#make them face the consequences of their actions

[knightyoomyoui]

The Price Of Becoming The Chosen ONCE [+18] (COMMISSIONED)

ft. TWICE's Mina (x Male Reader & other TWICE members)

TYPE: Fluff, Angst, Smut

WORD COUNT: 12064

REQUESTED/ORDERED BY: @vl-45

TAGS: cheating, blackmailing, sex slave, possession, harem, obsession

NOTE: One of the longest fics I've ever written because I really love the plot that OC has given to me. Thank you again for ordering and I hope you'll have a great time reading what I made for you!

DONATE OR REQUEST FOR COMMISSION HERE: https://ko-fi.com/knightyoomyoui

DESCRIPTION: It follows the story of YN as he goes through the challenges he has to face from the consequences of being the center of their decisions driven by their respective desires of claiming him, in contradiction to the thought that his life would only change for the better after being Mina's lucky boyfriend and getting introduced to the rest of the members.

==OO==

ACT 1

The crowd was packed inside the Ilji Art Hall, where more than a hundred ONCEs went for TWICE’s fan meet in accordance with their new comeback with “Strategy” featuring Megan Thee Stallion. Everybody started to find their seats and found everything all set up on the stage. The only one that was missing yet is the one they all came for.

They all went out and headed through the backstage. As the huge monitor began playing their MV teasers, they were given a go signal to begin entering the stage one by one. The crowd erupted in joy to see their favorite idols in person, waving their hands and presenting them their natural bright expressions written all over their faces.

TWICE were preparing themselves in a room. Some took this as a chance to rest for a while; others went for chit-chats or used their phones.

The manager then opened the door, signaling them that they can now enter the hall.

The girls made their signature greeting, and the remainder of the event followed. The fans were now given the chance to step up to the stage to get closer to meeting each member of TWICE and do as they please along with their own merch they want to be signed and gifts they purchased for them. Obvious to how they behave, the fans were rather shaking slightly in nervousness, acting strange due to shyness, while the rest were just calm and confident.

And that includes you.

Along with your recently bought Strategy album, including some TWICE-designed bubble fan with a penguin plushie, it’s definitely clear who is the specific person you’re most excited to interact with. You got to talk to Nayeon, Jeongyeon, Momo, Sana, and Jihyo… until it is time to move onto the next chair. She went to say goodbye to the other fan after you before she turned her attention to you.

Just like that, your composure that you’ve been preserving and holding since you arrived here immediately melted. You caught the first sight of Mina having eye-to-eye contact with you. It almost felt like everything went slow motion and blurry the longer you stared at her gummy smile.

“Hello, earth to ONCE?” She asked you, waving her hand in front of your face. You were even aware that you looked stupid in front of her, giving her the first ticket of making yourself an embarrassment. Your popping eyes and gaping mouth lowered down as your senses snapped back to the real world.

“O-oh! Uh- uhm, h-hi. Oh my god.” You quickly reshuffled yourself back into your proper posture. “I’m really so sorry, I was just-”

“Yeah, I get it. Still can’t believe it’s real, isn’t it?”

“Definitely.” You chuckled. “I don’t know if I’m just dreaming right now or not.”

“Wanna find out?” Mina asked you who didn’t get enough to respond quickly. Shortly afterwards, she lend her hand on you. “Hold my hand.”

“W-wha-” Mina just giggled at your malfunctioning state. She finds it hilarious that you’re acting funny with your panicking actions at the moment.

“We don’t got all the time, ONCE. If I were you I would take the-”

Without any further ado, you hurriedly put your fingers in contact to her hand. The touch sent shockwaves through your skin, goosebumps rising. “Holy shit, you are indeed real.”

“Language.” Mina shushed you.

“Oh s-sorry, pardon my bad mouth.”

“Hehe, it’s fine. It’s normal for adults to curse.” Mina waved it off. “I get it, you’re just too dumbfounded right now. Is this your first time?”

“Yes.” You answered with a nod. “I actually just had the opportunity to attend a fanmeet to finally see you girls for the first time. I mostly spent a lot of money just to get in here.”

“Aww I appreciate the dedication!” Mina was touched at your efforts. “May I know your name?”

“It’s YN.” You introduced yourself. “Been a ONCE since last year. I’m just new, I know but I did a lot of research to consider myself kinda knowledgeable about your careers currently.”

“You sure do love TWICE that much, huh.”

“Yeah, but mostly you are.” You quickly covered your mouth in surprise. Mina was left speechless at your confession between she teasingly laughed and amazed at your “accidental” remark.

“And I love the fact that I am your bias.” Mina expressed her pleasant reaction. “Great choice.” She gave a quick glance and a stoic look at the other members before laughing in which you can’t help but to join her.

“So what do you have for me here?” She switched the topic.

“Uhm I have my Strategy album here, I already heard all the tracks and I wanna say they are all amazing.”

“What’s your favorite track?”

“The title track and Like It Like It.”

“Ooh, we’re the same. High five!” She offered you again her hand, and it’s making you crazy knowing how lucky you are to get this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to not only hold Mina’s hand but also to also share a surreal hand gesture with her. This is literally a next-level interaction you got here with her, and how dumb of you to just let it go to waste.

You slammed your palm onto hers, and both were glad at what they did. She reached for your album and signed it with her marking pen before giving it back to you as its owner.

“Thank you so much! And uhh, lastly I bought this for you.” You presented her the penguin plushie you were also carrying. “I hope you like it; I tried to find one of it that is as cute as you.”

Mina was satisfied with your compliment, pursing her lower lip and nodding at it. “And you certainly did accomplish that. I love it!” She grabbed your plushie and cuddled it with a smile. You felt touched seeing your bias enjoying your present despite how simple it is.

The manager then went behind Mina and looked at you both. “Time's up, Minari. Sir, you have to proceed.”

“Hey, take out your phone,” Mina commanded you, and you complied, quickly searching for it in your pocket and pulling it out. “Let me give you a memory to recall that’ll assure you these all happen for real. Let’s take a picture.”

You raised your phone, with your cheeks flushing from excitement and bliss. It then went all tomato when you heard what Mina said afterwards.

“Pinch my cheek.” She poked her cheek twice as she leaned her face on you. You just want to at least give Mina a warning message to take all these carefully and not too suddenly, as you feel like you’re about to get your heart exploding in flattery because of the effect she’s giving at you.

“O-okay.” You followed, placing your fingertips and pressing them on Mina’s soft and smooth cheeks. You are breathing heavily as you do so. Raising your phone and clicking on the screen, it captured this unforgettable moment you have shared with Mina.

“Thank you so much, Mina! I wish you and TWICE all the best for next year!”

“Thank you as well, YN. It’s nice to meet you.” You and Mina exchanged bows at one another before you switched chairs and face Dahyun next. Even without your figure in front of her, Mina couldn’t help to still follow you with her gaze. It was like she was struck by interest she couldn’t describe.

You also were throwing glances at her through the rest of the event before it ended. It was a lot of fun seeing them being the usual happy go lucky type of a group which also shows that they seemed like more of a family rather with how kind they treat each other. As you made your exit in the hall and enter your car, you let out every emotions you were holding while being inside there.

“I can’t believe it, I literally got inches up close with TWICE and Mina today. Best freaking day ever.” You muttered dreamily to yourself before driving your car away back to your home.

On the other hand, Mina couldn’t help but to rewind back her interactions with you. She saw the potential of you being a great friend to get along with because of the quality of your attitude. It made her a little bashful when she silently admitted that she was more impressed, as along with your personality comes an attractive appearance as well.

Fortunately, the eyes of the fans along with their opinions aligned with Mina’s initial thoughts. Scrolling through social media, she found a couple of clips from the fan meet that feature her interaction with you from different angles. Checking the comment section, it was filled with numerous words from other ONCEs positively agreeing that she, along with you, has made a fascinating, adorable moment together, which made her grin.

It truly was suck when Mina remembered that she’ll never meet you personally again. That is until one day, she was proven by her thoughts to be all mistaken when she visited her favorite bakery shop. As she was about to order, she encountered a familiar face in the cashier.

“W-wait what? Oh my…”

“Oh, it’s you!” Mina’s face lightened. “You’re the fan I got to talk last fanmeet. YN, right?”

“No freaking way, she actually remembered my name?” You were in appalled at the mention all brought by her sharp memory.

“Y-yes, that was me.” You said. “It’s very unexpected to meet you here again.” said sheepishly.

“I am too, I didn’t even know you work here at my favorite bakery.” She admitted.

“Well I just moved here yesterday after I got accepted from the job. It’s just a part-time, want to find something worth my time to be independent of.” You shared.

“So you also live here close?”

“Almost.”

“Really? Well…” She gestured you to come closer in which you did. “This shouldn’t be told to others, but I just want to inform you that I also live around here as well.” She whispered.

“Oh. Wow, it’s really making me very lucky to see and talk with you again.” You said. “But uhh, why did you told me that easily for me?”

Your question had Mina baffled as well at her decision. She came up with a reason rather, one that she could relate the most. “I… I don’t know, well atleast I didn’t told you where I exactly live, you know.”

You scratched your head as you understood her point late. “Oh yeah, my bad. Boundaries.”

Mina agreed silently and giggled at your guilty demeanor. “It’s okay.”

“So, Miss Myoui may I have your order please?”

Mina spoke out about her preferred bread to buy for breakfast. You tried to maintain the good performance, especially since this is a hugely popular celebrity as one of your customers; you don’t want to put shame on yourself, this new job you have, and your manager. After placing them on the paper bags, you handed them to her, in which you received money bills from Mina.

After securing the payment, you greeted Mina politely. “Thank you for coming, Miss Myoui! Have a nice day!”

“You too, YN.” As she was about to step outside with her manager, she rotated her feet back to the opposite direction, approaching you again on the counter which perplexed you. “Is there any concerns, Miss Myoui?”

“Perhaps you’ve seen about how we are trending right now in K-Pop media. Did you see the videos of us from the fanmeet few days ago?”

“Oh that, yeah. I was stunned that we hooked most of attentions to us that day.” You shyly said.

“I actually think you’re a good person to hang along with, YN. The fans seems to agree and so do I.” She curiously stated. “If I say I’m giving you a chance to be friends with me too, would you take it?”

“Y-you want me… to be friends with you?”

You were mindblown at her invitation. What in the timeline of this universe are you living in? you thought to yourself. What deeds have you done for you to be granted to step into this situation, standing face to face with Myoui Mina, a member of your favorite girl group TWICE, asking you to be friends with her?

At first these are all a dream to imagine. As much as you wanted to ask her again if these are all real, you don’t want yourself to have trouble acting normally in front of her again. You just stared at Mina, completely astounded.

“Yes.” Mina repeated again that she has made the decision. She looked at her manager who is giving her cautious gazes but Mina looks to prevent and calm it down with her assuring one. “It’s fine if you don’t. I get it, it’s not okay for an idol to be closer with a-”

“I accept.” You cut her off to show how much willing you are. “I mean, who in their right minds wouldn’t want to have as someone like you in their life.”

Mina felt fluttered at your praise. She showed again her usual gummy smile. “You’re too soft-spoken for me.”

“Because you deserve it.” You shrugged.

You and her stared at one another before she bid goodbye to you and thanked you again for accepting her. In the middle of your job, you have lost your mind processing the truth that Myoui Mina is seriously one of your little amount of friends now. At the van, Mina was warmed to know that you didn’t care about the distinction between your roles in life as a basis for developing a close connection together.

ACT 2

“My manager would be here in 5 minutes.” Mina said after checking the time on her phone. “Thank you for agreeing to this, YN.”

You and Mina cooperatively took each step on growing your closeness together through various ways. Even if it meant for Mina to look like a complete anonymous person to the public with her black jacket, shades, and pants, as long as she got to be with you anytime you two wanted to hang out, it was no bother to her. Meanwhile, your respect and admiration for Mina’s determination of being a true friend who assures that she gets to be present by your side when you need her grows each time that passes.

The two of you would get to know each little detail about yourselves,, whether through conversations, hobbies each of you was joined to participate in, and sometimes deep talks where you and Mina would spill some worries that just can’t get out of your head and chest that easily.

Then Mina picked up this idea she had to strengthen your trust and make your bond stronger when she sent you a message that made you bewildered during your duty at the bakery. As usual, you wanted to reconfirm if what she said was true, so you asked her again. She really didn’t have any typos or a short out-of-trance moment while she was constructing the message: she actually wants to bring you to their dorm.

Her reason: she admitted that hiding her identity in the public, which wasn’t her cup of tea to be in, is draining her. That’s why she requested you to do something for her this time, which you considered a test as well to observe how you are engaged to allow Mina to spend some time with you as a friend personally.

Without any hesitation, you granted it. You showed up at her meeting place, the coffee shop she chose. Your presence immediately plastered joy on her face.

“No problem. I should do the same for you this time, you know.”

“I thought you’ll protest or reject my invitation because of how absurd it is.” Mina retorted in a tensed manner. “But I’m glad you didn’t.”

“Actually I did thought you didn’t meant it or what. Maybe you have forgotten about the line we don’t have to cross, or yeah let’s say privacy.” You said calmly. “Like, why would you let me be in to your own personal space, Mina.”

“You’re not a stranger to me anymore, YN. You’re my friend.”

“I know. But sometimes I do feel like I’ve barely been known yet for you to trust me this much. I don’t deserve this special treatment I’m-”

“Stop it.” You felt chills when Mina looked at you seriously. “You are already special to me. Think about it, how many ONCEs I had to be close and accept them in as my friend from outside. Nobody but you, that’s why whatever you at it, you deserved to receive it from me because you’re lucky to be.”

You nodded, Mina’s assurance effectively comforting you. “Why I get to be the one then, Mina?”

“Why do you ask? Do you hate it?” Mina subtly looked at you.

“N-no, I just… I just wanna know what did you truly see in me that makes me be the deserving one to know everything about you.”

Mina became silent for a moment as she thought about it. She avoided her gaze to rewind and search for clues she could provide as a reasonable answer aside from your good personality.

“Tell me first, why did you came here to be with in the first place then?” She threw the question back at you.

“Because… I want you to keep believing in me.” You replied. “I don’t want to destroy everything that makes me who I am for you, it would be as if I just let this opportunity to become friends with you to be ruined. I… want to keep you around me, Mina.”

Mina reciprocated your hug to her and buried her face more at your chest. “Seriously, YN. What are we now? I… This feeling I have, I know it’s more than just a friend for you. It may be wrong for others, but I couldn’t help it.”

Mina’s serious expression transitioned into a beaming one. She stepped closer to you and looked up to meet your eyes. “There it is. Why should I be asked if you already knew the answer yourself? I just simply like everything about what you do, because we both know that I’m the motivation for all of it, not because I’m your bias from TWICE, but because I’m just me, a girl named Mina.”

“And to give you one as well, I want us to be fair here.” You couldn’t help it; Mina felt her breath taken away when you trapped her in your embrace. She felt so little around your arms, and she loved how cozy and warm it is to be stuck with you.

“For the first time in my life, I’ve never felt so valuable in someone’s life. That’s why I’d like to be in your company, because you’re giving me purpose to keep on living, not only because I have to strive for my own deficit, but to show that I am also important at who I am.”

“Let yourself fall, Mina. I’ll be here to catch you anyway.”

Both of you stared at one another, as you can view Mina’s surprised reaction that you do share a mutual agreement at her feelings for you. You winked at her and grinned before you continued. “But, let’s just go with the process. We can take things slow. Then, if we’re ready, we can do as we please.”

Mina nodded and giggled at the wonderful idea. “I absolute love that.”

You kissed her hooded head and hugged her tighter, just seconds before her manager and driver stopped the van in front of you two. “Hop in, lovebirds.” She already teased you both, in which you have failed to make yourselves look innocent.

The ride wasn’t that long as like Mina said, she was actually just a bit close to where you live. Upon your discovery, TWICE are currently staying this is giant luxury hotel around your area. The van entered the gates and it parked in front of the entrance.

“Hurry, we might get seen.” She immediately led you both to the elevator in which Mina can now remove her mask as hoodie safely.

Reaching the floor they inputted on the buttons, you knew that you are feet up from the ground because of how slightly tensed your legs are acting through every footstep. Manager unnie stopped in front of one of the doors and unlocked it.

“Thank you, unnie.” Mina greeted.

“Go ahead, you two. And oh…”

Both of you halted.

“I’ll just gonna pretend I didn’t saw what I’ve seen earlier.” She smirked before entering her room, leaving you both shy from being caught.

“Well that’s a pretty lame start on making ourselves look obvious.” You commented, Mina chuckled.

“This way.”

Mina approached the last door at the end of the hallway, she inputted a passcode on it before it unlocked. You felt even more nervous to enter knowing that you’re about to step onto the place where you only just used to see from their vlogs.

“Come in.”

“H-hello.”

“U-uhh, o-okay.”

You stepped inside and removed your shoes. A short hallway greeted you at first before you followed Mina behind to pass through it. After you reached the brighter end, the entire wide area of their room emerged, and in your overwhelmed state, you got to see some of the other members in the living room, just in their simple house attire.

Jihyo and Sana are just watching TV on the couch while Tzuyu is studying something on her phone based on the pen and notebook she had prepared in front of her. As they felt Mina’s arrival, they all got to see you as well, which made them panicked.

“Oh, Mina! And you, the famous ONCE who a fanboy of our penguin here.” Sana cheerfully pointed at you in which you bowed in return.

“Welcome to our house… YN, correct?” Jihyo asked for clarification.

“Yes.”

“Not saying noona, I see. Are you older than Nayeon unnie?”

“A year older.” You confirmed.

“Oh, interesting.” Jihyo nodded. “Well, hi again. Make yourself comfortable, okay? Mina, why don’t you make our guest comfortable around would ya?”

“Okay, unnie. Thank you for allowing me to bring him in.”

“Always for you, Minari.” She responded which both of them smiled. You and her went to the kitchen. Meanwhile, unbeknownst to your idea, Jihyo and Sana were sharing the same sentiment.

“Yeah, it’s a wise choice to allow him here.” She meant in a different meaning, bouncing her eyebrows and smirked.

“Right? He really does look handsome up close.” Sana agreed.

Tzuyu can hear her unnies’ conversation, and even she couldn’t blame them for being like that. She almost got distracted at her lesson in psychology class when her eyes landed on your impressive figure present in front of her.

Back at your situation with Mina, she offered you a seat, which you gratefully took. She poured a glass of orange juice per your request and instantly made you a sandwich. As you sheepishly ate the food, Mina just admiringly watched you.

“You can just say if you want more, okay? Feel free and get used being around here because from now on you’ll be in here frequently.”

“Uh… I won’t object anymore if that’s what you want to happen. I actually would like to meet the other members as well.” Your die-hard inner ONCE wishing for a miracle to become close with them speaking for yourself, because it knew that this is the perfect fantasy for you to live onto.

“Some of them are in their room, but Jeongyeon unnie and Dahyun aren’t around though. One is in her family house and the other is currently filming her movie.”

“Oh okay. I actually don’t expect them to be all around here anyway, I know all of you have different schedules and busy with your own solo projects occurring.” You said. “I’m contented enough to atleast get to meet the others.”

“Speaking of right timing.” Mina turned her attention from your back. “Hai Momo chan”

“Oh, you brought your boyfriend with you.” She teased, making Mina blush in heat.

“We’re just friends…” She defensively said under her breath.

“So far.” You looked at her to join along Momo’s playful antics and Mina glared at you to stop in which you wheeze internally.

“Hi, nice to meet you. You must know me already, but for formal manner, let me do the honor again. I’m Momo.” She lend her hand on you.

“YN.” You touched her hand. It lasted for seconds, you swore it would be just a while but it felt like Momo tightened her grip a bit more. Mina’s fake cough startled you both which Momo gave in to the gesture. “Sorry, I noticed you have a large hand and your grip is strong. You’re working out aren’t you?”

“Yeah. Actually… I kind of got inspired of you and Jihyo’s workout clips I’ve been seeing in my feed so yeah.”

“Oh, really? Woah, that’s great! Momo laughed at the revelation. “Glad that we could also influence others for body fitness. Health is wealth, as what they say.”

“Yeah it did helped me a lot to feel better.”

“Hey, if you like. Maybe you can ask permission to your girlie there and join me and Jihyo, we could use some gym buddy to drag along and introduce you to some other techniques to get fit.” She playfully punched your arm lightly and you chuckled.

“Momo…” Mina groaned at another attempt of her bestfriend making fun of her.

“Hehe, sorry. Anyways, are you in, YN?” She crosses her arm, waiting for your decision.

“Yeah, I could get used to adapt some other exercises.” You said.

“Great! Now excuse me, I would like to grab my mac and cheese on the fridge.” She said.

As you and Mina continued to talk, Momo was sneaking glances at your concentrated manner at her bestfriend while speaking. Just like the previous three co-members of hers, her curiosity piqued at the charm you possess.

“I should be the one who is thanking a lot here, Mina. All of what transpired today, I’ll never forget it. This is what I dreamed of, to meet you all and I knew before that knowing you girls personally would be like once in a blue moon but… you girls changed my life and made it possible. And its all because of you, Mina. Take all the credit, it’s yours.” You stated, breathing deeply to sink in everything that you have encountered today.

She left the kitchen with her bowl of food, crossing paths with Jihyo and Sana looking at her as they gestured the direction, referring to you. Momo just mouthed “wow” and lifted her eyebrows while grinning, in which they chuckled. Returning to her room, she took a mental note to prepare anytime once you visit.

During your hours of stay in the dorm, you also get to meet Chaeyoung and Nayeon, who were busy at their stuff in their respective rooms. They asked you some things regarding being a fanboy for their group and shared how this all still feels surreal for you. Understanding the luck you have, they just laughed and assured you to provide what brings you comfort and peace being with them.

As the sky starts to get darker, Mina escorted you in the lobby of their hotel. Stopping in the middle of the space, she looked at you and smiled gratefully. “Thank you for coming, YN. I really appreciated you being thoughtful to me.”

Mina bowed and held your arm. “About us… we’ll get there, right?”

“I know we are. I won’t let it end anyway.”

You bid goodbye to her as the manager instructed you to enter their service van. Mina watched you depart as she remained in her spot. Mentally, she wished you a ride home safely.

Unbeknownst to the both, all other six members were gathered in the living room, exchanging their first impressions about meeting you.

“He looks pretty cute and a hottie too.” Momo said. “I was almost caught getting blank for a second there, the more I just at his face it’s like… it’s sucking me into his facial features. Good thing I found an excuse to save myself in humiliation there.”

“What got me rather is how huge he looked.” Nayeon bit her lip hungrily, eyes darting sideways. “He looks like a buff baby, and God what I’d give to have a muscle guy like him and crush my head around his triceps.”

“Yeah, we get it. It’s your type unnie, but I think you have to get through us first.” Chaeyoung interrupted. “You made some good points though, damn I’d wish he’ll destroy me with his size.” She shut her eyes and smiled lewdly.

“Woah Chaeng, getting there already?” Jihyo was amused.

“But… I think YN is into Mina unnie already.” Tzuyu joined the chat. They all looked at her and those words had them in dismay. “From how they’ve been so close together earlier, it’s no denial he’s into her.”

“Yeah, but… would Mina be the same?” Sana asked.

“She probably is.” Nayeon said. “Sucks that we all went head over heels already for one guy who is already taken.” She chuckled with a bitter taste.

Mina then opened the door of their dorm, making them pause the topic. “YN is on his way home now.”

“Good. Mina, you sure did pick a good man aren’t you?” Jihyo said.

“I have no regrets, unnie.” She smiled before disappearing to her room.

They all looked back at one another, sharing the same thoughts. However, their expressions is displaying mixed emotions for their beloved friend and sister-figure.

“She is indeed attracted to YN.” Sana said.

Throughout the next weeks, your visit to their place has become regular as suggested and planned. You also finally got to meet Jeongyeon and Dahyun when they were fortunately present in the dorm, taking a break from their hectic schedule. Without your knowledge, the two also suppressed similar interest towards you, much like the others.

Being often at their place granted you the opportunity to form a close connection as well with the other members aside from Mina. It was a great thing to discover their personalities more aside from what you just speculated through seeing them on the media with their content and projects. The consequence of that, however, is that you weren’t aware that you’re transforming into a chick magnet, with how the girls are now attracted to you both perspective-wise and emotionally.

And the best aspect you have attempted with her is introducing yourselves to having sex. You have seen Mina being a bit nervous and scared at your first take with her, which is a relief that it still ended on a positive note, pleasing you in a new direction.

For example, in Nayeon’s case, she would find herself sneakily touching your built physique when she finds a chance to do so. Jeongyeon’s heart throbs when you shower her with compliments regarding your appreciation for her appearance despite the struggles she went through; Momo would position herself to showcase her sexy figure whenever you work out with her.

Sana and her clingy personality, where she’ll just randomly hug you anytime only to get a touch of your muscles, Jihyo started wearing tops that break her cleavage free whenever she learns you’ll be coming after observing you one time inevitably peeking at her assets in the gym, while Dahyun, who is aware of her curves, began using skin-tight dresses that trace her sculpted hourglass figure after admitting that it makes her look fabulous.

Lastly, the two other maknaes, Chaeyoung and Tzuyu, who love getting praised for being great at what they are, have frequently shown you in an eye-catching manner.

They knew what they were doing was wrong since you and Mina are undoubtedly about to develop a bond that is sweeter than just being friends, but it’s so irresistible when they just have to rarely have some guy around with them and it turns out to be hotter and more accurate than the dream guy they wanted to love in the future. They were just being a little hesitant, limiting their actions at first on what they were doing, brought by their dilemmas, until they couldn’t hold it in anymore.

The more you pull them closer into you, the more they want you for themselves to claim and won’t let go.

In the midst of their methods of alluring and flirting towards you, their speculation went true as you and Mina called it official to be a couple months later. Living into the promise that both won’t hold back now that you are now in a relationship with the ideal woman you always wanted to date, you and Mina explored ways to make this journey with her more desirable.

What do you mean by that is the amount of circumstances where she would beg for your cock anytime she gets a free time to unwind or taking you to different places aside from your house and look for a spot to fuck. There is none that she’ll not make you satisfy her being full of cum whether in her holes or through her flawless skin.

Spending a vacation in a private resort with her, other TWICE members and staffs became a usual day for the both of you to have some sex whenever the urge brings you both together. After chugging your fifth alcohol and the combination of Mina being needy for you, she led you in one of the trees away from the group and pounce at you like a hungry animal.

Mina planted kisses around your topless body all the way from the bottom to the top where she turns herself to your neck and mauled at it. You guided her head deeper into your skin before you had enough and brought her into a wild make-out session. Lips colliding, tongues swirling, and saliva connecting your warm mouths controlled with lust.

“I need you so bad right now.” Mina said as she caressed your abs while your foreheads are pressing to one another.

“We don’t have much time, Mina. Let’s get this done or else might get caught by them.” You said as you pecked her lips again.

“Just promise me we’ll continue this later when they sleep.”

“We can.”

Mina absorbed your powerful manhood into her snatch, encircling it with immense tightness. She moaned as you began to thrust your hips again and pick up the pace slowly.

Mina went on her knees as you lower her down with your hand on top of her head. Along her movement, she dragged your lower garment on your feet, exposing your raging cock now in its maximum size ready to be serviced by your horny girlfriend.

She grasped it from the base and performed an introductory stroke before putting the mushroom tip on her puckered lips as she inhaled your scent. Mina pushed forward, the shaft now lodged inside her mouth, and began her blowjob as you held her head for assistance.

You quickly buckled your hips to hurry this up, not giving a damn about Mina’s gag reflex from how you hit the back of her throat repeatedly. She clung tightly at your waist as you used her for your own pleasure, admiring your rough treatment that satisfies her as well.

The girth of your manhood is being coated with saliva by her flirty tongue as she takes you all in, desperate for your incoming reward for her efforts. She looked up at you, confirming that her performance is sending wonders to your senses just by the look of your lustful face.

Thrusting your hips further, Mina’s nose is now bumping at your crotch. She then felt your length twitching in her mouth, a familiar signal of what’s about to happen afterwards, a very anticipatory one.

Gripping her hair, you stuck your cock in her mouth as you filled it with your creamy deposit. She lost the number of times you fired straight through her throat, but she didn’t care; all that matters is that she get to receive it all by herself.

You gently slid in your slimy cock at her mouth. Mina opened her mouth to present a pool of cum. “Swallow.” And she did exactly as you told her, gulping it easily before releasing her mouth to prove no leftovers.

“Good girl. Now get up and bend your ass for me, babe. Let’s finish this.” You helped Mina to stand and changed positions. Mina is now facing the tree and bending slightly for you.

Kneeling behind her, you quickly undressed her swimsuit to unveil her plump ass that made most ONCEs go crazy when she twerked it like a professional during their concert. You feel bad for some who are dying to grab a handful of these tasty buns, but now you’ll fulfill their wishes by taking these into your own hands.

You sniffed her ass for a second and slapped both really hard before you got up and rubbed your length across her valley. “Place it in me, please.” You wasted no more time as you pushed it forward inside her inviting hole.

Her arms embraced the tree as you pummeled through her rear, deliciously watching her skin ripple as you collided your skin into hers. It creates wet slapping sounds that both of you are getting turned on more by.

“Ugh yes yes fuck, you’re so big inside of me, YN.” Mina whimpered as you glided your hands through the surface of her godly sculpted back. Bracing yourself, you wrapped her body close as you fucked her ass faster.

The volume of her moans and stutters increasing. “Sshhh be still or somebody might find us here.” Mina then closed her mouth, her muffled screams as her ass continously being filled to the brim by your magnificent cock.

“Shit. I’m about to bust, Mina.” You went all in to your rhythm, sending her body vibrating at your rough hammering. A last plopping sound, and your crotch pressed at her tempting asscheeks as you unleashed another load of cum inside of her.

Mina huffed as she felt your cock exit her hole and some cum pouring out from her used passage. You scooped some and have Mina taste it to make every drop count.

You both put back your undergarments. “Let’s go, they must be looking for us now.” you said as you pulled Mina with you out of the woods.

ACT 3

Few days later, you were chilling at the kitchen stool, watching some memes at your phone to entertain yourself. Mina is currently at Japan to join her parents visit her late dog’s resting place since its his death anniversary if you remember correctly. You decided instead to hang out with other members to spend your free time.

Footsteps approaching, you turned around to see Momo now changed into her oversized t-shirt after working out with you earlier. She took the chair beside you.

“You can use our bathroom if you want to wash yourself.” Momo said as she noticed your body now dried up from getting sweat drenched at lifting weights.

“Nah I’m good, I’m about to leave now anyway. I can just wash at my home later.” You replied. “Why, do I stink?”

“Yes, it makes me want to puke actually.” She fake acting like she’s having nausea. Seeing your offended and sheepish reaction broke her out of laughter. “Just kidding, you still smell great.”

She leaned closer, sniffing your neck to confirm it, yet again oblivious to her true intention, her burning temptation influencing her to take measures that will get you real good.

“Yeah, you smell manly as ever.” Momo muttered. You stiffened, awkwardly letting Momo breath closely at your skin.

“Thanks, I guess.” You thriftly smiled.

Momo just tightened her lips and just watched you scroll through your Instagram feed. She prepared herself first as what she made sure to remember last time before proceeding with her main agenda of interacting with you.

“How are things between you and Mina?”

“Pretty smooth. I’m glad we could manage despite her busy schedules as an idol.”

“That’s good, yeah. What about being careful, have you guys always ensure that this thing between you and Mina remains private?”

“We do, we haven’t being caught yet or so does her by the K-Media, like we know Dispatch is famous for spotting idols meeting up with mysterious person. Yeah, I haven’t got any news yet about Mina having a rumored boyfriend. So yeah, we’re safe.”

“Oh. Even the people around you aside from the media whenever you guys outside?”

“Positive.”

“Is that so.” Momo pulled out her phone and opened it. “Can you explain this to me then?”

Momo stole your attention from your phone as she made watch a video playing in her device. To your shock, it features a recording of you and Mina having sex secretly in the resort.

“What the-” You said as Mina getting backshot from you illuminated through your eyes. “H-how did you get this?”

“I followed you both shortly after you two left, I was heading to the bathroom for a piss break when suddenly… I heard some moans and clapping sounds near me.” Momo recalled.

“Then this is what I found.” She told you seriously. “Now tell me, where’s the cautious part in there?”

“Momo, it’s not that-”

“I don’t give a shit if you two are having sex in public area, I just want you to think that what if it’s not me who saw you both and instead either some personnel from the hotel or one of our staffs? What would you do if this gets out of hand and get you both exposed by this act?” Momo scolded you.

“It’s Mina who brought us there, okay? It’s not like I wanted us to fuck there. I was telling her that we can do this later but she didn’t listened.” You defended.

“But it’s your responsibility as a boyfriend to remind her what’s right. Mina can be stubborn sometimes, I know her like the back of my hand already, so you should know better as well now that you and her are now together.” Momo stood by her point. “What made you to let her? Were you scared that you won’t get that fuck she’s craving for because she’s sulk-”

“Enough!” You slammed your hand on the table, pent up by her blabbering until your senses reminded you that this is one of the women you’ll forever have an honor to get to know with, and you swore before that if you’ll get a chance to meet them personally, you won’t do any harm on them.

And it seems that you broke that when you saw Momo shocked and frightened at your unexpected temper.

“I-I’m sorry, I- I get it, okay. It was wrong of me and I won’t do it again but…. what I don’t understand is that why do you need to record this as well? I mean, you can just say what happened and I’ll surrender because I know it’s true. What’s the use of this for then?” You said, directing your hand at the video.

“Now you’ve asked, well… I thought of something that I can make what I want possible through this.” She tapped her finger at the table, her expression shifting into something mischievous and naughty.

“What are you talking about?”

“You want me to delete this? You have to do something for me first- oh should I say, to US first.”

“What the fuck? Are you seriously blackmailing me with our sex tape?” You ridiculously asked. You are in utter disbelief right now of this true color of Momo.

“Guess you can put it like that.” She shrugged. “Yeah, we can forgive you for being so reckless to our friend and hold the consequences if you’ll do us a favor.”

“And what is that?”

Momo moved her chair, closing her gap between you two. “Fuck the rest of us just like how you do to Mina.” She smirked as she stared at your flabbergasted face.

You couldn’t process what Momo is asking you to do for her, and damn sure you weren’t expecting that she’ll have this side that’ll be very disliking of you. The once admirable and inspirational idol turned to be someone worse than you could imagine. Even adding to this horrible situation, she’s just doing this on behalf of a group consisted of people you also believed at first to be pure and innocent.

“You got to be kidding me.” You shook your head. “Are you out of your mind, Momo? Have you been hearing yourself? You’re committing a sin with this! You’re betraying Mina for God’s sake!”

“I KNOW! BUT I COULDN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE!” Momo has snapped, she stood fiercely at you.” AND SO WAS THEM. We tried, but… ever since you stepped foot in our dorm, we found you so attractive in everything. You have it all that most of us wanted a guy to have. Then when we learned that Mina already have you. We tried to be happy for our friend but it pains us as well that we couldn’t have the same.” Momo explained what led her to do this.

“Until we have accepted the fact that we couldn’t have your heart like she does. But… we might atleast get another piece of you that doesn’t require feelings to attain. Something that had us obssessing over you since the beginning.”

She crawled her hands at your arm and cupped your biceps, squeezing its firm yet toughness. “Mina can love you with all her heart and soul, as for your body though… maybe we can just share it ourselves for free.”

Her hands roams down to your side figure until it reaches the hem of your shirt. Momo single handedly removed it for you and you just remained stiffened at your spot as you watched her in confusion.

“And we know you’ll let us, right? You were probably dreaming of having us in your way when you were just a random fan of us.” After throwing your shirt on the floor, Momo then began to undress herself, and your eyes largened at her matching pair of lacy red bra and panties she’s wearing underneath, gulping at how incredibly sexy she actually is. It’s undeniable that every detail of her figure is a sight to behold, a complete package from head to toe that every man would die for.

She grabbed your hand and forced you to stand up. “You’ll be our personal sex slave and we’ll delete the video. Don’t worry, she don’t have to know about what we’re doing. Unless, you want us to separate Mina away from you and never see us again.”

You were horrified at the consequences Momo is considering in case you disobey their conditions. For the sake of your relationship with Mina, you frowned in worry as Momo lift your chin up to her stare at her bare naked body and her devious gaze.

“Do we have a deal with that, YN?”

Without any other choice, you wanted to save you and Mina to these ladies you once treated as supportive friends but has now turned into betraying envy admirers who wants to gain access of your body for free use.

You nodded in response to her question. Momo then started to kiss you passionately, putting touches around your chest and torso as well. She then led your hands on top of her bulging breasts and massage them to match Momo’s expectations.

She let go for a while and dragged you along her. Exiting the kitchen, you saw the rest of the girls all sitting on the living room. Momo looked at them as your lack of clothing together stole their attention.

“He agreed. We’ll be right back.” She exclaimed. You view their grins expanded with a hint of thirst and desperation for your affection.

You followed Momo and got pushed inside her room where after being locked by her, both went through hours of heated and wild rounds of sweaty sex on her bed. She was moaning and screaming in pleasure as you just focused on giving her everything she wanted from you.

Momo was laid in various positions based on what she wanted you to perform, whether its pinning and fucked her like a ragdoll around your cock on the wall, making the bed quake and squeak with your manhandling of her body, or pound her while she’s pressed on the cold floor.

She titfucked your thick cock with some short combinations of blowjob included and have it erupt with streaks of cum that splattered around her chest to finish your time with her.

ACT 4

The equipments would also receive additional purpose not just for a simple exercise as you would attempt to utilize it on pleasuring Nayeon, like making her bounce up and down in your cock while her legs split open, relying her balance on wrapping your head from behind.

Months have passed, and your new purpose for the girls proceeded without Mina having any idea about the huge unforgivable sin you’re committing. She returned weeks after Momo had you in her control. The poor girlfriend had no clue what the walls of their dorm had witnessed every day without her presence roaming around.

Their sexual needs over you intensified, and even with the possibility of Mina arriving home, you still had to do it to every member, depending on who was in the mood to beg for your cock and worship it as their ultimate prize. Whenever Mina closes the door and leaves their place, one of them—or hell, a pair or a divided group by them—would just suddenly pounce on you to take the availability.

You have taken a taste on every single one of them because of this forbidden deal, and they made these all possible in accordance with what they want to happen with you. They have taken turns on you, and you only have one objective to accomplish for them: never leave them not being blessed by your cum all over their spent body after accompanying them anywhere.

Nayeon once took you with her to be her guardian on her pilates schedule. While the coach is gone to attend some urgent stuff, Nayeon would instantly pull down your shorts and shove you cock up in her mouth.

In addition, you showered with Jeongyeon as well. Their water bill about to double because of how much water you both have wasted being tangled together. You fucked Jeongyeon while she stands on one leg with another being lifted, then she finished you off by cumming onto her mouth. Following that, you helped each other apply soap and wash off your bodies.

Sana and Momo had threesome with you. At first you thought it would be a struggle to ensure that both of them will be satisfied equally, but due to how needy these girls for you and them acting like an experts for these thing, they have guided you properly.

It made you to shuffle yourselves in different positions, either taking their pussy and ass at the same time with your cock and talented fingers as they make out or them making your mouth work as the another returns the same at your cock. They also probably had the longest time you spent having sex with.

Jihyo likes her being called your mommy, and she is very welcome to treat you as her little baby. To do so, she would either instruct you to lay on her lap as she sat on the couch and suck her tits alternatively while she jerks off your cock or taking care of you with her massive puppies and oral skills. She also surprised you with a fact that she’s carrying breastmilk already despite not being pregnant yet, a result of having great genes.

Dahyun is the most submissive and gentle type of one; she prefers vanilla sex rather than being banged up, unlike some of her co-members, especially Chaeyoung. The amount of suffering you endured for this small but terrible woman when it came to sex was unmeasurable. This dominant lady won’t let your balls store a single drop of cum for her after edging your cock for an hour and encourages you to piston her tight petite body however she wants to.

And lastly, Tzuyu was almost the same as Dahyun. The only difference was that she wants to switch roles in the bed while maintaining the same pace of the session. It’s kind of strange as well that she’s probably the least TWICE member you came inside of, as she offers instead her big fat thighs for you to also inject your cock in between and blast cum for her gifted asset.

“What’s going on with you lately, YN?” Mina started the topic. “Care to share what’s bothering you, babe?”

You have lost count of how many times you did it while handling your relationship with Mina and your sex life with her too. That’s why it resulted in you becoming physically weak, sympathizing for your emotional and mental state that is also being affected as well.

It didn’t slip into Mina’s perspective for her boyfriend. Her caring instincts for you alerting about the sudden strange transformation of your appearance and mood were noticed. She could also differentiate how you were before than this recent change you’re having.

Always lost in thoughts, gloomy, and quiet. You even reject her, setting yourselves up for another round of sex. That is how Mina would describe you currently. Since this is not the usual you that she loved, it grew concern in her.

That’s why one day, she confronted you in a must. You were just watching the landscape of Seoul beneath from the pavement when Mina approached you from behind with coffee in hand. She looked at your side figure and again, she knew something is wrong.

You gulped and lowered your head a bit more. “There’s n-nothing. Why would you ask?”

“You’ve been not acting like yourself lately. I can see it all.” Mina explained. “You rarely laugh or smile so geniunely at me, it was those that powers me up everyday but… you’ve been so lacking with everything that I couldn’t help but to ask if there’s anything going on with you.”

“None. I’m fine, Mina. Really.”

“But you’re not okay. Don’t set me aside, please. I’m your girlfriend, YN. I should be helping you.”

“What part of what I just said that you don’t understand, Mina?” You glanced at her in frustration. The tension gets heavier, until you’ve realized that you almost just shouted at Mina who only just think of your well-being.

“S-sorry. I didn’t mean to raise my voice. Seriously, Mina. I’m fine.” You shook your head and turned away at her.

Mina wasn’t thrilled at your sudden complain. She came forward and hug you from behind, her comfort almost broke the emotions you’ve trying to hold as much as your can. “You can tell me anything, you know? I love you, and I have to make sure that I share the problems with you. For us to fix together.”

Your body trembled, every words coming out of her mouth felt like a dagger to your chest. “I can’t.”

“You are. I’m always here to listen, don’t put pressure on yourself.” Mina said.

“No, you don’t understand. This is something you can’t handle.”

“Then make me.”

“If I did, you won’t be able to look at me the same again.”

“Is it being insecure again, YN? We’ve talked about this before.”

“No. This is new.”

“What is it?”

“I’ve being torn apart in guilt, Mina.” One of your teardrops finally went loose from your sore eyes. “I don’t know if how long am I going to do this, but I’m just holding on for you.”

“Is there’s something you’re not telling me about, YN?”

You breathed heavily and composed your posture, preparing for the storm impending to come. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, Mina.”

“For?”

“I’ve risked something to keep ourselves together. It was wrong but… there was no other option.”

“What is it?”

“Dignity.” A dreaded expression went visible in your face.

“What’s this have to do with your dignity, YN?” Mina cautiously asked, as a strange feeling creeping inside her is telling that she may not digest what you’re about to say.

“I- I… oh God, I know you won’t forgive me for this.” You cried in her arms. “I made myself a sex slave for the girls.” You escaped from her embrace, kneeling with your hands covering your face in disgrace and fear.

Mina felt like her heart just crumpled and eardrums burst at what she had heard. Her eyes twitched and swell before it became watery from the overflowing emotions dealt by pain. The arms that was formed to wrap you in her console started to give up and fell back to her sides.

“Y-you… you did what?” Mina asked as she stared at nothingness. The sunset shining in her eyes in contrast to the building darkness of disgust around her.

“I had sex with your co-members, for a deal to keep our relationship going.” You elaborated. “Because if I don’t, they’ll threaten me to be banned from ever seeing you and the rest of them ever again.”

Mina’s fists clenched in anger. The tears flowing in her cheeks were like disappearing instantly at how hot she’s getting driven by her fury. She seethes it in, while still processing the fact that the people she once thought are her friends and would support her sincerely, would be the cause of the downfall of one of the most important things she cherishes in life through betrayal.

She wasn’t in a good condition to think properly, so her body rather took in charge on controlling what the right thing to do for now. Mina left you in the balcony and grabbed her shoulder bag from her room. You stand up and followed her.

“W-wait, where are you going?”

Mina didn’t answer.

“Wait, please Mina. Let me explain more-”

“DON’T FUCKING TALK TO ME, YN. J-just… don’t. I want to be left alone I-I just can’t stand seeing every one of you for now.” Mina daringly pointed her finger at you, staring right through your soul.

The main door suddenly clicked. It opened, Mina walked through it and saw the rest of the girls who came back from grocery. Momo was in the front, blocking the way.

She was about to greet Mina with large smile on her face when she got startled from the brutal slap she received straight on her face. The girls exclaimed in shock, and Mina stared at them venomously.

“Traitors.” She muttered before taking a turn as she began walking away from them.

All of the girls watched you just helplessly standing in the middle of the room. They understood what this is all mean now. Mina has found out the truth.

SET 5

Some of them were about to chase Mina but she already entered an elevator and it closed.

The rest of them went in silent to deal with the consequences of their actions.

The entire group has no idea of Mina’s whereabouts. They talked to few people they knew that are friends with Mina from outside and nobody have seen nor met them after the incident. They wanted to believe, but they are confident that one of them must be lying as per Mina’s request to leave her alone.

they multiplied her pain than the first time her health succumbed from.

If that was probably what Mina wants from now, they can give it to her, but they won’t be put to rest thinking about how she might be dealing the darkest truth she had discovered.

Almost a decade of being with Mina, they know she’s one of the most vulnerable, and that woke them up to the harsh reality that they not just only hurt their friend for the first time….

The thought of setting Mina into another hiatus term because of their fault made them regretting a lot that they have put their guards down from getting obssessed over nothing but lust from you. Not only that, the guilt you’re having were now being carried by them as well, that’s why they couldn’t blame you as her boyfriend to be this depressed right now.

You and the girls were trapped in the dark, deafening silence and heavy baggage of self-blame. They still tried to be productive as an idol despite of the current situation, while you in whole opposite side, has to see you almost unmoved, looking at the unknown filled with somber hopes to hear your phone receive a notification atleast or ring after hundreds of missed call you have attempted.

It all stopped when almost 2 weeks later, Mina made a return to the dorm. You were in your house when it happened, and so Jihyo immediately contacted you to inform that she’s here. Driving in rush, you arrived at their dorm in no time.

As you stepped in front of the door and opened it, you were met by everyone except Jihyo, Jeongyeon, and Nayeon bowing their heads. You were perplexed when some of them like Dahyun and Tzuyu are crying too. “W-what happened? Where is she?”

“Y-YN… please stop unnie.” Dahyun spoke in ragged tone.

“Why? From what?”

The other missing members appeared from the other hallway, and there was girlfriend carrying a bag and luggages. Your eyes widened when the three are following her from behind as if they’re begging.

Mina met you in her way and you just stood there wondering why she all have her belongings out. It scares you to ask, but you have to find out. “Mina, w-where are you going?”

“I’m not staying on this dorm anymore. I’m also leaving TWICE.”

Your jaw dropped.

“And I’m breaking up with you.”

You watched Mina’s stoic expression in devastation. Your heart felt like it exploded into pieces hearing the words you never wanted to happen together with her. Yet here she was, standing at you in her broken state, managed to announce that without any hesitation.

“No, Mina. Please, can you hear me for a second? Let’s just talk.”

“Get out of my way, YN.”

“I’m not letting you. Just, please think about this first!”

“I MADE UP MY MIND!!!” Mina screamed, and it sent shivers to the girls knowing she rarely raises her voice. “IF YOU AND… THESE SO-CALLED FRIENDS OF MINE NEVER ARRANGED TO STAB ME IN BACK, THIS WOULD’VE NOT HAPPEN IN THE FIRST PLACE!”

“Mina, YN owes you an explanation. So do us, as well.”

“Don’t you dare lecture me this time, Jihyo.” She turned around at Jihyo and confronted her with burning rage in her eyes.

“I’m not lecturing you, Mina. I’m just trying to make you understand.”

“What is it that I have to understand?!” Mina confusedly asked. “Other than all of you fucking my boyfriend behind my back, taking advantage of my blindness? Y-you guys are sick!”

“Because I did it all for YOU!” You yelled as you you couldn’t hold it in much longer. The desperation of her to be prevented from ending all of this for good. “I had no choice but to accept it because they blackmailed me, Mina. They dared me that if I didn’t follow what they want from me, they won’t delete that video and they can prohibit me from getting any access to all of you!”

“W-what video?” Mina puzzledly asked.

“We got caught… having sex in the resort.” You revealed. “And they used that to give them something in exchange not to trigger them doing something about us.”

“Who recorded us?”

“I did.” Momo stood from the couch, bravely taking accountability for what she did. “I was also the one who proposed a plan to have YN for ourselves.”

“H-how could you?” Mina was about to break down, her breath shaking.

“I wasn’t thinking properly at that time. Neither were them. We got clouded by lust and the need to sample YN. How attractive he looks, we were manipulated to do some dirty deeds on him. And realizing what we have truly done, we’ve made a terrible mistake, Mina.” Momo explained.

“And you all never thought about how it would break my heart so bad that I just wanted to end it all?” Mina started crying. “I just couldn’t live with the darkest truth that my boyfriend and my friends are cheating on me, and that’s my first relationship tainted with sin because of all of you!”

“Mina, we swear, we thought about the consequences at first.” Nayeon joined the discussion. “We are aware that you already have YN by yourself, romantically to say the least. That’s why… I don’t know, a stupid idea was formulated by Momo here to rather claim YN by ourselves only for his body. And we admit, we are just craving for his affection that it broke our limit to accept.”

“Enough with the crap we’re trying to justify of, if there’s anyone you should blame a lot, it’s us. not YN. He had no choice, he was threatened.” Jeongyeon said. “And you may not forgive us anymore for this, but we just want to say that we’re really sorry.”

“You’re right, I’ll never forgive any of you for this.” Mina glared at anyone. “And I don’t buy any of your apology, once a cheater will always be a cheater, like they say. Who knows, all of you may done it again.”

“I swear, Mina. I never wanted any of it, I could’ve stopped if I want to, but they won’t let me be!” You said. “If you know how it eats me alive everytime I finish doing it with them knowing that I’m still in a relationship with you. I never wanted to do it, but I still did it because I need you to stay.” She watched you sobbing in plead.

“It scares me both as a fan and as your lover that everything we had has to stop if I didn’t follow them. I can’t lose you, Mina. I’m willing to do everything even if it ruins my reputation, lose my dignity, or cost my life, because I love you.”

Mina cried at your last statement. The mask she was wearing since she arrived is now starting to drop. You kneeled in front of her and hugged her thighs.

“Please, don’t go.”

Mina looked at your pitiful state and roamed her sight at the girls watching this dramatic scene in person. “Look at what you have all done.” She gritted her teeth.

“Let me guess, if I didn’t asked him about this, you guys would still do it without my knowledge, huh?” She bitterly chuckle regarding about the absurdity of their reasoning. They just all bowed in shame, knowing that Mina got them defeated with that single sentence.

“I also didn’t want to leave the group, nor break up with YN.” You looked up in surprise to see her wiping her tears. “Funny, right? Despite the unbearable amount of pain you have inflicted on me, I just can’t seem to avoid this stage of life that I reached with all of you.”

“A part of me still wanted to atleast stay. No because being an idol is my passion or my love for YN. It’s because I can’t lose all of you. That’s how special you guys are to me.” They all cried after hearing how touching it was even if they knew they don’t deserve Mina’s kind-heartedness anymore.

“As what I’ve said, this won’t stop unless I had to find out. I guess, there’s still a way to fix all of these. And since I’m already involved at whatever this is, it has to remain like that from now on.”

“What are you trying to imply, Mina?”

“You girls said that you have no found feelings for him, right? Only for pleasure?”

“Definitely just friends with benefits, that’s all.” Sana said.

“Then, let’s make a new deal. This thing you have with him, I’ll allow it to continue.”

All of them gasp in shock, with a mix of utter confusion. “Wait, Mina are you serious?”

“Don’t give me that reaction, I know you girls must’ve been disappointed that you can’t fuck him anymore because I already know the truth.” Mina retorted. “If this is what would keep us together, then this should stay only with us. No more intentions of damaging or kicking out anybody else in our lives too.” She referred to Momo who got what she’s trying to point about.

“You girls can continue being friends with benefits with him, but it would be under my control this time. I have to be updated all the time at what you guys did, maybe I could learn new things to pleasure my boyfriend here atleast.” She patted your head.

“I also will keep our relationship with YN, and that’s what should always matter here. Know your boundaries because if you don’t, I won’t hesitate to take actions about it that you’ll never like.” Mina warned them all.

“These only have to stop if me and YN decided to get marry in the future. For the sake of respect to the family we’re going to build. Or even if some of you began to find somebody to love as well. Are we all clear?”

“We’ll do everything to redeem ourselves, Mina. If that what you wish for, we’ll do it.” Momo agreed.

“Just don’t keep any secrets on me.” Mina then looked at your kneeling posture below her. She threw her bag away and pushed the luggages away. “Get up, I won’t go now. But… I still have one more thing to do to ease off my mind.”

“What is it?”

Mina began unbuttoning her blouse one by one, exposing her lace-cladded black bra encasing her luscious small tits. The rest of the girls were stunned also as they witness Mina going bare-naked in front of you. Throwing the piece of clothing aside, she then moved through her skirt, unzipped and dragged them down to the ground.

You gawked at the incredible view of Mina in her favorite set of black lingerie partnered by enticing suspenders that holds her thigh-high stockings. She pushed you to the wall and cornered you there. Tilting her head aside, she glanced at the other members who couldn’t do anything but to anticipate what’s about to occur afterwards.

“I’m going to punish you all for what you did to me. That means I’m going to discipline this pathetic little boy while all of you only get to watch me empty his balls and make him submit and ravage me under my commands. Understood?”

They all nodded with an unspoken dismay present in their face, but Mina doesn’t give a single damn about it. She then went down on her knees, take off your pants and boxers, and wield the already erect beautiful piece of meat in her dainty hands.

You watched all the girls occupy the carpet and the couch, removing their lower garment to let their pussies free from the lingering sensation that Mina has given effect of her sudden persona transformation. They made their fingers go to work, groping their tits and inserting their digits in each to their sopping wet slit.

“Good luck, YN. You’re in the hands of Sharon now.” Jeongyeon concerningly reminded you.

You matched Mina’s sharp gaze and devilish gaze. She began pumping your cock with her fist close to her lewd face. You inhaled and braced yourself at the immense pleasure she’s given you already.

“You better keep up with me, boy. I won’t go easy on you today.”

Pre-cum escaped from your tip, Mina blew her warm breath at your pinkish head. She cackled as she watched you tremble. Lifting your cock, she gave a long lick from your full balls then the underside and up to your plump end.

“Shall we start?”

==OO==

[gingerbreedreads]

Coach’s Cameras 

Locker room cameras makes some players show off for coach.

"No, no the shower cameras are fake." Explained Coach Huntly. He was on the phone with the athletic director. There had always been horseplay in the showers after practice, but after a slip and fall led to injury, Coach had to take some action.

"It'll put a little fear in them." Said Coach. Of course, Coach installed real cameras. He'd always had a leering eye for his boys. The few glances here and there had excited him. Calling team captains into his office as they come out of the shower, dripping and nearly naked, was a thrill. Now he'd have a full view.

The next practice there was a mix of fear and confusion on the players faces. These all-Americans boys weren't used to feeling consequences for their actions, but Coach was firm about it. 

As Coach loaded up his laptop in his office he heard his players' grumbling though the microphone.

"It's gotta be illegal bro."

"No way it's actually real dude."

"Where even is it?"

While some jocks hunched shyly, most seemed indifferent. One boy, a rookie player named Mitch, was clearly on a mission to find the camera. When his eyes locked on the lens, it felt like he was staring right into Coach's eyes. Huntly's dick jumped in his short shorts, and Mitch's dick did too. The exhibitionist had found an audience.

Mitch helicoptered his dick, tugging on it until it was erect for all to see. The other guys laughed.

"Nothing's stopping Mitch, I guess."

"Yo Mitch, you giving Coach the same show we always get?"

Coach Huntly slid his shorts down, massaging his hard dick through his jock. It was clear that Mitch's displays were a regular thing. 

"You like that Coach?" Mitch said, smirking at the camera. "Hey Luke, let's show Coach what we do in the shower when we win."

Luke was a bigger guy, a gentle giant, who's round ass had been facing the camera the whole time. Mitch gave it a slap, and Luke jumped. He turned, showing Coach that Luke was just as turned on as Mitch.

"C'mon Mitch, not on camera!"

"There's no way that's real dude. And even if it's real, might as well show Coach what you'd do to be team captain next year." Mitch teased, and he slapped Luke's thick swollen cock. Luke doubled over and groaned. Mitch took the opportunity to shove his cock in Luke's mouth and start face fucking him. 

There were cheers, groans, and a few eye rolls from the team. Some players left and toweled off, some got closer to the action, stroking at the view, while others hung back and just watched.

The team captain, a trim ginger named Joe came up behind Luke. He buried his face in Luke's cheeks. Luke's body shook. The three of them moaned in cycles. Joe looked right to the camera and said 

"Coach I hope you're taking notes, cause I want you to eat my ass like this."

The shower had devolved into an amateur peep show. The team, either in defiance or bravado, took turns showing off for Coach, though Mitch, Luke, and Joe were clearly the most eager about the situation. Soon a few of the lurk and jerk jocks started to bust. A few eager boys took loads while others tried to shoot to the wall for distance.  

Mitch, Luke, and Joe had started a three way kiss in the center of the open shower. Mitch and Joe were jerking Luke and rubbing his taint, until he bucked shooting his load into Joe's hand. Joe swiftly smeared the load on Luke's face and the three of them continued kissing, snowballing to the cheers of the few left in the shower. Joe and Mitch both jerked themselves off and added their loads to the sticky kiss. 

Coach wanted to wait to the bitter end but seeing this, he busted into his jock. He bit his lip to keep from moaning. His dick didn't droop one bit as he stayed glued to the screen. A bit of ass slapping and teasing persisted as the boys toweled off.

Mitch called out as he left "see you later Coach, ya pervert!" Luke and Joe tried to sush him.

There was a few moments of total silence in the locker room and Coach's adjoining office. Then Coach scrubbed the video back to the start and watched the shower again and again And again.

—-

Coach found it challenging to look at his players in the same way the next day. He needed to be cool about this if he wanted another show. Sure enough when the boys took to the shower there was more posturing and jerking, though it seemed the novel thrill of being on camera had worn off for a few of them. 

Mitch, Luke, and Joe still led the pack, but most days it was a simple jerk and swallow in the shower. 

By the following week the rhythm had become predictable to Coach Huntly. The approach, the laughter, the joshing before the sexual drive in the boys took over was routine, all while Coach watched on his screen in the next room, rubbing himself through his jock.

It came as a surprise when Coach heard someone in his office.

"Damn Coach, you really are a perv!"

Coach whipped around to see Mitch, and Joe standing in towels, still dripping from the shower. He did a double take to his computer and to his confusion saw Mitch and Joe in the shower too.

"Whaaa?" was all Coach could get out before Joe interrupted.

"These WiFi camera are so easy to patch into. You'd think he'd have recognized he's watching Tuesday again huh?" Said Joe smirking and tenting his towel.

"Clearly he's just happy for the view. I mean look at him."

Coach tried to cover up his even more erect pouch. His head was spinning. He needed to get control of this.

"Get out of here boys, this isn't what it looks like."

As Coach reached down to pull his pants up, Mitch grabbed the laptop off the desk. 

"Hey!" 

But Mitch was already darting off into the locker room. Coach shuffled after him pants halfway up his legs. As Mitch arrived in the locker room he shouted into the shower.

"Well boys we were right, Coach is very happy to watch the game day footage."

"Boys this isn't what it looks like."

"Isn't it?" Said Joe as he grabbed Coach's pants and jock and yanked them down. Coach's hard, thick eight inch cock bounced for all to see. Luke, who was heading out of the shower just stood there slack jawed. 

"None of this leaves this room or you'll be off the team forever. Do you hear me?" Coach bellowed, but his grip on the team was slipping.

Mitch just smiled and said, "None of these videos can leave this room or you'll be out of a job forever, Coach."

Joe punctuated this blackmail with a hard spank on Coach's ass. Huntly knew now he was at the mercy of the lusty boys he'd been leering at. 

"What do you say we make coach the star of his next video boys?"

With a cheer coming from the large group shower, Mitch and Joe stripped Coach down and dragged him into the wet room. Careful to position him in the center the team went to work. Luke on his knees slobbered on Coach's hog, which Joe bent him over and ate his ass. Coach moaned but only before Mitch grabbed his face and pull him close.

"I want to see those eyes as you suck my dick."

Coach, like a puppy dog, looked up at the grinned Mitch as he leaned forward and started to blow him. 

The four of them, bucking and moaning got the rest of the team to a state of horny agitation. Someone asked,

"Hey Joe, you think Coach can take some punishment back there."

Joe spat on his finger and thrust it into his Coach. Huntly had taken poundings before, but never found himself ass up for a team of young studs like this. He shivered and Joe grazed his prostate.

"Oh yeah, he can take it." Joe stood up and using the body wash from the dispenser, pinned up his dick. Coach's eyes went wide as he felt Joe push in. Mitch just stared down and kept his gaze. 

"That's right Coach, you're ours now."

The next hour was a blur to ol' Huntly. He couldn't remember who was in his hole when, but he took a lot of his team. By the end a chant rose up.

"Cum on coach! Cum on Coach!"

They laid him flat on the shower floor and stood over him. Coach just looked up and saw a circle of hard jocks jerking over him. 

Pretty soon one boy busted, then another. They helped each other until they'd all pumped one load out. Mitch, made a point to cum all over Coach’s face, then pushed his load into coach's mouth.

The coach burst on himself to the cheers of the rest of the players.

"You get all that Joe?" Mitch called out.

"Yup, saved to the cloud."

Mitch patted Coach's red face. "I think I know what practice is going to look like now, if you don't want everyone to know what kind of pervert you are."

Coach could only sigh. He knew he was caught in a bind, but if this is the cost of being caught, he only wished it'd happened sooner.

Don’t ever drop the soap!! 😅

[respectthepetty]

Cir's Deep Dark Secrets

After watching episode seven of The Boy Next World, I need to talk about this pretty (black-coded) bitch.

Because are there really parallel worlds?

Or is this Cir trying to save himself?

Cir is such a dark blue that he is sometimes black, and even when he should be happy, he is still so dark.

In the beginning, he was still dark but lightening up as he was connecting to Phu.

But ever since his mom crept back into the story, he has returned to the darkness.

And it has lingered.

Cir fell asleep in this shirt at the end of episode six after getting a blowjob from Phu. Looks blue, right?

Because it is a lighter blue since he was happy.

And yet, after spending a few nights with Phu in his bed, Cir is darker.

He spent the entire day with Phu being the best Blue Boy.

He was always there, telling Phu he wasn't going anywhere, and showing him that as well.

But the darkness was always there too.

Because it's the warning that Cir keeps ignoring.

It's right there in his face, but he is avoiding it.

It's the darkness he is hiding under his blue.

And that darkness is starting to affect Phu.

It's alarming just how much Cir's dark secrets are hurting Phu.

Yet Cir just keeps ignoring the sirens.

And now he made a mistake by having sex with Phu.

He ignored the red flags, and now the darkness is eclipsing everything, so this isn't a beautiful love-making moment that Phu was expecting. No. This is bad.

Because those dark secrets have tainted something that was once so bright and light.

And those dark secrets just keep building.

But the one that is harming Phu the most is the one that started all of this.

Now that they've had sex, Phu feels immense guilt believing he is cheating another Phu out of this love. After sex, he now realizes how strong his feelings are, yet he admits he doesn't deserve this. He thinks he is a substitute, and that he is just filling in for the one Cir actually loves. This love is not his nor could it ever be his. He is the replacement Phu. And why wouldn't he think this since this is the exact lie Cir fed him.

And that's why I think this beautiful black-coded bitch is Cir trying to warn himself that time is running out before all his dark secrets that he has kept buried deep within himself will be exposed and ruin the one bright spot he ever had in his miserable existence.

Parallel worlds could very well be a possibility, but Cir's problem is himself, so if parallel worlds really are a thing, why not let another Cir live his life for a bit while he is stuck thinking about the consequences of actions? Perhaps this horrifyingly white padded cell will motivate him to come clean since he already fucked up and took Phu's virginity without being honest, which has caused Phu extreme emotional pain.

Even Jin and his big ass white lie got a little light via the car's headlights during his kiss in the dark garage with Wim, the guy who is afraid of the dark, because although Jin hasn't admitted he can read Wim's mind, he did admit that he bargained with Cir to make the date happen.

But unlike Jin, whatever light Cir had is quickly disappearing as his deep dark lies begin to overshadow every other thing that has happened between him and Phu.

And in an instant, there is a barrier between them.

So I'm hoping that beautiful black-coded bitch in Cir talks some sense into him because darkness only breeds secrets.

But light exposes them.

[squiddyfics]

get gone

namgyu x f!reader

description: namgyu’s long hours spent at the club, wasting his life away, have gotten to you. you finally decide to leave him, but it doesn’t hurt to say goodbye first.

18+ minors dni

warnings: nsfw, angst, drugs mentioned, unprotected piv, oral (f!receiving), overstimulation

a/n: happy valentine's day hehe

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

He broke his promise.

Namgyu's shift at the club always ends at two in the morning, but he's never home when he's supposed to be. Whenever he does finally return, his eyes are bloodshot and his mood is sour.

You couldn't stand by and watch him ruin his life, destroying his physical and mental health each weekend as he delves into a world of illicit substances and people who don't give a fuck about whether he lives or dies.

That's why you made him swear to stop staying at the club past his shift. You respect that he has a job to do, but beyond that, there's no reason for him to stay out and slowly kill himself.

Last week, he actually stuck to his word, which was a pleasant surprise. It made you hopeful that he was finally turning things around, for once prioritizing his life with you over cheap thrills.

But now it's three a.m., and he's nowhere to be seen. You run your hands over your face, attempting to stay awake. You won't be set at ease until you see him walk through the door. Each night he doesn't come home on time is a night you spend worrying that he's finally succumbed to the consequences of his actions, leaving you alone in the world.

He never texts you back on these nights, either. You open your phone and click on your text thread with him, fruitlessly hoping that things might be different tonight. Of course not; your messages remain unanswered.

You can't keep doing this anymore, can't keep caring about a man who doesn't care about himself. Up until now, you've stuck by his side, scared that if you left him he'd spiral even further. Enough is enough, though. You have a life to live, and without spending so much of your time stressing about Namgyu's well-being, you'd be much freer.

These are your last thoughts before you pass out on the couch, unable to force yourself to stay awake any longer.

The sound of keys in the door wakes you back up. When you open your eyes, it's lighter in the apartment; the sun is beginning to rise. You check the time on your phone.

6:09.

Namgyu opens the door and looks surprised to see you in the living room. You meet his eyes with a glare.

"Thanks for finally gracing me with your presence," you snap.

"Chill," he says, and the word sends a surge of anger coursing through you. "I just spent a few extra hours networking."

"Networking?" you scoff. "Is that what you call getting fucked up and partying with junkies?"

"I made hella tips," he says. "This group of super-rich dudes said they'd keep giving me money as long as I could convince the bottle-service girl to sit with them."

"Oh, okay, so now you're pimping out your coworkers. That makes me feel so much better."

He throws his keys down on the table much harder than necessary. "Are you seriously mad that I'm making money? Would you rather we get fucking evicted?"

"I'm mad that you broke my trust!" you shout back. "You were supposed to leave at two, Namgyu. You promised."

He kicks off his shoes and storms toward you. "You think I want to be out for twelve hours straight? I'm doing this for us. I would've thought you'd be grateful, but I guess that's expecting too much of you."

"Oh, fuck you." You laugh, but there's no humor behind it. "Don't try to spin this as if doing lines in the club bathroom is somehow for my sake."

"I'm playing the game," he says. "This is the world I work in; this is what you signed up for when you started dating me."

"Well, I'm done now. I'm done."

He pulls the sleeves of his slightly oversized dress shirt over his hands. Normally you'd find this cute, but right now it's just pissing you off.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"I'm telling you I can't do this anymore," you say. "This isn't how I want to live."

"You don't mean that." He shakes his head. "You haven't slept. Let's go to bed and talk about this in the morning."

"Motherfucker, it is the morning," you spit, gesturing to the sunrise outside your window. "And I mean every word of what I'm saying to you right now. I can't stay with you; not when this is the path you're choosing for yourself."

Suddenly Namgyu's apathetic expression morphs into one of concern, and he's on his knees in front of you, grabbing your hands. "No, baby. You don't need to leave. This was the last time, I swear."

"You swore the same thing the other week, but that didn't seem to mean much to you."

"It's different this time," he says, rubbing his thumbs over your hands as if that will fix anything. "I understand now. I know you don't really want to go, so let's just talk this through, yeah?"

"You didn't even have the decency to send me a text." Your voice is smaller now. "I can't spend my nights wondering if you'll make it home in one piece. It's killing me."

"I'll change."

"It's too late," you say. "I've made up my mind."

Still kneeling in front of you, Namgyu hugs your waist, pressing his cheek against your stomach. "You can't leave me. You can't."

God, he's so fucking pathetic.

“Get off of me,” you say, but he only squeezes you tighter.

“You’re not leaving. You’re not leaving.” He says it like a prayer.

“Get the fuck up,” you tell him. “This is just sad.”

He does get up, but instead of walking away, he leans over you, pressing a desperate kiss to your lips. Despite how angry you are, you kiss him back.

He puts his hands on your waist and pulls you up so you're standing too. Your own hands find his face, fingers tracing over the features you've come to know so well, the features you'll be saying goodbye to.

As he guides you to the bedroom, still kissing you, you break apart just enough to say, "This doesn't change anything."

Namgyu throws you down on the bed and climbs on top of you, his lips and hands laying claim to every part of your body. He’s always been physically affectionate, but he’s touching you even more now, with the ravenous passion of someone who knows this could be the last time.

He kisses your neck in just the right spot, and grips your breasts with just the right amount of pressure, perfectly riding the line between pain and pleasure. You don't want to give him the satisfaction of knowing how good he makes you feel, but you can't help the moan that escapes your lips.

"How could you give this up?" he mutters against your skin. "No one knows your body like I do. It'll never be this good with anyone else."

You know it's true, but you don't want to think about that right now. Instead, you decide to show him what he'll be missing out on, everything he lost due to the consequences of his own reckless actions. You reach down and wrap your hand around the bulge in his pants, squeezing lightly.

He reacts to your touch instantly, rocking into you as curses fall from his lips. He grasps at the hem of your shirt, urging it off of you. "I need you."

One by one, each piece of clothing separating you and Namgyu from one another is tossed aside, until there's no barrier between you. He grinds against you, sliding his shaft along your wet slit. His cock twitches at the moan he elicits from you.

Given his obvious desperation, you expect him to fuck you without hesitation. You're surprised when he lowers his face between your legs, kissing your inner thighs.

You tangle your fingers in his hair as he licks up your slit, taunting you. You attempt to push his head to the right spot, but he's taking his sweet time. By the time his lips encircle your clit, you're already bucking and moaning like a madwoman.

"Fuck, Namgyu," you breathe.

Your reaction spurs him on, and he pushes two fingers inside you, fucking you with his hand while he continues to suck on your clit. There's no warning; you're climaxing in record time, falling apart beneath him as your high racks your body in violent waves.

Namgyu doesn't give you even a second to recover. You're still panting, your walls still clenching as he pulls his fingers out of you, licking them clean before raising himself back up and slamming into you.

You cry out, but he silences you with a kiss. You taste yourself on his tongue, all your senses in overdrive as he fucks you mercilessly.

"Oh god, Namgyu, hold on, I'm—" but you're cut short as another orgasm rips through your body.

You grip his hips, attempting to still him, to ease the pressure on your sensitive core, but he's relentless. He pounds into you at a shocking pace, and the overstimulation causes tears to well up in your eyes.

"Who else is gonna do this for you?" he asks through gritted teeth. "Who else is gonna fuck you until you can't think straight?"

You shake your head, unable to respond; the pleasure is overwhelming.

"Fucking answer me."

Between moans, you manage to gasp out, "No one."

Your words send him over the edge, and he finishes deep inside you with a guttural growl.

A moment later, he’s collapsing on the bed beside you. He drapes an arm and leg over you in one final weary effort to keep you by his side.

After taking a minute to catch your breath, you slip out from under his grasp and stand up. You clean yourself up quickly, then start getting dressed.

“What are you doing?” Namgyu asks, pulling on his boxers.

“I told you, I’m leaving.”

You grab a suitcase and open up the drawers of your wardrobe, stuffing clothes inside. Namgyu shoots up and rushes to your side frantically. Each time you move to grab a handful of clothes, he takes a pile of them back out of your suitcase, shoving them haphazardly back into the drawer.

“Stop it!” you shout, but he continues to unpack your suitcase, trapping you in an endless cycle. “You’re acting like a child. Let me leave or I’m calling the fucking police.”

He ceases for a moment to laugh. “You can’t be serious.”

“Do I look like I’m joking?”

He steps back then, finally seeming to understand the gravity of the situation. He sits down on the bed, watching as you gather up your belongings.

You grab a smaller bag and take it to the bathroom, throwing your toiletries inside. Once you’ve gotten all the necessities together, you take what’s left of your life and head down the hallway.

You hear his quick footsteps on the floor behind you, but you don’t turn around.

“Wait,” he says, his voice cracking. “Wait, please. Don’t leave me. I love you.”

You swallow hard, but you still don’t look at him. Seeing his face will only make it harder to go, and you know this is what you need to do. Without another word, you open the door and shut it behind you.

Maybe one day Namgyu will pull himself together, and maybe then a life with him will be possible. Until then, you can’t keep putting yourself through the torture of loving him.

[muzzlemouths]

@sinister-sincerely ;) Surprise~

You've gotta be the only person I know who specifically requests heavy angst for a valentines event, but who am I to argue! I'd be lying if I said I didn't have fun writing something so bittersweet.

Sun/Moon x Y/N Word Count: 3,750 Warnings: Mutual pining (but it's too late), hurt/no comfort

It’s exactly as you remember.

The stench of pizza grease still lingers in the air, rainbow puddles of gasoline hiding under minivans beside forgotten litter, every pothole in its place. The pizzeria greets you in its daunting enormity as you enter the mouth like a bitter swallowed pill.

You can’t say for certain what brought you to this point. How many restless nights and plaintive mornings you endured, how deep the sunken shadow beneath your eyes became until you couldn’t take it anymore. When days turned to weeks turned to months.

The earth orbits the sun in a slow, tedious loop and it is here, a year after it all, that you find yourself staring down the doors to the Superstar Daycare.

The day’s end sees parents lingering in droves around the doors. Some caught up in polite conversation, soccer moms and wine aunts sharing a good laugh, heels clinking against the sticky floor. While others tap their feet with impatient expectation and arms crossed over their chest. They check their phones and apple watches as if watching the time will make it move any faster.

Not you, though. Your feet, your time, your expectations, it all travels at a devastating crawl, and you would sooner turn around and wash your hands of this whole ordeal before you willed it to go faster. The drag of your feet is purposeful. 

You disappear into the crowd, and one by one they disappear from you. Parents and uncles and older siblings in various states of mood, their faces brightening when it’s their turn to scoop a teetering tot into their arms and ask about their day, crayon drawings and popsicle stick crafts haphazardly glued together still clutched in tiny hands. Their blurry faces pay you no mind as you stand at the center of it all, choking on the consequences of your own actions. Their numbers dwindle by the minute.

You had eventually learned to tolerate the giggling shrieks of daycare children, having worked enough shifts that the noise fell into the backdrop like everything else, but the quiet — when the doors closed for the last time and it was just you and them, free from the inhibitions of work — the quiet was your favorite part. Now it only proves to further your dread. 

There are a dozen people to hide between, then ten, then six, then four, three, two…

and then you’re alone.

Any minute now Sun will peek his head out the door to ensure that no one was missed. It’s a silly tendency, the checking and double checking and triple checking to an almost obsessive degree, but you’ve long since become fond of these little habits. How miserable, then, to have to rely on its inevitability because you’re too much of a coward to confront him yourself.

It’s this same fear that drives you to turn on your heel at the last second, reconsidering this whole plan to begin with. If you left now you wouldn’t have to see the look of betrayal on his face. If you were quick about it you could still make haste towards the exit and be out of eyesight before the door ever opened, and then maybe, if you were lucky, your heart would consider this a worthwhile attempt and would finally let you leave this all behind.

How silly to think life would be so kind. You’ve run out of chances to avoid this.

Light pours over your back in a soft rectangle curve, warm and, much like the face that greets you, familiar. His voice — a polite ‘Can I help you?’ that lacks recognition — forces you to a halt. You anchor yourself to the spot for as long as you can get away with until the flicker of determination that remains in your chest demands you to move, and only then do you greet him properly; face to face.

The state of him guts you. His dirt coated faceplate, paint chipping at the edges and thumbprints smudged en mass, built up gunk wedged into the grooves, it tells you all you need to know.

It tells you that he hasn’t let anyone help him since your disappearance.

There is something to be said about the emotional range of a robot who cannot express himself in the usual way. You considered yourself quite adept at understanding exactly what they were feeling at any given moment regardless and in spite of the lack of visual cues, rarely being hindered by their static smiles because you had other things to rely on, like the pitch in their voice, their postures, their gestures. 

But Sun looks your way in complete silence, not budging from his place within the doorframe as recognition takes hold.

Silence fills your lungs until its presence is suffocating and this, if nothing else, finally prompts you to speak up. It’s a mess — your guilty muttering of “Can we talk?” — and you’re grateful to have even managed that much, and surprised, albeit relieved, initially, when it does the trick to stir Sun from his stupor.

His response, though lacking words, can be heard loud and clear.

You scramble forward in a rush, just barely managing to wedge your foot in the door before he has the chance to finish shutting it in your face.

“Please,” you rasp, pride be damned. 

His faceplate tilts (in curiosity or frustration, you aren’t sure), and his voicebox clicks like an irked tongue. Though they remain fixated in place you can surely feel the way his eyes find the ugly scar at your jaw and follow it all the way down your shoulder. Another click. 

He widens the door.

It’s not the warm welcome you’ve come to expect over the years, but it’s likely the kindest greeting you’ll receive from him now, all things considered, so you do your best not to spit on the brittle olive branch and quickly duck beneath his arm to make your way inside.

The daycare brings a wave of emotions that immediately threaten the frail sense of composure you’re still clinging to. Memories, new and very, very old, all collect in the back of your throat and sting like fresh bile. 

You recognize every stain in the carpet that Sun could never get out, can pinpoint how long its been since he’s cleaned by how strongly the smell of bleach contends with freshly soiled diapers. You know by the back of your hand which slides will burn you all the way down and which are permanently sticky from sickly kids and parents who couldn’t afford to bring them anywhere else. You know where the craft supplies are hidden, where the movies are kept, where the toys are stored. You know how bright the stars will shine when the lights go out, and how quickly Moon will abandon his station to find another.

You know exactly where to look when either of them is hurt and hiding.

But Sun isn’t hiding, now, even though he is very much hurt. Instead he stands a few paces from your side, hand still on the door and back to you. He doesn’t run and he doesn’t hide and he doesn’t need to.

Because it is you who ran away. It is you who hid.

It’s you who disappeared to somewhere they could never reach.

“Sun, I—”

“Why are you here?”

His voice cuts through you deeper than even the guilt. You want him to be angry with you, to scream and cry and lash out so your apprehension feels justified, so you can feel like there’s still something to salvage from this relationship, even if it’s negative. Even if it hurts. It would be easier if it hurt.

Instead, Sun addresses you with dry, polite boredom. He speaks to you like a stranger. 

Then, again, arrives the silence. It permeates through flesh and bone to sink into your very core, a poison that takes root deep in the pit of your stomach and blooms into something horrid. Gnarled branches of grief and shame left unpruned for so long that they’ve made a husk of the person you used to be. 

How do you come back from that?

“We didn’t know—” his fingers vice against the doorknob until its metal warps inward, refusing to show you his face. “We didn’t know where you went, why — why you left. You didn’t say anything. Not to us or anyone we asked.” His arms pinch into their shoulder sockets, the neglected casings whining against the tension. “Believe me, we asked everyone.”

Branches twist and unfurl, spindly twigs of guilt tickling against the back of your throat, thick with vinegar. You can taste it on your tongue. It takes all of your strength to step towards him. “Sun, I—”

“Stop,” he rasps. “Don’t. Just — just stay there. Stay right there.”

It stings. You often mulled over how they might react to your return when the day came, but never did you consider that he might not even want to look you in the eye. Swallowing around that boulder draws tears to your eyes. Nevertheless, your feet remain planted where they are, resigned to have this conversation with the back of his faceplate. “I wanted to reach out—”

“I wasn’t finished,” he interrupts. His rays sink inward, briefly, face swiveling at an angle where you can almost see his eyes. “We thought…Moon thought he had killed you,” he admits. “For a short time after you left us, we convinced ourselves that this is what happened. We let ourselves believe it because — because,” he turns, finally looking you in the eye, “because the alternative is that you abandoned us like everyone else.”

Your cheeks warm beneath streams of bitter salt. Words evade you for the longest time, deaf to your pleas to say something, anything, because more than Sun looking expectant for an answer is he deserving of one. 

Sun shakes his head, unimpressed by your inability to pry your tongue from the roof of your mouth. “Two minutes,” he says.

That does the trick just fine. “Two—?”

“You have two minutes to explain yourself,” he clarifies.

Your nose twitches, sniffling. “And after?” You ask, terrified of the answer. If he shoos you from the daycare and bans your name forevermore you aren’t sure you’ll ever recover. It’s selfish to fear such things — you know, already — when your actions were undoubtedly what burnt that bridge in the first place.

His arms cross over his chest, fingers winding fiercely into the metal, and he nods towards the clock. It’s getting late, already. 

“In two minutes it won’t be my choice what happens to you,” he warns.

Your gaze follows his own, eyeing the time. There’s no telling how lenient Moon will be about hearing you out but, if memory serves, you won’t see half the patience that Sun is tentatively offering you now. You don’t have time to argue either way.

You search your heart for the words that need to be said and, when that fails to provide you with a linear path forward, you opt to blurt out the first thing that comes to mind, instead. 

“I didn’t know what to do,” you admit. Your thumb lifts to press into scarred flesh, and follows it all the way down to where it disappears beneath your shirt collar. It’s ugly and it’s deep and you will bear it for the rest of your life. “I didn’t know how to confront this.”

Looking up, Sun hasn’t moved from his spot. He doesn’t blink, and he doesn’t speak, but the way his fist digs into the fabric of his pants tells you that he remembers that night clearly. You’re sure he spent several days thereafter scrubbing your blood out of the carpet.

It was an accident. As much as one can accidentally attack a loved one with blind violence, that is. You tell yourself it wasn’t intentional and you had hoped that they had, too. Both of you knew the day would come eventually either way. A dog that used to bite will bite again, no matter how strong the bond between him and his owner is. And you aren’t his owner, anyway. You can’t even call yourself his friend — not anymore.

“I thought I’d have enough time to think things over while I was recovering,” you croak through tears. “Every day in that hospital bed was spent thinking of you and Moon. I was—”

“Angry?” Sun asks.

“No!”

“Then why—?” His voice twists with the same bitterness as the dread in your stomach, almost a plead. “Why didn’t you say anything? A phone call, a letter, anything—”

“I was scared!” Despair pours from your throat like a leaky faucet having finally burst. “I almost died, Sun. I — I wasn’t sure what to do, where to go from there. I thought I just needed time, but everything happened so fast, it all passed so quickly, and the company—”

“You were fired?”

Your teeth clatter sharply against each other, lips pinching together, tongue tied. The clock tick tick ticks away. “They told me if I didn’t return that week I shouldn’t bother coming back at all. I…I could have kept my job, I could have come back, put the nightmares up on the top shelf and hope that everything just went back to normal, but…”

“You didn’t have to figure it out alone,” he answers solemnly. “Had you told us what you were going through, we could have figured something out, helped you transfer to another department or— or at least given you space. We would have come up with something.” Sun’s shoulders slump forward with a quiet, mechanical clink. He rubs anxiously at his arm and looks away from you. “Did you even like us?”

Your heart squeezes like it’s going to burst and plummets to the soles of your shoes, aching the whole way. Every instance of the love you felt for them comes barreling down on you at once; every fond memory, every moment of laughter, every hardship that you faced together. You never got the chance to tell them. “Of course I do,” you exclaim. “I lo—”

The room plunges into darkness. There is no twitch or flicker of the fluorescents to warn you, no method of hastily restoring power, nothing to keep stripes from becoming stars. Bittersweet familiarity sinks its teeth into your skin with nothing more than the quiet toll of a bell. His gaze blankets you in crimson.

You inhale sharply and prepare for the worst. “Moon—”

“Get out,” he snarls.

You flinch a foot back, but go no further. “Let me explain—”

“No.”

Your brow creases, nose wrinkling to match. “I’m not leaving,” you declare. “Why won’t you hear out what I have to say?”

“You’re a liar,” he spits, each word threaded with anger. Unlike Sun, he has no problems advancing towards you step by slow, meandered step. “Why would we want to hear a liar speak?”

Your heart twitches in your throat, threatening to suffocate you with every breath. Sun accused you of a great many things, all of which you are surely guilty of, but being a liar isn’t one of them. “I didn’t—”

“You left us!” He snarls. “Promised you wouldn’t. Promised you weren’t like the rest. You lied. Liar, liar, liar.”

His outburst convinces you to fall back another step. At this rate he’ll corner you, walk you against a wall. He’ll— “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” you insist, blinking through tears. “Either of you.”

“Liar!”

You break into a sob. “I’m not—”

“Get out,” he repeats, not sparing you the patience to further plead your case. He’s nearly erased the distance between you. “Won’t ask again.”

The croak in his voicebox doesn’t stem wholly from anger, of that you are certain. You can trace it all the way back to that very night when he came back to himself, hands still painted red, claws cinched to the bone. 

He had rushed into action, even if it was in vain. Daycare first-aid kits offer little more than boo-boo bandaids and palm sized ice packs, and as it stood, you were bleeding out in his arms. Despite his own personal biases he had called out for help, and help answered in the form of red and blue lights that blinked just outside the window. 

Your memory of the event is still fuzzy around the edges even now, yet still, there are two things you remember without any doubt. First, that Moon trembled with such vigor that his casing bears scars to this day from the metal rubbing together, and second, that he spoke to you endlessly, tirelessly, until they took you away. The cadence from that night hasn’t disappeared with time. 

It isn’t anger, it’s fear.

A dog that has bit before will inevitably bite again, and a dog that fears losing what it loves will refuse to let itself love at all.

Against your better judgement, you firmly stand your ground. “I’m not leaving,” you tell him. “Not until I’ve said what I came here to say.”

“Aren’t you scared?” 

It catches you off guard.

“That’s what you told Sun, isn’t it? I might hurt you again,” he warns. “Run your skin beneath my claws, tear it to bloody pieces until there’s nothing left.” His hand twitches at his side. “Maybe this time I’ll really kill you. Aren’t you scared?”

Your feet remain planted in that spot even as every molecule of your being screams at you to run. You are anchored here, for better or for worse, even as he inches ever closer. Even as he raises his hand — old blood still caked beneath the claws — and lingers beside the old wound.

“Yes,” you answer. It halts him immediately, hand still poised at your cheek. “I’m scared, I’m terrified, that much is true, but…” your eyes trace him, each pointed nail and crimson stained finger, the lilt in his voice that spells remorse as deep and as wide as your own.

Despite it all, your eyes fall shut. “...I trust you.”

Moon remains stone still. You hear no whisper of his bell, can feel no greater heat from his vents. He surely watches you to see how much truth lies in your commitment, searching your face for any hint of malice and trickery, but he won’t find any. You’re done running. You’re through with hiding.

He lurches forward—

and embraces you fully, metal frame trembling on its hinges. 

“Thought we lost you,” he whispers. “You left. You left us.”

“I know,” you whisper in turn. Warily you echo the gesture, wrapping your arms around him and holding him close, closer than you’ve ever been allowed before. “I’m sorry,” your words spill across his chest. “I’m so, so sorry. I’ll never leave you again—”

“Don’t.” He pulls away abruptly, holding you back with locked elbows, and the sudden absence leaves you cold. “No more promises. We can’t—” he whines beneath the palm you bring against his cheek, but nevertheless relaxes into it. “Can’t handle it. Another broken promise.”

“But—”

“Please,” he mutters. “No promises. Just this is fine. This—” His hand travels meekly upward to rest atop your own. “This is enough.”

It stings, as it very well should, but you aren’t going to argue with him about this. A nod answers him, simple as. You have all the time in the world to prove to them that you aren’t going anywhere this time.

There are a million and one things to say now that you finally have the chance. A year’s worth of events to catch them up on and the whole night to discuss it all, just like old times. You’ll make new friendship bracelets, read each other stories, gossip and laugh and play. There is still something worth saving, here. They haven’t given up on you yet.

But rebuilding a relationship requires honesty, it requires communication, and there is still one secret you’re hiding. The question is, how do you go about it without tarnishing what you’ve only just salvaged? What should you say, and how should you say it? The amount of times you’ve stuck your foot in your mouth while trying to do the right thing is not insignificant. But if you don’t tell them now, you might not get the chance again.

“I still haven’t told you…” Your eyes follow the curve of his face, the familiar way with which he lets your hand cradle his cheek, and in spite of everything a smile sneaks its way forward for the first time in ages. “I never stopped loving you, you know,” you whisper. “I care about you both — more than I’ve ever had the courage to say.”

Slowly, surely, you find yourself stretching onto your toes, finally feeling brave.

His vents breath against your palms, warm steam tickling between your fingers. Telltale fumes itch beneath your nose that smell faintly of burnt wires and old oil. 

A sputtering core kicks into third gear as your face nears his. Electricity bounces from his casing to dance against your fingertips until you’re breathless and floating. You can almost taste the cold metal beneath your lips, just a breath standing between them now. Almost. Almost.

“You have to let us go.”

Your blood freezes over, paralyzing you to the core. You don’t immediately pull back for fear of what you might find. But you have to face the music eventually.

Moon is painstakingly careful as he cleans your tears with the base of his thumb. He looks you over mournfully as though taking in your presence one last time. Then he laughs, short and sweet. “Nap time is over, starlight.”

You wake up.

The pillow is wet beneath your cheek, salty and cold. You stare at the wall bleary eyed, feeling an ache in your chest that eats at you now more than ever. How pitiful, how cruel, to be haunted by missed opportunities. Guilty pleasures of received forgiveness and enough time to make things right. The chance to fix everything held just out of your reach.

You turn against your pillow to reach the other side, taking your blankets with you, but even with their weight at your shoulders you feel impossibly cold. There is nothing to reach for anymore.

The glow of a television paints your back. Turned to the news, it’s been left on all night. You remember now. You remember everything.

The reporter talks about a fire.

You try to will yourself back to sleep.

[froegis]

but it’s not funny. why would wishing rape on anyone ever be okay? no matter who they are or what you think they believe? in what circumstance is that ever a valid wish? because you think pro-life people are actively forcing women to give birth, and each one of us is a malicious man who hates women and is okay with rape? have you ever talked in depth to someone who is pro-life, asked them what they think and believe, without getting your information from a biased source catered to your viewpoint, without immediately deciding they are evil because they have a different point of view, without deciding what you think they believe?

to clear things up, talk about abortions that occur because of inconvenience, which is the majority of abortions (which is what we try to talk about most of the time, but pro-choice people often choose to clump all types of abortions into one big category, equating abortions of rape with abortions of convenience.) so abortions not of rape, not of incest, not to save the mother, all of which you conveniently focus on in this conversation without addressing the reason 90% of abortions occur.

abortion is used massively as birth control when people have sex, get pregnant, and decide they don’t want to face the consequence of that action. deciding to “prevent a clump of cells from becoming a baby”, as you so delicately put it, is killing a baby for your own convenience, after choosing to have sex and choosing to face the risk of getting pregnant. that’s what that is. preventing a clump of cells designed to BE a baby is killing a baby. “preventing something from living” is the same thing as killing.

i am a woman, so you cannot possibly throw out that prolifers have no empathy for women when there are prolife people who are women. how does that not click?? you are literally just saying words to say words and incite negative emotions in the reader. there are so many women who have been through hell yet still believe that clump of cells you think is nothing is actually a growing human being with a future. i have met a girl who went through the craziest shit imaginable done to her by her immediate family, and she had a kid. it’s absolutely tragic, and yet she still told me how much she loves her little girl, and that she doesn’t understand how someone could think of ending the life an innocent human before they even get the chance to breathe. i know that’s just a case of one person and i don’t intend to use that as a catch-all argument by any means. i only want to call attention to the women like her, and i want to make it clear that they exist and you erase their survival and insult their dignity when you throw such accusations around.

still don’t understand how wishing rape on someone could be excused, yet here you are, excusing it with a premise that is entirely false and not at all the reality of prolife people or our beliefs.

and im pretty sure wishing rape on anyone is evil. no matter what. that should be pretty clear, out of anything. there is nothing that could ever excuse that. the hatred you speak of, which you claim we push onto women having abortions, is coming suspiciously from your own mouth.

i’m truly curious about how you would treat a woman who had sex and got an abortion as birth control versus a woman who was raped and decided to keep the baby because she believed it would be wrong for her to get an abortion. if she decided to speak up about it, would you support her as a survivor? would you hear her out or listen to a word she says? or in your eyes, is she a woman-killer and a forced-birther because she identifies as prolife and advocates for something she believes (which by the way, is no different from what you do)?

what is the difference between these two hypothetical women? i am genuinely curious what you think, because i have seen people who are pro choice praise the woman who got an abortion for exercising her right to bodily autonomy, then turn right around and wish the other woman more rape and death for keeping the child and for advocating for something she believes to be true with her whole heart (which, again, is no different from the other woman). and i truly cannot understand the logic behind that.

there is no excuse. wishing rape on anyone, regardless of their beliefs, is no less evil than the prolife person in your brain who is actively “forcing” women to give birth.

I think all pro-lifers should be raped, forced to have the baby (no exceptions), and become forced to raise it for 18-20 years just to see how it feels

[optimisticgrey]

Well well well, if this isn't the consequence of my own actions, haunting me

Tumblr has voted.

So, here it is. Follow along for one hell of a weird story.

✨In another life, Chapter 2✨

masterlist | requests? | ao3 | kink encyclopedia |

summary: You wake at the beach after attending your friends birthday party last night and realize, you have a tadpole in your head. Welcome to Faerûn!

author's note: Drastic rewrite of Chapter One to fit the Tumblr voted narrative.

darling tags @waterdeepwife @worfs-glorious-hair @dekariosclan @astarioffsimpmain @swordsbardkat @sweetgemberry @jeneralmischief (Let me know if you want to be on/off this list)

content warning: Spoilers. All of them.

word count: 2,4k

Song recommandation: Asking Alexandria - Nothing Left

AO3 Link

divider by @sweetmelodygraphics

“I…” You start but your voice trails off. Your mouth is too dry, your tongue too heavy and sitting up so quickly has made your head somewhat dizzy.

You blink several times, trying to steady your vision, but the sand beneath your shoes remains hazy.

Shoes. You glance down, only now registering that you're wearing your Doc Martens, paired with black skinny jeans.

Huh. You could have sworn to have undressed last night, before dropping into bed.

“I am not sure,” you manage at last, lifting your gaze again. You blink rapidly, opening and closing your eyes in quick succession.

Nope. Nobody is glitching or moving or hovering or any other strange thing they could be doing.

They are not dropping out of existence; your bedroom does not materialize around you in some surreal twist of logic.

They are just standing there, eyeing you.

And they are more stunning than you could have ever imagined. Not the pixelated versions of imaginary people – videogame characters -  you have come to care, fantasize about.

They are real. Alive. Breathing. Staring.

Your eyes dart back to the man who introduced himself as Gale.

He might be the most beautiful thing you have ever seen in your life.

Admittedly, you have read your fair share of smut written about him. About all of them. It’s your masturbation company and inspiration after all.

Thank fuck for AO3.

You’ve pored over screenshots, watched animations, dissected every subtle shift in their expressions through content creators’ videos. But none of it has ever come close to the sheer presence of him crouching before you now.

He frowns, a crease forming between his brows. You remember reading about that line, the one that deepens when he’s lost in thought or troubled and you nearly break into laughter, as you notice it.

His eyes aren’t as dark as you had imagined. They are a warm, gentle brown, lacking the deep, unreadable mystery you had expected. The lines curling up his neck and toward his eye are more gray than blue. The orb at his chest, less concealed than you remember.

Huh. Interesting.

Your mind spins, but you push through the haze, focusing on what’s in front of you. Ir rather, who is in front of you.

They are stunning and achingly familiar. The creeping, suffocating sense of recognition claws at the edges of your mind, fighting against the impossibility of it all.

The toned muscles of Lae’zel’s arms nearly make you afraid. She is breathtaking, in her own, harsh way.

Wyll’s scars are softer than you expected, less defined, more a quiet accent to his already striking face. His red eye catches the light. The sending stone looks more like a piece of polished wood than anything arcane. His smile, is warm and sincere.

Shadowheart is…. She is, without a doubt, one of the most beautiful women you have ever seen. That first impression does not falter. If anything, it solidifies the longer you look at her.

Astarion clears his throat, his arms crossed, and when your gaze finally flicks to him, there is a faint glow behind his crimson eyes that is both unnerving and oddly familiar. The smile playing on his lips is somewhere between amusement and disdain, and you know — you know — that if you let him, he will tear you apart with words sharper than his fangs.

And Gale.

He’s beautiful. Nearly too beautiful, if such a thing exists in Faerûn. Not the pixel-perfect Gale you have seen through your monitor, but something far more real.

You realize they are waiting for you to speak.

“But I am a little dizzy. And my head hurts,” you mumble.

The words feel slow, syrupy as they leave your mouth.

“As presumed, yes. Do you feel a sharp pain at the back of your neck?”

Wyll taps a bottle against Gale’s arm, he takes it with a nod and removes the cork, before offering it to you.

“I do,” you manage as you take the bottle. “Thank you.”

“Sadly, it is to be expected result after the insertion of a mind flayer tadpole. You can drink this; it is not poisoned.”

You had started to lift the bottle to your mouth but let it sink again.

“Nice of you to point that out before I drink,” you mutter way harder than intended and Astarion snorts.

You grin at him before you take a sip. The water is cold and tastes vaguely off metal. It seems to be clear enough though.

It helps. At least a little.

The world remains a mess of sound and light and confusion, but your thoughts begin to steady.

While you drink in slow sips, you look around.

It’s all here. The burning nautiloid. The dead man lying under one nautiloid tendrils, curled over two broken rocks.

The Chionthar to your right.

Why are they all here, though? If Wyll is recruited, have they already been to the Grove?

You decide not to care for the moment.

One step at a time.

Headache. Water. Standing up.

Handing the bottle back to Gale with a quick thanks, you stand up. He rises with you, steadying your arm when you knees wobble.

Your body finally reacts to the shock of all this; the overwhelming impossibility, the absurdity of standing among them. Your stomach churns, your throat tightens, and before you can stop it, you throw up.

It hits Gale’s robe and boots in an unforgiving spray of bile.

You stagger, coughing, bracing your hands on your knees, utterly mortified.

“I am… sorry,” you manage, voice hoarse.

Gale takes a startled step back, then calmly casts a cantrip, cleaning himself with a flick of his wrist.

The spell catches your eye, despite still retching. You can see the air rippling around him. For the fraction of a second, he is glowing.

“Happens to the best of us,” he offers gracefully. “We have a camp set up nearby. Would you care to accompany us?"

You turn around, still coughing, wiping your mouth, wildly gesturing at him.

“Do that again,” you order while you try to steady yourself. Your knees are still weak and your stomach hurts from cramping. “Please.”

His head tilts slightly. “You are speaking of the cleaning cantrip, I presume.”

You only nod, shifting your feet to regain solid grounding as you try to stand up. Your head still threatens to burst but you cannot deny the fascination.

"This is all terribly quaint and cozy, truly. But might we head back? The sun is setting, and we really ought to start considering... dinner."

You ignore him, focussing on Gale. He is amused and somewhat charmed by your interest.

He flicks his wrist again and there it is. A faint glow around him, a halo, the way you always thought an actual aura would look like. Cloaking him in a soft glow, not purple, not blue, something in between, clinging to his silhouette. It only stays for a brief moment but you are certain, you have been sensing, for the first time in your life, what magic looks like.

“Can you do it again?”

He chuckles. “Although it comes to a surprise even for myself, I agree with Astarion. Accompany us. You do not… quite offer the impression of someone stable enough to travel alone.”

“I will be fine.” You blink as you carefully rise. You are still afraid your head might explode but that might be due to the tadpole. There is something in your head that is not supposed to be there, after all.

Or possibly the travel through time and space. Have you travelled through time though? There is no way of knowing, really.

Or the fact that you could turn into a mindflayer.

Or the fact that Gale fucking Dekarios just cleaned your vomit of his robe with an actual cantrip.

How the hell did you – of all people - end up in Faerûn?

You follow them to their camp. The fire is lit with a firebolt casually cast by Gale and you watch him attentively.

Once again, you notice the glow when he performs the spell, something you are pretty sure is what they call the Weave here.

Lae’zel snorts, unimpressed, while the others manage to set up an additional tent for you. You barely have the energy to acknowledge it, slumping down near the fire as Gale hands you a cup of thin broth.

It’s more of a battered tin mug than a proper cup, the metal dented and worn, but you don’t mind.

The warmth of the broth is soothing, the salt and whatever faint seasoning lingers in it doing wonders to settle your nausea. You assume it has electrolytes. You’d kill for an Ibuprofen, you think to yourself.

The broth doesn’t fix the headache entirely, but at least the pain is no longer blinding.

You feel less half-dead.

You are grateful they took you in. In your weird clothes with literally no useful skills and with exactly nothing to offer, they might as well have left you there.

When Lae’zel realized you have never held a sword or any form of weapon in your life, her disdain had become quite obvious. The fact that you might be able to see magic but have no clue how to wield it, was not helpful.

Shadowheart offered you a spare robe, simple gray wool. It is quite itchy, so you decided to keep your top and bra but at least you are look like you belong here.

As everyone settles around the fire, it becomes painfully clear that they are still strangers to one another. The conversation moves slowly, awkwardly, filled with hesitant exchanges and too long pauses. This is their first night together.

At some point, breaking the silence, Gale speaks. “I never asked your name.”

You have noticed Astarion was gone the moment the sun had set. You are painfully aware the others have no clue he is a vampire. Or vampire spawn. You forgot the difference.

Lae’zel went after dinner, briskly thanking Gale for cooking.

“Tav,” your lips say and you freeze, fingers tightening around your mug. Your eyes dart onto the fire as you concentrate.

“Tav,” you say again.

That is not your name.

Why the fuck are you not able to say your own name?

“Tav,” you attempt once more, but confusion builds in your mind.

Gale watches you with growing interest.

Shadowheart chuckles. “We heard you the first time.”

Wyll shifts uncomfortably, clearing his throat before looking away.

“It’s not my name. I cannot tell you my name. Why can I not say my name? When I say it, all that comes out is-“

“Tav,” Gale concludes. He moves a little closer on the log, eyes darting in on you.

"You are not of this world," Gale deduces, his gaze sweeping over you with measured curiosity. "Your attire alone marks you as an anomaly. The way you speak, the way you move… it all serves to further solidify the notion. You bear no visible sigils of deity or profession, no markers of allegiance nor craft. And then, of course, there was your fascination with a mere cantrip—a spell so rudimentary that even the most hesitant of apprentices would scarcely spare it a second thought. You have never truly seen magic before, have you? And yet, most curiously of all—you cannot even speak your own name."

His lips move into a grin, amusement flickering in his eyes. "Now that, I daresay, is a mystery most worthy of unravelling."

„I am glad my misery is able to intrigue you,” you snap before you can stop yourself and Shadowheart chuckles again.

“You will get along just well. As agreed, we move to the Grove at first light? We need a healer.”

You only nod, as she rises.

“Good night,” she murmurs with an underlying tone of hidden feeling and descends to her tent. Somehow, you know she will be praying before sleep.

You are feeling a little uneasy under Gale’s most delighted stare. He notices and averts his gaze but you are sure, this is a discussion that cannot be delayed.

After all, your survival might depend on it.

“I am not….from this world, as you put it. I do not know how I ended up here. Or why.”

“What world are you from?”

You shrug. “I do not know what you call this. My reality is different. Really really different.”

"Can you name the planet? A galaxy? Offer a time frame? Anything that might indicate how it aligns with our world?” Gale asked curiously. His eyes start to wander while his mind is racing. You are not sure how you know but you are certain. "Surely, there must be something—some point of reference, however small—that might bridge the chasm between where you were and where you are now."

“The galaxy is called Milky way and the planet is called-“

"Earth," he nods, briskly rising to his feet. He starts to pace, gesturing mostly to himself. "I have read about it. A world beyond our own, spoken of in rare tomes and whispered theories. Few, very few—only the most powerful of Archwizards—have mastered the advanced techniques required to glimpse its distant shores, let alone set foot upon them. And yet, here you are. Curious, most curious indeed."

When he catches the confusion on your face, he smiles. As if his curiosity alone might somehow fix everything.

How the fuck is that supposed to help? You don’t even have a clean set of underwear.

Or a toothbrush.

"We shall find out," Gale assures you. "Tomorrow, we shall make our way to the Grove—to seek a healer, first and foremost. They may be able to assess our condition. And their library—if fortune favours us—may house rare tomes that grant us our first true insights." He offers a small, thoughtful smile. "A mystery such as this deserves a careful unravelling, after all. Good night, Tav. Wyll."

With that, he dips into a small bow before retreating to his tent. Wyll raises his cup in acknowledgment and follows, pausing for a brief moment as if to say something but then deciding against it.

You empty the cup and drink two additional cups of water, just to be sure. To shit in nature will be a challenge you realize, as you crouch behind a bush.

You have always hated camping and your dislike has not improved since you turned thirty. The insects crawling everywhere, the constant dampness creeping into every pore, the moldy smell of used tents and the fact that you are sleeping on the actual floor – why would anyone do this for fun, when smart people invented hotels?

Sadly, the advantages of modern life will be missing here.

With a resigned sigh, you shed the scratchy robe and use it as an extra blanket, bitterly acknowledging, one point to capitalism.

[theblasianwitch]

@creatingblackcharacters Is currently hosting an event for Black History Month. And I for one am so for it!!

Please have a look if you'd like to learn more about their challenge and participate

Not sure who to tag as I'm not sure how many people I know on here are artists or writers, but if you make things of any kind you can still participate. @crazycatsiren @thecomfywriter @venusrrvelez

For my contribution (the word feels wrong but my brain doesn't know what word to use at the moment): Szar Rei Ra, Jay Benu, Anthony Benu, Bora, Fiona Ra, and Xana.

In my series "Different Yet Same" I have many characters of varrying backgrounds. Everyone's background, upbringing, family history, and culture are as diverse as they are. I'm going to describe all of them, but put certain emphasis on one's I feel embody Black History and have something to offer in terms of being more culturally sensitive and understanding.

Szar Rei Ra is the main male character in my story. Without spoiling too much, he is a descendant of the Egyptian God Ra and has a heart for the people that was noticed and taken advantage of. Realizing and breaking away from that leads him into making a community of diverse individuals to help him with his role as an important figure for the future of the world on a whole.

Fiona Ra is Szar's older sister who was quite literally bound to the body and whims of a man via a curse placed by their older brother. She was released once the old patriarchal system was destroyed and is now trying to live life and use her divinity to help others while recovering from her trauma.

Jay and Anthony Benu are a married gay couple. Jay is from Libya and Anthony is from a secret society deep within West Africa. The creatures they are are based off of are from various African mythology but would be recognized, I hope, by my future readers from certain pop media of the 2000s where these creatures were white washed and Asian coated. The creatures they are heavily impact their outlook on life as Jay is more protective and pessimistic and Anthony is a symbol of life, prosperity and safety and is very optimistic. They serve as a hidden Easter egg to educate others on the origins and true nature of the creatures they are.

Bora is an intersex demi god who's upbringing led them to isolate themselves from society. In my second book they are forced to face the fact that they are one of the few gods on earth allowed to actually do anything for the people who have and still are suffering from the African Slave Trade and African Diaspora. The second book is very heavy on humanity suffering the consequences of their actions via divine intervention and having to come to terms with what they do and a need to change.

Xana is a North African bouda, a hyena shifter of African folklore and mythology, sometimes called a werehyena. Her story is part of the second book as well. Hyenas are a very female led and dominate species so her character and her people are used to show the determination and strength of Black women and just how much women do for society. Her people are one of the few matriarchal societies throughout the series.

I do hope people give my story the chance when it's first book is released in April. As a mixed race person who has suffered from all ends of my spectrum it serves to show just how connected we all are and to remind people of the humanity that exists within all of us. "There is nothing in this world that humanity hasn't done to another human." That is a quote that has stayed with me throughout my life as it is repeated quite a lot by my mother whenever injustice happens. World history, TRUE world history proves that and shows why so many people seem afraid of another set of people. Fear drives people more than anything, but we should not need to fear each other because we all bleed red; we all live on the same earth; we all are capable of the same emotions and therefore capable of both love and hate. All my life I've chosen love and only suffer from those who don't.

[itspileofgoodthings]

me like ..... am I a bad teacher .......because I make class fun and my students laugh ........ surely this is wrong ........

[fandom-susceptible]

I feel this! I had this thought way back when I first saw it years ago, but I never bothered posting about it back then because I felt a little tinfoil hat-y, lol. Rewatching after season 7 feels like confirming a lot of old suspicions.

Edit to add: I also remembered another addition I wanted to make, which is the reason Viren switched Harrow's soul out instead of just letting him be killed. This didn't make sense with just the first three episodes, but with what we see later?

Viren switched them out because he's a coward. Above all, that's his problem. He does the same thing as Rayla and in the moment of truth, he hesitates. He doesn't kill Harrow because his own shaky morals protest against it, so instead he condemns Harrow to a life as a cursed bird, because then he doesn't have to own up to having murdered his so called friend. It's not about mercy to Harrow or helping him, it's about his own inability to face the consequences of his actions, which is why Aaravos tosses him aside like a rag as soon as he gets his claws into Claudia. Because where Viren loses his nerve, Claudia doesn't.

Dragon Prince Conspiracy Theory

Avizandum didn't kill Sarai.

She's dead, to be sure, but we don't actually witness her death. She and Viren are thrown from her horse at the same time, and somehow he survives with only mild bruising, and she is killed?

Avizandum didn't kill her. Viren did. That's why he has her last breath stored in a bottle to use to whip Harrow up into a rage again years later.

Viren killed her because she had become inconvenient to him. Harrow was listening to her over Viren, and it was making him harder to manipulate. Before Sarai, Harrow wouldn't have hesitated to agree to Viren's plan with the Magma Titan. So he had to get rid of her, before he lost control of Harrow.

He also wasn't planning on killing Harrow in the pilot of the show. He didn't decide to kill him and outright take the throne for himself until Harrow put him on his knees in Moonrise, and he realized it was over. Harrow had realized he was being manipulated and wasn't going to stand for it anymore. That's why he switched Harrow's soul out with Pip's, but then proceeded not to lift a single finger to help Soren and the Crownguard defend the room. He wanted the elves to succeed, and he had no intention of restoring Harrow's soul to a human body. Rayla escaping with the boys and the egg threw a wrench into his plans, and them stealing the egg is why he decided to have them killed. He realized they had already found the egg and decided he was an enemy, so he couldn't just groom Ezran into another puppet ruler.

[dykedvonte]

You ever just see a Mouthwashing take that makes you want to bang your head into a wall? I literally just saw someone claim Curly couldn't have been emotionally abused by Jimmy before the crash because he was in a higher position of power than Jimmy.

-Shrimp Anon

The mouthwashing fandom has shown me that people genuinely do believe that certain types of abuse are not as detrimental as other types especially when they deem those immune/resistant, ergo, believing one is objectively worse no matter how it affects the person nor the intersections of power, history and dynamics at play.

Get ready cause this is a yap session:

Cause like it's heavily implied that Curly and Jimmy's friendship was toxic and abusive, pointedly in the direction of how Jimmy uses Curly's belief/comfort in him. Curly wasn't forced to enable Jimmy but he was emotional and mentally on edge around him in almost every scene in some way. Mental and emotional abuse are not contingent on what positions you have at work. Yeah, he's Jimmy's boss but he was Jimmy's friend first and it's like getting into Psych discussion to talk about how social power tends to overshadow any perceived organizational power in the human mind. People are concerned about their jobs ofc but they tend to hang onto and put more value/investment into their personal relationships, hence why there tends to be laws and restrictions around mixing the two.

I always see the sentiments that "Curly is a grown ass man", "Curly is bigger than Jimmy", "Curly is Jimmy's boss", "He just needed a backbone" as criticisms of Curly and while I do agree that on the surface level all of these to be true and viable ways Curly could've taken more control of the situation, I often look at the parallels of Anya and Curly as victims of Jimmy pre/post crash.

The way Jimmy talks to Anya post crash is how he talked to Curly in the pre-crash segments. It's hard to pin-point mainly because we know he hates and wants nothing to do with Anya compared to his contrary but similarly handled obsessions with Curly. It's a weird sort of "honey-moon" effect of abuse Jimmy does in terms of emotional and mental victimization. He is always horrid to Anya, always talking down or questioning her abilities and thoughts in a situation, this of course includes the harassment and assault. However, he has a moment of attempted gentleness/conditioning when he question her about the mouthwash when she's contemplating drinking it at the table. The key difference is he has no personal investment in Jimmy outside wanting nothing to do with him, meaning there is no sort of romanticized version of him that he can condition her off of. He knows this, hence, why he always reverts to trying to make her to scared to oppose him.

This sort of give and take of "kindness" doesn't work on her because she knows he is just doing it to take more from her than whatever he could possibly give but it reflects even the "softer" scenes between him and Curly where he always rewords or rephrases Curly's sentiments and concerns to sound more shallow. He is feigning a deeper understanding by reworking Curly's emotions into something bad and needing to be hidden. Everything is laced with envy and resentment, an outburst just around the corner, I mean he even slams the table in the birthday party scene, a tactic in emotional manipulation to set the victim on edge and cloud their ability to respond. Even if Curly knows Jimmy won't get physical in that moment, the physical actions is intended to make him back down in the confrontation in case it does. This is something that is just not person specific. It ingrains itself into how you interact with the world and life and it shows in major and minor ways with Curly.

Post-crash, the abusive nature is more in tandem to the physical victimization Anya went through and the stripping of voice and autonomy we see take place. Like the parasite in HFIM, Jimmy speaks for Curly most of the time and puts words in his mouth, similarly to how he takes Anya's plans as his own. He very commonly, with the both of them mind you, supplements the worst aspects of himself into them; pettiness, selfishness, lack of understanding... And tries to cover himself with their best qualities; kindness, planning, initiative, etc...

These parallel are just to say that positional power has little to do with if a person can be abused and how it can even be flipped to further the abuse. There is no doubt that Curly could've picked up on Jimmy's envy of his position hence another reason he never confronted him as a Captain but as a friend as doing so would immediately put Jimmy in a space to be confrontational/combative.

I think the disdain some people have when they talk about the heavily implied if not implicitly stated emotional/mental abuse Curly experienced being Jimmy's friend is when treating it as an excuse to why he didn't do more. I can understand that completely because it is not an excuse to why he didn't do more but is a very real reason people in his position in these scenarios can experience whether in the context of a work or social environment. However, I also think the way people talk about it really does demonstrate a bigger problem when talking about abuse when somehow who is/was abused is either part of the issue or enabled it.

Harkening back to the sentiments about Curly's inaction regarding Jimmy, I think the exact phrases I used/have seen show how there is an inherent belief that it is easier to overpower the effects of emotional/mental abuse that go in tandem with the perception of Curly as someone who should be able to. There is not an age you suddenly stop being susceptible to abuse nor a set point or low where you realize how it has affected you. You don't suddenly know to stand up or put a face on to face your abuser nor admit that you inadvertently enabled them to subjugate someone else to the same treatment. Maybe it's my psych brain but their is this growing belief that direct action is somehow easy or always the best method with the game shows you instances where it is not always the case. In real life that rings true too. He should have done more, but it's not impossible to see why he struggled to find a way or didn't even if it makes us mad.

It's not easy to suddenly gain a "back-bone". You don't immediately want to resort to aggression, especially if it mirrors the type you were a victim to. You don't want to believe you allowed yourself to be treated this bad, let it get that bad or allowed something bad to happen to someone else. It is easy to be in denial, to retreat to your thoughts or make excuses to avoid the painful truth. It's frustrating but in a way we know is relatable. It why we both hate and love Curly for it. We know we'd be better, we think we'd be better, we like to think we wouldn't falter in the same ways but it's always easier to say that from the outside looking in. It's easy to see what he was doing wrong because we are seeing it, not him, but the game really does make you picture what you would do if this was your raw reality and it's why this debate about Curly seems so never ending/contradictory. We can all say what we'd do but bottom line is that's much different when you're in the moment with all the emotions and human feelings attached.

I personally think Mouthwashing tackles the themes of rape culture, enabling, toxic masculinity, types of abuse and patriarchy in ways that are meant to deconstruct the typical straightforward views we mostly have of these concepts and how little subtilities of them are just as, if not more, detrimental than the overt/obvious parts. The game deals with the idea of little details and bigger picture in a way to show that sometimes the bigger picture is not the issue but the little details that make it up. It's why I have a personal dislike of depictions of Jimmy as the typical horrible person who would of course do something like this because the game is about noticing the little warning signs, the foreshadowing and foresight.

It's why I dislike the typical discussion of "bro code" and "boys will be boys" for the game because the game makes a point to avoid the standard depictions of such. It is about the type of men who still enable despite not condoning, agreeing or even perpetuating harmful beliefs because they can't see the little details or the ways it seeps into their everyday. The severity is not obvious to them as it was not obvious to Curly, Swansea or even Daisuke the way it was to a woman like Anya. There are little details about Jimmy that should ring alarms but if you are too naive like Daisuke, too distant like Swansea or too conditioned like Curly, they are just off markers.

There is 100% more constructive/concise ways to say "Curly was a victim of Jimmy's abuse on an emotional and mental aspect that clouded his judgements and perceptions in the scenario" while also critiquing on the side of "Curly still had a responsibility to protect Anya as a crew mate and Captain that he failed to do due to biases and stigma's he failed to surpass" without the weird condemnation people give him about should've knowing better than to let himself be manipulated by a person he considered a close, if not family/best-friend and had his own reasons to trust initially. Also stop being weird about victims of abuse in general with this fandom, like sorry not everyone has a like social epiphany the moment someone's nasty to them. People are treating it like you immediately know when you are in a toxic relationship immediately or comprehend when a person is actively dangerous and either it's your fault for not knowing how to leave/cut them off or you deserve it. Like the hypocrisy of people believing how certain fans treat the story reflect their irl views but not their own is crazy.

End statement is: I honestly don't even know man, I've been writing this too long and just like no man on that ship was perfect or really helped Anya when it mattered and I feel like pitting them against each other in discussion on who did the least or most or how it was justified sucks cause in the end Anya always did the most and best thing for herself.

[factsilike]

I don't know why so many people are coming to LXC's defence recently, like he never did anything wrong or never had a choice or that he was only manipulated, because 'JGY was just that good of a manipulator.'

Like no, the novel makes it clear that at several points that he was being willfully blind and ignorant of JGY's and the cultivation world's faults. The fact that LWJ and WWX found out about JGY killing NMJ after only a little bit of digging because they thought to suspect him, which Lan Xichen somehow didn't think to do despite spending close to twenty years working with him. That's a very long time, and that says more about his tendency to turn a blind eye, to not look deeper, to look away from the uncomfortable truth, than any good about JGY's manipulation abilities.

That is not to say Lan Xichen isn't a good person. He is. The problem is that he's not willing to put in the work to be good. He's unwilling to stand up to anyone. When WWX rightfully calls out JGS for trying to be the next Wen Rouhan, (about which JGY was like 'I mean, you're right, but you're not supposed to say it...."), he convenienly ignores that, opting to irrelevantly comment about how 'his heart had changed'. (Which made no sense?? LXC barely knew anything about WWX at that point!)

He's content to stay in his comfort zone, to go with the easy solution of letting others decide. If there's a problem, he'll go with the flow, and if there's a deeper ugly truth to it? He doesn't want to know about it. The situation of his parents is a perfect example. He says it himself: he doesn't want to know, and thus doesn't want to understand what happened with them.

Also for someone whose whole thing is being nice, he can be unbelievably tactless. Look at the ending events of the Guanyin Temple, where JGY is missing a limb and LXC, without thinking, asks Nie Huaisang of all people to give him medicine to heal. You know, the same Nie Huaisang who, at least to LXC's knowledge, has just learned that this same man is responsible for the death and dismemberment of his brother's body, as well as many others. And he now wants his help. To heal his brother's killer. Yikes. It's a wonder that NHS didn't immediately plan to kill LXC right then and there. And even if LXC was physically and mentally exhausted, it was still an incredibly thoughtless move.

Look at the way he laughs about NMJ (a member of the gentry) taking a third of the prey on Phoenix Mountain- "Oh typical Dage, that's just like him!"- while ignoring accusations against WWX (a son of a servant) doing the same, because he's subconsciously agreeing that it was a problem when WWX did it. He's being blatantly hypocritical and it's frustrating that he doesn't even realise it, or acknowledges it.

One of his redeeming factors can be his love for LWJ, but he's frustratingly careless about that too. For all his teasing (in which we never see LWJ indulging, he just unhappily and sulkily endures that. Teasing is not supposed to be fun or amusing if it's only one sided. Compare that to how he responds with snarky remarks to WWX's teasing, meaning he enjoys their banter) and pushing and advocating for LWJ's happiness, he never seems to deeply consider what actually makes him happy.

Everything he does for LWJ turns out to be the very opposite of what Lwj actually wants; inviting WWX and the others for the Caiyi hunt? Not what Lwj wanted, LXC merely convinced himself of that. His pushing LWJ to go talk to WWX at any chance? Doesn't ask or seem interested in why exactly LWJ would want to talk to WWX, nor help him in not letting their conversations constantly devolve into arguments. Shutting LWJ's protests at how WWX was right at the banquet with the 'his heart had changed'? Convenient for him to say, both hurting (even if it was unintended) his brother and changing the subject. And somehow everyone forgets that it was LXC who led the thirty three Lan elders to the cave after the Nightless City for Lan Wangji to fight against, for 'his own good.' And of course his whole angry, projection and deflection fuelled rant at the Guanyin Temple, where he tries to make WWX feel guilty about his brother's confession (which, you know WWX didn't remember because of the trauma clouding his memories), and make him think that he owed LWJ a relationship, which was exactly what LWJ was most afraid of.

His failings hit harder for me than any other character, because unlike JGY or XY or JGS who have no qualms about their immorality, he's supposed to be one of the good guys, a righteous clan leader who abides by honour and dignity. And yet he fails to do anything of sustenance all throughout the novel, and is a painful reminder of how easy it is to go with the wrong crowd, and that how so many 'nice' people like him exist irl, people whose willful ignorance comes at other's expense, people who want to be good but are too afraid of conflict, too set in their comfort zone to speak up against injustice, people who are all too willing to turn a blind eye and do nothing if the injustice or tragedy to others doesn't affect them.

[zeciex]

Alicent is a hypocrite, that's an integral part of her character. That's not to say that other characters aren't hypocrites either, but she's perhaps the most blatant of them.

She has a very set set of rules, she puts people into boxes and gets upset when they no longer fit into those boxes. She would protect Aemond and stand with him against the Blacks, if they were to face them down again like on Driftmark--but that doesn't mean she condones his actions. She wants to be 'better than them,' and Aemond doesn't fulfill that. She is reproachful and resentful of his willingness to use violence. Which is where we get this between them.

She thinks he should taken the high road. He did not, and now shes more angry with him.

And it all truly goes back to Storm's End and Aemond supposedly ruining any chance of a 'peaceful' resolution to the war (which would never have happened, but she wants it to be true). After that, Aemond really becomes the Green's scapegoat--and more so Alicent's scapegoat. She puts all the blame on him, because it's easier than facing it.

Which is kind of funny because both Aemond and Daenera at least try to face their actions and the consequences.

ALSO!!! Don't worry, we'll have Daenera snapping at Alicent, defending Aemond, more than once. And more so, just calling out Alicent. And I think, we'll also see Aemond at some point just getting sick and tired of carrying the blame and snapping back.

So you will get Daenera defending her hubby AND you'll get Aemond standing up to his mom.

I won't spoil Dae finding out and her internal reaction to it, but.... it's not great. And then Mertha makes it worse. (by this time, Dae is like, last fucking straw lady)

Imagine how much things would have changed had Rhaenyra/TB taken king's landing then.....

The council doesn't so much care about Wyllam as they care about how the whole thing will look to other people and how it might effect gaining and retaining allies. Alicent is in her 'my son is a fucking idiot and Im so fucking mad at him' era--like we saw in the show--but that doesn't mean that she won't defend him against others and take his side when it's important.

Don't worry, you'll get some more Dae being 'petty but out outright wanting to actually kill him' soon enough. And.... oooo... there's a scene that's a bit more like what they use to be like coming. There's tension there, of course, and some pettiness and such, but... it's quieter and just them.

First you'll get some more pettiness.

Daenera has somewhat forgotten the 'accident' part of his confession, mostly due to, well, everything that came after--the whole 'i fed him to my dragon' thing and such. But I promise you, I have a plan for it. We will see her realize that he meant it, that it was the truth.

A Vow of Blood S2 - Ch. 2

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, child murder, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 2: Ruthlessness or Mercy

AO3 - S1 Masterlist - S2 Masterlist

The Council Chambers lay shrouded in a dim, restless light that filtered through the latticed windows, casting fractured patterns across the stone floor. Beyond the intricate panes, the sky was a tumult of shifting grays, heavy with the promise of rain.

Aemond stepped into the room, his presence commanding even in its quietness. He moved with the careful deliberation of a predator–each step purposeful, measured, as though the very act of walking across the threshold was an assertion of control. His leather boots met the cold stone with a muted thud as he ascended the steps. 

The chairs surrounding the long, austere stone table stood empty, all save one; his mother’s. She sat with rigid poise, her hands clasped tightly in her lap as though to anchor herself. Her dark, expressive eyes locked onto Aemond as he settled himself into his seat. Those eyes burned with reproach, their intensity drawing attention to the faint furrow etched between her brows and the subtle downturn of her lips.

It was not a new expression; he had seen it countless times before, though it had more often been directed at his brother. It was the look she reserved for disappointment, for exasperation with sons who, in her eyes, ought to have known better. The weight of her disapproval bore down on him like a silent accusation, as though he were a boy caught in some misdeed.

Aemond felt the flicker of annoyance stir in his chest, hot and unwelcome. She judged him, he knew, for what he had done–for the actions he considered necessary. His jaw tightened, but he met her gaze unflinchingly, letting it wash over him like a tide breaking on stone. He would not yield to guilt; there was none to feel. His choices had been measured and justified. 

Still, her silent condemnation lingered, her brows knitting further as though she sought to unravel him with sheer force of will. When she finally broke her gaze, turning her head with an almost dismissive air, it sent another sharp pang of irritation through him. His fingers twitched before he placed his hand deliberately on the cold surface of the table. He began to tap his fingers against the stone. 

The low hum of conversation rippled from the periphery of the room, an almost distant sound that Aemond registered without interest. It hovered at the edge of his awareness, much like the men who spoke it–inconsequential. 

“–ruined my velvet doublet! Vile creatures,” Ser Tyland Lannister’s voice rang out, laced with indignation. He stood by the side table laden with food and wine, its offering ever ready in case the council dragged on into hours of tedium. Tyland poured himself a generous cup of wine, shifting with irritation. Beside him, Lord Jasper Wylde plucked absently at a bowl of fruit, the polished grape he selected glinting faintly in the candlelight. 

“Whomever thought of releasing them inside should be made to pay for it,” Tyland continued, his reddish-golden hair catching the light as he turned to glance at Jasper for sympathy but there was none to be found. 

“Is there nothing to be done about them?”

“The rat catchers are at work,” Tyland replied, swirling his wine as though the answer soured his mood further. “But they are rat catchers, not bird catchers, and birds, it seems, pose a challenge beyond their meager skill.” He let out a sigh, casting his gaze briefly towards the ceiling as though pigeons might descend upon him at any moment. “Pigeons are nothing but rats with wings, I say.”

Jasper smirked faintly as he plucked another grape. “Why not shoot them down?” He proposed. “Surely the archers would find some amusement in it.”

“Perhaps,” Tyland conceded, though his tone suggested doubt. “But killing the birds might invite ill fortune upon the union they were meant to bless...”

For the first time, Aemond sensed the weight of Tyland’s gaze, a fleeting glance that carried subtle unease, as though unsure of his reaction. Aemond did not respond by meeting his gaze, his focus remained elsewhere, unconcerned and wholly uninterested in the conversation. 

Jasper emitted a gruff sound of disapproval. “I hadn’t taken you for a superstitious man, Ser.”

Tyland hummed in reply, a noncommittal sound as he lifted his goblet and took a measured sip of wine. Aemond’s gaze flicked briefly to the lattice windows, where the gathering storm clouds darkened the room further. The council had yet to truly begin, and already, his patience frayed. 

The faint jangle of chains announced the arrival of Maester Orwyle before he even appeared in the council chamber. It was a sound that carried an unassuming weight, familiar and mundane, yet always accompanied a matter of seriousness. Aemond heard it now, the soft clinking growing louder with each deliberate step the Maester took. The sound seemed to linger in the heavy silence of the room. 

Orwyle entered, his gray robes trailing behind him as his thick, wrought chain swayed heavily with each movement. His posture was stiff, his lined face bearing the caution of a clever man. Before he could fully take his place at the table, Alicent’s voice cut through the stillness, direct and demanding. 

“Maester Orwyle,” she began, her tone tight with concern, “how fares Ser Wyllam? Will he recover?”

The Maester hesitated for only a moment, his hands steadying on the back of his chair as his gaze flickered–briefly but noticeably–towards Aemond. Aemond met the Maester's gaze, his lone eye gleaming with a sharpness that dared any present to hold it. There was no concern in his expression for the wounded knight’s recovery; instead, a faint trace of amusement flickered at the corner of his mouth, like a predator toying with its prey. The tension the mention of Ser Wyllam seemed to bring to the room only added to his quiet satisfaction.

Orwyle’s eyes darted away quickly, and he lowered himself into his chair with measured care, the links of his chain clinking softly against the wood. “As you’d expect, Your Grace.”

He folded his hands in his lap, his thumbs worrying at the links of his chain as he spoke. “I have dulled his pain with milk-of-the-poppy and stitched his wounds, though…” His voice faltered briefly, “…the scars will be… significant. I fear there is little to be done for that. However, I am confident he will make a full recovery.”

Alicent’s shoulder relaxed fractionally, though her expression remained grave. She drew her hands together, fingers interlacing, the gold of her rings catching the flickering light of the chamber. “By the Mother’s mercy,” she breathed, her voice softening, though her eyes betrayed her weariness. “I will pray for his swift recovery then.”

Orwyle offered a slight nod of acknowledgement but avoided meeting Aemond’s gaze. He offered no comment, though the mention of Ser Wyllam stirred little in him beyond vague irritation. It was a matter resolved, in his eyes–a lesson given and received. 

His mother’s concern grated faintly at his nerves, though he kept his composure. It was not prayer that would heal Ser Wyllam’s wounds, nor had prayer saved him from earning them in the first place. 

Strength did not come from the gods; it came from within–or not at all.

The room seemed to grow heavier with silence, each word spoken about Ser Wyllam hanging in the air like an accusation. To him, the recovery of Ser Wyllam was a trivial matter, unworthy of the energy it seemed to draw. Aemond’s fingers tapped against the cold stone of the table, the movement seeming to briefly draw his mother’s scrutiny. His mother steadfastly avoided his gaze, though her disapproval was as palpable as if she had spoken it aloud. Her deliberate refusal to look at him, as though he were something too terrible to acknowledge, struck a nerve. It was not simply avoidance–it was rejection, a silent declaration that he was somehow awful, wrong, unworthy of her regard. The thought burrowed under his skin, needling at him with an insidious persistence.

Aemond’s jaw tightened, his fingers resuming their steady drumming against the table’s surface. He would not give her the satisfaction of a reaction, but the sting of her silent judgment lingered, a thorn he could not easily remove.

The tension in the chamber was a living thing, dense and suffocating, pressing down on those gathered. It was born not only of silence but of the morning’s events–the blood spilled in the courtyard, the words exchanged, the mutilated knight recovering in the maester’s wing, and the consequences that followed. Whispers had swept through the castle like wildfire, ensuring that no soul within its walls remained ignorant of what had happened–of that he was sure. 

The faint scrape of boots against stone signaled Otto Hightower’s entrance. The Hand of the King moved with purpose, his long robes trailing softly as he rounded the table. He passed both his daughter and grandson without so much as a glance, his focus fixed on his destination: the chair to the king’s right, conspicuously empty in his absence. Otto carried with him a leather-bound book of notes, which he set down with care and a weary sigh. His movements were measured as he reached for the marble ball of his station, its cool surface gleaming faintly in the dim light. He lifted it from the center of the table and placed it into its designated holder before him, the soft clink of stone on metal breaking the heavy quiet. 

The Hand’s presence seemed to draw the council together. Ser Tyland Lannister followed Lord Jasper Wylde to the table. He placed his wine goblet on it with a dull clink before pulling out his chair. The scrape of wood against stone cut through the room as he lowered himself into the seat to Aemond’s right. 

“The King?” Lord Jasper queried as he eased into his chair, the polished marble ball of The Master of Law clinking softly as he placed it into its holder. His tone was casual, though his question carried a faint trace of scrutiny. 

“The King is still recovering from the previous night’s indulgences,” Otto Hightower replied, his words measured, laced with the subtle implication that the council would proceed with or without the King’s presence. The Hand’s tone brooked no argument, his focus shifting to the matters at hand. Yet, before the finality of his statement could fully settle, the room was interrupted by the cutting edge of another voice–raspy, pointy, and unmistakably annoyed. 

“The King,” Aegon interjected, his footsteps heavy as they echoed through the chamber, drawing every eye towards him, “is here.” The heavy doors thudded shut behind him as he ascended the steps with a languid arrogance that belied the irritation in his tone. “And in a rather foul mood.”

Aegon reached his chair with a haphazard grace, dropping into it without ceremony. His movements were unhurried, his expression drawn. He snapped his fingers sharply, the gesture summoning the cupbearer–a nervous-looking nephew of their grandfather–who hurried to bring the King a goblet of wine. 

Settling back into his seat, Aegon’s fingers wrapped around the stem of the goblet as he took a long sip. Lowering the cup, his gaze flicked towards Aemond, a crooked, humorless smirk curling his lips. “Tough,” he drawled, his voice carrying a sardonic edge, “I suppose I’m not the only one in a foul mood this morning, am I, brother? There seems to be an abundance of it today.”

Aemond’s eye met Aegon’s with cold indifference. He remained silent, his fingers tapping the deliberate rhythm against the table’s surface. 

“No bruises, no cuts… still one good eye.” His gaze roved over Aemond’s face with exaggerated scrutiny, a faint, mocking smirk playing at his lips. “Not a mark on you–aside from the usual, of course.”

Aegon leaned back in his chair, lifting his goblet with lazy precision as though to toast his own wit. He took a slow sip, savoring the tension in the room, before continuing, his tone dripping with feigned innocence. “Either my sweet niece was exceptionally docile on her wedding night,” he said, lifting his eyebrows in mock surprise, “or your night wasn’t quite as… eventful as one might have hoped.”

He tilted his head in a goading manner, his smirk deepening as he allowed his words to linger, the implication hanging heavy in the air. The faint scrape of his boot against the floor punctuated his deliberate shift in posture, his movements slow and unhurried, as though he reveled in drawing out the moment. “I’d wager the latter is the reason for your sour mood this morning,” he added, his voice laced with a mix of amusement and derision.

Aegon’s gaze sharpened then, a glint of something darker flickering behind his lazy smirk. “But no matter,” he continued, his tone softening into something almost conspiratorial, though the mockery remained clear. “It seems you found your excitement elsewhere, didn’t you?” He set his goblet down with a deliberate clink, his eyes narrowing as he added, with a pointed edge, “Brother.”

Aemond’s gaze locked onto his brother’s, unflinching and devoid of even a flicker of remorse. His expression was a mask of cold composure, as if carved from stone, offering no satisfaction to Aegon’s taunts. Yet beneath the surface, a storm churned–a simmering fury that burned in his chest, coiling tighter with every word that dripped from Aegon’s mocking tongue.

His jaw tightened, the faintest motion betraying the restraint it took to keep his temper in check. The insult gnawed at him–as it had when spewed from Ser Wyllam’s now mutilated mouth–but he refused to give his brother the satisfaction of a reaction. He gritted his teeth, the metallic taste of anger sharp on his tongue. 

“How could you do such a thing?” His mother finally spoke, her voice cracking through the room like the lash of a whip. Her tone was tight with disbelief, her head shaking slowly as she turned her gaze towards Aemond. “Your actions are not without consequence, Aemond. Have you not done enough already?”

Her words needled at him, burrowing beneath his skin and sinking into the awful, tender part of him that wanted nothing but her understanding–her love. He heard it in her voice, the reprimand laced with disgust. Had his actions not brought them enough ruin? Had he not stained his hands with enough blood? Was he not already enough of a monster?

Another feeling soon rose to the surface, sharp and biting: resentment. He was not a boy to be chastised in front of an audience. He steeled himself, refusing to let the emotion show. He was justified–he had been right. And he did not appreciate his mother’s reproach. 

“I defended myself,” Aemond said finally, his voice steady and cold, though his anger simmered beneath the surface. His gaze shifted back to his mother, sharp and unyielding. “He made the mistake of thinking he could speak to me freely–insult me without consequence. Would you rather I let them laugh at me?”

His brow furrowed, the faintest trace of bitterness creeping into his tone. He remembered too well what it felt like to be the object of ridicule, the powerless boy mocked and taunted at every turn. He would never allow that again. Not from a knight, not from anyone.

Alicent let out a sound of disbelief, a scornful exhale that stung as much as her words did. She turned her head sharply, tearing her gaze from him as though even looking at him was too much to bear for an extended period of time. Her hands drew tighter on the table, the golden rings on her fingers digging into her skin. 

“So you mutilate him over an insult?” She said at last, her voice trembling with restrained anger. “Over words, Aemond?”

Her tone struck like a hammer against the brittle silence, and the weight of her disappointment pressed down on him. Aemond’s jaw tightened, but he refused to look away, even as her words burrowed deeper, feeding the gnawing ache inside him. He would not falter. 

“I gave him every opportunity to take back his words,” Aemond said, his tone measured–tilting his head in a half shrug. His gaze fixed on his brother, sharp and unyielding. “But he proved more fool than man. I suppose that is why you keep him around brother. He suits your needs well enough, does he not?”

His brother had made a habit of surrounding himself with fools and jesters–lickspilles who would glady lick the soles of his boots and then offer honeyed words of praise for the privilege. Aegon seemed content with their false flattery and praise. To Aemond, it was a testament to his brother’s weakness–his inability to command true respect without relying on the spineless throng that clung to him like leeches. 

The knights and lords Aegon favored were no better, men more adept at wine-drinking and bawdy tales than strategy or strength. They were eager to whisper in his ear, to stroke his ego, but when true action was required, he thought, they would scatter like leaves before the wind. And he saw it for what it was; a weakness that left their house vulnerable. 

Ser Wyllam was just another one of his brother’s chosen fools, a knight whose tongue was far quicker than his sword. And Aemond would not abide his disrespect.

“Can you not take a simple jest?” Aegon drawled, his voice oozing derision. 

“I can take a jest,” Aemond replied, his voice cold enough to chill the room. “But I will not take disrespect.” 

Aegon’s laugh was sharp and unkind, cutting through the thick tension like a blade. “Mother, do you suppose the next time someone dares to mock his… shortcomings,” his eyes flickered towards Aemond’s eyepatch and what lacked beneath, “he’ll lop off an ear as well? Or perhaps a head?” His eyebrows drew together as his head tilted in scrutiny. “Or is this about more than words, hmm? Did Ser Wyllam strike too close to the bone?” He paused for a moment, drawing out the tension. “…Did he speak of your fine wedding night? Was it not all you’ve dreamt of, brother?” Aemond's gaze narrowed.

“Could you not, at least, have left one side of his face untouched?” Aegon huffed as he sank back in his chair, waving his hand dismissively, his expression irritated. “Now I have to rearrange the seating at every feast to keep Wyllam out of my line of sight. Honestly, Aemond, if you wanted to maim him, couldn’t you have picked somewhere less noticeable? His hands, perhaps? No one cares about those.” He lounged in his chair, swirling the wine in his goblet with lazy precision.

“Aegon,” Alicent chided, her tone weary and exasperated. Her head shook with reproach. “This is a serious matter–”

Aegon grimaced and leaned back further in his chair, sinking slightly with a huff. “Of course, Mother,” he drawled. “Far be it from me to disrupt the sanctity of these proceedings.” 

“Did you ever pause to consider what consequences your actions might bring us, once again?” Alicent’s voice was sharp, cutting through the tension as her attention snapped back to Aemond. Her dark eyes, burning with condemnation, locked on to his with unflinching intensity. “You act without temperance or restraint. You let your pride dictate your actions, no matter the cost.”

Aemond held his mother’s gaze, his expression cold and impassive, though a faint tension betrayed itself in the slight curl of his fingers against the table’s rough surface. His lips quirked upward faintly, the ghost of a smile that carried no warmth, only a trace of bitter satisfaction. 

He believed he had shown temperance and restraint–far more than was deserved. He could have killed Ser Wyllam for his insolence, could have struck him down the moment the mockery left his lips. The memory of the man’s jests, his sneering tone, still gnawed at him, as did the feeling of being laughed at. Aemond’s jaw tightened slightly at the thought. He had given Wyllam every chance to retract his words, to swallow his putrid mockery and concede. But the fool had not. 

And so, Ser Wyllam had borne the consequences. Aemond’s fingers stilled their tapping, his gaze unwavering. It had been a matter of pride, certainly–but it was more than that. It was about setting an example. To allow such open disrespect to pass unchecked would have emboldened others, encouraging them to whisper behind his back, or worse, to mock him openly. He couldn’t afford that. Not now, not ever. 

Let them call him a monster if they wished. Better to be feared than ridiculed. Better to inspire dread than to be seen as weak. 

Slowly, Aemond leaned forward, his gaze narrowing as his voice dropped into something colder, harsher–more unforgiving and calculated. “He should think himself fortunate for my restraint.” His head tilted. “I could have killed him for his insolence. Perhaps I should have. But we are at war, after all, and we may yet need his sword arm.”

“It would have been better had you killed him,” Lord Jasper muttered, his voice gruff and sullen. The harsh lines of his face betrayed no hesitation as he spoke, and his iron-gray eyes carried the weight of a man as unyielding as his moniker ‘Iron-rod’ foretold. His gaze flickered briefly to the scowling king and he seemed to consider his words for a moment before pressing on. 

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” he continued, inclining his head towards Aegon in a gesture that carried only the faintest hint of apology, “I know he is your friend, but it would have been better had he been killed.”

“How so, Lord Jasper?” Alicent demanded, her tone indignant, her brows knitting into a deep frown of disapproval. Her gaze pinned Jasper–who seemed exasperated by her judgment. 

“It would have been cleaner,” Jasper said, his tone steady and matter-of-fact. “Easier to explain. A training accident, nothing more.” 

Alicent let out a sharp, exasperated breath, leaning back in her chair as though the weight of the conversation pressed down on her. Her eyes turned towards the ceiling, seemingly beseeching the gods for intervention. “As Master of Laws, you should understand the weight of such actions, Lord Jasper. Killing him might have been simpler for you to explain, but it, too, would not have been without consequence. Should every insult end in death, what message does that send?”

Her disapproving gaze lingered on him. “Must every problem we face be solved with a sword? This is not the battlefield, nor should it become one.”

Lord Jasper drew in a huffy breath, eyes briefly turning skyward. 

Alicent’s voice remained sharp, her frustration seeping through each word as she turned her gaze back to Lord Jasper. “And what of Lord Lefford?” she continued, her tone cutting and precise. “House Lefford may have bent the knee to Aegon, but what happens when he hears of what has been done to his son?”

“If Lord Lefford values his son’s tongue more than his loyalty to the crown, then let him break faith,” Aemond said callously. He straightened slightly, his gaze sweeping across the table. “Let him turn against us, if he dares. His defiance will end as all other’s do–in fire and blood.” He hummed. “The Golden Tooth is no more resistant to dragonfire than Harrenhal was.”

Alicent’s face hardened further, her hands clenching tightly in her lap. “You speak as though every slight can be answered with violence.” She stared at him furiously. “But this is not a battlefield, Aemond. It is the realm we must hold together, and your actions threaten to tear it apart.”

“Lord Lefford will not break faith,” Otto Hightower interjected at last, his voice cutting clearly through the tension that lingered in the room. His expression was composed, his tone measured, though there was an edge to his words. His sharp eyes swept across the table before settling on Ser Tyland, whose posture stiffened slightly under the weight of the Hand’s gaze.

“Ser Tyland,” Otto continued, his voice steady and deliberate, leaving no room for ambiguity. The red-haired lord straightened in his chair at the sound of his name, his hands folding neatly atop the ledger resting on the table. “House Lefford is a vassal house of the Lannisters. Write to him. Impress upon him that the breaking of his oath will carry dire consequences for him and his house. Make it clear that his son’s foolishness–” his gaze flicked briefly towards Aemond, though his expression betrayed nothing, “–is no excuse for disloyalty.”

Ser Tyland inclined his head slightly, though a faint shadow of apprehension flickered in his eyes. “Yes, my lord Hand,” his fingers brushed against the leather bound ledger, the movement carrying a note of unease. 

Aemond watched the exchange in silence, his lone eye narrowing slightly as Tyland nodded again, his agreement all but perfunctory. The room remained still, the weight of Otto’s directive lingering in the air.

Otto’s gaze lingered on Tyland a moment longer before shifting back to the table at large. “The strength of our alliances lies not only in oaths,” he said, his voice carrying across the chamber with quiet authority, “but in ensuring those oaths are upheld. Make certain Lord Lefford understands that.”

With that, the Hand leaned back slightly in his chair, his fingers steepling as he surveyed the room. The tension in the chamber remained palpable, though Otto’s calm command had shifted it, reframing the conflict as a matter of order and duty. Aemond’s fingers tapped lightly against the table, his expression carefully blanket, though the faintest trace of a smirk touched his lips.

Let Lord Lefford be reminded of his place. Whatever words Ser Tyland might send, the lesson had already been carved into his son’s face. And if he should prove as foolish as his son, Aemond was prepared to teach him a similar lesson. 

A heavy silence hung over the council chamber, stretching uncomfortably as the weight of the previous conversation settled over the gathered lords. The tension seemed to press against the stone walls, each second thickening the air until even the faintest movement felt intrusive. 

At last, Ser Tyland stirred, the quiet rustle of fabric breaking the oppressive stillness. He adjusted his doublet, the subtle gesture betraying his unease as he straightened in his seat once more. His gaze flickered briefly towards Aemond, lingering for the barest of moments, before he turned his attention back to the table at large. 

Clearing his throat softly, he breached the next subject with measured care, his tone deliberately light as though attempting to dispel the tension that gripped the room. 

“My lords,” Tyland began, his tone careful but pointed, “while the events of the morning have captured much of our attention, there remains the matter of the ledgers–specifically, the expenses for the recent wedding celebrations and their strain on the crown’s coffers–”

Alicent shifted forward in her seat, her brows furrowed with concern as she fixed her gaze on Maester Orwyle. Her voice cut through Tyland’s words abruptly, redirecting the council’s attention. “Has Rhaenyra returned any of my letters?” She asked, her tone sharp with urgency, though an undercurrent of hope clung to her words. 

Lord Jaster Wylde let out a huff, the sound teetering between a scoff and a sigh. His steely eyes rolled towards the ceiling, and he shook his head, his exasperation plain for all to see. “More letters?” He muttered beneath his breath as Tyland sank back in his seat, seemingly deflated by the interruption.

Aemond did not blame Lord Wylde for his frustration; he felt it too. His mother’s insistence on reaching out to their enemy grated at him, a futile gesture that reeked of desperation. What use were letters when blood had already been drawn. Rhaenyra was no longer a sister to be reasoned with–she was the enemy. Every word his mother penned to her was a mockery of the conflict they were in, as if ink and parchment could soften the inevitable clash of steel and fire. 

What irked him more was the purpose behind those letters. His mother sought to apologize, to soothe tensions, to mend something that had long since shattered. But why? Aemond’s lip curled slightly as the thought roiled within him. Had anyone apologized to him when Rhaenyra’s son took his eye? No. Instead, he had been humiliated, threatened, left to bleed as the room stood divided over who was to blame. There had been no soothing words, no justice offered to him. Only pain, humiliation, and the cold truth that his suffering mattered less than preserving some fragile, already broken, peace. 

His fingers curled against the table, his blunt nails scraping lightly over the rough stone. The sound was faint, but it tethered his simmering anger, grounding it as his mind churned with memories he wished he could bury. 

“No, Your Grace,” Maester Orwyle replied at last, his voice hesitant, as though reluctant to speak into the heavy silence that had settled over the room. His hands clasped tightly around the chain draped across his chest, the soft jangle of links barely audible as he shifted uneasily under Alicent’s gaze.

Aemond’s lone eye flicked toward his mother, studying the faint furrow of her brow, the tension in her frame. He wondered, not for the first time, why she continued to hope that Rhaenyra could be reached. His mother’s heart, soft as it was, could not see what Aemond knew to be true: some wounds could not be healed, some chasms could not be bridged. And Rhaenyra had chosen her side the day her son took his eye.

Alicent seemed to brush past Lord Jasper’s reproach, though the faint tension in her jaw betrayed her irritation. At Maester Orwyle’s reply, her lips pressed into a thin, strained line, disappointment flickering across her features. But she didn’t seem to allow it to linger. Her hands folded neatly on the table, the soft rustle of her movements breaking the silence as she let out a sigh. 

“In her condition,” she began, her tone measured but carrying that note of damning sentiment, “it cannot be good for her to remain at Storm’s End.” She shook her head slightly, her brow furrowing further with concern.”Surely, she must think of the life she carries. A mother must hold her child above all else. In that bond, she might yet find reason.” Her eyes sought out the council as she spoke. “Reason to see the madness in prolonging this war.”

His mother’s words hung delicately in the air, heavy with unbidden hope, though faint as it was. Her gaze sept across the table, as if silently imploring them to share her hopes.

Aemond’s jaw tightened imperceptibly as he listened, his lone eye narrowing ever so slightly. His mother’s persistent hope, her belief that words and decency could sway their enemies, rankled him more than he cared to admit. It was a weakness, in his eyes, to entertain such notions when the path forward could only be carved by steel and fire–not by sentiment or fragile appeals to childhood friends. 

Yet, for all his frustrations, he remained silent. She was misguided–too soft-hearted to accept the truth before them. The war was not looming; it was here, and there was no avoiding it. Blood would be spilled, lives would be lost, and no about of letters or appeals to maternal bonds would change that. 

It infuriated him to see her falter now, to witness the hesitation in her resolve when they stood at the precipice. Had this not been her cause? Had she not spent years insisting that Aegon was the rightful king, that his claim was just, and that they must fight for him–for their family? Had she not warned them time and again that failure would mean death? That Rhaenyra would put them all to the sword? 

Yet now, when the time had come to act, when their path was set, she hesitated. She spoke of reason, off reconciliation, as though he hadn’t already bloodied his hands for them. It felt like a betrayal of the very principles she had so fervently instilled in them. 

But, Aemond supposed, his mother had the luxury of hesitation–of clinging to hope and appealing for peace. She was not the one with blood on her hands. It was easy for her to falter now, to pull back and second-guess, because she had not been the one in the skies above Shipbreaker Bay.

Yet, he could feel her blame, sharp and unwelcoming, pressing against him like a blade. She blamed him–he knew it. She blamed him for the war, for making it inevitable, for being the spark that ignited the conflict. As though he alone had set them on this path, as though she had not spent years scheming and maneuvering to put Aegon on the throne. 

It grated against him, the way she distanced herself from the very path she had forged. She spoke now as though the war was something thrust upon them by his actions alone, as though it was not her own choices that had brought them here. She had fought and conspired, whispered in the shadows, wielded her influence to get them here–and now, when the blood began to flow, she wanted to wash her hands of it all. To absolve herself from responsibility, to lay the burden at his feet. 

He could see it in her now, the faint flicker of guilt that she sought to mask with reason and compromise. But guilt did not change the truth. The war was here, and they were all bound to it. She could no more escape its consequences than he could escape the stain of blood on his hands. 

Let her place the blame upon him if it eased her conscience. Let her believe she could undo what had been done. Aemond would shoulder the weight of it, as he always had. But he could not waver, nor would he forgive her for faltering now.

Jasper Wylde interjected, his voice as unyielding as forged iron. “Mediation? Shall we send her flowers and a heartfelt apology too? Daemon will laugh himself hoarse before sending the envoy’s head back in a basket.” His head shook dismissively.  “The princess is not a woman of reason–had she been, she would have accepted our terms when we first presented them to her,” he stated gruffly, his tone laden with disdain. “And she is not likely to find it any time soon.”

The weight of his words drew the room’s attention, his head turning toward him as he shifted slightly in his chair. He sat more upright, his expression measured even its gravity. “Her… condition… is no longer.”

Wylde’s gaze swept over the table, letting the silence stretch before continuing. “I’ve heard whispers from the fishermen around Dragonstone. They say the child has been lost. The shock of her father’s death, the crowning of our rightful king, or perhaps the capture of her daughter–it matters not.”

He paused, his gaze shifting to Aegon, who appeared to listen with unusual attention. He leaned back in his chair in a leisurely fashion, his fingers absently turning his council stone in its holder. The faint, repetitive scrape of the marble echoed softly in the room.

Wylde continued, “The child… is said to have been malformed and monstrous. With horns, twisted limbs and a tail.” He let the words hang in the air for a moment, their weight growing with each horrified glance exchanged around the table. “They were quick to burn it,” he added, as though it spoke to the validity of these rumors. “But still, the tale has spread.”

“Mother above,” Alicent murmured, covering her face for a moment of despair, brushing her fingers down and then along the curve of her neck. 

The chamber was cloaked in a heavy silence, the weight of Lord Jasper’s words settling over the council. Alicent’s expression darkened as she sank back into her chair, the tension etched into every line of her face. Her hands rose slowly, covering her face for a brief moment before brushing down her neck, a weary gesture that betrayed the strain pulling at her muscles. She exhaled shakily, her voice barely above a whisper. “Mother above…”

Aemond sat motionless, his features carved into an impassive mask, though his mind raced. If the news was true, it would be a blow to his half-sister–a deep and personal one. Yet even as the thought stirred something darkly satisfying within him, the thought of her suffering retribution for her defiance. Yet satisfaction gave way to contemplation as he considered the ripples such a loss would create–and what it would mean for Daenera.

The notion of Daenera’s grief unsettled him. He could not ignore how deeply it would cut her, even if the child had never drawn breath, even if no bond deeper than the promise of its existence had been formed. The loss would compound. It added its weight to wounds that already bled freely, deepening the injury, making it bleed all the more. 

His eye flickered to the table, his fingers curling against the smooth surface as he wrestled with the thoughts crowding his mind. He did not want this for her, did not want to see the grief that clung to her like a shroud grow heavier. 

“A sign from the gods,” Wylde added, his tone measured as he continued, “They punish the princess for her ambition. Surely, the gods are showing their favor to the rightful king.”

“Indeed,” Tyland said cautiously, his words measured yet clumsy, as though unsure whether to agree outright or temper his response. 

The scrape of Aegon’s council stone against it’s holder ceased as he leaned further back in his chair, hands spreading on the table as he grimaced with that lopsided grin of his. “One less brat to grow up with airs of grandeur. A shame the gods didn’t finish the job and rid us of their mother too while they had the chance.”

“Aegon,” Alicent snapped, her voice sharp with reproach, though it carried the tone of a mother scolding her son rather than addressing the king he was–before his own council. “That is not something to wish for, not even against our enemies.”

Aegon’s gaze darkened, his smirk giving way to something harder. “Not even against those who would steal my throne and see us all put to the sword, Mother?”

Before Alicent could respond, Tyland awkwardly cleared his throat, stepping in to diffuse the rising tension. His words came out haltingly, as though he were carefully picking his way through a minefield. “With such loss, one wonders if she might yet find reason,” he began, though his tone betrayed a faint condescension. “Grief make women… unreasonable…”

“Perhaps it is reason enough for her to seek peace,” Maester Orwyle ventured, his voice careful, as though stepping across thin ice. He glanced at Alicent as he continued, “I agree with the Queen Mother that mediation should still be pursued. The princess is unlikely to wish for the loss of more children, and war will only increase that risk. The longer this conflict continues, the greater the toll on all sides.”

“War is not merely a threat at our door, Maester,” Lord Wylde cut in, his tone firm, laced with grim finality. “War is already here. First blood has been spilled, the realm is divided, and Daemon Targaryen is not a man to be reasoned with even if his wife may be. He will not stand down.”

Otto Hightower cleared his throat, the sharp, deliberate sound cutting through the tension in the chamber and drawing all eyes back to him. “We’ve received a raven from Storm’s End,” he began, his voice calm but carrying the weight of importance. His fingers deftly pried open the leatherbound book before him, extracting a long, narrow piece of parchment stamped with the stag sigil of House Baratheon. The parchment unfurled over the closed book as he set it down, the faint crackle of the wax seal’s remnants breaking the silence.

“Lord Borros sends word,” Otto continued, his gaze steady as it swept over the council, “that Rhaenyra has abandoned her search.”

The words hung heavily in the air, and Alicent immediately straightened in her chair, her posture rigid as her brow furrowed deeply. She cast a sharp glance toward Aemond, her condemnation wordless but clear. The weight of her stare needled at him, but he remained unmoving, his features an impassive mask.

“Back to Dragonstone?” Alicent asked, turning her attention back to the Lord Hand. Her voice was sharp, though edged with apprehension, as if she both dreaded and demanded the answer in equal measure.

“No,” Otto replied, his gaze sweeping across the table, assessing their reactions. “She was seen flying along Blackwater Bay towards King’s Landing yesterday.”

The weight of his words pressed down on the room, and the air seemed to grow heavier with it. The lords shifted uneasily in their seats, exchanging wary glances, the tension palpable as the implications settled over them. Aemond remained still, his fingers tapping a steady rhythm on the table’s surface. 

A note of unease coiled tightly in his chest. They had been vulnerable the day before, the lords and ladies of the realm gathered in the sept for the wedding, their defenses thin, their focus elsewhere. The realization gnawed at him. Rhaenyra could have taken them–taken the Red Keep, King’s Landing itself. The thought clenched his stomach like a vice. 

His jaw tightened, teeth grinding together as his mind turned over the possibilities. If she had descended upon them, there would have been no time. He would not have reached Vhagar before it was too late. They would have been at her mercy, forced to watch as she reclaimed the throne, as she tore his wife from his grasp. And then, there would have been fire. 

Lifting his gaze from the table, Aemond let his eye sweep across the council. He saw the same dawning realization mirrored in their faces, the unease etched into furrowed brows and tight mouths. 

For a moment, the room was silent, save for the faint rustle of fabric and the occasional creak of a chair. Then, Aegon’s voice broke through the tension, sharp and flippant. “Well, she didn’t reach King’s Landing, did she? Otherwise, we’d all be ashes by now.”

“She reached the outskirts of the harbor before turning back,” Otto informed, his tone steady but heavy with implication.

“Perhaps she remembered that we too have dragons,” Maester Orwyle murmured, his voice thoughtful, though his words carried a faint edge of uncertainty. “She couldn’t have known of the wedding taking place.” 

“We should have sent men after her at Storm’s End and been done with it,” Aegon muttered displeased, the disdain in his voice unmistakable. He tipped back his cup, draining the last of his wine before letting the empty vessel thud softly against the table. Slouching back in his chair, he let out a huff, his expression souring. “Instead, we let her slip through our fingers. And what now? She slinks back to Dragonstone to gather her dragons and mount her war against us?”

“We still hold her daughter,” Otto said, his tone calm and calculated, each word chosen with care. “Unless she is willing to risk the life of a third child, she will not strike so soon. For all her grief, she is bound by some reason–at least for now.”

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle over the table. “While she may have secured the loyalty of House Darklyn and the lesser houses surrounding Dragonstone, and House Velaryons treasury and fleet, she remains at a disadvantage.” 

Aegon scowled, his fingers once again fidgeting with the council ball, but it was Tyland who broke the silence. “Even so, the princess has more dragons than us.”

“Dragons may be her strength,” Otto replied, his tone calm but firm, “but they are also her greatest liability. If she brings them to bear without the strength of men behind her, she risks everything. The lords of the realm will not stand idly by while their fields burn and their people starve. If she seeks to rule through fire alone, she will find herself with little more than scorched earth to govern. And so will we if we are foolish enough to risk our dragons before it is absolutely necessary.”

“Dragons are our greatest strength,” he said, his gaze sweeping across the table, lingering briefly on Aegon and then Aemond. “But they are also our greatest gamble. Recklessness could cost us more than a battle–it could cost us the realm itself.”

Aemond’s fingers tightened against the edge of the table, his expression unreadable. He did not look away from Otto, his mind parsing the warning even as his blood simmered at the implication of restraint. His grandfather’s logic was sound, but Aemond found himself bristling at the caution. To him, inaction was its own form of weakness.

Still, he said nothing, allowing Otto’s voice to carry the weight of reason, even as the tension in the room deepened.

“What is to be done, then?” Aegon demanded impatiently, his fingers twisting his council ball, the stone scratching irritably in its holder. His tone was sharp, his irritation palpable as his gaze narrowed at his Lord Hand. 

“We arm ourselves with patience,” Otto replied evenly, his voice measured and deliberate. “We consolidate our strength and gather our allies. House Tyrell has yet to respond, as have the Vale and the North. The lords of the Riverlands remain undeclared, but with the Lannisters marching from the West and my nephew advancing north, they will soon be compelled to make their decision.”

He shifted in his seat, his eyes scanning the room as he continued. “We already have an army, and more will join our cause. The advantage is ours if we proceed wisely. Let us not repeat the mistakes that have already been made.” 

Otto’s tone grew heavier, his gaze sharpening as he leaned forward slightly. “The realm will not accept her as its queen,” he said, his voice firm with conviction. “The lords of Westeros will not rally to a woman, especially one crippled by grief. Her weakness will be her undoing, and we will ensure the lords see her for what she truly is.”

With Otto’s final words, the matter seemed settled, though Aegon’s sour scowl lingered, his displeasure evident in the taut set of his jaw. The room fell into a heavy silence, the weight of their discussion hanging in the air like an unwelcome guest.

Outside, the clouds had thickened, swallowing the last vestiges of blue sky. The heavens darkened to an ominous slate gray, heavy with the promise of a downpour. The chill crept insidiously into the chamber, seeping through the cracks in the stone walls and curling around their feet like an unwelcome specter. The faint rustle of fabric and the soft shuffling of boots betrayed the discomfort of the council as the cold nipped at their toes.

Aemond remained still, his gaze flicking momentarily toward the window where the dim light barely penetrated the storm-laden gloom. The coming rain felt like an extension of the tension within the room–a foreboding herald of the storms that awaited them outside these walls and beyond in the realm.

Tyland adjusted his doublet, his expression grave as he leaned forward slightly, hands resting atop the ledgers before him. “If I may, my lords, there is another matter pressing upon the realm that demands our attention.” His eyes swept the table. “The crown’s coffers, though extensive thanks to the late king’s frugal nature and decades of peace, have begun to feel the strain of this war.”

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle before continuing, his fingers pressing down on the pages as if to emphasize his point. “The expenses of the wedding alone were considerable–the coronation feast as well, and now, with the added burden of preparing for conflict, the treasury faces mounting pressure. The blockade imposed by the Velaryon fleet has worsened matters, choking key trade routes. Imports of fabric, and more critically, ore and coal have been severely disrupted.”

Tyland’s eyes swept across the council, seemingly gauging their reactions. “We may need to consider alternative trade routes, though these would inevitably increase costs. Moreover,” he added, his voice dropping slightly, “such routes may expose us to vulnerabilities, particularly if a siege were to be imposed.”

“Rhaenyra hardly has the men for a siege,” Jasper Wylde interjected, his tone curt, as though dismissing the concern outright. 

Tyland hesitated for only a moment, his lips pressing into a thin line before he countered, “But she has the dragons…”

“If Rhaenyra dares to even attempt to lay siege to King’s Landing,” Aemond spoke finally, his voice low and calm, a dissonance to the weight of his words, “Vhagar will meet her in the skies, and we shall end this war swiftly.” He hummed, his head tilting as though he took measure of his own words. “Should she gather the men, I will burn them.”

“Yes!” Aegon chimed in with an exclamation, pointing fervently at Aemond in agreement, “Yes! And–And we should burn her ships as well. Without the Velaryon fleet at her back, she is exposed and in no position to prolong this war.”

Otto leaned forward, his expression stern as he interjected. “The fleet is well-guarded. The waters they hold are constantly by one dragon or another. To send Vhagar against it would leave King’s Landing vulnerable–”

“To vulnerability, then!” Aegon exclaimed flippantly, his tone dripping with sarcasm as he leaned back in his chair. “It seems to be all we’re good for these days. Let Vhagar loose. The smell of burning sails might improve the stench wafting in from the harbor. “I will defend the city on Sunfyre while my brother burns their fleet–”

“You musn’t, Your Grace–”

“No, Your Grace–”

The voices around the council table rose in a chorus of objections, each lord offering their variation of the same warning. Aegon’s expression darkened with each interruption, his shoulders slumping slightly as he sank back into his chair. His frown deepened, petulance creeping into his features as the weight of their disapproval pressed upon him.

It was Otto who finally broke through the discord, his voice calm but firm. “You musn’t risk your life, Your Grace,” he said, his gaze steady as it fixed on his grandson. “It is precisely what Rhaenyra desires. If you fall in battle, the crown will be lost, and with it, the realm.”

Aegon scowled, restlessness etched into every line of his face. He wanted action, to drive the war forward without the slow tedium of ravens and diplomacy, his irritation simmering just beneath the surface. “Are we to sit here and with our thumbs up our asses while they choke off our trade then?”

The silence stretched taut as Aegon’s words hung in the air. Otto’s gaze lingered on his grandson, his expression weary. It was not the first time Aegon had spoken impulsively, nor would it be the last, Aemond thought. 

“This is a war of strategy, Your Grace,” Otto said calmly, drawing in a deep, exasperated breath. “Nor a war to be won by heedlessness.”

Aemond watched the exchange, silent and cold, his gaze shifting between his grandfather and his brother. He could feel the impatience rolling off Aegon in waves, the desperate need to act without considering the cost. It was reckless, but Aemond understood it too well. The waiting gnawed at him, the knowledge that every day spent sitting idle allowed Rhaenyra to consolidate her own strength.

“We will act,” Otto assured, his tone measured but firm–guiding, like taking a child in the hand. “But we will act when the time is right. Reckless moves will only make us weak.” 

“And we cannot afford more mistakes,” Alicent added, her voice steady but carrying the weight of reproach. Her gaze did not land on Aemond, but the pointed absence was felt all the same. 

She leaned back slightly, her hands clasping in her lap as she continued, her tone softening but still firm. “Every action we take now will echo through the realm. We must tread carefully.”

Aemond’s fingers drummed idly against the table, the soft tap of his nails barely audible over the weight of the conversation. He agreed with Otto in principle, but the waiting chafed at him as well. There was a part of him, dark and eager, that longed to take to the skies with Vhagar, to bring fire and ruin upon their enemies and snuff out the rebellion in one decisive strike.

But he knew better than to speak of it now. Instead, he watched the exchange unfold, cold and calculating, his thoughts quietly burning as he weighed the balance between prudence and destruction.

Otto continued carefully, “However, I agree we should patrol the skies surrounding King’s Landing and along the coast of Blackwater Bay. We cannot allow her to move so freely.”

Aemond’s jaw tightened, his lips pursing slightly. Though he held his composure, the suggestion felt reductive, like a chore given to a child to keep him occupied rather than a true acknowledgement of his capabilities. 

He considered the possibilities. He could destroy the Velaryon fleet with Vhagar, even if it were guarded by a dragon. If one of the Velaryon bastards defended the fleet, their fate would be the same as their brother’s. They were no match for him or Vhagar.

Meleys, however, presented a greater challenge. She was swift and somewhat experienced in battle, if what he had heard was true. But even Meleys would struggle against Vhagar’s sheer size, her long years of battle hardening making her a force of unmatched ferocity in the skies. 

It was Caraxes that posed the most significant threat. Both the dragon and his rider were seasoned warriors, tactical and relentless. Still, Aemond believed he could defeat them–if it came down to just the two of them. The thrill of such a confrontation stirred something fierce within him. 

He reasoned it was unlikely the fleet would be protected by more than one dragon at any given time. If that were the case, he could strike swiftly. He could descend upon the fleet, destroy it in flames, and take down its guardian before they even had a chance to counter. Vhagar’s roar alone could sow chaos among the ships, scattering their formations, making them easy prey for her fire. 

He could burn the fleet to ashes and return home before the enemy could mount a proper retaliation. The risk was great, but the reward–crippling Rhaenyra’s forces and removing her naval strength–was greater still. 

Have you paid the smiths?” Aegon abruptly turned his gaze towards Tyland, expression shifting to one of impatient inquiry. 

Tyland blinked, momentarily thrown off balance. “Your Grace?” He stammered, his brow furrowing as he tried to catch up.

“The smiths,” Aegon reiterated, his tone edged with irritation. “They are to be paid up front for their work.”

Tyland’s eyes darted toward Otto, seeking guidance, but the Hand of the King looked thoroughly exasperated, his lips pressed into a thin line.

“As you said,” Aegon pressed on, his voice growing sharper, “the price of ore has risen, and if we are to arm our forces against Rhaenyra, we’ll need to be well-equipped, won’t we? Scorpions, swords, armor–they don’t forge themselves. And if the smiths can’t pay for the materials to craft them, tell me, what shall we defend ourselves with? Words?”

Aegon’s gaze turned toward Otto, a pointed challenge in his expression, as if daring his grandfather to counter him.

Tyland cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “Yes, Your Grace,” he said carefully, his voice low and measured. “I shall see if funds can be found for such an endeavor, though we may need to consider–”

“See to it,” Aegon interrupted curtly, his tone brooking no argument. “I won’t have this war lost for lack of preparation. And if coin must be spent, then spend it.”

The heavy oaken doors to the council chambers groaned open, their creak loud and intrusive, cutting through the already-tense air like a blade. The sound reverberated through the vaulted stone chamber, followed by the shuffling of uneven footsteps–boots scuffing against the floor–and the sharp, deliberate tap, tap, tap of a cane striking the ground. The cadence was distinct, calculated, and immediately recognizable. 

Aemond didn’t bother to turn. He didn’t need to. He knew precisely who it was. His sharp features remained still, his cold gaze fixing ahead as if the interruption were beneath his notice–and it was. His fingers, however, continued their steady, deliberate drumming against the table’s surface, the faint sound almost lost amidst the approaching steps. 

The air in the chamber grew heavier, the council's unease palpable as the figure came into view–always a herald of less than fortunate news. 

“Lord Confessor,” Alicent began, her tone clipped and brimming with restrained frustration. “What is the meaning of this? We are in the middle of a meeting.”

She did not rise, but Aemond could almost sense the stiffness in her posture, her spine straight as a blade, her dark eyes narrowing on the man approaching them. Larys Strong. The Lord Confessor’s presence was rarely welcome, his arrival at the council unbidden even less so. His peculiar mixture of deference and menace unsettled most. 

“Your Grace,” Larys murmured, inclining his head in a shallow bow. His voice was soft, almost soothing in its cadence, though it carried a serpentine quality that sent an involuntary shiver through even the most steadfast. “I would not dare to intrude, were it not a matter of some urgency.”

His cane struck the stone floor again, a sound that seemed to echo too long, too sharply, as he moved further into the room. The council shifted uneasily, exchanging wary glances. Even Aemond, for all his practiced stoicism, felt the corners of his mouth tighten in irritation at the man’s presence.

“And what matters?” Otto questioned, his voice wary. 

Aemond’s lip twitched imperceptibly, his distaste for the Lord Confessor stirring within him like a slow burn. He had little regard for the man, whose honeyed words and subtle manipulations slithered through the halls of the Red Keep like an unseen viper. Still, he waited, unmoving, letting the air grow heavy with the weight of the interruption.

“The boy,” Larys began, his tone carefully measured, the words dragging slightly. He came to stop just at Aemond’s good side, lingering beyond his peripheral view. “I thought it prudent to inform you that the princess’s charge, Patrick Piper, has died…”

The words hung in the air like a dagger suspended on the edge of falling. Aemond’s gaze shifted, gliding along the rough grain of the stone table, his lone eye tracing its length to the place where it abruptly ended. 

“Died?” Alicent’s voice cut through the tense silence, a note of shock sharpening her tone. The weight of the news rippled through the room, stirring unease among the gathered lords and counselors. Shuffling movements, the soft rustle of fabric, and the creak of chairs betrayed their discomfort.

“Yes,” Larys confirmed, his voice measured. His cane tapped against the floor as he shifted closer, the sound loud and damning in the hush that had fallen over the chamber. “One of the guards went to see to him,” he continued, “and found him dead in his cot. By all accounts, the boy was well and healthy this morning. His death was unexpected.”

Alicent’s hand rose to clasp at her throat, her fingers tightening around the ornate chain she wore. “If he was well and healthy,” she pressed, her voice betraying her unease, “how could he have died?”

“That is the question, Your Grace,” Larys murmured, his tone carrying an almost lilting insinuation, each word carefully measured. “There were no signs of a struggle, no visible wounds or ailments to explain his sudden demise. It appears as though the boy merely lay down to sleep and never woke.”

“A boy his age does not simply fall asleep and never wake,” Jasper Wylde growled, his deep, gravelly voice cutting through the room. His pale gray eyes, sharp as steel, narrowed beneath his heavy brow, and his scowl seemed to carve itself permanently into his weathered face, like a blacksmith hammering out a blade. “It’s unnatural,” he added, shaking his head, his disapproval evident.

Larys did not falter beneath the weight of Wylde’s scrutiny. If anything, he seemed to delight in it. “It is perhaps worth noting,” he said, his tone unctuous, “that the boy had a visitor this morning.”

Aemond felt the weight of Larys’s words like a subtle blade turned in his direction, and though he refused to look at the man, he could feel the insinuation laced into his tone, like a prickle against his skin.

He had not been to the dungeons save for that single time, to oversee Fenrick’s release. He had stood there in the dim light as the guards unlocked the iron door, the screech of the key grating in the lock, and the rusty hinges groaned in protest. Fenrick had been hauled from the cell, shackled and dragged forward. The boy had been there, alive and wailing like an infant torn from its mother’s arms, his thin limbs flailing against the guards’ unyielding grip.

Aemond had watched as Fenrick, though shackled and subdued, turned his gaze to the boy. “Be strong,” the man had said, his voice firm despite the circumstances. “Daenera will not let harm come to you.”

Aemond could still recall the venom in Fenrick’s glare as he was shoved past him, up the stone steps and out of sight. The boy’s cries had echoed through the narrow corridor, the sound grating and pitiful. Aemond had stood there, unmoving, as the door to the cell slammed shut behind them, its clang reverberating through the stale, rank air. The dungeons had reeked of rot and despair, a stench so pungent that it lingered in his memory if he allowed himself to think on it.

But he hadn’t returned since. He hadn’t visited the boy again, nor had he interfered in his fate. Whatever had befallen Patrick Piper, it was not of his doing. 

He refused to carry the blame for it. 

“The princess, Daenera, saw the boy not long before we released her man,” Larys continued, his tone deceptively casual, though every word seemed laced. He let the revelation hang in the air for a mere moment, then added, “She informed the guards that her husband granted her the permission for a visit.”

The words struck like a hammer against Aemond’s tightly controlled composure. He felt his muscles tense beneath his skin, a taut coil of suppressed surprise. His fingers, which had been tapping idly against the cold stone of the table, stilled abruptly. Yet, he betrayed nothing. His mask of cold detachment remained firmly in place, his sharp features carved into an expression of calm indifference.

Beneath the surface, though, a storm brewed. 

The knowledge that she–Daenera, his wife–had used his name in her ruse stirred something within his chest. There was a dark twist of satisfaction at the thought of her invoking his authority, drawing on their union as leverage. A faint smirk threatened to tug at the corner of his lips, but he replaced it with a faint purse as he weighed the implications. 

Amusement flickered within him, tempered by the cold edge of unease. That she had claimed his permission was not surprising–she was clever, as resourceful as she was bold–but the thought of her slipping into the dungeons, placing herself among rapers and murders, gnawed at him. And for a boy whose significance was no more than a pawn in this game?

But that was the reason, wasn’t it? 

“And they let her in?!” Alicent’s voice rose sharply, her reproach immediate and laced with indignation that prickled against Aemond like a nettle. Her piercing gaze swept over the room before fixing on her son. “You allowed her to see him? You gave her permission to enter the dungeons?”

Aemond met his mother’s gaze with a calm defiance, his expression a mask of measured indifference. His singular eye, sharp and unyielding, revealed nothing of the turmoil beneath, though a faint tightening at the corner of his mouth hinted at a flicker of irritation. He held her gaze steadily, unmoving, feeling no inclination to answer to her accusations. 

“Are you insinuating, Lord Confessor,” Maester Orwyle interjected, his voice hesitant and laced with unease, “that the princess had a hand in the boy’s demise?”

“Where is the boy now?” Otto’s gaze settled on Larys before the Lord Confessor could turn to address Maester Orwyle. 

“With the Silent Sisters,” Larys replied smoothly. He adjusted his cane with a soft tap, the sound a punctuation mark to his words. “They are preparing his body as we speak and will report their findings when they are finished.”

“We don’t need their findings to know what happened,” Alicent interjected sharply, her voice rising with conviction. Her dark gaze swept across the table, searching the faces of the council as though daring someone else to voice the accusation she was poised to make. None spoke. The tension in the room thickened as the lords exchanged wary glances, their discomfort palpable. 

When silence met her challenge, she drew herself up, her lips pressed into a thin line as she spoke the accusation aloud. “She poisoned him.”

Aemond felt the accusation press against him as if it carried with it an expectation of response. Yet, he remained still, his expression carved from stone. 

“We cannot act on mere assumptions,” Orwyle countered carefully, the jingle of his maester’s chain punctuating his words as he shifted in his seat. His voice carried a cautionary note, attempting to temper the queen’s fervor. “As of now, there is no evidence to substantiate such a claim. A proper investigation must be conducted before any conclusions are reached.”

“It is no assumption,” she countered tersely, her gaze snapping towards the master. “We all know the princess is well-versed in such matters. She poisoned him.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Aegon muttered, his voice laced with bitter humor as he stared into the depths of his empty wine cup. He swirled it idly in his hand, his brow furrowing deeper the longer he looked, as though questioning whether the wine had been poisoned. 

It was not an unreasonable fear, not after what had transpired–not after experience. Aegon had, after all, been on the receiving end of her knowledge of plants before. 

His gaze shifted, lifting from the depths of his cup to meet Aemond’s, a faint trace of amusement twisting the corners of his lips. “It seems your marriage is a match forged in the Seven Hells, brother,” Aegon jibed, his tone dripping with mockery as he leaned back in his chair. “A kinslayer and a child killer. Truly a union worthy of song. The bards should write one about it–though I doubt they’d sing them anywhere respectable.”

Aemond’s jaw tightened, the tension in him coiling tighter with each passing moment. He cast a glance toward his grandfather, noting the faint twitch of Otto’s lips–a subtle signal of disapproval, though he remained silent for now. 

His gaze drifted downward, settling on the golden ring that encircled his finger.  His thumb brushed over its surface, the cool metal gleaming faintly in the flickering firelight. His touch was deliberate, almost meditative, as though the weight of the band tethered him amidst the chaos. His thumb grazed the hidden lever etched into the intricate design, the faintest pressure threatening to release the blade-like needle concealed within. He didn’t press it, not fully–just enough to feel the faint resistance, the promise of its sharp release.

The ring was more than just ornamentation; it was a reminder, a tool, a weapon. It carried the weight of shared secrets and unspoken truths. He knew well what she was capable of with her poisons, had seen it firsthand, had even taken part in her lethal artistry. That knowledge hummed in the back of his mind now, a steady, dark undercurrent beneath the council’s chatter.

His finger lingered on the hidden mechanism, a subtle, private acknowledgment of what he already believed to be true. They lacked the evidence, yes, but Aemond didn’t need it. Certainty settled in his chest like a stone. He knew she had poisoned the boy as surely as he knew the breadth of his own sins. It wasn’t a question of if, but why–and that, too, he understood with unshakable clarity.

She had done it for a reason, calculated and purposeful. Aemond’s jaw tightened, and his lips pressed into a faint line. Her actions, while ruthless, were never without cause. And as the council continued its murmured deliberations, he found something strangely satisfying in the knowledge. She had acted, just as he might have in her place, wielding her tools with precision and intent. It was a grim kinship, one forged in blood and necessity.

“Why would she do such a thing?” Maester Orwyle’s voice broke the charged silence, tentative and tinged with disbelief. He shifted in his seat, the links of his chain clinking together loudly.

“To ensure we no longer have any leverage over her,” Otto Hightower said, his voice even, deliberate. He leaned back in his chair, the polished wood creaking faintly beneath his weight. His steely gaze swept across the council table, calculating and cold, as if weighing each member present. For the briefest moment, there was a flicker in his eyes–a glimmer of something akin to admiration, though muted and fleeting, like the final embers of a fire. The corners of his lips twitched upward, but the gesture lacked warmth, quickly overshadowed by the sharper edge of his annoyance. “Without the boy, she no longer has to concern herself with his life–or what we might do to him.”

It seemed he had come to the same conclusion as Aemond. 

“Surely the princess isn’t so ruthless as to sacrifice a boy like that,” Ser Tyland Lannister drawled, leaning against the armrest of his chair with a languid grace that belied the weight of his thoughts. His brow furrowed, the red of his hair dulled to an almost rust-like hue in the dim, gray light filtering through the chamber’s narrow windows. The overcast sky outside mirrored the somber atmosphere within, as though the heavens themselves recoiled from the grim discussion.

Aegon shrugged nonchalantly, the movement almost careless as he set his empty wine cup aside, the hollow clink against the table echoing faintly. He shifted in his seat, the fabric of his doublet rustling softly as he leaned back, a lazy, speculative glint in his eyes. “She cared for the boy, didn’t she?” He mused aloud, drawing the attention of the council. “I doubt she would have killed him solely to free herself. She’d have known we’d never let him go…”

Mercy, Aemond thought, the word echoing in his mind with a bitter edge. Yes, that was certainly part of it. He knew her well enough to understand that. Her sense of justice, of sparing the boy from further torment, was tangled with her own desperation for freedom. She had wielded poison as a blade, not to sever ties with her captors entirely but to sever the boy’s suffering. There was no doubt in his mind that her actions had been deliberate, calculated, but not entirely devoid of compassion.

“Mercy or ruthlessness,” Lord Jasper Wylde interjected gruffly. “It matters little which it is, the outcome is the same. The boy is dead, and our leverage with him. What shall we do now, when we’ve no means left to control her? What are we to do with her?”

“We punish her,” she said firmly, her hands pressed tightly together on the table. “She murdered a boy in our care. She cannot be trusted not to move against us. Who’s to say she won’t poison all of us next?” Her gaze swept across the faces of those gathered, her dark eyes burning with urgency. “ She must be punished.”

Aemond shifted slightly in his seat, his expression calm but his lone eye narrowing as he listened to his mother’s growing fervor. He drew in a breath, deep and measured, releasing it in a soft, deliberate sigh. The sound was enough to draw the room’s attention, and when he finally spoke, his voice was low and steady, cutting through the tension like steel through silk.

“If she intended to poison us,” Aemond began, his words measured, “she would have done so at the wedding.”

The chamber fell into a brief, uneasy silence. All eyes turned toward him, their gazes heavy with anticipation. Aemond met them unflinchingly, his expression carved from ice, unyielding in its certainty.

“Daenera has no intention of killing us,” he continued, his voice carrying a quiet authority that demanded attention. “She does not wish to become a kinslayer. This was to sever our hold on her.”

“She is a viper free from its cage,” Alicent hissed, her voice trembling with a mixture of fury and disbelief. Her dark eyes bore into him, unyielding and fierce, the reproach in her gaze sharp enough to wound. “We cannot be sure who she will strike next. You should never have married her.”

Aemond’s jaw tightened at her words, though his expression remained carefully composed. Beneath the surface, a flicker of anger coiled, but he buried it deep, unwilling to let it rise. He swallowed against the sourness that formed on his tongue, choosing to remain silent. 

The tension in the room thickened as Alicent’s voice rang with fervor. “We cannot let her slither about the castle without punishment,” she insisted, her tone unyielding as she turned sharply away from Aemond to address the table. Her gaze fixed pointedly on Otto and Aegon, her desperation clear. “She must be punished. Let her take the boy’s place in the dungeons–”

“We cannot act rashly,” Lord Jasper Wylde interjected, his voice gravelly but firm, cutting through the Queen Mother’s demands. His pale gray eyes, like tempered steel, locked onto Otto’s measured expression. “If we imprison her in the dungeons, her mother will hear of it soon enough. And even in her grief, Rhaenyra will be at our gates with her dragons to free her daughter.”

The weight of his words settled over the council, the unspoken threat of dragonfire searing in their minds. Jasper straightened slightly in his seat, his weathered hand resting heavily on the table. “Imprisoning her would undo everything we’ve done thus far,” he continued, his tone sharp and edged with warning. “The realm will know we lied. And if dragons are not at our gates, the mob will be.”

Alicent’s jaw tightened, her hands clutching the edge of the table as though the tension in her grip could ground her fraying composure. Her dark eyes flickered with frustration, darting to Otto, who remained silent but contemplative, his brow furrowed deeply as he weighed the options.

“And what do you propose we do?” she demanded, her voice trembling with barely restrained anger. “Let her walk freely after what she’s done? Let her sit comfortably in her chambers as though nothing has happened?”

“But we do not know for certain what happened,” Maester Orwyle interjected cautiously, his eyes lingering briefly on Alicent as her expression darkened. 

The weight of Otto Hightower's words settled heavily over the room, his voice flat and deliberate as he leaned forward, his steely gaze sweeping the table. “It makes no difference what befell the boy,” he stated, his tone carrying an air of finality. “To punish the princess is to admit we allowed this to happen—that we cannot even protect those within our own walls, and that we cannot control her.”

His eyes shifted briefly to Larys Strong, whose ever-watchful presence seemed to linger like an unwelcome shadow. “The boy died of illness,” Otto continued, his words clipped and resolute. “As for the princess, her servants should be questioned–find out how they could have allowed this to happen. Determine how she managed to procure the means of poison, if poison is indeed what occurred. Her chambers should also be searched.”

“Yes, my Lord Hand,” Larys responded with a deferential bow of his head, though the subtle gleam in his eye grated on Aemond’s nerves. The thought of Larys, with his sly, intrusive manner, rifling through their chambers, overturning their belongings, was enough to make his jaw tighten. Still, Aemond remained silent, knowing any objection would fall on deaf ears.

“That’s it?” Alicent’s voice broke through, sharp and incredulous, her disbelief tangible. “She is not to be punished?”

Otto’s gaze met hers, unyielding. “What more do you wish done?”

Alicent shook her head, her frustration spilling over. Her hands clenched tightly on the table’s edge, her jaw working as she swallowed her anger bitterly. “Restrict her movements further,” she demanded, her tone cutting. “She may leave her chambers once every other day, and those days should be spent in repose, with guards ensuring she does not overstep her bounds.”

Aemond’s teeth ground together at her words, his irritation barely restrained. The implication that Daenera should be caged like some wild beast clawed at his pride, but he said nothing, his fingers curling against the table’s surface. He forced his expression to remain neutral, though the tension coiling beneath his skin was undeniable.

Otto straightened in his chair. He let the silence linger just long enough for all eyes to turn to him, the weight of his authority palpable in the air. When he spoke, his voice was calm but edged with a note of weariness that brooked no argument.

“The matter is decided,” he said firmly, his tone cutting through the growing murmurs. “The boy’s death will be declared a result of illness. The Silent Sisters will prepare his body, and we will ensure his family is notified with all due sympathy. As for the princess, her movements shall be restricted as the Queen Mother has suggested. The guards will be informed, and her chambers searched–discreetly. Let this be all for today.”

With the council adjourned, Aemond rose from his seat with deliberate composure, his long fingers brushing the edge of the table as though grounding himself before he moved. The room was already dispersing around him–lords and advisors shuffling toward the chamber doors, their murmured conversations a soft hum in the background. But Aemond paid them no heed. The need to see Daenera itched beneath his skin, insistent and consuming.

They were not so different, he thought as he made his way toward the exit, his stride measured but purposeful.

Weariness had become a shroud around Daenera, wrapped tightly in its suffocating embrace. It pressed into her skin, her bones, deep inside. She sat before the dressing table, the polished surface of the mirror reflecting a face she barely recognized, her features drawn and pale, shadows pooling beneath her eyes. The glow of the candlelight flickered unevenly, throwing long, restless shadows across the chamber, though even the golden hues couldn’t soften the sharp lines of her exhaustion. 

Behind her, Mertha’s voice grated against the stillness, sharp and unforgiving as the scrape of iron on iron. The older woman held up the damp remains of Daenera’s dress, the once-lustrous fabric darkened and heavy with rain. She shook it with an exaggerated vigor, droplets splattering the floor like blood against stone. 

“–I hope you’ve had your fill of death,” Mertha snapped, her voice climbing. “I hope you’ve commended the sight to memory! The poor boy.”

The sound of rain battering the shutters filled the room, a steady rhythm drumming against the windowpanes like the beating of some great, restless heart. . It was as though the gods themselves had grown tired–tired of the endless schemes and betrayals of mortals, of their blood-soaked ambitions and unending grievances. Perhaps they sought to drown the world in their wrath, to wash it clean of sin and sorrow. But mercy was not the gods’ way, and the rain fell without promise of redemption, a bitter reminder of how unyielding the world remained.

Her fingers rested lightly on the edge of the dressing table, the cool wood grounding her as Mertha’s tirade continued unabated. The chamber felt stifling despite the chill creeping in from the storm, the air thick with unspoken tension. Somewhere in the depths of her fatigue, Daenera wondered if the gods had sent the rain not as wrath but as a mockery–an illusion of cleansing that would never touch the festering wounds of this world. No storm could wash away the sins that had taken root here.

Daenera watched the droplets race down the glass, her envy flaring briefly. How simple it must be, she thought, to be the rain–to rage freely, without consequence or restraint, without care. The rain lashed against the stone walls of the Red Keep, it seemed to carry the weight of its own wrath–seemed to mock her. 

Patrick’s life had been the noose she carried, her every movement constrained by the knowledge that the Greens held his fate in their hands. But now that burden was gone, severed by her own hand. And in truth, she felt a bitter sense of relief, even triumph–it stirred something far darker within her. 

It would take time before the Greens loosened their hold on her again; she knew that much. The death of the boy would only deepen their scrutiny, tighten their watch. Yet she had paid that price willingly, knowing that it would cost her what little freedom she had. And yet, there were still freedoms she could take within the confines of this gilded cage.

A bird in a cage might not be free to fly, but it could still sing–and it could still bite.

The thought brought a bitter twist to her lips, an almost imperceptible smile that carried no warmth. If this was to be her prison, she would make it as wretched for her captors as it was for her. Let them watch her every move, chain her to her chambers, whisper their suspicions behind closed doors. She would show them there was no caging her rage. 

Her fingers grazed the edge of the table, the cool wood grounding her as her thoughts turned sharper, more deliberate. She could make life miserable for them–Aemond, Alicent, Aegon, Otto, even Mertha. 

Her reflection stared back at her, unyielding, as she leaned closer to the mirror. The shadows beneath her eyes seemed to deepen, the firelight flickering across her features like the glow of embers. That ember of rage had been with her since the moment she rose amidst the rubble of her chambers. It had been a spark then, small and fragile, but it had grown, fed by every indignity, every insult, every betrayal. It burned against her ribs now, a constant reminder of what she had lost–and what she would one day reclaim.

Aemond. His name pressed against her mind like a sharp edge. He had gotten what he wanted–a wife bound to him by chains as much as vows. But she would make sure he wished he hadn’t. She could see his cold, calculating expression in her mind’s eye, his singular gaze that sought to pierce through her, to lay claim to what he had ruined. 

“They should make you take his place in the dungeons,” Mertha spat, her voice sharp and unforgiving as she moved about the chamber like a restless bird. The fabric of her skirts swayed and hissed with her movements, the quiet rustling as sharp as a blade in the otherwise suffocating silence.”That is where you belong–among rapers and murderers, you wicked creature.” 

“I would take the night watch over her myself,” Mertha said, a sneer curling at the corners of her lips, her tone dripping with self-importance. “But the day has drained me, and you are young. Your energy will serve you better tonight.” She busied herself with gathering the discarded underdress from the floor, shaking it out before throwing it carelessly into the basket at the foot of the bed. “It will be a long day tomorrow, and I’ll need my strength.”

Mertha’s gaze snapped back to Edelin, sharp and commanding. “You must not fall asleep,” she warned, her voice lowering into something that resembled a hiss. “The gods know she cannot be trusted. I wouldn’t want to wake in the morning and find you dead, as they did the poor boy.” She straightened, brushing her hands off with exaggerated finality as if ridding herself of some invisible stain. “Stay vigilant, do you hear me?”

Daenera’s gaze lifted from her reflection in the mirror to regard the older woman. Mertha’s face was pinched with disdain, her eyes gleaming with self-righteous fury as she discarded the damp dress in a basket. A sickly pallor clung to her skin, her complexion ashen and lifeless, while the whites of her eyes blotted with red. The skin around them was flushed and swollen, betraying the rawness of fatigue and strain. It wasn’t hard to guess the cause. She’d been retching–violently so, if the bloodshot state of her eyes was any indication.

Her attention did not linger long; instead, it drifted to the young woman just behind her. The girl had been uncharacteristically silent, her usual chatter replaced by a subdued quiet since leaving the sept. There was a heaviness to her presence now, a weight in her every movement as she worked through Daenera’s hair with a brush. The tangles yielded reluctantly to her careful ministrations, and each stroke of the brush seemed to carry an unspoken frustration. She did not meet Daenera’s gaze in the mirror, her focus fixed on the task at hand. 

“You will remain at the Princess’s side at all times. Do you understand?” Mertha snapped, her tone dripping with scorn as she pointed an accusing finger at Edelin. The older woman loomed like a shadow over the younger lady-in-waiting, her presence a constant weight that pressed down on the room. “You will not let her out of your sight for a single moment–not a single breath! If she so much as steps into the privy, you will stand outside, staring in at her from the open door!”

Daenera grimaced, her frown deepening as the indignity of Mertha’s command settled over her. The thought of being watched even in her most private moments, of someone hovering behind her as she relieved herself, made her stomach twist with revulsion. 

Edelin seemed to share her unease. The younger woman’s hands faltered in their careful work, her brushing pausing for the briefest of moments. She hesitated, her lips parting slightly as if to protest, but Mertha’s sharp, scornful gaze bore down on her like a hammer. Reluctantly, Edelin turned back to her task, her face a careful mask of submission that failed to hide the faint tremor of her fingers.

“Yes, Lady Mertha…” she murmured, the words clipped and heavy with reluctant obedience. Her frown deepened as she resumed her brushing, the strokes growing firmer. 

“And if she proves even a bit difficult, you will call for the guards immediately. Do you understand me?” Her sharp voice carried across the room from where she stood. “I will not let her humiliate us again.” She hefted the basket with a grunt, the motion sharp and deliberate, as though the weight of her burden served as evidence of her righteousness. Her eyes, hard and gleaming, turned towards them.

Daenera felt the prickle of Mertha’s attention against the back of her neck, an unwelcome presence that tightened her shoulders. She met her gaze in the mirror, her expression calm but cold, her eyes glittering with defiance. They held each other’s stare for a long, tense moment. 

Then, Mertha shifted her focus to Edelin, her tone hardening. “Be wary of her, girl,” she warned, her words laced with bitter scorn. “She is as kind as a viper and twice as cunning.”

Edelin shifted but said nothing, her head bowing slightly in a gesture of reluctant acknowledgement. Her hands moved with practiced care through Daenera’s hair, the brush going through the strands smoother now.

With a final sniff of disdain, Mertha spun sharply on her heel, the heavy skirts of her dress swishing against the stone floor with each forceful step. The wicker basket bumped against her hip, the motion punctuating her retreat as she disappeared behind the lattice screen. Moments later, the muffled sound of the chamber doors opening and shutting reached them, followed by a decisive click that seemed to echo in the still air.

“A viper,” Daenera murmured, her voice soft and edged with a dry humor. “How inventive.”

The room settled into silence, broken only by the steady drumming of rain against the windows, the world outside dark and lost in the storm’s fury. The fire crackled in the hearth, sending errant sparks dancing upward before they vanished into the darkened stone. Its heat radiated outward, warring with the persistent chill that lingered at the edges of the chamber, crawling along the floor like an unwelcome guest.

The brush moved slowly through Daenera’s hair, the soft bristles tugging against stubborn tangles as they worked through the dark curls. Each stroke coaxed the locks into a loose cascade, spilling down her back in an unruly spill of shadowy waves. The ends tickled the curve of the chair’s back, swaying faintly with each pass.

Daenera’s gaze shifted from her own reflection in the mirror to Edelin’s, studying the girl as though seeking answers in her quiet demeanor. The red-gold of Edelin’s hair gleamed in the firelight, the strands pulled back into a tightly braided coil pinned neatly at the nape of her neck. Her pale blue eyes remained fixed on the task, unyielding and methodical, but the faint crease between her brows betrayed her unease. Her lips pressed into a tight line, a silent barricade holding back whatever thoughts churned behind her calm exterior.

The silence grew heavier, thick with words unspoken, until Daenera broke it. Her tone was soft, measured, yet it carried the weight of apprehension.

“What is it?” she asked, her fingers drifting to toy idly with the edge of a strand of hair. “I can feel you want to say something.”

Edelin drew in a deep breath, measured through her nose, as though summoning every ounce of courage within her. The brush in her hand stilled mid-stroke, her fingers tightening around the handle. Slowly, deliberately, she lifted her head and met Daenera’s gaze through the mirror. Her blue eyes were steady, but the faint quiver in her lower lip betrayed the turmoil beneath her composed exterior. 

“Did you poison him?” She asked, her voice low. The words hung in the air like a blade suspended over a neck. The corners of her mouth pulled downward, her expression strained, but she pressed on. “I want you to tell me the truth.”

Daenera’s face remained impassive, her dark eyes locked with Edelin’s in the glass. Her heart thudded a painful rhythm against her ribs, the ache reverberating through her chest. The acrid taste of bile rose in her throat, and her tongue felt dry, as if all the moisture had fled her mouth. She resisted the urge to look away, though it took more resolve than she cared to admit.

“I cannot give you the truth,” She said at last, her voice calm but laced with an edge of weariness. Her words were measured, deliberate, as though she were stepping carefully along the edge of a precipice. “You know that.”

“You can,” Edelin pressed, her tone soft but insistent. 

Daenera’s lips twitched, the faint curve caught somewhere between a smile and a scowl, though it was neither. “And what will you do with it?” She asked, her voice strained. “What then? Will you bring it to the Small Council? March into the Great Hall and lay it before them?”

“I should,” Edelin said, her voice barely above a whisper. “It is my duty.” Her pale blue eyes held Daenera’s in the mirror, unflinching despite the tremor in her fingers. The words lingered in the air, as though the room itself held its breath, waiting for what might follow.

Edelin moved, setting the brush aside on the polished surface of the dressing table. The faint clink it made against the wood seemed louder than it should have been, an unspoken punctuation. She straightened, drawing herself up, her youthful features set with a determination that made her seem older than she was. 

“I am not asking for them,” she continued, her tone sharper now, steadier. “I am asking for the truth–for myself.” Her hands disappeared briefly into the folds of her skirts, and when they reemerged, she held a small pouch. 

Daenera’s gaze flickered to the object as Edelin placed it on the table before her, the soft scrape of fabric against wood drawing her attention. The pouch was unassuming, its pale, creamy cloth bright against the dark surface. But it was damning in its simplicity, a quiet truth laid bare between them. 

The silence that followed was suffocating. The storm outside raged on, the relentless drum of rain on stone a backdrop to the tense stillness that filled the chamber. Daenera’s heart plummeted, a hollow ache settling deep within her chest as the lavender pouch lay before her. The scent of lavender wafted into the air, delicate yet overwhelming, mingling with the cloying remnants of incense that still lingered in her nostrils. It was a sickly-sweet aroma, at odds with the cold dread that coiled in her stomach. Her eyes burned with the prickle of unshed tears, though she refused to let them fall. Tears would not help now. 

Her gaze lifted slowly from the pouch to Edelin’s face. For a moment, the younger woman seemed transformed–her features hardened by the weight of understanding, the sharpness of her expression far removed from her usual youthful softness. The knowledge she carried was etched into her face, undeniable, even as she sought a confirmation she already knew in her heart. 

“You could take it to the Council,” Daenera said, her voice strained and dry as though every word scraped against her throat. “They would no doubt welcome your… evidence.” Her tone grew brittle, laden with weariness. “But it would change nothing. Their punishment is already decided.”

Her hand moved, reaching tentatively towards the pouch. She wanted to seize it, to hide its damning presence from sight, yet part of her just wanted it within her hold–wanted the security of it, however damning it was for her to keep. Before her fingers could close the distance, Edelin’s hand shot out. She slid the pouch across the table, out of Daenera’s reach. 

“Are we all so easily discarded?” Edelin demanded, her voice cracking.

Daenera froze, her outstretched hand retreating slightly as Edelin’s words settled on her with the same sharp sting as a slap. Her brows knitted together, as she stared up at Edelin. “Nothing about this has been easy,” she said, her words twisted into something sharp and bitter, almost a sneer. Her voice was raw and strained as tears burned at the back of her eyes. She blinked them away fiercely, unwilling to let them fall. 

“You told him he was going home,” Edelin pressed.

“This was the only way he was ever going home,” She answered, her jaw tightening as she leaned back against the seat, the wood pressing into her spine. “The Hightowers would never have released him.” Her gaze flicked back to meet Edelin’s, her voice growing harsher, weighed with frustration. “He would have stayed in the dungeons–alone, forgotten, rotting in the dark. Every footstep outside his cell would have been a death knell, every echo a reminder that the noose was waiting.”

Her throat tightened as she swallowed hard against the lump rising there, her emotions clawing at her like a living thing. It felt as though she had swallowed a jagged stone, its edges tearing into her, making every breath ache. “I didn’t want him to suffer.”

Edelin stood silent for a moment, her pale blue eyes searching Daenera’s face, her expression wavering between pity and unease. When she finally spoke, her tone was measured, understanding yet cautious, as though she were treading carefully across ice. 

“I understand that,” she said, her voice low. “Truly, I do. But… it gives me pause.”

She hesitated, her hands twisting together as she gathered her thoughts. “I have been kind to you, as you have been to me,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “And I am grateful for that kindness, Princess. But… I am still in their service.” Her words hung heavily in the air as she looked down at her hands, her fingers knotting in the fabric of her skirts. “I’ve held my tongue before because you asked it of me–held my tongue when I properly shouldn’t have…”

Her voice broke, and she raised her head again. “I don’t want to find myself in the same position as the boy,” she said, her words low. “I don’t want to end up discarded, forgotten, let to rot because I’ve been loyal to the wrong person.”

“You won’t,” Daenera said firmly. The words hung in the air, a promise or a plea–it was hard to tell.

“You don’t know that,” Edelin countered, her voice trembling slightly. “I might end up in the dungeons, just as he did. Waiting for the noose.”

Daenera held her gaze, reading the desperation written across the young woman’s face. She understood Edelin’s fears all too well–that her kindness, her proximity to Daenera, would mark her. And yet, even as her chest tightened with the weight of understanding, she found herself speaking. Words rose unbidden, soft but steady. “I don’t believe you’ll find yourself in that position. You are neither child nor fool, and that is why I trust you, Edelin. You’ve stood by me when many would not, when it would have been easier to distance yourself. I see the risk you take, and I do not take it lightly. If the time comes when they turn their eyes toward you, I will not begrudge you for your choice.”

Edelin nodded and stared into the middle distance, her expression apprehensive. When she finally spoke, her voice wavered, as if she were forcing herself to ask a question she feared the answer to. “There are still berries in the pouch… Are–are you going to poison the King? The Small Council? Your husband?”

The words hung in the air, heavy and dangerous. Daenera let out a slow breath, her lips curving in a faint, humorless smile. “If I’d meant to poison them,” she said, her tone edged with sardonic amusement, “it would have been done by now.” She shifted in the chair, her eyes drawing to meet Edelin’s wary gaze. “I’d be no freer for it…”

No, she would not be spared. She could already see it–herself locked away in a damp, lightless cell, awaiting a trial that was no more than a performance. The verdict would be predetermined, her fate sealed. Whether it ended with a rope tightening around her neck or the cold kiss of a headman’s blade, the result would be the same. 

Even if she somehow managed to rid the Keep of the Greens, even if she tore them out like the weeds they were, the realm would still cry out for justice. The lords and banners of Westeros would demand her head, and her mother, for the sake of the crown, would have no choice but to oblige them.

Daenera’s heart twisted at the thought. Her mother, who had already lost so much, would lose yet another child–this time by her own hand. It would break her, she thought. 

And she didn’t want that for her. She didn’t want to be the shadow that darkened her reign, the wound that festered in the heart of her rule.

But more than that, she didn’t want to die.

Daenera glanced at the pouch where it rested on the table, the faint scent of lavender clinging to the air like a ghost. She knew exactly how many berries remained. Four. Four lives she could take, if she so chose. 

For a fleeting moment, Daenera allowed herself the indulgence of impossible imaginings, the kind that belonged to children spinning dreams of kingdoms they would never rule. Each name pressed against her mind like a dagger poised to strike.

Aegon, who occupied the throne that was her mother’s by right, his existence the linchpin of the Green’s ambitions. Otto, the Hand that set the board against her mother. Aemond, the rider of Vhagar, the Greens’ most fearsome weapon, and her brother’s murderer…

Her fingers tightened instinctively, though there was nothing in her grasp. She would need three to strike at the heart of their power. Aegon, Otto, and Aemond. Without them, the Greens’ strength would falter, their unity splintering like a cracked blade.

But that would leave her with only one berry. One final life to take.

Her thoughts turned to Alicent. The Queen Dowager had tormented her mother for years, weaving webs of guilt and ambition to smother the rightful Queen’s claim. Alicent’s venom had seeped into every corner of the Red Keep, infecting all it touched. Yet as much as Daenera despised her, Alicent’s power was waning. Without her sons and father, the Queen Dowager would be nothing more than a shadow in a court that no longer needed her. Killing Alicent might bring momentary satisfaction, but it would do little to weaken the Greens’ cause. Her death would be a wound that no longer bled.

For a fleeting, haunting moment, Daenera thought of using the berry on herself. It would be over in an instant–a brief, bitter swallow. Her death would be on her own terms, out of the hands of her mother. That would be a waste, and she had no use for waste. There were other ways to die, should she decide on that course. The berry was a tool, not a reprieve.

If Aegon, Otto, and Aemond were removed from play, the Greens’ foundation would crumble. Their strength would falter. But even without its leaders, the council still held power. The Small Council would not vanish overnight; its members would scramble like rats on a sinking ship, seeking to salvage what they could.

Yet one figure remained in her thoughts, an unseen viper lurking in the shadows of the court: Larys Strong.

The clubfoot. His loyalty was to no one but himself, his scheming far more insidious than the others. It would be a mercy to her mother if Larys Strong was removed entirely from the board–and Daenera would take great satisfaction in his death. 

But such thoughts were idle, and she pushed them aside–for what use was poison without a means to deliver it? She had neither the freedom to act nor the cunning to see it done unnoticed. And though vengeance burned within her, she could not stomach the thought of dying as both a Kingslayer and a Kinslayer. History would not look kindly on her, even if her heart carried honor. No, she did not wish to die–not yet.

“The remaining berries are assurances,” She added softly, her voice taking on a weightier tone. They were a contingency. “For myself.”

Understanding flickered in Edelin’s eyes, her expression softening with sudden clarity. Before she could voice her thoughts, Daenera tilted her head ever so slightly, a wry smile playing at her lips. “And Mertha, perhaps,” she said, her voice carrying a dry edge. “If she keeps on the way she does.”

The jest hung in the air, and after a beat, the corner of Edelin’s mouth twitched, her lips curving into a faint smile. It was the kind of amusement one found when laughing felt almost too dangerous–subdued, guarded, but genuine. The firelight danced between them, casting flickering shadows across the polished oak table and the intricate weave of the rushes beneath their feet.

Silence settled in the room once more, punctuated only by the soft crackle of the hearth and the faint rustle of fabric as Daenera adjusted her seat. But it didn’t last. She leaned forward, her voice cutting through the quiet. “What will you do?”

Edelin rose slowly. Her fingers tightened around the pouch in her hands as she looked down at it, her brows furrowing as though the pouch itself might offer some guidance. A heartbeat passed. Then another. Finally, she drew in a breath, her voice firm but low as she answered. 

“I’ll hide it.” Her voice carried the conviction of a decision made, though her gaze, when it lifted to meet Daenera’s, revealed the unease beneath her resolve. “Your chambers will be searched come morning. They’ll tear through everything–every chest, every corner. I will take it with me and keep it hidden.”

Relief washed over Daenera, lifting the weight from her chest, though a shadow of unease lingered at the edges of her thoughts. “You cannot hide it in your room. They’ll question you either way, but if they uncover it…”

Edelin gave a short nod. “I won’t say a word of this.” She paused, looking down at the pouch in her hands. “I will keep your secrets.” Her eyes lifted, meeting Daenera’s. “But if the choice comes down to you or me…”

“I understand,” Daenera said, reaching for her hand. Her fingers closed over Edelin’s, feeling the faint outline of the pouch concealed within. “I am thankful for you, Edelin. Truly. I value your friendship more than I can ever express.”

The girl’s slips curved into a faint smile, a look that carried warmth and steadied Daenera’s frayed nerves. The weight that pressed against her chest eased just slightly, like a knot loosening. 

Without another word, Edelin shifted her hand, tucking the pouch deep into the folds of her skirts. The moment passed, and she stepped behind Daenera, where she began to gather the dark waves of her hair. Her fingers moved deftly, weaving strands into a loose braid, her touch light yet sure. She worked in silence for a time, adding thin ribbons of silk to the braid, the delicate fabric glinting faintly in the firelight.

“I am sorry,” Edelin murmured after a moment, her voice soft, almost tentative, as though the words were a fragile offering. “For your loss.”

Daenera blinked, the words catching her off guard, though she quickly masked her surprise. The weight of grief, ever-present and unyielding, swelled in her chest. She swallowed hard, willing away the tears that threatened to rise. “Thank you,” she managed, her voice barely above a whisper.

The silence that settled over the chamber was tentative, stretched taut between them like an invisible thread that might snap at the slightest of breath. The fire in the hearth crackled, its embers pulsing faintly in the dim light, casting shifting shadows across the polished wood of the dressing table. Rain still drummed against the windowpane–louder in the silence.  

Daenera watched Edelin through the mirror as the girl worked through the length of her dark curls. The younger woman’s movements were practiced, careful, as she wove the ribbons of silk through the strands, taming their unruly wildness in preparation for the morning. Edelin had fallen back into her quiet diligence, though Daenera did not miss the occasional flicker of thought in her eyes. 

When Edelin finally spoke, her voice was measured, but there was something tentative beneath its surface, something that made Daenera’s lips twitch with wry amusement. 

“What will you do now?” She asked, her pale blue eyes fixed on the task before her, the words carrying an air of casual curiosity that did not quite mask the deeper intrigue beneath. 

Daenera exhaled softly, lifting a hand to toy with one of the silk ribbons that had been woven into her hair. She wound one tightly around her fingertip, then unraveled it, only to wrap it around another. A small, idle act–something to busy her hands while her mind shifted through the weight of the question. 

“What can I do but languish in bed all day?” she murmured, her lips curling in a wry smile. “I shan’t leave my bed for a week, I think. Not that it matters–I won’t be permitted beyond my chambers regardless.” Her lips quirked as she met Edelin’s gaze through the mirror. “ I should be rather easy to keep an I on, don’t you think?”

Edelin hummed softly, twisting another length of silk through Daenera’s dark locks. “Mertha will be beside herself,” she mused, amusement creeping into her voice. “What was it she said this morning? ‘The only people who can afford to spend their days sprawled in bed–”

“‘Are down on the Street of Silk,” Daenera supplied with a smirk, shaking her head in amusement. She stretched lazily, her fingers tracing the embroidered edges of her robe. “Yes, I seem to remember something to that effect.” She stretched her arms above her head, letting her limbs go slack as she lounged back on the chair. “It’ll give her something to gnash her teeth over, and I rather like the thought of it. What can she do? Drag me from bed? She’d have to haul me through the halls like a sack of grain, and I doubt she has the strength or the nerve to try.”

A small chuckle escaped Edelin–almost a snort–before she caught herself, pressing her lips together as if she had not right to find humor in any of it. But Daenera saw it–the briefest glimpse of something lighter beneath the surface. It was a fragile thing, but it was there nonetheless and it eased the mood. 

“You’re making things harder on yourself by opposing her at every turn,” Edelin chided, though there was no true reproach in her tone–just the weary truth of someone who had spent too long in the company of Mertha. “Not everything has to be a battle. Sometimes it’s easier to endure than to suffer the consequences of her ire.”

Her brow furrowed slightly, hesitation flickering in her gaze before she continued, softer now. “And… she should never have struck you.”

Daenera’s gaze drifted to her reflection in the mirror, tracing the contours of her face. The cheek that had been struck bore only the flush of exhaustion, no bruising, no swelling. The slap had stung, but it left no lasting mark—whether by design or by lack of force, she could not say. Had Mertha wielded just enough control to ensure it would not linger, or had the sheer audacity of the act stolen some of its strength? Either way, the sting had been real, sharp enough to startle but not wound. And, in some strange way, she had welcomed it.

“I was deserving of that one–” she murmured, the admission barely more than a breath.

“No.” Edelin’s voice was firm, sharper than before. Her red brows knitted tightly, her displeasure writ plainly across her features. “You are a Princess. It doesn’t matter what you may have done–she had no right to lay a hand on you.” Her head shook slightly, as if the very thought of it unsettled her. “Her mistreatment of you–it isn’t right.”

The vehemence in her tone, the unguarded concern that colored her words, sent a flicker of warmth through Daenera. It was a rare thing to hear such defiance spoken on her behalf. A rare thing, to feel the weight of someone’s anger on her account.

For a moment, she simply watched Edelin, her expression unreadable. Then, slowly, the ghost of a smile touched her lips, fleeting but genuine.

“I do not understand why you allow it,” she said, her voice edged with quiet fury. Then, as though realizing she had overstepped, she hesitated, drawing in a sharp breath. “Forgive me, Princess. It is not my place.”

Daenera caught the flicker of restraint in Edelin’s reflection, the way her lips pressed into a thin line as if she wished to swallow the words back down. “Do not hesitate now,” she said, her tone measured, absent of reprimand. If anything, there was an openness to her words. 

Edelin’s shoulders squared, seemingly emboldened. “Then I will speak plainly.” Her voice softened, though urgency still simmered beneath the surface. “Why not go to him?” Why not let him put a stop to it?” She hesitated just slightly, as if weighing her words. “He’s your husband–”

Daenera’s expression darkened, and the flare of irritation was immediate. Her lips curled into something that was neither a smile nor a scowl. “He is my brother’s murderer,” she said flatly. 

The words settled like iron between them, heavy and immovable. Aemond’s name was not spoken, but it didn’t need to be. His presence loomed over the conversation all the same. 

Edelin did not flinch, though the tension in her posture grew, her hands tightening ever so slightly around the strands of Daenera’s hair as she twisted them into careful braids–had the hands been Mertha’s, Daenera was sure she’d feel the reproach burning at her scalp. 

“Then I could go to him,” Edelin said carefully. “He is still your husband. He would not allow–”

Daenera’s lips curled into something caught between a sneer and a smirk. “We may be married,” she said, her voice clipped with barely restrained irritation, “but I have no desire to rely on him.”

Even as the words left her mouth, she heard the petulance in them, like a child railing against a gentle reprimand. It irked her. She was no child, yet the stubbornness in her own tone betrayed her.

The very thought of going to Aemond–of seeking his protection, of pleading for his intervention–curdled in her stomach like spoiled milk. The notion made her blood boil. To humble herself before her brother’s murderer, to ask anything of him, would be a betrayal of all that still burned within her. The thought stung sharper than any of Mertha’s slights, cutting deep into the raw edges of her pride. She would endure a thousand small humiliations, suffer every sneer and whispered insult, before she would ever crawl to Aemond Targaryen for help. 

He had already taken too much from her. She would not give him this.

“I do not want him to know.”

She would suffer Mertha. She would suffer this prison. But she would not suffer Aemond’s protection. 

“Your pride may keep you standing, but it will not make it any easier,” Edelin murmured, finishing the last braid. “And you will only suffer for it.”

Daenera grimaced, rolling one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “Perhaps,” she allowed, though there was no real concession in her tone. Then, as if to undercut the moment, the corner of her lips curled in a ghost of a smirk. “But should it ever become too much to bear… I still have a few berries left.”

She watched Edelin’s reaction through the mirror, saw the way her lady’s eyes widened, her fingers briefly stilling in Daenera’s hair. There was a flicker of hesitation–just for a heartbeat–before the tension shattered with a sudden, incredulous laugh. Edelin shook her head, amusement chasing away her earlier unease, her lips pulling into an exasperated smile.

“Gods save us,” she muttered, still chuckling, “You are impossible.”

Daenera only hummed in quiet satisfaction, tilting her head slightly as Edelin resumed her work, weaving silk through the long, dark strands. The storm still raged beyond the Keep’s walls, the wind howling through the towers, but within the chamber, for just a fleeting moment, the weight of it all seemed a little lighter.

Once Edelin finished weaving the last of the silken strips through Daenera’s braids, she stepped back, seemingly admiring her work with quiet satisfaction. Daenera studied her reflection, tilting her head slightly as she took in the intricate braids cascading down her back. They varied in thickness–some woven tightly, others looser, softer–and threaded through them were silken ribbons of varying hues. Deep crimson, pale gold, and midnight blue intertwined with the dark strands of her hair, each color catching the firelight as though a rainbow had been woven into her tresses. 

Her father, Laenor, had taught her to braid her hair like this. "To protect it," he had said, his hands deft and sure as he wove the strands together, "and to keep it from tangling into mats. You’ll thank me for it one day."

And she had.

Even now, she could recall the warmth of his hands as they guided hers, the quiet patience in his voice as he showed her how to twist and weave each section with precision. It had been one of the few things they shared—an unspoken ritual, a bond forged in simple, careful movements.

She had been young then, barely past her sixth nameday, her hair wild and unruly as the sea. He would laugh as she wrinkled her nose in frustration, murmuring, "It’s a Targaryen mane, but it has the soul of Velaryon waves. Stubborn as the tides."

She had not understood then how precious those moments were. How fleeting. But this–this, at least–was something of him that remained. And for that, she would always be grateful.

Daenera rose from her seat, rolling her shoulders as she stretched her aching limbs, feeling exhaustion seep deeper into her bones. Every movement felt weighted, as though the events of the day had carved themselves into her flesh, leaving her heavier with their burdens. The thick layers of her night robe trailed behind her, whispering against the cold stone floor as she made her way towards the bed. 

When she reached it, she sank onto the mattress with a slow, weary exhale, feeling the feather-stuffed bedding give beneath her weight. For a moment, she simply sat there, pressing the heels of her palms against her eyes, willing away the dull throb of fatigue. Gods, she was tired. The kind of tired that settled into the marrow, that no amount of sleep could truly mend. 

And yet, she knew rest would not come easily. Even if her body yielded to it, her mind would not. It would race in endless circles, retracing the same agonizing thoughts, the same bitter regrets, the same simmering anger that refused to fade. 

She let out another slow breath, lowering her hands to her lap. The chamber was quiet save for the faint crackle of the fire and the steady drum of the rain against the windowpanes. 

The quiet rustle of fabric and the soft click of the drawer were the only other sounds in the chamber as Edelin moved with quiet efficiency, gathering the leftover ribbons and slipping them neatly into their place. Her fingers worked with practiced ease, smoothing each strip of silk before tucking them away, the motion precise, almost reverent. When she finally closed the drawer, the faint snick of wood meeting wood echoed in the stillness, a small, measured sound against the hush of the room.

“Would you choose a book?” Daenera murmured at last, her voice quiet but steady.

Edelin paused, glancing over her shoulder. “A book?”

“I doubt I’ll find any rest, and I have little desire to be left alone with my thoughts,” Daenera admitted, shifting back against the headboard. She reached for the pillows, propping them up to sit more comfortably. “I thought I’d read to you, as I promised I would.”

For a moment, there was only silence. Then Edelin’s entire face lit up, her expression shifting from wary surprise to something far softer. “Really?” She asked, her voice carrying an unmistakable note of hope, her pale blue eyes bright with something almost childlike. 

Daenera inclined her head in a slow nod, and that was all the encouragement Edelin needed. Without hesitation, she turned swiftly, the fabric of her skirts whispering against the cold stone as she hurried from the bedchamber into the adjoining common room.

Beyond the doorway, the faint sounds of movement reached Daenera’s ears–books shifting, the soft scrape of parchment, fingers trailing along leather-bound spines. The quiet rustling carried through the dimly lit chamber, each sound deliberate, searching.

Moments later, Edelin reappeared, cradling a book in her hands as though it were a relic of great worth. She held it carefully, reverently, her fingers tracing the embossed title along the gilded spine before she extended it toward Daenera. The firelight flickered over the worn leather cover, illuminating its deep indigo hue. 

The Watchers on the Wall by Maester Harmune.

Daenera’s gaze flickered over the familiar gilded spine, recognition settling like a stone in her chest. It was one of Aemond’s books.

For a moment, a stubborn flicker of defiance sparked within her. A part of her wanted to refuse it outright, to push it back into Edelin’s hands and send her to find another–any other–so long as it did not bear the mark of him. The thought of reading something Aemond had once poured over, of letting his choice in words take root in her mind, was enough to make her fingers twitch with hesitation.

But just as quickly as it came, she forced it down. It was a childish, foolish kind of obstinacy, and she knew it. It is only a book. Whatever satisfaction she might gain from spiting Aemond in this small way was not worth the effort. To refuse it would be to give him more power over her than he already held.

With a quiet resolve, she took the book from Edelin’s hands and settled back against the pillows, fingers tracing the worn leather before she opened it to the first page.

When Edelin lingered at the bedside, her hands clasped before her, Daenera glanced up, a slight furrow creasing her brow. The girl stood uncertainly, her posture stiff, as though waiting for permission she had never needed before.

Daenera tilted her head, studying her for a moment before patting the empty space beside her. “Join me,” she said, her voice softer now, lacking the usual guarded edge. “You can’t very well stand there the whole time. And–I’d like the company.”

Edelin blinked, her expression shifting between hesitation and something unreadable. But the reluctance lasted only a moment before she relented, moving with careful grace as she crawled onto the bed, settling beside Daenera atop the thick layers of blankets.

The fire crackled in the hearth, casting golden light over the pages as Daenera opened the book. The weight of it felt solid in her hands, the scent of parchment and ink mingling with the lingering traces of lavender from the silken sheets.

Then, in a voice steady and measured, she began to read. 

“It is said that the wind howled across the black pines of Sea Dragon Point, carrying with it the cries of wolves and the whispers of greenseers, when the Warg King had called forth a storm from the spirit wood, thick with mist and shadow, to blind his foes. But winter was coming for him, and winter did not fear the dark.”

She read aloud from the Chronicle of Sea Dragon Point, one of the many accounts compiled within the Waters on the Wall. The words painted images of long-forgotten battles, of the King of Winter riding at the head of his armies, banners snapping in the frozen wind as he marched against the Warg King and his skinchangers. The story spoke of war-wolves the size of destriers, of ravens that carried the voices of the dead, of a battle fought beneath a sky thick with swirling snow and seething magic.

Edelin listened intently, her breath slow and measured, and as the tale unfolded, her head found its way to Daenera’s shoulder. It was a quiet, unspoken thing–no hesitation, no formality, just a simple shift in weight as she rested against her.

Now and then, she murmured soft comments, wondering aloud if the Warg King had truly wielded such power, or if the greenseers’ whispers were just the fancies of storytellers. Daenera responded when she felt inclined, but for the most part, she simply read on, allowing the cadence of the words to fill the space between them.

It was… comfortable. Almost familiar in a way she had not expected.

For a fleeting moment, it felt like another life–like the nights she once spent in the nursery, reading to her younger brothers beneath the warm glow of candlelight. She remembered Joffrey nestling close, too proud to ask outright for another chapter but lingering until she gave in. She remembered the way little Aegon would nod off before the end of the tale, his small fists curled into the blankets, his silver hair tousled against her arm.

That time was gone now. Her brothers were gone too, one buried, the others out of reach.

But here, in this quiet moment, with the fire casting long shadows across the walls and the steady weight of Edelin at her side, she allowed herself–just for a little while–to remember what it was like to be a sister instead of a prisoner.

She had fallen into a steady cadence of words, weaving through one chronicle and into the next, when the distant groan of the chamber doors echoed through the quiet. It was not a sound easily mistaken–the heavy wooden doors did not yield to passing drafts or the stirrings of servants. Someone had entered. 

Daenera stilled, her gaze lifting just slightly from the book in her hands. Beyond the lattice screen, she caught a flicker of movement–a shadow gliding across the floor, tall and deliberate. Then, a glint of silver, unmistakable even in the dim light, and the sound of measured footsteps against stone. 

Aemond.

The warmth of her head resting against her shoulder vanished as Edelin sat up abruptly, her breath catching as she straightened further. 

Aemond did not acknowledge them at first. He crossed the chamber without hesitation, his long strides carrying him toward the desk tucked into the corner, moving with the same quiet purpose he always carried. A drawer scraped open, its sound sharp against the hush. He rifled through its contents with practiced ease, plucking something from within before shutting it once more.

Only then did he turn, his gaze flickering toward them.

His eye found Daenera first.

Daenera refused to acknowledge him, her gaze fixed on the weathered pages of the book before her. The words blurred into meaningless symbols, their substance lost to her entirely. Yet she kept her eyes trained on them, feigning indifference even as she tracked his every movement from the edge of her vision, her senses sharpened to his presence. Every measured footstep, every shift in fabric, every controlled breath–she noted it all, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of meeting his gaze.

“Leave us.”

Aemond’s voice cut through the quiet, smooth and unyielding as tempered steel. The weight of his command was absolute.

Edelin stiffened, hesitating only for a heartbeat before swiftly rising from the bed. She had been seated near him–on his side. The very thought sent a bitter taste to the back of Daenera’s throat. Would she ever allow him in that bed again? If it were her choice, the answer would be never.

Edelin dipped into a quick curtsy, her skirts whispering against the stone as she moved. Before departing, she cast a fleeting glance toward Daenera, her hesitation evident, as though silently asking if she should truly leave her alone with him. Daenera nodded in reassurance, and with no further protests, Edelin turned and hurried through the chamber, her steps light but swift. The door closed behind her with a quiet click.

Silence settled in the room like an encroaching fog, thick and unrelenting. And then, there were just the two of them.

As Aemond turned his back to her, Daenera’s gaze flickered upward. The candlelight glowed against the hard lines of his shoulders, the deep green of his doublet darkened further by the shadows. He moved with an air of quiet purpose, reaching for the flagon of wine resting upon the table. The deep red liquid sloshed against the sides of the goblet as he poured, the only sound in the heavy, suffocating silence. He lifted the glass to his lips and drained it in a single swallow, setting it down with a dull clink against the wooden surface before abandoning it entirely. Not a single drop left. 

Daenera forced her eyes back to the open book before her, though the words on the page blurred into nothingness. She turned the mover in her mind, trying to weave sense from them, to anchor herself in something that was not him. And yet, from the edge of her vision, she caught the way he moved–a controlled, deliberate pace as he wandered back to the desk, returning whatever it was he had retrieved back into its place–a habit, she knew.

When he turned at last, his gaze found her. She felt it settle upon her, heavy as a weight pressed into her skin. There was no mistaking his interest–his presence bore down on her, a silent force demanding acknowledgement. Her grip tightened slightly around the edges of the book, the parchment rough beneath her fingertips. The pages might as well have been blank for all she could read of them now. 

He leaned back against the desk, a picture of ease, though she knew him well enough to recognize the tension radiating off of him. He watched her for a long moment, the familiar prickle of irritation itching beneath her skin as his gaze slid over her. 

She would not give him the satisfaction of meeting his gaze. 

Then, without a word, he pushed off the desk, his movements measured and steady as he crossed the room. Each step sent a ripple of tension through her, her pulse quickening in defiance of her will. The sound of his boots against the stone floor echoed in the silence, a slow, deliberate rhythm that grated against her nerves. He rounded the bed, drawing closer, and for a fleeting moment, she bracing herself, half-expecting him to lower himself onto the mattress beside her, to claim his place without care or question. 

But instead, his hand reached out, long fingers curling around the pillow at her side. He lifted it, the fabric shifting beneath his grip, and without a glance in her direction, turned and carried it across the room. 

Daenera breathed out in relief, heart shuddering in her chest. Had he dared to settle beside her, she thought she might have driven the spine of the book straight into that cursed sapphire eye before smothering him with a pillow for good measure.

He settled on the chaise with the same quiet deliberation, shrugging off his belt and unfastening the claps of his doublet. The fire caught the hard planes of his face as he discarded the garment, his movements unhurried, effortless. Every action spoke of ownership, of familiarity, as if he had already decided this was his place to claim. 

Bitter words rose unbidden to her lips, lodging against the back of her teeth. She did not want to break the silence, did not want to acknowledge him, did not even wish to breath the same air as him. And yet, despite herself, her lips parted. 

“I do not want you here,” she said, her voice cold as iron.” From now on, if you wish to sleep well, you will do so in your own chambers–or else you’d have to sleep on the floor like a dog.”

Aemond did not flinch, nor did he seem surprised. Instead, he merely shifted, settling into the chaise with an air of measured indifference. “The chaise is comfortable enough.”

Daenera’s gaze narrowed at the page. “Not when it’s wet.”

His eye seemed to gleam with something unreliable, she felt it even as her gaze was set on the book, felt the faintest trace of amusement curling at the corner of his lips. “And if I have all the water removed?”

She hated the way he spoke–calm, controlled, so certain of himself. And she hated, more than anything, that he found humor in her defiance. 

And so, pettily–because pettiness was the only weapon left to her in this gilded prison–she answered, each word honed to a pointed edge. “Then I will fucking piss on it.”

[lemongogo]

my tavs :3c

[jasontoddsno1simp]

Stop trying to make Jason feel bad for Titans Tower!! That man got other shit to deal with!!

Namely, the fact that his so called father figure wants him dead!!

[morphean42]

I tell and laugh at 9/11 jokes because the actions of the US Government after the disaster were horrific and we shouldn’t act like the only victims were those who died in the towers. You tell and laugh at 9/11 jokes because you have been brainwashed into thinking it’s just a big meme and doesn’t actually matter. We are not the same.