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writinginatree · 11 days ago

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Jealous Little Puppy

Relationship(s): Xaden Riorson & sibling!reader, Bodhi Durran & Riorson!reader, background Xaden Riorson/Violet Sorrengail

Summary: You feel neglected because your brother spends every free minute with Violet and has no time left for you.

Warnings: Jealousy, low self-worth, abandonment issues, implied depression. Set in Aretia during Iron Flame.

Anonymous requested: I want to ask something for Xaden where the reader is jealous and feels like she's in second place to Violet? Maybe because Violet and Xaden's dragons are mate, and they spend a lot of time together, the reader is jealous, but she gets all grumpy, glaring at Xaden, refusing his touch... but deep down she's a little lost puppy who just wants to be loved and protected🥹🤍

You sit on the bottom stair in the foyer of Riorson House, watching your brother across the room. The physical distance is nothing compared to how far away he's felt emotionally ever since you saw him again after entering the Riders Quadrant a few months ago. You were hoping he would have a few minutes to come to the gym and help you with a move you have trouble mastering, but, as usual, he's otherwise occupied.

He and Violet are locked in one of their silent conversations. You don't understand how, but you've been watching them enough to be sure they have some strange way of communicating without anyone else being any the wiser. It has to be part of the whole mated dragons thing somehow, you suppose. Maybe because of it, they can talk the same way riders and dragons talk. However it works, you hate when they do that. It always makes you paranoid, wondering if you did something wrong, if they're talking about you. Of course they aren't; you're not so self-important to truly believe they are. Nonetheless, that prickle of anxiety never fades. Maybe you did do something wrong and that's why Xaden's been so closed off from you?

He never has time for you these days. You'd thought maybe that would change now that you're back home in Aretia, but honestly, you should have known better. Every free second he has is dedicated to Violet, regardless of where you are and how often he's there.

Starting the quadrant, you'd been thrilled to learn that Xaden would be returning to Basgiath every two weeks due to his dragon being mated to that of a second-year, thinking you would get to see him on those occasions. And yes, the first time he'd visited, he had used the chance to check on you. Briefly. After that, nothing. You didn't get to talk to him again until after he showed up to save Violet and you all defected. According to Bodhi, it had been because you were safer that way. As if people weren't perfectly aware of who you are regardless of whether or not your brother payed any attention to you.

And while you do get to see a little more of him now, he never actually spends time with you. It hurts more than you care to admit. After lonely years stuck in a foster home, counting the days until you'd get to see your family again, it now feels a lot like your family doesn't want you anymore. You've been spending time with Bodhi whenever possible, but he doesn't have much time for you either, and, as much as you love your cousin, he simply can't make up for your brother's unavailability.

What little free time Xaden has, he spends with Violet. It's been going on like this for months. You try not to be jealous of all the attention Xaden gives her, but it's hard. They're so close, blind to anything except each other.

At first, it was nice to see them so obviously in love. Gods know Xaden deserves to finally have some happiness in his life. Things have been rough for all of you since the apostasy, but for him especially. And you're glad he has Violet to take care of him now, you really are.

It's just that most of these days, it feels as though you've turned invisible.

You know you're being unreasonable. You're an adult and should be fine on your own. But after having your mother abandon you, and your father die for a failed rebellion and leaving you behind, being constantly ignored by your brother in favor of his girlfriend is simply too much. It's like there's no space left for you in Xaden's life now that he has her.

The worst part is that you actually like Violet. It would be easier if you could hate her for stealing your brother from you, but you admire her. You're even friends — or as close to being friends as a measly first-year like you can get with a powerful second-year like her.

She never has time for you, either. You can't blame her. She's busy — as is Xaden, you know that. But that's different. Violet has no obligation to waste her time on you, but Xaden is your damned brother. He could at least say hi when he's home, ask how you're doing once in a while.

Instead, he only pays attention to you when you're in trouble, like is the case a few days later.

It wasn't even your fault this time. Your squadmate had gotten into a fight with one of the fliers; all you had done was try to make peace between them. Things escalated into a fist fight despite your efforts, and when the professors broke it up, no one asked who'd started it or gave you a chance to explain. After a whole fifteen minutes of Ulices yelling at the lot of you, you were sentenced to breakfast duty along with those who'd actually been involved in the fight.

And of course some asshole immediately informed Xaden about it when he returned from a long patrol later that afternoon, so now you're stuck getting another lecture, this time from your brother dearest.

"I hear you got into a fight with the fliers," he starts, glaring at you like you're the biggest disappointment he's ever seen.

All hopes that he might listen to your side of the incident evaporate, but you try anyway. "I—"

"I didn't think I had to tell you this," he goes on, "but you're supposed to be a good example for the others. We cannot have fliers and riders turn on each other, or everything will fall apart."

"It wasn't—"

"I expect you to be on your best behavior from now on. If I hear about any more incidents like this, the punishment your professors come up with will be the least of your worries. Is that clear?"

It's an effort to swallow your anger and the bitter feeling of betrayal. You've never felt so unwelcome in your own home. Somehow, you manage to keep your voice steady and void of emotion when you answer. "Yes, sir."

Bodhi finds you crying in your room that night.

"Hey, what's wrong? If it's because of that fight you got into—"

You can't take it anymore. "I didn't!" you shout, shooting to your feet. "I was just in the middle of it because I tried to make them stop, but no one ever fucking listens to anything I say!"

Bodhi raises his hands in a placating gesture. "Okay, okay. Sorry. I can take it up with leadership for you. I'm sure they'll exclude you from the punishment if I explain that you—"

"Nevermind. I don't care about breakfast duty."

"But?"

You sit back down on the edge of your bed, wipe the tears from your face and shake your head. You don't look at him. "Nothing. It's nothing."

He wouldn't understand. He's never been needy for attention like you, is happy to do his duty without expecting thanks or acknowledgement. Oh, he would be sympathetic if you told him. Would let you pour your heart out about how unimportant you feel, how lonely you are because Violet is Xaden's number one priority and no one has time for you. Would hold you and stroke your hair, give you all the attention you so desperately crave. He'd sit with you and dry your tears until you fell peacefully asleep instead of crying yourself to sleep like you'd done so often lately.

But he would not understand. And once you were soundly asleep, he would tell Xaden.

And while Bodhi would certainly be doing so for your own good, you would rather let your dragon bite your arm off than talk to your brother about this. At best, Xaden would think you're being annoying, clingy, and childish. At worst... well, you're not sure. It doesn't matter. Talking about it would not improve the situation, that much you're sure of.

Therefore, you keep your mouth shut and your eyes glued to the floor until Bodhi finally decides to leave you be. He has homework and section leader stuff to do, after all. As soon as you're certain he's gone, you let the calm facade crack again and flop down on the bed, sobbing into your pillow.

Almost two weeks pass before Xaden deigns to talk to you again. You see him in the hall a few times, but he doesn't pay you any mind. Maybe he just doesn't notice you, or maybe he's doing it on purpose to punish you for your perceived misbehaviour. You don't know and it doesn't matter. Of course you could always greet him first, but you're tired of begging for his attention, so you convince yourself you don't want or need it anymore.

You're sitting at lunch when Xaden walks past behind you, reaching out to muss up your hair in passing as he's done thousands of times before, though not in a while. For the first time in your life, you swat his hand away.

He freezes, and you can practically feel his bewildered gaze boring into the back of your head. You continue eating like he isn't there.

For a moment he just stands there, trying to figure you out. When he speaks, his voice has an annoyed edge to it, but beneath that, there's a hint of what almost sounds like worry. "You're not still mad because I believed that you were involved in that brawl with the fliers, are you? Bodhi told me it wasn't your fault you got dragged into—"

"No," you cut him off, sparing him a glance over your shoulder after all. "No, everything is fine."

"Right..."

Though he clearly doesn't believe you, he leaves it be, walking off to find his own lunch. You knew he would. You don't matter enough for him to make a scene in front of your squad.

To your surprise, Xaden intercepts you outside your room that evening. Maybe Violet is still busy in the library; he sure as hell wouldn't be bothering with you if she had time for him.

"Okay, what's wrong?" he demands without preamble. "And don't you dare say it's nothing. You're skulking around like an abandoned puppy."

You bite your tongue to keep from retorting that that's exactly how you feel. Like he put you in a crate and left you in some dark alley because you're not worth taking care of anymore, and so far, no passerbys have bothered to stop and take you in. Unloved and unwanted, just like you felt when your mother left all those years ago. Maybe that's how it's supposed to feel, growing up. You've always been a little behind, so you wouldn't know.

Xaden nudges you, a reminder that he's still waiting for an answer.

You decide to give him a half-truth. "It just feels weird to be home after so long. Wherever I look there's something bringing back old memories." You let your eyes flick to his for a second. "I miss Dad."

"Me too," he quietly admits, which is the closest thing to vulnerability he's allowed himself in your presence since the execution. "But that's not all, is it?"

You shrug, opening your door in hopes he'll drop the matter, but he follows into your room. Fine. If you really can't avoid talking about it, you'd rather do it here than in the hall where gods know who might listen in.

Standing at the window, you look out over Aretia, all too aware of Xaden's presence at your back.

"Come on, kid. Talk to me."

You scoff. You can't help it. For months you've wanted to talk to him, to spend just a little bit of time with him, but he couldn't be bothered. And now that you've all but given it up he comes and demands you pay attention to him. Gods beware you have the audacity to turn things around and ignore him for a few minutes. Maybe you should have slammed the door in his face and refused the conversation altogether, given him a taste of his own medicine.

You don't have the energy to fight with him, though, so you do the next best thing and feign ignorance. "Talk about what?"

"About whatever is bothering you."

"Nothing is bothering me," you claim. "Like I said, it's just strange to be back—"

"Bullshit. You really think I can't tell you're mad at me? Because I absolutely can. I just can't figure out why."

"That's not— I'm not mad at you!"

It's the truth. You're jealous, lonely, feeling neglected, maybe even a little disappointed in him, but not mad. There's no point; being angry with him wouldn't change a thing. It's true you've been acting moody lately, pulling away from everyone and Xaden especially, deciding that if you are that unimportant to him, you won't bother him anymore. It was an act of acceptance, rather than anger. You didn't think he would notice.

"What is it, then?"

"I'm just..." You shake your head. "I don't know. It doesn't matter."

"Yes it does."

You sigh. Why does he care all of the sudden? Part of you wishes he'd just leave you alone, even as the rest of you longs for the comfort his company used to bring. You're so fucking tired of this.

"You're away all the time. And when you are here you never have time for me." You didn't mean for it to come out like an accusation, but it does. And since there's no taking it back now you add, "It's like I don't even matter anymore. If I disappeared, you probably wouldn't even notice."

When he doesn't answer, you chance a look at your brother's face. He looks stricken, shock mixing with the guilt of the realization of how distant he's been.

"I didn't realize," he says finally, startling you with the uncharacteristically soft tone he uses. "I know I haven't really had time for you, but I didn't realize it made you feel so..."

"Neglected?"

"Yeah."

You shrug. "It's fine. I'm not a little kid you need to dote on anymore. You've got other priorities. I get it."

Xaden shakes his head. "That's not the point. I don't ever want you to doubt how important you are to me. All I did, the deal to let us into the quadrant, continuing what Dad started, it was all for you. All I wanted was to keep you safe, for you to have a better life. And just because Violet is my biggest priority now doesn't mean you're not important too. You and Bodhi are the only family I have. You'll always matter, you hear me? You matter so fucking much."

He takes you by the shoulders like he wants to shake you to make sure the words sink in, but refrains from actually doing it.

"I'm sorry," he adds, which feels even more surreal than everything else he's said so far. "I promised Dad I'd take good care of you, but I guess I fucked it up. I was so focused on just keeping us alive that I forgot about actually being there for you. And I know I've been... cold, but that has nothing to do with you. I just... kind of forgot how to do feelings, I guess. Not that I was ever much good at that stuff. But I still care. I promise I do, and I'm so fucking sorry for making you feel like I don't."

"It's okay," you say, and this time, you really mean it. He hasn't forgotten about you. He's trying. You're not abandoned after all, merely temporarily left behind. "You've done so much for all of us. It's not your fault I'm so sensitive."

"No, but I know damn well how easily you let things like this get to you. I should have noticed sooner. Next time you convince yourself you don't matter just do us both a favor and say something, okay?"

"Okay. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Now, are we okay again?"

"Yeah."

"Good. And I'll try to have more time for you," Xaden promises, ruffling your hair. This time, you let him. "I can't help how busy I am, but I'll try to include you more when I'm here. I'll see if I have a moment to join you in the gym tomorrow, how does that sound?"

"Perfect."

#xaden riorson x sister!reader #xaden riorson #fourth wing x reader #fourth wing imagine #xaden riorson imagine #xaden riorson x reader #platonic reader insert #platonic #marked!reader #riorson!reader #requested

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kckt88 · 7 months ago

Text

Sanguis.

Summary:

'Hell is empty and all the devils are here' - William Shakespeare.

Deep in his grief over the loss of his wife Aemond desperately seeks the help of a wood witch and his wife is returned to him, but he ignores the witches warning and soon he is confronted with the horror of what his sweet wife has become.

Warning(s): Character Death, Resurrections, Language, Kissing, Smut, Oral Sex (M & F Recieving) Fingering, Anal Play, P in V, Blood, Gore, Death.

AEMOND x Y.N

Word Count: 9352

A.N - I have taken a few creative liberties, I hope you don't mind!!

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

Comments, likes, and reblogs are very much appreciated.

Tag List - @jasminecosmic99 @kaelatargaryen @yesterdayfeelings-blog @immyowndefender @0eessirk8 @darylandbethfanforever9

Prince Aemond Targaryen, in utter despair, knelt before his wife's linen-wrapped body. The cold stone floor of the Red Keep felt like ice against his knees, but he barely noticed.

His eye, red and swollen from endless weeping, stared at the lifeless form of his beloved wife Y.N.

The once proud and fierce prince was now a broken man. His love, his light, had been taken from this world in an act of violence that left his heart shattered.

Y.N had fought valiantly, her courage unmatched as she defended his niece and nephew against the assassins who had snuck into the Red Keep.

They sought vengeance for Aemond's involvement in the death of Lucerys Velaryon, and they had found it in the blood of his beloved.

Y.N had been gravely injured in the attack, and despite his desperate efforts to save her, she had died in his arms. Aemond could still feel the weight of her body as her life slipped away, her final breath a haunting whisper against his skin.

Since her death, Aemond's world had ended. His life had unravelled, leaving only a dark void where Y.N's love and care had once been.

Aside from Vhagar, Y.N had been the only good thing he had in this world. She had loved him, truly and deeply, and now she was gone.

Aemond's heart ached with a pain he had never known possible. The thought of living without her was unbearable. He couldn't live without her. He didn't want to.

His hands, trembling with grief, reached out to touch the linen shroud, his fingers tracing the outline of her face beneath the fabric. "Please," he whispered, his voice cracking. "Please come back to me."

He prayed to the gods, his pleas a desperate litany of sorrow and longing. He begged and pleaded, tears streaming down his face, but the gods remained silent.

The chamber was filled with his cries, the raw agony of a man who had lost everything.

"Y.N, my love," he sobbed, his head bowing low. "What am I to do without you? How am I to live in this world without your light?"

The silence was deafening, the emptiness of the room a stark reminder of her absence. Aemond's shoulders shook with the force of his grief, his tears falling unheeded onto the cold stone floor.

Aemond clung to her shrouded form, his despair a heavy shroud of its own. The pain of her loss was a constant, gnawing ache, a wound that would never heal.

He had lost his love, his heart, and without her, he was nothing. He was lost in a world that had turned cold and dark, and he saw no way forward.

As the hours passed, Aemond remained by her side, his silent vigil a testament to the depth of his love and the vastness of his grief. He was a prince, a dragon rider, a warrior—but in this moment, he was simply a man who had lost everything that mattered.

His face pressed against the linen shroud that covered her still form. His tears soaked through the fabric, mingling with the last remnants of her scent.

"There has to be a way," he murmured, his voice choked with desperation. "There has to be a way to bring you back."

In the depths of his despair, a thought flickered to life. If dragons existed in this world, great and fearsome beasts of legend, then surely bringing someone back from the dead wasn't entirely out of bounds. He clung to that thought, a fragile thread of hope in the overwhelming darkness.

Then, through the haze of his sorrow, he remembered the rumours. Whispers among the common folk spoke of a witch in the woods, a woman with skills beyond the natural world.

He had heard the stories many times, often dismissing them as mere tales meant to scare small children and the weak of mind. But now, he was desperate. He had to try. If the gods would not return Y.N to him, then perhaps this witch could.

Aemond's heart pounded with a mixture of fear and determination. He lifted his tear-streaked face from Y.N's body, his eye filled with a fierce resolve. "I will find her," he whispered, his voice trembling. "I will bring you back, my love. I swear it."

As night fell over the Red Keep, Aemond Targaryen moved with a grim determination. He waited until the shadows were deepest and the guards at their most inattentive.

Silently, he lifted Y.N's body into his arms. Every step was a careful manoeuvre to avoid detection, every breath a silent prayer that they remain unseen.

Once outside, he managed to secure her onto a horse, cradling her close as he pulled a heavy cloak over her still form. The hood of his own cloak was drawn up to conceal his identity. Aemond whispered a command, and the horse began to move, carrying them through the dimly lit streets of King's Landing.

The city was quiet at this hour, the usual bustle of life replaced by the eerie stillness of night. Aemond kept Y.N close, his arms wrapped protectively around her, as he navigated the winding streets. The walls of the city soon gave way to the open fields and the looming darkness of the Kingswood beyond.

Taking a deep breath, Aemond urged the horse into the woods, leaving the path behind. The trees closed in around them, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and decay.

The forest was a living thing, filled with the sounds of rustling leaves, the occasional screech of a raven, and the haunting hoots of owls.

Time lost meaning as he pressed onward, each step taking him deeper into the unknown. The forest seemed to go on forever, an endless labyrinth of shadow and sound.

Just as despair began to gnaw at the edges of his resolve, he came upon a muddy bog, its surface broken by the stark silhouettes of wooden crosses.

Ahead, a small wooden dwelling came into view, covered in moss and illuminated by the flickering glow of candlelight through a cracked window. Relief surged through Aemond, giving him the strength to dismount. He secured the horse's reins to a nearby pole, ensuring Y.N was still concealed beneath the cloak.

With a deep breath, he approached the door. His hand trembled slightly as he raised it to knock, but the door creaked open of its own accord.

He peered inside, the air thick with a nauseating odour. "Hello?" he called out softly. "Is anyone here?"

The room was dim, lit only by a few guttering candles. Shelves lined the walls, filled with bottles of various coloured liquids. The severed remains of animals lay strewn about, adding to the grim tableau. Aemond's eye scanned the room, taking in every detail.

A noise outside made him spin around. A hooded figure stood in the doorway, their presence almost spectral in the candlelight.

The figure's voice was a rasping whisper, "Welcome, Prince Aemond."

Aemond stood before the hooded figure, the words he had rehearsed tumbling from his lips. "I have come because—"

The witch interrupted him, her voice a rasping whisper that cut through the gloom. "I know why you are here, Prince Aemond. You seek to defy death and bring back your lost love."

He swallowed hard, his grip on Y.N's body tightening. "I need her back. I cannot live without her."

The witch's eyes gleamed with an unsettling light. "Such a thing comes at a great cost," she warned, her voice echoing in the small, dimly lit room.

"I don't care," Aemond replied, his desperation evident. "As long as Y.N is alive, that's all that matters."

The witch laughed, a sound that was almost a cackle. "The young prince does not realize what he asks for," she muttered, running a sharp blackened fingernail down his arm.

"I have no patience for your ramblings," he snapped, his tone hardening.

The witch's laughter echoed again. "Very well. I will need the body."

Aemond nodded, turning to retrieve Y.N. But as he moved, a sudden darkness overcame him, a moment where he seemed to black out.

When he came back to himself, he was confused to see Y.N already laid out on the table, her form bathed in the eerie candlelight.

"How...?" he began, but the witch cut him off again.

"Y.N must be free of her shroud," she said, her voice brooking no argument.

"No," Aemond protested, but the witch's eyes were firm.

"It must be done."

Reluctantly, Aemond took a step back, his heart pounding in his chest. The witch drew a small, sharp knife and began to cut away the linen, the fabric parting with a soft, tearing sound. As the shroud fell away, Y.N's face was revealed, pale and serene in death.

Aemond let out a small sob, his gaze locked on his wife's visage. She looked as if she were merely sleeping, but the cold reality of her lifelessness tore at his heart.

The witch moved with a slow, deliberate purpose, her hands deft and sure as she completed her grim task. "Be warned, little Prince," she said softly. "She may return in body, but she will not be the wife you remember. She will be-more."

"I don't care," Aemond whispered, his voice breaking. "I just need her back."

The witch's laughter rang out once more, a chilling sound that sent shivers down Aemond's spine. "Very well”

Aemond watched with bated breath as the witch moved with an unsettling grace. She snipped a lock of Y.N's hair, the strands glinting like spun gold in the dim candlelight and tossed it into the fire.

The flames roared briefly, casting eerie shadows on the walls. Aemond's stomach churned as the witch opened Y.N's mouth and poured in a dark, lumpy, foul-smelling liquid. The stench was nearly unbearable, and he had to stifle a gag.

The witch then took her knife and cut open Y.N's cotton shift. Aemond gasped, his eye widening in horror as he saw the knife wound that had taken his wife's life.

A tear slipped down his cheek, his heart breaking anew. The witch began muttering in a language he did not understand, her voice a low, rhythmic chant that seemed to make the very air around them vibrate.

As she chanted, the candles in the room all flared to life, their flames burning impossibly bright for a moment before everything went silent. The oppressive stillness was broken only by Aemond's ragged breathing.

"Is that it?" he asked, his voice trembling.

The witch shook her head and handed him a shovel. "She needs to be buried."

Aemond recoiled, anger flaring. "No! I brought her here to bring her back, not to bury her."

The witch's eyes flashed with something dark and dangerous. "You brought Y.N here, and now you will listen to what I say, or she will be lost to you forever. Choose a spot and dig."

Reluctantly, Aemond took the shovel and stepped out into the pouring rain. The sky had opened up, the deluge soaking him to the bone as he dug.

Mud clung to his boots and splattered his cloak, each shovel full of earth feeling like a betrayal. The witch stood silently, watching him with an inscrutable expression.

When the hole was deep enough, the witch commanded him to stop. Filthy and wet, Aemond threw the shovel to the ground and trudged back into the cabin. He lifted Y.N's body into his arms, holding her close one last time as he carried her outside. He hesitated at the edge of the grave, his heart shattering. Gently, he kissed her forehead before laying her in the hole.

"Now you need to finish it," the witch said. "Cover her with earth."

Aemond wept openly as he followed her instructions, each scoop of mud feeling like it was tearing pieces from his soul. He watched in despair as Y.N disappeared beneath the earth, the finality of it almost too much to bear.

When she was fully buried, he threw the shovel down, his hands trembling.

"Leave," the witch commanded. "Return to the Red Keep. Three sunrises, three sunsets, and she will come."

Aemond's grief turned to anger. "If you are lying, I will return with fire and blood."

The witch cackled, a chilling sound. "I do not fear you, one-eyed prince. I have been alive much longer than you, and dead a lot longer than that."

"What are you?" he demanded, his voice a mixture of awe and revulsion.

"You will find out soon enough, little prince," she replied, disappearing back into the cabin.

Aemond's gaze lingered on the freshly turned earth where Y.N was buried. His heart ached with every beat, the rain mingling with his tears. He mounted his horse and rode away, each step feeling heavier than the last as he made his way back to the Red Keep, hope and dread warring within him.

For the next two nights, Aemond was plagued by relentless nightmares. As he lay in his bed, his dreams were twisted and cruel, reflecting the torment that consumed his waking hours.

He would hear Y.N's voice calling out to him, her tone filled with desperation and pain. In his dreams, he would stand over the grave where he had buried her, only to see her clawing her way out, her skin decayed and peeling, maggots writhing over her rotting form.

The witch's cackle echoed through the trees, mingling with the foul stench of the dark, lumpy liquid she had poured into Y.N's throat.

The warning that Y.N would come back different gnawed relentlessly at his thoughts, a constant reminder of the grave mistake he had made.

With no body to bury, Aemond had been forced to lie to those around him. He had claimed that Y.N’s body had been burned by Vhagar in accordance with her wishes. The lie was a heavy burden, one that gnawed at him as he faced the mourners.

He could not tell them the truth of what he had done, the truth of the witch's promise and the body now rotting beneath the earth.

As the third day approached, Aemond waited anxiously by his chamber window. His heart leaped with every sound, every time someone entered his quarters, hoping against hope that Y.N had returned to him.

Each time he was met with bitter disappointment, the empty space only deepening his sorrow. The nights were the worst, filled with anguish as he wrestled with the realization that he had been manipulated by the witch. His beloved was lying in the earth, her body decomposing, and he felt like a fool for believing in the witch’s promises.

As night fell on the third day, Aemond sat alone in his darkened chamber, tears streaming down his face. The weight of his grief and anger felt unbearable.

The realization that he had been deceived by the witch filled him with a cold, bitter rage. He vowed to himself that on the morrow, he would return to the witch. He would make her pay for her treachery.

He lay down in bed, his heart heavy with both sorrow and fury. As he drifted into an uneasy sleep, his mind was consumed with visions of vengeance. The image of the witch’s mocking face and her cruel laughter fuelled his determination. He would make her suffer for what she had done.

Aemond was jolted from a restless sleep by a gentle, touch against his face.

His heart raced as he opened his eye, the darkness of the chamber slowly revealing a form sitting on the edge of his bed. It was Y.N, or at least someone who looked like her. For a moment, he thought it was a dream, a cruel twist of his imagination.

But then she spoke his name, her voice a soft, hollow echo in the dim light. "Aemond-"

His breath caught in his throat as he sat up in bed, his heart pounding in his chest. He reached out with trembling hands and pulled her close.

Her body was cold and filthy, covered in layers of grime and dirt, but it was undeniably her. Y.N had come back to him, just as the witch had said she would. The realization was almost too much to bear.

Aemond's tears flowed freely as he held her tightly. "I never thought I'd see you again," he choked out, his voice thick with emotion. "I thought I had lost you forever."

Y.N's eyes, though sunken and haunted, met his with a glimmer of recognition. She placed a muddy finger gently against his lips, silencing him. "Shush," she said softly. "I will never leave you again."

Her words, though whispered and tinged with the rot of death, were a balm to his shattered soul. He clung to her, his tears wetting her dirty clothes.

Aemond wrapped his arms around her, determined to cherish this second chance, even as the haunting reality of the witch's promise lingered in the back of his mind.

Aemond’s hands trembled with both anticipation and fear as he summoned the maids to prepare a hot bath. The sight of Y.N’s return was a beacon of hope, but he wanted to ensure that no one discovered her presence before he was ready.

He instructed them to fill the tub with steaming water, their murmurs of surprise and curiosity ignored as he hurried them along.

Once the bath was prepared, Aemond dismissed the maids, locking the door behind them. The chamber was now a private sanctuary, his heart racing as he approached Y.N, who waited patiently on the balcony.

“Come inside,” he called softly, his voice a mixture of tenderness and urgency. Y.N stepped into the room, her presence a stark contrast to the grim reality of her appearance.

Despite the dirt and grime, she moved with a grace that reminded him of the woman he had loved.

“I’ve had a bath prepared for you,” Aemond said, trying to mask his anxiety with a comforting tone. Her eyes brightened at his words, and a faint smile touched her lips. She began to remove her filthy cotton shift, revealing her pale, cold skin.

As she climbed into the bath, Aemond took a stool beside it, his gaze never leaving her. The warm water enveloped her, and he gently began to help her wash away the layers of dirt and muck. His fingers moved through her hair, carefully dispelling the mud that clung to it.

Y.N looked at him with gratitude, but as he tended to her, Aemond couldn’t help but notice the subtle changes in her. The knife wound on her side had healed into a scar, and despite the hot water, her skin remained unnervingly cold, and her eyes seemed different—lighter in colour, almost ethereal.

He tried to dismiss these unsettling observations, focusing instead on the joy of her presence. “I’ll help you clean up,” he said softly. “The maids won’t assist. I want to be the one to help you.”

Y.N nodded, her expression one of quiet acceptance. “Thank you, Aemond,” she said, her voice carrying a faint echo of the life she once had.

Aemond continued to wash her with careful attention, his heart aching with a mixture of relief and sorrow. He scrubbed away the dirt, the water turning murky with the remnants of her previous state.

Despite the lingering strangeness of her appearance and the coldness of her skin, he was overwhelmed by the joy of having her back.

He told himself that it didn’t matter—that she was back, and that was all that mattered.

Aemond carefully helped Y.N out of the bath and dried her with gentle, attentive hands. The contrast between her cold, damp skin and the warmth of the towel was stark, but he did his best to make her comfortable.

He selected a clean nightgown, soft and fresh, and helped her into it, adjusting the delicate fabric to fall gracefully around her.

Aemond led her to the bed, his heart heavy with a mix of emotions. Y.N sat down and, as he moved to adjust the bedding, she reached for the laces on his breeches. Aemond’s breath caught, and he gently stopped her, his gaze searching hers with concern.

“Y.N,” he said softly, “you don’t have to—”

But she looked up at him with a pleading expression, her voice low and earnest. “But I want too, I love you.”

Aemond felt his resolve wavering as Y.N’s hands resuming unlacing his breeches, letting them fall to the floor once they were undone.

She pressed a series of tender kisses to his bare stomach, her lips brushing against his skin.

Aemond closed his eye and let out a low groan as he felt her teeth grazing against him.

Then Y.N removed her nightgown and lay back on the bed, her bare body on display, she reached out for him and pulled him on the bed.

“Let me take care of you” muttered Y.N as she placed kisses along Aemond jaw and then down his neck, making sure to gently nip and suck his skin as she went.

She carried on moving down, pausing as she reached his chest, she grinned as she took one of his nipples into her mouth, her tongue teasing it before she bit down gently.

“FUCK” moaned Aemond.

“Does issa Valzȳrys like that?” asked Y.N as she moved across and gave his other nipple the same attention, (My husband).

“Oh. Gods” whimpered Aemond as she moved further down his body, her tongue and teeth grazing his pale skin.

When she reached the trail of hair from his belly button down to his cock, she pressed her nose against him and giggled when she felt the hair tickle her skin.

“Kostilus issa jorrāelagon” begged Aemond (Please my love).

“Ao līs umbagon issa zaldrīzes” replied Y.N (You must wait, my dragon).

Aemond stared down at his naughty wife, his mouth hanging open as Y.N’s warm, wet mouth quickly wrapped around the head of his cock.

Her tongue gently moving around the tip – tracing the ridges and licking off that drops of pre-cum that had started to leak out.

“Fuck, Y.N!” groaned Aemond as he threaded his fingers through his wife’s silver hair.

Y.N ran the flat of her tongue along Aemond’s length, tracing every hard inch of him.

Aemond’s heart almost stopped when she sucked his stones into her mouth, one at a time.

Her hand moving slowly over the hard length of him.

When Y.N moved and engulfed Aemond’s cock in her mouth again, he squeezed his eye shut. She was driving him crazy.

But Aemond forced himself to open his eye, he needed to watch as his wife sucked his cock.

“Your taking me so well. Such a good girl” moaned Aemond.

Aemond knew it would push the limits of his control, but he did not care. He just had to watch his cock disappear into Y.N’s mouth and see it come back out, shining with her spit.

Her head moving back and forth, her perfect pink lips stretched around him.

“I’m not going to last if you carry on” Aemond admitted, though it pained him to do so.

Y.N smiled slightly and began moving faster, also using one of her hands in rhythm with her mouth.

Then she moved her other hand over his stones, caressing them before she slid one of her fingers towards his hole.

“F-Fuck” moaned Aemond as she gently massaged over the tight ring of muscle.

“Do you like that raqiarzy?” asked Y.N (Beloved).

“Y-Yes” exclaimed Aemond.

“What about this?” asked Y.N as she put a finger into her mouth and then returned it to his hole before she gently slid the tip of her finger in.

“It feels so good-that’s it” groaned Aemond.

“More?”

“Y-Yes. P-Please. M-More” groaned Aemond.

Y.N responded to his statement by relaxing the back of her throat, and swallowing as much of her husband’s cock as she could, whilst her finger slowly moved inside him.

“Another-p-put another inside me” begged Aemond his body rocking against her.

Y.N smiled and gently added another and Aemond began to whimper as she curled her fingers inside him.

“Shit-Y.N. I’m going to come. Oh, fuck, I’m coming!” shouted Aemond as he exploded.

His wife took every last drop, swallowing his warm seed and licking him clean.

When he recovered, Aemond saw Y.N’s self-satisfied smile.

“Was that to your liking husband?” asked Y.N.

“Y-Yes. Now get up here and ride my face until I’m ready again” gasped Aemond as Y.N removed her fingers from him and wiped them on her night gown.

“Are you sure” asked Y.N.

“Sit on my fucking face” ordered Aemond, his cock already twitching with interest.

Y.N hovered above Aemond’s face; her knees splayed on either side of his head.

“Such a pretty cock sleeve" breathed Aemond as he ran the flat of his tongue along Y.N’s soaked slit, from bottom to the top, tasting her.

“Oh, my god” moaned Y.N her eyes rolling into the back of her head.

“That’s it Issa dōna. Let me hear you” (My sweet).

“YES. It feels so good. Don’t stop. Aemond. Please” begged Y.N.

“FUCK” growled Aemond.

“Ooooh A-Aemond” shrieked Y.N.

"Delicious" purred Aemond as he began lapping at Y.N, running his tongue along every fold.

"More" panted Y.N "Please. I need more”.

Aemond inserted two fingers, sliding them in and out of her slick wet folds.

“Oh" whimpered Y.N; her chest heaving as she began to gently roll her hips against him.

“That’s it baby, ride my fucking face” groaned Aemond, his cock was so hard that it was boarding on painful.

Y.N was giving off a slew of whispered swear words, moans, and pleas.

Aemond’s fingers were soaking wet as they continued to pump in and out of her tight heat.

“I can’t wait to get my cock inside you. I don’t want to wait any longer, come for me baby,” moaned Aemond.

Finally, he felt Y.N’s inner walls start to flutter around his fingers, squeezing them. Y.N’s back arched taut as a bow and she screamed her release.

Aemond pumped slowly and lapped at his wife’s centre as she came.

After a few minutes, Aemond gently urged his wife to move down, so she was hovering above his cock.

Her hand wrapped around him, running the head of his cock along her warm wet folds.

“Your such a tease” moaned Aemond as his hips jerked involuntarily.

But it feels so good” replied Y.N as she slowly sunk down on his cock, so only the tip of him was inside her.

“P-Please” whimpered Aemond.

“Uh-uh” said Y.N shaking her head from side to side.

After a few torturous minutes Aemond couldn’t take it anymore and seized his wife’s hips, before surging up and ploughing his hard cock into her soaked cunt.

"AEMOND!" screamed Y.N.

"Gods. You feel so good" rasped Aemond.

"Fuck me, Aemond" urged Y.N, her tone bordering on desperate as she rolled her hips against his.

Aemond started to thrust slowly, trying to prolong the feel of his wife squeezing his cock.

“P-Please. Husband” whined Y.N as Aemond began teasing her pearl with his thumb.

“That’s it-take all of me”

“OH-MY-“ shrieked Y.N Aemond began to move.

"Faster, please" begged Y.N.

“Like this?” replied Aemond as he gave a quick deep thrust.

“Yes, Aemond, just like that-" panted Y.N.

Her hands ran along his arms, over his shoulders and down his chest, digging her nails into his pale skin.

“Gods, Y.N" grunted Aemond, speeding up slightly.

"Fuck me, Aemond" whispered Y.N "Fuck me with that big, cock of yours. You feel so good inside me”.

Aemond knew exactly what Y.N was doing, and he couldn’t help himself.

Y.N wanted faster and he was going much faster now, his feet planted on the bed to give him more leverage and his pace increased with every filthy word that dropped from his wife’s luscious lips as he pounded into her.

“Aemond-I’m going to come. Oh, fuck!” screamed Y.N.

Y.N always looked amazing when she came. Her head thrown back in pleasure, her amethyst eyes alive with lust, and her pale skin shining with sweat.

“I’m going to spill my seed inside you-”

“Y-Yes A-Aemond. Give it to me” whined Y.N as she clamped down around his cock so hard he could hardly move.

That, combined with how glorious Y.N looked, pushed Aemond over the edge, the heat shooting across his abdomen.

“God. Y.N” groaned Aemond as he exploded. His cock throbbing and twitching as he spilled his seed inside his wife’s wet heat.

Over the next few weeks, Aemond observed a series of peculiar changes in Y.N's behaviour that left him increasingly uneasy.

Despite the fact that she only slept intermittently for a few hours at a time, she seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of energy.

Her insatiable hunger was another alarming sign. She complained constantly of being hungry, and her cravings were mostly for meat, often served barely cooked.

Aemond watched with a mix of fascination and concern as she devoured the meat with her bare hands, the juices and blood staining her fingers, her appetite seemingly endless.

Confined to his chambers, Y.N was shielded from the public eye, which allowed Aemond some measure of control. However, his duties often required him to be away from her, leaving her alone for extended periods.

This solitude seemed to agitate her, and more than once, he returned to find evidence of her growing frustration.

Her rage manifested in destructive outbursts—on one occasion, she hurled a chair across the room, and on another, she seized a table and smashed it into splinters. The sheer strength she displayed was unnerving, an indication of the profound changes she had undergone.

Another change was her unrelenting desire for intimacy. Her needs were voracious and unceasing, demanding more of him than he could give.

Initially, Aemond had been willing to indulge her, and he would often place himself between her thighs fucking her into the mattress with deep penetrating thrusts, his hips pounding against hers.

But he soon found himself exhausted and overwhelmed by her constant, almost insatiable demands. The frequency of her advances became a source of physical and emotional strain.

The situation became even more complicated with his mother's growing concern. She had noticed his seclusion and questioned him about his well-being.

Aemond had claimed he was still grieving Y.N’s loss, but when word of the noises of pleasure from his chambers reached her ears, he was forced to concoct another lie. He explained that he had taken a bed mate to help with his needs, an excuse that seemed to placate her but left her visibly dissatisfied.

As the days went on, Aemond's anxiety about Y.N's behaviour continued to mount. He was troubled by the physical and emotional changes she was exhibiting, which seemed to reflect more than mere grief or trauma.

Her behaviour was increasingly erratic, and despite his deep love for her, he couldn't ignore the growing fear that something was fundamentally wrong, that the witch was right, and Y.N had returned to him, but she was forever changed.

Aemond returned to his chambers from a gruelling council meeting, his mind heavy with the complexities of court politics. The relief of finally being back in his private quarters was short-lived as he pushed open the door.

The sight that met him was one of sheer horror. Y.N was kneeling on the floor, her focus intently fixed on a cat she had captured. The small creature was held in her hands, and Aemond’s stomach lurched as he saw her face pressed against its neck.

Blood ran freely down her hands, dripping onto the floor as she seemed oblivious to the mess she was making.

Y.N looked up at him, her expression eerily serene despite the gruesome scene. Her smile was unsettling, her teeth stained red with the blood she had drawn.

The sight of her grinning so contentedly, with the blood smearing her face, was almost too much for Aemond to bear.

He put a hand over his mouth, struggling to stifle a scream that threatened to escape. His heart pounded violently, a mix of revulsion and profound distress flooding his senses.

He had to stop himself from throwing up as he watched her return her attention to the lifeless animal, her actions methodical and disturbingly calm.

The room seemed to spin around him as he took a shaky step forward, his mind racing to process what he was actually witnessing.

“Aemond,” she said softly, her voice oddly gentle despite the blood. “You’re back.”

Her tone was casual, as if nothing was amiss. The cat, now lifeless, lay discarded on the floor as Y.N’s attention was fully on him, her eyes reflecting a strange, unsettling light.

Aemond struggled to maintain control, his eyes fixed on Y.N. “What-what have you done?” he managed to croak out, his voice trembling with fear and anger.

Y.N tilted her head, a hint of confusion crossing her features. “I was hungry,” she said matter-of-factly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to be consuming blood-soaked prey.

The scene was nightmarish, the blood and death starkly contrasting with the once-beautiful woman he had loved.

Aemond returned to his chambers after a long flight with Vhagar, hoping the time in the sky would offer some solace and clarity. But as he entered his quarters, a sinking feeling overtook him—Y.N was not there.

“Y.N!” he called out, his voice echoing off the walls. When there was no answer, panic seized him. He had to find her quickly. The risk of anyone discovering her before he was ready was too great.

His mind raced through the places Y.N had frequented before her death. He checked the gardens, the library, and even the secluded spots she had loved, but there was no sign of her.

His anxiety grew, and he began to consider revealing everything to his mother, admitting the truth about what had happened. But he knew that would only lead to further complications.

As he made his way towards his mother’s chambers, his gaze fell on the nursery door, slightly ajar. His heart skipped a beat. He approached cautiously and peered inside. The sight that greeted him was one of utter horror.

Y.N stood over his niece Jaehaera, who was sleeping peacefully in her bed. Y.N leaned down, sniffing the child with a disturbing sense of satisfaction. Her eyes were closed as she hummed softly, an eerie contentment on her face. Aemond’s blood ran cold.

Without a moment's hesitation, he burst into the room, his heart pounding with a mixture of fear and fury. He grabbed Y.N and pulled her away from the bed, her surprised eyes meeting his with an unsettling calm.

He dragged her back to his chambers, the fear of what she might have done fuelling his desperation.

Once inside his chambers, he shoved Y.N against the wall and locked the door behind them. His rage boiled over. “What the hell do you think you were doing?” he roared, his voice trembling with anger.

Y.N’s head tilted to the side; her expression serene despite the chaos. “I was hungry,” she said simply, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Aemond’s heart ached with a mix of horror and helplessness. “You can’t do this,” he said, his voice cracking. “Jaehaera is a child! She’s innocent!”

Y.N’s gaze grew distant, a shadow of pain crossing her face. “So was I when those men took my life,” she said quietly, her voice a haunting whisper. “I pretend not to remember, but it’s a lie. I remember everything—the screaming, the feel of the knife, the pain. I remember how you cried as you held me.”

“I didn’t bring you back for this,” said Aemond, his voice broken. “I brought you back because I love you, not for you to inflict more pain”

Y.N’s eyes met his with a mix of sorrow and resignation. “I don’t know how to control it,” she said softly. “I’m lost between what I was and what I am now. I feel the hunger and I can’t stop it.”

Aemond’s heart wavered, torn between his love for Y.N and the horror of her actions. As he stood there, the weight of his decisions pressed heavily upon him, he was left to grapple with the reality of the woman he had brought back and the darkness that now accompanied her presence.

Ever since the horrific incident with Jaehaera, Aemond had thrown himself into a desperate search for answers. He scoured the library for any information on what Y.N had become, hoping to find a way to restore her to her former self.

But the search yielded nothing. With a heavy heart, he resigned himself to seeking out the witch once more, a decision he made reluctantly but with a steely resolve. This time, he brought Vhagar with him.

As Aemond approached the cabin in the woods, Vhagar's imposing form loomed behind him, her massive hole ridden wings partially unfurled. His gaze was drawn momentarily to the disturbed earth where he had buried Y.N.

The ground still bore the marks of the grave, a grotesque reminder of the events that had transpired.

He reached the cabin and, not bothering to knock, pushed open the creaky door. The stench that greeted him was overwhelming, a foul mixture of decay and herbs. He pressed a gloved hand to his mouth to stifle the urge to retch as he stepped inside.

The witch was bent over a wooden bench, engrossed in her work. Her blackened hands were busy with a collection of severed fingers on a chopping board.

The sight was nauseating, but Aemond’s focus was solely on her.

“What exactly have you done to Y.N?” he demanded, his voice taut with fury.

The witch looked up; her eyes gleaming with malevolent amusement. “I did only what you asked,” she said, her tone dripping with mockery. “I tried to warn you, but you wouldn’t listen.”

Aemond’s anger flared. “You brought her back. Now you will fix her. She is not the woman I knew.”

The witch’s laughter was harsh and grating. “It doesn’t work like that, little prince. You got what you asked for, and now you must deal with it.”

“I wanted Y.N back, not whatever monstrosity she has become!” Aemond’s voice was a roar of frustration and anguish.

The witch’s eyes narrowed, and her laughter took on a mocking edge. “Can’t the little prince handle his wife?” she taunted, her voice dripping with scorn.

Enraged, Aemond lunged at the witch, grabbing her by the throat with a fierce grip. “Help her, or I swear I’ll make you pay for this,” he growled.

The witch’s reaction was swift and inhumanly strong. With a casual flick of her wrist, she removed Aemond’s hand from her throat, and sent him sprawling across the room. He collided with a shelf, bottles crashing to the floor in a cacophony of shattered glass.

Dazed and pain-stricken, Aemond struggled to his feet, his heart racing with both pain and rage. The witch, her back turned, resumed her grim task with an air of detached indifference.

“You wanted this,” she said, her voice cold and unforgiving. “Now you will deal with the consequences and if you ever come here and threaten me again, I will peel the flesh from your bones and make a necklace from your teeth. But not before I’ve had my fun with your pretty cock.”

The threat was clear, and Aemond’s blood ran cold at the thought of what she was capable of. He took a moment to gather himself, the pain from the fall throbbing through his body, before he turned and exited the cabin.

As he made his way back to Vhagar, his thoughts were a tumult of anger and despair. The witch had given him no solutions.

He knew he had to find another way to deal with the changes in Y.N and the horror of what she had become, but for now, he was left with nothing but the bitter taste of failure and the looming dread of what might come next.

The weeks following Aemond's harrowing encounter with the witch were a blur of tension and despair. Struggling to come to terms with the monstrous transformation of Y.N and the cruel nature of the witch’s promises, he barely left her side.

He kept her confined within his chambers, only stepping out when absolutely necessary. Even then, his absences were brief, and every minute away from her felt like an eternity.

His grandsire, however, was relentless. Otto hounded him with increasing urgency about the necessity of remarriage.

The weight of forging new alliances and securing the family’s future was emphasized with every meeting, and the grief for Y.N, though real, was dismissed as something that had gone on long enough.

One evening, after yet another confrontation with Otto, Aemond stormed back to his chambers, his mind a whirlwind of frustration and anxiety. The old man’s command that Aemond would be presented with suitable candidates to choose from was a crushing blow.

The thought of having to select a new bride while Y.N was alive—albeit in her grotesque and altered state—was a nightmare he could not fathom.

The walls felt as though they were closing in on him, the weight of his predicament almost unbearable. His mind raced, desperately trying to find a solution that would allow him to avoid the marriage his grandsire demanded without revealing the disturbing truth about Y.N.

He thought of the witch’s warnings and the terror that awaited if he were to fail in his attempt to protect her. Revealing Y.N’s current condition was unthinkable; it would lead to scandal and potentially dire consequences.

The very idea of the court discovering her state, coupled with the fear of her harming someone else, was enough to keep him awake at night.

His thoughts turned to possible alternatives. What if he could delay the marriage indefinitely? He could claim to be in mourning for an extended period, though the lie would be difficult to maintain. Perhaps he could use the upcoming council meetings to argue that the timing was not suitable, citing the ongoing war as a reason for postponement.

Another possibility was to feign illness or some personal crisis that would require him to withdraw from the marriage arrangements temporarily. It was a tactic that could buy him some time, though it would only be a temporary solution.

In a moment of grim determination, Aemond resolved to buy as much time as he could. He would need to play the part of a grieving widower convincingly while he sought a more permanent solution. His heart ached at the thought of living a lie, but the reality of his situation left him with few choices.

Aemond’s heart raced as he approached his chambers, the echo of a piercing scream jolting him into a frantic sprint. Bursting through the door, he was met with a scene that froze him in sheer horror.

One maid lay lifeless on the floor, blood pooling around her and another maid, terrified and struggling, was held captive by Y.N.

Her face was stained with crimson, her eyes wide and frenzied. She seemed to be in a state of maddened ecstasy as she pressed her face into the terrified maid's neck. Aemond’s stomach churned as he saw her sniffing the bloodied neck, her eyes gleaming with a predatory hunger.

“Y.N!” Aemond’s voice was a desperate roar, filled with a mix of command and fear. “Let her go!”

Y.N turned her head slowly towards him, her expression twisted into a snarl. Her teeth, once gentle and familiar, were now elongated and pointed. She growled, a deep, guttural sound that chilled Aemond to the bone.

Ignoring his command, she continued to hold the maid in her grip. Aemond rushed forward, but as he reached to pull Y.N away, she flicked him aside as though he were a mere inconvenience.

He hit the floor with a painful thud, the impact jarring his senses. Pain exploded in his side, but he forced himself to look up, unable to tear his eye away from the horrifying scene.

Y.N's grip on the maid tightened, and with a sickening crunch, she sank her teeth into the maid’s neck. The maid's muffled screams were agonizing, but Y.N silenced her by pressing her bloody hand over the woman’s mouth, drinking greedily from the wound.

Aemond's mind reeled as he struggled to comprehend the abomination before him. He scrambled backwards, his heart pounding in terror.

He slumped against the wall, his hands trembling as he covered his ears to block out the horrid sounds. The blood-curdling noises were almost too much to bear.

After what felt like an eternity, Aemond felt a hand gently stroking his hair. He dared to open his eye, only to find Y.N crouching in front of him.

The sight of her was both disturbing and tragic. Blood smeared her face and neck, and her eyes, though still carrying a flicker of familiarity, were clouded with an unsettling hunger.

Aemond’s heart ached with an intense mixture of love and revulsion. This was not the Y.N he had mourned, not the woman he had once loved. The creature before him was a demon masquerading as his beloved wife, a perversion of everything he once held dear.

“No,” he whispered, shaking his head slowly. “This isn’t you. You’re not Y.N anymore.”

The resolve within him solidified. He could no longer deny the harsh truth that had been gnawing at him. This was no longer about saving the woman he loved; it was about ending the monstrous existence she had become.

Aemond stood up, his face a mask of grim determination. He had to end this, to put an end to the nightmare that had consumed his life. His heart was heavy, but his mind was set. He would not allow the demon that had taken Y.N’s form to continue its reign of terror.

The love he had for Y.N was overshadowed by the need to rid the world of this abomination. The time for mercy had passed.

Aemond's hands trembled as he undid his weapons belt, each movement deliberate but shaky. He drew his dagger, its cold steel gleaming under the flickering candlelight.

Turning to face Y.N, who was standing before him with an almost feral hunger in her eyes.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. "There’s no other way."

Y.N's gaze remained fixed on him, her eyes glinting with an unsettling mixture of recognition and menace. Aemond’s heart ached with every step he took toward the door. He shut it with a decisive click and turned the lock, the finality of the sound echoing in the confined space.

Drawing a deep, shuddering breath, Aemond lunged forward. The dagger plunging into Y.N’s stomach. Her eyes widened in shock, and she gasped, staring down at the blade embedded in her flesh.

Aemond’s tears flowed freely as he watched the woman he had loved and lost collapse to the floor.

"I'm so sorry," he sobbed hysterically. "I’m so sorry."

Y.N's body quivered slightly, and she whispered in a trembling voice, "Issa vēzos se qēlossās"—. Her tears mingled with the blood staining her cheeks (My sun and stars).

After a few agonizing minutes, her movements stilled, her eyes fixed in a vacant stare.

Aemond slumped against the bed, his head in his hands, wracked with uncontrollable sobs. The weight of what he had done crushed him.

There would be no resurrection this time. The agony of his actions and the loss of Y.N was almost too much to bear. He would take her body far away, and Vhagar would incinerate it.

With a deep breath, Aemond wiped the tears from his face and stood up. The room was drenched in blood, and there was no way to cover it up without raising suspicions.

He began packing his belongings, moving with a sense of grim determination. He had enough gold from his princely allowance and could earn more if needed. The memories of the Red Keep and the pain of his actions were too heavy to bear; he would not return.

As he packed the last of his belongings, a shiver ran down his spine. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, a primal warning of danger.

Before he could react, strong arms wrapped around his neck from behind, pulling him into a vice-like grip.

“Surely you didn’t think it was going to be that easy”

Aemond gasped, his eyes widening in horror. "Y.N? How?"

Y.N’s tongue traced a slow, deliberate path along his ear. "You should’ve aimed for the heart," she murmured.

Then a loud snapping sound echoed through the room, and Aemond’s world plunged into darkness.

The witch’s cabin was dimly lit by the flickering glow of candles and the smouldering embers in the hearth. The room smelled of incense and old wood, mixed with the acrid tang of blood.

The witch was busy at her workbench, her attention focused on a needle and thread as she wove together a macabre piece of jewellery. She glanced up with a twisted smile as the door to her cabin flew open with a loud creak.

“Do you like my necklace?” she asked with a note of dark pride, holding up a string adorned with a number of bloodied ears. The grotesque adornment swayed in the dim light, casting eerie shadows on the walls.

Y.N, her eyes still gleaming with a predatory light, responded with a cold, detached tone. “It’s original.”

As Y.N stepped further into the cabin, she dropped Aemond’s lifeless body onto the table with a thud. The witch’s smile widened as she observed the body with interest, setting aside her needlework. She approached Aemond and gently brushed her blackened fingers across his cheek.

“Such a beautiful boy,” the witch mused, her voice almost tender as she examined him. Her gaze lingered on the eyepatch covering Aemond’s missing eye. With a deliberate motion, she pulled it off, revealing the sapphire in place of his missing eye.

“That’s much better,” she declared, admiring her work. Her eyes then travelled down to his ears. “He has good ears,” she noted, reaching for her knife with a gleam of anticipation in her eyes.

But before she could begin her work, Y.N stepped forward, her tone firm and unyielding. “No, he will not have any body parts severed. I’m rather fond of them, especially his cock”

The witch’s laugh was a harsh, rasping sound that filled the cabin. “And what do you want me to do with him then?” she asked, her curiosity piqued.

Y.N’s voice softened with a hint of longing as she replied, “Bring him back. I do not wish to be parted from my ‘Gēlenka zaldrīzes.” (Silver dragon).

“I need not warn you of the consequences of such a thing”

“I’m well aware of what he will become” replied Y.N

The witch’s eyes glittered with a dark amusement as she nodded in agreement. She snipped a lock of Aemond’s silver hair and threw it into the fire, watching as it curled and blackened.

She then poured a dark, lumpy liquid into his mouth, her movements precise and deliberate.

Next, she cut open Aemond’s leather tunic and placed her hand on his bare chest, whispering incantations in an ancient tongue. Her voice was a blend of reverence and authority as she beseeched the god of death to return life to him.

The witches breath was warm against Aemond’s ear as she bent down to whisper, “Your debt is now paid.”

Y.N was handed a shovel, and she chose the spot next to where she had been buried, beginning to dig with a determined fervour. The rain began to fall, soaking through her clothes and mixing with the soil as she worked.

Once the hole was deep enough, Y.N carefully placed Aemond’s body into it. The rain poured down, creating a muddy, bleak scene as she covered him with dirt.

When the last shovelful of earth had been placed, she wiped the rain from her face and went back inside the cabin, where the witch awaited her.

The witch stood by the fire, her demeanour calm and almost serene. “Three sunrises, three sunsets,” she intoned, her voice carrying a hint of finality. “And your love will return.”

Y.N’s eyes were filled with hope as she took in the witch’s words. She clutched the shovel tightly, her thoughts consumed with the promise of what lay ahead.

Three sunrises and three sunsets had nearly passed since Y.N took up her vigil at Aemond's grave. Her days were spent sitting on the wooden steps that led to the mound of soil, her gaze locked on the spot where she had buried him.

The heavy rain and the chill of the night did little to deter her from this self-imposed watch

The witch, who had taken to occasionally sitting with her, told Y.N stories of those who shared their condition. They were stories of distant lands and other beings who walked a path similar to hers.

The witch spoke of her origins in Pentos, and how she had journeyed to Westeros in 42 AC, a time long before the present.

When Y.N asked why she chose to remain alone in this desolate place rather than join her kin across the Narrow Sea, the witch’s answer was tinged with nostalgia. “This place has become home to me,” she said, her voice soft with a hint of sorrow.

During these conversations, Y.N learned that Aemond was not the only dragon to have transformed into one of them. The witch recounted tales of another, a figure of dark legend known as Maegor the Cruel, and her own past identity as The Lady of the Tower.

Y.N, her curiosity piqued, quietly muttered the name “Tyanna,” prompting a knowing smile from the witch.

“I haven’t been called that in a long time,” Tyanna admitted.

When Y.N inquired about what had become of Maegor, Tyanna’s eyes grew distant. “He died upon the Iron Throne,” she recounted, her voice a mixture of regret and admiration. “A blade pierced his back, striking his heart. History remembers him as a villain, and he did commit monstrous acts. But I loved him nonetheless.”

As the sun began to set on the third day, the sky painted in hues of orange and purple, Tyanna took Y.N’s hand in hers. “Never let go of Aemond,” she urged, her voice carrying a sense of urgency. “He may be a short-tempered young prince, but he has the potential to rise above such things.”

With that, Tyanna retreated to her cabin, leaving Y.N alone at the grave. The atmosphere was heavy, charged with a sense of finality and anticipation.

Then, the soil began to shift. Y.N’s heart raced as she watched a hand burst through the dirt, followed by an arm and then the rest of Aemond’s body emerging from the grave. Covered in grime and filth, he slowly stood up, his movements sluggish but determined. His eye scanned the surroundings, and when they fell on Y.N, a slow, radiant smile spread across his face.

“Ābrazȳrys,” (Wife).

#house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #hotd aemond #aemond fanfiction #hotd fanfic #aemond fic #hotd fic #aemond one eye #aemond smut #prince aemond #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen smut #prince aemond targaryen

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luminique · 3 months ago

Note

i woukd have some thoughts id like to share w the class… i remember seeing a video on guardian bells once; i’m not too well-versed in biker culture but they’re bells bikers/motorcycle riders put on their bikes as good luck charms/protection from accidents or mech failures. i havent actually touched zzz in a while, so i don’t know if the SoC have them in their designs or mention them in dialogues but i like to think they do have these bells somewhere on their own vehicles or have knowledge of them at least!

imagine lighter receiving one from his s/o / love interest / crush… maybe it was made just for him or maybe they gave/made the entire crew their own bells, but a certain someone takes extra care of his and makes sure to keep it in his sight when driving….. many brainworms… safe to say this man is making me a little insane…(● ˃̶͈̀ロ˂̶͈́)੭ꠥ⁾⁾

hope im not being too much of a bother by dumping too many Thoughts™️ and that ur generally doin good in life/staying in good health!（＾∇＾）i rly like ur works and i always look forward to whenever i see u post something regardless of what it is… <3

OH MY GOD !! THIS FACT IS SO INSANE i went and watched some videos about it and it is so cute to think that.

maybe you aren't that good riding bikes or just not much of rider yourself, so instead, you gave all of the sons of calydon their own bells. they could hear it jingle in your hands as you rushed over to them. they had the signature boar design on them and then little engravings of their name on it so that it was extra special. supposedly, when a biker bell is gifted, it enhances its power of keeping the rider safe.

all of them appreciated the lovely gesture but lighter specifically, he didn't know where to properly place it. most of the time, you hang them on the bottom of the bike. that's no good, he wanted to see this gift, a reminder that you got it for him specifically.

but as the legend goes, it is to ward off little gremlins.... wait were there even gremlins in the outer ring? maybe bangboos might cause havoc on the bike but they wouldn't do that, right? well he didn't want it to not work, so he begrudgingly installs it pretty low on his bike.

every time he rides, he can hear the soft jingling of it from the wind. it does get drowned out by the loud engines but just the knowledge that it's there, the knowledge that you want him to drive safely, he can't help but smile whenever he hears it.

#lumiresponds ˚✧₊⁎☆#lighter zzz #lighter lorenz #zzz lighter #lighter x gn reader #lighter x reader #lighter x you #SORRY ANON THAT THIS WAS STUCK IN MY INBOX FOR SO LONG #maybe i'll include this little thing in another long post #we shall see #BUT I LOVE THIS FACT #omg this is so cute #HES SO CUTE #I NEED TO EAT HIM UP #also thank you so much anon #i have been feeling much better !!

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novaursa · 24 days ago

Text

Legacy (the last enemy)

- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (descriptions of blood, gore, violence and death)

- Previous part: the great war

- Next part: daybreak

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @luniaxi @alkadri-layal @butterflygxril @urdxrling

The walls trembled with the force of the onslaught.

Tywin stood firm, his golden armor dusted with soot, his crimson cloak billowing as he surveyed the carnage unfolding before him. The dead had come in numbers beyond reckoning, their skeletal fingers and frozen flesh clawing up the steep cliffs and battering the gates.

The ramparts were slick with blackened blood, as the men of the Westerlands fought tooth and nail, driving back wave after wave of the relentless undead. Arrows laced with dragonglass pierced the skulls of wights, sending them crumbling into the masses below. Boiling oil and flaming pitch rained down, setting the battlefield ablaze, yet still they came.

On the eastern wall, Kevan Lannister parried a strike, his sword cutting clean through the rotted flesh of a wight, sending its head tumbling to the ground. Behind him, one of the younger knights—Ser Andros Lefford—gasped out, “They don’t stop! Gods, they don’t—” before an icy blade pierced his throat, silencing him instantly.

Kevan whirled, his blade lashing out and taking the wight’s arm off at the elbow, but the creature did not falter. It lunged at him with unnatural speed, its hollow eyes fixed in hunger, until one of Thoros’ men brought an axe crashing down onto its skull, splitting it in two.

Kevan turned, panting, his breath misting in the frigid air. He locked eyes with his brother, standing atop the main gate, his gaze like steel.

“They’re wearing us down,” Kevan called up, his voice hoarse. "The men grow tired."

Tywin did not move, his expression unreadable as he watched another section of the wall collapse under the weight of the dead.

A horn sounded, deep and ominous.

One of the bannermen, Lord Crakehall, staggered toward him, his face pale beneath the grime and sweat. “My Lord… we can’t hold forever.”

Tywin finally turned to him, his voice as cold as the air that surrounded them. “Then we hold as long as we can.”

Crakehall swallowed, looking as if he wanted to argue, but there was no point. They had been fighting for hours, the sky above them a void of endless black, the air thick with the stench of death and burning flesh.

Below, Arraxes stirred from the mines, his blood-red eyes flashing in the darkness. The young dragon let out a guttural growl, the deep rumble shaking the ground, but he did not leave his lair. The battle raged around him, but he had yet to take flight.

Kevan turned his head, wiping sweat and grime from his brow. "Why didn't she return?"

Tywin did not answer.

The question had gnawed at him for hours. Where was she? His wife, his dragon-rider lady, the only woman to ever unravel the cold fortress of his heart. She had promised to return, to bring fire and death upon the enemy before they reached the gates.

But she was not here.

The walls shuddered as another siege ladder slammed into place, the undead swarming up like insects, their fingers clawing and scraping at the stones. The men on the ramparts hacked and slashed, their muscles burning, their blades growing dull from overuse.

A scream rang out as a wight ripped a man’s throat out with its bare hands, sending him toppling over the wall, his lifeblood spilling into the darkness.

Tywin clenched his jaw. This could not go on.

He turned abruptly to Thoros of Myr, whose sword still burned with divine fire, carving through wights like parchment. "Tell me, Red Priest," Tywin said, his voice dangerously low, "where is your Lord of Light now?"

Thoros paused only briefly, his expression unreadable as he swung his blade, sending another wight screaming into oblivion. “He watches, my Lord. The question is—what will we do before he acts?”

Tywin narrowed his gaze.

A decision needed to be made. A desperate one.

He turned to his commander. “Pull the men back from the eastern gate. Draw them inward.”

Kevan’s brow furrowed. “You mean to let them through?”

“I mean to burn them all.”

Crakehall exhaled sharply, but he did not argue.

The new plan was in motion.

From the mines below, the ground shook as Arraxes let out a low snarl, sensing what was to come.

Tywin’s eyes remained locked on the endless horde, as they crawled and surged toward him.

The iron gates groaned as they swung open, and the dead poured in like a flood, their hollow eyes fixed on the living flesh that awaited them.

Tywin stood motionless, his green eyes cold and sharp, watching the monstrous tide surge forward. The plan was in motion—the courtyard would become their pyre.

Yet, as the first wights crossed the stone threshold, something shifted.

A sudden stillness gripped the air, a heavy pause like the moment before a storm.

The wights that had rushed forward now froze mid-step, their heads twitching unnaturally, their jaws clicking, the ice inside them humming with something unknown, something ancient.

The soldiers on the battlements who had been ready to drop torches and fire hesitated, looking down with wide, confused eyes as their undead foes stood eerily still.

Then, the air itself changed.

A deep, guttural growl resonated through the stone walls, a sound that was older than men, older than the kingdom itself. It rolled through the courtyard like thunder, a vibrating tremor born of rage.

Tywin’s breath hitched as the shadows beneath the castle moved.

Then he saw them—two massive, blood-red eyes, glowing like molten embers, emerging from the darkness of the mines beneath Casterly Rock.

A monstrous black form slithered forward, slow and deliberate, the torchlight flickering against his onyx scales, his long, serpentine body shifting with the grace of a shadow given flesh.

Arraxes.

The young dragon, no longer a hatchling, no longer a beast confined to the earth, but a living, breathing instrument of war.

The wights turned toward him, their heads twitching, their limbs jerking in response to something unseen, something ancient. The magic that bound them quivered, as if some primordial force had just been awakened.

Then Arraxes roared.

A great explosion of sound, a maelstrom of fury, the sheer force of it shaking the very stones beneath them.

And the dead began to scream.

The battlements erupted with shouts as Tywin’s men bellowed their battle cry, calling to the beast below.

“Burn them! Burn them all!”

The courtyard ignited in chaos, as Arraxes lunged forward, his jaws unhinging, his throat glowing with a furious crimson fire.

The wights moved, some clawing toward him, others stumbling back, but it was too late—

A torrent of flame erupted from Arraxes’ maw, a wave of fire so intense that the very air warped and twisted, a golden-red inferno consuming the creatures whole.

The wights burned instantly, their screeches echoing across the walls, their bodies crumbling into charred, lifeless husks.

Tywin had seen fire before. He had commanded it, wielded it like a weapon in his long reign of war.

But this…

This was something else.

This was vengeance made flesh.

Then, another roar split the sky.

A sound Tywin knew.

His head snapped upward just as a massive cream shape came plummeting down from the heavens, the force of its arrival causing the air to tremble, the winds to shift.

A torrent of pale gold fire rained down, engulfing the northern side of the battlefield, sending entire waves of wights into oblivion.

And there you were.

High above the Rock, mounted upon the beast of war itself—Viserion.

Tywin's breath left him, his mind snapping to realization.

You had returned.

The battlements erupted in a chorus of relief and war cries, the soldiers shouting your name, their voices melding with the roar of battle.

And as the golden dragon leveled her wings, as Arraxes lifted his head to the sky, something stirred in the distance.

A new sound.

A new force.

Tywin turned sharply, and in the distance, beyond the burning wights, beyond the chaos of battle, he saw it.

An army.

But not of the dead.

Not of wights.

Not of nightmares.

A host of living men, clad in steel and leather, banners whipping in the wind.

And at their head—

Jon Snow.

A second front had arrived.

And the true battle for Westeros had begun.

Jon gripped the hilt of Longclaw tightly, his breath coming in quick, visible bursts as his army pressed forward into the abyss of war. The ground beneath them was slick with ice and blood, the scent of rot and death so thick in the air that it clawed at his throat. The sky overhead remained an endless stretch of darkness, no moon, no stars—only the cold void of an unnatural winter that had swallowed the world whole.

Then, they came.

At first, it was just a whispering sound, the unnatural scrape of bone against steel, the mindless hissing of wights as they sensed fresh flesh, their movements jerky, broken, and yet disturbingly fast. Then the horizon erupted with motion, a tsunami of the dead rushing forward, wights bounding across the ice, climbing over one another, their jaws snapping, their dead eyes fixed upon the living.

“Shields up!” Jon roared, and the Northern front braced itself, shields locking into place, spears lowered.

The first impact was brutal. The wights threw themselves against the shield wall with mindless ferocity, their rotting hands clawing, scratching, tearing at anything they could reach. Steel sang, blades cleaved through frozen flesh, and the battle dissolved into a chaotic storm of bodies and blood.

Jon struck down one wight, then another, his movements swift, practiced, each strike of Longclaw sending the creatures collapsing into lifeless heaps. Beside him, Tormund swung his axe, cutting through the onslaught with savage force.

“They just keep coming!” Tormund bellowed, smashing the brittle skull of a wight beneath his boot.

Jon didn’t respond—because he had already sensed it.

Something else was coming.

A new sound broke through the howling storm of battle—a deep, guttural clicking noise, something alien, something far more sinister.

Jon turned just in time to see them emerge from the darkness.

Tall, lithe, and eerily graceful, the Others strode through the battlefield like specters from a nightmare. Their armor gleamed like ice, reflecting the dim light of distant flames, their eyes glowed an unnatural blue, piercing, unfeeling. Each carried a blade of frozen death, their weapons forged from the very essence of the Long Night itself.

The wights parted for them, shifting and retreating as the Others advanced, their movements calculated, elegant, lethal.

Jon’s stomach twisted into a knot. He had seen what their blades could do, how they could shatter steel, slice through flesh effortlessly, how they left no wound that could heal.

“Steady!” Jon called to his men.

Then—a new horror.

The ground trembled, a deep, unsettling quake that rippled through the ice. From the shadows beyond the fray, massive dark shapes skittered forward—their long, spindly legs moving with unnatural speed, their mandibles clicking, their icy exoskeletons gleaming like frozen obsidian.

Spiders.

But not just any spiders.

These were the legends given flesh, the beasts of Old Nan’s stories, the terrible nightmares that haunted the North for thousands of years—the Cold God’s children.

Their eyes burned with the same eerie glow as their masters, their limbs moving like streaks of black lightning, their webbing a frozen death trap that could ensnare even the strongest warriors.

The Northern lines buckled as the first wave of monstrous arachnids lunged forward, their legs piercing armor, their fangs tearing into flesh.

Jon ducked as one leapt toward him, its monstrous body blocking out the battlefield behind it. He rolled, barely avoiding its deadly strike, before bringing Longclaw down in a powerful arc. The Valyrian steel bit deep, slicing through chitinous flesh, sending the beast screeching in agony before it collapsed in a heap of twitching limbs.

Davos plunged his sword into another, while Tormund hacked off its legs, laughing like a madman drenched in blood.

“What in all the hells are these?!” Davos shouted, his sword slipping on the frozen exoskeleton of another spider.

Jon had no answer, only the grim realization that this was not just an army—it was a nightmare made real.

Then, a shadow passed over them.

Jon looked up just in time to see a torrent of pale-gold fire erupt from the sky, the flames licking across the battlefield, igniting the wights, turning the monstrous spiders into charred husks of burning legs and blackened corpses.

The air shook with the roar of a dragon, and Jon’s heart leapt into his throat.

Viserion.

And not alone.

The ground shook again, but this time it was not the dead that trembled. Another roar joined the first, a deep, furious sound, one that made the very air vibrate with heat and fury.

From the darkness of the battlefield, another form streaked through the sky, its wings massive, its eyes burning like molten rubies.

Arraxes.

The dragons dove together, their fire cascading down upon the battlefield, their fury unleashed upon the cold horrors below.

The Northern men roared in defiance, emboldened by the sight, their swords cutting through the wights with renewed strength, their resolve hardening in the face of the impossible.

Jon gritted his teeth, the flames illuminating the battlefield, casting the Others in stark relief.

For the first time, they hesitated.

For the first time, they looked up.

The chamber was deep within the heart of Casterly Rock, carved into the very stone that had been home to House Lannister for centuries. The thick, ancient walls muffled the sounds of battle from the world outside, but Damon and Maelor could still feel the tremors, the distant thunder of war pounding at the gates of their sanctuary.

Damon sat near the heavy oaken table, his fingers clenching the fabric of his tunic as he stared at the flickering candlelight. He knew, even without seeing it, that his father was somewhere on the walls, that his mother was up there in the sky, and that death was coming for them all.

Maelor was sitting on the floor by the hearth, his small hands clenched around the wooden lion figurine that had been gifted to him long ago. He was still too young to understand the full scope of what was happening, but he understood enough—the fear in the guards' eyes, the way the castle had gone deathly quiet despite the howling wind outside, the way everyone was whispering prayers to gods he had never truly known.

Across the chamber, Ser Barristan Selmy stood watch, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword, his sharp gaze sweeping over the room like that of a lion ready to pounce at the first sign of danger. He had seen countless battles, served countless kings and queens, but nothing could have prepared him for this.

“It’s too quiet,” Damon muttered, breaking the silence.

Barristan turned his head slightly, his expression unreadable. “The worst storms are always silent before they strike.”

Damon swallowed hard. He had never been a coward, but right now, all he could think about was his mother and father, out there in the midst of it all, facing things that should not exist.

“Do you think they’ll win?” Maelor’s voice was soft, hesitant, as he looked up from his lion figurine. His large eyes flickered with worry.

Barristan sighed, stepping forward, his armor glinting in the dim torchlight. “Your parents are strong, your father is the greatest commander Westeros has seen in a century, and your mother has fire in her blood.” He kneeled before Maelor, his voice gentle but firm. “But wars are never certain, young prince. We must be ready for anything.”

Damon exhaled, his hands tightening into fists. He was seven, nearly eight, not a child anymore, not a babe to be coddled. “I should be out there.”

Barristan arched a brow. “And what would you do? Swing a wooden sword at the dead? The battlefield is no place for you yet. You will have your time, but not now.”

Damon bristled, but he knew Barristan was right. He had tried to claim Arraxes, tried to prove himself worthy of a dragon, and he had failed. The pain of that rejection still burned just as deeply as the scars the dragon had left on him.

Maelor, still holding his wooden lion, suddenly whispered, “They won’t let them take us, will they? The monsters?”

Barristan stood, his shoulders straight as a steel blade, and placed a hand on the pommel of his sword. “Not while I still draw breath. Not while your father still stands. And certainly not while your mother flies above us.”

The young prince nodded but said nothing more.

Damon’s thoughts drifted to the sky, wondering if his mother was still flying with Viserion and Arraxes, wondering if his father was still standing atop the battlements, staring down the army of the dead with that cold, unshakable gaze of his.

The castle trembled again, and from beyond the stone walls, a distant, bone-chilling shriek echoed through the corridors.

The sky above Casterly Rock had never seen a storm like this before. Not a storm of wind and rain, but one of fire and ice, of death and war, raging in the heavens like the battle of gods. The once-imposing sky, veiled in an unnatural darkness, was torn apart by flames, illuminating the battlefield below in flickering shades of gold and blue.

Tywin Lannister stood atop the ramparts, his eyes lifted to the heavens where you and your dragon fought against something beyond the comprehension of men. Around him, his men held their breath, frozen in place, momentarily captivated by the spectacle of beasts clashing in the sky. Even hardened soldiers, men who had fought in countless wars, who had carved their legacies in blood and steel, could only watch in stunned horror.

High above them, Viserion roared, her body twisting through the air as she clashed against an abomination that should not exist. The Night King’s dragon, a monstrous corpse of ice and death, let out a horrific, piercing shriek that shattered the sky, the sound echoing over the battlefield like the wail of a dying world.

You sat firmly in Viserion’s saddle, your breath fogging in the unnatural cold that radiated from your foe. You clutched the reins, your body taut with focus, the very air around you biting like a blade as you commanded your dragon to strike. The Lannister-forged armor that encased Viserion’s powerful body gleamed in the flickering light, its crimson and gold etchings striking a stark contrast against the swirling darkness around you. The lion’s sigil had been carefully engraved along the armored plating on her neck and flanks, a lion riding a dragon into war.

“Dracarys!” you roared, and Viserion obeyed, unleashing a torrent of pale golden fire, so hot it burned white at the center, cascading toward the ice dragon.

But the Night King did not flinch. He did not recoil, nor did he flee. Instead, he raised a single, frozen hand, and the fire sputtered, struggling against the unnatural cold that surrounded him. The flames licked against the ice dragon’s hide, but it did not burn—it resisted, as if flame itself could be turned to frost.

“What in the Seven Hells is that thing?” one of Tywin’s bannermen whispered, his voice trembling.

Tywin did not answer. He merely watched, his jaw tightening, his knuckles white as he gripped the hilt of his sword. You were up there, fighting a battle that no warlord, no king, no conqueror had ever prepared for.

Then, Viserion and the ice dragon collided.

The impact was like a thunderclap, two great titans crashing into one another with enough force to shake the very heavens. Viserion clawed and bit, her jaws snapping at the cold, lifeless flesh of her foe, but the ice dragon retaliated with brutal swipes of its frozen talons, gouging deep into Viserion’s armored flank.

You barely held on, your fingers gripping the saddle tightly as Viserion roared in pain, her body lurching violently. You felt the deep, aching wound through your bond, a searing pain that made your stomach churn.

“Fall back! Defend the gates!” Tywin’s command snapped through the frozen air, dragging his men’s attention back to the war that still raged around them. The dead had not stopped their assault, and now they came harder, faster, as if driven by the presence of their king.

The gates of Casterly Rock trembled, the undead hordes hammering against them like waves crashing against a cliff. Pale, lifeless hands reached over the battlements, grasping, clawing, pulling themselves up. Men screamed as they were dragged over the edge, their armor useless against the sheer numbers of the dead.

A wight lunged toward Tywin, its hollow, frozen eyes locked onto him, its mouth twisted into something like a grin. But Tywin did not hesitate—his sword flashed through the darkness, severing its head in one clean stroke.

The ground beneath them shook again, this time from above.

Tywin looked up just in time to see Viserion twisting through the air, flames and ice clashing as the battle raged on. The Night King’s dragon spewed an unholy breath of frost, a bitter, freezing wind that turned fire to mist and ice to jagged spears.

Viserion barely evaded, but the attack struck her wing, and a section of it stiffened, turning to frost-bitten crystal. You gasped, feeling the numbness through your bond, and you urged your dragon onward, higher, away from the deadly grasp of the Night King.

But the Night King did not let up. He lifted his spear—a javelin of pure ice, the same weapon that had felled a dragon before. He pulled back, his inhuman face emotionless, his piercing blue gaze locked onto you and Viserion.

Tywin saw it before it happened.

“No—!”

The Night King threw his spear.

Time slowed.

You saw it slicing through the air, its tip glinting like death itself, aimed straight for your dragon’s heart.

And then—

A blur.

Arraxes.

The young dragon—smaller, but faster—swooped in from below, his scarlet eyes burning like fire itself, his wings folding in just as the spear struck him instead.

The impact was instantaneous. The ice spear pierced through Arraxes’ chest, and for a moment, the world stopped. The young dragon let out a piercing wail, one that rattled the very bones of the earth, and then he fell—spiraling downward, blood and frost spilling into the endless night.

Your scream split the heavens.

Tywin watched in horror as Arraxes plummeted, his body twisting, his wings faltering, his onyx and crimson scales gleaming even as death claimed him midair.

But there was no time to grieve.

Viserion roared in fury, and you clutched the saddle, your mind burning with rage and sorrow. The Night King had taken something from you, and you would make sure he burned for it.

As the battle raged below, as the dead swarmed the gates, as Tywin and his men fought for their very lives, you turned Viserion toward the Night King once more.

And this time, you would not hold back.

The sky burned, and yet the cold never ceased.

You gritted your teeth, feeling the throbbing pain in your head, your body weighed down by the sheer exhaustion of battle. Viserion’s breath came ragged, her golden armor dented and scratched, dark stains of blood marking the spots where the ice dragon had struck her. You could feel her rage, her pain, the way her body ached but refused to yield.

And Arraxes was gone.

The young dragon had fallen to the depths, his lifeblood spilling like a comet through the darkened sky, but you had no time to weep, no time to scream. The Night King was still standing, still riding his monstrous undead dragon, its hollow, soulless eyes staring at you with an unnatural hunger.

“Fly, my love, fly!” you urged, gripping the reins tighter as Viserion roared, banking hard to avoid another ice spear forming in the Night King’s grasp.

Below, Casterly Rock was drenched in battle, the flames of Viserion’s earlier attacks still licking at the swarming masses of undead. But even dragonfire wasn’t enough—their numbers were endless, waves upon waves of the dead still climbing the walls, forcing the gates, their pale, rotten hands clawing at every living thing they could reach.

And at the very heart of the chaos, Tywin Lannister watched you fight a war in the sky that no army could reach.

“My lord, there is nothing we can do—” one of his knights began, but Tywin silenced him with a look sharp enough to cut steel.

His hands were clenched into fists. His breath came short and cold, not from fear, but from fury. He had fought wars his entire life, built a legacy of order and control, and yet here he stood, watching as his wife fought a battle he could not reach, one that no Lannister steel nor Westerland army could touch.

His teeth clenched as he turned sharply, barking an order:

“Bring me my horse.”

There was a pause, a moment of disbelief.

Kevan took a step forward, his brow furrowing. “Tywin, what are you—”

“Bring. Me. My. Horse.”

“You can’t help her!” Kevan snapped, frustration flaring in his voice. “She is up there, fighting a dragon, fighting something that isn’t even human! How do you plan to—”

“I will not stand here while my wife fights alone.”

His words were steel, unyielding, absolute, the kind that left no room for further argument.

A heavy silence fell upon the men around him, all of them watching the great Tywin Lannister, the man who never acted without cold calculation, now mounting a horse in the middle of an impossible battle.

It was Beric Dondarrion who finally spoke, his voice grim, but resolute.

“We’ll ride with you.”

Kevan turned his glare toward the men of the Brotherhood Without Banners. “Are you mad? This is suicide!”

Beric merely smiled, a dry, weary expression. “Death is not as permanent as you might think, my lord. And besides—someone has to watch the Lion of Lannister charge into a storm. A tale worth remembering.”

Thoros of Myr grunted, pulling himself onto his own mount, the light of his flaming sword casting eerie shadows over the blood-stained snow.

“Let it be known that Lannisters are as mad as Targaryens.”

Tywin said nothing. He merely kicked his horse forward, his cloak trailing behind him as he led the charge into the chaos.

You could feel Viserion’s wings weakening, the frost slowly creeping into her bones from the wounds she had taken. Every beat of her wings was a desperate, furious fight against the cold trying to steal her from the sky.

But the Night King did not tire.

His lifeless blue eyes locked onto you, and his dragon—a decayed, twisted horror of what once was a great beast—let out a breath of pure death.

A spear of ice formed once more in his grasp, and this time, you could feel the inevitability in the air.

Viserion was struggling.

Your body ached.

The Night King would strike again, and this time, he would not miss.

But then—

Something below shattered the battlefield.

A golden standard, burning against the night, moving through the horde of undead like a specter of defiance.

Tywin.

You almost did not believe it. He was down there, riding into the fray, sword in hand, cutting down wights and monsters alike, his men charging behind him with flaming swords and shields raised high.

“Seven hells, what is he doing?!”

Viserion stirred beneath you, her own fire igniting in response. She had always been protective, always watched over the man who had claimed you as his, and now he had charged into a battle he could not win—for you.

For you and your children.

The Night King turned his head, his gaze flickering toward the movement below.

A mistake.

“Now!” you screamed, and Viserion answered.

With every last ounce of her strength, she roared, diving toward the Night King’s exposed flank, golden fire surging from her jaws just as the sky erupted with flame and steel below.

Tywin’s men fought harder, their leader at the very front, cutting through the waves of the dead as Viserion and her rider struck the heavens like vengeful gods.

And finally—finally—the Night King faltered.

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gladiatorcunt · 7 months ago

Text

- 🌪️❤️‍🔥 𝐌𝐔𝐃 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐋𝐈𝐋𝐘 𝐏𝐀𝐃𝐒 | NAVI.

“ain’t that how life works? you lose members of your family, you add some more, then you gotta do it all again before church the next morning.”

𝓒𝓦: gentle dead dove (more implied vibes and based around a willing reader), tyler x afab!reader x boone, pregnancy & childbirth, age gap (reader is early 20’s, b + t are in the late 20’s early-ish 30’s range respectively lmao), major character injury but no death, kate and reader friendship (no cheating allegations in MY fic series, she isn’t interested in being with anybody), dr. pepper addiction, canon typical perilous situations and action, most likely inaccurate tornado science (KY3 main source /hj), arkansas (mainly NWA) elements, southern!reader, tattooed & pierced!reader, implied plus size, bisexual, & neurodivergent!reader, 18+ MDNI (only a few are mainly smut focused though, the rest not as much), only one part (the finale) takes place in the main movie timeline, one deeply unserious reference to top gun:maverick, HEAVY swearing, christianity mentions & drug/alcohol abuse mentions (mainly backstory related), low key self insert like these are my f/os

𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐍:

i. the iron cowboy

ii. if you’re a bird, i’m a bird

iii. touchdown on tornado alley prequel sequel interlude

iv. something borrowed, something blue

v. (ghost) riders in the sky (darker au version)

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hassiegfrieddoneanythingwrong · 1 year ago

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Day 413:

Another one added to the dragonslayer gang.

#Fate/Grand Order #fgo #day #now if only I could actually care about her #don't get me wrong I'll still level her up to 80 #(just need to get more 5* Rider embers)#but compared to Georgios who I want to grail very soon #along with fellow new Rider Taigong Wang #she's rather low on the priority list for me #plus I hate her design in 2nd/3rd ascensions combined with the background art #I've always wanted to be snowblinded from the card art (/s)

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d0llcuries · 5 months ago

Note

hiii im new to your blog so idk all the rules yet but I was wondering if you could do a neteyam x navi reader ofc like when they first arrived to the reef you and tuk clicked immediately you both have a really close bond like you two spend a lot of time together weather it’s swimming together or making matching jewelry🩵 and that’s kinda how you and neteyam even started dating because of how much tuk would talk about you !!!! I hope this isn’t too much sorrrryyyy❤️ I love your work btwwww

TIDES THAT BROUGHT ME TO YOU

pairing(s): neteyam x fem!na'vi reader

summary: the sullys arrival to awal'atu causes a stir among your people, though you could care less about their presence. that is, of course, until a certain forest girl changes your mind

author's note: i fear there is an inexplicable pull within me to write yn as an absolute freakazoid in every oneshot i create. that being said, if you want yn to be normal in your request plspls specify her personality type otherwise she'll come out acting like winona rider from mermaids (1990). kinda fumbled this one too i should not be writing on my period 🧍

the first thing you notice about them is how thin they are.

their descent from the sky on their great winged beasts stirs up the sand in great, sweeping clouds, but it does nothing to hide the way their limbs, long and lean, cut through the air as they dismount. forest people. they move with a lightness, a caution that seems strange to you. the metkayina are not built like them. they are broader, bodies strong and firm, their muscles shaped by the tides and the weight of water. and their tails—their tails—eywa, they are so thin! practically useless. you wonder how they manage to balance at all.

you and tsireya emerge from the water, sliding off your ilus in one fluid motion, the cool spray of the ocean dripping from your skin as you wade through the shallows. the soft sand shifts beneath your feet, and your tail flicks lazily, trailing behind you as you approach ao’nung and rotxo, who stand together just ahead. tsireya pushes a strand of wet hair from her face, her movements graceful, her eyes immediately catching sight of the sully brothers—the skinnier of the two stares at her a little too long, his expression a mix of curiosity and something almost like awe.

you almost laugh when he nods in her direction, his voice low and far too confident. “hey.” (miles morales ahh)

tsireya’s face flushes a familiar shade of soft blue, and you cringe inwardly, the secondhand embarrassment hitting you like a wave. her reaction is painfully obvious, her wide eyes as she bends her head, a hesitant smile betraying her. you glance sideways, searching for a distraction, and rotxo is already there, as if sensing your discomfort.

“look at them,” he mutters under his breath, his voice pitched low so only you can hear. “how do they even manage with tails that thin?”

ao’nung, standing just beside him, snickers, his broad shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. it's the kind of laugh that is infectious, spreading like ripples across the surface of the sea, and even though you are not cruel—even though you know it’s wrong—you can’t help the small tug of a smile that curls at the corner of your mouth. it’s all in good fun, after all. forest people, clearly they have wandered too far from where they belong. surely they won’t be here for long.

it is not that you want to make fun of them, these strangers who have come to seek uturu, but something about them seems... wrong, somehow. misplaced.

you were still laughing when you caught neteyam’s eyes on you.

his gaze was steady, calm in a way that she didn’t expect, and she felt the weight of it like a shift in the tide. not accusing, not angry, but watching. taking her in as if she were something curious. something strange. her smile faded, the amusement leaving her as she pulled her gaze away, pretending not to care. what was he looking at?

you shift your weight slightly, your arms hanging loose at your sides as you observe the exchange between the sullys and tsireyas parents. she watches them with a quiet, thoughtful expression, her brows knitting together in concentration. there’s no judgment in her gaze, no hint of the amusement that had touched your own. she looks at them with nothing but curiosity, a flicker of compassion lighting her features. she catches your eye and raises an eyebrow, silently urging you to soften. you sigh, the weight of her gentle disapproval settling over you. of course tsireya would be the first to see beyond appearances. she always does.

you’ve known her for as long as you can remember, since you were both small and would spend your days swimming out into the open waters, daring each other to dive deeper, pushing your lungs to their very limits. she has always been the heart of your little group, the steady, guiding force that tempers ao’nung’s bravado and rotxo’s sharp-edged laughter. where they tease and taunt, she soothes, her voice like the steady rhythm of the waves, always pulling you all back to center.

it’s no surprise, then, that you find yourself drawn into spending more time with the newcomers, tsireya’s gentle insistence pulling you along as she helps guide them through the early days of their stay. you are metkayina; you know the ways of the water, the ebb and flow of the tides, the secrets that the ocean keeps. it’s your responsibility to teach them how to live in this world, even if you don’t want to.

at first, you hang back, letting tsireya do most of the talking, watching as she shows them how to breathe, how to move, how to swim like the metkayina do. it was exhausting just to look at them. lo’ak struggles to hold his breath, his frustration palpable as he tries again and again to stay underwater. kiri moves with a sort of distracted grace, her attention more focused on the creatures of the reef than the lesson itself. you observe them with detached interest, your thoughts drifting like the waves.

you don’t care about them. you don’t.

and then, tuk happens.

you hadn’t meant to pay attention to her. in fact, you had barely noticed her at all in the beginning, the youngest of the sully siblings blending into the background behind her older brothers and sister. but tuk has a way about her, a brightness that’s impossible to ignore. she’s all wide-eyed curiosity and boundless energy, so unlike the others, who carry the weight of their family’s uncertainty like a heavy cloak. while they are cautious, tuk embraces everything around her with an infectious enthusiasm that makes her impossible to overlook.

you catch her one day after a particularly long lesson, her small hands fumbling with a piece of seaweed, attempting to braid it into her hair for whatever reason. her brow is furrowed in frustration, her lower lip caught between her teeth in concentration, and something about her determination—her fierce little spirit—draws you in before you even realize what you’re doing.

“like this,” you murmur, kneeling beside her and gently taking the seaweed from her hands. your fingers work quickly, weaving the strands together with ease. “you have to twist it more. it’s not like the vines in the forest.”

tuk’s eyes widen, her expression lighting up with awe. “wow! you’re really good at that!”

and that’s it. from that moment on, you can’t seem to shake her. tuk becomes your shadow, or maybe it’s the other way around. wherever you go, she’s there, trailing after you with an endless stream of questions, her small footsteps pattering through the sand as she tries to keep up with your longer strides. her curiosity knows no bounds, and you find yourself drawn into her orbit, unable to resist the bright spark of joy that seems to follow her everywhere.

the first time she swims with you, her movements are awkward, her limbs too quick and too stiff, and she sputters as she breaks the surface, her wide eyes filled with frustration. “it’s too hard!” she huffs, pushing wet hair from her face. “i’ll never be as good as you.”

“you will,” you say gently. “you just have to feel the water. do not fight it.”

tuk frowns, unconvinced, but she doesn’t give up. over the days, you watch as she grows bolder, more confident in the water. you teach her how to control her breathing, how to let go of her fear, and she listens, her small face set in determined concentration. she clings to your arm after each lesson, her bright laughter ringing in your ears as she pulls you back to the beach.

and with tuk, inevitably, comes neteyam.

at first, you barely notice his presence, too busy entertaining tuk. he lingers on the outskirts of your time with her, watching from a distance, never quite joining in but never too far away either. it’s easy to forget he’s there, his quiet nature blending into the background.

but neteyam has a way of making himself known, even in his silence.

it starts small. you feel his gaze on you more often, the weight of it something you try to ignore at first. he never says much, never interrupts your time with tuk, but you notice him lingering just a bit closer with each passing day, his tall frame casting a shadow over you and tuk as she chatters on about whatever has caught her attention in that moment. sometimes, you catch him smiling—those soft, fleeting smiles that seem to disappear before you can fully register them. they’re rare, but when they happen, they make your heart stutter, a strange warmth blooming in your chest that you quickly dismiss.

he’s deliberate, thoughtful, always watching, always observing. you can feel his attention like the gentle pull of the tide, steady and unyielding. it’s unsettling, but not in a way that you dislike. in fact, if you’re honest with yourself, it’s kind of... comforting.

tuk even speaks about him sometimes, her admiration for him clear in every word. “neteyam would love this,” she says one day, as you show her to repair a torn fishnet. “he’s so good at everything. you’d like him, i think.”

tuk had been telling you some story about their home in the forest, her small hands moving animatedly as she spoke, when neteyam quietly joined the two of you. he folded his legs beneath him, watching with that same gentle expression he always wore when tuk was around. you paused, hands stilling over the bracelet you were working on, and glanced at him out of the corner of your eye.

“you do not have to stop,” he said, his voice low and easy, the corners of his lips lifting in a small smile. “i am just here to watch.”

you thought about running away, getting up and leaving after making a up some excuse to remind them that you had better things to do than sit with them in the sand making bracelets. something about the way he spoke—his voice so warm and unhurried—caught you off guard. the way your heart bested faster when he was around, the way you caught yourself blushing like tsireya whenever lo'ak opened his mouth was... unusual. it unsettled you in a way you couldn’t quite put into words.

the three of you sat there in comfortable silence as you finished the bracelet, your hands working on autopilot while tuk chattered on, oblivious to the subtle shift in the air between you and her brother. you were grateful for her presence, for the way she kept things light without realizing it. by the time you tied the last knot and secured the bracelet around tuk’s wrist, you hadn’t noticed that neteyam had been watching you the whole time, with a softness that made you feel like he wasn’t just looking at you. he was seeing you.

“you are good at that,” he said quietly, his voice barely louder than the sound of the waves.

you tightened your grip on the edge of the bracelet you’d been working on for yourself, gaze dropping to the sand. “i have had practice.”

he nodded, still watching you. the weight of his gaze felt like a physical thing, pressing against your skin, exposing you in a way that made you feel uneasy. you were used to keeping your distance, keeping your indifference like a shield between you and his family. you had learned to tune it out, the presence of others—your people, the sullys—but with neteyam, it was different. you couldn’t ignore him the way you did the rest. but neteyam was quiet, his presence like the sea on a still morning, surrounding you without making a sound. you liked that.

as the sun dipped lower, casting warm golds and pinks across the sand, you tied the final knot and slid the bracelet onto your wrist. it wasn’t perfect—nothing ever was—but it felt right, the weight familiar against your skin. you held it up, inspecting your work, twisting your wrist slightly to catch the fading light.

“that one is beautiful,” neteyam said softly, his eyes on the small woven beads, the shells glinting like scattered stars. his gaze flicked to your wrist, then back to your face. “you should make me one.”

you blinked, your lips parting in surprise. “you want me to make you a bracelet?”

he smiled then, a small thing that felt like it could crack open the horizon. “well, you made one for tuk. i feel a little left out.”

you glanced at tuk, who was too busy showing off her new bracelet to the other children playing by the water to notice the exchange.

“i do not know,” you said slowly, turning the bracelet on your wrist. “i do not usually make things for people.”

neteyam tilted his head, his expression open, waiting. “you made one for tuk.”

“you do not even like it here,” you said suddenly, sharper than you intended. the words left your mouth before you could stop them, and you could see the flicker of surprise in his eyes. he opened his mouth to respond, but you continued before he could speak, your voice quieter this time. “you do not like us.”

the truth of it lingered in the space between you. you hadn’t forgotten the way they’d arrived, tense and uncertain, the way his brother had snapped at you and your people, the way his parents had worn their worry like a second skin. they didn’t belong here, and they knew it. the thought had made you laugh at first, but now, sitting here with neteyam, you didn’t know how to feel about it.

for a long moment, he was silent, his gaze turning out toward the sea, his expression unreadable. the light of the setting sun cast long shadows across the sand, and you could hear the distant calls of the other children as they played by the water. tuk’s laughter echoed somewhere nearby, but it felt distant, like the tide pulling away from the shore.

“you are right,” neteyam said finally, his voice low. “we do not belong here.”

the words were a simple acknowledgment, but they landed heavy between you, pressing down on your chest. you didn’t know why it bothered you to hear it. they didn’t belong. that was obvious. but there was something in the way he said it—something quiet, resigned—that made you realize just how heavy that truth must have felt for him, for all of them.

“but we are trying,” he added after a moment, his voice soft. “we are doing our best. even if it does not seem like it.”

your fingers tightened around the bracelet on your wrist, the edges rough against your skin. you could feel the weight of his gaze again, warm and steady, and for the first time, you met his eyes without looking away. there was something in them, something that caught you off guard. not sadness, exactly. not defeat. but acceptance. a quiet understanding that maybe, just maybe, you weren’t so different after all.

you swallowed, your throat suddenly dry. “i will make you a bracelet,” you said, your voice barely more than a whisper. “if you still want one.”

neteyam smiled again, that small, warm curve of his lips that felt like it could light up the entire ocean. “i would like that.”

over time, it became harder to stay distant, your walls cracking under the weight of his quiet companionship. you didn’t even realize how much you’d begun to change, how your awkwardness softened, until one day you caught yourself laughing at something neteyam had said—really laughing, not the half-smile you usually gave. it wasn’t that you’d stopped being strange or different, but it didn’t matter so much anymore. neteyam had a way of making you feel like it was okay to be the way you were, that there was no need to force yourself into shapes that didn’t fit. the space between you that once felt wide now felt smaller, warmer, and for the first time in a long while, you didn’t mind the closeness.

he listened, the way he understood things without needing to say them. they spent more time together, sometimes with tuk, sometimes just the two of them, and slowly, quietly, something grew between them.

it was in the small moments—the way his hand would brush against yours when they walked, the way he’d smile at you from across the water. you didn’t fight it, didn’t push it away. you let it come, let it settle into your bones like the rhythm of the waves.

one evening, as you sat together on a small outcrop of rock, watching the sun sink into the horizon, neteyam turned to you, his expression soft and open in the fading light.

“you know,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper, “tuk talks about you all the time.”

you smiled, “does she?”

he nodded, his gaze warm. “she adores you. she’s always telling me how you are the best swimmer, the best jewelry maker. she even started asking me to tell her stories about the forest, because she wants to impress you.”

her heart tightened at the thought, and she couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped her. “tuk is very easy to like.”

neteyam’s smile grew, and for a moment, you sat in comfortable silence, the sound of the waves lapping gently at the shore below. then, quietly, he added, “she is not the only one who talks about you.”

you glanced at him, her heart skipping a beat. “oh?”

his gaze met yours, steady and sure, and the warmth in his eyes was enough to make you breath catch in her throat. “i do too. all the time.”

his gaze meets yours, steady and sure, and the warmth in his eyes is enough to make your breath catch in your throat. “i do too. all the time.”

you blink, caught off guard. a breeze rolls off the sea, pulling strands of your hair into your face, but you can’t bring yourself to move. his words hang in the air between you, sinking into your skin like the warm sun after a cold swim. all the time.

“why?” your voice comes out smaller than you mean for it to. you’re almost afraid to hear the answer, as if it would shift the ground beneath your feet, change the delicate balance that has settled between you both.

neteyam’s gaze softens, his lips curling into the smallest smile, and you realize, with a start, that he isn’t nervous at all. he seems sure of whatever it is that lingers in the space between you. quietly confident, like always. “i guess because... i think about you a lot.”

you open your mouth to say something, anything to fill the silence, but before you can find the words, a small voice cuts through the moment like a blade.

“hey!” tuk’s voice, sharp and high, breaks your quiet. you both turn to find her standing at the edge of the rocks, her little face pinched in frustration, her hands on her hips. “i knew it!”

your eyebrows shoot up, startled. “knew what?”

tuk stomps closer, her bare feet padding noisily across the stone. “i knew neteyam would steal you from me!” she jabs a finger in his direction, her small frame shaking with righteous indignation. “you’re my friend, not his!”

the words hit you like a slap, and you glance at neteyam, who looks equally taken aback, his mouth parting in surprise. tuk’s big eyes shimmer with unshed tears, and something in your chest squeezes painfully. you hadn’t even realized how much time you’d been spending with neteyam, how it must have felt to tuk, who had so eagerly claimed you as her own from the start.

neteyam steps forward, hands raised in surrender, his voice gentle. “hey, tuk. no one is stealing anyone.”

but tuk isn’t having it. her little fists clench, and she whirls on you, eyes wide and brimming with hurt. “you promised we’d make more jewelry! and swim with the ilus!” her bottom lip trembles, and she takes a step back, as if the distance will make the ache in your chest less sharp. “you said you were my best friend.”

guilt washes over you like a cold wave, chilling you to the bone. you kneel down, reaching for tuk’s small hand, but the little girl pulls away, hurt radiating off her in waves. “tuk, i did not mean to—”

“you don’t like me anymore.” tuk’s voice is small now, defeated, and your heart breaks at the sight of it, at the raw pain in her eyes. “you like him more.”

the words leave you stunned, speechless. you look to neteyam for help, but he stands frozen, his jaw tight, clearly torn between comforting his sister and letting her work it out. after a long pause, he crouches beside tuk, his voice soft and reassuring.

“that is not true,” he says quietly, his hand resting gently on tuk’s shoulder. “she is still your friend, tuk. i am just... lucky to be friends with her too.”

tuk sniffles, her little fists rubbing at her eyes, and your heart clenches in your chest. “but i found her first,” she mumbles.

you can’t help the soft smile that tugs at your lips at the child’s words, your heart aching in the best way. “you did find me first, tuk,” you say gently, finally managing to reach out and take her hand. tuk lets you this time, her fingers small and warm in your grasp. “and you are still my best friend. nothing is going to change that.”

tuk looks up at you with wide, watery eyes, still unsure. “promise?”

you squeeze her hand, your voice soft. “promise.”

after a moment, tuk’s shoulders relax, and she swipes at her face with the back of her hand. she glances between you and neteyam, her lip still trembling but her anger starting to fade. “okay,” she whispers, “but you have to make me another bracelet first.”

a small laugh escapes you, and you nod, relief settling into your bones. “deal.”

tuk brightens instantly, her smile returning in full force. “and you both have to swim with me tomorrow. no skipping!”

neteyam chuckles, brushing a hand through his braids. “we would not dream of it.”

satisfied, tuk gives a dramatic sigh before turning and running off toward the other children, her earlier tears forgotten. the weight of her outburst still lingers, though, and as you both stand there in the quiet aftermath, you realize just how much tuk’s words have struck something deep inside you. you like him more.

it isn’t true, is it? or maybe... maybe it is. you’re not sure anymore. the thought makes your throat tighten.

neteyam seems to sense the shift in you, his gaze turning serious as he watches you carefully. “you okay?” he asks, his voice soft, a little uncertain.

“i do not know,” you say quietly, your voice barely more than a whisper. “it feels...different.”

neteyam is silent for a long moment, his brows furrowing slightly as he steps closer, his presence a steady, comforting weight at your side. when he finally speaks, his voice is low, careful. “what does?”

you look up at him then, the words heavy on your tongue. “everything. you, me, tuk...”

neteyam's voice is quiet, almost hesitant as he asks, “is it a good different?” his eyes search yours, the question hanging in the air between you. there's an openness to him now, a vulnerability that makes you pause. you see him clearly in this moment—the forest boy with his thin tail, strong but out of place here in your world. his presence is unfamiliar yet comforting, the way his skin contrasts with the sea, the way he stands rooted even on shifting sand. the difference is undeniable, but it's not unsettling. it feels like something new, something good.

you meet his gaze, and in that instant, everything falls into place. his eyes, a deep shade that reminds you of the forest he came from, hold a quiet kind of warmth, like the steady burn of a fire. you're different, yes—he, with the wilderness in his bones, and you, with the sea in yours—but that contrast feels like a harmony rather than a divide. with a small nod, you let the truth settle between you, firm and certain. “yeah,” you murmur, a soft smile pulling at your lips. “it is.”

i'll proof read this when i get back home i have to go out now 😭

#neteyam x reader #neteyam fluff #neteyam oneshot #neteyam x you #neteyam imagine #neteyam sully #neteyam sully imagine #neteyam drabble #neteyam sully x y/n #neteyam sully x reader #neteyam sully x na’vi!reader #neteyam te suli tsyeyk'itan #atwow #avatar way of water #d0llcuries stuff ꫂ ၴႅၴ

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