, scrutinizing the dress with mild interest. It was ornate, but more importantly, proper and sensible – which was the most adequate thing for a lady to wear according to her mother and septa.

"I don’t wish to wear black though," Arianne pouted as Miriam held up the dark gown. Although the black swan had been her house symbol – contrasting the white one, they were also quite reminiscent of her aunt, the black swan of Lys. Johanna hadn’t really been her aunt since she was her father’s cousin, and Arianne wasn’t really allowed to keep correspondence with her.

Father had almost broken her game set when he realized from whom it came – no daughter of his would fraternize with whores and other unsavory women. He’d kept that hatred ever since his own mother abandoned him to chase the indulgences and liberties Volantis offered.

'This is where my grandmother grew up…and yet the Red Keep shunned her,' Arianne thought while noticing the diaphanous, pale sleeve of the gown she loved.

Finely made white fabric was hard and costly to come by - as opposed to the ones they used for chemises and undergarments. As it stood, even she owned only one pristinely pressed white gown. It flared into a soft bluebell-like skirt from the girdled waist. The bottom of it was embroidered with pale marble-colored feathers. It had been another gift her aunt Johanna sent wrapped in silken cloth, a secret one, shared between herself, her maid, and her mother Lady Swann. If her father knew she was draping herself in gifts from the lyseni courtesan...oh she wouldn’t dare think of the grim consequences! 

“The white one,” She exclaimed secure in the knowledge that it was Princess Rhaenyra she answered to now – and the crown princess was much more lax with rigid rules the septas touted while forcing her to embroider.

Miriam was busy examining a dark blue gown Arianne had yet to wear.

"You’ve worn the white one already, my lady."

She did indeed, the memory of her dear home igniting a pleasant sort of warmth beneath her sternum. Arianne donned the gown for her last name day - mother had called her the loveliest pearl above the ocean and told her the gown was lovely and to keep quiet about who'd gifted it to her. 

"But that was in Stonehelm..." Arianne concluded. Shortly after her last name day, she arrived at Dragonstone for Princess Rhaenyra had accepted her father's request that Arianne join her ladies in waiting.

Though she had spent more time with her children these last few months. 

Her stay this time had been vastly different from the visit years ago when all of them were children. Her father, ever wary of his valyrian kin, was anxious to meet his cousin once removed and heir to the throne.

Thus, young Arianne accompanied him...and made friends with the oldest Velaryon boy. They were the same age, only moons apart and he was kind - and so courteous, like knights from her favorite tales, her own Ser Galladon - and did not tease her for wanting to read or for demolishing his side in cyvasse.

How magnificent the library at Dragonstone had been in her child’s eyes. Jace, as he’d insisted she referred to him, laughed and told her the one at the Red Keep was larger.

She even wanted to stay, as in Stonehelm her only companion was her older brother, who often teased her relentlessly – simply because he was older, and a boy.

 Jace even promised her that one day, when his mother was queen, he would ask her to let Arianne try to claim a dragon - the most coveted companion that was denied to her grandmother for her behavior. 

 "No one actually saw me in it here, so they won't gossip about the poor Swann girl reusing her festive dresses."

The truth was that she didn't want to wear black, and the pride in her house wouldn't let her go with blue. Her friend Princess Rhaena would be wearing the black and red colors of House Targaryen, and so would Princess Baela when she arrived with her grandmother from Driftmark. As would many more, she supposed - for this was Targaryen court. 

Arianne wanted to impress Jace.

Perhaps if other people noticed her, he would cease to be so respectful and finally kiss her. Rhaena had told her how Baela kissed someone moons ago and described it as ‘delightful’.

But Jace hadn't...yet...

It was as if he forgot they promised to marry when they were little. He had to have forgotten a silly, child's words - because if he hadn't then what was he waiting to kiss her for? She was seven and ten already! 

She would have to marry soon and it was Jacaerys Velaryon she had hoped would become her lord husband. 

Miriam sighed and gave up, gathering the ivory dress into her hands to secure it over Arianne.

The neckline was perhaps a bit daring, but it was far from anything that could be considered improper. The sleeves were long and flouncy and Arianne loved that she could hide her fidgety and sweaty hands there.

After Miriam had painstakingly made her hair appear less like a wild nest and more like a soft waves cascading down her back with two neatly folded braids around the crown of her head - a style loved by her Princess Rhaenyra - Arianne went to find the rest of the entourage who would be following the heir apparent. 

She ruminated over her decision to wear white when she saw the other ladies-in-waiting.

Her bright visage stuck out like a sore thumb. How was she supposed to pretend she could dance when people would notice the one person who wasn't favoring those dark, gloomy colors? If she made a fool out of herself -

Rhaena wore a beautiful, crimson gown - but she was Rhaena Targaryen, the Rouge Prince's daughter, she could wear anything she wanted.

Jace turned around and greeted her, his large brown eyes widening slightly at her figure. Oh, he was so princely, the thought flitted through her upon noticing his dark, lustrous curls. They appeared perfectly tousled, and so impossibly soft that she gained a completely preposterous ache – to run her fingers through them.

"You look lovely, Arianne." He smiled softly. 

 "Do remember to ask her for a dance this time around!" Thankfully Rhaena hit his arm so no one noticed the way Arianne's breath lodged inside her throat.

The young lady Swann felt her cheeks burn and suddenly she envisioned herself with very, very red skin. The sizzling pinpricks rolled down her cheeks and neck. She realized Jace was glancing at her décolleté and found herself wondering if it was too daring after all. 

She wasn't like Rhaenyra, or Rhaena, or Baela. Oh, they could do as they pleased, royalty all of them - but for a mere lady like her, reputation was more important than life. 

She was already nervous about being here, at the feast for the first time. Why would they hold a feast the same day the princess arrived? The Queen gave them no time to prepare properly!

Oh, and the Mother above knew Arianne needed preparation.

This wasn't Stonehelm or Dragonstone, this was...King's Landing, the Red Keep, and if she tripped and fell here like an idiot then -

Who would ever consider her a worthy wife for the heir to the Iron throne?

Not to mention, her grandmother was banished from this very same court. 

She barely remembered some of the corridors, the last and only time she stepped her foot into the capital was when she was but a girl. 

Arianne recalled her mother being angry at her for losing the handkerchief she got as a present, but Arianne gave it to a crying boy whose face had been bandaged. It was more polite than offering one of her own, as her needlework left much to be desired.

In his last letter, her father had implied Princess Rhaenyra was considering the union between their houses. Her mind had conjured the idea of this particular union pertaining to Jace and herself - almost obstinately refusing to acknowledge that perhaps Rhaenyra would offer one of her less important sons.

No, father would never consent to a second son, let alone third or fourth-born.

It had to be Jacaerys Velaryon.

The thought sent a pleasant shiver down her spine.

‘Jace would be king one day, so his wife would be queen, would she not?’

The hall was splendidly lit, full of people who parted ways for them and Arianne was fascinated, walking behind the royal party - Rhaenyra, Daemon, and their children. If the small council decided so, Ser Vaemond Velaryon would arrive as well and there would be issues, but for now, everything appeared as she had imagined it.

While the King was absent, due to his poor health, his Queen - Alicent Hightower was there.

She would never admit it to a soul, due to the known animosity between the queen and her princess, but Arianne thought she looked perfectly regal and beautiful surrounded by her family. 

She couldn't believe Queen Alicent had children older than her, for her figure was the epitome of elegance.

She didn't know any of them, but she knew their names - Prince Aegon and Prince Aemond and the queen had a daughter - Princess Helena. Prince Daeron was not present, and she had been told he was at Oldtown, with his great uncle Lord Hightower. 

Arianne observed them from the cheerful crowd. She supposed the shorter one was Prince Aegon, as he had both eyes. His bearing wasn’t nearly as princely, at least compared to Jace, even if he possessed the light, silvery hair – a gift of his valyrian blood.

Prince Aegon was staring at his cup, swaying on his feet under the disapproving glare of his mother.

‘A prince and a dragonrider…yet he seems so sullen.’

The other one had to be Prince Aemond then - he was much more interesting to look at. He was taller and leaner than his older brother, dressed so impeccably in his Targaryen black leather - Arianne thought his countenance seemed quite regal.

She couldn't make out his face clearly from this distance, but she could discern the eyepatch and the long line down his left cheek. The story was very vivid in her mind ever since Jace had told it - filling her head with an image of a wicked, cruel boy who claimed Vhagar under the cover of the night.

' "He tried to kill me, so Luke -"

She gulped – her throat constricting tightly with fear.

The mere idea that this poised Targaryen prince tried to kill Jacaerys when they were boys was forcing the fine hairs on her arms upright.

Wasn't it pure luck that it wasn't Jacaerys who was hurt? Thankfully Prince Lucerys came to his defense and nothing happened to Jace, but his uncle had lost an eye. Aemond One-eye was how she’d heard his name in mentions during her stay on Dragonstone.

 His hair, pale as moonlight, cascaded down his shoulders, long and silky and beautiful.

She had never seen a man with such hair. Prince Daemon wore it like that when he was young, or so the stories told.

"Are those your uncles, Jace?" She whispered when Jacaerys Velaryon abandoned his spot to offer her his arm. She touched the crook of his elbow a tad unsurely.

"The ones you told me about."

"They are," Jace shook his head before they were required to make their greetings. The air between the princess and the queen was as tense as a bowstring. Arianne realized the two factions in the dragon court were more than just gossip. This was a public contest, a competition of sorts to see who among the two most powerful women in the kingdoms had more clout.

She glanced towards the prince with the beautiful hair again and quicker than lightning regret flooded into her every bone, vein, and sinew -

because he was staring back at her.

Arianne wanted to hide behind Jace instantly. Prince Aemond saw her look at him and he was now looking at her and so..., so - sharply.

Like she'd done something wrong. As wrong as asking her septa about books other than The Seven-pointed star.

His sole eye was pale blue, a perfectly valyrian shade, and his skin was as smooth as porcelain. 

And he appeared...disdainful.

She didn't know what possessed her to glance back at him briefly. Prince Aemond met her elusive eyes again and tilted his head, his countenance fixed into a glacier devoid of any warmth.

The young Swann girl had never met anyone who seemed to dislike her before she even said a word to them. She made sure to always be courteous and affable  - to not give anyone the wrong idea that she carried a resemblance to her notorious grandmother. 

Then he glanced at some point beneath her chin, trailing his gaze down her dress until it reached the floor where she stood—and Arianne felt a cold shiver of dread creep up her spine and surge through her palms.

She wiped them vehemently on the inside of her long sleeves.

Prince Aemond probably thought she was so rude for sticking out because he was again glaring at her.

She shouldn't have worn white - it drew too much attention, they will talk of her grandmother and she will embarrass her house and –

Mother, Mother above please be merciful to me.

Arianne couldn't even recall what it was that the queen and Princess Rhaenyra talked about but she was thankful to Mother, the Crone, and the Maiden when they returned to the other side of the great hall. She rarely prayed, often falling asleep while reading instead. Mayhaps, Prince Aemond could somehow discern that because his one eye could peer inside her head and he concluded she was a wicked, unruly girl.

Jace was whispering something about Balerion’s skull he wished to show to her but Arianne was too distracted cataloguing the variety of looks thrown their way.

One of the court ladies afforded her a disapproving frown and murmurs wrapped around her throat like vines. The more she moved, the tighter their hold.

"Princess Saera's granddaughter, no wonder she is wearing that -"

"She's a whor...you know, in Volantis." 

Arianne glanced at Jace, wishing he would take her hand and let Vermax fly them away, just like he'd promised when they were children.

The night dragged on, long and tedious.

Although the tables were plied with succulent cuts of meat, fruits, cheeses, and stews, she could scarcely stomach a bite.

Jace rubbed the back of his neck after watching the various lords and ladies twirl around. " I should ask you for a dance, then."

Arianne paled.

"I would love to...but Jace, you know how I am...I'll trip." 

‘And everyone will laugh...and deem me clumsy and unworthy of you...'

Her thoughts lingered on the frosty glare she'd somehow earned earlier from Jace's younger uncle.

She couldn't rationally conclude what possible reason a Targaryen prince had to dislike her so much, but she hadn't dared to even peep in the direction she thought Aemond One-Eye could be. 

"I won't let you fall, my lady. Trust me?" Jace offered her his hand, his full lips curving into a reassuring smile.

.

.

.

(Aemond)

"And what -" Aegon slumped against his brother's shoulder, dark red liquid sloshing and spilling out of his cup. "Are you staring at the whole time? You're sober!" 

Aemond shoved him away, wondering when was the last time the elder prince had a bath. To display himself so unseemly while their enemies were here.

His focus shifted back to the merry crowd, the muscle beneath his jaw ticking.

Aemond wasn't staring at anything. He was simply... observing their kin frolicking around, oblivious to the glaring, gaping wound growing each day: his father was dying, and someone would sit on the throne after him. But who? 

And the kin he wouldn't want to be that someone seemed to have grown their household.

"Oh...." Aegon followed his look, ever so keen on morphing himself into Aemond’s personal nuisance when inebriated.

 "A woman! Ser Criston-" He hiccuped. 

"Pour me another one, my brother has remembered he has a cock!" 

Aemond frowned, how grating his brother's voice sometimes was, especially when -

"Now we need to wonder if he remembers how to use a cock-"

"You shouldn't drink anymore, you look and sound a court's fool.” He sneered, irked that Aegon was not permitting him to think. His sole eye zeroed in on Jacaerys Strong and the woman on his arm, a comely figure adorned in ivory gown.

Aegon shrugged.

"Who is ah...that? She's fine I'd agree." 

Aemond wasn't sure yet. But he found himself glancing at her ever so often. Her face was very lovely, with large eyes surrounded by lashes several shades darker than her hair. Her curls tumbled around her delicate shoulders like a river of molten mahogany – quite the task to follow them as they bounced and swayed with her movement.

He hadn't meant to look for so long but she was truly...inviting to look at.

Prince Aemond took a sip of his drink, and noted how his bastard nephew twirled her around - those white skirts flowing like flower petals.

What bothered him was that he had not known who she was and there she stood - in that disrespectful garment - with the bastard brood. Other ladies in waiting had stood behind, as they should, but she was next to the prince heir of bastards.

His mother would never have such blatant disregard for protocol.

Aemond was privy sometimes to what his grandsire and mother discussed - apparently Rhaenyra the whore was considering giving her eldest bastard's hand to a lady in stormlands. To ally herself there, as Lord Boros Baratheon wasn't as firmly on her side as she had thought.

"Lord Swann's only daughter." Criston Cole answered to Aegon and Aemond both. 

"I do not remember her given name."

It finally dawned on Aemond and he scoffed. So she was pretty and mayhaps the future bastard's queen and also -

"She has valyrian blood." Aemond muttered more to himself than anything. She was the daughter of Saera Targaryen's only legitimate child. Fitting that a harlot like his sister would seek an alliance with a descendant of a most famous whore there was.

One-eyed prince found the idea disappointing for some elusive reason. How woeful that a woman possessing outwardly impeccable breeding – descending from Targaryen princess and the oldest family of the Marcher Lords, was truly the granddaughter of a Volantene madam poised to wed the bastard.

But at least he understood why her delicate face was so lovely — she was, at least partly, of the blood of the dragon. Yet, that riotous hair, as warm as caramelized chestnuts, cascaded down her back, the torrent of curls - 

He thought of his mother's hair, frowning.

"Huh? Who cares about that you twat. Do you think our nephew has gotten there? He does look cunt-struck." 

Aegon fell onto his chair laughing.

"If he hasn't, I cou-"

In a heartbeat, his perfectly spinning spectre of white garments and wild curls misstepped – graciously allowing Aemond to finally blink. She tripped into the bastard, or rather, collided with him.  Lady Swann had found herself a breath away from falling onto the marble flooring.

How disgraceful.

"Oh seven take me-" Aegon continued to irritate his eardrums. 

"Does she stumble into his bed like that too? Perhaps we ought to teach her, as a good kin does -"

Much to his chagrin, Jacaerys Velaryon prevented her from falling - Aemond would have relished that scene, the bastard and his inept little wife. 

He observed how he gripped her sleeves, whispering something in her ear and smiling so stupidly while she seemed to extern considerable effort to remain calm.

The dismay suited her - wide eyes and slightly parted mouth - and Saera's granddaughter, if she was clumsy and simple as she seemed to be, ought to be dismayed. The Red Keep will consume her alive and grind her bones to dust. 

Aemond could now focus on something else, undisturbed. Why did he waste that much time on that girl anyway? She was clearly as ill-suited as her grandmother was if she couldn't learn the steps to the easiest court dance. 

He had never enjoyed dancing, but he knew all of them. It was required.

Not to mention, that dress - he could almost...practically see the tops of her breasts - the creamy, smooth skin between her shoulders. A vapid, stupid lady who wanted men's attention.

Why was he even looking at her? 

He would no longer. She was wholly undeserving of it

.

.

.

(Arianne)

She tucked the strand of her hair behind her ear and twirled her earring. Her catapults advanced.

"I think your king is captured, my lord." Arianne placed her heavy horse between her dragon and the opposing tower and smiled. Their king was now stuck in a fork she'd created. A few murmurs surrounded their table but she tried her best to ignore the various timbres. She had almost cried twice already, so she wasn't going to risk it a third time. 

Instead, Arianne focused on Jace, who stood near her with an indulgent smile on his face.

He seemed proud of her. 

They had played countless times together on Dragonstone, and out of everyone she had won the most. Lady Elinda Massey told her she should let the prince win, for no man or boy liked it when a woman bested them. But Jace had never criticized her for it.

Quite the opposite - he joked that when he became a king she would plan his battle strategies. Arianne almost wanted to ask him if that meant he would wed her as they had promised but her insecurity kept her tongue safely behind her incisors.

"You play well, lady Swann." Lord Beesbury's cousin twice removed simply congratulated her and stood up. She wondered if Jace was trying to avoid playing Tyland Lannister when he offered her to play instead or was he trying to make her feel better after her disastrous dancing? 

Arianne was exceptionally skilled at cyvasse. It pained her to admit she was plain awful at most dances, the rhythm eluded her, and the movement – oh she often wondered if a curse had been placed upon her legs sometime after her birth.

She had missed a step and nearly fell on her bottom.

If he hadn't caught her -

How mortifying!

Next, she played Lady Wylde - the current one, for Lord Wylde had already been married twice before. She wondered if Jace was bored just watching her play, but when she peered up at him he was observing the board deep in thought.

She had positioned her rabble on squares between two mountain tops, reinforced with her spearmen and an elephant. It was a much better tactical position than Lady Wylde’s dragon-led crossbowmen. The mountain tops prevented them from moving diagonally, while Arianne’s dragon was freed to advance into an attacking square.

"A very sound tactic, young lady." Lady Wylde flattered her, though she was not much older. Yet, she has children already.

Swann girl twirled her pearl earring before deciding just to kill the opposing king with her black dragon. Her own had been safe behind a catapult and heavy horse.

Arianne had won once more. She thought she was unusually lucky today - in cyvasse, at least – not so much with anything else.

"It is a shame men do not appreciate it when it comes from a woman's mind. " 

Arianne glanced at her ebony dragon and repositioned the piece back at the start of the board. The lady had been kind to her and she was very thankful for it.

"Small-minded men," Jacaerys crossed his arms, his crimson red cape falling back. 

" My mother will lead our armies when she's queen and I would let my wife one day do the same if she so wished."

Lady Wylde's mouth parted briefly before snapping shut again, and at the same time, a wave of pinpricks grazed down Arianne's neck.

'His wife? His future wife? What was Jace implying -'

She shot him a bewildered look as the murmurs slowly quieted. What would people think now? They weren't betrothed, but the way Jace had said it - everyone would think he meant her! 

The encasing flush tickled her skin. 

"Then we can hope Lady Arianne will be so lucky with her future husband." Her opponent squeezed her arm that rested near a board and departed - as if she understood her predicament.

"Is that his paramour?" Someone muttered just loud enough for Arianne to hear.

She froze. 

Her eyes found Jace, and he had to have heard it too! But he merely frowned at the general direction from which the whispering came. Did they know? Who her grandmother was and now they thought she too was an ill-behaved woman. Seven -

Their ongoing competition had gathered quite a crowd. After Arianne defeated Lord Tyland everyone wanted to try their luck. 

'Paramour? If people think that, then -'

Her reputation would be ruined and how would she explain that to her father? Brother? Mother?

They would be so disappointed. She suddenly felt suffocated by everyone surrounding them, even if they praised her skills in cyvasse she knew they were also not her friends, nor allies. Arianne was only now beginning to see how self-serving everyone at court was. If the tales of Saera's wanton granddaughter entertained them, they would tell them without any regard for decency or the girl's reputation.

Her palms perspirated awfully.

"The Red Keep got its new cyvasse champion! A very lovely one! A toast to your health, young lady!" 

"You're brilliant, Arianne." Jace bent down to whisper in her ear.

"Did you have fun playing? We could go eat cakes." 

Arianne nodded and took his offered arm. Her prince had been right to let her play – if only to distract her from ruminating on her misstep from earlier.

She had loved the game from the moment it was taught to her. Lord Swann would spend hours upon hours developing different positional play and when his son showed no interest, he contented himself to letting his daughter challenge him.

Truthfully, she had yet to win against her father but she had been besting most everyone else who casually enjoyed the game for a while now.

"Will the lady spare a few moments of her time to play against me?" 

Arianne froze and turned her head.

It was him.

Jace's uncle, Aemond. The prince who had glared at her as if he wanted to strike her for offending all the seven gods. 

Aemond emerged, the crowd parted for him and sat down, a ghost of a smirk etched upon his face. His cheekbones, his jaw, even his nose - Arianne had never seen someone look so sharp-edged before.

He was like a marble sculpture carefully cut.

Although the uncle wasn't as handsome as his nephew with a perfectly dashing face and curls - his visage had been marred by a large pink gash stretching from his forehead and down his cheek. Yet, he was imposing and so strangely alluring. Alarming. Like something dangerous and formidable and predatory.

His tone was serene - soft in a manner waves crash softly against the shore. The undercurrent dragging the unsuspecting below.

Her eyes flickered to Jace, hoping he would rescue her from this—she didn’t want to! The prince frightened her terribly!

"‘Hmmm,’ Aemond blinked a few times before, with a mocking grin, turning to Jacaerys.

'Does your—'”

He paused and young Swann girl had an inkling of the word he was about to use - paramour, or worse, a whore, or worse even than that, if such word existed  -

But Aemond grinned even wider. " - lady, have permission to play one more game?"

At the same time, her prince hissed that Arianne did not need his permission, and she glowered. How could he all but say such a thing in the open court? Prince Aemond Targaryen didn't even know her.

"I will play." The words tumbled forth from her lips before she could ponder on them.

.

.

.

(Aemond)

How dared she draw all this attention? 

Aemond tapped his fingers impatiently against the table, his irritation growing.

How did this clumsy granddaughter of a whore - a blight in his proud Targaryen ancestry - manage to be the talk of the evening? Was it that attire? Saera's notoriety? Being close to the future crown prince, should his whore-sister rule?

She was a good cyvasse player. He couldn't deny it much as he itched to.

After she demolished Lady Wylde's defences, Aemond loathed to admit he was intrigued.

When Aegon told him to come and see - his little wench  - the younger prince was confused at first.

He didn't have a...wench.

Aemond was quite careful to avoid ladies at court. Most of them were frightened of his face and he had little interest in them anyway.

He knew he would marry soon and there was no point in forming a relationship that would only result in a court scandal.

He wasn't like Aegon; he was above such base stupidities. So he didn't have a paramour, a wench, a woman.

"You're good at cyvasse, aren’t you? Tyland was just telling me how outmaneuvered he was. He’s considering proposing to her—can you fucking imagine? Perhaps she wouldn’t die of boredom with you, unlike the others."

Aemond glanced at the little crowd playing cyvasse. He didn't know who his little wench was supposed to be, but there wasn't a lady at court he recalled being skilled enough to best Tyland.

He could see the top of Lady Wylde's hair and tried to remember which number wife she was.

 " My mother will lead our armies when she's queen and I would let my wife one day do the same if she so wished." Rhaenyra's bastard's grating voice boomed. In his Keep.

Aemond would sooner plunge the realm into war than let that mongrel sit on the throne.

"Then we can hope Lady Arianne will be so lucky with her future husband." 

Aemond halted.

Her.

It was her.

Arianne - he found out her name - had captured Lady Wylde's king and killed her jade-colored dragon.

Her hair fell in shiny waves down her back, framing that cosseted waist as she leaned forward above the board.

She smiled.

Something slashed the walls of his throat – like a rigged knife that hadn’t been properly sharpened.

"The Red Keep got its new cyvasse champion! A very lovely one! A toast to your health, young lady!" 

Aemond was flabbergasted.

The court liked her. Her riotous hair and her overly daring attire and -

She was clearly at least somewhat intelligent to best Tyland at it. And others.

How many games in a row did she win?

Aemond couldn't accept it - there had to be some fatal flaw, something uncouth about her because bastards didn't deserve to have such beguiling paramours - something worse than just being clumsy – how could the bastard's whore be the court's darling? Were all these toads so simpleminded?

He thought for a moment how he should leave, what business this was of his? The bastards will be gone by the end of a month, one Driftmark seat short.

The one-eyed prince observed the lady - Arianne - place her black dragon and catapults into their starting positions. 

One of her curls fell over her shoulder, and he followed it until it stopped just above her neckline.

He was the last man in this Keep to cast inappropriate glances at women's bosoms but he found himself wondering how hers looked like underneath that dress.

Round, firm, the perfect size for his palms -

He clenched his fingers. 

This was unlike him. Lust was a weakness.

His ivory-clad wench offered her hand to Jacaerys Velaryon, and Aemond's eye twitched at the sight.

If she was indeed his nephew’s bedmate, surely she wouldn't mind satisfying the trueborn Targaryen prince. 

Her harsh response - brows furrowing and her heart-shaped lips pressing into a tight line - ignited a flicker of doubt in Aemond about her alleged proclivities with the Strong whelp.

And he hated how his blood bloomed with contentment at the thought.

Her eyes were now on him and he realized they were so very green. Glittering with determination.

As green as his mother's beacon.

Almond-shaped and lovely, they stared back at him, firm with quiet resolve.

Green was, after all, his favorite color.

.

.

.

(Arianne)

Arianne was having fun.

Aemond made her think twice. She arranged her trebuchets adjacent to her rabble with her heavy horse defending. The catapult was her favorite piece so she placed it far back and let her dragon defend her king.

Jace hummed behind her, clearly agreeing with her defensive tactic.

It was sound, certainly, as she’d seen something similar in a scroll her father bought from a Volantene merchant.

Upon seeing the Prince’s pieces, her eyebrows drew together. Arianne pulled her spearmen back, deciding to see what he would do first.

The rest of the opponents she faced earlier followed a similarly structured play, which allowed her to outmaneuver them - she had spent hours upon hours playing her father and knew the middle-game well.

But not One-eyed Prince; he immediately attacked her rabble.

Aemond wasted no time.

She defended her left flank by placing an elephant diagonally across the trebuchet, humming thoughtfully.

Aemond curled his index finger, it hovered above his jade dragon.

She felt his gaze flicker to her face.

Arianne knew this was irksome for he clearly intended to remove her trebuchet from the board by blocking her with his dragon piece and attacking with the catapult.

However, his catapult was now pinned between the mountain and her elephant.

He could attack all he wanted, but she would keep avoiding battle until it angered him; then, she would have to use his mistakes.

Her orbs settled on him now that he was so near. Arianne observed the way his thin-pale eyebrow moved as he frowned.

Even with that deep gash splitting his left cheek in half, he was beautiful. Not like Jace, but differently, disconcertingly so. Like those valyrian dragonlords she read about. 

He moved his heavy horse instead and then his sole eye zeroed in on her. 

Aemond's gaze was so intense that Arianne thought he might be trying to kill her with it. How dare she meet him head-on? - It seemed to threaten her.

"Hmmm," His voice startled her. 

It had a melodious tilt to it that was strangely pleasant. 

"Will you just spend the entire game avoiding battle?" 

She had to glance back up. Jace shifted on his feet.

"I haven't decided yet, Your Grace." 

Well, it was the truth. Someone muttered something behind her and Arianne groaned inwardly. 

Aemond moved his dragon again, trying to have one of her horses removed from the game. The sigh that escaped her lips as she accepted the exchange and discarded both their light horses from the board was barely audible.

"Will Your Grace just keep attacking?" She didn't know what possessed her to ask. He hadn't developed any of his defensive pieces. His jade king was simply placed behind the last mountain, as lonely as an island in the middle of the vast ocean.

"You do know how this game is won, lady -" The prince waited again. Arianne almost wanted to bristle and snort - he knew her name. He heard Jace say it! Was he pretending it was so unimportant or did he just want her to introduce herself again? Would she have to curtsy as well?

"Arianne." 

"Arianne." The corner of Aemond's mouth quirked up. She hated how it sounded on his tongue, as if he was measuring each syllable for its worth, as if he was tasting whether her name was to his liking.

"I do know," Arianne muttered, avoiding his look and focusing on her figures. It wasn't like he was winning or pressing any advantage for now, he was just forcing them to destroy the pieces. The goal was to kill the enemy king, one could do that without wasting resources annihilating every opposing elephant, spearmen, and rabble.

"Perhaps you'd like to ask my nephew for help, lady Arianne. He is very strongly versed in tactics." 

Before Jace could react, Arianne shook her head with a hint of reactive defiance in the motion.

"It wouldn't be fair. Besides," She dug her nails into her palms and forced her thundering pulse to slow.

She will not let him win because he frightened her.

"I am having fun." 

Taking her trebuchet far back to bolster her king’s defense, Arianne smiled.

He didn’t know she could do this for literal hours.

.

.

.

(Aemond)

Aemond's expression darkened.

She was having fun? 

'I pity any unfortunate wench forced to spend time with you as she'll throw herself from the Keep out of sheer boredom.'

'Boring, studious, exemplary Aemond.'

How Aegon had laughed at him, how they all did, bastards- 

He couldn't remember ever having fun unless he was flying atop Vhagar. 

Cyvasse was part of his studies, something he had to endure but never truly enjoyed. Even when he outmaneuvered his brother, his nephews, and even his teacher, they somehow still found ways to make jabs at his expense - You can only play with a dragon toy on a board, Aemond. I have a real one.

But he had to admit it was somewhat entertaining to chase her across the board. 

Most of his opponents would sooner give up and engage.

"Will you say the same once you lose?" He had removed one of her crossbowmen from the game.

Arianne's laugh was making his fingers tingle - a cacophony of tiny, silver bells.

"Why wouldn't I? I do not always win," Her eyes held some sort of mirth - and Aemond wasn't sure if he wanted it to keep blossoming or quash it down. 

"Contrary to the evidence from tonight."

Jacaerys Velaryon snorted.

Aemond pointedly ignored him.

"What about Your Grace?" Arianne lifted, her long curls spilling over her shoulder. Aemond decided he would not pay them any more attention because they distracted him.

"I do not play for fun," he remarked, not realizing how harsh his tone had become. "I play to win."

Her hand hesitated in placing her next piece.

"Do I bore you, Your Grace? I did win once because my opponent gave up." He peered at her and she seemed to be reminiscing.

"My brother got bored of trying to force my king to fight."

Aemond couldn't help but chuckle, despite himself

"Your brother lacked patience," He admonished. 

"I do not."

Perhaps that wasn't the full truth for he harshly placed his catapult in front of the rabble closest to her king. Arianne simply moved her king away, opting to sacrifice her weakest pieces.

However, if he were to remove them she would have an opening to take his trebuchet, which was a far more valuable piece.

Aemond bit the inside of his cheek and relented, allowing her to escape unscathed.

How fucking infuriating that tilt of her mouth was, as if she was truly enjoying this childish hide and seek across the board. How fucking lovely - pillowy, pink, with a delicately shaped cupid's bow. 

"For how long do you plan to do this?" Aemond forced out in his best attempt to hide impatience. 

"Till' morning if I have to. Perhaps Your Grace would consider developing his side of the board so we could play nicely." 

Aemond bristled.

"Perhaps the lady would consider trying to win instead of just avoiding defeat." 

He forcefully showed his dragon in front of her elephant and removed it from the board.

Aemond noticed his mistake only when he’d already done it.

His heavy horse was now pinned, leaving him dangerously exposed!

If he moved it to safety, his king would be vulnerable to her black dragon—he could either lose the horse or, worse, compromise his king.

His fingers flexed.

He had to retreat his king to safety, sacrificing his heavy horse to the opposing dragon.

Her vibrant green eyes glittered with satisfaction.

Aemond felt the veins in his face throb, the fire licking at his temples. How dare this little descendant of a whore -

"Perhaps Your Grace would keep better watch over his horses?"

Was she mocking him?

The muscle in his jaw spasmed.

Oh the nerve -

"Your pieces will all be destroyed. I won't just kill your king," He snarled, as terrible wroth of embarrassment sloshed inside his stomach. 

"My lady." 

Her large, doe eyes widened.

"What has my kingdom done to earn such hatred from the Prince?" 

Aemond glared at board then back at Arianne Swann.

He didn't know.

He hated how long her lashes were and how decisively she moved her game pieces, and how -

He wanted to win so badly. To have all her pieces toppled until she folded her king over herself and admitted he had been right. 

Suddenly his mind was conjuring reveries where he was the most devastating opponent she ever had and would never be able to forget.

It wasn’t until his nephew cleared his throat that Aemond realized he wasn’t alone with her. Why would he even want to be alone with her, anyway?

But he was enjoying the game, and he would feel even better once he cracked that stupid tactic and won.

"Arianne, just engage his pieces." He noted the bastard putting his hand on her shoulder. A growing itch in his neck told him to cut his hand off.

"Don't you wish to go eat cake with me instead?" 

"Oh," She glanced at the board before giving a small nod to Jace, clearly unfazed by Aemond's growing irritation. 

No -

"You're right of course, Jace." 

Why would she listen to the stupid fucking fool? She said she was having fun, just like he was. 

Arianne moved her trebuchet against Aemond's jade dragon, shrugging, her neckline tempting his gaze despite his efforts to look away.

"Perhaps Your Grace will finally get what he's been hoping for."

The bastard nodded to himself, clearly pleased with her foolishly reckless move.

Why would she take his advice? His nephew had no clue about the game. He was atrocious at it. 

Aemond could feel his blood boil.

.

.

.

(Arianne)

Arianne felt like she was in some sort of daze when Jace pulled her back from the brink.

Perhaps Prince Aemond wasn't that awful, at least not when he stubbornly tried to destroy her side of the board instead of simply killing her king.

His features didn't seem that frightening when he wasn't frowning.

She didn't want to engage all her catapults into attack positions but if she didn't this could last for hours. The moment her king moved forward, Aemond responded by placing his jade-dragon against it, blocking her move.

Arianne noticed he had beautiful hands. His long fingers easily enveloped the jade pieces. 

"Fool's move," he hissed and she had to look up.

His fiery glare was set on her again.

Had she imagined he was civil towards her when they began to play? What had she done?

"But you are Saera's granddaughter," Aemond sneered, his nostrils flaring. "A fool if there ever was one. Banished from the King's Landing for..." 

He left it hanging in the air, but everyone knew. And if anyone didn't know this about her, Aemond now made sure they did.

Arianne could practically feel the japes from around her. 

"If Arianne is a fool what does that make the men that sit on the queen's council? She defeated quite a few of them." Jace bit back.

The Queen was Prince Aemond's mother. 

It was an offense, no doubt.

"Ah," She sighed, rubbing her ear before quickly moving her dragon. 

"The catapult, your grace." She indicated it was destroyed, hoping Aemond would return his hand to the board rather than where it now hovered - near a dagger at his waist.

Aemond bestowed his attention on her and seemed to observe her face for longer than it was considered appropriate. He blinked slowly, then a small, sardonic smile played at the corner of his mouth.

She hoped there wasn't something on her forehead.

His next move was predictable, so Arianne defended.

The game continued, and it seemed he countered every time she tried to retaliate. She placed her onyx dragon adjacent to her catapult, and the one-eyed prince moved as though he had already predicted it.

It was jarring.

Either he was a far better player than he let on or he was reading her thoughts!

Prince Aemond was terrifying enough...he couldn't be reading her thoughts, could he?

Arianne rubbed her pearl earring nervously and moved her black king to safety.

"Now you lost your most powerful piece." Aemond proclaimed coldly before kicking her dragon off the board.

How did he know what she -

"I happen to prefer my catapult." She hoped her pouting wasn't visible. 

"Do not fret then, my lady. It will soon follow."

His visage morphed into one of complacent malice. Aemond leaned back in his chair, a truly sly grin playing on his lips as his fingers tapped the board lightly.

Arianne deflated, realizing her king was trapped. Unless he blundered, death in five moves would mean her defeat.

She moved her catapult but in vain, as somehow the Prince again realized she would try to go for his elephant. Four moves later it was over.

"Do not worry, Arianne. You played very well. Uncle Aemond is..." Jace squeezed her arm reassuringly.

 "Obsessive in his studying."

She met his warm, dark eyes and smiled.

She did feel bad for losing. Perhaps she should write the game down and send a letter to her father, he’d know how to properly convert defense into open play.

It was a rather fun loss though, unlike her loss of balance – and she had tried so hard to grit her teeth and dance better, for Jace.

Arianne inspected the board once more - she had wasted half a night playing cyvasse already and she did want to try the sweets.

She attempted to smile politely at Prince Aemond, showing him she accepted the loss with all the grace a loser could muster. But she halted halfway—his mouth was set in a frightening glower, and his eye blazed with something malignant.

The twinge of apprehension coiled tightly around her ribs.

"I c-concede," she stammered, reaching to fold her king. But his hand was quicker, snatching it in his large palm.

The one-eyed prince slammed the figure against the board with unnecessary vehemence.

"A waste of my time," he hissed. 

"Perhaps this teaches you it is bad manners for a woman to make such a spectacle of being slightly above average at play." 

Her muscles locked.

A spectacle?

Bad mannered!?

Arianne blinked twice to dispel the itching in the corner of her eyes, but she was fairly certain he could notice. What a sore winner if she ever knew one. It was like he wanted to humiliate her and make her cry.

What could she have possibly done to him?

"I..." She peered down at her fallen king and her slain dragon. 

"I was just..." 

"Your manners are lacking, uncle." Jace helped her stand up. 

Arianne was thankful his pace was brisk for she couldn't get soon enough from there.  Now, everyone would think her not only clumsy and inept but presumptuous as well. How stupid she had been to imagine she could best a prince whom everyone praised for excelling at everything

.

.

.

(Aemond)

Aemond's mood was positively sour for the remainder of the night. The hour was growing late and various royal guests had begun to disperse. 

He had won the cyvasse game.

All because she’d listened to the idiotic advice of her rumored paramour.

They could've still been playing if she stuck to her own gameplan and he wouldn't have to be forced to interact with various simple fools throughout the night.

Because she couldn't stop twirling her stupid earring.

Her stupid curls.

Her stupid, stupid, stupidly noticeable ivory dress. No matter where he looked, she seemed to command his attention, an unrelenting presence in the corner of his eye.

And yet when he had won and she -

Knocked over her king. For a fleeting moment, he thought she might cry—and to his surprise, the idea wasn’t as satisfying as he’d imagined

But how luminous and green her eyes were -

I concede -

To concede is to surrender, to yield.

He imagined her saying it to him in private, with no one else to hear.

His chambers, not hers – because he would have the door barred shut lest they get interrupted again.

She'd admit he won and sit on his bed and wait - wait for him, wait until he approached and took his spoils.

She'd be his paramour then.

Aemond groaned and downed his cup. He was on the verge of being drunk. He never allowed himself to indulge that much.

The realization struck him like a longsword—he wanted to take Arianne Swann to bed. And that was... a problem. More so if he was forced to interact with her for the next moon. If she was to stay with his half-sister's entourage.

Was she going to cry over losing? Would she cry if he took more from her? 

Was she the bastard's lover?

What if she wasn't? What if she was untouched and waiting for him to take her? 

Was she really going to cry from losing a stupid cyvasse game? 

Unfortunately, Aemond wouldn't find out as she took his bastard nephew's hand and left.

She hadn't glanced in his direction once.

How dare she leave without his consent!? He had given no such permission.

Aemond tried to focus on remembering the lords who tried to speak to his mother and the ones who didn't -

He tried to keep an eye on Aegon.

Tried to focus on ladies he hadn't met, the sweetcakes and various fruits brought on golden platters - anything to keep his mind elsewhere.

Even tried to observe Daemon, the only real threat should the whore of Dragonstone insist on taking the crown his mother had clearly intended to put on Aegon’s head.

But his eye drifted back to Arianne Swann ever so often. His mind finally made the connection that had been eluding him. The black swan of Lys. While brushing up on his knowledge of Kingdom of the Three Daughters, he was rather chagrined to learn that Lyseni let themselves be ruled by a courtesan they enslaved to a pleasure garden years prior.

Aemond gripped his goblet tightly, as his lips parted in silent realization.

The abducted Westerosi noblewoman - the barbaric act that finally prompted the crown to act against the Triarchy - wasn’t she the kin to Lord Swann, hence the moniker?

Lady Arianne covered her mouth with her hand and her body shook, her curls bouncing from whatever it was that entertained her. Did she even notice the throng of men trailing after her as if she were a piece of sweet meat? Was she truly oblivious to how her dress clung to the curve of her waist—how it managed to be so indecently enticing while revealing nothing at all?

The neckline dipped to frame the delicate lines of her collarbones, ending just before revealing her womanly attributes.

She’s wearing that on purpose, Aemond concluded tartly. Saera’s granddaughter, kin to another famed harlot—was there a single decent woman in her wretched family?

So that was why she was grating on his mind, he bit the inside of his cheek in vexation – because clearly there was something nefarious about the women of her line that drew men in. Not him though, he wasn’t weak-minded like all these toads.

He could see right through her.

Her very presence was an affront—to the court, to him, to everything dignified.

What an utter shame for there were very few of them – those with the blood of the dragon - and to have it wasted on a vapid tart who warmed his bastard nephew’s bed.

A vapid tart, yet one who’d somehow managed to best Tyland at cyvasse.

Aemond took a sip from his goblet again, wondering where they carted Aegon off to before his eye inevitably stuck to the object of his ire again.

How disconcertingly pretty she was.

And what, pray tell, was she laughing about with those fools?

.

.

.

(Arianne)

Arianne covered her mouth and laughed at herself. They were competing who could eat more lemon-flavored cakes and although Prince Lucerys was in the lead, she was trailing right behind.

Her stumble during the twirl long forgotten, she visibly relaxed while listening to the rapt stories of her dragon-riding friends. 

"Don't you ever wish you had one?" Rhaena elbowed her. 

Huh?

"Um...I suppose not?" Arianne hesitated, trying to be tactful. It would be a lie that she never ever wished for a dragon of her own, but coveting it would be unseemly.

 "I am not a Targaryen like you. Besides...they are frightening."

"Even Vermax?"

"Vermax only behaves because Jace tells him to." Arianne shrugged.

Rhaena snorted and drank her wine.

“Still, it is odd. Vermax is so prickly!” Lucerys shrugged. How nice that both he and Rhaena already knew they would be wed – they liked each other and it was leagues preferable to marrying a stranger. A fate that could still await Arianne.

She tried her best not to dwell on it but often her nightmares included her being given away to an old, mean, ugly lord that scarcely washed.

It was so unfair!

The lemon turned sour upon her tongue.

It could be worse, she supposed, there was a lady that would have to suffer being Prince Aemond’s wife. He was meaner than a Stranger.

"I wish I had one. It isn't fair. Vhagar was supposed to be mine." Princess Rhaena glowered. Following her gaze, Arianne noticed the one-eyed Targaryen staring intently at his plate.

She had heard this story several times by now.

"I hate him." Rhaena's frown deepened. "Vhagar was my mother's dragon, I was supposed -"

Arianne didn't know what to say, from what she had read the dragons chose their riders but she wouldn't want to upset her friend. It was still Prince Aemond who attacked other princes and princesses. And even more, she didn't ever want to say anything in defense of that malcontented boor.

"Is he mean to everyone then?" She asked instead. 

Sensing the questioning glance the Targaryen princess threw her way, she explained. "He defeated me in cyvasse earlier and...well, he insulted me."

"Oh, that stupid twat." Rhaena snapped. 

Arianne snorted. 

Aemond Targaryen was a boor and a twat indeed.

"I am going to fraternize," Jace approached them, "with my mother's liege lords. Gods be good." 

"I am going to retire before another moronic Hightower asks me to dance." Rhaena crossed her arms and turned on her heels, inviting Prince Lucerys to escort her.

"I should too, then." Arianne sighed. She's had enough disasters for one night. The Red Keep hadn't been the idyllic court she imagined it to be. If she ever truly became Jace's queen she would rather make it nicer - with kind people and less gossip.

Jace's warm, brown eyes widened slightly.

"No, don't go yet. I just...I'll be done quickly and - I need to tell you something." 

"Oh...alright." She acquiesced without putting up a fight.

But it wasn't alright, with Jace and Rhaena gone Arianne was left fidgeting with her sleeves. She tried to engage in a small talk with other stormlanders but the moment her grandmother was mentioned the murmurings pricked at her ability to do so.

Lady Broome was a cherry on top of her sour cake.

"If I had a daughter with certain...indecent predilections coming from her father's side, I would have whipped her within an inch of her life. You would be sewing and praying, not playing games. " 

Arianne merely smiled and held her retort at bay. She gave up after that, deciding to leave and wait for Jace in the courtyard.

Swann girl walked around a few drunk knights that were lying on the stairs and sighed when she felt fresh air.

'I will not cry. I didn't do anything wrong.'

She had walked a little further away until she could see the sprawling town beneath the keep. How vast the settlement was, its lights spreading as far as she could see. Yet, Oldtown was even larger, though she had never been there.

Arianne leaned on a tree and observed the line of people carrying carts through the Keep's gates.

"What use is a daughter who does not know how to run a household and be a quiet wife to her lord husband?" 

"Bringing unnecessary attention to yourself by playing games."

She gripped the sleeve so tightly that she almost tore it off. Princess Baela, from what Arianne had heard, had behaved ten times more scandalously than she, yet no one dared to mutter their discontent.

But she had a dragon and so did her father.

Arianne’s lungs filled with chilly air.

 If she only had a dragon, a great, monstrous beast - like Balerion - she'd threaten them to stop or else.

Or else I'll have my dragon roast you. Not that she'd ever do it, though. She’d once seen Vermax devour a lamb, and the sight had made her both retch and cry. 

What did those old witches even know about her? She wished to slap them and declare that Jace was no mere lord, and she would not be some lord’s quiet wife. Jace would be King and she would be Queen and sit on his council. Then they'd hold their tongues, for Jace had Vermax, and as her lord husband, he'd frighten them for her. 

"It is not wise to walk around alone at night." The voice startled her into jumping from her skin.

Arianne's neck cramped from how quickly she turned, alarmed by the silent approach.

"For a lady." Aemond clasped his hands behind his back. 

Several moments passed before she recovered from her shock.

What was he doing here? Why was he here? To shove her off the edge until she fell and broke her skull on the cobblestone below? 

"Y-your Grace." She did a quick curtsy before glancing around for any sign of Jace to rescue her as he did after a cyvasse game.

Aemond hummed to himself before he stepped forward. He hadn't come closer than a few paces from her, his angular face trained on the town. An errant shiver rolled down her backbone, not from any chill in the air, but from fear.

She was frightened of Aemond.

‘ Well, who wouldn’t be?’

The prince glanced at her after some time, his gaze slowly traveling lower.

"Are you not cold in that little dress?" 

Arianne's eyelids fluttered several times. 'Little dress?'

The heat blossomed through her cheeks.

"No," she answered with a note of confusion in her tone. 

"I rather prefer the cold."

King's Landing, unlike her home, lacked any wind. She was used to far worse weather. 

Something passed over the one-eyed prince's face.

"A fortune then," he chuckled. "Your...friend is no true fire and blood. Nor salt and sea for that matter." 

She pressed her lips tightly together as she instantly had an idea who he was referring to. It would seem the entire court thought her loose with her morals, and the realization stung. Arianne knew she would have to dispel such misconceptions if she ever hoped to marry her gallant prince.

Was that what he had implied? That Jace was a bastard and she...?

Jace was Laenor Velaryon's son. He was Princess Rhaenyra's heir. 

"I truly am fortunate, your grace." It was hard to make the acid in her tone undiscernible. Arianne returned her attention to the people below, but she could feel his stare on the side of her face.

She wondered if walking away would be rude. Would she even dare? Did she need his permission? Technically, he was her sovereign. 

Maybe if she remained quiet, the boredom would usher him away.

They stood in relative silence, the cheers and music from the hall still permeating the air before Aemond spoke again.

"I was perhaps harsh earlier," he cleared his throat. 

Arianne felt her sinews coil in apprehension. Was he trying to talk to her?

"You...play well." 

Her breath hitched.

What?

Her pulse fluttered nervously through her arteries, rushing so relentlessly her ears rang. 

"T-thank you," She muttered, peering up at his expression. Was he jesting with her? Or was he serious?

The trepidation overwhelmed her.

"It certainly is an honor to hear that," Arianne fiddled with her sleeve. "When Your Grace is clearly the better player."

The compliment seemed to soften the harshest of lines adorning his face, yet he made no comment on it.

Aemond blinked and pored over something near her temples.

"Well, at least when we came to the endgame, all my attacks were predictable," she had started to ramble because his stare was making her dig her fingernails into her palms and shift the weight from one foot to the other.

"It is because you have a tell," he interrupted her offhandedly. 

Arianne halted, offering him a questioning pout.

Aemond moved his arms, bringing one to the pommel of his knife while raising the other to touch his earlobe 

"Before you move a piece into attacking position," he explained in a voice as soft as a pillow. 

"You touch your earring."

'I...what?'

'Wait what?'

Arianne had to blink numerous times before she could think this through. She wasn't doing that, was she? She'd never noticed - and neither had anyone else.

Her hand shot up to twirl her pearl earring, and she paled, realizing he was right.

She tended to do that.

"I...well...h-how did you...I never realized..." 

Something was flooding her cheeks and forehead - it wasn't frustration that was brimming under her skin the entire night - it was an embarrassment

Aemond hummed, the corner of his lips curving.

"I watched you play Lord Rosby and Lady Wylde ..."

'He was watching her?'

Arianne didn't know how to answer that. Why was he watching her and not the board?

Perhaps Prince Aemond realized she was struggling to formulate the sentence because he spoke again.

"Why did you abandon your tactic in favor of my nephew’s?”  

Her eyes shifted towards his collar. The black of House Targaryen made a stark contrast against his pale skin.

Arianne tilted her chin up to better see his face. Seven above, he was tall.

"Well, it was taking a long time and...I had wanted to eat cakes with him. We were supposed to...do that." She wondered why his marble-like face hardened as she spoke – his jaw locked and his mouth settled into a frown.

Aemond flexed his fingers. 

"What fucking foolish reason!" He scolded, his eye blazing with indignation.

Arianne took a step back, surprised at both his vocabulary and vehemence. 

"Well...why did your grace help me with," - She touched her earring, - "this, if he thinks me a fool?" 

His nostrils flared.

"I took pity!" His answer dripped venom and Arianne realized he was only pretending to be civil and she had been right - he hated her.

"We are family after all." the prince added with a hint of amusement.

'Family? Sure, his father was her grandmother's nephew but that was too distant a relation to-'

"I suppose -"

"Dragons are so...ah, generous with their family aren't they?" Aemond snarled, regarding her naive expression. "We welcome everyone, traitors, bastards, bastard's mistresses..."

Arianne stiffened. 

Even him? Was this what everyone thought?

That she was Jace's paramour...that she lost her honor before marriage?

What will her parents think?

Much as she tried, she couldn't stop the itching in her eyes.

Targaryen Prince simply stared at her – the blue of his eye as turbulent as the most voracious of oceans.

Arianne wiped her cheeks when she felt the droplets. 

She was crying. Crying.

She couldn't cry in front of Prince Aemond. He would humiliate her even further.

"I...I a-am not...and I would...like to leave now." Her line of vision fell to her feet and she willed them to move. Unfortunately, his long legs moved as well, blocking her path.

"I do not give you permission to leave, lady Swann." Aemond spat, forcing his arms to rest at his sides. His sole eye moved to map and catalog the wet trails left on her cheekbones.

'W-what?'

What was wrong with him? She was crying! It was common decency to allow a lady her dignity! From the moment she arrived, there was gossip about the debauched Prince Aegon and the dutiful, impeccable Prince Aemond, whose only fault was his missing eye. But she realized the Keep was as full of horse dung as the dirtiest stable in the Seven Kingdoms

He was the most ill-mannered boor she had ever had the misfortune to meet! How did no one else realize this?

Arianne glared up at him through her damp eyelashes. 

"Your words offend me so I... please move-"

"Offend you?" Aemond sucked his bottom lip in and narrowed his eye.

 "So you are not a mistress then? Perhaps like your grandmother, he pays for your company in gold. How much of the crown's coins does he spend to share your bed? More than your famous grandmother? Is he the only one -"

Before she could think her foot flew and hit him in the shin.

Aemond hissed but he didn't stumble. 

"I AM NOT SHARING ANYONE'S BED!" Arianne screamed. 

She yanked off both of her earrings and threw them at his head. 

"How dare you insult me so? I haven't done anything to you! Yet, you state all these awful things about me when I haven't even had my first kiss. You judgmental, prejudiced twat!"

Arianne didn't wait for him to strike her head off, she ran past him. She ran until she reached the stairs and then she ran in the other direction until she was looking for her room.

She couldn't stop crying.

Miriam was sleeping when Arianne opened the door.

The young lady Swann had no heart to wake her and she didn't want to be interrogated about the worst night in her life.

She simply hugged her pillow and cried. She was dead. Tomorrow they would come for her and lead her before the Queen and she would sentence her to hanging for insulting and hitting Prince Aemond.

Not even Jace will be able to save her.

She had forgotten Jace wanted to tell her something.

That awful uncle of his!

The sweet embrace of sleep eluded Arianne for hours as she indulged in fantasies of setting her own dragon on that evil man. If she only had one, she’d let it devour him in one bite and she wouldn’t cry or retch.

She’d laugh. 

.

.

.

Miriam woke her with a scolding.

"My lady, you should've woken me to prepare you for bed! How did you sleep in that corset?" 

Arianne had a splintering headache.

Last night happened.

Oh, the Seven!

"D-did the guards ask for me?" The fearful tilt of her tone made Miriam frown.

"No," she eyed her lady suspiciously. "Why would they?"

Arianne breathed a relief. For now.

‘I kicked a Prince…’

Groaning, she buried her face into her pillow. She didn’t want to die! It wasn’t fair!

"Please get up and eat. I need to do your hair, it's completely knotted!"

"I am not leaving my room today," Arianne pouted. Perhaps if she never showed her face again, Prince Aemond would forget she existed?

"Oh...what happened last night? Did Prince Jacaerys kiss you?"

She winced.

Absolutely not.

"It was awful. I hate this place." Arianne muttered, taking a sip of water. She ate while Miriam fussed over the state of her dress.

"My lady, where are your earrings?" The question caught her unprepared and Arianne blanched.

"I...lost them."

"Both of them?" Miriam blinked several times.

I tossed them at that awful, awful -

"Yes." She pursed her lips and realized her appetite was missing.

The morning was uneventful. She had a bath and she and Miriam shared a meal later. Lady Massey informed her yesterday that she was to ensure Princess Rhaenyra’s things were put in order as these servants cannot be trusted for they are employed by the Queen.

The Swann girl hoped she wouldn’t have to scold too many of them.

Also, the younger princes needed to be taken to their lessons.

Arianne was still pretty upset but she tried to think about what Jace wanted to talk about. Her daydreams imagined him professing she was dear to his heart and -

her worst scenarios had him solemnly telling her that she was mistaken and he could never accept her for a wife. Not next to Princess Baela, not when Lord Paramount of Stormlands had four unwed daughters.

Miriam stood up because she heard a knock. 

'Oh no.' She turned rigid. They were here to put her in chains. To have her arrested for capital transgression against the prince. 

Aemond would have her executed.

Or Queen Alicent would.

"My lady, this is for you." Miriam was holding a small box and turning it around in her palm.

"Do you think prince -" Her other hand flew to her mouth to stifle the giggles.

"Just give me that!" Arianne scowled. She wasn't going to get excited over Jace's gift only for it to be from some lesser lord trying to marry her for her nice dowry.

Her fingers trembled as she opened it.

Arianne descended into shock.

Her pearl earrings.

What?

Was this another cruelty from One-eyed Prince?

Arianne put the box on the table and pulled a small piece of paper.

When she had read it she got up, tossed herself onto her bedding, and screamed into the pillow.

' Much as I appreciated your gift, Lady Arianne, I have no use for earrings. When we play cyvasse again and you win, you might be entitled to my forgiveness for the epithets you gave me. Should you lose, know that you would owe me twice, and I will not forget to collect your debt. Mayhaps you'll think of something of more value than jewelry—something of firsts.

My leg is completely fine, in case your ladyship was worried.  – Aemond Targaryen.'

Seven hells take him, he hadn't forgotten about her. 

"Miriam," she wailed. "I am not leaving these chambers until we are to return home." 

Her maid crossed her arms disapprovingly.

“Well, must I remind your ladyship that you are to take the young princes to the maester for their lessons?”

Next

[nerdanel01]

Another great day to practice necromancy 💀. How do you do? 💚

So, we know that Emmrich, as an esteemed member of Mortalitasi, is expected to attend the gatherings of the Nevarran nobles from time to time or visit them in their estates. Has Emmrich ever met Lord Halkias then, I mean Agnes's father? Was Agnes present? If not, did he tell her about it afterwards?

Or maybe they've met during or after the events of The Veilguard? How would such a meeting play out, I wonder?

in short: badly! 3.5k+ below the cut

9:51 Dragon

Emmrich had been told the extravagant excess of Tevinter’s Altus class made the indulgence of the Nevarran nobility look quaint by comparison—but truthfully, it tested the bounds of his creativity to imagine exactly how that could be the case. 

At the Dietrich estate, the nobility glittered like a swarm of beetles, jewels dripping from fingers and ears and necks, women swanning in crystal-crusted dresses that gleamed from a distance like the most brilliant carapace. Two quintents had been booked, instead of the customary one, so that the music would continue ceaselessly when the first group of musicians took their rest. The wine flowed freely from two golden fountains at either side of the wide hall—both red and white. Flanking the walls were banquet tables piled high with food that looked almost too good to eat: butter and ice and sugar carved into elaborate shapes (the Necropolis; the Nevarran palace; the face of a revered Dietrich ancestor); pyramids of glacé fruit preserved at the peak of its freshness; flaky finger foods arrayed on plated towers. Indeed, it appeared that hardly anyone had touched it, preferring (if the general atmosphere of the room was any indication) to indulge in libations instead. 

Emmrich himself had avoided the wine. He had never been a wistful drunk, not really… but over the past year or so he had learned that even the slightest taste of alcohol was likely to turn him morose. 

And Johanna had dragged him here to be the opposite. It was a precarious time in Nevarra, with King Markus in such ill health, and still no clear heir to replace him. Already there were political machinations, assassinations and deals being cut to determine whom among the Nevarran nobility would be left sitting on that throne once King Markus passed, and who would wield the most influence over the country’s new regent. Worse, in recent years, the accusations that the Mortalitasi ruling by proxy through the weakened King had reached a fever pitch… not whispered as they used to be, but speculated out loud in the open. For his part, Emmrich could not say whether or not those rumors were true. That was the business of the priest-mages, not the Mourn Watch; and anyway, Emmrich had never been keen on politics. 

But, “You are charming,” Johanna had implored him, though Emmrich thought that was not quite accurate—he had, perhaps, been charming once upon a time, but he felt himself growing more and more into a bitter, withdrawn old man with each passing month. “The nobles adore you,” Johanna had continued—that, maybe, was still true. He had spent much of the past year in seclusion, and had not yet burned the bridges of amicability and influence he had so carefully built during his time as part of the Mourn Watch. Finally, the coup de grace, her plea: “Please do not make me attend Lady Dietrich’s party by myself.”

Emmrich wanted nothing to do with parties—it was difficult to imagine he would ever be light hearted and mirthful enough to enjoy the gaiety of such gatherings ever again—but he did love Johanna with a strong, brotherly affection that was difficult to deny. She had been patient with him, this past year, as he had crumbled into a shadow of his former self. For as long as she could, Johanna had shielded him from the social responsibilities of his role, giving him time to grieve Agnes’ absence and the smothering guilt he carried for having caused it. More than once in the past year, he had behaved in such a way that Johanna could have dismissed him from the Mourn Watch—it would have been entirely right of her to do so—but she had not. She had protected him. And it was so small a thing: one evening, swanning among the nobility, eating fine food and pretending to laugh at bad jokes. It would not be pleasant, certainly, but it would not be terrible. 

Or so Emmrich had thought. 

Lady Dietrich had cornered him; literally, had backed him into the corner of the room and now stood in front of him, gesturing in such a way that it was difficult to get past her. Her efforts to bed him, never particularly subtle to begin with, had become more overt and outlandish in the year since her husband had passed. Regrettably, by now, Emmrich was quite used to her flirtations; he knew how to make her feel heard without really listening, when to nod his head or smile for emphasis, when and how demure in the face of her more lascivious suggestions without offending her. He occupied her thusly now as his eyes scanned the room, wondering how Johanna was fairing.

His eyes locked first, however, on a man he had never seen before. That was odd. Emmrich had been part of Nevarran society by blood before he had ever become Mortalitasi; there was scarcely a family in the noble class with whom he had not been acquainted since childhood. And yet there he was, this old man standing beside the nearest fountain and filling a wide goblet to the brim with more wine, his wrinkled face ruddy with drink, cheeks looking all the more splotched and red in contrast with his white beard. 

Strangest of all was that—although Emmrich was quite sure he had never met the man before—there was something painfully familiar about him. 

“Forgive me, Lady Dietrich,” he interjected, interrupting her as she was telling him (rather too pointedly) that the extravagant decorations she had imported from Minrathous for the party extended even to the estate’s bedrooms, “That gentleman over there, beside the fountain. I do not think I have had the pleasure of meeting him before. Who is he?”

Lady Dietrich blinked in surprise—Emmrich rarely interrupted her, and when he did, it was often with far more grace (or “charm,” he supposed, to use Johanna’s words)—then turned to follow his gaze. When she saw the old man, her lips curled back in distaste. 

“That is Lord Halkias,” she answered disdainfully. “His estate is out west, you know. Far west, in the borderlands. Practically Orlais,” she intimated, her sense of superiority dripping from every word. 

Emmrich had not drank a sip of wine yet that evening; suddenly, he dearly wished he had. Now that he had the man’s name, the resemblance between Halkias and his daughter was undeniable: the arch of his nose, the v-shaped peak of his hairline over his brow. The deep, sensual bow of his upper lip. It was not in fact Lord Halkias who had been painfully familiar to him; it had been the ghost of Agnes, staring out of her father’s face. 

“His wife just passed,” Lady Dietrich continued, rattling off gossip; Emmrich barely heard her. “He accompanied her body to its final resting place in the Necropolis last week. Did you not know?”

He had not. He did not think for a minute that it was a coincidence. Johanna would have done everything in her power, no doubt, to prevent Emmrich from having anything to do with Lady Halkias’ last rites. 

Emmrich tried and failed to keep the bite from his voice when he replied: “He does not appear to be grieving the loss of his wife too terribly.”

Lady Dietrich shot him a glance, surprised at the uncharacteristic venom in his tone. She leaned closer, whispered to him conspiratorially, not bothering to hide her distaste: “He has extended his visit to the city. There is great speculation he has done so in order to hunt for a prospective bride—although he is kidding himself if he thinks to accomplish that aim in this household. None of these self-respecting families would marry a daughter into a family such as his.”

Emmrich was staring. He knew he was staring. He could not pull his eyes away. Could not help but think how much it must have pained Agnes, to grow up and see the resemblance to her father marked so plainly on her face—her father who had abused her mother, her father who had been anything but fatherly to Agnes herself. Who had made every effort, for his own personal gain, to see Agnes forced into a marriage that would ultimately serve him. That Lord Halkias had failed spectacularly in his aim to sell off his daughter like a common whore did not make it any less despicable. 

“Are you alright, dear? You’re looking rather pale.”

Lady Dietrich was looking up at him again, her watery blue eyes filled with uncharacteristic concern. Were Emmrich not so consumed by this feeling building inside of him (unnameable; ichorous; dark) he might have been touched. Instead, he made a hasty retreat. 

“Yes, Lady Dietrich, I'm alright—just feeling a bit peckish—if you’ll excuse me…”

And he slipped past her, making his way towards one of the banquet tables. But he had no interest in eating. His heart was racing, his pulse thundering in his ears. He held his fingertips to his temples, rubbing them gently, trying to slow his breathing. But it was impossible. The food, the drink, the luxury, the excess—and the memory, seared into his skull, of how Agnes’ father had reacted to her desertion. 

…because of course, though Emmrich had told Johanna emphatically and repeatedly that Agnes would prefer to die in the gutters of Nevarra City rather than return to her father’s estate, Johanna had sent guards to check it nevertheless. ‘Due diligence,’ Johanna had called it. 

Lord Halkias had called it a ‘grave insult.’

Among the many gems of hard, crystallized hatred that had made up the missive he sent back with the soldiers, Emmrich would never forget how he had concluded the message:

‘If that ill-conceived, misbegotten issue of mine had dared to come back here, I would have beaten her bloody and senseless for the disgrace she has brought upon our family and my own good name. Whatever was left of her afterwards I would have returned without delay to the Mortalitasi, happy to be rid of her and happy for whatever additional punishment you sought to bring to bear upon her for her betrayal and her cowardice. When you do find her, be harsh with her. Tranquility is too mild a punishment for that thankless slut.’

At the memory alone, Emmrich was clenching his fists so hard his nails threatened to draw blood. 

Food was not going to help him. Drink was likely not going to help him either, but at this point he was going to take his chances. Morose was not good company, but it was still preferable to murderous. Spinning on his heel, he let his feet carry him to the far fountain, opposite the fountain flowing with red wine that Lord Halkias was still lurking beside. Emmrich did not prefer white wine, but he also did not trust himself to secure a cup of red while fully resisting the urge to grab Lord Halkias by his white hair and hold him beneath the fountain’s surface, drowning him in the drink he was so besotted with. 

But as he stood with his back against the wall, taking polite sips from his goblet (resisting the urge to down the glass in one long swallow) Emmrich did not feel his mood mellowing. On the contrary. As usual, the drink summoned visions and phantoms, memories. How Agnes would side-step any questions he used to ask her about her childhood; the cursory answers she would give about her family, her step-siblings. The upheaval that followed her mother’s death; the trauma of learning exactly who and what her father really was; the fear and injustice and lovelessness of being kept under his roof. Her obsession with neatness, with cleanliness, with cleverness; the remnants of the impossible standards she had been held to in Halkias’ household, never good enough, never as good as her legitimately born siblings. The last argument they had before Agnes had left: “you are not my father,” the words spat with more hatred and vitriol than Agnes had ever used with him before. 

‘Indeed, I am nothing like her father,’ Emmrich thought to himself darkly, brooding over the rim of his goblet. ‘Unlike him, I loved her.’

And he should have told her that, then. Should never have tried to keep his love secret from Agnes, who had lived so much of her life starved of the love that her family should have given her, who had spent so many of her years feeling alone and was now alone again, for all Emmrich knew. 

Perhaps if she had a father who loved her, Emmrich would not have felt obligated in some way to step into that role himself. To guide her. To protect her, to watch out for her in a way that no one else ever had. To protect her even from himself, when Emmrich’s desires and feelings for her became anything but fatherly. Perhaps he could have been honest with her, then; perhaps she would not have had to leave. Perhaps she would still pass her days in the Necropolis, safe and loved and cherished by him. Perhaps….

But ‘perhaps’ meant nothing now. Agnes was gone, and more likely than not, Emmrich would never see her again. His fault. More than a year had passed since her departure, but time had not blunted the ache of her absence one bit. 

The ring Agnes had gifted him—the one he could not bear to wear on his fingers, that he could not endure the sight of any more than he could discard it—felt twice as heavy on the chain it hung on around his neck, resting beneath his shirt, close to his heart.

…and here was her father. Drunken, merry, undisturbed in the least by her disappearance. Worse than that, maybe. Gleeful that she was gone at last, that his bastard child, his eldest, his firstborn, had removed themselves from the picture and would never darken his doorway again. 

“You are charming,” Johanna had said, “the nobles adore you.” But over the past year, Emmrich had discovered he was much more than that. Capable of a darkness he had never quite acknowledged before he sank into it. He had been charming, upbeat, optimistic, inquisitive. Now, he knew he was also spiteful, prone to isolating himself from others—and, occasionally—inclined toward acts of great cruelty. 

The wine had loosened him up just enough that he no longer felt any inclination to resist those darker impulses. 

Emmrich tucked his right hand behind the small of his back, near to the wall where no one else could see it. Affecting a calm and collected demeanor, he sipped politely from his goblet as behind him, his fingers curled, wrist revolving, spinning the magic out of the Fade into the waking, shaping it into horrors. It had been so long since he had cast magic without the foci of a staff. The danger and thrill of it was exhilarating. 

No one else witnessed him, nor the curse, as it curled around the party-goers’ feet, slithering like an adder across the room towards Lord Halkias. Into it Emmrich poured all self-hatred, all his rage and his loneliness, all of his regret. Let Lord Halkias take a wife, if he so desired. She would never know a night of peace while she shared a bed with her husband. 

Johanna grabbed him by the shoulder so tightly and abruptly he nearly spilled the rest of his wine over the front of her gown. 

“What,” she hissed, low enough so that she would not be overheard, “do you think you are doing?”

“Nothing!” Emmrich answered, a little too loudly and perhaps too quickly. “I’m not doing anything.”

Emmrich could see her fighting to keep her face pleasant, just in case any of the other guests should look in their direction. But her nostrils were flaring, and the fixed grin on her face looked more like a grimace by the second. As a servant passed by them, Johanna plucked Emmrich’s wine goblet out of his hand and set it down upon the serving tray, the wine sloshing over the rim with the force of the impact. Then, with just as much authority and force, she steered him out of the main banquet hall, guiding him down the hallways of Lady Dietrich’s estate until she was satisfied they had found a corner where they would not be overheard. 

Then she turned on him. And Johanna may have been a full head shorter than Emmrich, and he may have loved her like she was his sister, but she was still utterly terrifying to him when she was furious. 

“I would not call hexing Lord Halkias nothing,” she said, her eyes shining with indignant rage. “Maker’s breath, Emmrich—the rumors about the Mortalitasi are bad enough already. Do you have to make it worse by putting a curse on one of the nobles in public? At a party?”

Emmrich folded his arms defensively over his chest. “It was a very light curse,” he lied through his teeth. This much, at least, was the truth: “He would not have even noticed it—not until he laid himself down to sleep tonight.” With a self-satisfied smirk, Emmrich could not help but add, “Or, well, until he tried to sleep. The night terrors would have kept him from true, restful sleep until the end of his days.”

Perhaps he should not have been so bold in public, that much was true. But Maker preserve him, he had been so close to succeeding, and it had felt so good. 

And he had expected Johanna—all command and spitfire—to argue back at him. Instead she just stared at him, stunned. 

Somehow, that was worse. 

“And do you think that is appropriate behavior from one of the most senior ranking Mortalitasi of the Mourn Watch Guard?”

Probably not. But sometimes, exceptions needed to be made. “I think it is entirely appropriate, given what a brute he is. You are aware, are you not, of how he violates his servants?”

Or at least, that he had violated one. Forced her into submission more than once under the hot countryside sun—

“Emmrich…” Johanna began, entirely too much pity in her voice. She closed her eyes and sighed. “This is my fault. I should have known he would be here, after his wife’s final rites earlier this week—”

“—strange,” Emmrich interjected, “since as a senior ranking member of the Mourn Watch, I’d have thought I would have known about any recent interments—”

“Not strange, but calculated,” Johanna countered, the heat returning to her voice. “Brilliant, to keep it from you. Fucking prophetic of me, really, because I just knew you would not be able to act professionally about it, to get through it without pulling some shit like this.” She bared her clenched teeth, sucking an unsteady breath in to try and calm herself. 

“It is my fault,” Johanna repeated, at last. “I should not have asked you to come. So now I will correct my mistake. Emmrich, go home.”

“What?”

The night was yet young. He had not yet had a chance to greet each of the nobles properly, as was custom. If he left now, his absence would be noticed… not least of all by their host, Lady Dietrich herself—

“I said go home, Emmrich!” Johanna was not shouting—she would not raise her voice loud enough to be overheard—but she was close to it. “I’ll make an excuse for you.”

“I don’t need you to—!”

“Agnes is gone.” Johanna articulated each word carefully, brought them down in him like a hammer in an anvil. “You are not defending her from anyone. You are not protecting her from anyone. And as I suspect she is not likely to return, you are unlikely to have the chance to regale or impress her by recounting your clever ‘little’ curse in the future. Your judgment is compromised; I am, quite frankly, embarrassed for you. Go home,” Johanna repeated, turning him around and shoving him in the direction of the estate’s entrance, back towards the street and the city. “I will not repeat myself again. And you will not enjoy the consequences if I am forced to escort you.”

On the carriage ride back to the Necropolis (the city streets at night were too haunted with memory for him to walk) Emmrich found himself replaying the argument with Johanna in his head over and over again, incensed. She was wrong, he was certain of that much, no matter how well she thought she knew him. Emmrich was not a fool. He knew Lord Halkias posed no further danger to Agnes—that cursing him, as Emmrich had intended to do, was not something he had done to defend or impress her.

But that left him with the nagging question of why he had done it. Because he did know better, or should have, had he not still been deep in the throes of his grief. With Agnes gone, his position in the Mourn Watch mattered more to him than ever. The work was the only reliable distraction, the only thing that kept his head above the waters of despair. What had possessed him, to make him risk it with so little thought?

The answer, as it turned out, was worse than anything Johanna had accused him of. It was guilt.

Guilt that he had driven Agnes away. Guilt that he had not seen her love for what it was and returned it with every breath, with every beat of his heart. Guilt that there was no amount of self-hatred or debasement or shame that would bring her back; guilt that he would never get the chance to tell her how sorry he was. Guilt for whatever it was she now suffered in the world, shut out from the shelter of the Mourn Watch that had been all she had known for over twenty years.

He could not punish himself enough for having caused her departure. And so he had tried to turn at least some of that pain and punishment upon her father.

…but what was the greater sin? To have never loved her, as a father ought to love a daughter? Or, as Emmrich had, to have loved her deeply—to have blindly spurned her love—and sent her to wander the wide and dangerous world, feeling rejected and unloved and alone?

Johanna was right, of course. No curse would ever fix that mistake.

Nothing would.

[jacaela]

done with f the lamentations that Rhaenyra did nothing while others fought for her. Firstly, the text indicates at least three times that she was recovering from a difficult labor. She was going to ride her dragon, but after recovering. Secondly, Rhaenyra took part in the councils, despite what Mushroom wrote, because Corlys said that Rhaenyra forbade Jace and Joffrey from flying with Rhaenys and sent her to deal with the green army. Thirdly, Rhaenyra was not a warrior just like Rhaena the Black Bride, Daeron the Good or Viserys weren't.

If you forgot, Viserys did nothing with this:

The Lyseni became especially loathed, for they claimed more than coin from passing ships, taking off women, girls, and comely young boys to serve in their pleasure gardens and pillow houses. (Amongst those thus enslaved was Lady Johanna Swann, a fifteen-year-old niece of the Lord of Stonehelm. When her infamously niggardly uncle refused to pay the ransom, she was sold to a pillow house, where she rose to become the celebrated courtesan known as the Black Swan, and ruler of Lys in all but name. Alas, her tale, however fascinating, has no bearing upon our present history.) Of all the lords of Westeros, none suffered so much from these practices as Corlys Velaryon, Lord of the Tides, whose fleets had made him as wealthy and powerful as any man in the Seven Kingdoms.

[prettiestlovergirl]

❝ REQUESTS !

" late night devil, put your hands on me "

disclaimers ༊彡⬭ 𓈒  I

✪ please check my rules before you request anything! and please read these disclaimers, if you are in violation of any rules, you will be deleted and/or blocked.

✪ please make sure you have your age in your bio/ pinned on your account! i do not interact with minors!!

✪ there is no guarantee that i will write what you've requested! i do not always have inspiration for things, so please bear with me and PLEASE do not message me/harass me about whether or not i saw your message.

✪ smut is my preferred genre but i am definitely open to writing/responding to other genres! i'm a whore but i love fluff as much as the next girl!

✪ if you want a part two of something, you MUST give me an idea for it!! could be small, could be fully thought out, doesn't matter to me, but there MUST be something i can go off of.

✪ below i have a loooooong list of characters i'll write for, if you see a character you like but is not on the list, please feel free to reach out! i will let you know whether or not i will add them to the list xx

characters i'm willing to write for 𖼐꒱࿐ ִ I

✦ luke castellan ✦ coriolanus snow ✦ sejanus plinth ✦ finnick odair ✦ peeta mellark ✦ anakin skywalker ✦ peter parker ✦ jj maybank ✦ rafe cameron ✦ tim bradford ✦ wesley evers ✦ john nolan ✦ jake peralta ✦ barry allen ✦ james potter ✦ remus lupin ✦ sirius black ✦ tom riddle ✦ mattheo riddle ✦ theodore nott ✦ ares (from pjo) ✦ spencer reid ✦ aaron hotchner ✦ matt simmons ✦ luke alvez ✦ will lamontagne jr ✦ tony stark ✦ miguel o'hara ✦ steve rogers ✦ peter quill ✦ scott lang ✦ harry potter ✦ ron weasley ✦ fred weasley ✦ bill weasley ✦ charlie weasley ✦ percy weasley ✦ george weasley ✦ aaron thorsen ✦ anthony bridgerton ☆ benedict bridgerton ☆ harry hook (ouat) ✦ alex claremont diaz ✦ cardan greenbriar ✦ manny (abbott elementary) ✦ sally jackson ✦ lucy chen ✦ celina juarez ✦ hermione granger ✦ katniss everdeen ✦ johanna mason ✦ padme amidala ✦ sarah cameron ✦ angela lopez ✦ nyla harper ✦ amy santiago ✦ rosa diaz ✦ lily evans ✦ marlene mckinnon ✦ luna lovegood ✦ ginny weasley ✦ fleur delacour ✦ emily prentiss ✦ jennifer jareau ✦ elle greenaway ✦ emma swan ✦ natasha romanoff ✦ yelena belova ✦ kate bishop ✦ carol danvers ✦ wanda maximoff ✦ jude duarte ✦ prettiestlovergirl (fantasize about me, baby <3)

definitely into ༊彡⬭ 𓈒  I

☆ oral fixation ☆ infidelity kink ☆ size kink ☆ brat/brat taming kink ☆ face fucking ☆ tit fucking ☆ thigh riding ☆ daddy/mommy content ☆ domination ☆ sadism ☆ breeding kink ☆ masochism ☆ exhibitionism ☆ squirting ☆ degrading ☆ dirty talk ☆ cum swapping ☆ dacryphilia ☆ overstimulation ☆ gagging ☆ praise edging ☆ biting ☆ marking ☆ cne ☆ dubcon ☆ coercion ☆ breath play ☆ impact play ☆ anal play ☆ legal age gap ☆ threesomes ☆ brother's best friend ☆ best friend's brother ☆ daddy x princess ☆ step-cest ☆ legal age gap ☆ dom x sub ☆ gangbang ☆ bareback/ cream pies ☆ being shared ☆ free use ☆ orgasm denial ☆ brat x brat tamer ☆ knife play ☆ corruption virgin! reader ☆ bimbo! reader ☆ office sex ☆ mean! reader ☆ hair pulling ☆ dark content ☆ fratboy! character ☆ hand kink ☆ dumbification ☆ nicknames: mami, mamas, mama, ma, pretty girl, babe, baby, sweetheart, angel ☆

sometimes into ༊彡⬭ 𓈒  I

☆ somnophilia ☆ olfactophilia ☆ piss kink ☆ arm kink ☆ dry humping ☆ virgin! character ☆ best friend! character ☆ kidnapping kink ☆ thigh fucking ☆ sub! character ☆ sex toys ☆ period sex ☆ orgy ☆ drunk sex ☆ angst ☆ fluff ☆ sex pollen ☆ under the table ☆ noncon play ☆ polyamory ☆ predator/prey kink ☆ bondage ☆ sensory deprivation ☆ fake relationship ☆ cuckhold ☆ pet play ☆ cockwarming ☆ nicknames: babydoll, doll, honey, hon ☆

not into ༊彡⬭ 𓈒  I

☆ tentacles ☆ age regression ☆ professor x student ☆ childhood bedroom ☆ self-harm ☆ suicide ☆ ai ☆ pedophilia ☆ incest ☆ underage characters ☆ race play ☆ race exclusive features ☆ eating disorders ☆ depression ☆ getting caught masturbating and moaning out a name ☆ financial domination ☆ scat ☆ gay for pay ☆ age play ☆ wax play ☆ pegging ☆ feet content ☆ food play ☆ male! reader ☆

[ongreenergrasses]

I hope you are of Vine age era. Which characters are/made which iconic vine. To get this party going, finnick is the “I love you, bitch *out of tune guitar*” and Effie is “you spilled lipstick in my white Valentino bag” but plz add your examples

the Effie one has had me laughing for the days this ask has sat here looking at me…you’re so right. wish I could find links for these but the only things remaining are vine compilations so you’ll just have to tolerate my terrible descriptions

Katniss: “How’d you take down Captain America?” “we shot him in the legs because his shield’s the size of a dinner plate and he’s an idiot” (the energy matches with this one. obviously she is more of the Captain America in her context)

Prim: the one with the girl and her cat set to I Really Like You by Carly Rae Jepsen

Peeta: slightly mean of me but the one of the goose walking and the swan following it in the water set to Every Breath You Take…I promise I don’t hate the guy it’s just the energy spoke to me

Gale: “I’m gonna sing a song” “whenever you’re ready” *screams*

Haymitch: “ugh, I have no friends.” “ahem! bitch, what am I? A roach?”

Johanna: “look at all those chickens!!!!” (this is purely for vibes. please do not question it further)

Annie: “how’s the fishing?” “great, just help me bring it in” *the person is immediately tackled out of the boat into the water*

I am taking suggestions. fellow vine era people feel free to contribute