#kingdom hearts v cast

[thetrashthatsmilesback]

Does anyone have a link to the kh v-cast download? I feel like there's a million posts talking about playing it it on reddit but none of them actually have a link.

[keykidpilipili]

okay but since KhML will be reusing kh3 assets in some ways.

One Fear: Olympus AGAIN

[warrior-kitty]

uh, all of them

[oveliagirlhaditright]

Nomura-san really needs to realize that he can make non-canon Kingdom Hearts games. I mean, look at Five Nights at Freddy's--that's cut from the same cloth as KH in so many says--most of the games are canon, and Scott Cawthon takes the lore very seriously.

But even with that, we still have the non-canon FNAF World (that did give a tease to "Sister Location" at the end of it) and Freddy in Space games.

And that's awesome.

[jennaflare]

So Disco Elysium is the only game you've ever really liked

I get it! It's a phenomenal game with superb art and writing, and its themes are consistent and deeply explored. It sets a high bar for video games. But there are other really, really fantastic games out there. This is a list that is 100% my own taste of things that aren't necessarily similar, other than the fact that they're really fucking good. (A lot of these are on sale for the Steam Summer Sale until July 11 2024!)

In Stars and Time

In Stars and Time is a time loop game where you play as Siffrin, the rogue of a party at the end of their quest to save the day by defeating the King, who is freezing everybody in time! But something is wrong: every time you die, you loop back to the day before you fight the King. You're the only one who remembers the loops, so it's up to you to figure out why it's happening, and how to break out.

In Stars and Time is a heart-wrenching dive into mental health, friendship, and love. It's about feeling alone, and how awful it is when the people who love you don't notice (and how awful it is when they do). It's about falling deeper and deeper into your worst self and your worst tendencies, and how to come back from it.

The creator also did one of my favorite Disco Elysium comics ever, which is only tangentially relevant but worth mentioning.

Roadwarden

In Roadwarden, you play as the titular Roadwarden for an undeveloped and "wild" part of the kingdom. Monsters roam the forests and roads, and it's your job to keep people safe. On paper, anyway. Your real mission is to find out what is of value in the area, and how to take it from its people. How well you perform this task is up to you. It's an oldschool text-based RPG, and I take a lot of notes by hand when I play.

Roadwarden explores exploitation and industrialization by making you look in the face of your potential victims. You can only learn what your bosses want you to report on by getting close to the residents, after all. There are mysteries to be solved, secrets to be gathered, and hearts to win.

The Longing

The Longing is an adventure-idle game where you play as the solitary servant of a sleeping king. Your task is to wait for him, for four hundred days. Time in the game passes in realtime (for the most part). There are caves to explore, books to be read, and drawings to make.

The Longing is about loneliness and depression. It's about whether or not you decide to stay in that hole, and if you do, what you do with yourself while you're there. Maybe you'll wander. Maybe you'll stare at a wall. Maybe you'll just sleep until it's all over.

Papers, Please

Papers, Please casts you as a newly hired customs officer in a country that is rapidly tightening its borders as its fascist government tightens its fist. This game is stressful. Sometimes you intend to help out the revolutionaries when they asked, but then you got so stressed out trying to make your quota so you can feed your family and pay your bills that you didn't notice the name of the person they were hoping to contact while going through their papers. Sometimes someone puts a bomb in front of you and expects you to defuse it. Sometimes someone suggests you steal people's passports so you can get your family out, and with the horror you see daily, the idea tempts you more than you'd like.

Papers, Please is all about hard choices and testing your moral fortitude. Everything you do has consequences. Being a good person in this game is hardly ever rewarded, but not in a way that feels overly cynical. Papers, Please asks you what kind of person you want to be and what you're willing to sacrifice to get there.

The Return of the Obra Dinn

From the creator of Papers, Please, The Return of the Obra Dinn is a game where you play as an insurance investigator for the East India Trading Company. The ship the Obra Dinn has just floated back into port, its entire crew missing or dead. It's your job to figure out what happened aboard the vessel. For insurance reasons.

I don't know how to go into the themes of this too deeply without giving away too much, but the mechanics of the game itself make the game worth playing. You have a magic stopwatch that allows you to go back to the moment of a person's death, allowing you to try and figure out who (or what) killed them, and how. And the soundtrack is extremely good.

Outer Wilds

In Outer Wilds you play as an unnamed alien, and it's your first day going to space! Your planet's space program is pretty new still, so there's still lots to explore and discover on the planets within your system. There are ancient ruins from a mysterious race that once lived in your system, long before your species began to record history. Why were they here? Where did they go? How are they connected to the weird thing that keeps happening to you?

The fun of Outer Wilds is in the discovery and answering your own questions. The game never tells you where to go, and it never outright tells you anything. There are clues scattered through the system, and it's up to you to put them together and figure out your next steps. It's about the way that life always goes on, no matter what, even when it seems like the end of everything, forever. I'd recommend NOT reading anything else about this game. Just go play it. Seriously, the less you know, the more fun this is.

If on a Winter's Night, Four Travelers

In If on a Winter's Night, Four Travelers, you explore the circumstances of the deaths of four individuals.

This is a short one that took me about two and a half hours to play. If for no other reason, play it for the stunning pixel art. The game explores sexism, racism, and homophobia in the Victorian era and leans heavily into horror themes. Best of all: it's completely free!

Pentiment

Pentiment takes you to the 16th century, where you take the role of Andreas Maler, a journeyman artist working on his masterwork in the scriptorium of an abbey. When someone is murdered, Andreas takes responsibility for finding the culprit.

The game is set over 20~ years and you get to watch how Andreas' actions affect the village in various ways (who's alive the next time you come by, have people gotten married and had children...). It's an exploration of how the past affects the future, and what parts of that past we choose to keep or discard. It has beautiful art, and fans of both Disco and Pentiment often compare them.

Other games you might wanna check out

Night in the Woods, Dredge, Oxenfree, A House of Many Doors, Inscryption, Slay the Princess, Citizen Sleeper, Chants of Sennar, Loop Hero, The Cosmic Wheel Sisterhood, The Pale Beyond, Where the Water Tastes Like Wine, Elsinore, Her Story, Before Your Eyes, Pathologic (not delved into above because the venn diagram of Pathologic fans and Disco fans is basically a circle)

[redvexillum]

Hot damn, I can't believe it took me this long to finally get around to answering this ask. I would like to dedicate this story to @todash-darkness and Ms. 🍑. Thank you for being my friends and always cheering me on even when I get whiny and say "writing too hard!"

TAGS/WARNINGS: f!reader, p in v, rough s♡x, possessive!alastor, alastor is bad at feelings, dual pov, reader is a sweetheart, established relationship, alastor is allergic to feelings, rough ♡ral s♡x, finger♡ng, miscommunication, one sided (alastor) denial of feelings

In the vast, unfathomable uncertainties of Hell, Alastor’s mind was a sanctum guarded by his own design, his kingdom of carefully orchestrated chaos. He adored unpredictability, yes – but only when it danced to his tune, his rhythm, his control. Anything else, anything beyond his boundaries, was sacrilege.  

There was no greater agony, no venom deeper, than the sensation of his world teetering beyond his grasp. His order, his routine ...demolishing right before his eyes.  

One such certainty he held with unwavering conviction was this: your soul belonged to him, irrevocably. He had claimed you in ways that transcended mere words. Every part of you – your thoughts, your desires, your body, and even the delicate cadence of your laugh – was woven into his web, bound and stitched to his very being.  

So why, then, were you here, laughing with that cur, the very embodiment of mediocrity beside you? Why did the melodic lilt of your voice drift toward that miserable fool’s ears instead of his? The sight of you smiling at such filth was an affront to everything he held sacred, and yet you persisted. You continued to share laughter with that loser, indulging his vapid words, his feeble presence.  

From his seat on the single couch, Alastor’s grin cleaved his face, a mask of delight that undercut the roiling fury within. Around him, other souls babbled, meaningless, and insipid, but he paid them no heed. His gaze was fixed solely on you – typically nestled by his side, hanging on his every word as if he held the keys to your reality.  

You, who would meet his stories with wide-eyed fascination, as if his very words spun magic into existence. You, who would follow him, entranced, into his realm.  

But now, now...his hand dug into the flesh of the couch, claws piercing through its plush surface as he fought to restrain himself, to keep from dragging you to his side where you belonged. In his mind, he could feel the invisible chains around your neck, the ones you had so naively accepted, binding you to him to the moment you surrendered your soul – for a little of wretched Hellmutts, no less.  

You were naive. Weak. Ridiculously innocent.  

But you were his.  

His eyes tracked every move you made, his gaze darkening with each soft smile that graced your lips for someone else, each glimmer in your eye cast in that foul creature’s direction. And then – then that trash, that waste of a soul, had the audacity to touch your shoulder.  

Alastor’s heart stilled, a visceral freeze rippling through him as he watched your fingers lift, as if in slow motion, to meet that filthy hand.  

And within him, something snapped. 

An uncontrollable twitch seized his left eye, a slight tremor echoed in the clench of his jaw. Rage coursed through him, an intense, molten fury tightening every muscle until he vibrated with it. A violent energy was held back only by a grin that split his face, frozen, even as his eyes bore into you, unblinking.  

Come to me, he thought, his voice a dark whisper in his mind, willing you to hear, to obey, Come here, darling. Come... 

Yet, you didn’t hear him. Not a single glance in his direction, as if the tether binding you to him had snapped. You, with those disgustingly bright eyes, filled to the brim with such boundless, grating cheer – those eyes that never strayed from his, were now fixed on someone else. They were facing the wrong way.  

The ownership he held over you was absolute, and he was certain there was nothing of value in this world next to your name – nothing but your soul. And that? Well, that belonged to him. You were his in every sense, a fact as unshakeable as death itself.  

The thought simmered, rolling over in his mind like a storm. He’d planned to speak with you tonight, to remind you of the boundaries that came with selling your soul to him. A gentle “discussion” about your arrangement, perhaps a reminder of the dangers of your reckless naivety, especially around others’ wandering intentions. After all, what did you understand of the hunger that prowled in the depths of Hell? 

But then you laughed. That joyous sound, brimming with warmth and energy – the very light he’d basked in so possessively – spilled from you for someone else. In that instant, something dark clawed up from within him, overriding every fragment of patience he thought he’d possessed.  

The lights flickered; sinners looked up and whispered, confused, looking up as the room dipped into pitch-black darkness. And in that instant, Alastor’s hand seized you, pulling you into the shadows before anyone would notice.  

The darkness folded around him, dragging you both from their prying eyes, and when he materialized in his room, any pretense of control shattered entirely.  

You’d been talking to a gentleman about butcher shops in Cannibal Town, a respectable topic considering he was a proud consumer of sinner flesh. Though you yourself didn’t indulge, you knew Alastor had a certain...fondness for the taste. This stranger, to his credit, offered genuine recommendations – shops known for prime, fresh meat. You listened attentively, committing every word to memory, already imagining the gleam in Alastor’s eyes when you surprised him with a choice cut of fresh deer sinner’s flesh.  

The best part? Each piece came with the sinner’s full consent. Nothing could be more natural, organic, and you supposed, humane in a macabre way, than that.  

Your smile grew brighter as you pictured his reaction, and out of courtesy, you kept the conversation flowing. After all, Alastor had always instilled in you the importance of politeness, of maintaining grace, especially in the realms of Hell. When the man touched your shoulder and praised your kindness, you felt a warmth spread through you. Kindness was a rarity down here, and it was refreshing to be in the company of someone who appreciated it without ulterior motives.  

But then the lights flickered, and instantly, the room plunged into darkness. Panic flared, voices rising in confusion, and before you could fully process what was happening, a cold hand clamped around your wrist. A sensation, chilling and immediate, enveloped you, and the world melted away.  

When you blinked, you were in Alastor’s room.  

The sudden brightness left you blinking against the light, your vision adjusting. But when you finally looked up, you were met with a sight that sent a shiver down your spine.  

Alastor stood there; his eyes ablaze with a crimson fury that bordered on madness. His grin stretched wider than you’d ever seen, jagged and vicious, as if it had been carved from his very rage. His gaze cut through you like a knife, every muscle in his frame taut with anger. Twin streams of red trickled from the corners of his mouth, and in that silence, you could swear you heard the crackling of something deep within him breaking.  

Before you could even form the words to ask why he seemed so upset, Alastor summoned the soul chain. A sickly green chain flickered into existence, snaking around his wrist, and in the next, you felt a sudden, brutal tug around your neck. Your teeth gritted at the sharp pull, and he yanked you forward until you were barely an inch away from him, his nose almost brushing yours as he bent down to meet your gaze.  

The dial in his chest swung wildly, ticking back and forth like a metronome set to a frenzied beat.  

“Uhm, Alast-” you started, confusion clouding your mind. You knew he was eccentric, yes, prone to outbursts and fits of emotion, but they always carried some purpose, a hidden logic that only he could fully understand.  

“Who do you belong to?” he demanded, his voice frigid and sharp. The chain clinked as he pulled you even closer, the heat of his body blazing through the air between you.  

“Y-you,” you stammered, searching his eyes, your hand trembling as you gently touched his sleeve. “It’s you.” 

For a fleeting second, your answer seemed to calm the storm raging in his gaze, his crimson eyes softening back to their usual dark slits. “That’s right,” he whispered, his voice low and deceptively soft. “You belong to me.” His hand slid to your waist, his fingers digging in possessively. “And yet,” his voice dropped to a hiss, “you had the gall to let another sinner touch you.” 

A wave of bewilderment washed over you, leaving you scrambling to make sense of his anger. Physical contact was far from uncommon in the hotel – just yesterday, Angel Dust had clapped you on the back after you told him a joke. Surely, Alastor wouldn’t be so enraged over something so trivial? 

But Alastor pressed himself against you, his body taut and seething with an intensity that left you breathless. “My, my,” he murmured, voice pitched with a mocking chill, “thinking about that wretched sinner already? Right here, in my presence?” 

“That’s not-” you started to protest, realizing with a sinking dread that you’d indeed just thought of Angel Dust. But surely, that alone wouldn’t justify this terrifying fury, this raw possessiveness radiating from Alastor? 

He let out a bark of laughter, sharp and scathing, before pressing his forehead to yours, his lips grazing dangerously close to your own. “I own your soul, darling,” he whispered, his voice laced with a dangerous, velvety edge. You felt his claws inching up your skirt, his fingers scraping against your bare thighs, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. “I don’t share what is rightfully mine.” 

Unexpectedly, his mouth crashed onto yours, urgent and bruising, teeth grazing with a hunger so fierce it stole the breath from your lungs. You whimpered against him as his sharp tooth nicked your lower lip, the sting mingling with the taste of blood as his hot tongue lapped over the wound, a low groan reverberating from his chest.  

When he finally pulled back, his lips stained crimson with your blood, he gripped the front of your dress, his eyes blazing. “Who do you belong to?” he demanded again, his tone laced with desperation, as if even your words might not be enough to satisfy him.  

“You. It’s always you, Alastor,” you whispered, your hands gently cupping his face, placing a soft, tender kiss on his lips – a striking contrast to the bruising passion he’d unleashed moments before. “The contract says forever, remember?” You tried a slight, playful grin, but his gaze held none of his usual amusement, his eyes fixated on yours with an almost haunted intensity.  

“The contract,” he repeated slowly, his fingers loosening their grip on your dress. “Yes...that’s right.” His hands trembled for a fleeting moment before he forced them behind his back, his posture rigid. “I own your soul,” he said, voice hollow, “your servitude, I suppose.” 

It was as if he were no longer fully present with you, his gaze dark and distant, a hint of revelation in his eyes that seemed to tear him apart even as he chased it. You could see it, how this realization – this twisted revelation – pained him, even though he seemed oblivious to its source.  

You’d been here before, watched him spiral from bursts of passion to bitterness and then back to his lonely solitude. So, as always, you took that first step forward, drawing closer until your arms circled his waist. You smiled up at him, that bright, open smile he so often brushed off with sharp words, though you knew it softened him beneath the mask.  

He stiffened for a moment, then relaxed, a breath escaping as he murmured, “My, you're suddenly so clingy.” But you caught the waver in his voice, hiding behind his usual teasing edge.  

“Because it’s you,” you replied simply, hands trailing up his back until they slid into his hair, guiding him down to meet you. “Besides, you haven’t kicked me to the curb yet, Alastor.” You giggled, only for the sound to be cut off as his lips claimed yours.  

His movement slowed, each kiss lingering, his fingers finding the front of your shirt, hesitating there. “I don’t share,” he murmured against your mouth, his claws grazing the sensitive skin of your neck, sending shivers down your spine. “This chain,” he whispered, tracing it with reverence, “it binds you to me. I own you.” With each word, he deftly unbuttoned your dress, his gaze smouldering as the fabric fell open.  

“I know,” you answered softly, sinking beneath him as he lowered you to the hard floor, his arms and legs caging you in. “I haven’t forgotten,” you murmured, your fingers trailing down the front of his red-pinstriped suit, savouring the rough texture beneath your touch.  

He stiffened, a flash of raw anger crossing his features. “Then why,” he snarled, his voice dripping with possessiveness, “why let that waste of breath near you? Why laugh, why smile, why seek his company when I was right there?” His words tumbled out, unbidden, raw and unrestrained.  

At that moment, as his heated words filled the space between you, you caught a flicker of shame and horror in his eyes, as if he hadn’t meant to reveal this part of himself. But before he could pull away, you wrapped your arms around his neck, anchoring him to you.  

“No one touches me like you do,” you whispered, pressing soft kisses along his cheek, to the corner of his mouth, until you kissed him fully. And I don’t think anyone else can make me smile until my cheeks hurt.” You laughed softly, fingers combing through his hair, each touch soft and grounding.  

His response was immediate, his lips pressed against yours, his hips grinding against you with desperate fervour. His soft groans mixed with your sighs, and he gently took your wrists, guiding your hands back to the front of his pants. His lips never left yours, his hands tracing a slow, searing path as you undid his pants, feeling the heated weight of him pressing against your stomach as you freed him.  

“Darling,” he hissed as our fingers wrapped around him, stroking from his tip down the length of his hardened cock, slow and tantalizing. The fire in his eyes darkened, his pupils widening to pools of obsidian as he shuddered beneath your touch. “How should I make you remember,” he murmured, voice a low growl, “that you belong to me always?” 

His lips traced down your jaw, his breath hot against your skin as his hands slid up your thighs, pushing your skirt to your waist with a deliberate slowness that made you ache. “Perhaps,” he breathed, his fingers pressing against the damp cloth covering you, feeling your desire seeping through, “I’ll make your body remember.”  

Without hesitation, he tore your underwear away, his fingers grazing the slick curve of your inner thighs, drawing a gasp from you as his touch lingered there. “Enough times,” he muttered, his voice thick with want, “That you never forget who I am to you.” 

Two fingers slipped inside, filling you in one firm stroke. The sensation sent a sharp tremor through you, and your breath hitched as your walls clenched around him. “Alastor...” His name fell from your lips in a shiver, and his eyes darkened at the sound, a wicked grin spreading across his face.  

“Shh, darling,” he cooed, his voice a velvet command. His fingers moved slowly, plunging into you with an unhurried intensity, dragging your slice over every sensitive spot before plunging them back in. His head dropped to your shoulder, lips brushing over your skin as he pumped his fingers, his own arousal pressing hot and hard against your thigh. “Tonight, I’ll make certain you’ll never consider anyone else.” 

Pleasure flooded through you, erasing everything except the feel of him, each pump of his fingers building heat within you. You wanted to tell him he was always in your mind, to confess that you’d never once thought of leaving his side. But words tangled and dissolved into moans, as if even trying to say them would break the spell.  

Things like, I like you.

Things like, I cherish you. 

Things like... 

A gasp tore from you as his mouth latched onto your breast, tongue flicking over the sensitive peak as he hummed in satisfaction, the wet sound of his fingers moving within you intensifying with each movement. You arched against him, hips moving of their own accord, desperate for more, clinging to every sensation.  

And just as you teetered on the edge, his fingers slipped free, leaving you throbbing, gasping from the loss of him. He rose above you, his cock fully erect, tip glistening. He lifted his fingers, coated in your desire, to his face, watching with fascination as he pressed them together. A glistening thread stretching between them before he spread too far apart, breaking it with a hungry grin.  

Then, without looking away, he brought them to his lips, sucking each finger clean with slow, deliberate motions, a satisfied groan slipping from his throat as he tasted you.  

“Who do you belong to, darling?” he murmured, eyes heavy-lidded as he gazed down at you. His hands moved to pin your wrists above your head, pressing his hips forward, his cock nudging against your slick entrance, sending a shiver of pure heat coursing through you.  

Your breath caught as he began to push in, the head of him stretching you with a slow, delicious pressure. Instinctively, you tried to shift your hips, to take him deeper, but his grip tightened, keeping you firmly in place. “Say it,” he whispered, his voice edged with a fierce tenderness, his eyes locked onto yours, demanding.  

“You,” you whimpered, voice trembling, and Alastor rewarded you by sliding himself just a bit deeper, the stretch trying to accommodate him making you gasp.  

“That’s right,” he crooned, his grin sharp, eyes narrowed to slivers of wicked delight. “Tell me,” he murmured, his lips brushing hot against your ear, the words like fire igniting every nerve, “tell me how much you want me. Go on.” 

When you hesitated, struggling for breath, he drew his hips back, leaving you painfully empty. Every nerve in your body was alight, humming, craving more. Embarrassment coloured your cheeks, but the heat, the need, drove the words from you. “Please,” you whispered, voice soft and fragile, “please Alastor, I-I want you.” Your eyes closed, the vulnerability tightening in your chest, sending waves of desire flooding your veins.  

The moment the words escaped your lips, Alastor surged forward, filling you to the hilt, his hips flush against yours, a shuddering groan escaping him. His length throbbed inside, stretching and filling you perfectly, leaving you breathless as he began a steady rhythm, each thrust pulling a whimper from your lips.  

“That’s right,” he rasped, finally finding his pace as he withdrew and slammed back into you, your breasts bouncing with every relentless stroke. “Say you want me,” he breathed, his voice rough, almost breaking, with the intensity of his need.  

One hand pinned your wrists above your head, firm and unyielding, while the other squeezed your breast, his thumb brushing over your nipple, sending electric shocks of pleasure through you. His hips moved in a hypnotic rhythm, the wet, smacking sound of skin on skin mingling with the sharp cries and moans filling the air. Each one tore through you as you clung to him, helpless against the power of his thrusts.  

“I want you,” you cried, voice trembling, head tilted back, your body limp and yielding beneath his strength. Every nerve was alive with a searing stretch, his cock grinding into your most sensitive spot as he drove deeper, forcing pleasure to crest higher and higher. His name fell from your lips in broken cries, each syllable dripping with the intensity of your desire.  

With a raw groan, Alastor shifted, grasping your hips firmly as he rose onto his knees, lifting you with him. Your body arched upward, shoulders and head the only parts still anchored to the floor as he drove into you harder, faster, every thrust meeting no resistance. He slammed his hips against yours, the force of it stealing your breath, pushing you to the brink, an overwhelming spike of pleasure building with every powerful relentless motion.  

Your lips parted, gasping, as his grunts filled your ears, his low, primal sounds mixing with the wet, sinful noises of your bodies colliding. The world around you faded to nothing but the feeling of him, the ecstasy of his touch, and the unstoppable climb toward a blinding, shattering release.  

His eyes locked on the place where your bodies joined, a hunger darkening his gaze as he thrust into you, each movement hitting that perfect spot, dragging every pulse of pleasure from deep within you. Your stomach tightened, thighs shaking, and as he drove in again, the pressure burst.  

You came with a shattering cry, your fingers scraping at the wooden floor, desperate for anything to hold as your walls clenched around him, wave after wave of ecstasy crashing through you.  

He pulled out suddenly, letting your body drop as he rose to his knees, his cock slick and throbbing against your parted lips. His hand wrapped around his length, pumping himself with frenzied strokes as he looked down, his gaze fierce and covetous.  

“I should mark you,” he rasped, his voice thick with need, his cock grazing your lips as he leaned forward. “Make sure my colour stains that smile.” His grin was wild as his hand moved faster, his muscles tense, his breaths shallow and ragged.  

You lifted your head, mouth open to take him in, your lips wrapping around the tip as your tongue swirled, savouring the mingling taste of him and your own desire. A moan tore from him, and he let his head drop back, his hands cradling the sides of your head, guiding himself deeper as his hips moved in slow, deliberate thrusts. His length stretched your lips as he pressed to the back of your throat, the guttural sound of his groans and the slick noises filling the air.  

Your own moans vibrated around him, spurring him on. His hips moved faster, his hands clinging tighter as his moans grew sharper, each thrust sending him closer. With one last hard thrust, he shuddered, and the first hot pulse of his release spilled down your throat. He withdrew, letting the rest spill over your lips, dripping down your chin in thick streams as he marked you. His eyes locked on your face, a wild satisfaction softening his gaze as he watched.  

The warmth of his release lingered on your skin, drying as your breaths filled the space between you. Your tongue darted out, tasting the lingering saltiness on your lips, and he groaned, his cock twitching in his hand as he watched, his chest rising and falling in rhythm with yours.  

As if coming back to himself, he gently cupped your face, wiping his release from your skin with his sleeve, his expression caught between wonder and something deeper. His touch was unexpectedly soft, eyes holding a vulnerability he rarely let surface, the unspoken question hanging between you as his gaze searched yours.  

“We could be more,” you whispered, heart pounding as his fingers tilled on your skin, “if you want, Alastor.” 

His movements halted, his gaze slowly focusing on yours, a flicker of confusion slipping beneath his usual veneer of confidence. “I already own your soul,” he murmured, his voice edged with something darker, guarded. “There is nothing more you could give me.” His words were resolute, as if trying to cling onto their simplicity, yet the way his brows furrowed, and his head tilted betrayed a hesitation – a lack of understanding for the weight of what you meant.  

For all his power, Alastor had taken your heart without ever offering his own in return. The notion of “more” was something he danced around, something he coveted without daring to hold. He wanted you fiercely, hungrily even, but in ways he could still control – never in ways that would strip him bare and vulnerable.  

You placed a gentle hand on his thigh, feeling the tension coiled beneath his skin. With a soft sigh, you felt the truth of it settle heavy between you; until he could meet you on level ground, until he was ready to open himself as wholly as he demanded of you, this fragile back-and-forth was all you’d have. This quiet ache, this unspoken ache, would remain hidden, cloaked in omissions and denials.  

It wasn’t entirely his fault, either, this painful standoff. After all, there were things you held back too – things that lingered on the edge of every kiss, every touch, words that clung desperately to the walls of your heart, refusing to release themselves. The word that waited to change everything.  

Things like, I like you. 

Things like, I cherish you. 

Things like... 

I love you.  

Follow #vexitober 2024 to read my questionable kink/fluff stories!

[theatricalmage]

The brainrot took over and so here's a vat7k hadestown au!! Don't know if I'll develop it fully but I liked designing it at least!

More info under the cut:

- Varian, the Coronan royal alchemist, tasks himself with deciphering an incantation capable of bringing the world back into tune. Times are tough, and the royal family + Quirin are doing their best to cope with the meagre crop yields and desolate weather (Corona not really being the sunshine kingdom - hasn't been for a while). He wants to help and do good and I think he'd be a good Orpheus.

- Hugo, having moved about from place to place, still has his interest in alchemy and does what he can to get by. He plans on temporarily staying in Corona before looting, but he encounters a certain like-minded scientist at the Snuggly Duckling. I think him being selfish works especially well in Eurydice's role, having a more pessimistic view of the world. It also works with how he gets drawn to Donella's offer of working for her later on, leading him to his death.

- Ulla as Persephone! I was initially stuck on whether to have Rapunzel (and either Eugene/Cass) as her (and Hades) but I was drawn to the connection that Hugo has to Donella and the Donella/Ulla relationship in vat7k just works too well. In this case, Ulla won't be Varian's mother. She's still gonna be somewhat of an inspiration to him though, being the previous Coronan royal alchemist and for her intelligence. For half the year, she'll return to Corona with food, drinks, and alchemical compounds/inventions, bringing Spring and Summer to the world, if only for a bit.

- Donella would be such an interesting Hades, losing sight of her love for Ulla, heart filled with fear and hurt, leading to bitterness and cruelty. Ingvarr being Hadestown and how by being the esteemed Ingvarrian engineer, she'd be in charge of major technological advances across the kingdoms and so would wield a significant amount of power (like how Hades is literally the ruler of the underworld). Ingvarr essentially being a near death sentence for its workers while also displaying its technological prowess, all still shrouded in mystery and corruption - a place so otherworldly compared to the rest of the kingdoms.

I didn't want to modify the outfits too much nor the personalities,, if anything I imagine the general plot beats being the same as the original musical/story but with slight differences that'd you get inherently as a result of these characters. I wouldn't want it to be the case where it's just the show but the names are changed. I'd want this to still make reasonable sense in this AU, with the actions being understandable for this particular cast of characters.

For Hermes, I ended up picking Xavier, as he's most knowledgeable of old legends and stories, which would work in reference to the Hades and Persephone myth (and so Donella and Ulla)! He'd act as a mentor figure for V, someone who can guide him in uncovering the forgotten incantation. Quirin would still be the good supportive dad he is (even if he doesn't fully understand his son's project).

Last but not least, the fates!! often lurking in the background, I'm still a bit stuck on who it could be? I'm tempted to have it be Raps, Cass, and Nuru as they've had celestial connections at some point (and ya know how stars can represent fate), but I also love the freckled siblings dynamic so much. Also Team Radical... Maybe Raps and Cass can be their normal selves but their Sundrop/Moonstone counterparts are the manifested physical forms of the fates? They wouldn't be visible to the characters though, just voices in the wind.

Anyways yeah!! Those are my thoughts. Do let me know if you've got any cool ideas or questions. I'm really combining my interests at full force and there's nothing anyone, not even myself, can do about it quite frankly. 😮‍💨

[just-aake]

Everlasting Devotion - Part V

Pairing: princess!Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader

Summary: Sequel of Boundless Devotion Series. MedievalAU. With her coronation over, Natasha is now the queen of the Romanov Kingdom. However, the position comes with challenges from both old and new enemies as Natasha tries to maintain the peace while also navigating her relationship with you.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7

Warnings: light angst

Words: 4938

The early morning light filters through the tall, arched windows of the council room, casting a warm, golden glow over the cold stone floor. The room remains quiet and serene, with only the faint rustling of papers and the delicate scratches of quills breaking the silence.

At one end of the long table, Natasha is already immersed in her work, her quill moving steadily across the paper as she focuses intently on the day’s documents. 

Nearby, Steve occupies another seat, sharing in her early morning diligence. In the quiet company of each other, he, too, works through his own stack of reports and investigations.

Or at least he was working. 

“You have that look on your face again,” Natasha comments without lifting her gaze from the documents. 

Steve turns slightly in his chair, his brow furrowed in confusion. “What look?” he asks, genuinely puzzled. 

Natasha finally glances up, a slight smirk playing on her lips. 

“That disappointed look you get every time we spar, and I beat you,” she teases, her tone light but with an edge of amusement. 

Steve scoffs in disbelief, shaking his head with a wry smile. “Alright, I’ll remember this the next time we spar,” he replies, his voice carrying a hint of playful challenge. 

Natasha chuckles softly, setting down her quill and giving him her full attention. 

“So, what is it?” she questions curiously. 

Steve hesitates for a moment, his fingers idly tapping on the table's edge in thought before releasing a disappointed sigh. 

“I didn’t think you’d actually follow through with Ross’ suggestion,” he admits. 

Natasha raises an eyebrow in question, prompting him to continue. 

“Your breakup with Lady Y/n,” he clarifies, his tone careful, as if treading on delicate ground.

Natasha internally groans as the topic of the breakup resurfaces yet again in her discussions. Even though she knows it's untrue, it doesn't lessen the sting in her heart every time she hears it.

“I didn’t do it because of him,” she grumbles, irritation creeping into her voice. “Sitwell and the others on the council are the ones stirring trouble.” 

Steve leans back in his chair, his expression softening as he considers her words.

“Well, I don’t know about them, but personally, I think Y/n would excel in court,” he says thoughtfully. “She’s smart, fair, selfless, kind-hearted...You know, she even found Bucky a place of his own to help him settle down for once.” 

Natasha holds up a hand to stop him, a disbelieving huff escaping her. “Steve, between you and me, who do you think knows better how great she is?” 

Steve acknowledges her point with a nod, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender.

“I’m just trying to say that maybe you should reconsider,” he suggests, his tone gentler. “Together, the two of you are a force to be reckoned with, not apart.” 

A small smile tugs at the corners of Natasha's lips at his words. It’s refreshing to hear something positive about her relationship with you for once.

“I’ll keep that in mind, Captain,” she replies, shaking her head lightly before masking her emotions with a sarcastic smirk. “Any other opinions you’d like to share?” she teases.

Steve chuckles softly, shaking his head as he turns back to his reports.

“No, I think that’s enough from me about your love life,” he says with a light tone, though a hint of concern lingers in his eyes as he gives her one last glance before returning to his work.

Not quite ready to dive back into her tasks, Natasha leans over slightly, her curiosity piqued as she sneaks a look at the documents spread out before him.

"Is that the report on the missing weapons?" she asks, her eyes scanning the papers.

Steve shakes his head, flipping through the reports until he finds some to show her. 

"No, nothing on that yet. These are mostly incidents of other crimes across the kingdom—petty theft, violent encounters, things like that."

As Natasha examines the documents, her gaze shifts from one report to another, noting the escalating crime rate in various regions. With some prisoners and Rumlow’s mercenaries still on the loose, lawlessness had unfortunately surged, stretching the kingdom's remaining soldiers thin. 

She sighs, frustration evident as she picks up another report, her eyes catching a familiar name—Lord Sitwell—scrawled across one of the papers. The sight reminds her of the growing suspicion surrounding the man.

"How’s the investigation into Lord Sitwell going?" she asks, her tone more serious now. "Anything suspicious?" 

Steve's expression darkens slightly, a frown creasing his brow as he shakes his head.

“Some areas he frequents could be considered questionable, but nothing substantial. I have one of my best knights tracking his movements. If there’s anything to find, we’ll know right away.” 

Natasha nods thoughtfully, leaning back in her chair as she considers his words.

Honestly, she hopes the investigation turns up nothing; it would be easier to handle Sitwell as an irritating councilman rather than deal with the complexities of him being a potential traitor. 

Steve’s voice cuts through her thoughts, drawing her attention back.

"And what about you?" he asks, a note of teasing in his voice to relieve the tension in the air. "Anything interesting in that mountain of documents you’ve got there?" He pauses, then adds with a knowing glance and a subtle gesture toward the corner, "I mean, besides that lonesome envelope you’ve placed way over there."

Natasha’s gaze flickers to the envelope she’s been avoiding all morning. The mere sight sends a wave of apprehension through her, but she knows she can’t ignore it for too long. 

With a resigned sigh, she reaches for the envelope and turns it over, revealing the front to Steve. 

His eyes widen in surprise as he recognizes the striking crest embossed in rich gold that adorns the seal. 

“Wow,” he breathes, clearly impressed. “Only a few weeks as Queen, and you’re already increasing communications with the Stark kingdom.” 

“I didn’t do anything,” Natasha mutters with a huff, shaking her head as she hands it to him. “It just arrived this morning.”

Steve examines the envelope closely while Natasha presses her hand to her forehead with a sigh. She can’t help but think that she jinxed herself when she had wondered yesterday about the kind of person the Stark king might be—now it’s like he purposely sent this to taunt her.

“What do you think he wants?” she asks, her voice tinged with apprehension. 

Steve chuckles lightly, handing the envelope back to her. 

“Unfortunately, I don’t know much about the guy either. But I’ve heard he’s unpredictable.”

“Great,” Natasha mutters, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

Steve offers a reassuring smile. 

“Why don’t you just open it and find out?”

Natasha’s fingers trace the edge of the envelope before she finally breaks the seal. She reads the contents in silence, her expression unreadable until she finally looks up and meets Steve’s gaze.

“Well?” Steve prompts, unable to contain his curiosity.

“He's coming,” Natasha says, her voice calm, though an undercurrent of tension betrays her true feelings.

Steve’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Now?”

“No, in a few weeks,” Natasha clarifies. “To renew the peace treaty between the kingdoms.”

“That’s good, then,” Steve says, nodding in approval. “It’s just a formality meeting.” 

“Right,” Natasha mutters hopefully, though there’s a hint of uncertainty in her voice. “That’s all it is.”

Before they can delve further into the topic, a knock on the door interrupts their conversation. 

One of Steve’s knights enters, bowing respectfully before handing Steve a piece of paper. With a nod of thanks, Steve takes the document, and the knight promptly exits. 

As Steve skims the contents, his brows furrow.

“More reports?” Natasha asks, her tone casual, though she can sense something off in Steve's demeanor. 

Steve hesitates, his eyes flickering with uncertainty at her before he finally relents. 

“Uh, this is the carriage driver’s account from yesterday’s attack.” 

Alarm flashes in Natasha’s eyes as she straightens in her seat.

“What attack?” she asks, her voice tinged with confusion and growing concern. 

Steve looks at her, surprised by her reaction. 

“You didn’t hear? I was actually wondering why you were so calm today. I thought, maybe with the breakup and all, your mind was still—” 

“Steve!” Natasha interrupts sharply, urgency in her voice. “Who got attacked?” 

“Lady Y/n,” Steve replies, his tone grim as he hands her the document. “It was an ambush from the shadows. And from what the driver is describing about the weapon used, it sounds like something from Rumlow’s missing inventory.” 

Natasha barely hears his words as she skims through the document, her heart pounding faster with each line: arrows, glowing shards, a crash. The words blur together as anger and fear swell within her. The thought of you in danger, combined with her ignorance of the situation, fuels her rising fury. 

Steve’s concerned voice breaks through her haze. “From what I gathered, no one suffered any major injuries, so I’m sure Lady Y/n is okay,” he reassures her before giving her a puzzled look. “You really didn’t receive any information about this?” 

Natasha tightens her grip, crumpling the paper slightly, as she comes to an upsetting realization.

“No, not exactly,” she mutters, her voice tight with barely suppressed rage. 

Without another word, Natasha stands abruptly, her movements swift and determined. She strides out of the room, her footsteps echoing fiercely against the stone floors, each step driven by frustration and a need for answers. 

When she reaches the Councillor’s office, formalities are the last thing on her mind. She slams the heavy door open with such force that it reverberates through the chamber.

“You lied to me,” Natasha states coldly, her voice dripping with disapproval.

Ross lifts his gaze from the papers on his desk, his expression calm as he gives her a slight bow in acknowledgment. 

“How can I help you, Your Majesty?” he asks, his tone casually polite. 

Natasha’s eyes narrow in irritation as she steps closer to his desk. 

“Everything regarding the nobles crosses your desk, and you were the one who assured me Y/n returned home safely yesterday.” 

Ross nods, maintaining his composed demeanor. “That's correct. She was reported safe and sound at her manor after her journey from the castle.” 

“Yet you conveniently left out the part where she was attacked on the way,” Natasha snaps, her voice rising with each word. 

Ross meets her gaze, unfazed by the accusation, and replies, “It didn’t seem like necessary information for you to know, considering everything was already handled.”

"Oh my god," Natasha mutters, rubbing her temples in disbelief as she tries to fend off the headache forming. When she looks at him again, her voice is sharp with incredulity. 

"Are you seriously telling me that you didn't think it was important for me to know that her life was threatened?" 

Ross tilts his head slightly, his expression mildly curious. “Are you upset because this situation involves Lady Y/n specifically?” he asks, probing. “I thought you had already made your decision about your relationship with her.” 

Leaning forward, he clasps his hands on the desk, challenging her. “Or do you perhaps still care for her?” 

Natasha’s eyes flash angrily, and she slams her hands against the desk in warning. 

“This isn’t about my relationships! This is about you withholding information from me,” she retorts firmly.

Ross’s calm demeanor remains unchanged as he responds, “Not every incident involving the nobles warrants your attention, Your Majesty. Surely, there are more pressing matters of the kingdom to focus on.” 

Natasha’s patience finally snaps at the comment—so reminiscent of the many dismissals she has endured from Dreykov concerning you. With a sharp tap of her finger on the desk, she commands his full attention, her eyes blazing with resolve.

“From now on, you will tell me everything—every detail,” she demands, her voice hard as steel, leaving no room for argument. “You don’t get to decide what deserves my attention.”

She turns to leave the office, but his next words halt her in her tracks.

“If you’re planning to visit her manor, she’s not there,” Ross remarks calmly. “Lady Y/n went into town this morning.”

Natasha slowly pivots back to face him, her eyes narrowing with suspicion as she processes his words and comes to a conclusion that infuriates her further. 

“You have people spying on her?” she asks, her tone low and laced with warning. 

Ross shrugs, unfazed, as he rearranges the papers on his desk. “The attacker is still at large, and it’s clear their target was her. What we don’t know is the reason why, so monitoring her is a necessary precaution.”

"For her or you?" Natasha counters, her voice dripping with skepticism of his concern. 

Ross meets her piercing gaze evenly, his expression betraying nothing. “For the kingdom,” he replies with practiced ease.

Natasha scoffs in disbelief, recognizing the repeated excuse. 

Without another word, Natasha strides out of the office, her mind racing. She needs to be more prepared and vigilant if she’s going to keep her promise of protecting you. But how can she do that when she can’t even be seen around you right now?

As she reenters the council room, Steve greets her with a concerned raised eyebrow.

"Everything alright?" he asks.

Natasha pauses, taking a deep breath to steady herself. She can’t afford to let her emotions cloud her judgment. She needs to be strategic and stay ahead of everyone else.

“That knight of yours who’s tracking Sitwell—do you trust him?” she inquires.

"With my life," Steve replies without hesitation.

"Good,” Natasha says, her tone decisive. “I have another mission for him."

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

The town remains lively well into the late afternoon, the streets alive with the bustling activity of merchants calling out their wares, townsfolk engaged in conversations and the rhythmic clatter of horse-drawn carts over the cobblestones.

You and Pietro had set out early this morning with a simple goal: to hire someone to repair the manor’s gates. Unfortunately, as the day drags on, you’ve found little success, each conversation uncovering an unexpected obstacle.

“What do you mean you can’t do it?!” Pietro’s voice is sharp with frustration as his fist slams against the counter. 

The pattern of refusals from the blacksmiths and craftsmen across town has become all too familiar. Every shop you enter ends with the same disappointing excuse.

The smith across from you grimaces, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

“I’m really sorry, Lady Y/N. Any other time, I’d be more than willing, but with your father under investigation for treason, I just can’t risk my shop’s reputation.”

Pietro huffs angrily, “But that has nothing to do with—”

“Pietro,” you interject firmly, cutting him off with a stern look before turning back to the smith. “Thank you for your time and your honesty.” 

The smith nods, his eyes filled with regret. “I truly am sorry.” 

With a heavy heart, you and Pietro step out of the shop.

“Let’s try another place,” you suggest, trying to keep your spirits up. 

Pietro kicks at the ground in frustration, arms crossed tightly over his chest. “We wouldn’t have to do this if that old man hadn’t abandoned us.” 

Despite the situation, a light chuckle escapes your lips. 

“You know Clint hates it when you call him that. Besides, he’s taking his family on a well-deserved trip. We can’t blame him for not being here.”

“He wouldn’t hold Dreykov’s actions against you like everyone else is,” Pietro mutters, his voice tinged with resentment.

You sigh, feeling the sting of the townspeople’s cold reception. Wary stares and hushed whispers follow you everywhere, a constant reminder of your family’s precarious standing due to Dreykov’s involvement. With the addition of your breakup, Natasha’s apparent distancing from you only exacerbates others’ hesitance to work with your family.

“Let’s take a break,” you suggest, trying to lift the mood. “We still need to pick up a few things for Wanda at the market.” 

Pietro grumbles but nods in agreement, following you as you weave through the bustling marketplace.

After completing your part of the list, you find a spot against the outer wall of a shop, staying near the shadows and out of the way while Pietro finishes up inside.

Suddenly, a commotion across the street catches your attention. The butcher bursts out of his shop, furiously waving his arms as he tries to shoo away a bird that had flown in through an open window.

“This is a shop, not a feeding ground! Get out of here!” the butcher barks, grabbing a broom to chase the bird away forcibly. 

Startled, the bird flaps its wings and retreats across the street but doesn’t leave entirely. It hovers nearby, its sharp eyes fixed on the butcher’s shop, clearly hungry.

A pang of sympathy tugs at your heart, the bird’s plight resonating with your own feelings of rejection throughout the day. You decide to act, stepping into the shop to purchase a small portion of venison, enough to satisfy the bird’s hunger.

Once outside, you approach the spot where the bird has perched, its gaze still locked on the shop. You unwrap the venison, place it on the ground, and then whistle lightly to get the bird’s attention.

The bird’s sharp eyes turn and narrow on you, watching closely before shifting its attention to the meat. It swoops down cautiously, tilting its head as it assesses the situation. 

You take a step back, giving the bird space to approach. Sensing no threat, the bird quickly snatches the venison, tearing into it with its powerful beak and talons.

Satisfied that you could help the bird, even a little, you kneel to observe it more closely, a mix of curiosity and admiration in your gaze. A streak of red feathers lines its wings, setting it apart from others of its kind.

“A falcon, huh,” you murmur to yourself. “What are you doing hunting in town?”

The falcon pauses, lifting its head to meet your gaze with what seems like a grateful glance. It tilts its head curiously at you before fluttering closer and, to your surprise, lands gently on your shoulder.

“Well, I’m glad you’re not avoiding me because of what Dreykov did,” you say with a small smile.

The falcon chirps in what sounds like agreement before taking flight, just as Pietro approaches.

“Alright, I got everything,” he announces, a little more cheerful now. “Where to next?”

Feeling slightly better yourself, you give one last glance to the sky where the falcon has disappeared, then turn to Pietro with a small smile. 

“Let’s go visit some friends.”

After a brief walk, you find yourself seated at a small wooden table in the cozy warmth of the bakery. The comforting scent of freshly baked bread and pastries fills the air, but your mind is elsewhere, lost in thought as you stare out the window. 

The problem of repairing the manor’s gates weighs on your mind. You had hoped to handle it on your own, but with the day nearly over, it’s become clear that you may need to ask for help.  

Unfortunately, the one person who could solve your problem effortlessly is the person you’re supposed to avoid at the moment.

A conflicted sigh escapes your lips as you contemplate what you should do. 

The gentle clink of a teacup being placed in front of you draws you back to the present. A comforting hand rests on your shoulder, giving it a light, reassuring squeeze.

“Don’t stress about it too much, dear. You’ll tire yourself out,” Martha, your old kitchen staff lead, says softly. Her warm, friendly presence is a comforting contrast to the cold reception you’ve received from the others today.

“She’s right,” Cedric, your old stablemaster, chimes in as he settles into the seat across from you beside Pietro. “You two have had a tough couple of days. You should take a moment to rest.” 

His last words seem more directed at Pietro, who is busily scribbling on pieces of parchment while shoveling pastries into his mouth from the plate on the table.

Martha crosses her arms and watches him with an exasperated sigh. 

“Slow down, Pietro. You’re going to choke.”

Right on cue, Pietro begins coughing, having inhaled one bite too quickly.

Martha sighs knowingly, moving to pat his back in comfort while you push the cup of tea closer to him with an amused huff.

Pietro gratefully takes the drink, gulping it down before slamming the cup back on the table with a determined expression.

“Forget the others. We can fix the gates ourselves,” he declares confidently. “Look, I’ve sketched what they used to look like. I mean, how hard can it be?”

He spreads out several papers covered in rough drawings and ideas for the gate, gesturing pointedly at them. The sketches are a chaotic mix of lines and shapes, more enthusiastic than practical. 

Cedric hums thoughtfully, nodding in agreement. 

“I’m sure we could come up with something if we work on it together.”

Martha huffs in disbelief, shaking her head at her husband. “Maybe twenty years ago, you might have been able to, but now you can barely carry the horse’s feed without hurting your back.” 

Cedric straightens up, clearly offended.

“Who said I would be carrying anything? I’m sure Wanda could move ten times more than Pietro and me combined with her powers.”

At the mention of Wanda, your expression falls. You remember how she chose to stay in her room this morning instead of accompanying you both into town, her face still shadowed by guilt as she curled into herself on her bed, staring blankly out the window.

“I don’t think she’s going to be up for using her powers much anytime soon,” you admit, your voice tinged with sadness at seeing Wanda lose confidence in her abilities after all the progress she’s made in the past months. 

Martha’s expression softens, and she lets out a sympathetic sigh as she heads back to the counter. 

“The poor girl. I’ll see if I still have some of her favorites for you to bring home to her.”

The bell above the door jingles, signaling the arrival of new customers and causing your attention to shift to the entrance as two men enter the shop.

The one in front is dressed in a rich, golden-lined black tunic that contrasts sharply with the humble surroundings of the bakery. 

The man surveys the bakery with a quick, assessing glance, his sharp eyes taking in every detail before they settle on Martha. He flashes her a charming smile that seems almost too perfect.

“What do you think, Y/N?” Pietro’s voice pulls your focus back to him. He’s wearing a determined expression as he continues, “We could just order the parts from outside the kingdom—from people who aren’t concerned with what Dreykov did.” 

Cedric nods thoughtfully and stands from the table. “I think I may know some people from the Carter kingdom who might help with supplies.”

As he heads for the back of the shop, he gives you a comforting and encouraging touch on your shoulder, declaring, “It’s going to be alright.” 

You give him a grateful smile as he leaves. 

“So?” Pietro asks, leaning forward eagerly for your thoughts.

Returning your attention to him, you hesitate in your decision, feeling uncertain about the plan. While you pride yourself on your wide range of knowledge, you must admit that this area is not your strong suit.

“I’m not sure, Pietro,” you answer honestly. “We’d still need precise details for designing the gates properly, and even then, constructing them correctly would be another challenge.” 

Pietro groans in frustration, running a hand through his hair.

“So how do we find someone willing to help us with that?”

Before you can respond, Martha’s surprised exclamation draws your attention back to the counter.

“You want all of them?” she asks in astonishment. 

The man leaning casually against the counter hums thoughtfully before shaking his head.

“You know what? You’re right. That’s a bit much. I’ll take a couple of each one you have.”

He places a heavy pouch on the counter, the sound of coins clinking as they spill over the brim.

“This should cover it. Wait—except those,” he points at one type of pastry and shudders. “Can’t have any of those. I’m allergic.”

Martha, recovering from her initial shock, responds with a warm smile.

“Oh, I make some without raspberries too. My Lady Y/n over there has the same problem with the fruit.”

At her words, the man’s attention shifts to you. His eyes lock onto yours, narrowing slightly in thought. Without warning, he strides over to your table.

“Have we met before?” he asks abruptly, his tone curious yet insistent.

Startled at his sudden presence before you, your brows pinch in confusion as you cautiously lean back from the stranger. 

“Excuse me?” 

Ignoring your cautious response, the man snaps his fingers as if trying to jog his memory. “I mean, your face looks familiar, but I can’t place where I’ve seen you.” He groans in frustration, then beckons to the other man, standing quietly behind him. “Come on, Vision, help me out here. Doesn’t she look like someone we know?”

The second man, Vision, shifts uncomfortably, glancing between you and his companion. His voice is apologetic as he responds, “Sir, I don’t believe it’s appropriate to comment on someone’s appearance in such a manner.”

The first man sighs, dismissing the concern with a wave of his hand.

“Relax, Vision. I’m not trying to be rude.” He rubs his chin thoughtfully, then sighs, seemingly giving up. “Jarvis would probably know,” he mutters, almost to himself, his tone pointed.

Vision bows slightly, speaking softly, “I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help.” 

The man waves off the apology with a casual gesture. “No need to apologize. That’s not really part of your job anyway.” 

His attention then drifts down to the papers spread on the table, piquing his interest.

“What’s all this? Remodeling?” he asks.

“Repairs, actually,” you respond cautiously, still taken aback by the stranger's casual familiarity. “The entrance gates at my manor need fixing.”

The man hums in understanding as he glances over the sketches.

“Well, if you’re hoping for your gate to collapse in the next light breeze, then I’d say you’re on the right track.” 

“Hey!” Pietro exclaims, snatching the papers back defensively. “These are just rough sketches!”

The man raises an unimpressed brow.

“Really? They look more like random rectangles drawn by a child.”

Pietro’s eyes narrow into a glare as he rises from his chair, his posture stiffening with the familiar spark of competitiveness.

“You think you can do better?”

You sigh inwardly, recognizing the shift in Pietro’s demeanor. The last thing you need is him getting riled up. You can only hope this stranger doesn’t push him further. 

The man scoffs, crossing his arms with a smug expression. “Wrong again, kid. I know I can do better.”

With that, your hope disappears, realizing this stranger’s personality is no better. Though, his confident assertion sparks an idea in your mind. You interrupt before Pietro can respond.

“Do you have experience building things like this?” you ask curiously.  

The man rolls his eyes slightly, a hint of arrogance coloring his voice at your question.

“Please, I designed the entire security system for my ca—”

He’s abruptly cut off by a loud cough from Vision, who shoots him an inscrutable look.

“The point is,” the man continues, dismissing Vision’s interruption with a wave, “fixing a simple gate is child’s play for me.” 

Sensing an opportunity, you lean forward slightly. “If that's the case, would you be willing to help us with the repairs then?” 

The man considers your request, tilting his head and adopting an air of exaggerated contemplation.

“Hmm, I don’t know. I’m a pretty busy man. Places to go, people to see.”

Receiving yet another rejection, your spirit deflates in despair, and you let out a discouraged sigh.

Pietro scoffs with a roll of his eyes, crossing his arms and sizing up the man with open skepticism.

“He’s probably lying anyway.” 

The man’s smirk deepens at the challenge, waving his finger at Pietro.

“You know what? Just for that, I’m gonna do it—if only to annoy you further, kid.”

“Stop calling me that!” Pietro moves to take a step forward, but you catch his arm, urging him to stay in place.

Vision steps forward, his expression serious as he addresses the man.

“Sir, this is highly inappropriate. We are not supposed to do anything that draws attention like this.” 

The man dismisses the concern with a wave of his hand.

“Relax, we’ve got weeks before Jarvis and the others arrive. I’ll be done long before then. Nobody needs to know.” 

“So you’ll take the job?” you ask again, your hope rekindled at the thought of getting the task done without needing to bother Natasha. 

The man raises his brows in question at Vision, who eventually relents with a resigned sigh. 

“It would seem so,” Vision replies quietly.  

The man grins, extending his hand to you with a self-satisfied smirk.

“Well, that settles that. I look forward to working with you, uh, Lady…what’s your name again?” 

“Y/n,” you reply, taking his hand, still cautious but undeniably intrigued by his character. As your hands clasp, it dawns on you that you don't even know the stranger’s name. 

“And you are...?” you inquire, your tone curious.

“Tony,” he finishes smoothly, flashing that confident smirk once more. “My friends call me Tony.”

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7

a/n: thank you for reading! And thank you for all the reactions and comments so far on this series and boundless devotion. It's so fun to read how you felt after each part, and I'm glad to see you're enjoying it!

Taglist : @midastouch013, @2silverchain, @dvrkhcld, @observeowl, @x-drowned-x, @fireandblood-3, @natsxwife, @leequifey, @blacklightsposts, @srt-sah, @scar-letwidow, @likefirenrain, @autorasexy, @natsbiggestfan1, @lex13cm, @iheartjohansson, @tofu9162, @nothanksbye07, @unexpected-character, @natashasilverfox, @acciowriting, @qtreesfanstuff, @mrsrushman

[kckt88]

Skoros iksos ñuhon

Summary:

Vaelyssa is not the only one at Storms End seeking the support of Borros Baratheon.

Warnings - Angst, Drama, Langauage, Arguements, Vulnerability, Realisation, Uncle/Niece Incest, Kissing, Smut, Fingering, Oral Sex, P in V.

AEMOND TARGARYEN x O.C NIECE

Skoros iksos ñuhon - What is mine.

Word Count: 7922

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

Comments, likes, and reblogs are very much appreciated.

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

Vermithor landed with a heavy thud in the courtyard, water spraying in every direction from the force of his landing. Princess Vaelyssa climbed down from his back; her long silver hair plastered to her face by the rain. She ran a hand down Vermithor's scaled body, feeling the warmth radiate through her fingers. The dragon let out a low, contented rumble as he nuzzled against her.

Suddenly, a louder, more ominous growl echoed through the courtyard. Vaelyssa's heart skipped a beat as she turned to see the massive form of Vhagar, looming over the wall.

If she was here, then that meant Aemond was here as well. The hostility that been brewing between their family over the years had finally erupted, now the Greens had usurped the Iron Throne and had crowned Aegon as King of the seven kingdoms, defying her mother, Rhaenyra's, rightful claim, as set forth by the recently deceased King Viserys.

Vaelyssa took a deep breath, steeling herself for what was to come. The knights of Storm's End approached, their armour clinking softly as they moved.

“I am Princess Vaelyssa Velaryon and I have a message for Lord Borros Baratheon, on behalf of Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen”.

The knight gazed at Vaelyssa; his expression unreadable as he turned and gestured for her to follow.

"Come-“ he said, his voice carrying over the rain. "Lord Borros Baratheon waits in the Great Hall."

She nodded, casting one last glance at Vermithor before following the knights. The courtyard was a blur of grey stone and wet banners as they made their way inside, the heavy wooden doors closing behind them with a resounding thud.

Inside, the Great Hall was dimly lit, the flickering torches casting long shadows on the walls. Lord Borros sat on his makeshift stone throne, his round imposing figure radiating authority. His eyes were sharp as they took in the sight of the drenched princess.

"Princess Vaelyssa, of house Velaryon"

As Vaelyssa stood silent, her gaze shifted to Aemond, who stood off to the side with one of Borros Baratheon's daughters. He stood tall and confident; his hands clasped behind his back in a posture of ease that belied the underlying threat he posed.

The daughter, a striking young woman with dark hair and piercing eyes, seemed captivated by his presence, her attention focused solely on him.

Aemond's expression was inscrutable, but Vaelyssa could sense the smug satisfaction radiating from him. His presence here was a calculated move, a silent assertion of the Greens' unwillingness to wait for an answer to the terms that Otto Hightower had delivered to her mother on Dragonstone. His singular amethyst eye caught the torchlight, glinting with a mix of amusement and menace.

Vaelyssa's eyes narrowed as she observed him. It had only been a number of days since she had last seen him, strutting out of the dining room after his final tribute to her younger brothers had resulted in a fist fight.

Before that she’d not seen him since that fateful night on Driftmark where he had lost an eye but gained a dragon.

Never would she forget the painful grimace on his face as the Maester’s stitched his skin back together, nor would she forget the crazed look on his mother Alicent’s face, as she demanded one of Luke’s eyes in return.

“There is a debt to be paid”.

The King had demanded that they make their apologies and show good will to one another, but no such apology came, sides were taken, and the chasm between their family widened even further.

But here, now she could not afford to show any sign of weakness or hesitation.

Her mother's claim to the throne depended on her ability to secure Lord Borros's support, and she could not let Aemond's presence intimidate her.

“Lord Borros-I brought you a message from my mother-The Queen”.

“Yet earlier today I received an envoy from the King-which is it. King or Queen. The House of the dragon doesn’t seem to know who rules it” laughed Borros.

Vaelyssa glanced over at Aemond who cocked his head to the side and smirked.

“What’s your mother’s message?” asked Borros impatiently.

Vaelyssa handed a rolled up scroll to one of the escorting knights who rushed forward and handed it to Borros, who couldn’t read a single word that was written and had to summon a Maester.

Whilst the Maester relayed Rhaenyra’s message, Aemond stared at Vaelyssa, his hands still folded behind his back.

Not one to be cowed, she glared back. They had been friends when they were children but gone was the sweet boy who stole honey cakes for her, and in his place stood a man, leather clad and lithe, his features sharp almost as if he had been carved by the gods of old Valyria themselves. He truly was beautiful, just a shame he was such a loathsome cunt.

“Remind me of my father’s oath. King Aegon at least came with an offer: my swords and banners for a marriage pact. If I do as your mother bids-which one of my daughters will your brother’s wed?”

“My lord-I’m afraid that only two of my brothers are of age and neither are free to marry, they are already betrothed” replied Vaelyssa.

“-And what of you Princess?” asked Borros stroking his chin.

The rain outside Storm's End intensified, turning from a steady downpour into a relentless deluge. Thunder rumbled ominously in the distance, and lightning occasionally lit up the dark sky.

“Me? My Lord” questioned Vaelyssa.

“I have no longer have a wife-and you are of age to marry” said Borros “You are young and if you are anything like your mother, I am sure you will give me many sons”.

“My Lord I-“

“My late wife blessed me only with daughters-I am left without a male heir” replied Borros.

“Under my mother’s rule-the eldest would inherit lands and titles regardless of their gender” said Vaelyssa.

“But that is not my desire Princess-“ quipped Borros as he leaned forward slightly.

“Apologise my lord but I am not free to marry either-” replied Vaelyssa, her gaze momentarily fixed on Aemond who’s eye widened slightly at her announcement.

“Is that so?” asked Borros leaning forward slightly.

“My brother travels North to offer my hand in marriage to Lord Cregan Stark of Winterfell”.

Again, Vaelyssa looked towards Aemond who’s hand was now resting around the pommel of his sword, his jaw clenched tight.

His chosen Baratheon girl was trying to speak to him, but he paid her no attention.

“Then you come with empty hands-you will tell your mother that the Lord of Storms End is not some dog she can whistle up at need to set against her foes”.

“I will take your answer to the Queen” replied Vaelyssa as she bowed her head politely.

As she turned to go, the wind howled outside, and the heavy wooden doors of the hall rattled in their frames. The storm was worsening by the minute.

"Wait, Princess-" Lord Borros called out, his voice carrying over the sound of the storm. She paused and turned back to face him; her curiosity piqued.

"In good conscience, I cannot allow you to risk traveling back to Dragonstone in this storm," Lord Borros continued, his tone unexpectedly gentle. "The weather is too treacherous. I offer you a room for the night. You may leave in the morning once the storm has passed”.

Vaelyssa hesitated for a moment, then inclined her head in gratitude. "Thank you, my Lord. I accept your generous offer."

Lord Borros nodded, and then his gaze shifted to Aemond, who had been silently observing the exchange with a faint, unreadable smile. "Prince Aemond," Borros said, "I extend the same courtesy to you. It would be unwise to travel in such conditions."

Aemond's smile widened slightly, and he inclined his head in acknowledgment. "Your hospitality is appreciated, Lord Borros. I, too, will stay until the storm passes."

Vaelyssa's eyes met Aemond's for a brief, tense moment before she turned away, following the servants who had been summoned to show her to her room. The castle corridors were dimly lit, the flickering torches casting long shadows on the stone walls.

The sound of the storm outside seemed to grow louder, the wind howling and the rain lashing against the windows.

She was led to a modest but comfortable chamber, the bed adorned with thick furs and a fire crackling in the hearth. The warmth of the room was a stark contrast to the chill of the storm outside, and Vaelyssa felt a sense of weariness wash over her. She thanked the servants and closed the door behind her, allowing herself a moment of solitude.

As she sat by the fire, her thoughts turned to the events of the day. The refusal of Lord Borros was a setback, but she could not dwell on it now, Storms End might be a lost cause but mayhaps her brothers would have better luck.

Cregan Stark was said to be an honourable man and if he allied with her mother then the rest of the North would follow and Lady Jeyne Arryn was their kin, it was doubtful she would turn against them.

Vaelyssa stood by the window, gazing out into the stormy night. The rain pounded against the glass, and the wind howled like a restless beast. The food the maids had recently brought was only partially eaten, and the wine was bitter on her tongue.

Almost as if he sensed her unease, Vermithor’s deafening roar pierced through the storm. His massive, bronze-scaled form was a reassuring presence in the midst of her lingering uncertainty.

Almost immediately, Vhagar answered with an equally impressive roar, her call reverberating through the walls of Storm's End.

Vaelyssa let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding, seeing Aemond here had unsettled her and she couldn’t stop thinking of the look he had on his face when she announced that she was not free to marry, it was the same look he’d given her when she stood next to Jacaerys in the throne room for the petition for Driftmark and again when she sat next to him at the feast.

Never had a man looked at her in that way before.

She began to undress, her mind preoccupied with the events of the day and the challenges that lay ahead.

As she removed her outer garments, the door to her chamber suddenly opened. Startled, she turned to see Aemond standing there dressed in only a cotton shirt and leather trousers, his tall figure framed by the flickering light of the torches in the hallway. He stepped quickly inside, and shut the door, making sure to lock it behind him.

"What do you want, Aemond?" Vaelyssa demanded, her voice steady but edged with irritation. "Leave, or I will make you."

Aemond's lips curled into a smirk, his single amethyst eye glinting with amusement. "The fight would be little challenge," he said, his tone mocking.

“You clearly don’t know me very well” replied Vaelyssa, he face growing hot as she noticed Aemond’s gaze sweeping over her, pausing at her breasts which were no doubt visible through the thin material of her shift.

Aemond closed the distance between them, a determined glint in his eye. "There is a debt to pay" he said, his voice low as he reached up and removed his eyepatch, revealing the sapphire embedded in the socket where his left eye had once been.

Clearly her uncle was trying to intimidate her, but she would not fall for his provocations.

Vaelyssa scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest. "Is that supposed to frighten me? Because I can tell you now that it doesn’t, and neither does it impress me qȳbor" (Uncle).

Aemond's jaw tightened, his anger barely contained. "What if I demanded your eye in payment for the one, I lost?" he asked.

Vaelyssa met his gaze unflinchingly, her expression defiant. "Not my debt to pay and I thought your claim of Vhagar was worth the loss of an eye," she retorted. "Or is your hoary old bitch of a dragon no longer worth it?"

The insult hit its mark, and Aemond's face twisted with fury. His fists clenched at his sides.

"You dare speak of Vhagar that way?" he hissed, his voice trembling with rage. "You know nothing of what it means to ride her, to command the largest dragon in the world."

"Tell me, Aemond," she began, her tone mocking, "Do you truly believe the almighty Vhagar could withstand a combined attack from Vermithor, Caraxes, and Meleys? She might be the largest dragon in the world, but even she is not invincible."

Aemond simply stared at her, his expression unreadable as he processed her words.

"You always seem so eager to remind everyone how large Vhagar is," said Vaelyssa, a sly smile playing on her lips. "One might wonder if you're trying to overcompensate for other-smaller matters."

Aemond's face twisted in anger once again "You think you're so clever," he snarled, his voice dripping with venom. "But your sharp tongue won't save you from the reality of this war-your mother is not fit to rule.”

Vaelyssa's eyes blazed with defiance as she met his gaze. "And what about your precious Greens?" she shot back. "You cling to the throne like parasites. Your brother is nothing but a puppet, and you, Aemond, are his most pathetic string."

“You dare-“

“Tell me, does it sting knowing that your older, wastrel of a brother is given everything while you, the dutiful son, gets nothing?”

Aemond’s eye narrowed, his lips pressed into a thin line. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, but I do,” Vaelyssa purred as she reached out and ran a finger down Aemond’s chest. “Tell me, do you not envision yourself sitting upon the Iron Throne? Don’t you think yourself worthy to be King? Or are you content with always living in Aegon’s shadow?”

Aemond’s fists clenched, his knuckles turning white. “You think you can provoke me with your petty words?”

“Petty?” Vaelyssa laughed, a sharp, mocking sound. “-I’m merely pointing out the obvious. You serve, you obey, you sacrifice, and for what? To watch your drunken, whoring wastrel of a brother wear the crown that you believe should have been yours?”

Aemond took a step forward, his face contorted with anger. “Aegon is the King. That is the order of things.”

“The order of things?” Vaelyssa scoffed. “And you, so loyal and dutiful, never once imagined it differently? Never once thought that you could do better, be better?”

Aemond’s eye blazed with fury, and he took another menacing step toward her. “You presume too much”.

“Do I?” she challenged, her voice cold and piercing. “Or is it that I’ve struck a nerve? You can lie to yourself, Aemond, but deep down, you know the truth. You want the throne, you crave it, it is my mother’s by right, she is the named heir”.

“Viserys changed his mind”.

“According to who?” snapped Vaelyssa, her voice sharp and incredulous.

“My mother was tending to him in his final moments, and he declared in her presence that he wished for Aegon to be King,” said Aemond, his tone defensive but resolute.

Vaelyssa's eyes blazed with fury. “And my grandsire who that very same day, dragged himself out of his sickbed to defend his daughter in front of the realm—only to change his mind hours later? Do me a favour,” she retorted, her voice dripping with scepticism.

“Are you calling my mother a liar?” Aemond's singular eye narrowed, his jaw tightening.

“My grandsire steadfastly upheld my mother’s status as his heir for over twenty years. He wouldn’t change his mind, not like that” Vaelyssa said, her voice firm with conviction.

Aemond's face darkened with a mixture of anger and frustration. “You think I would lie about something like this?”

“You’ll believe what you want to in order to justify your actions-this entire situation reeks of Otto Hightowers manipulations, after the death of my grandmother he shoved his own daughter under a grieving Kings nose and used her to further his own ambitions”.

“That’s not-“ muttered Aemond.

“-What happened? Of course it is. Even down his clever manipulation of Viserys. He played on my grandsire’s fears over my father and advocated for my mother to be named heir because he knew damn well that it would be easier to usurp a woman-”

“Daemon was too much of a risk-” said Aemond.

“The only risk was my father seeing Otto Hightower for what he really is-” snarled Vaelyssa.

“Loyal and unwavering-“

“A CUNT!” snarled Vaelyssa.

“Your language is unbecoming of a Princess-“

“I don’t give a flying fuck-your grandsire is nothing but an oath breaking cunt who seeks to reach far beyond his station and it’s not a question of if my mother takes back the Iron Throne, it’s when and I can tell you that when she does your grandsire will find himself a head shorter, and so will the other treasonous dogs who plotted against her”.

Aemond observed her for a moment, a strange expression on his face before he seized her by the back of her neck, pulling her close. His lips crashed into hers with a fierce, almost brutal intensity. The kiss was rough, a clash of wills, a battle for dominance.

At first, Vaelyssa was stunned, her body rigid with surprise. But as the heat of the moment consumed her, she found herself responding, pulling him closer.

The initial shock melted away, replaced by a fiery passion that surged through her veins. She returned the kiss with equal fervour, their lips moving together in a furious dance.

Aemond’s grip on her neck tightened, his other hand snaking around her waist to press her against him. Vaelyssa’s hands found their way to his chest, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as she pulled him even closer.

When they finally broke apart, both were breathing heavily, their faces flushed. Aemond’s eye burned with a mix of anger and desire, and Vaelyssa’s own gaze mirrored that intensity.

"Is this what you wanted?" Aemond growled, his voice low and rough. "To provoke me?"

Vaelyssa’s lips curled into a defiant smirk, her breath still coming in ragged gasps. "Perhaps. Or maybe I just wanted to see if you truly were a dragon and not a slithering green Hightower snake."

Aemond’s grip on her neck loosened slightly, but he didn’t let go. "You’ve seen my fire," he murmured, his voice softer but no less intense. "Now, what will you do with it?"

In response, Vaelyssa leaned in and kissed him again, this time slower, more deliberate. The passion between them didn’t wane; if anything, it grew hotter, more intense. The kiss was no longer a battle but a mutual surrender to the heat that had been building between them.

As they broke apart once more, their foreheads resting against each other, the reality of their situation began to seep back in. They were on opposite sides of a war, bound by duty and loyalty to their respective causes. But in this moment, none of that mattered. All that existed was the fire they had ignited between them.

"We are playing with fire, Aemond," Vaelyssa whispered, her voice tinged with a mixture of exhilaration and trepidation.

"Let it burn," Aemond replied, his tone equally resolute. "Let it consume us both."

Vaelyssa had lost most of her senses the moment Aemond had pressed her onto the bed and knelt down between her open legs.

“My niece-my sweetest-” whispered Aemond.

Vaelyssa’s eyes rolled into the back of her head as Aemond’s tongue swept across her slick wet folds.

She bit the back of her hand to keep herself from screaming as Aemond began using his long fingers to slowly tease her entrance.

“None of that. I want to hear how good I make you feel” growled Aemond as he began moving his tongue against her, in rhythm with his fingers.

“A-Aemond. Oh god. Please” moaned Vaelyssa, as she writhed against the sheets.

“I know your almost there. Let it happen. Come for me” whispered Aemond, his tongue moving across her pearl.

Vaelyssa arched her back and let out a scream as her pleasure erupted.

Aemond slowly crawled up her body, placing gentle kisses on her skin as he moved higher and higher.

Vaelyssa blushed furiously when she saw that Aemond’s chin was shining with her slick.

“Calm yourself issa zaldrīzes” muttered Aemond, as he swiped his fingers over his chin and then placed them in his mouth, sucking off her slick. (My dragon).

Goosebumps erupted over Vaelyssa’s skin as Aemond removed his hand from his mouth and then took hold of her breast, his fingers teasing her rosy bud.

“A-Aemond” whimpered Vaelyssa.

“Sīr gevie” growled Aemond (So Beautiful).

“W-What are you doing?” asked Vaelyssa as Aemond’s hand slid down her body and began teasing her folds.

“I-I need to prepare you a little more” whispered Aemond.

“P-prepare me?” whispered Vaelyssa.

“I assume you are a maiden-I don’t want to hurt you” replied Aemond.

“Aemond” exclaimed Vaelyssa as he slowly slipped a finger inside her, the slick from her first peak easing the way.

Aemond buried his face in Vaelyssa’s neck as he began peppering kisses along her smooth skin as he added another finger, moving them in and out slowly.

“So warm-so wet for me” rasped Aemond, his hot breath tickling her skin.

“I-I think I’m ready” whispered Vaelyssa.

Aemond removed his fingers and then moved between her open legs, supporting his weight on his left arm as he reached down and took his hard cock in his hand and placed the tip of it against her slick entrance.

“A-Are you sure?”

“Yes-I want you Aemond-all of you” replied Vaelyssa as she felt him running his cock along her entrance.

“Y-You must tell me if it hurts” whispered Aemond.

Vaelyssa nodded and shut her eyes tight, taking a deep breath as Aemond sheathed himself within her.

“Your doing so well-” muttered Aemond trying to control himself.

“I-It h-hurts-“ whimpered Vaelyssa, the burning sensation bringing tears to her eyes.

“If it’s too much I can pull out-” offered Aemond.

“N-No just give me a moment” replied Vaelyssa softly as the tears ran down her cheeks.

Aemond leaned down and pressed gentle kisses to her cheeks, his tongue catching her fallen tears.

Aemond’s cock twitched and throbbed with need, and he released a shuddered breath while Vaelyssa sighed in relief. 

“Are you ok?” asked Aemond.

“I-I think you can move now” whispered Vaelyssa her hands running along the smooth plans of Aemond’s back.

Slowly Aemond withdrew and then moved forward, his cock reaching deep inside her.

“Are you ok?” repeated Aemond as he thrust inside her.

“Y-yes-I think you can move faster”.

Aemond rested his head in the crook of her neck as he thrusts faster, his moans muffled against her skin.

“Ooh Aemond-that feels good” whined Vaelyssa.

“Your perfect-” whispered Aemond.

Feeling a spark of pleasure Vaelyssa dug her fingers into Aemonds back, holding him close.

“P-please Aemond. F-faster. H-harder” exclaimed Vaelyssa.

“Lyssa-” moaned Aemond as he began to pound into her, his hips slapping against hers.

“-I-I f-feel-” whimpered Vaelyssa, an odd sensation creeping across her stomach.

“-Let it happen-my sweetest, peak for me” exclaimed Aemond.

“OH-”

“Fuck-that’s it-that’s it” muttered Aemond as he slipped his hand between their bodies and slowly began rubbing her pearl.

“AEMOND” screamed Vaelyssa as her peak exploded, making her entire body shake.

“I-I’m going to give you my seed-see you all round and swollen with my child-your breasts filled with milk” moaned Aemond.

“Yes-yes. Aemond. I want it-” babbled Vaelyssa as his thrusts became more frantic.

“Fuck-” groaned Aemond as he felt the heat shooting across his abdomen.

“-Aemond” whimpered Vaelyssa.

“ñuhon, ry ñuhon” moaned Aemond pushed into the hilt for one last time, his cock throbbing as he spilled rope after rope of his seed (Mine, all mine).

“Ry aōhon” whispered Vaelyssa, as Aemond rested on top of her (All yours).

“A-Are you ok?”  Aemond as he gently pulled his softened cock from Vaelyssa, he looked down and saw the mixture of his seed and her maidens blood dripping onto the sheet.

Vaelyssa nodded slowly, as she allowed him to enfold her in his arms and hold her close.

"What happens now?" asked Vaelyssa softly, her voice tinged with uncertainty. "Are we just to go back to being enemies in the morning?"

Aemond hesitated for a moment, his fingers tracing absent patterns on her bare shoulder. "No," he replied finally, his voice low and steady. "I will accompany you to Dragonstone and declare for Rhaenyra."

Vaelyssa's eyes widened in surprise, her heart skipping a beat. "You-you would declare for my mother?" she asked, incredulous.

Aemond nodded, his expression serious. "Yes," he affirmed. "For you."

Vaelyssa searched his face, trying to comprehend his sudden change of allegiance. "Why, Aemond?" she pressed gently. "Why would you do that?"

“Nyke jaelagon naejot dīnagon ao” replied Aemond (I wish to marry you).

“My father will have his sword at your neck the moment you leave Vhagar’s side”.

“That maybe so, but surely your mother will see the benefits of our union, without Vhagar Kings Landing is vulnerable and my brother’s position as King will be weakened, no doubt your father’s bloodlust will be sated by rooting out the traitors who conspired against his Queen-” said Aemond.

“-If you declare for her, then she is to be your Queen as well” muttered Vaelyssa.

“Only if she accepts my request for your hand in marriage," admitted Aemond, his voice tinged with a hint of vulnerability. "-And by our marriage, one day I will be King."

Vaelyssa blinked, processing his words. "Is that what this is? You desire the throne, and your using me to get it” she asked quietly, her mind racing with the implications of his confession and admittedly the thought of him using her did sting.

“Do you remember when we were children, when everyone else had their dragons and we only had each other”

“Yes” muttered Vaelyssa softly.

“-How I used to steal honey cakes for you and then we’d sit under the weirwood tree dreaming of our future-”

“What does that have to do with anything?” asked Vaelyssa.

“My vision for the future was of us-together. We have always been fated, bound by more than blood. You label me Hightower, but I am a dragon, and I have found my treasure. We belong together you and I” muttered Aemond.

“-And the throne?” asked Vaelyssa.

Aemond sighed, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. "-I do want to be King, but only with you by my side as my Queen".

“Your ambitious, I’ll give you that-but why not just displace Aegon?” mused Vaelyssa.

"When you steal something, you spend your whole life fighting to keep it. I want a legitimate route to the throne, through the bonds of marriage".

“What about your betrothal to one of Borros Baratheon’s daughters?” she asked softly, her fingers tracing patterns on Aemond’s chest. “He might see it as an insult that you promised to wed one of his daughters, yet you plan to take another to wife.”

Aemond scoffed, a smirk playing on his lips. “A boar is nothing compared to a dragon,” he said dismissively. “Lord Borros can be placated. If your mother accepts my terms, she can make the necessary arrangements for a marriage between Floris and some lord of note.”

Vaelyssa couldn’t help but smile at his confidence, but she knew the complexities of politics couldn’t be brushed aside so easily. “And you believe Lord Borros will simply accept this?”

Aemond’s expression turned serious. “He is ambitious, but he is also pragmatic. An alliance with House Targaryen, especially one that strengthens Rhaenyra’s claim, would be more valuable than a slighted promise. Besides, Rhaenyra can offer him, a position on the council and favourable marriages for his other daughters. He will not refuse such a boon”.

Vaelyssa nodded slowly, considering his words. “You have given this a great deal of thought” she admitted. “But there may be other who whisper of false promises”.

“Let them,” Aemond replied with a shrug. “The realm is on the brink of war. Loyalties will shift, alliances will be made and broken. In the end, what matters is who sits on the Iron Throne”.

“One might think you’ve been planning this for years.”

Aemond’s gaze was intense as he held hers. “I have,” he admitted, his voice low and fervent. “You are all I’ve wanted, since I was old enough to know the ache of wants and desires. My grandsire usurping the throne convinced me that my dream would no longer be achievable, and that placing the wants and needs of others above my own desires was something I would just have to accept.”

He paused, his fingers tracing the contours of her face. “But your arrival at Storm’s End was an opportunity I couldn’t pass up. I am a determined man, Vaelyssa, and I learned long ago that nothing was ever going to be handed to me. If I wanted something, then I would have to take it.”

Vaelyssa’s breath caught in her throat at his confession. “You would risk everything for this?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “For us?”

Aemond nodded, his expression resolute. “Yes. I would. Because for the first time, I see a path to the life I’ve always wanted. A life where I am not just the second son, where I am not bound by the whims of others. A life with you-providing of course that your mother accepts all of my terms-”

"What exactly are all of your terms, Aemond?" asked Vaelyssa curiously.

Aemond met her eyes, his expression resolute. "If Rhaenyra wants me to bend the knee to her, then she will allow us to marry," he stated firmly. "Our union will strengthen her claim and bring House Targaryen closer together, just as my dearly departed father always wanted-"

Vaelyssa nodded slowly "And what else?" she prompted.

Aemond's features softened slightly, a hint of vulnerability showing through his stern facade. "I want assurances that my family will be safe," he said, his voice quiet but determined. "-My mother, Aegon, Helaena, their children and Daeron—no harm will come to them. They must be allowed to live in peace."

“You will not advocate for your grandsire?” asked Vaelyssa.

“No-”

“Just as well, as my father wouldn’t allow him to live, not after what he’s done” replied Vaelyssa.

“Your father isn’t my only concern, your mother-” said Aemond.

"-My mother is not the monster you believe her to be," she began, her voice gentle yet firm. "Only those who actively repudiated the succession and conspired against her will be dealt with."

Aemond scoffed, a hint of bitterness in his tone. "Did she not demand that I be sharply questioned as a child?" he retorted, his voice growing colder. "To learn where I heard such slanders against her children—slanders which, by the way, are true."

Vaelyssa’s expression softened, a mix of sadness and determination in her eyes. "It doesn’t matter," she said quietly but firmly. "Laenor claimed us as his children, so therefore in the eyes of gods and men, we are his. He loved us as his, cared for us as his."

Aemond shook his head, his frustration evident. "The truth is plain to see, when it comes to your brothers at least, Rhaenyra's claim to the throne is weakened by those lies."

Vaelyssa took a deep breath, her hand reaching out to touch his arm. "The truth of our parentage does not change the fact that we are my mother’s children, and Laenor’s by law. We have the right to be acknowledged and accepted. We cannot let old grudges and suspicions destroy what we are trying to build."

Aemond’s eye softened slightly, though his jaw remained tense. "You ask much of me, Vaelyssa. To overlook what I know to be true, to forgive and forget what happened".

Vaelyssa took a deep breath, looking into Aemond’s eye with a mixture of sorrow and determination. "I am not asking you to forgive Luke for what he took from you," she began softly. "But I am asking for an understanding that all were in the wrong that night. Your claiming of Vhagar was ill-timed, at the funeral of her previous rider no less. You could have waited—but I understand. I know that feeling of not being enough, of having an egg that doesn't hatch-you weren’t the only one to be mocked for not having a dragon-”

Aemond's expression hardened slightly, but he listened intently, his jaw tense.

"-Vhagar chose you for a reason, just as my bronze fury chose me" Vaelyssa continued, her voice steady. "Your claim of her should have been celebrated, not marred by conflict. The fight shouldn’t have happened. You shouldn’t have tried to bash Jace’s head in with a rock, and Luke shouldn’t have taken your eye. But he was scared, and only wanted to defend his brother."

Aemond looked away, a mix of emotions playing across his face—anger, pain, regret. "That night changed everything," he murmured, his voice barely audible.

Vaelyssa nodded, her hand reaching out to gently touch his. "It did," she agreed. "And we cannot change what happened. But we can choose how we move forward. We can choose to understand each other’s pain, to acknowledge the mistakes that were made."

Aemond turned back to her, his eye searching hers for sincerity. "And what then?" he asked, his voice tinged with bitterness. "Do we simply forget? Pretend it never happened?"

"No," Vaelyssa said firmly. "We remember, but we also strive to be better. To not let the past dictate our future. We use our pain, our experiences, to guide us in making wiser decisions, in fostering a realm where our future children won’t have to face the same heartaches."

Aemond’s gaze softened slightly, a hint of vulnerability breaking through his hardened exterior. "It’s not easy," he admitted, his voice thick with emotion. "To let go of the anger, the need for vengeance."

"I know," Vaelyssa whispered, squeezing his hand. "But we have to try. For us, for our future, and for the realm. We can’t let the mistakes of our past define who we are now or who we can become, look at what it’s done to those who came before us-We must be the ones to break the cycle, or it will just keep happening until there is nothing left of House Targaryen"

Aemond's expression shifted as he absorbed Vaelyssa's words. A flicker of amusement danced in his eye, and he leaned closer, a teasing smirk curling his lips. "Our future children, you say?" he remarked, his tone playful.

Vaelyssa blinked, momentarily taken aback. "I'm trying to be sensible here and that's what you focus on?" she retorted, a hint of exasperation in her voice.

Aemond's smirk widened, a glint of mischief in his eye. "I quite like the idea of seeing you swelling with my seed," he murmured, his voice dropping to a low, intimate whisper. "Being all full of me. I think we should do all we can to ensure my seed takes”.

Vaelyssa's cheeks flushed with a mix of embarrassment and arousal, a shiver running down her spine at his words.

She opened her mouth to reply but found herself momentarily speechless as she felt Aemond’s hard cock pressed against her hip.

“Pār gūrogon issa, tepagon issa aōha nūmo se nyke shall tepagon ao nykeā tresy””muttered Vaelyssa as she coiled her hands in Aemond’s long silver hair (Then take me, give me your seed and I shall give you a son).

“Nyke jāhor emagon ao naenie jēdi bisa bantis”  growled Aemond as he rolled on top of her (I will have you many times this night).

“Hae naenie jēdi hae ao jaelagon issa dārys” (As many times as you wish my King).

The morning sun broke through the clouds, casting a golden glow over Storm's End. The storm had cleared, leaving the air crisp and fresh.

Vaelyssa stood beside Vermithor, her hands resting on his warm, rough scales, her cheek pressed against him. "Jēda naejot jikagon lenton issa dōna," she murmured softly (Time to go home, my sweet).

Vermithor trilled happily, a low, rumbling sound that reverberated through her bones.

She took a deep breath, savouring the moment of calm before the journey ahead. As she glanced over, she saw Aemond climbing the rope ladder attached to Vhagar's saddle, his movements confident and swift.

He caught her eye and gave a slight nod, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. Vaelyssa couldn't help but smile back, feeling the dull throbbing sensation between her legs—a reminder of the night they had shared.

Aemond had made good on his promise, his appetite for her had been ravenous, he kissed, sucked, licked, and fucked her well into the hours of the night. Never fully satisfied until he’d filled her with his seed another three times.

Even just this morning he had reached for her again; he had refused to let her bathe afterwards and had worked himself into such a frenzy at the thought of her returning to Dragonstone with his seed dripping from her that he bent her over the small desk and fucked her hard and fast. His fingers digging into her hips as he lost himself to the pleasure he sought, his loud moans echoing around the room as he spilled himself inside her.

She placed a hand on her stomach and wondered if his seed had already taken root. She’d had her moonblood a fortnight ago and she would not take moontea so there was a chance.

Her thoughts then turned to her mother. She had been sent to secure Borros Baratheon's support, but she was returning to Dragonstone with a far greater alliance.

Vaelyssa wondered how her mother would react to the news. Would she see the wisdom in their union, the strength it would bring to her cause? Or would she be wary of the potential complications?

Vaelyssa knew one thing for certain: she had to convince her mother of the value of this alliance. She stroked Vermithor's scales one last time before stepping back, ready to mount.

Aemond was now settled atop Vhagar, his gaze steady and unwavering as he watched her. Vaelyssa climbed onto Vermithor's back, her movements graceful and practiced. She looked over at Aemond one more time, a mixture of resolve and tenderness in her eyes.

"Ready?" Aemond called out, his voice carrying over the morning breeze.

Vaelyssa finished securing the straps of her saddle and nodded, her heart pounding with anticipation. "Ready."

With a synchronized roar, Vermithor and Vhagar spread their massive wings, the powerful beats stirring up the air around them. They took to the sky, the ground falling away beneath them as they soared higher and higher.

As they flew side by side, Vaelyssa felt a sense of exhilaration and determination. She was not just returning to Dragonstone with a message; she was bringing back a promise of unity, a chance for a brighter future.

The wind rushed past her, and she closed her eyes for a moment, envisioning the world they could build together—a world where their children would grow up in peace and prosperity.

Opening her eyes, she looked over at Aemond once more, their paths now intertwined by fate and choice. Together, they would face the challenges ahead, and together, they would shape the destiny of their house and their realm.

Vermithor and Vhagar, circled Dragonstone in wide arcs, their loud roars echoing across the cliffs and the surrounding sea, announcing their arrival to all within earshot.

As the two dragons descended, their enormous wings created gusts of wind that swept across the grassy cliffs.

They landed with resounding thuds, the ground trembling beneath their combined weight. Vaelyssa swiftly unlatched herself from Vermithor's saddle, her movements practiced and fluid. She slid down his side and landed gracefully on the ground, her gaze turning to Aemond.

Aemond climbed down the rope ladder attached to Vhagar's saddle, his every movement exuding a calm confidence. When he reached the ground, he immediately sought out Vaelyssa, his eye locking onto hers. He crossed the short distance between them and took her hand in his, squeezing it gently.

The pair stood firm, side by side, as they awaited the arrival of her mother and father.

It wasn’t very long before the unmistaken shuffle and clang of armour permeated through the air.

Her mother and father were slowly making their way towards them, surrounded by the Queens guard.

Daemon's hand, as always, rested on the hilt of his sword, his gaze was sharp and assessing, taking in the sight of Aemond standing beside Vaelyssa.

The golden crown atop Rhaenyra's head shone brilliantly in the sunlight, a symbol of her rightful claim to the throne and the burden of the responsibility she bore.

As Rhaenyra neared, her expression one of regal composure mixed with a hint of curiosity and concern, as Aemond's grip on Vaelyssa's hand tightened.

"Mother," Vaelyssa greeted, her voice steady, though she felt the flutter of nerves in her chest.

Rhaenyra's eyes softened as she looked at her daughter, but her gaze quickly shifted to Aemond, a mixture of suspicion and curiosity evident. "Vaelyssa” she acknowledged.

Daemon stepped forward, his gaze flicking between the two. "Why is that Hightower cunt here” he asked, his voice carrying an edge of scepticism.

Vaelyssa took a deep breath, standing taller. "Please, Father let me explain-" she began, her voice strong. "As you know I was sent to secure Lord Borros Baratheon's support-but instead I have returned with an even greater alliance."

Daemon’s eyes narrowed slightly, his gaze locking onto Aemond. "Explain," he commanded, his tone leaving no room for evasion.

Aemond let go of Vaelyssa’s hand and stepped forward, he unsheathed his sword and dropped to one knee.

“I Aemond of House Targaryen pledge my loyalty and that of Vhagar to you Queen Rhaenyra of House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, and the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm-”

Daemon's gaze bore into Aemond with a piercing intensity, his hand still resting on the hilt of his sword. "And what assurance do we have, that this isn't some ploy?" he demanded, his voice edged with scepticism. "How do we know you're not seeking to gain our trust only to betray us later?”

Aemond met Daemon's challenging stare, his expression resolute "I swear upon my honour" he declared firmly, his voice carrying across the tense silence "My intentions are honest. I wish no harm to Queen Rhaenyra or her rule”.

Vaelyssa stepped forward, her voice joining Aemond's in earnest plea. "Father, please," she urged, her eyes pleading with Daemon. "Aemond has shown his commitment. He risked much to declare his support openly. We must consider the alliance this could bring."

Daemon's expression softened slightly as he regarded his daughter, then turned back to Aemond. "Words are wind," he stated bluntly, his tone challenging. "Actions speak louder. What will you do to prove your loyalty boy?"

Aemond's jaw clenched briefly before he spoke, his voice steady and unwavering. "I will swear any oath, undergo any trial, to prove my sincerity," he replied, his gaze locked with Daemon's.

Rhaenyra, who had been observing the exchange with a measured silence, finally spoke. "Daemon, let us hear him," she said softly, her eyes never leaving Aemond's face. "Let us hear what he proposes."

Daemon considered his wife's words, then nodded slowly. "Very well," he agreed, his voice gruff. "Speak, Aemond. What oath will you swear to prove your loyalty to the rightful Queen?"

Aemond straightened, the weight of the moment heavy upon him. He rose to his feet and took a step forward, his gaze unwavering as he addressed the Queen and her consort. "I swear by the old gods-" he began solemnly, "-that I will serve the rightful Queen with unwavering loyalty and devotion."

A murmur rippled through the Queen's Guard, and Rhaenyra raised a hand to silence them, her eyes never leaving Aemond's face. "And what do you seek in return?" she asked, her voice cool and measured.

Aemond glanced at Vaelyssa, drawing strength from her presence. "I ask for your daughter's hand in marriage," he said clearly. "And assurances that my family—my mother, my siblings and their children—will be kept safe and unharmed."

"And why do you not advocate for your grandsire?" Rhaenyra questioned; her voice measured.

Aemond met her gaze evenly. "Because it would be a pointless endeavour- he actively conspired against you" he replied firmly.

Daemon's voice cut through the silence that followed. "Who were Otto's co-conspirators?" he demanded, his tone sharp and demanding. "There is no way he acted alone. Speak the truth, boy-"

Aemond's jaw tightened briefly, his resolve unwavering. "I will name those I know of," he answered, his voice steady. "But I cannot guarantee it is an exhaustive list."

He took a breath and began, each name a weighty admission in the cold air. "Tyland Lannister” he stated plainly, his gaze flicking briefly to Vaelyssa "As well as Jasper Wylde, Maester Orwyle and Larys Strong-”

“I shall see everyone of those traitorous cunts suffer for this-” snarled Daemon, his knuckles turning white as he tightly gripped the hilt of Dark Sister.

Rhaenyra considered Aemond’s words carefully and finally, after what felt like an eternity, she spoke.

"I agree to your terms, brother-" Rhaenyra declared, her voice resonating with authority. "I will guarantee the safety of Alicent, Aegon, Helaena, their children, and Daeron."

Aemond's expression softened slightly, a flicker of relief crossing his features. Beside him, Vaelyssa's eyes shone with gratitude and hope.

"But-" Rhaenyra continued, her tone firm, "-Only when I have reclaimed the Iron Throne will I permit you and Vaelyssa to marry. For now, you will be betrothed, as a pledge of our alliance."

Aemond bowed his head respectfully. "Gratitude-Your Grace”

"Now the two of you will be escorted inside-" Rhaenyra announced, her voice commanding yet tinged with a touch of warmth. "-Baths will be prepared. You both smell of dragon"

Vaelyssa and Aemond exchanged a glance, their expressions reflecting a mixture of relief and anticipation. "Of course, Your Grace," Aemond responded respectfully.

"And I expect the both of you at dinner tonight," Rhaenyra added firmly, her eyes shifting between them to emphasize her expectations.

"Yes mother-” Vaelyssa affirmed with a nod, her voice steady despite the whirlwind of emotions within her.

As they turned to make their way back toward Dragonstone, Daemon halted Vaelyssa with a gentle yet firm grasp on her arm.

Aemond hesitated momentarily, but Vaelyssa reassured him with a reassuring glance and a soft-spoken promise to join him shortly. He nodded and followed Rhaenyra and the Queen's Guard towards the castle.

Alone with her father, Vaelyssa felt a surge of pride mingled with a touch of vulnerability as Daemon gently took her face in his hands and turned her head to the side to see the various love bites that graced her skin.

"Well done-” muttered Daemon, his voice gruff yet tinged with unmistakable approval.

Vaelyssa smiled, her heart swelling with gratitude at his words. "I learned from the best,"

[spideyhexx]

oct. 22nd - royal reckoning

Prince!Billy Bonney x Village!FemaleReader

mdni!!! wc; 4.6k cw; virginity loss, p in v, angst

kinktober 2024 masterlist

a/n; this was a concept we talked about a little while back and it deserved to be explored in a longer fic so enjoy :) ALSO THE BOLDED ITALICS ARE FLASHBACKS SORTA

The grassy fields leading ahead to your cottage do nothing to soothe Billy’s hammering heart. His boots hit the ground with soft thuds, as though he is trying to be stealthy. There’s no need for quiet. The fields are completely empty save for the occasional wandering little animal. He spots a bunny and smiles to himself, his hand subconsciously gripping to the hilt of his dagger tucked into a leather sheath at his belt as he treks on. 

The sun is set, casting a dark glaze of moonlight over the land and although the expanse of the fields could prove daunting and hard to navigate for some, for Billy it was pure ease. 

He’s walked through these plains so many times, he’s sure his feet have hit the same dirt, have brushed past the grass strands that are children to the one’s he past before. Often times, he surveys the moon, notes the phase it’s in and wonders if She recognizes him unlike someone else. She must, he thinks, staring up at the bright crescent moon. She must know me. 

He’s overcome by the gesture of her all-knowingness that he almost trips over a rock embedded in the dirt. Billy catches himself before he can fall, then looks back at the rock, using the toe of his boot to push into the dirt and kick the rock out of it’s home. Then he feels bad for it and puts it back. 

When your cottage begins to come into view, his breath quickens and he breathes in once, then twice deeply. 

Billy grew up out in the fields near the kingdom’s village until he turned 10. He lived in a small farmhouse with only one room, but it was the home he loved. Then his life completely turned. 

The King took his mother as his wife after seeing her in the village, her beauty stunning him so much, that it warranted a marriage. It was unbecoming for a King to choose a villager as his wife, but the ceremony commenced nonetheless. And Billy was whisked away from his life completely, never to see you again. 

Before getting too close to the cottage, Billy does what does every night he visits, repeating the number in his head, 57. It’s his 57th visit tonight to see the lovely village girl that is you, always dressed in warm browns and earthly oranges, always a tad dirty because you take your baths late at night. 

He learned it because he stayed later than he meant to just a week ago. You flushed telling him you needed to bathe and you did not want him to sit around and wait for you. But he swore to you he would. Billy would wait for ages, it seems. 

The night wind rushes his face, hitting his cheeks and his nose in it’s cold. Billy says a thank you in his head to it. 

His boots miss the dirt the moment they step the broken up stone path that leads your cottage. Lights illuminate through your windows so he knows you’re awake, not that he ever expected you to be asleep. 

Billy stops in front of your old wooden door, the handle is rusted, and he had promised you he would do something about it only for you to say you knew how to handle rusty doorknobs, as though it was a common occurrence. It made him laugh. 

His hand raises and he swallows hard, his knuckles brushing to the wood before he knocks. 

Three times. 

Scuffling and the sound of a pot meets his ears and Billy can’t help the warm smile that graces his lips. He leans to the doorway, setting a hand on his belt just in time for the door to open. 

You slowly forgot things about him. Sure, he was the prince, and you always knew that, but Billy rarely left castle grounds (an order implemented by his stepfather The King, supposedly for his safety). So you, the lovely village girl he liked playing in the mud with never got to see him grow up into the man he is now. 

A few months ago, Billy found a way out of the castle gates. And since has journeyed out into the fields and nature around, to get a moment’s peace before returning. Sometimes he thought about running away completely, but then he would be leaving his poor mother and little brother. He thought about taking them with him too, but Billy knew his mother would never agree to such a thing. 

So instead, he spent whatever few hours he could sneak away outside, relishing in the small taste of freedom. 

You’re there, in your modest and simple dark orange dress, an apron over the skirt and your sleeves rolled up. Billy notes that you’re a little sweaty and he can see the fire roaring in your hearth. 

“Henry, you’re early today,” you greet him with a pant and a grin, swiping your wrist over your forehead to get some sweat at bay. 

He remembered you. One night, he found himself walking towards your cottage. He knew the way there like he had seen you just yesterday. 

Maybe it was wishful thinking, but Billy expected you to recognize him. When you did not, he got cold feet. 

Called himself Henry, an old family name, and pretended to be a wandering stranger. He prayed that you somehow just put the pieces together so that by his second visit, you would point it out, but you don’t. And Billy gets wrapped up in being with you, getting to know you now and not just the you that he had remembered, the 10-year-old girl that loved kites and hated fruit. 

“Ah, yeah. ‘Spose I couldn’t miss your cookin’ this time,” Billy says, his heart settling into a calmness that he knows won’t last long. It never does around you. He taps his fingers to his belt as you roll your eyes at his implicated complement. 

“Well, there’s enough stew for you, so grab a bowl and pour it yourself, I’m tired.”

He chuckles and walks into your home, shutting the door behind him and latching it up. In truth, he was not hungry. The dinner at the castle was plentiful and Billy chastiszes himself for indulging in it when your homecooked stew was better than anything else he could eat at home. 

Home. 

“You’re tired? I don’t want to bother,” Billy says in a softer tone, watching you wipe the sweat from your face with an old rag as his hands touch to one of the clean bowls on your table. 

“Nonsense. You never bother me, Henry,” you tell him, like it’s ridiculous of him to even wonder. 

Henry. The name bites at him like a venomous snake, a poison that’s slowly reaching it’s way to his heart. Soon enough it would kill him.  

He spends his days figuring out answers to questions you may ask about his life, but truly, he fibs small. Besides the big thing. 

Otherwise, he tells you he comes from little money, loves to read adventure books and tall tales, and imagines himself as the hero or sometimes the morally corrupt protagonist. That he wishes deeply for a dog. He loves carrots but not tomatoes. All truths. Billy tells you that he wants to travel and live out in the woods, and that’s why he rarely visits in the day. His lonesome is important to him. And you’re busy anyway, it’s easier to see you at night. 

He could see the skeptical look in your eye when he had to explain this, but you move on. It aches in his heart, but the more he spends time with you, he forgets himself anyway, and that’s what he longed for. To forget about Prince William Antrim. Until the reminder of sleep comes about and he has to leave your bed and make the walk back to the castle. 

Out there with you, he’s Billy. It’s a shame he cannot say it. 

Billy sits with his stew while you preemptively cool yourself down. You open a window to let the breeze fly in and a sigh of relief leaves your lips. If Billy tilts his head a little, he can see the moon poking Her gaze through the window. He imagines She is saying hello to him. Hello to you, maybe whispering in your ear, ‘It’s Billy! It’s Billy boy!’. 

But after 57 visits, Billy’s lost complete hope that you know it’s him. You don’t. That’s the fact of this entire debacle. 

He pushes it out of his head when you turn back to him, “The stew up to your standards?”

Billy takes a hefty bite and makes an overexaggerated face, like the food is truly orgasmic and in some ways it is. But he only does it to hear your laugh, which sounds throughout the small room. 

“Alright, alright, good to know,” you get your words out through your laughter, then neatly fold the rag you had been using to rid yourself of the dampness on your face. 

“You feelin’ okay? It’s cold out and you’re sweatin’,” Billy says. He can’t help but worry. He knows all too well how easy it is for people to get sick out here. 

“Yeah, I was leaning too close to the fire making the stew, that’s all.”

He raises his brow, taking another spoonful into his mouth and contemplating your words, “Now, I’m no cooking expert, but maybe you shouldn’t lean too close to the fire, sweet.”

“Oh, hush. I won’t fall in. I promise you.” 

You cross the room, bringing yourself closer to him. Billy can’t explain it, but you move so effortlessly. He could easily imagine you in one of the royal ballgowns his mother and step-cousins wear and all the ladies in waiting. You would glide on the ballroom floor with the same amount of ease you walk through your small cottage in. His heart would flutter all the same and his cheeks would tinge with red every time. Just like know. 

You perch yourself on his knee as he takes a small bite of stew and your hands find their way to his belt, skimming the top of it. His breath is deeper, but he pretends to not be affected. The last two or so weeks have been more intimate than he could imagine. 

He kissed your lips for the first time on the haybale out in your barn and for those few seconds, he saw the life he feels he should have had. The one where he grew up at your side and asked you to marry him once the two of you were old enough. The one that lived in this little cottage with you and worked as a farmer. He felt it all flash in his mind as he kissed your lips and your hands touched his body, but the moment you pulled away, it was gone. 

Your hand stops at his dagger, which you slowly pull from his sheath, to study the hilt. “Don’t think I’ve seen you with this one before.”

Billy panics. The hilt of that dagger was by far a little more intricate than the one he usually brought with him. A mistake on his part for not switching out the blades. 

“It looks…expensive,” you mumble, your tone closer to a tease rather than speculative. 

“I stole it,” he blurts out. 

Your eyes find his, then return to the dagger as you trace the detailing, “Stole it? Little outlaw now, are ya, Henry?” 

You nudge your elbow into him in jest and slip the dagger back into his sheath as he chuckles. It’s a nervous one, though you don’t seem to pick up on that face. He rubs his thumb into your knee, a soothing gesture more to calm himself. He almost gets distracted, wanting to kneel right there and kiss your knee.

Billy finds himself asking, “You don’t care that I stole it?” Lies. 

“No,” you speak quiet, your hand tracing his hair at his temple and smoothing it back, “I see no harm in stealing if it’s from the rich. They already fuck us over enough. All King Antrim’s thought, I tell ya.”

He blinks at you but nods in response, quelling his expression to a neutral territory. In his nights with you here, you scarcely have mentioned his step-father. But it’s been quite a while since the topic came up and it shot a bolt of nerves through him. 

It’s a miracle that you don’t dwell on the subject. 

“What did you do today?”

Billy hums at your question and leans his head more into your head, his hand tugging at your knee over your thick dress to bring you more into his lap. “I hunted…did fairly well. Though it got too cold…made sure to rest some so I could come see you.”

Billy did go hunting. There was a small section of forest on castle grounds that he went on hunting parties with, though they were much fancier than what you might be picturing. 

“Mm, ever the charmer,” you mumble. 

“I need to be,” he says, with more conviction than he thought he might have. His hand moves up to cup your face, “You…you’re like the stars…and I think…the stars need to be earned and…charmed and…just…given all from man.”

Billy remembers when he had his first crush after becoming Prince. There was a daughter of a high lord that he took a liking too. He would write poetry for her and speak to her in flowery language but she never understood it. Called him odd. But he could speak his oddness to you and you would always look at him like he created the entire world. Like the words he was speaking were words you’ve never heard before and you were utterly fascinated. 

Your eyes tell him this now. You let out a breath, “You are so unlike any other I’ve met.”

Billy warms inside and he brings your head closer until his forehead is pressed to yours. His breath ghosts your lips and he lets his nose get smushed, “You’re all I would like to know.”

Frantic yet full of deep love movements are what gets you to your bed with Billy above you. His lips have not been able to leave your body since he uttered his words. He kisses your cheeks and your brow bone. The crease of your forehead and the crown of your head. His lips make their presence down the curve of your jaw all the way to your neck, his large hands holding your sides as your own thread in his hair. 

Billy wishes he could speak a symphony to you in the moment, but he converses with his mouth. He groans at the tight strings of your bodice, as his lips kiss your collarbone and to the top of your breasts. His impatience makes you smile beyond what you thought you your lips could ever reach. You work on the ties as his mouth tries to dig down to the valley of your breasts. 

Once it’s undone, Billy helps you slip off the shoulders of your dress and tug it down till it’s pooled around your waist. He hesitates on taking your undershirt off until you tell him four times you’re sure.

“I’ve never done this,” he mutters between your breasts, making himself a new home right there. 

“Neither have I.”

The thought comforts him and he nods. Billy forgets the moon’s call as a breeze hits the both of you because you’re so warm. His vest and shirt are off within a couple of seconds as his mouth acquaints itself with your breasts, his tongue swirling to your nipple and mumbling to your skin how pretty you are. 

He strains hard against his trousers, rutting to your thigh for the little bit of relief it provides. Billy’s touched himself before, he’s done as much as that, but nothing else besides miscellaneous kisses with the daughters of his kitchen or stable staff. 

Billy’s read a lot. A lot of tales of the desires of the flesh and indulgences one can have with it. He’s seen it with his own eyes with his step-father, but the passions he’s read about and truly otherworldly nature of the act itself, in his opinion, was something that he knew he would save for love. 

The love he feels now as your hands caress over the front of his trousers, desperately pulling him into you, wanting him to be just as naked you’re beginning to get, that’s right. That’s the deep pit in his stomach and the thrumming in his head that he knows he’s supposed to feel. The way you’re looking at him as though he’s the only person to exist, like he is the world you want, it sets him ablaze in all aspects of his life. Mentally. Physically. Every part of himself.

When he gets you fully naked beneath him, Billy has to sit back and admire you. He knows you embarrass easy so he coos, “No, darlin’, no…you…you’re unbelievable that’s all…I…you’re beautiful.” 

His hand catches your chin and he pecks at your lips, his smile easy and comforting and the one you give him back is effervescent. 

“You’re too clothed,” you pout to him and he lets himself relax with a chuckle, leaning himself back over you and letting you work on his trousers, until he can push them down along with his underpants. 

Billy lets you take him in. He’s fully hard. Fully aching for you. Fully wanting to feel the love and desperate warmth you have to give him and he’ll give you his all back, he promises it silently. 

A lot of small kisses fall to your face as he positions himself, bring your legs up to his hips. You smooth his hair back and let his forehead find yours. 

“You’ve really charmed the stars out of me.”

Billy chuckles and shakes his head a bit, leaving a chaste kiss to the corner of your mouth, “The stars will never leave you, my darlin’. Never.” 

Life is forgotten when he sinks into you. No time to think things through more when he’s eased into your cunt and buried his face into your hair, breathing in you like he’s about to take his last breath. 

Billy feels his approaching release too soon but holds off all he can as you adjust to him, your breaths hard and strained, but shrouded in as much overwhelmed feelings as he’s experiencing. 

The thud of your heartbeat enlightens him more than he realizes in the moment. You’re alive. You’re here. He’s alive. He’s here. He’s him and you’re you and nothing could amount to the sheer content he feels when he can start to rock his hips into you. 

The stretch aches you, he knows, so he he goes slow, bringing his cursed mouth to your ear and muttering almost nonstop, “lovely…lovely darlin’...everythin’ I feel right now is for you…oh fuck, it’s for you…”

Billy’s distraught when you tell him you love him. The words slip through your mouth like they’re meant to be there and meant to be directed at him. He says it back to you in a strangled moan, trying his absolute hardest to not thrust any faster into you. The pace, while slow, is still enough, rocking your crickety bed and helping to spill moans form your moan as the initial uncomfortablness subsides. 

“Sweet, please,” he mumbles to your ear, trailing his lips to yours so he can feel your noises and your breath and breathe it in. So he could give you his breath. 

Billy is not sure if he can get you to finish, but he tries. He’s learned enough from his books to know to touch you, reaching his hand down to find and rub your clit, which elicits more pleasurable sounds from you. 

“I love you, I love you, please,” Billy repeats it like it’s all he knows. And in this moment, it is all he knows. 

You say it back through moans although it’s harder to speak as your body shakes and clings to him, but he doesn’t care to think it through as his cock buries into you, spilling every bit of himself he has to give. He feels you spasm against him and he splotches kisses your jaw, mumbling a thank you. 

“I love you, Henry,” you whisper, rubbing your fingers through his sweaty hair. 

Billy feels sick. Henry. Henry. Henry.

Everything crashes around him all at once and he feels tears brim at his eyes. His head lifts but he is not looking at you. You clock his tears and cup his face, much to dismay, but Billy feels too weak to push you away. 

“What’s wrong?” You’re so concerned, it hurts. 

Billy slips himself out of you with a heavy sigh and shakes his head, which temporarily rids his face of your hands. His body did not deserve you, he tells himself. 

“I…,” he trails off. Not sure what he even wants to say. 

“Henry. What’s wrong?” Your voice is more worried, your brow knit and your eyes starry. Emotionally starry. Scared. 

Billy moves away from you before he could start crying and he hears you sit up in your bed, pulling the sheet over yourself to conceal your body. The moment is gone and the moon is screaming at him. Berating at him through the window. 

He stares at Her crescent shape through the open window, ignoring the fact he’s completely naked still, and then quickly goes for his belt, opening the small pouch on the opposite side of where his dagger sits. 

“Seriously, you’re worrying me what’s-”

“Please,” he interrupts. 

Once he sees you close your mouth, he stands back up, his hand clasped around something and he sits back in bed. Billy is frozen. His muscles tightened and heavy like wood. It feels like a large stone is pressing in on his chest as his fingers shakily open up to reveal the small locket in his palm. 

You’re confused at first. He expected that. But then you take a closer look at it, taking the metal in your hands and studying it. When you turn it over, he feels sick again. 

Billy, your thumb rubs over the engraved name on the locket, your mouth opening, then closing in confusion, “I don’t understand what this is.”

You look back at him, then the locket, then return to his face in a double take. 

The moon and the candles in your room illuminate him in a different light. Casting a glow so faint, it’s so easy you could have missed it. 

“I don’t understand,” you whisper. 

“I’m…,” he clears his throat. He wishes he was unable to meet your gaze, but he cannot look away from the woman he loves, “Billy…I’m Billy. Do you remember-”

“Of course I remember Billy, he’s the Prince now,” you rush out, your breath quickening. 

“Yeah…the Prince,” he whispers back to you, “I’m Billy,” he repeats, his heart ripping in two at your expression. You’re bewildered. The moon has enlightened you, yet you seem to be finding it hard to believe. 

“I still don’t understand, I-”

“I learned how to escape the castle grounds at night and I…I always remembered, how could I not? You were…you were the stars and-”

“Don’t say that now,” you interrupt him with your voice raising. You tighten the sheet to your body, suddenly feeling way too naked around him. 

“Sweet, I…I thought you’d recognize me, I recognized you! I fuckin’ recognized you after over a decade and it…you didn’t…you didn’t even recognize me,” Billy defaltes as he continues to speak while you look at him aghast. 

“Why should I? You were here one night then gone. Gone to be a Prince and the Prince never shows his face, how was I supposed to…I moved on. We were 10…you became a fucking prince Billy! That’s more of a life than this!”

“It’s not!” 

Billy tries not to dwell on the part you mentioned about moving on. He doesn’t want to yell at you. His jaw tightens and he lets it clench, lets himself sit with the anger for a couple moments. 

“You could be lying,” you say, but the fact he had the locket, the one you would know of considering you had the same one rested to nightstand with your own name engraved on it was enough. Your late mother bought them for the two of you for a holiday. When there was a little more money than usual.

“I’m not lying,” Billy tries to soften his tone, “I’m not. I’m Billy. I’m the Billy that rolled down the muddy hills with you and caught water spiders to throw at you and…ate all your apples because you hated them…and…fucked up your kite and made you a shitty new one. That’s me.”

A silent moment befalls the two of you where the only sound is the outside wind. It’s whispering to Billy. A mix of comforts and also ridiculing him for lying. He wants to keel over. Billy can sense your anger without looking at you, but you don't yell at him.

“Why? Why lie to me? I would’ve…if you told me, I would’ve kept the secret.”

Another crack in his fragile split heart emerges, “I…you didn’t…recognize me and I…I froze and…”

“You had so many opportunities to come clean,” your voice shakes as tears well to your eyes, “and now you tell me after we’ve…after we’ve…had one another? Henry…Billy…whoever the fuck you are…you are not…who I thought you were.”

He has no words to argue with you. Billy doesn’t bow his head in shame, he takes it head on, his eyes locked to yours as a few tears slip down your cheeks. 

“I do…I do love you,” is what he decides to say. 

You scoff at it. He knows you love him, but this is worse. You love him and he was himself in some vein, but the part of himself he absolutely hates is something you have yet to know. An unknown part of him that reeks with disdain and hatred and anger. 

“Please, leave.”

Billy silently gathers his clothes and gets them on, but he can’t bring himself to leave. His legs feel like they’ll collapse, his head swimming in a fast current he can’t escape, he’s afraid he’ll drown. 

“Sweet, just-”

“Billy,” you sniffle. Clutching the sheet so tight to yourself, you force yourself to look at him, “Don’t come back here. Ever.”

He nods. He hopes to the moon that you don’t mean those words, but you spit them with a bite that hurts his soul. 

“I love you,” he tells you again. He’s not hoping to hear you say it back. But Billy needs you to hear him say it. That despite the fact of anything, he does love you. 

He gets to your door. But stills. 

His eyes squeeze shut and he swallows hard, shifting on his feet, “I never…ever…felt more myself than I did the days I’ve spent with you. You are…not of this world, sweet. And I…I will always long for…this time and…what I should have done. I am…deeply…sorry…can’t fix anythin’, but I’m so fuckin’ sorry…I..,” his voice cracks and he risks taking a glance at you, “I am in love with you…it’s set in my body for the rest of time.”

With one more glance over your being, he opens your door, and closes it behind him. 

The cold air whips his face and holds him in an uncomfortable hug he can’t escape. The moon frowns at him and leaves his presence to comfort the lovely village girl he left. 

Billy realizes he left his locket with you, but he does not hesitate to keep walking to the castle. 

The locket can stay with you. It has his love, the true love, that he does not believe he deserves to give to you. At least the locket and the moon can remind you while he rots in his castle chambers. 

[jonsnowunemploymentera]

There's something about this sequence of figures that gives me pause.

Those old histories are full of kings who reigned for hundreds of years, and knights riding around a thousand years before there were knights. You know the tales, Brandon the Builder, Symeon Star-Eyes, Night’s King … we say that you’re the nine-hundred-and-ninety-eighth Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, but the oldest list I’ve found shows six hundred seventy-four commanders […] Jon II, ADWD

GRRM is such a meticulous writer that I’m inclined to think there’s a reason why these three figures, in particular, are mentioned. And there’s a reason why they seem to culminate in Jon.

Brandon the Builder

Though Jon does not carry the Stark name, he carries their legacy, one that dates back to the Long Night. For he now holds the combined titles of King of Winter...

Jon is the only brother that remains to me. Should I die without issue, I want him to succeed me as King in the North.  Catelyn V, ASoS

“I am the Lord of Winterfell,” Jon screamed. Jon XII, ADWD

...and Lord Commander of the Night's Watch.

So Jon Snow took the wineskin from his hand and had a swallow. But only one. The Wall was his, the night was dark, and he had a king to face.  Jon XII, ASoS

Now he was a man grown and the Wall was his, yet all he had were doubts. He could not even seem to conquer those. Jon VII, ADWD

This combination of legacies—the Wall’s chief steward and a king in the north—coincidentally parallels the infamous Night’s King, who may or may not have been a Stark as well (but we’ll get to that later).

But more than leadership, Jon’s inheritance may lie in magic itself. The Wall, imbued with the magic that Brandon the Builder wove into its foundation, does more than stand as a barrier. It affects those who stay within its shadow, e.g., Maester Aemon and Melisandre. But no other character has as deep a connection to the Wall’s magical properties as Jon Snow:

“Every man who walks the earth casts a shadow on the world. Some are thin and weak, others long and dark. You should look behind you, Lord Snow. The moon has kissed you and etched your shadow upon the ice twenty feet tall.”  Jon glanced over his shoulder. The shadow was there, just as she had said, etched in moonlight against the Wall.  Jon VII, ADWD

The connection runs so deep that the Wall seems to reflect Jon himself, almost like a mirror:

Jon had given his chief captive the largest cell, a pail to shit in, enough furs to keep him from freezing, and a skin of wine. It took the guards some time to open his cell, as ice had formed inside the lock. Rusted hinges screamed like damned souls when Wick Whittlestick yanked the door wide enough for Jon to slip through. A faint fecal odor greeted him, though less overpowering than he'd expected. Even shit froze solid in such bitter cold. Jon Snow could see his own reflection dimly inside the icy walls. Jon X, ADWD

The Wall's dual properties—functioning as both a mirror and a shield—bring Serwyn of the Mirror Shield to mind, who is positioned as a narrative parallel to Symeon Star-Eyes.

Symeon Star Eyes

Like Brandon the Builder, Symeon Star-Eyes has been celebrated for thousands of years, even being co-opted by the Andals as a knight, despite living long before chivalry came to the Seven Kingdoms. This highlights a fascinating parallel with Jon, a knight who isn’t one in truth.

According to legend, Symeon lost his eyes (though we’re not told how), and afterwards, he placed star sapphires in the empty sockets.

“Symeon Star-Eyes,” Luwin said as he marked numbers in a book. “When he lost his eyes, he put star sapphires in the empty sockets, orso the singers claim. Bran, that is only a story, like the tales of Florian the Fool. A fable from the Age of Heroes.” The maester tsked. “You must put these dreams aside, they will only break your heart.”  Bran VII, AGoT

These sapphire eyes evoke creatures of ice, often distinguished by their blue eyes which shine as brightly as the stars. This includes the Others:

“What gods?” Jon was remembering that they’d seen no boys in Craster’s Keep, nor men either, save Craster himself.  “The cold gods,” she said. “The ones in the night. The white shadows.” […] “What color are their eyes?” he asked her. “Blue. As bright as blue stars, and as cold.” Jon III, ACoK

Their wights:

And suddenly Jon was back in the Lord Commander’s Tower again. A severed hand was climbing his calf and when he pried it off with the point of his longsword, it lay writhing, fingers opening and closing. The dead man rose to his feet, blue eyes shining in that gashed and swollen face. Ropes of torn flesh hung from the great wound in his belly, yet there was no blood. Jon III, ACoK

The corpse queen, who may or may not have been a female Other:

A woman was his downfall; a woman glimpsed from atop the Wall, with skin as white as the moon and eyes like blue stars. Bran IV, ASoS

And, the legendary ice dragons:

Of all the queer and fabulous denizens of the Shivering Sea, however, the greatest are the ice dragons. These colossal beasts, many times larger than the dragons of Valyria, are said to be made of living ice, with eyes of pale blue crystal and vast translucent wings through which the moon and stars can be glimpsed as they wheel across the sky. Whereas common dragons (if any dragon can truly be said to be common) breathe flame, ice dragons supposedly breathe cold, a chill so terrible that it can freeze a man solid in half a heartbeat. The Shivering Sea, The World of Ice and Fire

Given the scant information about him, we don’t know who—or what—Symeon Star-Eyes was. Yet, through his eyes, he holds a connection to the North and its ice magic, a legacy Jon has a share in.

Both Jon and Symeon Star-Eyes are Other-adjacent; Symeon with his blue eyes which shine as stars and Jon with his black armor made of ice.

“Snow,” an eagle cried, as foemen scuttled up the ice like spiders. Jon was armored in black ice […] Jon XII, ADWD

A shadow emerged from the dark of the wood. It stood in front of Royce. Tall, it was, and gaunt and hard as old bones, with flesh pale as milk. Its armor seemed to change color as it moved; here it was white as new-fallen snow, there black as shadow, everywhere dappled with the deep grey-green of the trees. The patterns ran like moonlight on water with every step it took. Prologue, AGoT

Holistically, Jon and Symeon’s associations with these creatures might be positioning them as figures with the ability to leverage northern magic—much like Bran the Builder and his ice Wall.

It’s quite intriguing how the Wall serves as a conduit through which Jon is linked to various elements of Northern mysticism. Symeon’s blue eyes are not only reminiscent of the Others but also share similarities with the Wall itself.

Finally he looked north. He saw the Wall shining like blue crystal [...] Bran III, AGoT

By the time Jon left the armory, it was almost midday. The sun had broken through the clouds. He turned his back on it and lifted his eyes to the Wall, blazing blue and crystalline in the sunlight. Even after all these weeks, the sight of it still gave him the shivers. Centuries of windblown dirt had pocked and scoured it, covering it like a film, and it often seemed a pale grey, the color of an overcast sky … but when the sun caught it fair on a bright day, it shone, alive with light, a colossal blue-white cliff that filled up half the sky.  Jon III, AGoT

Earlier, I noted that the Wall serves a dual function, acting as both a mirror and a shield for Jon. It was then that I referenced Ser Serwyn of the Mirror Shield.

Like Symeon Star-Eyes, Serwyn was a First Man whose legend was later co-opted by the Andals. Songs often portray him as a knight, though he existed long before knighthood came to Westeros. But Serwyn's legend goes even further, for later traditions cast him as a knight of the Kingsguard.

And besides the legendary kings and the hundreds of kingdoms from which the Seven Kingdoms were born, stories of such as Symeon Star-Eyes, Serwyn of the Mirror Shield, and other heroes have become fodder for septons and singers alike. Did such heroes once exist? It may be so. But when the singers number Serwyn of the Mirror Shield as one of the Kingsguard—an institution that was only formed during the reign of Aegon the Conqueror—we can see why it is that few of these tales can ever be trusted.The septons who first wrote them down took what details suited them and added others, and the singers changed them—sometimes beyond all recognition—for the sake of a warm place in some lord's hall. In such a way does some longdead First Man become a knight who follows the Seven and guards the Targaryen kings thousands of years after he lived (if he ever did).The legion of boys and youths made ignorant of the past history of Westeros by these foolish tales cannot be numbered. Ancient History: The Age of Heroes

Serwyn of the Mirror Shield’s most significant act was the slaying of the dragon Urrax, which he accomplished by blinding the beast.

Legend has it that during the Age of Heroes, Serwyn of the Mirror Shield slew the dragon Urrax by crouching behind a shield so polished that the beast saw only his own reflection. By this ruse, the hero crept close enough to drive a spear through the dragon’s eye, earning the name by which we know him still. Fire & Blood

Since Serwyn was a First Man who lived during the Age of Heroes, I doubt that Urrax was one of the fire-breathing dragons from the Valyrian Empire, which came to be much later. I wonder, then, if Urrax was an ice dragon—and if Serwyn struck out its crystal-blue eye.

I find it fascinating that Serwyn used a spear to remove a dragon’s eye, while Symeon Star-Eyes was said to wield a point-tipped staff. These weapons, both tied to the theme of sight, suggest a deeper connection between these figures, even if we don’t know exactly when they lived or if their paths intersected. What’s particularly telling is that Sam is cut off—by Jon, no less—before he can finish his thoughts on the distortion of history, and how much of it has been lost, obscured, or inaccurate…

Until we know more, we can only speculate. But the thread spins back to Symeon, whose eyes were as blue as the ice dragons’, and Jon Snow, who often compares his blue ice Wall to those legendary creatures.

The road beneath the Wall was as dark and cold as the belly of an ice dragon and as twisty as a serpent. Jon VIII, ADWD

The snowfall was light today, a thin scattering of flakes dancing in the air, but the wind was blowing from the east along the Wall, cold as the breath of the ice dragon in the tales Old Nan used to tell.  Jon X, ADWD

This links back to Serwyn, whose mirror shield, used to slay what may have been an ice monster, parallels Jon’s Wall of ice.

But Serwyn of the Mirror Shield is not the only narrative parallel to Symeon Star-Eyes. Many times, Symeon is mentioned alongside another knight, one who actually bore the white cloak of the Kingsguard: Prince Aemon the Dragonknight.

“True knights would never harm women and children.” The words rang hollow in her ears even as she said them.  “True knights.” The queen seemed to find that wonderfully amusing. “No doubt you’re right. So why don’t you just eat your broth like a good girl and wait for Symeon Star-Eyes and Prince Aemon the Dragonknight to come rescue you, sweetling. I’m sure it won’t be very long now.” Sansa V, ACoK

“Wylla.” Lord Wyman smiled. “Did you see how brave she was? Even when I threatened to have her tongue out, she reminded me of the debt White Harbor owes to the Starks of Winterfell, a debt that can never be repaid. Wylla spoke from the heart, as did Lady Leona. Forgive her if you can, my lord. She is a foolish, frightened woman, and Wylis is her life. Not every man has it in him to be Prince Aemon the Dragonknight or Symeon Star-Eyes, and not every woman can be as brave as my Wylla and her sister Wynafryd … who did know, yet played her own part fearlessly.  Davos IV, ADWD

There’s an intriguing duality of ice and fire in Symeon Star-Eyes being mentioned alongside the Dragonknight. Jon stands to inherit elements of both their legacies: as a First Man like Symeon, he has a connection to the ice magic of the North, and like Aemon the Dragonknight, he embodies the roles of Valyrian prince, a warrior of fire, and a commander of knights all at once.

This particular aspect of one hero having multiple faces, so to speak, lends itself to other fascinating groupings:

Dunk stared at the grassy lists and the empty chairs on the viewing stand and pondered his chances. One victory was all he needed; then he could name himself one of the champions of Ashford Meadow, if only for an hour. The old man had lived nigh on sixty years and had never been a champion. It is not too much to hope for, if the gods are good. He thought back on all the songs he had heard, songs of blind Symeon Star-Eyes and noble Serwyn of the Mirror Shield, of Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, Ser Ryam Redywne, and Florian the Fool. They had all won victories against foes far more terrible than any he would face. But they were great heroes, brave men of noble birth, except for Florian. And what am I? Dunk of Flea Bottom? Or Ser Duncan the Tall? The Hedge Knight

Through Aemon the Dragonknight and Ser Ryam Redwyne, we move beyond the mythical lone heroes of the Age of Heroes—such as Serwyn and Symeon Star-Eyes, who lived thousands of years ago—and into the more recent icons of Westeros’ history. As Lord Commanders of the Kingsguard and in Ryam’s case, Hand of the King, we see a balance of legendary heroism told through songs and the real-world responsibility of leading men. They highlight the dual—and often difficult—nature of heroism that requires both valor and duty.

And Jon himself looked toward Ser Ryam and the Dragonknight, heroes who inspired his childhood games and shaped his earliest ideals of heroism and valor.

Every morning they had trained together, since they were big enough to walk; Snow and Stark, spinning and slashing about the wards of Winterfell, shouting and laughing, sometimes crying when there was no one else to see. They were not little boys when they fought, but knights and mighty heroes. “I’m Prince Aemon the Dragonknight,” Jon would call out, and Robb would shout back, “Well, I’m Florian the Fool.” Or Robb would say, “I’m the Young Dragon,” and Jon would reply, “I’m Ser Ryam Redwyne.”  Jon XII, ASoS

This creates a fascinating roadmap for Jon, who right now needs to save the world as a warrior (Azor Ahai) and a commander (leader of the broader night’s watch—which encompasses all men, for all cloaks and banners turn black once darkness settles in). The way the individual legacies of Serwyn, Symeon Star-Eyes, Aemon the Dragonknight, and Ser Ryam Redwyne converge in Jon Snow suggests that his journey extends beyond mere physical labor in the coming mystical war from the North.

Ser Ryam’s reign was short-lived, and his abilities as a ruler are often questioned. While some may argue that his brief and flawed tenure mirrors Jon’s time as Lord Commander, this comparison feels misplaced. Context is key! Jon quickly follows in Ser Ryam’s footsteps as a leader, becoming Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch within a chapter. Thus, his role as ruler of the realm may still lie ahead. And this naturally leads us to the final figure in Sam's sequence of legends: the infamous Night’s King.

The Night’s King

So far, we’ve explored the parallels Jon shares with figures celebrated for their valor. But in Martin’s world, nothing is black and white. While Brandon the Builder and Symeon Star-Eyes are remembered as heroes, the Night’s King introduces a grey area—showing that reputation, especially over time, exists on a spectrum.

I often hesitate to position Jon as a Night’s King figure, largely because the fandom tends to approach this idea from a one-dimensional lens, often portraying him as a tyrannical villain. Such a framing completely misses the complexity of Jon's arc. He has always been a hero, and while he may forsake certain vows, like the Night’s King of legend, he does so out of necessity, not selfish ambition. His journey has been about redefining what it means to protect the realm, even if that means stepping outside the bounds of traditional 'honor'.

In ASoS, Jon begins to grasp the idea of a ‘bastard’s honor’—a flexible moral code that defies society’s rigid expectations. Like his father, who stained his honor to save his sister’s son, or Jaime Lannister, who became a kingslayer to protect King's Landing, Jon learns that true honor sometimes means defying societal norms. Doing the right thing may force him to break from the Night’s Watch’s rigid vows, especially when they no longer serve the greater good.

Jon’s evolving understanding of honor reaches a new complexity in ADWD, as he navigates what it means to lead a ‘neutral’ institution that ultimately relies on the southern lords for resources—especially the Boltons and Lannisters. The Boltons, who now occupy Winterfell, have betrayed the true meaning of the castle as a protector of the North. Winterfell—'where winter fell'—is in enemy hands, with the Boltons as human monsters in the South, mirroring the mythical threats Jon faces from the North. Meanwhile, the Lannisters, still claiming to be 'Protector of the Realm', have done more harm than good.

This balancing act between neutrality and political involvement reaches its breaking point in Jon’s final ADWD chapter, when he makes the fateful decision to march south against Ramsay Bolton. The result is mutiny and his assassination. But this is not where his story ends—he will return, and his resurrection will force him to reflect on what it truly means to be a ‘defender of the realm'. Jon's choice—a rejection of neutrality—will kickstart a decisive shift in his arc, as he begins to involve himself in the affairs of his Stark family, further linking him to the legacy of the Night’s King, who was likely a son of Winterfell as well.

As Jon was resolute in marching south in part due to Arya, so too was the Night’s King enticed to break his vows for a daughter of the North.

As the sun began to set the shadows of the towers lengthened and the wind blew harder, sending gusts of dry dead leaves rattling through the yards. The gathering gloom put Bran in mind of another of Old Nan’s stories, the tale of Night’s King. He had been the thirteenth man to lead the Night’s Watch, she said; a warrior who knew no fear. “And that was the fault in him,” she would add, “for all men must know fear.” A woman was his downfall; a woman glimpsed from atop the Wall, with skin as white as the moon and eyes like blue stars. Fearing nothing, he chased her and caught her and loved her, though her skin was cold as ice, and when he gave his seed to her he gave his soul as well. Bran IV, ASoS

Jon’s 'corpse queen' can take many forms, but Arya is the strongest parallel if we see her as a catalyst for major change.

While Arya is no Other, she shares Jon’s Northern roots and strong magical ties. In many ways, she’s a reimagined 'corpse queen'—a 'bitch from the seventh hell' who is becoming an agent of death, bonded to a direwolf named after a witch-queen.

But the theme of a woman presenting temptation to this king of the night doesn’t end with Arya, for Melisandre tempts Jon time and time again.

In the shadow of the Wall, the direwolf brushed up against his fingers. For half a heartbeat the night came alive with a thousand smells, and Jon Snow heard the crackle of the crust breaking on a patch of old snow. Someone was behind him, he realized suddenly. Someone who smelled warm as a summer day. When he turned he saw Ygritte. She stood beneath the scorched stones of the Lord Commander’s Tower, cloaked in darkness and in memory. The light of the moon was in her hair, her red hair kissed by fire. When he saw that, Jon’s heart leapt into his mouth. “Ygritte,” he said. “Lord Snow.” The voice was Melisandre’s. Surprise made him recoil from her. “Lady Melisandre.” He took a step backwards. “I mistook you for someone else.” At night all robes are grey. Yet suddenly hers were red. He did not understand how he could have taken her for Ygritte. She was taller, thinner, older, though the moonlight washed years from her face. Mist rose from her nostrils, and from pale hands naked to the night. “You will freeze your fingers off,” Jon warned. […] Jon glanced over his shoulder. The shadow was there, just as she had said, etched in moonlight against the Wall. A girl in grey on a dying horse, he thought. Coming here, to you. Arya. He turned back to the red priestess. Jon could feel her warmth. She has power. The thought came unbidden, seizing him with iron teeth, but this was not a woman he cared to be indebted to, not even for his little sister. […] “You do not believe me. You will. The cost of that belief will be three lives. A small price to pay for wisdom, some might say … but not one you had to pay. Remember that when you behold the blind and ravaged faces of your dead. And come that day, take my hand.” The mist rose from her pale flesh, and for a moment it seemed as if pale, sorcerous flames were playing about her fingers. “Take my hand,” she said again, “and let me save your sister.” Jon VI, ADWD

Melisandre, with her foreign magic and public sacrifices to her terrifying red god, is deeply mistrusted by the Night’s Watch brothers. And Jon’s growing association with her, as many suspect a sexual relationship, contributes to his rapidly declining reputation. Though he has thus far rejected Mel’s advances, Jon will come to realize through death that he should have leaned into her power. She warned him of 'daggers in the dark', but he ignored her and lost his life for it. Now, her blood magic may be the key to bringing him back, and it could be through this that Jon 'loses his soul'—just as the Night’s King did long ago—by becoming one of the undead.

But there is still a third woman who may take on the role of Jon’s 'corpse queen': Val, the wildling princess.

When they emerged north of the Wall, through a thick door made of freshly hewn green wood, the wildling princess paused for a moment to gaze out across the snow-covered field where King Stannis had won his battle. Beyond, the haunted forest waited, dark and silent. The light of the half-moon turned Val’s honey-blond hair a pale silver and left her cheeks as white as snow. She took a deep breath. “The air tastes sweet.” Jon VIII, ADWD

They look as though they belong together. Val was clad all in white; white woolen breeches tucked into high boots of bleached white leather, white bearskin cloak pinned at the shoulder with a carved weirwood face, white tunic with bone fastenings. Her breath was white as well … but her eyes were blue, her long braid the color of dark honey, her cheeks flushed red from the cold. It had been a long while since Jon Snow had seen a sight so lovely. Jon XI, ADWD

Unlike his aversion to Melisandre, Jon is drawn to Val. While Mel represents temptation toward a foreign power, Val is Jon’s anchor to the North—icy and rooted in the old magic. Interestingly, both are linked to royalty: Mel, once a slave, is seen as Stannis' true queen, while Val, a wildling, is still called a princess. In this way, both evoke the idea of the corpse queen—a woman outside Westerosi norms, yet still recognized as a queen.

Beyond his relationships with these women, Jon’s arc in Dance is a delicate balance between his duties as Lord Commander and the actions of a King in the North. By letting the wildlings south of the Wall and arranging marriage alliances, Jon blurs the lines of a neutral institution, fueling the black brothers’ dissatisfaction and leading to their mutiny. This duality within him—blurring the lines between the Watch, Winterfell, and the wildlings—parallels his growing association with the Night's King.

But unlike the Night’s King, who aligned with the Others and forsook his vows, Jon’s prophetic dream (Jon XII, ADWD) suggests he may have to become king to save the realm. This once again highlights the need for a more flexible moral code.

… and woke with a raven pecking at his chest. “Snow,” the bird cried. Jon swatted at it. The raven shrieked its displeasure and flapped up to a bedpost to glare down balefully at him through the predawn gloom. The day had come. It was the hour of the wolf. Soon enough the sun would rise, and four thousand wildlings would come pouring through the Wall. Madness. Jon Snow ran his burned hand through his hair and wondered once again what he was doing. Once the gate was opened there would be no turning back. It should have been the Old Bear to treat with Tormund. It should have been Jaremy Rykker or Qhorin Halfhand or Denys Mallister or some other seasoned man. It should have been my uncle. It was too late for such misgivings, though. Every choice had its risks, every choice its consequences. He would play the game to its conclusion. He rose and dressed in darkness, as Mormont’s raven muttered across the room. “Corn,” the bird said, and, “King,” and, “Snow, Jon Snow, Jon Snow.” That was queer. The bird had never said his full name before, as best Jon could recall. Jon XII, ADWD

Jon waking from this glimpse of destiny during the hour of the wolf speaks volumes. This period, marking the darkest part of the night before dawn, is a fitting symbol for Jon as he stands atop the Wall, battling the creatures of darkness. It also recalls Cregan Stark’s brief but pivotal tenure as Hand of the King, when he resettled the realm after a devastating war. How Jon’s own rule will unfold is uncertain—will he reign as King of Winter before stepping aside, in line with the Oak King and Holly King myth, or serve as regent to a young king, like Cregan and Ser Ryam did?

Whatever path he takes will redefine the legacy of the Night’s King. It will coincide with his role as a 'corn king'—a figure who symbolizes the cyclical turning of the seasons, from winter to spring, from death to life. Jon will be a force for good, a symbol of hope. This theme of renewal also connects him to Brandon the Builder, a figure defined by creation and the promise of new beginnings.

Jon’s journey could encompass many roles: the lone hero like Symeon Star-Eyes, the necessary but harsh leader during the Long Night like the Night’s King, or the creator of a new era like Brandon the Builder. His story will come full circle, and perhaps he will stand as the 1000th Lord Commander when it does, marking a new chapter in the legacy of the Watch—and the realm itself.

[ladythornofrivia]

Kingdom of Fire & Blood || (Part Two)—Revised

🐉 MASTERLIST 🐉

Next Chapter

summary: modern!reader survived from the attack. But the new coming threat awaits her.

pair: aemond x reader

warnings & disclaimer: smut, violence, p in v sex, sexual content, aemond being arrogant, modern reader doesn’t know how the world of GOT works but is a Aemond stan, praise kink, breeding kink, spitting kink, voice kink, fluff, angst—family drama, oral sex, hate sex, stalking, jealousy, virginity loss, size kink, obsession, reader being sassy and aroused, sweet moments with reader and Aemond. Reader is a huge GOT & HOTD fan. Pro-Green, Reader is a green supporter. Aemond becomes king instead of Aegon. (P.S. Alys who? I only know Aemond x Reader)

a/n: I’m sorry; I have to redo the chapter due to my perfectionism and complications of getting my chapter point across. I hope it's better this time. By the way, I misspelled Criston’s name so I edited on the first chapter, and my mind STILL wouldn’t stop thinking about Aemond. I hope you enjoy.

Chapter Two: The Green Star

Within their reach towards the destination in King’s Landing, under a stretched mile, moving from town to town, and markets and orphanage—after entering through Gate of the Gods—someone held you tight with one arm as he gripped the reins with the other hand. Your head bobbed and flopped from the tremendous speed from a horse. Your eyes opened to a band of armored men couldn’t find words to question or dare to challenge at someone’s actions from carrying you—a mysterious young woman—in his arms.

With your one eye open, for the last few hours, the moonlight casting its soft radiant light over the lands. Finally, underneath a cloaked hood, you spotted Criston Cole. You knew him, of course, based on how he acts in the show. Men who have seen Criston—his excellence in combat in training grounds and battlefield—never gave or reveal a soft spot for a woman. For a Knight in Westeros, the knights held the upkeep of never to lay a hand on a woman, let alone consummating a woman. Just like kings and queens, knights’ reputation must purify through oath and the civility of duty, not by the heart.

Within these governed laws must require a sheer will to not break a vow from a source of desperate love and intimacy or camaraderie of long-lasting companionship, one woman to the next. Being sent into the Wall and join the Night’s Watch is inescapable when choosing to lay or develop affections for a woman, whether the woman is married or lonesome whether being a bachelorette or widow. Or perhaps through dissent, other than committing a heinous crime. Once being sent at the Wall, the stories on what they have done in Westeros will be nothing but a fruitless conversation.

Meanwhile in Criston’s thoughts, although Criston thought you’re beautiful—even in your sleep—he does not love any woman; his unshared notions and expression to come into terms on how he adore the Targaryen princess, Rhaenyra, but all that’s forgotten when she gave birth to not one but three children and is betrothed and married to Prince Laenor Velaryon. Soon it erases the traced reminiscences of their shared times between the princess and the knight in armor, Rhaenyra, as a mother, placed her adoration for the children—and the claims to the Iron Throne—above all else.

But now he still loathes the dragon princess, buries hatred it in secrecy for Rhaenyra leaving him, and swear loyalty to Queen Alicent—as you read and watched the show.

Once the army infiltrated through the colossal gates, halfway to the Red Keep, you spotted Criston and his men trudged their way on the crowd—men, women and children were all staring at Criston Cole, but for one main reason: you—your hood came off due to the rush of wind. Although Criston carried you with ease and attentiveness, lifting you in his arms without so much of a trouble despite traveling, how his arm grew tired, not wanting to carry you anymore, but does it to maintain his clean image.

At first they made no effort to complain to Criston’s questionable nature regarding to his deeds. Bringing a young woman is unexpected.

“If you so much on planning to bring a whore into the Targaryens’s court, I do not wish but to think of the worst consequences for you and for the good of the realm. Your decision will cause a catastrophic downfall,” the man beside Criston spoke with urgency.

Criston spun his head and pierced his deadly and relaxed glare. “I’m in no position to take anyone as my bitch, ser. In fact, why don’t you do as you’re told by our queen.”

“You mean your queen,” the man seethed.

Criston ignored him, rolling his eyes.

“In fact, you can put this useless girl in the Street of Silk. She’ll be a great asset to men who needs tight cunt for a good breeding and it can swallow every seed and it can give birth to multiple bastards until she accepts her failure in death.”

Criston halted his tracks. “Then why don’t throw yourself to a woman’s cunt in the Street of Silk, Ser Marrow. I’m sure the fine ladies in King’s Landing will appreciate your service on fucking someone for having delicate desire of yours.”

This did not sit well with Ser Marrow. In fact, Ser Marrow could not register Criston’s reasoning on bringing the girl.

Knowing this won’t end well, but the girl has to be robust.

Hasten into the street of Rose Road, but then encountered traffic, to which he lead the horse to Street of Sisters, then turned right at Flea Bottom. Flea Bottom, filled with watchful eyes as Criston Cole and his men passed through.

All was quiet until you heard the words all at once:

“A whore!”

“The knight is carrying a whore!”

“Kill him!”

“To the death of the knights!”

“Fuck the Targaryens!”

People in Flea Bottom cheered as they fell from the windows of their townhomes and landed on the knights, who are all powerless when their swords were still in their sheaths; the swords are long to draw out for retaliation.

Criston, as brutal as he is, stabbed and slashed with his jagged sword, as people roared with rage and clawed the stallions skin. By their mistake, the horses punted and jabbed and ran, stomping over people’s bodies, and reached to the Street of Looms by the west side of the road.

Criston errored. When he glanced behind him, the people who are left alive still hunted them down, but his comrades slashed their way through for a clear promenade.

Night is throng with potential threats and sacrifice.

“For fuck's sake," he hissed. "We must reach to the Red Keep! Warn the others!” Criston shouted. “We must protect the Targaryen line!”

Suddenly the man’s speed had caught up with Criston and yanked you by the cloak and dragged you below, but Criston pierced his bloody sword on a man’s throat and retrieved you back in one swoop as his steed and his company ushered in the entrance gates of Red Keep.

By the time the gates are shut tight, you have woken up, but immobile and drowsy.

“Where…” your voice croaked. “Where am I?”

“You’re safe, my lady,” a voice said, looking up, you spotted none other than Criston Cole, a character you recognized in the House of the Dragon.

Screaming, you nearly throw yourself off the horse, but Criston held you. Though the men behind you gave an impression of unused to seeing your antics.

“At ease, my lady. You’re safe,” he said with a tight smile.

You cringed at his pretentious charm.

Did I potentially became an actress without giving an audition and be on a set of House of the Dragon?

But then recalling Ser Remon Blackwood’s words and call upon a realization. Westeros is real.

“Sorry, you just have me startled,” you said, deadpan. But you felt a tremendous wave of affliction after facing three men who tried to ambush you.

“It’s quite alright,” he said, still wearing a tight-lipped smile. Dismounted from his horse, he helped you down and ambled towards the stoned bridge. “Stay behind my men; they’ll protect you.”

Out of nowhere, Prince Daemon comes to into a scene.

“You’re late, Ser Criston,” he said with a sardonic grin.

Excited as you’re now, Prince Daemon wasn’t really your favorite member of House Targaryen.

“Apologies, my prince. I never knew you’re concerned of my punctuality, you’re merely acting as a dutiful handmaiden,” Criston remarked smoothly.

Asshat, as always.

Prince Daemon scowled. “Alicent needs you at this moment. I’m here to see my brother, not as a messenger. That damnable green star has caused ruckus to Caraxes and I.”

Criston’s jaw shifted from gritting his teeth. “I’m her guard not her hound.”

Prince Daemon rolled his eyes, and marched upon the gates leading to the Red Keep.

You’re certain that your wounds won’t fall into another failure as you watched Criston speaking to Daemon. One man leaned over against your ear. “One wrong move and you’re good as dead,” he warned.

Giving him a cold shoulder, you gazed upon the view of the dark ocean and crystal, ink sky. From gazing at far away town, it was magnificent, but upon a closer view, you knew how the underbelly of King’s Landing is.

Then looking upon the Red Keep, you were still in awe of the structure, vibrancy with crimson and ivory. But before you admire other parts of the Red Keep, two of the men blindfolded you—one wrapped the fabric on your eyes, the other on your wrists, then tackled you down while the others ignored your voice.

“One more sound and I’ll slit your throat,” he said.

Hiding behind them, even with a dark vision, you’re carefully planning out on your exit avoid of gaining infliction.

With a strike of punch, there’s not much you could do but felt trapped into a situation you can’t escape in.

The noise ensued.

The swords had drawn in.

Overhearing Prince Daemon is being ambushed by a band of thieves and killers who clambered out from under the bridge in the usage of strong rope and hooks secured and pierced the stone. Hoisting themselves in the air as they drew their blades out, attacking the rogue prince.

Grunt by grunt, Prince Daemon sliced and slashed through ragged clothe.

Though two of the men dead, except the bulky man with a great sword, twice as thick and honed. When he lifted the sword, you blocked the attack with a dagger in one hand while your eyes are blindfolded. With your rage, the green spark eroded, and snapped the sword in half, your blindfold tore in half, leading you doing a spin kick across the man’s cheek, sent him flying around seven feet away. Criston, Daemon and the army watched in awe. The dagger shattered; picking up the dead man’s sword, tying the sheath's belt around your waist, you clutched the blade and fought your way near the entrance. Although you retaliate, you earned wounds gashed on your exposed flesh.

When Jacaerys and Helaena appeared outside the palace due to curiosity, they spotted you fighting the band of killers with one slice and left them dead, blood sprayed everywhere, and tainted your peculiar clothe, fighting together with Prince Daemon.

Jacaerys—Jace—drew his blade out, but Helaena held him back, but Jace stubbornly charged in. Prince Daemon spotted them a mile away and towards the man who attempts to aim Jace’s head maimed through a roundish belly and fell down, the man’s body split into two. You managed to seize Jace and dodged the attack—blocking the blade from the killer before managed to have the upper hand; piercing through the heart, returning Jace back to Helaena’s side in one piece. “Get back inside! I’ll take it from here,” you said before charging back into the battlefield on the bridge.

The sentinels and men from the City Watch fought with their battle cry, attracting the attention from commoners at the streets behind them, flooding in, scattered at every corner.

Unbeknownst to you, Prince Daemon wondered who you were, or where you came from or why you came with Ser Criston. But you skills in battlefield, hasn’t seen anything extraordinary. He parried and lanced through the enemy’s chest. Behind Daemon, the killer held a brick and held above his head, but your split his head into two.

Prince Daemon’s peered at you as you smiled at him shortly before the men were charging towards the heirs. You skewered and slashed their legs in half; the earning of the intruders’ agony was worth it.

Until the man, thrown Helaena off the bridge, her shrilled screams filled the night’s air, but Helaena seized the rope, holding onto her dear life. When the man undo the hook, you knocked him out with a kick on his balls, resulting of him falling back with howling cry.

“Give me your hand,” you said to Helaena, your other hand outstretched to hers.

“Jace!” she bellowed, as the rope wobbled.

Behind you, Jace killed another man, who was trying to push you off the bridge.

“Help me pull the rope,” you said to Jace. Within an instant, you and Jace worked together and lifted Helaena off from the brink of death.

With the battle nearly over, you reached for Helaena’s hand and lead her back, safe and sound onto the bridge and fled with them into the gates.

Prince Daemon and Criston reached alongside.

“Close the gates!” Criston commanded. “Close the gates!”

“You’re safe,” you told them.

“I can’t thank you enough,” Jace said, putting a smile on his face.

Facing Helaena, you asked, “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” Helaena nearly sobbed. “Thank you.”

“See, everything’s alright.” You grinned widely.

Then a hot stab seared into your lower belly and collapsed; your body violently shaken, suffocating.

“Take the girl to the Maester,” Prince Daemon said, cut the traitor’s throat. “I’ll head back to the bridge with Caraxes.”

Screams echoed outside the gates, garnering everyone’s attention, but others fled into the Red Keep.

Your eyes gazed upon Jace and Helaena watched you in horror as Criston elevated in your arms, sprinting down in the castle, then through the secret passages, his mind motioning the idea of who could escort you faster to the Maester to dispose the poison; Criston rarely attends the healer’s room; Criston is an undefeated warrior with no battle scars.

With the last of your awake, you watched Criston entered the secret passage, and while crossing from a secluded hall, from there, he spotted the one-eyed prince, who returned from his training, softened at the sight of you, vulnerable in Criston’s arms, as you collapsed, eyes halfway lulled in oblivion. “She has been wounded,��� you overheard Criston said.

Sheathing his sword, Aemond took an examine of you, as you examined him, listening in while dazed.

Tall and handsome, graced with fair hair and delicate yet strong features.

“What happened?” Aemond approached you.

Criston trudged passed Aemond and turned the corner into another hall. “The people from the Flea Bottom saw her, and wants me dead,” he said rather composedly.

“What you’re doing is treason,” Aemond reminded.

“Consequences be damned, my prince. But I found her alive in the forest.”

Aemond’s brow quirked. “How?”

“The men in armor are dead; all have been stabbed, and their cocks have been…cleaved,” Criston whispered at the last part.

Aemond’s eye widened.

“She saved Princess Helaena from falling of the high bridge, and protected Prince Daemon himself.”

Aemond’s hardened expression softened.

“Ask her once she’s awake,” Criston suggested.

Aemond suddenly swept you into his arms. “Go and ward off the people from Flea Bottom. Otherwise my mother will question your knighthood and send you to the Wall.”

Criston is relieved when you’re not in his arms anymore and fled back.

In these last awakened moments, your eyes saw but a glimpse of long, silver-gold hair glowing like halo, and a soft glow of his blue eye gaping into yours.

“Well done, my fair lady,” Aemond’s voice crooned. "You fought bravely."

Before you faded into your subconscious state.

~Aemond’s POV~

After positioned you onto the surgical table, he faced the Maester, who was bewildered at the dragon prince with a fallen maiden in his arms.

“You mustn’t tell no one of this,” Aemond said. “Heal her, and I’ll reward you well.”

Soon, he heard the footsteps, and sprinted outside the Maester’s room and hid among the shadows—after unlocking the secret wall and spied on Rhaenyra, and his mother, Alicent, who accompanied Rhaenyra the Maester’s room.

“Your Grace, Lady Rhaenyra,” the Maester bowed after prepping the medicine on his tiny desk beside the surgical table, where you lay.

“The men outside the Red Keep were severely injured,” Lady Rhaenyra said. “And the people from Flea Bottom arrived here without a warning, flooding through the gates; the guards were gravely injured from defense by the time we arrived.”

Queen Alicent, on the other hand, was surveying the maester with tensed posture.

“I cannot spare this room for the men,” the Maester said. “I shall send more healers for the guards. There’s another room for them to repose.”

Rhaenyra stood with neutral expression, still obtain a regal posture. “Good.”

Queen Alicent intruded with, “What of those from the Flea Bottom?”

“Syrax escorted them out,” Rhaenyra vexed. “I never would’ve expect that the plans to visit my father would come to terms of bloodshed.”

Queen Alicent chimed in with, “It is already been taken care of. However the penalties must continue; the people from Flea Bottom are beastly as they come, and should pay for its crimes from infiltrating the Red Keep.”

Rhaenyra darted her hues on Alicent. “The Commander of City Watch has been injured. That is why I came here on his behalf.”

“I’m sorry, my lady,” the Maester said. “I happen to be in a delicate procedure.”

Rhaenyra’s brows furrowed. “What might I ask what the cause of your refuse my request?”

The Maester turned around. Alicent and Rhaenyra pivoted their gaze to a lying figure on the table.

While laying still, you were mumbling incoherently, sighing.

“The poison has taken a great effect on her,” he said.

“Who brought her here?” Rhaenyra asked.

“Ser Criston, my lady,” the Maester said, but Queen Alicent knows that the tongue of a liar has shown nothing but hesitation; the grey eyes of an old maester averted. Alicent has known her subjects well for as long as she could remember; resided in King’s Landing for more than six years.

“What a strange attire she was wearing,” Rhaenyra commented, approaching your sleeping body, caressing the side of your face. “Beautiful girl, but, strange choice of appearance. Her gown is too short.” Then she took notice on your right thigh inked with a large and fiery outline of a red dragon stretched across the thigh, and on the arms until the knuckles of your delicate hands. “I’ve never seen anyone with strange markings,” she said, fascinated.

The maester gulped. “She fought valiantly outside the Red Keep, princess. She not only protected Prince Daemon, but rescued your son, Jacaerys, as well.” He then looked at Alicent with pride. “She also saved Princess Helaena from falling off to a drowning river beneath the bridge and consulted from this young girl before traitor stabbed her, contaminated with poison.”

Both Alicent and Rhaenyra are in deep bewilderment of the revelation regarding to your deeds.

“Impossible,” Rhaenyra said, paled.

“Are you certain?” Alicent chimed in.

“Yes, Your Grace,” he said. “Thank the gods your heirs has been graced by the valiant savior.”

Queen Alicent approached you, though rather carefully, studying your face.

“So young and vulnerable,” she whispered. “She shouldn’t die in vain. Not when she saved our children,” she said to Rhaenyra with watery eyes.

“She secured the successors to the Iron Throne and Driftmark,” Rhaenyra added.

Alicent could only stare at your visage. “We shall bless her with our gratitude.”

“We shall await for her recovery, and ask her questions, regarding to the green star,” Rhaenyra determined. “Until then, she must rest upon the hands between the Gods and you, Maester. Keep her alive and guarded from The Stranger.”

The Maester bowed. “As you wish, Lady Rhaenyra.”

As soon as Rhaenyra left, Alicent moved closer to the maester. “You have served as a Maester for many years of your excellent service. You may be truthful to your skills, but your eyes offered a lie. Tell me, who summoned her here?”

The Maester is unable to dart his eyes at her. “Your Grace,” is all he uttered.

“I can assure you that you won’t be punished; I shall spare you from the slice on your tongue,” she guaranteed, rather kindly. “Pray tell, who gave you the order? Who brought her here?”

After a minute of glancing at your sleeping form, he then veered at Alicent, and leaned against her ear. “Prince Aemond, Your Grace. He requested for me to treat her wounds and aid her through salvation, and handed her over to me—carried her from the entrance of the Red Keep.”

Alicent was awestruck once more with another revelation.

“I do not believe he sees her as Helaena’s rescuer to offer his gratitude,” she mumbled. “Rather more than what it lies beyond the prince’s decision.”

In the heart of a dragon prince’s mother, Aemond perceived the nature of your goodly heart. In the heart of a dragon prince still remains unknown. Rather what Queen Alicent seems to believe in.

Then the sincere smile fell onto her face.

~Your POV~

Your eyes have opened. Not in the apartment you lived in, but rather in the hands of a man who was drawing out the equipment to settle the resolute force on the poison that is bestowed on you.

In the maester’s room, there you were, your immovable body splayed at the rocked surface of the surgical table, weakened arms and hands clinging onto dear life. You wouldn’t hold still, not when the maester held the tools with honed end lancing on the poisoned area by your lower stomach.

“No, don’t touch me,” your groaned with plea, tears on the corner of your swell.

The old maester did his bidding, and gazed upon your agony with his melancholic eyes upon your fettle. For a short moment, you were sure that you’re going to die soon. With all that it’s left in your body is shattered and bleeding with venom, leak altogether against your raw and vulnerable flesh.

“It’s alright, my lady, you’re safe,” the maester said with a sad, polite smile.

“Don’t hurt me,” you pleaded, tears prickling.

“It’s alright,” the maester repeated, his gentle voice gradually turned to a firmed tone, petrified of severing you through medicine.

The heavy oak door opened, unveiling the dark silhouette. Though your vision remains unclear, it is obvious who entered the healing room.

A young woman with elongated copper-brown curls reached on her chest, with brown eyes and elegance of her dark green dress was flowing across the floor as she ambled, encountering the maester as you listened in.

“How is the girl?” she asked, rather in a motherly voice.

“I was eliminating the disinfection of the poison, Your Grace. The girl’s stature could not survive long in this dreaded indisposition. She won’t last. Her bones have been fractured and her flesh is newly bled.”

“Have you used the Milk of the Poppy,” the queen asked, hoping. Her hands folded together with anxiousness.

“She took the last of it, Your Grace,” he said with a scowl on his face. “The lack of substance is insufficient—only a quarter of the liquid left; her mind is as resilient as a bull’s head, still awake and eccentrically movable.” He wiped the bleeding knife, sighing. “Mumbling and groaning in her unconscious state. Gods be good.”

“What of her wounds? The markings? Will she ever move again?” Queen Alicent noted your deep scars forged on your smooth, delicate skin, her hand smoothed against your tousled, stiffed locks across your softened look on your face, sleeping.

“The girl requires the milk of the poppy. Should the girl move while under the stead of my delicate care on discarding the poison within her body, her death will be as slow and merciless,” he reminded the queen. “It cannot be undone—The Stranger won’t spare a second chance for anyone. In additional process of cleansing and stitching on her fresh wounds needed delicacy, requires of greater assistance.”

Queen Alicent comprehended. “Go see if there’s anymore milk of the poppy. Bring the other healers to aid the maester,” she eyed and told the servant.

“Yes, Your Grace.” The girl bowed and quitted, skittered through the door.

Queen Alicent ambled and sat beside your restful sleep, whilst you’re unaware of her presence, watching you laboring your staggered breath in the humid air, smothered in heated sweat. Queen Alicent bestowed her concern on your poor health that’s closely endangered, to be sent to the God of Death—The Stranger, one of the many Gods in Westeros. Regardless, Queen Alicent’s main concern is your well-being.

“The effect won’t last long,” he reminded the queen. “There so little of the substance.”

Queen Alicent swept your hair longer. “Do what you must, Maester.”

For she and the others have something else in store for you once you gained consciousness and well accord.

As of now, you must battle your life between the air of life and death.

Piercing cries reached into the barricaded doors in the Red Keep. For those who walked pass by near the halls and down on the staircases leading to the lower grounds, would surely be terrorized by the sounds of your screams that is twice as loud. They were certain it was a dying sound of a dragon, but they were undeniably mistaken.

Luckily, the doors were sealed. No one was awake at the sound of your voice.

“Keep her still,” the maester instructed.

The godswives pinned you down from failing on the table each time you shifted. On a pair of limped legs, your one leg slithered downward across the table, and one of your fractured bones punctured with twinge of pain, searingly poking and a sensation of splinting.

You could no longer withstand the pain, not with the surgical instrument lancing through your bleeding skin. The wounds on your flesh stopped the blood from flowing. Albeit the process was painstakingly slow. The poison was heating up from your stomach and down on your hip.

And the conflict you upheld will unleash. One kick sent the godswife fell on the floor before she had seized your lower calf.

The door boomed, unveiling the healer delivering the milk of the poppy to the Maester. And Queen Alicent entered the room, which the Maester is unexpected with her reoccurring attendance.

The maester was undermined in the position of stress, hoping for other solution, but gained no new ideas to soothe you. Therefore, Queen Alicent went over to your side, ordering the godswife to loosen their grip.

“Listen to my voice,” Alicent murmured.

Little by little, you listened, but your breathing rasp with dejection.

“Don’t fight it, sweet girl,” she said gently, holding the cup filled with milk of the poppy. “This will do you good.”

Struggling to free from their grasp, you gazed at woman in green gown with trepidation.

“I don’t want to die,” you whispered with your ongoing struggle. “I have so much to live for.”

“You won’t be,” she reassured you, settling the cup into your parched lips, and you consumed the liquid and let your head fell down again. “Be brave,” she said. But this time, your struggle has dimmed, as did your eyes blurred harsher, unable to see the silhouettes of her, the maester and the knight. With your limbs sank, your breathing went from rush to steady flow. Your eyelids lulled into sleep.

~Aemond’s POV~

The repair of your wounds has gone successfully. Though rather took quite long, it has gone in favor. Rather, in Prince Aemond’s favor.

Aemond awaited in the dark of the great hall, eavesdropping his mother’s voice, and eyeing on you. As soon as she and Ser Criston left, Aemond met up with the Maester in silent haste.

“Have you told anyone of my whereabouts?”

“No, Your Highness.”

He knew that the Maester told Alicent; spying from one of the secret passage.

His eye flickered over the Maester’s shoulder. “How is she?”

“She’s in good health. She has defeated The Stranger.”

Aemond gave a small smirk. “You did well, Maester. At least I don’t have to kill those who harm the young woman.”

“It would be unwise to pose a threat for the Greens, my prince.”

Aemond had his hand behind his back. “I couldn’t care less of what the common people think of my duty.”

“That you do, my prince.”

Aemond gave the Maester small pouch with five coins for keeping his word, and make his way to your repose body, wearing the strange attire, which it struck an intriguing notion to him. Aside from your appearance, what caught his sight more is your visage and your long locks splayed across the table you laid on, Aemond pressed his fingers and traced the soft line of your face, the smoothness of your face.

Candle light flickered, it casted soft glow onto your features. Lifting your shirt, it revealed the greenish color of the poison faded as for the fresh wounds has been stitched.

Aemond’s hand ached to linger his touch on your flesh. Without so much doubting, his fingers traced over the lines of your waist. Hearing you moan, Aemond’s lips curled upward.

“I shall be taking my leave. Tell the servant to bring a spare attire for her,” he told the Maester, lifting you up in his arms and left the room, walking to a staircase and settled you down to one of the spare rooms. If his family rejected his idea of you staying, he’d rather annihilate King’s Landing than to put you into one of the servant quarters. He found a perfect spot for you to lay rest.

Resting you down on a bed with washed sheets, he dragged a spare chair and sat beside you. Aemond couldn’t restraint his smile at your sleeping figure. Despite it all, he was thankful.

He should have been sleeping in his own chambers, but curiosity lead him awake.

The servant entered with a nightgown and handed it over to the dragon prince. Shivering from the cold, Aemond discerned of your body devoid of blanket.

“She’s cold,” Aemond told the servant. “Fetch her warm blanket.”

As the servant dismissed herself, obliging.

Aemond, without a shred of single doubt, is intrigued with you. While the servant is gone, he resumed tracing his hands and fingertips onto your body.

Moaning, your body shifted on the side, which caused him to chuckle and reverted you back to the former position. A soft hum rumbled into his throat, studying you further, his hand hand splayed over the lines of your exposed thigh, slithered back up to your waistline, cupping your breast while the undergarment is intact. Seeing your chest heaving, it coaxed him to further his touch, smoothing again with your waistline, then up onto the back of your neck, smoothing your cheek with his thumb as he smiled adoringly.

He placed his hand afar when servant returned with a wooly sheet and placed it over onto the foot of the bed.

Aemond then stopped the servant; the girl’s eyes gleamed with fright. “Don’t let her wander out from her chambers; she needs few days of rest. It’d be unwise if she puts herself into harm’s way again. She can stroll through the gardens and the training yard as long as she watched afar.”

The servant could only nod then departed to rest in her own quarters.

Alone again, Aemond unfolded the sleeping wear and had you sat up, your long locks veiled most of your naked figure, though choked when he spotted red outlined marks on your arms. With precision, Aemond had your strange attire remove and exchange with new ones. Laying you down, he undo your tennis skirt and pulled downward, he spotted the red dragon on your whole leg and a pair of thin and pink material clad your womanhood.

Licking his lips, he smoothed the linen of your nightgown, shielding your legs and awaited for the maid to return.

When the maid has been summoned upon the demands of a prince, Aemond handed your attire over to a trembled servant, requesting for a good wash.

“I trust you tended to her needs whenever she desires and not utter a word to my family regarding to my requests or my doings,” he stated.

“No, my prince,” she said.

“Should you utter, I’ll feed your corpse to Vhagar,” he growled.

Aemond could only gaze upon her meek stance and parted away into the room anew and stayed, eyeing you. Shifting onto your bed, particularly your legs from sliding down with a soft stretch, Aemond couldn’t keep his hands apart. His mind plagued with other ideas. But held them off and left your chambers after looking at you one last time.

~your dream~

The sudden chill on your body has left with warmth and comforted with safety, not with the sheets of think blanket, but rather in the arms of a strong man. In the void of your dreams, you spotted long locks of silver-gold shining like golden halo as the blue eye behold with a sapphire stone on the other eye.

“My beloved star,” his voice echoed.

~Your POV~

Your drowsy body lurched, resulting your stomach and stitches twinged in exasperating pain, hissing.

“My lady, you should be careful with your wounds,” the servant girl said.

Hand over your head, your tousled hair tainted the pillows you slept on with black sand sticking onto your head.

“Oh, I stained the pillow,” you said. “I’m so sorry, I’ll wash it.”

Before you had a chance of disarding the pillow case, the servant girl halted you. “I shall take of it, my lady.”

Remembering where you’re at, you surrendered; the wounds you endured is another battle.

The servant carried the bowl with porridge, lifting the spoon and approached close to your mouth, you said, “I never like porridge.”

Shocked, the servant insisted with, “You must, it’s good for the wound.”

“As much I would like to, I’d rather eat something else, if you don’t mind,” you insisted.

She settled the bowl down. “What do you wish to have at this moment, my lady?”

“Ham, bread and cheese,” you requested. “A hot cup of tea. If it’s required for me to eat porridge, then I’ll do it.”

The servant rose onto her feet with a smile. “I’ll fetch your food right away, my lady.”

“Thank you,” you said.

“Anything else, my lady?” she anticipated.

“A bath,” you said, cheeks flushed as your head lowered, hidden in shame.

The servant bowed and calmly shut the door.

Your head plopped back down on the tainted pillows, not for long. The morning weather has simmered with sunlight. Abiding for your meal, you lounged, idling and contemplating.

From a modern world, jumping back to centuries past is one thing, but in a fictional world is another. In order to see another day, you must play the game.

You’re startled at the sound of a knock from the door in your contemplation. It was rather quick.

The servant returned, gladly served the meal on the round table and quitted the chambers, as you consumed every single piece of the breakfast portion. Once you’re finished, you propped the tray on the desk, and as you grabbed a cup of tea, the parchment fell down onto your lap.

Breaking the seal, the parchment wrote in few words.

Beauty is not when a soul finds when awake, rather in sleep.

Your heart raced, though slowed when it has no name—not knowing what the letter meant.

But for some reason, you feel as if you’re being watched.

In solace, your servant returned with new dress and shoes for you, and prepared a steaming bath on the room next door with smoke materializing.

“The bath is ready,” she notified.

Undo your nightgown and undergarments, you hopped into the bathtub, soaked with bubbles and rose scented bar soap with a new bottle contained in liquid substance like jelly—the Maester created hair cleanser for hair like yours—muddy and greasy. And so, while the servant assisted you, scrubbing your hair, you lathered yourself with bar soap, washing off the black sands from Blackwater Bay at the Dragonstone. By the time you’re done rinsing and drying yourself, she wore the dress over your head. While you’re combing your hair, she tied the corset around you and then gestured your feet to insert into the shoes. Last but certainly not least, she clasped the golden necklace on you at the vanity mirror.

For a moment, the self-conscious in you dwindled, for you have seen yourself in a mirror, filled with new life striving.

Another knock came in. You answered, revealing the Maester with medicinal items in hand and greeted you “Good morrow.” After a short exchange of words, you let him in, and allowed him to inspect your wounds and delivered you the milk of the poppy, then made a further inspection of your new wounds and the poison in your belly. In the end, the maester is relieved.

Another knock came in for the third time. Revealed Ser Criston Cole swung the chamber door open, following Queen Alicent. The servant already left once she gathered the soiled sheets before the arrival of the maester and the Greens.

“Your Grace,” the Maester bowed, though you didn’t have time to curtsy because the characters you’ve seen on the show are brought to life.

Overwhelmed, you curtsied though as if you’re suffocating with elation.

Queen Alicent gazed at you before the Maester.

“How is she fairing, Maester?”

“The wounds on her flesh are still new. But with her withstand to harm is astounding; and yet she’s able to move with agility and ease.”

Queen Alicent darted her eyes on you, from head to your shoes. “How are you fairing, sweet girl?”

Your mouth opened, stuttered. “I’m doing perfectly okay, Your Grace.”

Alicent grinned. “Wonderful. I hope King’s Landing doesn’t settle disagreement in your heart,” she said.

“No,” you replied, shaking your head. “I’m not offended. Not in the least.”

Queen Alicent examined you. With your cleansed appearance, she finds herself genuinely smiling again.

“What is your name, sweet girl?”

“Name’s (y/n), Your Grace,” you said in a somber smile, drowsy during the massive effect of Milk of the Poppy.

Alicent seems pleased with your introduction. “A pleasure. Rhaenyra’s right. You are beautiful.” Then her face turned grave. “As much as we idle our conversation, you must be prepared with your answers with the Blacks. You protected their heir, just as you rescued my daughter, what’s more is your capabilities, so brace yourself. I shall be heading to the council with the others. Ser Marrow will escort you to the council room once you’re done meeting with the Maester.”

You nodded. “Alright.”

“I shall see you there.” Queen Alicent left without a word as Ser Criston followed.

After done conversing with the Maester, you thanked him as he left your quarters.

Dabbing your lips with lipstick, you ushered yourself to meet Ser Marrow. But instead of a greeting, he struck a blow on your belly and the side of your cheekbone with his gauntlet not once but seven times, bruising your lips and nose, and blindfolded you with a golden fabric.

“You should’ve stayed dead, you whore,” he said, then dragged you down at the council.

~Aemond's POV~

It was a clear message when Alicent told Aemond that she had an important council meeting up the high floor. Meaning, no heir is allowed to enter unless the heir becomes King or Queen. Disregarding of his mother's words, Aemond found his way through the secret passage again, peering through the carved hole, as he flicked his gaze, spotting Alicent and Criston, chatting, while the rest were still on a most gossiped subject that lasted in recent days--the green star.

"Looking for someone," a voice said.

Aemond looked over to his brother, Aegon, who was drinking red wine in a heavy goblet.

"You shouldn't be here, brother," he said.

"Neither should you," Aegon said. "Besides, you didn't answer my question."

Aemond ignored him and listened to Alicent's conversation.

“Where could she have gone? Did the guard lead her onto the wrong room?” Alicent agitated.

“She’ll be here soon,” Ser Criston assured her, watching the Blacks interacting.

Their talk has cut through the air when the double doors boomed, startling the Blacks and Green; with you in his hand, keeping you standing, bleeding as your dress tattered, and your nostrils bloodied, eyes shielded with blindfold, and your hands tied on the back.

“Here’s the whore you wanted,” Ser Marrow seethed to the Greens, casted you down with splat.

Your head raised and studied the environment—the council room. But you took noticed of the Blacks and Greens’s faces, are all unexpectedly mortified of your bruised appearance and the guard’s sudden outburst.

In the land of Westeros, a girl from a modern century has entered into the House of the Dragons.

@ aemondswifffeeeyyy - all rights reserved

Taglist: @galactict3a @daonenonlysandman @toodlesxcuddles @hufflepuff1700 @colored-tr-panels @valeskafics

[bestygogirl]

BEST YGO GIRL: FINAL ROUND

please use this as an opportunity to say why you like a character, not why you don't.

Propaganda under the cut!

Isis Ishtar

gorgeous, very caring sister, strong duelist, and the only woman to ever make Seto Kaiba squirm

anyways. not only as mentioned above is she the first woman to make kaiba squirm, but she was by all means going to beat him if not for the millennium rod's millennium interference. yami marik admits that she's a strong duelist with a strategy that's been working for literal years-- and given that she's not like, a professional duelist, thats pretty impressive

she also recently got some really cool meta bumps and let me point out that an "ishizu deck" now includes obelisk the tormentor-- which we knew she had prior to giving it to kaiba, but i think it only solidifies my opinion that she very much could wield an Egyptian God Card, an exclusive little club for top tier duelists

as a character she presents herself with an amazing amount of poise and grace, shes compassionate and kind and stays with mai and serenity even though she only just met them. shes struggling through living the past 5 years of her life drowning in guilt for her family's tragedy just because she wanted to make her little brother happy and shadi is a fucking liar. shes foretold her own death and marches towards it grimly but with so much love in her heart. and even then shes 20 years old and holds an important position in the egyptian government that typically requires a doctorate degree AND has been dealing with mariks off-and-on bullshit entirely by her lonesome. she also likes to flex her fortunetelling a little which is awesome i think she should do that more that scene where she tells the guy exactly how the stele is being transported was so everything

speaking of shes got such an attitude. "is it your destiny to waste my time?" iconic. never seen before will never be seen again. watch the duel between her va and joeys its so fucking funny

shes excult. shes doesnt flinch in the face of god nor death. seto kaiba and yami marik respect her. shes so sad and so sweet and battle city couldnt have happened without her.

also her parallels with kaiba are what motivate kaiba to give yugi the card he needed to beat marik.

kaiba, in duelist kingdom, was ready to jump off a ledge if yugi didnt let him through to face pegasus while trying to save mokuba out of sheer desperation to save his little brother. he KNOWS what that dedication feels like and the iron kind of will you need to have to make that kind of gamble. isis is being so fucking legit with what shes saying and he respects that and her judgement enough to change his mind and not only watch the duel, but give yugi a card that eventually helps him win, even if he has no real confidence in the odds. but theres a CHANCE, which is the same thing he taught her when he beat her in a duel. the layers its her faith that moves him to act. which is so crazy

anyway vote isis shes my best friend forever and a real rep for all the 20 year olds who honest to god did not sign up for this bullshit

Yuzu Hiragi

The entire show would not work if the cast wasn't obsessed with her, and they're all right to stan her, literally gets Sora and Serena to defect from Academia with her sheer charisma, beat Masumi at their gay little rivalry, Yugo spends a few days with her and is ready to die for her, Yuya is simply just the loudest about adoring her And why not? She is so clever and determined, doing the most work out of anyone to figure out the myth plot. Actively trains to keep up with the rest of cast. Even when the universe is conspiring against her and trying to keep her down, she fucking headbutts Roger and tells him off or manifests to help save the world in the ultimate girlboss team-up that was the Arc V finale. Truly any dimension without her is worth upending.

The mysterious magical bracelet that isekai's her to different worlds, the Can-Do attitude, the cool poses (fusion summoning), the ADORABLE character design, AND she was 1/4 of a world-saving hero in the past?? If it weren't for the meddling writers, she would have been the main character

yuzu is everything. literally the plot of arc v hinges on the fact everyone who meets her become just as obsessed with her. and they are totally right to do so

[dmitriene]

— midnight nocturnes.

 ᠌ ᠌ ᠌᠌ ᠌ ᠌ ᠌ ᠌ ᠌  ᠌ ᠌ ᠌᠌ ᠌ ᠌ ᠌ ᠌ ᠌  ᠌ ᠌ ᠌᠌ ᠌ ᠌ ᠌ ᠌ ᠌  ᠌ ᠌ ᠌᠌ ᠌ ᠌ ᠌ ᠌ ᠌  ᠌ ᠌ ᠌᠌ ᠌ ᠌ ᠌ ᠌ ᠌᠌ ᠌«mm, she the devil»

 ᠌ ᠌ ᠌᠌ ᠌ ᠌ ᠌ ᠌ ᠌  ᠌ ᠌ ᠌᠌ ᠌ ᠌ ᠌ ᠌ ᠌  ᠌ ᠌ ᠌᠌ ᠌ ᠌ ᠌ ᠌ ᠌  ᠌ ᠌ ᠌᠌ ᠌ ᠌ ᠌ ᠌ ᠌ ᠌ ᠌᠌ ᠌ ᠌«she a bad lil' bitch, she a rebel»

 ᠌ ᠌ ᠌᠌ ᠌ ᠌ ᠌ ᠌ ᠌  ᠌ ᠌ ᠌᠌ ᠌ ᠌ ᠌ ᠌ ᠌  ᠌ ᠌ ᠌᠌ ᠌ ᠌ ᠌ ᠌ ᠌  ᠌ ᠌ ᠌᠌ ᠌ ᠌ ᠌ ᠌  ᠌ ᠌ ᠌᠌ ᠌᠌ «she put her foot to the pedal»

 ᠌ ᠌ ᠌᠌ ᠌ ᠌ ᠌ ᠌ ᠌  ᠌ ᠌ ᠌᠌ ᠌ ᠌ ᠌ ᠌ ᠌  ᠌ ᠌ ᠌᠌ ᠌ ᠌ ᠌ ᠌ ᠌  ᠌ ᠌ ᠌᠌ ᠌ ᠌᠌ ᠌ ᠌ ᠌«it'll take a whole lot for me to settle»

summary: succubi need to feed on human emotions and desires, causing people to dream, but you absolutely did not expect to meet that night a man that will turn all your expectations upside down. content: carlos oliveira x succubi! fem reader tags: fluff, comfort, flirting, smut, nsfw, slightly mean carlos, a little bit of chocking, unprotected p in v, receiving fingering, marking. author's note: thank's to doja cat song that inspired me to do this short piece of smut, hope you'll like it, although it doesn't have big plot! enjoy your reading) 🌙 (18+ warning)

The night hung in anticipation, the air smelled of dreams and possibilities, the sky was tinted indigo, dotted with countless stars that twinkled like distant beacons, the moon, a pale glowing ball, cast its silvery light on the world below, illuminating the secrets of the city and hidden corners. the human kingdom.

For you, this night was unlike any other you have experienced, as succubi, you were accustomed to the unearthly beauty of your realm, and the sights and sounds of the earth were both enchanting and unfamiliar, the soft rustle of leaves in the wind, the distant hum of city life and the occasional echo laughter were new sensations that awakened her senses.

Your heart fluttered with excitement and awe when you embarked on your first mission in the mortal realm, this was your chance to explore human dreams, influence thoughts and emotions in a way you've never done before, this was an opportunity that filled you with a dizzying feeling of goals and adventures.

When you crossed the threshold between worlds, your surroundings changed, you found yourself in the cozy confines of a dimly lit apartment, where shadows played along the walls like dancers, the room exuded an atmosphere of comfort, a space where dreams were woven and secrets were whispered.

Standing in the midst of this alien environment, your heart pounding, you were about to enter the innermost realm of human existence — the realm of dreams, the excitement inside you was like a symphony of butterflies fluttering in your stomach, a feeling that you had never experienced before, the very thought of to look into the recesses of the mortal mind, filled with a burst of vivacity.

When you approached the sleeping Carlos Oliveira, the man whose dreams you were to penetrate and who lay in the center of the room under the soft cascade of moonlight, your excitement intensified, your steps were not decisive and your gaze was fixed on his calm face.

The vulnerability of his sleep, the way his chest rose and fell with every breath, touched to the core your, roughly speaking, existing soul, it was a realm of humanity that you never truly understood, a vulnerability that you never experienced on your own.

Your anticipation grew as you prepared to cast the spell, your fingers drew intricate patterns in the air, your heart pounded as you reached out, the barriers between dreams and reality thinned at the touch, the air seemed to fill with a newfound energy, a connection to the human world that electric shocks ran down your spine.

However, just as you were about to cast the spell, Carlos's eyes widened.

Struck by his sudden awakening, you watched in fascination as his gaze settled on you, the moonlight caught the gleam of your shimmering wings and the curve of your horns, for the first time in centuries you felt vulnerable, as if your very essence was naked before this mortal man, but in the eyes It wasn't fear that glowed in Carlos, it was curiosity tinged with a spark of desire.

Carlos's lips curved into a playful smirk as he sat up, his fingers tenderly squeezing your rounded hips, his touch piercing you with a strange and forgotten warmth, a sensation you've never felt before.

— «Well, that's a pleasant surprise» he noticed, there was amusement in his voice.

Your heart was pounding as you studied the man in front of you, mischief flickering in his dark eyes, and his fingers lightly like a feather traced the contours of your horns, the way he looked at you, not with fear, but with surprise, was completely unexpected, his acceptance of your otherworldly nature has ignited newfound courage in you.

With a flirtatious smile, you leaned closer, your lips just inches from his — «Aren't you afraid?» you whispered, your breath touching his skin.

Carlos's laughter was a low, melodic sound that resonated in the quiet room — «If i were the kind of person who is afraid of the beautiful creatures that visit me in the dead of night, i wouldn't have survived Raccoon City» he replied, his voice filled with playful confidence.

Encouraged by his response, you ran your fingers through his hair, your touch sending goosebumps down his spine — «And what if i told you that my mission today is to seduce you?» you murmured, your eyes fixed on his.

Carlos's grin widened, his eyes sparkled with intrigue — «Is that so?» he thought, running his fingers along the contour of your tail — «Well, you've definitely caught my attention»

As their conversations continued to dance between them, you couldn't help but be swept away by the sheer magnetism of Carlos's playful energy, his fingers continuing to trace the curves of your succubus tail, sending delicious shivers down your spine and making you let out a soft, contented purr, the sensation was like nothing else that you had ever experienced before, a mixture of pleasure and connection that left you hungry for more.

Carlos's eyes glowed with a mixture of amusement and admiration as he watched you react to his touch, the way your tail responded to his caresses, your purring resonating in the air was a sight he found utterly enchanting — «Well, well, who knew succubi had purrs in their repertoire?» he chuckled as he ran his fingers over the velvety texture of your tail — «You're a pretty intriguing creature»

Your lips curved into a mischievous smirk, your gaze rested on his — «And what about you, Carlos? How often do you catch yourself entertaining charming visitors in the middle of the night?»

Carlos' laughter was a warm melody that seemed to fill the room, his fingers never stopped gently exploring your tail — «You're one of a kind, darlin'» he replied with a touch of sincere admiration in his voice — «But i have to say that this is a welcome surprise»

With a playful gleam in your eyes, you leaned closer, your breath enveloping his skin — «Oh, so you're not afraid of the unknown, Carlos Oliveira?»

His response was a devilish grin as his fingers traced a path along your tail — «In my job, confronting the unknown is practically a daily routine» he joked — «But I have to admit that you're definitely a highlight»

His fingers continued to dance along your tail as he leaned even further until your lips met his in a teasing, long kiss, your heart racing at the sensation, lips parted under his in silent invitation, your kiss deepening into a fusion of playfulness research and growing desire.

Pulling back slightly, Carlos's eyes glittered mischievously — «You know, i don't usually accept otherworldly visitors in my dreams» he mused, playful sarcasm in his voice.

You grinned as your fingers traced a pattern across his chest — «Then consider yourself lucky, i don't usually make house calls» you answered in a flirtatious tone.

Carlos chuckled as his fingers touched your horns — «I have to say, your.. accessories are very unique»

You laughed softly, your eyes rested on his — «Well, i figured if i'm going to make an impression, might as well go all out»

Your fingers dug sharply into his hair, and even more goosebumps ran down his broad back from your touch — «Impression, huh? Is that what you call it?»

— «That's one way to put it» you were joking, your eyes danced with joy.

Carlos leaned down again, capturing your lips in another kiss, this time more passionate and demanding than last time, the air crackling with tension as your playful banter turned into shared desire, the magnetic attraction drawing together as did his demeanor.

Carlos runs his hand through your hair, enjoying the softness of the curls — «You are a feisty one, aren't you?»

You purr and whine against his lips as he squeezes lightly and tugs on your tail.

Carlos grins grimly, the sound resonating deep in his chest — «You like it, don't you? You're a naughty little demon craving my touch»

His fingers skim down your spine, tracing the contours of your body as your kisses grow hotter and more passionate, saliva dripping down your chin.

— «Mmm, please do something» you purr and squirms slightly, your outfit covers almost nothing, a thin top and especially short shorts seem to be ready to tear from any awkward touch, already feeling a throb between your legs due to absence of underwear, you're a demon, after all

Carlos smirks at your succubus plea, his eyes glittering with a mixture of amusement and desire, he leans in, his lips touching your ear, and he whispers in a low, husky voice.

— «Oh, i'll do more than just something, my little demon, i'll give you whatever you wish» his hand glides over your body, his touch lingers on bare skin, he feels the heat emanating from it, matching his own growing arousal.

Carlos's fingers tease the hems of your shorts, threatening to pull them aside, he loves the way you squirm under him, desperate for his touch — «You're so thirsty, aren't you? You desperately need my hands»

In a swift motion, he pulls your shorts aside to reveal your naked, needy, shiny cunt, his fingers dancing on your slippery folds, eliciting a moan from deep in your throat, Carlos watching you react, his eyes darkening with primal desire.

He leans down to take your lips in a deep, possessive kiss as his fingers continue to torture your cunt, with each stroke he pushes you closer to the edge, his touch is artful and ruthless, he enjoys the way your body responds to him, your moans and sighs drive him even deeper into his own lustful haze.

Carlos's arousal grows with every sound you make, his need for you almost unbearable, he lets go of your lips and pulls away slightly, his voice oozing with a mixture of authority and desire.

— «Cum to me, preciosa, show me the depths of your pleasure, hm?»

Carlos smirks, his own desire fueling his dominant nature as he increases the speed and pressure of his fingers, determined to push you to your limit.

— «There you go, little demon, surrender to your pleasure» he growls, his voice filled with a mixture of authority and lust, he carefully watches how your body tenses up and the moans become louder and more desperate.

Carlos leans in, taking one of your hardened nipples with his lips, nibbling gently on it before calming it down with his tongue, he knows the sensations running through your body are overwhelming, bringing you closer to the peak of ecstasy.

He continues to move his fingers with precision, the rhythm matching the rising crescendo of your pleasure, his other hand sliding down your thigh, squeezing it tightly as he holds you in place, ensuring you can't escape the intensity of the impending climax, and you don't want to.

— «Let go, my little demon, surrender to the pleasure i give you, hm?» he practically commands, his voice oozes authority, he feels your body trembling under him, your release is imminent.

Finally, with a shuddering scream, you reach your peak, your body shuddering with pleasure, Carlos watches with a pleased smirk, reveling in the power he has over the charming you.

When your moans subside and you catch your breath, Carlos slowly removes his fingers, enjoying the sight of your flushed and full figure, he moves to loom over you, his eyes filling with a mixture of possessiveness and desire.

— «Now, little succubus, it's time for me to claim what belongs to me, aren't it?»

— «Yesyesyesyes! please, please give it to me, pleaseplease» you purr indistinctly and quickly, hearts are literally displayed in your eyes and stomach twists in anticipation of his actions, arousal only hits your slightly swollen and wet cunt harder

Carlos's eyes darken with desire and pleasure at your desperate pleas, he enjoys the way you give yourself to him, your zeal matches his own.

— «Patience, my little gatito» Carlos murmured, his voice soaking in command, it takes him a moment to enjoy the sight before him, your flushed and trembling figure, begging for his touch.

Carlos is positioned between your legs, his eyes meeting yours as he slowly enters you, enjoying the tightness and warmth that envelops him, he moves in a deliberate and powerful rhythm, each thrust plunging you into a state of ecstasy.

He leans down to grab your tail tightly, ready to use it as a lever to control your movements, with each tug he intensifies the pleasure coursing through your body, ensuring every sensation intensifies.

Carlos's thrusts get stronger, his dominance taking over as he practically claims you as his own, he enjoys the way your body responds to him, the moans and cries of pleasure that escape your lips, causing him to sink even further into the intoxicating pleasure.

The room fills with the sounds of your passionate union, your purrs and moans mingling with Carlos's grunts and whispers of command as your bodies move in perfect sync, each movement bringing the two of you closer to the brink of release.

His thrusts become faster and more relentless, his movements fueled by your shared desire.

Carlos's hand finds its way to your throat, applying gentle pressure as he holds you in place, a tangible reminder of his dominance in the situation, his dark gaze carefully watching your reaction, enjoying how your body reacts to his every touch and command. .

His free hand slides down your body, fingers finding your swollen clit, tracing around the sensitive knot, adding another layer of pleasure to your passionate encounter, his touch hard and demanding, pushing you closer to the abyss of ecstasy.

As your moans grow louder and the desperate Carlos feels his own release build up inside him, he increases the pace of his thrusts, his grip on your throat tightening just a little.

With a primal growl, Carlos feels the orgasm wash over him, his body trembling with pleasure as he relaxes his grip on your throat, allowing you to breathe freely again.

— «Now give me everything you can, cosa linda» he commands, his voice filled with a mixture of authority and lust.

And this is the moment when your bodies reach the peak of pleasure together, Carlos revels in the intensity of your connection, knowing that he completely possesses you, you both endure waves of ecstasy, your bodies intertwine in a moment of pure passion.

After that, as your breathing slows and your bodies relax, Carlos looks directly at you and a satisfied smile graces his lips as he gently caresses your cheek, a sharp moment of tenderness and the return of his playful nature.

— «I definitely have to keep you here for myself, preciosa» he mutters in a chesty growl, running his hand along the outline of your horns before turning his attention back to your tail, getting the purr out of you as you nuzzle his wide chest with your eyes closed.

Perhaps descending into the human world isn't such a bad thing, hm?

translate: preciosa — lovely / gatito - kitten / cosa linda — pretty thing

© dmitriene - my masterlist

please, don't copy my works as your own, and if you want to post them somewhere else - contact me.

reblogs, likes and comments are very much appreciated, thank you for reading! ♡

[antiromanticbaby]

Paintings - Lord Diavolo

Lord Diavolo x GN!artist!reader

[✧] ー Set in Nightbringer. MC has been trying their best to find a way of communication with the future, hoping that they are actually in the right timeline (which I doubt. Anyways-). It seems like they have finally found a way.

[✧] ー Ok v v random but some parts of the NB game have given me some good 'Dark' flashbacks Like, the SWD cast are asking just where are we and then they change the question to When which was straight out a scene from Dark haha.

When Diavolo first heard of your disappearance, he was torn. The one he loved and adored, the one he was about to court and propose to was now... gone. Just like that, without a trace between the whole three worlds, and even Solomon and Barbatos were no help.

First his mother, then his father, and now you.

No matter what way he put it, you were gone. His little darling was gone. He was the demon prince, he would be the king one day, and yet he felt like he had lost a big part of himself just with your disappearance.

Just where have you gone, MC?

Soft classic music had filled his dimly lit office, and Barbatos had brought his favorite treat. He was going to be king, he couldn't lose his composure just like that. And yet, hearing the classical music, his mind and heart was filled with thoughts of you, of your smile and laughs, of the way you twirled in his arms, or stepped on his feet when he tried to teach you a simple waltz. A smile graced his lip, but it went away soon when he heard the knock on the door.

'Not today...' He thought to himself. Perhaps this was Lucifer, telling him to compose himself and be a good role model for Devildom. But Diavolo knew it, he knew how Lucifer himself was breaking. He had seen how the fallen star flew around the Devildom, sneaked around and tried to find one small trace of you.

Or maybe it was one of his brothers, here to demand answers, to where you were. In this case, as Barbatos has put it, 'when' you were.

And maybe it was Barbatos, bringing good news. Only if 'good news' hadn't turned into 'miracles' that never occurred.

"Come in." He spoke firmly, trying to sound confident. But if it was someone close to him, they would know that he wasn't, that his strong aura was nothing but a mere facade. Still, his kingdom came first. He must look strong, no matter what, even if Lucifer and Barbatos see through the act.

"Young master, I have brought some news." It was Barbatos, always neat and polite. Diavolo, in a way, envied how unphased Barbatos seemed, but he knew that Barbatos was too perfect. And that was exactly why he was imperfect. Diavolo motioned for his steward to continue. Barbatos continued, an amused smile on his face. "A Little D has found some... interesting paintings in the basement. According to what they said, these paintings have been transferred to the castle from Cocytus Hall."

"Interesting? And would you please elaborate on what you are... hinting at?"

"I believe you must see them for yourself." Barbatos spoke politely, motioning Diavolo to follow.

And Diavolo did. Perhaps this would be a good distraction from the haunting thoughts of his darling and just where they were, when they were, and if they were alive or not.

Upon seeing the paintings decorating all over the basement of his castle, Diavolo's heart skipped a beat. He was... so happy, filled with a sense of euphoria that he didn't know existed, not before finding out. Lord Diavolo could recognize your painting style from miles away, and all of these were yours.

But what were you doing in Cocytus Hall? And why haven't any of them heard of you?

He quickly turned the self portrait around, noticing the scribbles on the inside.

'First painting since coming here. It is now one year after the Celestial War. I truly hope this reaches you'

'MC'

There was no point in asking whether these were truly yours or not, because he recognized the handwriting. His grip on the canvas tightened and a smile formed on Diavolo's lips. "Barbatos, please move all of these to my room."

He felt in a rush, to decorate his room with whatever he could find from you. Now, he knew you were alive. He knew you were safe, and as much as the thought of you, his lover, living in the Cocytus Hall back in the past and with Solomon bothered him, he was just glad that you were safe. That his MC was safe and alive. "Oh, and please call the brothers over for dinner. We must share the news."

"Should we tell them about the paintings?" Barbatos asked, even though he already knew the answer.

"...No, not yet. Just tell them we found notes of MC."

It wouldn't hurt to be selfish, only for a little while.