#light rampart

[kuaitana]

Blizzard Commander ❄️ Cyroblaze Wintry Princess ❄️ Winter Maelstrom

[raviollies]

Progging: this fight is impossible. What the hell is that mechanic. How am I supposed to dodge.

Getting a clear: wow this game is ez, elmo game for babies, farm party

[emiliciouspanda]

Drawing I’ve worked on since April.. Finally had my chance to complete it.. 😮‍💨

[lightwise]

Clone Trooper X

Okay, since there’s been a lot of discussion around CX-1 from the season 3 trailer, I want to give us all a little refresher on how the original Clone X was revealed to us in season 2, the similarities they’re showing between him and CX-1, and what purpose they might be serving in the story.

This is not meant to engage discussion on whether the helmeted CX paratrooper in the trailer is Tech. We don’t know yet if the helmeted clone and the helmetless, deep-voiced clone are the same, or two different CX troopers. All we know is that the helmetless one who has spoken lines in the trailer, is named CX-1 in the subtitles.

Season 2:

We are introduced to the assassin clone known as Clone X in the beginning of episode 7, The Clone Conspiracy, as he is tracking and firing on two clones who were there during the destruction of Kamino and had been contemplating revealing Rampart’s deceptions. Many people thought this could be Crosshair, but based on his less skillful shooting ability and the faint glimpses of his unusual armor, I didn’t think it was.

We then see him fully via a holocall to Rampart, where the garble of his helmet (again, very different than a regular helmet modulator) conceals his identity as he is told to hunt down Slip and Chuchi. Later he finds and kills Slip and several of Chuchi’s guards, attempting to kill her during a prolonged chase (for an assassin, his shots are noticeably not as precise as Crosshair’s or many bounty hunters are), and Captain Rex as well, who appears out of the fog and saves her. He had been in the area to help Slip get to safety, and ended up stunning CX and bringing him into the Martez sisters’ garage for interrogation.

This of course ends up being the most fascinating aspect of this clone’s arc. Rex undoes his helmet and both he and Chuchi are shocked to find a familiar clone face hidden beneath it. Chuchi wonders why a trooper would be doing this and Rex feels like they’re not a trooper at all, but that he doesn’t know what they are. Once CX wakes up from being stunned, Rex tries to get him to talk and find out who sent him and what his mission is, but he stays stubbornly silent.

Once Rex offers to release him if he’ll just talk, he begrudgingly spits out “no you won’t, Captain Rex,” showing that he knows who Rex is and that he doesn’t seem to be surprised that he is alive, even though Rex’s official records state he died. CX then hauntingly says “You’re fighting the wrong battle, brother—you’re limited.” When Rex asks him what that makes him, he responds even more chillingly “a believer” before biting down on a suicide capsule.

None of this terminology or behavior is normal for clones or imperial troops that we have ever seen before. He appears to have been brainwashed in some manner that is very different than any enhancements or conditioning that Crosshair went through or that other imperial clones such as Cody seem to demonstrate. He has become a tool solely at the disposal of Rampart and whoever else in the Empire is putting him to use.

This seems to be confirmed in the next episode, where in examining his body, Rex had determined that all of his original CT identifications implanted by the Kaminoans had been wiped. Perhaps his mind had been too. CX is said to have been born in the first wave of troopers in 32 BBY, which would explain how he knows Rex, and that he is not a new clone creation but an original CT trooper who has been “repurposed” for this program.

Note that in this season we don’t get an answer on who is actually overseeing his training or brainwashing or anything else related to him. He seemed to be taking orders only from Rampart, but with Rampart off the stage after these episodes, it seemed likely that this CX program was bigger than just Rampart’s department or efforts. Sure enough, season 3 seems to be confirming that.

Season 3 (TRAILER SPOILERS AHEAD):

We see at least one, perhaps two new CX troopers in the season 3 trailer. A clone assassin named CX-1 has voiceover that precedes the reveals of an imperial commando, the bounty hunters we’ll see this season, as well as Nala Se with the words “They are coming…” and then it switches to the visual of his face as he finishes “for ALL of you.” And the visuals then show a quick sequence of the majority of our heroes—Wolffe, Hunter, Rex, Echo, Fireball, and Omega, and Wrecker—the “all of you”. This speaking clone has the same generic face and haircut that CX showed in season 2, as well as the same deeper register but with a honeyed smoothness to his voice that is very different from the rest of the regs or the gravelly pitches of the Batch boys. All in all, he seems like a copy (I know I know) of CX in season 2.

In both instances, it appears the X troopers dialogue comes when they are being interrogated by someone they were trying to hunt down. Beyond that, we still don’t know much about their origin and purpose in the broader shift away from CT to TK troopers mingled with Palpatine’s cloning efforts.

Also, I just can’t stop thinking about both troopers’ voices. Why are they so much deeper? And CX-1’s smoothness compared to most of the clones makes me think that the X-number troopers are clones of CX and much younger? Their voices haven’t had as much usage as the clones who have been through the entire war? I don’t know. It’s intriguing though.

I am fascinated to see exactly how much more expansive of a role the X troopers and potentially their program are going to serve in this season. Perhaps they will remain mysterious and simply be yet another way that Palpatine and Hemlock have twisted the clones’ existence to suit their purpose, and to act as a harbinger for what’s to come. Or perhaps they will be a pivotal hinge of this season in more depth this time. We shall see.

Now go forth and speculate 😁

[flowering-darkness]

It’s occurring to me more and more that the way my friends and I have been messing about in FFXIV recently is the way Clio would also play the game/exist as an adventurer in Eorzea:

Leaping into random people’s party finders for the sake of it/to help them do what they’re trying to do (even if they really didn’t need to make a party finder for that sort of thing)

Tagging along with groups trying to get specific drops and sticking around despite already having the drop in question

Going into duties with far fewer people than you’re meant to have and seeing what happens. E8S with five people (not the normal 8)? Aglaia with six (when it normally needs 24)? Let’s see how terribly it goes!~ (we actually ended up clearing both!)

It’s a very refreshing way to play, and it’s really put into perspective how far we’ve all come as a group. Who needs specifically-scheduled statics when you have spontaneity and doing everything unsynced for laughs, huh? =P

[swan-orpheus]

The Problem With Nala Se in the Finale:

Am I the only one who saw that finale thumbnail featuring Nala Se and Omega and got super excited that we were finally going to get The Conversation? Omega has only been haunted by her own identity for the entirety of the season and we're repeatedly given the same non answer which barely covers the "what" and completely ignores the "why". Or who thought that the confrontation between Rampart and Nala Se was going to be a bit more tense and a little longer considering that the man was responsible for carrying out the genocide of her race?

Nope. It boils down to mere science devoid of cause or concern, or any real depth.

[the-one-and-ourinie]

WoL/OC question:

If you were to give your Warrior/OC an epithet, what would it be, and what would it describe? If they have one, or more than one, what's the story behind it?

[merrinla]

Prison of Regret cut content

According to the devnotes in the text file, the prison was originally different from what we see in the game. Rook first wandered in the darkness, then along a bloody path among fallen comrades. In the end, the path was supposed to lead to the Demon of Regret who could change its appearance and voice to put pressure on Rook. There was a choice to confront it or give in.

Alone in the Dark Rook awakes in darkness, alone. Chains appear to have attached themselves to Rook. Attempting to gain a bearing, Rook starts to hear a voice. The voice sounds like Solas, but different. A path appears before them. Rook attempts to get answers from the voice while following the trail. Blood Leading the Blind The path resembles blood dripping over the edge of a cliff. The trail disappears after rook moves forward. The Voice returns to inform Rock they have swapped places with Solas. Rook Demands answers, but is taunted in return. A small light appears at the end of the path. Reaching the Light fills the screen with white. A still image of Solas appears when the white fades. He is striding out of a opening in the fade. This scene is identical to the one where Rock was moments ago. Approaching Solas triggers a banter about Solas with the voice. Approaching the Portal triggers a banter about the prison. Reminded of the Lost The set pieces fade away into the darkness, the path continues beyond. Escaped, but the battle has just begun. Figures come into view as Rook travels down the path. They are the fallen followers from the Ghilan'nain's battle, Frozen in their death throes. The scene is frozen in time capturing the moments Rooks followers died along with a scene of Ghilan'nain. Taunted by the Lost The followers that died taunt rook. Banter will play as players fumble around the space and while they progress down the path. Banter line about the First Fallen Follower Banter line about the Second Fallen Follower Another flash of white fills the screen. The mighty have Fallen Rook finds themselves on the walls of Weisshaupt. Similar to earlier, the scene is frozen in time. Rook walks the ramparts with the still battle around them. The voice speaks of moments from the battle. Banter line about Ghilan'nain. Manipulation Manifest The voice asks why Rook is here. Rook responds by mentioning Varric. The scene fades away. Rook finds themselves on another trail, however this time there is a doorway at the end outlined in the darkness. Passing through the doorway leaves Rook inside Varrics room. Suddenly the furniture and the walls will fall away, revealing a pile of rocks. Approaching the rocks triggers the Varric Reveal scene. First/second/third/fourth banter of characters. Get the Characters speaking about Varric. Challenge the Demon of Regret by walking towards it. Regret Changes its appearance and voice to imitate characters Rook has interacted with in an attempt to stop Rook in their tracks. Changes again to another character. Changes to one last character. Within the Conversation there are non-standard game overs depending on which response is chosen. Give-in to Regret Confront Regret Approaching the Demon, Rook overcomes their regret. Triggering the outro cine. Rook emerges from the Prison, where all their followers await them. After the hugs and jubilation, the group sets off to stop Solas and Elgar'nan will new found determination.

The text also contains some lines from the dialogue with the demon.

----------

What is this! Is someone there! Hello! Rook. Solas? Solas, you...! It's like... walking against a wall. Follow the line, I guess. Where does this lead?

What... what am I seeing? It's what you chose. The tipping point. What are you? What's the point of this? This is the truth of your actions. Your tipping point.

The moment of freedom. A god walks free, because another took his place. Someone who played the role. Solas built a cage that could hold the gods. You trapped him, but were also his way out. You're not Solas. What are you? Another god? I am the lock on this prison.

Keep going, Rook. It's a long way back. Back? To what...? I'm not moving without answers! I deserve answers. You will get what you deserve.

You're more like Solas than you know. It's the blood on your hands. What blood? Show me!

Neve/Bellara? No. You're fake, like Solas.

(Neve banter) I fought for you, Rook. You led me to this. She'd call me Trouble, make some joke to hide how she feels. She wasn't fighting for me. She wouldn't say that.

(Bellara banter) Was this what I fought for, Rook? Was it worth it? She'd never say that. Every moment was worth it. She knew why she was fighting. Didn't need me to tell her.

You're not her. Not real. Live long enough, the only thing that's real is what you've lost.

(Harding banter) I did everything for you, Rook. And then you left me. Lace would blame herself. That would hurt more. Her voice, but she'd never try to hurt someone like that. You don't know her. Not like I did.

(Davrin banter) I saved you, Rook. What was the point? That's not how he'd challenge me. How he'd tease me about it. He'd have saved anyone. Done it for the challenge alone. You don't know him. Not like I did.

If the pain is great enough, appearances can be all that matter.

You're stealing these voices. If this is the Fade, are you a demon? I am Regret. The Regret of a god. And you are a speck that I will consume forever. You feed me regardless.

Wardens, hold the wall! This is our house! Hold that wall, Wardens! Push them back!

A face in the sky. Like no Blight before. The Mother of Monsters.  Like no Blight before.

That's Weishaupt. I saved the Wardens. You saved some of the Wardens. And they're dead, aren't they.

I came to warn them. Their plan wasn't going to work. I tried to warn them. The gods changed everything. They didn't know about the gods. Why were you here? I told you, to warn them. That's what you came to do, not why you were here.

But why you, Rook? Because I trapped Solas. Because Varric—

Why show me this? To make me give up?

Ascend. What? Rise to match the gods. Rise above those who died. See why you lead.

You won't keep me here! Said it yourself, this cage is for gods! I'm not like them! Not like Solas! "A cage built for gods." Or mortals with delusions.

I'll get out, you know. I get out of things. Solas got out. Stubborn. Another thing you and Solas share. Another? What's the first? The regret. The blood on your hands.

You want to know how he swapped places with you? How your regret could match his? Every choice you've made, you owe to this. This is the moment that put lives in your hands. Welcome to your cage. The moment why you lead.

When Varric showed you the cost of leadership. And the god of lies regretfully killed him. He was always...? Always.

The first fight against Solas? Varric is still... Right where you left him. This... is the moment Varric died. But this regret isn't mine.

The god of lies abhors blood magic, but made an exception for you. He had to do it. You made him do it. Varric died at that ritual. You didn't want to face it. And with a little blood magic, you didn't have to. The moment Solas used. When the blood on your hands clouded your mind. Solas was trapped in his own cage, but if your regret grew, he could escape. Only by trading you. Shaping you. Until your regret matched his. So Varric lived on, in your mind, until it could hit you all at once. This is the end. When he traded his regret for yours. This is the very real loss that let Solas swap his regret... for yours.

Regret is the price we pay for acting when no one else will. That's what leaders say. When they get people killed for the greater good. When they toy with lives.

It was lies. The whole time... I was toyed with. Lied to.

This mistake. This failure. And it can never be undone.

Do you see? How everyone says one thing, but you hear another? (Laughs.) Poor "injured" Varric.

(demon shows Rook memories of the companions?) [TEMP] Mementos - Lucanis [TEMP] Mementos - Bellara [TEMP] Mementos - Harding [TEMP] Mementos - Davrin [TEMP] Mementos - Taash [TEMP] Mementos - Neve [TEMP] Mementos – Emmrich

He's dead. Dead and gone. Your friend is dead. He's always been dead. Varric is dead. It was your fault. You did this. Your fault. You were never up to it. You're no leader. He's gone because of you. You're worthless. Varric never believed in you.

It's just you. Alone. Always alone.

Give up. Lucanis has only spite for you. Give up. Emmrich could never love you. Give up. Die. Taash doesn't care. Give up. Harding deserved better. Give up. Neve deserved better than you. Give up. Bellara needed better than you. Give up. Davrin deserved more than you.

Give up. Your fortune is wasted. End it. Give up. Die. No one will mourn you. Give up. Die behind the Veil. Give up. End this contract. You failed. Give up. You failed your calling. Die. Give up. Fade like the failed shadow you are.

Give up. You're a poor example of your kind. Give up. You failed what's left of the elves. Give up. Your time in the sun is over.

Give up. You can't fight your way out of failure. Give up. Your magical powers can't help you. Give up. There's no evading this death.

Give up. You're alone in the dark, like you deserve. Give up. You could never match those who came before you. Give up. Death is the only role you deserve. Give up. There's no point in even trying. Give up. Die. Like Solas knew you would. Give up. This is what your failure deserves. Give up. No one believed in you. End it.

You're right. I can't go on. I can't deal with the loss. Lies win in the end. Regret is too much to bear. It's too much... There's nothing...

I give up. I failed Harding/Neve/Bellara/Lucanis/Davrin/Taash/Emmrich.

I give up. I'm no Shadow Dragon/Warden/ Veil Jumper/Mourn Watcher/ Lord of Fortune. I give up. I failed the Crows.

I yield. I failed as a human/elf/qunari/dwarf.

I'm a failure as a mage/warrior/rogue.

I give up. I have no one. I failed the heroes before me.

Delicious.

I'll face regret. Keep going.

Things always seem impossible. Just fight one battle at a time. You're not in this alone. Go on, Rook. It was always you. You got this. You know bullshit when you smell it, and that demon is full of it.

Varric?

How dare you make me lose him twice! Using Varric was a mistake. If you really knew what Varric meant, you wouldn't have used him. You didn't take his voice. You couldn't, could you? Because it's always been a comfort! "Things always seem impossible. Just fight one battle at a time." "I know I can handle this." "It's not a personal failing to be scared!" "I'm not in this alone." What are you doing? Varric knew the risks. Knew what it might cost. I didn't lose him. Solas killed him! Solas did this, and he'll pay! You think you can break me with what I've lost? What Solas took? I don't regret this. But gods be damned, Solas will! He built this prison, not me! Solas lied, made me lie to myself! I won't be caged by what he did! I can see through the regret. I see through you! I can regret, but keep going! That loss might have ended me! But not now! You think you can hold me? That you're the first regret to try? I have friends to fight for! And no regret will keep me from them! I get beat up. Get sad. That's what life does. It hurts, and then I get back up! All I can do is keep going! All I can do is keep trying! Varric chose me. Saw something worthwhile! You're damned right he's why I'm here! I can't regret what he did for me! More time with him was a gift! All you've done is remind me why I try. The value of the friends I have left! Shown me how much I need them! I know they're waiting for me! You think you can keep me from them! You think you can keep me here? Keep me from what matters? All of this hurts, but you're wrong about me! I'm not alone! Not in my heart! I found love! That's my light in the dark! Nothing can keep us apart! Not gods! Not you! I regret nothing about the time we had. Nothing! (Growl!)

[antiquatedplumbobs]

first | second | last

O say can you see

by the dawn's early light

What so proudly we hailed

at the twilight's last gleaming

Whose broad stripes and bright stars

through the perilous fight

O'er the ramparts we watched

were so gallantly streaming?

And the rocket's red glare

the bombs bursting in air

Gave proof through the night

that our flag was still there

O say does that

star spangled banner yet wave

O'er the land of the free

and the home of the brave?

[just-trying-to-fangirl-in-peace]

Theatrics (Sauron x fem!Elf!reader)

-> in which Celebrimbor tries to expose you and your husband to the people of Eregion, but you play the role of the innocent maiden to perfection

Warnings: evil!reader, murder, manipulation, mentions of wounds, smut, light choking, blood licking, fingering, p in v, slight roleplay, slight voyeurism kink

Note: part of the evil!reader collection of fics. okay I finally said fuck it and wrote smut *throws it into the wild and runs away*

Mature content below the cut—minors DNI!!!

Chaos roars around you as you step out into what were once the beautiful streets of Eregion. Walls are crumbling, arrows are flying, Elves are scurrying about every which way.

You suppress a smile. All is going according to plan. But what pleases you even more is that at long, long last, the moment which you had been most eager to savour has finally come to pass.

Celebrimbor has learned the truth.

No more tiptoeing around him, playing the unassuming Elven smith. No more taking orders from him, no more assisting him, no more pretending like you are anywhere close to kind and innocent and sweet.

Well, with him, at least. But he is the one you had most strived to fool, ever since you came to Eregion all those years ago, not knowing how long you would have to endure the life you would craft for yourself there until your husband regained his form. When the moment came that you were finally able to stand at your husband’s side in the crumbled forge as Celebrimbor realized who ‘Annatar’ was and what you were to him, when you took in the horror in his eyes as he pointed accusingly to your beloved’s pitch black blood only to watch you lick it hungrily off his hand instead of running in terror...

It nearly made up for all the times the words ‘my lord’ had tasted foul on your lips, spoken to the smith in false submission. You serve no one but your husband—and even that can hardly be called service, when he serves you in return with equal devotion.

You wonder how much of a fool Celebrimbor will have already made of himself even before you find him, wherever he has run off to in the wake of his terrible realization. You and your husband had ensured that by the time Celebrimbor manages to speak against you, all ears would be shut to his words. The Elves once loyal to him now believe him fatigued to incoherency at best, dangerous in his madness at worst. When you had last emerged from the forge, it had been crying and holding a bloody hand, claiming that Celebrimbor had brought Fëanor’s hammer down upon it in a moment of cruel impatience with your work. An illusion, of course, conjured by the part of your husband’s power which lives within you. You have bandaged that hand now, mindful to keep up the charade.

You make sure to fill your eyes with as much dread as any other Elf’s as you run through the chaos, searching for Celebrimbor. Your husband is out here as well, but not with you—it would serve you better to arrive separately for this little special occasion.

By the time you find Celebrimbor on the rampart, he is already quite the pitiful sight—he and Mirdania stand near a section of the parapet which had been wrecked by an Orc boulder, leaving it horribly easy to fall over the edge through the resulting gap. He is screaming at Mirdania that she has to believe him, over and over. She eyes him warily, drawing ever so slightly away, no doubt unsettled to find herself in the proximity of such a disturbed individual and a dangerous fall, all at once. Of all the Elves he could have run to, it had to be the one most taken with your husband’s charms. Oh, this is too perfect.

“My Lord, there you are!” you exclaim. His eyes widen in horror at the sight of you. Yours are awash with concern as you reach for his arm. “It really is not safe for you to be out here—”

Celebrimbor recoils, so violently he nearly knocks Mirdania off her feet as he stumbles into her. She yelps, rushing to your side instead.

“Don’t you dare come near me, you witch!” Celebrimbor spits out, jaw trembling as he yells at the guards, “Seize her!”

You don’t need to see your own face to know you have made it into the perfect picture of confusion and hurt. You exchange a glance with the guard closest to you, Captain Malendol. You’ve shared some laughs over the years, the occasional friendly conversation, even a dance or two at celebrations and the ever-so-subtle flirtation under the supposed influence of a wine glass or two. He likes you quite well, if you do say so yourself. Which makes the bafflement on his face, unlike yours, genuine.

Celebrimbor swallows painfully as realization dawns on him—his own guards no longer obey him. “She is no friend of yours,” he insists, “she never has been! She—”

The words die in his throat when he catches a glimpse of your husband. He has finally joined you, silently making his appearance on the steps behind Celebrimbor, and now the smith is effectively caught between the two of you, even if the trap is utterly invisible to those around you.

“Seize him,” Celebrimbor scrambles to order, “seize them both.”

Malendol stays put. All eyes around Celebrimbor regard him with nothing but sympathy.

“He is Sauron,” he claims desperately, as truthful an attempt as it is fruitless. “Seize them! They have been lying to you all along.”

“No,” Mirdania shakes her head at your side. “Lord Annatar has been protecting us.”

“While you’ve been in your tower, giving orders that might have been the end of us all,” Malendol adds reproachfully.

You allow yourself the slightest raise of a gloating eyebrow, visible only from the angle of Celebrimbor and your husband. As intended, it fuels the rageful despair in the smith’s eyes.

“No,” he all but pleads to be believed. “No, that was him. He is Sauron! And she...” he points a finger which trembles with anger at you, “His foul lover! His depraved mistress! I saw it! Before my eyes, she tasted his blood as if in some... deranged coupling ritual!”

“By the Valar,” you breathe out, swaying on your feet. Such vulgar words would weaken the knees of a faint-hearted maiden. So, accordingly, you begin to fall in Mirdania’s direction, leaving her to scramble into a hasty attempt at holding you upright. Malendol is at your other side in an instant, helping her to support you with a firm arm around your waist.

“My Lord, please,” Malendol says, appalled. “She has been a loyal friend to us for a long time, one who cares for you greatly. How can you say such degrading words about her?”

“Was it not enough,” you burst out tearfully, holding up your bandaged hand, “that you crushed my fingers with Fëanor’s hammer? I believed it to be an accident, but... To have you question my virtue as well...?”

You dissolve into sobs. Your supposedly wounded hand flies to cover your face. The other one, Malendol takes in his, endlessly sympathetic.

The briefest brush of your husband’s mind through the bond you share tells you that the captain is unlikely to survive the siege.

A chuckle bursts from Celebrimbor’s throat, the sound of one driven to insanity. It is funny. All of it. The trouble for him is that you, your husband and Celebrimbor are the only ones who get the joke. And the poor smith is the butt of it.

“Let not yourselves be fooled by her false tears,” he strives, in vain, to convince them. “She has no shame, no care for any of us! Her heart is black—black as his blood.” He turns to your husband as if in sudden realization. “His blood... Cut him open!” he orders. “Look at his hand, see for yourselves!”

He’s nearly gleeful as he says it, genuinely believing he has found the answer to ending his torment. Some of the pity in your eyes is genuine as you look at him with the same dismayed expression as the others’. Your husband knits his brow, as innocent as ever—and lifts his hand to reveal a cut smeared with what appears to the others as utterly natural, perfectly ordinary red blood.

Any trace of hope is drained from Celebrimbor’s eyes. He stares, wordless, jaw quivering as your husband speaks in that calm and composed tone of his.

“You may speak of me as you wish, Celebrimbor. But I will not have you besmirch a kind Elf maiden’s honor, even out of frailty of mind,” says with great sadness Annatar, the divine messenger who has most certainly never laid one pristine finger upon your most demure self. “Please,” he addresses the guards, “escort him back to the forge.”

But the guards exchange glances, hesitating. It was one thing taking orders from your husband when it came to defending the city, but it appears they do not yet dare lay hands on their supposed true lord. They are very close, though, merely in need of the slightest nudge over the edge. Such as a word from their captain, but Malendol wavers, just as torn. Ensuring that you are indeed steady on your feet, he releases you and lays a hand on the hilt of the sword at his hip as if to ready himself, but hesitates to give the order. You exchange a nervous glance with Mirdania, who is still at your side, hands on your arm.

A nudge... over... the edge.

You wouldn’t even need the bond between your minds to know that you and your husband are thinking the exact same brilliantly awful thing.

You release a shuddering breath, leaning on Mirdania only the slightest bit more. At once, her hold on you tightens reassuringly.

“Come,” she says, beginning to tug you away, “let us get you some water.”

You nod, visibly grateful to follow her. You halt after a couple of steps, however, just as you are passing Celebrimbor, and turn to him as if with sudden determination. At your back stand Mirdania, a gap in the wall and the field of raging Orcs below, and before you is the smith glaring daggers filled with more disdain than you even imagined he possessed. You meet that scornful gaze with nothing but a pained smile.

“I forgive you, you know,” you murmur, only just loud enough for the guards to catch your words as well. “Get better soon, my dear friend.”

Whether it’s your words, imbued with such sickly saccharine affection, or the hand you lay upon his shoulder with utmost gentleness, Celebrimbor loses his last shred of restraint.

“Get your hands off me!” he roars.

It happens quickly, much too quick for anyone to notice exactly what occurred (as was, of course, your intention). Celebrimbor shoves you away with all his strength, causing you to crash into Mirdania, and—perhaps she might have been able to catch herself, if not for the flick of your husband’s wrist which makes her trip over her feet and tumble over the edge of the rampart, screaming all the way down into the Orc-riddled mud field below.

You certainly possess the power to keep your own balance, but you still yelp and stagger through the couple of backward steps that have you nearly slipping off the edge as well. Malendol, however, manages to catch you in the nick of time, as you had seen he was already desperately rushing to do. He yanks you toward him, and you collide with his chest only for your legs to play the part of finally giving out. The heroic captain keeps his hold on you as you crumble to the ground, hyperventilating.

Celebrimbor’s “No!” rings out as he stares down at the fallen Mirdania, but she is just as lost as any sympathy the guards still held for him. You scramble on your hands and knees to look over the edge just in time to see an Orc bring a hatchet down upon her, and shriek her name as you burst yet again into sobs. You keep them coming, loud and miserable, as Malendol helps you to your feet and you fall into his arms with enough force to push him a few steps back, burying your face in his neck.

Discreetly glancing over your shoulder, you see your husband speaking with Celebrimbor. But so loud are your cries, and so intent is Malendol on offering you words of comfort over them, that the others cannot hear their trusted Lord Annatar strip Celebrimbor of the last of his fight with a final threat. Finish the Nine, and I will spare your city.

This time, when your husband turns to the guards and repeats, “Escort him to the forge, please!” they comply without question.

It’s only once Celebrimbor is out of sight that you begin to quiet your sobs, pulling away from Malendol.

“It’s all right,” he comforts you, releasing you from his embrace but still resting his hands on your arms. “He shall trouble you no longer.”

“He meant to throw me over that wall,” you whisper, voice laced with terrible guilt. “Poor Mirdania died because of me!”

Your husband is standing a few feet away, gazing sorrowfully down to where Mirdania lies dead. He had, after all, made his preference of her quite apparent to the others. It would seem odd if he did not spare a moment to mourn.

“No, not because of you,” Malendol insists. “It was but the doing of Lord Celebrimbor’s troubled mind. You must not hold yourself responsible for anything he has done or said.”

“What he said... Oh, what he said!” you whisper, mortified, and lean closer to Malendol as if to conceal your words from your husband, “How am I to face Lord Annatar now?”

“Please,” your husband speaks, and you turn as if startled to find him coming to you with a most sympathetic gaze. “You have not the slightest reason to be ashamed. I only regret that you had to endure such vile accusations, and witness such tragedy. You must not blame yourself for it.”

“Such is her nature, my Lord,” Malendol says, his hand now at the small of your back in a gesture of kind support. “Of all the Elves in Eregion, she is least deserving of such scorn, and suffers the most for it.”

Oh. Between embracing you as you cried on his shoulder and the sheer affection in his voice as he sings you praises, he might as well have gone for a little tea with the Orcs, too. Forget the whole siege—now you doubt your husband will let him survive the hour.

Lord Annatar, however, offers the captain a most gracious smile.

“Thank you, captain,” he says, “for being a most loyal friend when your friendship was most needed. I shall see to it that your honourable deeds are well rewarded.”

Malendol bows his head respectfully, blissfully unaware that his ‘reward’ will very much resemble Mirdania’s.

“Performing one’s moral duty is a reward in itself, my lord. Come,” he turns to you, “let us bring you to safety.”

“No,” your husband says—a fraction of a second too quickly. The slip is much too brief to be caught and the recovery utterly seamless. “You are needed in battle, Captain Malendol. I shall see to it that she makes it safely back inside.”

Malendol exchanges a glance with you, and upon your slight nod, he says, “Of course.” As if on a sudden impulse, he turns to face you, taking your hand in his.

“Fear not, my friend. We shall prevail,” he vows. And leaves a gallant kiss on your knuckles before he takes his leave.

It’s all you can do to school your expression as you are left alone with your husband—well, ‘alone’ in the sense that no one’s focus is trained on you at the moment, but you can hardly risk one of the soldiers catching a glimpse of your triumphant smile when you had gone through so much trouble to earn their sympathy. As such, you meet your husband’s composed gaze with a somewhat shy one, quickly lowering your eyes as though you do not dare hold it for long.

He does not speak a word as he walks you back into the tower, never once attempts to place even so much as a guiding hand at the small of your back. There is the sound of destruction around you, the screams of Elves, but loudest in your mind is the tumultuous blend of emotions within your bond. So proud, so satisfied, so hungry for each other the high of victory in your wicked plans has made you, the very air thrums with the vibrancy of it.

And as if that was not potent enough, there is also that sweet possessive ire you love to rouse within each other, even when you are well aware that no being in existence could ever truly come between you. For them, to merely glance in longing at one of you is a death sentence from you both. Mirdania had sought out your husband’s touch, Malendol had dared embrace in comfort one who belongs solely in her husband’s arms. It matters not that they were allowed, even led into it. When you and your husband play such games, collateral damage is a given.

The moment you are inside the tower, you expect some kind of climax to the tension—you are most eager to be ravaged by its force, whether he should devour your lips to celebrate your flawless performance or crowd you against the wall to thoroughly replace the captain’s innocent touches with his ruinous ones.

But he does neither. He remains as impassive as though you are still being watched. Provoking you into lighting the fuse of the impending explosion yourself. Very well, then. You shall do so gladly.

“Pity about Mirdania, though,” you remark nonchalantly as you ascend the steps to the forge. “I would have liked to see her face when she realized the object of her little infatuation was the Dark Lord himself.”

“Fear not, my love,” your husband says, eerily calm and without looking back as he walks ahead of you. “We shall soon have the pleasure of a similar realization on Captain Malendol’s face, right before I run him through with his own sword.”

Unseen by him, you smirk.

“Well, he was rather eager to save my life,” you goad. “Perhaps he has earned the privilege to die in blissful ignorance after all.”

Only your footsteps fill the following silence until you reach the top of the stairs. You’ve barely climbed the last step when he turns around and—you yelp as your husband quite literally sweeps you off your feet, whisking you bridal style towards your bedchamber, instead of the forge. A giggle escapes you as you cling to him, quite pleased with the reaction you have elicited.

“Tell me, my love,” he says, kicking the door shut behind you, “what need have you of a common Elf captain to save you from falling,” you are unceremoniously released onto the bed, with your husband climbing over you not a moment later, “when you are bound to one of the Maiar who would sooner destroy the foundations of the earth than let you slip from his grasp?”

His hand is sliding up your thigh, lifting your dress on its way. He is a Maia possessed, caught between the high of triumph and the thrill of the chase at which you two so like to play, and you can hardly think of a witty answer when his fingers are only a breath away from where your flesh aches for his touch the most.

But a wicked thought prevails, and you shove him away with all your might. Still, it’s the shock of it rather than your force which knocks him to the side, allowing you to scramble off the bed. It’s almost comical, the half-confused, half-enraged look he gives you.

“Lord Annatar!” you gasp, ostentatiously doe-eyed and quite scandalized as you smooth down your dress in haste. “Surely you do not mean to lure me into some... ‘deranged coupling ritual’?” A little smile flashes through your little act while you savour Celebrimbor’s earlier words on your tongue. “And in the midst of a siege as well!”

You back away from him with slow, tantalizing steps, watching in delight as his gaze darkens in a deliciously sensual threat.

“You loved it, didn’t you?” he says, standing from the bed to walk towards you with all the patient grace of a wolf stalking prey. “Acting the innocent little maiden. Prone to fainting at the merest... suggestion of impropriety.”

His strides are larger than yours, and before long he is close enough to surge forward, swiftly closing the distance between you and grabbing hold of your neck with his blood-coated hand. You gasp as your back suddenly hits the wall, closer than you had realized it was, leaving you pinned between the cool stone and your husband’s body. Your hands fly to his wrist and his lips hover close to yours, teasing you with the promise of a kiss. You chase it just to be cruelly deceived as he evades your mouth, a wicked smile upon his as he lightly but decidedly pushes your head back against the wall.

“Be grateful, my innocent little smith, that there is a siege,” he says in a lurid whisper, releasing your throat to bunch up the skirt of your dress with both hands, “for your fellow Elves are far too distracted to hear you fall apart beneath my touch.” Your undergarments are pushed to the side, and you are so wound up that even the maddeningly light press of his fingers between your legs draws a loud whimper from you. Your husband leans into your ear as you shut your eyes, hips helplessly chasing the slow little circles he makes around your aching bud. “I should hate for anyone to ‘question your virtue’.”

His tongue makes a mockery of your own words from earlier, just before you feel its warmth at the hollow of your throat. You arch your neck as he licks upwards, long and slow, towards your jaw, gathering the blackness his wounded hand had smeared onto your skin. That same hand is now splayed over your rampant heart, holding you down as you fist your hands in the fabric of his garments and writhe with the pleasure he languidly stokes between your thighs. He kisses you, and when his tongue plunges past your lips, your mouth fills with the sweetly metallic taste of his blood, more intoxicating than the strongest liquor. You moan, long and wanton, whining for the firmer, faster, deeper touch he is withholding.

Your husband chuckles. It infuriates you.

“Oh, but you loved it too, didn’t you? When he—ah!” You suck in a sharp breath as he slips two long fingers inside you. Your wetness makes it easy, your body welcoming the familiar intrusion with nigh unbearable delight. It takes great willpower not to shut your eyes, to hold his gaze as he curls his fingers expertly, right where he knows it feels the most divine. “Did you not like it when he called me yours?” you insist, breathlessly. “Did you not want to show them yourself?”

If possible, his eyes darken even further, and his fingers pump inside you with more vigour. “Had it not been utterly counterproductive to our purpose,” he says, voice low and gruff, “I would have taken you right there upon the rampart and proved him right.”

The image is so sudden and vivid before your eyes, it pulls a pitiful mewl from your throat.

“I would have let you,” you gasp, and crush your lips to his with desperate abandon. “I want them to know.”

A guttural sound escapes his throat, and all of a sudden he withdraws his fingers, leaving you achingly empty. You think your legs might give out if it weren’t for his firm hold on you as he pulls you to the nearby window, twisting you around so that your back is against him and you plant your hands on the waist-level windowsill for support.

“Look,” he rasps out in your ear. “Do you see our soon-to-be army, my love? The very first of our devoted subjects?”

In the distance, Orcs holler crude names at each other, ready battle devices, send an endless rain of arrows over the walls of Eregion. It isn’t a pretty sight, but the terror it strikes in the hearts of their enemies and their power of destruction shall be wielded by you and your husband in the near future—and that is no small thing.

You nod, letting the thought sink in and add to the onslaught of elation already driving you wild. Your husband coils one arm around your stomach as the other wraps around your throat once more and he pulls you into him. Your bare folds meet his clothed erection, and you push back against him with a wanton moan, desperate for the friction.

“They shall be followed by Men,” he continues, rutting against you with animalistic greed, “and Dwarves, and Elves, until every single soul in Middle-Earth has been brought to their knees to worship at the feet of their King and Queen. Then, we shall at long last stand together before them all.”

“A love greater than ever was or ever will be,” you say, high-pitched and breathless, as if you are repeating words you have told yourself a thousand times. “All shall aspire to be us, yet none shall succeed.”

You are released abruptly. You hear the shuffle of fabrics, and sure enough, the swollen tip of him is soon nudging at your entrance.

“And how beautiful you shall be, my love,” your husband whispers, the sheer reverence in his voice a stark contrast to his lurid words, “with a crown upon your head, and my cock buried deep within you.”

He slides in to the hilt, quick and powerful, and you cry out. You could take him a million times, in a million different ways, and yet the perfect fit would never cease to steal your breath. He withdraws only to thrust back in, then again, setting a punishing rhythm which is nearly enough to obliterate any semblance of coherent thought from your mind. It would be so easy to let him plough into you just like this until you come undone, yet you crave something else. More.

“Wait,” you plead, planting a hand onto his hip to push him away. “Let me... let me...”

He does, letting himself slip from you with a rueful grunt. You turn to face him on unsteady legs, to look upon his face as you had so longed to—the only reason which had given you the will to interrupt your pleasure as you did. Your eyes never leave his as you seat yourself upon the windowsill, lifting your skirts once more. “I want all that,” you confess as he nestles his hips between your spread legs. “But I want you more.” He groans as you stroke his length, then guide the weeping tip back to your entrance. “I want it with you, or not at all.”

Your voice is so thin, it nearly chokes out at the end, your chest constricted with emotion—with the fear of being forced to let go as you have been before, always present in the deepest corner of your hearts. Something flickers in your husband’s gaze, the same anguish which wrenches at your soul.

“My love,” he breathes out the words as though they are the last thread by which his very existence hangs. “My love,” he vows and prays and fiercely claims as he nestles himself in your tight heat once more. You don’t know which sinks deeper into you—his swollen cock or the look in his eyes, which remain devastatingly locked with yours as he joins your flesh. Perhaps there is some innocence left in you to be ruined after all, for so raw and disarmed you are left by this union, tears spring in your eyes, slipping down your cheeks. Your husband gathers them with his lips and tongue as he rocks into you anew, far from gentle but less brutal than before, with deep, long thrusts that leave you too weak to sit up if it weren’t for his arms holding you to him.

Outside, the battle rages on. Inside, you fight to prolong this, to wring every last drop of the sweet torment that is your ascent to the peak of your pleasure. You lay a hand over your husband’s heart, feeling it hammer on in tandem with yours as he drives into you with increasing urgency. You are reduced to a string of incoherent mewls as you bury your face in your husband’s neck, mindlessly licking and biting at his skin.

His sounds of pleasure are less loud, but much deeper as they reverberate beneath your lips. You want more—so you fist your hand in his hair, with no mercy for the carefully-crafted bow at the back of his head. Crafted by you, on a playful whim the very morning before the siege began—he’d teased and claimed you were sure to ruin your own work the next time he would bed you. You don’t even think of that now, consumed by pleasure as you tug and pull with abandon, feeling the fair tresses come apart beneath your fingers. It drives your husband even wilder with lust than he already was, and he grabs your face to devour your lips as he spirals closer to his release.

Your own takes over you in an abrupt instant, right as your husband reaches between you to rub your swollen bud above where you are joined. You sob into his mouth, trembling as your hips thrash in a confused attempt to both escape and chase the unbearable height of pleasure thrust upon you.

Your husband fucks you through it, pulling you close and cooing in your ear, calling you his and ‘love’ and all sorts of adoring things in Black Speech through his own heavy breaths. Your name falls from his lips in a ragged moan as he finds his pleasure, and you feel it echo through your bond with nearly as much power as your own. His seed will not take unless he wills it so, and neither of you wish for that, but you still clench around him longingly, greedy to draw every last drop of him as deep within yourself as possible, because it is him. You’d spend each second of your life with him inside of you, if not for the impracticality of it.

Once spent, your husband remains as he is, simply holding you to him. He cradles your head in his hands, pressing sweet kisses to your hair, and you are too weak to do anything but sag against him whilst you regain your breath.

“Why, Lord Annatar,” you whisper, smiling tiredly, “I’m starting to suspect you might have impure intentions towards me after all.”

He gives a soft chuckle, pulling away to look at you. “Whatever gave you that idea, my lady?”

The innocuous words are followed by your husband gently withdrawing himself from you, leaving a great, leaking mess between your legs. The only response you can give is a soft groan as his fingers gather some of his spend from your sensitive folds, and gently press it back inside of you where it belongs. With a small, satisfied hum, he steps away to tuck himself back into his garments. You press your legs together, sighing contently at the delightful ache left in the aftermath of your lovemaking.

“However will you keep up this innocent act of yours,” your husband muses, “now that I shall be dripping down your beautiful thighs with every step you take?”

“Please,” you say coyly, standing up and fixing your dress as though your undergarments are not soaked beyond hope beneath it, and your legs don’t still feel a bit unsteady. “I’ve managed before.”

He smiles knowingly. “Indeed, you have.” He pulls you close by the waist, as if you haven’t just parted from one another. “Always so eager to wear me,” he praises, and there is nothing insincere about your flustered little smile now. It’s true that you delight in wearing what he gives you, whether it be his spend nestled between your legs or a less secretive gift. Which reminds you of the gift you had given him to wear. You lay a hand on his cheek and coax him to turn his head silghtly, pouting when you glimpse the mess of tangled tresses you have made in his hair.

“You were right,” you admit, somewhat regretful, “I did ruin the bow.”

“Like the merciless creature that you are,” he murmurs, leaning in to press a kiss to your lips. When you pull back, his appearance has already been restored. It isn’t quite as meaningful, now that his power did the work instead of your hands, but you suppose you’ve been gone long enough already. Now that your hunger for each other has been sated, your husband shares that sentiment.

“Come, now,” he says, taking your hand and making for the door. “I believe Celebrimbor is in need of encouragement with his work.”

“What are we, if not encouraging?” you quip, and gladly follow his lead.

Previous fic with same reader -> Reveal

Next fic with same reader -> Old wounds

[earenwen-leafwhisper]

Rage

Daemon x wife reader

Summary: What happens when Daemon’s wife explodes in front of everyone?

Author’s note: hello everyone, it has been several months since I wrote such a long text in such a short time. I reread the first time to correct as many mistakes as possible.

Part 2 will come soon

Tag : @avalyaaa @dc-marvel-girl96

N/h is noble house

Not that Y/n refused the idea of marriage, what she refused was to be forced to marry a stranger living on another continent. Having to make a two-month trip by boat to meet an unknown prince, if for some it would have been a fairy tale, for y/n it was the opposite.

It is true that she could not say that Daemon was ugly physically, but his behavior towards her, was lower than some commoners.

Daemon had refused to meet her, preferring to go around the taverns of King’s Landing. When Y/n heard the news of her future husband’s place of debauchery, she confronted the freshly crowned Viserys, but refrained from saying the bottom of her thoughts.

"Rumor say, that my future husband is in a place of debauchery."

"Oh don’t worry, my dear. Daemon is a man, and a man with desires and needs." Viserys' voice showed his amusement. Under the outraged gaze of Y/n and the gaze of Otto Hightower.

Yes, Otto Hightower, the hand of the king who may be trying to do his job and who understood very well the stakes of the future marriage of Y/n and Daemon.

If Y/n hoped that once married, things would work out. Reality caught up with her.

Whenever it would be at the wedding day, when Daemon looked at her with disdain, or the non-existent wedding night, during which, it was a returning guard from the city who, out of pity, confessed to her that the prince was in one of the most famous brothels and insulted her copiously with all possible words. Daemon showed only disdain towards y/n, and in all this, y/n was alone.

Alone, facing a husband who did not want her and a beautiful family that seemed more tolerating than accepting her in the royal family. Between Viserys who always made excuses for Daemon or mocked the situation, pregnant Aemma that have tried to reassure y/n even if deep down, she knowed that Daemon would not change. Rhaenys who on rare visit, did not even seem to see her. Y/n felt alone, if only the mocking came only from that side. The visiting nobles liked to make fun of her clothes, which were not the latest fashion in Westeros, but represented her kingdom. Y/n hated all the nobles, except the Starks, whom she had never met.

In all this hatred, the most came from the "pimbêche". Noble lady's who took themselves superior while they were pitiful and contemptuous.

Oh and Otto Hightower, how can we forget? Otto dreamed of seeing the marriage of Daemon and Y/n explode, that Daemon is stuck in the kingdom of Y/n and that he can never come back to Westeros. Y/n could understand Otto’s hatred of Daemon, but she didn’t give Otto a spanking, preferring not to become a pawn in the gloomy game taking place on Westeros. The Daemon case being more than enough to give her headaches.

Despite the adversity, y/n remained smiling in front of others, keeping a good figure, at home it was polite to smile softly, which she spanked at all times, even when she dreamed of throwing Daemon from the ramparts of King’s Landing, when she looked away was not due to her shyness, oh no, this technique allowed her not to cast dark glances at the many courtiers.

She could not say how, she was able to keep so calm during the years that followed. Rejected by the nobles, forced to stay in the castle, not to meet Daemon in the streets of the city. Alone against all.

5 years, it took 5 long years...

This day haved to be a day of celebration for whatever reason Viserys found good.

In the morning, the servants of Y/ n had helped her to prepare, her dress was made of a gold thread woven self, allowed to be both light and show the richness of its origins. Whether it was her accessories or the style of her hair. Everything reminded her of her home, her family, because here. That was all she had left.

---

The atmosphere was heavy, Y/n standing with a glass of wine in her hand, watching the show before her eyes.

Daemon a glass of wine in hand, whispered in the hollow ear of a blushing servant.

Viserys spoking with Lord Corlys, or rather, talked about everything and nothing so, as not to leave Corlys talking of the problems of the kingdom.

Aemma stood beside a very young Rhaenyra, a septa not far from them. Several lords looked at y/n with a mixture of curiosity and contempt. Their wives had gathered in a pack of chatterboxes, barely discreet.

"Did you see her outfit?"

"She must think that Daemon will see her."

"Or a guard..."

"She look like a slut..."

"A wild one..."

"All of them are savages."

That someone insulted her was one thing. Daemon liked to call her "My little wildling" while smiling sneakily and with a mocking voice, but that someone dares to insult her people was the breaking point.

No one could have known which was the quickest, between the glass of wine throwing at Lady Lannister or the scream of Y/n.

"Don’t insult my people, you scoundrel!"

All the people present were silent on the shots, looking in the direction of Y/n, under the shock.

"You think yourself superior to me, my people and even yours when you are just a good snake, only good at to bear children. Children who are not of your husband." Lady Lannister blushed, trying to answer but was prevented. " Oh don’t play the innocent, everyone knows you like to copulate with your husband’s guards."

Y/n pointed finger lady n/h.

"And you. You dare to make fun of my outfits while yours are made fun of by your so-called friends behind your back." One tried to escape. " Don’t move! You think you’re trying to run away?! Oh no, not today. You think yourself so superior when you know nothing about my kingdom, and how dangerous it is for Westeros."

All the nobles were put back in their places, before Y/n moved towards the Targaryen.

"Oh, you think you’re out of reach?" Y/n laughs falsely. "Viserys. King of the trash. You play deaf and blind. Not wanting to listen to the problems of your kingdom. How do you want to reign when you are not even able to put back in place your own brother. I wouldn’t be surprised if your reign ended in war."

Although Daemon did not like someone to attack his brother, he could not be against the facts. When the eyes filled with rage and hatred of y/n landed on him, he was taken with a shiver, his pants begin to seem a little small. So... this was the true nature of his wife.

"And you! Dear husband. You are the worst of all. You are a pig packing in noble fabrics. Unable to consume your own marriage, unable to talk with your own wife! Unable to show an ounce of curiosity! How can you ascend to the throne when you are no better than the most disgusting of the people in this city?!"

And so it was that the beginning, all the worst actions of Daemon were brought to light, indicating that y/n knew everything.

"Today you will behave like the husband who is destined for me." She pointed towards a door leading to the many corridors of the castle. " My chamber. Now."

She did not raise her voice, and under the surprise of all, Daemon began to walk quickly in the direction of command.

[kuaitana]

Dark Solstice ❄️ Brother of Ice ❄️ Icefire

[xxsyluslittlecrowxx]

Bride of the Last Dragon.

Prologue

[ dragon!sylus x f!reader ]

They say a dragon’s fury is born of hunger, but I have seen the truth: rage takes root in the fractures of a heart that once dared to hope. The kingdom calls him a monster, striving to quiet his wrath with tributes of gold and the bodies of trembling brides. I was meant to be the latest sacrifice—just another lamb led to sate a legend. Yet in the mountain’s shadow, I discovered a creature who despises the fear that sustains him, who watches me with eyes older than the sun. We are bound by something deeper than duty, more dangerous than love. And as the world begins to burn, only I can choose what price mercy demands. Some stories are forged in fire; others, in quiet ruin. This is a tale of both. “Where love dares to bloom, destruction follows.”

ABOUT | 2.5k slow burn. doomed yearning. moral ambiguity. impossible choices. ancient grief. quiet moments before the storm. a sword raised in mercy.

TAGS | dark romantasy. monster x maiden. political decay. psychological tension. cursed love. final betrayal. moral ruin. fire and ash.

MUSIC : burn your village // kiki rockwell

NOTE : So—this is my way of thanking you for the support you’ve given me. Here’s the prologue, a taste-test, an amuse-bouche of what awaits us in this tale of ruin. I hope it lives up to your expectations, at least a little.

Look out for Chapter One—if all goes well, it might be up before the fourteenth of July.

Also: the next chapter of the isekai project will drop next week, as well as a new installment of TMTDU! I’m heading to a festival tomorrow, so things might be a bit chaotic, but I’m excited to share more soon.

Thank you, as always, for reading. ♡

Prologue

ONCE, IN AN AGE...

...of storms and ruin, when dragons carved their fury across the heavens and kings wept prayers into cold, indifferent winds, a kingdom waited in breathless silence for the sun to rise.

It never did.

On the third dawnless morning, the keep at the heart of the realm loomed as a jagged silhouette against skies black as a bruise. Spires that once gleamed with gilded weathercocks now jutted like broken spears. Ash fell in soft, ceaseless flurries, clinging to the tattered banners drooping from scorched ramparts. Smoke curled from the smoldering wreckage of village after village beyond the keep’s gates, drifting across frozen fields strewn with charred bones and shattered plows.

The air hung heavy with the scent of burnt iron and old blood.

Inside the keep, silence reigned thicker than any dirge. Echoes of grief slithered between columns of cracked marble, brushing against soot-blackened tapestries that whispered stories of glories long surrendered. The few remaining knights, gaunt and wild-eyed, stood watch in the shadows, their armor dulled to a lifeless gray.

At the heart of this ruin, upon a dais fractured by claw marks deeper than any blade could cut, slumped the man who had once been called king. His crown lay crooked upon sweat-slick hair, its golden band bent and blackened. His eyes, ringed with sleepless nights, darted to the darkened windows at every rumble of distant thunder beyond the keep’s shattered ramparts.

He had spent the last hours choking out frantic prayers, his words rasping like brittle parchment before dissolving into the stale, choking air. Yet no gods answered. Only silence—and the hollow echo of his own heartbeat.

They said the dragon’s wings could blot out the moon. That his eyes burned with the glow of molten stone, reflecting every coward’s plea in cruel, unflinching light. They said he came not for conquest, but for punishment. And now the king’s mind recoiled at every rustle of the wind, every shiver of dying torchlight, certain that the last dragon watched from beyond the horizon, savoring the taste of his fear.

In that hollow throne room, among relics of a glory devoured by flame, the king understood what every man who had survived the endless night now knew:

The dragon was coming.

And there would be no dawn until his hunger was sated.

A door groaned open at the far edge of the throne room, the sound slicing the hush like a blade through silk. A procession of nobles entered beneath the dim, guttering torches—men and women once resplendent in silks, now cloaked in heavy furs darkened by ash and reeking of fear. They gathered in a loose crescent around the dais, the air between them shimmering with unspoken accusations.

A gaunt duke, a livid scar splitting his lip, was the first to break the silence.

“You said the pact was old superstition,” he spat, words honed sharp as a spearhead. “You told us the dragon was dead.”

A baroness swathed in a gown that smelled faintly of burnt lavender lifted her chin, her voice brittle as frost.

“You assured us your armies could hold him at bay.” Her jeweled fingers trembled against the iron pommel of a dagger hidden in her sleeve.

A lord in a wine-stained collar let out a hollow laugh, brittle as shattered glass.

“The beast cares nothing for your excuses,” he sneered. “He wants blood. He wants proof you remember how to kneel.”

Their words tumbled over each other, a rising storm of blame and terror. Accusations twisted into threats; old grievances bloomed like festering wounds. Voices cracked, swore, broke into ragged sobs. Centuries of gilded civility, painstakingly cultivated in court, dissolved in a single heartbeat beneath the dragon’s looming shadow.

Then a woman in a tattered sapphire cloak stepped forward, her face pale as moonlight. In her arms, she carried a bundle swaddled in gray linen—a child’s blanket.

“The villagers speak of wings like thunder,” she murmured, voice barely more than a ghost of sound. “They say the dragon’s roar shakes the mountains. That he comes not for war, but for the justice we denied him.”

Her words settled over the assembly like a funeral shroud.

The king struggled to stand, his hand clenched around the hilt of his sword until his knuckles blanched. His knees buckled. He tried to speak—tried to shape words of courage or command—but only a hoarse rasp tumbled from his lips.

A breathless hush swept the hall.

From the shadows stepped the old priest, his robes reeking of candle smoke and damp stone. His eyes glistened with something darker than despair as he lifted a trembling hand toward the king. His voice, low and sepulchral, rolled through the hall like thunder across a graveyard.

“The pact was forged for nights such as these,” he intoned. “And the pact must be honored.”

A single word rose among the gathered nobles, hushed yet deafening in its finality:

“Bride.”

Eyes turned to the king. Some glittered with cold vindication, others swam with tears. Murmurs of prayers, curses, and half-remembered prophecies rippled through the hall like a fevered chant. A mother’s quiet, broken sob carried across the stone, raw enough to split hearts.

A cold gust slipped through the cracks of the shattered windows, snuffing half the torches in an instant. Darkness pooled at the edges of the chamber, creeping inward like a tide of dread. The flames that survived spat and danced wildly, throwing monstrous shadows of the courtiers across cracked walls—shadows that writhed like ghosts of the innocent.

And in the hush that followed, the king bowed his head over the empty cradle beside his throne. The cradle’s pale wood was scorched at the corners, its bedding stained by a single drop of ash-darkened blood. His breath stuttered once, twice, as the first syllables of surrender began to shape themselves on his tongue.

A thunderous beat reverberated overhead—a single, titanic pulse of power that rattled ancient beams and sent clouds of dust spiraling from the rafters. The remaining torches guttered in unison, flames bowing low as if in trembling supplication.

Another wingbeat rolled across the keep, closer this time, shaking the stone floor beneath the nobles’ boots. A thin, keening whine rose from the wind pressing against the shattered windows, carrying with it the scent of lightning and scorched stone.

Then silence—so sudden, so absolute, it rang louder than any roar.

From the darkness beyond the gaping arch of the ruined doors, he stepped into the throne room: the last dragon, cloaked in the guise of a man, yet unmistakably inhuman.

His hair fell in pale, silver strands around obsidian horns that swept back like crowns of ruin. Crimson fissures pulsed across the planes of his chest, each heartbeat igniting molten light beneath skin marred by old fury. His eyes burned the color of fresh blood—two fathomless pools of patient, simmering hatred.

A hush strangled every voice in the hall. Even the weeping mother fell silent, her breath caught on terror’s blade.

At the threshold, the dragon paused. His crimson gaze swept the room, lingering on each quivering figure as if weighing the worth of every soul. His lips curled—not with rage, but with slow, deliberate amusement.

“Ah,” he drawled, his voice a rich, resonant timbre, every syllable threaded with something ancient and merciless. “So this is the court of kings. I expected… more splendor. But perhaps I should not have placed faith in the architects of ash.”

He stepped forward, each movement unhurried and deliberate, savoring how the nobles shrank from his approach. His claws clicked softly against the stone—a subtle, dreadful percussion.

“Tell me,” he continued, his voice curling like smoke, “how many titles did you invent for yourselves while you cowered here? How many prayers did you whisper to gods too tired to listen?”

No one answered. The king’s throat worked soundlessly, mouth parted around words that would not come.

The dragon’s gaze found him—pinned him like a spear of crimson fire. His smile sharpened, eyes glinting with a predator’s mirth.

“Little Lord of Cinders,” he mused, head tilting with sinuous curiosity, “did you truly think hiding in your broken tower would save you?”

The mocking title slid into the silence like poison into wine, staining every ear with humiliation. Murmurs spread through the nobles like ripples across stagnant water.

The last dragon began a slow, deliberate circuit around the dais, boots stirring shallow pools of sooty water. His gaze drifted over each courtier, unblinking, unhurried.

“You were so quick to raise banners,” he murmured, voice soft as falling snow. “So swift to swear oaths you never meant to keep.” His crimson stare pinned the baroness, the scarred duke, the old priest—one by one, each caught in his patient, scorching regard. “Did you think your lies were clever enough to blind the eyes that first watched dawn rise over these mountains?”

A sudden crack of lightning split the sky beyond the keep, illuminating him in stark, terrible relief—horns, molten scars, blood-red eyes—no longer man, but the storm’s own favored child.

As thunder rolled in the lightning’s wake, the last dragon turned to face the king once more.

“I have come to collect what was promised,” he said, his words cold and irrevocable. “Or shall your kingdom pay the price for your cowardice?”

The hall held its breath. Beyond the broken walls, the wind howled like the mourning of the dead.

The king’s lips parted at last, but whatever plea he might have mustered died beneath the weight of those crimson eyes. He sank to his knees—not in grace, but in hollow collapse. His crown slipped from his brow, ringing once against the stone before rolling to the foot of the dais like a discarded trinket.

The last dragon did not glance at it. His gaze remained fixed on the king—sharp, unblinking, almost amused.

“See how they fall,” he murmured, low and almost to himself. “Kings, lords, men who named themselves rulers of the earth. All on their knees, as they were always meant to be.”

The nobles held their tongues. One man’s hand drifted to his sword, only to fall away beneath the dragon’s silent regard. A mother clutched her child tighter, as though the infant might shield her from the ancient fury before them.

The dragon’s attention shifted to her, and for a breath the hall stood frozen. Then his mouth curved—not in rage, but in something colder.

“Ah. The mothers,” he said softly, voice steeped in pity turned bitter. “You I almost grieve for. You clutch what you should have shielded with honesty and courage. And now, you clutch too late.” His gaze swept the gathered courtiers, lingering on faces gaunt with hunger and hollowed by dread. “You built your kingdoms upon treachery and greed, and now you weep when the world remembers.”

He strode forward, each step slow and deliberate, boots striking the stone with the weight of inevitability. He stopped before the dais, looking down at the kneeling king.

“I will not take a babe from its cradle,” he said, his voice carrying the quiet certainty of a storm long since resolved. “I am not as you are.”

The words fell like stones into a silent well. “Your daughter shall be mine when she reaches her twentieth year. And the daughters who follow. Every firstborn lady of royal blood. This is the price of the peace you squandered.”

A sharp inhalation rippled through the hall. The king bowed lower, his forehead brushing the cold, unyielding stone.

“Do you not speak, Little Lord of Cinders?” the dragon asked, head tilting as though to better catch some feeble reply. His smile deepened, cruel and amused. “Ah, but what is left to say? You would sell anything—your gold, your daughters, your gods—for a few more years cowering behind your shattered walls.”

A baron tried to form words, some protest half-born, but the dragon’s eyes cut to him, and his voice withered before it touched air.

“You will deliver your daughters to me, as promised,” the dragon continued, his tone softening to the razor’s edge of mockery. “And in return, I will not reduce this wretched keep to ash. I will not scatter your bones to the winds tonight. Consider it… generosity.”

Outside, the wind rose in a low, mournful wail.

“And when she comes to me,” the last dragon said, his gaze drifting to the empty cradle beside the throne, “I will give her what your kind never could: truth. No lies. No hollow banners. No oaths waiting to be broken.”

He stepped back, the storm’s breath at his heels.

“Remember this night. Remember the price of your greed. And pray, Little Lord, that twenty years will be enough to teach your kind humility.”

Without waiting for reply, he turned, his form swallowed whole by the dark beyond the ruined doors.

The storm swept after him, as if called to heel, and the breathless quiet that followed rang louder than thunder.

The nobles remained frozen, each afraid that the slightest movement might summon the dragon’s return. Only the wind, threading through shattered windows and crumbling stones, dared disturb the suffocating stillness. The king did not rise. His crown lay forgotten at his feet, and his gaze stayed fixed upon the empty cradle beside him, its pale wood etched forever in shadow.

No word was spoken. No prayer uttered. Not even the priest’s voice rose to bless what remained.

Outside the keep, the storm unfurled its fury across the desolate land. Lightning stitched jagged scars across the sky. Winds swept ash and sorrow alike, scattering them over fields where nothing would ever grow again.

And in the years that followed, the pact endured.

The firstborn daughter of royal blood, at the dawn of her twentieth year, was delivered to the mountain. A bride in name, a sacrifice in truth. No crown upon her head. No banner at her back. Only a lone rider, and the cold, unyielding road stretching from palace gates to the dragon’s dark domain.

Then another. And another still.

Through seasons of peace hard-won and peace squandered, the price was paid. Through kings who knelt and kings who raged, queens who wept and queens who did not, the price was paid.

One hundred and nine daughters. One hundred and nine brides. One hundred and nine sacrifices offered beneath storm-torn skies.

And with each, the kingdom’s hope dwindled further.

It is said that with every bride claimed, the dragon’s mountain grew taller, its shadow longer, until it loomed over the realm like a judgment no soul could escape.

It is said the songs changed too—that mothers no longer sang of bright futures and golden kings, but of storms and sorrow, of daughters cloaked in white and led into the dark.

And it is said—though none now dare whisper it aloud—that the pact’s end would come not with banners or armies, but with a blade, and a hand that trembled as it struck.

So the tale begins, as all such tales do: with a promise made in fear, and a debt that must, at last, be paid.

to be continued...

♡ brides of the last dragon : @blessdunrest @otome-house @kestrelmando @cms399 @cutestnursingstudent @wakeupr41 @orcawholikeskrakans @crimsonlittlecrow

♡ Taglist is open.

If you wish to walk with me through this ruin—if you wish to witness each fragment as it falls—simply reply or send an ask, and I’ll add you to the list.

[ cover template : miisuki on x ]

[aethelwyneleigh27]

Our Throne of Ruin

Chapter One: Blood-Stained Hand of a Royal

Plus-size/Chubby afab! fem! Princess!Reader x Villain!Simon

Warnings and Disclaimers: Violence, Assault, and Attempted Sexual Assault?? (Not by Simon, it is disgusting and uncomfortable so please do not continue if you have a faint heart), Gore, Severed Body Parts, Decapitation.

Genres: Romance, x Reader Insert, Alternate Universe, Dark Fantasy, Fantasy AU, Royalty AU, Villain AU, Arranged Marriage, Dark Romance??

Throne Of Blood and Ruin Playlist <3

My CoD Masterlist and Series Masterlist <3

If you prefer to read it in Wattpad's format (Please leave comments) <3

Next Chapter

"My lady, these appear to be exceedingly valuable," Leticia, your young handmaiden, exclaimed breathlessly as she held up the ruby-encrusted silver earrings against your ears to see how they would look on you.

"I'm certain the lord who dispatched it desires a royal womb for their heirs," you said with a scoff, rolling your eyes, as you favored jewelry received as genuine gifts over bribes.

Leticia offered a simple smile, setting aside the jewelry she held into the untouched box, and instead, she searched for the ones you favored most… gold, diamonds, and pearls.

Earrings that match the pearls and gold details on the bodice of your dress perfectly, complemented by a crown crafted from the same materials as the jewels dangling from your ears.

Your senior handmaiden, Agatha, attempted to kneel and place your walking jewelry on your feet.

"Agatha! What are you doing?" you exclaimed, though the answer was clear to you. Before she could reply, you interjected, "No, please. I appreciate your willingness to serve, but don't kneel; it could injure you."

With a sigh, you stood from your vanity seat and helped her to her feet. She responded with a smile brimming with thankfulness.

"As kind and caring as ever, Your Highness," she said, lifting the small basin filled with rosewater to wash your hands, then gently wiping them with a white cloth dampened in the scented water.

The gods are aware that the woman has aged gracefully, yet there's concern she may injure herself with the relentless demanding tasks handmaidens endure. You slip on your shoes while Leticia unravels your hair from the curling cloths.

"What would you like done with your hair, my lady?"

"Pearls, Leticia…" you murmured, gazing into the mirror.

Once your handmaidens had finished preparing you, Leticia suggested a leisurely walk. She knew you might use this as the perfect opportunity to have an encounter with those vying for affection.

With a light melody on your lips, you wandered the castle's ramparts with an air of freedom.

You turn to a corner to find a man, only you could assume was a contender as well. Dressed in whatever garb their nation was to consider fashion, he had two knights along either side of him. The way he held himself, you could already tell. How arrogant.

You walked past him without much care to greet him, a test to see how he'd take rejection. He commands his knights to leave him be, striding next to you.

"I must admit I wasn't expecting to be graced with your presence so soon." He said you didn't respond verbally. Instead choosing to raise a brow at his statement, clearly not realizing that he's talking to you far too casually for your liking.

He scoffs, trying to wrap his arm around your shoulder to which you shrugged his hand off. "You reek of ale and brothels" you whispered to yourself as you subtly waved off the smell of his breath from your face.

You felt an almost cracking pain on your wrist as you were yanked back, your eyes widened, he had heard you.

You tried to free yourself but instead, he pulled the clasp and chain of your necklace, effectively choking you with the decorative metal against your skin. You pried your hands between it and your neck, desperately trying to claw his grip off.

The pain was unlike anything you had ever experienced, burning intensely. Your breaths were shallow and frantic. Tears welled up uncontrollably, spilling over.

It felt as though the muffled choking sounds were yours alone as your body convulsed. Your windpipe seemed to be caving under an unyielding grip, with every attempt to breathe met by an impenetrable barrier.

A wet, sloppy tongue dragged across your cheek, leaving a slimy trail that made your skin crawl. The unexpected touch was cold and clammy, like the lick of a serpent, and the stench of sour mixed with the pungent smell of fermented bitterness in his breath lingered in the air.

Your stomach churned with disgust as your body flinched away from his chest which he forcibly pressed against your back. Disgusting bastard, his chuckling fueled your nerves with more anger and fear.

"Pretty, defenseless little princess.." You attempted to protest, but it emerged as nothing more than a feeble whimper.

Someone, help me. Please...

You prayed for the air, for someone...

It wasn't until he was yanked away that you heard a thud, and you began to violently cough, the pressure on your throat finally easing. Collapsing to your knees, you groaned from the sudden pain, crawling away before turning to see what had transpired.

The man who just attempted to assault you on the ground and unconscious as an unrecognizable but broad figure retreated to the shadows out of the corner of your eye, just observing.

All your life, you've felt like s prey to the disgusting eyes of men older than your father, this wasn't new.

"My lady!" The scream of your handmaiden, Leticia, echoed as she rounded the corner in search of you. Panic etched her features, tears brimming at the sight of the redness on your neck.

You deemed it unwise to inform your king of the incident, especially since he was the one attempting to auction you off to a man who fancied himself a god among men.

You dusted your gown off as you instructed Leticia to ask for a tonic at the castle's apothecary, your throat nearly giving out at the soreness.

You had opted to seek solace at your place of worship before continuing through the not-so-exciting festivities your father arranged, despite your attempts to distract yourself, you cannot shake off the feeling of being watched.

Something waiting to pounce at you from within the shadows..

Prayer beads, it wasn't in your pockets.

You continue to pat around your body. "My lady, you seem troubled. Is something amiss?" Leticia asked, concern never leaving her tone since the events that transpired.

"My prayer beads, I must've misplaced or dropped them earlier," You mumbled.

"Oh.." was all she could respond, she knew how cherished that item was to you, being passed down from your mother.

"I'll make sure to find them later on, I swear that on my own mother," she lifted her palm, and a small smile broke from your lips at the promise.

You get up from your knees to set the candle you've lit down on the foot of the monument of the goddess of marriage and fertility, payers inclined to help you find a husband, unlike your father. Hoping your mother will also hear your prayers in the afterlife.

"Leticia, my shawl please" You sighed. She slipped the thin fabric over your exposed shoulders and replaced your colored veil with your earlier embellishments.

...

You composed yourself as well as possible, attempting to breathe steadily and keep your eyes open to avoid flashes of the experience from just a few hours before by picking the skin next to your nails.

Gripping your aching neck, you felt the imprints of the recent assault. As your gaze shifted to the entrance, the massive doors groaned, pushed open by the servants outside.

From the comfort of your cushioned throne, you surveyed the assembly, noting how the sound redirected their attention to the entrance, just as your eyes had done moments before.

The usual commotion and conversation that overlapped one another at such an event died out faster than poison could kill a rat, all sounds replaced by the clanking of metal... most can recognize the hollow sound of armor and the sharp end of a sword scratching the stone floor.

There a familiar broad man stood. You can't quite put your finger on it, but his face is like something out of your dreams, masked with a knight's great helm.

The silence was defending as he left the people speechless or much rather afraid to speak of anything, covered in blood and some flesh stood a stranger.

He made his way in, the crowds of nobles making a path for him as he did. The carpet beneath him somehow cushioning his heavily metal-cladded steps.

Your eyes widened at the sight of the stranger as he got closer, only now seeing what he had by his side while he hastily threw his great helm on the ground to pay his respect in court.

The severed head of the noble who tried to lay a hand on you, holding it by the fistful of hair as the blood from the neck stained the fur carpet below it.

You hear the king beside you as he chokes. He could not control his breathing, seeming to be on the verge of a heart attack.

"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?! YOU INSOLENT BASTARD, YOU'LL PAY FOR THIS!" One of the nobles in the crowd screamed with much anger, must be his father or a figure of some sort.

The man attempts to lunge at the man in armor but is held back by three of the palace knights. Loud clanking as the lord hit the armored men over and over.

Oddly enough, you weren't terrified after the initial shock. The man that stood before you severed the head of the same man who tried to commit an unforgivable act on you, it was almost poetic in its own way... satisfying even.

He knelt before you instead of your father, much to your surprise. Gasps and murmurs emulated from the nobles and royals present, apart from the screaming guardian of the beheaded suitor.

He had no respect for the head he held as he threw it on the side, having it roll to the king's feet who had no words of offense as he was too shocked to utter anything but silent stuttering.

On one knee the man with blood-soaked presumably light hair remained, his head down, eyes still on the floor. You stood up from your throne, head held high as you walked towards the armored fellow.

The intricate precious metal encrusted with priceless jewels hung on your ears and swayed along with the ones in your hair. The train of your silk gown flows effortlessly behind you.

Your eyes on him at every step, he lifted his gaze from down below onto you, his hand shifting. Uncertain of what to anticipate, you watched as he extended his hand toward you, palm open, the callouses on his fingers beckoning you closer.

You care not for the blood that stained his hand and caked under his nails, so you hesitantly slipped your fingers in his, heart pounding out of your chest as the stranger bathed in blood grinned at seeing your hand in his.

He gripped your hand in the most gentle way you've ever had anyone touch you. He lightly tugged on your arm and let you naturally step closer with his guidance as he brought the back of your hand up to his lips.

You felt his dry yet warm lips on your knuckles, eyes up on you as he looked for approval. You blinked, and for a moment your eyes drifted to the severed head.. its own open but soulless before you reverted your gaze back to the man who has your hand.

With another kiss on your ring, he releases your hand. You gaze at it, noticing how the blood has stained it in an effortlessly abstract pattern.

Breathlessly staring at your hand, now tainted with the filthy blood of one of the bastards who hurt and wronged you. Staring back at you, presenting an opportunity on a silver platter, all just for you...

A/n: I know this series will come more likely with backlash because of the reader's body description being so specific, the gore, and just the general dark fantasy aspect however I find it difficult to write for something I cannot insert myself in as it is where I build my ideas from. I know that the listed warnings are quite dark, but I am new to writing dark fantasy, I know that dark romance is very controversial, but I don't know if this counts as one of them. This is a very long one, and I hope you all enjoy it. Also new dividers from @/cafekitsune, as always 👀

Note: Comment to be in the taglist.

Series Taglist: @wishesforyou @puff0o0 @simping4konig @simp4konig @blingblong55 @azereus @rustic-guitar-notes @callsignsnowpunisher @anonymuslydumb @skeletalgoats @icarustypicalfall @connorsui @capuccino192 @miss-gms-and-the-rotten-womb @celestialhole @the-second-sage @starryylies @duck-a-doodle @everlastingmoonlightsworld @keiva1000 @drewsmuse @sommii @sleep101 @blueladys-world @myspaceisra

[misswynters]

Journey Begins — Chapter One

Dragon Twins Series

Aegon Targaryen x Dayne!fem!reader x Aerion Targaryen

[synopsis: You finally arrived at the capital, the land of in which aegon the conqueror came through. You are from the illustrious House Dayne from Dorne. You catch the eyes of the targaryen twin princes, aegon and aerion. You are betrothed to the heir apparent, Aegon Targaryen. Your new spouse is not very keen towards you, only his brother, Aerion shows slight interest.

[warnings: none

[work count: 3.3k

[a/n: i haven’t written in so long so bare with me. it’s proofread but i couldve missed something.

[note | it would greatly appreciated if you would not only just like, but also reblog & give me feedback. thank you!

| next chapter | masterlist |

The sun was setting as you made your way to King’s Landing. The banners of House Dayne which beared the white sword and falling star, fluttered against the warm breeze. You sat there, with your head held high as your eyes peaked through the small windows of the carriage. The only think you saw was the streets of the capital buzzing with people at the market and kids playing. The Red Keep loomed ahead, its imposing silhouette casting long shadows over the ancient city. As they approached, you could feel the weight of your family’s expectations that are now resting on your shoulders.

House Dayne, renowned for its ancient history and the legendary sword of Dawn, had always maintained an influential presence in the realm. Therefore your arrival in kings landing was not just a matter of formality; it was a declaration of the dayne influence and a future entailment of your role at the kings court. As the procession entered the castle gates, You were greeted by the sight of the Targaryen standard flying high above the ramparts. The dragon sigil seemed to shimmer in the fading light, a reminder of the power and legacy of the house you would soon be entangled with. You dismounted gracefully, your hair cascading over your shoulders, and adjusted your violet cloak, a gift from your family marking your status as a noble of Dorne.

Inside the red keep, the atmosphere was charged with anticipation. Nobles and the servants whispered amongst themselves as their eyes followed your presence. You were escorted to the grand hall where there was a feast being prepared in your honor. The hall was a marvel of architecture, with high ceilings adorned with intricate tapestries depicting the history of House Targaryen. The long tables were laden with an array of dishes, from roasted meats to exotic fruits, and the air was thick with the mingling scents of rich spices and sweet wines.

At the head of the hall, seated upon the dais, were the twin princes of the realm: Aegon and Aerion Targaryen. Aegon, the elder by mere minutes and the heir apparent, had an air of composed authority. His silver-gold hair was neatly trimmed, and his piercing violet eyes exuded a sense of calm determination. By contrast, Aerion's dark auburn hair fell in wild waves around his shoulders, and his eyes sparkled with mischief and restless energy. They were a striking pair, embodying the duality of fire and ice that defined their lineage.

You approached the dais with measured steps, your heart beating a little faster with each step. You bowed gracefully, acknowledging the princes with the respect due their station. "Your Highnesses," you greeted them, your voice steady and clear.

"Lady ___ Dayne," Aegon replied, his voice smooth and commanding. "Welcome to King’s Landing. Your presence here honors us."

Aerion leaned forward, a playful smile tugging at his lips. "Indeed, it is not often we are graced with such beauty and distinction from the South. I trust your journey was pleasant?"

Your eyes met Aerion's gaze, twinkling with amusement. "It was long but not without its charms, your grace. The roads of Westeros are always full of surprises."

Aegon’s expression softened slightly, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "We are pleased you have arrived safely. There is much to discuss in the days to come, matters of great importance to both our houses."

As the day continued, the atmosphere in the Red Keep grew increasingly tense. You found yourself caught in the middle of a growing rift between Aegon and Aerion.

Aegon's cold demeanor persisted, though he made more of an effort to be present. You appreciated the attempts, but the connection you guys longed for remained elusive. Aerion, on the other hand, continued to be a source of comfort and companionship, his presence a balm to your weary soul.

࣪⠀⊹  ˑ  ִ  ֗   ִ  ۫

The next evening, a ceremony was held to formally announce your betrothal to Aegon. The Great Hall was filled with nobles, lords, and ladies, all dressed in their finest attire. The air was thick with the scent of flowers and the sound of music, creating an atmosphere of celebration that belied the undercurrents of tension.

You stood beside Aegon, your hand resting on his arm as they greeted the guests. Aerion was nearby, his eyes never straying far from his brother and the person who would soon be his sister-in-law. As the ceremony began, You felt a growing sense of unease, a feeling that intensified with each passing moment.

The High Septon performed the ritual, binding their hands with a length of silk and speaking the ancient words that would unite them in the eyes of the Seven. You glanced at Aegon, hoping to find some hint of warmth or affection, but his expression remained stoic, his eyes fixed on the Septon.

As the ceremony concluded, the guests applauded, you and Aegon were led to the high table for the ceremonial feast. The hall was filled with laughter and conversation, but you couldn't shake the feeling of being on display, a pawn in a game of power.

Aerion joined you guys at the high table, his presence a welcome distraction from the tension that lingered between you and Aegon. As the feast progressed, you found yourself drawn into conversation with Aerion, his wit and charm a stark contrast to Aegon's brooding silence.

"Aegon, you must try the Dornish red," Aerion said, pouring a goblet of wine and passing it to his brother. "It's truly exceptional."

Aegon accepted the goblet with a curt nod, his eyes flicking briefly to you before returning to his food. "Thank you, Aerion," he said, his tone neutral.

You sighed inwardly, turning your attention back to Aerion. "Have you ever visited Dorne, Aerion?" you asked, hoping to steer the conversation to safer ground.

Aerion's eyes lit up. "Once, a few years ago. The landscape is breathtaking, and the people are as warm as the sun. You must show me around someday."

"I would love that," you replied, a genuine smile tugging at their lips. "There are so many places I could show you."

Aegon looked up, his expression darkening. "Is this appropriate?" he asked, his voice cold. "Discussing travel plans when we are in the middle of our betrothal feast?"

Your smile faltered, a flush of embarrassment coloring their cheeks. "I was just trying to make conversation," you said quietly.

Aerion's gaze hardened. "Aegon, there's no harm in a little light conversation. Surely you can see that."

Aegon's eyes flashed with anger. "I am your brother, Aerion, she is my betrothed. I expect you to respect that."

You felt a surge of frustration. "Aegon, this is our celebration. Can't we enjoy it without arguing, please?"

Aegon set his goblet down with a thud, his eyes boring into you. "I am trying to enjoy it, but it is difficult when you spend more time talking to my brother than to me."

You met his gaze evenly, you’re voice was steady. "I am trying to bridge the gap between us, Aegon. But respect goes both ways. You cannot demand it if you do not give it."

The hall fell silent, the guests watching the exchange with wide eyes. Aerion placed a calming hand on your shoulder. "Let's not ruin this evening," he said softly. "We are family, and we should act like it."

Aegon's expression softened slightly, though the tension in his eyes remained. "Very well," he said, his tone grudging. "Let us enjoy the feast."

The rest of the evening passed in a strained silence, the earlier warmth and camaraderie replaced by a palpable unease. You did your best to engage with the guests, but their thoughts kept returning to the confrontation with Aegon and the growing tension between him and Aerion.

As the feast drew to a close, you excused yourself and retired to your chambers, exhaustion weighing heavily on your shoulders. You changed into your nightclothes and climbed into bed, your mind was racing with the events of the evening.

࣪⠀⊹  ˑ  ִ  ֗   ִ  ۫

The next morning, you were awakened by a gentle knock on the door. The handmaidens entered, bringing fresh clothes and preparing a bath. As you got dressed, your thoughts turned to the day ahead and the many challenges that awaited you. Hoping that Aegon would soon find you more interesting and give you the attention as your husband.

After getting ready, you made your way to the dining hall, hoping for a quiet meal and a chance to unwind. To your surprise, Aerion was already there, seated at a small table near the window. He looked up as you entered, a welcoming smile on his face.

"Good morning, ___," he greeted, gesturing to the empty seat across from him. "Join me?"

You returned the smile and took a seat. "Good morning, your grace. I would love to."

You guys ordered a simple meal, the kind that reminded you of home, and settled into an easy conversation. The food was delicious, and the company even more so. Aerion's presence was a balm to your weary soul, and you found yourself laughing and talking late into the morning.

As the conversation flowed, you both continued to talked about your hopes and dreams, fears and uncertainties. Surprisingly, you found yourself opening up to him in a way you had never been able to with Aegon, the bond between you growing stronger with each passing moment.

"I never expected to find a friend here," you admitted with a soft voice. "But you have been a true friend to me, Aerion. Thank you."

Aerion smiled, a warmth in his eyes that made your heart flutter. "You are welcome, ___. I am glad to have found a friend in you as well."

Their laughter and easy banter were interrupted by the arrival of Aegon. His expression was stern, and his eyes flashed with irritation as he took in the scene before him. "What is going on here?" he demanded, his voice cold.

You and Aerion looked up, the warmth of your conversation dissipating in an instant. Aerion remained seated, his expression calm but his eyes defiant. "We were just having breakfast, brother."

Aegon's gaze shifted to you, a frown marring his handsome features. "This again…why are you speaking with him?"

Your met his gaze evenly, your heart pounding in your chest. "Aerion was kind enough to join me for breakfast. We were just talking."

Aegon's frown deepened. "Just talking? You are my wife. You should be spending time with me, not him."

Aerion stood up, his chair scraping against the floor. "Aegon, if you were around more often, perhaps ___ wouldn't feel the need to seek company elsewhere."

Aegon's face flushed with anger. "Stay out of this, Aerion. This is between me and my wife."

You stood as well, your voice firm. "Aegon, he has been nothing but kind to me. Ever since the ceremony, you have ignored me and treated me with indifference. I am trying to make the best of this situation, but you make it incredibly difficult."

Aegon's eyes flashed with a mixture of anger and something else—guilt, perhaps. "I am your husband, and you will respect that."

You felt a surge of frustration. "I am trying to respect our union, but respect goes both ways. You cannot demand it if you do not give it."

The room fell silent, the tension palpable. Aerion watched the exchange with a thoughtful expression, his earlier amusement replaced by concern.

Finally, Aegon sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. "I...I will try to do better," he said, though his tone lacked conviction. He turned and left the hall, leaving you and Aerion standing in the aftermath of the confrontation.

Aerion placed a comforting hand on your shoulder. "You did well. Aegon can be difficult, but he will come around."

“Though he does get drunk often as you’ve noticed these past few days, so be weary about that” he continued.

You nodded, feeling a mix of emotions—relief, frustration, and a lingering sense of uncertainty. "Thank you, your grace. I appreciate your support."

He smiled gently. "Anytime,” as he looked into your eyes “And call me by my name from now on. We are family now, after all." The young man left the dining hall, letting you all by your self and the servants worked the room.

࣪⠀⊹  ˑ  ִ  ֗   ִ  ۫

As the days passed, you tried to settle into your new life in the Red Keep. You attended council meetings, participated in court functions, and did your best to navigate the complex web of alliances and rivalries that defined the royal court.

Aegon remained distant, though he made an effort to be more present. He would sit with you during meals, engage in polite conversation, and accompany you to various events. However, the warmth and connection you had hoped for were still elusive. Aerion, on the other hand, continued to be a constant source of support and companionship.

One evening, after a particularly grueling day of court politics, you found yourself in the library, seeking solace among the dusty tomes and ancient scrolls. Aerion joined you, as he often did, settling into a quiet corner, a bottle of wine and two goblets between you.

"I heard you had a difficult day," Aerion said, pouring them each a generous measure of wine.

You sighed, taking the offered goblet. "It seems there is no end to the intrigue and scheming at court. I feel like I am constantly walking a tightrope."

Aerion raised his goblet in a toast. "To surviving another day in the snake pit."

Clinking your goblets together and drinking the wine, you felt a sense of ease with him. Talking late into the night, your conversations ranging from the mundane life to beyond. Aerion's wit and insight were a constant source of comfort, and you felt a deep sense of gratitude for his presence in your new life.

As the candles burned low, you leaned back in their chair, a contented smile on their lips. "Thank you, Aerion. I don't know what I would do without you."

He smiled, a warmth in his eyes that made your heart flutter. "You are stronger than you realize, ___. You will find your way."

You both parted ways reluctantly, each returning to your respective chambers. As always Aegon is nowhere to be found. He probably ran off somewhere in the capital to get drunk with his friends. If he meant what he said that morning when you met with aerion at the dining hall, he would be spending more time with you. Especially when it comes to sharing your chambers. From what aerion told you about aegon, he would go spend time with whores and get wasted. Though he is the heir apparent, he sure doesn’t act like it sometimes.

As you slipped into bed, the memory of Aerion's reassuring words lingering in your mind. Closing your eyes, you felt a sense of peace washing over them as you drifted off to sleep. At the back of your mind, thinking that the same things would happen continuously, everyday. Aegon ignoring you every time he sees you alone, yet causing an argument when you are with his twin.

࣪⠀⊹  ˑ  ִ  ֗   ִ  ۫

The next morning, Aegon woke you with a sharp knock on the door. The sound echoed through the room, pulling you from a fitful sleep. You blinked against the early morning light, your mind still foggy from the remnants of your dreams.

"Wake up," Aegon called through the door, his voice stern. "We have a council meeting."

You sighed, rubbing your eyes as you sat up. "I'm coming," you replied, trying to shake off the lingering weariness. The servants got you dressed quickly, donning the elegant attire befitting your noble status, and made your way to the council chamber.

The atmosphere in the room was tense when you entered, with Aegon by your side. The small council members were already seated, their expressions ranging from curious to disapproving. You recognized some of them: Lord Hand Otto Hightower, the Master of Coin, and the Master of Ships. Each of their gazes bore into you, a mixture of skepticism and intrigue.

Aegon led you to a seat near the head of the table, introducing you to the council with a formal tone. "This is Lady ___, my betrothed. She will be joining us from now on."

There were murmurs of acknowledgment, but you could feel the underlying tension. You glanced around the table, noticing the reluctant expressions and the way some of the members exchanged knowing glances. It was clear that the rumors about you and Aerion had reached their ears. As if on cue, Aerion entered the chamber, his presence commanding immediate attention. He took his seat with a nod to you and aegon, his expression composed.

The meeting began with the usual discussions of state affairs, taxes, and military matters. You listened attentively, trying to absorb the complex web of politics and alliances. You felt the weight of scrutiny on you, the council members' eyes frequently drifting your way.

After some time, Aegon addressed you directly. "Lady ___, what are your thoughts on the current state of the northern defenses?"

The question caught you off guard. You hesitated, searching for the right words. "I believe that the northern defenses are crucial for the security of the realm," you began, choosing your words carefully. "We must ensure they are well-manned and adequately supplied to withstand any potential threats."

Aegon raised an eyebrow, his expression skeptical. "And how do you propose we achieve that?"

You took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the council's eyes on you. "By allocating more resources to the northern regions, increasing recruitment efforts, and ensuring that the commanders are experienced and well-equipped."

Aegon smirked, a mocking glint in his eyes. "Is that so? And where do you suggest we find these resources? Shall we simply conjure them out of thin air?"

A few of the council members chuckled, and you could feel a flush of embarrassment creeping up your neck. You clenched your fists against your dress, struggling to maintain your composure. "No, of course not," you said, your voice trembling slightly. "We can reallocate funds from less critical areas, and seek additional support from our allies."

Aegon leaned back in his chair, his smirk widening. "Reallocate funds? Seek additional support? It seems you have all the answers, Lady ___. Perhaps you should be sitting in my seat."

The laughter around the table grew louder, and you felt a surge of anger and humiliation. You reached for your goblet, your hand trembling with rage, as you hurled it across the table. The goblet flew past Aegon's head, narrowly missing him, and crashed against the wall, spilling wine everywhere.

The room fell into stunned silence, the council members staring at you in shock. Aegon's expression darkened with fury, but before he could speak, you stood up, your eyes blazing with defiance.

"I will not be humiliated like this," you said, your voice shaking with emotion. "I am trying to do my best, but you make it impossible."

With that, you turned on your heel and stormed out of the room, leaving a trail of shocked silence in your wake. As you walked down the corridors of the Red Keep, tears of frustration and anger welled up in your eyes. You had tried so hard to bridge the gap between yourself and Aegon, but it seemed that every step you took only widened the chasm.

You retreated to your chambers, slamming the door behind her. You sank onto your soft bed, burying your face in your hands. The weight of your new life, the constant scrutiny, and the growing tension with Aegon were all becoming too much to bear.

A soft knock on the door interrupted your solemn thoughts. You wiped your tears stained eyes and took a deep breath before opening the door. To your surprise, it was Aerion.

"Are you alright?" he asked, his voice filled with genuine concern.

You nodded, though your voice betrayed you. "I'm fine. Just... overwhelmed."

Aerion stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. "I saw what happened. Aegon can be cruel, but you did well to stand up to him."

You looked up at him, grateful for his support. "Thank you, Aerion. I don't know how much more of this I can take."

Aerion sat beside you, his presence comforting. "Aegon will come around, eventually. But in the meantime, you have me."

You managed a small smile, the tension in your chest easing slightly. "Thank you. I don't know what I would do without you."

Aerion's eyes softened, and he reached out to gently squeeze your hand. "We'll get through this together."

| next chapter | masterlist |

© misswynters ‘24 - don’t modify or steal my writings

taglist: @sab-falco @spn-obession @tomgcsmrs @sturnioloarchive @arquiiva @malfoycassimalfoy @klutzylaena

[crheativity]

GENERAL LILIA LEARNING HOW TO LOVE!

(love you romantically specifically)

IT IS ILLEGAL THAT HE DOESN'T HAVE ANY FICS IN YOUR MASTERLIST

WARNINGS: Might be OOC ? Unsure. All very cute though! 

COMMENTS: OOOOO I LOVE THIS IDEA!! And I’m sorry it took me so long to get to writing this specifically, but also just anything for Lilia. I love him but the stars were not aligned I suppose. I hope this makes up for it, sorry if it’s short!

You were like the sun to him.

Bright.

So bright that you were almost blinding. You radiated an unfamiliar warmth. You were able to set him on edge so easily - just one glance at you and he’d have to look away.

It was infuriating.

He was the famed General Lilia, the Dragon’s Hand, the Running Rampart of the Verdurous Moor. And yet, you seemed to be the first opponent he’d faced that had beaten him without even drawing a weapon.

You, a human, who was so weak and pathetic, he was willing to bet you couldn’t even lift his Magearm. 

And yet he felt himself drawn to you.

More and more he found it impossible to look away. More and more he found himself dependent on you, on that uncomfortable warmth. 

He wanted to look away, but he couldn’t.

He didn’t understand any of this. He didn’t understand you and he wasn’t sure he wanted to.

But when you’d held his hand and compared the sizes, or when he’d watched you serve the most delicious food he’d ever tasted to his men, or even when you’d hide behind him after Baur had been particularly loud, he’d felt this odd feeling in his stomach. Like the frogs or bugs he’d eaten had come alive, although that surely would’ve been impossible. 

He first guessed you had lied about being magicless and that you’d put some kind of spell on him. He ruled that out quickly - he was a Fae, he knew what magic felt like. But then, what was he feeling? And how could he cure it? 

He looked over at you, sitting on the grass, preparing the camp’s food with a smile on your face. The light of the sunset seemed to strike you, basking you in pure light.

His throat felt tight. His heartbeat rang in his ears.

He tore his eyes away, forcing himself to stare at the grass, his hands, anything.

And yet he found himself looking at you again.

Maybe this is what those humans called love…?

He shoved that thought out of his head. He couldn’t love. He was incapable of feeling any love. All he had was positive regard for his allies and hatred for his foes. That’s what drove him. He couldn’t feel that way.

Could he…?

Maybe, he thought, gazing your way, with a whole lot of luck, you can teach me to understand.

But not now.

Not yet.

But one day.

♥Thank you for reading!! I hope you enjoyed it!!♥