#m: violet northman

[yerimsdreams]

The Hour of the Wolf

author's note: so this is a series i started instead of studying for my exams lol. and also a coping mechanism to deal with the hotd drought.

cregan stark x oc (she/her pronouns)

warnings: mentions of death. spoilers for fire&blood. swearing.

''The King is dead.'' 

The declaration reverberated through the cold corridors of the Red Keep, carrying with it a chill that seemed to seep into the bones of those who heard it. A murmur of unease rippled through the assembled lords and men, their breaths hanging in the cold air like ghosts. At the front of the gathering stood Cregan Stark, every inch the embodiment of the North in his fur-lined cloak and somber demeanor, flanked by his men, who loomed like shadows behind him. 

''By whose hand and by whose sword, I wonder?'' He inquired, looking down on the Lord of Driftmark, not swayed by his formidable reputation. 

Corlys' gaze briefly faltered at the question, his hand tightening around the pommel of his cane, glancing down at the polished floor of the Red Keep.

''Poison, my lord.'' A voice spoke from inside the council chamber, one that belonged to a young lord from the Riverlands. 

Cregan glanced behind Corlys, finding Lord Benjicot Blackwood along with Ser Oscar Tully and his older brother Lord Kermit Tully. ''Do the babes speak true?'' His voice held a sneer, the insult landing heavily on the youthful lords, who bristled at the disrespect but found themselves unable to summon a retort in the face of the imposing northerner.

The Lads, as they were known, shuffled uneasily, their courage waning under the Northman's scrutiny. Even their proud lineage did little to steel their nerves against the palpable menace in Cregan's gaze.

Corlys curtly nodded, though in comparison to the little lords in the room, he was unmoved by Cregan Stark's appearance and berating. ''Aye.''

The Lord's grey eyes shifted to his own men, nodding his head to the Sea Snake, a silent order to seize him. Without a word, two of Cregan's guards stepped forward, their heavy boots thudding against the stone floor. The King's Landing guards hesitated, their hands inching toward their swords, but they were swiftly disarmed by the northerners, who moved with the swift precision of wolves on the hunt.

The Sea Snake was dragged into the hallways and escorted to the dungeons, without as much as a word from the old man. 

Cregan's focus lay with the Lads now, fully stepping into the council chamber, his presence casting a long shadow across the room. ''Who told you the war was done? The Clubfoot? The Snake? Because you won your little battle in the mud? Wars end when the defeated bend the knee and not-'' 

''What is the meaning of this?'' 

Every man turned at the sound of the undaunted voice echoing from the hallway, curious who would dare question the Wolf in the North.

It was a surprising sight, and quite the contrast to Lord Stark: a smaller woman with violet eyes and long silver hair cascading loosely over her shoulders.

For most men in the room, it was their first encounter with a Targaryen Princess. The North spoke of the Targaryens as otherworldly beings - riders of dragons, with a fiery temper to match their beasts. They were described as possessing an ethereal beauty, almost unearthly. 

Yet, the woman standing before them exceeded these tales. They depicted the ruling family as if they were part of a distant legend, but here stood a living, breathing embodiment of those legends, surpassing them in every way. 

Princess Visenya Targaryen

Kermit, Oscar and Benji let out a relieved sigh as she made her way into the large room, finally a familiar face that would save them from the Stark's wrath. 

''Princess,'' Cregan bowed his head, following her figure, ''these boys-''

''These young men,'' she corrected, her tone brooking no argument, ''have been our courageous allies and should be treated as such.'' She vouched for them, facing the Lord of Winterfell. 

Cregan tightened his jaw, but merely nodded at the woman in front of him. 

She could sense the conflict in his eyes, she momentarily glanced at the sigil on his chest before continuing. ''Lord Stark, I have worked closely with them. They are not the ones who should be berated for their deeds.'' 

''The King is dead, Princess. The men accountable are the same men ruling in your nephew's place.'' Cregan said, straightening his posture. 

''My nephew pardoned them.'' She stepped closer, her voice steady but firm. 

His expression hardened at her words. ''They were not pardoned by me.'' His tone dropping to a growl as he loomed over her. 

Visenya was visibly bewildered by his response, wondering how he had seemingly grasped all authority to himself within a few hour span. ''And who are you to the King? What is a wolf to a dragon?'' She retorted, a challenge thrown down at his feet.

''A meal.'' Benjicot quipped from the sidelines, earning stifled chuckles from his companions.

Cregan's head turned towards the Blackwood lord, his eyes flashing with annoyance. ''Watch your tongue, boy.'' He warned. 

The three young men immediately fell silent, their gazes back to the ground. 

The Princess took a deep breath, her voice colder than the Northern winds. ''You overstep, Lord Stark. You cannot simply cast aside royal decrees because they do not suit you. My nephew's will is the law.'' 

''His will, perhaps,'' Cregan allowed, ''but not his wisdom. He is a boy, one-and-ten. Do you want him to be surrounded by turncloaks and kingslayers?'' He leaned in, his face mere inches from hers, the heat of his breath mingling with the frost of her resolve.

''Lord Stark,'' she said, her voice trembling with restrained anger, ''do not think you can intimidate me with your Northern bluster. I have faced dragons and men far fiercer than you.'' 

A tense silence followed her words, only the distant sound of the smallfolk audible. The Lads watched as the King's aunt squandered off with the Warden of the North. 

Then, unexpectedly, Cregan’s stern expression softened into something resembling admiration. ''Very well, my Princess,'' his voice softened, ''your counsel is appreciated.'' 

Her eyes narrowed slightly, but she nodded, her resolve firm. She glanced behind the broad-shouldered lord to look at his men. ''Larys Strong, Septon Eustace, Perkin the Flea and Grand Maester Orwyle. Bring them to the dungeons, and do not shy away from violence.'' 

The northmen moved swiftly to obey, much to Lord Stark's astonishment. He watched, somewhat bemused, as his own men followed the orders of someone else. 

Cregan's lips twitched into a semblance of a smile as he turned back to the woman in front of him, his respect growing for the Targaryen Princess. ''You have a commanding presence, Princess. I'll give you that.'' 

Visenya met his gaze, giving him a grateful nod. ''I shall take my leave now.'' 

As she made an advance to leave the room, Cregan's voice stopped her. ''Uh, Princess, may I have a word with you? In private.'' 

She paused, the request catching her by surprise. For a moment, she considered his words, the flicker of curiosity sparking in her violet eyes. Then, with a composed nod, she acquiesced. ''You may.'' She turned to Benjicot, Kermit and Oscar. ''You're excused, we will speak later.'' 

The Lads curtsied at her words, happy to oblige. Before they left the chamber, Ben and Oscar pretended to kiss one another, teasing the Princess as Cregan had his back turned to them. 

She shook her head at their banter, but chuckled nonetheless. ''What can I do for you, my lord?'' 

''I would like for your nephew, the King, to strictly remain in his royal apartment for the time being.'' He suggested, a more serious expression on his face. 

The woman frowned, her arms crossing instinctively over her chest as she processed his words. ''Why?'' 

''His safety. As long as the men who poisoned the usurper are still alive and in this castle, he is not safe with anyone but you. We cannot afford to take any risks with his life.'' His tone was firm, but gentle. 

Visenya studied him, weighing his words, realising they were true. ''You should tell him yourself. I think Aegon should meet the man who is still fighting in his mother's name.'' 

Cregan nodded, offering the best of a smile a man from the North could. ''It would be an honour, Princess.'' He bowed. 

She bit back a smirk as he slightly bent over, amused by how Lord Stark's demeanour had changed from when she first walked into the council chamber. 

''Follow me, my lord.'' She motioned her head towards the large doors. 

The Princess led him to Aegon's apartment in Maegor's Holdfast, not much words being spoken between the two allies. 

She stopped the northman a few steps away from entering the King's room. ''Lord Stark, I must remind you that my nephew has endured a lot these last years. Besides me and his sisters, he has no one left. He… appears like a child, but he no longer is one. Do you understand?'' She spoke softly, a certain vulnerability present when talking about the young boy. 

Cregan was touched by it, empathising with the losses the Targaryen family had suffered. He knew how it felt for he had suffered great losses of his own in his father and younger brother. 

''I understand, my Princess.'' He nodded. 

She smiled, grateful for his understanding. ''Good.'' They continued walking until they stood in front of Aegon's door, greeting the Kingsguard who were present there. 

The eleven-year old sat by the window, looking out on the city. 

''Aegon, this is Lord Cregan Stark of Winterfell. He would like to speak with you.'' His aunt carefully introduced him to the boy, who slowly turned towards them. 

Unlike his aunt, Aegon did seem to feel overwhelmed by the man that was towering over him as if he was the Wall himself. Cregan offered a respectful bow to the young king. ''Your grace.''

Aegon, who had been silent since their entrance, nodded slowly, his gaze shifting between the imposing figure of the northman and his aunt, who stood nearby with an encouraging but anxious expression.

Visenya moved to gently put her hands on his shoulders. ''Lord Stark has been a great ally of ours. He was a friend of Jace.'' 

The mention of his late eldest brother briefly brought a spark to his eyes, but it was gone as soon as it came. 

''Me and your brother hunted together,'' Cregan's gaze was earnest as he addressed the boy, his tone steady and devoid of the harshness that had marked his earlier confrontations, ''he had a real knack for it.'' 

Aegon simply nodded, leaning more into his aunt's touch the longer the conversation went on. 

''Aegon, you'll have to stay in here a bit longer.'' The Princess cautiously told him, squeezing his shoulder. 

He looked up at her, pouting his lips. ''Why am I not free yet?'' 

''It is for your safety, your Grace,'' Cregan answered, ''this city is full of vipers. There are liars, turncloaks, and poisoners in this court who would murder you as quick as they did your uncle to secure their own power.'' 

''Who did?'' His small voice asked, having his aunt hold him closer. 

''Lord Strong, Lord Velaryon, the Flea, and more.'' Stark responded, briefly glancing at the Princess. 

Aegon frowned at the answer. ''But, they are my friends.'' 

The Princess wanted to sob at the pureness with which her nephew spoke, somehow still blind to the acts his ''trusted'' companions had committed. 

Cregan knelt beside him. ''False friends are far more dangerous to a king than any foe, your Grace. The Snake, the Clubfoot, and the Flea only saved you to make use of you, to rule Westeros in your name.'' He replied, his words wise. 

The King's frown did not disappear, but he let the Lord's answer sink in. He looked up at his aunt, seeking reassurance. 

She knelt beside Cregan, cupping Aegon's face. ''You must be careful of whom you trust. I know this is difficult, my sweet boy. But I believe in your abilities. You are as brave as your brothers, as wise as your mother, and as daring as your father.'' 

The Warden of the North stood back up on his feet, feeling as if he was intruding on a private, family matter. He simply watched as the Princess spoke encouragement into her nephew, looking nothing like the woman who had waltzed into the council chamber and put him in his place. 

He'd heard the whispers of King Viserys' second daughter, the spare to the Iron Throne. His closest friend, Lord Cerwyn, had once told Cregan a story of how the younger sister of Rhaenyra had been merely two-and-ten when she tried to burn a group of young lords in dragonfire when they'd all tried to ask for her hand in marriage. Another tale claimed the Princess had locked the Dowager Queen Alicent, her stepmother, into a tower and had tried to feed the key to one of the dragons in the Dragonpit. 

Cregan was sure that parts of the hearsay must have been fabricated to put the Princess under a certain light, but doubts danced around his mind. The way she'd stormed into the counselling room had been bold, the way she'd spoken to him and had commanded his men was fierce. But seeing her now, comforting the young king with such tenderness, Cregan realised there was much more to her than the stories conveyed. She was a guardian, a protector of her family and those loyal to her. 

Aegon seemed to draw strength from her words, his small frame relaxing slightly. ''I will try to be brave and wise, Aunt.'' 

She smiled warmly, brushing a strand of hair from his face. ''I know you will,'' she leaned forward and kissed his temple, ''I think you can use a good night of rest, my boy. I will see you in the morning, okay?'' 

Her nephew nodded timidly, still a bit unnerved by the presence of Lord Stark. ''Okay.'' 

''Goodnight, sweet boy.'' She ruffled his hair as he quietly whispered the word back to her. His eyes darted over to the northman next to her. ''Thank you, Lord Stark.'' 

Cregan inclined his head. ''You are welcome, your Grace. I wish you a night of rest.'' 

As they left Aegon's chambers, Visenya closed the door gently behind her, the heavy oak creaking slightly before settling into silence. Cregan scratched his voice, the sound coming out like a grunt. 

''Let me escort you to your chambers, Princess. It is no time for a Princess of the Realm to walk these halls alone.'' He offered, gesturing towards the shadowy corridor that led to the royal apartments.

Visenya let out a chuckle, a look of pity in her eyes. ''Lord Stark, it is not I who should be afraid of wandering these corridors alone, if I may put it so forwardly.'' 

Cregan raised an eyebrow, a small smile tugging at his lips. ''Why may that be, Princess?'' 

She started walking towards her personal chambers, leaving a curious Stark to trail behind her. ''I am grateful for your presence here at court, my Lord. You have continued to fight for her, even after her tragic death,'' she swallowed hard at the thought of her sister's passing, ''and for that you have my eternal gratitude.'' 

The Warden nodded, tilting his head. ''But…'' 

''But not everyone shares my sentiment.'' She glanced at him, her expression serious. 

Cregan's smile faded, sensing where she was going with this. ''Forgive my bluntness, Princess, but I have the upper hand here. Anyone who dares raise a hand against me or my men will have it removed.'' 

Visenya stopped in her tracks, Cregan frowning as he waited beside her. ''Lord Stark, I do not doubt that. However, this is King's Landing, this is not the North. Kin slays kin here to sit on a wretched and cursed chair,''

''This court is a game. You either make the rules or you obey them.'' She finished, her body now fully turned towards him. 

The Wolf held her gaze, her violet eyes reflecting the flickering torchlight. ''And what role do you suggest I play in this game, Princess? Am I to be the enforcer or the pawn?'' 

Visenya resumed her steps towards her room, the northern lord following her. ''Neither.'' 

His brows furrowed. ''Neither?'' He echoed, puzzled by her cryptic response.

''You, Lord Stark, will punish the enforcers and pawns. Make an end to this continuous cycle of treachery and selfishness so my nephew can rule in peace without men clawing at his neck for even an ounce of power.''

Her words were strong, yet with a hint of vulnerability as she begged the Lord of Winterfell to make sure her nephew could be a King, but more importantly, a boy who was surrounded by people that wanted the best for the Realm and him, and not themselves or their Houses. 

''In the North, we do not break our oaths, Princess. My father pledged his support to yours and his chosen heir, your sister. I will see to it myself that Aegon will sit on the Iron Throne, with good counsel to uplift him during his reign. I promise this to you.'' He said firmly, his eyes fixed on hers as he made a vow to protect her nephew. 

Visenya now realised why Rhaenyra had been so keen on having the North on their side. The House of the Wolfs never forgot an oath, it was not to be broken, even in death. Lord Cregan Stark was a young lord, her age, but he carried himself as if he had lived a full life as the King in the North. 

She took a deep breath, her expression softening as she regarded the Warden of the North. ''You're an honourable man, Lord Stark. It's a rare thing to find.'' 

Cregan inclined his head slightly, a hint of a smile touching his lips. Her sincerity touched him. ''Honour is all we have in the North, my Princess. Without it, we are nothing.'' 

As they reached the entrance to Visenya’s chambers, she stopped and turned to face him. ''Then may your honour guide us through the trials ahead.'' 

He nodded, a resolve settling in his eyes. ''Goodnight, Princess. Rest well.'' 

''Goodnight, my Lord.'' She replied, her tired eyes looking up at him. 

Despite their bids of goodbyes, neither moved. The dim light of the torches cast flickering shadows on their faces, highlighting the quiet intensity in their eyes. 

''Princess,'' Cregan said delicately, his voice almost a whisper, ''if you wish I can command one of my men to guard your door for the coming nights.'' 

Visenya gently shook her head, appreciating the gesture. ''That won't be necessary, my Lord. But thank you.'' 

Cregan nodded, respecting her decision. ''As you wish, Princess. I'll leave you now.'' 

As she turned to enter her chambers, Visenya glanced back at him one last time, her eyes meeting his. ''Goodnight.'' She murmured again. 

''Goodnight.'' The Warden replied, his voice equally soft. 

He stepped back, allowing Visenya to enter her chambers. As the door closed behind her, Cregan stood there for a moment longer, finding himself unable to move away from her quarters. 

He took a deep breath, settling his hand back on his sword, Ice, as he tried to steady his thoughts. Cregan had never been intrigued by another person as much as he was with Princess Visenya Targaryen. Her strength and tenderness had stirred something within him, a feeling he couldn't easily shake. 

She was an enigma to him. 

With a final nod to himself, he turned and walked away, his steps echoing in the quietness of Maegor's Holdfast. The image of the Valyrian princess haunting his mind. 

The night was silent, save for the distant howl of the wind outside the castle walls, a reminder of the harsh world that still remained. 

The following day dawned clear and brisk. Visenya had been summoned from her quarters to greet the arrived Maiden of the Vale, Lady Jeyne Arryn. The Lady of the Eyrie stood awaiting in the courtyard of the Red Keep, her presence regal. 

Both women's eyes lit up as Visenya appeared through the castle doors. ''Good morrow, cousin.'' Jeyne called out warmly, moving to embrace her. 

''My Lady, it's good to see you.'' The Princess returned the embrace with a tight, affectionate squeeze. 

''Visenya, my dear,'' they pulled away, but held each other's hands, ''my condolences. Your sister was a brave woman, one of a kind.'' 

The younger woman gratefully nodded. ''Thank you, cousin.'' 

''How are you holding up?'' Jeyne asked, squeezing Visenya's hands. 

Visenya momentarily glanced to the ground beneath them, gathering her thoughts. ''It has been challenging, my Lady. But your presence here brings me strength.'' 

Jeyne's eyes filled with understanding, feeling for the losses Visenya had endured. ''We must be strong for each other, Princess. Your nephew needs you in these dire times.'' 

She nodded, drawing comfort from her words. ''Indeed,'' she smiled, ''where is Rhaena? Did she not join you?'' Visenya glanced around, but seeing no sign of the young Targaryen woman. 

''She wished to see her brother immediately,'' Jeyne explained her absence, ''her twin sister Baela joined our journey from Dragonstone. They're with Aegon together.'' 

Visenya's smile widened at the news of the Dragon Twins. ''He'll be relieved to see them.'' 

As they spoke, a group of riders on horseback entered through the gates, with Lord Stark leading them. The Targaryen princess noticed him first, unconsciously smiling as he dismounted from his mare. Jeyne followed her line of sight and raised an eyebrow at her family member. 

Cregan, catching sight of the two women standing in the middle of the courtyard, decided to approach. He said something to his men before walking over to the Princess and Lady. 

Visenya subtly straightened her posture, a faint smile tugging at her lips. ''Lady Jeyne Arryn, allow me to introduce Lord Cregan Stark. Lord of Winterfell, and Warden of the North.'' 

The man bowed his head in a formal greeting, his gaze respectful. ''Lady Arryn, it is an honour to meet you.'' 

Jeyne returned the greeting with a gracious nod. ''Lord Stark, the honour is mine. I've heard much about your steadfast loyalty to Queen Rhaenyra.'' 

Cregan smiled politely, his eyes briefly flickering to Visenya before returning to Jeyne. ''I only do what is necessary for the North and the realm.'' 

The Maiden's keen gaze didn't miss the subtle exchange between the two. She turned back to Visenya with a knowing smile. ''Well, it seems the North is in good hands.'' 

Before Visenya could respond, a commotion broke out at the doors of the Red Keep. Baela stormed in, with Rhaena following closely behind. 

''Why are we not allowed to see Aegon?'' Baela demanded, her voice echoing through the courtyard. ''He is our brother!'' 

Visenya raised an eyebrow, seeing that her younger cousin had not lost her fiery temper in the time they had spent apart. ''It is nice to see you too, Baela. I missed you dearly.'' Her voice tinged with sarcasm. 

Baela shot her cousin a frustrated look but didn’t respond to the sarcasm. Cregan stepped forward, his expression calm but firm. ''It is for the King's safety. Until we can ensure his protection, we must limit who can see him.'' 

''We are his family! We would never harm him. This is absurd!'' Baela interrupted, her tone heated as she took a step closer to the Warden, sizing him up. 

Rhaena, quieter but just as determined, added. ''Lord Stark, we only want to see our beloved brother.'' 

Cregan looked on amusingly as Baela continued staring at him, her gaze unwavering. 

''My Lord, you cannot possibly keep the boy locked up with only his aunt as a companion. Let the girls see him. It will do more good than harm.'' Jeyne said, supporting Baela and Rhaena. 

The Wolf glanced to Visenya, whose expression had softened slightly. ''He needs his family, Lord Stark.'' 

Cregan hesitated, his stern demeanour faltering under the combined pressure of the women. Finally, he sighed. ''Very well. But I must insist on maintaining strict security measures.'' He yielded, begrudgingly. 

Baela's fierce gaze softened, and she nodded in appreciation. ''Thank you, Lord Stark.'' 

''We appreciate it.'' Rhaena added quietly. 

Cregan nodded curtly, still not entirely comfortable but willing to concede for the sake of the young king and his family. As the sisters hurried off to see their brother, Visenya lingered a moment longer, her eyes meeting Cregan's. 

''Thank you.'' She said, her gratitude clear. 

The Warden simply nodded, still seeming a bit aggravated by having essentially been overruled. ''If you'll excuse me, I have some matters to attend to.'' 

With that, he turned and walked away, leaving Visenya and Jeyne standing together. Jeyne watched him go, then turned to her cousin with a knowing smile. 

Jeyne’s eyes twinkled with mischief as she leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. ''It seems the Wolf in the North is quite taken with you, my Princess.'' She teased. 

Visenya frowned, though a warmth climbed up her neck. ''What do you mean?'' 

''Cregan Stark is a man of few words, but he seemed quite intent on every one he spoke to you.'' The Maiden responded, a hint of playful knowing in her gaze. 

Visenya’s cheeks flushed slightly, and she glanced in the direction Cregan had gone, feeling a flutter of unease. ''I am his only way to get everyone to listen to him, Cousin. It's just political.'' 

Jeyne sighed. ''Even the most stoic men cannot always hide what is beneath the surface. Every man has the same weakness, Visenya. You of all people know that.'' 

Visenya's expression grew contemplative, her eyes lowering to her clasped hands. ''I will have one of my ladies guide you to your chambers. I am needed at the library.'' She deflected, scratching her voice. 

The older woman nodded understandingly, though her gaze remained thoughtful. ''Of course, Visenya. I appreciate your hospitality.'' She decided to drop the topic of Lord Stark, sensing her cousin's daughter had not yet fully come to terms with her own desires. 

As Jeyne followed the lady-in-waiting to her chambers, Visenya turned and made her way toward the library, intending on grabbing some books for Aegon to read or for her to read for him. 

Once in the library, she was relieved to have found some peace and alone time. As she meandered through the shelves, her fingers brushing lightly against the spines of countless volumes, her mind drifted back to the conversation with Jeyne.

Lord Cregan Stark could not possibly open his heart to her, could he? His presence is as imposing as the North represents, but he'd been gentle when they visited Aegon the night before. He is honourable, as he has shown time and again, but he carried himself with a sense of authority that was both commanding and, at times, overwhelming. 

Visenya’s gaze fell on a particularly old tome, its leather cover worn with age. She reached out and gently pulled it from the shelf, her thoughts still circling around Cregan. The image of him, standing in the courtyard with a hint of something softer in his eyes, contrasted sharply with the stern figure he often projected.

She opened the book, the musty scent of old paper filling her senses. Her eyes traced the faded ink that had been placed there by her ancestor of whom she bore the name. 

Queen Visenya Targaryen, sister-wife of Aegon the Conqueror. 

It had been Rhaenyra who came to their parents with the name. Her older sister had always had an affinity for Vhagar's first rider. Some people would suggest that she was not a role model, but herself and her sister had always disagreed with that sentiment. The Queen had once wielded immense power and influence, even after Aegon passed away. 

Perhaps she should find strength in the legacy of her ancestor. 

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of hurried footsteps and the door to the library swinging open. A familiar voice, filled with barely contained fury, cut through her reverie. 

''Visenya!'' Baela's voice echoed, sharp with anger. 

Visenya’s heart sank, her moment of peace abruptly shattered. ''Baela, my girl, please refrain-'' 

''Our grandsire! Why is he rotting away in the dungeons?'' She demanded to know, frustrated beyond belief. 

She closed the book and placed it back on the shelf with deliberate calm. ''Baela,'' she began, her tone measured, ''Lord Corlys was involved in the poisoning of the Usurper.'' 

Baela frowned, her arms flying everywhere. ''And? Is that not a good thing? The cunt is dead.'' Removing Aegon from the throne had been the entire purpose of the war, why was her grandfather being punished for it? 

Visenya sighed, preparing herself for the difficult task of justifying why Corlys sat in the dungeons along with the others. ''I know, but he committed treason, along with Larys Strong. Whether we found him a Pretender or not, a King was killed. I know he wouldn't, but I cannot allow to have traitors guiding your brother in his minority.'' 

Baela's eyes blazed with rage. ''He was fighting for our family! How could you let this happen? He is rotting down there!'' 

''What would you have me do, Baela?'' Visenya raised her voice. ''It was Lord Stark and his men that arrested them. I know he did it to help us and to help Aegon, but Lord Stark has a point.'' 

The younger girl clenched her fists, her voice trembling with emotion. ''And why does he have the right to do all of this? He comes in two years late, and thinks he can just take over? He made a promise to Jace! Do you think he would have wanted his grandsire executed?'' 

The mention of Jacaerys had her heart ache. Baela was right, Jace would not have wanted this, but Jace also would have wanted his younger brother to be safe. 

''Jacaerys would want us to protect Aegon. Lord Stark is trying to help us do that, even if his methods seem harsh.'' Visenya took a deep breath, struggling to keep her emotions in check. 

Baela's eyes filled with tears, her anger mingling with despair. ''You cannot let this happen, Visenya! He acted in the good of the realm. He did this for us! For you!'' 

It pained her to see her cousin in this state, but she did not have the power here. ''Baela, there is only so much that I can do.'' 

The girl's desperation was palpable. ''But you must do something! You have influence,'' Baela took a few steps towards her, tightly grabbing her hands, ''I am begging you, Cousin. We have already lost so much, we cannot lose him as well.'' 

Visenya felt the weight of Baela's plea pressing on her. The Wolf had been adamant in his arrest of the men involved in Aegon's murder, but she could at least try. 

''I will speak to him,'' she relented, quickly continuing before Baela could interject, ''but I do not promise you anything. My influence knows its limits.'' 

Baela embraced her family member, holding her close ''Thank you. Thank you. I know you will do your best.'' 

The older woman returned the embrace, resting her chin on Baela's shoulder. ''I am happy to see you again, my girl. You've been vigilant.'' 

The pair had not seen each other since Visenya left Dragonstone for Harrenhal, to assist the Riverlands in Daemon's absence as he flew with Caraxes for King's Landing with Rhaenyra. 

''You too,'' Baela sniffed, more tears streaming down her cheeks, ''without you none of us would be here.'' 

Visenya gently pulled back, wiping a tear from Baela's cheek. ''It's over now, and we still have each other. That is the only thing that matters.'' 

Baela nodded, her eyes still shimmering with tears but now holding a spark of hope. ''I trust you, Cousin. I will wait for your word. And thank you, truly. For everything.'' She hugged her once more before stepping back. 

''I will see you soon, before supper.'' Visenya nodded, to herself and to Baela. 

With a nod, the younger woman left the library, almost running to tell her sister of the promise Visenya had made to them. 

The Princess let out a deep breath that she had been holding in from the moment Baela stormed in. She knew it would be difficult to change Lord Stark's mind, especially on the matter of treason and broken oaths. She needed to appeal to his sense of honour and justice, to make him see that pardoning Corlys was in the best interest of the realm. 

It was one of his men that guided her to the council chamber, where his commander had been spending his time since leaving the courtyard. 

Visenya carefully opened the large doors, sending the northman back to his original station. She hesitated for a moment, her thoughts racing as she took in the sight of Cregan Stark standing at the head of the council table. The position, one that had belonged to her father, now seemed to belong to him, and it suited him more than she cared to admit. His hands rested on the surface as he studied the maps and parchments spread before him. 

As she slowly approached, he looked up, his expression softening slightly when he saw her. ''Princess,'' he abandoned his previous occupation, his full attention on her, ''what brings you here?'' 

''I need to speak with you about a matter of great importance.'' 

Cregan straightened, sensing the gravity in her tone. ''Of course, Princess. What is it?''

She took a deep breath, gathering her thoughts. ''It concerns Lord Corlys Velaryon. His imprisonment… it cannot stand.''

His expression hardened, the brief moment of softness replaced by the stern demeanour he wore so easily. ''The Sea Snake was complicit in the murder of a King, and he swore loyalty to the Usurper after the death of your sister. That is treason.'' 

Visenya kept her voice calm, despite the frustration already bubbling to the surface. ''He acted out of necessity, to keep Aegon alive. Larys Strong and my half-brother wanted to send him to the Wall or execute him. Corlys made sure of it that my sister's line would live on, and her blood would sit the Iron Throne. He saved my nephew, protected him when others would have seen him dead.'' 

''And in doing so he betrayed his oaths. I understand the man's reasoning, but the law is clear. A king was poisoned, a line crossed that cannot be ignored. If I were to let this treason go unpunished, what message would that send? That anyone who claims to act for the good of the realm can kill a king and walk free?'' His eyes narrowed as he met her gaze. 

Her temper flared at his unwillingness to see reason. ''Do you think I do not understand the weight of his crimes? Do you think I am asking this lightly?'' She raised her voice, betraying the emotions she was struggling to contain. 

His face remained stony, his voice steady as he responded. ''I believe you understand it all too well, Princess. But you are letting your personal history cloud your judgement. He is the grandfather of your cousins and was one to three of your nephews.'' 

''Yes, he was their grandfather. Do you think they would wish to see him have his head taken for protecting their little brother? What would Jacaerys say of this to you?'' Visenya's hands clenched into fists at her sides. 

The mention of his late friend only seemed to stoke a fire in Cregan's anger. ''Jace was a noble, young man, a true Targaryen. But even he would have understood the necessity of upholding justice, no matter how painful it might be.'' 

Her breath hitched, before letting out a scoff. ''You think he would have condoned this? That he would have stood by and watched his grandfather be executed like a common criminal? He would have fought for him - just as I am doing now.'' 

Cregan took a step closer, his presence as imposing as the northern winds. ''And I would have fought beside him, just as I fight for the realm now. But this is not about sentiment, Princess. It is about the law, and the law must be upheld.'' 

Visenya's eyes burned with aggravation as she stared up at Cregan, her chest tight with the weight of their confrontation.  She had faced many challenges, many men who tried to bend her will, but this- this was different. Here she was, pouring out her heart, trying to make him understand the gravity of what he was doing, but all she saw in his eyes was that same, unyielding determination. 

It was infuriating, the way he seemed so immovable, as if her words had no effect on him. She felt a surge of helplessness, a sensation so foreign to her that it made her insides twist with anger. She had never felt so powerless, so unheard. 

''You are so consumed with the idea of upholding the law that you cannot see the damage you are doing. Lord Corlys has been loyal to our house for decades. He has earned more than a traitor’s death.'' Her composure was slipping, her tone turning sharper. 

''I cannot allow personal feelings to dictate justice.'' He remained impassive, not swayed by her pleading or arguments. 

A tense silence followed, the kind that seemed to stretch time itself. Neither of them budged, like the night before where they stood in front of her chambers, but it was different this time around. There was no hint of affection or intimacy, only gazes filled with icy resolution. Gone were the quiet moments of understanding they had shared, the brief glimpses of something more that had flickered between them in the darkened halls of the Red Keep. 

Cregan looked like how she imagined a Lord of Winterfell to look - as if the snow was running through his veins, unbending to the fire of a dragon. The delicacy she had seen in him before was buried deep beneath the ironclad exterior he wore. He was as immovable as the northern mountains. 

He was everything she despised and respected in equal measure - uncompromising, resolute, and bound by a code that left no room for the heart.

It was Visenya who spoke first, her words cutting through the air like a blade. ''You will regret this, Lord Stark.'' 

Her voice was low, almost a whisper, but there was no mistaking the threat that laced her words. It wasn’t a threat of violence or retribution - those were tools for lesser minds. It was a promise of consequences. 

Cregan's eyes remained locked on hers, though they were not filled with a freezing winter anymore. He could almost sense the toll this was taking on her, what his unwillingness to compromise meant. 

''Perhaps,'' he said quietly, the chill in his voice thawing just slightly, ''but this is the path I must walk, just as you walk yours, Princess.'' 

The Warden understood that Visenya was fighting to protect what she held dear. She did not hold any sort of love for the Sea Snake, but she did for his granddaughters and for the support he and Rhaenys had given her older sister when she needed it the most. 

He understood her, even sympathised with her, but he could not bend. Not for her, not for anyone.

Visenya's visage hardened once more, her walls going up as quickly as they had come down. She turned dejectedly, her dress swirling around her as she made for the door. The Princess disappeared into the haunted corridors of the Targaryen castle, her footsteps ringing out in the silent chamber.

Cregan watched her go, acutely aware this would not be the last time he would squander over the life of Corlys Velaryon. 

The room felt frostier, emptier, as if her presence had left a void in its wake. He let out a slow, measured breath, trying to shake off the lingering unease. He stood firmly in his decision, and believed it to be the righteous one, so why did Visenya's pained face and words remain seared into his mind?

[vampiresmashorpass]

Hottest Vampires (According to Tumblr); Top Three: Nadja (What We Do in the Shadows): 94.7% Smash Alucard (2023 Castlevania Nocturne Animated Series): 90.6% Smash Selene (Underworld): 92.5% Smash

Louis de Pointe du Lac (Interview with a Vampire 2022): 87.8% Smash Morana (2017 Castlevania Animated Series): 86.4% Smash Drolta Tzuentes (2023 Castlevania Nocturne Animated Series): 81.6% Smash The Vampire Armand (Interview with a Vampire 2022): 84.6% Smash Madeleine Eparvier (Interview with a Vampire 2022): 82.8% Smash Dracula Tepes (2017 Castlevania Animated Series): 82.4% Smash Queen Sophie-Anne (True Blood): 82.1% Smash Striga (2017 Castlevania Animated Series): 78.9% Smash Alucard Tepes (2017 Castlevania Animated Series): 78.2% Smash Daniel Molloy (Interview with a Vampire 2022): 78.1% Smash Laszlo Cravensworth (What We Do in the Shadows): 77.% Smash Marcel Gerard (The Vampire Diaries): 76.4% Smash Lenore (2017 Castlevania Animated Series): 76.2% Smash Dracula (Dracula 1931): 79.5% Smash Orlox (2023 Castlevania Nocturne Animated Series): 75.9% Smash Nandor (What We Do in the Shadows): 73.5% Smash Elijah Mikaelson (The Originals & The Vampire Diaries): 71.4% Smash Viago (What We Do in the Shadows): 70.8% Smash Straizo (JoJo's Bizarre Adventure Manga): 70.7% Smash Sylas Briarwood (On Right, Critical Roll Animated Series): 69.9% Smash Vasilika the Defiler (What We Do in the Shadows): 69.4% Smash Sanguinius (Warhammer 40,000): 69.3% Smash David (The Lost Boys): 68.6% Smash Alucard (Hellsing 2001): 68.5% Smash Katerina Petrova (The Vampire Diaries): 68% Smash Lestat De Lioncourt (Interview with a Vampire 1994): 66.2% Smash The Count (Bram Stoker’s Dracula 1992): 64.5% Smash Strahd von Zarovich (Curse of Strahd): 62.9% Smash Dracula (Hammer Films Dracula): 68.5% Smash Hayley Marshall (The Vampire Diaries): 68.2% Smash Father Paul Hill/Monsignor John Pruitt (Midnight Mass): 68% Smash Astarion Ancunín (Baldur's Gate 3): 62% Smash Violet (Baldur's Gate 3): 60.7% Smash Hapdim (Baldur's Gate 3): 58.3% Smash Eric Northman (True Blood): 56.9% Smash Most Average: Dalyria (Baldur's Gate 3): 56.1% Smash Elvira Slayer (The Sims 3): 57.7% Smash Camille Belcourt (Shadowhunters): 57.5% Smash

Mavis Dracula (Hotel Transylvania): 55.6% Smash Madeleine (Interview with a Vampire 1994): 55.1% Smash Count VonCount (Sesame Street): 55% Smash Vanilla Ice (JoJo Bizarre Adventure Manga): 53.3% Smash Lestat deLioncourt (Interview with a Vampire 2022): 52.4% Smash Sharma (2017 Castlevania Animated Series): 52% Smash Deacon Brücke (What We Do in the Shadows): 51.6% Smash Morbius (Morbius Marvel Comics): 51.3% Smash Lilith Vatore (The Sims 4): 51.1% Smash Erzsebet Báthory (2023 Castlevani Nocturne Animated Series): 50.9% Smash Santiago (Interview with a Vampire 2022): 50.7% Smash Raphael (Shadowhunters): 48.4% Smash John Mitchell (Being Human): 47.6% Smash Klaus Mikaelson (The Vampire Diaries): 43.3% Smash Dio Brando (JoJo's Bizarre Adventure Manga): 42.% Smash Cazador Szarr (Baldur's Gate 3): 39.4% Smash Damon Salvatore (Vampire Diaries): 37.9% Smash Dracula (Renfield 2023): 37.4% Smash Straizo (JoJo's Bizarre Adventure Anime): 37.2% Smash The Vampire Armand (Interview with a Vampire 1994): 35.6% Smash Jim (What We Do in the Shadows): 35.3% Smash Godbrand (2017 Castlevania Animated Series): 34.7% Smash Lydia (Hotel Transylvania: The Series): 33.3% Smash Danny (What We Do in the Shadows): 31.9% Smash Klaus Von Reinherz (Blood Blockade Battlefront): 31.9% Smash Jan Valek (John Carpenter's Vampires): 31.6% Smash Bill Compton (True Blood) 31.2% Smash Aztec Chief (JoJo's Bizarre Adventure Manga): 25.8% Smash Simon the Devious (What We Do in the Shadows): 24.7% Smash Simon Lewis (Shadowhunters): 23.8% Smash Dragoslav (2017 Castlevania Animated Series): 23.3% Smash Clackula (My Singing Monsters): 23.2% Smash Alexandr (What We Do in the Shadows): 17.5% Smash Paul (What We Do in the Shadows): 17.3% Smash Morbius (Morbius 2022): 14.9% Smash Gondlemead (Baldur's Gate 3): 11.5% Smash Pale Petras (Baldur's Gate 3): 10.3% Smash

Bottom Three: Gene Dracula (Hotel Transylvania: The Series): 9.9% Smash Vaublanc (2023 Castlevania Nocturne Animated Series): 7.8% Smash Vlad Dracula (Hotel Transylvania 2): 7.3% Smash

[nuclearpocketwatch]

Fire, Ice, and Blood.

The Targaryens are vampires, the Starks are werewolves, and one Prince Jacaerys finds himself some warmth in the cold of the North. One Cregan Stark finds himself with a problem.

huge lack of jace and cregan fics on this earth so i'm solving my own problem. this has not been proofread so let me know if i missed any grammatical errors or need to add any tags or warnings! enjoy this vampire au. also cross-posted to ao3 here

Fire, Ice, and Blood. - Chapter 1 - nuclearpocketwatch - House of the Dragon (TV) [Archive of Our Own]

Chapter 1, Cregan

The Targaryens: Gods among men. Pale skin, smooth and unyielding as if carved from a block of marble. White hair, braided into ropes and dripping with rubies and sapphires. Violet eyes, slit-pupiled and piercing. And then, of course, there were the fangs. The mouth full of jagged ivory prongs that mirrored the dragons that shared their cradles. All the marks of the vampire. Of the blood curse that flowed through the veins of the ancient House Targaryen, twisting their bodies into something less-than-human. Dark, sadistic, and beautiful beyond expression, the Targaryens held the Seven Kingdoms in an unflinching grip. Ruling from the confines of the Red Keep, a fortress said to be cursed, they drank, debauched, and drained the blood from the veins of their people. Pain was their sustenance, killing their sport. They were magnificent and cruel and terrifying as only the last remaining trace of the magic of Old Valyria could be. A blood-red relic of the glorious past, Fire and Ice. That was the real mark of the vampire, Cregan supposed. Not that he had ever seen one. There had not been a Targaryen in Winterfell in a century or more. The North chilled their cold-blooded bodies, or that was what his father had always said. They so rarely left Kings Landing, shut up in the decadence and misery of their gloomy castle walls, or defiling the night sky on dragonback. And better that way. They left the Starks alone, as intended, to guard the North in relative peace.

Or they had, at least, until today, seeing as there was a Targaryen in front of him at that very moment. Velaryon in name, the fledgeling prince Jacaerys didn't look much like a Targaryen. Or a Velaryon, for that matter. No gills. In fact, as unsettling as it was to Cregan, he looked very much like a Northman: brunette, dressed in thick furs, and unadorned by any sort of finery. Cregan admitted regrettably to himself that he was rather handsome. Or perhaps pretty was a better term, though he lacked the cold, statuesque beauty that Cregan had observed in portraits of his ancestors. Lean and muscled, he had a regal face, high cheekbones blanketed by warm brown curls, soulful eyes, and lips that curved into a slight smile. The only clue to his true nature, at least to Cregan’s eyes, was the dragon he arrived on the back of, and the narrow, serpentine pupils that could barely be seen in the middle of his brown irises. More subtle than he had expected, if one ignored the dragon.

“I am Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, son of Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne.” The Prince announced with a flourish, voice playful and almost musical, as he dropped into a quick bow, short fangs visible in his mouth as he flashed a charming grin. The dragon behind him gave a roar and pushed itself into the air, great scaled wings flapping and kicking up the snowdrifts, disappearing into the grey morning.

Targaryens were not known to be particularly subtle, and he was quickly finding out that this extended to brown-haired, brown-eyed Targaryen Princes as well. And their dragons.

“Lord Stark, I have come to petition you on behalf of my Mother, the Queen.” The Prince continued, making Cregan bristle. The leech had come to call upon his men and his resources, as he had expected. Targaryens only appeared when they needed something. His brow lifted, hand straying to perch atop his sword hilt. “The Queen? As far as I know, one King Aegon Targaryen sits the Iron Throne.”

The Prince straightened, eyes narrowing, his pupils thinning out like a cat's. Or a snake’s. The easy humor left his demeanor, though he was not yet openly hostile. Cregan waited. “Prince Aegon is a usurper and a traitor. My mother was named the rightful heir by her father, King Viserys. The throne is hers by birthright.”

“Who claims a chair in that accursed castle of yours is no concern of the North, and no concern of House Stark. You’ve come to ask for my men, and I need my men here.” Cregan gruffed. He had no time for this. It had been a hard winter, and his first concern would always be keeping his people warm and fed. That, and manning the wall. These vampire bastards could squabble themselves to death over the throne, for all he cared. As much as he disliked the Targaryens, the true enemy would always be outside the Seven Kingdoms. This was a truth every Stark Lord learned young.

“Forgive me, My Lord, but it is the concern of the North. War will soon rage across all Seven Kingdoms, and we cannot win it without the support of the North. Would you truly sit back and allow a Usurper King to govern the Seven Kingdoms? Does House Stark not believe in honor?” His eyes turned sly. “I am sure you have heard the reputation of Prince Aegon is… rather lackluster. You trust him to be a just and fair ruler? To Unite the realm?”

Cregan eyed the Prince, frowning, pushing down his rising temper. He refused to be riled by the question to his honor. The Starks were known for their tempers, but Targaryens were known for their cunning.

“Walk with me. I wish to show you something, My Prince.”

So Cregan took him to see the Wall.

The Wall was magnificent in the way Cregan had always imagined the Targaryens were magnificent. Massive, cold, and unforgiving, its creation was almost unfathomable. His ancestors had been spurred by a desperate need, and the seven hundred foot barricade of ice was the product of that desperation. No one but the Wolves of the North could have accomplished such a feat. The North was brutal to those who inhabited it.

“Quite a large wall.” Prince Jacaerys astutely observed, eyeing the grey nothingness before and below them with an unreadable look. Cregan grunted. On the way up, they had shared some small talk. Well, the prince had shared some small talk. Cregan had perhaps been a bit surly, but having this unfamiliar vampire in his home had him on edge. “Still,” the Prince continued, “you truly cannot spare men from the wall? It seems to be doing its job just fine, guarding from.. what? Snow and savages?”

Cregan leveled the Prince with a look. “D’you really think my ancestors spent the effort building a seven hundred foot wall of ice just to keep out snow and savages? Hundreds of years ago, your ancestors were brought to this very spot. They watched as their dragons, the greatest power on earth, greater even than vampires,” he emphasized, “refused to cross it.” Prince Jacaerys looked abashed. “Then what does the Wall keep out?” He asked, turning his gaze away from the impenetrable snows outside the wall for the first time, looking at Cregan.

“Death.” Cregan answered, serious.

“...Death?” The Prince’s face twitched. “Well, it seems to have missed a few.” He grinned.

Cregan shook his head. “Targaryens are not dead. Not truly. You breathe, and you eat, and you have children.” To Cregan, what made a person truly alive was their ability to love, but he couldn't speak on whether Targaryens truly loved or not. “You Targaryens may inflict death, but what's out there… is death. Winter is coming, My Prince, and the Starks must be here to defend the realm when it comes. The North must stand ready.”

“So you say.” The Prince nodded, though an amused light flickered in his eyes. Cregan was not bothered by his amusement. He knew that even in a world of vampires and wolves and merfolk and other strange things, the horror beyond the Wall was difficult to comprehend. The Starks took it seriously so everyone else did not have to. It was their duty.

“You must be cold.” Cregan said. Prince Jacaerys’ lips had taken on a blueish tinge over the course of their conversation. If it had given him some small amount of vindictive pleasure watching a Prince of the great House Targaryen shiver in the light summer snowfall, he kept it to himself. “I will have a room prepared for you while I think on my answer, and some food brought up.” He gestured to a passing man, sending him scurrying off to light the hearth in a spare room and prepare the bedding.

The Prince eyed him coyly. “Food?” He questioned, grinning and tapping a fang with his pointer finger. “You needn’t go to the trouble. I’ll find myself something later.”

Cregan whirled, growing suddenly cold. He had almost forgotten. “If you–”

“Sheep, if you can spare one.” He clarified quickly, hands lifted into a placating gesture. “A cat, or mice if you cannot. I do not drink from men, you needn't worry. Animals sate me just fine.” For a brief moment, he looked almost uncomfortable, but it was replaced with his usual humor quickly enough that Cregan almost thought he had imagined it. He nodded. “It has been a hard winter, but we can spare a sheep. Let me show you to your room, My Prince.”

[vivalarevolution]

𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓦𝓸𝓵𝓯 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓓𝓻𝓪𝓰𝓸𝓷

Robb Stark x Targaryen Reader

Request: „Hi! Hope you're having a great day, if you don't mind, please could you write a robb stark x reader?‟

„can you do just a fluffy oneshot with robb where reader thought he was dead (they were betrothed and in love so reader was like still in mourning even tho it's been months since he died) and turns out he survived the Red Wedding along with Grey Wind and they just have this super fluffy and teary reunion and later that day reader just wanted to cuddle robb and never let go hope that makes sense!‟

A/N: This is my first attempt at writing for Robb Stark. I put two requests together in this story from anons I hope you as well as them gonna like it. 

English is not my native language so I am sorry for any mistakes.

*Thoughts, memories, and other languages are written in bold italics.

He was standing in front of her. Safe and sound, and above all... alive.

She looked at him with a shadow of tears in her violet eyes. Her hands, cold and trembling, held his neck like a lifeline, helping her not to drown in the ocean of bitterness and despair. The man held her near him, wanting to have her as close as possible, never wanting to let go, his hands gripping the material of the white-haired woman coat. In a silent act, conveying the care he wanted to soothe the heart of the dragon princess.

But nothing was able to help her.

-I beg you- she whispered on the verge of hysteria -I beg you, Robb, don't agree to Lord Frey's proposal. I can not loose you.

-You will not loose me. I am yours and you are mine, now, until the end of our days -he replied kissing her forehead lovingly.

-I don't want the end of your days to end tomorrow night, I won't let it happen - the woman said firmly- The people of Westeros are manipulative, wherever they go, they look for a chance. To use, to take and...

-I am the king of the north, but I am also a man of honor - Stark tried to explain to her, running his large hands over her soft skin.

-My father was a king - the young Targaryen drawled through her teeth - He saw people as traitors, unconsciously creating them himself. He paid for it with life, not only his but also his children. Don't make the same mistake.

-I will attend this wedding - said the brunette, sticking to his sentence - You should go there with me, as the future queen of the north - he added, more quietly, even though the two lovers were alone anyway.

-In the morning, me and Jaelarys return to Essos - she announced to Robb's surprise. -Dany want to discuss further expanding our alliances in here. I can't keep her waiting.

-So you're leaving me?- the northman asked, trying to hide the pain in his voice.

-I haven't seen my sister in over six months -Y/n said, offended -I want to see if she's safe, I have to. She may need me.

-I need you - replied her lover.

-Now you're the king of the north - the violet-eyed whispered, kissing the corner of his mouth -Maybe when I come back, you'll be the king of all seven kingdoms -she added, connecting their foreheads.

She said this words trying to hide her anger, preferring to leave rather than listen, not knowing at the time that that conversation was their last.

Or so she thought.

-Gaomagon ao gīmigon bisa vala,mandia? (Do you know this man, sister?) Daenerys asked, waking the princess from her thoughts.

-Kessa (Yes) - she managed to say - Īles se Dārys hen Jelmor (He was the king of the north) - she added more quietly.

-Oh- only came out of Taragryen's mouth- I thought Robb Stark...died -she admitted surprised, trying to choose her words carefully in front of her already emotionally sensitive sister.

Y/n thought so too. Her grief and sadness knew no bounds since they had been awakened by the news of the death of Young Wolf, her beloved Robb.

-I'd like to talk to the king in private - the silver-haired woman confessed after a while, feeling her last particles of stability starts slipping between her fingers.

-Of course- queen of Dragonstone replied, sounding soothing and warm, wanting to reassure her sister from a distance.

The violet-eyed princess left the throne room without hesitation and, to the surprise of the oldest of the Starks, did not even looked at him. Her footsteps were quick and hard, each one bouncing off the stone walls of the castle.

She didn't have to turn around. She knew the man was following her, even if he didn't know where she was leading him.

When she was sure that no one would interrupt their conversation, only then did her footsteps stop.

As she turned around, Robb was able to take a close look at the changes that had taken place during their separation. Once full of joy and feisty face changed to a colder, almost indifferent expression. The eyes were more faded, deep down drowning in the sadness that Y/n had experienced.

Looking at her ,broke his heart and filled him with anger at the same time. It was because of him that the young woman found herself in this position, because he didn't listen, because he didn't came earlier but four years later, when instead of the stubborn girl for whom he was so crazy, he found her shadow.

Stark's first instinct was to embrace her fragile form, so he did exactly that. Taking her body to himself, he covered it with thick, black fur and wrapped his arms around it.

Y/n felt as if for the first time in a very long time she could breathe fully, as if her lungs were finally filled with the air necessary to survive. Her hands disappeared into the brunette's coat, holding on tightly, not wanting to let go.

-I should have listened - the northman said after a while -I should have been wiser...

-Robb, don't - the young Targaryen interrupted him, placing one of her hands on his chest, then lifting her head and staring into his blue irises -We can't change the past. What happened… I really thought I lost you - she confessed, the first tears in her eyes.

-They killed everyone...my mother begged them to spare me but in response they slit her throat and stuck a dagger in me- he replied bitterly, clenching his hands on Daenerys sister's waist -I thought it was my end. But Greywind found my body, dragged me to some hut. The old lady must have been terrified when she saw me, but she helped me anyway.

-It wouldn't be wise to ignore the king of the north and his direwolf -Y/n stated, and Stark smiled at the hint of sarcasm in her mouth that he loved so much -She saved you and I'm glad she did, especially when...- halfway through, she frowned ,putting on a serious face, it was obvious that she wanted to confess something.

-Princess - one of the maidservants suddenly interjected -Rhaella woke up from her nap, she's fussy. I believe she's calling for her mother.

Y/n left her former lover's arms at the words about her child. Smiling gently at the Dothraki woman, she nodded her head in understanding.

Watching as she leaves in the only direction she knew, the violet-eyed woman looked at the man out of the corner of her eye.

-Robb, I know a lot has been dumped on your shoulders, but I think you should meet someone - she announced quietly -It's important.

Northman at first thought he had misheard. 

That it wasn't about Y/n. Then the thought of a new dragon crept into his mind, but when he stood in the doorway of the chambers, he knew exactly who Rhaella was.

The young Targaryen with natural delicacy lifted the toddler up, cradling her in her arms, thus soothing her. The girl was a copy of her mother, inheriting every trait of the dragon bloodline.

Walking slowly towards the brunet, she involuntarily clenched her hands on the child harder, not knowing how he would react.

-Is she mine?- whispered the blue-eyed man, gliding his hand over the girl's ruddy cheek.

-Yes - the princess replied simply.

Y/n woke up in the middle of the night. Half of her bed was empty, causing her to awakening instantly. Where was Robb? Was it another nightmare, or was she slowly starting to lose her mind?

Her eyes quickly scanned the room. They finally found a man who held her heart in an iron grip.

Targaryen rose carefully from the bed, approaching him quietly. The king from the north greeted her, wrapping his arm around her body so she could shamelessly take his warmth for herself.

-Why aren't you sleeping?- she asked softly, kissing his jaw.

-I couldn't sleep - he replied, staring at the sea outside the window.

-Are you sure it's just sleep problems?- the princess asked, seeing the change in Stark after seeing his daughter.

-I...- he began, but couldn't finish, grabbing the stone balustrade, squeezing his hand around it -I can't stop thinking what would have happened if you hadn't flown away that morning and stayed with me. If you had participated in this carnage - he whispered, looking at Rhaella sleeping, unaware of anything.

-You didn't know, nobody knew that I was with child - the young woman admitted - The news of your death resulted in too much stress, my body couldn't stand it. Then I found out I was pregnant. You couldn't have known Robb - she assured, stroking his back.

-How can you be so calm, so forgiving? - he asked confused, looking at her like a lost child rather than a king.

-Because I can't stay stuck in the past any longer. I can't think what if. This world won't let me, I have to push forward not only for myself, but for people who need me Robb, you should do the same - Y/n stated, after a moment she kissed his lips lovingly.

-I love you my queen - he murmured, cupping her face in his hands.

-And I love you my king - replied Daenerys' sister, closing her eyes -Now and forever.

-Now and forever - Stark repeated, connecting their foreheads.

The impending war was at their feet, but tonight, at this moment, only their feelings and sensations mattered. Their touches of hands and brushes of lips. Their song of ice and fire. The Wolf and the Dragon.

[lysetsnow]

Her gown for her arrival feast was a Targaryen twist on a winter queen.

Cregan was positive he was in love when Lady Daenae walked into the dining hall. Her stormy sea eyes lit up as she took in the merriment of the welcoming Tableau, and with unreadable eyes and flushed cheeks her sight found him.

"Uncle..." She made her way over to him, he could smell the violet oils from her bath. "You should have no gone through the trouble of this all...I feel spoiled rotten, I fear I do not deserve--"

He interrupted her sweetness. "I won't ever allow you to ever say you don't deserve anything wonderful, niece. I'd give you the world if you asked." His harsh northman accent softened as his heterochromic eyes focused on her blinding beauty.

What he didn't know was that his good and kind niece, has been in love with him all her life. Never has she behaved Targaryenlike, many could hardly believe that Prince Daemon is her father, but when Cregan's wife passed, she was glad so very glad. She wanted a marriage with him although her Targaryen ways were unusual for the north, she knew her parents would approve for that would win them the north for the Blacks, but all she cared about was winning her uncle's heart and never returning to the tumultuous south.

She is no dragon rider but a wolf whisperer like her mother, she was raised with old valyrian gods but the old ones of the north spoke to her, a snowy castle buried in the north with a wolf husband was where she belonged.

[an-abyss-of-stars]

He Saw Her At Daybreak - Part 3.1

Summary: It's finally Aemond and Rhaena's wedding day!

Warnings: SMUT! And then some plot and then some more SMUT!

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3.2 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Ao3

Tag list: @minim236 , @bohemiandreams99 , @neocil , @readsalot73 , @nettysnest , @avidreader73 , @jordanjanellejoy , @azaleapotterblack , @yourlittlehoe , @partypoison00 , (feel free to tell me if you want to be on the taglist or not)

P.S. This chapter is MASSIVE! Like HUGEEE!! There's two smut scenes for my fellow horny peeps!! Hopefully it's all enjoyable! Some slightly retcon things that I haven't mentioned before now but realized I want/need to be mentioned now before we hit the time jumps, most of this will be mentioned within this chapter but just in case:

Baela and Jace are already married, have been married for nearly two years and they have a son!

Rhaena is in the process of growing her curls out, married!Rhaena is going to have her curly hair out

Hints for Luke's future wifey also start now!

I think that's about it for now, enjoyyyyyy!!

-

Aemond had snuck Rhaena away from the feast nearly half an hour ago, stealthily so, he'd whisked her back to their chambers. 

He’d tired of the idle conversations, the mindless frivolous chatter, the overall forced social element of feasts and balls that sucked all of the energy out of him. Half way through their meal his father had to be lifted out of the room, for the pain of his aching body had finally gotten to him. It hadn't bothered Aemond to see that necessarily, it was a common occurrence that happened from time to time. As long as the old man lived to witness his wedding tomorrow, that's all that mattered. 

Aemond just needed to have his father there to solidify the union to his Princess before his grandfather could think to ruin things. 

But in either case, the feast had felt like it dragged on for ages. Once they'd had their fill of food, he'd sat through idle family conversation, Aegon being his usual twatish self while Lucerys tried to force Aemond into discussing dragon flight techniques. Surely force , might have been a strong word, his young nephew had just politely asked him for his advice…but he could care less to divulge into detail on the matter with him, so it felt rather strenuous. Not that he could visually act as if it was, he’d wanted Rhaena’s promised reward…though after the way he’d spoken to the Northman…he wasn’t entirely sure he’d receive it. Rhaena had made sure to grip her nails into his thigh anytime his responses sounded too harsh or cold, which undoubtedly happened quite often.  

Although, alternatively, he found that he hadn’t minded the conversation the ladies at the table were having, Helaena had made mention of how fond her twins were of Baela and Jacaerys’ nearly year-old son, Aethan. It was true, Aemond had warmly noticed how all of the young little Targaryens in their family had gotten along quite well, that included Rhaenyra’s youngest sons Aegon III and Viserys II. All the little ones were very mesmerized by baby Aethan, his young niece Jaehaera especially, even Aemond’s own mother had thought the babe quite adorable. 

Aethan had definitely taken after his mother facially, he had her face shape, her pale violet eyes and a similar rounded nose all awash with a pale cinnamon complexion. Though he had taken his father’s smile and his hair, dark chocolate brown curls that matched Jacaerys’ own. He’d never seen his eldest nephew so proud before his boy was born. 

Aemond himself wouldn’t admit it openly, and certainly not to Jacaerys himself, but he too was quite fond of the babe. Aethan was an innocent child in any case, Aemond couldn’t bring himself to hate the child even if he had wanted to. Odd as it was to others, Aemond was usually quite good with children, they always seemed to be awestruck by him and his knowledge, always happily asking him things, attempting to hold conversations with him and play with him. It was hard to be upset or angry with little ones around, he always appreciated their innocence and blatant honesty. 

The only side effect of spending any time with the little ones was that their presence only increased his want for one of his own. A sweet child birthed by his Princess, a tiny creature that belonged to both of them, a living piece of her that he could love and teach, mold and nurture. Before Rhaena, his idea of becoming a father was not a warm thought…just simply an obvious duty he would have to fulfill one day with a woman he’d care little for. 

But with Rhaena…he wanted everything, so much so his patience was slowly dwindling as he waited for his dragoness’ body to at least show a sign of carrying his child. Jest as they might, he knew she had to be carrying his child by now, he’d been relentless in his pursuit. And he knew she was not taking moon tea, even if she were, he was sure his seed could overcome it.

Soon enough…the signs would show soon enough. 

He was sure of it.

Eventually talk of children and little babes had shifted away from Aemond as he was drawn into a slight sarcastic bickering match with his uncle Daemon from across the table, where his uncle all but implied that Aemond could have finished off his fight with Lord Stark sooner if he had anticipated more . His uncle wasn't wrong, but Aemond would be damned to receive combat advice from him at the dinner table now of all places. Rhaenyra for her part had calmly attempted to sway the conversation into more positive waters, while Rhaena signaled with her eyes for Aemond to just let it go for now.

He would not. 

And it seemed neither would his uncle. 

They truly were two sides of the same coin sometimes.

While everyone else continued to speak of other things, Aemond and his uncle let their argument evolve into a staring …glaring match really.

If this was anyone else, he would’ve thought the whole thing quite ridiculous and juvenile…well depending on who it was…but when it came to Daemon, Aemond found himself in need of matching the older man blow for blow. For some reason, logic invaded him whenever Daemon was involved. 

In the end, Aemond couldn't say who won, soon enough music began to draw more and more people to dance. 

Jacaerys, of course, took his wife, Baela's, hand and led her to the dance floor, Lucerys, the pup, apparently had enough nerve to try his hand at asking one of his Velaryon cousins for a dance, Daenaera Velaryon, by the looks of her. As Aemond recalled, she was meant to be about Lucaerys’ age. Some days ago Rhaena had mentioned the pup’s apparent crush on the girl; it seemed mutual enough since Daenaera happily accepted Lucerys’ offer for this dance.

Rhaenyra, even in her heavily pregnant state, thought it better to guide her husband to the dance floor before he could continue staring daggers into his soon-to-be Good-son, while Helaena all but dragged Aegon up and out of his seat for a dance. 

That only left Aemond, Rhaena and his mother left at the table. And while his dragoness engaged in familial conversation with his mother, the moment his mother mentioned dancing , he knew she was verbally nudging him to take his betrothed to the dance floor. 

As Aemond knew it, his mother wasn't one for dancing, he'd never seen her take to the floor. Never saw his father sway with her on any given night…back when he was able, before he hobbled from place to place relying on his cane. Though he supposed he knew why, his father couldn’t be asked to taint the memory of the late love, Queen Aemma…he was sure dancing was probably something his father used to love to do with his beloved previous wife. Though to be fair he wasn't sure his mother would have enjoyed it even if his father had asked for dances. 

Like mother, like son it seemed.

Aemond had never been fond of dancing either, but that didn't mean he wasn't a proficient dancer. He'd always tried to think of it much like fighting. Follow your steps, follow the music's formula, improvise when needed, especially should your dancing partner stray from their own steps. He knew the steps for several dances, his mother had made sure of it, for he was a Prince of the realm and he could not be found lacking …not even with dancing apparently.

The only thing was, he'd just never enjoyed it. 

It was usually a miserable affair, especially since he’d lost his eye, once he’d reached the age to attend these events. All the ladies who'd been forced to dance with him or ladies he'd been pushed to request dances from. Ladies who feared him, were disgusted by him, did their best to ignore or look away from him. He never bothered to offer his hand unless he absolutely had to, unless his grandfather bade him to or his mother pushed him to. Every dance felt like it lasted an eternity, and all the while, in each Lady’s company, he’d feel like a monster who’d caught yet another innocent girl in his midst. 

Their smiles were always so empty and rehearsed if not just pained and far too stretched, little to no small talk ever took place…not that he could ever think of anything to speak to them about.

Not that he ever really wanted to speak to them at all. 

It was just plain and simply horrible.

He'd usually end up just slipping away from balls and feasts once he'd played his part for long enough. If he could help it, he'd usually do his best to slip away just as the dancing portion of the evening began.

Although, Aemond could admit tonight was entirely different, his dragoness had made this evening far more tolerable than any other feast he'd ever attended…but he still couldn’t help the urge of wanting to sneak her away as soon as possible…sadly she'd been the one to remind him all through the night, that this feast was in their honor, if they vanished, it would not go unnoticed . 

And well, she was right. 

So he'd waited.

Waited for the dancing portion of the evening, for that usually meant the evening would be coming to a close from that point onward.

And in that waiting, he did something he normally would have never. 

Yes, his mother may have hinted at it, but he'd be lying if he didn't admit to himself that deep in recesses of his mind the thought had already crossed his mind. 

Deciding he would actually act on it…he asked his Princess for a dance. 

And with a rather dangerously playful smile, she nodded as she took his hand.

The simple contact of her hand taking his, had sent a jolt of electricity through him. 

Before she ever cared for him, he used to spend many balls and feasts jealously watching from  afar as far too many lesser men with apparent nerves of steel just simply got up and asked her for a dance. 

As if it was simple, as if it was that easy. 

And no matter the twat, no matter what they looked like, how useless their title or rank was, what house they represented…she'd simply smile and accept their hand. Laughing with them, talking with them, twirling around with them.

She…who moved so elegantly, so poised…graceful in her pure perfection. 

True Valyrian royalty.

It used to enrage him.

Back then, he knew full well, she certainly would've turned him away. Or worse yet, she'd agree begrudgingly and fake her way throughout the whole thing. Just like every other noble young lady he’d been forced to dance with. At the time, he just couldn’t bring himself to have her look at him that way…the way all the other women at court did.  

So he'd never bothered, instead he used to just let the rage build. Let the fury filter throughout his body, until he snuck away. Either to furiously tug himself off in his chambers, thinking of her in the most lewd of situations and positions. Or if he was truly irate, he'd drag himself down to the Street Of Silk and release his riled up tension and frustrations upon a less than satisfactory whore. And if by the end of it, he still felt himself agitated, he'd stock his way through Flee Bottom and find a local pub, let his fists find a rowdy disrespectful peasant to take it out on. 

He'd return late in the night, knuckles bloodied and bruised, his mother would worry for him…but he wouldn’t stop for her to lecture him. He’d simply make his way down to the Dragon Pits for at least by then he’d be somewhat calm enough to ride Vhagar and rage through the skies. Let his she-beast feel his anger through their shared bond, breathing streaks of fire through the night sky as they soared far above anything and everything.

Soothe the rest of his jagged edges. 

Though he never really felt soothed.

Just slightly filed down.

But not anymore.

Things were so vastly different, back then compared to now…how a few moons had changed the animosity that built up over a decade's time.

Now he had Rhaena Targaryen…his betrothed Princess…dancing with him.

Just him, no one else. He didn't have to suffer any longer, didn't have to see the woman of his dreams, the one that caused him so much anguish, torment, rage and lust…twirl and smile in the arms of other men now that she was his. 

Now that she was his to hold, with her gem-like eyes gazing up at him as if he'd somehow managed to hand her a shard from the moon itself. A look that pierced right through him and made him wonder if she’d ever looked at anyone the way she looked at him, it was a look he’d hoped was reserved for him and him alone. His Princess had her hand gently grasping onto his shoulder while her other hand was safely held in his, as dictated by the dance they were performing. He was meant to hold her at her waist, keep her at arm's length with a rigid straight stance…but there was a crowd of other couples blocking them from view. He doubted her father could see them clearly from wherever he was with Rhaenyra, so Aemond had curled his arm around her waist and held her close. Thankfully it wasn't a dance that required he switch partners several times, so it allowed him to hold her flush against him as they spinned and swayed. 

Now at a certain point he was sure he saw Daemon catch his eye. His uncle’s shoulders straightened stiffly, scowling deeply as if he wished to pounce…but thankfully, it seemed as if his eldest sister had a firm grip on her husband, so Aemond just kept gazing down at the precious woman before him, letting the rest of the world around them simply disappear. Willing all his negative thoughts away, because now that Rhaena was his, no one else would ever hold her as he did now. 

He’d never let anyone do so. 

Focusing on the feel of her, how her soft body slotted against him, how her delicate hand felt in his, how her beautiful face looked up at him all alight in candlelight. The way she moved so gracefully with him, not like she just knew the moves by heart as he did, no she moved like the rhythm of the music naturally swayed her. 

Like she felt every note. 

Watching her felt like he was gazing upon a drifting star…hypnotic in its luminance. 

Though she'd snapped his trance when she'd given him one of her bright knowing smiles, "you wish to escape now, don't you, my dragon," her pale violet eyes had melted him just like always. How she managed to see through him so easily had become slightly unnerving, but oddly warming to know that she understood him so well with just a look. 

His little wife. 

At the time, he'd smirked down at her, "how could you tell," he smirked leaning down towards her ear, "does my face not scream enjoyment and enlightenment ." 

"No," she'd giggled, "it screams, 'please get me out of here, when will this night end.' I know how you loathe feasts and dances, I'm sure you're calculating exit strategies as we speak, if you haven't already."

She'd been right, of course, he had planned their escape already. He'd smiled, pulling himself back slightly, "sȳrje, kesan daor vīlībagon se obvious. Gaomagon ao jaelagon naejot escape lēda nyke, byka ābrazȳrys," very well, I will not fight the obvious. Do you wish to escape with me, little wife.

He'd hoped she'd say yes , for this wasn't like all those feasts and dances before, when he'd felt so angry and alone. Desperate as he was to slip away, of course he was…but he wanted to take her with him this time. 

"Sepār ivestragon skori," Just say when , she replied softly, her voice sounded all light and airy yet incredibly seductive. 

And his heart soared at that.

Aemond had certainly always found a fondness in speaking High Valyrian with his dragoness. It always just felt so personal and alluring, like a barrier they could wield around them whenever they wished for added privacy even in public settings. So long as none of their family members who were fluent in the tongue were nearby, they could always speak freely in it. 

Some days he truly couldn’t imagine a world without his Princess, before he had Rhaena, being fluent in High Valyrian had been quite a useless talent. As a child without a dragon, he’d taken extra care to learn his family’s ancient tongue, for he knew he’d need it to one day claim a dragon…and as it was a part of their culture he was happy to know it. Though sadly once he had he’d been disheartened to realize that his siblings did not truly speak it. Aegon only knew his commands as did Helaena, Daeron was on his way to becoming fluent but he was still young and he was far away in Oldtown anyhow. His nephews were much like Aegon, only their pronunciation was even worse than Aegon’s. And his mother, of course, did not speak it at all. Which only left his father and his eldest sister. Two people he did not feel all that comfortable interacting with at that age. As his father never seemed to want his company, and while Rhaenyra had never been anything but cordial…he was not permitted to be in her company without his grandfather or mother present. 

Another thing Aemond could blame Otto for, without his grandfather ruining their familial relationships, he might’ve actually been able to bond with his eldest sister, at least through High Valyrian if nothing else. 

Though he supposed it mattered not in the end, eventually, one day he’d angered Rhaena so much, to the point where she’d responded to him in perfect High Valyrian…well, it was less of a true response and more that she’d cursed at him and insulted him ruthlessly so, assuming he wouldn’t be able to understand her. 

But he had, of course.

At the time the insults had barely phased him, all trumped by the fact that the mere sound of their family's ancient tongue falling from her sweet lips had hypnotized him, made him physically melt and burn all the same. Like molten lava, smooth and scolding, and ever since then whenever he heard her speak it, it only fueled that constant fire within him that always blazed for her. 

Aemond had spun and lifted her for the end of their dance, and once the music faded…he slid his hand in hers as they weaved through all the couples who were waiting for the next dance to begin…slipping out of the room relatively unnoticed. At least he’d hoped they were, though it wouldn’t really matter if they were seen…the evening was close enough to completion and they’d be married soon enough anyhow. 

But now, nearly half an hour later…he'd happily cornered his betrothed back into their bed chambers. He'd pulled everything but his breeches off, as well as finally tearing that agonizingly teasing pink gown off her body, leaving her only in her small clothes. The thin fragile material dragged against him as he'd pinned her up against the wall, kissing her hungrily, needily, desperately really…his tongue possessively entangling with hers, tasting her sweet mouth thoroughly. He spent the entire evening lusting after her, unable to kiss her publicly, unable to taste her sweet lips until now. 

He'd hoisted her up against him, letting her legs wrap around his waist as her arms hung naturally over his shoulders. By now his Princess had already torn off his leather patch, something she did every time they were alone as she loved to see his sapphire eye…why exactly, he hadn't fully grasped yet. She thought it was beautiful, hauntingly so, as she’d once told him…so if it was her want to see him with it, he'd give it to her. 

With swift care, Aemond had let her long locs fall from their styling and with that her natural curls had flopped down as well. Rhaena had begun growing her natural hair out over the past year or so, her curls now reaching down just past her jaw, he assumed she’d be cutting off her locs within a few moons. He’d certainly mourn the loss as he had favoured them, but he had found he was just as if not even more attracted to the way her silvery white curls framed her heart-shaped face. 

As her hair flowed down her back, she undid his half-up styling with ease, solely so she could sink her fingers into his hair as she loved to do, all while he let his hands roam up along her sides and down over her plush bottom. At that she'd wound his hair around her fingers and tugged, pulling his head back with a hiss and a groan. She'd taken the opportunity to press heated kisses along his neck and jawline while he panted for air. 

"You do realize you failed my wager, sweet husband," she remarked smoothly, something cool and commanding in her tone, her hot tongue dragging a line of fire along his jaw, "now I can't reward you like I wanted to," 

If it was up to him, he might’ve thought he passed her little test. He didn’t start any physical fights with either her brothers or her father, which he thought certainly showed progress considering some of their previous family gatherings. He also made no speeches, purposely taunting or otherwise. He didn’t even really glare at anyone…save for his own brother, the Northman and most definitely her father, but he figured Daemon earned that of his own merit seeing how the older man had made it into a competition. 

But even so, Aemond only felt the fire in his body rise higher at her words, his muscles tensing so much so he had to plant a hand against the wall behind her as he pressed her back against it. If this wasn't his reward , what did she have planned for him…his voice came out slightly hoarse, "so you mean to punish me then, hmm?" 

Aemond felt her lips pull into a smile against his cheek, her mouth slowly lifted to his ear, teeth gently grazing and tugging on his earlobe, "my big dragon…mmm even large dragons need to be disciplined every once in a while," 

He'd swallowed thickly at that, his heart now beating chaotically in his chest. Vague as she was being, his mind had played about a million ways in which his sweet girl could punish him. 

"I want you on the bed, on your back," her voice may have had a lovely seductive tone to it, but she'd given the orders as a command to be followed not as a request. Even as she slowly untangled herself from him, slipping down his body, when he caught her gaze, she leveled it with an intense one of her own. 

A dragoness indeed. 

Before he could think to say anything snarky or otherwise, she'd begun turning him towards their bed. Her hands pressed against his lower back, guiding him there until he decided he'd give in and do as she bade him to. Slowly stepping towards their bed, trying to picture what she could possibly have in-stored for him. 

The problem was, no matter what he envisioned…he couldn’t see a way for her to punish him truly. There were several ways to take her while laying on his back, sure she’d have more control being on top…but he’d certainly still enjoy it. Whether she rode his cock or his face…facing him or not. 

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he unlaced his boots as his mind continued to run rampant. He had yet to convince her to ride his face, he was sure she’d enjoy it and he was desperate to please her that way. Maybe they could tonight as he knew he couldn’t bury his cock in her now, not after the way he took her repeatedly the night prior…as he stood to untie his breeches, Rhaena's hands stopped him. 

His eye caught hers, his brow arching with slight confusion, for surely she didn't want him clothed when he was on his back for her. His Princess only smirked deviously up at him, what was she planning? She guided him back down on the bed with his breeches still on, "oh dear husband, this is a punishment, remember. This won't be for your pleasure." 

How she managed to look so innocuous, sounding so incredibly sweet while she said such things to him, he’d never know. 

‘This won't be for your pleasure’

What did she mean to do? What kind of punishment could involve him laying down half naked…what would she be doing?

With his jaw grinding as he eyed her intensely, he decided to do as he was told. He couldn’t deny that he was curious to see where all this would lead him.

Laying back in their bed, annoyingly with his pants still on, he moved and positioned himself in the center of their bed, laying against their pillows just as she wanted him to. Watching her as she stepped around their room, pulling several draws and cabinets opened until she rummaged and found what she must have been looking for. His curiosity had already been building, but now it spiked as he noticed she’d gathered two leather straps, straps he usually used for his flying leathers. 

Aemond’s indigo eye followed her carefully as she walked back towards him, whatever she had planned, both made him burn with intense wanting while unleashing a new set of nerves. Eyeing the leather straps she carried…what did she mean to do with them?

He knew he had a pension for being somewhat rough with their lovemaking at times. He almost always gripped her tightly, choked her on occasion, rammed into her brutally if he was truly overwhelmed with passion…in their time as a couple, he’d left many possessive bruises on her. Marking her skin, as she belonged to him, but the marks were never permanent. He never aimed to hurt her truly, and if he ever went too far she would’ve told him so. It seemed to be something they understood of each other, for she’d left her fair share of ownership marks on him, from love bites along his neck and chest to scratch marks down his back and even a few on his chest as well. Their lovemaking took on many forms, it could be feral, brutal and scrappy, rough, dangerous and desperate…but it could also be soft and needy, sweet and loving. He wondered what type this would be.

"Arms up," she spoke softly, "close your eyes and trust me," she added, he assumed based on the look upon his face.

He was beginning to realize what she meant to do with those leather straps.

She meant to torture him.

All for misbehaving at the feast, he was certain of it…but the type of torture she meant to inflict, he couldn't truly guess. He found himself once again acquiescing to her command, leaning his head back against the pillows as he felt her take his hand at the wrist and tie the leather strap around it. She pulled the tied leather to the top end of the bed and tied it to the wooden post of the headboard. She copied the action with his other hand, he could feel his arms spread and stretched across upwards, when she was done she bade him to open his eyes.

Somewhere in that time she'd removed her small clothes, leaving herself standing completely bare before him. 

Oh Gods…the punishment was growing clearer by the second. 

For it certainly felt incredibly cruel of her to show him the tantalizing sight of her perfect naked form, but not allow him to touch her…in fact she’d specifically restricted his ability to touch her at all. He knew she had more in-store for him, but he already felt a burning irritation aching within him at the fact that he was not able to feel her soft curves, squeeze and hold her full breast in his hands. He could’ve groaned at the injustice of it all, for he was certain she was already wet with want for him. 

This was good enough, he felt punished already. 

Pulling on the leather ties, he realized she'd actually managed to tie them quite sturdily. He should've expected as much from a granddaughter of the great Sea Snake. She'd probably used some sort of complicated sailors knot to insure he could not simply pull himself free with brute strength alone. 

With a wince and a grunt, he had pulled his neck too forcefully and felt the strain on his wound, "mmm little wife, why have you tied me?"

"It's your punishment, ñuha zaldrīzes," my dragon , she licked her lips as she slowly stepped closer to him, he certainly felt the rage of a dragon growing within him. The leather restraints burned and twisted against his skin as he pulled against them.

His jaw clenched as his nose began to flare, “fine, I feel sufficiently punished…you may untie now,” 

His dragoness only giggled as she climbed onto their bed, his eye stayed glued to her as she then stood and stepped a leg over him. His indigo eye trailed up her smooth legs, the thatch of silver curls that guarded her womanhood, up along the curves of her stomach, her hips, the dip in her waist and the swell of her full breasts. He watched them rise with each breath she took, his mind nearly wiping blank as she slowly lowered herself down onto him, straddling him. 

Aemond’s body ignited at her touch as she seated herself onto his lower abdomen. The comfortable weight of her pressed down against him, she'd tugged his breeches to hang lower on his hips but still kept his throbbing hardened cock covered. That was probably the cruelest part about all of this, he could take his hands being tied…well…no he couldn’t, but he would. 

But his cock, how could she leave his wanting cock so unattended. 

Gods, then there was the way her hot wet core pressed against him, she didn’t even really do anything to him yet, but the feel of her alone had forced a groan from his lips. Making his brows furrow deeply, "Rhaena, please…" it sounded more like an exasperated desperate plea than anything else, and in truth he really was begging her at this point. He could have taken this, the restraints and all, if she was at least riding cock…sucking it, holding it…something.

Aemond Targaryen was a dragon and he was a strong man, he could withstand a lot. 

But not in this moment…not in this case. His devious little wife had riled him up on purpose, readied him for an event that he hadn’t anticipated…and now he’d have to suffer through it. 

All the while, she’d simply sit back and enjoy his pitiful begging. 

Even now, his goddess had settled herself further up on his abdomen, leaning over him just enough to caress his cheek as she smiled, "oh my love, you’re over-exaggerating, it won't be too bad. You are allowed to watch me, you just cannot touch me…not until you've learned your lesson." 

At that his head dropped back against the pillows, seemingly defeated…it all sounded so simple, the only problem was, he couldn't seem to think of the lesson he was meant to be learning. He’d been quite decent this evening all things considered, he’d certainly behaved worse at previous family functions and or feasts and balls.

What specific failure was he meant to atone for here?

He’d once again lose the thought when his Rhaena took his lips sweetly for just a moment before she pulled herself back to position herself, placing her soft hands on his chest, slightly gripping into his skin as she began to rock her hips against his abs. 

Oh Gods. 

Aemond’s head had shot up again as he felt her move against him, he’d strained his wound slightly, but he hadn’t really cared, he just needed to catch a sight of the torture befalling him. Gritting his teeth as the exquisite sight of her pretty little cunt riding the ridges of his abs, her arousal leaving a gleaming sheen of moisture against his pale skin.

How was he going to survive this? He once thought he'd loved to see her take her pleasure by riding herself against his toned thighs or his stomach, but when he'd had those thoughts he imagined gripping into her hips as he helped guide them against him, caressing her soft thighs, holding her…touching her in some way shape or form. 

This…this somehow felt incredible, unbelievable and agonizing all at the same time.  

Every time she grinded against him, his cock throbbed behind her, weeping just a little bit more. His legs were free and unbound behind her, so he tried to stretch them, cross them or kick them in a way that at least helped to alleviate the straining want he felt within his breeches. His dragoness only giggled at his valiant yet ultimately shortcoming efforts. Making her own slow pace a pleasing ride for herself as she made no effort to relieve him. 

At this point his eye was now alternating between gazing up at the gorgeous being using his body as she pleased and squeezing his eye shut so he couldn't agonize over the sight of what he could not touch. 

But seeing her was only half the torture, he could still feel every time her hot core rode over the ridges of his muscles, and all her sweet little gasps and whimpers just added on top of everything else. The more she leaned down against him, the more friction her little bud felt, making her whimpers only grow louder, deeper, into these mind-numbing delectable moans of pure pleasure. 

Fuck, he couldn't take it. 

If this was an endurance test, this was as far as he could manage. 

Aemond began to fight the leather holds more than he had before, gritting harshly as he struggled against his binds, muscles flexing, pulling with what he was sure was all of his strength. But he could not break it, couldn’t even loosen it, he just could not pull free. And sadly his left side was a liability in itself, his neck wound wouldn't let him tug properly on that side at all. 

He was truly stuck.

"Awe my darling husband, you look so desperate," she'd smirked, her voice was all breathy as she bit back a moan, caressing his cheek and tipping his chin up to lock eyes with her. Once he had, her hips sped up, grinding at a faster pace, "have you learned your lesson yet?" 

Fucking hell, this all still hinged on his knowing what lesson he was meant to be learning. 

Aemond only twisted his lips, teeth nearly chattering; he couldn't decide if he was enraged at her methods of punishment or enraged that she'd purposely aimed to make him unbearably erect without caring for his needy cock while she did it. But he didn’t truly care anymore, as much as his traitorous body seemed to be responding positively to this new power dynamic, he wanted the use of his arms back. He didn’t care how he got it, he felt frantic and frenzied, he needed to be able to hold her again. 

"Yes, I've learned the fucking lesson. Now, untie me," his voice had rasped in half groans with a blazing fury. He'd raised his knees behind her, the only position that felt somewhat bearable. Though it seemed to be both a blessing and a curse, for every time she rocked her hips back, her bottom slightly grazed over his trapped cock causing his hips to spasm and rock upwards. 

His princess had caught on to his ploy rather quickly, her nails scratching into his chest as she leaned herself down to his ear, whispering directly to him, "no you haven't, my love. You're still trying to cum. I thought I told you this wasn't for your pleasure," 

Aemond groaned deeply once she pulled back, her lavender scent all encompassing, overwhelming and sensual. Rhaena straightened her back as she moved a more punishing pace against his abdomen, pleasing herself immensely, making her soaking wet cunt drip with arousal along his skin. He found himself biting down on his lower lip quite hard, why couldn’t she have at least just ridden his face…he would’ve found the joy in that punishment . Though, he supposed…if he’d found joy in it…it would not count as a true punishment. 

He’d lasted as long as he could, he was ready to give in.

"Rhaena…kostan't…bisa iksis killing nyke…" Rhaena…I can't…this is killing me… , he was absolutely begging at this point, his willpower had dissipated, his voice was hoarse as he panted for air he just couldn't seem to take, "ivestragon nyke skoros jaelā se nyke'll gaomagon ziry. Nyke'll kostilus ao," tell me what you want and I'll do it. I'll please you .

His pleadings must've gotten to her, for she slowed her rocking hips enough to reach for his cheek and truly cup it warmly with her soft hand. His goddess was breathing deeply herself as she tucked a stray silver loc behind her ear with her other hand, her cheeks all flushed, "you wish for me to tell you what I want? I wanted you to be nice and cordial this evening, and you weren't," 

If he was truly being honest, what she’d said…could apply to a few situations. His cold reluctant yet indifferent conversation with Lucerys, his back and forth with her father…or maybe she meant the one person who actually annoyed him that evening.

The fucking Northman…he knew that was who she was speaking of, for he was the only person Aemond had nearly snapped at during the entire evening. 

"I couldn't," he groaned annoyed at the fact that she'd chosen to respond to him in the common tongue now and at the fact that he had speak about that fucking man even now while his beautiful naked wife sat above him…circumstances be damned, "but why does it matter how I speak to the fucking Northman. He’s of no consequence, not to me, not to you. Especially not now that you’re mine and especially not tonight, seeing how he lost the tourney." 

There was a slight eye roll that came with a shallow head shake from Rhaena, "it matters because he is still a Lord of good standing and he was being cordial to you until you changed the nature of the conversation. He’d said nothing wrong or improper, you didn’t need to verbally taunt him as you did. The Starks are a loyal ally to our house and the crown, and should anything ever happen, I think we'd like for him to still feel welcome in our presence, would we not," her jaw had hardened, clearly irritated with his previous flippant response. 

Exhaling heavily through his nose, his clenched jaw twisting, he let his head drop against the pillows once again,"fine, understood. I’ll be nice to the twat if it means that much to you. Now, may I touch you," 

"No," her voice softened, her hardened jaw fading into a faint smile, "I need a better than that, you still spent most of the night taunting and falling for my father's baiting," she leaned herself down to him again, teasing his lips, “my mother may spend her days and nights reeling in my father, but I don’t intend on doing the same with you.” 

Surely she knew that was part of the package that came with marrying him, Aemond Targaryen was not a Prince made for social gatherings, she would most certainly have to spend most nights reining him in. But he knew what she meant, she did not wish to have to continually course-correct conversations like the one he had with Lord Stark. Even so, he had no idea his little dragoness could be so cruel , teasing and denying him as she was, his heart was pounding, he needed to break free now or he didn't know what he'd do. 

"Fine…Rhaena…Iksan vaoreznuni," I'm sorry , he winced, trying to catch her lips, but she purposely kept a slight distance just so he couldn’t, “Nyke'll sagon sȳrkta…se kesan daor ropagon syt aōha kepa's taunts,” I'll be better...and I will not fall for your father's taunts.

Well that promise was easier said than done, he couldn’t really promise that…he spent equal parts taunting the older man as well as being annoyed and easily enraged by him. 

Well…he promised not to be baited…not that he would stop doing the baiting himself. Maybe he could keep such a promise.

“Mmm such dōna promises, jorrāelagon valzȳrys,” mmm such sweet promises, dear husband , she laid her head on his right shoulder, smiling softly at him, "gaomagon ao really jaelagon naejot kostilus nyke? Ñuha rōva zaldrīzes, hmm?" Do you really wish to please me? My big dragon, hmm?

Why must she say it in such an alluring tone, he nearly leaked himself just at the way she’d called him her ‘big dragon’ .  

Aemond only nodded up at her, his eye gazing directly into hers as he bit his lip furiously. 

"Skorkydoso olvie gaomagon ao jaelagon naejot renigon nyke?" how much do you wish to touch me?, her soft breathy tone continued to make his strained cock puslate. She was hinting her way towards something, whether it was another torturous trap or not, he could not decide. But the look in her eyes, the way her pupils had dilated, he was ready to accept anything if it granted his access to her. 

He exhaled shakily, the anticipation was killing him, with yet another groan he uttered the words, "ivestragon nyke skoros jaelā, dōna riña," tell me what you want, sweet girl . 

Rhaena licked her lips, eyeing his mouth with a heavy lidded gaze, her thump softly brushing along his lower lip, "ñuha gevie zaldrīzes, nyke sepār jaelagon ao naejot urnēbagon. pār kostā renigon nyke," my beautiful dragon, I just want you to watch...then you may touch me .

Gods, it was a trap. 

Before he could respond, she gave him a sloppy possessive kiss, full of heat and passion. Her tongue laced around his, drawing moans from him as he chased her lips. When she pulled back, he kept his knees up so she couldn't lean too far back, his hoarse voice grunted, "sȳz, iksan daor allowed naejot renigon ao…yn kostilus renigon nyke, nyke daor sepār urnēbagon ao dombo," fine, I'm not allowed to touch you…but please touch me, I cannot just watch you anymore .

Aemond was certain he'd never begged for anything before…and certainly not this much for anything in his whole life. How his little dragoness had managed it was truly a testament to just how much she meant to him. He wasn't even sure she'd give in to this plea, she'd ignored his last one. This time her pale eyes gave nothing away, so he just groaned, expecting his fate, laying his head back against the pillows once more. Waiting patiently for her to continue punishing him while his needy cock throbbed and burned beneath his leather breeches. 

But there came a soft sigh from his beloved, slowly he felt her hands at the laces of his breeches, untying them and finally pulling him free. 

He tilted his head up, his eye wide as he gazed up at her, "Rhaena…"

"Mērī kesrio syt Avy jorrāelan, sir shhh," only because I love you, now shhh , she smirked, repositioning herself so she could reach behind her and stroke him while she continued to ride his abs, "yn ziry iksos iēdrosa mērī lēda ñuha ondos, aōha nūmo won't enter nyke tonight," but it's still only with my hand, your seed won't enter me tonight .

Truthfully he already thought as much, but he still found himself gritting his teeth just the same. It would be fine so long as she knew that once they were officially husband and wife tomorrow night, he planned to wreck her, make his sweet little wife a begging mess just for him.

Rhaena delicately slid her fingers along his girthy member, making him hiss and buck, she knew how to tease him, string him along. She didn’t need to do much, not at this point, even being incredibly gentle was enough to drive him mad. As her thumb glided over his smooth weeping tip, sensitive to the touch, he jolted when she began moving her thumb in a circular motion, using his precum as a lubricant as she slid her hand down his length and then stroked it up again. His erect cock was twitching in her hand, coupled with the ethereal sight of her hips desperately grinding against his abs as her lovely breasts bounced with her movements. Her lower lip was caught between her teeth as she worked herself up, he could feel her peak growing, her motions having sped up to an erratic speed. 

At this point, Aemond only wanted to help his Princess along, resigned to his fate, he needed her pleased in order to be untied. So as he bucked upwards into her hand, he did his best to roll his stomach beneath her. He knew it was working when her moans began to heighten, her brows scrunching together as her lips parted, his member falling from her hand the moment her climax took hold of her. He gasped as the tip of his cock fell against her writhing bottom, grazing against her soft skin, but he kept his motions going, focused on her release. 

She was gripping into his thigh while her other hand stayed on his chest, nails biting into his skin. 

Finally, the sultriest of moans spilled from her lips, her head fell back as she gasped, the muscles along her neck straining as her chest heaved…she finally came on him.

For a moment he'd forgotten every other possible thought in his mind. 

Rhaena Targaryen was truly a goddess.

She looked like absolute perfection sitting atop him at that moment. 

Panting and sated. The glowing look in her eyes as she gazed down at him…drinking him in as if she could see so much more in him than the average person ever did. 

That was a fact for he knew she definitely did.  

"Ao jurnegon sīr gevie…lying gōvilagon nyke," you look so pretty…lying beneath me , she breathed, leaning down to him, caressing his scarred cheek before she pressed a sweet kiss to his forehead, the tip of his nose, the scar on his cheek and then finally against his lips. Aemond's heart was pounding, at the feel of her lips, at the feel of her arousal seeping onto him, at that fact she'd cum so hard for him…just using his stomach. But also…her words, there was an irritating sense of pride brewing at the fact that his Princess found him both pretty and beautiful .

Words no other woman would have ever used to describe him. Yet his Princess had made a habit of telling she thought him so, quite often these days. 

But in either case, he had done it…he’d pleased her. And it left him feeling slightly odd, this might have been the most torturous thing he'd ever experienced…but now he couldn't help but swell with an overwhelming feeling of satisfaction…dare he say there was a sliver of delight within him as well. 

Though he hoped the next time she felt the need to punish him, she'd at least fuck him truly. He was sure at least then his punishment would feel…well, far more like a delicious reward.

With a smirk growing on his face, he cleared his throat, "emagon nyke kreni ñuha byka ābrazȳrys? Issi ao kreni lēda ñuha qilōnarion?" Have I pleased my little wife? Are you pleased with my punishment?  

It seemed her little stint at dominating had quelled as she hugged herself against his chest, her pebbled nipples pressing against him as she nuzzled her lips against his scar-less cheek, "Iksan olvie kreni, dōna valzȳrys. Nyke pendagon ao've gūrēntan iā valuable lesson," I'm very pleased, sweet husband. I think you've learned a valuable lesson . 

Of that he was sure. 

"Jaelan mēre tolī run," I want one more thing , Rhaena giggled as she ran her fingers through his hair, the soft caress soothing him deeply, "kessa ao sagon sȳz se māzigon syt nyke?" Will you be good and come for me? 

The sentence stopped his heart in an instant, swallowing hard at that command, nodding as she pressed a kiss to jaw, "jaelan se udra, dōna valzȳrys," I want the words, sweet husband.

Aemond exhaled heavily through his nose, his jaw clenching as he felt her hand purposely reaching down his body, gently brushing against the tip of his cock. Squeezing his eye shut, he groaned her name, but she only kept teasing him with her light touches. 

He was sure he'd never teased her wants so badly, it was excruciating, "Rhaena, I've already begged you," Aemond groaned, slipping into the common tongue, he felt far too disheveled to even think clearly anymore. 

She only smiled sweetly at him, "awe but you sound quite adorable when you're begging me," reluctantly, he felt his cheeks burn at that remark, watching his princess as she pulled herself up into a seating position. 

Thankfully she didn't wait for his response, instead she swiftly climbed off the bed and made her way around to the foot of the bed, pulling his breeches off entirely. His cock twitched for her, he was desperate for her to sink onto his length, even though he knew she wouldn't, she couldn't…not tonight. 

Soon enough, his Princess climbed back on top of him, kissing him softly, he leaned in for more, tasting her sweetly before she smiled, pressing kisses down along his jaw then neck. She was gentle not to touch the wounded side of his neck, but as she kissed her way down his chest, she left lingering hot kisses on all of his bruises and little nics. Wincing slightly but groaning as fire ignited beneath her loving touches. 

A part of him wondered, if he had behaved himself earlier this evening, this probably would've been more inline with the kind of worshipping she had promised to give him. 

Well, he'd happily receive whatever she deigned to give him now. 

Watching her pause for a moment, she bit her lip as she contemplated something…sliding off of him once again, crawling off the bed, his ethereal princess stepped towards the bedpost, slowly.

Was she finally going to…she was!

Finally, untying his hand with ease before she walked around the bed and released his other hand. 

Those were definitely sailor’s knots.

With his hands finally free, Aemond flexed them and rolled his wrists lightly, before pulling his wife back into bed. Rhaena shrieked happily as she fell on top of him, he felt his body spark and calm when his arms finally wrapped around her. Gripping into her hips, letting her warm drenched cunt drag along his hard length. 

A torturous move for both of them, but it seemed only fair. 

Especially as his blood sang when she whimpered against him, he could not wait until tomorrow night.

Letting her slide off of him, he slowly turned on his side to face her, caressing a silver curl behind her ear, "reach for me," he rasped. His indigo eye burned into her pale lavender eyes, her lips twitched happily as she innocently eyed him. She didn’t deny his command, in fact she’d acted on it immediately, her soft hand trailing down his torso, finally stroking his thick length with her full attention, Aemond found himself breathing raggedly with just her faintest touch. Rhaena had propped herself up on her elbow, glancing down as she let thumb rub over his smooth weeping tip, making him shiver and whimper. His cock felt so good in her hand even though she couldn’t fully grasp his size, throbbing as she pumped along his length, the delicious friction making his blood sing with pure pleasure.

He was on fire.

"Fuck…," he groaned hoarsely, pulling her closer as his hips bucked against her hand, "...faster…I need you…"

He wouldn't last long, he could feel it. Flames were already licking at the base of his spine as he gripped into her waist. His other arm was resting underneath her head as he dipped his fingers into her hair, pulling tightly as she stroked him with vigor. 

Aemond kept his eye on hers, gritting his teeth as the burning sensation within him built up. 

His dragoness kept her gaze on him, "cum for me, ñuha gevie zaldrīzes," my beautiful dragon , her soft breathy tone paired with her command finally sent him over the edge. His climax shredded through him with the release of a throaty moan, cursing how good it felt. His hips bucked a final time as his seed hot spilled onto her stomach and thighs, his Princess stroking him gently all the while until he emptied his load. Aemond’s muscles finally felt relaxed, his burning need somewhat sated for the moment as his exhaustion from this day's events finally sunk into him. He knew he should get up and clean himself off, clean his wife off…but as he rolled onto his back…he felt far too tired to move. 

Using her clean hand, Rhaena guided his chin over to face her, "Aemond," she whispered softly, gazing into his eye with far too much warmth and love. He'd hummed as a response, still breathing heavily as he came down from his post-pleasure haze. 

"I can't wait to marry you," she smiled sweetly, kissing him softly, soothing everything within him. 

His heart was stammering, Gods he loved her so much. 

-

The following morning had finally put things into perspective. 

It was finally their wedding day. And Aemond and Rhaena had been awoken well before the sun had even peaked. The sky was still as dark as night when a loud rapping came at their chamber doors, a handful of servants and maids entered along with a very drowsy Baela and a rather wide awake Helaena. 

Aemond didn't need anyone to explain the situation to him, as startling as their arrival may have been, and as annoyed as he was to have to let the warm soft body of his wife leave him so suddenly…he had indeed gathered that his sister and good-sister were here to take Rhaena and ready her for their ceremony. He was half asleep when it dawned on him, his mutinous grandfather and the disgruntled knight Cole's plans were still an uncertainty that could not be ignored. Aemond had vowed to keep Rhaena at his side until they were wed…but ceremonial traditions would surely throw a wrench in his plans. 

So as much as he loathed to ask it…he’d asked Baela to keep a close eye on her sister in his stead. He'd asked the same of Helaena, as he trusted both women to look out for Rhaena's best interest. He wouldn't go into detail about why in front of the maids and servants, but both women had nodded in understanding as they linked their arms around Rhaena's and took her from him. His Princess had glanced back at him momentarily before she was finally whisked away from the room. 

Now his nerves were getting the best of him, he felt somewhat safe in knowing that Baela was indeed skilled with the sword. And he knew that his sister and good-sister were taking Rhaena to the safe company of both their mothers, where no harm could befall her surrounded by such strong individuals. But he would need certainty…because letting Otto Hightower roam free with his reaching ambitions was far too dangerous a thing. Though Aemond wasn’t one to remain stressed, nervous or high-strung…it made him irritable, irate and primed to lash out. So as much as he loathed the thought of it, he would need to face his treasonous grandfather. Before the old man thought to act on his own accord and before Aemond’s annoyance and rage got the better of him. He didn’t particularly wish to kill the man…at least for his mother’s sake, but if he had to…if Otto made the situation a choice between himself and Rhaena…he wouldn’t think twice about cutting down his grandfather. 

His Princess would be his first choice, every single time, no matter what, he would choose her.

As his servants drew him a heated bath, scrubbing him duly until they were satisfied that he was clean, during which, he had one of them send word to the Hand of the King. He informed the errand boy that he wished for his grandfather to be brought to his chambers after he was dressed for his wedding. 

And with that the word was sent. 

In the meanwhile, the remaining three servants dried him and began dressing him for his wedding. The attire was all sleek and solid black. His breeches and boots of matching high quality, his doublet had obsidian gems embroidered along the stitching, sparingly so. Even as he prepared for a wedding of The Faith, this embellishment felt quite particularly Targaryen. He wondered who thought of that touch, certainly not his mother…definitely not his grandfather. Maybe his eldest sister, he'd wager Rhaenyra over Daemon…but maybe it was his uncle, Daemon cared for their culture the most in this family. And Obsidian was a rare commodity found in its purest form here on Dragonstone…deep within the Dragon Mount. 

It certainly would be odd, having a wedding of The Faith here in Dragonstone. Two opposing ideals and cultures, nearly colliding but somehow meeting in the middle. Aegon The Conqueror had once made that choice, to meld these two worlds together…and now hundreds of years later it felt as if they had decided to reenact the action. 

As Aemond knew it, there would be two weddings today. Separated by the varying times of day.

The Faith's wedding would be done at dawn for The Seven were thought to recognize early prayers. When the time came, which would be soon…Aemond would stand before his Princess and the High Septon in Dragonstone's throne room. They'd be surrounded by their family and the specially invited Nobles as their witnesses. They'd recite their vows to one another, receive the blessing from the High Septon, and if it was timed well…by the time they were permitted to seal their union with a kiss, the dawning sun would rise to greet them. 

The Seven's true blessing. 

They'd be given the day to feast, to mingle, be festive and dance in celebration. By the afternoon, the nobles would be bade to return to King's Landing or their own houses, for they'd witnessed the wedding, they'd had their feast, there would be no bedding ceremony for them to see. 

Then as the evening rolled around, Aemond and his wife would prepare for their Valyrian wedding. It would take place at dusk, the golden hour, the hour most sacred for The Fourteen Flames. It would be a far more private affair, only family was permitted to be present, and if Aemond had his suspicions and wants of his own, he dare say Daemon would make sure Otto Hightower was not present for their sacred Valyrian ritual. Aemond knew there were vows to be made, he knew they would perform their ritual upon the Dragon Mound. 

But the rest seemed somewhat shrouded in mystery…a mystery he was keen to uncover today. 

Aemond's hair had been combed and braided back into one simple plait, tied neatly with a matching black cotton strap; a smooth velvet eye-patch was given to match. As he gazed at his reflection in the mirror, he felt oddly seen…in a sense he knew he looked every bit the Targaryen he was, but he looked strangely caught between the two worlds of being half Andal as he also was. 

In a moment he'd stand before a religious leader he no longer sought after and bow before seven Gods he no longer truly believed in…but in this moment he wondered if part of him still cared. 

For his mother who believed so soundly in this religion…in these Gods…she'd given him her blessing for this marriage. She'd been nothing but supportive throughout the moon of his engagement. 

He couldn’t help but feel slightly conflicted.

A young pale haired servant broke through Aemond's train of thought, placing a final dark chain around his neck, careful not to rub his stitches. It wasn't a chain he found familiar, maybe it was something picked out especially for the ceremony.

It was a dark smooth chain…it looked as if it was Valyrian steel, in the centre there was a deep black gem, Obsidian, he presumed, with tiny little Amethyst gems encrusted around it. 

Just as the servants turned to leave, Aemond quickly spoke, "this necklace, who bade I wear it? I've never seen it before." 

"I was told it was a gift, my Prince. I was not to mention it, for…well," the boy's face scrunched slightly as if he was hiding something. 

"Out with it," Aemond bit off, in truth he didn't intend on snapping at the boy, but he didn't exactly have time to dally today. Otto Hightower’s plans weighed heavily on his mind, his rage was already reaching a fever pitch thanks to him.  

"Your betrothed, my Prince," the boy startled, "as the Princess is not permitted to see you before the ceremony, she could not gift it to you in person. The Princess intended to tell you after the ceremony," the boy quickly bowed and took his leave as if Aemond would slay the boy for relaying such innocent information. Sighing softly,  Aemond returned his gaze to the mirror before him. Finally left alone with his own thoughts, his heart felt warm and full as his fingers reached for the gem gently, he'd made mention of how he was fond of the gem Obsidian. But it'd been off handed, he didn't expect her to remember…or to have something commissioned especially for him. And the Amethyst…her favourite colour…her favourite gem…besides his sapphire. 

He couldn't help but smile as it felt like his Princess had given a part of herself in this gift to him. In all his life he’d never received something so precious, so delicate and thoughtful. 

It made his body burn oddly hot, in mere moments he'd finally wed his sweet Rhaena…yet he knew his grandfather sought to ruin their union. 

His grandfather would aim to take away his one true happiness, his one true chance at having love…and a full loving family.

A knock at his door alerted Aemond to the fact that this was probably the moment he’d been waiting for. He quickly concealed a dagger within the waist of his breeches before he stepped towards the door, he could never be too careful with this man. There was an eerie silence that emanated throughout the room as his nerves threatened to choke him. He wouldn’t bother waiting for his guards to open his door, he did so himself. And just as he’d hoped…just as he expected, there stood his grandfather. The old man seemed to have timed things perfectly, arriving right as Aemond had finished preparing himself.

Otto Hightower, the man with eyes and ears everywhere. Aemond wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that one or more of those servant boys may be working for the old man. Otto’s eyes were alight with something sinister, though truthfully they always were, his gaze reaching through Aemond causing his spine to chill just a little. It wasn’t that he feared his grandfather, not like Aegon did. Otto on his own was of no threat, he was just a man and not a physically imposing one either.

Aemond could face any man. 

No, what bothered Aemond…what he really feared about his grandfather, was the capabilities he had. Otto made himself powerful with his intellect, his silver tongue which he used primarily to manipulate and fear monger, especially when it came to weaker people. Otto could draw them to him, bring them close with his honeyed words and promises. For everything he ever said sounded like cold solid facts, he always sounded right, he was always correct in his own eyes and he’d use whatever twisted words and or lies to fit his own narrative. If he could scare you into believing his version of things, he would, and somehow it was always for your own good or for your protection . He had a network of spies and rats littered all throughout…he was like a plague, spread throughout everything. Poisonous, black and toxic, his webs reached every corner of The Keep and it all just led right back to him.

“Well…you summoned me, grandson. Am I to wait out here, or am I invited inside?” his grandfather remarked, his gravelly tone as cold and callous as always. He eyed Aemond closely, but this was not a staring match Aemond wished to start, so with a faint sigh, he stepped aside and bade Otto to enter. Closing the doors behind him, Aemond watched his grandfather carefully. The way he kept his posture, kept his hands clasped behind his back, eyeing the rooms just barely, before casually stepping into the common room. Otto headed towards the hearth where a low roaring fire resided inside of it. His dark grey attire was of course crisp and flawless, adorned with gold and silver embellishments. His grizzled copper hair was combed neatly back in his usual style, as was his greying beard. 

This man who was somehow a direct relative…stood in such stark contrast to Aemond.

For some reason…Aemond could always see his resemblance with his mother, faint as it was…but with his grandfather…he couldn’t help but wonder how he could be related to such a man. Otto eventually took a seat in one of the arm chairs facing the fire, cautiously so, Aemond followed suit. This all oddly reminded Aemond of the day he spoke with Daemon to secure Rhaena’s hand in marriage. Though what did it say about his grandfather, that Aemond had at least a much clearer idea of what to expect from his uncle…than he did here, now, in Otto’s presence. Daemon had a reason to be upset, his precious daughter had been ravished by certainly the one nephew he hated the most and for that Aemond knew Dark Sister would be drawn against him. 

But with Otto, he’d certainly reach to corrupt his mind with more truths of his own making. 

The overall neat room was still shrouded in darkness, only lit alight by a few lit candles and the roaring fire for there was no sunlight to illuminate the rest. Stepping behind the armchairs, Aemond aimed to make sure his grandfather was sat to his right, so his good eye could stay vigilant. 

And just like that, they sat in silence.

But Aemond could handle silence, he operated quite well in it most of the time. While his jaw may have begun to grind as he worked and reworked what he planned to say to the old man, for this conversation could not be like the one he had with Cole the night before. He could not simply just insult his grandfather and have him sent on his way. 

No he’d have to be calculated…remain calm, choose his words wisely…articulately. 

Well…he could try.

With a deep breath, Aemond broke the silence, “I know you have been plotting. Behind my father’s back, behind my mother’s back…behind mine…grandfather,” he did his best to keep his rage sounding cool and even like a steel blade, seeing how the direct approach would work best with Otto, that was what he chose to go with. If he danced around the subject, the old man would only dance around it with him, he’d vehemently deny everything and Aemond would’ve achieved nothing with this meeting. So he’d box his grandfather in with the truth, with the facts he knew to be certain. 

“And before you bother deny it, Cole has already informed me of it,” Aemond’s annoyance was beginning to seep into his tone, but even still he aimed to channel his growing rage into his hands gripping brutally into the arms of the chair he was seated in, “I know you still hope salvage an arrangement with the Baratheons, with Lady Floris Baratheon. You mean to sneak me away from here…send me to Storm’s End I’d presume. You still wish to push for a war…one that no one in this family wishes to have.”

It was taking literally everything in him to sit calmly, the heat building in his body threatened to explode just eyeing his grandfather closely. But he had seen the slightest break in Otto’s stoic expression. A crinkle by his wrinkling eyes, a dry smile growing wide, “very well, I shall not act ignorant to the obvious then. Aemond, you know your responsibility to this family, as the second son. It’s a fate I know well, for you may not be King, but you are a crown Prince, the true sword in this family…the fact that your mother seems content in the idea of letting you shirk your responsibilities is frankly shocking and ridiculous.”

Aemond’s jaw threatened to shatter with the pressure he’d added to it; of course, Otto still expected everyone to be in-line with his plan of placing Aegon on the Throne. Otto Hightower never actually saw his family when he looked upon his grandchildren, Aemond and his siblings. Not even when he looked upon his own daughter, all Otto ever saw were pawns. Pawns of which he would move about his personal chess board, to play the game , the game for the Iron Throne. A game Aemond no longer wanted any part of…none his siblings did in fact. Aemond knew his mother most certainly did not either, what she wanted was to protect her children, to side against Rhaenyra and Daemon now would only cast everyone in the line of fire. 

How could his grandfather not see this? How could he ignore the obvious so willingly? 

‘as the second son, you may not be King, but you are a crown Prince, the true sword’

But it seemed even now, Aemond the pawn …he was not fit to have something of his own in Otto’s eyes…no he existed merely to hoist his brother above him. In Otto’s eyes Aemond could only destroy, fight and kill…a brutal fact Aemond knew to be true, for he did excel at those things. But he wanted more, he could be more than just a warrior…just a sword…how was it that Rhaenyra of all people could see that…but his own grandfather could not. 

“If I did as you asked,” Aemond started, leveling his anger, “married Floris Baratheron for your alliance. And it would only be yours. What would I have for it, a dull frightened halfwit for a wife who married me solely out of fear and duty. Duty to her father…to her house. We’d hate one another, she’d treat me as if I were a monster, lying with her would feel like forcing myself onto an unwilling participant. We would not trust each other and she’d most certainly act behind my back…our family’s back for her own gains. But this is what you wish for, all for an alliance we do not need force in this way. You want us all to be as unhappy as possible. You had my mother seduce my father at such a young age…solely for your own benefits. You had my mother believe wedding Helaena to Aegon could ever be seen as a happy match, somehow. And now you wish to wed me to literally anyone but the one woman I want.”

Aemond’s gaze had hardened into a slicing glare, watching the way the deep orange fire light only highlighted Otto’s harsh lines, years of added stress from plotting and scheming and well executed machinations. Otto scratched at his greying copper beard, sighing as if Aemond’s words only pointed out inconsequential nitpicks rather than glaring issues, “my boy, this is the way of things. We are nobility, we marry for advantage, for political strategical gain, we do not have the luxury of marrying for love ,” 

Of course, his grandfather would gloss over the majority of what Aemond had said. Very well then, he’d just have to attack Otto where it hurt him most. 

“I thought you married for love,” Aemond bit off quite harshly, “or was that just a coincidence that came with your duty for certainly while my grandmother may have loved you, I’m sure you did not love her.” 

Or at least that was how his mother retold the stories from her youth. 

“You should be careful with such topics, dear grandson. For while you may be knowledgeable in other areas, you know nothing of this,” Otto’s voice ran ice cold, “love is not a necessity, it is a luxury. You may make your match with Lady Floris what you like, but it is a match that would serve you well. A dutiful quiet wife would suit you best. You say Lady Floris would speak ill behind your back, then you mold her into a wife who would know better than to do such things.”

“ Beat her , is what you're saying. Mold her in your image of what a wife should be, seen but not heard , is it?” Aemond swallowed tensely at the thought, he had no intention of beating a woman to fit an ideal…of beating women at all. The idea seemed barbaric and crass even for him, even for Otto to imply such a thing. 

There was a chuckle that came from his grandfather’s lips, but there was no mirth present, “you would get no such option with your Princess . She may fool the court, the Lords and Ladies playing right into her hands. But I see her as she is, no daughter of Daemon could truly be as prim and or proper . You’re blinded by beauty, Aemond. That’s through no fault of your own I suppose, a young man like yourself may be led by thinking with your cock and not your head. But you’re smarter than your elder brother, at least I thought you were. There are bigger things at play here, do what’s right. End this farce of an engagement and marry Lady Floris, have as many whores or concubines as you wish. But take your seat at Storm’s End, not here . You know I’m speaking sense, the Princess-”

“No,” Aemond finally cut him off tersely, his fingers ripping into the soft-lined fabric of the lounging chair, he’d heard enough, “your implications imply quite a lot, grandfather. But she was entirely chaste and pure until I took her as mine, Princess Rhaena encapsulates all that I need in a wife and more. She’s not a docile brainless creature, and I would not want her to be. I want an equal, a partner, someone whom I could care for who in turn cares for me. An intellectual who speaks her mind and prides herself on more than simply doing her duty . All of this she offers along with pure Valyrian blood, all qualities in which Lady Floris has none of.”

He could see his grandfather’s eyes squint darkly, primed to respond, but Aemond beat him to it, “I won’t be your sword. Not for Aegon and especially not for you. I don’t seek to mold my wife, not as you wish it. I do not seek to have dragonless spawn from a woman who fears and loathes me, I wouldn’t need a score a whores or concubines if I simply marry my intended today as planned. Which I fully intend to.”

At this point Aemond’s blood was boiling, he wished to curse and physically harm the man seated so close to him, but he knew restraint was the best way forward. If he flew into a rage now, he wasn’t sure he’d stop. There was an equally good chance he’d simply keep hitting the man who’d caused his family and most of all his mother so much pain, until there was nothing left. Down to a bloody pulp, finally finished and done with. 

Otto scoffed, pushing to his feet as he glared down at Aemond, the height in his elevated position was meant to show authority or maybe inspire fear…neither of which was felt by Aemond, “so you wish to be woefully blind then. To doom yourself, to doom this family…all of us! The realm included. You would marry into Daemon’s bloodline, father that man’s grandchildren. Dragonriders they may be, but you would be chained here. Prince of Dragonstone. You think of it as a prize!” He’d said it with pure disgust, as if Aemond was choosing oblivion. As if marrying into Daemon’s bloodline was suddenly taboo…as if he wasn’t already directly related to the man.

And then there was the fact that his grandfather could speak so lowly of Dragonstone, as if his seat here was the lowest of possible choices. It only proved what Aemond had already known…Otto didn’t understand what it meant to truly be a Targaryen. And he never would.

“So I should spit upon the title Prince of Dragonstone …as opposed to the de facto Lord of House Baratheon, hmm?” Aemond let a bitter chuckle rattle through him, “you who cares so much for rank and power, Lord Baratheon is beneath me. I do not want his house, his title, or his stormy castle. He already bends the knee to the royal House Targaryen, you only just wish for him to heel to your whims. This conversation will go nowhere, I will not marry his plain featured daughter for that worthless title, and certainly not for you.”

“This is it, then? This is where you choose to stand, you would betray me…your mother…your Hightower blood. You’d let Rhaenyra steal your brother’s birthright, let this castle here and your title fool you into believing that Rhaenyra cares for you. As if she suddenly cares to call you brother . You’d let her thrust her stepdaughter upon you as if she were a pure gift, given out of what, familial love? You are not that foolish,” Otto grunted, his raspy voice deepening with a clear snear growing on his face. 

But that was just it wasn’t it. 

Beneath all the venom, his vision was clear. 

‘You would betray me…your mother…your Hightower blood .’

This would never really be about true birthrights, it was never about his family or the good of the realm…it was simply about putting his own blood upon the throne. 

He’d said it himself…whether he meant to or not. Whether he thought Aemond would overlook the mention or not. 

Otto’s own selfish ambition had shone through all on its own. 

With that somewhat revelation, Aemond had grown tired of this conversation, rising to meet his grandfather face to face, he had a slight edge on the older man’s height now, “hear this now, grandfather. For I do not intend on repeating myself. My sister is the eldest, my father made her heir to the throne well before Aegon’s birth and he has never wavered on his choice, for more than twenty years now, no? Yet it seems you can’t accept that. You don’t really care for Aegon being King, all you care about is having your blood sit the Iron throne, don’t bother denying it, you’ve just said it. Though, worst of all, you do not want anyone competent on the throne, no, otherwise you would’ve backed me or Daeron. No…you need it to be Aegon, weighed down with years of being told he was inadequate, with a distinct lack of knowledge or cares, you need yourself the perfect puppet to continue ruling. For that is what you do, you’ve been ruling since Old King Jaehaerys…then you ruled through my father, and now you wish to rule through my brother. I can see you through your chess game, and I’m done being a pawn in it. Tell your minions it’s off, whatever plan you’ve enacted, I will play no willing part in. And if you had any notions of hurting or endangering my betrothed, know that I will see right through those actions and bring my wrath down upon both the perpetrators and you.” 

“Hmm, is that a threat, boy? This…this is your final decision?” Otto’s gaze did not waver, no fear or sense of recoiling seen on his face.

But Aemond would not cow, not now, instead he stepped even closer, “if you move against my family, my wife, my mother, my siblings and I mean any of them, that includes Rhaenyra herself, even my nephews…I will not hesitate to cut you down. Kin or not. I will not count you as my grandfather any longer, you will just be a threat …an enemy. This is my choice…that is my decision. Remember Vhagar is with me, not you,” levelling his eye with Otto’s, he made sure his voice had returned to that cool-steel levelled tone, harsh as a blade. 

Within the glint in Otto’s eyes, Aemond saw something…but he could not decipher exactly what. 

“Very well then,” was all Otto had said, with a curt bow, he turned on his heel and made for the chamber doors, “just know, that you have decided to side with the true enemy. Know that you have doomed this family and the kingdom at large, all for one woman.”

If that’s what the old man wished to believe, so long as he took Aemond’s threat seriously…because Aemond had meant every word.

-

This is a super long chapter, continue here...

[downwiththeficness]

The Guarantor-Chapter 31

Summary: Frankie went to work every day knowing that there would be an end. A deadline. Reconnecting with her adoptive father, Godric, throws that deadline into question. Teaming up with Godric’s child, Eric, obliterates it entirely. With an uncertain future ahead, Frankie has to learn if she can trust the people around her, let alone herself. Eric Northman/Bisexual!Fem!OC

Word Count: ~3,700

Warnings: Blood drinking, general strangeness

Taglist: @mousee555​

A/N: This fic is explicit for canon-compliant blood, gore, violence, and sex. As such, it is intended for an adult audience, only. Anyone under the age of 18 should not interact with this work. I do not consent to reposting this work to other platforms. Reblog only to Tumblr.

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Frankie sat in a towel on the edge of the hotel bed. Next to her was the outfit she’d picked out. At her feet sat a pair of heels. The whole flight to Jersey was spent rehearsing her lines, her argument. Eric was right, she would sit before the Council appointed mediator first. Masha already made her case, had filed the paperwork and written her statement.

Now, it was Frankie’s turn.

She knew what she was going to say, knew that she was going to show the mediator that Romero Vitaly was alive, knew that it nullified her obligation to Masha. Frankie was pretty confident that it would end the inquiry. She was less confident that Masha would let it go.

One thing at a time.

Standing, Frankie tugged off the towel and threw it down on the bed. She reached for her clothes, pulling each item on meticulously. She had to look absolutely perfect for the interview. As a human, she had less standing than her vampire accuser. Without Eric by her side, she’d probably end out drained in a back room and dumped someplace where the animals would do away with her remains.

Hands running down the violet sheath dress, Frankie made her way to the bathroom and applied make up. She pulled her hair up into a high ponytail and fluffed the strands. Staring at herself, Frankie hardly recognized the person looking back at her.

The circles under her eyes were less pronounced than they had been last Fall. She’d gained some weight, her bones no longer sticking out sharply from her neck and ribs. Frankie touched the soft swell of her belly, the curve of her hip to which the dress so lovingly clung.

She looked healthy—more healthy than she’d looked in a long time, if Frankie were being honest with herself.

Tapping off the lights, Frankie stepped out of the bathroom and made her way back to the bed. Before she reached it, the door to her room opened and Eric stepped through. He was dressed in his gray suit, the button up beneath matching the color of her dress.

“Is it time already?” Frankie asked.

Eric closed the door behind him, “Not yet.” Then, “You look nice.”

She smiled, feeling her cheeks warm, “Pam picked it out. I helped.”

He leaned down and kissed her softly, “Excellent choice.”

“Did Pam help you, too?” Frankie asked as she touched his shirt.

“A little,” Eric answered, laughter in his eyes.

He kissed her again, his hands resting comfortably on her hips. The kisses lingered, going from soft and sweet to deep and searching. Frankie held onto his lapel as he pulled her closer. Without her heels, the difference in their heights left her craning her head backwards to reach him.

When Eric started gathering the fabric of her dress into his hands, Frankie pulled away,  “We definitely don’t have time for that.”

He followed her movement, keeping her close, “There’s always time.”

“Nuh uh,” she chided, putting her hand firmly in the middle of his chest, “I want the mediator to side with me, and that’s less likely to happen if I’m late.”

“We don’t have a thing to worry about,” Eric pronounced confidently.

“And, how do you know that?”

“I just know,” he answered, with confidence, “like I know the sun is going to come up.”

Frankie rolled her eyes, but smiled all the same, “Of course you do.”

One side of his mouth kicked up in mischief, “You sound stressed.”

He swooped in and kissed her before Frankie could come up with an indignant reply. She smiled into it, charmed by his persistence and not the least bit surprised that he was once again trying to get under her dress.

Nimble fingers slipped right under the hem, dragged up her inner thigh, and slid over the seam of her slit. He rubbed gently, lips drifting down to her neck where he pressed them to the place where he usually took her blood. Against her better judgment, Frankie tilted her head to the side in offering.

Eric sighed, head lifting so that he could look down at her, “As much as I would love to drink from you, I don’t need questions from the Council about why my heart has suddenly decided to beat.”

Frankie laughed, nodding.

“How about I go down on you, instead?”

Surprised, Frankie’s laugh came out loud and sharp. She lifted up on her toes and kissed him soundly, “Rain check?”

Eyes narrow, his hand still sheltered intimately between her thighs, Eric replied, “Rain check.”

The Office of Mediation was located inside a concrete building with no windows. Frankie held the purse Pam made for her in front of her body as she waited for someone to answer the call button. She was flanked on either side by Eric and Godric. Their presence soothed the little twist of anxiety that was her constant companion.

The night was temperate, but a cool breeze signaled that Winter hadn’t quite taken its leave. Above, the moon shone bright and full, casting beams that gently touched here and there around her. On either side of the door stood two well manicured bushes, the buds just beginning to bloom.

A loud click and drag interrupted the silence. The door swung open and a short, thin man with shockingly white hair waved them forward.

“Thank you for coming,” he said, as if they’d been given a choice. “Please, come inside.”

Frankie followed Godric in, Eric at her back. The lobby was tasteful, corporate. Tiled floors. Soft colors. Unoffensive artwork. Magazines covered a low table that sat between several overstuffed chairs.

“I am Craig,” said the thin man. “I work for the Mediator.”

Frankie nodded in acknowledgment, but didn’t feel the need to introduce herself.

“We thank you for the opportunity to set this matter to rest,” Godric said, his voice low and formal.

Craig’s expression remained calm and neutral, “Please, take a seat. Francesca, if you will follow me.”

Eric took a step forward, “We hoped to sit in on this meeting.”

“That won’t be possible,” Craig replied.

Sensing that either Eric or Godric might insist, Frankie moved closer to Craig, “Its fine. Lead the way.”

She followed Craig down a short hallway to an office that was just as corporate as the lobby. The walls were painted a tasteful taupe. A couple non-descript artworks hung next to certificates. A large desk with neat stacks of paperwork filled the space. Behind it sat a woman with jet black hair and a welcoming smile. She was wearing a suit in a soft peach that was off set by the cerulean blouse beneath.

“Francesca,” she greeted as she offered her hand, “Its nice to meet you. I’m Ruby. I’ll be handling your mediation tonight.”

“Nice to meet you,” Frankie replied as she took Ruby’s hand.

Craig directed her to a comfortable chair nearby, his presence unobtrusive. She sat, dropping her purse near her feet. Ruby resumed her seat, cool blue eyes glancing at Craig as he took his place next to her desk. His hands hovered above the keyboard of a stenograph.

Ruby gave a little nod, then turned her attention to Frankie, “So, we’ve received a complaint from Masha Morozov, who I believe is your ex-girlfriend. Is that correct?”

Frankie tried not to fidget under Ruby’s direct stare, “Masha and I dated a few years ago.”

“And, you worked for her, as well?”

“For her father, Anton.”

“Doing what?”

Frankie paused, unsure how much she should say, or how much Ruby might know about what the family actually did.

Ruby noted Frankie’s hesitation, “This isn’t a legal proceeding. We are aware of the unconventional nature of Ms. Morozov’s business.”

Frankie nodded, but wasn’t willing to trust the Mediator enough that she’d admit to anything other than the bare minimum, “I ran a laundromat.”

Mouth opening a bit, Ruby almost smiled at Frankie’s response before she caught herself and said, “How did you come to work for Anton Morozov.?”

“I was notified by the family that I had been identified as the guarantor of a loan my biological father took.”

“When did that occur?”

“A little over five years ago.”

“Did you fulfill the terms of that contract?”

Again, Frankie paused, “I did, up until last Fall.”

“I see,” Ruby murmured, “Why did you end your employment?”

“Anton—Mr. Morozov—died.”

“He was killed.”

“That’s what I hear.”

Frankie watched Ruby’s face as she processed what Frankie said. The clicking of the keys slowed to a stop in the silence as Craig waited for someone to speak.

Ruby leaned forward on her elbows, “For the purposes of this mediation, the circumstances around Mr. Morozov’s death are irrelevant. I should inform you that the Council has questions that will be answered at a later date.”

Frankie held still, “Thank you for letting me know.”

“Okay,” Ruby relented, “Let’s get back to why we’re here.” She picked up one of the stacks on her desk, “I have a copy of the contract and have reviewed it. The language is clear—you are to fulfill the terms in the absence of...Romero Vitaly—this is your father.”

The keys began to clack again as she spoke.

“My biological father,” Frankie clarified.

Ruby hummed, setting the stack aside, “What do you have to say about this?”

Spurred into action, Frankie picked up her purse and reached inside. She pulled out the large envelope with all the evidence that had been gathered for this specific purpose. Opening the envelope, Frankie removed the paperwork along with a smaller, thicker envelope. All of this, she slid across the desk to Ruby.

“Romero Vitaly isn’t dead,” she asserted, “He’s living and working at this address.” Frankie pointed to where she’d printed off the public records. “Masha can’t enforce the contract with me if the primary signator is still alive.”

Ruby took her time reviewing the information. She went page by page, line by line. Then, she opened the smaller envelope and flipped through the pictures. When she’d learned all she needed to know, Ruby set it all aside.

“This certainly seems to clear up the matter.”

Frankie blinked, surprised at how easily she’d convinced Ruby to side with her.

“I will provide this information to Ms. Morozov,” Ruby continued, “If there are any further questions, we will be in touch.”

Skeptical, Frankie blurted, “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“Okay.”

Ruby stood, and Frankie followed suit, taking Ruby’s hand again, “Thank you for coming in. Craig will see you out.”

Frankie smiled, and pulled her purse onto her shoulder. Craig led her back to the lobby. As she passed through the threshold, Eric and Godric stood. Godric’s arms lifted a few inches before he could check the movement. Eric was assessing every detail of her body, eyes moving meticulously from head to foot.

“I believe we have what we need,” Craig announced.

“And the decision of the mediator?” Eric hedged.

“That’s not for me to say.”

“Of course,” Godric replied, “We will wait for the official proclamation.”

The sound of movement came from the other side of the room, a doorway opening and closing. Frankie turned to find an elegantly dressed woman standing just inside the lobby. She was wearing a dark cloak that trailed behind her. Beneath it, a dress that sparkled red.

“Its time for us to be going,” Eric said, with urgency, “Thank you for your time.”

Frankie was ushered out of the building with only the most superficial farewells from the people around her. She was out in the night air before her brain could catch up with the fact that she’d moved at all. Frankie stumbled on her heels, caught in Eric’s grip as he walked her firmly to the car.

“In,” he commanded, almost throwing her into the back seat.

Frankie scrambled to right herself, confused and angry at the rough treatment, “The fuck?”

Godric and Eric were seated in the passenger and driver’s seat, respectively, the engine roaring to life.

“Is somebody going to tell me what just happened?”

Godric turned around in his seat, “Maeve arrive ahead of schedule.”

“Who the fuck is Maeve?”

“A Council member,” Godric answered, “She has no affection for humans.”

“She keeps a supply in a medically induced coma,” Eric added, “Drains them slowly for years.”

That was...horrifying.

“Oh,” Frankie muttered lamely. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” Godric replied. He turned back towards the front of the car, pointing, “Take this exit.”

Eric glanced at his Maker in question, but followed the directive. Godric ordered a few more twists and turns, the city slowly draining away until they were in deep country on a two lane road.

“Where are we going?” Frankie asked, not recognizing anything around her.

“A place I haven’t been to in a very long time,” was Godric’s only answer.

Frankie eyed the back of his head, too hesitant to ask more questions. Soon enough, they came to the literal end of the road, where the asphalt just...stopped. Eric parked the car, and all three of them got out. Godric started walking, his stride confident. Frankie cut a look at Eric, who squinted into the darkness. He shifted his weight, took her hand, and pulled her along after him.

“Do you know this place?” Frankie asked in a low voice.

“No.”

Eric followed his Maker wordlessly, guiding Frankie through grass that grew taller and taller. She was glad for the light of the moon. With it, she had the occasional stumble—without it, she would have definitely broken an ankle.

They walked for a long time, Godric’s pace almost meandering through the fields. In the distance, a rock face rose up to meet them. The craggy surface was almost white, reflecting shadow and stone in haphazard patterns.

Godric found a crack through which he could slide his body. Eric watched Godric disappear, studying the opening for a moment before loosing her hand. He shimmied into the darkened space, moving into shadow. Frankie hesitated briefly, before moving to do the same.

The passage felt endless, what little light there was fading quickly as Frankie moved further and further into it. Only the sound of fabric scraping against stone kept her working her way forward. The narrowness opened up slowly, until she was able to turn and walk normally. Frankie’s hands remained on the rock, keeping her grounded in spite of her blindness.

Light filtered in, and Frankie began to make out Eric’s tall form moving ahead of her. She looked up, amazed by the sight of the moon shining heavily through a huge opening. It wasn’t until Godric delicately coughed that she realized she’d been staring at it like an idiot for far too long.

Frankie was standing in a large, roughly hewn room. All over the walls were primitive drawings sketched in reds and browns. To Frankie’s left, a large group of people encircled a huddle of three. She touched it lightly, following the drawings as they detailed the smaller group overcoming the larger.

“What is this?” Frankie asked, looking over her shoulder at Godric.

“This,” Godric proclaimed, “is my earliest memory.”

She stared at him, waiting for more.

“I don’t know if I was born,” he continued, “I only know that I woke one night in this room. Right here, in fact.”

He pointed down to a floor that was scarred by age. Frankie peered at the carved image, a circle slashed with rays pointing outwards.

A sun.

She knelt, touching it gently, as if the contact would burn her fingers. This was the ground from which Godric came, the clay from which he was molded. Frankie looked up at him in wonder.

Godric’s expression was wistful, “There were three of us, in the beginning. We lived for countless years hunting and playing and...but the humans began to evolve while we remained the same. They grew bold, learned how to trick us, learned that we feared the sun. Too soon, there was only me.” His eyes lifted to the moon, “It was decades before I realized that we spawned children.”

Frankie rose, looking towards Eric. His eyes were shining a vivid blue in the shadows that hung around his shoulders. He was looking at his Maker as if he was seeing him for the first time.

“I cared for the few who would let me, but I never found a Child I could call my equal,” Godric admitted, “I needed another of my kind, another who could keep me company throughout a long eternity.” He turned his attention to his son, “I waited until I found you.”

A wordless conversation moved in the air between them, the moment intimate and touched with sadness. Frankie swallowed down a lump in her throat.

Godric’s gaze dropped again to the carved sun, “Time is relentless. Sometimes I think its all I have—that, and my memories.”

Frankie stood, incensed, “You have us.”

“And your other children,” Eric added, “And grandchildren.”

Godric smiled fondly, “I love you all. So much.”

Eyes narrowed, Frankie asked the question that sat like lead on her tongue, “Is this where you’re going to do it? Is this...it?”

For one heart shattering moment, she thought he might nod and agree. She thought he might tell her that this was his last night with them.

To her great relief, Godric shook his head, “Not tonight.” He paused briefly, then, “But, soon.”

Soon.

“Why did you bring us here?” Frankie cried, her face scrunching in despair.

Godric’s mouth opened, but he didn’t say anything, which fueled Frankie’s roiling emotions. She bit at her lips, not sure if she wanted to scream or to cry.

“Answer her question,” Eric said, his tone low, but firm.

Godric looked between the two of them, his eyes wide and guileless, “This is where I come from. This is the bedrock of who I am.”

Mouth curling, Frankie spat, “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“You’re right,” Godric said, “An explanation won’t be enough. I’ll have to show you.”

Exasperated, Frankie looked at Eric, who was openly glaring. She was not the only one frustrated with their father.

Leaning down, Godric dug his fingers into the carved circle. Legs pushing against gravity, he lifted what turned out to be a stone slab. Carefully, he rotated it, revealing an opening beneath.

Curious enough to set her anger aside for a moment, Frankie stepped around him to look down into the hole. Eric appeared in her periphery, following the path of her gaze. Beneath the unimaginably heavy stone was something that looked vaguely liquid. Its surface shimmered faintly in the moonlight. Frankie looked closer, unable to make out what it might be made of.

Godric dropped to his knees, reaching down. When he drew his hand back, it was covered in blood. Frankie jerked back, Eric’s fangs extended.

“They say you humans crawled out from the ocean,” Godric murmured, “This is what I crawled out of.”

Torn between curiosity and disgust, Frankie decided that she wasn’t smart enough to understand what the fuck was going on—she kept her mouth shut so that she didn’t prove that fact to the two vampires in the room.

Hand dipping down, Godric scooped a bit of the blood into his palm, “Here.”

Without hesitation, Eric fell to his knees and took the offering from Godric’s hand. He slurped noisily, thick red running down his chin. His chest rumbled with a harsh growl, his eyes rolling back. Frankie watched in horror as he fell to the side, unconscious.

What the fuck…

With something like fear holding her absolutely still, she looked to her father, “Is he gonna be alright?”

Godric smiled, “He will be fine.” He gathered another mouthful into his hand, “Your turn.”

“Uh,” Frankie squeaked, “I don’t know if that’s a good idea. I mean, Eric’s out cold and he’s a lot stronger than me.”

Godric’s expression was sympathetic, “You are stronger than you think. Here.”

Later, Frankie would wonder why she did it, but she leaned forward and drank from his hands. It didn’t taste like blood—it didn’t taste like anything, really. But, the effect was almost instant.

Frankie hit the floor.

She woke an indeterminate time later, the moon no longer hanging above. The stars were still shining—shining. Pinpoints glowed so brightly that Frankie could see the individual rays of light as they passed through the air. She could feel the turn of the earth on its off center axis. The tectonic plate below rumbled as it scraped against its sibling, pushing mountains high and driving rock deep into the core until it melted into magma.

Rolling to her side, Frankie spied Eric sitting against the stone wall of the room. He met her gaze, holding it for several seconds before he began to crawl towards her. Frankie didn’t have the energy to sit up. She blinked lazily at him as he neared, stunned by how his body glowed under the starlight.

The touch of his fingers against her cheek was like being struck by lightning. Her whole body jerked wide awake with a soft mewl. Frankie grabbed at his wrist, overwhelmed. Eric smiled softly, his eyes tracing down her neck and chest, focusing where her heart was beating wildly.

He laid down beside her, resting his ear against her body. His arms snaked around her, holding her close while he listened. Frankie relaxed into his embrace, caressing the loose strands of his hair.

“Where is Godric?” she asked, when she found her voice.

Sloshing blood answered her question. Frankie turned her head to the side, watching as first one, then two, arms shot out from the pit. Godric hoisted himself up and out of it, blood red and dripping.

He got to his feet, gazing at his children, “The sun is coming. We should go.”

The trek back to the car was strange. Frankie kept getting distracted by the stars, and Eric seemed to freeze at intermittent intervals, his eyes staring blindly. Godric, covered in drying blood, nudged them along, ever patient.

When they reached the car, Godric fetched the keys from Eric’s pocket and helped each of them into the back seat. Frankie spent the entire ride back to the hotel tangled up in Eric’s long limbs, watching the night sky shimmer through the windows.

[safarigirlsp]

Favorites of 2022

I saw this floating around and thought I’d list my favorite movies I watched and books I read in 2022, and see how they stack up against my friends! Anyone else feel free to join in!

Favorite Movies I Watched in 2022:

Nightmare Alley

Death on the Nile

Northman

Bullet Train

Violet Night

Persuasion

Glass Onion

Not new releases but new to me: House on Haunted Hill, Diary of a Madman, House of the Seven Gables, Charade.

Favorite Books I Read in 2022:

Triumph of the Sun - Wilbur Smith

King of Kings - Wilbur Smith

Cabinet of Curiosities - Douglas Preston & Lincoln Child

The Descent - Jeff Long

A Time to Die - Wilbur Smith

Cry Wolf - Wilbur Smith

Hungry as the Sea - Wilbur Smith

The Reef -Nora Roberts

Disclosure - Michael Crichton

Crimson Shore - Douglas Preston & Lincoln Child

Also listed was a fic category, but I haven’t read any fics this year other than those written by my friends. And as for those, there’s too many favorites to list! I can’t wait for more Jacques, Flip, Kylo, and Mills to come!

Releases I’m most excited about in 2023:

Movies:

65

John Wick 4

Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny

Pale Blue Eye

Nosferatu

Renfield

Mission Impossible Dead Reckoning

Mad Max The Wasteland

Three Musketeers Milady

Cocaine Bear

Books:

Cabinet of Dr. Leng - Douglas Preston & Lincoln Child

Courtney series by Wilbur Smith (These aren’t new releases, but I’m going to binge the entire 20+ book series in order this year and I’m excited for it!)

Hector Cross series by Wilbur Smith (Same but it’s only 3 books lol)

@in-silks-and-flesh-and-leather @babbushka @young-frankenstein @mrs-gucci @gabesprincess @queeniebee @lumberjack00fantasies @zacksnydered

[thegayhimbo]

You have the power to change the final season of one show (could be you're favourite, could be one you just enjoyed watching) what show is it and how would you change the end? Feel free to give as much or a little detail as you want.

True Blood is the first show that came to mind the moment you asked this question! :)

I know there are a lot of shows out there that are better than True Blood, and there are certainly worse final seasons (looking at Castle and House of Cards), but season 7 of True Blood was personally offensive to me. The quality of the last few seasons will always be up for debate (though I personally liked seasons 4-6), but there was a way the final season could have salvaged the show so that people would want to come back and rewatch. There was even an opportunity to upstage the end of Dead Ever After (which was an awful book with a lousy ending) and give fans a more satisfying conclusion. Sadly, they couldn't even do that.

This probably goes without saying, but I'll put it in as a courtesy: SPOILERS AHEAD!!!!

Here's what I would have done for season 7 of True Blood:

1.) Sookie either would end up with Eric, or go single.

I'm not a Sooric shipper, and I've never been emotionally invested in this relationship, but I do get why it appeals to people, and it certainly deserved more sceen-time than it got. Out of all of Sookie's potential love interests, Eric was the better option, and the romance between them was at least honest and open compared to some of her other relationships. There was a lot more that could have been explored here.

The other option is Sookie could have gone single. I never understand why people think the only way you can ever be happy in life is only if you're in a romantic relationship. Considering how much of a mess Sookie's love life was, I don't think it would have been detrimental to her to take time away from romance and find other things in her life that she enjoyed doing.

2.) Tara would have gotten a happy ending.

To this day, I am still angry about what happened to Tara in season 7. She got put through horrific experience after horrific experience where she was repeatedly traumatized, only to get unceremoniously killed off and used as a plot device to absolve her abusive mother for being an awful person. Not only was it disrespectful to Tara's character, it was a slap in the face to fans who cared about Tara and wanted better for her.

What's infuriating is that Brian Buckner (who ran the show between seasons 6-7) stated in interviews that the reason Tara died is because he didn't know what else to explore beyond her relationship with Lettie Mae.

There were plenty of stories left to write for Tara's character: Her romance with Pam. Her friendship with Jessica and Willa. Tara repairing her relationship with Sookie and Jason. Her reconnecting with Lafayette. Tara embracing her vampire nature and finally finding happiness. There were half-a-dozen arcs they could have gone with, and instead they did this. It really demonstrates the lack of care the writers had for the characters by this point, which is depressing.

3.) Bill finally facing consequences for his vile actions.

One of the aspects True Blood that infuriates is how much the writers kept trying to pretend Bill was a sympathetic character no matter how many times he screwed people over for petty and selfish reasons, or how much collateral damage he raked up, or how many instances he back-stabbed and betrayed others, or how abusive his behavior became, or how vile his crimes were (some of which included rape and human trafficking of all things), or how unlikable he became with each passing season. He is the definition of a Karma Houdini: A character who repeatedly commits wrongdoings and somehow gets away with no comeuppance for his actions.

There are a lot of awful things Bill did over the course of the show, but the breaking point for me was the whole Billith arc in seasons 5-6 and what came afterwards. Bill spent an entire season trying to start a war between vampires and humans, and to that end, he:

Ordered the bombing of the True Blood factories as Chancellor in the Authority to force mainstreamers to feed on humans. It's even stated this got people at the factories killed.

Sanctioned and participated in a human trafficking ring where humans were brought to them naked so they could be fed on, raped, and disposed of.

Ordered vampire sheriffs (and other vampires) to turn as many humans as they could.

Attempted to force the Sanguinista doctrine upon all vampires, regardless of whether or not they wanted it.

Back-stabbed Eric when he was trying to escape with Nora and Molly, and later had Molly executed and showed no remorse for it.

Did nothing to stop Russell and Steve from going after Sookie to harvest her.

Bullied Jessica into trying to turn Jason into a vampire against his will, and later hitting Jessica and imprisoning her when she defied him.

Tried to murder Sam in cold-blood when he accidentally saw what was going on, and sent the Authority guards on Sam, Emma, and Luna (which indirectly resulted in Luna's death).

I could go on........but do I really have to? My point is he committed crimes that should have landed him in jail, or resulted in the FBI showing up to his house with silver handcuffs.................and nothing came of it.

Instead, he wrote a book where he profited off his crimes, told everyone he had been a God (even though he previously told people he wasn't), weaseled his way back into Sookie's pants despite having used and abused her, and was treated like a hero by the narration.

When I think of what should have happened to Bill, I recall shows like Bojack Horseman and Breaking Bad where the main characters for those shows were taken to task for every awful thing they did. Every excuse they had dismantled. Every lie they ever told uncovered. Every measly justification they used for their actions stomped out. People washing their hands of them and refusing to forgive them for the damage they caused. Those characters being forced to face the cold-hard reality that they are awful people, and that they destroyed their lives (and the lives of others) through their own selfishness.

That is the ending Bill should have gotten. Not some half-assed redemption arc where the worst of his sins were whitewashed and brushed under the rug.

4.) No Violet.

There was no reason for Violet to be on this show. Not only was she creepy and unpleasant, but her entire character was basically a plot device to cause problems for Jason and Jessica. They had no intention of having Jason end up with Violet by the end of the show, so her existence was pointless. Even Violet killing Maxine is something that could have easily been done by another vampire.

I know people (rightfully) consider Crystal to be the worst girlfriend Jason ever had, but Violet also ranks high up there. Season 7 exploited some ugly double-standards regarding "female-on-male abuse" with the way Violet's relationship with Jason was portrayed. It reminds me of Bolin and Eska's relationship in Legend of Korra, except much worse. The fact Jason expressed multiple times that he was scared of Violet and was never taken seriously until too late (to say nothing about how parts of this fandom victim-blame Jason for Violet's behavior) still makes me angry. It's bad enough there are people in this society who don't think women can be abusive to men, and it doesn't help when shows like True Blood perpetrate that kind of mentality.

5.) Jessica would have gone to explore the world.....

I've said this before, but Jessica worked better as a character when she was learning the ups and downs of being a newborn vampire. Her character development from sheltered abused teenager to an empowered woman who took responsibility for her vampire nature was a compelling arc. A fitting end for Jessica would have been her striking out on her own. She could even have taken Willa and Tara with her. I still remember the speech she gave Tara in season 5 when talking about the positives of being a vampire, and I wish the show had followed through on that instead of shoving Jessica back into a relationship with Hoyt. Speaking of which.....

6.) Hoyt should've stayed in Alaska.

Hoyt's storyline played itself out well before season 7 happened. He barely had anything to do with the main story (to the point you could cut him from the show and it would have little to no impact), and his relationship with Jessica has aged like spoiled milk. I loathe how Jessica got turned into a prize for Hoyt, and how the worst of Hoyt's behavior (which included joining a Hate Group, debating about whether or not to murder Jessica when she was tied up, and later being a douchebag to Brigette during their relationship) was glossed over.

Unless they were going to give Hoyt some much-needed character development (which they didn't), there was no reason for him to return. Jessica deserved better than him.

7.) No Hep-V arc.

If I ever decide to review season 7, I will list off all the plot-holes, inconsistencies, and nonsensical decisions that were made with this arc.

Long story short: It was poorly written, and it required turning most of the characters into idiots.

If they really needed a potential Big Bad for the final season, then I wish they had stuck with Billith. As much as I despise Bill, there was the possibility of a good arc here, with Bill becoming the reincarnation of Lilith, gathering vampire followers to enslave humanity, and the rest of the characters having to find a way to stop him. They already had Bill go off the deep end in season 5. They might as well have followed through on that instead of chickening out and pretending Bill had good intentions when he didn't.

8.) Eric and Pam becoming proper makers to Willa and Tara.

I have issues with Eric abandoning Willa at the end of season 6. Not only was it a dick move, it was wildly out-of-character. This is the same guy who once told Pam he took being a maker seriously, and wasn't the kind of person who would turn someone and then leave them to fend for themselves ("Would you toss a newborn baby into the gutter? Abandoning a new vampire is no different"). Yet the show conveniently forgot about that when they had Eric turn Willa to use her against her father, and then ditched her for 6 months (something Willa was rightfully pissed at him about).

Same thing goes for Pam. They spent two seasons building up a romance between her and Tara, only to throw it in the garbage because God forbid Pam have a story that isn't completely centered around Eric.

There was a potential arc here of all 4 of these characters (Eric, Pam, Willa, and Tara) becoming a vampire family, and not only did the show squandered that, it managed to make Eric and Pam look like shitty makers in the process.

9.) Other things I would have changed:

This goes back to season 6, but I would have kept Luna alive and have her end up with Sam instead of Nicole. Nicole would have never been on this show. She was not needed.

Same goes for Terry and Arlene. Killing Terry off was a huge mistake.

Still would have kept Lafayette and James together.

I don't mind that Brigette ended up with Jason, but I wish the show had introduced her earlier (and NOT as Hoyt's girlfriend) and built up that relationship organically instead of rushing it in the final two episodes.

Andy and Holly would have had the wedding at the end of the series instead of Jessica and Hoyt. They've been establishing that relationship since season 4, they had Andy propose to Holly in season 7, and it deserved a good pay off.

Niall would have come back to bond more with Jason and Sookie as their faerie godfather.

Lettie Mae's arc would have been cut from the last season.

Sarah Newlin would either have been killed off or gone to prison.

I know I'm probably the only person who cares about this, but I would have explored what happened to vampire society after the Authority was destroyed. What would it mean for the monarchs and the average vampire citizens?

Thank you again for the ask! :)

[tillman]

i <3 tonsillitis 

[skarsgard-daydreams]

Imagine that you've just started dating Eric Northman and Valentine's day is coming up. He doesn't understand contemporary holidays beyond an opportunity to raise the bar markup at Fangtasia. In his lifetime, holidays were times when the world stood upon a precipice and a sacrifice was required to appease the gods. So when you ask him what you two should do for Valentine's day, he is dismissive. You lay your head on his bare chest and pretend that your heartbeat is his own.

"You're supposed to spoil me," you tell him.

Eric lifts a brow. "Am I?"

"Yes."

"You look pretty spoiled to me," he says, tracing his fingertips over the gold necklace around your throat. He's not wrong. Though you still have an apartment in Shreveport, most of your belongings have gradually migrated to the master bedroom of Eric's mansion on the outskirts of town. He prefers the security of sleeping below ground, so the bedroom itself was mostly ornamental when you arrived. Now its closets are overstuffed with clothes and shoes and jewelry selected by Pam and paid for by Eric, and the furnishings have all been reupholstered in a deep, regal violet—your favorite color. It may as well be called the mistress' bedroom, he often tells you.

"Whose fault is that?" you purr, lifting your head up to kiss his throat as he tangles his fingers in your hair. He tilts your chin up and captures your mouth with his, kissing you with a tenderness he hides from everyone else.

"You can have anything you want, pet," he murmurs against your lips. "Just say the word."

"You, Eric," you breathe. "All I want is you."

Eric traces the curve of your cheek with the back of his fingers. The candlelight dances in the irises of his eyes, and for a moment, he looks human.

"I can't give you something that's already yours."

[of-thieves]

Deciding the best story to tell to Heimdall took a bit of a moment. Hermes thought of many different ones he could tell. There were so many stories of victory and pride that any northman would love to hear. Stories of brave heroes completing epic journeys, or of fair maidens and handsome princes that would make any man envious. He settled on sharing a fable. He was quite good at telling them, they weren't much unlike poems.

Looking down at Heimdall, who was now leaned against the boulder, revealed an equally gorgeous sight. The sun shone on his bright skin and hair, making him look so ethereal. The reflection in the violet eyes that looked back at him made Hermes' heart skip a beat. He could not help but smile at how cute the Aesir god looked this way.

"Do you know the fable of the Hare and the Hawk?" The greek crossed his legs and asked the other, "A rhetorical. You haven't, I know you haven't. Let me tell you then."

Hermes inhaled sharp, exhaled deep, and again wrapped his lips around the reeds. He began to play a beautiful melody on the panpipes, the music filling the shore with a calming, peaceful atmosphere.

"There once was a mischievous Hare who loved to play pranks on the other hard-working animals in the forest. The Hare was carefree and lived only to have as much fun as she possibly could. She saw little point in the other creatures within the forest devoting their entire life to unforgiving labour, and pleased herself by messing about and making the rest of the forest's work difficult."

As Hermes told the tale, he told it with his entire body- speaking proudly with his hands and exaggerating words. He did all he could to make the story lively as he always did when putting on any show. Between every few sentences he would blow into his instrument a quick and gentle tune that was just loud enough to echo through the open area. He watched as Gulltoppr lay comfortably just a few steps away, head resting on it's paws, drifting further into a peaceful sleep with each whistle of the pipes.

"The Hawk, who sat perched above the highest tree with the grandest view, was responsible for watching over the forest. Despite knowing the fact that the Hawk could easily punish her, the mischievous Hare would always tease and prank him much like she did the other animals. The Hawk however was determined, focused, and never had any time for play. He was always scolding the Hare for her irresponsible behavior and getting in the way of other creatures.

One day, the Hare decided she had enough of the Hawk's scolding, and she decided to give up her carefree ways and behave properly the way she had been told to. But, quickly thereafter, the Hawk became worried, as he realized he had come to enjoy the Hare's antics. Now that the emotion within the Hawk's forest, and in turn himself, was naught but insipid. He feared his life would become boring without the Hare to bring joy to his tedious responsibility.

The Hawk then approached the Hare and spoke kindly, “My friend, I was wrong to tell you that what I did. You have brought to my life and to these woods a joy that is needed, and I have now seen that without it my life would indeed be much less interesting."

The Hare smiled and decided to keep being mischievous, and the Hawk was delighted. The Hare and he then continued to watch over the forest together, ensuring that work and play was balanced between all living things. The Hawk was thankful for the Hare's mischievous pranks as they kept his labourous life from once again becoming too dull."

That charm that he spoke of was the reason everyone hated the Aesir god and, while he would have spoken up against it and argued his point, Heimdall is quiet. That softness in Hermes' voice... he hasn't had anyone speak to him so softly since he was a child. His mothers often spoke to him in hushed, gentle voices and it brought him immense comfort... just as it was doing now. Any defensiveness he had coming here was gone and he was focused entirely on Hermes and his words.

Heimdall watches as the Olympian removes his boots, watches as he removes the instrument from beneath his clothing and for a moment does nothing in response. He never took the time to do so before, but Hermes made quite the figure, didn't he? Perhaps it was the light shining on him at just the right angle, or the water that provided an excellent accent to the entire picture, but Heimdall was stricken by him. He takes a moment longer to watch before joining Hermes, deciding to sit next to the boulder, using it as a surface to lean against while he listened to the messenger.

"I..." Given so many different topics to pick from, Heimdall found himself trying way too hard to pick one. Perhaps it was because part of him wanted to pick something impressive to Hermes... but what? "Surprise me." he finally answers, looking up at Hermes with a twinkle in his eyes. "I'm sure you have plenty of stories and the like to tell... I'd like to hear them." All of them, if he had his way. Hermes was an exotic gem in the dullness that was Asgard. Not that Heimdall hated his realm- he loved it with all of his heart! But Hermes wasn't from Asgard. He smelled different, spoke different, and acted different and it was a refreshing change from the normalcy of his life.

"What kind of story do you want to tell, Hermes? I would hear it."

[fierypen37]

A Work of Art

A Work of Art

If you had seen Daenerys Targaryen that day, you would have done the same thing as me. Hands down, guaran-fucking-teed. After all, you had been halfway stalking her since she arrived at Westeros University, Winterfell campus. You noticed the sketch pads tucked under her arm. The folding easel stuffed into a ridiculously huge bag for such a small person. The ink-stained fingertips. The messy silver braid. The shadows of sleepless nights under her eyes. All hallmarks of a harried, sleep-deprived art student. Your paths would ‘accidentally’ cross on your way to the political science building. You, at twenty-four, are still chipping away at those worthless prerequisites in pursuit of something tangible. Law degree, maybe? Engineering? Your uncle pushes for a military enlistment, but you know your mother would flip shit.

Daenerys always has a smile for you when you stop to chat. Today she shows you your favorite one: the one that crinkles her violet eyes nearly shut. Daenerys—you have learned—is fire made flesh. More than that, she’s the sun. Benevolent, warm, a blessing in the lonely tundra of your life. She shifts her easel-thingy into a more comfortable position on her shoulder. You offer to carry it. She deflects, and you cherish that shine in her eyes. Maybe she likes you. You insist, eager to spend another few seconds soaking up her warmth. You’ll be late to your anthropology class, but Professor Mel—yes, she insists you call her that—has taken an odd interest in you.

Daenerys leads you into the art building, a tan building showing its age in the cracked linoleum, faux wood paneling, and screechy heater battling the early freeze. Her happy chatter washes over you. You pay attention of course, but a few strands of her silver hair are dancing free of her braid, tickling the edge of her jaw. You wonder if it feels as silky as it looks. You’re distracted. That’s why her crestfallen expression startles you. Had you been daydreaming through a question?

“What was that?” you ask, as if you’re a genial old man who’s hearing is starting to go.

“I said it’s a shame our model quit. I was just starting to get my proportions down.”

“Model?” you repeat, stupidly. A rosy flush brightens her cheeks.

“The um . . . anatomy model,” Daenerys says, her blush deepening, “Loras. He said it was too godsdamned cold to be naked in a warehouse in this weather.” You glance outside, see the wind goading a few tattered brown leaves across the quad. The clouds promise snow. The words emerge from somewhere deep in your chest: “I’ll do it. I’m a northman after all. This weather’s nothing.”  Daenerys’ eyes widened. Gods, how had you not noticed the flecks of blue and gold in the violet iris?

“Really?” she asks. You clear your throat, battling a strange mix of excitement and panic to keep your voice even: “Yeah, I’ll do it. I could use a couple dragons.” Casual. Gods, you’re such a fucking idiot. And you are actually me. Jon Snow. Or as you may know me now: the new model. The new nude model.

~

A private deal would have been better. Offer up your services as a model to help her out. You care about how her classes are going. You really do. Pose. Flex. Show her the goods. But then, in hindsight, how in the seven hells are you supposed to be naked around her and not . . . you know? For all the gallantry and the way Daenerys makes your chest go all gooey, you absolutely 110% want to fuck her. She is the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen, inside and out. Getting hard would be inevitable. And if that happened and she didn’t reciprocate your romantic feelings? Gods. You would just have to jump off a bridge to escape the embarrassment. You shudder, tightening the sash of the robe. Meager protection in the creeping chill of the hallway. Cold seeped up through the soles of your feet. Yeah, a private deal would maybe have been better. But what the fuck did you do, Jon Snow? You—you fucking idiot—decided to volunteer to be a model for a half-dozen coeds. Seven hells.

“Are you ready, Mr. Snow?” the art teacher, Mrs. Arryn says. A soft dowager-type whose blue eyes watch you from behind thick glasses.

“As I’ll ever be,” you say, with a nervous chuckle. Mrs. Arryn shares the moment of levity.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Snow. My students are more likely to sob over their shading or the shape of hands they draw than ogle your . . . ah, assets.” That makes me feel a bit better. You pad barefoot into the classroom. Your predecessor hadn’t really exaggerated. The space is large, echoey. Upper windows let in the dying sunlight. The air is cold despite the glare of the overhead lights and the ineffectual heater. Easels and stools are arranged in a ring around your throne. Not really a throne, a square stuffed chair draped in burgundy canvas. Your mouth is dry as cotton. You want to look for Daenerys among the watching students. But you keep your gaze straight ahead. The chair.  

“Take a seat, Mr. Snow. Class, this our model Jon Snow,” Mrs. Arryn says. You undo the robe and drop it with as much nonchalance you can muster. The air swirls around. You feel absurdly vulnerable. You look to Mrs. Arryn.

“Sit in a way that feels natural, Mr. Snow,” Mrs. Arryn says, cool, unperturbed. You sit, uncomfortably aware of your naked bits swinging in the breeze. This is the stupidest fucking thing you’ve ever done in your life. The canvas is scratchy. You sit as you normally would, leaned back, knees open. You think better of it, shift forward and drape your forearms on your knees. You lick your lips, trying to calm the ridiculous triphammer beat of your heart. Daenerys is sitting somewhere beyond the glaring lights. Looking at you. It’s somehow more vulnerable than sex. To be put on display like that.  

“Excellent, Mr. Snow. Class, you may begin.”

Relax. Breathe. Nonchalant. Casual.  You breathe, in and out. In and out. The music of scratching pens on paper fill the echoey room. Not pens, charcoal. Daenerys says besides acrylics, that’s the most fun. Blending to create smooth shapes and deep dark shadows. You love peeking at her sketches when she lets you. Gods, she’s so talented. How could she perfectly tack down the feathery feel of snow with a black stick? You peek around, furtively. You find her, third one from your right, hunched before her easel. The look on her face isn’t one you usually see. Focused. Intense. All of her smiling good nature whetted to a keen edge and aimed at you. It’s probably shameful how sexy you find it. No no no no. No sexy thoughts. Not when you’re starkers on a thrift store chair.

“Tilt your head to the left, Mr. Snow. Relax your shoulders,” Mrs. Arryn instructs. The angle removes Daenerys from view, which sucks. But it does make it easier to just sit. As the minutes tick by, you find yourself relaxing. It’s like meditating almost. Letting your thoughts float away.

When Mrs. Arryn calls the end of class, you stand up, stretch. Most of the other students quickly pack up. One, a lanky buxom blonde, gives you an appreciative side-eye. Best to make your intention clear. You give her a polite nod, then step down from the platform to talk to Daenerys.  

Daenerys lingers, along with a Summer Islander girl—Daenerys’ roommate Missandei—who you greet with a murmured ‘hello.’ The two of you share a history (humanities?) class, and Missandei quickly deduces you are head over ass hung up on Daenerys. She also takes pity on you and tells you Daenerys is in the ‘off-again’ stage with a disease of an ex-boyfriend Daario. The look in her golden eyes now is somewhere between smug and amused. You want Daenerys to get the full effect, so you’re slow to shrug the robe on, and tie it loosely. You lean close enough to smell the jasmine and citrus in her shampoo. Magical, wicked stuff. Drives you crazy.

“So how did I do?” you ask in a mock whisper. She seems flushed, stammering out an answer. You exalt. She likes the goods. You bite back a smile.

“Not bad for your first time,” Daenerys says, eyes fixing on yours. The my-eyes-are-up-here kind of stare.

“Thank you,” you say, “I’m a quick learner.” The amusement mellows a little. Was she upset?

“Can I see your piece?”

Daenerys looks as if you asked her to take off her blouse and sing ‘Bear and the Maiden Fair’ at the top of her lungs. She clutches the sketchbook to her chest. Gods, she looks good in the burgundy button-down, sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Black yoga pants that show off her sweet little arse. Mmm.

“What? No!”

“Why not?” You soften the words with a grin. Flirty, not aggressive. Give her time to come closer. I’ll wait a thousand years for you. She fidgets, twisting a pearl ring around her first finger.

“It’s not finished.”

“I’m not an art critic, Dany.” You risk the word. She is ‘Dany’ to her friends, Missandei says. You’ve never dared say it before. It suits her. A sweet, simple name. The blush deepens on the apples of her cheeks. Fuck, she’s gorgeous.

“I—I—I don’t think so. Maybe later.”

You nod, unfazed.

“See you next week?”

“Sure,” she says.

As you bid her goodbye, get dressed and accept a handful of dragons from the art teacher, you muse that you actually enjoyed it. A calm way to spend an hour and a half, plus you get paid, plus, most importantly, you get to spend more time with Daenerys. Time spent naked too. Not in the fun way, yet. She likes you, that much is clear. Attracted to you, at the very least.

“I can work with that,” you whisper as you step into the light snowfall. Thick snow crunches under your boots as you jog across the yard to reach your battered black Jeep.

~

It becomes a part of your Tuesday evening. Class all morning, a half shift at the hardware store where you work, then home for showering and grooming. Usually ‘grooming’ is dragging a comb through your hair, trimming your beard. Now, after some push-ups and sit-ups, you primp a little. Tweeze a couple straggling hairs. Smear on some fancy moisturizer your cousin Sansa gave you for Winter Solstice last year. It smells nice. Cucumbery. You’re out of new contacts, so you’ll have to wear your wire-framed glasses. Mrs. Arryn asked you to pose standing today, with your back to the students, one arm braced on one of those wobbly cubicle walls. You drop the robe. Less hesitation this time.

“For fuck’s sake!” you hear someone mutter. Was that Dany’s voice? You smile. A big, dopey one. Ygritte, your high school girlfriend, had waxed poetic about your arse. Maybe Dany likes it too. There’s a ripple of quiet laughter, silenced by a stern word from Mrs. Arryn. You flex the muscles of your back a bit.

It doesn’t take as long to find that quiet inner place. You try to keep your thoughts soft, boring. No pondering why Dany’s eyes on you feels so good. It was like that movie. The virginal young woman draped on the couch under the hot, avid gaze of her lover. You and your cousin Arya had a good laugh during that scene, calling it syrupy and overdramatic. But now you’re the trembling virgin in this scenario . . . and you like it. Dany watching. Dany trying to capture your form in her art. Sketchbooks and drawing pads filled with you, just as she occupied so much of your thoughts. Looking. Wanting. Lust stirs in your belly and you cut off that train of thought. Don’t go there.  

In what seems like seconds, the class is over. The tall blond, Val, slinks close to you, makes some horrible pun and lays her hand on your bare chest.  You look for Dany. She doesn’t look back. You hurry to yank on your jeans. You forget your shirt in your haste to run after her. Not the best look on you, but you’ve been making a fool of yourself to get her to notice you for a while now anyway.

“Dany! Dany, wait up!” you shout. Dany hurries, almost running, as if she hadn’t heard you. Loping to close the distance between you, you also remember you forgot your shoes as you stomp through the slushy snow. Cold cold fuck that’s cold!  You catch up to her under a street lamp. You grab her elbow.

“Dany! What’s wrong?” you ask. It might be a trick of the light through your fogging glasses or snowfall, but her face looks wet. That hits you, a quick hard squeeze on your heart. Fucking Val. Dany’s clutching her sketchbook to her chest like a life preserver. Her violet eyes fly wide in shock.  

“Gods, Jon! Are you insane? Where’s your shirt? And your shoes?!” You ignore her, slipping your grip down her forearm to catch her hand. So warm. Her skin is so soft. You want to taste her, nuzzle her, everywhere.

“I’m sorry about that. Val was out of line,” you say, your voice throatier than you planned. Dany doesn’t drop your hand. You step closer.

“No, no, it’s ok. I’m sure you’re bound to gain admirers,” she says, with some hard undertone you can’t place. Disgust? Jealousy?

“I don’t want admirers, I’m here for--” Honk!—honkhonk! Headlights wash over you and Dany.

“That’s Missy. I have to go. Get inside Jon, before you get frostbite!” she says, dropping your hand with a parting squeeze. You watch her go.

“See you next week?” you shout after her, rooted in the snow. Dany swivels as she climbs the hill to meet Missy in the parking lot.

“Yes! Now get inside!”

You take it as a victory.

~

The next Tuesday, it’s another seated pose. One ankle balanced on the opposite knee, hands folded. Someone, maybe Dany, maybe Mrs. Arryn, found a space heater. It squeals and warbles, but brings some welcome warmth to the drafty room. At least now your balls don’t feel like they’re going to crawl back up inside you. Dany is seated right in front of you. Excellent. The view’s nice, though her profile is halved by her easel. Your heart hammers. It’s time to up your game. None of this shy pining shit anymore. Daenerys Targaryen deserves better. You wait, listening to the music of scratchy charcoal. Pick your moment. Be patient. She looks up. You wink. Arya, via text, thought this was a stupid idea. Jon you look like a dumb owl when you try and wink ;)  

True, through some congenital tick, you cannot close one eye independently. Still, the effect could be felt. With the brilliant lighting, you can see that sweet blush, the shadow of a smile. Yes! She saw it, and liked it. The class flies by. You step down from the platform and walk toward her. Triumphant. Confident. Naked as your nameday.

“Dany,” you say. This time, Dany doesn’t seem skittish or embarrassed by your nudity. Yeah, that gleam. Hungry. She wants you too. Your heart fills like a overblown balloon, about to burst.

“Jon,” she says, licking her lips. Fuck, that’s unfair. Her mouth derails your thoughts into lurid, pornographic territory. Your cock lengthens. Like a fucking weather vane, your cock would point in any direction Dany was.

“Let’s get dinner together,” you say.

“Like a date?”

“Exactly like a date,” you say, taking her hand to kiss her smudged knuckles. The charcoal tastes bitter, but her skin is perfect.

“Ok. I’d love to.”

Later, you’re naked again, but for the best reason ever. Dany is a work of art.              

[mon-blanchetts]

Two years after The Long Night, Sansa is held prisoner at Dragonstone on charges of murder and treason. And yet, nothing is as it seems.

Had the decision been his, Jon would've insisted they leave half-way through the second course. But, as it wasn't, he was forced to see the evening to the end, making his way through four elaborate courses, each consisting of a dozen dishes. And even after all that, Jon still wasn't free. For a city merchant like Francys Drury, who was as wealthy as he was ambitious, a dinner with four courses just wasn't enough—a fucking banquet1 had to follow as well, held in the marble house erected in his garden just for the occasion.

No, he realized, downing the last of his wine. A servant quickly re-filled his goblet without prompt. Had the decision been his, Jon wouldn't be here at all. Only the damn thing was supposed to be in his honour, a celebratory dinner to prelude his departure, and Dany had ordered that he be in attendance with her. Jon didn't feel to argue when the time for him to take his leave was so near. She was already furious with him to begin with.

At least for the moment, Jon was free from his wife's wrath. Dany was informally holding court on the other side of the garden, surrounded by her courtiers. Jon could make out Francys Drury from his clothes only. Their host wore a rich doublet spun with gold, so that the fabric glittered beneath the flames from the torches surrounding them. Dickon Tarly was also among those orbiting his wife. Jon packed that away for later. For now he had Ser Wylis Manderly to contend with; the knight had latched himself onto his person just as soon as he'd lost Drury's wife and her brood.

"Seven Hells, it's been an evening," he praised, not for the first time. "I haven't been witness to this level of hospitality since well before The Long Night. Though, speaking of The Long Night, I found the pageant lacking in accuracy. Too flowery and all over the place for my liking. What say you, Your Grace?”

Jon noted the stains on the man's clothes with his good eye, the comfit in one of his hands. "Many prefer a rose-tinted variation of the truth."

"Too right, that," Ser Wylis said, his eyes twinkling. "Not so many can handle the truth, eh? Not like us northmen. Looks like most of this lot here decided to sit The Long Night out, too.” The comment was not made quietly.

He knew he was being watched; the feeling was too familiar as it crept slowly upon him. Jon began to regret heeding Sam's advice. It had been on his friend’s recommendation that he bring Ser Wylis tonight, thus saving him from the ordeal of offering a seat at his own dining table.  

"The decision was their own, Ser. Whatever my opinion, it matters not now that those tribulations have passed."

Ser Wylis nodded as he finished the last of his comfit. "Well, let us hope the bad times are behind us. I'd like to think that after so much tumult and violence, it's only fitting that the gods bless us with a little prosperity, if they're generous enough. Though I must say, the gods have been well generous to you, no?"

"Generous indeed," he said. It was just short of a spat. Jon was ready to excuse himself, but Wylis Manderly had other plans.

"I assume you'll see Lady Sansa while at Dragonstone, Your Grace?"

Even more eyes felt like they were closing in on him. Jon watched the knight with an air of boredom on his face.

"If time permits, I suppose I will."

Ser Wylis wiped his fingers on his clothes as he spoke. "I do hope her health has improved from the fresh sea air. If she hasn't I already, it won't be long until she realizes how hard it will be not to live by the sea. Anyway, I hope you don't mind, but my father’s commissioned something for the Lady that I hope you'll take to her in honour of her name day. I've had it sent to your household just this morning."

It would please me more to throw it over the side of my ship, he longed to say; instead, he offered a nod. "So long as it's within reason, I don't see why she can’t have it. My half-sister always did enjoy a pretty bauble when presented with one."

"As do all women, believe me," said Ser Wylis, chuckling heartily. “Well, I do think she’ll like Lord Wyman’s gift well enough. Of course, I’m sure there’s much that the Lady Sansa would desire, but that’s not really up to her at the moment, now is it?”

Jon stared at him, his face closed. “When the time is right, Ser Wylis, Lady Sansa will be fairly tried, as promised to her by my wife. We’ll have real truths then—and I doubt it will be of the rose-tinted kind.” He'd spoken with an air of finality, drawing a curtain over the subject. A flash of hesitation passed over the knight’s face, but he recovered quickly.

“Yes, yes, of course. It will be good to have closure finally, no doubt.”

Ser Wylis was smart to segue into lighter matters, but in truth he had lost Jon’s attention nearly as soon as he had caught it. Jon dismissed the northman before making straight for his wife. He’d had enough.

Dany had an arm draped carelessly over her stomach when he approached; the crowd around her fell open upon his arrival. He caught sight of Dickon Tarly for a moment before looking away, but not before Jon noted the nervous expression on his face.

Even when he drew his wife close to him and away from their courtiers, her arm remained where it was. She’d been playing with her midsection throughout the whole evening and had refused the fine wine offered to her. Jon knew exactly what she was up to.

“I’m leaving,” he declared.

Her expression remained unchanged. "I'm not finished here yet," she said.

"Stay if you want, but I’m done here."

"Jon," she said gently, but he wasn't deceived. Her face was still light and calm, but he caught the anger brewing in her violet eyes, the tautness of the skin around them. He could hear her voice in his head, fury laced in her voice. We leave when it suits me.

“You’re welcome to stop me, but your courtiers will have plenty to talk about if you do, I promise you that.” Public or no, he was itching for a good fight. Strange, because he was so tired of fighting, with Dany and everyone else, be it literally or figuratively, but it seemed that it was the only thing he kept doing.

She didn't respond to his threat, only kept playing with the fabric of her gown around her stomach. Jon knew she was taking stock of her options, turning over one possibility before moving forward to the next. There'd be plenty for their courtiers to whisper about if they were to leave separately, but it would be nothing compared to the public row she was asking for.

"You can do the talking then," she ordered, beckoning for her one of her handmaidens before turning her back to him. If she couldn’t have her way, Dany found other means to punish him, however trivial they may be.

He made quick work of it. A word of thanks to Francys Drury, who accepted the toast that Jon made with a look of pure smugness on his face. He even managed a laugh out of their audience when he mentioned that his ship would set sail to Dragonstone without him were he to stay any longer. Of all the eyes staring at him while he spoke, his wife’s were the most menacing.  

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

"Did you enjoy yourself at least a little last night?" Sam inquired, pulling his dining cloth off his left shoulder.

Jon watched through the open window as the men below packed away the very last of his possessions onto wooden carts. He intended to make an early start for the harbour, eager to avoid as much fanfare as possible.

"Only as much as her dothraki, I think," he said, turning to face his steward.

Sam cracked a lopsided smile. "So they behaved themselves this time around. I half anticipated news this morning that they'd gone and set fire to Francys Drury's manse with his own cellar of vintages. That would've certainly put an end to your invites from the city’s merchants.”

Unlike yesternight, where countless eyes had watched Jon while he dined, today there was only Sam present in his private chambers. This morning's fare was just as much of a contrast, a world away from the elaborate and daunting menu that Francys Drury's cooks had planned out: fresh bread with salted meat and cheese, all to be washed down with light ale. The only cause for envy was Drury’s collection of wine, far superior in quality than anything served at Dany’s court. Jon knew that to be a connoisseur in such matters only meant he’d been imbibing more than his fair share; even the Hand had taking mild interest.

Well, at least she didn't know. Suspected it, perhaps, though there was never long enough occasion for her to draw any firm conclusions. But then, Jon never felt the need to drink so much in her presence, either.

"Were there any Tyrells present last night?"

Sam’s question shook him from his thoughts. "None. Tyrion missed a perfectly good night for nothing. Dickon Tarly attended, though." Jon remembered the tall man hovering near Dany, the strange look on his face.  

“Yes, so I’ve been told. And Her Grace? Was she in a fine mood last night?"

He told Sam of his observations, the hints she had thrown about to all and sundry. His steward nodded.

"My guess is if you’re not back in a moon’s time, she'll make a formal announcement. You do plan on returning before then, right? That's what we agreed upon."

Jon followed the elaborate design etched on the table with his good eye rather than look up. "Some things may keep me there longer."

"Some things or someone? Sam pressed, his thick brows furrowing. Jon said nothing.

His friend sighed. "Jon, if you stay any longer than was planned, your courtiers will surely talk."

"They'll talk regardless. Once Dany decides to announce her pregnancy again, they'll have something new to fix their attentions on."

"Will it be true, this time around?"

Jon scoffed. "No, but if by some dint of miracle it is, the babe wouldn't be mine." Jon glanced at the man sitting across from him. They remained silent for a moment, but it was pregnant with meaning.

"Well, if you're going to stay at Dragonstone that long and tell people you're going partly to take the fresh air, then at least this time try coming back like it actually worked," Sam pressed. "More than once you just come back looking even worse for wear than when you left. Someone's going to speculate one day that you're being slowly poisoned, mark my words."

Sam wasn't wrong. His excuses weren't holding up the way they used to, and really, that was more his fault than anyone else's. That Dany might have to use another goddamned pregnancy as a means to force him back to the capital was equally bemusing.

But it was just so hard to leave after he got there, was getting harder and harder to do so with each visit

Seven Hells, it was agony.

"It would be more than Dany could ever hope for, that," he remarked. There was a knock on the door before Sam could reprimand him.

Stannis Seaworth entered at Jon's beckoning. "Everything's packed and ready, Your Grace," his squire announced after a quick bow of his head. "The captain wants to be knowing whether you'll be leaving immediately or whether you want to delay a bit more."

"No, we make for the harbour now," Jon ordered, soaking his hands in the silver bowl of rosewater that one of his pages brought before him. The boy—of a minor house from the westerlands—had slipped in after he’d given Stannis permission to enter, together with a small retinue of other servants designated to wait on him this morn. He could feel the boy's wide eyes on his back as he left his private chambers for what would, for now, be the last time.

Out in the busy courtyard, dozens upon dozens of bodies milled about; even this early in the morning, it bustled with as much energy as the city's marketplaces that existed beyond the castle gate. Those who recognized his person stopped to offer a quick bow, but he could never take leave of that feeling that itched at the back of his head, or the side of his face. He was being watched. Always being watched.

"Did you happen to receive anything from Ser Wylis Manderly?" he asked, mounting his black palfrey.

Sam looked up at him, squinting from the sun’s glare. "I did, actually, now that you've mentioned it. A set of combs made of ivory and horn. It was one of the last things packed off this morn.”

It was on the tip of Jon’s tongue have it removed from his inventory, but he thought against it. The choice wasn't his to make, it was hers.

He remembered his conversation with Wylis Manderly last night. Lady Sansa. No longer Lady Stark. A small slight with the greatest of meaning. Dany's work, he thought bitterly, no doubt aided by Tyrion Lannister or one of her other favourites.

Sam wished him safe travels. "You'll send her my greetings, won't you?" his steward asked.

"Of course." There was more to his words—always more—but the courtyard was no place for them.

There was no looking back over his shoulder as he left the Red Keep behind with his traveling party. The things that he still cherished were few and far there. Neither was there a final farewell between husband and wife, but that was the way it was for them; Jon had more or less bid her goodbye as soon as he told her he was leaving court for Dragonstone. If her dragons were still alive, he suspected that Dany would've happily razed the island to the ground with him and the other inhabitants on it. A small price to pay, the burning of a Targaryen stronghold, if it meant wiping out one of the strongest claimants to her throne. That she would also be removing the heir to the North was only a happy afterthought.

But her dragons were gone, just like the Others, and all the magic they had brought with them when they first hatched from their eggs. Now it was only mortals playing at the games the gods had fashioned them with, dealing with a hand of cards that weren't as strong as they might’ve hoped. But the gods had fashioned them for love as well—their greatest glory and their greatest tragedy. Jon had learned this all to well.

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

The skies were clear when he landed on Dragonstone, greeted by less than a handful of the island’s nobles and the castle’s maester. Out of everyone, it was Ser Davos Seaworth whom he was grateful to see most. Jon recalled Dany's fondness for her merchants, which wasn’t so different from his own affinity for the former smuggler whom he now regarded as one of his closest confidantes. There was a time when he had more in common with his wife than that.

Jon threw a quick glance over his shoulder as the party made their trek up to the castle.  With the winds blowing so loud around them, it would be impossible for the lords and knights walking not so close behind him to eavesdrop.

"How is she?"

His voice was low, audible for Davos’ ears alone. He didn't need to clarify; they both knew exactly who he meant.

The knight’s gaze was on the steps before him. “As well as I've described her in my letters,” he responded, not unkindly.

His heart sank. "She's still not eating?"

Davos shook his head. "Not as much as Marya think she ought. Apparently it's beginning to show, she says."

"I've brought some of her favourites,” Jon said. “I think Marya can use that to coax her to eat more."

"It may help." There was a note of hesitation in his friend’s voice that Jon didn't miss.

"You have doubts?”

Davos sighed. “I'd like to think her loss of appetite lies in a lack of variety, but...I fear the cause may be something else. A deeper melancholy, if you will.” He glanced at Jon with a crooked smile on his weather-beaten face. “Maybe things will get better, now that you’re here. A familiar face never did hurt.”

Would things get better? He had about a moon's time to make sure that they did, that she wasn't on her way to another illness as he had feared while reading Davos’ letters. But what if more time were needed? How much longer could he stretch his absence until court gossip reached a fever pitch?

Without thinking, Jon looked up. The imposing castle, with its sharp edges and perfectly-erected walls, stared down at him. Thousands upon thousands of years’ worth of Targaryen history were buried within this castle. It was no place for a lone Stark, one surrounded by nothing but dragon motifs sneering at her in just about every direction, but it was the safest place for her at the moment.

If he squinted hard enough, Jon thought he could make out wisps of red hair dancing the wind from one of the keeps.

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

He played the role of Prince Consort adequately enough, even without Dany present. He invited Ser Davos and his other nobles to sup with him in the Great Hall that evening, going so far as to extend his offer to Lady Brienne of Tarth. In the end, she declined; whether of her own volition or whether she'd been pressured not to by whom she'd sworn to protect, Jon couldn’t tell. A little bit of both, perhaps.

Supper was a boisterous affair of the most subdued kind. He knew when he invited them to dine at his table that his nobles were expecting some flavour of hospitality famous in the capital, even if that hospitality didn't run the full gamut of what they knew either from experience or hearsay. But Jon had Ser Davos ensure that the wine he'd brought with him be served generously that evening, and the conversation flowed freely enough.

The subject of Sansa Stark was noticeably suppressed.

Knowing that she was somewhere within these castle walls—somewhere within reach— was all Jon could think about. He was styled a prince, a high-ranking one at that, and yet the one person he wanted to see above all was to come last, not until he dealt with something as trivial as entertaining his vassals, many of whose loyalty seemed to swerve from dragon to stag and back again. With a title like his, Jon thought that he should have whatever he desired, and yet the chasm felt as if it stretched forever.

It was ironic that the trappings of freedom were, in fact, the most constricting.

And so there was no choice for him, not now at least, but to keep his face closed off and his fury shackled as evening morphed into night. News of his arrival and subsequent movements would be reported back to King’s Landing; Dany would no doubt receive a minute report of his performance within a few days. Pages danced in and out of his sight; those seated at his table were equally fixed on him, even when their gazes appeared to be elsewhere. Everyone was gathering all the things they could to pick apart—all the things they could use to pick him apart. In the shadows of the room, he thought the eyes of the carved dragons coiling around the stone columns stalked him just as mercilessly, if not more so.

Don't give them reason to talk. Don't let them see what they want to see.

Paranoia clung to him long after he’d retired from the Great Hall, licking at his heels as he barred the door of his private chambers. Jon knew from experience that he could never fully shake off that wretched feeling, that it was never to be entirely ridden of it. Not so unlike this ache, he thought bitterly, stripping down to his small clothes.

For the space of a moment, he considered doing the opposite of his desires. Let his pride win for once, and forsake her for at least a night, perhaps even two. It might even be better for them in the long run; his head would be clearer from the fresh sea air.

Only he wanted her too badly. At least if he went to her now, Jon could blame his madness on the vices of the capital. He could blame it on the smog of King’s Landing that clouded his faculties and blinded him of his wits. If he went now, rather than later, he could still cling to some of dignity.

What value was there in his dignity, compared to her? What good was anything if he couldn’t have her?

Absolutely nothing, he told himself as he pulled aside the worn tapestry. The false stone panelling hidden behind it gave way to his hand with a sturdy push. Jon would never have known about the secret passages if it weren’t for the castle’s long-standing maester—the same one he’d pensioned off to the southern outskirts of the Stormlands, all before bringing in his replacement, a novice with little knowledge of the castle he was meant to serve.

Jon reached her chamber within minutes, could hear his familiar growling on the other side of the wall as he pushed it open. Ghost quieted down as soon as he recognized him, the direwolf’s red eyes glowing brightly beneath the flames of his torch. Sansa was abed, the curtains of her bed drawn shut. The last vestiges of the fire in the hearth sang weakly.

He set aside his torch and removed his boots, snuffing out the light before approaching her bed. The velvet curtains were soft beneath his fingers as he slowly drew them back.

Sansa laid on the opposite side to his, her back facing him. As his good eye adjusted to the darkness, he made out long strands of red hair that spilled across her pillow and the one beside it. Jon suspected that she was still awake, despite her even breathing.

His heart swelled painfully at the sight of her. It felt like ages since they had last been together, each short reunion feeling more poignant than the last that came before it. Jon wasn’t made to be far from her, but the realization had come too late; he damned himself over and over again for the fool he’d once been, leaving her when, even all those years ago, something within him had held him back. A flood of anger washed over him, like it always did whenever his mind drifted back just a little to that period in their lives. He had every single right to be furious with her—he still was. That didn’t change the fact that he loved her. More than anything.

He climbed into bed before pushing the curtains closed. Ghost, loyal until his last breath, would alert them to any unwanted approaches at her unbarred door. As soon as he burrowed beneath the covers, Jon didn't hesitate to wrap an arm around her waist as he pressed the length of his body against her, breathing her in. It was trivial, but one of the ways he marked their evolution together was the scent she carried. A long time ago Sansa once smelled of pine and rosewater. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, Jon recalled how every inch of her skin, even the parts he was never meant to lay eyes on, had clung tightly with the potent musk of his leathers. It had baffled him, more than once, but he could never fit the pieces together. Not until it was too late.  

Sansa neither smelled of pine or his leathers now. Instead, it was the sharp saltiness of the island’s waters that clung to her, assaulted his senses. Could he drown in it the same way he might drown beyond the shores of the Narrow Sea?

How could you have done this to me? How could you have done this to us?

Jon pressed his lips desperately against the back of her neck before lifting his head to kiss the skin of her exposed shoulder, his anger mingled dangerously with desire. Sansa was awake, he was certain of it, but he wanted to revel in her without her protests. They may come later, he didn’t know, but for now she was willing to lie pliant in his arms, and for that alone Jon was eternally grateful to her. He found her hand resting close to her chest, like she was protecting her heart while she slept. From her enemies? Or from him?

Was there ever chance for that? he wondered, his fingers gravitated towards her own. Jon took small comfort in the cold metal he came into contact with, pleased that she still wore the ring he'd given her not so long ago—but then, Sansa also knew better than to take it off, unless she was intentionally courting his anger. Not so heavy as a yoke, but it wasn't meant to be such. It was a reminder, at best, a token in return for one she'd gifted him at Winterfell, bestowed with the same twisted malevolence. Had it been then that all their troubles and sorrows started, or were they conceived long before?

Jon knew he could dwell on it forever, but in truth it no longer mattered where their troubles began. What mattered, he realized, was that they had tonight. And tomorrow. And all the rest of his days where he remained on the island. He would take what he could.

"I've missed you," he whispered into her ear, tenderly rubbing the ring with his thumb. "You’ll never know much I’ve missed you."

He ached for her with the same force as a thousand suns, yet what little he could have of her for snatches at a time could never satiate the want that haunted him every day and night. Would it have been different, once? Would their lives have shaped out for the better if Sansa had only let things be, rather than play with them the way she had?

These were questions that Jon asked himself over and over again. Questions he knew would remain impossible to answer.

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

Notes:

1 There are two meanings to the word banquet: one refers to an elaborate feast or celebration, while the second is akin to an after party of sorts held after the feast, and tends to take place in specially-made houses in gardens. Guests are served desserts and wine, buffet-style. I’m using the word here as it relates to the second definition.

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

Please note that this story borrows heavily from The Persistence of Desire by Margot_le_Faye; while I highly recommend it if you're a Dramione fan, you will very likely spoil yourself silly for this story. Considering my horrible track record for updates, I wouldn't blame you, though. Lots of elements in this story may also echo when the walls come tumbling down by phantomphaeton as well as From Instep to Heel by orangeflavor, so giving credit where credit's due. Inspiration also comes from John Guy's Mary Queen of Scots, which I highly recommend reading if you're able to get your hands on it.

Also, if you happen to make it this far, I need you thank you guys so, so much for reading! I've had this premise in my head for so long and tried to put it down paper, but it just never felt right until now. This story will likely be the longest and most ambitious thing I've ever written, not to mention the angstiest. Like, not a joke you guys; when I looked at the entire outline I made for this fic, I just shook head. Please let me know what you think of this story-all comments and encouragement keep me going! Stay safe, folks.

[hopelesslygazingthestars]

In Valentines Day spirit... a lil love... and a lil angst.

Fools And Love.

Since long before Ashara’s flower blossomed, she knew that love made fools of men. There were many that came and went, fell over themselves and professed love for her pretty eyes and tinkling laugh. Even a Dornish prince had played the fool for her and sworn off marriage, and instead pursued fleeting desires.

Elia broke her promises and chose Rhaegar. When she uttered the rejection, Ashara literally heard her ribcage crack from the explosion beneath her chest. She had finally conjured up the confidence to confess long-hidden feelings and Elia gave a response she never foresaw. Her sweet Elia, the one she trusted above all others, and the one that loved her like none. The irony was not lost in that, at the beginning, she had wanted to apologize in advance because she thought it would be her to accidently break Elia’s heart and run, just like she always had. Yet, in the end, it was Elia who ripped her heart out and abandoned her.

It was only in Elia’s abandonment that Ashara realised she never healed what was broken inside of her. Elia was the tourniquet to her being, and without her, she was left bleeding on the cold, hard ground.

First, came an agonising emptiness which left her powerless to rise from her bed. Then, a volatile rage she unleashed on anything in her proximity. Next, she chased an oblivion in endless goblets of wine. Lastly, came the venomous desperation, which had her acting out for Elia’s attention in the most foolish ways.

After a long confinement, when Elia had not come chasing as usual, Ashara returned to court like a hurricane, on the centre stage of the Realm’s biggest and most extravagant tourney.

Lord Whent’s tourney at Harrenhal attracted nobility from every hill, river and rock in Westeros. From the sour lords of winter to the prickly roses of the Reach; to the stags of Storm’s End, to the old keeper of the Mountains of the Moon. Even Mad King Aerys, looking haggard and unhinged, crawled out of the dragon’s den for the first time in years, much to Rhaegar’s dismay. However, noticeably, the lions of the Rock were nowhere to be seen, except the newly knighted golden cub, Ser Jaime.

The tourney was as much a political event as it was an athletic melee. Treason was in the air, and the Great Houses of Westeros had more in mind than jousting, archery, and merrymaking. Ashara knew of the great efforts Rhaegar and Elia underwent to secretly fund the tourney in guise of calling a Great Council and initiating Rhaegar’s ascension to the Iron Throne.

After the opening ceremonies, when the dancing walls were hung with magnificent tapestries, each emblazoned with the symbols of the Great Houses, the psychological games began. Aerys made his own power plays and officially named Ser Jaime the youngest knight in kingsguard history. A clear spite at his Hand, thereby claiming the heir to the Rock his own.

Nonetheless, Ashara had plots of her own in mind. Driven by foolish attempts of attention seeking and many a cup of heady Dornish Reds, Ashara dragged Prince Oberyn up after a long evening of introductions and tedious niceties.

“Now, come. Let us show these stiff Northerners how to dance properly, my prince!”

Always ready for mischief, Oberyn set aside his wine before Ashara swept him to the centre of the dance floor.

Ashara expected the many eyes which stalked them, the distrust for the Dornish and their strange ways was something she was long accustomed to. Yet, there was only one pair of dark orbs Ashara cared to attract.

She took one of Oberyn’s serpents and waved to the musicians, who picked up their instruments and began to liven up.

The technicoloured red and blue serpent slithered up her arm and down her exposed mid riff.

Ashara was a foolish maid in love, recklessly seeking the love she was deathly afraid of losing. When she gazed up at the princely couple, seemingly besotted with one another, she knew she would sooner withstand Elia’s blazing rage than her careful distance.

She brought the serpent’s head close to her face and stuck out her tongue as its forked one did the same. The music swelled and she began to mirror its movements seductively as Oberyn stalked around her gyrating form. She moved with a slow and sensuous purpose as the snake coiled around her and slithered into Oberyn’s grip. Her body wove itself lithely in tandem with the growing rhythm of the seductive beats.

To dance was her freedom, to dance was to become a shooting star, and in the crumbling ruins of Harrenhal, Ashara came alive for the first time in so long.

Her movements flowed with a dazzling grace that took away the breath of every person in her audience. She felt her soul become one with the music and she unleashed her emotions into the dance; heartbreak, jealousy, longing. In that moment, she needed to dance as badly as she needed to breath. She wanted to shine and be seen in the darkness.

When she noticed that Elia’s attention remained on her husband, despite the audience she drew, Ashara grew more desperate. She was determined to draw such spectacle that Elia had to do something. Anything. It was not a well thought out strategy, merely a frantic attempt to salvage what had been shattered between them.

When the song ended and the applause came, Ser Barristan the Bold, stepped out another fool in love.

“Lady Ashara, I must insist on the honour of dancing with you. I am no great dancer, but I am certain your talents will more than make up for my lack of skill.”

She nearly declined until she caught Elia curiously watching her. She took it as a small victory and laughed loudly, throwing her head back.

“Ser Barristan, the honour is all mine.”

She took his offered hand, and it was the first of many. She danced with an entire host of men; princes, knights, and lords alike. Ashara was in her element, gliding close to whichever man she held close in her long arms and dared hope to see vexation in Elia’s expression.

She chased Elia and they chased her.

The men would take and so would she, for it was clear love was not meant for Ashara. These men would flirt and dance, perhaps even take her to bed, or to wed, but she knew none of them meant to see her beyond the violet eyes and fair golden skin. The only eyes which had ever seen her were so dark she could scarcely breath sometimes, and now they were blinded by fire.

Despite the sparing glances, Elia made no movement towards her, and Ashara descended further.

She left behind willing partners looking forlorn as she bounced to her next conquests. She flirted outrageously and was vitalised by the scandalised looks.

She was entirely content to continue her path of self-destruction until she saw dark grey eyes watching her. She noticed them follow her as she danced with Barristan, Prince Lewyn, Ethan Glover and Jon Connington. Always watching yet without hungry lust as some, or barely disguised disgust as the others.

She knew he was a Northman from the rigid way he sat between the boisterous young storm lord Robert Baratheon and his patron, old Jon Arryn, the Lord of the Vale.

Her curiosity fell away when from the corner of her eye, she saw Elia gaze over at her before whispering something to Arthur, and when he walked over to her, she felt victorious in her rebellion.

Yet, those hopes were quickly dampened.

“Did she send you here?” She asked.

Arthur sighed and looked at her apologetically.

“No.”

Elia did not want her. Ashara feared that this new meek woman that was Rhaegar’s wife would never love her like Elia of Dorne had.

Were things the way they once were, Elia would have risen from her seat and joined in the merriment long ago, propriety be damned. Ashara yearned for Dornish nights and Rhoynar rhythms, of small soft hands and blood orange scented kisses.

Ashara was taken out of her reverie and reminded of exactly where she was. On the dancefloor of a crumbling castle with near enough every pair of eyes on her except the ones she wished for.

Arthur gently caught her hand.

“Sister, dance with me,” he prompted.

She knew Arthur’s intentions were to soothe her suffering as he always had. For the pleading in his expression, she accepted the request and rocked with him to the slowing tune.

“I know it doesn’t seem like it now, but you will learn to breathe again without her,” he explained interrupting the stillness between them.

“I don’t want anything without her.” She answered petulantly, cursing herself for sounding like a spoilt child.

She felt more childish when he leaned back slightly and peeped down at her seriously.

“Ashara, you have to learn to live for yourself, not for anyone else, not even for her. For so long you held love with an iron grip but at arm’s length. You could have had your sweet Elia long ago. Inevitably, it would still have ended the same way because duty was always going to call for the prized sun of Dorne…”

His words stirred something uncomfortable inside her. They were difficult truths to accept. She made many excuses for why she waited so long to reveal the depth of her feelings. It always came down to her own inadequacy and inability to feel deserving of love.

“…You deserve love, Asha. Just because it no longer resides where you believed it to, does not mean it is not out there for you,” he finished.

Deep down she still felt like the neglected child that begged for scraps of her mother’s attention – like the abused girl that was sullied long ago.

It was an arduous and complicated set of issues to settle, but for the first time, Ashara was confronted with the truth.

“I don’t know who I am without her,” she admitted.

“Then perhaps you ought to find out.”

She took a moment and considered Arthur’s suggestion.

She wondered if it truly was time to attempt to move on. It left her chest feeling tight because it was something she never even fathomed to consider before. It was in the unknown to exist anywhere that was not Elia’s side.

Before she could respond, she was swiftly whisked into the arms of another, the charming Brandon Stark. He had made himself as well known as the young storm lord that evening, and it would be a lie to say her eye had not wondered to him during the introductions.

“Lady Ashara,” he greeted with a mischievous smirk and mirth gleaming in his eyes.

She feigned disapproval but continued gliding along with him despite it.

“The Sword of the Morning will not take too kindly to that, lord Brandon. I fear you may have made yourself a formidable enemy in the lists tomorrow.”

Brandon was not typical of the stony-faced Northmen. He was bold and confident, which she found attractive, although she would never admit that aloud; there was a cockiness to him that raised her defences.

“It’s just harmless fun, why should he make an enemy out of me?” He countered.

He acknowledged Arthur and nodded in respect, although the twinkle in his eye remained.

“You have a sister do you not – how pleased would you be if a man took off with her?”

The smugness fell from his expression momentarily.

“I suppose for her honour, he would become my enemy,” he answered gazing towards a young dark-haired girl Ashara assumed to be his sister.

She was a pretty thing, with the same teasing glint in her eyes as Brandon.

“Then what makes you exempt from my brother’s wrath?”

His knowing smirk returned as he peered at her with his grey eyes, and she hated how it made her blush.

“For a start, you think me quite handsome, and you enjoy me.” He winked with a growing grin.

Ashara laughed despite herself.

“And that’s enough to warrant his forgiveness?” She countered.

He shrugged playfully before brushing her hair back from her shoulder, with just the right look of heat in his eyes and moving in so close she could feel his lean body pressed up against her.

“Then perhaps I ought to give him better reason to make me his enemy.”

She pretended to be indifferent to Brandon’s seduction. It would not do to allow someone with an ego like his know how much power he had. Thus, she refused to lean in or seem too keen.

“You’re very sure of yourself.”

“As are you, Ashara.” He looked pointedly at the men that stood peeved in the wake of her abandonment.

“If you came over to insult me Brandon, you can surely return.” She scolded as she recoiled.

Ashara was not a stranger to rumours, men and women alike often set their tongues wagging over tall tales about her. Unlike Dorne, the rest of Westeros were prude little creatures when it came to pleasures, but she would be damned if the would-be Warden of the North, who had his own whispers of lovers and bastards, would question her integrity.

“My lady please forgive my impertinence. In fact, I truly came here to request a dance of you, with a man far more honourable than me.”

Confusion washed through her, but strangely, she was intrigued. Man after man had taken what they wanted from her this night, and it was odd that one remained reserved.

“That won’t take much… but go on, who is this poor fellow?”

A wide grin spread across his features.

“My young brother is too shy to approach you. Don’t be so hard him. Whilst I was blessed with all the charm in the family, he is good and honourable, a man worthy of your time.” He spoke with pride.

As audacious as Brandon had been, it was evident now that it was act to make his brother appear the better man.

“Very well, but I shall decide that for myself.”

Brandon returned to his table and Ashara was surprised to find that his shy brother was the stiff Northman that had been watching her all night.

Ashara could not help but chuckle endearingly when she saw the younger Stark’s back stiffen and panic wash across his features as Brandon whispered to him.

The young Stark was not as tall as his brother, just of a height with her; he kept his long hair tied back messily, and unlike Brandon, wore simple clothing unadorned with any marks of House Stark.

It would be difficult to guess they were brothers if their features were not so similar, and even then, where Brandon was always smiling, the young Stark already had frown lines across his brow.

“My lady, I thank you for the honour of a dance,” he greeted, inclining his head rigidly, and offering his hand.

She took his hand and led him to the dancefloor.

It was awkward at first, because even at their slow pace, it was clear Stark did not have the grace of a dancer. She rearranged his hands until they were in the correct position, and led the steps, anything to occupy herself from meeting his mystifyingly intense gaze.

“Do you happen to have a name?” She wondered, once they swayed in rhythm to the languid tune.

“I do.” He answered, adding nothing further even as Ashara tilted her head in curiosity.

“You’re not very talkative, are you?”

“If you might give me your name, I shall give you mine.” He said unsmiling.

When she finally met his expectant stare, she saw the beginnings of a smile pulling at his cheeks, and something akin to intrigue flared inside her.

In that moment, instead of seeking Elia, she found herself regarding Stark, questioning if he was not shy at all, but instead, reservedly confident.

“It appears you already know who I am.” She answered with a cock of her brow.

“I would rather get the name from the lady herself than the fame which precedes her.”

Ashara found herself pleasantly surprised by their exchange.

“I am Lady Ashara Dayne, lord Stark.”

“Thankfully, I shall never be lord Stark… I am Eddard Stark, although you may call Ned.”

A teeth-baring grin spread, and his face transformed. She found herself strangely attracted to the quiet wolf.

“Ned.” She said testing out the syllables on her tongue.

The song picked up pace, as did she.

Her feet struck the floor in perfect synchronisation with the building tempo and his pursued with every step. Ned’s grey eyes shone behind the shy expression as they advanced, retreated and pirouetted.

The rapidly enclosing space between them felt electric and burning. There was something she could not explain about this quiet Northman, who stared into her eyes as if he could see past all that she armoured herself with and saw the frightened girl inside. She felt admired, as one might the stars on a clear night.

“Why do you keep staring at me?” She finally asked, fascinated in his unravelling scrutiny of her.

His answer made the flirtatious grin fall from her face.

“You have danced and laughed quite a lot tonight… But I can’t help by notice, you don’t seem all that happy, my lady.”

Shaken, she abruptly halted her movements.

She remembered the pain in her chest and found Elia across the room, glaring at her with fire behind her eyes. She was confused because this was what she initially wanted, but now she had it, it felt nothing like victory. For with Ned, for just a moment, she put aside her heartache… and breathed.

“You’re very perceptive.” She answered, a slow panic filling her.

“I’ve said the wrong thing.” He commented apologetically, noticing the change in her.

She looked up at him wide-eyed, contemplating the stirring emotions inside her.

For reasons unclear to herself, she lurched to kiss him, but he pulled away just as quickly.

Embarrassment filled her and she exploded into blazing anger.

“Is this not what you wanted, Ned – to say you had an easy Dornish wench to your brother and friends?” She spat turning to walk away.

He chased her before she could escape, appearing ahead desperately.

“I meant no disrespect, lady Ashara. I would never dishonour you in such a way, only when I kiss you, I want it to be because you want it, not because you think that’s what I want.” He interrupted.

That he could read her so easily, and was not scared away by it, terrified her. Just like she always did, she crumbled under her fears and lashed out.

“What honour is there in getting your brother to do your courting? I pity you Ned, that’s why I danced with you.”

He flushed in embarrassment, and deep down, Ashara was ashamed for it.

“Then allow me to rectify my actions, may I do something no other has done today?”

Despite her urgent need to flee, she was intrigued.

“Go on.”

“Will you come sit with me, Ashara?”

“What?”

Again, she was surprised by this strange Northman.

“I want to get to know you, is that so hard to believe?”

She carefully maintained a neutral expression. Yet, even in that, he read her disbelief.

“Come on, Ashara, get to know me, take a chance on a fool in love.” He pleaded.

Love.

The word spun around in her head, and she realised, for the first time, it was something she truly yearned for.

Warmth began to spread through her blood and hammering seized her chest.

“I-I…”

Despite her epiphany, her tongue fumbled in her mouth. She did not know how to articulate such desires and succumbed to old behaviours.

“…I can’t. I’m sorry.”

Without a single glance back she fled, a maid made a fool by love.

[rpandrejevna]

The rules : repost and name your ten favorite characters from ten different things  (books/movies/shows/games) then tag ten people.

(To be clear this is in no particular order!)

The Men:

Orson Callan Krennic (Rogue One: A Star Wars Story)

Templeton ‘Face’ Peck (the A-Team)

Russell Edginton (True Blood) {Though I also ADORE/LOVE Eric Northman, Roman Zimojic and Truman Burell, Ihave more bonding with Russell, because I met the actor and he is just MAJESTIC! ^_^ }

Charles Brooks (Younger)

Marcus Licinius Crassus (Spartacus: TV-series) {Muse. I also LOVE Gaius Claudius Glaber, but I can only choose one ^_^ }

Colonel William Tavington (The Patriot)

Tywin Lannister (Game of Thrones) {Muse}

Philippe Schalkwijk (Dutch TV-series Flikken Maastricht) {I also LOVE Ron Groenen in this same series, but I love him more ^_^ }

Dr. Colin Marlow (Grey’s Anatomy) {Though I also like Dr. Andrew Perkins and Dr. Mark Sloan A LOT! ^_^}

Ernst Stravro Blofeld (James Bond: Diamonds Are Forever + James Bond: Spectre)

The Women:

Adeline Bowman (The Age of Adeline)

Violet Crawley (Downton Abbey)

Lexie Grey (Grey’s Anatomy)

Cercei Lannister (Game of Thrones)

Lucretia Battiatus (Spartacus: TV-series)

Wallis Simpson (W.E. by Madonna, played by Andrea Riseborough)

Queen Ingrith (Maleficent: Mistress of Evil)

Lies DeWulf (Dutch TV-series Flikken Maastricht)

Lorraine Warren (The Conjuring)

Xenia Sergeyevna Onatopp (James Bond: GoldenEye)

Tagged by: @thegreatworkofmagic

Tagging: Feel free to ignore this if you’ve done this already! Let’s see: @ericbrandonrp @wanderingxmuses @elizabethginabradley @hxppiness--begins @memorystxrs  @thefamilyblack  & everyone else who takes the time to read this and hasn’t done this before!