#lord weary's castle

[derangedrhythms]

How will the heart endure?

Robert Lowell, Lord Weary’s Castle; from ‘Mr. Edwards and the Spider’

[e1dritchjackal0pe]

𝔗𝔬 𝔗𝔬𝔲𝔠𝔥 𝔉𝔦𝔯𝔢

𝔖𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: Isolated and weary of your solitary marriage with the prince, you gather enough courage to approach him one night with the declaration that the both of you try to become better acquainted. When you had proposed the idea, you never could have imagined how it would forever alter the dynamic of your union.

𝔚𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: 18+ content. Minor's scram. AFAB descriptions, some female implying terms used such as "wife." Fingering, Oral (F!Receiving), naked female and clothed male, some hints of sub Aemond, unprotected sex, creampie, breeding kink. Not proofread. Probably very poorly translated High Valyrian, blame the internet, not me. Aemond being a little shit, but also a little soft, just to balance it out. Aemond speaking in High Valyrian because it does unspeakable things to me.

𝔑𝔬𝔱𝔢𝔰: 24.8k words. Another unnecessarily long fic because I have no self-control. Reader is a Baratheon. This was honestly just an excuse to write about dragon riding with Aemond. A little bit of Vhagar appreciation because she receives far too much hate.

Life has not been easy as of late. With the threat of war ever-present, looming over the entirety of Westeros like a great storm cloud, thick and heavy with the promise of shrieking winds and a downpour violent enough to rip the foundations of the Seven Kingdoms from the earth and sweep them away in tides of blood. This war could be the end of it all. With dragonflame so readily at the disposal of both opposing sides, there is the possibility of no victors in this battle. All could very well wind up as a victim. Charred corpses to litter the burned lands, scorched black and red from fire and blood like forgotten toys carelessly left discarded and damaged by the children (or the gods) that played with them. 

It is becoming increasingly difficult to nudge it all - the paranoia and worry - back to the distant recesses of your mind. But it clings to you like a stubborn sickness. Making a home in the pit of your stomach like some vile, nauseating thing. It has you hopelessly adrift with no source of salvation to cling to. Especially now that you are in a place that brings you no comfort. Confined within the cold, labyrinthian walls of a castle that you do not truly know beyond the whispers of its name and the faint, watery memory of once dining in the Great Hall as a child while people jovially chattered and feasted on banquet. 

It's all so lost. Being forced to show a polite expression and nod and entertain lords and ladys that hold no true familiarity or warmth to you. Strangers with faces that would smile and stare as though they have known you for years. It is all so restricting. Binding and tight and clinging to your person like the new garments that you have been gifted with upon your arrival to the Red Keep; forced and expected to sport the customary garb and accessories of the Targaryen culture and trends. All wrapped up and pinned up in fine jewelry and embroidered fabrics like a prized broodmare. 

But perhaps then, even "prize mare" is giving yourself far too much praise. Prized pawn is far more fitting of a term. Just some plain, ordinary piece meant to be moved about the board at the whims of the player. Plucked to jump from square to checkered square with little care. You are a simple instrument on a much bigger board; the scope of which, you know is entirely beyond you and your imaginations. 

It makes it all so difficult to not be cross. To push down the anger that prickles at your flesh like hot coals and burns within the chasm of your ribcage. You feel cheated somewhat. Used and played with despite having prepared for this possibility since the moment you had been delivered from the safety of your mother's womb and into the chill of the world. It should be no shock that you have found no comfort. Not in your daily duties and the nugatory responsibilities and diversions you must fill your time with; all of the needlework, entertaining and book reading. It is tedious. Dull. Weak distractions against your harsh reality. That here, so far from home, you are well and truly at your lonesome. Wed to a man who wants little to do with you beyond your expected obligations.  Though you might truly have only yourself to blame for that. Your husband had worn his intentions on his sleeve when he had arrived Storm's End that one tempestuous evening, bearing his true colors to your father and your sisters when he had traded for the Baratheon House's allegiance and loyalty in the exchange for accepting your hand in marriage. He propositioned such terms swiftly. Shockingly so. Sheading little thought to the requirement - it was as easy as breathing for him. All while you stood alongside your sisters, being mindful to keep your spine rigid and head held high while your future was bartered away so easily; swallowing down the unease that stirred in your gut. 

And even with your reservations on the matter, and the buried urge to rush forward and object, you could not help but to study him from your place beside your siblings. You had heard stories of the Targaryen family your entire life. And although you had seen them once before as a young girl, the memories had done little properly illustrate the nearly ethereal grace with which he carried himself with. The first word that had crossed your mind when you first watched him prowl into your family's ancestorial home was simply just:

Stunning. 

For most men you would have used handsome, or dashing. And perhaps those words could be used for the likes of Prince Aemond Targaryen, but there's something about them that does not quite do him the proper justice. He was imposing as soon as he entered the space. Footsteps softly echoing along the stone floors as he approached your father's throne with nothing but pure confidence in his stride. As though you were the guests and not he. And like a moth drawn to a steady open flame your vision had immediately been caught and fastened onto him as though you were placed under spell. 

A simple, harmless fascination, you like to tell yourself. After all, it is not so strange to be captivated by a man who is said to be closer to a god than man; one who rides on the back of a great dragon. And when you first saw him, even with all your uncertainty of his arrival, it was impossible to look away. To try and not to study the countenance of a man you have heard so much about. Tracing the pronounced ridge of his aquiline nose, the keen cut of his jaw, the curved shape of his lips that were set with a slight purse. His features were decidedly sharp, but it suited him well with the assured way he held himself. The scar that marred the left side of his face could do nothing to damage his beauty. A beauty that is so inherently Valyrian. Attributes that mark someone who has blood of the dragon rushing through their veins, smoldering their hair into shades of smoke. And his hair was no different. Spilling down his back like rivulets of pale, silver silk. 

But it was his eye that had caught your attention the most. Even with only one to look, it peered at the world with a focus that was nearly unnerving. Locking onto your father in striking shades of either blue or violet - you could not tell at the time from the distance that had spaced between you. 

And in the moment that you had stood and evaluated him with a sense of wonder and dread, his eye had never flickered over to you. He had hardly spared you a glance. Holding his focus entirely on the Lord before him with the hints of a satisfied smirk nudging at the curled edges of his mouth, even while he held himself so composedly. Like he was truly pleased with the trajectory of the evening. The lack of his attentions on you should have been more than enough to clue you in on the trajectory of your life with the prince. Moreso than the ominous tempest that raged outside the stone walls. Downpours and thunder are no strangers to Storm's End, often ravaging the world beneath with flurries of rain and winds strong enough to lift waves to thrash the against the surface. But that day you had decided that the storm that had blotted out the golden hue of the sun was not simply just a common occurrence, but instead a bad omen. One brought on with the arrival of the prince, set as a warning - a blight on the future of your matrimony that heeded nothing but misery. And you had been right in some regards. 

You knew for certain that as soon as Aemond Targaryen had stepped away from you to stalk after his young nephew with the insistent ravings, flashing a blade with nothing but a crazed scorn in his voice, that you would find no solace within the cradle of your marriage to the prince. And the death of the Velaryon child and his dragon that swiftly followed that night only solidified that assumption. You are married to a mad man. 

One ruled by duty and strategy, but a mad man, nonetheless. 

Even with that in mind you could not help but to long for a connection with the prince. No matter how minuscule or spurious it might be. Your associations with the second born son have been spars at best. Done purely out of obligation at best. Each time you had ever been within each other's presence it had been out of a means to project the image of husband and wife that was expected by the masses and the court. The wedding, the feast you had partaken in, the consummation of your marriage. It was all done with an air of detachment from the prince. He was never rude, or untoward with you, but there was silent boundary that he had sliced between you with his absence and apparent lack of interest in your union. The nights that he would bed you were few and far in between. Done out of the necessity of producing an heir rather than a means to show affection. You could feel it in the clinical way that he touched you. Gentle, firm and somewhat rigid when he would guide you to bend over the foot of the bed with the palm of his hands, lifting up your skirts swiftly as though he is always eager to be done with it and somewhere else. 

You are not a foolish young girl anymore who would listen to your late mother's romantic stories and tales of besotted, star-crossed lovers with a rapt, captivated attention. You now know the nature of marriages. Especially those of highborn society. The expectations of them. They are often done out of the means to strengthen political alliances, not done out of a declaration of love. 

Still, it would be nice to at least know the man that you are set to spend the remainder of your life until the Stranger finally takes you from this mortal realm. The desire for it burned at you, ate at you with teeth that ripped and gnawed at your heart piece by vicious piece until you felt hollow. Not even Queen Alicent, despite her best, though often rare efforts to bring you ease has managed to pull you from the depths of your melancholy.

You wanted more. You were weary of belonging to a stranger. A man who made no attempts for as much simple conversation with you but spent every waking moment strategizing for bloodshed and the success of his house. You knew that if you meant to alter the course of your union with the prince that it is you who must go to him. And the thought of that terrified you greatly. 

You had heard the tales of those who dared to claim dragons that had no desire to be asserted. Those fools' endings were all same. Snapped up between the sharp maws of the great beasts to be swallowed in a gruesome lump of bloodied meat and crushed bone or engulfed in raging flames of bright, molten gold. You had absolutely no desire to become one of those fools. And despite knowing your husband so little, you were able to gather enough, that despite his cunning, he was also undeniably impulsive. Lead by the ferocity and the heat of the dragon blood that coursed throughout his body and burned within his soul like the fire they spit from their throats. If you went to him in the endeavor of drawing him into a connection that he truly did not seek, the only thing you might gain in turn is his ire. 

And so, you had resisted the urge for as long as you could. Settling for the brief interactions you shared during the supper's spent with the family, or the moments when he would meet you within your chambers to do his duty has husband and prince in the hopes of planting his seed and creating his successor. But it all quickly caught up with you. It was not enough, living on the meager crumbs that these encounters provided. Quickly you had decided that you would rather hypothetically get scorched alive by the scorn of your husband than continue to spend your days as a living dead woman, drifting about the cold corridors like a ghost wondering about the life that could have been, had you simply just confronted him. 

It was nearing the night, just little before the hour of the bat, that you found yourself standing outside the doors of his chambers, with soft lilac hues of the twilight slipping through the windows that lined the corridor and painted the floors in dusty shades of lavender. It was purely unbecoming of a young woman to be out so late without an escort, even if she was intending to meet with her husband. It had made the anxiety quivering in your chest even stronger. Fluttering like some wild, frightened creature while your mind swarmed with paranoia and hesitation. Your thoughts had seemed determined to persuade you from your intentions, begging that you turned heel and returned to your quarters before you were noticed. 

Perhaps he was already abed. Deep in slumber and at peace in his rest. Or perhaps he was not even in his chambers at all. Busy with matters beyond yourself. 

It was all almost enough to tear your feet from their place on the floor, but your body seemed eager to betray you, and before you could even notice the movement of your own hand, it was lifted and the sound of your knuckles rapping against the cool wood of the door had rung out within the confines of the hallway. Sharp, loud, and almost violent in your ears. Echoing out like nails being struck into the face of a coffin. 

You nearly flinched, mouth running dry at the realization of what you had just done, and with it the urge to flee had never been so great. Trembling up your spine like a cold breath. You had hoped that he would not answer. That he truly was asleep or vacant from his apartments, but like a twisted jest, the universe had answered your desires, and the sound of his voice slipped from beyond the door. Muffled by the obstruction, but no less commanding. Unable to ignore the call, you had drawn in a deep breath. Steeling yourself and the relentless patter of your heart before you drew the door open and slipped past the threshold with the drag of your skirts whispering ominously as you went. 

The air had seemed to shift when you had entered, and the shadows that clung to the corners and ceiling of the room felt as though it was prepared to swallow you whole, had it not been bayed away by the low flickering the candles that burned about the space like plumes of delicate amber. Your eyes had flitted about the quarters like a startled doe's, desperate to learn the structure of the area as though you might have to flee. Your vision had skipped over the various tomes and documents scattered about the tables; the random objects placed about in meager means of decoration. But you could appreciate them at least, for giving you a small glimpse into the mind of the man you have been bound to. Much like the chessboard left perched atop a tabletop, like a clue to his intelligence and keenness for scheming, and the quills and ink vials and parchment spread along his writing desk. 

But you were only able to distract yourself for so long before your attention had been tugged along as though by an invisible string to focus on the man sitting across the space from where you stood, one of the aforementioned documents held within one of his hands while he watched you steadily. His expression was mostly neutral. But even with how easily he was usually able to school his features, you could see the hint of surprise bleeding into his gaze. The subtle raise of his brow and the confused purse of his lips. You could practically see the question ready at the tip of his tongue, and you loathed the awkwardness that permeated the air. Stifling and prickling like a rash along your skin. 

"Wife," he finally greeted. Though you could still hear the dull bewilderment in the softness of his tone. 

It took you a moment to collect yourself, feebly trying to shake the uncertainty that still clung to you and when you had finally willed yourself to speak, you could only think the gods that your voice did not quiver, even though it was but a few words. "Lord husband," you returned the acknowledgement, nodding your chin slightly in substitute of a curtsy.  You watched closely as he gently placed the document in his hand down flat on the desk, tracing his face and the shadows the spilt across his features from the dim candlelight and the remaining, dull remnants of sunlight that managed to slip in through the windows; the reflection of the fire and sun glinting within the captivating shade of his eye. 

"To what do I owe the honor?" He inquired. 

It had been enough to snap you out of the daze that had clouded over you, jerking you from it so suddenly that you had nearly gasped with the realization that you had been staring. Embarrassment burned at your cheeks, hot and uncomfortable. You cleared your throat, straightening your shoulders in an effort to at least appear confident, but you swore that you had caught the edge of Prince Aemond's mouth twitching up in the semblance of a smile, letting you know that you had not succeeded in your aim. 

"I wished to speak to you." You had answered, clasping your fingers together in front of yourself, and you were now unable to ignore how clammy they had become. 

"So late in the evening?" Came his quick reply, the brow above his good eye perking ever so slightly. And if you did not know any better you would let yourself entertain the idea that it nearly sounded playful, had his face not been so woefully lacking joy. 

"Yes," you said just as fast. You had to ignore the weight of your tongue in your mouth. It suddenly felt too thick. Too clumsy. 

He only hummed in response to your answer. The sound was low and inquisitive, thrumming through the air like warm velvet. And though he had not spoken a word back to you, the singular eye that had he pinned you with bore into you with enough focus to drive you to speak. Forcing the words from your still lungs like a grip that did not exist. Wringing your breath from your body with only the weight of his gaze. "I would like . . . " Your voice died out as quickly as it had risen, snagging within your chest like it had been caught on something. It did not help that your nerves were alight. That your heart was beating wildly, like a skittish animal. But it was mostly just irritating. It had made you feel stupid, the way that your body refused to yield to your own commands. Far too caught within the spell of a primal sort of caution and reluctance to relent to something as easy as talking. 

"You would like to. . ?" Prince Aemond articulated the question slowly, letting it hang between the both of you, as though you were a child. Annoyance had spread throughout your flesh like a wildfire, and for one idiotic moment you contemplated snapping at him. But fortunately, your self-preservation still clung strong and forced you to be mindful of your tongue. 

"This may sound odd," you began, swallowing around the spit that had welled up within your mouth. "But I would like to get to know you better, my prince."  

It sounded completely stupid as soon as you heard it from your own ears, and a part of you had longed to wince but you remained surprisingly unflinching. But Aemond it seemed, had been taken by complete surprise. Even though the slip in his composure was quick and subtle, you caught it. The mild slump of his shoulders, the straightening of his posture, the soft pinch between his brows. All of these minute tells that told you so much, though they were gone just as quickly as they had shown. Melted away and replaced by a composure that must have taken him years to perfect. 

But no matter how small his shock had been, the sight of such a naked, human emotion flickering across his face was enough to break the barrage that sealed your voice. The words seemed to flow from you more freely then in a rush of thoughts and feelings; desperate to finally speak your mind and make peace with yourself, and most importantly him. 

"I hold no delusions over this marriage. I know that our union was a strategic one, brought on by the possibility of a looming war, and the foundations of it are clear." Your sight had flickered back up to his own once more, and the hold of his stare once again threatened to leave you breathless. "I realize that we are not truly lovers, however, I do not think that must mean we are to be strangers also. I wish to know you, husband. I do not expect your affections, or love, but I desire at least the possibility of your attentions. An understanding of each other. And perhaps, if it is willed, a sense of companionship. A comradery." 

He remained horrendously silent from his place across from you. Watching you with a keen eye while the hand that still rested along the desks surface fidgeted, the point of his mid-finger ceaselessly gliding along the back of his thumb. It had made you nervous, the way he watched you. Akin to a predator lurking in the shadows, awaiting its moment to strike for its prey's vulnerable throat. You must have stumbled. Foolishly, like the greedy men in all of those ancient folktales. You slipped within the dark and it was then you knew that the dragon was stirring; throat welling up with fire to burn you down for being so presumptuous. 

"So you are here, in the beginnings of the night, interrupting me in the midst of my duties, because you are lonely?" 

That all that you needed to know that you had truly wandered too close. Assumed and hoped too greatly. Blindly walking into the dragonpit to be burned alight like kindling for a fire. And even with irritation gnawing at you and begging that you speak out in your own defense, you had known that you must tread lightly, even while the prince scorned you like you were a naive girl child chasing after some witless fantasy. He wished to humiliate you it seemed, and even while he was entirely successful in his aim, you would not give him the satisfaction of showing it. But you knew that you had to be tactful. An unchecked rise of your emotions would only serve to go against you. 

"Yes, my prince," you had agreed without wavering. And much like your own, his gaze had shifted. The sardonic edge that it had held changed into something darker. More directed than even before. Studious almost. But no matter how much gravity it had held, it was no longer enough to withhold you from speaking. You kept your voice as light as possible, but the firmness, the fervor behind it was more than apparent, drifting out to fill the silence of his quarters. And with each sentence, you let the courage that you had not allowed before to guide you a step closer to the prince. "Yes, I long to know the man that I am to be tied to until death. Yes, I long to know the father of my future children. Yes, I long to know my husband." And with that you allowed yourself to halt after your final step. Then you were so close to his writing desk that if you had leaned over you could have easily reached out and touched him. But you remained fixed in your place, hands still clasped and shoulders high. "Regardless, if my husband will become a lover or simply an ally." 

He remained silent in his observations. Regarding you closely as though he expected you to suddenly give way underneath his stare and dash out of the room. But you did not. Not even when the chill of apprehension trembled along the expanse of your back, sneaking underneath the fabric of your garments like a cold draft. He shifted back in his seat, muscles coiling underneath the dark leathers of his doublet and for a moment you had considered the idea that he might lunge. That he would strike forward like the instincts of his blood no doubt urged him to do. At the very least, you had suspected cold words. A detached response that would order you to return back to your apartments and to leave him undisturbed of your person until he saw fit. 

"Very well then . . . Wife." His head tilted just the slightest when he addressed you, and the glint of his eye reflecting the light of the many candles seemed to bore into you; notching the words he spoke that much deeper and nourishing the surprise of his agreement. "I will make more of an effort to appease your loneliness, should it bring you ease." 

It was because of that decision - because of that night, that your relationship with the prince had been altered. No longer did he suit to sit along your side at social gatherings, tightlipped and rigid, but now he made somewhat of a strive. Much more than before. Though still quiet, he took more attempts to include you in the conversations that he would bother to indulge in. Typically, unremarkable topics that he would try to join you in on, like snide comment on the lords and ladies or an observation of your gowns. Prince Aemond, you easily concluded, had no idea how to speak to the fairer sex. A characteristic that you might have let yourself see as charming if he were not always so subtly contemptuous and withdrawn. Even with all of the improvements with his communications, his presence itself was still scarce. Constantly torn away by the impending threat of calamity and battle. 

And no matter how much you knew that his absence was entirely necessary for the good of the kingdom, especially after the Battle of Rook's Rest and the unexpected injuries that have left the King bedridden and near death, the prince was sparser than ever, with him assuming the role of Prince Regent in his brother's stead. But like a poison, that bitter, selfish part of you could not help but to be displeased by the near constant lack of his company.  

Today however . . . Today you might actually be regretting his attempts at companionship. 

"You still have not told me the nature of our outing, my prince!" You call to him, trudging after him like a shadow with your skirts bundled and clutched within your palms as you desperately attempt to keep up with his much longer stride uphill. The muscles of your calves have already begun to burn and ache with your body already growing weary of the incline, and the weight of your dress does little to aid you in your climb along the earth, still damp from last night's rain. Realistically, there are only a few paces between you and he, but in your mind, it feels as though there are stretches of land separating you. 

He only offers you the barest look, hardly even glancing over his shoulder at you as his long legs continue to carry him upward. "For someone who is so desperate for my time, I did not expect to hear any complaints," he answers, full of snark even though his tone remains just as steady and soft as always. 

Heat prickles at your cheeks. Though now, with your exertion, it is difficult to ascertain if it is simply from your efforts to trek after him or purely from annoyance. A retort rests heavy on your tongue, but you are unsure if you should bother spending your breath on it. It is tempting. But perhaps later. "It is no complaint; I am simply wondering just where it is that you are taking me. If you wished to go for a walk, perhaps the castle grounds would have sufficed . . . or at the very least, a mention of it would have given me time to at least prepare for more a suitable attire." 

He spares you another glance, managing to look down his nose at you from over his shoulder as he continues his ascent until he reaches the leveled crest of the knoll. Leaving you to chase after him while the damp soil, and soaked grass and wildflowers threaten to slip your traction out from underneath your feet with every step. You have never had the urge to strike the prince before, but here and now, you think that you could if he were only close enough. This time he opts to remain silent. Returning his attentions on what lies ahead of him, and it has a flicker of concern breathing to life inside of you. The paranoid, unfounded thought that he means to kill you tries to sprout. It would explain why he had lured you so far away from the safety of the castle walls, and why he had chosen to leave both of your mounts downhill and unattended to graze. How pathetic it would be, to be slain in the middle of the wood, like a dumb girl lured away by a fae in an old folktale. 

And if the treasonous whispers that dart about the castle are true, that he had been the one to strike down the king above the battlefield of Rook's Rest, then surely, he would have no qualms about killing the likes of you. 

Still, while irritation and caution thrums underneath your flesh, you cannot but help to stare at the expanse of his back as you near the top of the hill, taking in the sight of the confidence in his posture as he all but struts along the earth. The sunlight dances along the pale shade of his hair, bringing to life the faint hint of cream and soft gold that hides within the silver. He is gorgeous out here like this. Relaxed within the peace and confines of nature, while the little birds nestled inside the protection of neighboring trees chatter and trill. For a rare moment like this, touched by sunlight and the air, perfumed with the musk of a storm passed and the fragrance of flowers, it is easy to pretend that he is still not a complete stranger. That the impossible gap that seems to divide you both has grown closer, and he does not look to you as an obligation but as a comfort. 

Another fool's reverie perhaps. But a sweet one that you cannot help but entertain while you raise your muddied skirts to strengthen your stride and widen your steps in the hopes to gain on him. But then blessedly his pace finally begins to slow, giving you the means to finally draw in your straining breaths and lessen the expanse between you, making sure to near him from his right, so's not to walk in his blind spot. He tilts his body just the slightest, angling it so that he is able to give you his focus as you draw near, and you have to try your hardest not to gasp and gulp for air in front of him. You need to give him no more reasons to tease and prod at you. 

The glint of his eye, a color that you have now discovered to be a delicate, yet vibrant shade trapped between a soft blue and a muted purple draws you into his stare as you approach. It seems to hold you captive, grabbing your attention as you come to walk alongside him, no longer huffing and panting, and the ache in your legs begins to subside. 

"You have asked to become familiar with me," he speaks suddenly. Not a question at all, but a statement, and the mention of it has your brows raising just the slightest as you manage a nod. "All I ask of you is that you do not scream or allow yourself to panic." 

The sound of those words alone has ice prickling along your skin and settling within the pit of your chest. And the sensation of your apprehension melding with your bewilderment does little to aid you in properly asking him what he could have possibly meant by such a cryptic statement. The inquiry hangs heavy in your mouth like metal, and your jaw seems to open on its own in the means to ask him to clarify. But then, as though it had been timed, a guttural bellow rings out across the placid atmosphere. Humming so heavily that you feel the weight of it vibrate underneath your feet as though the earth were speaking, shaking a small flock of tiny birds from their perches within forest, forcing them to scatter and flee into the clear sky above. 

The abrupt noise of it has you all but tearing your vision from Prince Aemond's unbothered, observational expression to whatever lies ahead of you. And your eyes nearly bulge from their sockets at the sight of the behemoth that lies only several yards away. How you had managed to miss the sight of such a monumental creature is entirely beyond you. The only excuse you could possibly make is that the beast has flattened itself along the floor of the clearing, leathery wings lazily stretched open, head resting in the miniscule cover of the knee-high wildflowers and grasses that scatter along the hilltop in what might be some sort of attempt of basking itself underneath the suns glow. 

It is a beast that you easily recognize despite never truly having been within its presence. The sheer mass of the creature, and the rich green shade of its skin easily gives it away as the great Vhagar. You have heard of her name from countless stories. Those passed on down from generation to generation to speak of the ferocity and brutality of the battle hardened she-dragon, of how the size of her alone could blot out the sun from her flight. You have even caught glimpses of her in the air before. Often from within the confines of the castle while she soars high above and far from reach. None of those rare moments or stories had done any justice in depicting the true scale of her. 

And while you stand, gawking like a slack jawed idiot at the sight of her, you can only manage but to wonder the dumb, fleeting thought of how the Crown could ever possibly manage to supply enough sheep for her appetite. And then any semblance of awe or shock is twisted into a pure sense of dread and a primal fear. Your mind blanks as you try to form some sort of reason for you being here. Why Prince Aemond could possibly desire for you to meet his dragon, but you are left with naught. Something primordial and blazing sears throughout your veins with urge to run, but you find yourself frozen stock still instead while your lungs struggle to move and catch breath. You feel as though you have passed away on the spot and left your body behind to, trapped within this singular moment. 

It is not until the dragon begins to lift its head up inquisitively that you manage to regain any control of yourself at all. The sight of her lids peeling open to reveal blazing amber eyes are enough to force your lost voice back into the base of your throat. 

"Wha - why have you brought me here, Aemond?"  

The look he gives you is entirely unsympathetic. If anything, it seems to be amused. The corners of his lips threaten to perk in the shadow of an arrogant smile. If your heart did not feel as though it were seconds away from overexerting itself and giving out entirely, you are sure that this time, you would have struck him. You would love to hear the impact of your hand meeting the shape of his cheek and snuffing out the pompous way that he is holding himself, but he steps away from you before you can even think to act, fearlessly striding in the direction of the colossal dragon. 

"You long to know a dragonrider, lady wife," he answers with the cool timbre of his voice trailing after him and to you. "Flight with one with be the best way to make that connection." 

You are certain that your heart has well and truly stopped with that statement. That it turned still and unrooted itself from the cavern in your chest to plummet down below into your gut. And for a moment you wish that you have misheard him. Despite your internal panic, your brain manages to scramble and put the meaning of his words together quite quickly. The urge to refuse or ask him to clarify illudes you. You are far too bewildered. Too trapped within the seize of your own chaotic emotions to properly articulate yourself and your reservations. There's an anger stirring in you as well. Brewing and twisting with everything else, spurred on from the haughty glance he had given you before making his approach towards the beast he is bonded with. 

You try and fail to connect his reasoning. The logic entirely beyond you, but when you look upon his face it becomes quite clear. No matter how brief your eye contact had been, you saw the dare that had been dancing in his eye quite clearly. He was challenging you. He is expecting you to turn on your heel and run from the trial that he has set before you. And that has lit a sense of competition in yourself unlike any that you have ever felt before. 

He is no longer paying you any attention to see you coming to a sudden grip in resolve. Instead, he has drawn his observations to his dragon, who has lifted her head just enough in a proper greeting to accept the way that he runs a hand along the slop of her enormous muzzle, just above those massive, gnarled fangs that poke like her lips like daggers. The span of his fingers seems so small posted along the swell of her snout, like little more than a speck. And yet he stands before her so confidently. Free from the faintest edge of discomfort or fear. Instead, you hear him murmuring soft words to her. Speaking quietly as though she were a babe in need of praise or encouragement and not a battle worn goliath that has lain waste to armies and dragons alike.

The sound of his ancestor's tongue is beautiful as always. In your short time together, you have heard little of the language from the prince, but when you do manage to catch the glimmers of it from him you make sure to listen keenly. It flows past his lips like a rich silk; all but rumbling and sweeping around words that you do not know but find captivating regardless. It makes you wish that you did understand them. 

It is astonishing that no matter how small the prince appears now in comparison to her vast scale, he still holds himself so proudly. His shoulders are set straight, and head tilted high: the posture of royalty. All while he composes himself alongside a monster that could easily open her drooping maw and swallow him whole. 

But of course, she does not. A low grumble trembles forth from the wide set of her chest, reverberating throughout the air in a sound that could nearly be likened to the purr of a contented feline. It is shocking to see the famed - the feared Vhagar in such a light. And to similarly see the prince in such a manner as well. Both of them are calm. Peaceful on this tranquil, balmy evening. Untouched by their shared excitement for battle and bloodshed. 

It's akin to watching a pair of ruthless gods' slumber. 

And it seems to be that, more so than the sense of rivalry that has been kindled, that inspires you to move forward. No matter how uncertain you truly feel. Despite your reservations the odd sweetness of the situation still has you drawing close. All while a frigid kind of fear pools in your stomach. So, you try to focus on the little bits of life around you. The cheerful singing being carried by the birds of the forest, the soothing whisper of the air shifting the leaves, the saccharine scent of the colorful flowers that sway in the grass. It is all so soothing, so delicate. But still, it does little to appease the anxiety coursing throughout you as you grow closer to the beast. 

With each step forward, she seems to rise bigger; the growing proximity between you both only making her true mass even more apparent, as you are confronted with the mind-boggling truth of her scale. There is no safety of the castle walls to save you, the collection of the trees that surround you in a half circle would not serve to shield you should Vhagar decide that your presence is an irritant. Her potent fire would consume the forest and you with it with a single breath. Here and now, you know that you rely entirely on the word of Prince Aemond to keep her violent urges at bay. 

And that both comforts and terrifies you. 

You make your lungs draw in a shaky breath that does little to calm you as you step closer to the she-dragon. But you are certain that there is not a single thing on this earth that could truly bring you serenity as you bear witness to her. Never in your life have you ever stood before a being that has ever made you feel so miniscule. Not even the sight of the stars in the cradle of the night sky, in all of their multitudes and vastness as come close to the trepidation or awe that she has roused in you. You are small. Insignificant in terms of her looming stature. Pitiful in the decades that she has lived and the feats that she has achieved. You know now why the dragons are said to be old gods. You can hardly process that you are now right in front of one. Watching the rise and fall of her ribs as she pulls in massive breaths. The subtle shake of her wilting neck that shifts as she angles her head in your direction to study you with eyes that almost seem to burn with the fire contained within her. 

Her nostrils twitch as you come to stop alongside Prince Aemond; near enough that your shoulders nearly brush, but a part of you craves the dim amount of comfort that he provides. She is trying to smell you no doubt. Trying to take in your scent as means to familiarize herself with the stranger who travels with her rider. 

"You may touch her," Aemond offers. Or orders perhaps. 

It catches you completely off guard, like most things this evening. Regardless of the gentleness of his tone, it is difficult to tell if it is a suggestion or a command. Having what little knowledge you have of the prince in mind it was most likely the latter. Or it is another challenge of his. 

The sharp blue of his eye pierces through you once again like he is waiting for you to cower. But now, the prince's concerns and expectations are second at best when it comes to the interest of Vhagar. The brief flicker of your gaze on her confirms that she is still quite placid in mood. Her eyelids low with the remnants of the slumber that she had been goaded from. But that still does little to calm you. Dragons are unpredictable creatures. Gaining a trust of her this easily would be ignorance. 

"Does she wish me to?" You ask, and you see that twinge of what might be amusement grace Prince Aemond's features once again. 

"She will hardly pay you any mind." That is his assurance. A useless one. Your unease is strong. But your desire to please your husband, to beat this little challenge that he has set for you, and to form some sort of relationship with the prince - no matter how fragile - is stronger. With all the courage you can muster you begin to lift your hand. Slowly and steady in your movements as not to cause the beast any annoyance. You would not want to suggest to her that you feel entitled to touch her. Dragons can be opinionated things after all. 

A low noise rolls from her throat at the sight of your hand raised just above her muzzle, just where Aemond had lain his own earlier. It gives you pause. Old, primeval instincts rising inside of you bid you motionless. To wait and see what her move will be next. If she will calm or open her armored jaws to snap you between them. 

"Lykirī." 

It is Aemond's voice that speaks out. Low yet firm in its inflection as his tongue purrs out the elegant High Valyrian word in a silky drawl. You know not what he said, but it was enough to appease whatever offence you might have committed. She blinks slowly in response and the growl dies down into a soft silence. Still, you now find it difficult to lower your hand. Sensing your hesitance, or perhaps weary of it, Prince Aemond's own is suddenly engulfing the back of it, nearly threading his fingers with yours as he guides your palm downward. The weight of his flesh along yours comes as surprise. You have felt your husband's hands on you before. In much more intimate places, but it is the care with which he directs you with that almost seems foreign. New and delicate.

Currently he wears his gloves, usually seen on his hands whenever he intends to take flight, and you hate how a piece of you longs to feel them bare. To touch the callouses along his palm, made from wielding the grip of swords in combat and clasping the horns of Vhagar's saddle. It is a juxtaposition to the much softer skin of your own. But you do not find the texture of them offensive in the slightest. You could almost relish the sensation of it had they not been covered by soft hide instead. 

He leans his body much closer to yours. So much closer that the light brush of his breath glides over the side of your face and the length of your throat. The scent of him wafts from his body in the musk of leather, the spice of dragon smoke and the crisp fragrance of wind. It makes you wonder if he had flown long before he had come to the castle to retrieve you. It is all so distracting. The press of him along your arm, the mesmeric sound of his voice whispering soothing words in his ancestor's language. 

But reality comes back to you quickly in the weight of the dragon's flesh settling flat underneath your palm; rough and thick. You have heard before that dragons run hot. Heated up by the fire roaring within their chests. Those words have not prepared you for the warmth that radiates from her and the strength of it. Of the coarseness of her flesh. How sturdy it is. Much like the leathers used in creating amour. Though you suppose that the purpose of her skin is the same. 

Her massive nostrils flicker again and her eyes squint as she watches you. Studies you really. As though she is weighing and measuring you of your worth. Which is not a farfetched idea. It is the dragon, after all, who chooses its rider. She must be deciding if you are worthy of standing in her presence. 

The elation that floods you at the feeling of her beneath your hand comes like the scattering of butterflies. A smile threatens to break across your face at the small success. A rush of joy from still being alive after touching one of the most violent war dragons the earth has ever seen. 

"Are you prepared to ride?" 

Aemond's question rips you from your elation like a sudden storm smudging out the bright warmth of the sunlight. The smile that could have been dies out with the happiness that had filled you. It is water doused over embers. And with it the urge to snap at him is back in full force. No, you wished to answer, you are not prepared to ride, because you were not told that you would be expected to until only moments before. But you keep that complaint to yourself. Locked within tightly as not to offend the prince and the dragon whose massive mouth rests directly underneath your open palm. Still, many questions gush up and stir a torrent up within your mind. 

"How am I expected to do such a thing, my prince?" 

The look that crosses his face appears tired. It makes you wonder if you have somehow asked something foolish, but you come up empty on what that could have possibly been. It is a perfectly expected question. A dragon will only choose a single rider at a time. And only those who are blessed with Valyrian blood could have the potential honor of sharing such a bond. An ancient line that you have no direct lineage to. But the stare that the prince is holding you with now is one of exasperation, yet also sardonic. 

"You will sit on the saddle; I thought that much was apparent." His lips have pursed slightly, making his expression a blend of smug and annoyed. He is toying with you once again. It also makes his boundaries quite apparent. There is to be no possibility of a bond between the two of you unless you push when he shoves. If you let your offence get the better of you now while he clearly raises his challenge, then your relationship with him will be reduced to nothing more than his child bearer. A vessel for his future heirs. You shall not yield. Not even while your heart races like that of a rabbit who has been tricked into a corner by the snarling fangs of a hunter. 

You are soft but firm when you remove your hand from its place tucked between Vhagar's flesh and Aemond's palm. Your determination rests easily on your face as you turn to observe the netting of ropes that are draped down the side of her great neck as a means to climb astride her. Never has something seemed so daunting before. Not the day that you were bid to leave the familiarity of your life in Storm's End, nor the moment that you had given yourself over to Prince Aemond in matrimony. They all seem so little now as you allow your hand to grip one of the lines of worn rope. 

"Lykirī, Vhagar." 

A nervous sweat dampens your fingers as you squeeze your grip along the course lines, the frayed edges digging into your soft flesh. The sound of your husband placating the beast rings in your ears like a warning though she has not stirred from her position against the forest floor, even while another rumbling hum echos from her chest. It trembles throughout your arm from being so close to her, rattling up your bones. For a moment you contemplate removing yourself from the makeshift ladder, but the firm, urging glare that Aemond shoots you from his place beside you and the embers of your determination spur you to continue forward. 

"I will be behind you," you hear him promise as you haphazardly lift your skirts to enable yourself to place a foot upon one of the rungs. It is now you who hardly offers him a returned glance as you focus on raising yourself along the ropes. You expect for Vhagar to disturb upon the weight of you heaving yourself along her neck, but she does not. She remains blessedly stationary as you urge your body to move upward to scale the high length of her neck, for your mind to remain quiet and centered through your internal panic. The way that the ladder wobbles unsteadily as you work to lift yourself does little to quell the way that your stomach flips with the growing effects of nausea. 

You could swear that many moons have passed by the time that you have made it to the top of the ladder, where the ropes meet the smooth leather that creates the structure of the massive saddle. The seat of it is far greater than any other you have ever seen; those having been suited for horses and not the great backs of dragons. But even considering the long forward slop of what must be the equivalent of the rise and pommel and how the cantle stretches slightly backward to support the rider's spine during an upward flight, it is more than apparent that the seat is designed for only a single person. Every bit of grace room is only available for the positioning that must be required in flight. The design of it allowing for the rider to lean forward comfortably in the seat or relax backward, if necessary, but offering little more than that. 

If you were both truly meant to ride together it would be an awkward fit. Surely not one safe for something as perilous as flying. 

The urge to question this little goal of his rises up high. But instead of voicing your concerns you opt to follow through with his desires. If the two of you do truly not prove to fit on the seat and it turns into an ill sighted blunder on his part, then at least you will be able to silently bask in the pleasure of seeing his arrogance dim at the realization of it. 

You reach for some of the leather straps that lie between the junction of the rope ladder and the saddle, using your grip to hoist yourself upward again, slipping a foot into one of the rungs to push yourself within the range of saddle's lowest set of horns. Your fingers can only reach the base of the grip from your current height, but it is enough to enable you to hoist yourself towards the cradle of the saddle, though your muscles burn with the labor. Some torturous thought wonders what would happen should you slip and fall from such a height, and you struggle to block it out entirely as you continue your clumsy ascent. Using the hold that the flat of your feet have within the straps to keep yourself secure as you work on exchanging your hold from the lowest grip and onto one the horns belonging to the higher set to haul your body upward, swinging your right leg out to lurch across the seat. 

It strains your arms as you angle yourself, and the length of your skirts threaten to snag on the curve of your knee when your all but throw your body onto the saddle. But by the grace of the gods, you make it. Your chest slightly heaves from your lost breath, and your muddied skirts have pulled and rucked up above your knees in the most unbecoming manner from the stretch of your thighs around the width of the seat. But you hardly have the ability to pay it any mind while your nerves still cause your limbs to quiver, and your body burns with an excess of energy. 

While you collect your breath, clasping onto the horns of the saddle with both hands tightly enough for the edges of the leather bound around them to bite your palms, the sound of the wind's current whispering in your ear tugs you from your anxieties. 

It is then that you finally realize just where you sit. Comfortably astride the largest dragon, looking down on the world from the ridge of her back. You could see above the trees from this point, the stretches of the wood that gave and showed the lush rolling hills that expanded far beyond your sight. It was all so small and yet so vast this high up, once again making you realize the scope of your existence. You can spy glimpses of King's Landing up in the distance. The glimmer of the rooftops and the spires of the Red Keep, almost lightened in a shade of bronze from the cast of the evenings golden light. The sea beyond it glittering in a reflection of the sun, like a flat mound of shifting coins. 

The sudden weight of a hand clasping the grip along the free space just above your own snaps you from your awe. You hardly have time register it as the prince effortlessly swings himself into the saddle, notching a place for himself between your hips and the support of the cantle. His presence forces you to scoot further up along the swell of seat, much higher up than you are meant to be, but the press of his body flat against your own gives you little choice. The angle of it practically has your rump perched against his hips. And when his other arm reaches around your other side to grip the opposite horn of the saddle, you find that you have been completely enclosed in his body. His chest is pinned snug along your back, and you can feel the point of his chin nudge along your shoulder as he looks past you. 

There is something horribly intimate about it all. Something that you did not even think to consider when you agreed to this. But now that you can fully feel the warmth of him seeping through the layers of your garments to slip through your skin, you could not find any other word to call it. If your mind was not already so preoccupied with your anxieties, it would have easily latched onto the fact that your skirts are still indecently rucked around your thighs, improperly showing off the fabric of your stockings. It could have made you fidget or heat up with embarrassment had you the mind to, but you are far too preoccupied with what is to come. With the weight of your husband so near you. So high up here, with the wind stronger than it had been down along the ground, his scent seems to pool around you. It fills your lungs with musk and spice, and your body longs to draw it in like a glutton, but you do not allow yourself to. You manage yourself to maintain the steady inhales that you have been taking thus far. 

"Remain calm," he reminds you. 

As if on cue Vhagar begins to shift. Her giant head lifts from the meadows floor with a low grunt, as though the action alone costs her a great deal of energy, causing the weathered, battle worn flesh along her neck to wobble loosely along her throat. A bout of nervousness prickles in your gut as the motion jostles you forward. On reflex, your grip rightens around the horns, latching onto the pitiful bit of comfort they prove. Anxiety spreads along your fingertips and toes as she digs the wrists of her great wings into the earth to push herself onto her feet. A simple action, but for you it invokes nothing but unease. Her movements continue to nudge you about, all but prodding you backward to the press of Aemond's chest, and now you are actually thankful for how he is seated behind you. Offering a sense of support that you might have fainted without. 

You can feel the subtle shift of her muscles even through the saddle, and it wobbles just the slightest from the quiver caused by her old flesh. It has your unease spiking. And you think that you yourself could fly, fueled by nothing but your own apprehensions. 

There is a noticeable shift in how she holds herself once she balances on her legs. And incline in her spine lifts as she raises her head high, removing her weight from her wings to unfurl them. You can hear the leathery sound of the thin skin unraveling, spreading out wide enough like sails of a colossal ship preparing to leave port. 

You know what is coming, but you naught of how to weather it. All you can do is stare ahead, looking past the expanse of her neck and to the sky above that you will soon be soaring through. He must be able to sense your anxiety. Or perhaps he felt the tension of it in your back, in the rigid set of your shoulders, because he manages to press himself even closer against you. Like he means to cradle you to him. He releases a single hand from its grip long enough to place it along your waist to steady you. Your mind instantly latches onto the sudden pressure and warmth of it. Your body longing to lean into the weight of his palm but you keep yourself motionless as he leans himself close until you feel the brush of his words along your neck when he speaks. 

"Be still, wife." His voice rumbles out all placid and velvet. The sound of it so close to your ear that it has a tremble skipping down your spine. You can only hope that the thick of your combined attire hid it from him, but his hand flexes against your waist; fingertips pressing inward, and you know that he noticed it. But he fortunately makes no open marks of it. "With me as your guide you will be safe. When she begins her ascent, lean forward into it. It will help to keep you balanced." 

And as quickly as it had appeared, his hand is gone from its position on your waist to return its grip on the horn. You crave to have it back on you again. To have the support of it on you once more, even with the phantom sensations of it still live on your skin, though you do not bother to dwell on your foolish desires. You can only focus on the instructions that he had set. The direction of it serving to ground you, even as the saddle underneath shifts just the slightest as her wings expand. Now entirely unfurled. 

The anticipation of it weighed heavy. Murmuring across the air like something electrical as though you were in the midst of a storm and lightning looms ahead. But apart from a few scattered clouds, it was all but clear skies. Vhagar was prepared to soar. Her muscles were coiled, stretched and tense, and were it not for your being astride, you are certain that Aemond would have commanded her to take off much sooner. If that truly is the case, you are thankful. 

His ribs swell slightly along your back, and the command slices through the air, simultaneously exacting and clement: 

"Sōvēs!" 

Wind claps underneath the great stretch of her wings as she lifts them only to bring them down in a powerful downstroke. It snaps her from the ground in a quick lunge, and the sudden rush of being airborne causes your stomach to turn. You scramble to come to terms with the abrupt weightlessness of your body. It is like all of the breath has been snatched from the depths of your chest as Vhagar brandishes her wings in great, long stokes that sound akin to tremendous waves crashing against the surf; sharp and frightening like a whip slicing towards its target. 

A horrid thought enters your mind, whispering vile things, such as what would happen should you fall off. How you surely would not survive a plummet from such a height. It has your hands tightening around the grips of the saddle. Squeezing so harshly that your tender palms sting. But you almost welcome the burn of it. It is a good distraction from the nausea, from the disorientation that comes from rushing far from the earth so quickly. Now she truly begins her climb upward, and you just barely remind yourself of Aemond's previous command; tipping yourself forward to press yourself along the swell of the saddle as she rises. 

Much as he promised, the change in your posture does help to keep your seat firm as she works to bat her wings to scale her flight. Aemond dips down low after you, resting himself over your body to follow his own instructions. Even while Vhagar approaches her ascent at a slant, the incline is still enough to put strain on your arms as your own weight attempts to pull your backward. You can already feel the strain of it in your limbs, searing along your muscles and setting an ache deep near your bones. 

Never had you ever truly put in mind the physical prowess and endurance a dragonrider must have to properly seat their mount until now. It almost makes you feel idiotic that you would not have truly expected the demands that such a thing would imply. Already the wind claws at your face, slicing at your cheeks like it means to maim you, stinging at your eyes enough to prompt tears to pour. It is difficult to draw in a proper breath as the air passes too quickly for your lungs to properly catch, making you fear that you might suffocate. It feels as though your chest could combust. From the debilitated ability to properly breathe or from the confused sense of excitement, you are not entirely sure. 

Your being has been split down the middle. Caught in a strange limbo of an icy terror and a bubbling kind of joy as she continues her ascension, carrying you both high until the forests below become less defined and meld into blotches of rich greens. You cannot tell if the laugh the begs to erupt from you is one of elation or hysterics, but it froths inside of you with a warmth that rivals the heat that radiates from the brilliant sun above. Your lips part in the semblance of a breathless laugh as your eyes dart to take in your surroundings. The earth is so distant now. Reduced to a flat stretch of emerald and hunter, and the gentle rolling slops of hills and valleys that, in some points giveaway to farmlands. You can spot organized rows of green that must be rich vineyards, and there are many quaint little houses and homely settlements that sparsely dot about the scape. 

Being so high up within the heavens makes the rest of the world seem so small. Reduced down to dots and shadows and shades of color. It reminds you vaguely, of the ancient war table that sits within the council chambers of Storm's End; the stubborn, enduring anatomy of Westeros etched into the face of it, mapping out all of its splendor in its factions and landmarks. 

Out of your peripherals you notice Vhagar's wings tilt, moving to level her body out of its angled position, settling so that she is able to coast on the winds. It near instantly releases the strain on your arms, allowing the sting to ebb from your clenched muscles as you will yourself to try and relax, and the harsh cusp at which the biting wind had struck you with finally loses its violent edge. Still quite strong but no longer clawing along the shape of your cheeks and your unprotected eyes like it means to rip at them. 

It is Aemond who straightens himself first, removing his weight from your back to properly sit astride, completely comfortable in his place along his dragon and untouched by a semblance of worry. Even though you cannot see him from his place behind you, you are still able to sense the composure that he holds himself with. He is entirely within his element. At home here on dragonback. The arm that had grasped the grip on the left of you releases, moving past the line of your vision to where he probably allows it to casually hang at his side, now supporting his clasp on the saddle with only a single, sturdy hold. 

It takes you much longer to will yourself back into an upright position; finding solace in the weight of the saddle pressed to your stomach. But is a crutch that you do not wish to exhaust, and so you right yourself until you can once again feel the expanse of Aemond's chest, snug against your own in an unintentional semblance of an embrace. That stubborn little part of you loathes how the other half preens at the sensation of it. Yearning to bask in affections that are not truly there like some lovestruck girl child that elects to ignore the obvious indifferences displayed by the object of her infatuation. It irritates you to no end. Filling you with a conflict that you do not wish to bear but are unable to ignore. Aemond does not love you, that much is clear. The nature of your union, the quiet apathy that he has shown you thus far have been unobtrusive but very telling in this. Even now, as he makes an effort to test the nature of your will and your desire to truly get to know him, hauling you upon the back of his dragon, it seems to hold closer bearings to that of a trial than a well-meaning rendezvous. 

The look that he had given you when he asked if you were primed to take flight was playful, almost in a malicious manner. Like he was expecting and counting on you to decline and flee. It makes you ponder if you have actually managed to surprise the prince by accepting his proposal and clambering astride the beast's saddle. If your decision to stay and meet his little challenge head on has pleased him at all. 

"Geptot, Vhagar!" Aemond commands, shouting to be heard over the roaring winds. Obediently, the great dragon adjusts the massive span of her wings, muscles rippling to rearrange herself on the support of the currents to redirect her glide in the direction of King's Landing and the vast glittering waters of Blackwater Bay that extends beyond. It is still such a shock to see such a tremendous creature acquiesce its will to the instruction of a man. A man that may sustain the blood of the gods, but still a man, nonetheless. 

She could consume the both of you a single snap of her jagged mouth. Your bodies would be a pitiful bite for her jaws. And yet she allows you to take up space along her back. To become a vessel to suspend you along the heavens to soar between the sparse clouds that hang within the azure cradle of the heavens like tufts of a lamb's fleece. Vhagar is a violent beast you know. You have heard the stories of her wars and blood-soaked accolades, the battlefields that she has left soot covered and smoking, littered with the remains of soldiers. She is a violent creature to be sure. Honed and defined by violence, and yet it is here, carted among the tepid winds, that you decide that she is a glorious behemoth. One whose years have been stained with the life's blood of millions, but it does little to tarnish the position she has taken in your eyes. Not necessarily one held by affections, but mostly a sense of respect and awe. 

You are not diluted enough to think that Vhagar holds any sort of esteem for you. Had you not been accompanied by her rider; you would have been lit aflame from so much as approaching her, but that simple truth does little to dissuade you from attempting to show her your appreciations though uncertainty and apprehension still takes root in your gut. Your hand has a slight tremor when you manage to peel your fingers from their tight grip around the horn. A symptom of the energy and searing heat that pumps through your veins at your body's instinctual fears rather than a conscious bewilderment, but you do not let it stop you from leaning forward as much as your reservations will allow to place a soft, unsure pat along her back. Though the size of the saddle is so great that you still only manage to stroke its leathers rather than the rough expanse of her flesh.

You know that there is no possibility that she managed to feel your touch through the thick of the preserved hide of the saddle. And even if the buffer had not been there, your hand probably would have felt like little more than the landing of a fly; bothersome and barely perceivable. But it still does work for you somewhat, to help in seeing her more as more than simply a vengeful, aggressive beast. 

It shocks you, when you allow yourself to gaze downward towards the horizon to see how quickly you are approaching the edge of the city. It has you daring to tilt your head downward to see past her wings to gaze upon the sprawling cluster of the buildings and structures that create the capital; the clay tiles of the many roofs burning in shades like honey and ginger. The rich hues only amplified by the golden tint of the evening sun. Smoke pours from the some of the stacks, puffing from the hearths, the people down below working to prepare tonight's dinners. The streets thread throughout the ancient settlement like tan lines of thread, intertwining and connecting to unify the entirety of the city, bustling with people who, from your high vantage point, look hardly more than little moving dots; completely unbothered by Vhagar's flight above. 

It's breathtaking. Literally, of course, with the winds that continuously rush against you, but also in the sense of how stunning the view of it is. Had you, in some other life, been blessed with the honor of a dragon, you fear that you would never come back down to earth. As the fear in your stomach begins to thaw and ebb, giving way to nothing but a bright awe, you realize that you could spend an eternity within the sky at peace. This may be freedom incarnate. Untied from the earthly responsibilities and troubles that ail you down below. Here, it is simply the wind beneath Vhagar's vast wings. The same winds that tug at your hair as though it means to unravel it from its dressings. A laugh, a true laugh bubbles up from your chest, rising with the brilliant, beaming warmth of joy, and the smile that tugs at your lips this time is irresistible. 

You doubt that the purpose of Prince Aemond spiriting you away on this outing had any intentions of truly extending an olive branch. Not one in the expectations of actually solidifying a bond between the both of you at least. This was meant to be a game of sorts; you are still entirely convinced. But even with that in mind, you are unable to feel anything other than gratitude. For so long you have been confined to the unfamiliar walls of the Red Keep. Forcing smiles upon your face to maintain the proper ladylike appearances for your social standing. Exchanging forged laughs with the men and women of the court, batting your eyes like a dazed fool as you suffocate within the entrapments of your own longings for home. Strangely, it is here, where the harsh breezes threaten to stifle to the flow of air into your lungs that you feel at your lightest since you have been at the Red Keep. He knows naught of what he has given you, and even if he did, you surmise that he probably would not care regardless. 

Despite the possibility of Prince Aemond's reasonings, it does not stop you from turning your head, rotating your shoulders as best as you can to enable the motion as you make to look at him. It knocks you somewhat off-guard to see that he is already watching you. You had also not anticipated the proximity between your faces, with hardly more than a hair's breadth left between your noses which are so close they could touch. If you only twitch forward the press of your mouth could easily brush along the plush of his lips. The urge of it comes with the realization that the prince has never kissed you. Not even whilst you both fulfil the duties of your marriage in the midst of the night. It has all been disconnected. Done with the same automated detachment that one does with their chores. It should serve as a cold dousing of reality. It should make the rise of your emotions die down into a tame hush, but it does not. 

Your chest heaves involuntarily at the weight of his stare - of how near he is. Your thoughts are tempted to unravel. To get the better of you and indulge in the smoky, lewd corners of your mind that you have not allowed yourself to entertain, like a sinner giving into their temptations. 

The intensity that always seems to lurk within his attention is ignited ten-fold by the way that the sunlight glimmers within his eye, twinging the flecks of soft violets and rich blues with glints of golden light; it bathes his face in the same hue, making it seem as though the pale complexion of his skin has been kissed and painted by the sun itself; set alight by the dragon's blood that surges through his veins like liquid fire. The tresses of his hair billowing in streaks of a pallid silver that rivals the moons glow. 

He is beautiful. You are forced to mark it once again. How captivating the prince is. Disarmingly so, much like the stare that he continues to pin you in place with. The weight of it seems to reach into you, brushing along the boundaries of your spirit and binding it with its grasp. You are unable to discern the reasonings of his intensity, of what his thoughts might be. If they lean in your favor, or if you somehow may have unwittingly foundered into his bad graces. Just how you may have possibly stumbled is beyond you, but his tempers and his motives continue to be elusive. Still, the desire to speak honestly still hangs heavy. If anything, his attention only amplifies the need. 

"Thank you." It leaves your lips delicately. Or as softly as one can project while soaring through the skies without their voice being lost to the wind, and you can only hope that he was still able to detect the depths of your sincerity and appreciation. But you are certain that he hears you. You see the recognition of it flicker in his eye. Something else passes through it as well. It is an emotion that is beyond your scope of understanding. One that you have yet to witness upon the typically neutral or sardonic expressions he tends to display.  

His eye flickers downward. As though it is tracing the shape of your lips, attracted by the sound of your voice when you had spoken your gratitude. For a moment, you think that you must have imagined it. But the steady focus of his gaze is unignorable. He is truly trailing the contours of your mouth with his stare like he means to study them. Transfixed with a similar brand of concentration that he displays when he pours himself over his duties. But there is a fervor behind it that you have yet to personally witness; smoldering in his stare so strongly that it nearly pulls you into a trance. A molten heat flows down your spine, settling inside the pit of your gut with a warmth that startles you. The magnitude of the sensation is a shock, pulling a ragged gasp from your chest and like a puppet follows after the tug of its strings, your head snaps back to face the horizon to break whatever strange influence fallen over you both.

Your vision blindly locks on what lies ahead, desperately searching for something to distract yourself from the hazed chaos that clouds your mind. Though it is hard to focus with the near fevered way your skin has begun to warm, your chest rising and falling rapidly underneath the hold of your garments. The eye contact that you had shared was broken, but the effects of it still linger on you. It envelops you tightly, tingling over your skin, whispering along your flesh like fingertips. It has bout of nervousness fluttering inside of you like a cluster of frenzied butterflies, and it melts when it meets the foreign rush of heat that muddles you, twisting into something excited and burning. 

It has you adrift in a torrent. Completely at the mercy of your own emotions and desires - the severity of which, you had been utterly ignorant to. You scan the rippling face of the waters below, and the sight of it has your mind sluggishly realizing that Vhagar has flown you all past the boundaries of the city and the edges of the land to coast above the glittering, shifting face of Blackwater Bay. It is a sight that would have encapsulated the entirety of your observation before. You would have delighted in the way that the cerulean waters underneath the dragon's wings reflect the suns light like diamonds laid out along a rich silk, but it has become increasingly difficult to do so as you have become increasingly hyperaware of the prince. The press of him at your back, the enticing warmth of him latching onto your skin and spreading so potently that you think it may have sunk bone deep. 

Still, you hardly have the ability to prepare yourself for the sensation of Prince Aemond melding himself closely against you until the faintest stretch of space between you has been completely eliminated. His hips nudge tightly along yours, all but nestling your rear even deeper into the cradle of them in a manner that is entirely crude.

A confused question rests heavily in your mouth, but it is all but snuffed out when he tucks his head against your own, hooking his chin over your left shoulder as the hand that he had previously dropped from the horn of his saddle once again raises to take its position back above your own, as though it had never left. It makes your heart beat wildly like the wings of a startled bird, and the enlivened rhythm only quickens when his scent envelopes you with his proximity. It swaddles you in that mouthwatering combination of leather and smoke. The earthy musk and robust spice seem to find a home in your lungs. 

"Gaomas bisa drējī kostilus ao, ābrazȳrys?" 

The sudden velveteen sound of his voice over the whistle of the wind inspires your body to still. As though drawn under a trance every facet of your being seems to become inert. Quiet in its endeavor to listen to the words that spilled from him. You assume that he must be speaking to Vhagar. Entrusting another command onto her in his ancestors' tongue, but the beast makes no movements to suggest that she has heard him. The tone in which he spoke with was low, but purposeful. As though he were sharing a secret, conversational in its cadence. 

You are almost reluctant to draw the conclusion that he may be talking to you instead. For some reason, the idea of such a thing seems so ludicrous, despite having spoken to him before. In brief moments when your paths cross within the castle or when society demands it for appearances. He had exchanged words with you on the ground previously, just before Vhagar had taken flight, yet it all feels so impossible. Strange from the odd rapport that seeps into the atmosphere around you. The gusts that rush past you in dashing currents are unable to destroy the inviting aura that has dropped around you both. Yet is all still so jarring. Abrupt in a way that is strange and new. And the aspect that he is using High Valyrian has left you especially lost. Hanging onto words that you could not comprehend as though they were the answer to a salvation that you did not know you needed.  

"Naejot sagon kesīr lēda nyke?" His head tips much lower now. So dangerously close that his lips sweep along the edge of your ear when he murmurs to you. 

"I do not understand." You confess, daring to slant your face towards his. Such a minute movement but it has the point of his nose nudging at your temple, drawing him all that much closer. He hums in the back of his throat. A quiet sound as though he is considering your utterance. It is humiliating how it makes your entire being thrum with something that is suspiciously close to delight. 

"Pāsan ziry gaomas." 

Your brows pinch close in a confused furrow as he continues to use his second tongue. It is almost as though he is teasing you. Like he is prodding at a weakness that you did not realize you had; an animal nipping and digging at a wound to watch its prey jerk in its grasp. He is teasing you. The small clues there all connect and tie together a little too finely when the understanding creeps in on you. 

He knows, your consciousness decides quickly. He must have figured out the infatuation you have with his voice. The allure that it has on you when he especially uses it to articulate the rhythm of that old language. Perhaps he had seen it on your face. In your eyes, the way that your breath snags in your throat or how your muscles seen to tense with anticipation at the sound of it. It could make you embarrassed that you have been so obvious in your attraction to it. So much so that he means to taunt you for it so openly. But here and now, with his form so hot along your own and the desire that burns so steadily in your gut, you are unable to find it within yourself to be irritated or sheepish over the fact. 

"Ēza nyke pendagon " - the curve of his lip glides along your ear, and you swear that you can feel the damp warmth of his tongue trace the sensitive skin - "hen mirre se tolie ways nyke could kostilus ao." 

The shiver that skips itself down your spine is completely involuntary. You can only hope that he will assume it to be caused by the chill of the winds, but you know truly that he would be a complete simpleton to think so, and Prince Aemond is anything but. You are sure, without seeing, that his mouth has lifted into the faintest hints of smirk; the impression of it against your ear. Time stutters when his thumb sweeps down along the knuckles of your right hand. It is such a small motion. A gentle, subtle caress. One that would hardly receive one's attention but is so different from any other gesture he has displayed for you that it has something inside of you melting and turning tender. It is damning for you. 

Some kind of plea smolders on the tip of your tongue like molten honey. A plea for what is entirely beyond you. For him to relent and move away to give you air? But even simply the idea of such a thing has you mourning the loss that has not come. This entire situation is nudging at the boundaries of the dynamic you have built with the prince thus far. It is unexpected. Bizarre even. But also, entirely exhilarating in a way that fills your lungs with excitement and looms over your being with a charged type of anticipation. 

And then, just as quickly as he had invigorated the raw suspension between your bodies, he removes himself away from you to hold his posture straight and his thumb slips from your knuckles to return its grip on the saddle horn. You are suspended in air, but the loss of his warmth feels as though the support of the earth has been abruptly tugged from underneath your feet. Humiliation wells up, and anger. It seems like a jest on his part. A cruel trick for what purpose you are not certain. To stroke his own ego. To make you feel like a fool. 

It is bitter in your mouth. The tart of it induced by your bewilderment. It leaves you woefully unmoored as your body craves his even as he still remains behind you, his thighs and hips embracing your own. The whispering of the ocean-salted wind suddenly sounds like a lonely, warbling cry. But even while in the midst of your internal conflicts, the longing has yet to subside; instead pooling in your belly. A gasp pushes from your chest, and you urge yourself to look upon the waters beneath and the horizon ahead. Marking a mark of the clouds that drift about the golden support of the heavens, counting a flock of waterfowl that fly in cluster above the ocean as a means to collect yourself, though it proves to be futile. 

"Let us return home now, wife - the hour grows late." 

You make no means to return a comment or to refute. You remain silent as you both dread and crave the return back to the Red Keep. You have no desire to bear the facade that you have been masquerading in for so long, but being grounded may also help you in gathering the torrent of your emotions. Still, the flight back to Vhagar's chosen plot of earth outside the edge of the forest arrived quicker than you had anticipated, and the dismount from her saddle had nearly been just as awkward as the ascension. Neither of you had exchanged any words as you found your horses still hitched to the branches that they had been left posted at earlier, cropping at the rich grass near the base of the tree with their teeth. 

The bustling of the streets does little to assist the chaotic nature of your thoughts as you guided your mount through the crowds alongside the prince. A part of you was still briefly able to marvel how you had just seen the same avenues from above only moments before; the people who had once appeared as little specs now parted around you to make way for you and the prince. Some daring to pass the two of you fleeting glances as you went about. 

You receive similar looks once within the interior of the 'Keep. The servants and people of the court pass you curious and disapproving peeks at the muddied edges of your skirts as you carried yourself down the winding, grand hallways. Though you pay them little mind. Instead, you direct yourself to try not to focus on the dull, rhythmic tap of Prince Aemond's footsteps from their place beside you as he trails you like a stubborn shadow. He had proposed that he escort you to your quarters, as is expected of a husband. 

There is a new sort of uncertainty that has been wedged between the two of you. Though it is so very different from the quandary that had been there before. This type has no longer tinged with apprehensions or resistance, but instead it is almost alive. The want that festers inside of you is so strong that it is nearly tangible; a creature with claws that means to creep and snatch and a hunger that demands to be feed. You are not entirely lost. You are informed of the body's desires and the symptoms that often accompany it. But it is rarely something that you have ever experienced yourself apart from the few rare nights that you had built up the courage to explore yourself within the privacy of your own apartments. And never have you ever felt it so fiercely, searing and thrumming throughout your flesh. 

The buzz of your previous flight does little to damp the fervor of it. If anything, it douses a potent fuel upon the embers, daring to set the smoldering cinders aflame. The scent of him is strong at your side. Sharp from the winds and mouthwatering with the crisp, spicy aroma of his natural musk, and it is a temptation that you can only hope that you will be able to resist. Your only solace is that the entrance to your quarters draws near, only a few paces left near the end of the corridor, and you look to the massive looming doors as thirsting man would an oasis. 

"I take it that you enjoyed todays outing, my lady," Aemond says from your side. 

It draws your attention to him like an insect becoming hypnotized by the gentle flickering an unguarded fire. You dare to allow yourself to admire the almost lazy saunter he carries himself with, the composed way that he holds his hands behind the controlled posture of his back. 

"I did. Truly." You answer honestly. Not even the muddled state of your feelings and yearning could keep you from repelling the truth from him. You find yourself twisting softly on the heels of your feet as you both come to stand before the entrance of your apartments, moving to enable yourself to meet his gaze. It suddenly feels too vulnerable. You no longer have the buffer of being shielded from his stare as you stand in a pair at the end of the dimming hall. He watches you keenly. His expression is mild, and it is only his eye that displays a faint hint of curiosity, but it is enough to prompt you in continuing. "I do not wish to burden you with my toils, but finding my place here within the court has been an adjustment. The people here have been kind, yet it is still a somewhat of a challenge to find my footing. " You pause, the air snagging in your throat and you find your fingers winding together in an awkward clasp as you work to navigate yourself and bear the weight of his unflinching observation. "The flight with you and Vhagar, it was a reprieve that I did not expect to be afforded. I know that you have been occupied by the priorities of the kingdom and the burdens of the war; you have little moments available for yourself, I imagine. So I am grateful that you made an effort to extend that time to me." 

It all seems so delicate now. Something vulnerable has wormed through the cracks of your already weakened restraints. And you swear that you see something just as uncertain and raw peek through the detached facade of the prince. Such a pale passing of emotions that had you not been paying so much attention to him; it might have slipped past your observation. It looks odd, but not unbecoming on him. He is typically so relaxed and serene. Unstirred by the influences of his surroundings. It manages to endear and embolden you all at once, and as though they have a mind of their own you find your feet closing the small amount of distance that divides you. The prince's vision is latched onto you as you move near, unwavering and heavy in his watch. 

For once in your uncertain relationship with the prince, it is you who seems to hold the sense of power. As shaky and foreign as it is. But he observes you with the same speculative surprise as a predator that has been taken off guard and is deciding on if its energy should be spent on fighting or evading. You make sure to be gentle in your approach, lest you break the brittle, intimate blanket that has fallen the vacant corridor. You can nearly hear the thump of your own heartbeat inside of your chest, pulsing along the palms of your hands. 

You surprise yourself as you dare to lean forward into his space. The scent of him engulfs you, and the perfume of it is almost dizzying. Clouding over you in a rush of subtle spice, leather and wind. It guides you press your lips upon the high ridge of his cheek. The soft divot of the scar catches underneath your mouth; the gnarled slivers of its subtly raised edges. You make sure to be gentle so's not to possibly aggravate the old, damaged tissue. His skin is warm. Sultry and smooth against your lips. You raise a single hand upward to place your fingertips along the sharp sweep of his jaw as a means to ground yourself. Or perhaps it is just an excuse to touch more of him. You are not entirely certain anymore. 

You can feel his chest swell with a surprised breath, muscles pulling taut underneath the leather of his doublet. You fear that you may have overstepped, and it draws you to break the kiss from his skin, though you find it difficult to pull away. He has made no attempt to tear his face from the light hold of your fingertips. He remains fixed in place. Quiet and motionless. For one horrid moment, you fear that you might have actually been able to disgust him. That you had terribly transgressed and shattered the delicate little relationship that you have only just began to fabricate. 

But when you look to meet his gaze the stare that he is studying you with holds a sort of hunger that you have yet to ever experience, and it is so disorienting to be on the receiving end. It completely eclipses the way that he had watched you with during the flight. You are sure that this is how it feels to be stalked by something dangerous and starved. It mutates with the vulnerability that seeps into his posture, and the combination of it melts into an ardor that is stifling. 

You are not sure how to navigate it. Of what this all could mean for you. For him. It has your blood roaring through your veins. Everything falls into a hush. You are sure that the rest of the castle is still lively with the preparations for supper. Servants are no doubt preoccupied by the nature of their longwinded duties, causing the innerworkings of the Keep to astir as they all go about their own matters. But here, in this quiet corridor, it feels as though you have been tucked away into your own private bubble. Sealed away and safe within its dulcet embrace. 

You can see the want in his eye so clearly. Bright and burning in its quality, but he makes no moves to act upon it. It is so strange to see what appears to be a sort of hesitance in the prince. Someone who is usually so certain of their wants and desires and acts on them unflinchingly. Arrogantly, even. It makes him appear so much more human. For once, in the little amount of time that you have known him, he finally stands close at a base that you could compare yourself. Not a god. But simply a man. A man who experiences reservations and uncertainty just as you do. One made of bone and blood - even if that blood may run hot with dragonfire. He still just a man. One who appears as though he wishes to seek you out. To bask in the comfort of your flesh and consume you where you stand but will not allow himself to. 

You are unsure where this sense of hesitancy could stim from. You have already lain together before in the hopes of producing a child and he had not shied away in any of those occurrences; having taken you with that cold, calculating indifference each time. You have no ability to say what has inspired the felling of that austere approach, but the sudden lack of it rouses a bravery that has long evaded you. Your lips, still hovering closely above his cheek venture to press against his skin once again. Much lower than their previous position along the sharp contours of his face, but now only a few scant breaths from his own lips. 

You pause briefly to surmise his reaction. Gauging the shift in his breathing and the way that he holds himself to see if you may have misread and breached an unsaid boundary, but he makes no move to tear himself from your proximity. But that is not enough. You must hear it from him. 

"Do you wish for me to stop-" 

A surprised yelp is snuffed from your throat when the plush of his mouth claims yours in a kiss that is so passionate that it is nearly ferocious. Your teeth clack together from the rough nature of it. It makes your mind draw a complete blank. All semblance of thought mutes down into a quiet hum as every bit of your being draws down to focus on the entirety of him. So heavy in its attentions that you hardly bear notice when he crowds you against the heavy doors of your chambers. So eager that the back of your skull knocks on the thick, ornate wood. The pain that flares is stinging and sharp, but you can hardly bother to pay it any attention as he presses himself along your body like he may starve without it. 

Once it all finally catches up with you, you find your hands reaching to sweep along him explorative, greedy strokes. Your fingers claw at his doublet, slipping along the buttery leathers in a weak grip before moving to clutch at the nape of his neck to draw him closer to you. It is crazed. Animalistic. A perversion of the sort of chaste affections that a lady should share with her husband, but you can hardly be bothered to care while your body is overcome with relief. It is suddenly as though he has become the air you require to breathe, and you are under the threat of suffocating. 

His hands are just as rapacious as your own. Clutching at your hips, your waist; reaching fingers gripping onto your hair. He is like some feral animal that does not know where to bite first. Desperate for the taste of flesh and blood but unsure of where to start. 

His teeth nip at your lips; tongue swiping, and obediently your jaw softly parts to allow him to lick into your mouth. The moan that leaves you sounds shocking to your own ears but it is impossible to be ashamed when the taste of him seems to set you on fire. You are quickly to reciprocate with equal ardor, but it is clumsy and underskilled on your part. And it dawns on you that this is your first true kiss with your husband, so very far off from the demure, obligated peck that he had given to you on your wedding day. It makes you burn all the hotter. Your eagerness intensifying tenfold as you grip onto him as though he may vanish if you do not. 

An almost wounded sound leaves you when he removes his mouth from your own. Though it is promptly stamped out when he nudges your head to the side with his own to latch the wet heat of his mouth onto the tender flesh of your neck. A contented sigh leaves you and your body seems to lose all of its strength, going lax against the support of the door as your head lulls back to bear your throat to the bite of his teeth and the suction of his tongue. You feel as though you are turning to mush. Going pliant underneath his ministrations; the heat of him has melted you like wax. 

It is the low bubble of chatter that breaks you from the haze that dips over your mind like the beginning effects of alcohol. Your eyes flutter open to gaze over the prince's shoulder, though he has not even so much as slowed the searing kisses along your flesh. Whether that be because he simply does not care or because he has not noticed the sound of carried voices you are not sure, but you cannot keep yourself from trying to peer down the long stretch of the corridor to spy for the origins of the conversation. You see no one but you are certain whoever is speaking is nearby. Their voices carried and projected by the stone no doubt, but they could round the corner at any moment and catch you and the prince in a most unbecoming manner. 

You mourn the very idea of stopping him, but the requirement to keep appearances and your position of the court untainted from untoward gossip prevails. It has you slipping your fingers along the roots that grow from the nape of his neck to tug as gently as you possibly can, urging him to pry his mouth from your flesh but he remains unmoving. Almost stubborn in his exploration of tasting the salt on your skin. 

"Aemond," you call softly. "We must stop; we will be caught." 

That seems to pull him from the fervent spell that had been casted over him. He finally allows himself to be removed from the crook of your neck, righting his posture meet your line of vision with a slight pant in his breath. The passion in his stare has not wavered or diminished at all. If anything, it seems all the fiercer. 

 

"Will you invite me into your chambers?" He inquires against your lips. "Will you have me?" 

The way he stated the question was straight forward. Blunt in what it implied. Unshy in its desire. But there is an unmistakable edge to it that is almost frail. Fragile in its essence. You know now that here the both of you are at a fork in the path. One single decision that may decide the fate of what lies ahead, and the balance of your matrimony. Prince Aemond wears that facade of his. Like no matter what response leaves from you he will be unbothered, but you can see the vulnerability bleeding into his gaze. You hear it in his questions. The hope that you do not turn him away. 

You know then that you will not send him off down the corridor while you tuck yourself away in your chambers alone. Not as elation and peace wraps itself around you and urges you to tug him closer; guiding him towards you as you make to reach behind to grab for the door latch. 

"Yes, I will have you Aemond." You whisper it softly, as though it is something sacred and delicate. 

That is all it takes to earn his mouth back upon you. Just as starved as it had been before. You are not certain which one of manages to pry one of the doors ajar, but as soon as it is open, you find yourself slipping through the entry as you pull him through by his shoulders as you blindly guide each other across the floor of your apartments. You just vaguely register the sound of the door slamming shut behind you both, but you hardly pay it any mind as his hands sweep along your hips with a grip that threatens to smart skin. The heel of your foot nearly trips along the edge of the tapestry rug, and it is Aemond's firm grip that keeps you secure as you attempt to navigate your clumsy journey to the bed. 

Already his fingers slip behind you, eagerly tugging at your skirts like he means to ruck them over your hips, but then he stops himself short and backs away from you so abruptly that for a second you fear that he is having regrets. That he plans to storm out of your quarters and pretend that this has never happened. His eyes trails over you as he steps away, halting himself he is several paces from you to observe your disheveled state. 

"Undress yourself."  

He says it that poised, calm cadence of his, but the order in it is still apparent. For some reason it makes you pause. You have never been completely bare before him. All of the previous times you had been afforded the crutch of your shift, skin always concealed from view. During your bedding ceremony, while the corridor just outside of Prince Aemond's chambers were crowded with the wedding quests, the attendees of the court and the Crowns Sept, all present to make sure the tradition was followed accordingly, you had still clung to the safety that your chemise had provided you. The two of you were hurdling over so many new steps and parameters in your relationship. For some reason, it does not feel obtrusive or jarring. Simply unexpected. Unfamiliar. But exciting still. 

You reach for the silk placket on the front your bodice, carefully unplucking the golden straight pins that your maidens had secured it with just this morning, being mindful to tack them back into the fabric so they do not drop upon the floor and run the risk of jabbing someone underfoot. Your fingers quiver slightly as you begin to unwind the ribbon lacings underneath, tugging them free from their eyes to loosen the grip of your bodice until the rest of the gown slides free of its grip on your body, enabling you are able to slip the sleeves from your arms for the rest of the garment to pool around your feet. 

You still have several layers to go; held within the confines of your kirtle but he is already watching you with an impassion stare akin to starvation. All of the vigor that he had unleashed on you before in the drag on his lips and the nipping of his teeth has been detained and seized onto with a shaky resolve; his weak restraint projected through the near feral look in his eye. It is clear that he wishes to watch you unburden yourself of your clothes. It gives him some kind of pleasure, to observe you exposing more of yourself to him at his whims. And you would like to indulge that lewd desire of his, but you know that the lacings along the back of your kirtle will be difficult to undo on your own. It is rigid in its structure, and combined with how tightly the many levels silk cord that cross up your spine are cinched, it will be a challenge. Often times it is a pain for even the deft fingers of your maids. 

"Would you so kind, lord husband, to assist me?" You do not bother in awaiting his response as you rotate around to present your back to him. The room is silent, save for the quiet rise and fall of the air steadily leaving and returning to your lungs. You do not hear him diminish the space the separates you both. The sound of his boots along the stone floors does not make a single tap or echo for you to gauge his nearness. But then his hands are just on you, settling at the point between your shoulder blades to pluck at the knot of your silk ribbons.   

The warmth of him wafts against you, causing the hairs along the nape of your neck to rise and your skin to pepper with gooseflesh. You crave to lean back into him. To bask in his natural, soothing heat, but you command yourself to remain stationary as he begins to tug at your lacings. Much steadier and slower than you have suspected. It has anticipation building and churning within your gut. Smoldering and settling like hot coals and molten wax beneath your flesh. 

His lips come to sweep along the junction of your neck, feeling as though they are branding you in their exploration. It should be of a concern with how much that thought thrills you. The idea of walking around with the prince's marks clearly presented for the court to see is an indecorous idea - downright craven. And yet it does nothing but make the flames inside roar brighter. 

You feel the moment that he finished in unlacing the kirtle. It slackens considerable on your torso, before he hastily slips the embroidered edge of the neckline from your shoulders; the truth of his avidity managing to peek through such a simple action. And just like that the materials fall from your body, leaving you in nothing but your shift. It shocks you how quickly his hands find a place on your hips. Fingers clasping tightly like he is resisting the urge to tenderize your skin underneath the pressure of his palms. But that twisted little part of you is still present and greedy. It has you pressing the shape of your rear against his pelvis, and you are unable to contain the delighted gasp that leaves you at the hard press of his cock straining underneath his breeches. 

He has not even seen you naked yet and already the evidence of his arousal nudges at you through the thin fabric of your chemise. He groans as you continue to roll your hips against you his. It's a pleased, low noise, that nearly sounds like a purr rumbling from his chest, and it vibrates along your neck as he threatens to sink his teeth just underneath the edge of your jaw. His fingers begin to tug and lift at the skirt of your shift to pile it around your waist. 

You twitch as he exposes you to the tepid draft of the room; nipples hardening beneath the delicate fabric at the chill. Suddenly, one of his hands is placed before you, fingers hovering close to your mouth as though he expects something of you. Your thoughts scramble along. Already pathetically sluggish and scattered from the lust searing at your being.  

"Take them into your mouth and bite, ābrazȳrys," he guides in a firm murmur. 

Obediently, your lip's part, allowing him to guide the tips of his fingers past them. The leathers concealing the nimble length of his digits is smooth along your tongue. Warm and slightly tangy in its flavor on your palate. The weight of them makes your eyes lashes flutter, threatening to slip closed before a distant voice in the recesses of your mind chides you to follow his desire, and eager to please you gently clamp the edges of your teeth down onto the tips of his gloves. He coos in a satisfied manner when he notices the compliant press of your teeth. He tugs his hand free from the casing of its glove, allowing the now empty garments to lie limp in your mouth before he removes it from between your teeth to discard it somewhere along the floor. 

You vaguely watch his hand from your peripherals as it lifts past the scope of your vison, but the low, wet sound in your ears cues you on what he may be doing. He is licking his fingers. Getting them wet. It makes your body thrum with want. The flavor of his gloves is still strong. A temptation that you never would have imagined. He had used your mouth for something that seems so frivolous, and yet it makes you ache. It reminds you of a bit of course chatter that you had heard from one of the ladies of the court.  A horrible gossip who often whispers of the most perverse of topics between lovers. Though you could not help but to have been intrigued when she spoke of pleasing one of her paramours with nothing but her tongue. 

You know what Aemond plans to do with his hands. The anticipation of it bubbles along the atmosphere like water simmers inside a heated pot, threatening to boil over as his fingers slip between your thighs and part your damp heat with little fanfare. Your body seems to sizzle. A delicious buzz licks up your spine as he sweeps a single finger over your cunt to gather the slick that already threatens to smear down the inside of your legs. Collecting it on the pad of his digit to aid him in delivering a slow, torturous circle along your clit. A drawn-out whine rips itself from your chest, and even with his hand buried underneath the fabric of your skirt, working pleasure between your thighs, you cannot help but to think of the possibility of taking him into your own mouth. 

To delight in the weight of his cock filling it up, weighing on your tongue. How it might taste. The expressions he would make. If his eye would express the same vulnerability that he had displayed to you in the hallway, when he asked if you would have him. Would that hint of desperation no longer be masked, but instead boldly shown? Would his face pinch with pleasure, eye clouded with lust as he watched you on your knees before him?

How gorgeous he would look. 

You have to tuck your face into his shoulder as you helplessly rock your hips against the ceaseless strum of his finger, muffling your cry as he suddenly slips one within the entrance of your cunt, forcing it to stretch and give around its width. He brushes it experimentally along your walls, almost like he is prodding or searching for something within you. Distracting you with the press of the heel of his hand on the bud of your nerves, feeding the fires the pit of your belly. He does find what he is in search of with an adept quickness. You feel it as soon as he does. The blind yet tactful pursuit is rewarded when he caresses something devastating buried inside of you. You gasp, breath snagging as you burrow your nose into his neck, choking on his scent while you search for your voice.  

"Aemond, please." It comes out as hardly more than a wanton moan puffed against his skin, and your hips continue to chase after the exquisite heat that he is effortlessly stoking within the cradle of your thighs. "Please, Aemond. I want to taste you. I want you in my mouth." 

You feel the way he hums in consideration more than you hear it. A nonchalant noise, as though you have questioned him about the quality of his day. As though he was not knuckle deep inside of your cunt. "Hmm, such a temptation. Though, if I recall correctly, was it not my wife who ventured into my chambers with revelations of her loneliness? It seems that I have long ignored my husbandly duties. I think it is due time that I rectify that." 

Those words sound so promising. So sweet in its oath. So, it is entirely cruel when he all but rips his finger from the walls of your cunt, leaving you feeling empty and the scorching embers in your gut smoking but unfanned. A question, an insult, or a cry hang on your tongue, but you never get the opportunity to figure out which it is. Aemond grips you by the shoulders and nudges you in the direction of your bedding, giving you little time to orient yourself through the lustful haze that has clouded your mind over. 

"I want you lying down on your back; cunt spread." His instruction rings out sharply. Like a strategized order that would be given in council. "And remove that fucking garment from your body." 

He spat out the sentence as though the cloth is an offence to him. The sight of it alone enough to rouse his ire. So eager to see you bare before him. You have half the mind to try and tease him, but tonight you can hardly be bothered. The weight of the shift is stifling on your dampened skin, and his covetous stare urges you to do his bid. You do not turn to face him as you disrobe. It nudges from your shoulders easily. Dropping free from your body to leave you in nothing more than your silk stockings and garters, and the diamond accessories that dangle from the lobes of your ears. 

You swear that you can feel the line of his vision upon your flesh. Trailing down your spine, tracing the shape of your ribs as they meet the contour of your waist, skirting along the swell of your arse. You do not turn to face him until you place your knees on the cushion of your mattress, plush and filled with down and feathers, offering you enough support to crawl along the stretch of it before turning on your back as he had bidden. The impassioned look in his eye seems to suspend you adrift. It does not make you feel disgustingly ogled or leered at to be so blatantly admired. He studies you as though he is in the presence of something sanctified. Divine. 

You are not sure of how to compose yourself underneath such unabashed devotion. The only thing that seems to give you any sort of stability is the continued ring of his earlier command reverberating in your mind. You cling to it, like someone who is threatened to be swept away in a rough tide. It is almost absentmindedly that your leg's part, offering yourself up to the insatiable stare of your husband in a manner so vulgar. But you cannot deny that there is something titillating about it. How his posture seems to simultaneously go rigid and slack all at once. A restraint in his composure visibly snapping before he stalks across the room towards you like he means to devour you. 

He is upon you before you can hardly blink. Gripping onto the thick of your upper thigh with his gloved, left hand to further pry your legs apart. Stretching them until you can nearly feel the strain of it in the joint of your hip. "Sīr gevie se dōna raqagon bisa, issa ābrazȳrys." He lifts your opposite up just enough to nose at your knee, ghosting his lips about the breadth of it as his eye locks with your own sight. Something nearly playful dancing in the vivid shade of colors. "Gaomagon ao sylutegon sepār hae dōna?"

He continues to sweep his nose along your flesh. Dragging it downward towards your intimacy, where you burn and ache for him the most. You cannot stop yourself from rolling your hips upward, tempted by the warmth of his breath gliding along your skin and the heat of your cunt. It makes you clench around nothing, as though your body is mourning how empty you are without the stretch of his fingers. 

"Aemond, pleas-" 

He hushes you softly. A placating, quiet sound but it cuts through the air with the swift impact of a steady blade. Like an eager soldier you find yourself falling silent. Focused entirely on him as he lay between your thighs with the relaxed composure of a dragon with its prey already secure between it fangs. "Patience," he murmurs. Though he hardly gives you any time exercise such a restraint because his mouth is on you as soon as the word leaves him. The shock and feel of it sears through you, lashing itself across your body akin to charges of lightning crackling across a storm. Nothing could have prepared yourself for such a thing. The wet heat, the suction of his lips, the skilled slip of his tongue. 

Your legs twitch on reflex, threatening to close but the hand that he had clasped around your thigh keeps it secure in place. Still, it does not stop him from glancing up at you from the apex of your legs with an unvoiced reprimand glinting in his eye. A broken cry shudders from your lungs. Sharp breaths nearly hiccupping from you as he licks at your cunt, burrowing the pronounced, attractive swoop of his nose against your clit while his tongue laps at your entrance. You cannot stop yourself as you begin to sway your hips along the press of it. Practically riding his face with the mindless drive of a woman possessed. Your fingers claw along the blankets; nails tearing at the fabric like it might help you weather through the bolts of ecstasy that ravage your body.  

Your head lifts to properly gaze upon him as he continues to drag his tongue over you, groaning softly into your heat as though he were the one experiencing pleasure. You have heard of women satisfying their husbands with the comforts of their mouths but never the opposite. You know now that it is easily something that you could become addicted to. And based on the pleased pinch between his brows and the way that his eye has nearly slipped closed it seems that he has just as much of an appetite for it. 

"Oh, my gods! Aemond- fuck!" 

You can feel the amused chuckle he releases vibrate along your cunt, making the burning coil in your gut wind that much tighter. He parts his lips from you just long enough to speak, slipping a finger within the tight entrance of your heat just as he does so, crooking it against that delicious spot that he had found nestled within you earlier. "Such a filthy mouth you have on you. How unbecoming for someone who holds the title of a princess." He mocks, crudely stroking and curling his finger within the tight warmth of your cunt. You think distantly to scold him. To remind him of who has drawn such untoward responses from you in the first place but then he is guiding a second digit in along the other, making you stretch to accommodate them; causing your mind to blank. "What would they think if they could see you now? Mewling like well-paid whore."  

You are not sure why that awful little comment has warmth drizzling down your spine like drops of warmed honey. You feel yourself flutter around the ceaseless pulse of his fingers, back arching in a means to draw him deeper. He notices as well. Of course he does, ever so observant. It has him humming in that considering way of his. Like he is pleased with his discovery. You expect another witty remark from him but get none. What he chooses to say next is even more damning. 

"I'm going to fuck you with my fingers, and you are going to be a good little wife and peak on my tongue." 

His tone leaves no room for argument - not that you have given him any in this state. Especially not when the sultry drag of his mouth returns to your cunt to join the clever curl of his fingers. The combination of it threatens to make you sob. Your body writhes when he takes your clit into his mouth, sucking at it gently with steady pulses of his tongue. One of your hands blindly reaches to grip his head, threading your finger through the silken tresses of his hair as though it might ground you; keep you from floating away. It is all so overwhelming. Too much and yet too little. And like a starved glutton you find your opposite palm coming to slip along your own torso, sweeping along your feverish skin to explore your breasts. You mindlessly reach to take your nipples between your thumb and fingers, rolling and plucking at it to further stoke the fire in your belly. 

You hear the sound of Aemond's pleased groan, no doubt watching you from his place between your legs as you touch yourself. Already the rapture flooding your veins begins to rise up. Cresting upon you like a wave being tossed within a great tempest. You can practically taste it. Dancing along your tongue like something sweet and hot; burrowing into the cradle of your hips by the euphoric drag of his hand and tongue. 

"Aemond!" You sob. With the intent to warn him or to merely cry you are not sure. Your face pinches as the grip of your pleasure begins to close around you, holding you tight within its vice like it means to wring every ounce of euphoria from you. "Aemond, I'm going to- gods-" 

The glide of his mouth and fingers is almost brutal. Precise and nimble in his intent to hurdle you headfirst into the throes of bliss, and he is certainly achieving that goal. You can feel the muscles within you drawing up tight; fire lashing and curling over you and wearing at your soul. You can hardly speak. Now struggling to get out broken panting breaths and pieces of the prince's name as your release bears down on you. He shows you no mercy in your state, continuing to suckle and lap at your cunt like he means to drink you down. 

It is with a wrecked scream that you reach your peak. The cry that rips from your throat is short and hoarse, and there is no doubt that some unfortunate soul wandering the hall has heard you. Though you are too beyond yourself to care. Sparks bursts inside your flesh, dousing you in a bliss that you have naught ever brought yourself. Like a mindless animal your body continues to ride itself against the press of Aemond's tongue, his nose, his fingers, all of which still work against you to draw out the euphoria that engulfs you. 

It is not until you hiss from the sudden tenderness in your cunt that he wills himself to pull away, giving you a reprieve to lay boneless and spent along the plush of the bed. His breath is raged when he rises from your hips, face smeared with the evidence of your pleasure, his stare is wild. He looks disheveled, hair disordered from when you had gripped it and chest pulling in frantic gulps of breath. He nearly looks just as winded as you. Though you are surely partly to blame with how you had desperately pushed his face into your cunt like some sort of sex-crazed whore. And the patch of leather that conceals his eyes has become slipped from its place. Not enough to display whatever grievous, old wound may rest beneath, but another unintended brush against it may knock it askew completely. 

You do not think when you guide yourself to sit up and lift a hand, thoughtlessly using your thumb to nudge the leather back down to rest securely above his socket. But the realization seems to come to you both unanimously. His own hand coming to grip your offending wrist, keeping it suspended in its place in the air; your fingertips still resting on the structure of the patch. 

 The stare that passes between the both of you is joined by so many varying emotions. Many of them extending from his side: a brief flash of anger, bewilderment, unease. And then, there it is again. That trace of vulnerability that he tries so hard to contain. But it seems to always be there. Lurking underneath the surface like pain disturbing an old wound. And like a shadow, you see that hint of hope again too. It is the only things that keeps you from shifting from him. Of giving him space that you would have otherwise assumed he needs. But now you draw near. Resting on your knees to sit before him. Instead of attempting to withdraw your hand from his clutches, you instead reposition it to cradle the side of his face, maintaining to keep your touch light in case he chooses to remove himself from underneath your hand. 

Few breaths pass, and he makes no moves to do so. He leans closer. It is such a tiny gesture. A barely perceptible movement, but you feel it. The difference in weight against your hand. The glint in his eye pierces into you with a desperation. Like he is expecting you to suddenly come to a realization and flinch away out of fear. Like he is hoping that you do so. 

But you will do no such thing. You shift closer to him, making sure to be careful as not to accidentally prod his eye patch from its place while you clutch his cheek. He observes you closely. As though he is studying you. Searching for a shred of hesitation or disgust so that he may turn you away. The opportunity for him to do that does not come as you lift to seat yourself upon his lap. His chest expands almost shakily as he gazes at you. Eye slightly widened as though he is in a state of awe or disbelief. The sheer unabashed emotion reflecting inside that gorgeous mix of blue and violet could make your heart ache and skip. You long to tell him of how you feel. The breadth of your emotions. Not quite love yet, of course, but it must be the beginnings of it with how tender and passionate it burns, like the birth of a blaze. 

But that may be too much to confess. Perhaps, your actions will have to suffice for now. 

You are certain he gasps when your lips press against his, tongue sweeping along the plush of his mouth like he had done to your earlier, gathering the tart and sweet taste of yourself on your palate. The flavor of your own arousal does not deter you in the slightest. Not the damp of it against your skin as you draw him into a soft exchange of kisses. Much softer than the one that he had inspired in both of your earlier. This somehow seems so much more explorative. Delicate, even with the heat that begins to simmer beneath the surface once more. 

Your fingers once again slip and find purchase in his hair, nails lightly scraping at his scalp as your hips begin to undulate against the bulge that still presses against his breeches. He groans, panting into your mouth while he runs his hands along your nude flesh, reaching down to grip the swell of your arse to aid you in grinding your hips with his. The hard impression of his cock nudging at your cunt through the fabric of his trousers is delicious, even while you are still slightly tender from your previous pleasure, licking a sensitive fire along your skin. Still, it does not stop you as you continue to grind yourself on him, wanton and aching once again. Delight peeks through the drunken haze of your desires as he removes on of his hand from you to slip between your bodies, fingers reaching for the laces of his breeches where he eagerly pulls at tugs at them to draw them loose. 

He groans sharply in relief when he guides himself from the restraint of his trousers. The alleviation must be great, with how long the straining weight of his cock has been tucked behind the material. You hear it in the low hiss that rises from his chest, and it has you humming softly at him, a light reposeful sound as you continue you to exchange a languid, unbroken kiss with him. The both of you unable to tear yourselves from each other, even has the hot length of his cock comes to rest against his stomach, now pinned between the pressure of both of your bodies, burning against your ferverish skin. 

"I need to feel you," he breathes against your lips. "Let me have you." 

You peek your eyes open long enough to consider him, and the longing that burns within the depth of his stare knocks something inside of your soul off guard, shaking the very foundations. Such raw, unprotected emotion. He stares at you as if you are the creator of the heavens, having fashioned the moon and the burning of the stars with only your hands. It makes you unsure of how to stand unwavering, unaffected underneath such a devoted gaze. If only he knew that it is you who wishes to worship him. To pour your affections and adoration onto him like an acolyte offering their deity tokens and praise. 

An understanding seems to pass through the both of you, a wordless communication. He reaches down to grip himself as you post your hands upon his shoulders, your nails burrowing into the leather of the doublet that he has not bothered to shed as a means to braces yourself as you line the head of his cock with the entrance of your heat. There is little fanfare before you begin to lower yourself onto him, splitting yourself on the head of cock as you use your thighs to settle downward. You walls stretch to accommodate his girth, fluttering as he guides you open to find solace in your body. A strained set of words seems to squeeze from his chest, all of them in that beautiful language that you yet to understand. It has a sense of pride flaring. A deep, hedonistic satisfaction welling up to know that you have such a strong, composed man crumbling around the edges from nothing more than the grip of your cunt. 

You place another brief kiss upon his lips, a smile tugging at them when he nearly tries to chase after you, but you distract him by further sinking yourself down around his length until your rump meets his thighs. His mouth drops open in response, eye fluttering at sensation of your walls clenching and flexing around him as though it means to somehow draw him deeper. 

The pressure of him inside of you, carving a space for himself within you almost makes you breathless. It licks itself up your spine like a bolt of lightning, forcing your body to shudder and draw closer to his, subconsciously seeking out the warmth of his skin and mourning when you feel nothing but the dim chill of his leather doublet. 

"Aemond," you beg softly. Your hips seem to have a mind of their own as they begin to lift themself upward to roll back down, working to repeatedly spear yourself on his cock with only desperation and hedonism guiding you. His hands come to grip your waist, spreading his thighs out wider to find a better stance to drive himself up inside of you easier, aided by the slick of your arousal, causing his thrusts to become even more pronounced. The sensation of his girth stretching you out to its shape, veins dragging along your walls has your back curving taut like a bowstring. 

The warmth of his mouth suddenly closes around one of your breasts, tongue lapping at the peak of your nipple as he continues to drive himself inside of you in a devastating rhythm. It has your mind drawing a blank. Going white like a wall of fog as embers and fire sear at the pit of your gut. Your lip's part. Soft gasps panting from your throat as he continues to ravage your body for his pleasure while further tearing you through the depths of yours. It seems to choke through you, forcing you to hiccup and whimper around the insistent pounding of his hips, the weight of his cock dipping inside of you. 

It is disoriented and abrupt when he shoves you onto the flat of your back, knocking what little bit of air was still contained inside of your lungs out and leaving you stunned. You can only lay and take it as your mind scrambles to gain a sense of clarity, while pleasure scalds itself throughout your veins, snuffing your body in a cloud of smoke. His body extends over yours, only supported by his arms posted on either side of your head. His mouth leaves your breast with a subtle nip of his teeth, sparking pleasure with their blunt edges, making you arch your chest to seek out more of it. 

But he ignores the blatant offering, opting to nudge himself up to kneel to better support his weight as he grabs one of your thighs to swing your leg along the perch of his shoulder. It somehow manages to drive him deeper. Effectively punching the air from your chest, the crown of his cock brushing along something inside of you that has your body twisting along the support of the bed. A sob wracks through you and your eyes nearly roll in the back of your skull. You distantly hear yourself whispering his name. Repeating it over and over again with all of the devotion and desperation of a mantra, of a prayer meant for the ears of a god. And here above you now, he certainly looked like one. Pale eye blazing and wild with his lust, hair unkept and freeing from its tie, a sheen of sweat glittering along his pale flesh like flecks of gold and stardust. 

"There she is," he marvels in a coo; pleased and smug in the debauched thing that he has reduced you to. A complete juxtaposition to the longing, vulnerable man that he had been just moments before. "My sweet wife gone dumb and pliant beneath me. Do I satisfy you? Having you like this? Taking my cock so obediently. " You moan in agreement, hips twitching and jerking to further aid him inside of you. Even while it feels like he is deep in your gut, shoving your breath from you with his rhythm, you crave more. "I should keep you like this. Fucked and filled. Would you like that, ābrazȳrys? Stuffed full until it swells your belly with my heir?"

 

It douses you with fire. The comment engulfing you as though you have been guided into the starved clutches of an inferno. The satisfied stare that he pins you with only makes you feel bare and exposed despite the intimate positions that he has had you in already. Like he is piecing you apart and gazing at your soul. Even with the filth that he casually rambles, it does nothing to dampen the tenderness and hunger that seeps into your bones and gnaws at your being. Your body thrums with the delight at being claimed so primally by the prince - by your husband. To walk about the great halls with his babe safely tucked away inside your stomach. The idea of it has you clawing at his back, no doubt leaving marks along the leather, and it is a great regret that it is not his skin that you tear the traces of your nails along. 

"You will truly be so beautiful in such a state. There will be no mistake that you're mine. Mother to my child. My wife." 

The possessiveness that streaked through his words made you arch into him, driving the metal clasps of his doublet into your flesh, causing the skin to sting. You can hardly pay it any mind though. Not while you are hurtling towards your peak. The promise of your release rushing towards you with the intensity a liquid fire. He too is close. You can see it in the furrow between his brows, the pale stutter in his breath which begins to meld into low groans; feel it in the slight falter in his pace. 

"Please, Aemond." You moan, just barely managing to get your tongue to cooperate in forming the plea. His eye locks onto you with the concentration of a hunter, but that softness, his need is beginning to melt it around the edges once again. "I want you to let go. I want to feel you filling me up." 

His hips flounder for a good moment, and it takes him a bit of correcting to regain the fluidity of the brutal stride that he had set, though once he does it is like he had never faltered at all. The almost violent bliss smoldering along your being still engulfs you and nips at you like it means to rip you apart. He swears sharply again. The sound of your wish, both a beg and a command having the most delicious effect on him as he continues to build that euphoria within the base of your stomach, causing the muscles there to clench tight.

"I'm yours. All yours." You assure breathlessly, aiming to appease the proprietorial nature that he has shown you. That is all you can manage before the euphoria finally crests and completely blindsides you within the deluge. You feel outside of yourself as your body writhes, cunt clenching around the deep stretch of his cock as he continues to pound into you, tipping you into something akin to a drunken stupor. It is rapturous. The sheer weight of the pleasure that possesses you and leaves you little more than a vessel that can only lie and try to survive the onslaught. 

Aemond's body shudders over your own, spine curling inward to tuck his face within the crook of your neck as his own peak seizes him. His groan rattles along your throat, followed by a strained fuck as a burst of liquid heat floods inside your stomach, filling you with warmth. His hips jerk shakily, meeting the languid pace of your own as you both work to assist each other in riding out your shared highs. Though it does not take long for either of you to lose your vigor, muscles and bones going lax as you both relent to the weight of your spent bodies. He does not bother in removing himself from the grip of your cunt as he all but collapses on top of you, effectively pinning you to the mattress with his weight. 

You make no effort to move him from you - you find no desire to. The air around you is thick with the scent of sex, still thrumming and alive with the fervor of your shared lust even as it ebbs from your body, replaced with the temptation of sleep. Contentment and exultation pools in your chest, syrupy and thick from the pleasant warmth of his form along yours, and it guides you to glide your fingers through the silken strands of Aemond's hair. He has made no efforts to extract his face from your neck. Perfectly at peace to keep himself tucked against you with his flaccid cock still buried deep, as his breathing levels out into steady puffs against your skin. 

"We cannot sleep, my Prince. The servant girls will be here soon to prepare me for supper." You warn, though he does not stir in the slightest. A hum leaves him. The only confirmation you receive that tells you he has heard you. He almost seems to clutch onto you tighter, as though he longs to burrow into you and meld into one. So desperate for your touch even while he hides so many facets of himself from you. There is no way to truly foresee what the future has in store for you and him. For the welfare of the kingdom. The home of your children. There are many uncertainties. Many stimming from your Aemond himself, the many lethal edges that create his being. But that is fine. You are patient. Tonight has marked a new turning point for you and he, you are certain. You will wait no matter how long you must for him to come to you, and to reveal himself and his truths to you unabashedly. No matter how damaged and bloody and wild those parts of him may be. 

You are certain that you will marvel in the twisted beauty of it regardless. 

"I will get up shortly." He finally replies, tone gentle and rich in your ear. "Let us just lie here for a moment; just you and I." 

Does this truly please you, wife? - Gaomas bisa drējī kostilus ao, ābrazȳrys? To be here with me? - Naejot sagon kesīr lēda nyke I believe it does - Pāsan ziry gaomas It has me wonder of all the other ways I could please you - Ēza nyke pendagon hen mirre se tolie ways nyke could kostilus ao

So beautiful and sweet like this, my wife - Sīr gevie se dōna raqagon bisa, issa ābrazȳrys Do you taste just as sweet? - Gaomagon ao sylutegon sepār hae dōna?    

[entitled-fangirl]

Peculiar (P2)

Cregan Stark x seer!reader

Summary: Prince Jacaerys visits Winterfell in hopes of gaining the loyalty of the Starks for the war.

Warnings: SPOILERS KINDA

A/n: Based on an ask!!!

Peculiar P1, P 0.5

Masterlist

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A persistent knock at the door of their chambers brought them out of their peaceful time together.

Cregan laid a hand on her knee next to him and looked over his shoulder to the door, "Yes?"

"The Prince Jacaerys Velaryon has arrived by dragon back, my lord," the voice spoke through the wood.

Cregan's shoulders tensed. "Has he been welcomed in?"

"We await your response, Lord Stark."

"Oh, gods," he mutters under his breath. He stood and looked to his wife as he pulled his cloak over him. "Will you be joining me?"

He noticed her hesitation, "I will not force you. It was merely a question."

She shook her head and picked at her fingers. "He most likely would not wish to see me. I'll remain here."

Cregan almost let it go, but something stopped him. "If he does not wish to see the Lady of House Stark, then he may leave. But we will not know until we find out, yes?"

She balled up her hands and began to stand, "only if you keep me near."

He grinned and pulled her to him, "There's no other place I'd want you. Now," he turned to the door. "WELCOME THE PRINCE TO WINTERFELL!"

…

Cregan soon sat at his large chair that was occasionally used for petitions. Next to him sat his wife. She stared at the ground as her nerves got the best of her. "I… I had a vision last night…"

He frowned in concern. "You did? Why did you not tell me? You should have woken me."

She shook her head and looked away.

"Tell me."

"What?"

"Tell me what it was."

"Um… well, it doesn't make much sense."

He shrugged. "I do not care. Tell me."

"Revenge will rule and sons will be lost. The heir…" her hands began to shake. "The..."

Cregan reached out and tucked her hair behind her ear. "Take your time."

"…The dark heir will fall," she finished as she looked up at him in horror.

His brows came together. He wouldn't deny that her words sent a shiver down her spine. Usually, her visions didn't worry him too much, but this one seemed different. "What do you believe it means?"

"I fear for Jace," was all she said.

As if on cue, the doors opened, and in the doorway stood Prince Jacaerys. A stern expression was strung across his face, softening slightly at the sight of Y/n.

The last time he had seen her was when she had the Hightower name. 

He wondered if she still held loyalty to it.

Already at a disadvantage, Jace's worries spiked. The Starks were known for their honor, but that wouldn't stop the great Lord Cregan Stark from ending the war before it even began.

Jace was a great fighter, but Cregan was one of the best. "Lord Stark."

Cregan made a motion with his hand, "Come, my prince. What an honor to have you within our castle walls, even if a surprise."

Jace forced a weary smile and walked in. "I do hope you'll pardon me. A dragon is much swifter than a raven and this is urgent."

Cregan pretended to not notice the way the prince's eyes darted between the two.

"Long ago, your father swore an oath to my mother, the heir to the Iron Throne."

Cregan frowned, "I know that, my prince. Why have you come to remind me?"

Jace's voice almost cracked. "The throne has been usurped."

A silence fell over the large hall as the two Starks registered his words.

"My uncle, Aegon Targaryen has been crowned king. It was not long after the death of my grandsire."

The dark heir will fall.

Revenge will rule.

"My love, perhaps these are not matters I wish to plague your mind with." Cregan stood and offered his hand to her. "Why don't you return to our chambers and finish your reading?"

She hesitated, "But the vi-"

"-You're very near to end of the book, aren't you?"

She nodded and gave in. "Quite close." She took his hand and stood. "And you'll fetch me later?"

"Of course." He kissed the top of her head and watched her move towards the large doors. 

She paused for just a moment as she passed Jace. Their eyes met and his worry began to turn to fear. 

There was something there. She was thinking about something, he knew.

But she said nothing and walked out.

Jace wrung his hands together worriedly, "I understand that the sister of Queen Alicent has mostly likely asked you to back her nephew's claim-"

A hearty laugh erupted from Cregan. His shoulders moved with each laugh. He held a hand over his mouth and forced himself to calm down. "Forgive me. Let us walk, my prince. There's much to discuss." 

As the two moved down the corridor, Cregan leaned to him, "My wife has always favored Princess Rhaenyra… excuse me, Queen Rhaenyra. As have I."

A broad smile came over Jace's face.

…

He frowned as he looked down at their intertwined hands.

The skin around her fingers was picked to pieces. Dried blood laid around the cuticles. "I wish we could find a way to ease your worries enough to stop you from doing this to yourself."

She pulled her hand away. "I…" a soft sigh, "I'll try."

He wanted to argue, for she'd tried that before and here she was with bloody nails and a guilty conscience.

"My love, I still plan to leave in two days' time for the Wall. I am taking the prince with me. But, I hesitate. Will you be alright? I understand how the last vision was harsh."

"I've done it for a few winters now. I should be fine."

He reached out and wrapped his arm around her waist. His thumb rubbed at her hip. "Truly?" He asked with a raised brow.

She nodded, "You fret too much."

He couldn't help the breathy laugh. "I can't help it. I can't sleep at night without knowing you're cared for." He reached out and grabbed her hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.

"Jace hates me."

Cregan's shoulders press back, "He does not. I swear to you."

She gave him an unconvinced look.

"I swear," he urged again. "Now, hurry or we'll be late to sup."

…

"So, Lord Stark tells me that you and your brother are close," Jace brought up as he stared down at his bowl of broth.

She hummed as she picked at her nails. "I am."

Cregan sighed and leaned forward. "She writes to her eldest brother Gwayne quite often." He opened his mouth to suggest she stay with Gwayne while he was gone, but it dawned on him that she wouldn't be safe due to the rising war.

He wouldn't leave her with a green, no matter how close they were.

"Ah, well, I can't say I've had the pleasure of meeting Ser Gwayne, but I've heard of his skill. Quite the swordsman," Jace smiled.

"Shame for the impending war. It was right time for a tourney." Cregan's frown began to grow into a smile. "You're a warrior on dragon back, my prince, but how do you fair by horse?"

Jace's brows raised. "Oh, I fair just fine. It's a cold northerner that should be frightened of dragon blood."

Cregan leaned further into the table with a smirk, "Pride will be your downfall at this rate, my prince."

Pride.

The word ran in her head like a gong, and she dropped her silverware with a loud clatter.

It was happening again.

Cregan snapped out of his stupor to look at her. He could recognize immediately what was occurring. "Fuck," he whispered to no one in particular.

Her shaky hands grabbed the opposite sleeves of her dress like iron. 

He stood and rounded the table to kneel next to her. "Stop this." When he heard the sound of the fabric tearing, his voice rose slightly, but stayed just as calm. "You're alright." He managed to pry her hands from her sleeves, but the shaking continued.

"Is she alright?" Jace asked in worry.

"A vision." That was all Cregan gave him.

Cregan wanted to curse at himself for not noticing the signs sooner. The sudden anxiety before, the paranoia, it was all making sense.

It always happened before a vision.

He grimaced in pain when her nails were pressed into his palm. "Just breathe. It'll pass."

He tried to remain strong, but the moment tears began to fall from her eyes and a whimper came from her mouth, he threw that all out.

He forcefully pulled her into his chest, the two practically slumping onto the ground as he rocked her on his lap. His strong arms caged her in. He truly didn't care what the prince thought at this point.

Eventually, it subsided, and she finally leaned away from him. He cradled her face, tilting her head up. 

His breath hitched at the tear stains and reddening of her cheeks and nose. But what really tore him apart was the horrified look in her eyes.

And when those eyes turned to Jace.

Cregan could see Jace visibly gulp as his own eyes widened. He grimaced, "Escort the prince back to his chambers."

Jace stood with his hands up, "Lord Stark-"

"-Cregan, please don't," she murmured through a shaky exhale. She gripped his cloak. "Don't let him leave."

He looked her over and moved his hands to her hair. 

"The dark heir will fall… pride w…" her voice shook. "Pride will kill them all." She sniffled at looked to Jace, "You're going to die."

"Lovely, you're scaring him. Please. You and I will speak first. The prince will go to his chambers." He looked up at a servant, who took that as invitation enough to escort Jace out.

Cregan looked at her, and his worry grew by the minute.

…

"I've decided- you're going to accompany us to the Wall."

"Must I?" She asked.

"I can't leave you here to worry. If you're with me, at least I can care for you."

…

Jace and Cregan strapped the last of their belongings to their horses before their journey as they waited for Y/n.

"And these… dreams… do they come true?" Jace asked.

Cregan shrugged. "It's difficult to say. And they're often hard to understand."

"So, it runs in the blood?" He asked curiously. "I mean, through Hightower blood. It must- with your wife and then Helaena. Do you fear it becoming evident in your future children?"

Cregan paused completely to look at the prince. "This is not a defect. It is a part of who my wife is. If having my children resemble my wife is shameful to me, then I would not have wed her. Do I look like a man that has shame, my prince?"

"No," Jace immediately covered. "No, not at all. And I know the love you have for you wife. I only meant-"

"-I understand what you meant. But know that nothing about her is shameful to me."

Cregan had a look in his eye that said his words were not to be questioned.

Y/n emerged, wrapped in a heavy cloak. She immediately went to Cregan's side. He welcomed her, wrapping an arm around her waist. "Ready, lovely?"

She smiled, "I do hope so. And you, Prince Jacaerys?"

Jace grinned, "Of course, Lady Stark. And might I say that blue suits you."

She couldn't help but laugh a bit. 

Cregan gathered a broad smile, "Is she the very picture of a Stark?"

She wanted to joke with them. She really did. 

But everytime she looked Jace in the eyes, she saw his death.

And it was nearer than she had hoped.

.......................................................

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@abecerra611

[sena-seastar]

His Queen

Aegon II Targaryen x Fem!Reader

Summary: You and Aegon are trapped in an arranged marriage, but you've both done your best to deal with it. Aegon admits to you that he has his doubts about being king. You do your best to offer him comfort despite having your reservations.

Warnings: Smut, Oral (fem receiving), Slight angst, mentions of arranged marriage, mentions of infidelity

A/n: No beta, so I apologize for any grammar and spelling mistakes.

You groan, fluffing your pillow as you turn onto your side. Your eyes beg you to go back to sleep, but your mind seems intent on keeping you awake. You slide a hand over to the left side of the bed. The sheets where Aegon rested had grown cold. You frowned, longing for his warmth. He had been here when you went to sleep, just as he has been every night for the past week.

Since becoming king, Aegon has been different. He is taking a more active and involved role, not just as king but also as a husband and father. 

A great wave of weariness washes over you, taking your energy along with it. It leaves nothing but a sting of melancholy and humiliation in its wake. Perhaps you were a fool to think Aegon had changed. Had he slipped back into his old ways so soon? Where was he now, you wondered. In some brothel on the street of silk or in some filthy flea-bottom rat pit? You shake your head, trying to stop being so pessimistic.

Slowly, you got out of bed and pulled your robe over your nightgown. You pull your hair to the side as you slide on a pair of slippers. The castle was quiet and dark, though that was no surprise considering how late it was. You wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to fight off the chill in the air. Maester Orwyle believed the summer was finally coming to an end.

Your eyes wander around, lazily observing the same walls you have seen a thousand times before. Your mind turns back to your husband. The marriage had been arranged by your father and the late King Viserys. Your mother had wished you to marry the Lord of Seagard, Lord Jorah Mallister, but your father refused. What is a lord compared to a prince, he said.

Neither you nor Aegon had been happy about it. But somehow, you managed to coexist; you had little choice otherwise. Over the years, you had found yourself growing quite fond of him. He was charismatic and very easy on the eyes without even trying. Though you were unsure if he shared your feelings, it was so hard to tell. He was always off doing whatever he did with his spare time.

The sound of clinking metal echoed in the air. Your eyes land upon an alert Ser Arryk. Though the tense knight relaxed when he realized it was you. He removed his hand from the hilt of his sword and bowed his head.

“Your grace.”

“Ser Arryk,” you greet him courteously.

 “Is he alone?” You asked, gesturing towards the giant closed doors that concealed the throne room. 

You could see how the king guard tensed up again; a look of pity flickered in his eyes. It was a look you had grown accustomed to over the years. Your husband's indiscretions were well known throughout the city.

Ser Arryk nodded, “Yes, your grace.”

You take a step forward, and the knight quickly takes the hint. He pushed open one of the doors just enough for you to slip past it before pulling it closed again. The room was so quiet. Even the soft thuds your feet made against the stone floor echoed. The walk to the throne felt like it stretched on for hours. 

You could see Aegon in the distance. His silver-gold hair contrasted beautifully against the grim, gray walls of the throne room. The man stands at the foot of the steps, dressed down in his nightwear.

The iron throne was said to be made of the thousand swords of the conqueror’s enemies. Regardless of whether that was true, the throne was certainly a ghastly thing to look at.

The iron throne casts a large shadow that stops at the bottom of the steps, right at Aegon’s feet, threatening to engulf him.

“You disappeared. I was worried something had happened,” you said, breaking the silence in the room.

Aegon turned his head to look at you. He had a startled look on his face. Had he not heard you coming?

”I apologize, my queen. I did not wish to disturb you with my restlessness.” 

You fiddle with the sleeves of your robe. The title of queen was something you hadn’t entirely warmed up to yet. In truth, you weren’t sure what you thought of all of this. 

“I wouldn’t have minded. It’s better than waking up alone.”

A look of hurt and guilt washed over his face. You quickly came to regret your words.

“I'm sorry. Just forget I said anything,” you added nervously. “I shall leave you be.”

You quickly turn to leave, but before you can take a step, a voice calls out, “Don’t go!”

The urgency and desperation in his tone make you freeze. You crane your neck to look back at him. His dark eyes are wide and glossy.

“I mean,” he cleared his throat. “I would enjoy your company.”

You remain frozen, at a loss for words. He had never actively sought your company before. Aegon’s cheeks grow red, and he quickly adds, “Though you’re free to go if you wish.”

He quickly turns back around, facing the throne. You stare at the back of his head, your eyes following the waves of his hair. It had grown out quite a bit. That was also something you were not used to. He usually preferred to keep it short.

The soft thuds of your slippers hitting the ground echo in the air once more. You slowly move to stand by his side.

“Do you think I can do it?” He asked suddenly.

Aegon’s voice wavers as the question leaves his lips. You turn your head to look at him. His body is tense, and he keeps his eyes forward, not looking at you.

In a way, he reminds you of a child, your child, your sweet little Jaehaerys. He is your husband's heir now. One day, he will stand in this very spot. You wonder if he will have the same doubts.

Your eyes follow his gaze to the throne. You had wondered the same thing many times before. A deep, weary sigh escaped from your lips.

“I don’t know,” you answer honestly.

From the corner of your eyes, you can see him wince at your words. 

“I do not wish to lie to you, husband. I cannot say for certain if you will be a good king. But I do believe,” you take his hand into yours. “that you have a kind heart. And if you try, really try , you may surprise us all.”

He offers your hand a little squeeze. “I want to try. I just- I don’t know how. My father never prepared me for this.”

“No one prepared him either, yet he found his path. In time, you will too.”

An uneasy smile stretched across his lips. He shook his head slightly before lowering it. His eyes trained on the ground. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“Hey,” you coax as you move to stand before him. 

Your free hand gently cups his face, urging him to look up at you. His eyes are vast and glossier than you’ve ever seen them. You can see the slight tremble in his bottom lip. He leans into the warmth of your palm. You run your thumb up and down his cheekbone. 

“You are not alone in this, Aegon. You have your small council and your grandfather, who has advised two kings bef-”

“And you?” He queried.

Aegon’s violet eyes shift back and forth between your eyes as if he were searching for something. 

“Yes,” you nodded. “You have me.”

His hands rest on your hips, pulling you closer. Soon, your chest is pressed against his. You can feel his warm breath on your face. You catch a whiff of the sweet arbor red that lingers on his tongue. Aegon lowers his head, nudging his nose against yours. Your lips just barely graze each other. 

A heat climbed up your face, making it feel like your skin was on fire. Unable to handle the growing need in your stomach, you lift yourself onto your toes, pressing your lips to his. Aegon responds immediately, moving his soft lips against yours.

This kiss was different. Different from the chaste kiss you shared on your wedding day or the sloppy drunk kisses you shared during the few times he joined you in your marital bed. 

Aegon kissed you with a desperation and hunger that you had never experienced before. Your arms wound around his neck, needing him even closer to you if possible. You let him lead you through the kiss, primarily due to your lack of experience but also because you find yourself becoming lightheaded. 

You feel dizzy like the world is spinning. You're running out of breath, lungs burning from the lack of air, but no part of you wants to stop this.

Aegon takes the initiative to pull away first. A pathetic whine passes through your lips. You lean forward, eager to feel his lips on yours again, but he doesn’t let you. He grabs your arms, pulling them away from his neck.

“Come with me,” he said, taking one of your hands into his.

You struggled to keep up with him as he pulled you behind him. Your feet sluggishly climbed up the stairs to the iron throne.

“What are you doing?” You asked as you reached the top.

“Take a seat,” he replied, not answering your question.

You eyed him suspiciously, unsure of what he was planning to do. Your eyes scanned the empty throne room, ensuring no one was watching you. A devilish smile rested on his lips as he gestured towards the throne. You hold onto his hand as you lower yourself onto the throne made of swords. 

Your body is tense, and you struggle not to let the fear of being pricked overwhelm you.

“How does it feel?”

You struggle to come up with an answer. You were frightened, but you could not deny the sense of power and strength that filled your chest. Suddenly, you could understand why so many people lusted after the throne.

“It’s ... nice.”

Aegon lets out a hearty laugh, and you turn your head away, mortified.

“My sweet little wife,” he mused, leaning down to kiss your head.

You stay silent, reeling with embarrassment. You close your eyes, wishing this was all a dream and that you would soon be back in the comfort of your own bed.

Warm hands slipping under your nightgown make you gasp. Your head snaps forward to find your husband kneeling before you. Aegon’s warm hands rest on your calves. You squeeze your legs together as tightly as you can.

“What are you doing?!” You whispered harshly, taken aback by his audaciousness.

His eyes flickered up towards yours, staring at you. “I want to try something.”

The gleam in his eyes sends a shiver down your spine.

“What?” You asked, though you believe you have some understanding of what he means.

Some of the more... bolder ladies at court loved to gossip and share stories of their late-night trysts with their husbands and paramours. You have heard a few stories about men who enjoy... feasting on their lovers. It was something you had never heard of before, let alone experienced. A part of you wondered if it was even true.

You had thought of asking Aegon about it, as he was quite... familiar with the ways of lovemaking, but you could not bring yourself to repeat what you had heard.

“Trust me,” he said, a grin reaching his lips. “I believe you will enjoy it.”

You stare at him, taking a deep breath before nodding. His warm hands slid up high, caressing your knees as he pushed them apart. You gasped, knees immediately trying to clamp shut to preserve some of your dignity. But Aegon doesn’t let you. 

He keeps a firm grip on your knees, keeping you spread open for him. Your nightgown is hitched up above your knees. The cold night air makes your skin prickle with goosebumps. The heat that was climbing up your face earlier spreads throughout your entire body. You want to close your eyes and turn away, but you cannot bring yourself to look away from him.

His eyes no longer stare into yours. Instead, his violet eyes remained focused between your legs. He glides his hands up your thighs, inching your dress higher until, finally, your cunt is exposed. But he doesn’t touch it. Instead, he moves his palms down, rubbing circles on your outer thighs.

The way Aegon touches you now differs from his usual impatient and rough approach. His hands seem almost reverent as they fondle your soft, plush thighs.

“Aegon,” you gasped as he lowered his head, pressing his lips to your right inner thigh. 

His hair fell forward, covering his face, but you believed you could feel him smirking against your skin. Suddenly, you felt him nip at the sensitive skin of your thigh. A sharp cry leaves your lips.

“‘m sorry,” he murmured against your skin as he kissed the bite.

His lips move up higher to the crook of your thigh. Your mouth hung slightly open, and a shaky breath passed through your lips. Being naked and exposed to him was nothing new, but having him so close like this was. Having his eyes and lips so close to your most intimate area was very new.

“Can you open them a bit more?” He asked, looking up at you.

You swiped your tongue across your lips before nodding. You were finally able to shut your eyes as you spread your legs wider, hoping it was enough.

“You’re perfect,” he said in awe.

A hot wetness glides over your aching cunt, making your entire body jolt. You let out a noise that is somewhere between a gasp and a cry as you try to draw your legs closed, but you're unable to, not with Aegon nestled between your thighs. His shoulders keep you spread open for his view and pleasure.

Aegon’s tongue was delivering the most exquisite pleasure you had ever experienced. He lapped up and down your folds, savoring your taste, before caressing your clit, alternating movements from up and down and side to side.

You look down, finding him peering up at you. His violet eyes locked onto you, watching your every expression, listening to every sound as he unraveled you beneath him. Your whole body felt like it was on fire, from the top of your head all the way down to your toes. All the air that fills your lungs is gone in an instant.

“Aegon- mmm,” his name leaves you like a meager whine.

His tongue works ardently between your splayed thighs, feasting upon you like a man starved. You find yourself enamored by the soft, tantalizing, wet sound his mouth is producing. One of your hands reached down, entangling itself in his messy silver waves. He moans against you, and the feeling has you arching your back. 

Your eyes rolled back as the pleasure quickly began to overwhelm you. Your chest rose and fell repeatedly, your hard nipples rubbing against the fabric of your nightgown. You did not know how much more you would be able to take.

Sinful cries and whimpers echoed throughout the throne room, but you could not bring yourself to care. How could you possibly think of anything else when your husband was sending wave after wave of pleasure through your body? 

Then, he slips a finger inside of you. 

“Aegon!” You cried out, so close to reaching your peak, yet not wanting this to end.

He easily adds another. His fingers move at a torturous, methodical pace. The pads of his fingers rub against your spongy walls, favoring that spot that makes you gasp and squeal. He catches your clit between his lips, suckling on it as if it were a treat. You gripped his head, rocking into his mouth.

You could feel a familiar heat building up in your lower stomach. The tension was almost unbearable. The world around you seemed to blur; all your senses honed in on Aegon and the pleasure only he could give you. 

You panted out curses and his name, shuddering at the warm pleasure that filled your entire body.

A groan erupts from the back of his throat, so guttural, it makes you weak. You glanced down and found him still watching you. His dark eyes entranced you, not allowing you to look away. 

Your legs and back stiffened, your stomach tightened, and your breath halted. You clamped your eyes shut and moaned out his name as you finally reached your peak. 

You remove your hand from his hair and tap his shoulder. Thankfully he pulled away with little protest, allowing your senses to calm down as your peak reached its end. Your back is aching from sitting upright for so long. You lean back a little, hoping to find relief, but the iron throne offers none. 

You're unsure how much time passes before you can properly catch your breath again. Soft fingers interlace with yours, bringing you back to the present. You blink, trying to fight off the drowsiness that is steadily creeping up on you. Aegon is still kneeling before you, with a self-satisfying look on his face.

“I told you you’d like it.”

You let out a breathy laugh and tried to push him away. However, you lacked the strength to do so.

“Just... give me a moment. Then I shall help you.”

“Mmh,” he hummed. “That won’t be necessary, my queen.”

You frowned. “What do you mean?”

He smirked and glanced down at his lap before looking back at you. You sat up and looked down to find a dark wet spot that covered the front of his trousers. Your face heated up again, and a coy smile made its way onto your lips.

“That’s too bad,” you sigh. “I was hoping we could play some more.”

Aegon’s smirk is gone, replaced with a more serious look. “I just need a moment. Then I’ll take you right here.”

You laugh at his enthusiasm. “I’m more than willing to go again, but not here. I prefer the comfort of our bed.”

Aegon nods and quickly stands to his feet. He helps you stand and holds you close to his side as the two of you leave the throne room. 

“Your grace,” Ser Arryk bows as the two of you make it out of the room.

You gulped, mortified, realizing what the poor white cloak had just endured. 

“Ser Arryk,” Aegon smiled. “The Queen and I shall be returning to our bedchamber now.”

The knight’s eyes flickered toward you before quickly averting his gaze. It was not hard to tell that the man was flustered. You shot him an apologetic smile even though he would not look at you.

“Yes, your grace.” He replied, dutifully following behind the two of you as you returned to your bedchamber. You’ll have to convince Aegon to find some way to make it up to him.

[writingjourney]

warmth // cregan stark x f!reader // 500 words, biting, filth, MDNI

The icy winds howl relentlessly as they meet the thick castle walls of Winterfell which stands proudly, as it has stood for thousands of years, against the perils of the North. Inside, a large fire is fighting off the cold, its deep orange glow and the flickering shadows battling for dominance over the chamber.

Winter nights are long this far North and comfort is best found in sharing the silent hours in the arms of a lover. You find that your lord husband is taking this sentiment quite seriously, this task of keeping you warm and content.

Muttered curses drown out the crackling of the fire, his cock burried deep inside of you as he ruts in a desperate rhythm. Your breathy moans are stifled by the meat of his shoulder, the imprint of your teeth never quite fading. Cregan runs hotter than the natural springs underneath the stronghold, a thin sheen of sweat coating his back as you claw at it to relieve the tension inside of you.

With broken words you whisper your affection for him, how good he makes you feel, how he fills you so perfectly, and his voice is thick, deeper, when he drawls your name. One hand is secured firmly around your thigh to spread your legs apart as far they would go, the other arm propped to support his weight and not crush you. There lies a certain thrill in the fact that he could rip you apart with his bare hands, the Wolf of the North, a man with the strength of a beast, yet so gentle after night falls and his lips find yours, stern lord turned to ardent lover, grim wolf to playful pup.

It is his intimate embrace that makes you forget the unforgiving nature of the North, you, a post-war transplant from beyond the Neck, and perhaps it is the sole reason why you find yourself missing your old home less and less despite the harsh reality of your new life in the perpetual cold of an endless Winter.

Cregan angles your hips upwards and you crest almost instantly, forgetting yourself as heat pools into every crevice of your body. He swallows the sounds of your pleasure, ever hungry, lips and hands indulging in the sweet reactions he manages to draw from you. It never takes long until he follows, though he likes to linger, push the evidence of his release deeper into your cunt.

Wolf he may be but when he pulls you to his chest he purrs like a cat, content and happy to be basking in the warmth of not just the fire but the potent afterglow of your shared love. You rake your fingers through his coarse chest hair, dark as the rest of him, and his eyes fall closed, the weariness catching up. A gentle touch never fails to lure him into a slumber, the kiss of your lips to his cheek scarcely noted. You smile as you listen to his steady breath, mingling with the whispered howls outside – wind or wolf, the answer lost to fragmented dreams.

─── ⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆ ───

thank you for reading!! this is meant to be part of a bigger story that i hope to be writing at some point but i adapted it into a short ficlet ♡

[missswritesalot]

can i request another robb stark x reader? Something where theyre in an arranged marriage but reader has a bit of an attitude towards him at first? maybe a bit of smut if its ok?

A/N: Requests open! sorry! No smut in this but I swear I have a spicy part two in the works. Reblog/Comment for more!

Robb hesitated before he knocked on the door to Y/N’s chamber. The Stark direwolf handles confirmed that the doors lead to the chambers of the Lady of Winterfell.

“I’ve no desire to dine in your presence,” he heard her say even before he raised his hand to knock. The door opened shortly afterwards. He had to peer down to meet her dark eyes. His beautiful wife. Beautiful, but cruel wife.

“Always on the hour, husband.” She said, words dripping with sweet venom. “It’s unfortunate but understandable that I wish to dine in my chambers.”

“Y/N, I need you there. We have important guests this eventide and I must appear strong with my lady by my side.”

“I must apologize, my Lord, I have a headache. I hope you find your meal most satisfactory.” She said, her curtesy was the most performative thing. Bile rose the back of Robb’s throat. He was still looking into her glossy eyes when she shut the doors on him.

It had all been his fault, really. He’d wanted to continue the tradition set by his late Lord father, that a peasant man may dine at the high table every evening.

He did not anticipate, but he should have, that one day a northman might offend his Dornish wife. And when she turned to Robb for justice, he turned her away. He scarcely saw the hurt in her eyes before she picked up her skirts and deserted the hall.

The meal today was as drab as every other without her. Her prolonged absence did not go unnoticed and Robb’s mother offered to pay her a visit, to check on her health. He refused her kindly, but his concern was evident to all those there.

That night, Robb broke protocol and went into her chambers after the castle had gone to sleep. The candles in her room were still burning, and the fireplace overpowered the room with heat.

Robb felt a twinge of affection in his heart for his Dornish wife, maybe her coldness was borne from how cold she must feel in the North.

“A lot of my- our, subjects, remarked on your poor health these days. Perhaps you will quell their fears tomorrow evening?” Robb said to her. She was reading and half lying down under heavy furs, he could only see the top of her dressing gown.

“I can no longer pretend to enjoy your gatherings. Perhaps you will find someone more suited to these demands,” she said cooly, closing her dusty book and placing it on the bed beside her.

Robb was weary, in his cups, and crushed by her words. Yet she was the most gorgeous woman he had laid eyes on. Her hair, long and dark as the night, hung loose and tumbled over her shoulders onto the sheets. He had never seen it unstyled, not even their wedding night.

Robb walked over to her and stroked the side of her head gingerly.

“Whatever I have done to offend you, wife, it was not my intention. The serf has been punished, and my subjects know to hold their tongue.” Robb said. He didn’t expect her to snap back from his touch, but the movement crushed his heart.

“It must be comforting to never face a different perspective.” She spat out.

“That is not true,” he said.

“I wish to return to Dorne. My father is dead, and he sent me here to this marriage. My eldest brother has written to me assuring me I would be received as per my station.” She said haughtily.

“That is not possible.” Robb said darkly. “Not without a war, dearest. You became my wife the moment you wore my cloak.”

“Hardly. You find me so vile you slept on the ground the night of our wedding.” She said, her anger made her forget her courtesy.

Robb hesitated. She had entirely the wrong idea.

Her disdain of him was obvious from the moment they met. She thought of him as a barbarous northman and herself a lamb to the slaughter. He could not imagine she could ever come to love him, if he had agreed to a bedding ceremony nor bedded her by force. There were some fractures that never healed.

He would have to correct her silly notions. But the fire in her eyes told him it would be a long time before she could accept that she wanted him.

“You will dine with me, I will hear no protest. If it is my men that bother you, then we will eat breakfast and dinner together, alone in the corridor between our chambers.” He said.

She opened her mouth, words threatening to spill out. He placed a finger to hush her. Blood rushed out of Robb’s head when he felt her warm and soft lips against his skin.

“Un huh,” Robb said, shaking his head. “No more, wife.” He leaned down and kissed her, not shyly but not too rough. Her soft gasp made him harden in his breeches.

Robb tore himself away from her and made a hasty exit to his chambers, congratulating himself on not turning around to catch one final glimpse.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Winter's King 16

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, cheating, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)

Characters: Geralt of Rivia

Note: I didn't sleep very well but I'm here.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

As you move North, the sunlight fades sooner and rises later, the nights cooling with each mile. Nearly a fortnight on the road, and you return to the service of the queen. Bryce escorts you between the carts, gesturing in passing to his comrades, other times letting past another body on their own mission. You reach the front of the train where men with swords pace and keep watch over the surrounding lands. 

“Evenin’,” Bryce greets the guards outside the queen’s tent and they grumble back. The weariness of travel has overcome many of the travelers. 

You dip your head down and approach the tent flap. Before the card can pull it back for your entrance, it sweeps open from the other side. You step back as another figure falters before you. The king keeps hold of the silk and his eyes skim over you. He tilts his head and moves to hold the fabric open, beckoning you through with his large hand. 

“Your highness,” you murmur. 

His jaw squares but he says nothing. As you enter, the fabric falls heavily behind you. The king’s expression lingers in your mind, his silence even more. The tick in his cheek was hard to miss and you can hear his heavy footfalls as he stalks off. 

Within, the queen sits on a bench, playing with the tassel of her belt. Her father, Lord Dustan, stands to the side, arms crossed as he makes small steps back and forth. He tuts and chews his thumb. 

“Your husband does not behave as son-in-law,” the duke gripes lowly, “he would have let Debray fall to those vandals. He cares only for his frost lands.” 

“Father, he is only eager to be home. As much as I dread the cold, I cannot help but feel as such. I tire of this endless road,” Queen Jazlene yawns into a cupped hand. 

“Ah, but you must be a loyal wife. What of mine? What of your mother? She was alone in the castle.” 

“And you rode out to save her, didn’t you?” Jazlene prompts. 

“I am a lord of the summer lands, I am past my warring days,” Dustan snarls, “he would risk my flesh on an uprising he could crush with his left hand. He tests me!” The duke circles around as he jabs his finger in the air, “I deserve more dignity, more respect. I delivered him his kingdom.” 

“Yes, father, he is a frigid man,” Jazlene bemoans, “as icy a husband. He does neglect us both.” 

“Neglect?” Dustan faces his daughter, “does he not see to his contract?” 

She frowns and bats her doey eyes as she looks away, “it isn’t that he doesn’t fulfill his duty, it is only... how might I get an heir if I lie with my husband only once in a moon?” 

“Does he mean to deceive us? A son will bind us. A son is what we need. Does he think the summer lands will follow a king who does not sow his seed?” 

“I do not know, father. I... I have tried all I can think of.” 

“Mm,” the duke hums darkly, “that won’t do at all. Not at all. When I married your mother, she was swollen with you almost as soon as the vows were said. No, no, it won’t do. I will have word with the king, make certain he does not treat my daughter, his queen, so coolly.” 

Dustan stop and twiddles his fingers. You try to imagine him confronting King Geralt. Surely it is bluster for the sake of his daughter. 

“...we are ruined without an heir...” he mutters. 

Jazlene sits forward on the bench, “ruined, father? I am queen--” 

“Yes, yes, you are queen, but a queen has her duty too,” Dustan insists, “and it cannot be done with a negligent king. Leave it to me, daughter. The next I see the king, I shall handle our business. As I have ever done. Do you believe in me? For I did deliver you a fine marriage, didn’t I?” 

“Yes, father.” 

The duke goes to his daughter and rubs her shoulder. He leans in and you shrink against the tent wall, making yourself small. 

“Should it prove poor judgment,” his whisper scratches from his lips, “I will figure a way out.” 

He kisses her hair and turns to march out. He takes not notice of you though that is expected. Jazlene sighs as the flap falls and she leans back on her hands, swaying her leg. 

“Ah, the maid,” she cheeps, “you will fetch hot water for my feet. They ache.” 

“Yes, your highness.” 

She grins, a catlike expression and sits up straight, “yes, that is right. I am a queen and soon, the king will be certain to treat me as such.” 

You flit off to your duty. As you emerge, your chest stirs with unease. Something about their conversation has you unnerved. Though they said nothing outright, it feels as if there is more laced between the words. The queen and her father hardly sound as allies to the king. 

You try to wipe the apprehension from your mind. You are but a maid and not so well-versed on noble matters. It isn’t your place to unpiece their declarations or untangle their riddles. You are to get the water to sooth the daughter of Debray’s feet, it may yet save you a box to the ears. 

⚔️

You shiver as the cart bounces over the hard ground. You count a month or so since your departure from the capital though the days blend in a fog. The gradual creep of the chill has advanced upon the part, slowing the wheels, and sending the riders to pause and cover their horses. You keep the fur cloak over your lap as you lean into the corner of the cart though Bryce seems enlivened by the atmosphere. 

The dim sky harkens the crossing of the intangible barrier between the summer and winter lands. Sprawling plains and rounded feels give way to rocky passes and jutting mountains, interspersed with lumpy tundras speckled with patches of mud. Several times, your soldierly escort has had to help yank free the wheels from some rut or another. 

“Are we there?” You ask through as chatter, blowing into your hands. “The Hinterlands?” 

“Mm, by my guess, we are at the Fox’s Tail. You see, it is the little strip of land where no man lives, summer or winter,” he explains, reaching to scratch his beard. You envy the warmth it must give to his cheeks. “Isn’t so cold yet, mouse, better brace yerself.” 

You nod and look ahead at the grey, brown expanse. There are dustings of frost but not snow, only on the distant caps of rugged mountains that shadow the horizon. You hug yourself as Daisy’s breath plumes in misty clouds around her head. 

“Why does no one live here?” You ask. 

“There are no trees, no grass to feed the livestock or game,” he shrugs, “it is barren...” he sucks his teeth and thinks, “there was a war. Hundreds of years ago, maybe more. The summer folk spilled upon the winter lands, some squabble over a slain lord... they put salt to the earth. They did not only want vengeance on the living, they wanted their descendants to suffer for their misdeeds. Starve out an entire people.” 

He snorts and shakes his head, “what the summer people didn’t understand is that the winter skinned do not stay still. They move with the winds. You’ll see, mouse. You haven’t done the last of yer scurrying.” 

You huddle down as another cold breath sweeps through the air. You’re not used to it but you will be. That’s how it always is. You just have to take what you get and make it work. You can’t complain for what you have; a warm cloak, a cart, and a kind companion. 

⚔️

Your teeth chatter as you hold closed the front of the fur cloak, the hood over your head as you walk the frozen earth. More often than not, you’ve left the prized cape in your cart for your return. It is too heavy to wear while serving the queen but the weather permits you no mercy. It is far too bitter to forgo the extra layer. 

Bryce is unbothered in his mail and the simple fur trim the collar of his wool cloak. He only seems to thrive in the dipping temperatures, stoking a fire for your nocturnal return so that you may sleep in its warmth. His constancy keeps you from mourning the lost summer sunshine. 

He stands behind you as you cross to the queen’s tent, now raised with several layers to insulate the walls. You enter as you do every night, unnoticed as Queen Jazlene mindlessly stares into the pages of a book. She’s grown quiet these last weeks as the travel wears on her, even her wardrobe showing the effects. 

You feel a gust from beneath the tent wall and step away from it. You watch the queen, huddled beneath a blanket on a stool, shaking as she tries to warm her hands in each other. She wears several satin cloaks layered over each other but the fabric is too sleek to garner much heat. 

She puffs into her palms and groan.  

“Damn this cold,” she mutters, then sits up, “maid, tea!” She demands, “Something warm! Anything!” 

You utter a small “your highness” and spin away to your task. You step out into the cold and go off to find a fire and a pot. The queen has some berry tea in her chests.  

You acquire a cup of steaming water from a cluster of servants around a flame. You linger for a moment to absorb some of the fire’s haze then set back toward the royal tent. As you near, a shadow nearly collides with you. You keep the cup balanced as you scramble around the figure. The torch light catches the king’s golden eyes as they meet yours. 

“Your highness,” you murmur. 

He grunts as he stops fully. He stares down at you wordlessly. You cannot read his expression as shadows dance around his features, flickering various emotions across his face. He bows his head and presses on. You turn to watch him go as concern rolls up your throat. 

In those last weeks, months you believe, you’ve not seen much of the king. You’ve wondered after his elusivity. At first, you thought it might be due to the combat at Debray, perhaps he was disheartened by the last act of resistance. Then you surmised it might be evasion of his own wife. Alas, you could not guess and fathomed it was not your place to do so. 

This brief encounter further perplexes you. You can’t help but question if it is you. You recall the last day in the capital, the grit of his voice casting you out. Go. The memory ripples through you. 

You think much of yourself. It wouldn’t be anything to do with a paltry maid. You focus on the hot water in your hand and continue on to the queen’s tent. 

You enter and wrap the dried berries and leaves, steeping them in the steaming water. You hover over the cup, waiting for the water to deepen in hue and cool enough to drink. When you bring it to the queen, you feel her gaze upon you. 

“Your highness,” you hand her the cup. 

She hesitates to take it, only doing so after deep consideration. She holds the tea in one hand as her other tugs on your cloak. She makes an ugly noise. 

“And where did you find this, maid?” She sneers. “Hmm, I sit her in my summer garb and you wear a bear’s skin?” 

Your lips part and you raise your shoulders. You look at the tent wall and frown. You poke your hand outside the cloak and touch the soft fur.  

“Your highness,” you look down at the cloak then at her trembling grasp on the cup. “Would you like it? You look awfully cold.” 

“Yes, I want the damn cloak!” She yanks it hard, “I am the queen and you did not think to offer me a proper cloak? How stupid are you.” 

You bow your head and reach to unbuckle the cloak. When it is loose, you shrug it off and hand it over. You will find a spare blanket. There must be some left among the luggage. 

She shoves the cup at you and stands. She swings the cloak around her and hums as she pulls its snug around her figure. She sits again and rubs her chin against the fur. 

“Much better,” she says, “I’ve been suffering this damnable place for far too long.” 

She takes the tea back, spilling a drop on your hand. You back away, the liquid cooling and sending a new chill through you. You cover one hand with the other and clutch tightly, locking your jaw against the tremor that crawls up your spine. 

The queen slurps from the tea and makes a face. She sneers, “I want wine,” she pouts, “how long must I be deprived? Wine!” She snarls down at the cup, “but I must drink this bile. Oh, but the king bids it,” she raises her voice mockingly, “you must obey your husband.” She shakes her head and takes another gulp, “at least it is warm. At least--”  

She holds the cup away from her suddenly as her face twists. She drops it and recoils, panic washing over her. She keels forward, holding her skirts out of the way as she spews onto the rug spread over the hard ground. She wretches loudly, spasming with the horrid sounds snagging in her throat. 

The smell of her vomit permeates the tent. She stays bent over her lap as she pants. You come forward and offer her a handkerchief to wipe her mouth. She sits up and gulps tightly, her features drawn. She pats her lips. 

“Well, clean it up,” she turns her feet away from the puddle between them. “Stupid maid.” 

She pokes a sharp nail into your arm and you wince.  

“Your highness, are you unwell?” You ask, “shall I fetch a physician? Or some ginger?” 

“No, you stupid cow, I am not unwell,” she flicks her fingers at you before waving away the stench of her bile. She stands and walks away from it, her hand settling on her middle. She faces you and smiles broadly, “I am carrying the king’s son.” Her face darkens as she wrinkles her nose, “I told you, you twit, to clean that up. You best do so before I make you eat it.” 

You nod and bend your neck, “yes, your highness, I will fetch water.” 

“I don’t care, just do it,” she snaps and rubs her stomach. She lets out a shuddery groan and turns her back to you. You watch as she draws tight the cloak and sways with a trill, “I will be a true queen now. He cannot deny me any longer.” 

[miss-choco-chips]

Kyou Kara Maou but Yuuri is the one who introduces people to a tradition for once. It goes a little like this -

There's a rumor in court that the King doesn't really love his fiance, and sees him as a friend or brother in arms. They got engaged for political reasons, you see. Or by mistake. There's no intent there. A few dream of proposing to the king, and have him maybe accept, but most know that's a moot point- he's always with Lord Weller, his bodyguard. No one can get past that man, less of all close enough to the king to actually strike him. So, the smart ones decide a better way to get into the king's good graces and into his inner circle would be by proposing to his fiance. Free him of an unwanted arrangement, become something like a sibling in law by marrying his long time companion, AND get a drop -dead gorgeous husband?? Its too good of a deal to pass up.

And so it starts, one night during a ball at the castle. Yuuri is dancing with Greta, while Wolfram smiles tenderly from the side, and the way the gesture lights up his entire face and turns his stern demeanour angelic gives the last push of bravery a tipsy noble needed. The slap is heard throughout the hall, and everything, music included, quietens at the sound. Wolfram is frozen in place, cheek stinging. Conrad and Gwendal approach, storms in their eyes. Yuuri, confused and a little annoyed as he starts to understand what's going on, follows suit.

He has to duel the noble, of course. As the one of higher standing between him and his friend, it's either he fights the dude for Wolfram or 'gives him up'.

'You can get rid of the engagement like this', Murata points out.

'Wolf isn't an object to be passed around,' Yuuri replies, getting ready for the fight. 'And he doesn't want to marry the guy- I won't free myself by trapping him somewhere else'

He doesn't go too hard on the noble. Poor guy was kinda drunk, he probably didn't mean anything by it, and he doesn't deserve to have his shit rocked because he made an impulsive decision while deep in his glass. Yuuri can also empathize, as he, too, has felt the need to hit Wolfram in the past (and he understands his beauty is the type that makes people do dangerous things).

They think the matter is settled. That it's a one off, weird but whatever.

Then, it happens again, when Wolfram is taking a stroll through the gardens with Greta. The noble lady responsible had thought the last attempt made had failed because the man decided to slap Lord Von Bielefeld in front of the Maou. Of course, even without an emotional connection, the gesture was too disrespectful to go unpunished. She grins as her hand makes contact, uncaring about the young princess bursting into tears and running off. Wolfram, this time, gathers himself fast enough to feel pissed. If not for the guards holding him off, weary of how tradition dictates the only retribution given might come from Yuuri, he'd have cooked the woman alive.

By the time Yuuri gets there, hand in hand with a still weepy Greta, he's mad enough by the fact someone dared make his daughter cry that he duels the woman right there in the gardens. After it's done, Wolfram huffs, still indignant, and marches his king and princess back inside, leaving the guards to deal with the waterlogged lady.

Okay, the nobles think. So maybe the Maou has to save face, and feels forced to accept any challenge thrown in his own home. No big deal! Lord Von Bielefeld is escorting the King on a diplomatic meeting when a dignatary from the neighboring country, the one they are visiting, goes up to him and strikes.

Conrad is the one holding Wolfram back this time, while Yuuri, angry after a full day of negotiations going nowhere, takes the chance to work off some nervous energy and dons his sword for the duel. Murata, again, points out Yuuri could use this as a chance to end the engagement. Yuuri, who's heard Wolfram ask late at night, on a very quiet voice, 'they think me so easy to steal? Am I worth so little to them?', shuts him up with a glare. It was never funny to begin with, but now it's really, really not funny.

The general consensus is, then, that it shouldn't be done while the Maou is nearby at all, or in his castle. Pursuers gain confidence then, attacking again and again when the young lord is on patrols, back on his uncle's lands, or simply out and about. Wolfram's guards become twitchy, trying their best to stop this from happening but not having much success, dreading the moment they are sent to call for the Maou so he might fight for his fiance.

Yuuri fights no less than 15 duels, having to cut meetings short, postpone his trips to earth and cancel baseball practice to do so. He's getting angrier and angrier, frustrated and... Something else he has no name of, at how many people are apparently wanting to take his place on Wolfram's life.

He still entertains the entire thing because that's tradition, apparently, and it has to stop eventually, right?

Until one night, when they are alone in their room, Wolfram turns away from him in the bed and whispers how maybe they should end the engagement. If people think him so easily stolen, his image must be pretty bad, not at all like how a future king consort should be; and he's seen how tired Yuuri is of having to defend him. His pride and feelings are hurt, and for the first time in his life, Wolfram is contemplating giving up instead of fighting, his usual fire dimming with every careless duel.

That's when Yuuri gets up from bed, terrified and furious at the notion, and storms into the treasure room to look for the thing he needs. And during the next big feast at the castle, like the one that started this madness, he calls for attention and explains to everyone how proposals are done in Earth. How one gets down on one knee, begging their partner to accept a ring in exchange for the rest of their life together. How no one can take that ring off, except the one that put it there or the one who wears it, and even then it's by their choice alone. How it's a promise and a vow and something unbreakable, forever.

And as he says this, he kneels in front of Wolfram and presents a precious ring of emeralds and onix, and once again binds Wolfram to him.

No one else proposes to either of them, after that night, even though Wolfram's smile had shone so bright it put all the jewels in the room to shame.

Gunter doesn't stop crying for a week, while Gwendal is busy planning the wedding.

[another-lost-mc]

Hospitality

No one makes better tea than Barbatos.

BARBATOS x afab!Reader 0.9k words | NSFW | Yandere | Non-con somnophilia Content warnings: Yandere thoughts/behaviours, non-con somnophilia, drugging, stalking. The Creepy Castle AU [Part 2] PREVIOUS | NEXT

When you enter the guest room provided for you at the Demon Lord's castle, there’s a steaming cup of tea on the nightstand. It’s not the first time Barbatos surprised you like this during one of your visits, and the kind gesture makes you smile.

You pick up the delicate porcelain cup and inhale the fragrant aroma - it’s sweet and slightly herbal, a blend of Devildom berries and flowers you can’t identify yet by smell.

You purse your lips and blow gently across the top. The murky red liquid ripples gently as you cool your drink. Your first sip is hesitant, but you hum appreciatively at the light, honeyed taste. You take another generous sip before setting the cup back down onto its saucer.

There’s a folded piece of clothing on the bedspread. When you lift it in front of you, you realize it’s a nightgown; the fabric is soft and semi-sheer, dyed a beautiful shade of dark blue. It falls just above your knees. You can tell by the feel of it that it’s luxurious, nothing that you would ever buy for yourself and certainly not to sleep in.

You attended a ball earlier this evening at Diavolo’s castle. Lucifer and his brothers insisted you join them. Diavolo welcomed you tonight with open arms.

The night was a blur of dancing and drinking and jubilant conversation. By the time the last guests departed, it was well past midnight and Lucifer readily accepted Diavolo’s offer to stay at the castle. Walking back to the House of Lamentation was a daunting proposition; more than one of his brothers drank too much tonight. 

Lucifer and his brothers wandered off to their nearby guest rooms to sleep. Barbatos led you further down the hall and showed you to an exquisite room for your own use. He explained he prepared it for you at Diavolo’s request, to ensure your privacy and comfort. He wished you a good evening before he walked away.

You have nothing with you except a small purse and the dress on your back, purchased earlier that day with Asmodeus. If you twist oh so carefully, you can just reach the zipper and tug it down. The dress slides off your shoulders and glides lazily to the floor and pools at your feet. You drape the dress carefully over the back of an armchair so it doesn’t wrinkle too terribly by morning.

The cool castle air chills your skin and you can feel your bare nipples harden. It might not be appropriate to sleep mostly-naked when you’re a guest of the young prince. You feel ill-prepared for a night away from the comforts of home, but then you glance at the gift on your bed.

The nightgown fits perfectly and the material is silky against your skin. You pull back the blankets and slide into bed, sitting against the headboard with a tired sigh. You cradle the teacup in your palm and take more small sips. The warm liquid relaxes you, and soon you’re sleepy and can drink no more. You set the nearly-empty cup back on the nightstand and shimmy down the mattress to get comfortable. Once your head rests on the soft, cloud-like pillow, you close your weary eyes.

When your breathing slows and you descend into deep sleep, the candles that light the room blow out. The shadows come alive when you're bathed in darkness. Sin slips through the cracks of stone, the walls giving way so no more barriers exist between you.

Greedy eyes drink in your sleeping form and the sheets are tugged away, revealing your soft, touchable skin draped in midnight blue. The sheer fabric clings to each dip and groove and curve when you breathe.

He knew you would look lovely in this.

He dares to reach towards your sleeping face - his once-steady hands now shaking with anticipation, the urge to explore too overwhelming to resist. Beneath the supple leather gloves he wears, he can still feel the warmth of your skin that makes the craving he feels for you bloom deep in his belly.

His hand traces the fragile column of your throat and over the slope of your breasts, fingers gliding over the dips and curves of your chest and waist. The swell of your hip fits so perfectly in his hand. He dares to trail his thumb along the top of your thigh and into the warm space between your legs. Wandering fingers skim the lacy underwear you left on. He feels a hint of dampness there, and he wonders what sinful dreams his tea has given you.

He shifts the fabric aside and your light scent is even stronger now, sweet and musky and all his. He teases the edge of your folds and revels in how soft and warm you are. His movements are gentle, smoothed by the barest traces of slick gathering on his gloves. He wonders how greedy he can be tonight–

You squirm in your sleep and he pulls away quickly as though burned by the temptation of getting too close. You unconsciously rub your thighs together and he already misses his place between them. He savors his consolation prize when he slips his fingers into his mouth and sucks them clean until he’s devoured every last drop of you. He barely suppresses the urge to moan.

He needs to go, now, or he never will.

He slips back into the hidden passageway buried within the castle walls and becomes nothing but a shadow once more. He leaves no trace behind, except for the dregs of sleeping herbs in the bottom of your teacup.

[ask-the-koopa-family]

Yaaaaay Cleo is heeeere !

Art/ocs/story are mine dont copy/repost

#bowser

#bowserjr

#koopalings

#supermariobros

#supermario

#bowserxoc

#canonxoc

A few months passed , and Cherry could go into labor at any minutes and then one day.. In the living room of Bowser’s Castle. Bowser and Cherry are seated on their couch, chatting peacefully. Suddenly, Cherry places a hand on her stomach and winces, feeling a sudden pain.

Cherry: breathing heavily 

"Bowser… I think… it’s time!"

Bowser: sits up, alert but calm 

"You mean… now?"

Cherry: with a nervous smile and a small sigh

 "Yes… our baby is coming!"

Bowser’s face lights up, but he remains composed. Around them, however, it’s a different story. The castle stirs with general excitement and panic. Servants murmur anxiously, a Goomba drops a stack of blankets, and a Koopa Troopa nearly trips while making a quick turn. Other servants scurry around, uncertain about what to do.

Bowser: in an authoritative tone, raising his hand 

"Calm down, everyone! This isn’t our first baby, so let’s show some nerve!"

The servants freeze, listening attentively, impressed by Bowser’s confidence.

Bowser: pointing at the Goombas 

"Goombas! Get some blankets and warm water for Cherry. turning to the Koopa Troopas And you, get a fire going to warm the delivery room. "noticing Kamek "Kamek!"

Kamek, watching from a corner with a kind smile, immediately steps forward, nodding.

Kamek: "Yes, Lord Bowser? How can I assist you?"

Bowser: gesturing to the Koopalings and Bowser Jr., who have arrived, wide-eyed 

"Kamek, keep the kids occupied. Keep them calm and away until everything’s done. Got it?"

Kamek: bowing" Of course, Sire. You can count on me."

Bowser Jr.: tugging at Kamek’s sleeve, concerned "But… I want to see the baby! is it coming soon?"

Kamek: with a reassuring smile 

"Don’t worry, Junior. You’ll see the baby very soon. But for now, let your dad be with Cherry, alright?"

Bowser leans toward Cherry, gently taking her hand to help her up from the throne.

Bowser: in a soft voice

" Come on, Cherry. I’m here; everything’s going to be fine."

Cherry: faintly smiling but reassured 

"Thank you, Bowser."

Kamek watches the couple disappear toward the delivery room, then turns back to the children, who look at him eagerly.

Wendy: with bright eyes

" Do you think the baby will look more like Dad, or like Cherry?"

Ludwig: arms crossed, serious 

"Doesn’t matter, as long as it has the Koopa spirit."

Larry: enthusiastic 

"Maybe the baby will have horns like Dad!"

In the delivery room, a few hours later, Bowser is by Cherry’s side as she holds their newborn daughter in her arms. She’s exhausted but glowing with happiness. Their baby is a little girl with flaming red hair like Bowser, small horns on her head, and a Koopa tail at the base of her back.

Cherry: smiling, weary Look,

"Bowser… its a girl! Our little daughter... She’s beautiful…"

Bowser: tenderly, his big smile softening 

"She’s perfect, Cherry. A true Koopa princess."

Cherry gently strokes the baby’s cheek, pride and tenderness filling her gaze.

Cherry: whispering 

"What shall we name her?"

Bowser remains silent for a moment, thinking as he watches their daughter with affection.

Bowser: softly 

"She deserves a special name… one that symbolizes her strength, beauty, and uniqueness. Something unique… just like her."

Cherry: with a dreamy smile 

"How about… Cleo?

Bowser: repeating softly 

"Cleo… Yes, it suits her. It’s both strong and gentle. Sounds like a noble name."

Cherry: smiling 

"And in an ancient dialect, it means “glory.” Cleo… it’s perfect for a princess who will shine without needing to fight."

Bowser: proudly 

"Cleo, the one who’ll bring glory to the kingdom… without lifting her claws, like her old dad. Haha!"

Cherry laughs softly, squeezing Bowser’s hand in an emotional moment. They share a knowing smile, thrilled with the name for their daughter.

Kamek enters discreetly, followed by the Koopalings and Bowser Jr., all eager to meet the baby. They enter cautiously, as if entering a sanctuary.

Bowser Jr.: staring wide-eyed 

"She’s so tiny… and she has horns like Dad!"

Wendy: in awe 

"And red hair, like Dad, too! whispering She’s so pretty!

Morton: enthusiastic 

"Welcome, little sis! We’ll protect you, promise!"

Ludwig: serious but moved 

"Yes, welcome, Cleo. We’ll be here for you."

Iggy: examining Cleo curiously 

"Ohhh! A hybrid Koopa princess! She’s unique, incredible!"

Lemmy: amazed 

"She’s going to be our best friend, I just know it!"

Cherry watches them all with a serene, tender smile as each child gazes at Cleo, fascinated and already protective.

Cherry: whispering to Bowser 

"Look at how much they already love her… we have a wonderful family, don’t we?"

Bowser: holding her close 

"Yes… the best family."

The children, still mesmerized by little Cleo, continue murmuring amongst themselves. Meanwhile, Bowser and Cherry enjoy their moment in silence until Cherry leans toward Bowser with a playful smile.

Cherry: whispering with a mischievous grin 

"Don’t forget our deal, my King… you remember, don’t you?"

Bowser lets out a light groan, rolling his eyes.

Bowser: feigning resignation 

"Yes, yes… feeding Cleo during the night for two weeks… "sighs but smiles 

"I should have known you’d be right."

Cherry: laughing softly 

"And I should have bet for a whole month!"

Bowser: amused, glancing at Cleo 

"Enjoy it, Cleo. Your dad lost the bet, so he’ll be watching over you every night…"

Cherry bursts out laughing, and Bowser eventually smiles, a bit resigned but tender.

Bowser: whispering 

"Alright, Cherry… a deal is a deal. But remember, this is the only time you’ll win."

They share a knowing smile as Cherry rests her head against him, clearly pleased. Bowser gently holds little Cleo in his arms and gazes at her lovingly.

The children, gathered around their parents and Cleo, admire their new little sister with awe and affection. The castle, filled with warmth in this family gathering, seems more peaceful and united than ever.

The End!

[junosmindpalace]

FOR YOU, FOREVER AGO

🎧 take a piece of my heart and make it all your own.

pairing: arthur morgan x gn!reader

wc: 1.7k

synopsis: arthur, and the notes he leaves in the books he gifts you. who could have figured love can transcend time?

content: established relationship, reading, reading and some more reading (together), soft and playful love, fluff with some angst at the end (arthur's death mentioned). reader is briefly said to be wearing a chemise.

a/n: i said i wouldn't write him again and here i am. writing him again. because this game has taken up so much of my writing headspace...

There’s an old saying that Arthur has heard retold in various different ways, and it went along the lines of “an idle mind is the devil’s playground.”

It derived from Proverbs 16:27: “Idle hands are the devil’s workshop,” something he later found out upon overhearing the phrase from the Reverend’s mouth during one of his rare sermons. Arthur doesn’t believe much in any sort of sacred text, but he could, to an extent, believe in that phrase. 

It’s a belief Dutch and Miss Grimshaw hold in especially high regard, and their incessant nagging to do away with him loitering about in the camp proved that. And while he agrees that it is necessary for everybody to do their part, Arthur spends much of his time out involving himself in all kinds of tough and weary business, and like anyone else, sometimes the enforcer needed a break. 

Though it seemed so to quite many people, Arthur’s mind was not solely fixated on his life of crime. Like many other people he was a man of love, who enjoyed reveling in Mother Nature’s beauty, and memorializing its likeness in his journal in gorgeous detail, too. He enjoyed lingering in on conversations that took place around him; mundane things like about rumors and town happenings, though they weren’t always pleasant. And above all else, he enjoyed being around you. 

Scare was the time to enjoy such leisure with your responsibilities, however. Often, he would return to camp well into the dead of night or during wind down time you had permitted for yourself (because Lord knows Grimshaw wouldn’t) to entertain your mind. Borrowing from the collections of books around camp was one of few forms of amusement you relied upon for some sort of satisfying stimulation.

Arthur couldn’t help but sometimes be jealous of this. To enjoy the leather cover of a book against his fingertips and the patches of sweetgrass and lavender enclosed around him like a makeshift bed was a luxury he could rarely afford. Yet still, he found ways to incorporate his own amusement to look forward to when he did have the off time to enjoy it.

The habit, at first, was a means of compensating for his long absences. It was almost his way of giving you a piece of his heart to hold to your chest, fill your mind, make your own with your wild imagination while he was away for sometimes frightening days at a time. 

Arthur provided you with literature of all sorts, from dime novels to hardcover books, when he encountered them on his travels. Mythology retellings, exaggerated tales of the fictionalized Wild West, dramatic historical fiction with royalty, castles, and dragons, and the sort of philosophy books Dutch enjoys reading passages aloud from that critique civilization. Each one, though unique in content, held a message with consistent love that made your heart swell and your lips stretch into a pleasant smile at the intent behind them. 

Couldn’t resist. 

Thought you’d like this one. 

All my love. 

Thought of you. 

For you to enjoy when I’m away.

To keep you preoccupied while I’m gone.

To make up for lost time. 

It's late when Arthur finds time to enjoy the stories with you, propped up on his side in the while his other arm is draped loosely around your waist as you lay in the same position, holding the book the two of you were enamored with in one hand. The firelight illuminates the pages for him to read from over your shoulder, his fingers brushing over your stomach and arms absentmindedly as he immerses himself in the world along with you. 

“This gentleman sure is a character.” 

“Ain’t he?” you snicker, taking the comment as an indicator to turn to the next page. “Almost reminds me of someone.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” he raises a brow at you, observing your expression with a tilt of his head.

“Nothin’ at all.” you hum innocently, pretending to fix your attention back onto the pages. He catches your bluff when he teasingly curls his arm around your waist and presses you closer against his chest, invoking a squeal of laughter from you as he ruffles your chemise. 

“Just turn the page.” he chuckles with a slight shake of his head and a roll of his eyes, but when you meet his playful gaze with one of your own, any further teasing dies on his tongue as his breath becomes lodged at the sight of your glow in the firelight. 

“Okay.” you tut with a raise of your brows, resituating yourself and leaning further into his grasp, to which he responds by hugging you closer. 

When your time wasn't spent under the stars, it was in your tent. Accompanied in your shared bedroll was a book from a marketplace stand you had picked out together when scouting around town. One of Arthur’s hands holds it on his stomach with his fingers at the bottom, while his other holds your shoulder soothingly. You lay your head over his heart, listening to its steady pulsing, and following the small text with tired eyes to lull you to sleep. 

Sometimes he read to you, when your eyes grew too heavy to look up at him, and your brain was too exhausted to form coherent enough thoughts, let alone conversation. He'd read with his free hand, voice gradually becoming husky with thick exhaustion of his own the more he read on. 

“Why’d you stop?” you murmured to him as you lulled you head up to look at him, briefly slipping into fuller consciousness when taking note of the absence of his voice amidst the evening chill.

“Thought you’d fallen asleep,” he replied, rubbing a hand up and down the side of your arm before planting a kiss on your forehead. You only shook your head.

“A little more?”

Arthur peered outside through a crevice in his tent to the pitch black, redirecting his attention back to you with a sigh. “Alright. But only a little.”

Sometimes you read to him, when he returns to the campsite with his brain scrambled from the hat and madness of his travels, and longs, almost on autopilot, for your presence and an extended period of rest. With his arms wrapped firmly around your waist, legs tangled on your sides and head snug against your stomach, you propped up one of the books you had borrowed from Mary-Beth, a romance that you could always rely on to knock Arthur out, with one hand, while the other carefully threads through his locks of brown hair.

“That sounds like a nice place to live, don’t it? In a house with a white picket fence and a beautiful garden.” You had asked him quietly one of those nights, looking down at his still figure, who merely hummed in response against your stomach. “Maybe outta the country.”

“And go where?” he replied drowsily, peering up at you through small eyes.

���I don’t know…surprise me.” you teased, and Arthur chuckled.

“Maybe someday, sweetheart.” he placed a kiss on the fabric of your night wear, letting out a sigh as he adjusted himself against you again. “Maybe someday we’ll go somewhere real nice.”

Amidst ever changing lives—periods of transition and transformation and hard feelings and new hopes and dreams—you made sure to often revisit his little notes kept in between the first few pages of a book picked out with you in mind and written with all the care you had to offer to one another. Nights apart we’re spent tracing the loving words with your eyes, running a nail through the loopy font. It reminds you that you lay under the same stars, the both of you wishing to reunite sooner than later upon one of the billions that twinkled in the sky. 

When Arthur had passed under the dying night sky, the menial, but important, declarations of love became lost to you. 

Focusing on anything outside of survival seemed impossible afterward, and the grief was all too fresh and thought consuming. Most of the time was spent rebuilding your life to the best of your ability, something not quite what you had envisioned in hopeful late night conversations with Arthur, but more bare minimum. No beautiful porch with a nice garden, no homey furnishings. Only a simple bungalow with a creaky bed and a bag of few possessions you managed to snag in your abrupt departure.

At the bottom of the bag one day, you find something, no, many things, you had not laid your eyes upon since before the hope of a new dawn was extinguished within you. 

It had been the first time you had felt an urge to be productive. For most of your days were spent in melancholy and anxious paralyzing thought that kept asking, what’s next?

You held them in your hands carefully, turning them over before opening them curiously, only to have your breath hitched when your eyes landed on the front.

Couldn’t resist.

You scrambled for another.

Thought you’d like this one.

Another, and then another. All of them until the reminders brought you to tears.

All my love.

Thought of you.

For you to enjoy while I’m away.

To keep you preoccupied while I’m gone.

To make up for lost time.

The rest of the night became dedicated to remembering all that you once had, and that you were once determined to have. Reading stories that always seemed as fantastical as your dreams of a sweeter life, perhaps where they even derived from. The inspiration and hope they fuelled gradually returned with each memory you recounted of your shared dream with Arthur.

He had given it to you in the end. Taken you some place nice, even if he wasn’t there himself to enjoy it with you. He’d given you a piece of his heart all those years ago, and you made it your own. Given you the resources—just enough money and a whole lot of love—to help you realize a life you always wanted. He was there; in the blooming flowers, in the magnificent dawn and dusk, in the pages of books you held carefully between your fingers. And you’d remind yourself of it every night with a trace of your fingers over his scrawled messages of adoration.

return to masterlist.

[novaursa]

Between Pride and Fire (the blessing)

- Summary: It was a challenge of the hunt that drew the lion to you, but it was your fire that made him yours.

- Paring: targ!reader/Jason Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: crossroads

- Next part: the curse

- Tag(s): @punk-in-docs @barnes70stark @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround

From the Accounts of Mushroom, Maester Irwin of Harrenhal, and Others

The taking of Harrenhal by Prince Daemon Targaryen and Lord Jason Lannister was an affair far less dramatic than tales of the Dragonlords of old would suggest. While many expected fire and blood to rain upon the cursed towers, the reality proved to be a quiet surrender, leaving both the defenders of the castle and the conquerors with an odd sense of anticlimax.

According to Mushroom, the arrival of Caraxes in the skies above Harrenhal sent a ripple of terror through the garrison. The Blood Wyrm's serpentine form cast a long shadow over the already gloomy ruins, and its deafening roar echoed off the walls, sending many of Lord Simon Strong's men fleeing before a single blade was drawn.

"It was as if the very gods had come to remind the Strongs of their cursed blood," wrote Maester Irwin. "The dragon's approach left no doubt as to the futility of resistance."

Prince Daemon landed Caraxes atop the crumbled remains of the castle's great hall, his imposing figure cutting a sharp contrast to the desolation around him. Lord Jason Lannister dismounted with less grace, though his armor was brilliant even in the dim light, a stark reminder of the wealth and power he brought with him.

As the gates creaked open, Lord Simon Strong emerged with a small retinue, his hands raised in a gesture of surrender. His lined face bore the weariness of a man who had long carried the burden of a cursed name.

"My lord, my prince," Simon began, his voice shaking slightly but steady enough to carry across the courtyard. "Harrenhal bends the knee to Queen Rhaenyra. The Strong name remembers its oaths."

Daemon, ever the predator, regarded him with a sharp, measuring gaze. "You surrender without a fight, Lord Simon?" he asked, his tone laced with both disdain and curiosity.

Simon bowed his head. "A fight would bring ruin to my people and my house. I am no fool, Prince Daemon. I have seen what dragons can do."

Mushroom claims that Jason smirked at this, his relief poorly concealed beneath a veneer of arrogance. "Perhaps your wisdom will spare you from the wrath of the queen," Jason said smoothly. "But words alone do not make a man loyal. Actions must follow."

Daemon, less interested in Jason's verbal sparring, gestured for the castle to be opened entirely. "Let us see if Harrenhal holds more surprises," he said, his voice carrying a dangerous edge.

As the lords and their men entered the keep, it became clear that Simon's surrender had been sincere. The halls were quiet, the garrison subdued. The Strong banners hung limp in the still air, and the only sound was the echo of boots on stone. Daemon, ever vigilant, took to inspecting the defenses personally, while Jason busied himself with questioning Simon about the allegiances of the Riverlords.

According to Mushroom, Jason’s charm was put to good use in these exchanges. "Lord Jason has a way of speaking that even stone walls might crumble to listen," the fool wrote. "He smiles, and men forget they are being commanded."

Simon Strong, for his part, was cooperative, providing details about Riverland loyalties and the movements of the Greens. Jason, satisfied with the intelligence, declared that once Rhaenyra's armies arrived, he would ride to Riverrun to secure House Tully's allegiance. Daemon, however, insisted on remaining at Harrenhal, seeing it as a critical stronghold from which to launch further strikes into the Riverlands.

"You'll have your silver tongue to charm the Tullys," Daemon reportedly said to Jason with a smirk. "But Harrenhal needs fire and blood to keep it in line. I'll hold it, and you can play diplomat."

Jason, clearly uninterested in an extended stay in the desolate castle, agreed readily. "Harrenhal is yours, Prince Daemon," he said with a faint smirk. "Though I wonder how long even you can endure its charms."

Mushroom suggests that Daemon's eyes narrowed at the remark, but he said nothing, focusing instead on organizing the defenses.

The arrival of Rhaenyra’s forces days later brought a renewed sense of purpose. With the castle secured, Jason departed with his men, riding toward Riverrun to meet with Lord Grover Tully. Mushroom, ever the mischief-maker, notes that Jason looked far more eager to leave Harrenhal than he had to arrive, a sentiment shared by many who lingered in the cursed stronghold.

As for Daemon, he wasted no time in asserting control over Harrenhal. He established a garrison and set about ensuring the surrounding Riverlords understood that the queen’s banner now flew above the cursed towers. "Prince Daemon has always thrived in chaos," wrote Maester Irwin. "And Harrenhal is a place where chaos lingers, even in the stillness."

Accounts from Riverrun

Jason’s arrival at Riverrun was far more conventional. The Lannister banners, flying alongside those of House Targaryen, brought a mixture of relief and apprehension to the Riverlands. Lord Grover Tully, an aging and cautious man, greeted Jason with all the courtesy due to a representative of the queen but remained noncommittal.

“House Tully remembers its oaths,” Lord Grover said, though his words were as slow and heavy as the man himself. “But the Riverlands have seen much blood spilled in the name of kings and queens. We cannot afford to be hasty.”

Jason, with his characteristic charm, replied smoothly. “Caution is a virtue, my lord, but loyalty is a duty. The queen remembers those who stand with her, and she rewards those who honor their word.”

Mushroom, who claimed to have accompanied Jason to Riverrun (though this is widely disputed), wrote, “The old fish wavered, but Jason cast his net with skill. By the end, the Tullys were caught, though they didn’t yet know it.”

Lord Grover promised his support in principle, though the full muster of the Riverlords would depend on further assurances. Jason sent word of his progress back to Harrenhal, confident that the Riverlands would soon march under Rhaenyra's banner.

Thus, the Riverlands became a battlefield of diplomacy and dragonfire, as alliances were forged and battle lines drawn. But even amidst the calm before the storm, the specter of Harrenhal loomed large, its dark history a reminder that no victory would come without cost.

From the Accounts of Mushroom, Grand Maester Gerardys, and Others

The Skirmish in the Riverlands

One moon’s turn after Lord Jason Lannister had ridden to secure the allegiance of House Tully, reports of a skirmish near the Red Fork reached the ears of the court. Jason, commanding a contingent of loyal knights and foot soldiers, was caught in an ambush by forces loyal to the Greens. Though the engagement was minor, the sudden appearance of a black dragon in the sky turned the tide decisively.

According to Mushroom, Loren Lannister arrived atop his fearsome dragon, Morghan, in a display of fiery fury. “The Black Lion,” as Loren was quickly dubbed, descended upon the battlefield with all the ferocity of his father’s house. Morghan’s shadow darkened the battlefield, his roar splitting the heavens as flames consumed the Green banners.

“Loren swooped down like a predator on prey,” Mushroom wrote, embellishing as usual. “One moment, the Greens thought they had Jason cornered. The next, they were running, tripping over themselves to flee the dragon’s fire.”

Grand Maester Gerardys, in his typically dry tone, confirmed the event, noting that Loren’s intervention was brief but effective. “The young Lord Lannister displayed both courage and restraint,” Gerardys wrote. “He arrived to scatter the enemy, ensuring his father’s forces were safe, but did not linger. True to his orders, he returned swiftly to the Westerlands to maintain their defense.”

Jason, ever the proud father, reportedly watched Loren’s departure with a mix of relief and admiration. Mushroom, ever the gossip, claimed Jason muttered under his breath, “He’s his mother’s son—too brave for his own good.”

With the skirmish resolved, Jason and his men resumed their efforts to rally the Riverlords. The Tullys, impressed by the Lannisters’ resolve and the dragons’ might, began to muster their banners in earnest, solidifying their allegiance to Queen Rhaenyra.

Life on Dragonstone

Back on Dragonstone, life carried on under the looming threat of war. Rhaenyra held court with her children and closest advisors, her determination unwavering despite the loss of her son, Lucerys. Jacaerys, Leona, and Aemma had taken on increasingly active roles in the queen’s council, their voices lending strength to Rhaenyra’s decisions.

Mushroom noted with admiration that Leona, though still young, had become a trusted confidante to her betrothed Jace. “The Lioness and the Dragon,” he wrote, “worked together as though they had shared more than blood, not merely allegiance.”

Aemma, meanwhile, spent much of her time with her younger cousin, Joffrey. The young prince, too young to fully grasp the weight of the war, found comfort in his cousin’s presence. “Aemma is a calming influence,” Grand Maester Gerardys observed. “Her gentle nature contrasts with the fierce determination of her sister, Leona, yet both share a devotion to their family that cannot be questioned.”

It was during this time that a quiet revelation came to light. Princess Y/N, Jason’s wife, began to experience faint but familiar symptoms—exhaustion, bouts of nausea, and a certain heaviness in her body. At first, she dismissed them as the effects of stress and worry, but a visit from Grand Maester Gerardys confirmed what she had suspected: she was with child once more.

The news brought a mixture of emotions. “Eight children,” Mushroom mused in his account. “The Targaryen woman must have the strength of a dragon and the patience of a saint.” He added, with his characteristic irreverence, “Jason’s virility remains unmatched, though I’d wager he enjoys ensuring his legacy as much as he enjoys the act itself.”

Princess Y/N chose to keep the news private for the time being, revealing it only to Rhaenyra in confidence. The queen, though burdened by her own grief, smiled faintly at the revelation. “Another child, sister,” Rhaenyra said softly, placing a hand over her swollen belly. “A blessing amidst all this chaos. Perhaps the gods have not abandoned us entirely.”

The State of the Realm

As the moon waned and the war continued to brew, Dragonstone remained a hub of planning and preparation. Daemon held Harrenhal firmly, while Jason worked tirelessly in the Riverlands. Loren’s brief but decisive intervention had reminded their enemies of the power of dragons, and the Westerlands remained a stronghold of loyalty under his watch.

On Dragonstone, life carried on with a strange mixture of anticipation and normalcy. The sound of dragons echoed in the skies, a reminder of both their strength and the battles yet to come. And amidst it all, the Lannisters and Targaryens held fast to the hope that their united forces would prevail against the Greens.

“War loomed over us like a storm cloud,” Mushroom wrote. “Yet within the walls of Dragonstone, there were moments of warmth, of love, and of laughter. Perhaps it was these moments that gave us the strength to endure what was to come.”

The Targaryen-Lannister camp bustled with activity as soldiers sharpened swords, tended to horses, and huddled around fires for warmth. Banners bearing the lion of House Lannister and the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen fluttered in the brisk Riverlands wind. At the center of it all stood Jason Lannister’s tent, the largest and most elaborately adorned, befitting his station as one of Queen Rhaenyra’s most prominent supporters.

Jason sat at a heavy oak table, pouring over maps and letters with a furrowed brow. His usual charm and lightheartedness were replaced by the grim focus of a man entrenched in war. The flickering light of the lanterns cast shadows over his sharp features, making him appear older and wearier than he had before the war began.

A commotion outside his tent drew his attention. Moments later, a young squire entered, his face flushed from exertion. He carried a small scroll sealed with the unmistakable crest of House Targaryen.

“My lord,” the boy stammered, bowing low. “A message from Dragonstone.”

Jason’s green eyes flicked to the scroll, and a flicker of something—hope, perhaps—crossed his face. He gestured for the squire to bring it forward, breaking the seal with practiced ease. As he unfurled the parchment, his expression softened almost immediately.

The letter was in your hand, the elegant script unmistakable.

My dearest Jason,

Though the days feel longer in your absence, I take solace in knowing you are doing your duty to secure the realm for our queen and our family. Still, I miss you terribly, as do our daughters.

I write with news that I cannot bear to keep from you: I am with child once more. Though the gods have burdened us with war, they have also gifted us with another life to cherish. I pray for your safety every day and long for the moment you return to us. Until then, I hold you in my heart and carry your love with me always.

Yours forever,

Y/N

Jason let out a soft exhale, his fingers brushing over the parchment as though he could feel your touch through the ink. A small smile tugged at his lips, the first in what felt like weeks. He closed his eyes for a moment, the noise of the camp fading as he let the words sink in.

A gruff voice broke the quiet. “Good news, I hope?”

Jason looked up to see Lord Alan Tarly standing at the entrance of the tent, his arms crossed over his chest. The older man raised a bushy eyebrow, his tone curious but not unkind.

Jason folded the letter carefully, tucking it into his breast pocket. “The best,” he replied, his voice lighter than it had been in days. “My wife has sent word. She’s with child.”

Tarly’s expression softened, and a faint smile broke through his usually stern demeanor. “A blessing in these dark times,” he said. “Congratulations, my lord.”

Jason inclined his head, though his thoughts were already elsewhere—on you, on Dragonstone, and on the life growing within you. He stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the wooden floor. “Make sure the camp knows I’m not to be disturbed unless it’s urgent,” he said to the squire, his tone firm but distracted.

The boy nodded and hurried out, leaving Jason to his thoughts. He moved to the edge of the tent, staring out at the horizon as if he could see Dragonstone in the distance. His fingers brushed over the letter in his pocket again, a sense of determination settling over him.

“I’ll come back to you, Y/N,” he murmured to himself. “No matter what it takes.”

The flickering light of the campfires reflected in his eyes as he stood there, the weight of the war momentarily lifted by the knowledge that, even in these uncertain times, life and love endured.

The chill of Dragonstone's winds whispered against the windows, but the room was cozy, filled with the quiet hum of familial comfort. Leona sat near the fire, a book resting in her lap. For weeks now, she had chosen to forgo her mask, her scar visible but no longer hidden. She wore it now with a quiet dignity that spoke of confidence and strength—a transformation that had been as remarkable as it was gradual.

You glanced at her, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips. There was no doubt Jace’s influence had played a role in this change, though Leona’s courage was her own.

“Do you enjoy the book?” you asked softly, breaking the quiet.

Leona glanced up, her violet eyes meeting yours. “It’s interesting,” she said, her voice calm. “A history of House Arryn and the Eyrie. Jace lent it to me.”

Your smile deepened. “I thought as much. He’s been quite attentive to your interests lately.”

Leona’s lips twitched, though she didn’t look up again. “He’s thoughtful,” she admitted, a faint blush coloring her cheeks.

Seated across from you, Aemma shifted in her chair, her delicate hands resting in her lap. Her soft features carried an expression of calm, though you could sense the quiet strength beneath her exterior. Her gold hair caught the firelight as she glanced between you and Leona.

“Speaking of attentiveness,” you said, turning your gaze to Aemma. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

Aemma tilted her head slightly, her wide eyes curious. “Yes, Mother?”

You leaned forward, resting your hands on your knees. “How did it come to be—this arrangement with Lord Cregan Stark? How did you come to accept his proposal?”

Aemma blinked, her expression thoughtful as she considered your question. After a moment, she folded her hands neatly in her lap and spoke with the quiet confidence that always surprised you.

“It wasn’t entirely planned,” she began, her voice soft but steady. “When Jace, Leona, and I reached Winterfell, Lord Stark greeted us with great hospitality. He’s... different from what I expected. Honest. Direct. He doesn’t mince words, but there’s a kindness in him. A sense of duty.”

Leona glanced up from her book, listening quietly as her sister spoke.

Aemma continued, “During our stay, he spoke often of the North’s loyalty to the crown and the importance of strengthening ties between the North and the South. He proposed the marriage himself, not as a demand, but as a suggestion—a way to unify our realms in these uncertain times.”

You tilted your head, watching her closely. “And what made you accept?”

Aemma’s cheeks flushed faintly, but her gaze didn’t waver. “Because he asked me, Mother. Not as a pawn in a game of thrones, but as a partner. He values my opinion, my thoughts. He said he would never ask me to leave my family or my dragon behind, and that he wanted a match built on respect.”

Leona closed her book, her expression unreadable as she looked at Aemma. “And you believed him?” she asked, her tone soft but curious.

Aemma nodded. “I did. And I still do. Lord Cregan is an honorable man. I believe he will treat me well.”

You sat back, studying your youngest daughter with a mixture of pride and melancholy. She had grown so much, her gentle nature tempered by wisdom beyond her years. “And you feel ready for this?” you asked gently. “To leave Casterly Rock, to leave us?”

Aemma hesitated, her gaze dropping for the first time. “I won’t pretend it’s easy,” she admitted. “But I believe this is the right choice. For our family. For the queen. And... for myself.”

Leona spoke then, her voice carrying a note of reluctant respect. “If it’s what you want, Aemma, then I trust your decision.”

You reached out, taking Aemma’s hand in yours. “You’ve always had a kind heart, my sweet girl,” you said softly. “And a strong one, too. If this is what you’ve chosen, then I will support you.”

Aemma smiled faintly, her fingers tightening around yours. “Thank you, Mother.”

The fire crackled softly in the silence that followed, the warmth of the room wrapping around the three of you. Though your heart ached at the thought of Aemma leaving, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride in the strength and wisdom both your daughters had shown.

The winds of war howled beyond the walls of Dragonstone, but here, in this quiet moment, you found a small measure of peace.

Aemma, her hand still in yours, leaned back into her chair, her expression thoughtful. Leona, sitting straighter now, closed her book and placed it aside, her violet eyes focused on you with an inquisitive glint.

“Mother,” Leona began, her tone hesitant but curious. “What about you and Father? How did you accept his proposal? Or, rather… why?”

Her question brought a surprised laugh to your lips, the sound soft and warm as you instinctively reached up to trace the familiar necklace resting against your collarbone. It was one Jason had gifted you long ago—an intricate design of intertwined dragons and lions, symbolizing the union of your two houses.

“Oh, my little lioness,” you said, shaking your head with a smile. “Your father was... impossible to ignore. Persistent doesn’t even begin to describe it. Truly, I had very little choice but to say yes.”

Leona’s lips quirked upward in amusement, though her gaze remained curious. “Persistent? I find that hard to imagine,” she said, the sarcasm in her voice clear. “Father is so subtle, after all.”

You laughed again, the memories washing over you like a tide. “Yes, very subtle,” you replied with mock seriousness. “It all began during a celebratory hunt for Aegon—an event held by your late grandsire, King Viserys. Your aunt Rhaenyra was the center of everyone’s attention, of course, and your father, like many other ambitious lords, sought her favor.”

Leona raised a brow, leaning forward slightly. “And Aunt Rhaenyra rejected him, didn’t she?”

“She did,” you confirmed with a nod. “Quite publicly, too. It was no secret that your father was smitten with her beauty and her rank, but she wanted nothing to do with him. She dismissed him outright in front of half the court.”

Aemma giggled softly at that, though her voice carried sympathy. “Poor Father. I imagine his pride took quite the blow.”

“Oh, it did,” you said with a grin. “But if there’s one thing your father doesn’t lack, it’s resilience. Later that same day, he decided to change tactics. Instead of chasing after Rhaenyra, he came to speak with me.”

Leona’s eyes widened slightly. “He came to you? Why?”

“Because he’s a Lannister,” you replied, your tone dry. “And when a door is closed, a lion simply finds another way in. At the time, I was sitting in the royal pavilion with your grandsire and a few noble lords. Your father marched right up, as bold as you please, and tried to charm me.”

Leona smirked faintly. “I’m guessing that didn’t work?”

“Oh, not at all,” you said, your laughter soft and warm. “I wasn’t in the mood to be charmed, least of all by a man who had just been rejected by my sister. So I insulted him.”

Aemma gasped, her eyes widening. “You insulted him? What did you say?”

You leaned back in your chair, tapping your chin thoughtfully as you tried to recall. “Something about how he should speak less sweet words because he will choke on them. It wasn’t my finest moment, but it certainly caught his attention.”

Leona’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “And yet he still pursued you?”

You nodded, a wry smile tugging at your lips. “Oh, yes. If anything, my insult seemed to encourage him. He started following me around during the hunt, finding any excuse to speak with me. At first, I thought he was just trying to save face after Rhaenyra’s rejection, but… there was something different about the way he looked at me. It wasn’t just ambition. It was something more.”

Aemma rested her chin in her hand, her expression softening. “And when did you realize you felt the same way?”

You traced the necklace again, the memory of that moment vivid in your mind. “It took time,” you admitted. “I resisted him at first, but Jason has a way of wearing a person down. He’s infuriatingly charming when he wants to be. Eventually, I realized that beneath all his bravado, there was a man who truly cared for me. He made me laugh, even when I didn’t want to. He challenged me, but he also supported me. And when he proposed, he did it with his usual style, with fanfare and grand gestures. He simply told me that he wanted to spend his life with me in front of every important lord and lady that he gathered at the Rock. And I couldn’t say no.”

Leona’s smirk softened into a genuine smile. “It sounds like Father hasn’t changed much.”

“No,” you said, your voice warm. “He hasn’t. He’s still as persistent, infuriating, and charming as ever. And I wouldn’t have him any other way.”

The room fell into a comfortable silence as your daughters absorbed your story. The fire crackled softly, and you felt a deep sense of contentment as you looked at Leona and Aemma, their expressions filled with a mixture of amusement and admiration.

“Now,” you said, breaking the quiet with a playful smile. “If either of you ever insult a suitor the way I insulted your father, be prepared for them to follow you around endlessly. It seems to have worked a little too well.”

Both girls laughed, the sound filling the chamber with warmth. And in that moment, surrounded by your daughters and the memories of a love that had endured years of trials and triumphs, you felt a sense of peace that was rare in these tumultuous times.

The sea winds howled outside the walls of Dragonstone, their haunting melody carrying a hint of salt and sorrow. Inside the private solar, warmed by a roaring fire, you sat across from Rhaenyra, a goblet of wine in her hand and a distant look in her violet eyes. The years and loss had etched faint lines into her face, but in this moment of quiet, she seemed more like the sister you remembered—before all the chaos, before the crowns and dragons.

The firelight danced across the chamber, casting flickering shadows that seemed to move with the rise and fall of the flames. You watched Rhaenyra in silence for a moment, her expression softened but contemplative as she swirled the wine in her goblet. Finally, she looked up, catching your gaze, and offered a faint smile.

“It’s strange,” she said softly, her voice carrying the weight of memory. “I sit here, in this place of stone and fire, and I can almost hear Mother’s laughter. Do you remember how she used to laugh when we played in the gardens?”

You smiled faintly, leaning back in your chair as the memories surfaced. “She had a beautiful laugh,” you replied, your voice tinged with warmth. “It always made Father smile, even when he was buried under the weight of his duties. She had a way of bringing light to the darkest moments.”

Rhaenyra nodded, her fingers tightening around the goblet. “She was so gentle with us,” she said, her voice breaking slightly. “Even when we quarreled—gods, we fought like dragons at times—she never raised her voice. She’d just look at us, and somehow, we’d feel ashamed enough to stop.”

You chuckled softly, a bittersweet sound. “Yes, she had that look. I remember it well. But she also had that quiet strength. She carried so much—us, Father, the realm—and yet she never let us see how heavy it all was.”

Rhaenyra sighed, her gaze dropping to the goblet in her hands. “I wish she could see us now,” she murmured. “See what we’ve become. Would she be proud of us? Of the choices we’ve made?”

You reached across the table, placing a comforting hand over hers. “She’d be proud of you,” you said firmly. “Of the queen you’ve become. Of the strength you’ve shown, even in the face of unimaginable loss.”

Rhaenyra’s lips trembled, but she managed a faint smile. “And you? Would she be proud of you?”

You hesitated, the question settling heavily in the air. “I like to think she would,” you admitted softly. “Though sometimes I wonder if I’ve done enough, if I’ve made the right choices. It’s easy to doubt yourself in times like these.”

Rhaenyra squeezed your hand gently, her violet eyes shining with emotion. “You’ve done more than enough, sister. You’ve built a family, raised children who are strong and brave. You’ve stood by me when others would have fled. Mother would have been proud of you—of all you’ve accomplished.”

The room fell silent for a moment, the weight of shared memories settling between you. The fire crackled softly, and the wind outside seemed to wail a mournful tune, as if mourning the mother you had both lost too soon.

“Do you remember the lullaby she used to sing?” Rhaenyra asked suddenly, her voice barely above a whisper. “The one about the dragon and the sea?”

You nodded, the melody coming to your mind as if it had never left. “She sang it to us every night, no matter how tired she was. I still hum it sometimes, when I miss her.”

Rhaenyra smiled faintly, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “So do I. Sometimes, I sing it to my children. It makes me feel closer to her, even if only for a moment.”

The two of you sat there, lost in the memories of a simpler time—a time when your mother’s laughter filled the halls and her presence brought warmth to every corner of the Red Keep. The weight of the present faded, if only for a little while, as you found solace in each other’s company.

And though the winds outside howled with the promise of storms to come, inside, the memory of your mother’s love wrapped around you like a shield, reminding you of the strength and resilience she had passed on to her daughters.

[thought--bubble]

A Temporary Respite

Daemon Targaryen X Stark Reader

Word Count: 1,999

For the 12 days of smuffmas (Prompts by @ewanmitchellcrumbs)

December 14th - blizzard and blowjob

Smuffmas Masterlist

Daemon Targaryen Masterlist

Full Masterlist

Banners by @arcielee

Warnings: Infidelity, Dubious consent, Alcohol, Daemon being a massive jerk.

The snow crunches under Daemon's heavy steps as he walks up to the Winterfell gates. His face is stoic, and his jaw is clenched. He shivers profusely from the snow whipping around him. He cannot understand how people choose to live in such a place.

“Open these gates for your king!” he screams, hoping his voice will carry over the roaring winds around him. “Right now!” he barks, annoyance wrapped around every syllable.

The gates open, and he hurries in, the guards leading him into the rundown castle. It is, of course, better than Harrenhal, but not by much. He lifts his lip slightly in disgust. This place is hardly suitable to house a dog, let alone a noble family.

“Prince Daemon,” a man with dark hair and a commanding jaw, wrapped in luxurious brown furs, makes his way toward Daemon.

“King. That is King Daemon,” Daemon shakes his head, willing the cold flakes to fall out of his hair. “And you must be Lord Stark.”

“Yes. Why have you come?” Cregan keeps his eyes on Daemon, a weary expression on his face.

“And where is Prince Jacaerys? He's been here for quite some time, and still, no raven has been sent announcing your loyalty to Queen Rhaenyra.” Daemon ignores Cregan's question, choosing to look around the large hall instead. “Whatever is causing such a delay?”

Cregan scrunches his nose and breathes in deeply before replying. “Prince Jacaerys and I are still in negotiations.”

“Negotiations!” Daemon barks back, a cold laugh erupting from his chest. “Negotiations? What negotiations? There were never meant to be negotiations, you see. Either you announce your fealty to Queen Rhaenyra, or you are announced as a traitor. It is quite simple, really.”

“Daemon!” Jacaerys’ voice booms across the hall, a small yet pretty girl wrapped in furs by his side.

“Jacaerys! Finally, you make an appearance!” Daemon smirks and allows his eyes to rove over the girl.

“And who may this be?” He steps in closer before Jacaerys halts his movements. “This is Lady Stark, Lord Cregan's sister.”

Daemon clicks his tongue. “If these negotiations include a betrothal, I regret to inform you that all of the princes who are of age to marry are already betrothed…”

Jacaerys puffs out his chest. “Daemon, I am handling this.”

Daemon lifts his head to the sky and barks out the most condescending laugh the young prince has ever been subject to. “Handling? You are needed at the front lines. Your dragon is needed at the front lines, yet here you are! Unable to obtain the loyalty of the North, who are, if history is to be believed, the most noble of us all.”

Jacaerys' face flushes with embarrassment as the Stark siblings watch the two dragons war for dominance. “We will speak when I return. For now, you can head back.”

Daemon rolls his eyes, not at all trying to hide his annoyance. “Head back? In this?” Daemon pulls a clump of snow off of his shoulder. “No, I think I shall stay the night. I am sure Lady Stark could lead me to some accommodations that would suit the King?”

You freeze at the sudden attention on you. Why me? is what you think, but for some reason, “Follow me, my king,” is what comes out.

You cringe as you turn your back to Daemon, ready to lead him to his rooms, and lock eyes with Cregan, who is clearly holding back a laugh. Your brother would laugh at you as you make a fool out of yourself in front of the king regent, you think while huffing. “Just this way.”

Daemon, before leaving, turns to Jacaerys. “You will meet me outside of my rooms at the hour of the owl, and bring Lord Stark.” Jacaerys opens his mouth to protest, and Daemon stops him. “Do as I say.” He then nods at Jacaerys, following behind you.

You move quickly, hoping to get Daemon to his rooms as fast as possible, hoping beyond hope that Daemon is too annoyed or angry to strike up a conversation with you, but as with all things lately, your luck seems to be non-existent.

“So you have lived here your entire life?” Daemon asks, feigning interest, or so you assume.

“Yes. I am a Stark, after all,” you answer quietly and quickly.

“For a wolf, you act rather like a mouse, quietly scurrying about.” He moves his hand, imitating a small creature. “You have not even told me any of the history hanging upon these walls,” he gestures toward the large paintings and quilts that adorn the long hall you are passing through.

“I would, if I believed you had any interest in knowing.” This response elicits a chuckle from Daemon.

“Clever girl. No, I suppose I do not care much about what the Starks have done as much as I care about what they are doing.” Daemon takes long strides, bringing him up to your side.

“Well, I am not privy to that type of information,” you say softly, keeping your eyes trained ahead. “Your rooms are just this way.”

“Ah. Well… these will do, I suppose. For one night anyway.” He pushes past you into the room.

“If there is nothing else?” You start to take slow steps backward to exit.

“There is. I require some company and some wine.” Daemon sits in the plush chair by the fireplace. “Also, if someone could light this. It is quite cold for a dragon.”

“I will have wine delivered and your fireplace lit,” you turn to leave.

“And the company?” Daemon asks.

“We do not… keep those types of women here.”

Daemon lifts a brow and laughs. “I am not speaking of that type of company, Lady Stark. Although it is interesting that your mind seems to be in such a place.”

Your entire face flushes, hot embarrassment all the way down to your chest.

“I apologize, my lord,” you stammer, words escaping you.

“My king. I am not a lord,” Daemon gets up from his chair, leading you to the chair beside him. “I will ask the servants to come with the wine. You seem… confused. You just sit here.” He smirks before strolling out of the room, leaving you feeling like an idiot.

Staring into the empty fireplace, you laugh. Have you actually made such a fool of yourself in front of the king regent that he doesn't trust you to give orders to your own servants?

When Daemon comes back, he sits across from you, silently in thought as maids flutter about with a cask of wine and kindling for the fireplace.

“I should go, Your Grace. It is not proper for me to be alone with you.”

Daemon doesn't respond to you, instead turning to the maid making her way out. “Leave the doors open.”

The maid nods and leaves the room, the two big, thick doors left ajar.

“There. Now no one will question your virtue.” He takes a sip of his wine, staring into the newly lit fire.

“I—” you want to protest but haven't a clue what you should say.

“Now. I have some time, so tell me everything about the Starks.”

Your jaw drops, and you look at him incredulously. “Your Grace?”

“You are a Stark, after all. Tell me what that means.” He hands you a cup of wine. “Drink. I do not enjoy drinking wine alone.”

Not knowing what to do, you sip the wine and start as far back with Stark history as you know. Daemon listens intently, and as hours pass, he pours cup after cup of wine for you.

As the wine flows, you get more and more comfortable with Daemon, speaking to him candidly.

“Lady Stark… Is the North the same as the South? Or are the ladies up here… more… free?” He asks with a lecherous grin on his face.

“I do not know what you mean,” you giggle, your face flushed with heat, be it from the wine or his proximity; you aren't entirely sure.

“Come here.” He holds out his hand, helping you off of your chair and seating you on his lap.

“Now, in the South… this would be improper.” He grips your hips and starts to slightly grind against you.

Your breathing picks up pace. This is wrong, but the wine in your system doesn't seem to care. “It would be improper here too, Your Grace.”

“Oh, then we mustn't.” Daemon chuckles as he rubs his growing hardness against your backside. “I suppose that means we should stop, huh?”

“Mmmm,” you mumble, rocking back into him.

“Seems my good little wolf does not wish to stop.” Daemon suddenly stands you up and turns you around, all while staying seated in his chair.

“You will be a good girl for your king?” he asks while unlacing his breeches.

You nod while giggling, slightly swaying from side to side.

“Get on your knees. Right here.” You plop down to your knees, and he pulls you into place. “Now do as I say, and everything will be grand.”

You nod absentmindedly as he slides his breeches down to his ankles, stroking his hardness slowly. “Sweet girl, come here.” With his free hand, he reaches into your hair, pulling you to his cock and sliding the dripping head along your lips.

“Open up.” You open your mouth, and he purrs. “You learn so fast. You will make someone a wonderful wife someday.” He pushes his cock past your lips and into your mouth. The sensation is odd but not unpleasant.

He grunts and gets a better grip on your hair, dragging your head along his shaft. “Now you do it just as I showed you.” He guides you up and down a few more times until you get into the rhythm, taking him slightly deeper with each pass.

“Perfect,” he groans and leans back, his hand gently resting on the back of your head. “Keep going. Take more. Go all the way down.”

At his instruction, you push your head down as far as it will go, the head of his weeping cock pushing against your throat as you struggle slightly.

“Yessss… choke, little wolf.” Daemon holds your head there as you sputter, pushing himself in and out of the tightness of your throat.

Your eyes water, and the spot between your legs tingles, the sensations all wrapping together in a symphony of carnal pleasure.

Daemon grunts, thrusting, his movements growing sloppy. You grip his thighs and feel his muscles tense under your touch.

“What is the meaning of this?!” Your brother's voice booms through the room, and you try to pull your head back in mortification.

Daemon holds your head in place and grunts loudly as he spills his seed down your throat. He continues to hold you there until you swallow in a bid to breathe.

“Daemon!” Jacaerys yells across the room, his steps hurried as he reaches the side of Daemon's chair.

“Ah, Prince Jacaerys! Lord Stark.” Daemon smiles while slipping himself back into his breeches.

You look down at the floor, absolutely terrified to look up at your brother. You were ruined.

“I asked you to come here so we could speak,” Daemon continues, apparently unfazed by the turn of events.

“You come to my house!” Cregan starts, his voice laced with hatred.

“Now, now, Lord Stark. That is not the way to talk to your king.”

“You think I would raise my banners for your cause after this treachery?” Cregan seethes.

“I do. For I would never sully the good name of a lady of an allied house…” The room goes silent, and you finally look up at Daemon.

“Now… if it were any enemy house… a house that, say, raised their banners for the usurper… I would spread the news far and wide.” He takes his wine goblet and sips it before looking back at Cregan.

“So, Lord Stark, tell me… who has Winterfell raised their banners for?”

[vermont-writes-fanfic]

Her Special Maid

Prologue Chapter~

Request:No

Chapter: Prologue

Warning: An unnecessarily indepth description of how to make bread the medieval way, not much else

Characters:Alcina Dimitrescu

A/N:I plan on making this into a series, I’m not to sure how it will go but fuck it, I have it taking place about a full year before anything with Ethan even begins to enter the question though so that’s why there will be little to no mention of him

A/N 2: This is a prologue so bare with it please!

Directory: Prologue (you are here), Chapter 1

You’re life in the village is by no means a hard one, Mother Miranda had blessed the village well and you and your family are devout to her and the four lords she appointed to help sustain the village. As a child, you had often wondered about the large castle that stood strong and resolute beyond the village, even more so about those who lived in it. You had read the tales of princesses and royalty living in buildings like this, however no one would answer you when you asked about it, they would just steer you away from it with weary looks cast towards the grandiose building.

As you grew older, you grew bolder and wandered closer to it, as if testing the castle to tell what secrets it held that kept everyone so on edge. Any time you could, you would sneak away from your duties in the house to venture further and further out, and that was when you met your first Lycan up close and personal. You had fled home unharmed but severely afraid. After that, the castle interested you much less.

It wasn’t until you fell ill with an affliction that no doctor could cure, that you first got a glimpse of what truly took home in the castle. You had been laying in bed running a fever and in and out of a stupor, when the sound of a carriage could be heard passing by. Your mother roused you from bed and forced you to stand beside your father as two carriages passed by. The windows to the carriage were heavily curtained but a pale white hand had reached out from behind them and you swore you saw golden eyes staring right back at you, but your father pressed your head down nearly taking your sick body to the ground.

After this, your curiosity had once again been piqued by the strange castle. If only to keep you from going closer to the castle, your mother told you it was where one of the four lords of the village lived, and that she had a penchant for taking young girls. You assumed this was true for the lost part, the last bit seeming more like something you tell to a child instead of a teen, however you were satisfied with they answer gave. As the years flew and your mother grew weak, you had to focus on taking over the small bakery your family ran. You learned the tricks of the trade out of a large recipe book that had been passed down from generation to generation filled and crammed with different kind of recipes, the alterations made, the exact rations, and everything else anyone aspiring to take of the business would need to know.

One morning,while you are trudging through the snow, you find a small box with a simple lock keeping it closed. Not wanting the snow to damage it or someone else to take it, also being curious yourself as to what is in it, you take it.You continue on your way back to the bakery and set it in your room in a raggedy but clean towel to dry so the wood doesn’t become soggy and damage the inner contents of the box. Now that you’ve set it down it’s clear to you that this is no ordinary jewllery box or otherwise. It’s ornatley decoratated and has a crest you’ve never seen before. Silver pegs at the bottom in each corner of the base stand the box up and pop against the deep dark slightly red of the wood. The wood it;s self is nicely glossed and clearly well cared for, however the dust in places that had not been disturbed by the snow and cloth shows that it’s old. You take a small handkerchief and wipe away the dust before inspecting it further.Silver vines with leaves trail up the lock which is split in two pieces to allow the box to open.Rumaging through a couple of drawers you finally find a old bobby pin your mother used to pin up your hair when you were a child, upon finding you slide it in and jiggle it around finding the right spot until you hear the click. As you open it, the gleam of the candle light reflecting off of what must be a pure silver locket slightly blinds you. It’s heavy in your hand and the locket it’s self is even heavier than the chain. Curiosity gets the better of you once more, and you snap the locket open. Inside is a worn picture of a beautiful woman with perfectly curled black hair, dark lipstick, and a gorgeous white dress, beneath and on either side of her are younger ladies who must be the womans daughters. None of them aside for the girl with the lightly brighter hair had a smile on her face, even then it was barely there. Feeling guilty for taking something with a clear sentimental value, you shut it and replace it in the box as it was, before shutting the box which automatically locks with a click.

You set it in a special drawer of your dresser, and head out tying up your hair to begin baking for the day, after all you were already behind on the bread that needed to be baked and if you didn’t have enough for the day you’de have to make more mid-way through which is no small feat. The day is relatively uneventful as you go about your daily routine, you take the flower you had bought from Mr.Bruner the week before and add water and bear to it along with a little yeast and begin to knead it.After thirty minutes you let it set working on several more large batches before shaping it into loaves of bread. You set out a stone slab over the fire and set several loaves down waiting for them to cook. This process is repeated from the point the sun is peeking up from the horizon, to the time it is placed a quarter of the way in the sky. The smell of fresh if slightly stale bread floods the house as well as the noses of passersby in the village. It isn’t as if you have much competition in such a small village, your family is the only bakery in it after all. With the bread done and baked, your younger brother takes to selling and keeping an eye on the front as you head back into your room to stare at the box. What if you were accused of stealing it from someone in the village? Who do you know would even have money enough to have something like this made? A thought passes your mind and you, for a moment, contemplate it before making the decision to see the merchant everyone had been to, aside from yourself. Running a bakery with a sick mother is stressful enough as it is so you never had time for anything not already planned out.

You have a bit of free time now, and he was on a path you liked to walk when you weren’t so weary of the Castle and haven't had the time to walk until now. You slide on your thicker boots and a cloak before leaving the back door and walking down the dirt path along the tree line. Here, most of the people in the village couldn’t see behind the line of houses and question where you are going. It was better this way, no one in the village has anything even remotely close to this value and the picture would give away that it doesn’t belong to you. A caravan comes into view near the front of the castles at the corner where the two dirt roads meet. As you stop in front of it, the doors swing open and a large man kicks his bare feet out pushing himself into a sitting position.

“Well hello there! I trust you are the baker's daughter, what brings you so close to the castle? Is it me, perchance?” The Duke greets you, though you are easily distracted by the trinkets on either door he had opened as the clink.

“Miss?” He calls out to you again an amused smile on his face as you look at his wares with blatant curiosity and wonder. Hearing this, you snap your eyes up at him and shake yourself out for the distracted daze you were in.

“My apologies, yes I’m here for you. I found this box,” you pause and take the box from its cloth confines, “have you seen anything like it?”

Immediately his interest is piqued and he scoots forward leaning down to gently take it from your hands and inspect it further. His eyes widen and his lips curl into a grin as he sets it back down.

“Oh no, I’ve never seen something like this…but I do know who it belongs to,” When he says this your eyes lift back to him from the box where they once were. He leans back into his seat before rocking forward to peek around the doors of his home, an arm pointing to the castle before the two of you.

“The Lady Dimitrescu, that box most certainly belongs to her.I’ve only seen products from her castle use such ornate silver designs. And the crest, is hers.”

Hearing this, you turn to look at th castle, what you thought was fantastical and large from afar, is imposing and intimidating now as it looms over you. This would be a place wear one of Mother Miranda’s appointed lords would stay. Could you maybe leave it at the doorstep, or give it to him and have it returned to her that way? The thought of entering the large castle had once entertained and excited you but now it fills you with dread. What if she thought you stole it? Your mother had told you that young ladies went missing to the castle many times , and that your best friend was suspected to have been taken there as well.

“Do you plan to give it to her yourself?” The Duke questions, a brow raised, that amused smile never quite leaving his face as he watches you.

“Y-yes, it’s only right it’s returned to her…” Even as you say it, your legs seem to dread the thought of moving closer. The Lord were made to protect the village, surely one wouldn’t harm you…right?

You shake your fear from you, your father had always told you that being a coward even as a woman would lead you nowhere in life. You turn to the Duke and thank him for his help, before walking on shaking legs towards the door of the castle. Underneath the terror and anxiety, your beating heart quickens for another reason, your strides quicken and you bite you lip to hold back the excited smile that twitches at your lips. Even through the fear, you might be able to enter a castle. A real life castle, and one that you had always hoped to enter. Mother had always warned that your childish curiosities would get you hurt, and you pray to Miranda that she is wrong. In no time at all, your eager legs have carried you through the snow to the door of the castle, and you give a timid if excited knock. After a few moments, your apprehension grips you, and you think to leave it at the door. Just as you turn around, the massive doors open and the warmth of the inside beckons you. Against your better judgment, you walk through the large doors which quickly shut behind you.

End note: Let me know what you all think it would be really appreciated

Total Word Count: 1959 words

[dark-frosted-heart]

Roger Barel Main Route - Chapter 6

As usual, can’t guarantee 100% accuracy on this. I’m doing this for archiving purposes and you can probably find a better translation out there.

Kate and co.’s lively voices could be heard throughout Crown’s castle’s garden.

There, two figures slink about unnoticed.

Nica: Oh, sounds like they’re having fun. Crown’s closer than I thought. They’re like a “family”.

Ring: …

Nica: What’s wrong, Ring? Do you want to be their friend?

Ring: Ah, well…

Nica: You can’t. You know we’re not here to make friends.

Ring: I know that. I’ll only follow what you and Dari tell me to do.

Nica: I don’t want to control you like a puppet, Ring. But if that’s what you want, then I will.

Eyes peek through a blue-grey gap before landing on Roger.

Nica: Roger Barel. Apparently he’s conducting research on Cursed Ones.

Ring: Research on Cursed Ones? That guy…what does he want to do?

Nica: Who knows. Maybe it’s research that’ll interfere with our ambitions. The kind that will shake the meaning of our existence.

Ring: …Should we eliminate him? No one will notice if I take care of it.

Nica: What are you talking about, Ring? We’re here as goodwill ambassadors. We have to stay white and clean for now. Besides, that guy can be both poison and medicine for Vogel, so let’s let him go for now.

Ring: But— 

Suddenly, his lips curled into a ferocious smile.

Nica: The nail that sticks out gets the hammer* and beautiful flowers get plucked. Let’s just hope no one else notices him and makes him disappear.

--

—Meanwhile.

Within the palace, “Her Majesty the Queen’s Privy Council” is full of frustration.

Privy Council Lord: A few days ago, “Vogel”, an organization under German rule, arrived as goodwill ambassadors. Why don’t the chief of Vogel and his subordinates show any interest in us? Instead, they’re only interested in “Crown”...

One member spat out words full of hatred, and the others joined in on cursing Crown.

Privy Council Lord: With strange powers called curses, they do whatever they want under Her Majesty the Queen. This stain on our country must be erased!

Privy Council member: Her Majesty must be out of her mind, keeping these cursed monsters as pets.

Privy Council Lord: As the Privy Council, we must protect Her Majesty before Crown’s existence becomes known to the public.

Privy Council member: Crown must be dissolved then.

This was what “Her Majesty the Queen’s Privy Council” wanted.

Privy Council member: …But to object to an organization directly under Her Majesty’s control, you must know a weakness.  

Privy Council Lord: Let’s look for a weakness immediately. The best kind to take Crown down.

Little did they know that darkness was about to creep back into “Crown”...

--

Kate: *sigh*...I’m finally done.

Finally free from my self-defense class, I trudged up the stairs with wounds all over.

(I need to work my legs out more…)

Exhausted, I rubbed my weary legs that wouldn’t even let me climb up the stairs.

Concealed under my skirt was a garter belt holding a gun wrapped around a leg.

The gun was a gift from Roger.

~~ Flashback ~~

Roger: Kate, I got something for you. The best from Victor’s armory.

Kate: A…gun?

Roger: Give it here. I’ll teach you how to shoot.

When I handed the gun back to Roger, he immediately fired at a distant target.

(Amazing…)

Roger: The height you hold the barrel depends on the opponent’s feet. In close range, point it down. Long range, horizontal. If you’re in a room, on a train, or some place with obstacles, you can point it up. But keeping it steady takes practice. If the muzzle’s shaking, you have a higher chance of hitting a comrade so the basic rule is to aim down.

Roger explains while demonstrating with the gun.

Roger: That’s about it. Now we just have to practice.

Kate: I’ll give it a shot…

The gun was placed back into my hand and I held it up like I was instructed.

Roger: Grip it like this. Yeah, good. Keep your finger on the trigger…no, don’t squeeze it. Loosen up.

Kate: Okay.

Roger: Relax. Just pull it back.

Roger’s hand slowly moves away from the gun and I pull the trigger.

—There was a dry sound and a bullet grazed the target.

Roger: A little more to the left. Fire them all.

Kate: …

I repositioned my arm and fired in rapid succession.

Roger: Out of 6 rounds, 1 was a hit. 2 grazed the target. Not bad for a first time. I’ll add this to your training so you better start doing push-ups every day. Also— Kate, use this as a last resort. Got it?

~~ Flashback end ~~

(At the time, Roger looked a little scared…no, he looked serious)

My breath shuddered at the memory and I heard the sound of a piano coming from somewhere…

(It sounds beautiful. Who’s…?)

I followed the sound and opened the door.

William: …

There sat William playing the piano.

He glanced at me, raised his fingers high and then continued playing dramatically.

The song eventually comes to an end with a decrescendo and as the final note fades, I give a generous round of applause.

Kate: So it was William playing the piano so beautifully.

William: Thank you for the praise, Kate.

In response to my applause, William gracefully placed his hand on his chest and then suddenly lowered his gaze.

William: Ah…He gave you a gun. Robin with a gun is quite the image.

Kate: H-how did you know? It’s concealed under my skirt.

William: I could tell from the way you walked. When going undercover, be careful not to let others notice.

Kate: The way I walked…I hadn’t considered that.

William: However, it looks like you’re growing well. The “robin growth map” was it?

(Ugh…it’s embarrassing hearing it said to you)

William’s smiling, blood-red eyes held a subdued power that seemed to see through everything.

(William’s a curious person)

(It’s like he knows everything, but I’m not uncomfortable)

William: Kate, do you know why Roger uses a hunting rifle?

Kate: No…Now that I think about it, Roger’s the only one that uses one.

(Everyone else uses either swords or pistols…)

Roger’s hunting rifle stood out and as an amateur, I thought it looked difficult to use.

Kate: I was under the impression that hunting rifles were used by people with good eyesight. So initially I wondered why.

William: One reason is that he used to go hunting with his father, so he’s familiar with it. The other is because of his “abnormal hearing”.

My eyes widened at the unexpected answer.

Kate: Ah, Roger can tell where a target is by listening out for them!

William: That’s right. Rather than risk injuries at close range, he can shoot from a distance. It’s very like Roger to value efficiency. However, those are the reasons he gives. I’m sure there are others.

Kate: Other reasons…?

William: Did you know, Robin.

William spoke softly.

It was like he was telling a fairy tale.

William: In war, 80% of those given guns wouldn’t “dare” to shoot the enemy.

Kate: …I didn’t know that.

The percentage is a lot higher than I expected.

Kate: Even when faced with the enemy, it might be too much pressure to shoot another person…

William: What if it’s a hunting rifle? A hunting rifle’s original purpose is to hunt beasts, not people. It would be an undeniable evil for a former doctor to kill someone, even if it’s to condemn them.

At that moment, I remembered—Roger’s serious expression when he was teaching me how to use a gun.

William: I heard from Victor that when Roger joined Crown, he chose the hunting rifle.

Kate: He chose the hunting rifle on purpose…?

William’s smile was an affirmation.

Roger willingly chose the hunting rifle to kill people and condemn them of their evil, while also having the skills to save lives.

Roger had more knowledge about medicine than anyone else, yet called himself a former doctor and lived in darkness.

(...The more I learn about Roger, the more questions I have)

Why did Roger decide to live on with Crown?

It wasn’t just out of curiosity—that is obvious…

(Would I be able to ask him why?)

(And William…)

Kate: Um, why did you give me this information about Roger? 

William: Hm?

Kate: You don’t seem like the kind of person that says things without a reason.

William: I see…

William frowned in thought.

William: Perhaps it’s because humans are creatures who meet people and gain wisdom at the right time.

Like the scriptures in the Bible, his words weren’t immediately understood.

But it felt like I received some sort of “guidance”. 

Kate: I don’t really understand, but..thank you.

William: You’re welcome.

Kate: Ah, that’s right. William!

(There was something I wanted to ask him)

Kate: I was told that the palace library has books on medicine.

William: Books on medicine?

Kate: Um…Since I’m going to be around Roger, I thought it’d be good to gain some knowledge.

William: Wouldn’t it be easier to ask Roger?

Kate: I can’t.

William: Why?

I want to make him happy with my growth

I want to beat him

It’s a secret surprise +4 +4

Kate: I want to keep it a secret and surprise Roger later.

William: So it’s a special surprise.

William chuckled when he heard about my plan.

William: In that case, I’ll show you the way. Of course, I’ll keep it a secret from Roger.

--

—That night, Roger and I were summoned to Victor’s office at the palace.

Victor: Her Majesty has entrusted Roger and his exclusive Fairytale Keeper with a mission.

(Our next mission…)

Since Roger started teaching me a lot of things, I’ve felt myself grow every day.

Realizing that it was time to put my abilities to the test, I straightened up.

Victor: There's a village out in the countryside. It may be small, but it’s a special place where the people live by their own rules.

Roger: Hmm, is that what they call village customs? What’s wrong with it?

Victor: The other day, skeletons were found in the mountain by the village. There were a lot of them.

I came to the realization that the previous mission to infiltrate the “death party” was a lot simpler than the usual missions.

I quietly swallowed down the fear rising from my chest and mentally organized the mission.

Kate: But burials are normal in this country, and if it’s the village’s custom, then— 

Victor: I had thought so too. So I did some research. Police sent to investigate the village never returned.

(Even the police…that can only mean something’s happened in the village)

Victor: And I found something else. There is a village chief who they call the spirit god. Supposedly this man can ward off illness.

(Spirit god…? The heck…)

Roger and Kate: That’s really suspicious!

Grimacing, we both said it at the same time.

Roger: I see. If illnesses are involved, then I’m the right guy. It’s possible this man’s a new Cursed One…

Kate: New Cursed One?

Roger: It’s nothing.

(What are you talking about?)

While I tilted my head in confusion, Roger spoke enthusiastically.

Roger: Alright. Kate and I will go undercover at the village. And we’ll expose the evil spread in the sandbox. Right, Kate?

(This time I’ll help out with the mission and not be a burden as Fairytale Keeper!)

Kate: Right, leave it to us.

Victor: Thank you. Liam, with his power to disappear, will sneak into the village first and gather intelligence. Once you’re in the village, make contact with him without getting noticed.

Victor turned toward us— 

Victor: Roger, Kate. Don’t get hurt. Now, let’s pledge allegiance to evil.

He sent us off with a few words that were very “Crown-like”.

His POV | Next

-

*Idiom meaning those that stand out are forced to conform

[the-fiction-witch]

Do not ever forget to love her

Media - House Of The Dragon Character - Oscar Tully Couple - Oscar X Reader Reader - Y/n Rivers (Riverrun Maid) Rating - 15 (Sad AF) Word Count - 1824

Oscar was lost in thought, his mind swirling with worry and sadness, so much had been happening. The country was on the brink of civil war, and his Grandsire was in bed unable to even move. Soon he would find himself Lord Paramount of the riverlands a title he knew would come to him… someday, but he never thought it would be so soon.

He was freshly returned from Harrenhal and his very short meeting with Daemon Targaryen where he was all but ignored and told to end the suffering of his Grandsire.

So he sat on the wooden jetty watching the water, but he suddenly heard the sound of a soft, careful approach. He looked up to see her, Y/n Rivers. A maid in Riverrun, whose mother worked in the kitchens. Oscar and Y/n were the same age and had very much grown up alongside one another, she wore her rough mud-red dress with her grey apron over it carefully making her way towards him, clearly trying not to startle him.

A small, weary smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, "Hey," he said softly, his voice a mix of bittersweetness and relief.

"Hey," she softly smiled kneeling beside him, she didn’t speak any more even if she had a hundred questions to ask him about his trip but she didn’t say anything knowing he needed the quiet and the space,

Oscar looked at her with tired, weary eyes. The weight of his concern for his Grandsire evident in every line and contour of his face. He reached out and gently took her hand, the feel of her skin reassuring in its normality. "I'm glad you’re here," he said quietly almost a whisper, "I needed someone to lean on, even if just for a moment." His fingers tightened around hers before reluctantly letting go as if it were a silent plea.

"You may lean as long as you wish," she cooed taking his hand in hers again, "I share your concerns, not to the extent I do admit... He is your Grandsire I can't imagine the pain" For a moment they only watched the river together but she broke the silence once more, "... In some ways, you must admit, this has been a long time coming. You knew this day would be sooner than later. I know... That doesn't make it any easier. But you should go to him. I know it would mean so much to him both if you were there, by his side…for his last days"

Oscar nodded slowly, sighing deeply. "You're right," he admitted, "I know I need to be by his side. But... the thought of losing him..." He trailed off, He looked at her, his eyes reflecting a mix of determination and sorrow. "Will you come with me?"

"me? I- I have no place at the bedside of the lord paramount," she gasped,

Oscar's grip on her hand tightened, his eyes pleading. "Please," he implored, his voice tinged with desperation. "I need you there. I need your strength, your comfort. I can't face this alone." He gazed at her intently, the vulnerability in his eyes clear as day. "I know it may seem improper, but I... I can't do this without you. I can't say goodbye to him without you there."

she softly nodded and squeezed his hand,

Oscar let out a deep breath, the tension in his shoulders easing at her agreement. "Thank you," he whispered, the relief evident in his voice. Gently, he rose to his feet, still holding her hand in his. "Come on," he said softly,

Y/n followed Oscar her hand in his as they walked through Riverrun castle, the whole castle quiet and slow as if sitting on a knife edge ready any day for word. When they arrived at the Chambers of the Lord Paramount, she broke her hand from his and allowed him to enter first to keep a respectable distance,

Oscar stepped into the chamber where his Grandsire lay, his legs almost giving way at the sight. Lord Grover, once a powerful and commanding figure, now lay frail and weak, his face sunken and his breaths shallow. Seeing the man who had always been a pillar of strength in his life diminished so greatly tore at Oscar's heart. He stood for a long moment, frozen in the doorway,

Lord Grover lay in the bed, you'd never have thought he could have been a strong man. His body was frail and broken as if he was a corpse barely holding on. Lord Grover hadn't spoken anything coherent for months now and the Maester's where giving him milk of the poppy daily now

Oscar approached the bedside, his steps soft and measured. He reached out a trembling hand and softly touched his Grandsire's own, the skin papery and cold to the touch "Grandsire," he murmured, his voice choked with emotion. "It's me, Oscar..."

Lord Grover gave no reply, he didn't even seem to realise that Oscar was there.

In comfort, Y/n softly reached out and rested a hand on Oscar's shoulder,

Oscar continued to stare at his Grandsire, willing him to respond, to even acknowledge his presence.

But Grover's eyes remained closed, his breaths slow and rasping as if he was already on the edge of the abyss.

Oscar squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, fighting to keep his emotions in check. He laid his hand on top of hers, silently grateful for her silent but steady support.

"He might not answer, but I think he'd like to hear you." she suggested

Oscar took a deep, shuddering breath, gathering his thoughts. He gently squeezed her hand in response, drawing strength from her presence.

He leaned forward, his voice barely above a whisper as he spoke. "Grandsire, it's me, Oscar," he repeated. "I don't know if you can hear me. But I wanted you to know..." He paused, his throat catching as emotions and words struggled to find their way out. Oscar tried again, his words thick with a mixture of grief and affection. "you've always been there for me. you've been a guiding light, a source of strength... Even now, as I stand here, even though you can't respond..." He trailed off, his eyes misting, "I love you," he whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of his emotions.

The silence in the room was almost unbearable as if the air itself was holding its breath, waiting for a response that never came. Oscar could feel the wet tracks of tears on his cheeks as he continued to hold his Grandsire's hand, willing him to open his eyes, to say something, anything.

"I... I think it would be best to... tell him all that you must" Y/n said,

Oscar swallowed hard, his throat tight with emotion. He knew she were right. There were things he needed to say, things that needed to be said before it was too late. His eyes never leaving his Grandsire's face, he took a deep breath and began to speak. "Grandsire," he whispered, his voice thick with tears. "There's so much I want to tell you. So much... I don't even know where to start." He paused, gathering his thoughts, before continuing. "I know I've made mistakes. I've been reckless, maybe even foolish at times. But you've always been there, guiding me, teaching me. you've shown me what it means to be a Tully, what it means to be a leader." he softly said, "I remember... I remember when I was a little boy, I used to watch her lead our men into battle. I thought her were invincible. I remember thinking, 'I want to be just like him when I grow up.'" A tear rolled down his cheek, and he didn't bother to brush it away. "I hope... I hope I've made you proud, Grandsire."

"I'm sure you did Oscar, and I'm sure when you are lord he will be even prouder of you," Y/n smiled softly

Oscar's eyes flickered towards her, grateful for her words of reassurance. He knew she couldn't promise things she didn't know for certain, but still, her confidence in him gave him some comfort. “Thank you,” He nodded, Turning back to his Grandsire, he continued speaking, his voice firmer now. "I won't let our legacy crumble. I'll honour our name, and everything you've taught me. I'll make you proud, Grandsire, I swear it."

"you should let him rest Oscar,"

He squeezed his Grandsire's hand one last time, gently setting it back down on the bed. He leaned in, his voice a solemn whisper. "Rest now, Grandsire. I'll be here. I promise."

Y/n offered a tender smile as Oscar turned to her, she offered her hands for him to hold in comfort but,

As Oscar turned towards her, he seemed to buckle under the weight of his emotions. Without a word, he wrapped his arms around her, burying his face in her chest as he fought to keep himself together. His grip was tight, almost desperate, as he held onto her like a lifeline in a storm. He didn't speak, didn't move, just clung to her in silence, his body shaking with stifled sobs.

Y/n held him in her arms without judgement or aim of him to move, she just held him for as long as he needed her too

Oscar clutched at her, his fingers grasping the fabric of her gown as if it were the only thing keeping him grounded in the world. His body trembled against hers, tears dampening her dress as he allowed himself this moment of weakness. He didn't know how long he stood there, held in her embrace, but eventually, the storm of his emotions began to subside. He inhaled deeply, his grip on her loosening slightly, yet he still didn't let go. Oscar lifted his head slightly, his eyes puffy and red, but his voice steady when he finally spoke again. "Thank you," he whispered hoarsely, his arms still encircling her waist. "I... I don't know what I would do without you."

"you have no need to thank me, and I will be here as long as you need me, be that a moment, a day, a week, or the rest of time,"

Oscar's grip on her tightened briefly at her words. The strength and assurance in her voice was a balm to his weary soul. He drew a deep breath, pulling away just far enough to meet her gaze, his own eyes searching hers. "Please tell me that's a promise," he said quietly, a trace of vulnerability still clinging to his voice.

"I promise," She cooed stroking his cheek and wiping his tear

Oscar leaned into her touch, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment. The simple gesture, the gentle brush of her hand against his skin, helped to soothe the storm of his emotions. He let out a shaky breath, some of the tension leaving his body. "I don't deserve you," he murmured quietly, a small, bittersweet smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"...Elsa." Lord Grover began to speak barely able to form the word,