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jetblack4realz · 1 month ago

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not a choice - jacaerys velaryon

summary - when rumors spread surrounding a new choice in bride for jace, your insecurities get the best of you

targ!reader, so you have white hair. pre-war and they're just chillin on dragonstone so slay

also, tell me why i can write SO MUCH for jace?! like, over 6 and a half thousand words? huh??

warnings - nah

word count - 6.5k

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you were the one to see jace off when he left for the baratheon's rebellion at storm's end.

"stay safe," you requested gently, hands on his biceps as he offered you a bit of a sideways smile.

"don't fret, love," he told you, squeezing your waist as he pecked your lips. "i'll be perfectly fine, and i'll learn a lot. it's a miracle mother allowed me leave in the first place."

"i know, but i still worry," you answered with a short sigh. "it's a war you're attending to."

"a war that will be resolved quickly with the help of a dragon. when daemon went to the stepstones it was resolved rather quickly," he said.

"he was gone for months, jace. and you're not him, and vermax isn't caraxes," you reminded. "all i'm asking is to be careful. remember that you have a girl back home waiting for you."

"how could i forget? you're the most beautiful girl in all of westeros, it'd be difficult to forget you," he said with a widening grin as he pulled you in for another kiss. you smiled into it, hands sliding up to his shoulders as he held you tightly. "i'll talk to my mother when i return. i promise." he kissed you again. and then when he pulled back, he winked. "and your hand will be mine." he pressed his lips to yours even more firmly than before.

when he pulled back you noticed the dragon pit guards looking awkwardly away from you both and you let out a breathy laugh and nodded. "i'll be looking forward to it. but now, you need to go. lord borros is waiting for you."

"i'll write if i can," he promised.

"i will too," you answered. "be safe."

"i'll be better than that - i'll be victorious."

his laugh echoed behind him as he mounted the green dragon he was bonded to, the agile thing chirping as you offered them both a wave. he winked before taking off into the clouds, headed straight for the narrow sea.

you let out a deep sigh, spinning the ring on your middle finger as you watched him disappear into the sky.

"you know it's your last time you'll see him like that, huh?" your handmaiden asked with a sad frown as she looked at you.

your eyes snapped to hers, brows knitted tightly. "what do you mean?"

her eyes widened. "that's just what everyone around the grounds has been saying. that he's headed to help win lord borros' favor to wed his eldest daughter. apparently there have been talks."

"that's ridiculous. we're practically betrothed, my father would never allow it," you answered, waving the suggestion away.

"your father isn't here, my princess," she said quietly. "but lady elenda and their daughters are arriving in a fortnight, as you know. it seems as though princess rhaenyra wants the alliance."

"what need do we have of the baratheons?" you asked, shaking your head even as your brows furrowed further. "this is a nonsensical idea. jace and i have been set to be betrothed for years."

"it's just a rumor, your highness," she said, volume dropping even more.

"yes," you said, glancing up at the skies once more. "just a rumor."

the baratheons arrived only days after jace's departure in order to stay safe from the chaotic rebellion on their homeland and you were surprised to not be called to treat with them. rhaenyra insisted there was "no need" for you to bother yourself with the formalities.

apparently, they would not be staying long.

you were walking with baela when you were approached by a courtier you knew was a lover of gossip.

"is it true?" he asked with a tilt of his head and an interested smile. "is your almost-engagement off?"

you raised your brows. "funny. no, it's not."

"rumor has it it's going to be," he told you, tsk'ing his tongue as he shook his head. "the baratheon girl - cassandra - she's a beauty. dark haired like our prince with glittering gold eyes. fit for royalty."

"you cannot announce such implications like that to your princess," baela said with a glare. "off with you. the baratheon girl will leave and y/n will remain. and if you anger her more it will be your pain."

"as you wish, my princess," the man said with a slight bow, though his smile remained ever so slightly on his lips.

"ridiculous," she scoffed as he went on his way.

you hesitated as the four baratheon sisters rounded the corner, all strikingly beautiful in their own ways - in ways completely opposite you. the oldest, cassandra, held herself high, poised, proper in every way as her sisters giggled about her. "is it, though?"

baela followed your eyes before scoffing again and slapping your arm. "it is. you two have been head over heels for each other as long as i can remember. father and rhaenyra are betrothing you. those arrangements are set in stone."

"except they aren't. and father is not exactly in rhaenyra's good graces currently."

"she's not cruel," she told you. "she will not take out her frustrations with our father on you. or jace. he loves you, and she knows that."

your eyes remained on cassandra for far too long until you both finally turned the opposite corner and you let out a breath. "right."

you were surprised when you received your first raven from jace a few weeks later, not entirely sure if he'd be able to get one out to you.

my love,

i finally understand how the stormlands got their name. vermax hasn't taken well to the constant wind and rain, but we've managed to calm the fight a decent amount. i'm certain i'll arrive home soon.

lord borros has been kind with me, though he is a rather gruff man. he trusts my judgment and allows me to make my own moves with vermax, which i appreciate. we've worked well together and i see us continuing to be powerful allies in the future.

i hope you're staying entertained without me. i wish you were here. well, i don't wish you were actually here, but i wish i could see you. i miss you.

have you spent time with the baratheon girls? lord borros insists his eldest is a wonderful girl, as does my mother. i hope you've found a friend in her.

i'll try to be home soon.

i love you.

jace

you gripped the parchment tightly, eyes scanning the lines about borros and cassandra nearly a dozen times before you finally rested it against the desk again.

his mother spoke to him of her. lord borros was speaking of her even in times of war and rebellion.

perhaps there was an element of truth to the rumors.

but jace loved you, you knew that. rhaenyra would respect that, or at least you hoped.

luke's approach was quick and his brow was furrowed as he looked down at you. "my mother has been speaking with lady elenda in the war room all morning."

"what?" you wondered.

"she's asked to see you," he continued with a heavy breath.

"me?" you repeated with wide eyes.

"you. now."

you stared at him a little longer as his brows fell into a sympathetic gaze before finally moving around him and heading towards the princess' rooms. as you walked, you spotted the younger three baratheon girls giggling their way to the gardens and then when you were outside the hallway there was cassandra and elenda.

when they spotted you they both fell into instantaneous curtsies, cassandra's head dipping lower than her mother's as she spoke: "your highness."

"the princess is waiting for you," lady elenda said as she rose, looking back towards the doors.

you didn't answer, nodding instead to the both of them and passing them by in favor of rhaenyra's rooms. you heard elenda begin whispering to her daughter but you just kept moving forward, the guards pulling the doors open upon your arrival.

you immediately fell into a deep curtsy, silvery white hair falling in front of your eyes before you raised again.

"you called?" you asked as they shut the doors behind you, eyes immediately falling on the princess seated at her desk.

she looked up at you, eyes softening as a smile pulled at her lips. "my girl, how are you?"

you raised your shoulders and mustered a hesitant smile, still uncertain of what this conversation was going to lead to. "i'm well, thank you. and you, your highness?"

she let out a breath through her nose, smile tightening before she nodded. "i'm fine, yes. thank you, darling."

your eyes roamed the room, hands clasped in front of you as protocol called for.

"what was it that you needed?" you asked when your gaze fell back on her.

rhaenyra stood then, rounding the desk to lean against the front of it and eye you intently, letting out a breath as she mulled over her words. "i need to speak to you about jace."

"is he alright?" you asked instantly, taking a step towards the princess. "he wrote to me a few days ago. has something happened since then?"

"he is perfectly alright," she said, holding her hands out as she shook her head. "he is fine. but, there has been much conversation about him and his future. lord borros is impressed with him."

you paused before speaking. "that's wonderful."

"it is. i think we will end this rebellion with much stronger ties to the baratheons than before," she said.

"i'm sure he's grateful for jace's aid."

"eternally. lady elenda speaks well of him too."

"they've met?"

rhaenyra's eyes were intense as she watched you and you quickly schooled your features so you didn't come off as offensive as you assumed you'd looked previously.

"briefly, when you all were children you were introduced. i believe she once wished her daughter to be wed to him. she's always sought a tie to the throne," she hummed, still watching you closely.

"many do," you answered, rubbing your right thumb over the top of the left in a fit of developing nerves. "i'm grateful you and my father betrothed us when you did."

"yes, we certainly ended those possibilities early," she said.

you held your breath for a moment, trying to bite your tongue as best you could and suppress the little voice within you that resembled your father's.

rhaenyra was still smiling, so you tried to keep yours afloat too.

"are you worried that lady elenda is still set in her previous plans?" you asked her carefully. "it is odd she hasn't found a match for cassandra. she's been of age for a few years now, has she not?"

"yes, she has," she answered. "and i agree that it is odd. i am not entirely sure of her intentions, but she and her husband are quite... stubborn individuals. and very self-interested. if i am to be honest with you, my dear, i'm worried for our standing even after the end of this whole ordeal."

"even after jace practically rescues them?"

"even then."

and then you couldn't help yourself, you had to know. "are you considering dissolving our betrothal in order to secure their support for you as queen?"

the silence that followed was thick.

rhaenyra was a thoughtful woman, and her eyes remained heavy on yours as she went over her words.

it caused your heart to quicken, realizing her silence as your answer.

if she hadn't been considering it she would've denied you by now. but, she hadn't. she was still thinking it through.

"the baratheons are much better as allies than foe," she decided. "it would do us good to secure our alliance with them."

"by putting their daughter on the iron throne next to jace just like they want?" you wondered with wide eyes before you caught yourself. you stood straight and stepped back as her face fell, reaching an arm out to stop you. "we've been betrothed for a decade."

"i know. sweet girl-"

"i'm in love with him," you said, stepping back further as she pushed off the desk and moved towards you. "and he's in love with me. you need to know that before you make whatever agreements and alliances you need to."

"darling," she sighed. "i cannot promise anything. this is politics. this is our lives, you know this."

"i do. i've heard my father's lectures on the importance of strong matches and sturdy alliances, which is why i'm not fighting you on it. i just need you to know what you're breaking before you break it," you said, voice as strong as it could be even as you reached for the handle. "let me know if he sends word."

she nodded, lips downturned as she watched you pull the door open. "i will."

"i'll see you at supper." and then you were gone.

the air of dragonstone shifted after that conversation. other than baela, luke, and rhaena, everyone had begun treating you different. the maids and guards and lords and ladies watched you with a sort of sadness, an odd sort of pity that made you want to crawl out of your skin or slap someone.

and they'd become more attentive to the baratheon girls.

lady elenda, you learned, was a boisterous woman who loved to speak about her daughters. namely cassandra. she'd show the servants her newest stitchings or announce how lovely she was with words, begging the girl to recite a poem of her own writing.

she did it morning noon and night.

at first, rhaenyra smiled and nodded as expected, clapping at the end of the poem or gasping at the beautiful new stitching.

the ladies of court were just as supportive, and so were the servant girls who would be in the room at the time.

baela would just scoff and roll her eyes, whispering to you: "you'd think she was ten, how excited her mother is that she can stitch."

"don't be rude," you whispered sharply even as a smile pulled at your lips. "maybe she just learned."

baela snorted into her glass, earning a few looks and a wide smile from lucerys and rhaena.

elenda narrowed her brows. "did our princesses have something to share?"

"we were discussing our own stitching projects," you answered. "they're a bit... different than sweet cassandra's, but important nonetheless."

the woman wasn't a fan of you, you figured immediately as her look sharpened more. "and what are your projects, if you don't mind my asking?"

"we make our own riding armor," you told her, leaning back in your chair and sipping your wine quietly as the surrounding individuals who were not from storm's end leaned in with excitement. "our father taught us when we were little. since dragonriding is a dangerous and quite adventurous activity we usually get rips and tears in the fabric, so it's easier to fix them ourselves anyways."

and then you made eye contact with elenda, a half smile on your lips.

"i even made prince jacaerys' for him. i've begun teaching him how to repair them, so i'm sure we'll continue our lessons upon his return since there will be plenty to repair."

cassandra's gaze dropped for a second before it sharpened again - something brittle in her pride, like cracked porcelain. she glanced at her mother before looking to you again.

"that's good of you," she said.

"it's quite impressive," rhaenyra chimed in with a smile your direction. "i am always impressed with the princess."

your smirk softened into a smile and you nodded. "thank you."

it was then that the door burst open and her personal guard came to her side, whispering shortly in her ear. she stood, meeting your eyes.

"jacaerys has returned."

that had the baratheons perking up. elenda grinned. "perfect timing! it'd be lovely for him to reunite with cassandra. it's been ages since they-"

"i think prince jacaerys could do with some rest before socializing," rhaenyra said with a shake of her head and a smile. "perhaps in the morning."

"oh, yes, of course," elenda said as you and the princess began to make your way out of the dining hall. when you passed her, she caught your arm. her fingers pressed into the skin just above your elbow, soft but insistent - like a mother restraining a child. it made your stomach churn. "dear, the princess said he needs rest. you should probably stay here and leave the boy be."

you pulled your arm from her and moved to rhaenyra's side in one swift motion, shaking your head. "he'll want to see me."

and then you both left, leaving elenda and cassandra with wide eyes and slack jaws.

baela shrugged, stabbing a piece of chicken and meeting the baratheon mother's eyes. "she's not wrong."

you raced to jace's chambers with rhaenyra on your heels, pushing the door open with an unmatched urgency.

jace turned immediately, brows raised high before his face lit up and he caught you around the waist, burrowing his face in your hair as he held you tightly. he hummed lowly, pressing a kiss to your neck and shoulder. "hello love."

"seven hells i missed you," you breathed out. you pulled back, hands cupping his jaw by his neck as you looked him over. "you're alright?"

he let out a laugh. "i'm better than alright. i'm victorious."

you rolled your eyes, but smiled nonetheless. "good. i'm proud of you, and i'm damn glad you're home."

he pulled you back into his arms, squeezing you tightly. "me too, love."

you only pulled away so that he could greet his mother, sporting a wide smile as usual. "i have a lot to speak with you about, mother. lord borros is a talker."

"i've heard," she said, matching his smile. "you've done well, sweet boy. rest for now and we will speak in the morn."

"no, i'm quite alright," he told her, waving the suggestion away. "if i could speak to you now, that'd be preferable. if you have the time, of course."

rhaenyra looked at you then, like she knew something you didn't before returning her eyes and smile to her son. "yes. i've got the time."

"wonderful," jace said before glancing back to you and reaching for you again. "give me a few minutes and then i'll come find you, yeah?"

"alright," you answered, unsurprised by his desire to get whatever it was he wanted to speak with his mother of over with before fully relaxing. you pressed a kiss to his cheek. "i'll be in my chambers."

"i'll be there in a few minutes," he promised, hand on your cheek as he directed your lips to his for a few seconds before pulling back with a cheeky smile.

"okay," you said, grinning as you backed to the door.

"okay," he answered.

you exchanged a nod with rhaenyra before disappearing into the hallway.

you trusted jace with everything you had. you trusted him more than anyone else in this world - more than your father, or either of the twins, or rhaenyra. you knew he loved you, that much was evident. but, you also knew of his dedication to his mother and the throne that would one day be his own. if she decided to mention potential matches to him you weren't entirely sure which way he would sway.

it was a conversation you would save for later.

after an adequate welcoming home.

"i missed you," you mumbled against his mouth, hands in his hair as he pushed you back into your room and closed the door behind himself. he grinned into the kiss, flicking the lock shut before wrapping an arm around your middle and pulling you into him.

"i missed you too, darling," he hummed, squeezing you tighter as you stepped with him back towards the sofa in front of the fire.

it didn't take much effort to push you onto it, the boy holding himself just barely over you as he shifted his attention from your lips to your neck.

"what'd you speak with your mother about?" you asked, breaths deepening as he bit down gently on a sensitive spot, quickly soothing the bruise with a swipe of his tongue before he pulled away to meet your eyes with the same mischievous grin that had won you over years prior.

"why should i tell you?" he hummed, capturing your lips before you could object, one hand sliding up from your waist to cup your jaw and keep you close.

"because i'm intrigued," you answered, breathing out a laugh as you dodged his next kiss even as he tried to pull you back in. "we had a very interesting conversation the other day, and i'm curious if she mentioned it to you."

he paused, hovering over you as his brows slowly furrowed. "what did you talk about?"

you held his eyes for several moments before breathing out: "you first."

he considered you, eyes flickering from your eyes to your lips before he finally pushed off you and sat back against the arm of the sofa, gesturing you to him instantly. you sat up, leaning sideways against the back cushion and reaching for his hand which he immediately allowed you to take.

"i suspect that our alliance with the baratheons is a fragile thing," he began carefully, squeezing your hand absentmindedly. "lord borros is a prideful man. he spoke much of his family and their successes. he made mention of his belief that the baratheons could have been what we targaryens are had they been the ones with dragons."

"but they don't have dragons."

"exactly, and they never will," he answered with a nod. "still, it was slightly concerning to hear. i don't believe he holds true loyalty to my mother or to alicent in regards to our inevitable debate for the throne. whoever will cater to him the most will gain his support."

"his wife seems to function in a similar manner," you told him with a thin smile. "a bit of an obnoxious lady. she's very proud of her daughters."

he perked up a bit at that, as though he just recalled something. "have you met them?"

"her daughters?"

"yes. lord borros said good things. i thought maybe they could be friends to you, given that there aren't many our age on the island."

you breathed out a laugh, shaking your head as you looked down at your joined hands. "no, jace. i don't anticipate any friendships forming soon."

"why?" when you looked up at him he seemed genuinely curious, head tilted and brows furrowed at you. he squeezed your hand. "what makes you say that?"

you looked over his sharp targaryen features that resembled his mother and even your father in some ways, and then the soft pouty lips and dark brunette curls that belonged to his true blooded father. the deep brown of his eyes accented with an amethyst hue, and the perfectly dotted freckles sprayed across his nose.

and strangely, cassandra came to mind.

her delicately waved nearly black locks she braided with purple ribbons and the dots of blush she always applied to her cheekbones. she was a few years your senior and her bone structure showed it - a perfect button nose, high cheekbones, plump lips and a jawline that was defined just enough to be amazingly feminine.

she was an elegant little doe, just as she'd been trained to be. gentle and simple and the right amount of stubborn, unlike her mother.

and you deflated a bit, glancing away from jace to the fire beside you.

"no reason," you finally decided, mustering a small smile. "she just seems content with her sisters, as am i. i'm not desperate for friendship, jacaerys. i'm quite content with baela, rhaena, and luke."

"and me," he said, grinning as he pulled you towards him.

you laughed, nodding slightly and settling yourself comfortably on his lap. "yes, jace. if i've got you, i'm alright. no need for baratheon girls to fill my time."

"ditto," he hummed, hand on your neck again as he guided your lips back to his.

the next day lady elenda forced the two to meet, and neither you nor luke were invited.

"i don't like that woman," you muttered to the younger boy as you both strolled the grounds, hands clasped in front of you.

"neither do i," he breathed out with a shake of his head. "she's been trying to set me up with her other daughter, elliana, and i've reminded her of my betrothal to rhaena nearly a hundred times. i reckon jace is doing the same."

"except he can't," you said, kicking at the pebbles by your feet with a huff. "we're not betrothed."

"you're not?"

"not technically. my father's never actually declared it. your betrothal to rhaena happened before laena's death whereas mine has been left in daemon's hands. and, well, you know how he is."

lucerys watched you for several moments before nodding. "right. either way, i'm sure jace is fending off their advances."

"he'll do his best," you sighed decidedly.

luke's eyes remained on you longer than you appreciated before he opened his mouth to speak again, only cut off by the call of his older brother.

"can i join you?" jace asked as he came to luke's side with a grin.

you looked over at him with a thin smile, shrugging gently. "i'm actually meant to meet rhaena soon. how about you two practice some?"

"you don't want to watch?" jacaerys teased, moving around his brother to rest a hand on your arm.

you breathed out a half a laugh. "as much as i'd love to, i can't. how were the baratheons?"

"cassandra seems kind," he answered with a shrug. "her mother is as you said - very pushy. my mother seemed strangely interested in the whole thing. but, i'm glad to be done with it." he smiled at you. "you sure you don't want to watch us train?"

"i know where to find you if i do," you told him, smiling slightly as you patted his chest before passing him by towards your rooms. you looked to luke. "who knows, maybe rhaena will want to stop by."

the boy flushed red, earning laughs from both you and jace as you left.

"goodbye, love!" jace called, brows furrowed slightly at your swift absence.

you waved over your shoulder and moved quick to your rooms.

that night at dinner things were as they'd been for weeks.

you sat between jace and baela, whispering quiet quips to the latter as elenda began her daily bragging. jace, a virgin to her tales, seemed too interested, which made the baratheon women smile widely.

"that is quite impressive," he said with a nod. "you are quite the poet, lady cassandra."

"why thank you, my prince," the dark haired girl answered, eyelashes too long as she blinked and smiled at your boy. he returned her smile, your heart pounding once in your chest as you looked between them.

it had to be instinct, but your hand went straight to his upper thigh, running from his knee to his inner thigh quick and then slow, which earned his immediate attention.

his eyes were wide and his pupils dramatically dilated as they met yours, head tilted in question as the corner of his mouth lifted and then fell again. his voice was quiet when he spoke: "did you need something, darling?"

"nope," you said, holding your fork with your free hand and poking at the food on your plate. when you looked back at him you smiled sideways. "just missed having you next to me."

he hummed, catching your hand as it slid back up his thigh and holding it there. "i missed this too."

you held his eyes for several moments before flashing a quicker smile, squeezing his thigh, and returning to your plate while bringing your hand back to your own lap.

you glanced up to meet cassandra's frustratingly gold eyes, only looking away to see her mother and rhaenyra stuck in a stare off. baela nudged your side, nodding at the scene before elenda finally cleared her throat.

"prince jacaerys, your mother tells me you're a wonderful dancer," she said, looking to the boy with an expectant smile. "how about you and cassandra indulge a bit? this music is excellent."

for the first time that night, you noticed the music. it was a common tune, the dance that went with it known by nearly all who resided in westeros. you exchanged a look with jace before he swallowed and turned his attention to the black haired woman.

"does lady cassandra dance?" he asked.

"she knows enough, but not as well as you i'm sure," her mother answered. "she could use a teacher as skilled as you, sweet prince."

you cringed, jace's eyes flicking back to you before he nodded. "yes, i'm sure princess y/n and i could demonstrate. it's an easy enough dance-"

"how about you simply dance with cassandra? cut out the middleman, if you would. the princess needn't assist where her assistance isn't needed."

you met her eyes this time, mouth thin and eyes sharp as steel as your features schooled into a look that rhaenyra could only describe as daemon-like. jace reached for your hand, but you pulled away, standing from your seat with an all-too-polite smile and shooting a look to rhaenyra and then to the lady baratheon. "if you'll excuse me."

and then as you stepped away from a watching jacaerys cassandra stood, rounding the table and walking past you to stand opposite the boy. "if you don't mind, my prince, i'd be happy to dance with you."

you heard baela's scoff as you walked away, but you ignored it, and you ignored whatever jace's answer was.

and since he didn't follow you, you had a pretty good idea of what it was.

you didn't have it in you to socialize the next few days, resolving to stay in your chambers instead. baela and rhaena stopped by several times, but you insisted they go about their days.

"tell rhaenyra i'm sick," you said when they first came to fetch you for supper.

"are you?" rhaena asked with a raised brow.

you let out a heavy breath. "to my stomach, rhaena."

jace attempted to see you, but you never opened the door.

"love, open up."

"i'm sick, jace, i don't want to infect you." you pressed yourself against the door so he could hear you, and so he wouldn't try to bang the thing open.

he sighed. "bullshit, open up."

"just let me rest, i'll be out tomorrow."

"darling, honestly-"

"leave me be, jacaerys."

and then, to your utter surprise and disappointment, he did.

it was another day before he returned, skipping the formality of knocking and simply unlocking the door and pushing it open. you shrieked, pulling your comforter over yourself as he locked it behind him. "jace, what are you doing here?"

"why are you being like this?" he demanded quietly, brows knitted and arms crossed over his chest. "i've been gone for weeks and now you won't see me?"

you sighed. "jace, i don't feel well."

"that's shit and you know it too," he said, shaking his head.

you narrowed your gaze, dropping your arms back to your lap. "it's not!"

"you're not sick, y/n."

"i didn't say i was."

"so, what, you don't feel well emotionally? you don't like having me back?" he asked, brows knitted in a way that suddenly made you feel like a terrible person for insinuating such a thing.

"of course i like having you back," you said, groaning slightly. "i just don't like everyone else having you back too. the baratheon ladies to be specific."

"so you avoid me?"

"so i wallow in my pain and acceptance that your mother is going to marry you off to her," you corrected sharply, glaring at him openly now. "and you know it too. our relations with the baratheons are poor because of their pride and the only thing to fix it is to tie them to us permanently. to put one of their own on the throne beside you. you said it yourself, they will not take the side that does not benefit them."

he stared at you, eyes narrowed and jaw locked as he considered his words. "is that what you think?"

"that's what you said," you told him.

"you know what? you're right," he said, stepping towards you and letting one knee rest on the mattress. "that is what i said. because it's true. they won't do anything unless it be for their own self gain. but when did i ever say that that required us to indulge them?"

you sighed, shaking your head. "you didn't, but your mother-"

"i spoke with her," he told you. "she suggested the possibility. she told me that you understood. that you allowed her to make whatever decision was necessary for her throne."

you sat up straighter, shaking your head again. "that's not exactly true-"

"do you want to know what i said?" he asked, tilting his head at you.

you paused, watching him breathe deeply in and out of his nose before nodding. "yes."

"i told her no. i refused the thought." and suddenly your breath was gone. "i told her that she could take anything she wanted from me, my name, my dragon, my crown, but she couldn't take you. i listen to and abide by every rule she puts before me and the one thing i demand in return is you. and still, you avoid me. you need all my attention one moment and disappear the next."

that had you standing in seconds, running a hand through your insanely messy hair as you rounded the bed towards him.

"jace," you mumbled, reaching for him.

"don't," he said, stepping back.

"jacaerys," you said again, grabbing him by the biceps and pulling yourself towards him. one hand slipped up to cup his jaw as a small frown pulled at your lips. "i didn't want to step on your toes. your mother means the world to you and you are loyal to her to the end. i wanted you to make whatever choice was required of you."

"i'm loyal to you first," he whispered quietly, head falling forward to rest against yours, and your heart skipped a beat.

you reached your arms up to wrap around his neck, hugging him tightly to you and he just melted into it, his arms winding around your waist snugly. "i'm yours, jacaerys," you told him, pressing a kiss to his neck. "i'm yours. always."

"good," he mumbled into your hair.

that night you attended supper, brighter than you had been in weeks and clinging to jace's arm like your life depended on it.

when you sat, baela shot you a grin. "i see you two made up."

"he wore me down," you teased, jace rolling his eyes as he pulled your chair out for you. as you sat you felt nearly every pair of eyes on you, and as you glanced towards the head of the table you noticed both rhaenyra and your father, surprisingly, watching you and jace with the slightest of smiles.

"cassandra has written a new poem," elenda said, earning an amusing exchange of exasperated looks between you, baela, rhaena, and luke. jace knitted his brows and smiled at you, tilting his head in interest.

"this is a reoccurring thing," you whispered, squeezing his knee as he nodded in understanding.

"four poems in four days," rhaenrya mused with what you'd deemed her 'political princess smile' and a short nod. "impressive. you must have a lot of time on your hands, cassandra."

"enough to work my art," the girl answered, adjusting her posture as her gaze flicked to you. "i know dragonstone is quite busy, but i appreciate the reprieve that the oratory arts offer."

"i'm sure. though, i can't say many of us can relate to this," rhaenyra said, her eyes flicking to you and jace. "we prefer a different sort of reprieve. my future daughter by law, for example, spends many of her evenings in the sky."

"yes, she's told of her dragonriding rendezvous," elenda hummed with a thin smile your direction. "how she created her own uniform."

"she created mine as well," jacaerys added with grin.

"so she mentioned," elenda answered. "though we baratheons do not have dragons, we do our best to stay entertained and experienced."

"i'm sure y/n would be happy to give you an experience with a dragon, should you like," rhaenyra offered, glancing your way with a widening smile.

"her dragon is very eventempered," daemon said. "she claimed him when she was only ten and one. vermithor, the bronze fury."

cassandra's eyes widened. "oh! well, i've no need to ride a dragon. i'm quite content with my poems."

daemon snickered into his glass as he took a sip. "not as brazen as your father, are you?"

you breathed out a laugh, thankful for your father's sudden but welcomed return.

"i'm sorry," baela said, turning to rhaenyra with knitted brows and a wicked smile. "did i hear you correctly? did you call her your future daughter by law? are they getting married?"

it was then that lady elenda and her four daughters caught on as well, cassandra looking to the younger three with knitted brows as they looked to their mother.

"oh, yes," daemon said, sitting back in his seat. "we were going to announce that. yes, prince jacaerys will be wedding my daughter."

"when?" cassandra asked quickly, her eyes widening like she hadn't meant to say what she did.

"as quickly as possible," jace answered, holding your hand beneath the table and grinning. "i've been waiting years to call her my wife. i have no desire to wait any longer."

elenda was staring daggers at rhaenyra, whose eyes remained on her plate despite the growing smile to her lips.

"congratulations," cassandra managed, offering you the simplest of smiles.

you nodded, squeezing jace's hand and smiling widely. "thank you."

"well, i meant to announce tonight that we are leaving back to storm's end on the morrow," elenda said with a nod. "now that the rebellion is complete we are safe to return."

"yes, we're very lucky that prince jacaerys sped that up for you all so you could go home," you said, maintaining your smile. elenda narrowed her eyes.

"yes. thank you, prince jacaerys."

the boy lifted a glass of wine to his lips with a grin, nodding. "anytime."

eventually, rhaenyra steered the conversation elsewhere, though you and jace maintained your own semi-privately with your knees brushing and hands clasping whenever there weren't forks in them.

"thank you," you whispered to him as you gazed up with a smile. "for choosing me."

he shrugged, nudging your foot with his own. "there wasn't ever really a choice."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

thanks for reading! leave a request in the comments or message me privately! i love writing, so if you've got an idea you need fleshed out on paper i'd love to be the one to do that for you

masterlist!!

#jacaerys velaryon x reader #prince jacaerys #jacaerys targaryen #jace velaryon #hotd jacaerys #hotd season 2 #hotd #house of the dragon #jacaerys x reader #jacaerys velaryon

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rika-mmendmethings · 29 days ago

Text

Interdimensional Epiphany l Rafayel

CHAPTER 5

Chapter 4 | Chapter 6 coming soon

Summary: A fortnight of compensated leave from your company was supposed to be a rejuvenating experience. Things take an unexpected turn when Rafayel, your choice of ML, starts becoming self-aware. His love knows no bounds, not even interdimensional ones.

Warning(s): Subject to change as we progress further into the story. The series has major character deaths, subdued manipulation, heavy angst with a happy(?) ending, slight yandere themes, fluff, did I mention angst? For this chapter: Major character death, torture, immolation, heavy references to blood and betrayal, graphic violence, arson, not myth or timeline accurate, maniacal characters.

Word count: 5k

Playlist coming soon.

Notes: IT IS BACK EVERYONE!!!! Shoutout to all who waited patiently and I present you a very long chapter and important to compensate for lost time ;) I've mentioned this before that this series will be a deeper dive into Rafayel's cruel persona and will actually deviate from myths so hope y'all keep this in mind. I had to face so many obstacles to write this because it took me lots of brainstorming to think of the what ifs. Anyway, hopefully, you enjoy the read and stay tuned for the series. Lmk if you wish to be added to the tag list for this. ♥

Taglist: @loveanddeephistory @ittybittyfanblog @lyssandraxo @micasosa34 @hyein21 @browneyedgirl22 @yournextdoorhousewitch @blessdunrest @altair718 @3fg7 @froleineeeee @mikachux3 @aiehtta @beaconsxd @poptrim @animecrazy76 @zackenblacken @rainycreationfart @invaderzia1 @his-ocean-emissary @multisstuff @wondering-again @some-girl-idk @itsrandompersonyall @plzdonutpercieveme @renchai @mc-cos-charm @mentaltrouble2201 @jeremywillis @dysphxriaii @paper--angel @bymoonlightfics @lizzyyrawrs

The manor that had been arranged for Rafayel to stay in for some time was a far cry from the home he’d known. Rafayel didn’t remember much of the drive there, only the long stretch of winding roads leading him further away from the smoldering wreckage of Mo Art Studio. His mind had been somewhere else, a deep, painful fog that seemed to darken everything in its path. He hadn’t asked for the relocation. But the decision had been made without his input, and he’d accepted it the same way he accepted the news of the fire — without resistance, too numb to care.

The manor sat on another hill overlooking Whitesand Bay, a sweeping view of the sea below, but Rafayel had no desire to look at it today. The water, once a calming reminder of his roots, now felt distant and infuriating. Instead, he sat in the center of the expansive study, staring at the high ceilings, his breath shallow. The space was overwhelming.

Rafayel let out a low exhale and sank into a plush armchair, spinning the chair absentmindedly. His fingers drummed on the armrest, the rhythmic sound filling the air like a ticking clock. Time passed, but nothing seemed to move forward. The anger, simmering beneath the surface, threatened to boil over again, but he clamped down on it.

He couldn’t act recklessly — not yet. He had to be patient. There were details to consider, a plan to form, and the last thing he needed was to lose control now. He needed answers, and he would get them, even if it took everything inside him to stay calm.

And then the door to the manor creaked open. Rafayel didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. His manager’s footsteps were hesitant, Thomas’s head appeared around the corner, his gaze wary, like he was approaching a bomb ready to explode.

“I, uh... I think you’ll want to see this.” Thomas said, his voice tight, as if he were trying to tread carefully. He moved toward Rafayel, a small USB drive held in his hand.

Rafayel didn’t say a word. Thomas’s expression was one of guilt — regret even. He hesitated for a moment, then set the drive on the table in front of Rafayel, as if afraid to get any closer. Without a word, Thomas turned and left the room, his footsteps fading into the quiet distance. He didn’t move for a long time. His fingers curled into fists as his eyes stayed fixed on the USB drive. After a few more moments of contemplation, he reached for it. The weight of it felt too small for what it was about to contain.

Rafayel didn’t waste a second. He shoved the pen drive into his computer, eyes already narrowing, waiting for the inevitable. A file popped up automatically on the screen, and for a moment, his heartbeat stuttered. Surveillance footage.

He clicked on it.

The timestamp on the video read a few hours before the fire. Rafayel leaned forward in his chair, his hands gripping the armrests tightly, his breath shallow as he watched the grainy footage unfold. The first part was uneventful. A few people walked past the building, chatting or on their phones. He clicked through, fast-forwarding the mundane snippets of time. The room around him was unnervingly silent, save for the occasional hum of his computer and the muffled sound of the sea outside.

And then — there she was.

Mikayla.

At first, the footage showed nothing unusual after her arrival. Mikayla, with her slender frame and determined gait, walking up to the door, stopping to adjust her hair. But then came the unmistakable glint of tools in her hands and a kerosene can beside her legs. A lockpick was delicately wedged into the door. Rafayel’s jaw tightened as he watched Mikayla, the woman he'd once trusted, invade his personal space with cold calculation.

The next few frames were more damning. He saw her slipping inside — the house quiet and empty, as it had been when he’d left. But the silence was broken only by the sound of kerosene splashing. Rafayel’s jaw tightened as he watched her pour it. Everywhere. In the living room. In the hallway.

His eyes blazed with a cold fury, flicking between each camera as she systematically soaked the rooms. Especially the studio. His studio. The place where he'd poured his heart out, the very space where he'd captured you — his muse, his obsession. The portraits of you, unfinished and aching with life, lying there, oblivious to what was coming.

He flicked to the kitchen cam next. She turned on the stove, the flame dancing briefly as she set something near it, perhaps setting it up to ignite the rest of the house. Then, the heaters. One by one, she activated them in rooms scattered throughout the building.

She was ensuring there was no way to contain it, Rafayel thought, anger bubbling in his chest.

The last angle — the yard camera — showed her walking down the pathway, her head held high. And then she stopped. Turned her head slightly, as if to watch her handiwork. And that was the last frame before the fire began to spread. It wasn’t just a spark. It was a rush of fire, a violent wave of heat, starting from the kitchen and spreading like wildfire, engulfing the entire structure.

Rafayel’s vision blazed blue again, the glow so bright it nearly illuminated the room. His hand slammed onto the desk, splintering the silence with a force that felt like it might tear him apart. His teeth gritted as he muttered under his breath, “It was her…”

The revelation hit like a hammer. His mind raced, thoughts colliding, trying to make sense of it all. Why? Why would she do this?

But no matter the reasoning, no matter how many times he replayed it, the truth was simple. Mikayla had burned everything he had ever cared about. She didn’t even consider the effort he had put into his works, or the fact that he cherished Mo as his home to some extent.

His powers flared again as his mind replayed the footage in an endless loop, each time seeing Mikayla’s face, each time imagining her walking away, untouched. But not for long.

She’ll pay.

He stood abruptly, the chair screeching across the floor as he rose. His heart pounded in his ears, as he dialled a number of a person he had kept in the back of his mind all these years. He presses the phone to his ear just as the line connects.

“Amund, it is time.”

Mikayla stood at the edge of the cliffside estate, her figure small against the vast expanse of Whitesand Bay. The wind tugged at the hem of her coat, lifting strands of her hair and carrying them into the salty air. She barely noticed. Her eyes were fixed on the horizon, glassy and unfocused, while her fingers tapped rhythmically against her phone screen — not with intent, but as if driven by muscle memory alone.

She had come here because of a short, cryptic message from Rafayel.

“I need what you’ve kept with you for too long.”

There had been no context, no greeting, just that single line. She had read it twice, then again, confusion twisting into unease. Whatever it meant, she couldn't ignore it. Rafayel didn’t speak in riddles unless there was weight behind them — and lately, his silences carried the mass of a storm.

Her heels had clicked up the stone pathway to the manor only to be met by Thomas. The door cracked open just enough for him to peer out — expression unreadable, lips a straight, disapproving line. His eyes were sunken with fatigue, and something else, something grim: a knowledge he didn’t want to hold.

“Rafayel’s not here,” he’d said curtly.

She opened her mouth, but before she could form a question, he added, “Don’t ask. He disappears like that. Always has.”

Then, without another word, the door had shut. So now she waited. The manor loomed behind her like a sleeping beast — windows tall and dark, its chimneys unmoving against the gray sky. She had texted Rafayel again two minutes ago, asking about his whereabouts and had gotten no reply yet.

Mikayla turned her gaze back to the ocean. It stretched endlessly, a field of rolling steel-blue waves that mirrored the heavy clouds above. Normally, this view brought her peace — the ebb and flow of the tide, the way the sunlight danced on the water’s surface. But today, something was different. The sea was no longer passive. It felt alive.

The wind sharpened, slicing across her cheeks. Down below, the shoreline churned, frothing violently as wave after wave collided with the rocks. The waters had turned from sapphire to slate, turbulent and restless, like a beast pacing within its cage.

Mikayla took a step back instinctively.

A sudden surge of water roared up the beach, crashing toward the cliff’s edge with startling speed. She barely had time to move, stepping sideways as the wave surged close — not quite high enough to drench her, but close enough to spit foam onto her shoes. She glanced down, cursing under her breath, but before the irritation could fully settle, she felt a shift.

It wasn't just a change in tide. It was as if the ocean had decided it no longer wished to sit still. A sudden hush settled, eerily quiet — and then the sea screamed. From the horizon, a towering swell rose, unnaturally fast. A tidal wave, dark as night and crowned with whitecaps like sharpened teeth, hurtled toward the shore. It curved like a spine, arching as if summoned by wrath.

Mikayla’s breath caught. Her feet froze. The sky dimmed as the wall of water rose above her, blotting out what little light remained.

Cold seized her legs first — then her waist, her chest — and then she was under. Dragged violently through the sand and into the frothing embrace of the sea. The world above vanished, replaced by a riot of bubbles, shadow, and cold pressure.

She fought, but it was futile. The ocean didn’t care for struggles. It twisted her limbs, spun her in currents that felt like iron cables wrapping around her. She tried to cry out, but the sea swallowed her voice.

Her fingers slackened. Her limbs, once flailing, drifted like ribbons in the dark. The light overhead — distant and warbled — faded until she could no longer tell up from down.

And far above, on the cliffs of Whitesand Bay, the sea hissed against the rocks, retreating slowly — as if it had claimed what it came for, and was now satisfied.

Mikayla blinked against the watery haze, slowly regaining control of her senses. She realized her wrists and ankles were bound, held by coils of glowing kelp-like chain, pulsing faintly in the water’s ethereal light. She opened her eyes, and the sight that greeted her stole the breath she hadn’t even known she could draw underwater.

The world around her shimmered with an otherworldly sheen — an ancient ruin, bathed in bioluminescent blues and deep violets, its crumbled stone columns etched with unfamiliar symbols. Coral bloomed from broken walls, and strange, luminous fish swam between the gaps like wandering thoughts.

And then it struck her.

She had seen this place before — not once, but countless times in dreams, always out of reach. And now, she was here.

As Mikayla’s thoughts scrambled to make sense of it all, a dark silhouette stretched across the ocean floor, and her body tensed. She raised her head instinctively, eyes adjusting to the approaching figure, and there — just a few feet away — was Rafayel.

Her initial tension dissolved into fragile relief.

“Rafayel,” she breathed, her voice soft, the sound somehow carrying through the water as clearly as it would on land. Seeing him — a familiar face in a sea of the surreal — steadied her, if only for a moment. “What is this place? Why are we here…? Is it some wanderer’s effect?”

She expected a trace of warmth in his eyes or a sarcastic quip. But none came.

Instead, he stopped before her, his presence impossibly still. Up close, she could see how changed he was — how far from the man she remembered. His usually dusky eyes were now a luminous ultramarine, glowing with a quiet, alien intensity. Fins, translucent and glimmering, curved elegantly along the shell of his ears, and scaled patterns — the same deep blue — trailed from beneath his jaw down his throat, disappearing under the folds of his garments. But more than his appearance, it was his expression that pierced her the most.

From the edge of her vision, she noticed another figure — an old man watching from behind one of the shattered columns. His expression twisted into a sneer the moment their eyes met, his amusement thinly veiled. He didn’t speak, but the mockery in his gaze said enough.

“You thought I would remain in the dark?” He said, voice as steady as stone, yet heavy with restrained fury. “You thought, perhaps, I wouldn’t find the person who was the cause of the absolute desecration of everything I ever built?”

“What are you talking about?” she asked, her tone still confused but shifting — touched with a thread of caution.

“You set sanctuary aflame, destroyed my life’s work.” His voice didn’t rise, but each word landed like a drop of molten lead. “You chose to destroy what you never had the patience to understand.”

The girl who had blinked at him with confusion only moments ago began to fade as something in her shifted. She clicked her tongue, her eyes narrowing. The softness drained from her features, replaced by a steely indifference. Her shoulders lifted with a breathless huff, chin tipping upward.

“Ah,” she murmured, her voice now cool and unhurried. “So you did find out.”

She tilted her head toward the chains binding her. “So that’s the reason I’m here, then? You believe a cage will humble me?” She gave a half-laugh — not mocking, but disdainful. “I won’t be treated like this, Rafayel. Not by you.”

“You speak as though you still have the right to be offended,” he said. “As though betrayal gives you the high ground.”

The water between them seemed to pulse with tension. Rafayel’s face twitched, barely — just enough to betray the tempest beneath the stillness. He turned from her, walking slowly toward the crumbled remains of a podium, his hands clasped behind his back like a judge before the verdict. He stood there for a breath and then turned to face her again.

“Although, you’re right,” he said, voice edged with cruel irony. “You’re my guest in the Island of Songs. I should be offering you hospitality.” He smiled, but it was simply a hollow curve of the mouth. “We’re close, aren’t we? You deserve the best.”

He paused, and the chains around her responded before he gave them voice. Her eyes widened a fraction as the bindings cinched tighter. The pressure multiplied, slamming against her skin, her bones. Mikayla hissed through her teeth, pain lancing through her limbs as the magical restraints dug deep into her.

She struggled, chest heaving, the sting of betrayal blooming sharper than any wound.

"Rafayel—"

Amund’s footsteps echoed solemnly against the sea-glass tiles of the submerged ruin as he approached Rafayel with measured grace. In his hands, he cradled something wrapped in silk — an object so sacred that even the coral seemed to lean away from it, as though aware of its resonance. With reverence, the old man drew back the translucent cloth to reveal a ceremonial dagger. Its blade shimmered with an unnatural luminance, forged from a metal no surface-world forge had ever touched — a sleek, obsidian-sheened platinum veined with veins of soft violet glow, like lightning locked in ice. The hilt curved like the spine of a mythical sea-serpent, etched in Lemurian runes that pulsed faintly as if they were breathing.

Rafayel stood silently, hands open and steady, accepting the dagger with both palms outstretched. The moment it touched his skin, the runes began to burn brighter, their glow syncing with the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. Amund muttered in Lemurian, each syllable stirring unseen forces in the depths around them.

Rafayel turned, his gaze settled once more on Mikayla.

She hung suspended in the enchanted chains, arms spread slightly from her sides, her body bowed by the pressure of their grip. The kelp-like bonds writhed faintly, as though aware of their victim’s pain and drawing nourishment from it. Her breaths came shallow and uneven, each one a ragged effort. Her eyes, though glassy with strain, still held defiance — but it was a dying flame.

“How does it feel?” he asked, his voice velvet-wrapped iron. He let his lips curl into a smile that bore no warmth, only satisfaction. “Come on, Mikayla. Tolerate it. So much worse is still to come.”

The chains pulsed tighter in response and she hissed, blood blooming like scarlet ink in the water, curling in gentle spirals as if even her agony had been choreographed. Her voice broke as she choked out, “What do you want?”

Rafayel didn’t answer immediately. He began to walk toward her, stopping only inches from her, crouching slightly so that their eyes met. He lifted the dagger between them, tilting it gently so the gleam of its edge traced the outline of her cheek. The blade didn’t touch her, but it sang — a high, aching frequency that made her teeth ache.

“I want your heart,” he said softly. Then he chuckled, dry and unkind, before letting the hilt fall into a loose grip. He drew his free hand across his face in mock frustration, as though catching himself in a minor social faux pas.

“Oh — sorry,” he said with mocking sweetness. “My heart, actually.”

Mikayla’s face contorted with disbelief, color rising high on her cheeks even as the cold currents tried to drain the warmth from her skin. Her voice cracked as it rose into a scream, her words laced with venom and heartbreak.

“All this — all this — for a woman you don’t even know. A woman who doesn’t exist, Rafayel!”

Rafayel didn’t flinch. Instead, he chuckled mirthlessly, his eyes, still pulsing with that ultramarine glow, glinted with something unrecognizable to the man she once knew.

“Oh, but I do know her,” he stated, voice silked with certainty. “And she’s not just any woman, believe me.”

He tapped his chin thoughtfully with the tip of the ceremonial dagger, an idle gesture made cruel by the context — as if he were pondering nothing more serious than a piece of music or a half-finished poem. Mikayla’s breath caught as she watched him. She’s not real, her mind screamed. But he wasn’t hearing that now. He wasn’t hearing her at all.

He continued, voice almost pleasant: “And you don’t have to worry about whether I’ll meet her or not. After today,” — his smile widened, predatory — “you can be most certain that I will.”

“Although…” He tilted his head, feigning regret. “I can’t guarantee you’ll live to witness that.”

Her lips parted, but no sound came. For the first time, real fear bloomed in her chest. Not the fear of pain — no, she had endured that and more — but the fear of being forgotten. Of being eclipsed in the heart of a man who had once refused to stop seeing her, even when she pushed him away again and again. The man who once poured himself into painting her shadows now looked through her as though she were just another ruin left behind.

And this — this — over a fantasy? A woman who lived only in his brushstrokes and canvases?

Her eyes burned as angry, spiteful tears spilled into the water, turning her vision into a blur of motion and light. Her heart screamed against itself — against the punishment now being dealt by her own hands, from choices she had long buried beneath indifference and superiority.

But there was still one card left to play.

With trembling strength, she raised her chin. Her jaw was set, her voice breathy but resolute. She summoned power from the marrow of her bones, from the bond he had made with her long ago beneath moonlit tides.

Her voice struck through the water like a divine command:

“With the authority granted to me by the Ocean’s Covenant,” she began, gritting her teeth, “I order you to erase that wo—”

She never finished.

Rafayel spun. In an instant, the casual cruelty was gone — replaced by a sharp, ruthless urgency. The blade flashed through the water like a bolt of light summoned from the seabed, and in a single fluid motion, he swung the dagger toward her with terrifying precision. Her eyes widened and the words on her tongue dissolved like salt. A current followed in the weapon’s wake, rippling out like a shockwave.

The dagger sang through the water as it arced downward, and in a blink — before Mikayla could finish her forbidden command — the blade severed her tongue.

A rush of crimson bloomed, then disappeared into the depths in whorls of blood-tinged silence. No scream followed. There was only the choked gasp of a body shocked beyond endurance, and the widening of her eyes — first in disbelief, then in searing agony.

Her voice, the very instrument of her power, was gone.

Forever.

Rafayel stood over her, breathing slowly as the runes along the dagger’s hilt pulsed brighter, feeding on the severed command, on the fractured spell still echoing in the current like a fading heartbeat. The silence that followed was immense — not merely the absence of sound, but the suppression of something sacred. Mikayla’s breath trembled in short, helpless bursts as her blood mingled with the salt of the sea, her limbs twitching against the binds that refused to release her.

Rafayel’s face twisted, not in anger — but in disgust.

“Had I known you’d fall to this level…” he murmured, his voice a low thunder, rumbling with grief barely leashed beneath the fury. “Compelling me to forget something I held dear… to erase her from my soul…”

He stepped closer, the dagger still glowing faintly, its edge now marked with the remnants of her blood. His voice grew colder, more distant, as though each word was dragged from the bones of a long-dead truth.

“I should’ve never given you my heart. And to think—” he stopped, the weight of it pressing on him. His jaw clenched. “To think I sacrificed Lemuria for you.”

Mikayla's breath hitched as her eyes locked on him, still burning with a thousand unsaid pleas — for mercy, for reason, for some last tether to the man she once knew. But he no longer saw her as Mikayla. Not truly. She was just a traitor now, not his bride.

Rafayel raised the dagger high once more, but this time it was not meant to cut flesh. He brought it down slowly, deliberately, to the center of her chest — and instead of slicing skin, the blade carved through the metaphysical boundary of her being, opening a cavity not of blood and bone, but of essence.

A jagged rift shimmered into being — pulsing with threads of glowing blue, violet, and red, flickering like an aurora within her sternum. From this impossible wound, an orb of soft, flickering flame revealed itself — no larger than a closed fist, yet radiating with the terrible and beautiful force of something eternal.

It floated from her chest as if it knew its path.

Rafayel’s eyes reflected its light as he reached out, hands no longer trembling. The orb hovered above his palms for a heartbeat — two — as if weighing the soul of the man who dared claim it.

And then, with silent understanding, it sank into him.

The moment it touched his chest, it melted through flesh and fabric, embedding itself into the very core of his being. The reaction was instant. His body arched as the energy surged through him like a storm birthed in the marrow of the world. His spine illuminated with runic fire, fins along his ears flared wide and crystalline, and the scales along his neck shimmered into new patterns — no longer muted blue, but radiant indigo marked with gold.

A shockwave burst outward, distorting the water around them, shaking the coral, and splitting the stone at the base of the ruined altar behind them. Even Amund, watching from the shadows, took an instinctive step back, eyes narrowed as he whispered, “He’s ascended…”

Raw power now pulsed from Rafayel’s core, and the ruins seemed to hum in reverence. Mikayla sagged in her binds, eyes fluttering weakly. The mythical process that severed the eternal flame from its host was not instantaneous — nor painless. It gave her a few more moments. Just enough to feel what she had lost.

Rafayel approached her one last time, his steps leaving trails of light in the water. He crouched before her, calm now — like the sea after the storm, deceptively quiet.

His hand reached forward and gripped her chin, lifting her face gently but with finality.

“Time for you to pay fairly,” he said, his voice a cold psalm, spoken not out of hatred, but of necessity. “For what you’ve done.”

Her form, once sharp with pride, now trembled — not because she feared death, but because, in the final throes of her fading consciousness, she finally understood the cost of betrayal. Mikayla’s body convulsed as the last vestiges of her strength failed her. The chains no longer bound her in struggle, but in surrender. Her hollow eyes — drenched in unshed agony — met Rafayel’s one final time, pleading not for mercy, but for comprehension. But none was offered.

Tears welled and broke like bubbles drifting upward through the water as flames, unnatural and divine, began to kindle across Rafayel’s fingertips. He had no need to speak. The flames leapt from his hands like serpents of gold and blue, wrapping around Mikayla’s form in elegant cruelty. No ordinary fire could ignite beneath the ocean, but this was no earthly blaze. It was born of soul and sanctity — the wrath of Lemuria made manifest. It embraced her not with warmth, but with righteous fury, consuming the very foundation of what she was.

Mikayla did not scream. She could not. She simply wept as her form disintegrated into ash — ash that refused to scatter, instead crumbling downward like dust returning to the bones of the drowned.

And then there was silence. A silence so full it seemed even the water paused in reverence.

Amund stepped forward from the shadows, his expression unreadable, though his gaze lingered on the scorched shimmer that marked the spot where she had perished. He placed a hand on Rafayel’s shoulder without speaking, a gesture that acknowledged both the weight of what had been done — and the necessity of it.

Together, they turned from the ruins, leaving behind the last stain of Lemuria’s greatest betrayer.

The journey back to Whalefall City was quiet. But the city… was no longer what it once was. As they approached the oceanic capital of his kingdom, Rafayel saw it — the rebirth of Lemuria.

The shattered temples, once drowned and crumbling, were reforming. Coral wrapped around fractured columns, singing in strange frequencies, pulling ancient stones into place. Obelisks that had stood silent for centuries now hummed with light, their glyphs blazing once more with Lemurian. Schools of ethereal fish circled upward like garlands, drawn like celebrants in a holy procession.

The Temple, the very core of Lemuria, awaited them. Its ruined spires rose, healed, and reached like arms toward the surface, weeping with moss and gold. As they arrived at the gates, Amund — his weathered face now alight with reverence — bowed deeply and stepped aside, his voice barely a whisper: "Only Your Quintessence may enter now. This miracle… it belongs to you.”

Rafayel nodded once and crossed the threshold.

The inside was luminous and still. Water hung like silk, unmoving, as if the temple had claimed time itself and refused to let it pass. He followed the central aisle — flanked by statues of his predecessors, their eyes shut in peaceful slumber — until he reached the alcove at the altar’s heart.

From within his hands, he drew the eternal flame — now diminished to the size of a small ember, flickering softly in his palm. He crouched, bowed his head, and placed it upon the pedestal.

For a breath, nothing happened.

Then — the ember pulsed. Once. Twice. And with the third pulse, the entire temple came alive.

Light exploded outward in waves, weaving through the chamber like ink dropped in still water. The runes ignited along the floors and walls, and the Deep Sea responded with a low, harmonious thrum, a sound not heard since eons.

Outside, the ocean itself shifted. Not with violence — but with serenity. A warmth, impossible in these depths, spread through the waters like a returning soul. Lemuria had awakened. Its people would no longer wander as ghosts.

Rafayel turned to the temple doors, where he saw them — the last of Lemuria’s kin, drawn by instinct and magic. Faces he had long forgotten. Elders, children, warriors, lost souls. They were all there.

Some knelt. Others reached toward the light in awe, tears cutting silent trails through the saltwater. And then came the music — sung by the entirety of them in Lemurian, the underwater hymn rising from the marrow of the city itself. They rejoiced in their own way of the return of the God of the Seas.

Rafayel watched, standing still among their joy. And though his face held the composure of a guardian, his heart wavered. He glanced to his side, to the place where he would’ve made you stand.

You were the thread that bound him to his purpose — his muse, his savior, his epiphany. And now, with Lemuria’s resurrection and unlocking his true potential, he would find you. Beyond time and dimension, beyond even mortality if he must.

He would bring you here — beside him — to see the joy you inspired. And for the first time in centuries, Rafayel smiled — not with burden, nor sorrow, but hope.

Check out my other works if you liked this ♥

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dreamfyr-e · 7 months ago

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jacaerys velaryon x fem!knight!reader drabble based on this ask <3 ( w. 735 )

꒰ dame is the historical title for a female knight, though i don't think its ever used in asoiaf ꒱

check out my event ! ִֶཐི༏ཋྀ󠀮

⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆ 𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧 ⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆

"your grace-"

"i am your prince, and i command it," jacaerys replies, a cocksure grin tugging at his mouth.

you gaze upon the prince, shifting in your stiff metal armour. these suits are not made to fit ladies — the breastplate presses uncomfortably on your chest, and the sharp steel edge of the bodice digs painfully into your hips where it rests too low. queen rhaenyra had made efforts to have a suit forged to your measurements, but this was the placeholder.

"you... already have guards, your grace — two that wait outside of your room at all times. i mean no offense, but would it not be pointless to have a guard inside as well?" you ask, anxiously rolling the hilt of your sword in your palm.

its late into the evening, sun setting upon the rocky facade of dragonstone and bathing everything in a reddish-golden light. he draws a finger across the table where he sits, looking up at you. jacaerys comports himself with a regal air, all smooth black attire and calculating eyes. those very eyes, dark and deep, assessing you in this moment.

he stops his absentminded little circles, straightening up in his seat. he sighs, clasping his hands in his lap and casting his gaze upon them, "it is only... my mother, the queen, was attacked in her chambers only a fortnight ago. there is unrest in the castle, moreso since. i feel-" he looks up at you, mouth in a soft pout and eyes glassy, "unsafe."

he's intelligent, and strategizing, and very endearing in his little manipulative streak. he knew just how to bend you, he had seen you crumple at the fall of his tears before.

"if-" fuck, "you... you must speak to your mother about this, my prince."

he graces you with this horrible, mock-hopeful expression, "you would not object?"

"not if this is what you wish. i am sworn to house targaryen, and you... are my prince."

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

"this suits you."

as a guard, you are limited in your permission to move. you stand, back to the door and one hand on your sword at all times — you do spare the prince a glance when he speaks.

"pardon, your grace?"

his hair is damp from his bath, curls slicked back with water. he's clad in naught but a thin tunic and linen breeches, a scarlet robe draped over his lithe frame. he gestures fluidly at your body when he replies, "the armour. the smith did a wondrous job in tailoring it to fit."

his gaze is far from subtle — eyes starting at the curve of your throat, lingering briefly at your shoulders and arms and waist, before landing where your thick woolen skirt meets your boots.

you swallow thickly, "thank you, my prince."

his eyes dart back up, smile deceptively sweet, "the hour grows late," a few calculated steps forwards, "i fear words for my gratitude escape me-" that sweet, warm smile, "but i am glad that you are here-" his hand, searingly warm, lands upon the part of your bicep exposed by your pauldron.

before you can reply, he squeezes gently. and then he's gone — that spot on your arm warm still, even through the long sleeves of your tunic. he has departed for his bed across the room, no glance spared behind him, single-minded attention focused on his destination.

you stand still at your post, eyes flitting around the room as he prepares to sleep. it is obviously a show, carefully designed for your eyes -

the way he sits on the bed facing you, rolling his shoulders and then neck; how he stands, body unfolding with measured grace; his hand carding through his hair, damp curls spilling around his face once disrupted. he doesn't look at you, as if this drama and allure is part of his nightly routine. his robe comes off slowly, one arm and then the other before it cascades down his back like water.

"i prefer to sleep in fewer clothes," he says, looking back over his shoulder, the cruelest little smile deepening his dimples, "if that does not offend, dame."

you're in no position to say no, to deny him any request. so you shake your head, "it does not offend, your grace."

his shirt comes next, arms and shoulders moving in a way intended to show the lean muscles from a lifetime of sword training.

a long night ahead, no doubt.

#didn't read this just posted it :3 #𖦹｡⋆ jace #jacaerys velaryon x reader #jacaerys velaryon #jacaerys targaryen #jacaerys x reader

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earthtooz · 1 year ago

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ratio is jealous bc im weak to him being jealous om, gn!reader but they wear a dress, fluff !!

“darling, this is a serious matter and i expect you to treat it as such,” veritas scolds as his face hovers inches away from yours, his body keeping yours captive against the softness of your shared bed.

“serious? well i think you seriously need to get over it. i spent a lot on that dress and i’ve been looking forward to wearing it to the gala all fortnight,” you scold, trying to look stern with the man hovering above you. “even if you don’t like it, i’m wearing it.”

“don’t like it?" he parrots, utterly appalled. "you’ve got the wrong idea. on the contrary, i think i like it too much.”

your hand snakes up to pinch his heavily defined deltoid. “then what’s the problem?”

“because others will love it just as much as i do.” there’s distaste in his voice when he tells you that, and the way his eyebrows furrow are similar to that of when a student asks him a question that he deems ridiculous.

"sure thing," you roll your eyes at his statement, clearly not believing him, and it vexes him that you are not aware of your ability to capture the attention of bystanders just by entering a room. veritas has witnessed it himself a multitude of times before he had become yours.

the scholar would seethe an envious green whilst keeping an eye on everyone who'd approach you, absolutely burning with jealousy because he was not the sole man of your attention. he'd lament over who he'd become, who you made him become whilst glaring at anyone who came near.

then, you'd smile at him and the fury he felt prior melts away because none of them could ever compete against someone as esteemed as the veritas ratio for your affections.

he's grateful that you saw through those idiots and chose him to be your partner in the end, but aeons, that has not done anything to cure his temper. years of treading the liminal space between friends and something more for too long can make any individual antsy.

"either way, i'm wearing the dress."

"fine. then i should forewarn you that you may find me overbearing tonight, and to not blame me for it."

his arms that were holding up his weight slip when your arms wrap around his neck, bringing him closer to you. veritas feels a little lighter when you litter kisses on his cheeks. "no need to be jealous, ratio, i'm all yours."

(true to his word, he does not part from you that evening, acting as an accessory to your outfit. he clings to you, hand never leaving your skin, always moving from your wrist to your waist to your shoulder. you can’t stray from him for more than an arm's length because you’re always tug back towards him before you can get too far, and then he'd follow you to your destination.

outsiders may observe and call him clingy, but judging by the carefree smile on your face and the way you’d beam at your lover every time he would pull you back to him, it doesn’t seem to bother you too much.)

#earthtooz: honkai star rail #dr ratio x reader #Ratio x reader #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #veritas ratio x reader #i want him

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azmageddon · 8 months ago

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Silence (Part Two)

Pairing: Azriel x Cassian’s twin!healer! reader

Summary: It’s your turn to find the silence deafening.

Warnings: Short section of spiciness, but definitely not smutty. Also, you can pry the angst from my cold, dead, hands. Give me all the angst. Also painfully inaccurate to the original storyline.

A/n: Sorry it took so long! I’m obsessed with making everything perfect. Enjoy! Let me know what you think and what else you want to see.

“I have one for you too, Y/N.”

You looked up from where you were leaning against the wall at the back of Rhys’s office. Everyone’s eyes were on you and you could have sworn that Azriel, who was leaning against the wall next to you, had stopped breathing all together.

“Me?” you asked, confused.

Rhys only nodded, holding the invitation out further in his outstretched hand. You shuffled your way forward, Mor and Amren stepping aside to give you space. When you finally reached his desk and gripped the letter, you gave it a swift tug, but Rhys didnt let go. The two of you stood there for a moment, hands attached to the letter in a quiet tug-of-war over his desk. You caught eyes with the High Lord. They seemed to say be careful before he finally released the envelope.

Worry hummed across the bond, mixing with yours and sitting in the pit of your stomach. Turning back toward your spot in the back of the room, you risked a quick glance up to Azriel and saw concern plain on his face.

“Watch your face,” you reminded him in his mind and he quickly returned to his stoic, unreadable expression. “Wouldn’t want to blow our secret over a silly invitation, would you?” You tried to keep the conversation light and carefree, but it was difficult when dread had crept into your mind. If Azriel felt your nervousness, he didn't acknowledge it.

“You know,” he replied, “I’ve been rethinking keeping this a secret. Don’t you think it’s time they knew?”

“But it’s so much fun sneaking around.”

You could feel Azriel’s metaphorical eye roll through the bond and suppressed a chuckle while you took your place back against the wall. “I just thought it would be nice after keeping it a secret for nearly 400 years. But we can talk about this later. Open the letter so I can read it, too.”

You did as he asked, slipping your finger under the delicate fold of the envelope and pulling at the wax seal until it released with a pop. Slipping the invitation nestled inside, you turned it around so as to read the looped cursive sprawled in fluorescent gold ink across the page. You felt Azriel shuffle closer to get a better opportunity to read over your shoulder.

Y/N,

It is with great pleasure that we request your presence at the Masquerade Ball hosted by her majesty, Queen Amarantha of Under the Mountain. Please kindly reply within a fortnight. Punctuality is of the utmost importance.

“I don’t like the look of this,” came the voice of your mate in your head.

***

“How do I look?”

Azriel’s eyes snapped up from the book he was reading and instantly dragged themselves across your body. A groan from deep in his chest vibrated through the room and you were hit with a wave of arousal across the bond.

“Down boy,” you teased, stepping toward the vanity at the corner of the room to touch up your makeup. You felt Azriel’s eyes glued to you as you moved. Your dress, dark and revealing, was something Rhys insisted you wore to the party. You were used to outfits like this, the fabric accentuating your full hips and showing off your years and years of hard training. It reached up over the curve of your breasts and plummeted, reaching nearly low enough to expose your belly button. The Night Court demanded respect from those outside the bubble that was Velaris, and your High Lord chose to express the Inner Circle’s blind confidence through dress.

“Gods, if I knew you were going to wear that I would have argued with Rhys more to let me accompany you two.”

You sat at the vanity and reapplied your lipstick. From over your bare left shoulder came a lone tendril of Azriel’s shadows. It snaked along the curve of your collarbone and circled around your neck a few times before settling itself snuggly around your throat like the most priceless of necklaces.

A shiver went through you as the shadow gave a gentle squeeze. “Honestly, I’m surprised he didn’t insist on you and Cassian to join us. You’d have thought he would use this opportunity to show off the strength of the Night Court to the other courts.”

Quiet as his shadows himself, Azriel’s large fingers slowly replaced the wisp of temporary jewelry. It dissipated at its master’s touch, and his hand gently, but firmly, tilted your head back so as to give him better access to the pulse point currently beating wildly at your neck. His lips brushed over the shell of your ear and you let out a soft moan.

“I’d like to see you out of that dress,” he whispered against your skin.

Your throat bobbed as you swallowed hard at his words. A quick nip at your skin had you gasping out a response. “I can’t,” you managed. “Rhys will be here any second.”

Azriel trailed a rough calloused finger along the membrane of your wing and you felt a flush of desire and pleasure run through your body. The need for him flowed through your veins and it seeped deep into your bones. He could tell your willpower was faltering. Every emotion and neediness that you felt was pouring through the bond into his own soul.

“So tell him you’re not ready yet. I won’t take long.” Another nip at your skin, this time at the cleavage of your breast, had you nearly giving in. Your eyes fluttered closed and your chest heaved as he peppered kisses along your neck. But before you could utter another word, there was a knock at the door.

“Y/N?” came the voice of your High Lord. “Are you ready?”

Knowing neither of you could actually delay your departure, you sprung apart. Jumping up so quickly, you felt your chair tipping backward, only to be caught by one of Azriel’s shadows.

“One minute!” You called through the door and turned back to your mate.

“You have to go,” you whispered in a rush, quickly grabbing your bag from the bed and your shoes from their place beside the closet. “You’re not supposed to be in here!”

In your frantic dash across the room to retrieve your items, Azriel gripped your shoulders, halting you. His lips crashed into yours, passionate, hungry, and hurried. It left you breathless and you gasped for air as he pulled back, traces of your lipstick staining his own lips.

“Later, Shadowsinger,” you whispered as you reached up on tiptoe to place your lips against his again, more gently this time.

“I’ll meet you at the exit to say goodbye with the others,” he said into your mind and, stepping into a swirl of mist and shadow, he was gone.

***

“Az, the Autumn brothers are here.” Across the bond, you felt Azriel perk up. He must have been focused on something, perhaps reading a report or reviewing paperwork for his next mission. But at the sound of your voice in his head, you could feel his attention shifting to your gossip.

“Did they dress up?” he asked. “Please tell me Eris came as something ridiculous. Like a chicken or something.”

“Gods, no.” You suppressed a smile and glanced over at the heir to Autumn Court. The only costume he wore was his flaming red hair and permanent scowl on his face.

“Actually,” you continued across the bond, “It looks like Rhys and I aren’t the only ones who refused to dress up. In fact, the only ones who have costumes are the Spring Court.”

Amarantha was saying something, servants coming around to pass out wine in goblets that rivaled the finery of Rhy’s own private collection. You took one without thinking but hesitated before taking a sip. You recalled the words toast and finest wine coming from your hosts lips at some point. When your High Lord, who hadn’t left your side all night, didn’t drink from his yet, you followed his lead.

You barely paid attention all night, anyway. One arm constantly linked into your High Lord’s, you had to play the part of the mysterious, ruthless, second-in-command of the Night Court. Not many outside of Velaris knew much about you, except that you were an exceptional healer and twin the Night Court General. You played the role Rhys had expected you to, and Gods, did you play it well. Not a male in the room could take their eyes off of you, with your long flowing hair, curvy, yet muscular, body, and strong, unclipped Illyrian wings.

But frequently, you found your thoughts drifting back to your mate and the strong fingers you had wrapped around your throat a few hours ago. You hoped they would find their home there again upon your return to The House of Wind later tonight.

A wave of arousal hit you that wasn’t entirely your own and you realized Azriel must be having the same thoughts.

“Having fun without me, Shadowsinger?”

“Just remembering you in that dress,” came Azriel’s voice, low and sultry. “And all the ways I could take it off of you later.” You nearly choked on the breath you took. Rhys cast you a look out of the side of his eye, but you ignored it because Azriel was still speaking.

“Or maybe you can leave the dress on. It doesn’t offer much coverage, anyway.” His voice was growing darker, deeper, and more sensual with every word. “Or maybe the heels. Just the heels.”

You shook your head to clear it, attempting to focus on whatever Amarantha was saying in her toast. Wealth… happiness… friendship… blah blah blah. You ignored her sentences, picking up only on a few words. You did manage to make out her command to drink! before you caught eyes with Rhys. They portrayed something you couldn’t quite read. Sadness? Regret? You must have missed a part of her speech that was important.

Deciding to ask him about it later, you took a swig of your glass along with all the others in the chamber. The wine was sweet, thick like honey, and coated your throat on its way down. In fact, you felt it coating your entire body like a warm blanket. It worked its way into your bones and after a few moments of warmth, you felt the feeling turn to ice.

Icy tendrils shot through your limbs and you ruffled your wings to try and dispel the feeling. But it only became stronger and stronger until finally you felt a deep, soul crushing, emptiness. Quick as it began, the feeling was gone, and with it, the hum of the bond in your chest.

“Azriel?” you called to him. But no response came. Panic seized you and you clutched at your chest with your free hand, your other wrapping tighter around the arm of your High Lord. He was turning toward you now, saying something, but you ignored him. In fact, the entire chamber had erupted into chaos. Voices were all around you, angry and yelling. But the one voice you called for again and longed to hear was silent.

You didn’t know what it felt like to have a bond that was closed. You only knew that this was far, far worse.

“Y/N.” The sound of your name jolted you from your panicked soul searching. You looked up, catching eyes with the High Lord.

“Azriel,” you whispered out loud to him.

“What?” He asked, hands on either one of your shoulders, steadying you.

“Azriel,” you repeated to him. “He’s my mate.” The truth came tumbling out of you. The secret the two of you had kept for 400 years suddenly seemed foolish.

Rhys shook his head, not understanding your words. “Your mate?” He asked, confused. “For how long? Does he know?”

You nodded, tears suddenly filling your eyes. You pushed against the golden thread that tethered the two of you together, but it only ended in darkness. “We’ve been mates for nearly 400 years. We’ve kept it a secret for… oh Gods, Rhys, what has she done?”

He opened his mouth to respond, but quickly snapped it closed. He looked over your shoulder and you whirled, finding Amarantha standing there.

“Oh, my dears,” she began, her voice scraping across your ears like nails against stone. “The two of you are just lovely, aren’t you?”

#azriel #azriel angst #azriel fluff #azriel shadowsinger #azriel smut #azriel x reader #acotar #azriel acotar #azriel spymaster #pro azriel

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xx-dinah-writing-xx · 20 days ago

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Where the cradle lies empty

Daemon Targaryen x reader

angst

A/N: Hi again, loves 💀. Back at it with more Daemon angst because apparently emotional devastation is my love language. If it doesn’t ache a little… did I even write it? Suffer beautifully. 💋

————

They bury your child before the sun rises.

There is no fanfare. No ceremonial rites. No white cloaks or dragon’s cry to send the soul to the gods. Just the sound of earth being shoveled over a box that’s too small. You stand a few paces away, arms hanging limp at your sides, your body hollowed out by too many nights without sleep, too many hours of bleeding on cold stone floors while the maesters whispered things you weren’t meant to hear. You do not weep anymore. You did enough of that when the baby stopped kicking. When they told you that your babe had ill heart and there was nothing they could do. When Daemon didn’t come back in time.

He should have been here.

The rage you once clung to has thinned into something worse. Disbelief. He swore he’d be gone only a fortnight. He left with fire in his eyes and steel in his hand, chasing some fool’s errand in the Vale to prove his loyalty to Viserys. You begged him not to go. You were already so far along. You felt your daughter move like a tempest in your belly and told him she would come early. He kissed your forehead, called you dramatic, and promised he’d return before the first snow fell.

That was seven weeks ago.

You named her alone. Held her alone. Felt her warmth fade in your arms as the sun dipped behind the walls of the Red Keep and you begged the gods, old and new, to take you instead.

When Daemon finally arrives, it is long past the burial. His armor is still bloodstained. His face gaunt from war. He smells of horse and smoke and the salt of long travel. But you feel none of it. You feel only the tremor in your knees when you see him dismount. Only the scream rising in your throat, the one that never makes it past your lips.

He looks at you like he doesn’t understand. Like the pieces haven’t fallen into place.

“Where is she?” he asks.

You cannot speak.

He says her name, the one you carved into your chest with your own voice, syllable by syllable, the one no one else has dared utter. It shatters something in you. You turn and walk back into the keep.

He follows. Of course he does. He always chases too late.

Inside, the nursery remains untouched. You haven’t had the strength to face it. The maids do not dare enter either. The swaddling cloths still hang across the empty cradle, embroidered with little dragons. A silver rattle sits unused on the window ledge, dust gathering around it like snow.

When he steps inside and sees the silence where there should be crying, he finally understands.

His knees buckle. Just a little. Just enough that you almost reach for him.

You do not.

Instead, you say, “You weren’t here.”

His head lifts. There’s blood in his mouth from where he bit down on grief. “I didn’t know—”

“You should have,” you whisper. Your voice is like broken glass in your own throat. “I told you. I told you she was coming. I begged you to stay.”

He steps forward, hands outstretched, as if to pull you close. But there’s nothing left of you to hold. You are cold marble and dried blood and ashes. You shake your head, stepping back into the shadows.

“I held her, Daemon,” you say. “I held her while she died. She was warm, and she smelled like you. And I watched her go cold, and you weren’t here.”

There is silence again. That cruel, gaping silence that swallows everything soft and good.

“I should have been,” he says. It is not a plea. Not an excuse. Only fact.

“Yes,” you say. “You should have.”

The pain doesn’t fade. It never will. It lives with you now. Sleeps beside you. It is the space where your child should be.

Daemon drops to his knees before you. Not like a prince. Not like a warrior. Like a man who has finally been broken beyond repair. His forehead touches your skirts, and he clutches the fabric as if it is the only thing keeping him alive.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes. “Gods, forgive me. Forgive me.”

You look down at him, at the man who once set the world on fire for you. And for the first time, you feel nothing at all.

Not hate.

Not love.

Only the deep, devastating knowledge that nothing he says will bring her back.

And the even crueler truth.

You are not sure if you can ever let him touch you again without thinking of what you lost.

#fem reader #reader #yn #daemon targaryen angst #hotd daemon #daemon fanfic #daemon x reader #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen #hotd x reader #house of the dragon #hotd fanfic #house targaryen #hotd #angst #x reader #female reader #reader insert

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moonstruckme · 9 months ago

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Hi lovely Mae, I hope you're doing well! Could you please write a drabble with poly!jily where they deal with reader who has a social anxiety and after a busy day or a social event or something she's sick of making small talk and just wants to cuddle up with her partners? No worries if not! Love you mwah <3

Thanks for requesting angel! Hope you're doing well too <3

cw: social anxiety/burnout

poly!Jily x fem!reader ♡ 626 words

You come home feeling raw, worn down to nothing. You want to go into a dark, quiet room and never emerge. But there are two people you need to see first.

“Angel!” James cheers as you come in and take your shoes off. “How was dinner?”

He’s sitting with Lily on the couch. She looks happy to see you, but when you wordlessly hold your arms out and walk towards them her expression bends with sympathy.

“Oh.” James extends his arms for you, folding you into a hug. “Not very good, then?”

“No,” you mumble into his jumper, “I think it went okay. It was just a lot.”

Lily makes a soft sound of understanding. They both know you were half dreading your plans tonight, a good friend’s birthday dinner where unfortunately she was the only person you’d know there. You spent the whole time sipping your water to avoid talking and trying not to seem awkward when you couldn’t avoid it.

Lily’s fingers slip underneath your scarf, cool against your neck as she tugs it off gently. “Was everyone nice?” she asks.

“Yeah. I’m just afraid I embarrassed myself.” Self-conscious tears prickle at the back of your throat. “I can’t think about it anymore, honestly.”

“That’s okay,” she says. “I’m sure you didn’t embarrass yourself, lovely. Can I see your hand? You’re going to be sweltering in a minute here.”

You pass her one hand and then the other, allowing her to pull your gloves off for you.

“I’m sure everyone there loved you,” says James, rubbing your back while Lily pulls your hat from your head. Her nails scratch lightly at your scalp as she combs her fingers through your roots, smoothing out the frizzies it left behind. “Know how I know?”

Between both of their touches, you’re starting to relax. “How?”

“Because,” James whispers like it’s a secret, “Lily loves you. That means everyone must. She’s very picky.”

“What?” your girlfriend exclaims while you laugh into James’ jumper. “I am not.”

“It took me years, angel,” James tells you. “Years. But she snatched you up in under a fortnight. Given that, I really don’t see how anyone else could possibly resist you.”

“I am not that picky.”

“Oh,” says James, “so what you’re saying is, you’d drop either one of us for someone new in ten seconds flat?”

You turn your head to peek, and Lily’s narrowed her eyes at him. “Careful,” you murmur. “She might do it to prove a point.”

She lets out a short, appalled laugh. “You two are so awful!”

“Awful enough to be rid of?” James asks, but when she makes to walk away he leans forward and tugs her back onto the couch with you.

Lily looks happy to be tugged. She lands in a heap next to James, her glare playful as she meets your eyes. “I hope all these jokes at my expense are making you feel better.”

You know she’s teasing, but you go soft nonetheless, reaching for her hand and intertwining your fingers. “I’m sorry,” you say, earnest. “Love you.”

Lily melts, and James gives your middle an affectionate squeeze. “I love you too, sweetheart,” she says. “Do you want to talk about dinner?”

You let your head lay upon James’ shoulder, looking at her sideways. “Not really. I’m too tired.”

James starts rubbing your back again, fondness emanating from his touch like a pleasant ache. “Is there anything we can do, then?”

You hum. “This?”

Lily’s lips tilt in a bemused sort of smile. “Just this?”

“Yeah,” you sigh. You melt against James’ front, your fingers in Lily’s grasp. “This is nice.”

A warm chuckle rumbles through James’ chest. He presses a kiss to your hair. “I think we can manage that.”

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luveline · 2 years ago

Note

I am so incredibly sick rn and desperately craving some Hotch comfort—maybe bau!gf who desperately tries to hide the fact that she’s sick even when she’s burning up and can’t keep her eyes open, and Hotch who just wants to take care of her!!

thank you for your request! i hope you feel better soon. —hotch fights to take care of you when you hide a fever. fem!reader, 1.4k

Spencer knows you're sick, but he's the only one who's figured it out so far. Everybody else is too busy.

He pushes your coffee toward him and exchanges it for a cup of water without saying anything. You're relieved to find it's ice cold, fighting to drink it without spilling it, or worse, pressing it to your furnace of a forehead.

"Just go home," he says.

"I like it here," you say lightly.

"You're fatigued, obviously running a fever, and probably disoriented if your eyes are anything to go off of."

"Are they?" you ask, eyes fluttering closed.

You prop yourself on your hand. Having a desk right next to Spencer has its ups and downs. Ups including physics magic, surprise trinkets, and all the donuts you can eat. Downs include this —he's too good at his job but bad at taking a hint, so while he's realised that you're sick and tired and should probably head home, he hasn't stopped to think you might be keeping it a secret for a reason.

If you take more sick leave already after your week long bout of food poisoning only a fortnight ago, it will look like you're trying to take advantage of Hotch. You don't want the team thinking you're cheating and you don't want Hotch to think this is how it’s going to be. You’d never use him like that, but it’s so early into the relationship that there’s no way for him to know that for sure.

You take a measured breath. You're the kind of sick that yearns for bed, head heavy, a pounding pain behind your eyebrows and a nose you can't breathe through. Your lips are chapped despite the thick layer of balm you applied that morning. The weight of a bowling ball rests in your sinuses. Your head begins to list forward.

"Y/N?"

You look up, rubbing your forehead as nonchalantly as you can manage. Hotch stands with a hand on the railing of his half-platform, eyebrows pulled together as they tend to be.

You like the sound of your name on his lips, even if it's said with question.

"Yeah?" you ask.

Before, it would've been, Yes, sir? But Hotch told you (while in boyfriend mode, assumedly) that it makes him hot around the collar (though he'd said it more delicately), so now you save it for special occasions, like when you want to get your way, and when he looks especially perturbed.

"Something wrong?" he asks.

He can't like the way you say, "I'm fine," maybe he spots the far-away look in your eyes, your poorly concealed wince as your head throbs, maybe he just knows you. He gives you a look bordering reproachful and turns away.

"My office," he says.

Spencer sends you a pointed look. When he realises you aren't awake enough to glare back, he nudges you encouragingly. "Be honest," Spencer says.

You almost fall up the short steps to the landing in front of Hotch's office. You don't knock before entering, and later you'll realise how odd this is. Hotch hasn't even sat down, instead straightening a paper from the wrong side of the desk.

"What's wrong? Another migraine?" he asks.

"No. I'm alright, did you want something?"

He turns around fully. You like seeing him after hours without his suit, arms behind his tired neck and eyes half-lidded, but this look is just as good on him: furrowed brows, a hand twitching toward you but not touching. He tries not to cross the line here at work because when it starts it never ends. Your evaluations have to be cross examined and approved by a higher up, you are not permitted to room together on cases, and you have to report to HR every three to six weeks to reaffirm that Hotch isn't being coercive. It's odd and invasive at times, but these are things you have to do to be together. You'd do worse.

"Did I want something?" he asks. It's more patient than incredulous, but the incredulity is definitely there.

"From me?"

"I want lots of things from you." He breaks eye contact with you and turns back to his things, shuffling papers into a manila folder. You blink dozily, wanting a hug and needing him to let you go back to your desk lest you give in and lean against his broad chest. "Like for you to take care of yourself."

"I'm fine."

"Forgive me if this is something I shouldn't say, but you don't look okay. You look sick."

You summon your most convincing smile even while his back is turned and enthuse your tone with some practised pep. "Well, it's not the most romantic thing in the world."

He ties the cord on his manilla envelope and clicks open his briefcase. It's a testament to how sick you are that you didn't notice it there, nor his coat thrown over the edge of the desk.

"You going somewhere?" you ask curiously.

"I'm taking you home, honey."

You shake your head. "No, you're not. I'm fine."

Hotch puts his coat on regardless. Briefcase closed and in hand, he walks the short distance to you and scans your expression for any give. "Let's go home."

"Hotch–"

"Home," he says, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "No more 'Hotch'."

You take a step back but not one more than that, startled by his readiness to leave, and his reluctance to believe you. You're a bad actor and he's trained in the art of untangling deception —it isn't going to work. You give it a valiant effort.

"You don't have the resources to give me the day off. You definitely don't have the resources to take a day off with me, and that's fine because I'm not sick." You rub your face clean, dust off your work blouse. "I have a headache, it's not so bad."

Hotch actually smiles, then. You worked for him for three months before you realised he could. It isn't what you're expecting. It disarms you.

"Liar," he says, ducking down to give you a kiss. He sounds amused and sorry at once, an impossible combination marked by his small smile and his protective hand at your elbow.

Every kiss is like a shock. Not because Hotch is particularly abrasive to the senses, the opposite —it feels right.

"I'm not lying," you say.

"Take the day off with me, then."

He knows he's being a bit of a bastard, evidenced by his smile, but he sobers for your sake. "You're lying to me, but that's not what matters. I can feel your head like a flame and I'm not even touching it. And you've kept your secret well, honey, but Reid's a good friend."

"What did he tell you?" you murmur.

"You fell asleep for sixteen seconds."

"When?" you ask in disbelief.

"A couple of minutes before I called for you." Hotch squeezes your arm.

"If we go home you'll have so much work to do when we come back," you lament.

"It'll be the same as any other day," he says. He's slipped into his most dulcet tone, the kind he uses with family. "I am… desperate, to take care of you. I can't do that here. Please oblige me and let me do it at home."

"Oblige you?" you ask.

"Being your boyfriend isn't working. I thought I would try boss instead."

You relent, finally. You genuinely can't abstain from him anymore, not when he's being as ridiculously charming and gentle as he is, his hand steadying at your elbow. Plus, your brain is probably gonna explode inside of your skull any second now if your headache is anything to go by. You drop your face into his chest and sigh, relieved when his hand moves to your shoulder, and his cheek presses to the top of your head.

"This is inappropriate," you mumble.

"You're really not well, hm?" he asks, just as quietly. "I'd be negligent if I didn't take notice. Doubly negligent if I didn't take you home."

"Human resources…" You mean to say more. He's solid, he wants to hug you, and he smells like his expensive cologne. Hotch has a presence about him that's automatically comforting once you overcome the intimidating. Sometimes, even, the intimidating helps it along. You feel sheltered by his arms. Totally safe. It's probably why you nearly pass out in his embrace right there and then.

"Okay," he says, rubbing your back. "Alright. I'll let human resources know your complaint, honey, don't worry. Let's get you to the car."

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner x y/n #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotchner blurb #aaron hotchner drabble #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fic #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner fanfic #aaron hotchner fanfiction #criminal minds #hotch x reader #hotch #hotch x you #hotch blurb #hotch drabble

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rennalaqotfm · 10 months ago

Text

𖤓 DRAGONSPEAR | J.V (PART IV)

Pairing: Prince Jacaerys Velaryon x Martell Princess! Reader

Synopsys: Upon discovering Aemond Targaryen's alliance with the Triarchy, the Blacks are pushed to the point of desperation. With the war looming over the horizon, they have no choice but to turn to an unlikely ally: House Martell.

Content Warning: Sexual content (but MDNI 18+ just to be safe), dry humping (-ish?), violence, alcohol consumption, toxic dynamics, swearing, themes of prejudice and misogynism, and a lot of 'fucking politicking,' as King Viserys said, (not proofread).

WC: 5.6k

Series Masterlist

(A/N and taglist at the end of the chapter)

As the winds guided Ser Tyland's ship to the Free Cities, the excitement regarding the wedding of the future Princess of Dorne and the Crown Prince buzzed in the air. No ravens had to be sent, for the whispers began within the palace walls, spread through the bustling streets of Sunspear, and were carried by the desert winds across the dunes, reaching the furthest Dornish houses.

Princess Y/n sat before her mirror, watching her handmaiden, Melynda, fasten the back of her dress. A sweet girl of one-and-twenty, Melynda had been brought from Pentos on a cramped boat, a former slave traded by her master for coin. Ever since she had served the Princess with quiet devotion, her nimble fingers always making a masterpiece out of her.

Despite being draped in the finest fabrics of deep sapphire, adorned with intricate golden swirls and beads of amber, Y/n stared blankly at her reflection. The celebrations leading to the wedding were set to last a fortnight, a long stretch filled with feasts, ceremonies, and endless politicking. In mere hours, she would be facing the guests, forced to smile and charm as she and the Velaryon boy persuaded them to align with Rhaenyra's cause. She didn't even know where to begin looking for the strength and willpower she had to gather to convince those lords to join a war she herself didn't fully believe in.

“Is it too tight, Princess?” Melynda asked meekly, noting how Y/n had remained quiet the whole time she had been preparing her. "Princess?"

Suddenly, Y/n's bottom lip began to quiver as she felt a knot forming in her throat.

“Gods be damned…” she muttered, feeling her tears pooling in her eyes. “How did it all come to this?”

“If it's too tight, mayhaps I could—”

“Of course, it’s bloody tight! It’s damn near crushing my guts!” the Princess burst out, causing her handmaiden to stumble backward, her hands trembling. “I apologise, Melynda,” she sniffed, feeling the guilt pool in her chest. It wasn’t the first time she had taken her anger and frustration out on the younger girl. Of all the people in the palace, she was the least deserving of such crude treatment. “It’s just—”

“I understand, Princess,” Melynda smiled sadly, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. Y/n held her hand softly, holding back her cries. “To be betrothed to someone who you don't truly love must be a punishment for the soul.”

“I’ve been trying to avoid this all these years. Gods forbid a woman who wants to live a life free from all this nonsense," she muttered bitterly.

“You are to be the Princess of Dorne. It was bound to happen sooner or later.”

“But not with a Targaryen… someone who sees us as nothing more than goatfuckers.”

“Once you get to acquainted with one another, I’m certain he’ll see past the veil of prejudice that blinds the rest of Westeros.”

“Oh, we’re well past the point of acquaintances, and I’m certain we’ve both made it clear that we’d rather kill each other than push forward with this betrothal.”

“And yet, you've hardly spent a moment alone together, away from prying eyes. Forgive me if I'm wrong, my Princess, but this hostility you feel towards one another... it feels more like the weight of your houses than your own. He’s not truly wronged you, nor have you wronged him... well, apart from the few wounds you’ve exchanged.”

“I wish it were as simple as you say, but the hatred between our houses runs deeper than that trial. We’re talking about years of bloodshed, of lives torn apart by their desire to conquer what was never theirs. How can we ever forget that? If anything, those Targaryens are only reaping what they've sown.”

“I understand, Princess, but is it truly fair to place the sins of the forefathers upon their children? Yes, the Targaryens once sought to conquer Dorne, but they failed. And since then, they’ve left us to rule our lands. Why should Prince Jacaerys suffer for the wrongdoings of his ancestors when he himself hasn't harmed you?”

“You speak the truth, Melynda. But do you truly think the rest of the Dorne will see it that way?” She stared at her handmaiden's reflection. “The pain the Targaryens have caused... it’s not just written in our histories, it’s engraved into the souls of our people.”

“I’m not saying that your betrothal to Prince Jacaerys will reconcile your houses overnight, Princess. In fact, it may take generations to heal these wounds. However, if Queen Rhaenyra proves to be the rightful and just ruler she claims to be, and honours your demands... and you and Prince Jacaerys unite the Seven Kingdoms as promised, then mayhaps it could be the beginning of something.”

Suddenly, both women were startled by a knock on the door.

“Yes?” Y/n cleared her throat.

“My Princess,” Ser Domeric said from the other side. “The guests have begun to arrive, and your presence is expected shortly.”

Princess Y/n quickly composed herself, ensuring that any trace of sorrow had vanished from her face, and replaced her semblance with a mask of indifference.

The late afternoon breeze crept through the palace windows, stirring the heavy air in the Hall but doing little to lift the mood. Spirits were low and the lingering music was drowned out by the quiet murmurs of the guests. Lords and ladies from House Yronwood to House Qorgyle had traversed across the arid deserts to Sunspear, not out of enthusiasm, but out of duty, their gazes shifting warily as they gathered to pay tribute to the Princess. Even Y/n herself, appeared as though she wished to be anywhere else.

At the high table, the Martells sat alongside the Targaryens, not able to look one another eye to eye. They faced the great houses, whose semblance didn’t hide their disdain for the dragonriders. They showed no efforts for forced pleasantries, bracing themselves for the next chapter of conflict rather than celebrating a wedding that would unite the Seven Kingdoms.

Before anything, Prince Qoren stood up, ready to speak before his people.

“It is truly an honour to welcome you all this evening, and I thank each and every one of you for making the long journey to Sunspear. Tonight, we gather not only to celebrate the betrothal of my beloved daughter, Princess Y/n Martell, to the Crown Prince Jacaerys Velaryon... but also, the union between House Martell and House Targaryen,” he spoke, the enthusiasm fading in his voice.

The crowd fell into an immediate hush, the lords and ladies exchanging uncertain glances, some full of resentment, and some full of disgust. Y/n felt each pressing gaze suffocating her and tried to hide her discomfort behind the rim of her cup, already expecting those pessimistic reactions. After all, who in their right mind would willingly wed a Targaryen?

“Out of all of the suitors that have lost their lives willing to serve you and our realm, you chose to spare the one whose ancestors sought to conquer our lands?” Lady Liara from House Briar’s voice trembled, barely able to hold back her anger. “Could you not have shown mercy to my sweet boy Eldritch instead?”

The Princess had always been taught to hold back in such moments, especially in front of such a large audience, but before she could stop herself, the words were already spilling out of her mouth.

“My Lady,” Y/n began, trying to push down the feeling of irritation rising up her chest. “Remind me… who sent your son, alone, to seek my hand? As far as I know, someone that young shouldn’t be burdened with ‘providing me a strong heir’ or ‘making Dorne more prosperous than it already is.’ Those aren’t words a boy of three-and-ten should be speaking.”

Lady Liara sank back to her seat with a scowl. The Princess’ gaze swept across the Hall, their faces etched with grief and bitterness, never forgetting the lives lost in pursuit of her hand.

Whilst the guests sat in silence, waiting for either Prince Qoren or Princess Y/n to justify such a decision, Rhaenyra seized the moment to capture the crowd’s attention. She cleared her throat and rose slowly, her lilac eyes lingering on each guest, meeting the same eyes that had carried pent-up hatred for generations.

“By coming here, we are not denying the sins of House Targaryen,” she paused, allowing her words to settle, her gaze never leaving the crowd. “I understand that to many of you, we are still the enemy. I am aware of the blood that was spilled and the pain that has lingered for generations. But the true enemies now are the Greens, who have usurped the Throne and seek to bring all of Westeros to its knees. And I know Dorne will not bend without a fight. Join us, and we will stand together. We can prevent the war that the Greens will bring to your lands.”

Despite Rhaenyra's words, the guests still mumbled with one another and her plea fell on indifferent ears. She clasped her hands together, holding her composure.

“So, the Greens are the enemies now, eh?" A voice echoing across the hall finally broke through the whispers. “To them, you are the usurper. And as far as we are concerned, they have yet to come to our lands to pester us with this petty war of yours.”

“Do not mistake their silence for mercy, my Lord. When they come, they will not ask. They will take. And by then, it may be too late to decide where your loyalties lie,” Daemon retorted.

“They have left us with no other choice,” Lord Lysander Dayne scowled. “Is this why you brought these beasts? So they can burn us if we refuse to join?”

Upon the mere mention of the dragons, the fear of the crowd became palpable. Prince Qoren’s face was flushed with anger, seeing that the celebration had somehow turned into a council meeting.

“Enough of this nonsense!” Prince Qoren bellowed, rising to his feet and jabbing his fist to the table. "We are here to celebrate the upcoming wedding of my daughter, not to squabble over this bloody war! If I hear more of it tonight, I’ll throw you in a pit of scorpions myself," his voice cut through the crowd, making the lords shrink back into their seats as he glared at Rhaenyra.

The music, which had momentarily ceased, began to play again. Princess Y/n exhaled deeply, gripping her cup as she swirled the crimson liquid. If she was going to endure the remainder of this night and persuade those thick-skulled lords to support Rhaenyra, she would need wine. A lot of it. She downed the first cup, the sweet taste lingering on her palate as her gaze shifted across the room, spotting the lords she had to sway.

Lord Lysander of House Dayne sat with his lady wife, his stern face etched with displeasure. He had made it clear where he stood, opposing any involvement in the war. Yet, he was infamously known for his ambition; he was the sort of man who would bend the knee for the right price, advancing his own house in exchange for his formidable army. Then there was Lord Thaddeus of House Yronwood, head of the second-most powerful house in Dorne, capable of providing enough supplies to sustain the armies at sea; a practical man, loyal to tradition, but always open to negotiation. On the other side of the Hall, she spotted Lord Ander of House Jordayne, who owned the largest fleet in Dorne.

Ser Domeric, being part of House Uller and their loyal informant, would provide whatever support was asked. And lastly, House Santagar, though not enthusiastic, had always been fiercely loyal to the Martells and would stand by their house regardless.

Despite the collective disappointment lingering in the air, as the feast came to an end, the guests stood up to salvage what remained of the evening. Jacaerys’ eyes followed Y/n as she rose from her seat, weaving through the multitude and making her way to Lord Lysander. The man bowed his head and extended his hand, offering the Princess a dance which she accepted with a smile that seemed far too charming than she would normally allow herself to be. Jacaerys couldn’t tear his gaze from Y/n, watching how she leaned towards Lord Lysander, her lips closely brushing his ear, as he nodded eagerly so as not to disappoint her.

“A celebration of our upcoming betrothal?” Jacaerys scoffed, already feeling his blood boil at the sight of the Princess with another man. Had they been at the Red Keep, the whispers would have already circled around, rumours of the Princess enjoying the company of other men, even while bound by a betrothal to him, that would call into question not only her honour but the legitimacy of their future children. He could already hear the council’s scandalous whispers behind closed doors–whispers that had been haunting him all his life.

“She’s quite gifted, isn’t she, my dear sister?” Elyas remarked, turning to Jacaerys. “She has a way of making men dance in the palm of her hand.”

“Only if one is foolish enough to fall for whatever games she is playing,” Jacaerys muttered.

Jacaerys and Elyas watched how Lord Lysander placed a kiss on top of her hand. With one final whisper, she slipped away from his arms and disappeared into the crowd, only to be seen again; that time with Lord Ander, who offered the Princess his hand without hesitation.

“There are a couple of things you should know about her,” Elyas said with a sneer, glancing at the Princess. “One of them is… you’ll never be her only one.”

“You need not tell me what I can already see. It seems your sister is not familiar with the notion of faithfulness.”

“Faithfulness? As far as I’m aware, neither of you are bound by vows just yet,” Elyas grinned, noting how Jacaerys clearly wasn’t enjoying the conversation. "But listen, this celebration isn’t meant for you to sulk in a corner, watching my sister dance with every lord in Dorne. It's for indulging. There’s a place not too far from the palace, where we know how to truly celebrate. Who knows? You might not even survive this war you’re throwing yourself into. You may as well enjoy the finest pleasures our land has to offer before it’s too late," Jacaerys’s knuckles whitened around his cup, his repulsion palpable, but Elyas only leaned in closer.

As much as Jacaerys despised watching Princess Y/n flit from lord to lord, he wasn’t about to lower himself to her games. What was she trying to prove? Was she testing him, daring him to show any signs of jealousy or anger? Or mayhaps she was simply making it clear, once again, how much she misliked him?

Jacaerys refused to give Elyas the satisfaction of a response and merely shook his head. Elyas smirked, amused by Jacaerys' restraint, and stood up, ensuring he ruined the evening even more before leaving.

“Oh, and just so you know… whatever illusions you have about loyalty and honour, you'd best cast them aside. If you think my sister will suddenly change her ways after this betrothal of yours, then you’re completely wrong. I’m telling you now, she won’t. She’s as Dornish as they come… untamable and always chasing trouble. The more you tighten the leash, the more she’ll struggle to break free. And she’ll keep playing her games, whether you like them or not... so you better learn how to play them if you don't wish to end up as another one of her playthings,” Elyas said, slapping Jacaerys’ shoulder playfully before walking away.

Jacaerys hadn’t even realised how tightly he was clenching his jaw until the sound of Elyas and his sworn protector’s fading footsteps pulled him back to reality. He let out a breath, trying to shake off the bitterness away, and downed a gulp of wine.

But what he hadn’t noticed was a pair of dark wide eyes watching him from the other end of the table. It was Farien, whose gaze had been flickering between him and Elyas the whole time. When Jacaerys caught the boy's gaze, his expression softened. He set down his cup, watching how the little boy stood up and made his way over to him.

“If you marry my sister, does that mean you’ll become my brother?” Farien asked.

“I suppose,” he forced a smile, though he wasn’t sure if the little boy was particularly glad about that.

Farien climbed on to the empty seat beside Jacaerys, glancing around the nearly deserted table and making sure none of his family members were nearby. All of the Martells were tending their own business, leaving the Targaryens seated in silence. The boy leaned in close, cupping his small hands around Jacaerys’s ear, scared that someone might hear what he had to say.

“So, does that mean I get to ride your dragon?” He whispered.

Jacaerys looked at him, his eyes widening in surprise.

“If your father allows you, then I suppose you could… but are you not afraid?” He asked.

“I’m really, really scared. But I wonder what it must feel like to see the world from up above. The closest I’ve ever gotten to flying is in my dreams, you know? It feels like I’m one of Father’s falcons, soaring high in the skies. Father says I have the gift to turn into one of them at night and watch over the desert,” he glanced up, his eyes gleaming in wonder.

Jacaerys looked at the boy and allowed himself to smile, as Farien somehow reminded him of his younger brother, Joffrey, whom he hadn't seen in a long time.

“Anyway,” Farien continued, “I think we could be brothers, you and I. We even look alike, see?” He pointed at Jacaerys’ curls. “It would be nice to have another brother... because, well, Elyas... he’s nice, sometimes. But not always.”

Jacaerys held back a scoff, figuring as much.

“And what about your sister?”

“We like sneaking sweets from the kitchens and feeding them to the horses,” Farien’s eyes suddenly lit up. “And she loves fighting, too. But not the angry, shouting kind, no. She says that sometimes, fighting feels like dancing, and that’s why she enjoys it. She’s really good at it. And I think you are too. But my sister is better.”

Just as he was about to ask Farien what other things his sister enjoyed, one of the little boy’s servants approached them.

“My Prince, your father has sent me to take you back to your chambers to rest,” she smiled at the little boy, who had no choice but to accept dejectedly.

As the servant took him in her arms, Farien waved at Jacaerys with a small smile. He nodded at the little boy, unable to stop himself from smiling back.

“At least the little one is not as irritating as the rest of his family,” Rhaenyra said as her gaze softened, noticing how the little boy never tore his eyes from them as he got further and further.

“Give him a couple of years. He will turn out exactly like his older brother,” Daemon muttered.

Then, Jacaerys' gaze trailed back to the Princess once again, who was still locked in a dance with Lord Ander. The exchange of whispers seemed to grow more intense, as his lips lingered on the shell of her ear, making her nod as her smile never left her lips.

“Jacaerys,” Daemon’s sharp voice cut through his thoughts. “Do you not have a duty to fulfil?”

“I have been fulfilling them since the moment we arrived,” he muttered, his voice laced with irritation. As Jacaerys had been doing everything he could to uphold his duties, Daemon merely sat back, watching the spectacle he had set in motion unravel before him.

“You have, but sitting and watching the Princess be courted by every lord in Dorne is not one of them. Listen to me, these men are doing everything in their power to pull her away from our alliance since they can see she does not favour you,” he paused leaning in closer. “You are no stranger to this. If you two are to rule the Seven Kingdoms, she needs to be seen by your side.”

Jacaerys rose from his seat as he exhaled, growing frustrated by the second. It was all in the name of duty, after all. He headed towards the Princess with steady steps, disappearing into the crowd and dodging every drunken lord and lady that stood in his way. Lord Ander, who seemed to have more intentions than just dancing with the Princess, held her close, too close, his hands lingering on her waist.

“My Lord,” Jacaerys cleared his throat, barely containing himself. Lord Ander snapped his head towards his direction. “I would hate to interrupt your conversation, but the hour is quite late, and Princess Y/n needs to rest.”

“Is that so?” He pulled Y/n even closer to him, making Jacaerys’ blood boil. “How come the Princess seems to be enjoying herself?”

Jacaerys’ eyes flicked to the cup in her hand, the liquid threatening to spill from the rim. He wasn’t a stranger to that dazed look and that loose smirk playing on her lips.

“The Princess seems to have indulged in one too many cups. You may continue whatever… conversation you were having on the morrow, my Lord,” Jacaerys forced his words through his teeth.

“Is that an order from the Crown Prince? Or from a boy who is still learning how to hold a woman’s interest?” Lord Ander raised a brow, sliding his hand even lower on her waist.

The Princess’ gaze flicked between the two men, unaware of the escalating tension. She took another sip from her cup, her eyes landing on Jacaerys, finally acknowledging how dashing he looked in a Dornish ensemble of deep blues and golds.

“Gods, spare me,” she muttered, rolling her eyes. “You two sound like you’re ready to start another war.”

“If it means winning your favour, Princess,” Lord Ander said with a grin.

“Mayhaps that's a battle for another day. Besides, the Prince is right, the hour is quite late,” she said softly, growing tired at the show of bravado between the two men. She moved away from Lord Ander and took a step towards Jacaerys.

Jacaerys, whose heart was pounding with both anger and relief, offered her his arm. Y/n would’ve hesitated at first, but under the effects of wine, any qualms were long gone. She noted how he tensed his arm uncomfortably, unaware that she was putting pressure on the wound she had given him not too long ago.

Casymir leaned against one of the pillars with a hint of amusement on his face, watching the whole scene unfold before his eyes. Once Jacaerys and Y/n were away from the crowd, he finally pushed himself off the pillar, approaching Jacaerys, who was struggling to keep her in place.

“Allow me, my Prince. The Princess is in good hands with me,” he said, extending his arm.

Jacaerys glared at Casymir as he adjusted her weight in his arm, wondering what he was smiling for.

“You are the Princess’ sworn protector, are you not?” He raised his brow.

“Yes, my Prince,” he smiled proudly.

“Yet all you did was stand and watch how the Princess wandered into the clutches of men with less than noble intentions,” Jacaerys tried to keep his composure, though his anger simmered beneath the surface.

“Do you question my service to the Princess, my Prince?” He chuckled, brushing the Prince’s concerns aside. “The Princess was in no immediate danger. And as far as I’m aware, a dance with a lord hardly constitutes a threat.”

“If you think a man whose ulterior motives are clearly written in his face not to be dangerous, then mayhaps we have very different understandings of the word danger,” Jacaerys said.

“You greatly misunderstand the Princess. Lord Ander was eager, but he knew better than to cross the line. And besides, she would’ve ended his attempts long before you stepped in. As you might have already… experienced, the Princess knows how to handle herself and hardly needs to be coddled,” his blue eyes trailed at the way their arms were intertwined. “Though, it seems she doesn’t mind letting you try.”

“So, what are you here for, then? Just for decoration?”

“Is picking fights with other men a favourite pastime of yours, my Prince?” The Princess laughed, poking fun at Jacaerys as she unconsciously tightened her grip around his injured arm. “You do seem to have a talent for making enemies wherever you go.”

Jacaerys hesitated, unsure if replying to the Princess was even worth the efforts given her current state, so he merely scoffed, shaking his head in defeat. However, one thing he couldn’t ignore was the feeling of having her so close as she mindlessly ran her hand up and down the length of his arm. He tried to calm his heart, but he couldn’t keep his composure with each stroke of her fingers that made him lean into her touch ever so slightly.

Once they reached the Princess’ chambers, Casymir leaned on the door, his arms crossed with an infuriatingly calm expression on his face.

“If you wish to be escorted back to your chambers, my Prince, I can call for a servant,” Casymir offered, implying that Jacaerys had overstayed his welcome.

“No. I wish to stay. The Princess and I have a few words to exchange,” he said.

“I’ll be fine, Cas,” the Princess slurred, assuring her sworn protector with a slow nod.

“As you wish, my Princess. I'll be just outside, should you require any assistance.”

Jacaerys stood by the door, unsure of what to do now that he was inside the Princess’ chambers. It wasn’t improper of him, as her soon-to-be husband, to be seen there, so he found himself leaning against the wall, trying to regain the composure that he had repeatedly lost throughout the night. His eyes trailed around the intricately carved golden statues that adorned the corners and the colourful tapestries that swayed slightly, catching the faint breeze that slipped through the windows and bringing with it the distant murmurs of the ongoing celebration.

Only when he heard a soft clink and the steady stream of wine being poured into a cup, he snapped out of his thoughts. Before he could even think, he turned to Y/n, walking towards her and snatching the cup and jug from her hands, causing her mouth to hang open in disbelief and indignation.

“You will not drink any more tonight,” he ordered, pouring the liquid out of the window and slamming the cup aside.

“Well, isn’t this absolutely perfect?” She spat, throwing her arms in the air in defeat. “Not only will you take away my freedom, but now you wish to take away one of the few things that bring me joy?”

“You must live a very miserable life, Princess, if wine and men are the few things in life that bring you joy,” Jacaerys burst out, no longer able to contain the pent-up anger that had been brewing all night.

“Oh, believe me, I’ll have a miserable life once I marry you.”

“And what makes you think I want to marry you? That behaviour of yours… is unacceptable,” he wrinkled his nose in disgust. “I do not wish to marry someone who is a slave to their desires.”

“A slave to my desires? Is that what you think of me?” Y/n shouted, unable to control the fury taking over her voice.

“What else am I supposed to think when you go from lord to lord like a marionette whose strings had been cut?” He paused, taking in her dishevelled appearance. “I was not aware how these Dornishmen could name someone so ruthless and so debauched as their Princess.”

“And I didn’t know you Targaryens go around crowning bastards just to keep your house on the Throne,” she spat, making sure to rest her gaze on his dark eyes and on his brown locks long enough.

“You whore–!”

Before Jacaerys could finish his sentence, Y/n's palm collided with his cheek in a stinging slap, his head snapping to the side. His eyes widened, more in shock than pain, as his hand instinctively rose to the reddening mark on his face.

“A whore? A savage? A goatfucker?” Y/n's voice trembled with fury. “Is that all you see me as?” She shoved him hard, sending him stumbling backward until his back hit the wall. Her finger jabbed into his chest with every word. “You,” she spat, “should be thanking me for getting my hands dirty, persuading those lords to join your petty war!”

Jacaerys was stunned into silence momentarily, feeling every ounce of her rage bleeding through her words.

“And who told you to do that on your own?” Jacaerys shot back. “You could have asked me, we could have gone together and spoken to them like it is expected of us!”

“You overestimate yourself,” she scoffed, narrowing her eyes at him. “Do you even know what those lords think of you? Of your family? If it weren’t for our betrothal, they would have driven a spear through your chests without a second thought. Because to them, you Targaryens are nothing but bloodthirsty murderers who’ve come to take our lands all over again.”

“Enough!” Jacaerys grabbed her by the shoulders and spun her, slamming her against the wall. “You think I do not know that? You think I do not feel it every time I step into a room? The way they look at me? At my family? You think I enjoy being the enemy?” He seethed, feeling his throat grow raw with each word. “Gods, you are infuriating,” he grunted, realising how close their faces were to one another.

The Princess’ lips curled into a smirk, a flicker of satisfaction lingering in her eyes. She had struck a nerve, realising how Jacaerys was always quick to react to whatever blasphemous speech she had to say about his family, and once again, she had managed to unleash the dormant wrath that blinded his actions.

As the Princess found herself cornered between his arms and the wall, she crouched low, slipping beneath his arms in a fluid motion and spinning around to pin Jacaerys against the wall, pressing her chest to his back. Jacaerys reacted instinctively, kicking off the wall to shove her back. The sudden force sent her stumbling as she crashed on the ground, and he followed, landing on top of her in a tangle of limbs.

Just as he was about to stand up, Y/n yanked him back down and rolled on top of him, keeping him in place by locking her thighs around his waist and pinning his arms on the floor with one swift movement. Truth be told, Jacaerys could have easily pushed her away as her usual strength was halved by the wine; yet he remained still, feeling the warmth of Y/n’s body pressed into his, and how their faces were inches apart yet again, her breath hot on his skin.

Once again, he found himself under her mercy.

She stared down at him with half-lidded eyes and lips slightly open as she breathed lightly, taking in the sight of Jacaerys’ flushed face and his gaze clouded by desire. Jacaerys looked up at her and gulped, feeling his erection stirring uncomfortably beneath his breeches.

His eyes locked onto her plump lips and trailed towards to the hollow of her neck, down to her chest. He stared hungrily as she leaned towards him, his fingertips itching to explore the skin hidden beneath the fabric of her dress. As she got closer and closer to his face, Jacaerys’ breath hitched, and without realising it, his lips parted slightly as his eyes fluttered shut in anticipation. His pulse quickened, waiting for the warmth of her lips pressing against his.

But instead of the kiss he craved, he felt the hot caress of her breath graze the shell of his ear, sending a shiver down his spine. Her voice, low and smooth, held him captive with each honeyed word.

“If you want to win this little war of yours, you better start by respecting me,” she whispered as she let go of one of his wrists and began tracing delicate patterns with her finger. “Just because I’ve chosen you as my betrothed doesn’t mean I won’t change my mind,” she bucked her hips against his hardened cock, causing Jacaerys to groan at the sudden spark of pleasure coursing in his veins.

In that very moment, Y/n had uncovered yet another emotion—the primal desire that, despite her infuriating attitude, she had managed to set ablaze. If Jacaerys had to ask himself how it happened, he wouldn’t know where to begin answering. Had it all started when they first met, when she held little regard for him? Was it in the arena, when she brazenly humiliated him in front of everyone? Or was it the fact that they always seemed to find themselves pointing a blade at each other’s throats? Behind all that anger and hatred, and the prejudice that blinded him from seeing the Princess as she truly was, lay a spark of curiosity. Something he knew that once he began to explore, that spark would turn into wildfire.

With each passing second, he fought against the temptation to place his hands on the curve of her hips and make her grind herself against his cock.

“Remember, my Prince,” she purred in his ear, bucking her hips once again. “The wedding has not taken place yet, and anything could happen.”

A/N: For some reason, i keep beating my wordcount record. istg my fanfic wc is way bigger than all of my uni papers combined, and bare in mind i was a humanities student lmfaooo.

anyway, i feel like this chapter was a mess. jace's patience continuously getting tested by everyone, and our reader making things even harder for him. i actually feel sorry for those two but the way they are handling things is not very demure, mindful or cutesy. we got the exact opposite.

Taglist: @happinessinthebeing @deltamoon666 @dark1paradise @elz-zalarrr @v0dka4a (continued in comments)

#dragonspear #jacaerys velaryon #jacaerys velaryon x reader #jacaerys velaryon x you #jacaerys velaryon smut #jace x you #jace x reader #house of the dragon #house of the dragon x reader #hotd #hotd x reader #house martell #oc x reader #oc x you #jacaerys velaryon x reader smut #jacaerys velaryon x you smut

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endless-ineffabilities · 9 months ago

Text

sapphire-hearted (part six)

Aemond Targaryen x f!reader

Aemond races to find you, but will he be too late?

themes/warnings: language, some angst and pining, Aemond's attempt at being a wedding crasher

series masterlist ▪︎ main masterlist

The days in King’s Landing have stretched thin and hollow since you departed. Aemond’s face is impassive, his mouth a tense line as he stalks through the stone corridors, but beneath his steely exterior, frustration gnaws away, relentless in its assault.

Your voice, your touch, the sweet nectar of your cunny—the memory of his last encounter with you festers like a wound. He sees it, feels it all whenever he shuts his eyes, the way his incomparable, beautiful Lady rode him without abandon.

But you left a fortnight ago, bound for your familial seat, House Darry in the Riverlands, with barely a farewell. You mentioned something about duty, and tending to an ailing cousin, and you were gone before he could fully express his displeasure. He impatiently awaits for you to return to him, for it is in his arms where you truly belong.

Alys is relentless. Her whispered words, her sidelong glances, all promises of power and alliance. She revels in his ambition. In his hunger for victory, which proves to be rather personal than for the good of the Crown. She knows what to offer him, and what to ask for in exchange—a babe, half dragonblood and half witchling—but his mind is distant, always circling back to you. Alys’ proposal has lost its taste in your absence.

Even Alys senses it now, the dangerous edge in Aemond’s silence, a fury held too tightly under control. He burns with yearning for you, and the possibility of winning without you by his side has begun to feel hollow.

If only you would understand what he must do. If only you could see the truth of Alys’ hand in keeping Aegon on the throne. But you fail to give credit to what Aemond has had to sacrifice.

The hour is late, but when he turns the corner, Aegon is lounging idly, surrounded by his lackeys by one of the grand columns, an amused smile on his lips.

“Brother, why you look like a storm in chains,” Aegon says, stretching with that lazy indifference only he could manage. “And yet, I believe I am aware of the source of your… troubles.”

Aemond’s eyes narrow. “If you have something to say, then speak it.”

Aegon chuckles, barely perturbed. “Ah, but it is known! In a few hours, your dearest beloved is to wed, or so I hear, I never pay much mind to things of no import… To Ramsay Beesbury of all men, that honeyed sod.” He pauses, savouring the shift in Aemond’s expression. “Surely word must have reached you?”

There is a flash in Aemond’s eyes, one that shifts quickly from shock to a lethal rage. “No one informed me,” he says, his voice taut as a blade. “Who arranged this?”

Aegon only shrugs, entirely too amused. “By the gods, brother, how the fuck should I know? They did make their impending union known at my feast… how long ago was it now, a moon’s time? Well, until you whisked the lady away and bed her, but who am I to pass judgment?”

“Are they not still in the middle of their courtship? It is uncustomary to be wed with such haste—”

“If you ask me, it is about time that the lady wed! She is not growing younger in her years, and she cannot live the rest of her days as your chamberwhore.”

Aemond sees red, and rushes forward in a flash, slamming the King against the wall with a hand constricting his windpipe. “Gods—” Aegon wheezes. His lackeys immediately tense, but none of them possesses the mettle to lay a finger on the one-eyed Prince.

It takes Aemond only a heartbeat to make up his mind. He releases Aegon with a sharp shove, turns on his heel, and strides from the hall without another word, deaf to the empty threats that are hurled at his retreating figure. His steps grow faster, surer as he nears the courtyard. Fury roars within him, a sensation like dragonfire climbing his spine. Sunrise would soon encroach upon the Seven Kingdoms, and its arrival will not herald your being bound to another man, not if he has any say.

Outside, the sky is a gathering of clouds, low and grey against the breaking dawn, as if even the heavens brace for a storm. Vhagar waits, her massive form shifting in the courtyard shadows, her eyes bright with predatory instinct. Aemond mounts her with barely a breath, his mind fixed solely on one destination: Honeyholt, the seat of House Beesbury, the only place the wedding could be held. As Vhagar rises into the evening sky, he feels the wind pull fiercely at him, and he pushes forward with a singular, roaring intensity.

There will be no union between yourself and Beesbury.

A woman’s hands fasten your cloak, the pale blue silk colour of your House whispering as it settles against your form. Soon, it will be replaced by one of sable and yellow, to symbolise the House of your husband.

You have not slept all night, thoughts of Aemond swirling in your mind like a curse. You have known this would be difficult, but this was something you need to do, and the day is finally here. Your hands tremble only slightly as they lift to adjust your gown, the scent of fresh lilies filling the room as servants bustle in preparation.

In your mind, you still see him. And in your heart… you still love him, and perhaps you always will. But you have no recourse but to surrender yourself to your marriage, lest you wish to have any chance at happiness. It will be nigh impossible to find any peace of mind whilst in possession of the knowledge that Aemond shares his bed with the witch, who will soon be granted the honour of carrying his babe.

You recall the way he held you as though you belonged to him, as though he could bend your very will. Your breath catches at the memory of how his voice trembled, the barely restrained desire that drove him to bind you closer, never allowing you to slip from his grasp. But you cannot let yourself drown in yearning. Not now. You steel yourself, forcing your thoughts back to the present.

“It is time, my Lady,” one of your handmaidens says gently, watching you with quiet sympathy. You feel the weight of your choice settle upon you, solid and unyielding. It is time to move forward, to leave that chapter of your life behind. Your hands rest against your wedding gown as you straighten, breathing in the finality of it all.

And breathing his memory out.

Dawn has crept over the landscape, a pale light spilling over the stone walls and casting the ceremony in a shivering, spectral haze. The air is heavy with expectation, the kind that tenses every muscle, as if the entire world holds its breath. You feel it, deep within you—the stupid urge to run, to look over your shoulder, to see if he’s coming.

It is a senseless thought, to wish for Aemond to come, when you purposefully made arrangements so that he would be unable to. So you force yourself to carry on, your resolve unbroken.

Ramsay Beesbury waits at the altar, the only other soul bound to this day, and you let yourself drift into the ceremony, the Septon’s words washing over you in a haze. You remind yourself to let go of the past; you cannot wait for a man who sees you as something to own, to control.

Aemond might have sullied the love you once shared, a bond that grew and blossomed through the years—one you once believed unbreakable.

But everything breaks. Men, kingdoms, dragons.

Even love.

The courtyard is swathed in the sun's early rays. Shadows give way to hazy beams, and as the morning stirs, so does the assembly gathered for the ceremony. The bride stands at the altar, hands clasped tightly as the Septon’s voice resonates through the stillness, weighted with tradition.

“…to honour and cherish, in this life and beyond,” the Septon intones, his voice a steady murmur, melding with the faint rustling of the wind and whispers from the onlookers. Your gaze drifts briefly over the scene, lingering on familiar faces, as you try to anchor yourself in the reality of the moment. Your heart thrums heavily, and your mind threatens to veer right back to Aemond—you can almost hear his voice, and envision how livid he would be when he finds out about your union.

He may burn the Seven Kingdoms to ash. That is, if he would not be occupied with his precious Alys.

High above the clouds, Aemond rides Vhagar, her wings slicing through the clouds with adept ease. The wind howls in his ears, the icy chill biting at his skin, but he urges Vhagar on. The pit of dread in his stomach grows with each passing second. He is running out of time.

“Naejot!” he yells a command. Faster.

The expanse of Westeros stretches beneath him, a blur of green and grey, but all he sees is his destination—Honeyholt, the place that holds you. His hands grip the rein tightly, and he presses closer to Vhagar’s scales, his mind brimming with the only thought that matters: You are his, and his only.

The ceremony progresses, and you can barely register Ramsay’s vows, the words floating in and out of your consciousness like half-heard whispers. His voice is steady, measured. His hands clasp yours gently, as gentle as the smile that graces his lips.

“Our marriage will be one of devotion and serenity. You will want for nothing nor will our children,” he had promised. A far cry from Aemond’s proposition that you can be with him so long as he fathers the bastard of a bastard.

To an outsider, it would have been the easiest choice.

“...to protect and honour, as the gods are my witness,” Ramsay declares, his words certain. His grip on your hands tightens as he speaks, binding them together. After a moment, you hear your own name called, and the vows spill from your lips without a thought.

The sun is now just a speck on the horizon as Aemond approaches Honeyholt. The great stone walls stand tall, silent and stark against the grey morning, but no sounds of gathering reach his ears. He circles once overhead, Vhagar’s immense wings casting a shadow over the land below, and he focuses his gaze, searching, hunting. The courtyard is empty, not a soul to be seen.

A sliver of uncertainty gnaws at him, yet he descends. The ground trembles as Vhagar lands, her powerful body settling on the stones, but as Aemond dismounts, there is no sign of you, no sign of anyone at all save for a few servants tending to the grounds.

“Where is she?” he spits, his voice a thick growl that pierces through the silence.

As the ceremony nears its end, the tension in your heart becomes lighter. Your gaze lifts, distracted by a shadow that drifted in the periphery. You stand frozen, until you realise that it was but a mere raven.

The largest dragon in all of the land is not present in the Riverlands.

“I take this vow willingly…” you murmur the end of your vows, your voice quiet, and soon it is over.

Back at Honeyholt, Aemond’s hands curl into fists as he prowls through the empty courtyard. He has grown frantic, but there is nothing here—no preparations, no guests, no fucking bride. A cold, bitter truth settles over him, tightening his throat, and he mutters in a dark, furious whisper, “No. This can’t be.”

It comes to him in a flash of painful clarity, the realisation that you’re not here, that he’s been chasing shadows. The Riverlands. You’re in your castle in the Riverlands.

It betrays Westerosi custom, to have the union in the territorial land of the Lady’s House and not the Lord’s, but it can be done. And the marriage can still be accepted.

But how insolent… how precisely aimed to injure him… to shame him…

You knew this would happen.

“You planned this,” he breathes, his voice laced with anger and something dangerously close to despair. He feels both empty and full of rage, and the pain of your loss nearly brings him to his knees. His jaw is set, his gaze set with a darkness that would terrify anyone who saw it.

In Castle Darry in the Riverlands, the ceremony culminates in the final exchanges whispered between the bride and her groom, and in your cloak being replaced with one of House Beesbury. You take one last breath, a silent farewell to the life you are leaving behind, as your new life, your new future, binds you to Ramsay, your Lord husband.

It is strange, but you feel a peace settle over you. Aemond’s hold over you is no more. And for the first time, you realise that perhaps you are free.

taglist (let me know in the comments if you wish to be added): @immyowndefender @aemondswifeisme @fuck-the-reaper @shessthunderstorms @aemondsbabygirl @melsunshine @snh96 @noxytopy @ellooo0ooo @brianochka @not-a-glad-gladiator @mac95650 @midnightmystic @saminalloxo @oh-no-tia @magnificentsapphiresoul @clara-geekhime @mariaelizabeth21-blog1 @ananas26t @iloveallmyboys @carriellie @summerposie @verycollectivecreator @toodlesxcuddles @brie-annwyl @dc-marvel-girl96 @bellstwd @bibli0thecary @happinessinthebeing @magnificentsapphiresoul @rorawinters @targaryen-madness @hanula18 @rhaenattargaryen @an0ther-us3r @sugurubabe @theshatteredideal @let-love-bleeds-red @s-we-e-t-t-ea @mydemimonde @the-intjs-dark-academic @heavenly1927 @anehkael @minttea07 @barnes70stark @cheneyq @cloudroomblog @neptuneiris @zaldritzosrose @oh-theseus

Some notes in the margins..

Well, our Lady is finally a Ladywife. And not Aemond's at that! But there is more to come as we near the end. Will Aemond abandon Alys? Will he steal his love away? Parts seven and eight will have the answers 💙

#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen fanfiction #ewan mitchell #house of the dragon #hotd

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stellewriites · 5 months ago

Text

Part 5 - John Price x reader

Series Masterlist

Summary: When John gets an unexpected invite to his ex-wife's wedding, he scrambles to find a suitable date to take with him to ward off old ghosts from his past.

Notes: trans John, fat reader, smut - fingering, oral (f!receiving), riding/frotting, John's genitals are referred to as cock.

You’d been screening John’s calls and leaving his texts unread for the last fortnight, feeling worse and worse for it and not knowing exactly why you were doing it.

Each notification had your heart pumping in excitement for the possibility of him still reaching out despite your silence, and then thumping too hard in immediate anxiety and guilt.

“Stop moping and text him,” Kate said to you finally. She’d been watching you check your phone routinely throughout brunch and had noticed how you were only half focused in their conversations and slow to engage. You’d laugh a second later than the others and had forgotten what you’d ordered when it had arrived at the table.

“I’m not ready for dating.” You shrugged her off, looking back down at your phone.

She huffed and sent you a disbelieving look. Your other two friends currently present, Cass and Paige, paused their conversation to look at you doubtfully too.

“I’ve not seen you as happy as you had been recently when you were hanging out with him,” Kate said and the other two agreed. “I know this isn’t a confidence thing either. He said he liked you, and you clearly liked him.”

“Katie,” you said warningly.

“She’s not wrong,” Paige said and took a sip of her drink.

“I mean, hell, if you’re really set on not dating, then don’t! That’s fine, but text the guy back for god’s sake and hang out again. Or put him out of his misery.” She bit a large chunk out of her avocado toast as you slumped in your chair.

“He’s still trying, right? That’s what you were worried about?” Cass said, hitting the nail on the head.

Guiltily you looked down at the unanswered messages under John’s contact. It stung to realise that maybe John had been genuine that night and you’d turned him down so bluntly.

You chewed on the inside of your cheek and typed up your reply, sending it before you could talk yourself out of it.

>> hi john sorry for the distance, i’ve been figuring some stuff out. make it up to you over coffee if you’re free later?

He didn’t leave you waiting anxiously for long, replying immediately with an affirmative.

“What did he say?” Paige asked.

“We’re meeting up later,” you said a little bashfully. “He said he’s looking forward to seeing me.”

Kate smiled knowingly. “Yeah, I bet.”

You elbowed her lightly and put your phone away. It was easier to settle back into the conversation with the group, easier to concentrate, with your chest not feeling so tight.

——

“Hey,” you greeted him softly inside the coffee shop later that day. He’d arrived early again.

You felt almost more awkward now than you had when meeting him for the first time.

“How have you been, Sunshine?” He asked as you took your seat.

“Good. Fine. Yeah.” You nodded before you shook it. “I wanted to apologise, John. For a lot of things but—“

“No need, Sunshine, honestly,” he waved you off gruffly, leaning forward in his seat as you shrank back in yours. “I’m just glad you’re happy to see me now.”

“I am,” you confirmed with a shy smile, sat opposite him and growing more relaxed at the pleased twitch of his moustache.

“So what’s been new?” He asked again.

You snorted. “It’s only been a couple of weeks since we last saw each other,” you said.

He blushed, the pink flush half hidden behind the beard he was growing back out.

“Guess I got used to all the updates throughout the day quicker than I’d realised.” He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly before looking to the counter and sitting up straighter. “Do you want anything? My treat.”

Your smile had dropped at the reminder of how you’d skipped out of his life so suddenly; even though you didn’t owe him anything, you had grown to be friends before the wedding and you know you’d have been hurt if it was the other way around.

“Yeah, just an iced latte please,” you said before stopping him from standing. “Hey, I said I was making it up to you. I should be paying.”

He huffed a laugh. “Not likely. You’re making it up to me by sticking around, Sunshine. You didn’t have to come at all.”

“John…”

“One iced latte coming up,” he said and stood. “God knows why, they taste more of sugar than coffee.”

“That’s exactly why,” you huffed a hesitant laugh as he headed to the counter. When he came back a minute later and sat down with the drinks you took a sip before speaking. “To answer your question, work has been the same old, but I’m thinking of maybe getting a pet? Tied between a cat and a rabbit at the moment. If it’s a rabbit, I’ll need to sort the garden though, it’s little bit overgrown right now.”

His eyebrows raised in surprise and he put his tea down. “You got the tools for it?”

“I think my neighbour has a lawnmower and my mum probably has a pair of shears I could borrow for the hedges,” you hummed. It had only been a half thought semi-recently, so you’d not put much planning into the idea yet, just the start of a pinterest board of cute ideas.

“I could help,” he offered, a touch too casual. “If you wanted. I’ve got a lawnmower I don’t get to use too often and some time off before I have to head back to work.”

“I’ll think about it,” you said with a gentle smile.

He nodded.

“What about you?” You asked.

“Same old,” he said vaguely, repeating your own words back at you. He shuffled uncomfortably in his seat. “I am having to go back to work properly soon though.”

You tilted your head, confused at his drab tone, certain as you were that you’d messaged once or twice when he was at work, stuck doing paperwork or in a meeting before the wedding.

“I’ll be heading overseas,” he clarified. “Might not be contactable for a few weeks at a time. Just didn’t want you to think…”

“That you were ignoring me to get back at me for the fact that I ghosted you?” You guessed when he trailed off. John nodded sheepishly.

“Fuck, I’m glad I’ve gotten to see you before I go,” he said quietly, just looking at you.

“Me too,” you agreed. Impulsively, you finished off your drink and made a quick decision. “Do you want to come back to mine for dinner? I’ll cook.”

John grinned brightly. “I’d love that.”

——

You busied yourself in the kitchen when you got back home with him, missing his chuffed smirk when he saw your door was still in working order with no sign of it dragging on the doorstep.

You didn’t miss his hum when he joined you in the kitchen a moment later.

“That shelf meant to be on a slant?” He asked, eyes shrewd as he looked at your collection of herbs and spices.

“Oh, no but I’ve just never found time to fix it. And it’s not fallen down yet, so it’s not even made an appearance on my Urgent List.” You shrugged.

He hummed again and headed back to the front door. “I’ve got my tool box with me, I’ll sort it now for you.”

“No, John, you don’t have to,” you called after him, but he was already out of the door. You didn’t know that he’d kept his toolbox in his truck ever since he was first here just in case you messaged again needing anything sorted, and now he was glad his foresight was paying off.

The shelf was sorted quicker than the kettle boiled and you swatted at him to go relax once he’d cleaned up after himself. He placatingly held his hands up in mock surrender and went to wash up in the bathroom while you rinsed some veg under the kitchen tap.

You were given ten minutes of peace before you started to wonder where he’d gone and left the pasta in the pan boiling and the sauce on a low heat to find him. You weren’t afraid to chew him out if he was snooping, but instead you found him hunched over the sink in the bathroom.

“Taps were finicky,” he said before you’d had chance to ask him what he was doing. When he’d had chance to grab his tools from the kitchen without you noticing you didn’t know, but you couldn’t help but snicker as he frowned down at the old taps.

“Don’t do well sitting still, do you, John?”

He shrugged. “Figured I might as well since I’m here,” he said instead.

You snorted. “Come help me with the sauce once you’re done here then.”

You stifled a laugh when you heard him swear through the open door before the sound of a running tap turned on and off a few times. He came back through to the kitchen a little later with a satisfied smile and you did your best to concentrate on cooking instead.

You smiled at him when he settled in next to you to take over stirring the sauce, leaving you free to set the table. You felt a pang of domesticity, it was all so easy with John.

You plated it up and sat down together. Eating dinner with him was just as easy, the awkwardness you’d felt walking into the cafe forgotten about completely as conversation flowed naturally between the two of you. Though you did have to fend the man off from planning to go out in the morning to get the wood to build you either a hutch for a potential rabbit or put up climbing shelves if you decided on a cat instead; he’d figured you’d be able to decide by time you’d finished the pasta.

“Best meal I’ve had in a while,” he sighed happily when he finished off the pasta. “Stunning.”

“Thanks, John,” you said bashfully. When you stood to take the dishes he moved quicker and grabbed the plate from your hands. You didn’t bother complaining, knowing how stubborn the man was already; instead you joined him and put the dishes away once he’d cleaned them, smiling to yourself as the pair of you worked in comfortable silence.

When all was put away and your kitchen was back to normal - now with a sturdier shelf - he smiled and headed for the door reluctantly with his toolbox in hand.

“Thanks for today, Sunshine,” he said softly and, after a brief moment of deliberation, he leant in to kiss your cheek. “Talk to you later?”

You nodded happily and closed the door behind him.

When you laid in bed later that night you couldn’t stop thinking about the gentle, chaste kiss. The only real one you’d shared so far.

——

You only got a week with John before he disappeared. He’d made you promise to keep him updated like you would normally so he could catch up when he got back again, but you tried not to overwhelm his notifications; sticking to a couple of texts every few days instead of the daily messages you’d quickly fallen back into.

If he wanted more you were sure he’d let you know and if he only skim read the mountain of messages and photos you’d still managed to send then you’d ease up next time.

He said he would be gone a month, tops, but you didn’t hear from him for two. You tried not to worry, his job wasn’t an exact science, but that fact could make you more anxious depending on the day.

It was a random Wednesday evening when you got a knock on your front door and your heart suddenly plummeted.

You walked to the door with shaking hands. The repercussions of John’s work had never fully occurred to you until this moment, or at least you’d done your best not to linger on it for too long. But now visions of the person on the other side of your door being someone in an official uniform, waiting to let you know weeks too late that John had—

John had shown up to your house unexpectedly.

“Sunshine.” He smiled.

Clearly tired, he stood on your doorstep with his hair damp and curling at the ends, his beard overgrown and his work gear still on, though a big bag was hooked over his shoulder. His smile never wavered, relieved when you answered the door.

“John?” You stepped to the side to let him in without a second thought and he trailed a heavy hand appreciatively down your arm.

“Cleaned up a little at base, but I haven’t stopped driving home since. I’ve had you on my mind as soon as we were wheels down,” he admitted with soft eyes.

You didn’t question his use of the term ‘home’ when referring to driving to yours after spending months in another country and you certainly weren’t going to think about how it made you feel.

“You should’ve gone back to yours to sleep, or at least dropped off your things,” you berated him half-heartedly. “We could’ve caught up when you weren’t running on— what? Four hours of sleep?”

“Knew you’d be my first stop.” He’d dropped his bag by the front door, his daft hat dropped on top, and was slumping onto your couch with a heavy sigh. “Should’ve left my shit at base maybe. Just didn’t want to have to drive back tomorrow.”

“Have you eaten?” At his slight shake of the head, you moved to the kitchen and started pulling something together, leaving him to relax. You knew he must be tired by how he wasn’t following after you, and your suspicions were confirmed when you came back with a thick sandwich, the last slice of a quiche you’d made earlier in the week and some picky bits from your fridge to find him asleep. You cringed at the lacklustre dinner, but you hadn’t been expecting guests and you were going grocery shopping tomorrow, so you placed it on the coffee table and sat down carefully next to him so he didn’t wake.

Turning down the volume on the TV, you let him nap as you watched a few episodes of your latest favourite. You couldn’t help but let your eyes dart over to him every so often to check on him, giggling when you noticed his mouth had dropped open during his well deserved catnap.

You paused your show when he grumbled and wiped a slow hand over his face a few hours later.

“Hello, sleepyhead. Hungry?”

“Starving,” he groaned croakily.

“Best I could do on short notice,” you said and handed him the plate. You watched like a big cat documentarian as he tore through the food with an unholy passion, finished in minutes. You silently handed him your water and he chugged it back with a loud ‘ahh’ after.

“Lovely as ever,” he said sleepily before nodding back off. You stifled a laugh and stood to grab him an extra pillow and blanket. It was clear he wouldn’t be driving home tonight, so you thought you might as well let him get comfy and crash on the couch for the night.

A brief thought crossed your mind of waking John and letting him share your bed; you’d done it for the wedding after all, and it wouldn’t have to mean anything.

You shook your head and draped the blanket over him. You knew it would mean something and you weren’t ready to make that step yet as much as you wanted it.

——

You woke in the morning to John using your shower and you smiled at him with raised ‘brows when he came back out dressed in more familiar civ clothes. You looked for the bag at the front door but couldn’t see it.

“Staying for breakfast or heading home?”

“Heading home, sadly. But I’ll call you later, yeah? I want to catch up properly,” he said. “Thanks for letting me stay, Sunshine.”

“Of course,” you said genuinely and in between bites of your cereal. “It was a nice surprise.”

He hummed and leant in to kiss your temple with a warm hand cradling the back of your neck. You tried desperately not to push into him and to ignore the thoughts of how he smelt like you out of your head; how if anyone tried to flirt with him on his way home they’d smell your strawberry shampoo and very berry body wash. How your spring air scented febreeze spray had sunk into his jacket from the couch through the night.

Your subtle mark was all over him and neither of you seemed to mind.

“Call me when you get home, John.”

He hummed, lingered for a moment more, then headed out with his bag in tow.

——

The bar was loud and your friends were still wide awake and partying strong, celebrating the news of Paige’s well earned promotion. You, however, were flagging.

It was late, and the prospect of staying out any later was making holding back a yawn nigh impossible. You’d never been a big drinker so you’d not been keeping pace with the others, a possible mistake since you seemed to lack the same energy as them, found firmly in their second wind. The last thing you wanted to do was bail but you didn’t want to bring the mood just down hanging around either.

Your phone buzzed and you smiled when you saw it was john.

>> Still awake?

<< for once yeah :p

>> What show has you gripped to binge watch late into the night this time?

You snorted.

<< out celebrating with friends, paige got promoted!!!

>> Tell her congratulations from me

>> What time does the party end?

<< idk but i’m ready for bed already 😪

<< taxi isn’t booked for another couple of hours tho :(

John’s speech bubble appeared and disappeared a few times and you watched the screen avidly.

>> Do you want me to come meet you to walk you home?

<< really??

<< would you mind? it’s late and a little cold so you don’t have to!

>> Send me the address and I’ll set off now

<< thanks john ❤️

Either John lived close or he’d ran there, as you’d only just finished telling your friends that you were leaving early when John turned up.

“You shouldn’t leave on your own, walking home at this time of night is dangerous,” Cass said worriedly, her words slurring slightly.

“I’m not, John’s meeting me to walk me home,” you said and flushed when they all cheered and whistled at the mention of his name; their catcalls gained volume and enthusiasm when John walked through the bar door a second later, head on a swivel as he looked for you in the crowd.

“Fuck off,” you hissed at your friends playfully and hugged them all goodbye before you headed over to John. He was grinning and waved happily over to your friends, nudging you when he saw the embarrassed scrunch of your shoulders.

“Good night?” He asked once you were on the path outside.

“Yeah.” You smiled. “She deserved the raise like three years ago, but at least they’re finally recognising all the work she does.”

John nodded along. He cursed a moment later when he felt a few raindrops. You both looked up at the gentle patter and gasped when it quickly turned torrential.

Your walk turned into a run as John grabbed your hand tightly and led you a little shop alcove near by, shoving you under and crowding in after you.

“Shit, I should’ve driven,” he blamed himself, looking at your soggy jacket and the rain that had splattered your round cheeks.

“Don’t worry about it, John,” you waved it off. “Bit of rain never hurt anyone.”

The pair of you were pressed close, his broad shoulders and your wide hips taking up the space in the doorway enough that you were both holding your breath in each other’s space.

“Just my luck really,” you said.

“It’s just British weather,” John corrected. “Don’t know why I wasn’t expecting it to rain in the middle of summer,” he joked.

You laughed and felt butterflies flutter at his mirrored rumble, focused on where your stomach pressed against his. You no longer felt tired stood with him.

It went quiet, with just the soft rain and the sound of the odd car passing by the only things heard for a moment as you both held your breath, eyes locked.

You leant forward those last few inches and pressed your lips against his. Your noses bumped and you automatically lifted a hand to tilt his chin slightly to adjust, pressing your lips a little firmer when he followed your guiding hold. His hands on your hips were reverent as he let you lead.

You delighted in the scratch of his beard for a split second before suddenly flinching back, your hand becoming firm against his shoulder to keep him from following.

“Fuck,” you swore shakily. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t apologise,” he huffed with a confused smile.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” you insisted. You felt him lean towards you and firmed the stretch of your arm to keep him in place as best you could in the small space. “It’s mixed messages. It’s not fair to you.”

“I’m still waiting,” he admitted. “I’ll wait however long y’need, Sunshine.”

You ducked your head.

“I feel guilty,” you whispered. You swallowed thickly as the reasons were finally voiced even as you avoided his eyes. “I feel like it’s Charlotte all over again for you; I’m stringing you along when you could be finding someone else. I’m— it’s not fair,” you repeated.

He leant back in shock, a frown pulling at his brows and his mouth moving silently for a moment. John looked down at you from his tucked in chin and considered your comparison, knowing the quick denial on the tip of his tongue wouldn’t soothe you.

“Have you decided that then? You don’t want to be with me?” He asked finally.

You hesitated, unable to lie and say no, and he latched onto that with a fierce hold.

You thought back to what your friends had said, the fun you’d been having with him again, how natural it all was.

“Sunshine…”

“We could take it slow?” You asked.

“Of course,” he agreed readily, pushing those few inches closer to you in eagerness. “Slow and steady, whatever you need.”

“Ok.” You nodded.

“Ok?”

“I like you, John,” you admitted almost shyly, smiling up at him. “I want to try.”

In the next breath he ducked close to kiss you again.

You were pressed against the damp, grainy wall of the little alcove as he greedily slipped a hand beneath your shirt and hungrily kissed you, not stopping for a breath or a gasp now that you’d given the go ahead.

“W-what— happened t-to,” you gasped as he filled your space and every thought. The patter of the rain going unheard as his shaky breaths filled your ears and echoed torturously. “Take— taking it s-slow?”

He sucked on your lip before pulling back and panting, swapping breaths with you. “I’m not down on one knee, am I?” He asked as though you were being obtuse.

You snorted, eyes wide in disbelief. But you didn’t push him away, instead your grip kept him close.

He dipped in for another peck and you cupped his bearded cheeks.

“My house isn’t far from here,” you suggested softly. Testing the waters.

In a flash John was dragging you out of the alcove and down the street with you laughing as you splashed through the puddles to keep up with his determined pace.

“Wrong way, John,” you laughed and tugged at his arm, directing him the to follow you and head the other way towards your house. He crowded against your back, slightly off to the side, and you felt butterflies erupt at the sound of his low chuckle as your steps overlapped and you tripped each other in eagerness.

——

Once you were safely inside your home, it didn’t take long for you to get naked and climb on the bed. You dragged John along with you, clad still in his boxers.

He hovered over you as you laid back flat, his broad palms running from your ribs to your flank soothingly as he settled between your thick thighs.

His eyes were all black, the usual greyblue just a thin strip around the edges as he took you in in all your glory.

The need to make you keen and cream on his fingers was obvious by his hungry expression and the flexing of his hold on your softest parts.

“Been wanting this for too long, Sunshine,” he whispered. “Longer than you know.”

“Think I can guess,” you gasped as he lowered himself down and kissed your stomach, making sure to cover each curve and roll as he journeyed up, keeping his warm palms cupped and dragging up your sides as he kissed between your breasts. Your knees squeezed him at the ribs when he palmed one of your tits, using the light hold to lick a broad stripe over the sensitive nipple. He went back to kissing higher, trailing up along your stretched neck and biting teasingly at your earlobe before coming face to face.

“Any preferences?” Fingers, tongue, toys.

“I’d prefer to cum sooner than later,” you said cheekily, basking in his eye roll.

“Yes, ma’am,” he huffed good naturedly. “I’ll do my best.”

He leant down and kissed you, plunging and messy, not like the dry brush of lips in the rain or the rushed eager swaps of spit and squished smiles on the way home and into your bedroom. You brushed your hands over his furry chest and trembled pleasantly, raking your fingers through and sighing at the strength usually hidden beneath layers of baggy and comfortable clothing.

“John,” you sighed and he shuffled his way down back between your legs.

“Just lay back and relax,” he ordered before trailing his nose through your bush, huffing in an opened-mouthed breath with a pleased hum.

“Need a map?” You joked breathily, breath hitching when he huffed an amused breath at your opening, pressing a light kiss there afterwards. His thumb gently spread your vulva and he gave a gentle kitten lick. Using the building wetness he found he trailed his thumb lower to your arsehole and kept it there with little pressure.

“Nah, this is your clit, right?” he asked teasingly. You snorted, but felt your pussy clench and your muscles tense when he added a bit of pressure.

“John—“

“Relax,” he said again. He moved his attention and his hand back up. “Don’t need a guided tour, though I appreciate the offer; wouldn’t mind watching you show me what you like another day. But I know what I’m doing, love.”

He licked a stripe up your centre and your eyes fluttered, your hips pushing up into his hands when he puckered his wet lips around your clit and gently suckled. “Yeah, you do,” you whimpered.

He slipped his middle finger inside fluidly, no resistance, and you let out a soft sigh, your hips subtly raising to get him as deep as you could. He changed the angle of his mouth so his strong nose nudged at your bundle of nerves and he could mouth at your plush wet opening instead. He licked around his finger, adding to the sticky mess as you practically sucked him in.

He could tell by the flutters of your cunt that you were enjoying yourself, the pinch of your brow only adding to his confirmation when he looked up, but you were so quiet.

“Y’can be loud for me, Sunshine,” he said, curling his finger and grinning cheshire-cat-wide when your jaw dropped at the feeling. “Don’t be shy.”

“Give me reason to,” you said with a cut off gasp. “W-work for it.”

He felt heat rush to his core, fattening his already throbbing cock.

As you wish.

He hooked one trembling thigh over his meaty shoulder and focused back on the heat between your legs; like sticky syrup, slippery between the pads of his fingers as he dipped a second finger in beside the first.

He gave you a moment to clench around the thicker intrusion with closed eyes before setting a quicker, less forgiving pace than before. You let out a surprised grunt, your hand flying down to grip his hair as he sealed his lips to your clit with a wagging tongue.

“Fuck.”

His left hand moved to keep your hips still, strapped across your soft tummy like a seatbelt, his palm a firm pressure in the soft pudge below your bellybutton.

He broke the seal of his mouth to heave in a panting breath and nibbled at the soft skin of your thigh beside his head to catch his breath while his fingers continued to pull sweet noises from you.

You whimpered softly, dropping your hands to the mattress and clinging tight to the sheets and felt your cheeks heat up when John chuckled.

“Can’t tell what I prefer hearing,” he said and paused his fingers deep inside of you, spreading them to get a little look at the desperate cling of you around his long digits. Your creamy arousal slid down the back of his hairy knuckles and he revelled in the light squelch as you wriggled in his hold, urging his fingers deeper inside. “Your sweet cunt or your careful moans.”

“Please, John,” you asked. Pleaded. “I’m close.”

He slipped his fingers free of your tight clutch and shushed you with a smile when you whined. Licking his pruny fingers clean, he groaned at the taste.

“I’ll get you there, Sunshine, don’t worry.”

He left a wet smack of a kiss on your thigh before ducking back down and licking deep and insatiable into your needy cunt, his fingers focused on your sensitive clit instead, rubbing almost too hard and too fast as your hips pushed your cunt further into his mouth. His arm kept you locked close and unable to shift away, not that you wanted it to end, but the sudden onslaught of hyper-focused attention was a lot after his teasing and after so long without a partner. Your hand had made its way to the back of his head once more, cupping gently, but urging him forward with a steel determination. He wasn’t allowed back up for air until you’d cum.

He pinched your clit and you shrieked at the nip of pain beneath the pleasure, feeling yourself tumble over the edge as he huffed and grunted into your pussy like a man starved.

John held you close by the thighs with both hands as you arched and clenched on his tongue; slobbering and groaning against your tender vulva as you cried out. He gave your thigh one light but sharp slap as you flooded his senses; sweaty and salty, the taste and scent of you.

You collapsed back with a breathy little, hnngh, and let your fingers scratch lazily through his hair where he’d rested his face in the groove of your groin.

He hummed and dragged himself further up your body before slumping over you, kissing the taste of you into the back of your mouth, ingraining it into your tongue, gums and teeth as you whined and writhed beneath him.

“Jesus fucking christ,” you laughed tiredly into his mouth. “Gimme a chance.”

He smiled and ground himself against your hip. “Can’t help it, y’make me feel like a teenager.”

Your nose scrunched and he huffed a laugh. “A’right, won’t make that comparison again.”

You pecked his lips in thanks and slipped your hand down between you, gathering a glob of your own arousal between your fingers. Thoroughly lubed, you pushed your hand under the band of his boxers and rubbed the collected juices over his cock and watched his brow pinch in pleasure.

It was your turn to tease.

You leant up and kissed him open mouthed and slow, the tease of tongue against his lips as he humped against your hand, moans mingling in breaths shared.

You moved your hand lower, went to slip in a finger but he gripped your wrist tightly. You looked up with wide eyes, hand falling loose in his grip where it had stopped you in your tracks.

“No, not like that. I don’t— I don’t like—“

“That’s ok,” you interrupted his stuttering explanation, watching walls build up before your eyes that you were determined not to let solidify. He didn’t need them around you. “We can just keep doing it like before,” you offered easily with a smile and lingering kiss to his fuzzy cheek. “Whatever you want.”

John guided your hand back up hesitantly, watching you as though waiting for the other shoe to drop. He kept your fingers hovering over his cock once more and you pushed forward to rub from tip to root and back up again.

“Yeah?” You asked and watched as his shoulders relaxed again. He moved his arm to lean back on his elbow by your head and you smiled, satisfied with the show of trust. “Yeah, ok.”

You pushed against the spot just below the head of his cock, trapping it against his pubic mound and were gratified as he groaned low, like the sound was forcibly pulled out of him as he thrusted roughly against your fingers. John ducked his head and kissed you, missing the mark in his desperation and licking against the corner of your mouth instead.

You nudged your face up slightly and let him moan against your lips, quickly falling into the distraction of getting him dripping and close; pulling out all your tricks and feeling yourself get worked up in return whenever you felt him throb and pulse in your hand, his thick, hairy thighs shifting either side of yours.

He pulled back and you paused your ministrations immediately, worried you’d done something wrong again, but John hurriedly tugged his boxers down and off, kicking them away from the bed and diving back towards you with a ravenous kiss.

Rolling onto his back, John tugged you into his lap so you were straddling him and for the first time in his presence a burst of hesitance connected to your weight bloomed in your chest.

You lifted up on your knees slightly to relieve some of your weight from his hips.

“Oh, John I don’t know—“

“Come ‘ere, Sunshine,” he pulled your hips back down and urged you to ride him, moving with his own frotting hips as your vulva spread to soak around his cock.

With each grind, the head nudged slightly from its foreskin and kissed your clit perfect as you tilted back. You huffed a weak moan as he slipped through your folds and the schlickschlickschlick sounds of your combined arousal mingling and frothing between your thighs had you panting and moving quicker.

Once you found your pace, one hand balanced back on his hairy thigh and the other rubbing at your clit furiously, he lifted his hands from the fat of your hips and stomach up to thumb at your nipples.

You noticed how he moaned and tensed when you slipped heavily over his sensitive tip and grinned a little meanly as you focused a careful swivel of your hips to catch your slick centre on it. You clenched and gushed over his throbbing tip as he whined, gripping you tightly to try and pull you lower.

“Close?” You asked with a breathy giggle, feeling your own legs shake with the oncoming orgasm.

You traced gentle fingers over his faded top scars beneath his thick thatch of chest hair as he groaned and leant down to kiss him. It didn’t take much longer for you both to cum, both worked up and the constant, teasing brushes at your cores were enough to gradually tip you over the edge.

His hand in your hair kept your mouths attached as you panted hot and wet, and when you broke free to the side his beard was scratchy against your nose and cheek as you shuddered on top of him.

“John, fuck.”

“Just like that, just like that,” he thrusted up in jerky little motions before stilling.

You flopped to the side a moment later, less conscious of your weight but wanting to be comfortable, and he gathered you close immediately. He tucked you under his chin with a grunt, slipping a leg over yours.

“I’m not letting you out of this bed for a week,” he groaned sleepily. You hummed happily, exhausted. He let you drift off before whispering in your ear. “Sorry this isn’t slow, Sunshine, but I won’t be going back to being friends now.”

You grinned and nuzzled closer.

“I think we should go visit my home town next, only fair you meet my crazy family too, yeah?”

John closed his eyes happily and nodded. “Looking forward to it,” he said. “Though my rates are a little higher than £100.”

You pinched his thigh and laughed when he tried to squirm away with a hiss.

You kissed his neck chastely and tightened your arm around his waist, nodding off as you felt him trail a hand back and forth over your naked back.

#this was such a fun chapter to write i feel a lot better about it compared to my prev chapter #hopefully you guys all like the ending :3 i was debating stuff for a while but i like it and im glad they got their cheesy romcom fade #to black afterglow lmao #thank you p for peer reviewing my smut!#john price x reader #price x reader #fat reader #trans john price #john price smut #price smut #cod smut #trans price smut #trans john price smut #im covering all bases here #stelle writes n that

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aprilcolours · 1 year ago

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blackheart

A/N: OC is Visenya, daughter of Rhaenyra and Daemon, second eldest child after Jace and before Luc. She rides Vermithor, the Bronze Fury. This is about SHOW Benjicot Blackwood NOT book!! The three seconds we’ve seen of him at least lol <3 Valyrian is translated at the bottom

part two - part three - part four

—

When Vermithor landed, a slew of muck and water sprayed into the humid Riverlands air. Visenya the Second wrinkled her nose and brushed some of the mud specks off her riding leathers.

She reassured her dragon, “Sȳz, jikagon arghugon,” and slid promptly off onto his shoulder, before deftly sticking the ten foot drop to the ground. The marshes were full of tents, troops mustered from across the realm to gather here in this central region, where the flags waved black. She had made sure to land a little ways away, wouldn’t want to crush any of our own now would we, she thought with a slight smirk.

She was the daughter of the Rogue Prince, and carried herself as such. There was a latent danger in the way her lithe form prowled forward, a ferocity to the confident tilt of her shoulders. Despite her stature as a young woman, and a slight one at that, she cut an imposing figure.

The bannerman watched her approach, most tilting their head in recognition at least, some falling into deep bows. She stalked through the lines of troops, searching for the central war council.

Visenya had flown to the Riverlands a fortnight hence, to guard their troops from a possible attack by Vhagar, to see her mother’s will done in the strategizing, and for a third purpose that was known only to her and her mother. At the center of a camp, a large table had been brought forth, encrusted with maps of the region and the current positions of hosts. Gathered around the table were a group of knights and lords sworn to Rhaenyra: Lords Darklyn, Staunton, Massey, and a group of young lords that had come to be known as the Lads: Lord Kermit Tully, Ser Oscar Tully, and Lord Benjicot Blackwood.

Benjicot Blackwood had come into his lordship quite recently, with the death of his father mere months ago at the beginning of the war. Despite this, he had already made a formidable reputation for himself as ruthless, bloodthirsty, and a force to be reckoned with. He was not necessarily physically imposing, favoring a lean build, but he had a certain gleam in his eye. Almost rabid, Visenya had thought to herself with a small laugh.

She looked at each of the gathered as she reached the table, daring any of these older men to show anything other than submission. Each of the lords bowed, averting their eyes. Bar one. Lord Blackwood always held her gaze as he bowed, eyes gleaming and a crooked smile playing at his lips.

She raised a brow, unimpressed.

It only seemed to make his smile curl even wider.

“The Western front has shifted closer, your Highness,” Lord Massey informed her. Visenya finally tore her eyes away from the Blackwood to observe the map. Indeed, the Green host mustered at Lannisport had crept closer in the night. It now dared to encroach on the edges of Tully land.

“The numbers mustered are not insignificant,” Lord Darklyn added.

“They are when compared to the whole force of the Reach that soon converges upon us from the South,” Lord Staunton argued. The combined Tyrell, Hightower, and Florent host was decidedly large.

“A problem only made worse if the Lannisters are allowed to join them,” Darklyn shot back. It was clear this argument had been happening for some time at this point.

As she considered the map and heeded the advisors, Visenya felt a certain piercing dark gaze boring holes into her. She did not indulge him further with another look, but she could feel the unending weight of his stare as it did not abate.

“We march on the Lannisters,” Visenya declared, voice carrying high and clear. The council ceased their squabbling.

A short silence descended, as the Lords who disagreed weighed whether they would be endangering themselves if they expressed their opinion.

“We will cut them off at Lydden, before they can turn southwards,” she continued, gesturing to the spot on the map. “Darklyn is right, they cannot be allowed to join the Reach. Lannister forces will have supplies from Lannisport, so they will not have been affected by the blockade. Time is our greatest ally at the moment. We have the whole of the North marching to us,” Visenya spoke plainly and matter-of-factly, but at this point she smiled slightly and tossed her silver braid over one shoulder.

“Furthermore, the Green houses are well… green. The longer they wait, they longer they have to ponder tales of fearsome Northmen who need neither food nor sleep, to whisper legends of Rhaenyra the Cruel and her fleet of dragonriders,” she paused to shoot Blackwood the barest hint of a grin, “to hear word of Bloody Ben and the carnage they march towards.”

The Lads laughed and jostled Ben’s shoulders.

“I hear he slew fifty men in a single evening over his cup of tea!” Ser Oscar teased, voice mockingly high. Blackwood ducked his head and laughed, rustling the other two men back.

“The flower knights will quiver and shake their way back to Highall,” Visenya finished, looking to the council members for dissent.

“What of Vhagar, your highness?” Lord Staunton asked, “The kinslayer will surely come calling.”

Visenya tilted her head.

“That is why I am here,” she answered.

With that, and a few more details of the march agreed upon, the council was adjourned. As he began to walk towards his troops however, Visenya called out to him,

“Oh and Blackwood?”

Ben turned back to face her, taking the address as an invitation to step closer. Closer than any other dared step. She had to tilt her head back slightly to look him in the eye.

“Be sure to give them something to talk about,” she commanded. Her voice did not falter even as she felt her heart begin to hammer in her chest.

With a lopsided grin and another bow, “I swear it, my lady.”

—

The battle at Lydden was a roaring success. Vermithor made sure to roar it across the skies. Together, Visenya and her dragon burned whole battalions and paved the way for the Black troops to carve through the Lannister forces. It was not without its casualties to the numbers, but still a resounding victory for the Queen.

In the aftermath, they had landed in a small forest slightly away from the troops, who she could hear were already carousing. Visenya used the flat of one of her blades to scrape dried blood from Vermithor’s scales.

“Messy business, isn't it,” a voice rang out from behind her, with his signature teasing lilt. Ben stood at the other edge of the clearing, grinning, also covered in blood and mud. She turned, raising an eyebrow at his antics.

“What I thought was courage I see now might be stupidity,” she responded with a teasing tone of her own, “to approach a dragon on your lonesome.”

He approached further, despite her warning, and like a moth to a flame she was drawn closer.

“Ah but I am not alone, am I?” He said, almost breathless still from the battle they had just fought. They drew near together in the center of the clearing. “And my princess is a great dragon rider who would not allow harm to befall me,” he intoned in a low voice.

“Ha! I have left court only to find flatterers in the fields,” she replied. Perhaps the bloodlust had gone to her head but Visenya ignored any thoughts of impropriety, choosing to match his grin with one of her own. “

“What is it you want, Lord Blackwood?”

Surprisingly, his expression shifted. The giddiness receded, and what rose upon his features then was a simmering focus. It was not unlike the expression he wore in the midst of battle. After a heartbeat of tension, Benjicot Blackwood stepped even closer. Gazing down at her with that signature glint of crazed gleam in his eyes, he confessed,

“Since meeting you, your highness… my desires have become uniquely singular.”

Even with her years of courtly training, Visenya could not hide her shock. Or her blush.

“Let none say you are not bold,” she whispered, stupefied. He chuckled slightly and noted,

“So you think me both bold and courageous.”

“Did I say that,” she teased breathlessly, still gathering her bearings.

“You did,” he replied simply, eyes dark and hooded.

He was enjoying watching her on the back foot for once, she could tell. She felt a flicker of temper rise and latched onto it. Visenya leveled her haughtiest at look at him and remarked,

“Our surroundings are hardly appropriate for a marriage proposition, do you not think Lord Blackwood?”

Her indignance only seemed to amuse him further.

“On the contrary, my lady, they are perfect. Together, we have won a great victory and live to see another day. In war, this is the best one could hope for.”

She considered his words, considered the whole of Benjicot Blackwood and his proposition.

Certainly an unconventional choice, she thought. I think mother would like it.

She considered her third purpose for venturing out across the realm: to seek a husband.

And she kissed him.

Benjicot Blackwood kissed like he was drowning man and she was air itself. He kissed like she might change her mind at any moment and he would make every second count. He was all teeth and tongue and grasping pulling hands at her waist, her arms, her face.

“Do not get blood in my hair,” she broke away to command, voice breathy but firm.

His laugh echoed into the night.

—

A/N: Truly insane that I wrote this and he's not even in the show yet lmaoo

Sȳz, jikagon arghugon - good, go hunt

i will post this on ao3 too, and i might add more if i feel so inclined!!

#hotd #house of the dragon #benjicot blackwood #benjicot blackwood x oc

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romanteacism · 1 year ago

Text

Knight Aemond x Princess Reader Innocent Touch

Synopsis: You and Ser Aemond are starting to come into a routine and each other's good graces until it is rudely abrupted. Warnings: None (yet), Aemond growing fonder of his station, ¿infatuation?, Slight Jealousy PREVIOUS PART / NEXT PART

“Who is this from?” You asked as a squire handed you another bouquet of flowers. Aemond resisted rolling his eyes as he watched you toy with the petals. He stood behind you as you and your brother sat in the gardens. “Lord Triston, Your Highness,” The squire bowed as he left. “I did not know Lord Tristan was courting you,” Your brother frowned and reached forward to take hold of the scroll placed in the middle of the bouquet.

“This is the fifth one in three days; it’s quite excessive, is it not?” You pondered as you placed the bouquet on the side, not keen on the smell of roses. You turned to your brother, waiting for his response, but he was too busy reading the scroll— you would guess another poem that he had plagiarized from one of the great poets of the realm. “It’s quite a… bold poem he chose,” your brother frowned, and you shrugged, taking a bite of berries and cream cake. “Since when had he started courting you? I do not remember him asking for Father or I’s permission,” He stated, and you shrugged once more. “He began to send flowers, I believe, a week or so ago?” You said uncertain. “Do I recount right, Ser Aemond?” You turned to your knight for confirmation, slowly warming up to him once more as he had aided in a time of desperation.

“Yes, princess.” He nodded, and your brother turned his gaze upon your sworn protector, seeing his stoic expression severe into a scowl. “I think it best you keep your distance from Lord Tristan,” Your brother said, glancing over the flowers he sent as well as the rather forward poem he had given. “Very well then,” You agreed, not at all attracted to the young lord who was known for his reputation as a rake.

“See to it that the lord does not bother my sister, Ser Aemond,” Your brother commanded as he stood. “Of course, my prince,” Ser Aemond bowed, agreeing without question as he, too, was unsettled by the lord’s quite fervent attention towards you. He had been noticing lord Tristan trailing you for the past few days, even going as far as walking down the halls of your wing at night. Of course, Aemond always stood guard, ready to challenge the lord.

“I’ll see you at supper, sister,” your brother said, placing a chaste kiss on the top of your head before leaving. As he left, you placed a lemon tart onto a plate and raised it to offer to your knight. “No, thank you, princess. I had just eaten,” He said, and you nodded.

“Was lady Davenport present during the last tea party I held?” You questioned Ser Aemond as your memory seemed to fail you, but you had learned your knight had a rather sharp one. “I do not believe so, princess,” He replied, trailing his eye around the gardens as he noticed the distant figure of lord Tristan staring at you from above. “Hm, this is the second session she has missed… I noticed that she has been absent in court as of late,” You mussed, not expecting a reply from your knight as you thought out loud.

“I hear whispers that the lady Davenport is hiding a swollen belly beneath her dress,” Your knight then said, making your eyes widen, and you turned your body to look at him from where he stood behind you. Aemond bit his tongue as he saw the expression on your face. He does not care for gossip, but he did find your reactions to it quite amusing. “But she is not set to marry until a fortnight.” Ser Aemond shrugged as he imparted the talk he heard from the maids. You let out a breath of a laugh. “I always thought her intended was quite the traditionalist,” you muttered, and Aemond smirked, pondering if he should share the next piece of information he had overheard. “He is… but his brother is proven not.” He quietly added and bit his lip. “No!” You gasped in disbelief, turning to Ser Aemond once more, only for him to shrug again. “Again, these are only whispers I hear, princess,” He said, and you narrowed your eyes as an amused smirk rose to his lips that he could not control as he spoke.

When Aemond removed his gaze from you, he noticed lord Tristan making his way towards your direction. “Princess, you are late for your meeting with your seamstress,” You turned towards the sun and saw that it was past its peak, “Oh, yes, of course,” You said and stood, going in the direction of your chambers and Aemond content as lord Tristan missed your presence.

Ser Aemond stood guard outside your chambers as you were fitted for your gowns, passing his gaze through the hall and watching intently all the passersby. He clenched his jaw as he saw lord Tristan standing at the end of the hall, observing the commissioned portraits of you that were made each year for your name day. Aemond resisted the urge to roll his eye as lord Tristan inched his way towards your chambers. Aemond wore his most formidable expression as he was met with the lord. “I wish to seek an audience with the princess,” He said, voice dismissive. “The princess does not wish to be disturbed.” Ser Aemond replied curtly.

He watched as the lord raised a pompous brow. “I do not believe you understood what I said— I seek an audience with the princess.” He gritted, and Aemond’s hold at the hilt of his sword tigtened. “I understand perfectly. It is you who does not comprehend that the princess does not wish to be disturbed.” Aemond resisted succumbing to his urges and showed great animosity towards the young lord.

The door to your chambers opened, hindering either man from speaking. Your seamstress exited, and Aemond was quick to hinder the lord, who seemed to forget any sense of manners as he tried to force himself into the sanctity of your chambers. “My lord?” You questioned and turned to Ser Aemond, who had a deep scowl on his face. “Princess— I wish to speak with you,” lord Tristan bowed and threw a glare at your knight. “Oh, I am not receiving company at the moment, my lord. I—I wish to be alone.” You say quietly. “Have you received the flowers I sent?” The lord ignored your words, and Aemond’s jaw ticked as you two locked eyes, seeing apprehension in your gaze. “I have, thank you, lord Tristan… but if you would excuse me,” You curtsied and moved to close your door. Leaving your knight and the rather audacious lord.

Aemond felt a pompous smirk rise to his lips as you shut and barred your door, the hopefulness in the lord’s eyes disappearing quickly. Aemond bit his lip as lord Tristan walked off in a huff. When you hear his departing footsteps, you unbarred your door and peeked your head out. “Is he gone?” You quietly asked your knight, staring up at him, “Yes, princess,” Aemond nodded, and you fully opened your chamber door. “He’s quite… boorish,” You muttered and took your kitten into your arms, cradling it as if it were a babe as you walked through the halls with your knight. “He certainly is, princess,” he agreed, looking towards the kitten who he had hidden days before. There was a glare in the feline’s eyes as Theodore was familiar with the man who had placed him in the confines of the mouth of a gargoyle.

You hear your little kitten suddenly hiss, making you frown and run your fingers soothingly through your pet’s fur. “What’s wrong, my darling?” You cooed, looking down at Theodore, who continued to hiss. You doubled your efforts in trying to calm him, unaware that the man beside you was the reason for the agitated state of your kitten. You placed a kiss on his little head, and that seemed to be effective. Theodore slowly calmed down. Aemond bit his lip as he feared that his desperate actions would be known by you— implausible since no one bore witness to his actions, but you would certainly question why your pet would be upset whenever in the presence of Aemond.

You were too distracted as you tried to soothe your kitten, growing unaware of your surroundings and where you walked. Aemond sighed as this was a frequent occurrence; he circled his arm around your waist and guided your way. He bit his tongue as he was enveloped with your scent. At your close proximity, Ser Aemond scowled at the continuation of whining from your kitten. Aemond led you to your solarium, arm growing cold as he removed his hold from your waist. He stood guard by the door and listened to you cooing at your kitten.

Ser Aemond stood straighter as he heard footsteps revealing your brother. “Is my sister in?” He questioned, and Aemond nodded curtly. “My prince,” He called before your brother entered. “Lord Tristan had been proved rather ungallant… just earlier today, he tried to force himself into the chambers of the princess to seek an audience with her even though he was told that she wishes to be alone.” Aemond had no trouble in tattling. He saw a severe frown on your brother’s face, and only when the prince frowned did Aemond finally see the resemblance between you and the prince. The prince hummed, thinking of a way to protect you further; it was silently known by the court that lord Tristan was persistent— stopping at nothing to acquire anything he wanted, and he usually resorts to ill ways to achieve it.

“My sister’s safety is of utmost importance, Ser Aemond,” Aemond nodded, “I know… and I agree, my prince,” He agreed. “I shall have no choice but to add another guard to her station,” Aemond stilled at the prince’s words. “My—my prince, I am fully capable of protecting the princess,” He said, almost defensively. Your brother’s eyes widened, fearing that he had offended the knight. “Yes, of course— I would not entrust my sister in your care if you are incapable, but with lord Tristan sniffing around her, I fear you would need aid.” Aemond bit back his tongue, not wanting to speak out of turn. “Ser Adam shall accompany you during the day as an added guard to my sister, so no more run-ins like earlier shall occur.” Aemond gritted his teeth and gave a reluctant nod before opening the door for the prince.

The following day, Aemond stood guard by your door and waited for you to start your morning. He stiffened at his spot as he heard the clank of armor and the image of Ser Adam taking his post on the other side of your door, a teasing smirk on his lips as he saw Aemond's annoyed face. “Ser Aemond,” He nodded in greeting, “Ser Adam,” Aemond gritted in reluctant courtesy. You opened your chamber doors, and two knights straightened their stances. You looked between your two guards, “Good morrow, Sers,” You greeted and walked off, your kitten in your arms and your two guards following you as you made your way to the gardens.

The once soothing clang of Ser Aemond’s armor as he walked now turned into an annoying bang as his steps were matched with Ser Adam's. You looked down upon your pet cat, who rested calmly in your arms, still drowsy from his sleep. Aemond noticed your attention was placed on your kitten was more and placed his hand on the small of your back to lead your way, as always. Aemond caught the gaze of Ser Adam, the secondary knight raising a quizzical brow at him, but Aemond did his best to ignore his presence, trying to pretend that it was only you and him, just like days before.

When in the gardens, Aemond moved to assist you to your chair, but Ser Adam beat him to it. He gritted his jaw as the kind ‘thanks’ that was meant to him was addressed to the other knight. As the day went on with Ser Adam accompanying the both of you— you offering him the same refreshments and chatter as Aemond and even gossiping with him, Aemond felt an odd twisting in his stomach that he did not care for. It was as if fire ants were crawling and biting at his skin, and some strong hand was twisting his gut and possibly even his heart.

“Good night, Ser Adam,” You smiled as the knight went to retire for the night, much to Aemond’s relief. You and your sworn protector walked the halls to your room, and you noticed that he had been rather rigged the whole day— nothing odd, but you did notice that he was starting to unclench the past few days. “You’re scowling.” You mused as you two turned a hallway; Aemond glanced at you who observed his expression. “Am I, princess?” He asked, knowing full well he was. Aemond feigned confused, as he did not want his annoyance to be revealed. “You are; you’ve had that line between your brows the whole day,” You say, and stood at the tip of your toes and trying to smoothen the furrow between his brows.

Aemond froze at your actions that were not mediated and thought about by yourself, forgetting your sensibilities as you invaded your knight’s personal space. You froze as you realized what you had done, quickly backing away, your cheeks heating at your actions, and felt embarrassment course through your veins. “I… I apologize,” you say, your voice just a squeak, and you hurriedly turn on your heels as you rush toward your chambers. Aemond battled through his shock and followed you through your chambers, the both of you uttering a quick and awkward ‘good night’ before you disappeared behind your door.

Aemond stood at his post, breathing ragged as his hand fingers went to where you left your soft and burning touch. Aemond tried to calm his breathing, dismayed by his reaction. It was just an innocent touch, nothing to fuss over about, is it not? He rested the back of his head on the cold stone and tried not to let his thoughts be consumed by you even more.

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