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romanteacism · 3 months ago

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Knight Aemond x Princess Reader Pretense

Synopsis: An afternoon of pretense that makes Ser Aemond question all that he believes and the possibility of him wanting more than what his station is fit for. Warnings: None (yet), Aemond and Reader becoming closer, infatuation, Jealousy, Aemond Discovering Emotions, Fluff, Fake-Marriage PREVIOUS PART / NEXT PART A/N: I was giggling and kicking my feet the entire time writing this

“Sister, you’re absolutely flushed! Was lord Arthur here?” Your brother asked with a teasing grin, making you scowl at him as he sat across from you. As always, you were in the gardens of the summer palace with your sworn protector watching over your day-to-day activities, minus a second knight, much to Aemond’s relief. “Oh, shut up!” You muttered, looking upon your lap and bringing your clammed, cold hands up to your cheeks, attesting how heated they indeed were. “I’ve never seen you like this,” Your brother grinned as he poured himself a cup of tea and refiled your own cup as well. You grumbled and rolled your eyes as you urged your face to be rid of the flush that spread throughout.

Aemond gritted his jaw. Not only did he have to suffer watching as Lord Arthur tried to engage with you throughout the whole of the morning— and you utterly besotted by every little thing he did. Now, he had to hear the recollection of events as your brother had joined you in the gardens, offering no reprieve for your knight, who was already growing tired of the thought of Lord Arthur. “Do you think he will be the one you shall choose?” You choked on your tea, and Aemond’s gaze turned lethal at your brother’s question.

“Gods, brother— I barely know him!” You exclaimed, trying to find your napkin, but it had fallen from your lap; luckily, your knight was quick to retrieve his handkerchief and offered it to you. “Thank you, Ser Aemond.” You say and dabbed your lips. “Seriously, brother, enough with such subjects.” You say, and Aemond silently agrees as he returns to his post behind you. “You must think of your betrothal soon— you are of age, sister. Father and I are drowning in a sea of parchment, and as much as I want you to stay in our home and care, I would very much like the countless scrolls addressed to me by the eligible bachelors of the realm cease! Just earlier, I was rudely woken before the first light with a scroll marked ‘urgent,’ but it was simply a proposal for your hand!”

You shook your head. “Why are you pressuring me into a betrothal and marriage when you yourself are not burdened by such matters? Should you not be married first? You are, after all, older than me and are set to be the next king,” You raised a brow, and your brother failed to find a response to your query, simply changing the subject altogether. “So, are you ready for the end of the summer ball?” You bit your lip to hinder your laugh at your brother’s tactic to change the subject.

“Not quite— Theodore had accidentally ruined my gown,” You pouted, wholly dismayed by your pet cat who had used your dress as his own scratching post. “I’ve sent a raven home to ask the maids to send another, but I do not think it would come in time,” You sighed, troubled as to what to wear for the ball that would take place in two days' time. “Then go to town and have another made,” Your brother shrugged as he finished his tea. You furrowed your brows, “You would let me leave the castle?” You questioned in surprise. “As long as you bring your guards and do not run off again to god knows where.” Your lips parted, uncertain if your brother was being serious. “Truly? Do you mean it?” You questioned as he stood. “Yes, we need you looking your best for Lord Arthur, lest he becomes uninterested and leaves you to be a spinster.” He teased and quickly placed a chaste kiss on your temple before running off before you could retaliate at his jest.

“Your hood, princess,” Aemond said, tugging at the hem of your cover to conceal your face. “Do not fret so much, Ser Aemond. All of this disguise makes them more suspicious,” You say as you walk along the town with your knight by your side. Aemond disagreed, but he stayed silent; he turned behind the two of you to ensure the other knights were still in tow and the other guards he ordered to patrol throughout the town were by their post.

“Flowers for the lady?” A florist called at Ser Aemond by the side of the alley, urging him to take one of her bouquets. Aemond ignored the call, but you were distracted by the pretty flowers. “Ooh…” You trailed, bemused by the colorful display, burying your nose into a bouquet of lilacs. Aemond waited tensely as you made conversation with the vendor, hoping you would not be recognized. “Princess—“ He whispered, tugging at your arm as he saw the woman starting to realize who you were. “Enough formalities… would not want them to grow suspicious, would you not, Aemond?” You whispered as you turned to your knight, addressing him without formal titles for the first time. Aemond licked his lips, an odd sensation spreading through his body as you addressed him solely by his name.

“Such a pretty girl you are… it’s a shame your husband would not buy you flowers,” The vendor suddenly sighed, rendering Aemond still in his spot. He expected you to deny such claims, but you only laughed at the vendor’s tactic of trying to sell her flowers through guilt. “It truly is a pity… before, when we were courting, he would just send me flowers without me even asking for them! He would send them so often and in such large quantities that it turned my father’s home into a garden; even bees began to swarm it! Now, not even nagging or arm pulling would urge him to pick up a simple wildflower off the street!” You laughed, along with the woman who readily brought your pretense. Aemond just stood there, his cheeks flushed, and he felt his erratic pulse at the tip of his ears. “What happened to you, husband? Has marriage with me truly changed you?” You asked with a smile, your eyes urging him to join in your deception.

“Come now, wife, we must get going,” He said and handed the vendor a few coins along with the bouquet he observed you liked the most and hastily took your arm to drag you to the seamstress. You laughed and yelled a quick ‘thank you’ to the woman who seemed happy enough that her most pricey bouquet was bought by what she believed were husband and wife. “That was fun,” You laughed at your pretend husband, who was too rigid as he walked by your side. “You could have been discovered, princess! What were you thinking?” He said, exasperated. You sighed and shook your head, taking the bouquet from his hand, letting your fingers brush, and you felt how cold his touch was. “What would get me discovered is your persistence in calling me princess. Come now, Ser Aemond, address me by my name, or have you forgotten it already?” You teased, but Aemond did not find the matter amusing at all— if anything, this visit to the town had made his already tense manner more austere.

“Fine, keep calling me princess and have them discover I’m here— create a commotion and arouse more dang—“ Aemond sighed and finally uttered your name, unchained by any title. You smiled triumphantly up at him, but only an uncomfortable expression could be seen on his face as his stomach was in a knot. “You’re starting to offend me now. Am I that disagreeable that you could not even pretend that I am your wife for the afternoon?” You asked as you linked your arm with his. Aemond swallowed thickly at the question you proposed, when he did not answer because he his nerves and emotions that he always tried to conceal were starting to get the best of him, you felt dread pool in your gut.

You stayed silent until you reached the seamstress’ shop, finally letting go of your knight’s arm. You talked with the woman who ran the shop, who as well did not know your true identity. Aemond stood by the door as you began to be fitted for your gown. “Sir, you need not stand by the door. Come, sit and have a cup as you wait for your wife,” An elderly man approached, ushering Aemond onto a seat, and he began to question if you two truly did look like husband and wife because the smallfolk readily believed and assumed such notions.

“How lucky you are that your husband joins you with such errands; I could not even get my husband to accompany me to a simple walk along the town square!” The seamstress laughed as she measured the length of your arm. You laughed, turning to Ser Aemond with a teasing glint in your eyes as they were completely oblivious to who you were, too distracted with what they assumed to be a couple completely enthralled and devoted to one another. “Hm… it truly is rare to find such a man,” You smiled and returned to face the mirror, Ser Aemond shifting uncomfortably in his seat as he felt his heart flutter further. “Here you are, lad,” the old man offered him tea and sat next to Aemond.

“So, how long have you two been married?” He questioned casually, trying to converse with a man who never enjoyed such things. “A—a year,” He said stiffly, sipping the hot liquid, his eye going to you, who he knew listened to the conversation even if your gaze was focused upon the fabric selection you were presented with. “Quite new— how long did you two court?” Aemond was asked, and his hold on the cup tightened as he could not dismiss the prying old man, for you will surely scold him. “Five years,” He muttered and saw the shock on the stranger’s face for the long courtship. “Her… her father had disapproved of the match— it took time to convince him.”

“And convinced he was,” you interjected, making the two men turn to you. The old man smiled, “Lucky lad you are, such a comely wife who’s ready to defy her father’s wants— you rarely see that now. Girls are too afraid to go against their father’s order and have themselves disowned.” The man sighed, and Aemond stilled as you approached. “Better to have love and be destitute than be miserable with a dowry,” You shrugged. “What color do you think, husband? The pink or the cream?” Aemond licked his lips as you and the man expectantly looked at him, waiting for his response. “The cream, wife,” He answered, urging himself not to stutter as he was finding it harder to breathe with each moment of your pretense. “Very well, if my husband says to pick the cream, then I shall wear a cream-colored gown,” You smiled further and returned to the seamstress, giving her the preferred fabric of Ser Aemond.

When it was time to settle the payment, Aemond stood beside you by the counter. “Could it be finished by the morning after next? We could pay more,” You say, and the seamstress eagerly nodded. “Of course, and what name should we place when it is collected?” She questioned, making Ser Aemond nervous, for he himself could not think of a pretend name. “Seraphina,” You pretended, and Aemond hindered his confusion to show how effortlessly you thought of a name.

When you exited the shop, Aemond could not restrain himself to ask the question in his mind. “Where did that name come from?” He questioned, confusing you for a moment. “Seraphina?” You asked as you two walked arm in arm to the outskirts of town where the royal wheelhouse waited. Ameond nodded, and you shrugged, “I’ve read it from a book before, and truthfully, that is the name I would want for my daughter if I ever have one,” You say, taking another whiff of the bouquet Ser Aemond bought for you. “Our daughter, you mean?” He asked, gathering the courage to join you in your pretense fully. Your eyes widened, and a laugh escaped your lips as you tore away your knight’s armor— a rare grin on his thin lips that made your heart beat faster. “Yes, of course,” You laughed, still keeping up with the charade that was wholly easy to do.

When the ball commenced, Aemond was no longer glued by your side but rather at his true place, which was by the distance— a mere knight guarding his princess. He stood by a pillar a few yards away from you, but he could still hear your voice, listening to your conversations. “Look, Lord Arthur is to approach— sister, your cheeks are already blushing!” Your brother laughed, making you roll your eyes and pinch his side. In truth, a blush no longer crept up to your cheeks, not even when Lord Arthur invited you to dance or when he placed a kiss on your knuckles.

Aemond stood on his post with his jaw gritted tightly, and his hand clenched around the hilt of his sword. The lord pulled you flush to him, and the song began. He watched you dance around with the lord with the gown he had helped pick and with the flowers he bought for you, adoring your hair— his mind straying to the afternoon where you and he were husband and wife to sedate his mind and preoccupy him from the truth that a mere knight like him would never deserve a princess.

Taglist: @anukulee @ladyriverasafespace @rebeccawinters @gayfiretruck @bellarkeselection @eraenaa

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marcskywalker · 5 months ago

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alright alright

Merlin has made a habit of laying protective charms and spells on Arthur's armor. The man is a big liability (king or not, Merlin will say it as it is). Running into danger head first, without thought or concern, is his top favorite activity.

It's what makes Arthur Arthur; his courage in the face of death.

So yes, it's become a necessity for Merlin to charm his armor for strength and endurance.

He decides to charm the King's new set of armors in his royal chamber in the middle of the day, while Arthur is away presumably listening to another one of mind numbingly boring reports from his knights.

What is a safer place for Merlin other than this room? Where else can he walk in as he pleases? Move about as he pleases? Leave a mess, jest around, lock the door and loiter as he pleases?

Within these walls, no one would dare to question him.

The King's trust is loud enough.

So, Merlin lays out all the metal on the floor and begins. He holds the cold, sharp chestpiece in his hand. Imagines Arthur under it; Arthur's beating heart and his warm, soft, breakable skin.

His magic flows out of him without command or permission, desperate to erase all the images of his mortal king bleeding and weak.

Oh, protectors of Earth and Magic! Cradle him as you would cradle your son.

His eyes are ember, words still on his lips, the shimmer of magic over the metal, when door swings open.

"Leon is one of my oldest and closest friends, but by Gods he makes me miserable," Arthur lets out a long breath, as if to blow out all the air in his body, looking right at Merlin as he does so.

The gold finally fades from his eyes but Merlin is frozen in place, his bones and breath refusing to move, watching Arthur's face scrunch in confusion, a myriad of feelings flashing through his face before settling on stern eyes and pursed lips.

"Mingling with the druids a lot now, are we?"

"Arthur, I-"

"I know, I know!" he sighs, commanding his face to neutrality, stepping over Merlin and metal towards his desk, "They are my people, too. You're allowed to trade and learn from each other."

Despite his resigned tone, Merlin knows how hard Arthur has worked to ensure a place for Druids in Camelot. Writing in stone, clear as day, that he is more than his father's son; he has claimed them as citizens of Camelot, opening the doors to courts and trade and provisions equally for all in the Kingdom.

Watching Arthur grow into the prophesied will be Merlin's greatest pride. Even if magic is still prohibited to practice under the law, magic users aren't hunted like animals for existing. And Merlin has all the faith in his King that when the time is right, he will bring magic back into the land. Until then, he's happy to live in half shadows.

"I'm allowed to learn magic?" he can't help the skepticism and shock bleed into his tone.

"Well, no! I'm not allowing you for anything, Merlin. But I'm not stupid enough to believe that that's about to stop you."

"So," he draws out the word, unsure of how to step out of the conversation. Unsure if he should even be stepping out of the conversation. "I can learn more magic?"

"You know how I feel about this. The price I have- we have had to pay for it. If you still find yourself curious, do what-" gestures to the laid out armor on the ground, "-ever this is. I only ask that you be careful."

"I'm enchanting it. To keep you safe."

"In exchange for what, Merlin?"

"Nothing-", Merlin loses his grip on the conversation faced with the frightened heartbreak on Arthur's face; the courageous bones bending in unfamiliar ways. "I swear. Nothing. It's not any big magic. The druids do it all the time, we won't have to pay a price for this, Arthur."

"We'll see."

#clearing out my drafts and ya-#merthur #arthur pendragon #merlin #bbc merlin #this is how I think arthur would've reacted to merlin doing magic #automatically assuming that it's the first time merlin has done it cause ~merlin can't keep a secret from me~

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larluce · 2 months ago

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Arthur and Merlin travel back in time without knowing the other is from the future too AU

LINKS TO THE OTHER PARTS OF THIS AU HERE: PART 1 , PART 2 , PART 3 , PART 4 , PART 5 , PART 6 , PART 7 , PART 8 , PART 9 , PART 10 , PART 11 , PART 12 , PART 13 , PART 14 , PART 15 , PART 16 , PART 17 , PART 18 , PART 19 , PART 20 , PART 21 , PART 22 , PART 23 , PART 24 , PART 25 , PART 26 , PART 27, PART 28 (You're here), PART 29

In Merlin's chambers.

Merlin: (pacing, anxious and worried)

Gaius: (enters)

Merlin: (turns to Gaius quickly) How is he? Is he going to be okay?

Gaius: (serious) The King had a seizure, but he's stable now. He should be awake by tomorrow morning.

Merlin: (sighs in relief) Thank the gods!

Gaius: Now sit down (takes Merlin to the bed and sits him) I need to check your bruise.

Merlin: There's no need. It's not serious.

Gaius: (sharply) I know. But these are Prince's orders. (Checks Merlin's cheek) It's a bit swollen, but you'll live. (Puts ointment on the bruise) This should do. Now... (Very serious) What happened?

Merlin: (ashamed) I... I think I pissed him off so bad he collapsed.

Gaius: I figured, Merlin. Uther hit you. It's not difficult to put two and two together. What I need to know is WHAT did you do to piss Uther off so bad he collapsed.

Merlin: (more ashamed, mumbles) I...deny but-then he-and I...

Gaius: Merlin I need every detail, word by word what exactly did you tell the King, so I can find a way to defend you.

Merlin tells him exactly what happened and Gaius hears every word patiently, even when he feels the need to yell at Merlin every 30 seconds for how insolent and reckless Merlin had been.

Gaius: (after Merlin finishes) Alright... There's no way to defend you.

Merlin: What?! 😰

Gaius: You did not only defy the King's authority and raise your voice at him, you mocked him and insulted him! What were you thinking?!😡

Merlin: I don't know! I did what you said: deny, be submissive, be respectful, but he still believed I was guilty and then he said he would send me away from Arthur and I just... got mad!

Gaius: You should've been grateful Uther just wanted to send you away! You'll be lucky if he even grants you a quick and painless death now! You think that Uther is Arthur and will put up with your disrespect? He is the King!

Merlin: I know! I just.. forgot it for a moment. (sighs) I'll pack my things.

Gaius: Why?

Merlin: You said there was no way to defend me, so I'm leaving, like Uther sentenced.

Gaius: (lets out a dry laugh) You really don't get it, do you?

Merlin: (confused) What?

Gaius: How bad you really messed up! (stands up abruptly and moves his hands around as he talks in distress) When I told you'll be lucky if Uther grants a quick and painless death now, I meant it! Everyone thinks you tried to kill the King! And, honestly, I don't blame them. You were alone with the King when he "fainted" and have a fighting mark on your face. If I didn't know you, I would've believe it too. And you do realise that's the worst crime someone can be accused of, right?

Merlin: (pales) But I didn't-And Uther knows I-

Gaius: You think that with how paranoid he has been he won't think you provoque this seizure on him on purpose?

Merlin: ...

Gaius: Once Uther wakes up, you'll be enemy of the crown. You'll be hunted down so bad, not even outside Camelot you'll be safe. And when they get you... (his voice wavers, not able to say it, and sits on the bed again, defeated)

Merlin: But... I'm sure Arthur can do some-

Gaius: Arthur! Even he understands the gravity of the situation more than you do. Do you know where is the prince now?

Merlin: Looking after his father. Where else could he be?

Gaius: ...

Merlin: That's where he is, right?

Gaius: ...

Merlin: Gaius, where is Arthur?

Arthur in a reunion with all his Knights.

Arthur: I won't force you to participate. If your loyalty lays more with Uther than with me, I completely understand. He is still the King after all. But I need to know who will be on my side.

Merlin: (enters) Arthur! (runs to him)

Sir Innprudence: (murmurs) The apple of discord has arrived.

Sir Leon: (hits him, whispering) Silence!

Merlin: Tell me is not truth. Tell me you are not planning to overthrow the king!

Arthur: Alright, I won't tell you.

Merlin: Arthur!

Sir Ewan: (murmuring) Like he didn't plan this from the beginning.

Sir Leon: (whispers) Really? You too?

Sir Ewan: (whispers back) Is his fault we are about to do a rebellion! To think we defended him. But now we know what he is. A poisonous snake-

Merlin: You can't overthrow your own father, are you mad?! I won't let you!

Sir Owain: Listen to him, Sire!

Sir Ewan: Yes, he's talking nothing but reason!

Sir Leon: (whispers to Ewan) Didn't you just say he was a poisonous snake?

Sir Ewan: (whispers back) What are you talking about? I'd never talk bad about The Unicorn Catcher.

Arthur: Don't be ridiculous, Merlin. I'm not really overthrowing my father.

Merlin: You are not? 😧

Arthur: You think I'd take my father's throne by force when he's unconscious and therefore incapable of defending himself in any way? That's not just treason, is dishonorable!

Merlin: (sighs in relief)

Arthur: This is just a back up plan.

Merlin: A back up plan?

Arthur: Yes, my first plan is to try to talk him out of executing you as soon as he wakes up. If he forgives your life, everything will be solved.

Merlin: ... And if he doesn't?

Arthur: That's what the back up plan is for. 😊

Merlin: ...

Knights: ...

Sir Innprudence: Rebellion it is.😔

Merlin: You can't be serious. Arthur, you know Uther won't forgive me!

Arthur: (in denial) Don't be so negative, Merlin. I can try to persuade him. It might work.

Merlin: Arthur-

Arthur: This is just a last resort! If he doesn't see reason, I'll challenge him into a duel-

Merlin: Arthur-

Arthur: If he doesn't accept the duel, i'll ask the court for their support-

Merlin: Arthur-

Arthur: And if I don't have enough support-

Merlin: (shouts) You won't have it! Why would the court help you save the life of a servant? Especially one that is suspected of trying to kill the King! You can't ascend the throne this way. Your legitimacy to the throne will be questioned and your reputation ruined! It's outrageous enough that you are even considering this. He is your father!

Arthur: (shouts) I WON'T LET HIM TAKE YOU FROM ME!

Merlin: ...

Arthur: For years he made feel unworthy of his love. He made me feel guilty for my mother's death since I was a kid. I did EVERYTHING to get his approval. I trained hard, I isolated myself with tones of books, went to quests, I killed in his name! And then what does he do? Insult me, hit me, imprison me and take every piece of happiness I have! He sacked my first nursemaid because she was too soft on me, he killed my first hunting dog because I was getting too attached to it. "Don't show weakness Arthur, why are you crying Arthur? The darkness of the dungeons scares you? Stop acting like a baby, you are turning 8 tomorrow!"

Merlin: (covers his mouth with his hands, wide eye)

Kinghts: (just as shocked) ...

Arthur: I tolerated him a lot of things. But not this. Not with you. I won't let him take my happiness once more!

Merlin: (thinking in awe and emotional) He... he considers me part of his happiness? 🥺

Arthur and Merlin: (get lost in each other's eyes)

Knights: ...

Sir Innprudence: (coughs) Well, the rebellion is not going to make itself.

Leon: (hits him with his elbow and mutters) They were having a moment! (aloud) You can count on me, Sire.

Sir Owain: And me!

Sir Ewan: And me!

Sir Innprudence: Yeah, we already escaped the dungeons. What's another rebellious act?

Leon: (lifting his sword) For the love of Camelot!

All Knights: For the love of the Prince!

Time skip. In Gaius Tower.

Merlin: (enters, very serious)

Gaius: Did you convince the Prince of not doing the rebellion?

Merlin: In fact, he convinced me.

Gaius: What?

Merlin: Did you know Uther put Arthur in dungeons as a punishment when he was 8? Or should I say since?

Gaius: ... Where is this coming from?

Merlin: (barely contained anger) You knew, didn't you? You knew and you didn't do anything!

Gaius: I did what I could! I can't very well confront the king about his parenting methods, Merlin. Unlike you, I know my place.

Merlin: Parenting methods? That's abuse! He was just a child! And I... (thinking) I never noticed. Those times Uther sent Arthur and Morgana to the dungeons, I just assumed they were isolated cases. But they were routine for them. How much did I actually miss in my other life?

Gaius: Uther wasn't the best father, I won't deny that. But does he deserves to lose his crown for that? Besides, this is not just about him. A rebellion will put the life of many at stake. Blood will be spilled. Do you want that on your conscience? On Arthur's conscience?

Merlin: No! Of course not. But if Uther hasn't been a shitty father, Arthur's mind wouldn't be as set as it is now. He killed his dog for gods' sake!

Gaius: What does that has to do with anything?

Merlin: Arthur is not doing this because of me. Apparently this was just the last straw. (thinking) Though it's odd he never reacted like this in my other life. He never thought of doing a rebellion when Uther wanted to kill Gwen. And Arthur always thought high of Uther even years after he died. What changed to make Arthur stop idolizing his father so soon?

Gaius: The last straw? YOU were the last straw! 😡 You and your audacity, your boldness, your lack of self-preservation-

Merlin: I get it, I get it. This is all my fault. You can scold me and ground me all you want later. Now we need solutions. How can we stop Arthur from doing the rebellion?

Gaius: Honestly, Merlin, sending you to talk him out of it was the only hope I had.

Merlin: (thoughtful) Hmmm... Maybe... there wouldn't be a need for a rebellion if...

Gaius: If?

Merlin: (hesitantly) Uther weren't to wake up?

Gaius: (escandalized) Merlin! Are you suggesting to kill the King? 😱

Merlin: No! Never! I wouldn't do that to Arthur! But you must admit it would solve a lot of thing-

Gaius: Shut your mouth! You are speaking treason! Those words alone could get you hanged!

Merlin: I'm pretty much dead now, Gaius. But you're right, I shouldn't joke with those things. (thoughtful again) What can we do?

Gaius: (brings a hand to his chest) You're going to make my heart leave my body one of these days, I swear.

Merlin: (gets an idea) Leave! That's it! (makes a move to leave)

Gaius: (stops him) Where are you going?

Merlin: I'm going to pack my things and leave Camelot. 😊

Gaius: You think running away from your problems is going to solve anything?

Merlin: No, but it'll keep Arthur busy.

Gaius: ...What?

Merlin: Here's the plan. Hear me out. Arthur told me he didn't want Uther to take me from him because I'm part of his happiness. (smiles a little, blushing)

Gaius: Really, Merlin? This is not the time for blushing.

Merlin: I'm not-It's good to feel appreciated sometimes. Anyways, this means Arthur cares enough for me to look for me if I'm gone, right?

Gaius: I would say that more than enough, actually, but yes.

Merlin: So if I leave and hide, Arthur will be too busy trying to find me that he won't have time to organize his rebellion. There, problem solved!

Gaius: That's your great plan. Playing hide and seek with the Prince.

Merlin: Yep. 😊

Gaius: Yes, he'd probably go nuts looking for you, just as he probably would speed up the rebellion in the hope that you will return as soon as the threat is over.

Merlin: ...

Merlin: Okay, I didn't think of that.

Gaius: (sighs)

Merlin: You are not giving me many ideas either, Gaius!

Gaius: Well, for now, I'll do the only thing I can. (picks up a potion and starts leaving)

Merlin: What are you going to do?

Gaius: (defeated) Delay the inevitable. To buy you some time.

Merlin: (keeps looking at Gaius, confused)

Gaius: (sighs) I'm going to drug the King. (leaves)

Time skip. Emergency reunion in Morgana's chambers with Merlin, Gwen and Lancelot.

Lancelot: Arthur even asked me to join the knights in the rebellion.

Gwen: He seems pretty determined, Merlin. Reasoning or trying to sweet persuade him is not going to make him change his mind this time.

Merlin: I know, I tried. (sighs) There must be something we can do!

Morgana: (enters) Sorry, I'm late. Someone had to look after Uther. (gives Merlin a look)

Merlin: (guilty) Morgana-

Morgana: Don't. I know you didn't mean for any of this to happen. And I don't blame you, truly. If I told you all the times Uther made me lose my temper.

Merlin: Yeah, the difference is no one would ever believe you tried to kill the King because of that.

Gwen: There are still many Unicorn Catcher defenders between the servants if that's any consolation to you.

Merlin: It is not. (to Morgana, hopeful) You think you can convince Arthur of not doing this?

Morgana: You think I haven't tried? I even told him he would hurt Uther less if he killed him in his sleep rather than force him to fight his own son in battle, that he was being a monster by doing this, but he went all "this is the honorable way" and all.

Merlin: Perfect. Unless Gaius can sedate Uther forever, we are screw.

Morgana: Have you tried seducing him? 😏

Merlin: This is not time for jokes, Morgana. 😒

Morgana: (thinking) It would work if you weren't so blind to Arthur's feelings. 🤦 (sighs and says) Fine. What about crying to him?

Merlin: Morgana, this is serious!

Morgana: I am serious! How do you think I survived Uther's strict education for so long? Crying was my way to get away with some things with Uther and avoid or reduce some of his punishments. Of course it stopped working when he realised I was faking, but my point is: Pendragons are weak to tears and Arthur is not the exception. When I first came to the castle we didn't get along well. Arthur was jealous that I had all of Uther's attention and believed he was softer on me than him. He wouldn't swordplay with me no matter how much I asked, so what do you think I did?

Merlin: ...Cry?

Morgana: I cried so hard Arthur panicked and gave me his own sword to play. There was also this time some nobel kid made me cry and Arthur kicked him in the crotch.

Gwen: Oh, I remember that! It was so funny.

Lancelot: So you are suggesting manipulation, my lady?

Morgana: I wouldn't call it manipulation. I would call it... Plan T!

Merlin: Plan T?

Morgana: T of using tears as a way to presuade Arthur.

Merlin: That's manipulation!

Morgana: Well, we're running out of options. Besides, I sincerely believe that it can work. It's very easy, just look. (purses her lips and then her eyes begin to water, until tears run down her eyes and then she cries uncontrollably)

Merlin: (worried) Morgana?

Lancelot: Are you alright, my lady?

Morgana: (suddenly stops crying and wips her tears) See? 💁‍♀️

Merlin and Lancelot: (totally shocked) ... 😨😨

Gwen: (claps) You are so talented my lady! 😊

Morgana: It's easy. You just have to hold your breath, gag with your mouth closed and then just focus on the burning in your eyes until your eyes water and, finally, you let out all the frustration in the form of tears. Once you master that, you go to Arthur like this: (goes to Gwen and kneels before her, holding her hands. Then she starts crying all over again) "Please, Arthur, stop this! It's all my fault!" (hits her chest rugly) "I've caused all this. If blood is spilled because of me, I couldn't live with myself. (clinges to Gwen's legs) If you do this, I... I'd rather... disappear!" (faints)

Merlin: ...

Lancelot: ...

Gwen: (amazed) She's good, isn't she? 😃😁

Lancelot: I'll never trust the tears of a woman ever again.

Morgana: (stands up and turns to Merlin) See? Just like that.

Merlin: Yeah, I'm not doing that.

Morgana: You have to! If Arthur notices your anguish he will reconsider.

Merlin: Why don't you do it then?

Morgana: I did and he just sent me to Gaius. The problem when you use a trick too much is that people start to build up immunity to it. Besides, this is something Arthur would expect from me, but he would never expect it from you. With you he'll really be struck down.

Merlin: But... I don't want to lie to him. (thinking) No when I can help it.

Morgana: Technically you wouldn't be lying. You feel guilty, don't you?

Merlin: Of course I do!

Morgana: Then you'd just be amplifying your feelings! Now... (pulls Merlin and puts him infront of Lancelot) Lets practice. Imagine Lancelot is Arthur.

Lancelot: What? 😰

Merlin: Morgana this is ridiculous.😒

Morgana: Want to stop the rebellion?

Merlin: Yes, but-

Morgana: Then cry to Lancelot. Now.

Merlin: (sighs and tries to use Morgana's technique, holding his breath)

Morgana: You are forgetting to gag.

Merlin: (starts to gag)

Morgana: With your mouth close!

Merlin: (tries to do that, but fails and starts coughing)

Morgana: Okay, close enough. At least your eyes are a bit watery. Now kneel and hold Lancelot's hands.

Merlin: (kneels before Lancelot and holds his hands)

Lancelot: (puts his hands away in reflex, scared)

Gwen: Lance!

Lancelot: Sorry. My survival instinct. Do we really have to hold hands?

Morgana: Yes, we have to make this as realistic as possible.

Lancelot: And the Prince won't come in at any moment?

Gwen: The doors are closed and Arthur is too busy with this whole rebellion thing. You are safe, love.

Lancelot: (blushes a little at the use of the nickname) Alright (holds Merlin's hands, though he's still tense)

Morgana: Now, Merlin, your lines.

Merlin: (uncomfortable) Uh... Please, Arthur. Stop-

Morgana: No! You have to do it with more emotion!

Merlin: (raises his voice) Please, Arthur! Stop this! Is my fault (pats his chest)

Morgana: That hand, with more force! You're desperate!

Merlin: (hits his chest harder) I've caused all this!-

Morgana: The tears! where are the tears?!

Merlin: (tries to do Morgana's technice again but ends up doing a weird face) If blood is... spilled... I.... I can't live with myself...

Gwen: Now he looks constipated.

Morgana: The legs! Hug his legs!

Merlin: (hugs Lancelot's legs awkwardly)

Morgana: Tighter! You'll die if he doesn't change his mind!

Merlin: (hugs tighter)

Lancelot: (thinking, trying not to panic) Arthur won't come in, the doors are closed, Arthur won't come in, the doors are closed, Arthur won't come in-

Merlin: If you do this I'll... ARGH! I CAN'T DO THIS! (stands up, frustrated) I CAN'T CRY! THIS IS USELESS! I... (thinking) I lost my ability to cry like that long ago. I rarely cried in years and when I did I did it silently, swallowing my tears. Not even when I believed Arthur would die I cried like this. (Says, sad) We're doomed. The rebellion will happen, people will die and it will be all my fault, because I always ruin everything somehow! Maybe the problem all this time was me. Maybe Arthur would be actually better if I just didn't exist!

Gwen: ...

Lancelot: ...

Morgana: There! You have to hold to that emotion when you cry to Arthur.

Merlin: Didn't you just hear me? I CAN'T CRY!

Morgana: That can be arranged.

Time skip. In Gaius' tower.

Merlin: (enters) Gaius.

Gaius: How was your reunion? Did you find a solution?

Merlin: (hesitanly) I think, but... I need something... from you.

Gaius: (confused) What is it that you need?

Merlin: Do you have something there that can... make someone's eyes tear like... a lot?

Gaius: I think so, but... What's the plan exactly?

Merlin: Literally cry my way out of this.

....

Will Merlin be able to cry to the prince? find out in the next episode of "Merlin: the apple of discord"

Also credits to my best friend Rosangela, who gave me most of the ideas for diolagues in this part and others too.

Tagging @aceauthorcatqueen , @fallenxjas , @smileytrinity ,@lucifertookmyshoe , @an-entity-i-think , @thecornerofbelu , @griffonskies , @odinjm , @cinnabon-sweetroll-tiramisu , @thelady-mary , @bennedict , @nightninjaboy , @st8-of-grace , @star-rie , @error-username-not-available , @dogberryrowan , @jamieweasley13 , @tansyuduri , @tercais , @robynnemrys , @evadne01 , @serasvictoria02 , @hairdryerducks , @hopeaha , @curiously-lazy , @ harriettesthings , @andrealux16 , @wacko-weirdo , @greatdonutenemy , @yougottobekittenme , @anxiousosaurus , @kinkforwings , @someweirdassnamee , @impracticalantlers , @miyriu , @hobipabo , @whitemaskcd , @cute-girl-next-door , @bogslob , @tkmaras , @cunts-and-kermits

#bbc merlin #merlin bbc #merlin #merthur #merlin prompt #merlin fanfic #merlin fic #merlin and arthur #arthur and merlin #merthur fic #merthur fanfiction #merthur fanfic #merthur prompt #Arthur and Merlin travel back in time without knowing the other is from the future too AU

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merrilinie · 11 months ago

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Things I like to think would happen if the Knights and co knew about Merlin’s magic (and merthur):

• “Merlin, can you do the fire trick with the dragon again?”

• “I’m not drying your clothes, Gwaine. You chose to go in the river fully clothed, you pay the price.”

• Merlin making them flower crowns and them bullying Arthur into wearing his

• Everyone asking him if he can make them fly

• Merlin pretending he can talk to the horses and making them think him and the horses are shit talking

• Him and Gwen pretending to do chores together but really he magicked it and they’re just having a nice evening

• Merlin and Morgana having lessons in the forest while the knights what over so none one spits them

• “No, I can’t read minds.” One of the knights, “oh, okay.” *realises they didn’t ask that out loud.* “WAIT-“

• Merlin and Arthur cuddling together at night accidentally and everyone knows because Merlin’s magic is safe now and leaves a patch of flowers under him when he sleeps

• Merlin creating plants with his magic so he doesn’t have to spend so much time gathering herbs for Gaius

• the Knights and Gwen taking this a step further and making a garden of herbs for him and Gaius

• Arthur realising they should have done that years ago and putting the royal funds into it despite Uthers annoyance

• Morgana and Merlin being taught how to fight with swords (even if she already knows a fair bit) so they can protect themselves with something other than magic

• the two of them then teaching Gwen because they both think she’d be an amazing knight

• Gaius having a mini heart attack whenever he hears Merlin and the Knights talking about magic

• them realising he’s insecure about his healing magic because it’s the hardest form of magic and being sure to praise him whenever he does it or any other form of healing

• After Merlin and Arthur finally get together, his magic doesn’t want to leave him alone and so when he does his little fire show for them it instantly goes to Arthur and the others get jealous

• after an attack and Merlin nearly gets hurt, Arthur ‘forces’ his Knights to be sworn to Merlin with Merlin’s staff and so technically, they’re also his Knights and Merlin is a royal

• The druids instantly knowing this and calling him a prince

• the knights going along with it

• After a while the Knights (who know how) begin to teach the Druids things like reading and currency

• everyone teasing Merlin by saying his magic has a crush on Arthur despite the two being together already

• he blushes every time

• Merlin openly enchanting their amour to be stronger and magic proof

• him giving Gwen and Morgana matching necklaces that are also enchanted that they keep hidden

• all of them are so impressed with his power but then they are just straight dumfounded because like… how the fuck did he keep this hidden for so long?

• Growing strawberries once he sees how much Gwen loves them and they are really rare

• tricking the Knights into thinking he can talk to ghost just to laugh at their faces

• Just constantly embarrassed by the Druids cause they see him as a god or, as the knights point out, as a king and the Knights decide that means he’s Arthur’s wife and Queen of Camelot

• Arthur making this worse by saying, “Queen or Consort?”

• Merlin flicking water in his face despite none being near them

I’ll add more as I think of them :)

#bbc merlin #merlin emrys #merlin #arthur pendragon #merlin x arthur #merthur #knights of camelot #Merlin’s magic revealed

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an-entity-i-think · 2 years ago

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Merlin to Gwen: will you do me the honor of being my sister in law?

Morgana, whispering to Arthur: is he trying to marry Elyan?

Arthur, whispering to Morgana: he better fucking not

Gwen to Merlin, completely in tune: yes! I can't wait for us to be family!!

Arthur, now frantically whispering to Morgana: do you have any idea what's going on? who's getting married? What's happening????

Morgana, whispering back just as frazzled: I have no fucking clue- oh shit they're walking towards us- act natural

Merlin, to Arthur: :)

Gwen, to Morgana: :)

Arthur and Morgana making quick panicked side eyes to each other: 👁👄👁

Morgana, trying to be casual confident girlboss: congrats! Who's getting married? Haha

Gwen and Merlin, glancing to each other with barely there smirks: well we are I suppose! Let's go!

*takes the arms of their best friends/crushes*

Gwen, seductively to Morgana: so I'm thinking at our wedding we should go with reds and purples, God you look amazing in purple

Morgana: *bluescreens*

Merlin, nonchalantly hanging onto Arthur's side like Arthur isn't already about to have a heart attack, getting really close to his face: so if I'm technically the Druid King, our wedding- yours and mine of course- will have to be a mix of cultures. I'm sure everyone will understand.

Arthur: ou- our? Um our? Ou- *bluescreens*

Gwen and Merlin: *high five* efficiency!

#bbc merlin #entity writes merlin #entity writes #merlin emrys #gwen pendragon #bbc gwen #morgana #bbc morgana #arthur pendragon #king arthur #merthur #morgwen #platonic mergwen #merlin and gwen #besties #sometimes the royals are BOTH dumb #morgana would totally be dumb about this too #you guys just give her too much credit #Merlin and Gwen have been gossiping about them since Day 1

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tongjaitongjai · 2 years ago

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Cryptic God!Merlin & Number1Worshipper!Mordred au - part 2

(Kinda an escalation of this post ) the Magic ban was lifted for a while now and they definitely has encountered a few weird sorcerers/Druids who is in Emrys cult.

So, when Arthur first meets calm and collected Mordred, a druid who asks to be knighted instead of licking Merlin he is very relieved like OH GOD YES FINALLY A NORMAL ONE

Arthur: I am so happy you are not one of those who starts hyperventilating and mentally screaming straight into Merlin’s head the moment you see him.

Mordred, offended: Why would I do that

Later, when Leon and Lancelot are giving him a tour:

Mordred: I understand why some people will get excited at the sight of Emrys, he is a god to us after all, but seriously, only immature fans get over excited like that; a real and veteran worshipper like me have a private hyperventilating session while praying to a personal Emrys shrine at night

Leon: You have a what in at what in what now

Lancelot: NOW, WE DONT HAVE TIME TO UNPACK ALL OF THAT

Merlin doesn’t like it when people treated him like a god and also not quite aware of the extent of his godly power himself, so, at first he avoids Mordred because even though Mordred appears calm, he can FEEL Mordred praying to him EVERY NIGHT.

Mordred: why do you fear me Emrys? I pray to you everyday. You are my idol.

Merlin: BECAUSE LAST NIGHT YOU PRAYED TO ME TO GIVE YOU STRENGTH BECAUSE GWAINE CALLED YOU A BABY AND MADE YOU REALLY SAD, AND TODAY I WOKE UP AND PUNCHED GWAINE SO HARD ON THE FACE BECAUSE HOLY SHIT YOUR PRAYER WAS SO STRONG???

Mordred: It works?

Merlin: IT WORKS. THAT’S WHY YOU NEED TO ST—

Mordred: does that mean if I pray hard enough, you will be able to shoot fire beams from your eyes like you do in those bedtime stories druid elders used to tell me?

Merlin: DRUID ELDERS USED TO TELL YOU WHAT!?!

Three days later, the knights encounter wild magical beasts in the forest during a patrol, as they are so sure they are kicking the bucket tonight, Merlin appears and shoots fire beams from his eyes, annihilating all the threats in 0.3 seconds. Mordred is overjoyed.

And at that point, Merlin has no choice but to adopt Mordred now because have you seen how the kid’s eyes lit up when he saw fire beams? This boy's puppy eyes will be his doom. If the kid asks him to shoot electric bolts out of his mouth, he will fucking do it. Merlin’s mom instinct kicks in yet again.

Arthur, while finally is relieved to see them getting along, soon realises that his hope to have Mordred as a Calm and Collected Magic user who will help his ex-manservant, current-Court Sorcerer, permanent-his idiot make less stupid decisions has flown out of the window, THE KID IS AN ENABLER.

Merlin: Imma punch that castle-size wyvern with my bare hands

Mordred: Yes. you can do it #king. This is going to be the best day of my life.

Arthur: NO YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO STOP HIM

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

#bbc merlin #merlin #merlin crack #incorrect merlin quotes #merlin bbc #sir mordred #bbc mordred #merlin au #mordred #crack #my post #bbc arthur #cryptic god!merlin and no1worshipper!mordred au #god!merlin

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 1 year ago

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When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 2: Choose Love Or Sympathy]

Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra's wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook's Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother's life. Now you are in the liar of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting...

Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, extreme babygirl energy, violence, serious injury, Larys Strong, alcoholism/addiction, references to sexual content (18+), Crab Family lore.

Series title is a lyric from: "7 Minutes in Heaven" by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter title is a lyric from: "XO" by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 5.5k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Let me know if you'd like to be tagged! 🥰💜

A moment of clarity, something he’s having more of lately: eyes glassy but open, voice husky, words slow. His vast bedchamber in the Red Keep always smells like honey and rose oil and the brackish golden air that blows in off the ocean. Sounds float weightlessly through the open windows like feathers on waves, music and shouts and creaking wagon wheels, gull cries and sails cracking in the wind. Late-morning daylight is an aisle across the stone floor, a river, a channel. Aegon’s bed has been moved away from the windows; when his wounds are uncovered, direct sunlight can ravage him in minutes, fresh blisters, thickening scars.

Aegon winces as you sit behind him and knead warm rose oil into his back and shoulders. His flesh is a grisly mosaic: pink and crimson and white, knots of burgeoning scar tissue, spots that are still raw and weeping. “It itches like hell, does that mean it’s infected?”

“That means it’s healing. Do you want more?” You mean the goblet of pearlescent milk of the poppy on his bedside table. It’s always there, and refilled frequently.

Aegon shakes his head, groggy, slumped, white-blond hair loose and disheveled. “I should probably be sentient on occasion. You haven’t been helping me piss into chamber pots or anything, have you?”

You smile. “No. You’ve got servants for that.” Although they report their findings to you; Maester Arthur of Claw Isle once taught you that organ failure is a common cause of death for burn victims, even if they survive the risks of shock and festering. All appears well enough on the outside, and then they start pissing blood or their skin goes yellow as their innards lose their secretive divine cadence, that vital rhythm, and then the poor soul is gone within days.

“Thank the gods,” Aegon says. “A speck of dignity remains. It’s tragic enough that I now closely resemble an overcooked meat pie.”

You chuckle as you massage rose oil into his wounds, keeping the scars moist and supple so they do not split open when he moves, so his joints are not locked in place. He will need them when he is out of bed again. He will need them if he truly is the king. “I don’t think you look that bad.”

“Because you’re used to sifting through guts and corpses all day. I’m an improvement. I’m only half dead.” And just weeks ago, he was pleading to be all the way dead. He glances back at you, brow knitted into thoughtful furrows; you can see it between the messy locks of hair that shag over his face. “What made you want to study something like this? It’s gruesome. It’s miserable, thankless work.”

“I was never good at anything,” you tell him. “My sisters were, but I wasn’t. I couldn’t dance, couldn’t sing, couldn’t embroider patterns unless they were humiliatingly simple, and even then I loathed it. My father grew so desperate he encouraged me to try archery with my brothers. I accidentally put an arrow in the foot of a squire and that was the end of my bowwoman career.”

Aegon laughs, then groans at the pain it causes him. He turns around so he can look at you, clumsily repositioning himself on the feather mattress, propping himself up on his palms. He squints down at his left hand where his ring should be: gold wings, jade eyes. You will have to remind Aemond to give it back to him. “I was never good at anything either.”

You can’t imagine that to be true, and yet it’s what you’ve always been told, that he was gifted at drinking and whoring and nothing else. You cannot reconcile those stories with the man in front of you. You keep trying, keep failing. You slather your palms in rose oil again the then begin massaging it into his chest. Aegon watches you with muzzy, drugged interest, eyes like cold ocean currents. “Then, five years ago, my brother…” You hesitate. A real name, an imagined one? You decide there is no harm in this small truth. Aegon will not remember the name of a younger son of a Crownlands house; he barely recalls the men of his own Kingsguard, who now spend their days trotting around the castle after Aemond. “My brother Everett was burned very badly, just like you were, although his wounds were mostly to his legs. And we all thought he would die. People advised us to show mercy by giving him enough milk of the poppy to kill him. They said it would be a sin to let him suffer so terribly. Yet our maester believed he could save him. My father and eldest brother had other responsibilities to attend to, and my mother and sisters could not bear the sight of Everett’s injuries. But I watched the way the maester worked on him, and I just…I thought it was the most captivating, beautiful thing I’d ever seen. The way a body can be taken apart or put back together like stones in a wall. Place one here, remove one there, and then like magic you’ve changed the course of someone’s life. Our maester taught me how to clean burns and change bandages, and when Everett was well again, he taught me about broken bones, fevers, childbirth, wolf bites, dry drowning. I read every book on the subject of healing in my father’s library. He kept having to order me more from the Citadel. I think I would have liked to be a maester myself, but…”

Aegon grins. “You have to go marry your mystery nobleman.”

“And women can’t be maesters.”

“They made me king of the Seven Kingdoms but you can’t be a maester? Fucking ridiculous.” He studies you as your fingers—tenderly, carefully—press rose oil into the red scar that creeps up over his right cheek. “Why won’t you tell me who he is?”

He means your betrothed. Aegon keeps asking about him in his moments of lucidity. You quip: “I don’t want you to have him murdered.”

“That would solve your problem.”

“I preserve life, I don’t take it.”

“I’ve noticed,” Aegon says with a soft, tired smile. Very slowly, he reaches up with one hand to pat at his silvery hair. “Can you give me my braid back? It seems to have been washed out again.”

“Of course.”

“Why did you start doing that?”

What is the truth? Something you can’t tell Aegon. No matter how often I touch him, I want more. “It’s a war braid. You’re a warrior. You’ve earned it.”

“So I am good at something after all,” he murmurs. You rebandage Aegon’s wounds and help him lie back down again. You give him a sip of milk of the poppy, which by now is badly needed; Aegon’s face is sweated and pale and agonized. Then you clean the rose oil from your hands and begin weaving a small braid into his hair. He gazes vacantly towards the open window, bright warm light he cannot walk into. “I assume Aemond is…handling things.”

“Yes, he’s…” How will Aegon take this? Is it a relief, or a slight? There was a great ceremony. You did not attend; you were here tending to the Greens’ broken king. It’s where you spend most of your time. “He’s been made Prince Regent and Protector of the Realm.”

Aegon nods, his expression unreadable. “How’s Sunfyre?”

“Still at Rook’s Rest and gaining strength. He was climbing the cliffs as of a few days ago. But I’ll ask Aemond when I see him today.”

Now Aegon smiles again. “Sunfyre is fierce. He is extraordinary.”

“You both are,” you say as you fashion his silver braid; and Aegon stares as if he couldn’t have heard you correctly.

Her steps are so light that at first you aren’t aware she’s entered the room. You see her out of the corner of your eye and immediately stand, moving away from the bed, from Aegon. You feel strange touching him this way—unnecessarily, self-indulgently, greedily—in her presence. She is his wife, after all.

“Your Grace,” you greet Helaena, bowing. She does not look at you. She looks vaguely in Aegon’s direction instead. She is wearing a turquoise blue dress and her long hair pulled back from her face. The servants have dressed her, or Alicent; she cannot do it herself anymore. In her hands she holds a large glass jar of sticks and leaves.

“Hello, Helaena,” Aegon says, more like a sigh than a welcome.

She scurries towards him and sets the jar down on his bedside table with a clunk, right next to the goblet of milk of the poppy and a number of other drinks, things you ply Aegon with to keep him hydrated. Then Helaena speaks, her eyes on the contents of the jar. There is something else in there, you see now: a fat wriggling green creature, a caterpillar inching along the length of an upright stick. "For you."

“It’s very nice,” Aegon tells her, in a tone like a parent losing patience with their child.

“It takes nourishment and then rests,” Helaena says. “It is wrapped in a cocoon and stays there for a long while. But when it emerges, it is not just well again. It is greater than it was before. And it can fly.”

“Oh, I understand now.” Aegon makes no attempt to touch her—not even her hand, not even for a moment—but his words are kinder. “I am the worm. Thank you, Helaena. This comforts me.”

She is satisfied. She turns to leave.

“Your Grace,” you begin, and hold out your hands to her. She does not take them. She does not meet your eyes; she stares instead into the golden luminescence of the open window behind you. You can hear crashing waves and the screeches of swooping gulls. “I wanted to express…I cannot even begin to tell you…I am so, so sorry for your suffering—”

She spins away from you and sweeps out of the bedchamber. You are left looking at the empty place where she stood, heartsick and sorry. What did I do wrong? What should I have said?

Aegon offers you an apologetic smirk, but his eyes are sad. “It’s not personal. She doesn’t really like touching anybody.” This is an irony, and one that must read on your face. A king and queen—by definition, by necessity—do an inordinate amount of touching. He invades, she endures, they knit heirs together out of threads of blood and sweat. “What we have between us, it’s not…romantic. It never was.”

This is not something he should be telling you. It is not a jest but a spilling of deep, sacred truths. “I didn’t ask.”

“No. But you were wondering.”

You were. You return to the bed and sit down beside Aegon, finishing his braid. You choose your words precisely before you speak. “I don’t believe I have a right to know certain things, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care about what you’re thinking.”

“Then let me unburden myself so there is no confusion,” Aegon insists, drowsy but fighting sleep. “There was no joy in it for me or Helaena. I tried to make it as quick and painless as I could, but still, her disdain for the task was obvious. It happened just often enough to conceive the children. And we haven’t even tried in months, not since…” He doesn’t need to say it. Everyone knows, Greens and Blacks alike. A son for a son. The murder of Jaehaerys, six years old and utterly powerless, in exchange for Aemond slaying Luke.

Do you think such a thing was just? No, of course not, how could anyone? Very few things that happen in this world are just. They come with passionate defenses but no mercy, no vision for a less violent future. The wheel goes around and around, and everyone takes their turn being crushed. “Aegon, I’m so sorry,” you tell him softly.

He shakes his head. He will not discuss it. Aegon’s remaining children, Jaehaera and Maelor, do not ask about him; on the rare occasion that Alicent brings them to his bedchamber, they do not seem to know who he is. In fairness, Aegon does not seem to know them either; he regards them with a dull sort of bewilderment, like one might peer down at a page written in a foreign language. In the hallways of the Red Keep, the children clutch at Alicent and Otto, and sometimes Aemond will take a few minutes to play with them, stacking wooden blocks or arranging cloth dolls in a miniature castle. But if ‘mother’ and ‘father’ are words the children know, you’ve never heard them spoken aloud. “Can I have some wine, please?”

“Did you finish your goat milk?”

“Resentfully.”

“Then yes. I’ll get it for you.” You pour Aegon a cup of red wine and then tilt it against his lips. He slurps the cup dry before his eyes dip closed. You set the empty cup on the bedside table, feel his forehead for fever—longer than you need to—and then rise to leave him. You are almost to the door when you hear him say: “Thank you for changing my mind.”

You turn back to Aegon, puzzled. “About what?”

“About wanting to be dead.” He grins and waves, a weak miniscule motion of his left hand. “Come back soon, angel.”

“I will,” you promise.

And only then does he surrender to blessedly numb unconsciousness, the only place in the world that doesn’t hurt.

~~~~~~~~~~

You find Aemond in his own rooms. He is sitting in front of the large circular mirror on his vanity. His hair is long and straight and painstakingly neat, his tunic made of black leather. He is wearing the crown of Aegon the Conqueror. Rubies fracture the sunlight and scatter it against the walls; Valyrian steel glints.

Aemond marvels, knowing that you’re here: “It looks better on me than it ever did on him.”

“I need more rose oil.”

In the mirror’s reflection, his lone blue eye darts to you. “You always ask so politely.”

“I didn’t want to waste your valuable time. I can be more loquacious, if you prefer.”

“That won’t be necessary.” He stands, taking off the crown and placing it—gingerly, with both hands—on his vanity. “I’ll see that you have everything you require.”

“I am eternally appreciative.”

Then he does something that he thinks is amusing, a little joke you share. He grabs for your arm and you yank it away just before his fingers can close around your wrist. This makes him smile; it’s one of the only things that does. “Now follow me,” he orders, striding past you and through the doorway.

You hurry after Aemond, dashing through corridors and archways. You know where he is going; this has happened before. As you ascend a staircase, Alicent is leading Jaehaera and Maelor down to the gardens. She has one tiny hand gripped in each of hers; the hem of her emerald green dress drags on the stone steps. She keeps losing weight. You stop to scoop Maelor up and hug him—he giggles, squeezing at your cheeks as you smack kisses onto his face—and then turn your attention to Jaehaera. She has just learned the rules of curtsying and loves to practice. You bow to her, and then she does the same to you, and while her head is bent low you ruffle her silvery hair until it is in hopeless disarray and Jaehaera is laughing hysterically. Then you kneel down so she can sabotage your hair however she sees fit. She pulls strands out of your sensible low bun until you give up and shake it all loose. Alicent—large dark eyes, demurely veiled auburn hair, somber and suffering—gives you a grave, grateful smile. Aemond has waited at the apex of the stairs for you. When you rejoin him he continues onward to the council chamber.

Inside men are taking their seats and already beginning to quarrel: Criston Cole, Otto Hightower, Grand Maester Orwyle, Tyland Lannister, Jasper Wylde, Larys Strong, the knights of the Kingsguard. Sir Rickard Thorne pays no attention to you. Aemond once mentioned off-handedly: ‘Sir Rickard, I believe our healer is a distant relation of yours.’ The knight had glanced at you and produced some noncommittal reply, oh, indeed, sure, is that so. You had met before, you realized when you saw his face, years ago, at some event that brought together the houses of the Crownlands, a wedding or a funeral or a feast. He has a hazy recollection of you, but he cannot pin it down; he spent the evening with boisterous young men like your eldest brother Clement, while you had spent it with other noblewomen. Sir Rickard’s mother or sisters could probably identify you as a Celtigar. To Rickard himself, you can masquerade as some unimportant cousin he is ashamed to have forgotten. You assume your usual place in the council chamber: standing in a corner, trying not to be noticed, only there in case specific questions involving Aegon’s medical treatment arise.

“Is he dying?” Otto asks Aemond. “He must be. He has no interest in whores.”

Aemond raises his eyebrow at you. “Actually, I’ve been informed he is improving.”

Maester Orwyle beams at you. Upon your arrival in King’s Landing, he had confirmed to Aemond and Criston what you already knew: that while the Citadel’s guidance several decades ago was indeed pork lard or cow dung to treat burns, now there is a growing consensus that vinegar, honey, and oil for scar tissue are the best available remedies. You nod back. You are natural allies; the Greens’ king is under your joint care. You both have much to lose if he dies.

Now Otto Hightower addresses you. He is a stern, weathered, shrewd man. He reminds you of your father, though far more humorless. “When will he be able to fight again?”

“Fight?” you echo, stunned. “In battle? Months at least, my lord. Perhaps a year.”

“A year!” Otto bellows, then turns his wrath on Criston and Aemond. “I told you, I told you! I urged him to exercise caution, over and over again I warned him of the danger, and while I was penning letters to every possible ally you were pouring poison into his ears, convincing him that I wasn’t doing enough. Now look at him! Look at this goddamn fucking mess!”

“How fares the dragon?” Tyland Lannister says.

“I received a raven from Rook’s Rest today,” Aemond replies. “Sunfyre is eating well and ambulatory.”

“Useless,” Otto hisses. “Can’t fly. Can’t be moved. A waste of the livestock he’s being fed.”

“We may yet find a purpose for him,” Aemond says.

“Two dragons!” Otto explodes. “Can you count them?! We have two dragons capable of combat, and one of them is ridden by a fifteen-year-old. The Blacks still have Syrax, Caraxes, Vermax, Tyraxes, and Moondancer. And gods help us if they find someone to ride any of the other unclaimed beasts on Dragonstone. Seasmoke, Vermithor, Silverwing, Grey Ghost, the Cannibal…”

“I hope they try to tame the Cannibal,” Criston mutters. “If we’re lucky, he’ll eat them all.”

“My lord,” Larys Strong says to Otto, clutching his cane; he has a habit of lacing his fingers overtop the handle and resting his chin on them. Larys is a watchful, quiet man who speaks rarely yet with great consequence. He is the Master of Whisperers, he is the Lord of Harrenhal, and aside from that he is an enigma to you. “I hate to be the bearer of unfortunate tidings, however I must speak plainly. I have just obtained reports that the Blacks are pursuing precisely the course of action that you fear. Jacaerys Velaryon is offering land and knighthood to any man who can mount a dragon and join their cause. The realm is littered with Targaryen bastards, I’m certain it is only a matter of time until they find at least a few candidates suited to the task.”

Otto slams his fist down on the table. You startle at the noise; Aemond glances over at you. “No king. No Sunfyre. Dreamfyre in the Dragonpit, who Helaena cannot fly into battle. A fucking disaster.”

“We have Vhagar,” Aemond says confidently.

“She is worth two full-grown dragons,” Otto pitches back. “Not four or five.”

“Daemon is the real threat. If I can eliminate him, the war is over.”

“Daeron should be prepared for combat,” Jasper Wylde says. “He is travelling with Lord Ormund Hightower’s army in the Reach, but he can easily be called back to King’s Landing. He could assist Prince Aemond in his pursuit of Daemon and Caraxes.”

“I don’t need his help,” Aemond replies darkly.

“Then perhaps he could safeguard the city once you’ve gone.”

“We cannot sacrifice military strategy on the altar of personal vendettas,” Criston says. “Dragons are best used on the battlefield against soldiers and castles, not on meandering quests to find one lone enemy, that’s a needle in a haystack, it’s a misallocation of precious resources.”

Aemond counters: “But if I can kill Daemon, nothing else matters—”

“It does matter, Aemond!” Criston roars. “I matter, the armies matter, winning the confidence of the houses you hope to rule matters!”

“How is Corlys Velaryon handling all of this?” Otto asks Larys. “The defeat at Rook’s Rest, the death of his wife?”

Larys answers: “He blames Rhaenyra for the losses. He has taken it badly. It is my understanding that he intended to withdraw his support from the Blacks, and was brought back only by Jacaerys giving him the title of Hand of the Queen. I am under the impression that Corlys may be willing to reconsider his allegiance if the circumstances were right—”

There is a knock at the council chamber door, not a knock but a pounding, not a pounding but a frantic drumming like the marching of soldiers’ boots. Sir Criston Cole unlocks and opens the door. Alicent stands there with her face flushed and shiny with tears. Instantly, Criston is at her side asking what is wrong, one hand resting protectively her shoulder, the other on the hilt of the sword he wears everywhere he goes.

“Come quickly,” Alicent begs you, only you. “Please. It’s Aegon.”

You race with her to Aegon’s bedchamber, hearing the screams long before you reach him. This doesn’t make sense; he shouldn’t be in pain this severe, not yet, not for hours. You are aware that there are footsteps thundering behind you, Aemond and Criston rushing to see if the king really is dying this time. In his bed, Aegon thrashes and moans. He needs to stop moving so violently; he will split his scar tissue like burst seams. Already you can see blooms of crimson appearing on his bandages where the wounds beneath have reopened: his neck, his waist, his ribcage. He is out of his mind. He is destroying himself.

He is shouting for Sunfyre, for Aemond, for Criston. He is back at Rook’s Rest being roasted alive in his own armor. Not dying, then; just having a nightmare. You kneel at his bedside and smooth his hair back, his braid threading through your fingers, and whisper to him that it’s alright, that he’s safe, that he needs to wake up now. Alicent is weeping, both hands covering her mouth. Aemond and Criston are watching you, mesmerized, transfixed.

Aegon’s oceanic eyes fly open, wide and panicked. “Where am I?”

And you smile down at him, your palm cradling his unburned left cheek. “The end of the world.”

He blinks. He remembers. His lips stretch into a grin. “There you are,” he tells you, voice gravelly and low. “I dreamed everyone was gone and you were too.”

“I’m here.”

“You aren’t in a hurry to abandon me for your burly betrothed?”

Cregan Stark must think I’m dead. “No, Aegon.”

“You can’t leave without telling me.”

Everett, Clement, my father, my mother, Piper, Petra, Penelope, they must all think I was burned to ash on the battlefield or murdered and tossed into the sea. “I know. I won’t.”

“You can’t leave,” he says again, a half-awake whimper as he sinks back into unconsciousness. You give him more milk of the poppy, enough to make his sleep deep and black and dreamless.

You reclean and rebandage Aegon’s wounds. It takes hours. Aemond fetches Maester Orwyle to assist you. Criston comforts Alicent, wanting to do and say far more than he can. When it is done, only Alicent remains in the bedchamber with you. She visits Aegon frequently, but she does not know how to speak to him; she always stands there clasping her own hands together, praying and stalling, desperate to show him love and yet incapable of it.

“Thank you for what you’ve done for him,” Alicent says, tears glistening in her umber eyes. “Not just the hours, not just the medicine. For everything that you’ve done.” And she embraces you, and when she does you hold her like she wishes her own daughter could.

~~~~~~~~~~

In the night you see it repeating like a chorus of a song in the shadows that crawl across the ceiling: one year ago, stray snowflakes in your hair, stars in a black sky and air like metal.

The Celtigar fortune is older than the Targaryens’ conquering of Westeros, older than the Doom of Valyria. Where did the money come from? Friends of the Celtigars would say distinctively cunning maritime trade; their enemies would say piracy. Perhaps the two are not always so different. Is there any mechanism of accumulating great wealth that does not involve stealing in one form or another, of wringing out some other soul like a wet cloth until every drop of them disappears down your throat? Your ancestors did not tame dragons, but they had a different sort of gift: for every coin, they could find a way to make two or six or ten. Repeat that process for centuries and there are vaults filled to the ceiling with gold coins like pieces of the midday sun.

When Daenys the Dreamer had a vision of the Doom over a decade before it left Valyria a smoldering, fragmented wasteland haunted by demons and plague, only three Valyrian houses heeded the warning. Her own family, the Targaryens, relocated to Dragonstone. The Velaryons, having already long occupied Driftmark, resolved to stay there. And the Celtigars—merchants to some, pirates to others—crossed the Narrow Sea to settled on Claw Isle.

Crispian Celtigar served as Master of Coin to Aegon the Conqueror. Alton Celtigar was his Hand of the King. Edwell Celtigar was chosen to be Hand of the King to Maegor I, and later Master of Coin to Jaehaerys I during his minority. The Celtigars have never been far from the Iron Throne…though perhaps none were ever as close as you are now.

One year ago, your father embarked upon a trade mission to White Harbor. Never a man to squander an opportunity for new business, he added stops in Oldcastle, Cerwyn, and Winterfell, and brought along his four maiden daughters to stoke the desires of Northerner lords. Piper fancied a son of Lord Manderly, Petra caught the attention of a Cerwyn boy. But no offer was advantageous enough for Bartimos Celtigar’s liking; no deal could be struck.

In Winterfell, Lord Cregan Stark was already married. His wife, a childhood friend before she was a bedmate, trudged around the castle heavily pregnant and dragging layer upon layer of furs to guard her against the cold, often biting even in summer. Lord Cregan took little notice of your giggling, gossiping sisters, and even less of you…until he broke his sparring partner's arm in the castle courtyard. As the other women fled with nauseated faces back to their needlework, you asked Winterfell’s maester if you could watch how he set the fracture and managed the man’s pain. The maester was delighted—Northerners, as a rule, lack intellectual curiosity—and even allowed you to help bandage the wound once the split bone had been popped back into place. And it was only then, as you knelt there with your forehead creased with determination and blood coating your hands to the knuckles, that Lord Cregan Stark began to see you.

You have a fear of marriage, not a general aversion but a specific and powerful dread. When you were fourteen, you asked your mother if she enjoyed lying with her husband, and you had known as soon as she spoke with a careful sort of reticence—‘I enjoy feeling close to him, I suppose’—that the answer was no. When you were sixteen and your cousin Theodora married into House Bar Emmon, you went with the other noblewomen to inspect her bedsheets the next morning, and were horrified by how they chuckled at the large rust-like stain and recalled their own initiations into sex, this unavoidable rite of passage, this ultimate surrender. At breakfast, the men toasted wine and hooted and sang, while Theodora stared down with glazed eyes at her untouched bacon and duck eggs and said when Piper asked how the night went: ‘He wanted me three times. Is there anything I can do to make him stop?’ And you had thought: Aren’t unions like this supposed to be holy? What the hell do the gods have to do with it? Are they in the sweat, in the bleak resignation, in the linen of the sheets? Do they fill the man with blind lust like an animal’s, do they help hold the woman down?

Your eyes close as you lie in bed in the Red Keep, your room adjoining Aegon’s, and suddenly you are back in Winterfell again. You are making notes as the maester shows you the herbs growing in the Glass Gardens when Cregan finds you. He is tall and broad, made more so by the furs that engulf him like mist drapes the stony cliffs of Claw Isle. His voice is booming, thunderous, cataclysmically formidable. He is used to being listened to. He has never been expected to sit quietly as other men charted out his life like the route of a trade ship: here you will go, here you will be emptied of every scrap of value. He says he will give you a tour of the Library Tower. It is not an invitation; an invitation can be declined.

You walk together through the Godswood—dark water, blackberry bushes, crows squawking, gods you do not believe in—and Cregan tells you fond memories of his childhood. He likes hunting and archery. He spars in the courtyard for hours each day. He never stays still, he never goes quiet. He wants to know where you learned to marvel at the ghastly art of piecing broken bodies back together again. He wants to know why you are so different from other women. And he inquires with great fascination about the legendary treasures of your house, not just gold but rubies, jeweled cups, Myrish carpets and Volantene glass, a horn said to summon krakens from the sea, an axe made of Valyrian steel.

Winterfell’s library is sparse and dusty, cobwebs in shadowy alcoves. Cregan Stark thinks you will not notice. As he slips books about anatomy and herbology off the shelves to show you, you cannot help studying his hands, large and calloused and always stained with black patches of ink or soil or soot. They make yours look tiny and defenseless, skin of silk and bones like glass. You picture him claiming you, owning you, climbing into the marital bed knowing that you cannot refuse anything he asks for. You envision him forcing your thighs apart with those huge filthy hands, leaving smudges like ash. You imagine him tearing his way into a part of you that feels so small, so vulnerable; you imagine the suffocating burden of his interminable weight.

A moment of clarity, in the library beathing dust and Cregan’s scent, a woodsmoke musk, a wolflike wildness: I don’t know this man. I don’t trust this man. I’m glad he’s not free to marry me.

This was before the war began, before Cregan’s wife Arra Norrey died birthing their son Rickon, before Jace Velaryon arrived in Winterfell to forge the Pact of Ice and Fire. And when Cregan agreed to support Rhaenyra’s claim to the Iron Throne, and Jace pledged to marry his firstborn daughter to Rickon, the Warden of the North decided there was one last thing he wanted inked into the covenant. He wanted an ally in the South, bottomless wealth, his future children to have Valyrian ancestry. He wanted a woman with vigilant, unflinching eyes and blood on her hands.

He wanted you.

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon ii #aegon targaryen ii #aegon targaryen #aegon targaryen x you #aegon x reader #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon ii x y/n #aegon ii x you #hotd fanfic

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grand-theft-carbohydrates · 8 months ago

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omg im reading this timetravel isekai novel called ''a connecticut yankee in the court of king arthur'' man it is FASCINATING to see what people in the 19th century's perception of the 5th century was. e.g. senselessly barbaric, backwards and incapable of rational thought.

mark twain conflates being superstitious with being gullible. the story is built around the understanding that people back then must have taken myths at face value and that means an absence of critical thinking. which is a supremely bad take imo. like, thieves, hucksters and murderers 100% existed. and you got no recourse except for Be Vigilant and Carry A Big Stick. Sure, the average 5th century person believes gods exist, but they DO NOT believe you, random person they met on the road, are a god and conveniently have the Elixir of Life in your pocket (available for the cheap, cheap price of 3 denarius). because that's stupid and improbable.

#very funny to read this back to back with crime and punishment. mark twain sounds so brusque and to the point after #all the 20 page monologues

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achillesuwu · 7 months ago

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Still obsess with that idea of alpha x alpha merthur in a world where alpha couple act a bit like snail when in rut. Even in a no sexual way, they just CAN'T HELP but figure out which one is the stronger.

Except.

Except arthur and merlin just...don't and arthur can't figure out why.

Arthur SHOULD not only kick every knight as in The Season but ALSO merlin's! But. he. doesn't!!!!!

Outside of it? Arthur tackles merlin on the ground.

In season? Arthur sees Merlin and does NOTHING.

No. He does WORST. HE FREAKING PURRS.

P U R R S.

He just walks casually in his space! Arthur should be hanging out in HIS own room in the season as the strongest alpha! If he wished to take someone as a mate (which he doesn't!!!!) he should drag THEM in his space! He shouldn't be waking up in his servant room?!?!?!? He is an alpha why is he trying to make some sort of ugly ass merlin's clothes pile???????? (it's NOT A NEST) note : alphas are just really bad at making nest so you can picture established futur! arthur and merlin looking at their clothes with their "feeling? girls? Girls ?" faces. They just don't know what to do with this.

He shouldn't be please about the fact merlin gave him food!? Well, actually he should but not like that! He should be please in a "yeah, I'm stronger. Look at what I can effort. I eat FIRST. " not in a "You gave me this? You are watching over me as I eat? You are seeing me as an important member of your pack 🥺 is it a sign that you want me as your mate 🥺🥺" He is the king for god's sake!! It's his own food!!! His own cloth !!!! His own horse!!!! AND THIS IS THE BOAR HE HUNTED BY HIMSELF WHAT THE HELL.

(the reason being that his internal alpha just KNOWS Merlin allows him to beat it 100% of the time. It knows that in an actual fight he has no chance so like... Why even try to fight when you can just get spoiled?

Basically arthur suffering because his survival instinct decided to kicking in the most embarrassing time lol)

#merthur #merlin #arthur pendragon #merlin bbc #merlin emrys #bbc merlin #My shit #Omegaverse #alpha/alpha

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justaz · 5 months ago

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s1ep10 will says “oh so you told arthur your secret then?…face it merlin, you’re living a lie” and i desperately need someone to say that to him again in front of arthur and the knights. shiiit au where will survives and visits merlin in camelot years later when arthur is king and they have the same argument. will turns to the peanut gallery where arthur staring at him with a raised brow and goes “how many years have you lived here merlin? and you still haven’t told him. you haven’t told any of them. you may surround yourself with people you call friends, but you are completely alone here.” and storms off.

merlin who also storms off after standing still in shock for a moment, fighting back tears bc will is right. it’s been so draining for merlin to live a life built on lies, to hide himself from his friends, to pretend to be something he’s not. all he wants is to be loved and appreciated for what he is. everyone in camelot loves the merlin he’s carefully crafted, not the merlin he is. lancelot follows after him and is his shoulder to cry on after that whole show.

the other knights are sitting around going “wtf just happened” and theorizing on this secret will mentioned. there’s also a quieter, secret conversation going on where unnamed knights plan out will’s murder for making merlin cry. anyways, lancelot tells them to drop it after they prod him for answers and call him out for being the only one of the knights to know merlin’s secret.

from then on the knights keep at least a quarter of their attention on merlin when he’s near. they watch him as if he’ll slip and say whatever his secret is out loud. gwaine keeps the most attention on merlin and is the first one to find out. he follows merlin out of the room and lowers his voice and goes “you know, i would commit regicide for you if you asked. if you came into my chambers and were like ‘gods arthur is so annoying, lets kill him’ i’d do it in a heartbeat.” he then leans in closer and whispers “and if you had magic, i wouldn’t tell. i’d probably just convince you to use it for pranks.” elyan finds them hugging in the hall, merlin crying into gwaine’s shoulder and gwaine holding back his own tears.

the other knights are slow on the uptake but all eventually get there in the end, except arthur. the king cannot for the life of him sniff out this secret the other knights found out. whats infuriating is that they had banded together in determination to figure out the secret and said they’d help guide one another to the truth once they did or just outright tell each other. instead, every time one of them figured it out and the others asked them about it, they’d just get all sullen and serious and say “it’s not my secret to tell” so arthur really has no idea

merlin has to work up the courage to face arthur and tell him himself. it takes a while. like a WHILE. like A WHILEEEE. merlin makes up with will and the other knights find out about his magic one at a time and express their support and love and apologies for all the inconsiderate and harmful things they’ve said in the past. slowly, merlin’s resolve and confidence strengthens. yet he stalls and stalls and stalls and eventually gwen and audrey the cook and even george figure him out before he can tell arthur.

he’s so nervous he ends up just letting the words fall out of his mouth, “tomorrow you have to be up bright and early for a meeting about queen annis’s visit next week also i have magic” arthur just stares at him from his bed. he’s miffed bc he was SO CLOSE to figuring it out, he knew it!! if merlin had just waited like another week or two he would’ve got there eventually. probably. also he’s been lied to but that takes back burner rn bc merlin just spoiled all the progress he made in figuring out what he’s been hiding. he throws a pillow at him and complains about it.

#bbc merlin #merlin emrys #arthur pendragon #knights of the round table #will of ealdor #sorta angst #a smidgeon #this came to me bc i saw a clip of that scene and you can actually see merlin’s heart drop at will’s words #its heartbreaking #fanfiction #fanfic #fic ideas #prompts

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novaursa · 3 months ago

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The Price of Fire (6)

- Summary: In the shadows of the Red Keep, the daughter of the Mad King, Princess Y/N Targaryen, finds herself caught between duty, love, and survival. As her father’s madness deepens and political intrigue swirls, she seeks solace in a forbidden romance with her sworn protector, Ser Arthur Dayne. With King Aerys plotting to use her as a pawn and her brother Rhaegar maneuvering to shield her from their father’s grasp, Y/N must navigate a web of deceit and desire. As tensions rise, secrets ignite into fierce passion and dangerous alliances, where the wrong move could mean the end of them all.

- Paring: targ!reader/Arthur Dayne

- Note: If you wish to read all the parts of this story, or more of my works, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

-Rating: Explicit 18+ (Aerys is warning on his own)

- Word count: 8 000+

- Previous part: 5

- Next part: 7

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @lightdragonrayne @onlyrealjoy

The flickering light from the torches casts ominous shadows across the walls of the Red Keep’s council chamber. The air is filled with dread and the metallic scent of incense mingles with the faint aroma of wine. The small council is seated around the long oak table, faces stern and expectant, as they await the king’s arrival. Whispers of conversations linger, drowned by the soft rustle of parchment and the distant clatter of steel as Ser Jaime and Ser Barristan stand vigil at the door.

The heavy doors swing open, and King Aerys enters, a brooding figure wrapped in the darkness of his own madness. His unkempt silver hair spills over his shoulders like a tarnished crown, and his violet eyes, once regal, now gleam with a feverish edge. He sweeps into his seat with a manic energy, the meeting commencing with a tension that hums in the room like a taut bowstring.

Tywin Lannister, seated with that practiced air of authority, eyes the king with the precision of a predator measuring its prey. His voice, cold and clipped, is the first to break the silence. “Your Grace, marriage proposals for Prince Rhaegar continue to flood in. There are those who still favor the union with House Lannister—”

Before Tywin can finish, Symond Staunton, a wisp of a man with thin, graying hair and a face like old parchment, interjects. “It is true, Lord Tywin, but there is greater wisdom in forging a bond with Dorne. Lady Elia Martell has strong connections in the south, and the Prince would be well-matched with her. The Dornish are fiercely loyal, and—”

“Loyalty from those who would do nothing but sully the prince’s blood with their lesser lineages,” Tywin cuts in, a sneer curling his lips. “The Martells are beneath what House Targaryen deserves.”

Before another word is spoken, Lord Lucerys Velaryon’s voice rings out, measured and full of conviction. “The Dornish alliance has its merits, Lord Tywin. But you are blind if you dismiss them so easily. Elia Martell’s bloodline may not match the legacy of House Velaryon or House Targaryen, but they are allies who know when to stand with strength. We cannot ignore the balance of power the marriage would bring.”

The discussion spirals into back-and-forth bickering, each lord trying to sway the king’s attention. All the while, Prince Rhaegar sits silently, his eyes cast downward, hands clasped in front of him as though praying for the gods to deliver him from this madness. The only flicker of emotion in his gaze is when your name drifts into the conversation, slipping in like a viper’s hiss.

It is Varys who speaks your name, his voice a smooth whisper that glides through the chamber. “Your Grace, might I suggest a proposal that has already been placed before the council in times past, one that Prince Rhaegar himself once hinted at? A union within the royal family, as it has been tradition, might ensure not only the purity of the bloodline but also strengthen the ties between your daughter, Princess Y/N, and the Crown.”

The effect is immediate. Aerys’ eyes snap toward the eunuch, a crazed, gleaming interest dancing in his gaze. He leans forward, almost conspiratorial. “Y/N… Yes, yes. My own daughter, kept close. Bound to the throne, where she belongs. No lesser lord is worthy of her.”

Rhaegar stiffens ever so slightly, a subtle tightening of his grip on his hands as he dares to glance at his father. But he says nothing, his face a practiced mask of calm, though those who know him well would recognize the torment simmering beneath. His mind is likely already racing—thoughts of the promises he made to you and Arthur, the private words exchanged in moonlit gardens where the walls had ears and love was a fragile, dangerous thing.

Tywin scoffs, loud and derisive, shattering the king’s moment of reflection. “You would have your son wed his sister when alliances with the wealthiest and most powerful lords are at your feet, Your Grace? It is madness.”

The room falls deadly silent at Tywin’s audacity. Even Ser Jaime’s eyes flicker with uncertainty, though his face remains impassive. Aerys’ expression darkens, fingers drumming against the wood as he glares at the Hand of the King. “Madness, you say?” he hisses, voice laced with venom. “It is you who would see my bloodline sullied with your golden-haired brood, Tywin. I will not allow it. My daughter—my jewel—will not be squandered.”

Varys, ever the shadow, interjects softly. “It is not madness, my lord. It is strength. The realm respects power, and what greater power than a dragon bound to another dragon? Y/N would not need to leave the Keep. She could remain under your protection, Your Grace, where no one would dare conspire against you through her.”

Pycelle, a toad-like presence at the table, nods sagely. “The history of the Targaryens is built upon such unions. The legacy of Old Valyria… it endures through such bonds.”

Rhaegar finally raises his eyes, and when he speaks, his voice is calm but edged with steel. “Father, I have always held that Y/N is deserving of more than to be used as a mere tool in the games of men. If it is your wish to keep her close, then let it be done, but let her also choose her path with dignity.”

Aerys’ gaze narrows, his thoughts a chaotic storm, but he is clearly intrigued by the idea. “You speak as if you would protect her, Rhaegar. Is this what you desire? To marry your sister as it was done in ages past? To have her by your side?”

Rhaegar’s pause is deliberate, calculated. He meets his father’s gaze, voice steady. “If it means she is kept from harm, then yes, Father, it is what I desire.”

The king’s laughter is a cruel, crackling sound, his mood volatile and unpredictable. “Then it may yet be. I will decide what is best for my daughter.” His voice lowers to a near whisper, eyes glittering with dark intent. “She is mine to give, as I see fit.”

As the meeting draws to a close, the lords exchange wary glances, knowing the king’s whims are as fickle as the flames he so loves to watch consume his enemies. But in this chamber, you are the invisible thread that pulls at the edges of ambition, loyalty, and madness. Rhaegar remains seated, eyes fixed on the table, a man who walks a razor’s edge between duty and brother’s love that drives him to protect you—at any cost.

And somewhere within the Red Keep, in the silence of a hidden alcove or the shadows of a quiet garden, you wait, unaware of the storm your name has stirred among the powerful and the damned alike.

The echo of boots striking stone reverberates through the dimly lit corridors of the Red Keep as Rhaegar moves with determined purpose. His mind is a tempest of conflicting emotions—anger, anxiety, and a deep-seated fear that gnaws at him like a starving wolf. Ser Barristan Selmy walks a respectful step behind him, silent and vigilant as always. The knight’s sharp eyes flicker between the darkened alcoves and shadowed corners, but it is not an assassin they fear in this moment—it is a whisper, a rumor, the delicate thread of secrets that could unravel everything.

Rhaegar’s silver hair shimmers under the torchlight as he rounds a corner, his steps quickening. He knows where to find Varys; the spymaster is as predictable as he is cunning, often retreating to the hidden chambers beneath the Keep after council meetings. Rhaegar’s fists clench at his sides as he spots the familiar figure slipping down a narrow stairwell.

“Varys,” Rhaegar’s voice rings out, clear and commanding, echoing off the cold stone walls. The spymaster pauses, then turns with that same eerie calm that always unsettles those who face him. His expression is one of mild curiosity, as if he has been expecting this conversation.

“Your Grace,” Varys says smoothly, inclining his head with a hint of mock deference. “What an unexpected honor to be sought out by the Prince himself.”

Rhaegar’s eyes narrow, every word he speaks measured and deliberate. “You mentioned my sister’s name during the council meeting. Why? What is your true intent in drawing attention to her in such a dangerous way?”

Varys’s expression remains inscrutable, his hands tucked into the voluminous sleeves of his robes as he offers a serene smile. “I have no intent but the safety and wellbeing of the Princess, Your Grace. You care for her deeply, as do I. Surely we both seek to protect her from the treacherous currents that swirl through this court.”

Rhaegar’s jaw tightens as he steps closer, his voice lowering to a cold whisper. “Do not play coy with me, Varys. You know exactly what you’re doing. My sister’s safety should not be bartered as a piece in this game. What do you stand to gain by placing her at the center of these discussions?”

Varys’s eyes glitter, and though his tone remains light, there is an edge of something darker beneath. “I gain nothing, my prince. But it is not I who endangers her. The whispers in court, the hungry eyes of those who would use her for their own advantage—they are the threat. By suggesting a union between you and the Princess, I merely shield her from more nefarious designs.”

Rhaegar scoffs, frustration seeping into his tone. “Shield her? You bring more attention to her, and you know how volatile our father is. He already watches her too closely. What do you hope to achieve by binding her fate to mine?”

Varys tilts his head, as if weighing his words carefully before responding. “Forgive me if I overstep, but I believe you already know the answer to that question, Your Grace. The king’s mind is... unpredictable, but his possessiveness over his daughter is unwavering. Keeping her close in a manner that both secures her honor and the Crown’s interests is, perhaps, the only way to prevent any... unfortunate rumors from spreading.”

Rhaegar’s gaze hardens, a storm brewing in his violet eyes. “Rumors? Speak plainly, Varys.”

The spymaster’s smile widens, but there’s a knowing look beneath his carefully cultivated mask of servility. “You care for your sister. So does Ser Arthur Dayne, does he not?”

The name lingers in the air like a drawn blade. Rhaegar’s heart pounds, his hand flexing unconsciously as if reaching for a sword he doesn’t carry. The implication is clear, the unspoken truth hanging heavy between them.

“You’re suggesting that my sister’s honor is in jeopardy,” Rhaegar says, his voice barely above a whisper, yet each word drips with a cold warning.

Varys’s eyes gleam with satisfaction, though his tone remains innocent, almost regretful. “I would never be so bold as to make such an accusation, Your Grace. But this court has eyes in every shadow and ears in every corner. Your sister is precious to many, and the attention she garners... can be misconstrued. Ensuring that she is wedded to a man who values her, who understands the importance of her standing, would silence those whispers before they take root. And who better to protect her than you, the brother who has always shielded her?”

Rhaegar’s mind reels, the weight of Varys’s words crashing down on him. He thinks of you—his only sister, and the nights when you had confided your fears to him in whispers. And then there is Arthur, the man Rhaegar respects more than any other, who has been by his side through every battle and who, Rhaegar knows, loves you with a passion that is both fierce and dangerous.

The prince’s voice is rough as he responds. “You’re using her to manipulate me. Do not think I don’t see it. But know this—if you push too far, if any harm comes to her because of your machinations, no one will be able to protect you. Not even the shadows you hide in.”

Varys’s smile never falters, but there is a flicker of something in his eyes—a glimpse of fear or perhaps admiration. “I live to serve the realm, Your Grace. And if keeping your sister safe also ensures your own security, then I will consider it a worthy endeavor. But heed this: Ser Arthur may be loyal, but the world is not kind to those whose love defies what is expected. A marriage to you would silence any talk of impropriety. It is a solution that benefits all, would you not agree?”

Rhaegar turns away, fists clenched as he struggles with the turmoil inside him. He knows Varys is right in a way that makes his blood boil. Marrying you would be the only way to keep your honor intact, to shield you from the ravenous wolves of the court. But it is a solution that comes at a cost—one that would bind you both to a life neither of you chose.

Without another word, Rhaegar strides down the corridor, Ser Barristan close behind. He needs time to think, to plan. But one thing is clear: he will not allow Varys, or anyone else, to dictate your fate. You are his sister, his responsibility, and he will protect you—no matter the cost. Even if it means sacrificing the love you share with another, a love that burns bright in the shadows where only the most dangerous of secrets dare to tread.

The gardens of the Red Keep are alive with the soft hum of bees flitting between blossoms and the gentle rustle of leaves in the summer breeze. Sunlight spills through the high branches, dappling the ground with patches of gold. You walk along the gravel paths with your handmaidens trailing behind, their laughter a light melody that mingles with the song of the distant fountains. It should be a serene moment, a reprieve from the suffocating intrigues of the court, but your thoughts are restless.

You stoop by a patch of flowers—delicate blue petals fringed with silver—and pluck one carefully. You roll it between your fingers, its softness reminding you of something more precious, more fleeting than even these quiet moments. From the corner of your eye, you catch a glimpse of polished steel reflecting the sun. Arthur stands near the edge of the garden, half-hidden in the shadows beneath a tree, his attention supposedly focused on his duty. But you know him better than that.

The handmaidens’ chatter grows more animated, distracted by some trivial gossip, and you seize the opportunity. With practiced grace, you drift closer to Arthur, your movements casual and unhurried. He watches you from beneath the rim of his helmet, his expression impassive to anyone else who might be watching. But there’s a flicker of warmth in his gray-lilac eyes—eyes that mirror your own violet ones, save for the quiet fire that only you can coax into a blaze.

You stop just within reach, turning slightly so the handmaidens don’t notice your proximity to him. As though admiring the flowers around you, you reach up with the small bloom still in your fingers and tuck it into a gap in his armor, just above his heart. His lips twitch into a faint smile, amusement dancing in his gaze. “A gift, my lady?” he murmurs, his voice barely more than a breath.

You glance at him, your own smile hidden behind the practiced serenity you wear like a veil. “It suits you, Ser Arthur. Perhaps it will remind you of the softness behind the steel,” you reply, equally soft, the words layered with more than their surface meaning.

His smile lingers, a rare thing for him in a place like this. “I have never needed reminding, Y/N,” he says, the sincerity of his words settling between you like a secret oath.

Before you can respond, your handmaidens call out, dragging your attention away with giggles and questions about the flowers and the latest court gossip. You cast a quick, regretful glance back at Arthur, and he offers you a small, almost imperceptible nod—a silent acknowledgment of the connection that binds you, even in these brief moments stolen from the world.

The garden soon returns to its usual rhythm, the clatter of distant hooves and the laughter of courtiers echoing from the nearby corridors. You try to immerse yourself in the conversation, nodding and responding as required, but your thoughts remain with Arthur and the unspoken words that passed between you.

It’s then that you hear the measured footsteps of someone else entering the garden, the swish of rich fabric announcing their presence before they even speak. You don’t need to turn around to know who it is. Cersei Lannister’s arrival is always accompanied by that distinct air of arrogance, thinly veiled beneath a pleasant smile. You force your own expression into one of polite welcome as you turn to greet her.

“Princess Y/N,” Cersei says with an almost saccharine sweetness, inclining her head in greeting. “I hope I’m not intruding. I thought I might join you for a walk, if you would have me.”

You smile, though it barely reaches your eyes. “Lady Cersei, you are always welcome,” you say, the words smooth but hollow. You’ve long since learned to play this game.

Cersei steps closer, her gown trailing elegantly behind her as she links her arm with yours. She makes a show of admiring the flowers, but you can feel the calculation behind every move she makes. She’s here for one reason, and you both know it.

“I hear the gardens are Rhaegar’s favorite place for reflection,” she says, her tone light but laced with an unmistakable intent. “It must be lovely to have such serene surroundings for your family. Perhaps I might see him here one day.”

You keep your expression composed, but inside, your irritation simmers. You know exactly what Cersei is doing—every word, every feigned smile is a step toward getting closer to your brother. She’s as ambitious as her father, and her desire to secure Rhaegar as her husband is no secret since she arrived during the festival. And now she’s using you to further that goal.

“Rhaegar finds peace wherever he can,” you reply diplomatically. “The burdens of the crown weigh heavily on him. I doubt he has time to simply stroll through gardens.” Your words are a subtle warning, one you know she’ll choose to ignore.

Cersei’s smile tightens ever so slightly. “A pity. I imagine the right company might lift his spirits.”

You glance at her from the corner of your eye, your mind racing as you consider how best to deflect her without giving away too much. “He finds solace in music and books more than idle conversation, I’m afraid. But should I see him, I’ll be sure to mention your interest in sharing his company.”

Her green eyes flash, catching the subtle barbs beneath your words, but she doesn’t let it show. Instead, she laughs lightly, a sound that feels rehearsed. “You’re too kind, Princess. I’m sure you understand what it’s like to carry the hopes of your family on your shoulders.”

Before you can respond, your handmaidens, oblivious to the undercurrents of tension, pull you away to show you something among the flowers. You excuse yourself from Cersei with a practiced curtsy and a gracious smile, but inside you’re relieved to have a moment away from her scheming presence.

As you walk away, you can feel her eyes on you, sharp and calculating. Cersei Lannister may wear the mask of a courteous lady, but you see the ambition beneath—the hunger to be queen, to wield power, and to use any means necessary to get what she wants. You know she sees you as a mere stepping stone to her goal, and while you might be willing to play along for now, you will not be used in her game.

Your thoughts drift back to Arthur, to the fleeting moment of warmth in the midst of all this cold calculation.

The sun begins its descent, casting shadows across the stone walls as you make your way back into the Keep. Your handmaidens chat animatedly behind you, oblivious to the tension that knots in your stomach. Ser Arthur walks beside you, his presence, as always, a silent anchor in the growing unease you feel with every step closer to the heart of the castle. The closer you get, the more the familiar scent of smoke and something acrid begins to fill the air—a smell that turns your blood cold.

Your footsteps slow as you near the throne room’s vast, looming doors, the heavy sound of voices carrying from within. The torchlight flickers, casting eerie siluethes as you hear the distinct crackle of fire and the low murmurs of the crowd inside. The doors are open just wide enough for you to glimpse the grand chamber filled with courtiers, their eyes fixed on the spectacle unfolding near the Iron Throne.

You recognize the scene at once, and dread pools in your gut like ice water. King Aerys stands before the Iron Throne, flanked by pyromancers dressed in their dark robes, their hands outstretched toward a brazier where several dragon eggs, turned to stone over the ages, rest on beds of smoldering coals. The flames dance wildly, manipulated by the green-tinted powders the pyromancers cast into the fire. The court is packed, hundreds of nobles watching with bated breath, some in eager fascination, others in thinly veiled horror.

Ser Arthur moves slightly in front of you, as if to block your path, his voice low and urgent. “We should find another way, my lady. This is not something you need to witness.”

But it’s too late. Aerys’s head snaps up, and those fever-bright violet eyes find you across the room. His face twists into something that might be a smile—or a grimace. “There she is, my precious jewel! Come, daughter. Witness history in the making.”

The words hang in the air, and every eye in the throne room turns toward you. You feel the weight of their stares—curious, expectant, and some even pitying. The courtiers part like the sea as you step forward, masking your hesitation with a graceful bow of your head. Inside, every muscle tenses as you try to gauge what mood your father is in. You’ve seen this spectacle before—each attempt more desperate than the last, each failure driving him deeper into his madness.

“Father,” you greet him softly, your voice steady, though your heart races. You approach the throne, your steps light and deliberate. Each pace forward is a dance on the edge of a precipice. You feel Arthur’s presence just behind you, his every move like a shadow to your own, though you know he must hold his position near the Kingsguard—Ser Jaime and Ser Gerold Hightower already standing sentinel near the throne.

“Closer, closer!” Aerys beckons, his voice a sharp bark as he extends an arm toward you. “See how the fires burn brighter in your presence, child. Perhaps you will be the key, the one to awaken the dragons of old!”

You force a tight smile, hoping it appears genuine, as you step to his side. The heat from the brazier is intense, waves of it rolling over you, making your skin prickle with discomfort. The pyromancers chant softly, adding more powders to the flames, causing the fire to flare with green and yellow sparks. The dragon eggs, blackened and cracked from countless attempts, remain cold and lifeless.

“The blood of the dragon flows strong in you,” Aerys continues, his voice lilting into that dangerous sing-song tone he adopts when he’s teetering on the edge. “Perhaps the fire in your veins will be enough to wake them. Yes, yes, place your hand near the flames, my daughter. Do you not feel the call of our ancestors?”

You swallow, pushing down the rising dread. Every eye in the room remains fixed on you, the silence suffocating. You can sense the unease in the courtiers, even those who hide their discomfort behind practiced smiles. But you know better than to refuse your father in this state. Slowly, you extend your hand, holding it near the brazier, feeling the scorching heat lick at your skin but never touching it. The air wavers with the intensity of the fire, but the eggs remain still, unyielding as stone.

Aerys’s eyes gleam with a wild hope, a manic anticipation that threatens to snap at any moment. You know this pattern well. You’ve seen how quickly that hope can twist into rage, how the king’s mood can darken like a gathering storm when reality does not bend to his delusions.

“Nothing… nothing…” he mutters under his breath as the flames sputter and die down to embers. His gaze shifts from the brazier to you, his expression tightening. “Why do they not stir? Why?” His voice grows sharp, accusatory.

You steel yourself, forcing calm into your voice. “Perhaps the dragons sleep still, Father. The fire may not be enough this time.”

His eyes narrow, suspicion flickering in their depths, but before his paranoia can take root, one of the pyromancers steps forward with trembling hands. “Your Grace, it may take more time, more heat… We must be patient.”

Aerys rounds on the man, fury twisting his features. “Patience? I have given them years! Centuries, it seems!” He raises a hand as if to strike the pyromancer, but then his gaze snaps back to you, and the gesture halts. The rage fades as quickly as it came, replaced with a grotesque affection. He reaches out to cup your cheek with a hand that feels cold and brittle despite the warmth of the room. “You are the key, my jewel. You will see the dragons rise again. You will see our family reborn in fire and blood.”

You nod, not daring to speak, not trusting your voice to remain steady. You can feel the tension in the room, the shared relief that the king’s anger has not turned fully on you, at least not yet. But that could change in a heartbeat. You bow your head slightly, signaling your submission, and he finally releases you, his attention turning back to the eggs as if willing them to crack open by sheer force of will.

Arthur steps forward, positioning himself near Ser Jaime and Ser Gerold. The three of them exchange brief, tense glances, ready to act should Aerys’s mood shift dangerously once again. You can sense Arthur’s worry even without looking at him, the way he watches you out of the corner of his eye, prepared to intervene if needed. But all he can do now is stand silent and vigilant, a loyal knight bound by duty even as his heart wars with it.

The tension in the room lingers, thick as smoke, as Aerys waves a dismissive hand. “Enough!” he snaps. “Take them away. They will hatch when they are ready—when the time is right!” His voice trembles on the edge of a delusion, but the court obeys swiftly. The pyromancers bow and retreat, gathering the eggs and disappearing through the back entrance.

The courtiers begin to murmur, the moment passed, but you remain where you are, your heart still pounding. Aerys leans back in his throne, muttering to himself about fire, dragons, and forgotten magic. You take a step back, ready to return to your chambers and escape this madness.

But before you can, Aerys calls out once more, softer this time, almost tender. “My daughter, stay close. We have much to discuss. The future of our house lies with you.”

The room feels even colder despite the lingering heat of the flames. You nod, your throat dry. “Of course, Father,” you manage, offering him a faint smile as you move to stand beside him once more.

In your mind, you send a silent prayer to whatever gods might listen that the king’s mood remains stable, that this day does not end in violence or terror. Arthur’s eyes never leave you, a silent reassurance that he is near, even as you step deeper into the shadow of your father’s ever-growing madness.

The Iron Throne looms above you like a monstrous beast, jagged swords twisted into a towering mass of cruelty and conquest. Its shadow swallows the chamber, deepening the gloom that clings to every corner of the room. You swallow hard, keeping your face carefully composed, masking the fear that prickles at your skin as your father’s voice rings out once more, sharper this time, insistent.

“Come closer, daughter. Do not be afraid,” Aerys commands, his tone a poisonous mixture of affection and madness. The courtiers fall silent, the air thick with anticipation, as all eyes turn to you once again.

You keep your steps measured and deliberate, focusing on each footfall as you ascend the steps toward the throne. The steel swords of fallen enemies, twisted and rusted, cut through the air like spectral hands reaching out to snatch at you. The closer you get, the more you notice the crimson stains on the edges, not from the wars of old, but fresh—your father’s blood. The sharp blades have left small gashes across his arms, his hands, even his face. His silver hair is matted against his temples, streaked with dried blood. But it’s his eyes that unnerve you most—the wild, feverish gleam of a man caught between dreams and nightmares.

You stop when you’re near enough that you can feel the chill of the iron radiating off the throne, every instinct telling you not to go closer. But Aerys leans forward, waving you in with a spindly hand that trembles with urgency. “Closer, my daughter, closer,” he croons, his fingers twitching as though he wants to reach out and seize you.

You bite the inside of your cheek, steeling yourself as you step closer, stopping just within arm’s reach of him. “Father, I’m here,” you say softly, your voice controlled, though your heart hammers in your chest. “What is it you wish to speak of?”

His eyes narrow, studying you as though searching for something in your face—something only he can see. “You are the brightest jewel in our crown,” he murmurs, his voice suddenly tender. “The blood of the dragon runs pure in your veins, and you will be the one to continue our line. You, not the usurpers who circle like vultures waiting for my fall.” He reaches out and grips your arm, his nails digging into your flesh, the force of it surprising you. “You will do as I command, won’t you? You will obey your king?”

You force yourself to nod, hiding the discomfort as his grip tightens. “Of course, Father. Always.”

From the corner of your eye, you catch the subtle shift of movement among the Kingsguard. Ser Jaime Lannister’s lips twitch into a smirk as he watches the exchange with barely contained amusement, as though the whole thing is nothing more than a farce for his entertainment. But his eyes flick briefly toward Arthur, who stands tense and stone-faced, his jaw clenched so tightly you can see the muscle jump beneath his skin. The sight of you so close to Aerys, within reach of those jagged swords and his unpredictable temper, clearly unnerves him.

Jaime’s whisper carries to Ser Gerold Hightower, the words laced with amusement. “It seems Ser Arthur doesn’t enjoy watching our little princess in the dragon’s den. He looks ready to leap forward at the slightest twitch from our good king.”

Gerold’s eyes remain forward, but there’s an unmistakable edge to his voice as he murmurs back, “Quiet, Jaime. Mind your tongue. This is no jest, and you would do well to remember that.”

Jaime’s smirk fades only slightly, but he falls silent, though his gaze remains fixed on Arthur, as if savoring the tension. The Dance of Dragons may have ended long ago, but Jaime seems keen to witness a different kind of dance—the one playing out between Arthur’s duty and his hidden emotions.

Aerys, oblivious to the whispers of his guards, pulls you even closer, his breath hot and acrid as he leans in, his eyes boring into yours. “They think they can take everything from me, but they cannot take you,” he hisses, his voice a low, venomous whisper. “You belong to me, just as the throne does. I’ll not let them tear us apart.” His grip slackens slightly, as though his mind drifts somewhere distant, before he snaps back to focus, eyes narrowing once again. “You will marry as I command. You will strengthen our house. You are the key to it all.”

Your stomach churns, the cold weight of dread settling deeper within you. His words, his tone, they carry the dangerous edge of a plan forming in his fractured mind—a plan that might involve you as a pawn, a sacrificial piece in the twisted game of power he plays. You’ve seen this look in his eyes before, the glint of obsession and control. The words he says are a riddle, but you know better than to question him now, not here, not with so many watching.

“Of course, Father,” you reply, keeping your voice soothing, placating. “I will always do what is best for our house.”

Aerys releases you suddenly, as though satisfied, and slumps back into his throne, muttering to himself once more about fire and blood, about dragons that refuse to wake. You take a careful step back, then another, relieved to put distance between you and the jagged blades that surround him.

Arthur moves discreetly closer as you descend the steps, his gaze locked on you with concern barely masked beneath the rigid stoicism of a knight. “Are you well, my lady?” he asks quietly, his voice just loud enough for you to hear.

You manage a nod, though your hands are trembling slightly. “I am,” you lie, offering him a faint, strained smile. But you can see in his eyes that he knows the truth. He always does.

Ser Jaime’s voice cuts through the murmurs in the hall, his tone laced with dry humor. “It’s a wonder the throne doesn’t consume him whole one day, with how he insists on bleeding over it like some offering to the gods.”

Arthur shoots Jaime a sharp look, his usual control slipping for just a moment. “Show respect, Lannister. You serve the king, as do we all.”

Jaime raises a brow, clearly enjoying the tension, but Ser Gerold steps in with a quiet command. “Enough. We have a duty, and it’s not to indulge in petty remarks.”

You draw in a steadying breath, regaining your composure as the court begins to disperse, the spectacle over for now. But even as the noise of the crowd grows, you can’t shake the unease that clings to you, the feeling that this encounter was merely a prelude to something far more dangerous. You can still feel the phantom grip of your father’s hand on your arm, the desperation in his eyes.

Arthur remains at your side as you leave the throne room, his presence a comfort in the midst of this madness. But even his silent support can’t chase away the dark thoughts that cloud your mind. Your father’s words echo within you—words that hold a promise and a threat all at once.

You only hope that whatever he plans, you’ll have the strength and the allies to survive it. And in the depths of your mind, you fear that the price of his plans might be higher than anyone is willing to pay.

Rhaegar’s footsteps echo ominously through the cold, winding halls of the Red Keep as he strides toward his father’s chambers. His usually calm demeanor is barely held in check, fury simmering beneath his pale skin like the fire that never truly sleeps within the blood of the dragon. He has lived his life balancing between duty and his own desires, but today, hearing of the spectacle in the throne room, something within him snaps.

When he reaches the chamber doors, they are flanked by two nervous guards who stiffen as he approaches. They share a glance, as if silently debating whether to announce him, but the intensity in Rhaegar’s violet eyes leaves no room for hesitation. They step aside immediately, pushing open the doors to allow him entry.

Inside, the room is shrouded in shadows despite the flickering candles and the low-burning hearth. King Aerys is seated near the far side of the chamber, hunched over as he murmurs to himself, his fingers tapping an erratic rhythm on the armrest of his chair like he always does. His figure is draped in black robes, the rich fabric stained with old wine and flecks of blood—his own, no doubt from where the Iron Throne bit into him yet again. Aerys doesn’t look up as Rhaegar enters; his attention is consumed by whatever mad thoughts are swirling in his fevered mind.

But Rhaegar’s presence cannot be ignored for long. “Father,” he says, his voice steely with restrained anger. “We need to speak.”

Aerys’s head snaps up, his eyes narrowing as they focus on his son. There is a flash of recognition, followed by suspicion. “Ah, Rhaegar,” he hisses, the name dripping with equal parts derision and warped affection. “Come to lecture me, have you? To question your king? Or perhaps you’re here to bow at the feet of greatness, knowing what I shall accomplish.”

Rhaegar takes a steadying breath, holding back the words that surge to his lips. He knows confronting his father is a delicate game, one where a single misstep could provoke a wrath as unpredictable as wildfire. But this is about you, and Rhaegar won’t be silent.

“What I’ve come to do, Father, is remind you that my sister—your daughter—is not a toy to be used in your mad attempts to hatch dead dragon eggs,” Rhaegar says, his tone measured but fierce. “What happened in the throne room was nothing short of cruelty.”

Aerys’s eyes blaze with sudden fury, and he rises from his chair with an unsteady lurch. “Cruelty? Cruelty is what they did to our ancestors when they tore dragons from the skies and butchered them! I am trying to restore what was lost, to awaken the power that rightfully belongs to us!” His voice cracks as it rises in pitch, his hands shaking with rage. “You call it madness, but it is you who are blind, Rhaegar! You cower behind your songs and your books while I reach for greatness!”

Rhaegar steps closer, refusing to back down. “You’re delusional, Father. These dragon eggs are nothing but stone, and no amount of pyromancers or desperate prayers will change that. But dragging Y/N into your obsessions—putting her at risk—cannot be allowed to continue.”

Aerys’s face twists into something grotesque, his lips peeling back into a mockery of a smile. “You think you can dictate terms to me? I am the king! I will decide who is sacrificed for the good of our house! And Y/N—she is mine to command, mine to wield as I see fit.”

“You speak of her as if she’s an object,” Rhaegar spits, his own temper slipping free, the cold rage in his eyes matching the heat in his voice. “She is your daughter, not some pawn to be used in your schemes. And I won’t stand by and let you ruin her with your madness.”

Aerys’s expression flickers, the fury giving way to something more insidious—calculating and dangerous. He steps closer, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. “You forget your place, Rhaegar. You think you can save her? You think you can protect her from what I choose for her? Perhaps I should have taken her for myself, as was the way of our ancestors. Perhaps then you would understand what it means to preserve the bloodline.” His eyes glint with something unholy, a twisted hunger, and Rhaegar’s blood runs cold.

The air crackles with tension, and for a moment, Rhaegar considers the sword at his hip. But he knows that drawing steel here would only lead to bloodshed—bloodshed that would change nothing, except to plunge the realm into chaos.

Instead, Rhaegar speaks through gritted teeth, his voice laced with quiet defiance. “You will not have her. I won’t let you destroy what little humanity you have left by dragging her into your madness. She is more than just your daughter—she’s the only reason the court hasn’t torn itself apart.”

Aerys laughs, a shrill, grating sound that echoes off the stone walls. “She is mine, as are you. You think you can defy me? You think the lords will follow you if you move against me? They all cower and scrape before the throne, and so will you.”

Rhaegar meets his father’s gaze, unflinching. “I don’t need their approval, nor yours. I’ll protect Y/N, even if it means going against you, Father.”

Aerys’s eyes narrow, and his voice drops to a hiss. “You’ll protect her by doing exactly as I command. You’ll marry her if that is what I decide. And you’ll do so with a smile, just as you’ve smiled through every indignity this crown has laid upon you.”

Rhaegar’s breath catches in his throat. He expected this, but hearing it aloud sends a jolt of cold reality through him. His father’s madness is now bound to entangle you both, drawing you into a fate neither of you wanted but one that might be the only way to keep you safe. The bitter irony of it twists in his gut.

Before he can respond, Aerys leans back, a cruel smirk twisting his lips. “You think you’re clever, boy, but you’re as much a slave to this crown as the rest of us. You will do what’s required, or I’ll see to it that Y/N pays the price.”

Rhaegar’s fists tighten until his knuckles turn white. There is nothing left to say. He knows he cannot reason with a man so far gone, but he also knows he won’t let his father’s threats go unanswered. Without another word, he turns and leaves, the door slamming shut behind him with a resounding echo.

As he strides down the corridor, his mind races. He has to find a way to protect you, to shield you from the king’s madness, even if it means embracing a path he swore he would never take. But deep down, he knows that the storm gathering within the Red Keep is only just beginning—and you are at the heart of it.

In the hidden recesses of the Red Keep, deep within a forgotten corridor, a secluded chamber lies veiled by shadow and silence. The stones are cold beneath your bare feet, but the heat between you and Arthur makes the air crackle with a warmth that banishes the chill. You’ve slipped away from the prying eyes of court, finding a rare moment where neither of you is expected, your absence unnoticed for a fleeting hour. The heavy wooden door to the chamber creaks shut, closing off the world and leaving only the two of you in this sanctuary of stolen time.

Arthur’s hands are on you the moment the door is locked, his touch both tender and urgent as he draws you into his arms. His breath is warm against your neck, his lips brushing the sensitive skin just beneath your ear. The tension of the day melts away in the press of his body against yours, the familiar strength of his arms encircling your waist. There’s an unspoken need in the way he holds you, a hunger fueled by the uncertainty that haunts your every waking moment in this treacherous court.

“Y/N,” he murmurs, your name a prayer on his lips as he kisses a path from your jaw to your mouth. His voice is thick with desire, tinged with something deeper—fear, perhaps, or desperation. He knows as well as you do that each time you meet like this could be the last.

You respond without words, your fingers tangling in his hair as you pull him closer, your mouth capturing his in a kiss that is fierce and unyielding. There’s no space for hesitation, only the burning need to feel something real in a world that constantly threatens to strip you of everything. His hands move to your back, finding the laces of your gown and pulling them loose with practiced ease. The fabric slides down your shoulders, pooling at your feet, and you shiver, not from the cold, but from the thrill of being laid bare before him.

His eyes darken with hunger as they drink in the sight of you, and he steps back for just a heartbeat, as if to etch the image of you into his memory. “You are more beautiful than I deserve,” he whispers, his voice hoarse with emotion, his fingers grazing your skin as though you might vanish if he isn’t careful.

You shake your head, pulling him closer, your fingers working at the clasps of his armor. “Don’t say that, Arthur. We deserve this, even if the world would deny it to us.” The plates of his armor clatter softly as you remove them piece by piece, the task made more urgent by the racing of your heart. Beneath the steel and leather, you find the man who is yours—yours alone, in this chamber and in these moments where the rest of the world falls away.

When he is free of the armor, his tunic follows, and then there is nothing left between you. You let out a shuddering breath as his hands find your waist, lifting you effortlessly onto a low table, his body pressing flush against yours. The kiss that follows is slow, deep, a mingling of breath and desire that sends heat coursing through your veins. His hands roam over your skin, reverent and possessive all at once, mapping every curve, every scar, as if committing it all to memory.

“Tell me this isn’t a dream,” he murmurs against your lips, his forehead resting against yours, his voice trembling slightly. “Tell me we aren’t just imagining this—a stolen dream before the waking world tears us apart.”

You cup his face in your hands, pressing a soft kiss to his brow. “It’s real, Arthur. This is real. You and I… in this moment, nothing else matters.”

He kisses you again, more fiercely this time, his need for you driving him to claim every part of you with a desperation that matches your own. His hands slide down your sides, gripping your hips as he pulls you closer, fitting himself between your thighs. When he enters you, it’s with a slow, deliberate thrust, the motion drawing a gasp from your lips as you wrap your legs around him, urging him deeper.

The rhythm of your lovemaking is both gentle and wild—a dance of passion and affection, of longing and love. The world outside this chamber is a cruel place, full of shadows and deceit, but here, in this sanctuary, there is only the two of you and the fire that burns brighter with every touch, every whispered promise.

His movements quicken, each thrust drawing you closer to the edge, but he never loses that tenderness, that quiet reverence for the connection you share. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot and ragged against your skin as he whispers your name, over and over, like a vow. “Y/N… my love… my everything.”

Your fingers dig into his back, holding onto him as if he’s the only safe harbor in a storm that threatens to drown you both. “Arthur, don’t stop,” you plead, your voice breaking as pleasure coils tight in your belly, threatening to spill over. “Please… I need this. I need you.”

He lifts his head, meeting your gaze with eyes darkened by desire but softened by love. “You have me,” he breathes, his voice rough with emotion. “You’ve always had me, and you always will.”

The world narrows to this moment—his breath mingling with yours, the slide of skin against skin, the heat building between you until it’s almost unbearable. And when you finally shatter, it’s together, his name a broken cry on your lips as pleasure crashes over you both like a wave, pulling you under and washing everything else away.

For a few blissful moments, there is only the sound of your mingled breaths, the beating of two hearts trying to find their rhythm again. Arthur holds you close, pressing soft kisses to your temple, your cheek, your lips, as if grounding himself in the reality of your shared intimacy. He remains inside you, unwilling to let go just yet, as if this closeness is the only thing that can stave off the darkness that awaits beyond these walls.

But reality can’t be held at bay forever. Slowly, reluctantly, he withdraws, and you both dress in silence, the weight of what awaits you outside this chamber pressing heavily on your minds. Once fully clothed, he pulls you into his arms, cradling you against his chest, as if to shield you from the world. “I wish we could stay like this, just for a little longer,” he murmurs into your hair.

You nod against him, your heart aching with the same longing. “I know… but we’ll find another moment. We always do.” You pull back slightly, looking up at him, your fingers brushing a stray lock of hair from his face. “And until then, I’ll carry this with me. It’s enough to keep me strong.”

Arthur leans in and kisses you one last time, slow and lingering, before finally letting you go. “Remember, no matter what happens… you’re not alone.”

“I know,” you whisper, your voice filled with quiet determination. “Neither are you.”

With that, you both slip out of the chamber, returning to the world of shadows and intrigue where you must once again play your parts. But in the depths of your heart, the fire of this moment lingers, burning bright against the darkness that surrounds you.

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