#mesmerizing beauty. a true dragon prince

[winterswake]

EWAN MITCHELL as prince Aemond Targaryen in HOUSE OF THE DRAGON "The Red Dragon and the Gold"

[swordgrace]

𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐎𝐑 𝐃𝐄𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒.

༆ jacaerys velaryon x fem!reader.

SYNOPSIS: as lady-in-waiting to rhaenyra targaryen, you find that her eldest son, jacaerys, is the only true friend and comfort you have amidst a brewing war that threatens to tear the realm apart.

note: jacaerys is nineteen, reader is eighteen.

༆ 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐓𝐖𝐎 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄.

༆ 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄.

{ FORMAT: one shot — requested.

{ WORD COUNT: 11.5K (this is a long one, not sorry!)

{ WARNINGS: SMUT (mdni), friends to lovers, inexperience from both reader & jace, loss of virginity (mutual), first time sexual experiences, sexual tension, p in v sex (unprotected), missionary position, lots of kissing and sweeter antics, slight risk of getting caught, oral sex (fem!receiving), handjob, fingering, hair pulling kink, brief overstimulation, tiddy sucking, this whole thing is soft & sweet smut, nothing disgusting here, jacaerys is the epitome of a perfect lover :))

{ AUTHOR’S NOTE: I am lowkey transitioning into becoming a Jace girl, I absolutely love him and I’m really enjoying where his character is going! This was a request from an anon user who wanted something freeform! I hope you all enjoy it, thanks so much for all of the recent love & support for my work! It makes me so happy! ❤️

𝐒𝐀𝐋𝐓𝐘 𝐊𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐒 𝐏𝐄𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐄𝐊𝐒, harkened in from the gentle roll of the tides. Saltwater and dampened rock filled your nostrils, aided by the fluttering breeze as it danced across the obsidian cliffs of Dragonstone.

The castle stood the testament of time, a monolith to the rule of the Targaryens. It loomed overhead, less frightening in the lighter hours, blanketed by glittering rays of sunlight. A cloudless day — good for sailing, you thought, as vessels ushered in goods to the shoddy harbor below.

Beneath the vibrancy of a cloudless sky, you could see the shadow of a dragon soaring overhead — the Princess Rhaenys, from the horned shape above. You cupped your hand around your eyes, squinting to see, constantly mesmerized by such creatures.

In your fantastical dreams, you flew upon the back of a dragon, letting the wind scrape across your visage, feeling the weight of something so powerful beneath you. Of course, you were neither Targaryen nor Velaryon — possessing a dragon wouldn’t be in the cards for you, and perhaps that was a good thing.

As much as you enjoyed the beauty of Dragonstone, you much preferred the outdoors. The weather was splendid, and you took small victories wherever possible. With war on the horizon between your Queen Rhaenyra and her usurper brother, any chance at happiness was worth chasing after and holding onto, while you could.

House Celtigar had bent the knee to Rhaenyra, and your father sat at her council. You were made to be a lady-in-waiting, much your initial disdain. The station you held would’ve been considered a great honor to most young women, but you were inclined to be out in the ocean or on the back of a horse.

Now, you found enjoyment in it, wherever you could.

Oceanic air filled your lungs in a singular inhale, tinged with a saltwater sting. You stood near one of the many stone terraces lining the lengthy walkway to the castle’s entrance, accompanied by Joffrey. The boy had become your greatest joy amidst the brewing chaos, and you were rather grateful for it.

“Would you like to see the ocean, little Prince?” You held the boy’s hand, stooping down to wrap your arms beneath him, standing him up along the cobbled bannister. Joffrey’s laughter could brighten a whole room, and it did — it certainly lifted your spirits.

“When will I be able to ride a dragon?” He questioned, pointing towards the shape of Meleys in the sky. Joffrey was rather inquisitive — a sharp mind, one that would become a great leader someday.

You were unsure of how to answer such a question. Tyraxes was young and still small, just like Joffrey. “Whenever you grow up,” You hummed, a smile playing at either corner of your mouth. “You must be as tall as your brother, first.”

Joffrey toyed with the wooden dragon clutched between his hands, gaze falling toward the ground. “Luke wasn’t much taller.” He mumbled, and it nearly crushed your heart completely to hear the confusion and despair in a child’s voice.

Youth knew more than most, and in the mind of a child, something heinous could appear innocent, or something tragic was beyond their comprehension. Joffrey knew that Luke was gone — he wasn’t coming back. Silence drifted between the both of you, and you found it difficult to change the subject from Lucerys to something lighthearted.

“I miss him.” Joffrey’s sweet voice rang out like the pealing of bells, crystal-clear and downtrodden. You turned him around within your grasp, keeping your hands slotted underneath his arms to ground him. His eyes swam with unshed tears, prompting you to bring him into your embrace.

“It’s alright, my Prince. He’s still here,” You whispered, hugging the boy as tightly as you could. It was enough to rip at your heartstrings, tear you asunder as melancholy began to eat you alive. The fate of Lucerys was a tragic one — unfair and unwarranted, and now, a catalyst for destruction between kin. “We will remember him.”

From afar, Jacaerys observed you and his brother, standing along the ramparts with a palm atop the pommel of his shortsword. The emotional turmoil he continued to feel in regards to Lucerys happened to swell the moment he saw Joffrey clinging onto you — and he knew.

Wisps of a tempered breeze stirred his curled tresses, drifting across his regalia as it caught against his cloak. After the death of his brother, he had come out to the ramparts nearly every night, to sob and to curse the world, to pray to any God that would listen — return Lucerys, bring him home. He had lost count, and in turn, lost a bit of faith.

Remaining optimistic in the face of unavoidable danger was a difficult thing — fear had gripped him once, but no longer. He knew that the only time a man could be brave was in situations like these, where terror stared him in the face and dared him to submit.

Many still referred to him as a mere boy, with little experience and no real understanding of the world and its cruelty. Jacaerys had shed the raiment of boyhood the night he flew blindly into the darkness in the name of Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen.

With the man born, he knew that whatever would come next, he was prepared to face such challenges head-on. Brazenness was not in his nature, but he had learned to adopt stoicism when it mattered most. It was easy to shed the facade around his family, and around you.

His friendship with you was a calm within the storm, a lull in the tempestuous hurricane you were all trapped within. You now had as much stake in this game as he did — your father served on Rhaenyra’s council with Celtigar bannerman pledging to fight in the war to come, and you served as his mother’s lady-in-waiting.

Your blossoming bond was a great comfort, and the tender way in which you cared for Joffrey was a wonderful thing. You had a soft heart — a good heart, and that was something rare to come by. The two of you were both of a similar feather, and the admiration he held for you only seemed to grow stronger each day.

The word friendship often tormented him, on days where you wore beautiful gowns and stood beside his mother, or whenever you smiled. It tormented him when you held Joffrey within your arms and protected him just as fiercely as Rhaenyra would.

Honor demanded that he simply remain just that — a friend, but Jacaerys found himself smitten with you in a way that transcended propriety. To cross that line, especially with you, invited the disdain of his mother and the ire of your father, amongst other things.

Betrothal would be upon him soon enough, likely with a young maiden from the Vale or the Reach to secure an alliance, but it left a sour taste within his mouth. He had little desire to be with anyone else when you were right there.

Jacaerys steeled himself, abandoning his whimsical line of thinking in regards to you. It was a fool’s errand, and he couldn’t afford to be a fool. He stepped closer, the crunch of stone resonating underneath his boots as he approached you and Joffrey.

“My Lady,” Jacaerys’s tone was amiable, like the comforting lick of a warm hearth. His gaze flickered toward Joffrey, bemused with his brother’s antics as you balanced him along the bannister. “What are you doing up there?” He asked, playful in the presence of his little brother.

“Flying,” Joffrey’s head lifted from your shoulder, eyes sparkling with mischief. You happened to carry him in such a way that he called it flying — and he was asking you to do it again. “Flying!”

With a giggle, you picked the boy up, swinging him up enough to let him get some air. His melancholy turned to jovial laughter as you soared him over to Jacaerys, who was more than happy to pick him up. Joffrey clung to Jace, hugging his brother with all of his strength.

“You are getting too big to fly,” Jace mused, holding Joffrey in one arm as he motioned for you to accompany him. His tousled curls and amicable smile sent your heart fluttering as it had many times before. It wasn’t subtle, your liking of Jacaerys, but you understood the nature of your affections. “Big enough for Tyraxes, soon.”

Jacaerys was perfect, with all of the hallmarks of what a true King should be. He was gentle and eloquent, honed with a blade, learned — and above all, he was kind. The rage that plagued him now was justified, and it pained you to see him become coiled with anger, but you understood why.

As Joffrey regaled the two of you with tales of childlike wonder, soaring his toy dragon around Jace’s head, Jacaerys seemed inclined to converse with you regardless. “I always know where to look, whenever I need to see you.” He mused, walking alongside you as you made your way up the ramparts.

“Is that so?” You chuckled, head canting to one side. “What did you need to see me for, your Grace?” It was a force of habit — he was the heir to the Iron Throne, after all. Jacaerys regarded you with a brief laugh, knowing that formalities were often abandoned whenever the two of you were together.

“Do I need a reason?” Jacaerys mused, voice light and inviting. The crash of the tide upon the beach provided a rather serene ambience, accompanied by the calling of gulls as they circled the bay.

You shook your head, skirts gathered in one hand as you narrowly avoided an upturned plate of stone. “Of course not,” You hesitated, gaze sparkling as your nose wrinkled in mild amusement. “Jacaerys.” You ensured to exaggerate his name, allowing for your conversation to become personal.

At the end of the ramparts, a flock of crimson-clad handmaidens awaited your return. It was likely that they were waiting for you to hand Joffrey over, much to your dismay. The black-headed boy looked to you as you neared the end of your walk.

“I don’t want to go,” He protested, reaching for you as you stepped forward, taking a hold of his hand. “When can we fly again?” Joffrey asked, lower lip jutting out in a rather innocuous pout. He leaned forward, partially out of Jace’s grasp to give you a hug.

“Tomorrow, my Prince. I will let you fly as much as you’d like.” You assured him, reciprocating his hug with one of your own, with all of the warmth one could muster. It was motherly in-nature, and you watched as Jacaerys planted him onto solid ground.

Joffrey took the outstretched hand of a handmaiden, glancing back at you and Jacaerys before they disappeared behind the castle’s massive gates. It always hurt you to leave him, but you knew that tomorrow would come swiftly. A begrudging sigh escaped you before you looked at Jacaerys, countenance somber.

Jace knew what you were about to say — something about Lucerys. The gaping wound left within his heart was barely healed, still oozing with pain, but he was making every effort to mend it. You helped — your resolute reassurance and shoulder to lean on, but sometimes, it wasn’t enough.

Instead, you reached for Jace’s forearm, giving it a brief squeeze of comfort. Whatever sentiments he held, you seemed to echo it, leaving it all unspoken. You and Jacaerys had already spoken about it all at-length — sometimes, he had little desire to tear himself open again.

His head hung low, heap of dark curls billowing in the wind. Jacaerys’s jaw tightened for a brief moment, and he imagined plunging his sword into Aemond Targaryen’s other eye — and then it passed, just as quickly as it had appeared.

A forlorn silence settled between the both of you, one that was born out of mutual understanding and empathy. Jace went quiet often, and you were content to sit in it for as long as he pleased. Instead, you stepped toward the bannister, palms planting themselves atop the stone as you gazed out toward the land surrounding Dragonstone.

“You are good with him,” Jacaerys broke the silence, deliberately stepping towards you as he stood by your side. Joffrey and his half-brothers, Aegon and Viserys, were all he had left. He would die for them if he had to. “He talks about you often.”

An exuberant smile crept onto your features, one of a sweet fondness in regards to Joffrey. “He is a sweet boy — very sharp-witted, though. I would imagine he will grow to be very wise.” You replied, idly tracing your fingers around some of the rocks socketed into the bannister.

“I remember the day he was born,” Jacaerys recalled, remembering the day that his mother, pale skin glistening with sweat, had wobbled into the drawing room, a newborn Joffrey in her arms. “It was a beautiful day, and Ser Harwin was there, and Ser Laenor …” He trailed off, recalling the way that Lucerys had begged to hold his younger brother.

The topic of both Laenor and Harwin were bitter ones — both men playing the role of father. Jacaerys loved them both, as any son would. Another gust of saltwater mist brushed along the ramparts, dusting your cheeks with wisps of moist air.

Wordlessly, you reached for Jace’s arm, looping yours around him as you let him lean against you for support. As much as Jacaerys insisted that he would recover and move on, you ensured him that grieving took time — it came in many shapes and forms.

Jace’s smile was wistful and threadbare, made sorrowful by memories of Lucerys. He didn’t want to sully the moment with his melancholy, holding his head high as he glanced toward you. You were not looking, but it allowed him a moment of appreciation and admiration.

Your beauty was unparalleled, your features delicate and smile like the warmth of a summer sunshine. The way in which you carried yourself was of a kindly disposition, made to be nurturing and helpful instead of imposing. Admittedly, you took his breath away — the feeling was a constant one.

Sunlight sparkled across your countenance, gaze soothing and full of empathy. The way in which you grasped his arm, kept yourself tucked away within his side, it invoked feelings of protectiveness — and newfound affection.

A dragon’s shrill cry reverberated throughout the skies, prompting Jacaerys to immediately look ahead. It was the familiar shriek of Vermax, his bonded dragon, who had grown exponentially. He was larger than Moondancer, with olive-colored scales and orange fins, eyes the color of a burnished gold.

“Māzigon, Vermax!” Jacaerys called, gaining the attention of his dragon as it began to approach, causing your heart to gallop within your chest. He looked at you with a hint of amusement, head canting to one side. “Would you like to see him?” Jace inquired, moving along the wall.

As majestic as dragons were, the wonder within your eyes had quickly shifted to wariness as it landed along the ramparts, rocks scraping underneath its talons. Vermax was much larger when in close proximity than he was flying overhead. “He is wonderful, Jace. Though, it is best if I keep my distance. He might not like me.”

Jacaerys laughed, amber-brown eyes sparkling with mirth. “Might not like you?” He mused, knowing that such a thought was outlandish. If he liked you, then Vermax most certainly would. A dragon could always pick apart friend from foe, and you were as far from an enemy as one could be.

“Yes, what — Jacaerys, that is a perfectly reasonable thing to say,” You countered, flustered by Jace’s reaction to your skepticism. His smile was cheery and heartfelt as he stared at you, and then offered his hand. “I do not think that this is a good idea.” A soft utterance emerged from under your breath.

“Trust me.” His tone softened exponentially, shifting from playful to gentle, reassuring. You hesitated before taking a hold of his hand, and Jacaerys nearly brushed his thumb across your knuckles out of sheer instinct. Whatever thoughts he had, he pushed them to the far recesses of his mind.

You trusted Jacaerys more than most, prompting you to nod as he ushered you closer to Vermax. His grasp was tender, as to not frighten you, which only made your heart flutter with affection. The dragon bristled and made a series of noises, some more serpentine than others.

Vermax lowered his head, pushing closer towards his rider as the dragon bowed to Jacaerys. You were close enough to feel the waves of heat wafting from his breath, close enough to outstretch your arm and feel his scales beneath your palm.

The scent of brimstone and dragonscale lingered upon Vermax, like a crackling fire and smoke. You watched with bated breath as Jace’s palm moved to Vermax’s snout, digits tracing along the olive-hued scales, and down toward his jaw. “Sagon iēdrosa,” Jace murmured, stepping closer to his dragon. “Sȳz.”

High Valyrian was an exquisite language, a beautiful symphony from an ancient era. Jacaerys had become proficient in such a tongue, and the way he spoke it had you mesmerized. With a gentle smile, he still held your hand, gesturing toward Vermax.

“What are you saying to him?” You inquired, losing some of your fear. It gradually waned the closer Jacaerys had inched you toward the dragon, who showed no ill will towards you at all. Instead, Vermax’s burnished hues glimmered with intrigue — you were a familiar scent, emblazoned upon Jace, but not a familiar face.

“I told him to be still for you,” Jacaerys replied, fingers flexing around your own as he carefully guided you toward Vermax’s neck, where the scales began to flare and thicken. Olive turned to emerald in some places, verdant shades clashing together. “Place your hand here.”

Your breath hitched within your throat as Jace became in close proximity to you, closer than he’d been before. His grasp was a tender one, placing your palm atop the dragon’s throat. Warmth crept along the length of your spine, filling your belly with an eruption of butterflies.

You made the mistake of glancing at Jacaerys for the briefest moment, able to spot the rosy flush of color within his visage and the gleam within his stare. As soon as you’d made contact, he happened to glance away, making a soft noise as it stirred within his throat.

Vermax chortled, the dragon’s attention fixated upon you as you brushed your fingers across his scales. Jace had dropped your hand, realizing the sliver of space between you both as he stepped aside, content to observe you with his dragon.

It was your enchanting laughter that lifted his spirits, the gentle way in which you stroked across Vermax’s neck and shoulder. “He is beautiful,” You hummed, countenance bright with a joyous radiance as you looked at Jacaerys once more. The gap between you had grown, much to your dismay. “How do you say that in High Valyrian?”

Jace hesitated, lips parting just slightly. His heart nearly skipped a beat when you smiled at him, expectant and awaiting his answer. He became so easily distracted in your presence, and it was somewhat vexing to behold. “Gevie,” He replied, briefly clearing his throat. “Gevie means beautiful, in High Valyrian.”

With a soft hum, you looked to Vermax, your grin toothy and amused. “Gevie, Vermax.” You spoke clearly, but the dragon did not seem to understand what you said — it wasn’t a command. Instead, he let out a series of reptilian noises, nostrils flaring with snort, almost like that of a horse.

Vermax’s lack of reaction made you frown, but Jacaerys appeared amused by it, at least. “Gevie isn’t a command,” He mused, head canting to one side. “Your High Valyrian needs improvement.” His tone was jocular, teasing — it made your heart stir within your chest.

“Fortunately, I have the perfect teacher standing before me.” You countered with a giggle, noticing the way in which a shade of pink settled into his features. Jacaerys was beautiful and handsome, but his flustered behavior only made him more perfect to you.

The dragon shook its head, seeking the embrace of his rider before he began to take flight. A massive gust of wind from the flap of his wings nearly knocked you down, causing you to crouch and grip the stone of the ramparts.

Jacaerys smiled, watching as Vermax ascended, taking to the skies above Dragonstone once more. You watched with a semblance of awe, slowly rising to your feet as the dragon became a mere specter amidst the cloudless sky. He did not stray too far, circling around with the likes of Moondancer and Syrax.

“Someday, I will take you flying with me,” Jace suggested, nose wrinkling slightly at your bewildered expression. “I would keep you safe.” He reassured you before words could emerge from your mouth, his chuckle amicable as he led you back toward the gates of Dragonstone.

“I trust you, but flying?” To see the world from such great heights sounded wonderful, but you feared the fall — and you feared the unknown of it all even more. “That might take more convincing than this did.” You mused, walking alongside him as the gates became closer.

A huff escaped him, hand dropping from the pommel of his shortsword to his side, a symbol of letting his guard down. A comfortable silence settled between the both of you, occasionally accompanied by a brief bout of laughter or tender smiles.

As the gates loomed over the both of you, Jacaerys hesitated, deliberating on what to say next. There were so many things he wanted to say to you — where did he begin? The nerves of first affection grabbed hold of him, but he remained resistant, wanting nothing more than to tell you how much you meant to him.

“Perhaps an exchange is in-order,” Jacaerys began, shifting his weight from one foot to the next. “You come flying with me, and I will teach you High Valyrian.” He mused, smothering his grin at your expression. You were clearly wary and unimpressed.

“Danger for something that I could learn in the comfort of a book? I think not, your Grace.” With a grin of your own, Jace happened to snicker, his visage invoking an unspoken challenge, albeit playful. “If I am ever feeling bold and spontaneous, I will inform you as soon as possible.”

Jacaerys hummed, head ducking for just a moment before he met your gaze again, doting and overflowing with a subtle warmth. “Thank you for this,” He began, tone heartfelt and genuine. “I would not know what to do if it weren’t for your company and comfort. I’ve found it difficult to remain jovial as of late, but it’s rather effortless in your presence.”

His genial compliments made your stomach turn with excitement, and you could soar away. Jacaerys would be an excellent ruler, should he take the Iron Throne — such grace, compassion, and gallantry were true hallmarks of what would make a good King. You felt the familiar, smitten flush dance along your skin.

“Of course, Jace — you never have to ask for it,” Your fingers twisted into the silk of your gown, an outlet for your growing nerves. “You’ve no idea how much your company means to me. We will get through this together, that much I know.” With a brief nod, you felt his stare grow in intensity.

Before he could bear his heart to you on a whim, the gates opened, revealing several Targaryen bannermen and Kingsguard. It was sudden and somewhat jarring, placing the two of you back within reality — in a realm on the brink of war.

“I should return to your mother, I fear I’ve neglected my duties enough today,” You murmured, offering Jace a kindly smile before dropping to curtsy. He seemed starstruck, as if caught within the depths of his own thoughts. “Good afternoon, your Grace.”

Formalities reappeared again, much to his disdain. He loved it when you called him Jace or Jacaerys, or your Grace whenever you teased him. To hear it used in the context of nobility made him feel distant, but he understood. You possessed a strong sense of propriety.

“My Lady.” Jace replied, watching as you took your leave to rejoin the other handmaidens and guardsmen. Jacaerys cursed himself for not making the most of the moment, but he knew that he could make his own opportunity, forge it if it never came about.

He intended to do just that.

𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐀𝐓 𝐃𝐔𝐒𝐊 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐋, with braziers dancing across the obsidian interior. Stars sparkled above a clear night sky, dragons dancing above. It was almost like something from a fairytale or a painting, mesmerizing to behold as you gazed up at the scaling ceiling of your bedchambers.

Your quarters were small and homely, befitting of your status as lady-in-waiting. Rhaenyra had ensured that your lodgings and that of your father were enough — more than suitable, really. The feathered mattress you slept upon was made for royalty, you thought.

The constant flicker of candlelight provided a source of warmth as you rolled over within your bed, blankets hauled up beneath your chin. It was too early to fall asleep, too late to do anything of substance.

A knock at your door gave you pause, brows furrowing together as you retrieved your robe, lacing it around the sheer gossamer of your nightgown. Bare feet traveled across the cold stone, until you reached the metal hoop slotted atop mahogany.

With a pull, you opened the door, surprised to find Jacaerys, who had abandoned his traditional Targaryen regalia, hands occupied with a stack of various tomes and scrolls. His mop of dark curls framed his face, and even he seemed just as bewildered as you were.

“Jacaerys,” His nightly visits were rather uncommon — in fact, this was only the second time he’d come, the first following Lucerys’s passing. You swallowed the growing lump within your throat, stepping aside to allow him inside of your chambers. “Is everything alright?”

Jace placed the stack of books atop the table that sat amongst small lounge chairs, ensuring to clear his throat before he spoke. “Of course,” He replied, gesturing toward your newfound reading material. “I’ve brought you scripts to learn High Valyrian.”

You blinked, touched by such a thoughtful gesture. You smoothed your palms across your robe, stepping forward to inspect the books, many of which appeared ancient and weathered. “You didn’t have to,” You replied, head canting to one side. “Many of these seem important. Are you sure that no one will miss these?”

A brief chuckle escaped him before he shook his head. ���The Maesters might, but they’ve read them a hundred times over, I’m certain of it. You will find more use.” He replied, retreating toward the threshold of your chambers. Jacaerys wanted to keep his visit brief — visiting a young woman’s quarters in the dead of night was not exactly an intelligent move.

“You’re leaving so soon?” Your inquiry held a twinge of disappointment, hoping that he would stay and converse with you, at the very least. “Jacaerys, I assure you that no one will admonish you if you stay for a few minutes longer.” The softness of your voice enticed him, and he very nearly confessed then and there.

The weight of growing sentiments felt as if they would swallow him whole if he did not speak them into fruition. With the threat of a looming war and the potential for oblivion, Jacaerys was unsure of what gave him pause. The fear of rejection, perhaps? That wasn’t it.

It took a moment for you to adjust, and when you did, you noted his own attire — a billowy tunic and dark trousers that happened to make him appear softer in the candlelight. The sharp black and crimson of his house’s colors made him intimidating and poised, but no longer.

You saw Jacaerys himself, doe-eyed and magnificent.

“I fear what will happen if I stay,” Jacaerys confessed, squaring himself with the door. If he continued to linger in your chambers without restraint or without additional eyes, he knew what would happen — he did not want to sully your honor. “I won’t.”

“Jacaerys,” You whispered, brows furrowing together to form a look of confusion and startlement. Out of concern, you stepped closer, abandoning the scripts of High Valyrian now scattered across your table. “What’s wrong? I don’t understand.”

The inner war he waged within seemed to reflect upon his countenance, as Jacaerys exhaled — it was laced with stress, a heaviness that you struggled to understand. He seemed flustered, not wanting to meet your amiable gaze. “It is best if I leave it alone.” He replied, taking a hold of your hands. “I would not tarnish your honor.”

That is what he meant.

Something boiled over inside of you, the butterflies and blossoming affection turning into a tidal wave that threatened to swallow you whole. As Jace held your hands, he seemed desperate to convey such a message — whatever he wanted, he could not have.

A brief exhale escaped you before you steeled yourself, thumbs brushing across his knuckles, over the veins of his hands. “You wouldn’t tarnish it,” You whispered, stomach churning with molten heat. “I know that you wouldn’t, Jace. I trust you the most.”

Jacaerys felt the stirring within his chest, the first inkling of arousal settling into his very bones. It was somewhat foreign — a new feeling, but exciting and exhilarating. “I would never hurt you,” He insisted, and you believed him wholeheartedly. “What I feel for you, I do not wish to feel this way with anyone else.”

If you could’ve collapsed then and there, you would’ve — you thought it would happen, with the way your knees rattled together beneath your nightgown. The beating of your heart accelerated into a violent crescendo, and then you felt the rush — the love you had for him, desire, admiration, neediness.

A tenuous silence drifted between you both, the tension thick enough to be sliced with a blade. Jacaerys had inched closer without thinking, able to peer down into your eyes, swirling with affection and bewilderment. “If I told you I felt the same?” Your voice barely rose above a whisper.

Deliberately, Jacaerys released one of your hands, allowing his palm to fully envelop your face, the pad of his thumb caressing your cheekbone. “I would never difile your virtue, or take it for granted. You must tell me if this is something you want.” He insisted, jaw tightening as he anxiously awaited your answer.

You knew that he wouldn’t — Jacaerys Velaryon was the most honorable man you knew, one that would never lay a finger upon you unless you consented. You couldn’t imagine a return to friendship if you happened to reject him — you didn’t want to reject him, either.

“I do,” A shudder ran down your spine, bringing a wave of thrill and anticipation with it. “I want this — and I want you, Jacaerys, if you’ll have me.” Part of you became nervous, knowing that you had never bedded a man before, but you pushed the thought aside.

“A hundred times over.” Jace uttered, dipping down to press his lips against yours. The kiss was incredibly sweet and delicate, something brief to test the waters as the two of you began to explore uncharted territory. Your hands reached for his chest, flat atop his sternum.

Allowing the kiss to linger, you tilted your head just slightly, enough to permit a sensual progression. He kissed you so sweetly, treated you as if you were precious, something to be worshiped. When he inevitably pulled away, you felt a twinge of nervousness.

“I’ve never done anything like this before,” Your confession was a strenuous one, and you hoped that he wouldn’t be disappointed by your lack of experience. Most men already had a plethora by the time betrothals and first love emerged. “Is that alright?”

“Of course,” Jacaerys reassured you with a gentle squeeze, brows furrowing together with insistence. He hesitated, somewhat sheepish to admit the very same, but he knew you wouldn’t admonish him for it. “I haven’t either, if that’s alright.” He mused, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smile.

A sweet bout of laughter escaped you before you nodded several times over, unable to keep from withholding your happiness. “I suppose that this will be quite the learning experience.” You felt his thumb stroke along your jaw, his lips molding themselves to yours in another kiss.

Passion and tension began to mount, a continuous climb of affection, prepared to turn into something fiery. Jacaerys worried that he would disappoint you, or perhaps feel clumsy and awkward, but those were mere insecurities — he knew that you wouldn’t hold it against him.

One of his hands dropped, finding the pliant curve of your hip as he sank his digits into you, able to haul you closer, until there was no space left between the two of you. Kissing felt effortless with Jace, despite your inexperience — he was gentle and deliberate, ensuring that he took his time with you above all else.

Your fingers wandered from his chest to his broad shoulders, finding the curls of hair at the nape of his neck. Jacaerys exhaled, a shiver rolling down his spine as you began to gently tug at his tresses. He canted his head slightly, enough to deepen the kiss and hold you close.

It was Jace who slowly broke the kiss, but just enough to speak, warm breath fanning across your face. “May I take you to bed?” He murmured, tracing across the silky plane of your jaw. His excitement began to grow, heart hammering within his chest.

In such close quarters to one another, you noticed the faint dusting of freckles along the bridge of his nose, spreading just underneath his eyes. You pressed a kiss against the corner of his mouth. “You may.” Eagerness replaced any nervousness you were experiencing, then and there.

Jacaerys found your hand, twining his digits with your own as the two of you inched toward your bed. It was plush, lined with furs and enough blankets to warm the Seven Kingdoms. He stood at the precipice of a cliff, preparing to dive headfirst — and it felt incredible.

He watched with bated breath, rapturous and enamored as your digits settled along the many ties of your outer robes. You began the sluggish process of untethering each one until the garment loosened, enough for you to shrug it aside and drape it over the chest at the foot of your bed.

Even with the veil of sheer, silky fabric, Jacaerys quietly admired your physique, shapely and beautiful in every way imaginable. “You are perfect,” Jace uttered, hands coming to settle around your hips, searching for any sign of hesitation on your end. “Beautiful.” He exhaled, feeling you coax him in for another kiss.

Through the slip of silk and gossamer, Jacaerys deftly felt his way along your body, taking his time savoring you. Every curve and dip, every little detail he committed to memory, lost within a sea of you. Your kiss became passionate, and he was more than happy to reciprocate, the intensity burning between you both.

Jace felt your fingers tease the hem of his tunic, enough to elicit a subtle gasp from him. The sensation of your flesh against his caused goosebumps to spread from where your digits brushed against his waist. He released you for a moment, long enough for him to assist you in removing his nightshirt.

A pang of admiration struck at your stomach, breath hitching within your throat. He was pretty — well-muscled for a young man, with sunkissed skin, smatterings of freckles along his shoulders. Jacaerys felt your lips press against the hollow of his throat, warmth fanning out from the simple contact.

“I want to take care of you, if you’ll let me.” Jace murmured, insistent on pleasuring you above all else. He knew very little of what ensued between a woman and a man within the confines of their bedchambers outside of the simple act itself, but it was easy to imagine.

Your lips parted, heat sinking into your bones as you reached for his curled tresses, digits slipping through his soft, dark locks. “Yes”, Your voice was barely above a whisper as you coaxed him in for another kiss, one charged with arousal and desire. “I want you, Jace.”

The heady, wanton way in which you spoke his name caused him to shiver, bare chest pressed snugly against your own. Even the veil of silken fabric could not hide your supple frame from him, the peaks of your breasts soft and pliant.

His kiss was so gentle — it was charged with lust despite its tame nature, not that you minded. You felt his hands fall to your hips, melding into your curves before he began to gather the fabric within his hands. Jacaerys looked to you before continuing, and you gave him a nod to signal your approval.

Silky gossamer slowly crawled up the length of your legs as Jace gathered your gown, sliding it upward. You couldn’t fight against the onslaught of molten heat that churned violently within your stomach, shamelessly pooling between your legs.

Jacaerys hesitated, likely thinking of what to do next. He had been educated on what consummation was, the act of making an heir — but there was more to it, more of you to explore. Curiosity consumed him as he placed his palm atop the bare skin of your thigh, using the other to ease you down onto your bed.

He sat beside you, leg to leg as he continued to push your nightgown up toward your hips, skirts gathering around the middle of your thighs. “May I?” Jace’s voice seemed to grow husky with arousal, desire burning its way through his veins.

Instead, you gingerly took a hold of his hand, guiding it underneath your gown as you parted your legs enough to allow him unhindered access. He caressed you wherever he could, shuddering when you held the trail of your nightgown in one hand to push it up around your hips.

You nearly squeaked when his palm brushed along your inner thigh, lips parting with a sharp exhale. Jace moved closer, as close as he could as his mouth graced your neck, digits inching toward the slick heat between your legs. When he found it, you let out a simpering whine, reaching for his forearm.

A hushed moan escaped you as two digits trailed across your cunt, exploratory and feather-light. Your hips canted forward into the sensation, desiring more — and Jace obliged, pushing both fingers inward until they slipped past your folds.

“Jace,” You whispered, eyes fluttering shut as he continued to pepper strings of sweet kisses along your neck, gown sagging enough to let him kiss your shoulder. “Do not stop, please.” That breathy plea exuded some power over him, and he was enthralled, prepared to do whatever you asked of him.

“Is that alright?” Jacaerys asked, digits becoming a touch more vigorous as he stroked at your slit, surprised at how wet you were. If it were a common thing, he would know what to expect in the future. His thumb grazed your clit, and you gasped.

With a soft hum of approval, you nodded, shifting your legs apart just a little more. “Y—Yes,” Absentmindedly, your fingers slipped from the taut muscle of his forearm to his hand, the one wedged underneath your gown. “I — Like this.” You instructed him to touch you how you had touched yourself.

Jacaerys watched through a half-lidded stare, beyond entranced with you. You were beautiful — so painfully ethereal that it made him want to kneel before you, a goddess made to be worshiped. You adjusted his fingers, ensuring that his thumb pressed against your clit with continuous pressure.

Despite his nonexistent experience, he was doing wonders for you — he was attentive and willing to learn your body as you saw fit. He was so handsome, lips curling into an affectionate smile before he kissed your jaw, digits continuing from where they’d left off.

Your palm fell across his thigh, nails beginning to dig themselves into the muscle there as he touched your clit, digits tracing around the rest of your cunt. The candlelight highlighted his features in such perfect detail, the illumination slight.

Reverence seeped into each action, every stroke of his fingers evoking a string of whimpers from you. He was passionate and careful, willing to learn your body better than you. He continued to caress your clit, the sensation sending jolts of electricity throughout your body.

His name became your prayer, devolving into desperate moans and whispered pleas as you rocked your hips into the sensation of his hand. “Jacaerys,” You sighed with passion, feeling the stirring within your stomach. Arousal consumed every part of you, just as it did him. “Jace.”

The dark-haired Prince let out a soft groan into the hollow of your throat, wanting you more than anything, and the hand you had perched atop his thigh did little to ease the fever. He kissed your neck again, scarlet-faced and beyond eager, whispering sweet nothings in High Valyrian against your skin.

Excitement and the heat of the moment seemed to get to you, as you used one hand to sloppily unlace the leather ties of his trousers. You wanted to touch him too, let him feel exactly how you felt — how he made you feel.

Jace shivered, not objecting, but he wanted to focus on you above all else. “What about you?” He asked, feeling his cock twitch with want. The ache he had for you was almost painful, threatening to tear him apart if he couldn’t find relief.

“Together,” You suggested, turning enough to crawl into his lap, much to his delight. Jacaerys held you steady, lips clamoring together in a messy flurry of tongue and adoration. It was the anticipation of youth — the desire and sentiments overrode everything else, made duty disappear. “You are perfect.”

His brief smile made all of your worry dissipate, fading into mere background noise. Your hands returned to the leather ties of his breeches once more, sluggishly loosening them. Jace steeled himself, a fire burning within his belly as you reached down.

A low, satisfied groan tore past his lips when your hand gently wrapped around his cock, searching his visage for any sign of discomfort. There was none — only desire, lust festering within his gaze. He resumed touching you, digits circling your clit once more.

Within your delicate grasp, his length hardened, your palm finding a careful rhythm. Your hips twitched, rolling into the sensation of his hand. It was heavenly — the way in which he handled you was gallant and gentle. Arousal continued to gather between your thighs, a new and sticky feeling.

Intermingled gasps and groans filled the air, the both of you clinging to one another. Jacaerys leaned forward, mouth seeking yours, the kiss hot and gentle. Between your careful, uncertain strokes along his length and his digits teasing your cunt, the both of you were lost within the throes of passion.

He slipped his other hand underneath your nightgown, with enough leverage to remove it, if he so desired. Jacaerys broke the kiss long enough to ask, chest heaving with heavier breaths. “May I?” He whispered, voice husky and hoarse with lust.

You nodded, maneuvering your arms over your head as your nightgown slipped to the floor, leaving you bare before Jacaerys. The saltwater breeze which fluttered through your quarters left you shivering, both from the brief chill and anticipation.

The awestruck way in which he stared at you left you hot, body feverish beneath his tempered gaze. He kissed your collarbone, eyes warm and affectionate. “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.” He stated, nearly breathless. His heart was yours — every fiber of his being devoted itself to you.

Smitten beneath his sweetly-spoken compliments, you trailed your fingers throughout his soft curls. The other slyly descended to reach for his cock again, but Jacaerys seemed to place your hand aside. You seemed confused, head canting to one side. “Do you not like it?”

His bemused chuckle filled your chambers, amiable and as warm as a cozy hearth. “Of course I like it,” Jacaerys murmured, kissing along your jaw and neck, holding you as close as he could. “I’d like to focus on you. There’s something that I wanted to try, if you’ll allow it.”

Surprised, you seemed open to whatever he wanted to try. “Anything you want, you will have. It’s yours.” You expected him to put you on your knees or turn you on your stomach. Instead, he coaxed you down onto your back, getting you to lay down as he crawled between your parted legs.

His mouth pressed a string of affectionate kisses along your shoulder and collarbone, beginning to dip lower toward the perky swell of your breasts. You squirmed slightly, uncertain of where this would lead to. You trusted Jace to follow his own instinct.

Your back arched when his mouth graced your breast, pressing kisses all around the pliant flesh. A moan escaped you, signaling your pleasure as he wrapped his lips around one of your nipples, gingerly suckling on the pebbled bud.

“Jace,” You squeaked, one hand flying to his mountain of dark curls, pushing your fingers through. He touched you in a way that evoked a sense of yearning, as if you were the only woman in the realm. His hand kneaded into your chest, a shiver coursing through him whenever you moaned his name. “Please.”

Heat simmered through him, a wave of desire that only seemed to grow in intensity, demanding to be extinguished. Your flesh tasted saccharine upon his tongue, but there was something else he wanted to taste. As he kissed your chest, he released his lips from your breast, continuing his descent.

He kissed you everywhere, reverence seeping into each brush of his mouth as he traversed your body. Jacaerys pressed his lips against your stomach, and then to your hips, palms sliding against your thighs.

A sharp exhale escaped you as he peppered a string of kisses along the inside of your thigh, showering you in little pecks of affection before he flattened himself entirely. You swallowed the lump within your throat; the sight of Jace’s face wedged in between your legs made you shiver, arousal following suit.

Everything was gentle, even the way in which his veined hands gripped the pliant flesh of your thighs to let them rest against his shoulders. He hesitated, allowing you a moment to adjust and steel yourself before he dipped forward, tongue raking hot embers across your cunt.

The singular, experimental stroke of his tongue caused you to shiver, hands curling into fists. If you could melt away into your furs, you would’ve, feeling his mouth press kisses against your core. “Jace,” You whined, attempting to hold still and cease your squirming. “Don’t stop.”

It was all the encouragement he truly needed, digits soothingly caressing along your thighs as he began to lap at your cunt, adopting a pace that was a little less sluggish. He nearly groaned when he felt your hand grasp at his curled tresses, sinking in toward the base of his skull.

In the nighttime gloom of Dragonstone, you found warmth and comfort in one another — affections intensified, and whatever bond you had before was now redefined entirely. Jacaerys loved you, he had never been more sure of himself until now, dutifully bringing about your pleasure.

A myriad of soft whimpers and whines escaped you, hand gingerly tugging on Jace’s hair as he buried his mouth in the apex of your thighs. His tongue vigorously lapped and traced over your core, savoring your taste, committing it to memory. Bathed in moonlight, Jace appeared more ethereal than ever, the muscles flexing within his back.

With slow, eager laps of his tongue, Jacaerys made sure to savor you, letting it flick across your clit. The short, dizzying gasp that tore past your mouth spurred him on, as he pressed another string of kisses against your slit. The continued sensation of your digits carding through his curls made him sigh with elation.

He brought you closer, heart leaping into his throat when you began to writhe beneath him, hips tilting forward into each stroke of his mouth. “You’re perfect,” Jacaerys whispered, ensuring that you could hear it. Soft utterances of High Valyrian were etched into the flesh of your thigh. “Perfect.”

Blossoming beneath his sweet compliments, your fingers curled against his scalp, unable to lay still as Jace resumed his previous ministrations. The warmth of his tongue left you with a blistering want, stomach churning with a wave of arousal.

As he lapped at your clit again, you whimpered, moaning his name as if to keep his attention there. Jacaerys’s tender expression also bore a great deal of concentration, dark eyes flickering toward you. “There?” He uttered, hoping that you would guide him to where he needed to be.

Your head bobbed up and down against the furs, flesh beginning to glisten with the first inklings of perspiration. Everything felt feverishly hot, as if you would be turned to ash where you sat. Jacaerys was attentive and loving, following your breathy plea as he pursed his lips around the pearl of your cunt.

Jace shivered at the sounds you made, enticed by each whimper and moan, every twitch of your body. He suckled on the sensitive bundle of nerves, alternating between that and greedy, vigorous laps of his tongue. He let himself be lost within bliss, arousal mounting from pleasuring you.

You reached for his hand, fingers interlocking atop the swell of your hip as he continued to lap at your aching core. He squeezed your hand as a sign of reassurance, buried deep within your sweet cunt, something that he wanted to have again and again.

He was at your mercy, the heir to the Iron Throne, the Prince of Dragonstone — and you hadn’t the slightest clue. Jace’s brow creased in concentration as he focused on what spots made you squirm the most, continuing to dutifully lap at your clit until your knees trembled.

“Jace,” A needy moan left you, reverberating within the obsidian confines of your chambers. Arousal rushed through you, molten heat oozing from between your thighs, a nectar as sweet as honey. “I—I think I’m close.” You groaned, unsure if it was just the throes of ecstasy or reality.

Nevertheless, you were on the verge of reaching your peak, and you didn’t want him to stop. Instead, you urged his head forward, fingers laced within his dark curls, right at the nape of his neck. Jacaerys groaned in delight, thoroughly enjoying the way you continued to coax him inward — he happily devoured every drop.

With another barrage of his tongue assaulting your cunt, you whimpered, turning malleable within Jace’s hands. He knew that you were on the verge, and so he pursed his lips around your clit once more, and that was more than enough.

His name emerged from your lips like a reverent prayer, the only name that you knew in that moment. Your release was hot, like a rush of fire that didn’t simmer immediately. The residual sensation lingered, and Jace helped you through it.

Your thighs twitched, absentmindedly attempting to clench together, but Jace held you apart, soothing you with kisses along your thighs. The blissful, contented expression that soon followed was a beautiful one — Jace was shocked to know that he could do that to you, bring you to ruin.

His gallant smile gave you pause as you studied the rosy flush within his features, the glistening sheen of your arousal upon his lips. Jacaerys seemed entirely unphased, basking in your aftermath all the same, his curls tousled and disheveled.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” Your tone was sheepish, realizing how much you’d tugged at his hair. If it were you, a tender-headed maiden, you would’ve been batting his hand away. Jace’s bemused chuckle caused you to duck your head.

Jace disarmed you with a charming, doting smile and a simple look of those earthen-brown eyes of his, and shook his head. “You could never hurt me,” He replied, his attempt at gentle flirtation. “I worry more for you.” His confession was soft-spoken.

The act of consummation was not intended to be a comfortable one — for a woman, at least. Jacaerys knew to broach this with care, to make sure that you were well enough before all else. He inched forward from between your thighs, resting his head atop your stomach.

He allowed you a moment of composure, feeling your digits trace the lines of his countenance, stroke at his tresses. Jace pressed a string of kisses all around your body, wherever his lips could reach. The moment was incredibly tender, lingering with the tension of a blossoming ardor.

Through the comfortable haze of silence, you cleared your throat, staring down at Jacaerys with what only could be described at a look of complete and utter adoration. He was so kind, so noble and gentle, yet with the fervor of the dragon’s blood, a desire to do good. You felt so fortunate, even moreso when he smiled at you, pressing a kiss to your hip.

“I want you, Jacaerys,” You whispered, watching as Jace began to sit up, letting your legs trap him on either side. “More than I’ve ever wanted anyone else.” It was the hitch within his throat that made you shiver, heart hammering beneath your breast as you began to confess your feelings — it was inevitable.

Jace reveled at the sight of you, naked and glimmering within the moonlit dusk, candlelight bathing your physique in shades of flickering orange. His descent was slow as he covered you with his body, lips parting to allow a shaky exhale before he kissed your brow. “You have my heart,” He uttered, forehead resting against yours. “Everything I am, is yours.”

Your palms moved to cup either side of his face, thumbs caressing along his cheekbones before you smiled, kissing the corner of his mouth. “I am yours.” You assured, your commitment resolute before the Gods — before Jacaerys Velaryon.

It was a poignant moment, one that seemed intermingled with the seriousness of your words, yet still tinged with the youthful excitement of a first love. He kissed you, slow and amorous, full of an unrestrained affection that no longer seemed weighed-down by unspoken sentiments.

“Are you certain that this is what you want?” Jace asked, his voice a soft caress through your haze of kisses. He would not fault you if you wanted to stop now — and he would if you wished it of him. As much as he desired you, he valued your virtue above his own.

“Yes,” You replied, your palms gliding from his soft visage to the taut muscle of his shoulders, lacing your fingers around the back of his neck. “Are you certain, too? I worry that you might regret lying with me.”

Jacaerys shook his head, brows furrowing together to reflect a semblance of disbelief. He reached down to caress your cheek, making sure that you understood every word. “Nothing in the world would ever make me regret this,” He murmured. “I’ve never been more certain about anything before.”

A brief stirring of adoration fluttered within your chest, and you knew that you wanted no one else ever again. You pulled yourself off of the mattress enough to kiss him, sinking into the sweet bliss of the moment as he reciprocated. His mouth moved in-tandem with yours, eyes beginning to flutter shut.

His hands planted themselves into the feathered pillow on either side of your head, but it didn’t last long. Jacaerys leaned back, maneuvering out of the leather of his trousers, flush against you once they were removed. You were so soft, like an ocean of silk beneath him.

He felt one of your legs hitch around his hips, bodies together beneath the furs. The chill of your chambers dissipated, replaced by the warmth of your skin. You kept your hands poised against his shoulders, dancing across the smattering of freckles there as you continued to kiss him, as if each one would be your last.

The hardened swell of his cock pressed against your lower stomach, and you could feel his breath grow heavier between kisses. He was perfect — flawless, so handsome that it made you ache with want.

Jace kissed you again and again, feeling the soft peaks of your breasts brush against his chest. He adjusted his weight, shifted his hips as he pressed the head of his length against your slick cunt. He was somewhat nervous — perhaps not as much as you, but anxious enough. He made sure to be careful, feeling your legs nudge themselves apart.

A look of mutual preparedness passed between you both, between your doe-eyed gaze of anticipation and Jace’s mounting look of want, there was little room left for uncertainty. He sat up enough to position himself against your aching core, his cock splitting past your folds before it prodded at your entrance.

You steeled yourself, and Jace made sure to be slow, afraid of hurting you enough to cause true discomfort. As he tilted forward, his length filled you, sheathing himself inside of you, inch by inch. Admittedly, it wasn’t a good feeling — not initially, anyway.

A sharp exhale escaped you as he bottomed out, staying still atop you as he allowed you time to grow accustomed to him. Waves of complete and utter bliss rolled through him, his own pleasure nearly overwhelming. You were tight, maidenhead intact for the next few moments until he began to move.

“Are you alright?” Jace whispered around the shell of your ear, pressing against you once more as he reassuringly kissed along the side of your face. He felt despicable for causing you any amount of pain, but you seemed to dismiss his concern.

“I am,” You placated him with a smile, coaxing him in for a kiss. It was best if you didn’t think about it — and with time, it would feel better. Everything was awkward and clumsy, the follies of youth, but as Jace began to move, a fire began to burn within your belly. “Jace.” You sighed, keeping your leg around his hips.

A soft groan resonated beside your ear as Jace adopted a sluggish rhythm, not wanting to intensify things so quickly. Your eyes fluttered shut, body content to bend to his thrusts, grow accustomed to the act itself. He reciprocated your kiss, black curls falling in front of his temples.

Bliss soon replaced discomfort, the more you allowed yourself to adjust. You shifted your legs further apart, one hand falling toward his bicep, the other remaining tangled at the nape of his neck. The sounds of your lovemaking soon filled your chambers, with your foreheads pressed together.

Your name fell from his tongue in a needy groan, and it made you shiver, body reacting with a barrage of gooseflesh along your spine. Perspiration grew upon his brow as he maintained his pace, digits curling into the furs on either side of you.

The sound of your pleasured moans made him feel better, a sign that you were no longer riddled with soreness and irritation. Jace pressed a trail of hot, messy kisses along your face, reaching to the sweet spot beneath your jaw. He kept himself anchored there, feeling your hand squeeze at his bicep.

“Jace!” You squeaked, flushed at the growing lewdness of the noises — the squelching, the passionate groans and heavy breathing. He was perfect, cock filling you in a way that left you completely satisfied. Jace felt your hand fall away from his bicep, reaching for his own, interlocked hands falling back against the cushions.

He shuddered, reveling in the way your cunt tightened around him, the sensation of your hand within his hair, hands joined at your side. Jace’s pace began to quicken, but only somewhat, enough to really feel the myriad of pleasure take hold.

You yearned for him in every way imaginable; your body ached with each movement, every thrust as he leisurely moved in and out of you. His cock pulsated with a dull throbbing, enough to fill his belly with a raging fire. He kissed you again, lips traversing wherever they saw fit, peppering every inch of your sweet skin.

Time seemed to move agonizingly slow in your presence — Jacaerys wouldn’t want it any other way. If he could capture this moment, he would’ve. Every moment was graced by a warm intimacy that sank into his very bones, his adoration for you furthered with each roll of his hips, sheathing himself inside of you.

His soft lips graced your collarbone, continuing to make love to you in the only way he knew how. It was passionate and gentle, in a way reserved for the deepest of lovers. Jace grunted when your hips involuntarily rolled upward to grind against him, lips parting as he squeezed your hand.

At last, he lifted his head, your eyes locking together. Your countenance was exceptionally beautiful, especially when painted with the shade of desire, and it had him aching with want. His jaw tensed when you brushed dark curls away from his eyes, palm lingering long enough to pull him down for a kiss.

His cock continued to hit your cunt with a tame fervor, filling you completely, testing your limits as he neared his peak. Jacaerys knew that there would be more moments like these in the future — his energy was waning, and perhaps, the unfamiliarity of it all contributed to this.

Your name spilled from his tongue, throat echoing with a soft groan as his pace became slightly erratic. It was difficult to control himself amidst chasing after his release, but he maintained what little composure he had, gritting his teeth together as he thrust into you again.

Pleasure contorted into ecstasy, becoming an unstoppable wave that was quick to take hold of him. Concentration intermingled with bliss were etched into his features, face pressing against yours, nearly breathless as you kissed him again.

With a groan, Jacaerys rocked forward again, spilling himself inside of you. In hindsight, it was both brazen and feckless, done in the heat of the moment, but he cared little of it for the time being. His cock throbbed, thrusting into you again a time or two before he stilled completely.

Heavy pants resonated between you both as you caught your breath, flush against one another in the aftermath. You pressed a kiss against Jace’s cheek, trailing your fingers throughout his hair. He was quick to kiss you, gathering his composure before he pulled himself out of you.

A rush of sticky warmth slathered the inside of your thighs, leaving behind a feeling of slight discomfort. Jace gathered a cloth for you to clean yourself with, returning to lay beside you as he rucked the furs up around your bodies. The air was colder at nightfall, injected with a saltwater mist.

“I apologize if I hurt you,” Jacaerys uttered, dark brows furrowing together as you wriggled closer, resting your head atop his bare chest. Your arm draped over him, allowing yourself to be close, a feeling that he wanted more than anything else. “It was not my intention.” He kissed the top of your head.

“You didn’t,” You replied, tracing soft patterns against his skin, angling your head up enough to kiss him. Jace cupped your jaw, leaning in to deepen the tender entanglement, lost within the bliss of your lips. “You would never hurt me.”

Jacaerys was fiercely protective over you, that much was true — even from himself. He kept an arm wrapped around you, cradling you at his side as he gazed into your eyes. He could see you, then — his beloved wife, the future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Perhaps it was too early to tell, but he knew.

As the both of you settled in together, your maidenhead now lost, you couldn’t help but smile. Jacaerys had made your first experience more than anyone ever could — you hoped that it would stay that way forever. “Does your offer of teaching High Valyrian still stand?” You mused.

A huff of amusement left Jacaerys as he turned his head enough to look at you, a smile playing at either corner of his mouth. “I thought you wanted those dusty old books.” Admittedly, his offering of those damned texts is what started this in the first place — he had to be grateful.

“I knew that you would be kind enough to bring them to me,” You confessed, nose wrinkling in amusement. “An excuse to see you.” The look on Jace’s face was one of theatrical shock, and you erupted into a fit of laughter when he squeezed your hip.

“You might grow tired of me, if I am to teach you High Valyrian.” Jacaerys mused, his smile one of complete and utter warmth. Anyone would know that his love for you was obvious — there wasn’t any subtlety about it.

You shook your head, comfortably sinking against him, your upper body lounging atop him. “I could never grow tired of you, Jacaerys Velaryon.” You exhaled, exhaustion beginning to grip you. It was bound to happen eventually, given the abnormally late hour.

Jace was thankful that you weren’t looking — his face was dusted with a rather obvious layer of pink, and yet, the feeling was beyond satisfying. The two of you allowed the silence to sink through, accompanied by the sound of the encroaching tide as it broke upon the jagged rock and cliff sides surrounding Dragonstone.

“Will you stay?” You asked, hoping that he would be agreeable to it. It was a risky proposition, but Jace knew that he couldn’t leave you after this — he didn’t want to, either. No one would come clamoring about within his chambers at first light.

“Of course,” He murmured, lips twitching into a sweet smile. “Though, I should go at the first light of dawn.” Jace’s tone was one of clear disappointment, but it was best to keep suspicions low. You knew that he had duties that transcended you — he was the Prince of Dragonstone, the heir — and you were not betrothed.

A sense of understanding settled onto your features, but you still wanted him by your side — you wished that you could wake up next to him. “I hope that dawn never comes, then.” You whispered, taking his hand within yours as you pressed a kiss against his palm, knowing that there would be many more dawns to come with him at your side.

copyright @ swordgrace; please do not translate, steal, or copy my works and post them onto other platforms or claim as your own.

[fabled-fiction]

Cregan Stark x Targaryen daughter of Rhaenyra

I don’t have a deep plot but I do have an idea. What if reader takes the place of Jace and flies to encourage Cregan like in the recent episode and he’s mesmerized by her beauty? 👀 Something along those lines — feel free to add or change it! ☺️ Thanks!

Snowflakes, Stolen Looks, and Beating Hearts

(Cregan Stark x Strong!Reader)

Summary: When you are sent with your brother Jacaerys to meet up with the Lord in the North, Cregan Stark, some feeling being to make the both of you light headed and forget just exactly what duty calls from the both of you. 

Word Count: 4.5k

Warnings: MAYBE POSSIBLE SPOILER ISH FOR EP 1. Yearning, possible OOC for Cregan (love does things to a man can you blame him??), Use of (Y/N)

A/N: This took…too long to write. I wanted to make this a yearning lovesick-y fic of Cregan that I have been DYING for and kept mulling over all the details. BUT ALAS it is here, I hope it filled your request and you all enjoy!!

You never thought that you would see snow.

You always wished to see it, having heard of its beauty. Ice falling from the sky in beautifully small flakes that seemed to be sewn together by the gods.

Looking at the palm of your hand, you smiled as you studied the pattern of the snowflake. Its exquisite beauty only lasting mere seconds as it began to melt into the valleys of your skin. A small frown made its way in place of your smile as you temporarily mourned the flake, before you wiped your hand on your cloak.

To think this place was blanketed in such beauty for the entire year.

Just ahead, Jace took a glance over his shoulder as he stared at the spectacle that was you. You stood next to your dragon, still as ever letting the snow collect on your hair and shoulders. You looked statue-esque as you continued to catch snowflakes, admiring them before they met their inevitable fate. Lost in your own world as you took a moment to forget about everything that had been plaguing you for the past few months.

He wished he could do the same, even for just a moment. Arriving at Winterfell, had him feeling on edge. For his whole life Jacaerys had protected you, feeling it was his duty to make sure nothing ever hurt you. The both of you, him being the first son of Queen Rhaenyra and you the first and only daughter, had grown up to know the true meaning of duty. This alone had bonded the two of you practically to the hip, it did not matter that you were older than him.

Looking back at you, he smiled as he saw how much snow had collected on your hair…people could mistake you for a “true” Targaryen…

That alone reminded him of the reason they were there.

“(Y/N)...c’mon we mustn't be even more late than we already are to meet with Lord Stark. Nightfall will be upon us yet…”

He watched as you finally looked up from the palm of your hand and sighed. Shaking the snow off of your head and shoulders, you rushed to meet his pace.

“I must say, I quite like this cold. It's much better than the humidity we face on Dragonstone.”

This earned a chuckle from Jacaerys. “Is that what you think of now? Not what to say to Lord Stark? What words to sew together to ensure he is our ally?”

“I do not need to take such action. Diplomacy comes easy to me. Besides, the Starks are known to be loyal to a fault.”

That much was true. Jace wasn’t entirely sure why he felt such anxiety with this meeting. It could have been that the simple act of ensuring allyship meant that war was truly upon your house. Or perhaps it could have simply just been that he did not wish to look a fool aside you as you expertly made your way through conversation with Lord Stark despite this being your first meeting. Since the both of you were small you had a knack for persuading people with your words. The Silver Tongued Dragon, you had been known as not long after this talent was found out.

Yes, he had nothing to fear. This would all go smoothly.

“Lord Stark, Prince Jacaeyrs Velaryon and Princess (Y/N) Velaryon of House Velaryon have arrived.”

Cregan nodded to the squire, straightening his cloak as he strapped Ice to his back.

This meeting in particular was one he was not too entirely worried about. House Stark had bent the knee to King Visery’s when he named his daughter as heir to the iron throne. This matter had been in the back of Cregan’s mind, with many more pressing matters being his top priority. He supposed that is why he often did not make the best first impressions, as his priorities were not that of the common list that many found themselves concerned with. He did not take an immediate interest in the pursuit of heirs or of ensuring that the house had a formidable reputation. Duty was his priority.

This meeting was a matter of formality to him. To ensure that he would stand behind Queen Rhanerya and support her in whatever way he could, without crippling the defenses on the Wall.

His hands reached back to tie his hair halfway up, his eyes focusing on the black ice of the steps. As his fingers struggled to snap the band around, he finally looked up to meet the faces of the two young dragons.

When his eyes met yours, everything seemed to stop.

It was as if the snows knew to freeze this moment over, so he could have the chance to meet your eye.

Cregan Stark had heard of the beauty of the old Valyria. He listened to the stories men shared of the silver haired house that brought out the darkest of temptations of man. How their men and women held a grace about them that had wives and husbands lust for just the touch of their hand on theirs.

As he looked at you, he felt that those stories were watered down backswill of a drunkard. There was not a word within the all known language of the Seven Kingdoms that could describe what he felt in this moment as he had the fortune to lay his eye upon you. He felt his grip on the banister tighten as he took in the sight of you. You, who looked up at him with the most mesmerizing beautiful eyes that only looked at him. 

It wasn't until he saw the rise and fall of your own chest did he remember to breathe.

“Lord Stark, It's an honor to make your acquaintance.”

Looking over at your brother, Cregan cleared his throat as he made his way down the stairs to properly shake his hand.

“The honor is all mine, to host the both of you here. My apologies for the weather, but it is the North.”

His accent stuck out to you. On Dragonstone and even throughout the Keep, when you had stayed there once upon a time, people often shrouded themselves in uppity falsehoods. Either to seem as if they were meant to truly walk amongst you, or to be someone entirely different from whence they came. It was part of the reason why you were so glad to have fled to Dragonstone, there were not as many falsehoods there.

So to see Cregan Stark have no fear in brandishing his weaponry, and speak to you in the laced tongue of the North was refreshing. You were drawn to the way he felt as if the niceties of royalty were second thought. As if the both of you could afford to toss aside pleasantries. It made you smile.

There was something else to be said about the Northerner. Just the way he stood before the both of you alone was enough action to intrigue you.

“Lady Velaryon, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

When his hand enveloped yours, you felt your breath catch in your throat. His eyes did not leave yours, as he lifted your knuckles to his lips.

“I wish it under other circumstances, Lord Stark.”

Giving him a small smile, the two of you stood there eye in eye. He had yet to let go of your hand as the two of you held each other there. When you stood this close to him you were able to get a better look at the man they had named Wolf of the North. Cregan Stark stood before you, dressed in fur and leather, bowing as he held your hand. You couldn’t help but feel your heart flutter as he held your eye. A flurry of grey and blue looked at you, purely you, and you couldn't help but feel as if that's all he wanted to do. Just as you stood there now, feeling consumed by the eye of the storm and wanting nothing more but to throw yourself to the whims of the winds.

“Lord Stark, Is there somewhere more private we could discuss?”

Feeling the hot stare of Jacaerys gaze on you, you regrettably took your hand from Cregan’s grasp. The imprint of his warmth on your skin remained, even through the leather, making you bring your hand to your chest as you bowed your head to him quickly.

Clearing his throat, Cregan looked at Jacaerys with a nod before motioning to the large metal lift.

“ ‘Course, let us talk atop the Wall.”

Jacaery’s held your eye for a moment as the both of you followed the Wolf. His eyes held a question within them as the two of you silently spoke. He had watched that whole scene unfold, having been a bystander to the tension that grew with every second that Cregan held your gaze. You simply rolled your eyes as you shoved him before following the Northerner into the metal cage.

Closing your eyes, you froze for a moment to feel the northern winds run through your hair and cloak. Snowflakes found themselves resting on you again, drawn to the warmth that ran through your Targaryen blood. As the lift brought you higher and higher into the sky, level with where you flew your dragon, it almost felt as if the air in your lungs crystallized.

“So tell me Lord Stark, What is this that falls from the sky and shivers my bones? Is it not still summer throughout the isles of the Seven Kingdoms?”

Cregan was so lost in his jealousy of the snowflakes that rested upon your skin that he almost didn't hear you speak. It wasn't until you had opened your eyes and looked at him through your lashes did he realize you had addressed him.

“This is only a late summer snow, my princess. In the true winter it will cover all you see, any memories you hold of warmth will be forgotten.”

“Sounds..hauntingly beautiful. Whilst this is my first time seeing snow it is my understanding that this is not the first time our ancestors have met here to treat? If I am correct it was the…Conqueror and the King in the North?” 

Jacaerys felt a relief fall over his shoulders as he heard you expertly laced the matter at hand into conversation. His eyes landed on Cregan as he watched the man hang onto every word you spoke. Not once had he looked at Jacaerys after the three of you stepped into the lift. His eyes never left you even before you spoke. He would like to think that it was because of the presence and attention you demanded. He had seen it many a time before, people could not look away from you whenever you entered a room, and their fates were often sealed after you had started to speak.

But, something else lay within his gaze. Jacaerys had seen that look before. The look of total awe and devotion to the other.

It was the same exact look he gave Baela.

“Surely the great Torrhen Stark would have sooner died than bent the knee. Unless of course he believed the Conqueror could bring unity to the Seven Kingdoms?” 

Cregan looked over to Jacaerys with a sigh. This meeting was meant for diplomacy, he had to remind himself of this as he looked to the Prince. He felt a crease grow within his brow as the three of you walked throughout the icy walkways of the top of the wall.

When your hand reached to hold his arm, he felt a fire light in his chest at your touch alone. It was as if you took all his pain and worry, forbidding it from plaguing him. When he took the opportunity to look over at you, he felt the ice in his veins thaw. 

“What my brother is getting at, Lord Stark, is that there is a threat upon the unity to the Seven Kingdoms. One that would tear the realm apart if the men and women who swore an oath to our grandfather do not remember who the rightful heir is. You understand our concerns do you not?”

“Starks do not forget their oaths, my princess…”

Looking at your hand placed on the crook of his elbow, he swallowed as he rested his hand atop yours.

“Can we depend on your men if the time comes that the Hightowers declare war upon our mother’s claim to the throne?”

Looking at Jacaerys, Cregan swallowed. He should not have felt torn, but he did. He needed his men here, to defend the wall from that which dared to plague Westeros. There were forces that lay in wait, that threatened the sanctity of not only the North but the South as well. He did not wish for his duty to falter in this dire time of need. But he had seen the worry in your eye. He knew that you were dependent on the power of the North if your mother’s throne, if you family was meant to remain the next in line. Another part of him wanted to promise whatever he could, whatever you needed just at the drop of the word.

“You must understand my hesitation, my Prince. Whilst I wish for nothing more than to offer you the whole of which the North has to offer, I must keep my army here to defend the Wall. Do you think my ancestors built a seven hundred foot wall to keep out snow and savages?”

As the three of you approached a divet within the wall, all of a sudden a very overwhelming dread filled your stomach. Looking over the edge, you saw nothing but a vast forest, covered in snow. But for some reason, the dragon within you faltered. Every sense you had was screaming at you to back away from the ledge that you took further steps towards. 

“What does it keep out?” Jace asked, as he felt his heart fall in his chest at the sight of you taking a closer step to the edge of the Wall.

“Death.”

You took a moment to look over your shoulder at Cregan once hearing the declaration. You had heard stories about the meeting place that took place here. How when King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne stood in your very spot, their dragons refused to cross the threshold. It made your stomach drop just at the idea of there being something more beyond the wall. That was a thought for another time however.

Both Jace and Cregan watched as you stood still as a statue once more, looking over the land of the North.

“I understand your hesitation to pull your men from the Wall, Lord Stark. It is quite the responsibility you have here,” Taking a step back, you swallowed as you smoothed your hair back. Jace offered you a hand to steady yourself as you took a few steps back from the edge.

“All we ask is that you provide whatever you can when the time comes. In return I personally can promise you’ll have mine when needed.”

Cregan sighed as he looked between the Wall and you. That alone had just sealed his fate, that he truely would give you whatever you needed, especially now knowing that you felt a duty to protect what was his as well. He could see it in your eyes when you looked over that edge. You believe his tales of things that lurked in the dark, just as he believed you when it came to the vile words of treachery.

The both of you would need the other soon enough yet.

“I can offer you thousands of greybeards. They have seen far too many winters, having grown a distaste for the cold. Their skills are well honed, and they can be ready to fight at a moment's notice. They will fight hard for you, like Northerners.”

There was a visible tension that dropped from the both of your and Jace’s shoulders after his words. Your brother rested his hand on your shoulder as you clasped your hands together in front of you. Jace then reached forward to shake Cregan’s hand with both of his.

“Thank you Lord Stark. Your promises will not be forgotten.”

Finding your way beside the both of them, you clapped your hand on both their shoulders with a beaming smile.

“Lets celebrate shall we?”

-

He couldn't take his eyes off you.

You sat across the table, the warmth of the candle light that lit up the meeting hall suiting itself well on your cheeks. You had settled in well at the opposite head of the table, chatting with other Northern women. You were content, from as well as he could tell.

His eyes hadn’t left you since the minute you found yourself in his halls, drinking his wine and eating his food. There was something that stirred in the pits of his stomach as he…provided for you. In the ways of war and also in the niceties of comfort. You had taken well to both, and he planned to bathe in your presence for as long as he could before you took your inevitable departure.

After that he wasn’t sure he would see you again ever.

While he should have been fine with that, as he had told himself a multitude of times that courting and the ways of society were well beyond his interests, something made him sick at the idea of letting you just slip away because of some silly notions he had been telling himself. You had bewitched him at first glance, and as he had taken in more of your presence throughout the day he could rightfully say that you had taken up a space in his mind if not in its entirety. 

His hand gripped his chin tighter at these thoughts alone.

“Lord Stark…” 

Shaking his head, he looked over to see your brother standing beside him.

“My prince, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

Jace motioned to the chair besides Cregan, sitting down as the Lord motioned him. Taking one last look at you, as you laughed aloud at whatever the person holding your attention had said, he figured he could spare a moment of his attention being somewhere else.

“I just wanted to come by and thank you once again for pledging your support. I know it was not your responsibility to ease my anxieties but you did anyway, and I am grateful for it.”

He gave a curt smile to the prince, turning his body to face him to ensure that he was indeed involved in whatever conversation Jacaerys had meant to begin. However that could not be further from the truth as his mind began to wander.

“A Stark never forgets their oath. I would not be the man I am today had I intended to ever break it. “

“I figured as much. My sister said quite the same thing when we arrived, she being the more faithful one.”

Cregan smiled at the comment, taking another look over to you. You were alone in thought now, whoever you were speaking with having taken your attention for granted no doubt and departing to enjoy the festivities that were about. You were looking out the window, taking in the snow of the North like you had been earlier that day.

“She the smarter of the two of you hmm?” He quipped, smirking as he watched Jace chuckle to himself.

“She is the smartest out of all my siblings I would say. (Y/N) has always been a good judge of character, I don’t think I have ever seen her put her trust into someone who didn’t deserve it.”

His heart jumped at the words Jace bestowed upon him. Somehow knowing that you trusted him, that he was one of the few that could claim to have earned your admiration even within just a few words made him feel stronger in a sense. Is this what men talked about, when they said that the affection of a woman made them feel as if they could move the hills? If this is how he felt just at the mention of your trusting him, he couldn’t help but ponder on how he would feel from being the object of your affections.

“I think that might be one of the main reasons why she hasn’t been courted.”

Cregan froze, feeling himself look over at you once again. For some reason the thought did not run through his mind that your hand could have already been called for. It stirred something in him, knowing that your name was still Velaryon.

Your seat was empty when Cregan looked over again. He saw your silhouette turn the corner quickly, vanishing in a flurry of red and black.

“Enjoy the rest of the meal my prince.” Cregan laid his hand on Jace’s shoulder before making his exit in the same direction that you had.

Jace smiled to himself as he watched the man quickly follow your footsteps with haste, his cloak making a rather dramatic arch at the turn.

There you stood, looking into the sky. You looked as if you were infatuated by the moon herself, lit up only by her beam as snowflakes flitted around you. If it was possible for you to look anymore ethereal Cregan would become devote. You were cast in a halo of moonlight, so entranced that it almost made him guilty for interrupting such an intimate moment.

Looking over your shoulder, he swallowed whatever nerves he was feeling so he could actually have the opportunity to talk with you. But then you smiled at him, and he felt himself grow weak. Part of him wanted to fight against this foreign feeling, the other wanted to bask in it.

“Lord Stark, I hope my leaving didn’t come off as rude. I wanted to enjoy the cold for just a little longer.”

“Not at all. I’m glad you have taken such an interest in what others would consider harsh.”

This got a small hum from you as you held your gloved hand out. “How one could consider this harsh is beyond me.”

Cregan chuckled to himself as he came to stand next to you, watching as you studied the snowflake in your palm.

“Winter is not often kind. The cold and ice have a tendency to turn those away, since it takes so much and gives so little.”

“Fire does the same, yet people hold it in such a high regard. People should do the same with snow.”

Cregan hung onto every word you said, taking this private moment deep within. Hearing you speak so poetically, especially when the topic was anything other than the purpose of which you came. To get a glimpse into who you were, to know the person that was you made him think of a million other questions to ask just to fill out every step it took to understanding you.

He watched you closely as you brought your hand down, and held your arms when you looked up. The cloak you had dawned earlier was nowhere in sight, and if he could recall it had been left behind on your chair in the haste of leaving the room. Cregan was quick to remove his own fur lined cloak, and drape it across your shoulders. It swallowed you, enveloping you in the lingering warmth that was him.

“Thank you, you did not have to.”

“What type of a host would I be if I let you freeze?”

You laughed at his comment, a full laugh, and placed your hand on his bicep. It was still cold, from catching snowflakes, but it warmed him none the less.

“Plus, it looks better on you. The North suits you.”

A flash of blush rested on your cheeks at the comment, and made you tighten the grip on his cloak.

“Thank you, Lord Stark. I do have to say of all the places I’ve been I think I have enjoyed my time here the most.”

With a nod, he clasped his hands behind his back before leaning a little closer to whisper to you.

“Well I hope then that the next time you are here I can show you all that Winterfell has to offer..that is if there is a next time?”

You both had turned to face each other now, your hand still holding his arm as you looked up and only him now. He looked at you the same way the moon did, and you basked in the warmth of him in the same way.

Reaching forward, his hand came to hold a bit of your bang before wiping the snow from it and tucking it behind your ear. His hand came to rest on your cheek, holding the side of your face as the both of you were able to finally really look at each other without the wandering eye of anyone else.

He took his time committing your face to memory, just in case this was truly the last time he would see you. Cregan wanted to make sure his dreams were able to replicate the image of you.

You stood there, doing the same. You were surrounded by him entirely, in scent and sight. This entire afternoon when he wasn’t looking at you, you were looking at him. You could feel this back and forth game of cat and mouse that had played out, but there was a nagging reminder of everything that lead to this meeting and everything that waited after it.

Perhaps you could take this night to bask in something that wasn’t duty.

“I could entertain the thought, only if you could make the trip worthwhile.”

This earned a laugh from the northerner as he looked at you, and his thumb ran under your eye. The feeling off his touch had you feeling drunk off his attention. Oh you were absolutely certain if anyone had seen the two of you in this exact moment there would be many an accusation.

“Oh? And how exactly would I do that my princess?” He mused, looking at you tenderly

Reaching to hold the wrist of the hand that held you, you stroked his wrist and hummed.

“Give me a reason to come back, Cregan Stark. A reason that isn't just snow, or the cold. Something that is more than the North. More than duty.”

He stood there, just staring back into your eyes as he thought of the declaration. To give you a true and proper reason to ride all the way back here, where he was nothing but duty and sacrifice. To give you a part of him that was something else completely. You asked this of him as if it was the easiest thing he could sacrifice in order to see you again.

It should have been a hard request to fill. A question that should have left him tormented when giving the answer.

But somehow his answer was sealed the minute you stepped into view.

“Me…Come back for me.”

In the silent moment between the two of you, all that could be heard was the howl of the wind and the beating of your hearts as they became forever joined with just a touch.

[the20thangel]

The Vow

Summary: Request: I was wondering if you could write something with Benji and Targaryen reader. She's like the apple of her parent's eye and nervous about marrying Benji and if he would be good to her. And loyal, like she's very scared that he would go and have bastards or mistress. She doesn't want an unhappy marriage. She's very insecure, and Benji reassures her that he will worship the ground she walks on and she will be the only one he ever beds.

word count: 1.9K

Masterlist

As you stood before the mirror, your fingers fidgeted with the rings, a nervous habit inherited from your mother. You gazed at your reflection, a vision of beauty. Your luscious white hair was elegantly pulled into a loose bun, with a few strands delicately framing your round face. Your eyes, a mesmerizing shade of lilac, were accentuated with light makeup that made them stand out. You were adorned in a stunning, vibrant red gown with golden accents. Despite the maids' admiring sighs, you couldn't muster any excitement. 

 On the day of your wedding, your nerves were in a frenzy. Despite your parents' attempts to reassure you, you couldn’t shake off the worry. You knew little about the man you were about to marry. Lord Benjicot Blackwood, the young lord who fought bravely alongside his aunt Black Aly and Lord Cregan Stark during the war. You knew your mother owed her throne to them, and in gratitude, she had betrothed you to him. But all you heard were stories of Bloody Ben, a monster on the battlefield, and armies trembling at the lad's name. The weight of this uncertainty was a heavy burden on your heart. 

You were shocked when you heard the stories and the news of your betrothal. You couldn’t understand how your parents could ever give your hand to someone described like that. Then your father, King-Consort Daemon, explained to everyone in the public how he was known as the Rouge Prince, but they didn’t know his true self. He asked you if you believed in all the stories spread about him, which you vehemently denied. Your father was brash and rude when he talked to his enemies, but he was a protective dragon to his family, making sure his family was happy and safe. Your father smiled and said, then do not believe everything about Benjioct. Speaking in favor of the raven lord. You nodded, saying how you would try. 

Now, you weren’t worried about him being cruel. No, you were worried about him being unfaithful. Dragons, like your family, don’t do well when people try to steal things belonging to them. You were the same, and you worried that Benjicot would only see your marriage as a duty. Finding happiness, pleasure, and companionship in the arms of another. This fear of an unhappy marriage, of not being able to handle such a betrayal, was something that kept you awake at night, a constant source of anxiety. 

As your maids and handmaidens finished, your mother, Queen Rhaenyra, walked in. Gracing you with her beautiful smile, she walked behind you, embracing you as she kissed your cheek chastly. Holding you close to her made you smile and close your eyes in contentment. Your bond with your mother was stronger than any of your siblings. She could know your millions of thoughts from one glance at your face, so she held you tight to her, giving you the comfort you desperately wanted. 

“He’s a good lad, my sweet girl. Honorable, fierce, and just. He would rather feed himself to your dragon than betray you.” she whispered, trying to erase your fears. 

As you nodded, you didn’t know if you were a way to assure her or yourself into believing the statement. You wanted to believe in your parents' statements, but you were still worried. You hardly knew this man, and in a few minutes, you would be his wife. You would not only be a Princess but the new lady of House Blackwood. The pressure was building inside of you. As you finished readying yourself, a servant came in, letting the Queen and Princess know that the wolf's hour had arrived and it was time to start the wedding. 

Taking a deep breath, you wrap your arm around your mother’s arms as the two walk into Godswood, where the ceremony will be taking place. Today was a more intimate ceremony, since House Blackwood followed the ways of the First Men and Old gods. Your family decided to honor the Blackwoods by having a ceremony in the old ways, marrying infront of a hearttree. 

As you walked down the corridors to reach Godswood, your family slowly started coming together, each holding a torch to light the way. Once entering Godswood stood your future husband, bringing you a first surprise. Instead of wearing red and black, his house colors. Benjicot Blackwood stood infront of the hearttree wearing pure black with gold accents, completing your dress beautifully. As the Blackwood members turned to the Targaryen family, they couldn’t help but gasp at the sight, power, and beauty of the Valryians. 

Your family took the other side of the aisle while you and your father, Daemon, waited for the signal from Cregan Stark, who would officiate the ceremony. Once you saw the slight nod from the wolf lord, your father took your arm, giving your hand a light squeeze as you both began your trek down the aisle, meeting your betrothed in the middle. 

“ Who comes before the Old Gods this night?” 

Daemon straightened himself, presenting the daunting regal Targaryen he is; Princess (Name) of the House Targaryen comes here to be wed. A woman grown trueborn and noble. She comes to beg the blessing of the Gods.” 

Cregan nodded as he turned to Benjicot, who grinned at his beautiful bride. “ Who comes to claim her?” 

Benjicot inhaled as he stared at his future wife and good father, “Benjicot Blackwood, of House Blackwood, lord to Raventree Hall. 

“Who gives her?” asked Cregan, looking at both a Daemon and Rhaenyra. 

“Daemon Targaryen, Her father and King- Consort of the seven kingdoms of House Targaryen of Old Valyria, ” proudly stated Daemon. 

You smiled slightly, turning to look at your future husband. He was quite handsome and lean, but you can see the outline of muscles around his body. Benjicot noticed your staring and gave you a smirking grin, causing your face to heat up. 

Your staring is broken by Cregan asking you, “Name, do you take this man?” 

You gulped, feeling the nerves coming back. Glancing behind him, you saw how intently House Blackwood stared at you, causing the nerves to worsen. Benjicot, noticing this, frowned slightly. He knew his family could be intense and wished that he could glare to ease them back. You took a shaky breath, smiling wryly at Cregan first before turning to Benjioct, reaching out with your hand as you stated. 

 “I take this man.” 

Benjicot reached to take your hand, giving it a slight kiss, gracing you with a warm smile as Cregan asked the the Targaryen princess and Raven lord to kneel. Then asking for the group to stay silent for a few minutes for prayer.  As you and Benjicot kneeled in front of the hearttree, you stared at the crying face, asking the Old gods to please bless her marriage, that Benjicot remained loyal to her and her only. After a few minutes, the couple stood as Aly Blackwood stepped forward, providing the marriage cloak. Benjicot removed your maiden cloak passing it off, before he took the marriage cloak, cloaking you with the proud Blackwood sigil of the weirwood tree and ravens. As Benjicot stood infront of his beautiful wife, he took your face into his hands, caressing your reach as he leaned in. Kissing you with sweetness and softly sealing their union in the eyes of the Old gods. 

As the rest of both Blackwood and Targaryen families went back inside, Benjicot held your hand firm, singling you to stay. Tensing, you turned to your husband, trying your best to give him your best smile. 

Benjicot smiled, kissing your cheek, trying to ease your tension, “I was hoping that we could speak before heading inside, my princess.” 

You nodded, biting your bottom lip, wondering what he might want to speak about. 

Benjicot stared at you, trying to memorize your beauty under the moon light, his breath being constantly taken away. 

“I know our wedding came as a surprise to you and so quickly…we might not know each other, but I’m hoping this coming moon, we take the time to understand each other and what we expect from this marriage.” 

You froze, was this it? Was he going to tell you now that he was going to have a mistress in the marriage?

Benjicot seeing your demeanor, quickly comforted you. 

“No, sweet girl, I meant that I want this marriage to bring you happiness just like I feel.” 

These words confused you; tilting your head, you asked, “What do you mean, my lord?” 

Grinning, he brought a hand to your cheek, “Ever since I saw you during the war, I have been taken by you. You are beautiful and cunning. Your sharp wit and fearless dragon-riding skills made me admire you from afar. When your mother made the betrothal between us, I felt immense joy at the chance you be married to you. Alas, though, seeing your tension and nervousness around these past few days, I fear the rumors about me have made you weary of me.”  

You quickly shook your head. Taking his other hand and holding it close to your chest, you defended yourself. 

“No, my lord, I- the rumors are just that, rumors; my mother and father assured me that you are an honorable, dutiful, wonderful young man. I believe my parents would never agree to our marriage if you were not kind and respectful. I…” 

You paused, unsure how to go on the way to ask..command..plead for him to always stay loyal in your marriage, no bastards, no mistresses. Benjicot, seeing you hesitate again, placed his forehead on yours and took you into his arms. This caused you to gasp, having such an intimate gesture.

“Go ahead and ask my princess; I shall not get offended,” Ben requested, staring at your beautiful eyes. 

As you, too, stared at his stormy eyes, you saw the softness in them, “I- I only have one request, my lord, which I feel will make this marriage a truly happy one. I ask that you always stay loyal to me and our marriage. That you forsake the thought of mistresses.” 

Ben smiled at you, leaning down to place a kiss quickly before whispering for your ears only. 

“That is an easy promise. No other woman can ever compare to you, my beautiful dragon-riding wife. I would rather feed myself to all of your family’s dragons than ever think of betraying you. I will stay with you entirely until my last days, living with you, respecting you, comforting you, and fighting for you. I swear this on the old gods and new and the fourteen flames…So much I promise this, it was meant as a surprise but I want you to believe in my vow fully. I ask your parents that tomorrow we have a Valyrian ceremony, blood-bonding us together. Like your dragons usually bond one rider at a time and mate with one mate forever, I want to bind myself to you. That I may become yours forever.” 

As he finished his vows, he studied your shocked face. Hearing his vow to you made your heart beat faster, and you finally allowed happiness to bloom in your chest. Giggling, you leaned up to kiss him, wrapping your arms around your husband. Benjicot smiled into your kiss, continuing to kiss you a few minutes more before you stepped back a bit, staring at his eyes as you reached to trace the scar on his lip. You made your vow to him.

“I vow to love you and only you, Benjicot Blackwood, until the end of my days. I want to be blood-bonded with you.”

[queenofdragons12]

Babydoll — J.JK, B.C, H.HJ

WARNINGS : slight seductive, flirting, soft fluff

PARINGS : idol! hyrbid! J.JK + B.C + H.HJ X fem! dragon! reader + stray kids and BTS

a/n: there's a new series I'll do hope you'll like it!

Ch.1

Being a hybrid had never been easy. The relentless pursuit of others, hoping to capture and exploit your unique essence, loomed over your existence like a shadowy specter. As a dragon hybrid, the fuss surrounding you was amplified to an unbearable degree. The clamor of humanity's curiosity and avarice pursued you ceaselessly, driving you to seek solace in the seclusion of your current abode.

You had once dwelled amidst the constant paparazzi frenzy in the heart of bustling Seoul, South Korea. But now, you had distanced yourself from the maddening throngs of humans, carving out a refuge far away from their intrusive presence. Yet, even in your newfound sanctuary, those relentless few managed to sniff you out, their tempting offers purposefully designed to exploit your vulnerabilities. Little did they know, you possessed a wealth that surpassed their expectations, having amassed a dragon's horde of gold before your relocation.

Glimmering and lustrous gold was integral to your dragon nature — a testament to your legendary heritage. Once upon a time, you had reveled in the opulence of your hoard, but the desire to assimilate into human society had tugged at your heartstrings for years. It had become customary to seek out work, a means to integrate yourself within the tapestry of humanity.

And indeed, you still toiled away, for today held an important job interview, a gateway to a new chapter in your life. As you stood before the mirror, your gaze met your reflection, scrutinizing every detail. The mirror's surface bore witness to the intricate dance of your fingers as they grazed along the delicate ridges of your face, tracing the contours of your neck and collarbones. Dustings of golden flecks adorned your scales, shimmering in ethereal beauty, a testament to the melding of dragon and mortal flesh.

The hues that adorned your scales captivated the eye — a mesmerizing blend of deep blue, black, and golden dust as if the night sky had woven a celestial elegance garment. Each scale was a tiny mosaic, a fragment of iridescence that painted a portrait of your true self. With careful consideration, you selected a dress that embraced the color palette of your being. The deep blue fabric cascaded down your form, caressing every curve with a grace reminiscent of a leaf floating upon a tranquil pond. Embedded within its seams were delicate threads of gold, reminiscent of the treasure you had guarded so fiercely.

As the dress settled upon your shoulders, it unveiled a tantalizing glimpse of your scales, which adorned your skin like jewels. Their presence, even in this modest display, exuded an otherworldly allure. A smile graced your lips as your scales shimmered and danced in the gentle illumination of the room. You were a vision, a resplendent embodiment of beauty and power, ready to face the world that lay beyond your sanctuary.

With a final, confident glance in the mirror, you knew that you were prepared. Ready to step into the realm of humans, your dragon heart beating in harmony with the intricate melody of a world that awaited you.

˗ˏˋ꒰ 🍒 ꒱

Hyunjin had always reveled in the opulence of his wealthy family, a lineage that had long been a source of pride. However, his illustrious heritage was often overshadowed by the complexities of his werewolf lineage, which posed challenges in business. As the leader of the Lunar Shadows pack, alongside his father's old friend, Chan, Hyunjin had witnessed the thriving success of their pack. Yet, the constant thorn in their side remained the Wildfire Howlers, led by none other than the boastful alpha, the renowned Prince Jeon Jungkook's father. Despite the ongoing feud, Jeon Jungkook himself was confined to leading a small pack called BTS, a mere whimper in comparison.

However, amidst the mundane affairs of their pack, Hyunjin's attention was abruptly seized when rumors reached his ears of an upcoming appearance by new personnel. His curiosity was piqued, although a touch of boredom lingered within him. Such matters rarely concerned him, for his father, Ragnor, paid little heed to his son's and best friend's opinions, as they had already forged their own enterprise — Stray Kids, they called it.

Returning to the present, Hyunjin strolled through the grand corridors of his family's company. Then, he caught sight of a woman draped in a form-fitting blue dress, gracefully gliding towards him. His eyes fixed on her figure, exuding an air of unrivaled elegance. However, the dusting of scales adorning her supple skin truly captivated him. Their interplay of black, blue, and golden hues shimmered like a masterpiece, a canvas he would aspire to paint, blending dark shades with ethereal brilliance.

Halting in his tracks, Hyunjin's world came to a standstill as the woman turned her head, locking her captivating (e/c) eyes with his own. At that moment, his inner wolf roared to life, resonating within the depths of his being, screaming the undeniable truth—mate, mate, mate! A flicker of pain coursed through Hyunjin as he witnessed the woman tilt her head, acknowledging him before continuing on her way, the echo of her heels clicking against the pristine floor.

Hyunjin stood there, stunned and breathless, as his soul reverberated with the overwhelming presence of his destined mate. Never before had his wolf yearned so fiercely, recognizing this encounter as the real deal — the union that would bind them eternally. With your enchanting presence, you were his one true soulmate, destined to intertwine their lives in a symphony of love and belonging.

˗ˏˋ꒰ 🍒 ꒱

You scolded yourself silently, berating your outburst, as you leaned against the wall on the other side of the room, facing the office where your new boss awaited you. Why had you let out that startled scream? Coiled within your very being, your inner dragon hissed in disapproval, smoke curling from her nostrils. Because I could sense him, you cannot deny that you felt the connection too. You can't tell me he wasn't your type! Your dragon reminded you, her voice resonating in your mind.

Taking a deep breath, you shook your head, brushing aside strands of hair that had fallen across your face. With newfound resolve, you steeled yourself again and raised your hand to knock on the door. The air hung heavy with anticipation, nerves coiling within you like restless serpents.

Soon enough, the door swung open, and you nearly flinched as you came face to face with a man whose handsomeness surpassed anything you had ever witnessed. There was a striking resemblance to the tall, long-haired individual you had encountered in the hallway — a kindred spirit, perhaps? Your breath caught in your throat as your dragon flamed up again, reflecting the scorching intensity coursing through your veins. His dilated pupils mirrored your own, signaling a shared recognition — an unspoken understanding. At that moment, you realized he, too, was a hybrid.

Oh, boy, how would you navigate this intricate dance of fate? The intertwining of two extraordinary beings, destined to collide in a world that could be breathtakingly beautiful and treacherously unpredictable. Survival seemed daunting, for the path ahead was shrouded in mystery, with the potential for passion and peril in equal measure.

[zorkaya-moved]

"Can I kiss you?" : )

@prefectess

Words cannot describe the beauty that Yuuna shows in the eyes of an artist such as Morozova. The songs that leave her lips are always making people listen and her voice would make the royalty wish for her presence like a songbird in a cage, but little will they know that with a cage they’ll bring a snake that can bite and end their lives. It makes one wonder how much beauty hides danger behind Miyazaki’s eyes. The green apples will not come close to that bright and beautiful green that she witnesses before her very own golden eyes now. Don’t they say honey with apple slices tastes exceptionally good? It might be why they are such a wonderful fit together, standing as both beauties and artists of their own. What does this sunflower hide behind such bright colors, taking in the rays of sunshine? It makes the winter wonder as she wants to uncover every single secret.

Yuuna is new, unexplored, untamed, untouched. It makes one wonder how would she fare in the world of Twisted Wonderland. This plane of existence must be so different to her from the culture, to names, to languages, to products, but she holds her post and she stands up proud while keeping up her smiles. They aren’t true, but they are a showcase of her own strength. She is protective. There is a saying from where she’s come from: a smile can be your most dangerous weapon. Miyazaki seems to use her smile exceptionally well in situations that called for it while withholding back enough information to not question her too much but also know there is something there beneath the surface.

It excites her, it mesmerizes her, it makes her long for these secrets but also for closeness to someone who seems to understand the need for survival through hiding the danger away. The sharp looks she’s given once in a while, the words spoken with more confidence than ever, the moments where the truth would slip out and it would only make Zarina want more. The greed continues to manifest, baring its fangs when close enough to Yuuna but when she does not look. Golden eyes shine with appreciation of the other as she asks that small inquiry. As if a princess has finally given up on her prince, instead of wishing to befriend and remain with the dragon. How beautiful of her to go down this road despite the warning signs of deceit and lies, a tango danced with the music of others’ cries and fearful whimpers. The shadows love the Moon but will the sunflower change itself to become a moonflower?

“ Are you sure you won’t regret it? ” Zarina reaches out to caress her cheeks with the back of her hand, letting the knuckles kiss her skin almost in a feather-like notion. A careful caress, all to prove how important this inquiry was despite how hushed her voice sounded. The privacy of inquiry underlines the importance of Yuuna’s choice. Even if her tone remains velvety and tempting, she doesn’t not move away or closer as to not confuse the other. On the contrary, she is alluring by not doing anything and inviting the other to do the first step just to see if she truly means it or not. Ever the tease, Zarina’s red lips curl into a small (yet slightly amused) smile. What will the treasure of this college do? Crowley is such a fool for letting her walk around so freely. She might as well wish to steal her away from this place, not allow her to return home if she does move forward and capture her lips. It’ll be too late. “ They say one taste of me then nobody compares. ” She could ruin so many men and women for her with one kiss alone.

“ I don’t mind, ” she continues while glancing at the golden locks that she starts to twirl around her index finger after finishing her tender caress. Despite how colder her hands were compared to Yuuna’s, the tenderness in her touch is unmistakable. It would’ve been better if Miyazaki settled down on her lap, letting her wrap her hands around her waist and indulge in her warmth all the more. She isn’t a good person, she is messed up in the head and she is immoral despite how she presents herself before camera. Survivor erased the need for morality and the need for shame, she is all too honest in the primal desires she has. Right now, it is the wish to kiss Yuuna herself, but she is also all too patient in making the other want it more, kissing her first. It’s a dance of tease and taunt, the tugging here and there until the control of the other will snap. It’ll be a gorgeous end of a spectacle. It makes her want to hear Yuuna’s replies all the more. She is exceptional. She didn’t feel the same way with Kai before. Her eyes are glued to the allure of Yuuna’s lips and to the sound of her voice. Her own gaze softens without her understanding, lacking the same cruelty that it showed to others. Instead, it was more teasing and playful like a cat would do when trying to show affection while playing around. “ If you want to, kiss me right now, but I won’t take responsibility for ruining all other people who you might kiss in the future, Yuuna. I will leave you breathless, are you sure about that? ”

[snowthepimp]

1. fairytale

“Princess!”

Prince Usher had traveled across the deep blue seas, the dark forests, and the fiery pits of lava to save Princess Lena, his future wife, from the killer dragon that held her captive. The prince was able to move through the big castle without waking up the fiery dragon. For now.

After searching in every room for his princess, he finds her in the biggest room of all. Walking closer to her, he could see that she was laying down on a bed fit for a queen. Her eyes were closed as she held onto a beautiful bouquet of pink roses. Her favorite flower.

“She looks so beautiful.. So peaceful,” he whispered to himself. “You don’t have to worry any longer. I’m here to save you.”

Prince Usher caresses Princess Lena’s cheek as he continued to take in her beauty. He leaned in near her face, ready to kiss her. The kiss was soft, and lasted a few seconds. Prince Usher wanted the kiss with his future wife to last forever.

Being woken up from the sweet and gentle kiss, Lena smiles as her eyes flutter open. She was happy to see such a handsome man standing before her. She was happy to be free. After a long twenty years, she was finally able to live the life she always dreamed of.

“My hero!” Princess Lena swooned with gratitude. She jumped into the arms of Prince Usher, holding onto to him tightly, never wanting to let go of her new true love. “You’ve come to save me! How could I ever thank you?”

“Become my wife so we can be king and queen of Far Far Away Land,” he told her with excitement building in every word. “We can rule the kingdom and start a family. Just you and me.” Princess Lena smiled at the thought of the idea. She couldn’t think of anything she wanted more.

In the distance, they could hear the dragon waking up. It roared as if it could sense something was happening in the castle— the fire it breathed was not too far behind it. The couple was now in trouble.

“Hurry!” Princess Lena said in a frantic tone. “We must leave before Toola the dragon finds us!”

“Yes, my love. But first, one more kiss.” He smiled at her before leaning into her once again. The two kissed once more before running towards the front doors of the castle, trying to escape— — — —

“Girl, you aight?” Usher asks Lena. Caught staring into the distance, she comes out of her day dream to look over at him. “I been callin your name for a minute now.” He chuckles.

“Oh, sorry.” Lena chuckled nervously, cheeks turning red from embarrassment. “Did I zone out again?” Usher nodded at her question, mesmerized by how cute she looked when she would get shy. “That’s been happening a lot lately.”

”Livin’ in a fairytale world, huh?”

Lena sighs. “You have no idea.”

AN: This was kinda inspired by Shrek lol. Shoutout to @fqiriez for the princess idea.

Also. I know I’m like a week late but y’all will deal! Okay? Okay. Lol, anyway. Y’all enjoy!

[sondepoch]

Dance (Diavolo x Reader)

Of all the arts, dance is the most wonderful. And of all the entertainers that Lord Diavolo has seen in his time on the throne, you know that you will be the one to capture his interest. The art of dance is simply too beautiful, and you are simply too good at it. But while Diavolo doubtlessly appreciates your skill, he seems to be developing an interest in something else: you.

~Oneshot

MASTERLIST

It's about the movement. The hips as they trace the most exotic of shapes; the hands as they push and pull like the tides; the back as it arches over a bridge of emotion.

It's about the expression. The eyes as they lock with every viewer; the breathing as it falls in line with the beat; the sultry smiles as they disappear quicker than they arrive.

It's about the energy. The flames of passion that burn inside; the overwhelming zeal that overcomes all exhaustion; the eternal spirit of vivacity that never truly stops.

Dance.

Your eyes burn with passion at the very word, a sudden itch to break out into movement overwhelming your senses. But this is not the time for that. You keep your body perfectly still as you walk forward, each step taken so gracefully that it looks like you're floating.

"You are nervous," Barbatos comments, halting before the door that will doubtlessly lead you to the demon lord. He glances back at you from the corner of his eye.

To the ordinary observer, his face is perfectly placid: not a drop of emotion anywhere on the flawless skin. But you are a dancer, trained in the art of expression. Even he cannot hide the soft affection that lurks in the deep greens of his eyes.

"I am," You respond. "But only because I have not yet begun."

The edges of his lips curve upward at that, and Barbatos pushes open the door leading inside the hall. It's almost entirely empty, sparsely decorated with the skulls of various animals, and on another occasion, you might stop to marvel at them—but not right now. After all, why would you look at the bones of the dead when something much more magnificent and very much alive stands right in front of you?

Your eyes purposefully rise from the butler's shoulder, stealing a glance at the demon lord that you've seen so many sculptures of.

He is even more majestic in the flesh.

Lord Diavolo's presence is overwhelming. You can feel his gaze on you as you train your eyes on the floor, respectfully bowing as low as you can manage. It's a practiced move, one your body learned to perfection when you were just a child, but you can't help but think that bowing has never been more important in your life than now.

"Rise," Lord Diavolo orders, his deep voice filling the hall. It almost sounds like music, you think, quietly realizing that it would be the most whole sound you've ever danced to. Beautiful, rich music.

"Look at me."

You raise your eyes.

Millennia of training have made it such that your neutral face truly is expressionless, all your emotion reserved for when your body breaks forth into dance. But it's never been more difficult to keep a still face than now, as you try to hide your awe. The prince's eyes are unlike anything you've ever seen: burning a brilliant orange, bright as amber but dipped in bronze all the same, two intense suns that seem to light up the room when you look into them.

The eyes of a king.

You maintain your neutral expression, not failing to recognize the way the demon lord stares at you for longer than is necessary, likely trying to make you uncomfortable. But you know that it's simply a ruse to see if you will break, as the many who have come before you.

You remain still, unflinching as the prince observes you.

If what Barbatos has told you is true, then this is the moment where the prince makes his first decision: whether to give you a chance or not. It is an honor to entertain the demon lord, acting king of the Devildom. Only one in a thousand make it past this threshold, and many of your childhood teachers had been turned away by this man's father, told that their hearts were too weak to properly hold the demon lord's interest.

But after a moment, Lord Diavolo's eyes lose the cold, calculating look that attempts to see into the soul you've hidden away so carefully, and the oranges fade into a softer shade, one of acceptance and anticipation.

"Dance."

The first test is passed.

The moment the word falls from the prince's lips, the sound of his command is replaced by the jingle of the bells laced around your feet.

You see his eyes widen, evidently not having noticed that they were even there in the first place—though that's more a testament to your personal skill than the demon lord's own attention to detail.

Where you had once held your feet perfectly steady, letting them practically melt into the ground as you walked and hid the presence of the chimes that wrap around your ankles, you now set them free, embracing the movement that you yearned for not five minutes ago. Your legs jump and lift and kick and spin, every motion accompanied by a particular sound that forms the rhythm to which your arms move. You close your eyes, allowing your feet to fall into a new beat, one that is eternally changing, as is fit for someone who wishes to eternally entertain a prince.

You forget the fear you had when entering this room—why were you nervous in the first place? Of all the arts, dance is the most wonderful. And of all the entertainers that Lord Diavolo has seen in his time on the throne, you know you will be the one to capture his interest. For even if he does not care for the personality you have hidden away, it is impossible to lose interest in the art of dance. Particularly, your dance.

A confident smile springs to your lips as you lock eyes with the demon lord. He hides his expressions well, even better than Barbatos. But none can hide from a dancer. You are one with expression, and only the dead can keep secrets from you. The silent wonder in Lord Diavolo's eyes as he watches your body move sets your insides afire with bliss, heart blazing with euphoria.

You turn your body, breaking eye contact with the prince in favor of returning your attention to your dance. You do not move to a routine, or any preset motions that inhibit your ability to be free. No, the dance you perform for Lord Diavolo is unlike one the world has ever seen. Unlike one you have ever seen.

It is a dance fit for a king: masterful, unique, and utterly irreplicable.

Your clothes move perfectly around you, a second skin that adds flourish to your movements. You utilize every fabric on your body to enhance your dance. Nothing is wasted; nothing is forgotten. Even the single earring that dangles from your left ear is purposeful, moving to the beat as your neck arches.

Perfection.

A hand thrust outward raises the white silk draped around your shoulders up, and it falls delicately as your arm withdraws, only for the same process to repeat on your other arm. All the while, the loose fabric of your pants fills with air, lifting and dropping to make you look less like a demon and more like a magnificent dove, flapping your wings in the most mesmerizing dance Lord Diavolo has ever seen.

You spin, relishing in the way the tips of your hair fly up as you do so. The single earring on your left ear dangles dangerously, and you can tell that Lord Diavolo is waiting for it to fall, waiting for you to make a mistake that will compel him to send you out of his throne room, yet the pearl only taunts him, swaying like a pendulum as your body arches seductively.

No.

You pull yourself back, drawing your body into a spin to cover up what would have been a move far too bold for someone of your stature, returning your dance to the quick jumps and deft movements that flaunt your agility, continuing on in that fashion.

By the time the hour has ended, there are droplets of sweat running down your face, falling onto the stone floor that your bare feet never touch for too long.

But you're far from tired.

Every movement is exhilarating, muscles only burning brighter with need as you flex them and withdraw, every fiber of your being longing to do more.

But Lord Diavolo stops you.

"Enough."

The word rings loudly in the room, and the chime of the bells around your ankles isn't heard once after his order falls upon your ears, your body instantly moving to obey as you spin into a bow, low on one knee as you touch the floor with your hands and keep your eyes closed.

You don't need to look at the prince to know that he is still entirely enraptured by your performance.

"Barbatos, let us leave. It is time for the student council meeting."

You keep your gaze pointed at the ground to avoid any potential offense to the demon lord, not daring to take so much as a heavy breath in his presence. The sound of receding footsteps ends with the slam of a door, and you stay looking at the ground for a little while longer, before you consider it safe to raise your head.

Stunning, you think, gazing at the throne where the demon lord sat, watching you. Truly a throne fit for a king.

You glance around the room, eyes darting from skeleton to skeleton. At the front, on the right side and closest to the prince's throne, is the skull of a dragon. It's immense, easily double your height and twice as long, and it almost makes you wish you were older, so that you might have seen one of these magnificent creatures in the flesh.

Next to the dragon skull is the head of what you can only imagine to be a sea serpent, from the winding neck that has partially broken off. Behind that is the infamous Kraken, and further behind are a series of small unicorns—you know from your history lessons that those are the bones of the last ones to walk the hells—and you're just about to glance at the skulls on the other side when the sound of a door opening falls upon your ears.

You quickly turn your head back to the ground, staring forward with your usual unreadable mask adorned.

"I saw that," A voice calls, somewhat mischievous. And the laid-back inflection of the words confirms that the man is alone, and you spring to your feet, dropping your mask of composure.

"Barbatos!" You exclaim, turning around with a wide grin. The tension you had in your shoulders when you both were entering is now gone, and nothing restrains your usual cheer. You run over to him, the bells on your feet jingling with every step, and throw your arms around his neck, nearly tackling him to the floor.

"Easy," He murmurs into your ear, still reserved compared to you, but you can see a slight twinkle in his eyes as he holds you. "Lord Diavolo instructed me to see you back to your quarters. He seems to be worried that you tired yourself out earlier."

"Didn't you tell him that—"

"Of course I informed him that you would never tire so easily. But the prince has never had a dancer for his entertainer, so he did not believe me."

You chuckle at that, understanding where Lord Diavolo is coming from. Perhaps, when you were younger, you might have been tired after a full hour of nonstop movement. But now? You often practice from early morning till late night, challenging yourself to never leave your feet on the ground for more than a few seconds at a time for as long as there are demons up and about.

"And did the prince say anything else?" You ask quietly, following Barbatos as he leads you out of the room. "Like…" You swallow, bashfully turning away.

"Do you really need to hear it?" Barbatos lets out a low chuckle, pausing in his footsteps to look back at you. "If you must know, yes, Lord Diavolo has requested to see you tomorrow as well."

"Yes!" You shout, jumping. Glee washes over you like a tidal wave, encompassing all your senses as you ignore every thought of propriety to wrap Barbatos in another crushing hug, causing him to momentarily stagger as you cling to him like a koala.

"Cease this. You are heavy enough as is, and those bells on your feet add far too much weight. Gods know how you manage to walk in those," He mutters, pushing you away from him as he leads you to what you imagine must be your chambers.

But even as he feigns a look of displeasure, you can see the way Barbatos suppresses a smile at your antics, and when he catches you staring at him, he turns his face away altogether, knowing that you can see past his facade.

"Anyway," He coughs, using a key to unlock a stony door located close to the throne room. "This will be your room. You will only be staying in here if Lord Diavolo explicitly tells you to rest or if there are guests in the throne room. Otherwise, you will be expected to remain in the throne room at all times, just as you had remained when we left."

You nod your head, following along.

"Make sure that you are ready at a moment's notice to entertain Lord Diavolo. There will be times when he will call for you, and you will not be prepared. Should such a thing happen, drop everything immediately and go to him. He will know if you keep him waiting, and he will replace you instantly should you be insolent enough to do so."

Barbatos's tone is sharp, his instructions painfully meticulous and to-the-point as he continues to fill your ears with explanations of how to behave around the prince, how to act when in the presence of others, how to conduct yourself while in the palace.

"And remember," He tells you, voice slightly softer. "Do your best, but should you make any mistake, come to me. No matter what, I will fix it." The demon brings a hand to your cheek, forcing you to meet his uncharacteristically gentle eyes. "There are no lengths I won't go to for the sake of your happiness."

"I know, Barbatos." You wrap him into a hug. "You've proven that."

***

Diavolo is quick to learn the extent of your capabilities.

The first day, where he had you dance for an hour and then sent you to your room to rest? That was a one-time thing. On the second day, he crossed his arms in front of you and ordered you with that bellowing voice of his to "Dance," and so you did. Only that time, he did not stop you. Nor did he take his eyes off of you. From morning to evening, you danced for him, transitioning from a high-paced rhythm to a slow ballet in the middle to even a human-style dance at the end, which seemed to hold him particularly enthralled.

Only when the demon called Lucifer came in to speak with him did he permit you to take a temporary break, but his eyes lit up when he saw the grace with which you fell to your knees, quickly realizing that despite having danced for hours, you still had energy in you.

Since then, he hasn't held back in the slightest, ordering you to dance in every spare moment he has.

Barbatos tells you that it's a good thing, that it means you've managed to give him something to look forward to in his otherwise boring life. That you've blessed his immortal curse with your presence, and he's finally found something he can enjoy.

Yet the longer you dance for Lord Diavolo, the more his eyes take the shape of a predator.

"Dance," He orders you today, not hiding the way his eyes skirt over your body, lingering on the spots of exposed skin. It makes you shudder, the way he gazes at you as if you're a feast—and yet it sets your senses aflame all the same, and when your feet begin moving, the dance you perform is more sensual than anything you've ever shown this man.

You close your eyes purposefully, drawing in a sharp breath that you make certain Diavolo can hear as you arch your back, leaning back until your hair sweeps the floor, before pushing upward and using the momentum to pull you into a spin.

As your body turns, though, your eyes drop from Diavolo and you catch the gaze of Barbatos as he stares at you in shock, never having seen you move so suggestively.

Your eyes widen momentarily, and for a moment, you almost worry that you'll fall off-beat, but then Barbatos's expression is masked and you force yourself to complete the turn, propelling your leg forward as you fall in rhythm and try to transition the dance into something more light. More childish. More appropriate.

"Stop," Lord Diavolo orders. You spin into a bow once more, one knee on the ground as you stare at the stones on your feet, wondering whether the demon lord saw how you almost slipped up.

For the first time since you began dancing for him, your body feels tense with fear as you try to calm the sick feeling in your stomach.

"Leave us, Barbatos."

There's a moment of hesitation—and you can almost sense Barbatos's immediate fury at the prince's words for making such a cruel command. For forcing him to leave the room, for forcing him to leave you alone to handle the prince's whims. And yet, the demon butler can do nothing but obey, and you hear his footsteps trail out of the room, punctuated by the sound of a door closing with such gentleness that you can sense the resentful mockery behind the gesture.

"Rise. And speak. Does having Barbatos here disturb you?" The demon lord's sharp gaze bores into you as you rise to stand in a single, fluid motion. The man's expression is something between disdain and indifference, and you realize that you have no clue what he is thinking—and that the truth will have to suffice.

"No, my lord."

"You looked at Barbatos and changed your dance. Why?"

You remain silent for a moment, a single millisecond of hesitation that Lord Diavolo recognizes. Your mask only crumbled for a second, but that was all he needed.

His face flashes with amusement.

"Ah. You did not wish for your brother to see you perform such movements."

You keep your face still, perfectly expressionless as Lord Diavolo lets out a throaty chuckle. Genuine amusement seems to appear on his features. For the first time, you're relieved for your utterly unreadable face, because you know that if not for it, you would be blushing in embarrassment at having compromised your dance for such a foolish reason, and the demon lord would only laugh louder at your state.

"Very well. Your heart was in the correct place. You dance for me, not him. It is not fitting for Barbatos to bear witness to what you wish to present to my eyes." The prince stares at you thoughtfully, studying your blank face. "Would it please you if he remains out of the room in the future?"

"I am pleased by whatever my lord would prefer."

"How boring," He comments, though his eyes are filled with amusement. For the first time, he looks at you as if you are more than a body moving and dancing to his will, seeing that there is indeed a person inside.

But he does not forget why you are here.

"Dance," He commands.

And without your brother staring at your back, you don't restrain any of your charm as your movements resume, slow and sensual.

You dance late into the night, the purple silks around you flying brilliantly as you make your movements as big as possible, flaunting your confidence as every movement falls into place. The jut of your hips, the batting of your eyes, the smirk on your lips. It's all intentional, and though the game you're playing is a dangerous one, it's one that Lord Diavolo seems to enjoy, for he keeps you by his side longer than he ever has before.

When he finally instructs you to stop, his instructions are clear: "Tell your brother he will not be joining us from now on."

But the words that follow ring louder in your mind, accelerating the beating of your heart in a way that exercise has never done.

"And when you come dance for me tomorrow, I want you to dance for me the same way you just did."

***

Barbatos's scowl the next morning is unlike anything you've ever seen before.

Unlike the usual mornings, where he comes to your room and helps you adorn the traditional garb of demon dancers while casually talking to you, today, he remains dead silent as he pulls the black fabric over your shoulders.

He's still putting forth his best effort to help you, tying the finishing knot with more skill than you've ever managed to procure, but the air around him is angry as he works, and you can tell that he resents the idea of you dancing for Lord Diavolo without him there to make sure that you're not being taken advantage of.

"Don't be mad," You tell him when he steps back, crossing his arms and leaving you to tie the string of bells around your feet. "There's nothing either of us can do."

Silence.

"Barbatos!"

You groan when you look up to see his body angled away from you, mouth set in a firm frown. You finish tying the bells around your first foot and move on to the second.

"You can be awfully stubborn, do you know that?"

More silence.

You internally roll your eyes, rushing to finish tying the knot before you stand, testing that both sets of bells are equally tight around your legs.

But more importantly—

You step forward to wrap Barbatos in a tight hug from behind, making sure that he can feel every emotion in your body as you squeeze him. "I'll be fine," You tell him. "You've taught me how to look after myself."

There's not much time left after that, given that Lord Diavolo can never be kept waiting, but just as you're about to exit the room, Barbatos grabs your arm.

"Be careful," He warns. "Don't do anything too suggestive, and don't—"

You place a finger to your big brother's lips, silencing him instantly. "I won't."

"If he makes you uncomfortable, call my name and I will be there instantly." He clasps your hands, his solemn expression especially heavy. "Promise me."

You sigh softly at his overprotectiveness, running a hand through his dark green hair. "I trust you, Barbatos." You pull back. "But I also trust Lord Diavolo."

Before he can say another word to you, you pull away from his grasp and set yourself in a brisk walk, rushing to make your way to the throne room.

As you've been doing for nearly a month now, you enter without a word and move forward, taking steps so delicate that the bells on your feet are still as you silently glide to your usual spot.

You haven't even bowed by the time Lord Diavolo has started speaking, the same word—dance—rolling off his lips. He says it so smoothly that you feel he was born to say it, born to command you to captivate him for all eternity.

The word still lights your blood with the same fire it did before, and your lips curve upward as you drag your leg out and draw a circle with it, leaning forward and pulling your body dangerously close to Lord Diavolo's for a single moment before withdrawing.

That's a dangerous game you're playing, he seems to say with his devilish smile. But for once, you aren't forced to maintain a blank mask as you boldly gaze upon the king. No, the dance has set you free, and all your emotions come rushing to the surface of your face in the name of expression, including the wicked smirk that tells the prince you want to play this game.

"Stop," Lord Diavolo orders, and though you're surprised, you fall to a bow as usual.

"Rise." You do.

"Come forward." Two steps.

"More." Two more steps.

"Closer." One step.

The prince pauses, studying the distance between the two of you. There's hardly any, now, and if you reach your arm forward, you can actually touch him for how close his body is to yours.

He leans back in his chair, resting his chin on his elbow as he studies you up close, taking his time to look over your features.

Panic surfaces in the back of your mind, suddenly understanding that this is how the prince means to play.

"Dance," He orders, now confident that he has won.

And while you are now restricted in your movements, limited to how far you can push yourself, you move to tell him no, he has not won. Because the caged bird sings loudest, and now, with no distance to sully it, the song of the bells on your feet rings clearer than the prince has ever heard.

***

Black? Or White?

It's a simple question, but a dilemma all the same, and you cross your arms as you stand in your underwear, debating which pajamas you should wear to sleep.

The black is softer, you reason with yourself. But the white fits better.

You hold the different shirts against your body, checking how you look in the mirror in case it has any answers that will end your internal crisis.

Alas, your reflection seems to be no help to you, and you groan, tossing both sets of clothes onto the floor as you flop onto your bed, wondering if you'll simply sleep in your underwear instead.

Your pondering is cut short when a burning sensation fills your heart: something warm, fuzzy, and incredibly royal as it pulsates throughout the rest of your body.

The prince, you realize instantly, not quite sure how you know that this is him calling, but there isn't a trace of doubt in your mind. The prince is summoning you.

Blindly grabbing the shirt closest to you (which so happens to be the black one), you fumble with the buttons, trying to undo them so that you can pull the fabric over your head and look at least semi-decent when you run to the throne room to answer his summons. But just as your fingers have undone the first button, Barbatos's words to you when you first arrived ring out in your ears.

There will be times when he will call for you, and you will not be prepared. Should such a thing happen, drop everything immediately and go to him. He will know if you keep him waiting, and he will replace you instantly should you be insolent enough to do so.

You drop the shirt, glancing down at your body. Your most private bits are covered up by underwear, but…

No. You shake your head, yanking the door open and breaking out into a jog to arrive in the throne room before Lord Diavolo realizes that you were about to keep him waiting. There's no point in going back now.

You force your face to remain blank as you pull open the door, internally relieved that you didn't run into Barbatos along the way, and Lord Diavolo's eyes light up the moment he sees you. It is late now, and whatever filter the prince usually has is gone as he rests his chin on his fist, expression bright as ever.

"Ah! I was concerned that you might not have sensed my magic, but it appears you have." He smiles at you, eyes looking almost kind as they remain trained on your face. "I see you were in a bit of a predicament before arriving here."

His gaze flits down, and you suddenly realize that he knew you were changing even when he summoned you. The mischievous smile on his face says it all.

"You no longer need to await my order to speak in my presence," He informs you. "I wish to hear your thoughts. How do you feel about being here before me?"

"It is the highest honor, my lord."

"Diavolo," He corrects, clicking his tongue.

"Pardon?"

"Call me Diavolo."

"I see. Then, Diavolo…" You test the word on your tongue, not missing the way the demon lord's ears perk up when you say his name. "It is the highest honor to serve you."

"Even if you're in this state of dress? Without those bells on your feet?" He is amused with your attempted indifference to the situation, you can tell. No doubt, he recognizes that this is just a facade and that you're dying on the inside. But nonetheless, you find a response for him.

"A dancer can dance in anything," You declare. "The garb I usually wear is one that enhances the visual appeal of a specific style of movements. There are dances that complement these clothes as well, my lo—Diavolo."

The demon smiles at your correction, but he sees through your words.

"You are a very composed person," He comments. "Tell me, my royal dancer, why do you pretend like you have no emotions?"

A taunting question. Lord Diavolo may appear relaxed and comfortable, but his mind is sharp as ever.

The game the two of you play never stops. Whether you are simply speaking or are dancing, there is the eternal toying with each other, testing each other to see how far the other will go.

"A dancer must save their emotions for dance," You respond.

Dance, and the ones they love.

Your natural smile will only reveal itself to two people: your brother, and whoever may capture your heart.

"Do you like having your emotions surface as you dance?" Diavolo asks, his eyes never leaving yours.

"I love it."

"I see," He leans back in his chair. "Then," He begins, and you already know what comes next.

"Dance."

***

He's trying to crack your shell, you realize.

He's trying to make you show expression outside of when you dance.

And, if you're honest, Diavolo is doing a damn good job of it.

You have to fight your body with all your might to suppress a blush, but it takes nearly all your energy, and you almost begin to worry about what will happen when you have to dance later.

"Are you uncomfortable?" Diavolo asks, and although he has the biggest grin on his face, you suspect that he will release you if you tell him you are.

But a ridiculous mix of stubbornness and actually wanting to remain on his lap compels you to shake your head, holding your body even stiffer as he settles a hand over the side of your waist, effectively caging you in.

"You don't seem very comfortable," He murmurs, almost pouting. "Relax."

You force your muscles to lose a bit of tension, though it's nearly impossible when you realize, once again, that you're literally sitting on the lap of the prince of hell.

"Tell me about your childhood," Diavolo begins. "We have some time before Barbatos expects that guests will arrive. And I expect you already know everything about me. So tell me. What was it like, growing up with Barbatos?"

You do relax a little bit at that, noting the childish grin that Diavolo wears as he not-so-subtly asks you if you have any embarrassing stories of your older brother. Alas, you have to shake your head and deny the prince any answers.

"Barbatos and I were only together for a few centuries before we split apart. I left to study dance when I turned two-hundred."

"Impressive," Diavolo mutters, eyes lighting up as he imagines all that time spent training in a single art. "Did you always know you wanted to pursue dance?"

You nod your head, a small smile forming on your lips.

Expression!

Something screams at the back of your mind, reprimanding you for losing the facade of inexpression that dancers are expected to adorn when they step into their garb, but you can't bring yourself to turn your face blank as Diavolo looks at you so hopefully, and you simply opt to answer his question and leave the soft smile on your face.

You win this one, Diavolo.

"Not always. I thought I would grow up training in sorcery and magic, like Barbatos. But I was never as skilled like he was, and my only gift seemed to be the ability to dance."

Diavolo nods his head, leaning further back in his throne. Meanwhile, you make yourself comfortable in his lap, squirming lightly on his thighs before your bottom is rested more comfortably atop them.

"My family didn't want me to pursue dance. They argued that it had no future. That I would be dropped into the lowest rungs of society. But Barbatos believed in me, and he personally helped find me an instructor and paid for all my lessons until I could finally make a living out of it." You smile, remembering how he, quite literally, changed the course of your life. "He's done so much for me, just so that I could be happy. I owe him everything."

Diavolo remains quiet, his eyes seeing you but not quite seeing you as he gazes at your (h/c) hair, one side streaked with the telltale patch of teal that both you and your brother share.

"Barbatos is a good man," The prince decides. "And an even better brother, it would seem."

You smile, slightly proud of your brother for having earned the praise of the demon lord of hell. You open your mouth to respond, but before a sound can leave your lips, a knock echoes through the hall.

"Come in," Diavolo calls, and it opens, revealing the very man you were both talking about.

"The guests have—" He breaks off in the middle of his sentence, eyes narrowing the moment he sees you seated so willingly on Diavolo's lap. The temperature in the room seems to drop by ten degrees. When Barbatos begins speaking again, he doesn't bother hiding the raw fury in his words, only further emphasized by their shortness. "The guests have arrived. They will be in this room shortly."

"Wonderful," Diavolo responds, not reacting at all to the barely concealed growl at the end of Barbatos's words. "Send them in."

You watch as your brother nods curtly, closing the door with far more force than is necessary, and you sigh internally. You would never be bold enough to act so callously around Diavolo, but the man seems like he was almost expecting this, and he only sighs when the echo of the door slam has faded.

"And Barbatos is awfully overprotective of you," Diavolo mutters, a pout forming on his face. "I expect he'll be yelling at me later tonight.

"Yelling at you?" You gasp, never having realized that Barbatos would dare reprimand the prince.

Diavolo nods his head. "Wish me luck," He mutters, using both his hands to lift you by the waist off his lap. He sets you down right next to him, a silent stay there implied as guests begin to file in.

The second they lay their eyes upon you, whispers begin to fill the air.

"Look at that clothing! I've never seen anything like it! What kind of dance do you think they are going to show us?"

"Oh, how exotic! They look positively ravishing! I could just scoop them up and eat them!"

"Why do you think the prince chose to bring his entertainer out? Do you think he might keep this one?"

You don your emotionless facade once more, steeling yourself to help you ignore the rumors that the demons are doing an awful job of whispering. Diavolo glances at you from the corner of his eye every now and then, but you hold your face neutral, and he relaxes once he sees that you can manage yourself.

"My lord!" A noble cries, approaching the throne. The man bows and rises, greeting the prince. "So, the rumors are true! This dancer has caught your interest!"

You ignore the noble and remain facing forward, watching those around you. For a moment, you make eye contact with Barbatos, but neither you nor he has the luxury of letting your emotions surface right now, so the conversation he doubtlessly wants to have with you will have to wait for later.

"Dance for us, child!" The noble looks at you expectantly, eyes bright but foolish, and you have to hide your irritation. You ignore him entirely, staring forward blankly.

He frowns at your disobedience. "What are you waiting for? Dance!"

"They only dance for me," Diavolo interrupts smoothly, the words sharp as a knife as he smiles at the noble who dared command his personal dancer.

He looks at you. A single glance, and that's all it takes to prepare you for his next word.

"Dance."

And you do, effortlessly hypnotizing the entire room the moment you begin moving.

But not once do you meet the eyes of the audience. No, just as Diavolo said earlier: you only dance for him. The watching eyes all around are nothing to you. Not even distractions. You dip your head low, raising your gaze on the upbeat as a smile spreads across your features.

All you care about is him.

And he knows it.

***

You've still yet to decide what you like most about living the palace.

Is it the fact that, at last, you can see your brother and enjoy his presence daily? Is it the fact that you no longer need to worry about food or bills? Is it the fact you are able to do what you love all day, every day, for the most important demon in the world?

No, you think to yourself.

It's the showers.

You hum quietly, turning the faucet off as you reach for a towel. It's soft and fluffy against your skin, and you momentarily wonder if you like the towels better than the showers, but no, you decide that your favorite thing about the palace is still the former.

Not bothering to dry your wet hair, you wrap the towel around your figure and step out of the bathroom into your chambers, glancing around for the clothes you laid out.

Gray, you note, glancing at the faded color of the silken garments laid across your bed.

You run your hand over them, savoring the cool softness of the fabric, and you're just about to pull the shirt over your head when a familiar sense of magic beats through your body.

Oh no.

You bite your lip, realizing your predicament.

Diavolo is summoning you, a summons which you technically must answer immediately and without a moment's hesitation.

But all you're wearing is a towel.

You reach your hand forward for the cotton underwear you had laid out. Surely just wearing those won't count as disobedience to the crown, right?

Alas, fate is not on your side. Because the moment your fingers graze over the cotton, the sensation in your heart grows overwhelming, and then you know Diavolo wants you in front of him and now.

Praying that Barbatos doesn't run into you in the halls, you clutch the towel and sprint to the throne room with as much grace as you can muster, stepping inside with a look of pure concern written on your face.

"What's wrong?" Diavolo asks from the other end of the room. As usual, he wears that Cheshire-like smirk, and you once more realize that he was all too aware of your predicament when he summoned you.

"...Nothing," You finally mumble in response, averting your eyes.

"You know, if I were the type of person to jump to conclusions, I might think that you're embarrassed to be here in front of me in only a towel." Diavolo's words are teasing. Truthful, but teasing.

"You know, if I were the type of person to jump to conclusions, I might just think that you consciously summoned me while I was changing so that you could see me naked."

"Oh no," Diavolo responds, licking his lips. "That's a fact, love."

And suddenly, the confidence you had from before is gone, and you're left nothing but a blushing mess as you awkwardly try not to look Diavolo in the eye.

What happened to that emotionless facade? You wonder, only realizing now that you've begun to show your emotions to Diavolo. And that you've grown worse at hiding them.

What kind of dancer can't hide their emotions? You ask inwardly, and suddenly, your internal question becomes a challenge, and you force yourself to be confident. To be bold, to be sexy. You are a dancer, and it is in your nature to be able to become anything and everything in an instant: hiding a blush is trivial compared to the training you've been through.

Your hand flies to the part of the towel where it's tucked in, the only thing holding it up, but you tap it dangerously.

"So," You begin, an unconfident confidence taking over your senses as you stare at Diavolo. "Are you saying you want me to take this off?"

Diavolo's eyes raise at your offer, evidently not having expected you to respond so boldly to his earlier comments.

He studies your face, your so-obviously forced look of confidence as you resolutely stand in front of him, about to strip when he knows that you're completely nude underneath.

"Do not push yourself," He warns, but then you've taken his words as a challenge, and you rip the towel off your body, discarding it in a hasty throw away from your body.

For a moment, as the cold air hits your privates, you do regret your decision. You feel exposed. Vulnerable. Weak.

But then, you raise your eyes from the floor and you look up at Diavolo—and the way he stares at your body fills you with true confidence. His eyes are hungry as they skirt over every spot, hovering a bit longer over his favorite places, and you can see the way his muscles strain as he consciously restrains himself from moving to touch your body.

His mouth is partially open, and you can hear the quiet breath that leaves his mouth as his breath hitches, and then he's also looking back up at you with worry, concerned that you've pushed yourself too far for his sake and that he's made you uncomfortable. But the confidence you didn't have before now flows through your veins as you return his gaze, your eyes locked to each other in a way that screams desire.

"Can you—" Diavolo clears his throat, hearing how quiet his words were at first. But even when he begins speaking once more, his words are gentle. He's no longer commanding, but is asking. "Can you dance like this?"

You nod your head slowly, already imagining all the ways you can take advantage of your nudity to execute moves that would otherwise look ridiculous.

"I can."

"Then," He opens his mouth to say the word, but before he can even begin, your body has begun moving, and the sound is caught in his throat as he simply stares, utterly captivated by every movement, every bounce, every sway.

He's left frozen as he stares at your figure, dancing without any clothing or jewelry to distract him from your natural perfection. And in this moment, Diavolo is truly spellbound by the spell that is you, unable to move an inch as you single-handedly move enough for the both of you.

***

Barbatos always knows more than he lets on.

When you were a kid, he knew you wanted to learn dance even before you did. When you were older, he always seemed to pop up whenever you found yourself yearning for him. And even now, you're certain that he's aware of more than he's telling you, as he unfolds the brilliant blue silk in his hands and prepares to drape it around your shoulders.

"...You don't have anything to say to me?" You finally ask, raising a suspicious eyebrow. It's been over a week, now, and he hasn't said a single word about finding you seated on Diavolo's lap that one time. And you're quite certain that he has his suspicions about you dancing nude for the prince.

"Not at all," He responds, fastening the blue to your armlet. He turns around, inspecting your jewelry box, flashing you a cryptic smile. "Why? Should I be concerned?"

His smile remains subtle as he continues flitting through your earrings, lifting two—a topaz and a sapphire—and comparing them to the color of your garb before handing you the dangling sapphire, which you slip into your ear.

He walks behind you as you examine your figure in the mirror, pulling bits of cloth here and there until you look like a proper dancer, ethereal as you are refined.

You study Barbatos's expression. He's wearing his usual, enigmatic smile, but you don't detect any anger or upset in his eyes. If anything, his steps are lighter than usual, and he seems unbearably pleased as he begins walking you to the throne room, not seeming to care at all that he saw you sitting on the demon lord's lap not one week ago.

"Are you sure you don't have anything to say to me?" You call when he begins to walk away, the demon already three steps away from you. "Anything at all?" You bite your lip. You want him to chew you out, ask you about it, or even sulk angrily as he tends to do from time to time—you just want him to acknowledge what happened, or at least tell you why he's so okay with it.

"Follow your heart," The demon calls back, not even looking at you as he continues walking away.

The words make you blink, seemingly coming out of absolutely nowhere with zero context, and your face scrunches up as you try to figure out why in hell he would say something so random.

And as much as you want to chase after him to find out what in hell he means, you have a duty here, and your brother will have to wait.

Stupid Barbatos and his endless riddles.

"Diavolo?" You call, opening the door.

He isn't seated at his throne, but a quick scan of the room reveals that he's standing inside the mouth of the dragon skull, staring at the structure around him. He nods at you when you arrive, his usual smile overtaking his features as you walk forward.

"Join me," He calls out to you, offering his hand. You take it, letting him intertwine his fingers with yours. "When my father came to this room, he sat on this skull as a throne. Do you see that spot, at the top of the dragon's head, where it's slightly flat?" He points, and you nod. "Right there. Every day. I used to think it was the most uncomfortable thing in the world, but I suppose my father sat in it not because of the comfort, but because of the beauty, no?"

You take a step forward, marveling at the fossil now that you can see it up close.

"It is beautiful."

"Would you like to stand on it?" He asks, leaning his weight on one bone. "Stand on the place my father used to use as a throne?"

"No!" You decline swiftly, understanding that of all things, it would hardly be appropriate for the prince's entertainer to stand in what was used to be a sacred throne. But Diavolo must see the glimmer of hope in your eyes, because a second later he's muttering 'nonsense' under his breath and is lifting you onto the skull, holding you until you've managed to stabilize yourself on what you imagine must have been the dragon's snout.

"Oh my goodness," You gasp out loud, clutching the bone for support as you climb higher at Diavolo's encouragement.

"Be careful," He warns, but millennia of dance has taught you footwork too well for you to land in a weak foothold, and before long, you're at the top, even beyond where the throne supposedly was.

"Diavolo!" You gasp, laughing merrily. "Look! I'm—I'm—"

"I know," He says, a warm smile spreading across his face as he looks up at you, stepping back. "Do you think—" He breaks off, shaking his head. "No, never mind."

"What is it, Diavolo?"

He hesitates, staring at the bony skeleton you're standing on, but at the sight of your pleading eyes, he yields. "Do you think you could dance on that skeleton?"

You glance around. There are holes, and definite spaces that you'll need to jump over, but that's the nature of dance, is it not?

Your beaming smile answers his question, and Diavolo has to hold a hand up to stop you.

"Just for a few minutes, alright? I don't want to risk you injuring yourself, so come down quickly. But…" He trails off, sheepish eyes darting back down to the skeleton before they return to your figure.

"Dance."

And with that single order, the bells on your feet are brought to life once more, swinging and stepping as you practically fly over the dragon's spine. You jump back and forth, from side to side, stepping over hollows, bending your back over points, going as far as to do a front flip that lands you on the edge of the dragon's eye socket.

You detect a flicker of concern in Diavolo's eyes every now and then, but you don't doubt yourself. It's an unusual platform, but you're in control.

Step to step, your arm doesn't cut the air as it moves, but rather the air makes way for your arm and your limbs simply follow, your body swinging gracefully like an acrobat as you recall the centuries you spent working with master gymnasts, building upper body strength to pull your body through spins and twists that now make Diavolo gasp as you perform them for him.

But you don't forget his initial order, to not get carried away and to only go for a few minutes, so you continue making your way down the skull, dancing and jumping, reaching and pulling, until you swing out of the jaws of the dragon, landing perfectly in Diavolo's arms just as you planned.

Laughter spills from your lips on instinct as he holds you, and you realize that there's a slight blush on your face from how muscular the demon lord's arms are as he practically hugs you, but you savor the feeling.

"That looked far more reckless than I had anticipated," Diavolo confesses, though there's a reluctant smile on his lips. "But you seemed to enjoy yourself."

"That was wonderful," You respond, grinning as he sets your feet on the ground and releases you. But the earlier movement has your body itching for more, and you interlace your fingers with Diavolo's, subtly pushing him back into his throne.

"Say it," You tell him, cheeks flushed. From exercise or the hug, you don't know. All you're aware of is the overwhelming desire to keep moving.

"Dance," He whispers, sending the word to you like a kiss as he leans forward in his throne to watch you.

And you dance.

***

Barbatos insists on dressing you in red today.

"It's a beautiful color," He says as his excuse when you confront him, and while he's absolutely right on that front, you can't help but suspect that there's an ulterior motive that he has.

Trying to convince yourself that you're just overthinking things in your head, you watch as he selects a ruby for your earring, an expensive gift he had given you many millennia ago. The red gem has been carved into the shape of a stunning rose, something you usually wouldn't risk dancing in, but Barbatos insists on it as he fusses over your outfit, pulling cloths and fabrics into place with more effort than you've ever directed toward yourself.

"You look good," He finally comments, and though the words hardly count as praise, you know that Barbatos means them with all his heart.

"Thank you," You respond, opening the door. "Now, will you tell me what the special occasion is?"

But Barbatos shakes his head, maintaining the ruse that there is no 'special occasion.'

You suppress an urge to roll your eyes as you lead the way to Diavolo's throne room, thinking that if Barbatos was going to prepare you for something, he could have at least been a bit more subtle about it.

This morning, he had marched into your room nearly an hour early, ordering you to bathe and shampoo your hair with a handful of expensive soaps he handed to you. He answered no questions, frowning when you began asking too many, and threatened to withhold dessert from you if you continued to pester him. He then proceeded to dress you in your finest red garb, complementing it with black rather than another darker shade of red, and went as far as to dab perfume at your skin.

"I am not dumb," You blurt, once you're at the throne room door.

"You are not," Barbatos agrees, nodding.

"I know something is up," You clarify.

"As was my intention," Barbatos quips back, that aggravating smile back on his face. But before you can say another word, he silences you with a finger to your lips. "Just go along with it, will you?"

He hesitates, looking awkward and extremely uncomfortable for a moment, but then he sighs and seems to groan to himself, stepping forward as he awkwardly pulls his arms around you.

A hug, you realize, blinking. This is supposed to be a hug.

And it's perhaps the first one Barbatos has initiated in your entire lifetime together.

You hold back your gasp as you return his embrace, pressing his body close to yours and helping him out as you smile. And he pulls back, eyebrows furrowed just the slightest.

"Be safe, alright?" He seems to have an internal struggle for a moment, but one side wins out, and when he looks at you next, his eyes are soft. "I will always care for you."

You're about to respond, about to say something equally heartfelt and sweet, when a rush of magic bursts in your chest, and you have to clutch your brother's shoulders for support.

He calls out your name in a panicked breath, eyebrows furrowed as he looks down at you, and you laugh.

"My apologies," You smile bashfully. "I am still not quite used to the sensation of Diavolo summoning me. It's overwhelming, every time." You glance toward the door. "I suppose I should…"

Barbatos nods, flashing you another rare smile before turning around.

You push open the door to the throne room.

“Diavolo?” You call, glancing around.

He's not on his throne. Nor is he standing in the dragon skull. Nor is he standing in the skull of any other creature, or anywhere else in the room.

The magic in your heart beats once more, stronger this time, and you frown. This is doubtlessly the sensation of Diavolo calling you, so where is he? And why is he calling you if he's not here?

You're about to walk forward and take a better look around when the sensation nearly overwhelms you, your dancer's grace being the only thing that prevents you from stumbling onto the floor.

He's not here, you realize.

And just when you begin to wonder where he could be, you feel a weak tug on your heart, as if it's pulling you somewhere.

Follow your heart.

Barbatos had said that not long ago.

And like you've always done, you take his advice, following your heart out the throne room and down the hall. You attempt shouting Barbatos's name along the way for assistance, Diavolo's name spilling from your lips a little more often, but neither men respond, so you continue marching in the direction your heart pulls you, only stopping with you find yourself in front of a particularly majestic door.

You take a step back, taking in the full view of it.

Diavolo’s personal chambers.

Your breath hitches.

You wrap your fingers around the handle, hesitating to open it. There's no going back, either way. Should you turn back now, this opportunity will never arise again. But should you enter, your relationship with Diavolo will certainly change. After all, these are his personal chambers.

Follow your heart.

Except that your heart is no longer tugging you to or fro, not even weakly. You bite your lip, concern imprinted on your mind. You want Barbatos here, so your big brother can give you advice and tell you what to do. Or if you can't have him, you want Diavolo, so that he can laugh and make everything better and—

Oh.

Realization dawns in your eyes.

You want Diavolo.

And not just in the wholesome, friendly way. You want to be able to run your fingers along his muscles, to be able to play with his fiery red hair, to be able to look into those bright eyes until you can decide what shade of orange they are, never caring about what he'll think of you for staring so long.

You want Diavolo.

All hesitation deserting your body, those words echo through your mind. And you twist the golden handle down, opening the doors to the prince's private chambers and entering.

He lives like a king.

That's your first foolish thought, before the notion strikes you that with his father lying dormant, he is the acting king of the Devildom. And once your immediate stupor induced by the sheer lavishness of his quarters passes, a voice speaks.

"You came."

Your head turns to the source of the voice instantly, and you see a large bed pressed against the center of the wall on your left, the shape of a familiar figure still buried inside.

"You...summoned me," You say, trying to justify why you entered the prince's personal chambers. At the back of your mind, there is a moment of panic—you worry that this was a test, and you chose wrong by entering—but Diavolo's next words reveal that it is quite the opposite.

"I have summoned many entertainers to this room, but none have ever dared step inside. You are the first," Diavolo says, but then he corrects himself: "You are the only."

Your fingers twitch at your sides when he says that, the possessive tone in his voice not lost upon you.

"It is my honor," You say, instantly bowing your head.

"No." You raise your eyebrows the slightest, eyes focused on the blankets as Diavolo's figure emerges from beneath them, sitting up. He looks princely as ever: dignified and royal as he exposes his bare upper body to you for the first time. "It is your destiny."

Your heart swells at that, a rush of pride coming to the forefront of your mind as you understand the prince's words. Destiny, you think. Something so intangible but so undeniably there. You shoot Diavolo a questioning look, quietly wondering whether he means the words in a literal or metaphorical sense, whether he's chosen you for his destiny or you truly are fated to be with him, and he smiles. Opening his mouth, a single comment slips from his mouth, and that's all you need to know for the answer to your question.

"Barbatos."

Of course.

If there is one person in the world who would know something so utterly lifechanging and shocking, it would be him.

Suddenly, your brother's strange actions over these past few weeks become understandable: the transition from concerned to confident, irate to pleased, protective to accepting. Even his actions this morning flit through your mind, and they take a different shade in your memories when you realize, for the first time, that he has donned you in the colors of Diavolo: red and blank.

Destiny, you think, eyes widening at the realization. Barbatos knew yours, and then Diavolo learned it, and now you understand it, too.

The moment the fact dawns on you, the silence grows weighted. Air filled with tension, too thick for even a knife to slice through it. You stare at Diavolo with round eyes, the sudden pressure of the moment not lost on you as you try to sort out your thoughts.

An amused smile breaks out on the demon lord's face at your evident confusion, and you realize—with a curse directed inward—that you've once again abandoned the expressionless mask of a dancer. But as Diavolo continues to gaze at you, you find yourself frozen, entirely unable to hide anything away as he stares into your soul.

He smiles.

"Come."

An order, one that your body heeds on instinct.

Yet, as you move to obey, it's different. You don't force yourself to tread so that the bells on your feet are silent, to wear a blank face to save your expressions for later, to stare at the ground when you want to gaze upon the prince. No, as you obey this final order of Diavolo's, you are no longer hiding behind forced grace—you reveal you, in all your natural elegance and wonder.

The bells on your feet tinkle softly as you move, and your body sets itself into a natural rhythm that makes the gentle jingles sound perfectly continuous, and it's like a musical trance wraps around the room as you approach the bed.

Normally, you would stop at least eight feet from the king, awaiting his inevitable orders to further approach. Six feet, if you're feeling brave. But now, emboldened by the prince's earlier words of destiny, you hold back nothing as you stride forward, stopping only when you are less than even a hand's length away from the prince, and he is so close that you can cup his cheek.

The moment you stop moving, the trance is broken—the music of the bells on your feet quieting. But where one moment ends, another begins, and Diavolo pulls you into an entirely different state of captivation.

The prince looks up at you from his spot on the edge of the bed, never breaking eye contact as he takes your smaller hand in his. And though you've certainly done much more with him, having sat on his lap and danced completely nude for him, nothing has ever felt so intimate.

"Even destiny is nothing before the power of a king. If you do not wish for this, nothing will be forced upon you." Diavolo raises his eyebrows gently, and you realize that he is giving you a choice. That though you two are fated to be together, he will still honor your decision, no matter what it may be.

But truly, did you not give him your answer the moment you decided to enter this room?

Your heart swells with warmth. With warmth and affection and desire as you gaze upon this prince, who, by all rights, can take anything he pleases, and still chooses to give you a choice in the matter. And it's in this state, when you're so overwhelmed by love that any words that might leave your lips fall short of your throat and you opt to answer Diavolo's question with action, leaning forward with such certainty that there leaves no room for further doubt.

I want to be with you.

You say the words in the way you kiss him, pressing your lips against his slowly but surely, showing him just how much you want this. It's a second before he responds, but the moment he understands your answer, he holds nothing back.

A hand comes up to your hair, better angling your face down at his, and a warmth enters your mouth as Diavolo deepens the kiss. Mind already growing clouded with lust from this simple action, you steady yourself by laying a hand against Diavolo's chest, the muscles impossible hard as you hold yourself up.

But the action is entirely unnecessary, because moments later, Diavolo has you pulled into his lap, the bells on your feet jingling at the movement.

The sudden sound prompts both of you to withdraw for a moment, and you glance at your feet, the nine rows of bells which trail from low on your ankle to low on your calf.

"I can take them off—" You try to say, but Diavolo silences you with a kiss, flipping your bodies over in an elegant spin so that you are underneath him. The bells clatter against each other once more, but when the sound fades, so does the last of Diavolo's restraint.

You glance upward, and the look Diavolo gives you is nothing short of a starved man, desperately holding himself back while he studies your body laid out beneath him oh-so-temptingly.

"Don't make me wait any longer," He murmurs, and you feel his hips press against yours, the fire in his eyes fueled not just by desire but by true need, and you can't hold back your grin as he sucks in a sharp breath when you experimentally roll your body against his. But his earlier muttering does not go forgotten, and with one more body roll, you throw an arm around his neck and collide his lips with yours in a hungry meeting of lust long overdue.

"You're perfect," Diavolo whispers breathlessly between kisses, fingers deftly unclasping the red silk that hides your shoulders.

"And you," You try to respond, but the combination of Diavolo's overwhelming presence and his intoxicating touch has you feeling high, and those end up being the final coherent words you stutter out as the prince throws the clothing to the floor, leaning back to study your exposed form.

His eyes widen and his breath hitches, and the hand on your waist twitches as he studies the skin he's already begun to litter with hickeys.

You look up at him, not missing the way he seems to be devouring you with his eyes, memorizing the image of your body splayed out before him.

His left thumb hooks the soft fabric of your pants, pulling experimentally, delighting in the softness of the skin there. He glances upward at you, eyes slightly wide as his mouth spreads into a grin, realizing that this is actually about to happen.

"May I have this dance?" He jokes, tugging on the elastic fabric experimentally.

The breathless nod you give him is all he needs, and then his lips are on yours and you lost track of where his hands are, just aware of the fabric being stripped from your body until your bodies are pressed flush against each other.

You close your eyes, savoring the sensation of Diavolo as he takes control, guiding you through the passion with a gentle but sure hand.

And for the first time, you dance together.

MASTERLIST

Word count: 11.2k

Notes: so when i had this idea i was like okay ill make it a series and each new interaction will just be a new chapter but then i got excited and wrote the whole thing in one night and i didnt wanna make you guys wait so yeah heres hopefully the longest oneshot ill write

Comment & Like

Thank you for reading <3

I do not own the rights to Obey Me! or any of the characters within it.

[thedykeprincess]

So you were disappointed in Throne of Glass...

 (DISCLAIMER: This post does not intend to offend anyone who loves ToG. Everyone is entitled to their own opinions and likes and dislikes and is allowed to express that. This post is meant to share books that have similar qualities to ToG for people who were disappointed in the series, like myself, but anyone who does like ToG can absolutely find great recs here! However, if you don’t want to hear anything ToG critical I recommend skipping over this post. Thank you!)

So last week I finally got rid of all my ToG books. I was mostly relieved that I now have more room on my bookshelf but I also felt a little sad. It was a series I really enjoyed when I first read it two years ago, and on some level it will always have a special place for me. It was one of the many books that got me back into reading after a five year slump, it’s the reason I became friends with the wonderful Nicole (@/rainbowbooktheif on Instagram) who was the first person irl to make me feel less alone as a bookish nerd, and it, unintentionally, helped me hone my critical reading skills. However, I slowly began to care less and less for the story and characters as the series progressed and ended up not reading the last two books because I just stopped caring. I wondered why a series that I loved so much in the beginning went down hill so fast for me, but in the process of falling out of love with ToG I realized I wasn’t the only one who felt this way about the series! The lack of diversity (and misrepresentation/mistreatment of diverse characters when they were there), sexism, lazy editing and lackluster world building, among other things, came up many times for me and other former ToG fans when discussing why we became disappointed in the series. But the pitch for the book (badass morally gray assassin taking down a tyrant king for her freedom, so cool!) and some of the elements (romance, female friendships, magic, trials) sounded so amazing even though in the end it was executed poorly. So, I decided to compile a list of books that I have read and loved that have some elements and themes of ToG. This list is by no means exhaustive and is limited by the books that I have read (which is not many when you look at how many books exist in the world) so I would love to see your recommendations! Please feel free to add onto this post any recs that you have! Now onto the list!

1) Graceling by Kristin Cashore

I read this book the summer before I started ToG and completely loved it. It was one of the early books that got me back into reading and it was honestly the perfect book for that. It was exciting and I couldn’t put it down. It follows an assassin for a tyrannical king who begins to realize her own gifts for killing are more then she ever thought they could be. Cashore does a fantastic job developing the lead character Katsa and the ways that she dolls out information to the readers slowly is impeccable. While this book is technically the first in a trilogy of books taking place in the Graceling world, it can be read as a standalone fantasy (which I feel like are very rare). Another part of this book that I really loved was the romance. I usually don’t read very many straight romances (due to the sexist/problematic aspects many of the ones that I’ve read have) but the relationship between Katsa and Po is honestly a breath of fresh air when you’re used to a lot of toxicity and sexism with cishet romances in books. The two take care of each other and their relationship is very balanced. There are no gender roles pushed on either of them and they truly grow to become a team throughout the story and it’s wonderful to see! I would consider Katsa and Po, while canonically cis (there isn’t any explicit queer rep in this book), both quite androgynous characters who often express themselves in a fluid manner which I really appreciate. Over all this is an amazing classic YA fantasy that everyone should check out!

Synopsis: “Katsa has been able to kill a man with her bare hands since she was eight—she’s a Graceling, one of the rare people in her land born with an extreme skill. As niece of the king, she should be able to live a life of privilege, but Graced as she is with killing, she is forced to work as the king’s thug.

She never expects to fall in love with beautiful Prince Po.

She never expects to learn the truth behind her Grace—or the terrible secret that lies hidden far away . . . a secret that could destroy all seven kingdoms with words alone.

With elegant, evocative prose and a cast of unforgettable characters, debut author Kristin Cashore creates a mesmerizing world, a death-defying adventure, and a heart-racing romance that will consume you, hold you captive, and leave you wanting more.”

2) Three Dark Crowns by Kendare Blake

This book is the first in a five book series about three royal sisters raised to battle it out for the throne. I must admit the first book in the series is a little lackluster due to the fact that it’s setting up a lot but the second book just blows everything out of the water in a fantastic way. This series is dark and bloody and intriguing. I got completely hooked on this series and it brought out a lot of emotion to the point where I was gasping and shouting and throwing my book around as I was reading it (I got very invested)! I think that’s one of the things SJM can do well is get you hooked on her characters and Kendare can do the same (if not better). I love the dynamic between the sisters, this book does a great job at exploring the darker side of familial and female/female relationships (mostly platonic.. there isn’t very much queer rep unfortunately) that I really appreciate. The magic system and wolrdbuliding are also something that I enjoyed and I though was quite well done. Kendare does a good job at weaving in worldbuilding and magic system seamlessly into the story and I love that so much. Three Dark Crowns is just a fun and exciting series that I think anyone who loves fantasy YA should check out!

Synopsis: “ In every generation on the island of Fennbirn, a set of triplets is born—three queens, all equal heirs to the crown and each possessor of a coveted magic. Mirabella is a fierce elemental, able to spark hungry flames or vicious storms at the snap of her fingers. Katharine is a poisoner, one who can ingest the deadliest poisons without so much as a stomachache. Arsinoe, a naturalist, is said to have the ability to bloom the reddest rose and control the fiercest of lions.

But becoming the Queen Crowned isn’t solely a matter of royal birth. Each sister has to fight for it. And it’s not just a game of win or lose…it’s life or death. The night the sisters turn sixteen, the battle begins.

The last queen standing gets the crown. “

3) The Priory of the Orange Tree by Samantha Shannon

So a little disclaimer, this book is one of my favorite fantasy books of all time. I read it over the span of a few months last summer (its a long one guys...800+ pages) and it was one of the greatest, most well thought out fantasy books I’d ever had the pleasure of reading. I loved the characters, the world, the plot, the magic system etc. I loved everything! There’s some great political intrigue, dragon riders, epic battles, prophecies, weddings, funerals, romance and just general badassery and kickassery happening. Shannon clearly put so much time and effort into this book and it shows. That kind of dedication that shows is something that I really appreciate in a book, especially a fantasy book. Another aspect that I loved so so much is the diversity in this book. It came so naturally and didn’t at all feel like tokenism. The characters, with their differing genders, ethnicities, sexualities, ages, and nationalities etc, and their relationships with each other are truly what made the story. This book also has one of the BEST f/f romances I’ve ever read (as a queer woman I really loved that representation so much and felt very connected to both of those characters). Priory is a long one but if you have the time I highly recommend it.

Synopsis: “ A world divided. A queendom without an heir. An ancient enemy awakens.

The House of Berethnet has ruled Inys for a thousand years. Still unwed, Queen Sabran the Ninth must conceive a daughter to protect her realm from destruction – but assassins are getting closer to her door.

Ead Duryan is an outsider at court. Though she has risen to the position of lady-in-waiting, she is loyal to a hidden society of mages. Ead keeps a watchful eye on Sabran, secretly protecting her with forbidden magic.

Across the dark sea, Tané has trained to be a dragonrider since she was a child, but is forced to make a choice that could see her life unravel.

Meanwhile, the divided East and West refuse to parley, and forces of chaos are rising from their sleep. “

4) Truthwitch by Susan Dennard

As a queer woman, I’m always a little on edge when someone mentions f/f friendship in a book. This is entirely because of the erasure many many f/f romances experience when they are just brushed off as friendships (we’ve all heard the term “gal pals”). It’s frustrating and even though I love a good f/f friendship when the f/f romances get erased and replaced by friendships it gets exhausting. However, Truthwitch is a true f/f friendship that I can fully get behind! Dennard is an author that I had been following for writing tips for a while before I finally picked up her book. I knew that she’s someone who is invested in making her series diverse, even if she herself doesn’t fit into those categories, and accepts criticism because she want’s to do her characters justice. That’s something I really appreciate seeing from white cishet authors and is one of the reasons I picked up Truthwitch. It’s so much fun and the heart of the story truly is the relationship between the two leads Safi and Iseult. Their friendship reminds me a lot of my relationship with my friends. Books about f/f relationships (romantic or otherwise) are few and far between so I really love that this book exists. Strong platonic relationships are so often pushed aside for cishet romantic ones so it’s SO refreshing to see a series where the book would not exist without Safi and Iseult’s bond. They are truly soulmates and their relationship with each other is the most important one in their lives and that is just beautiful. Not to mention this book has got an awesome magic system and is building up to an amazing fantasy series! There’s pirates, priestesses, princes and, of course, witches! It’s loads of fun all around!

Synopsis: “ Young witches Safiya and Iseult have a habit of finding trouble. After clashing with a powerful Guildmaster and his ruthless Bloodwitch bodyguard, the friends are forced to flee their home.

Safi must avoid capture at all costs as she's a rare Truthwitch, able to discern truth from lies. Many would kill for her magic, so Safi must keep it hidden - lest she be used in the struggle between empires. And Iseult's true powers are hidden even from herself.

In a chance encounter at Court, Safi meets Prince Merik and makes him a reluctant ally. However, his help may not slow down the Bloodwitch now hot on the girls' heels. All Safi and Iseult want is their freedom, but danger lies ahead. With war coming, treaties breaking and a magical contagion sweeping the land, the friends will have to fight emperors and mercenaries alike. For some will stop at nothing to get their hands on a Truthwitch. “

5) Monstress by Marjorie Liu (Writer) and Sana Takeda (Illustrator) 

Another disclaimer! This book is my favorite graphic novel, period. There is really nothing like Monstress out there and I think that it’s criminally underrated. Liu and Takeda are the perfect combo of writer/artist to make this GN come together. I’m constantly in awe of the world, characters, and story Liu built and the frankly stunning art Takeda creates to go along with it. It’s steampunk and dark and dirty and beautiful. The lead character, Maika, is one of the few truly morally gray characters that I’ve read. Her decisions will make you question if you’re a good person because you still love her despite the fact that she just killed that guy... and that guy... and those other guys. This graphic novel series is very reflective of the dark animes (like Tokyo Ghoul and Castlevania) that we are seeing more recently and I personally believe Monstress would make a fantastic animated series if it were ever to get an adaption. This book has also some great representation of queer women (Maika herself is a queer, disabled, WoC). It’s totally the norm for the world and all of the lead female characters are queer, which I just love. This story has amazing woldbulding, magic, characters etc. It’ll give you everything from giant dead gods, to talking cats with multiple tails, to demonically possessed teenage girls who need to eat people. It’s honestly amazing. (I would give a major trigger warning for blood/gore so as long as you know you can handle that I think you should check it out!)

Synopsis: “ Set in an alternate matriarchal 1900's Asia, in a richly imagined world of art deco-inflected steam punk, MONSTRESS tells the story of a teenage girl who is struggling to survive the trauma of war, and who shares a mysterious psychic link with a monster of tremendous power, a connection that will transform them both and make them the target of both human and otherworldly powers. “

6) The Bridge Kingdom by Danielle L. Jensen

I never thought I would love a cishet romance as much as I love this one but here I am. The Bridge Kingdom is not really the kind of book I would normally pick up but it was on sale on kindle so I thought “why not!” And I was not disappointed. This story follows the assassin princess, Lara, who was raised to be married off to her fathers rival kingdom and kill the king. However, things get sticky when she begins to actually fall for the king and starts to realize that her father isn’t exactly who he says he is. Not only was this romance steamy as hell (this is an ADULT book folks so there are some explicit sex scenes, beware) but the world is super cool. The political intrigue was something I really enjoyed and I loved to see the world unfold from Lara’s eyes. I also totally loved Lara’s character. She’s complicated and cutthroat but ultimately want’s to do what’s right and is a character made to change and develop. I usually don’t go for that character trope that Lara fits into (beautiful and badass and despite being the MCs they somehow end up being very bland...) but Jensen managed to create a very mature and ever changing version of the YA trope that I ended up loving completely. If you love steamy fantasy romances with cool worlds and intriguing characters this is absolutely the book for you!

Synopsis: “ Lara has only one thought for her husband on their wedding day: I will bring your kingdom to its knees. A princess trained from childhood to be a lethal spy, Lara knows that the Bridge Kingdom represents both legendary evil - and legendary promise. The only route through a storm-ravaged world, the Bridge Kingdom controls all trade and travel between lands, allowing its ruler to enrich himself and deprive his enemies, including Lara's homeland. So when she is sent as a bride under the guise of fulfilling a treaty of peace, Lara is prepared to do whatever it takes to fracture the defenses of the impenetrable Bridge Kingdom.

But as she infiltrates her new home - a lush paradise surrounded by tempest seas - and comes to know her new husband, Aren, Lara begins to question where the true evil resides. Around her, she sees a kingdom fighting for survival, and in Aren, a man fiercely protective of his people. As her mission drives her to deeper understanding of the fight to possess the bridge, Lara finds the simmering attraction between her and Aren impossible to ignore. Her goal nearly within reach, Lara will have to decide her own fate: Will she be the destroyer of a king or the savior of her people? “

[hope-of-pandora]

Rapunzel

Once upon a time ... no ...

The girl snorted when she imagined starting a story like that, it didn't seem right. She was not in keeping with the story she was about to tell.

Locked in the highest room of the tallest tower, she smiled. There was no happiness in her smile, but it was also not at all sad. While she thought about the tone of her story, the sun would sink over the horizon and her favorite colors would come in through her camera's small window.

The story started with a cruel and mean girl, by nature. There were no princesses or princes, there were no fairies or witches, but there was a wizard. It was also not an epic story with battles and great wars, with heroes and heroines. No, there was no room for them here.

This girl, Rapunzel recalled, was born with a bruised and alone. It was not the type of bruise that appeared in the light, it was not something that her family could see. She was like an apple. Beautiful and healthy on the outside, but as soon as the skin was removed, the rot would appear.

The girl had tried to hide that hurt that fed on her loneliness, it was sticky and smelly. She thought that if she pretended it didn't exist, it would stop hurting until it disappeared. So, she put on a mask. The mask was beautiful and elegant, it had been well sculpted in her face, and she wished that the mask should never be separated from her body. If no one could see how ugly and stained she was inside, they would never abandon her.

Her smiles came in droves, she smiled when compliments were given and she smiled when they scolded her with malice. When she could only smile, it was difficult to defend herself. Then, the sweet words came. They were so sweet that people were delighted to drink that honey. It was pure and comforting, it was good for the ego from time to time, they said. Everyone needed that honey. Ah, if the world had more of that honey ...

It was a life of flowers and honey, sun and sandalwood, abstention and denial.

The girl in her alcove stood upright among her blankets. All that honey should have healed her hurt. She had drunk everyone around her after all, after all. The mask fit it well, in fact, but the wound had grown, a little bit each day. As deep as an abyss, as mesmerizing as an abyss.

The girl was terrified the day she looked at it. It was a devouring blemish, no matter how many beautiful and honeyed words she recited. It roared with rage inside. It fed on her disappointments, on her guarded sorrows. And there was so much anger, it had been fed all that time, that it was like a bubbling cauldron.

The selflessness and the sweet words didn't matter, when the chasm inside her screamed and bit her back. Fury continued to run through her veins. And fear too. Because that was how she was handled by it, with fear and anger. Being sweet and beautiful didn't seem to alleviate that disease. Sadness has settled like a plague.

One night, the girl tried to face herself in the mirror and face that wound. Pity. The mask had been so well stitched on her skin that it had disfigured her entire face and body. As much as she looked and searched, she no longer saw herself. The mask retracted in the mirror and whispered, in a throaty voice: "You will never be worthy of love, however much you try to hide your true self, it is in your nature to hurt." So, through thick tears, she realized that the mask no longer fit. She needed to get it out of her skin, to purge it from her body.

The girl also feared the wrath of the people around her when they finally saw the face she had worked so hard to hide. But she hated the creature she had become most strongly, who was unable to stare at her reflection.

And those were the first words of the abyss that resonated in her head.

Cutting the bonds was difficult and exhausting, with hints of suffering and frustration. Her blood stained the floor and her screams echoed for nights on end.

When, at last, she was able to break it with her own hands and throw it to a remote end, her body flesh was on fire. There were flames at her feet and flames in her eyes, rivers of lava flowed down from there. She felt the cold night wind touch her for the first time in a long time. Bitterness and sadness enveloped her as the sea envelops her creatures, and anger and fury choked her throat.

The wound rejoiced.

People saw her set the city on fire and wondered who that fiery tongue monster was. They tried to surround her in the old fences of ivy and alamanda, in prisons of morals and conduct. They screamed and scorned, because her real face was intolerable. It was ugly. It was dirty. It was disconcerting.

Their flames nibbled at people, burned their skins and caused them disgust. It was hot and acidic. It was nauseating. One by one, after unsuccessful attempts at strife, they failed to see her behind the fire. Suddenly, there was only the monster that was cruel and evil by nature.

The girl in her flaming skin, whispershe roared with anxious eyes behind the flames, "Don't leave me because I am who I am". And they answered them back: “Who can love a monster? Kill the monster, and be as tame and acceptable as before ”.

And then flames of fire erupted from her mouth. The stored words and feelings rebelled and rode on the land. They smothered her in light prisons. They poisoned her with kind words. And while she was suffering from an illusion of Elysium, they stole all the honey that ran between her teeth.

What was left, then? She screamed, just the hurt.

When the flames softened and her glow became less blinding, there was nothing around her. People had run away, injured and tired. Hurt and disappointed. Gradually her heart softened and her abyss extended consoling arms. As she was born, she was alone.

This time, guilt kept him company. How could she have done so much barbarism? What kind of monster was it, that destroyed everything it touched? How could she live with herself knowing that she was capable of so much harm?

She ran towards the wilderness while the stars shone in the sky and the moon illuminated her trail, she got into the darkness of the night and when she met the magician with empty eyes, she begged him not to let her loose in the world. She told him everything she had done, told him about the wound that devoured her every day and that was still insatiable. She told everything she could do and everything she wanted to do.

The magician raised a castle out of the sands. Robust and protected. With moats and walls. And towers and halls. And she told him to come in, said that the world would never find her there again. And so, the girl walked through the big gate that closed her back. She was relieved and sad at the same time. She knew that she would never hurt anyone again, just as no one else could touch her.

Just as she was born, alone.

And, with those final words, the girl watched the night cover the wasteland, listening to the breathing of the dragon that watched her tower shake all the chambers and corridors.

– Pandora

[nerdgirllife]

Intertwined Dimensions - Chapter 3 Prince Charming

The memories that came to her made her catch her breath. Y'gythgba looked at the young turtle curiously, but made sure she was not recognized. What had the time apprentice said, Renet was that her name? She had mentioned that they were being called by time. Raphael and the rest of the turtles must be around here too. It couldn't be a coincidence that she was had been thrust into this particular place and time. Of all the people to meet in time, it was her love's younger self. She knew her mission now: find her Raphael and the rest of the turtles. Perhaps this young version of Raphael would lead her to where she needed to be. Y'gythgba looked sweetly at this young version of her love. Just then they heard some people coming towards them. Sewer Worker 1: It was over here. Looked like a giant frog or something. Y'gythgba looked around and jumped with Raphael above a pipe as they got out of sight. Sewer worker 2: Doesn't look like anything is here. Maybe you just heard some rats or something. Sewer Worker 1: I'm telling you I saw something. Next time I'll be ready and get rid of that little freak. Y'gythgba and Raphael heard every word as they hung above them, at the sound of the word 'freak' Raphael shuddered and his eyes got glossy. This didn't go unnoticed by Y'gythgba and as she growled, she made sure Raphael could hang on to the pipe as she dropped in front of them. Y: You will not be doing any such thing. Come back here again and I'll be sure you never see the light of day. The sewer workers looked at the tall alien and ran off screaming. Sewer worker 1: It's a giant kung fu frog!!! Raphael laughed as he jumped down. R: That was awesome! Y: Raphael...where is your family? The little turtle was mesmerized by the ninja's eyes. R: I ran to prove to my brothers that I was brave. We were playing to see who would go the furthest from the lair while Master Splinter cooked some food for us. Then I got lost and fell...now I don't know where I am. She took his bright green eyes in and smiled. Y: I will help you find them. R: Thanks. But I can find my own way back. Y'gythgba shook her head, this was definitely Raphael always stubborn. Y: Young one you are a brave warrior, but you must know that even warriors rely on others when they need help. He stopped to take that information in. R: Really? Y: Why yes Raphael. Knowing that, you can team up with other honorable warriors. That shows your true wisdom. I am also lost, so perhaps your father can help me. The young turtle listened to her speaking as she reached out for his hand and he held it as they walked together. Y: I knew of one such honorable warrior. I will tell you the story of how I met him on an ice world. Though he and I originally didn't think we were on the same side and had a minor misunderstanding. His heart showed him the wisdom to know that I was an honorable warrior as well. He helped me see the wisdom of teaming up and then we fought side by side. He defeated the ice dragons with the might of a 100 warriors. He was honorable, strong, and very brave. Just like I know you will be. R: Wow. So was he your prince charming? Y: (looking confused) Prince charming? I don't understand that term. R: Splinter read us the story of Cinderella last week. Before that we also read about Rapunzel, Snow White, oh and Sleeping Beauty. In every story the girl gets saved by the prince or I guess in your case a warrior. So he was their prince charming for saving them from their problems. Y'gythgba stopped immediately and looked at Raphael Y: We teamed up as two honorable warriors, as two equals. Sometimes we get help from allies, but that doesn't make us need a male or a "prince charming" for the sole purpose of saving. Raphael smiled as he thought of that. R: I like that. It makes sense and it looks like you don't need saving either. So...is this honorable warrior, is he your boyfriend? Raphael looked at her as Y'gythgba looked around to remember the way to the lair. Y: He and I love each other very much. He is out there somewhere and I must find him and his brothers. Finding you made me remember that. It's as if we were meant to find each other Raphael. Thank you, honorable young warrior. She smiled at him sweetly as he blushed, but he still kept his gaze on her eyes. To be honest young Raphael wanted to be the honorable warrior she was looking for. R: What's your name? Y: Well...I'm on a secret mission. So I cannot tell you my name young one. But perhaps one day in the future we will meet again and then I will be able to tell you my name. R: Well. Okay. I guess. Are you a mutant? Y: Not exactly. I'm not of this world. R: Cool, I knew it you're an alien. Raphael smiled at her as they walked towards the lair as he listened to her voice. Y'gythgba told him stories that she hadn't shared with her Raphael yet. Those of far off worlds that seemed like fairytales to him. Tales that involved males and females fighting together as equals. Of worlds where females ruled ocean like worlds. Yes, Raphael liked this tall and strong female ninja. Raphael felt she wasn't afraid of anything, she was so sure of her convictions and so strong. Unlike the humans she wasn't scared of him. One day he hoped he would meet someone like her, until then his heart would wait to find such a beautiful, honorable and strong woman. 

_________________________________________

Here it is chapter 3. The hashtags aren’t working right so I’ll just have to use one for now. The link to the wattpad is below. Hope you all enjoy it! I had fun writing this part. 

https://www.wattpad.com/898621876-intertwined-dimensions-chapter-3-prince-charming

[akamaiden]

Ragnarssons' Reactions: Dragon Queen

A/N: I wish I have your creative minds, honestly. I loved that request because I'm mad for dragons. 🐉 None of the gifs are mine, all credits to the rightful owners. Enjoy! 💕

Another note: This style of headcanon with bigger paragraphs it's something that the amazing @laketaj24 uses, so all credits to her.

Requested by: @rabeccablake

Björn

Since Björn hears about a dragon queen he's determined to get to know her, he needs to see with his own eyes if it's true the wonders people talk about you;

Once you arrive at Kattegat, he's the first one to welcome you, totally enchanted by your beauty;

“Looks who's here, Y/N, the dragon queen,” he says smiling at you and offering you a hand to get you out of the ship. “You can call me, Y/N, my Lord,” you say blushing lightly;

After the feast that Aslaug had prepared for you, Björn invites you to take a walk by the shore. The conversation flows between yourselves. You feel at ease around him, even though his constantly flirting;

“Y/N, I must confess that I never saw a woman like you. It's like I'm bewitched by you. I can't get you out of my mind,” he says getting closer and closer to you and when his hands are about to touch you both Sapphira and Roarixs land at your side and roar right at Björn's face;

For one second, Björn thinks that he's about to die, he's certain that your dragons will kill him. And their roars almost got him deaf. But you quickly pet them, whispering that everything is okay and Björn wouldn't hurt you, and that he's nothing but a friend. In other situations he'd be offended to be rejected that way, but he'd rather be just your friend than die burned – or something even worse, – by your dragons.

Ubbe

Say that Ubbe is curious about you and your dragons is an understatement. Firstly, how did you get them? Do you ride them? What they eat? Do you use them in battles? Do you have more dragon's eggs? His mind has uncountable questions for you;

But he's aware that Björn almost died and your dragons didn't even touch him. So he asks to the slaves about your schedule, if you have any compromises etc;

Once he finds you under a tree admiring your dragons and enjoying one of the rare sunny days, he approaches you;

“Hello, Queen Y/N,” he says politely. “Prince Ubbe,” you greet him. “Can I sit with you?” he asks and you nod. “I'm not gonna lie, my queen, but people talked a lot about you and of course, about your dragons,” he starts. “Aren't they the sweetest things?” you say smiling. “My brother doesn't think that way,” “If your brother could keep in his pants, my dragons wouldn't have acted that way,” you say and Ubbe do nothing but agree with you;

“Would you mind satisfying my curiosity, my queen?” he asks almost teasingly. “Ask away,” you say blushing;

By the end of the day you answered all the questions Ubbe made you. “See? All you have to do to stay alive is not harassing me,” you say. Ubbe just smiles at you. Well, if he treat you with respect and make slow moves he could conquer both your heart and the sympathy of your dragons. Because the no way in hel(l) for him to not be fascinated by you.

Hvitserk

Hvitserk is scared of your dragons for obvious reasons but just the fact that people used to talk that you never were with a man before it's enough to make him suppreses his fear;

But he also knows that both Björn and Ubbe tried hitting on you and didn't make it, so he makes sure to do something different from his brothers' actions;

That's why he invites you to the cabin he used to pass some time with his brothers and he simply prepares a feast for you two and for your dragons. He just have to think how he'll explain to his mother why he needed so many goats for;

The conversation flows easily, his charming way is something that makes you feel confident, wanted and powerful;

But you truly believe that animals feel people's energy and when Hvitserk holds your hand, Roarixs roars and he simply open his mouth and you know what's about to come and you shove Hvitserk off and he got by surprise falls on the floor exactly when your dragon starts spitting fire;

Roarixs roars louder and gets closer to you, his wings almost hiding your body. You try to calm him down and when he seems more calm you go check on Hvitserk. “Sorry. Are you okay?” you ask. “I-i am fine. It's needed much more to scare me,” he tries to sound confident but you can see that his hands are shaking. “Yeah, sure. Thanks for this lovely surprise, Prince Hvitserk. But I guess it's better I go before something else happen,” you say giving him a kiss on his cheek, what made Roarixs roars again.

Sigurd

Sigurd really likes you, during the short time you spend in Kattegat he got really close to you. Not in a romantic way, in a friendly way;

Sigurd admires you. You two had a childhood alike. Middle children that were forgotten by your parents. That's why he understands your shyness, the fear of not being good enough, etc;

It's curious how in such a quick time you got yourself telling him your most deepest secrets until how you, the forgotten child, avenged your parents' deaths and reconquered the respect and glory of your family. He wishes the same happens to him, that he can do something great that make his parents proud of him, even though just for once;

Your dragons? Well, they tolerate Sigurd. But this doesn't mean that he can touch them. You tried to make Sigurd pet Sapphira and when his hand was almost touching her neck, she roared at both of you;

Sometimes you and Sigurd just lay down on the grass, with your dragons around both of you and you start telling him about how his brothers are so desperate to have something else with you;

“Listen, Y/N, Ubbe is a great man but I don't know if you two are gonna work together,” he says. “What about Hvitserk and Björn?” you say. “Have you lost your mind? Don't you think that the way your dragons reacted to them is a good signal for you to stay away from them?” Sigurd says. “And the other one... Ivar, right?” you say. “Björn and Hvitserk look perfect in comparison with Ivar. He's crazy, stay away from him, okay?” he says. “Okay, okay,” you say but you can't deny that you're curious about Ivar. He was the only one that didn't try to flirt with you.

Ivar

Ivar is totally fascinated with your dragons. He likes to watch them flying, he likes they way they're beautiful, powerful and still lethal creatures;

One day he's smiling at your dragons while they're flying freely on the sky. He's sitting alone and he looks like a child admiring one toy that he wants so badly;

“They're beautiful, aren't they?” you say catching him by surprise. “They're so fascinating. I'd give anything to have one of them,” he says. Before you can say something he continues, “But it'd be useless I couldn't ride them like you do,” he says looking at his legs with such a disgusted expression that you can feel your heart sinking;

“Why are you so hard on yourself?” you say. “I'm being sincere, it's different,” he says. Before you can say something else, Sapphira and Roarixs land next to both of you and you can see Ivar's beautiful blue eyes shining in excitement, he had never been that close to them before;

“How did you name them?” he asks. “The blue one is Sapphira and the dark one is Roarixs,” you say. The dragons look at you when they hear you calling their name. And you finally notice that different from the other thousand times that someone strange is close to you, they don't roar, actually they look at Ivar and seem pretty calm;

“Would you like to touch them?” you ask to Ivar. “Are you crazy? They almost killed my brothers,” he scoffs. “No, they won't hurt you. Trust me,” you say. And going against all senses Ivar follows you to even closer to your dragons. Roarixs shifts on it's place, but don't roar or something. Sapphira on the other hand looks attentively at Ivar;

“Sapphira, this is Ivar. He's a friend, he won't hurt you,” you say caressing her softly. “He'll touch you now, okay?” you continue and Ivar is looking at you totally mesmerized by the way you have such a power upon a damn dragon. He moves his hand hesitantly and when he touches her, she lets out something like a sigh and moves her head closer to Ivar, it's like she's asking him to pet her. “She likes you,” you attest. “She's beautiful. You are beautiful, Sapphira,” Ivar says excitedly, smiling from ear to ear;

You and Ivar spend the entire day petting Sapphira. Roarixs didn't let Ivar touch him, but he didn't try to kill him either;

Time passes quickly and when you're about to leave Kattegat you look for Ivar, he has to say goodbye to you and Sapphira – who likes him a lot, probably as much as she likes you. “I'll miss you,” he says to her and when he turns to you, he smiles and says “Maybe I'll miss you too, Dragon Queen.” “I should be offended. Anyway, I have something for you,” you say handing him a big egg. “This is...” he starts. “You were wrong, Ivar the Boneless. You don't need legs, you need wings,” you say and kiss his lips softly, hesitantly, afraid of the possibility of being rejected. But the rejection never comes, all you feel is his trembling lips, he's nervous, just like you. “I hope you don't forget me when you conquer the world,” you say touching your lips, wanting to memorize his taste forever. “It's impossible to forget you, my queen,” he says. And even though that you want to stay, you leave with the certain that you'll meet him again, you feel this deep in your bones.

Tags: @amour-quinn @haliannej @ivarsshieldmadien @ivarswickedqueen @nothingeverdies @mblaqgi @dangerousvikings @feistybaby @plantagenet-queen @attorneyl @readsalot73 @dewy-biitch @rekdreams247 @jade770 @lisinfleur @filthy-lil-thing @ivarslittlebadgirl @laketaj24 @threewintersoldiers @tephi101 @ivaraddict @captstefanbrandt @grungyblonde @queen-see-ya-in-valhalla @funmadnessandbadassvikings @alicedopey @moose-squirrel-asstiel @moondustmemories @cbouvier23 @float-autumn-leave @lokigoddess @ivarlothbroks @thisishowdynastiesareborn

[zenlesszonezero]

As the conspiracy reaches its finale, the Void Hunter joins the fight.

Uncover the Conspiracy in Zenless Zone Zero's All-New Version "A Storm of Falling Stars", S-Rank Agent Hoshimi Miyabi is here! With S-Rank Agent Asaba Harumasa Limited-Time Giveaway! Pre-register to obtain additional rewards.

[foreversillythings]

roses are red, roses are white chapter one

Prologue

roses are red, roses are white part one now rises the sun of york chapter one so wilts the red rose

It is the coldest Christmas Madge can remember.

It's everything she'd dreamed of and more, yet Madge cannot find any cheer. She is too young to truly understand what happened, but there is a black hole inside of her filled with fear, a fear that eats away at any joy she manages to discover. She should feel like a princess as she walks around the suite of rooms her family has been gifted, but instead she feels skittish and scared of shadows. Madge takes hesitant steps on the fur carpeting the stone floors to keep her feet warm and wants to sink her toes into it, wants to rejoice in the splendor around her but there's a prickle at the back of her neck, a tingle of something awful.

Her bed is large enough for her and several friends, covered in more pillows than she'll ever know what to do with. Delicate roses are etched into the wooden frame and she runs her fingers over them, traces the patterns with her nails. Red velvet curtains hang about the bed and the walls are adorned with finely threaded tapestries depicting battle scenes, the Virgin Mary and heroic deeds.

(Madge stares at those heroes each night before she climbs into bed, promises herself they're keeping her safe)

Her garments hang in a well carved wardrobe, a merry fire crackles in the hearth but it never fights away her chill and each item of dark wood furniture is glossy to the touch. She wishes she had flowers to put on every surface, to make the room feel bright and alive, but winter cold has killed them all.

(Madge almost believes they'd have withered anyway)

(there is something in the air at Westminster, something toxic)

Madge climbs into her great big bed and drowns in it, memories blending with nightmares to cling to her even in her waking hours. She stares at the panneled ceiling of her room, painted with roses, crowned wolves and King Coriolanus, and feels sick and lightheaded. The mesmerizing magic Madge had seen on her first foray into London has disappeared, replaced by the harsh light of day.

I just want to go home

Let us just go home

Fires blaze in every room, garlands are strewn across doorframes and banisters, and talented minstrels play music all day long but Madge does not feel the warmth or recognize the tunes, feels as horrible as her mother looks. Lady Bedford is pale and drawn, barely eats and speaks so quietly her words sound more like breaths. She withers and wastes under the King's dark eyes, but still attends every festivity, the hunts and feasts and masques, the performances and concerts and recitals. Her husband begins to lose his colour, rounded cheeks starting to thin, but the King doesn't seem to notice, greets them with oily smiles, offers them the best seats and the choicest foods and Madge's curiosity would usually ask why, but she is too dazed with horror to wonder.

The palace smells of holly and rich food, an army of cooks slaving in the kitchen for every hour of the day and each meal is a feast, course after course after course. Madge can barely stomach it all, would feel like a glutton if she even tried but King Coriolanus' court is one of extravagance and excess, always loud and full of people. The celebration never seems to end but Madge is listless and quiet, can't muster any excitement at magnificent decorations or beautifully dressed lords and ladies. Her father points them out to her, trying to rise her to emotion, to life.

"That is Lord Brutus, Duke of Somerset. He is a favourite of the King and Queen."

(hard and mean with angry eyes, Madge is not surprised)

"Over there is the Earl of Pembroke, Lord Boggs. The King's half-brother."

(younger and darker, he looks nothing like his brother. Madge cannot help but find that comforting)

"Beside him is his nephew, Finnick, Earl of Richmond."

(slightly older than her and already handsome, Madge would have swooned if she didn't see blood every time she closed her eyes)

"Ah yes, and that is the Earl of Richmond's mother, the Lady Alma and her new husband, Lord Heavensbee."

(she is grey and stern, he is colourful and laughing. What an odd combination)

(the Duke of York is nowhere to be seen)

None of her observations are enough to dislodge the monster taken root in her mind. The King fills every corner of her, dark eyed and cackling as heads roll. He looms over the festivities from his raised throne, dressed always in exquisite garments trimmed with fur. His bony fingers are weighed down by rings studded with every jewel she can name and even some she can't, and a glittering crown sits on his head, bright gold with dazzling gems. It presses down on him and makes him hunch, his neck bending under the weight.

He orders performances every night, but instead of Saint George and the Dragon or Noah's Arc, these players act out scenes all about the glory of His Majesty, King Coriolanus of England. Shimmering plates of solid gold piled with sugared deserts are laid before them as poets rhapsodize about the King and Madge finds herself unable to eat, the sweets appearing almost grotesque.

Madge counts the days as they pass, looks out snowy windows and prays they will soon return home.

(if anyone ever bothered to ask, Madge would say Westminster is more a prison than a palace)

Their last night in London finally comes, capped by the most opulent ball.

Madge is determined to enjoy herself, refuses to wallow in the same hole of misery she's been trapped in since they arrived here. She is tired of nightmares and fear and sadness, wants to have one night where everything is bright and lovely and wonderful. A fool's hope perhaps, but Madge promises herself she will be happy tonight, that she will greet this new year of 1463 with nothing but smiles. This will be a year of joy.

Not even a king shall take that from me she vows as her maids help her dress. They lace her into a white kirtle threaded through with silver and then her new periwinkle houppelande, the fabric decorated with delicate fleur-de-lis made of pearls and a collar of white velvet. They accent it with a white girdle jeweled with sapphires, then weave blue ribbons and pearls into her hair and Madge runs hands over the silk of her dress, enthusiasm flagging in her heart. One of the maids hangs a pretty string of diamonds and pearls around her neck and Madge looks at her reflection, tries to muster up some excitement. This should be a dream come true, after all, how often does she get to wear such finery?

Stop it, be happy

Madge pinches colour into her cheeks, puts on her rings, a ruby one from a grandmother who'd died before she was born, a sapphire one received as a gift from her father and affixes a silver and turquoise brooch from her mother to the front of her kirtle.

"You look beautiful, my lady," one of the maids tells her and Madge forces herself to preen like she usually would.

This shouldn't be so hard.

Just tonight, just be happy tonight.

They dab her with rosewater and then she steps outside her chamber to greet her parents, both of them in their very best garments. They walk down together but don't share a word, Westminster's forbidding walls leeching the life right out of them. Elegantly dressed lords and ladies crowd the halls and Madge feels a small thrill at the sight and focuses on it, tries to force that spark into an inferno. Her eyes drink in everything they pass and she desperately wants this night to be one worth remembering, wants to preserve just one happy memory from this trip.

The great gilded doors to the banqueting hall are already thrown open and Madge enters behind her parents, a tiny, tiny part of her managing to marvel at the golden festivities. She inhales deeply, the whole room hung with sweet smelling wreaths and garlands. Minstrels play lively music and the floor is scrubbed so clean it almost shines. Thousands of candles burn while roaring fires keep the room warm and silver bells jangle from the wrists and ankles of dancing girls dressed in floaty, nearly transparent costumes. A tiny sigh flutters in Madge's chest, in awe at the splendor and she looks up at the King's table, raised higher than all the rest. The royal family will be the last to arrive and the room feels brighter without them, the holidays slightly more merry.

Madge sits at the long banqueting table assigned to the various children and younger nobles, each one dressed in glittering finery. The wood shimmers in the candlelight and the handsome Earl of Richmond, thirteen year old Finnick Odair, sits at the head of the table, resplendent in emerald green. He talks excitedly, too far away for Madge to hear, but his very green eyes light up, his golden smile stretched wide. Heads turn in his direction, girls tittering excitedly and Madge guesses Prince Cato must be seething with jealousy.

(she feels the start of a genuine smile at the thought)

Madge looks around the table and tries to remember everyone's names but they blur in her head, her misery these past weeks having foiled her memory. A dark haired girl in purple sits to her left, but doesn't speak, her gaze lingering on Finnick of Richmond and Madge looks at her from the corner of her eye. She wracks her brain but honestly has no idea if they've been introduced before, an utter blank filling up her mind.

Do I introduce myself and hope for the best? But what if we've already met? What if I insult her?

After too many minutes spent agonizing, she decides not to say anything, not wanting to risk it but then she remembers her promise to herself, that she will be happy tonight, will enjoy herself. She plasters on a smile and hopes she looks sincere.

"Hello, I'm Madge of Bedford. My father's the Duke," she greets and the girl turns abruptly, lovely ocean eyes wide. She continues to stare at Madge in surpise, as if someone speaking to her is the most baffling possibility and Madge feels her smile start to wilt. Perhaps she'd have been better off remaining quiet. The girl ducks her head.

"My apologies, my lady. I'm Annie. Anne! Of Oxford. My father's the Earl."

Madge can see Anne's cheeks flush pink and wishes she would look up, but she supposes the daughter of a duke outranks that of an earl. Madge smiles as warmly as she can manage.

"It is a pleasure to meet you Lady Anne."

"And you Lady Madge."

A herald blares on his horn before they can say anymore and a deep hush falls over the room, every head turned to the doors. Madge feels her chest tighten.

"His Majesty, King Coriolanus!" the herald bellows and everyone stands. The men doff their hats and bow, the women all curtsy and the King sweeps in with an amused smirk, his lips smeared over with blood. Madge focuses in on that, that one disturbing detail and cannot help but wonder why his lips are always painted and dripping with blood. Is he diseased? Is it contagious?

He does not look sickly though, instead he glows, dressed in his finest houppelande of cloth of gold crusted with precious gems and a long ermine lined mantle that trails across the floor behind him. His hands twinkle with rings, his crown sparkles and the Queen beside him dazzles in a ruby red gown studded with diamonds, tourmalines and garnets. Prince Cato swaggers in behind them, his boots black and glossy, his doublet silvery and delicate. A golden coronet rests on his head and blends well with his sunny hair and Madge thinks he could be handsome if only he didn't make her so uneasy.

The royal family take their seats at the high table but the King waits for a few moments before commanding them all to sit. He enjoys this, Madge thinks, enjoys flaunting his authority.

"Be seated," he finally allows and they all sit as the music begins again. All eyes stay on the King, waiting for his instruction and Madge starts to feel an itch at the base of her spine, a bubble of discontent starting to grow inside her. The King roves lazy eyes over them, lingering over the dancers with his lips curled and then claps his hands. Silver angels enter with jugs of spiced wine and mead while golden ones bring trays laden with figs, dates, pears, apples and strawberries. Madge wants to be enchanted, she really does, but that bubble keeps growing larger, filling her up with no room left for anything else.

Don't do this

Be happy, please

Madge pinches her palm to clear her misgivings and focuses on the food in front of her. She knows it isn't ladylike, but she piles up her plate with strawberries, is always craving her favourite fruit.

(and maybe she hopes to pop that bubble inside of her with something she loves)

Lady Anne nibbles on a single pear and Madge feels a bit like a pig, her mountain of fruit looking monstrous in comparison. She peeks up at the King, juices running down his chin and catching in his beard, and feels decidedly better.

(though she supposes while someone might lecture her on her manners, no one would dare do so to the King)

The fruit is exquisite, the best she's ever had but that bubble stays inside of her, not even dented and Madge feels like a sinking ship. She's never been depressed a day in her life, and now, surrounded by more splendor than she could conjure in her wildest dreams, a smile feels impossible. Happiness has never been such a chore and Madge cannot help but blame the King. His wicked deeds have poisoned her.

(that's treason, comes a voice in her head)

(I know, she whispers back)

Servers come with basins for them to wash their hands before the second course and Madge shakes her head, stubbornly refuses to give up. She will enjoy herself tonight, she will. Angelic servers arrive with a variety of pies, filled with meat, eggs, vegetables and fruit, mountains and mountains of them, enough for an entire village. Madge takes in their delicately feathered wings and wishes real angels were here, children of light to fight off the shadows in every corner.

Stop thinking like that, stop it

Madge closes her eyes, digs nails into her wrists and inhales deeply. She opens her eyes, resolved again to banish unhappiness from tonight. She turns to the pie platters before her and knows it's silly after eating an entire plate full, but takes a strawberry pie from the pile anyway.

(gluttony some might say, but this is the only comfort she can find)

Her nurse would be utterly appalled, so Madge turns to Lady Anne beside her.

"Would you care to share? I think a whole pie might be too much for me."

(this is a lie)

(Madge could definitely eat a whole pie)

Lady Anne blinks at her but then smiles sweetly, eyes bright with pleasure. "I would love to."

Madge is surprised to feel a smile on her own face, that bubble in her stomach suddenly leaking air and cuts the pie carefully in half, sliding Lady Anne's portion onto her plate.

(maybe there is comfort to be found in other places too)

"Bon appetit," Madge says and Anne dips her head.

"And to you."

They giggle a bit and Madge wonders if this is what it feels like to have a friend, one who isn't a poppet or your parents. Not that Madge would be so presumptuous as to call Lady Anne her friend, but deep down, she feels a little better already. They dig in and the pie is delicious, though not quite as good as their cook's back home, and Madge is craving a hundred others. She wants more but knows she shouldn't, shoulders lighter after her exchange with Lady Anne.

(maybe because now she's not alone)

Thankfully the servers arrive to clear the dishes and Madge is saved from any decisions. Washing basins come around again and the pies are replaced with oysters, mussels, scallops and more fish than Madge could ever name. Anne takes dainty bites of a scallop and Madge knows it is a sin, but she cannot help but be envious of how birdlike she is, will never look quite so graceful as she eats.

Washing basins come to signal the end of the course and Madge washes her hands even though she didn't eat anything, would hate for people to think her unhygienic. Next comes meat, with beef, chicken, pork, mutton, lamb, venison, partridge, quail, goose and duck. Even more impressive, a staple of royalty, are the swans and peacocks, painstakingly re-feathered after they were cooked. Anne frowns.

"Is the scallop not agreeing with you?" Madge asks worriedly, having had her own bad experiences with fish and queasy stomachs.

Anne blushes down to her neck.

"Oh no, no of course not. I just...I don't like when it still looks like a real animal, like it might fly off any moment," she admits, embarrassed, but Madge takes a long look at the swans and peacocks and realizes she may be right.

"It is somewhat unnerving," she agrees and Anne sinks in her seat in relief. They share a smile and Madge helps herself to some quail while Anne takes a miniature amount of pork. Madge ladles a thick sauce onto her meat and everything is luxuriously spiced and seasoned, the heady aroma floating into her brain and making her hazy. Her eyes drift around the room and find Prince Cato, who has clearly inherited his father's table manners. He gorges himself on roasted swan and peacock, stuffing it in his face like a wild animal and Madge grimaces in disgust. Anne follows her line of sight and takes him in with wide eyes.

"Not quite so princely, is he?" she whispers and Madge giggles into her sleeve.

(he doesn't seem so frightening now)

They wash their hands again and then dine on doughnuts, biscuits and turnovers. Each one is scrumptious, but Madge makes sure not to eat too much, wants to be able to savor dessert.

"Is this your first time at court?" Anne asks her and she nods. "I thought so. How old are you, Lady Madge?"

"I shall be ten in March," she declares proudly and Anne smiles.

"I turned eleven in August," she says and Madge pouts even though she knows she shouldn't.

"Have you been to court before?" she questions, hoping she won't be beat in this too, but Anne nods slowly, eyes turned down to her plate.

"I have been coming ever since I was very young," she murmurs and there is something in her tone that makes Madge bite her lip. She grabs Anne's hand beneath the table, the fingers cold and trembling. Anne looks up with wet eyes and Madge smiles at her, wants to sweep away her sadness like Anne did hers. Anne sucks in her bottom lip and then smiles back, a cloud seemingly lifted and they keep their hands together until the servers come with more washing basins.

(what could make her so unhappy?)

(Madge is fairly certain she knows the answer)

Melancholy thoughts start to recede at the magnificent spread of subtleties laid out before them, decorated with the petals of roses, violets and elder flowers. They are presented with fritters, sweet custard, darioles, crepes with sugar, strawberry tarts, plum tarts, cherry tarts, mulled wine, aged cheese, fruit paste and fruits covered in sugar, honey or syrup. Several servers come out carrying a great replica of Westminster made of marchpane and people applaud as it is set on the head table.

Madge takes a few spoonfuls of custard, several syrupy strawberries and splits a crepe with Anne. She smiles, finally truly enjoying herself, and this is nice, is what she wanted all those months she dreamed at home. Prince Cato takes everything he can get his hands on, stuffing his face with darioles, honeyed pears, crepes and marchpane. Madge purses her lips, wonders if he's ever learned any manners, and her eyes slide to his father beside him, her blood suddenly running cold. There is a red smear left behind on the King's wine goblet, like a kiss of death and it terrifies her for reasons she can't explain, all the warmth and joy she'd began to feel draining away, the horrors of Westminster returning with a fresh virulence. She abandons the rest of her dessert, her stomach shriveled and small.

They wash their hands for the final time and the King claps his again, the music becoming more raucous. The dancers spill between the tables, spinning and whirling and performers stream into the hall, some juggling and others flipping through the air. People ooh and ahh as acrobats fly and a man breathes fire, a knife thrower earning gasps and applause. Madge yearns to enjoy herself as well, but she wants to retire, her excitement replaced with the claustrophobic dread she'd been feeling since that terrible day in the square. She squeezes her eyes shut as the memories flood back and this isn't what she wanted. Can she not have just one night?

(no)

The performances seem to carry on forever and Madge feels so tired, like she hasn't slept in months. I just want to go home. She needs her parents but can't find them in the sea of faces and finally the King stands, everyone hurrying to do the same, their benches scraping loudly over the stone floors. He steps down from the dais, Queen Enobaria and Prince Cato following after him and Madge prays this means the night is coming to it's end.

The bell wearing dancers begin to twirl from the room, the royal family falling in behind them. Soon, everyone in the hall is moving out as a procession, the musicians bringing up the rear. Madge wonders if she could just slip away and crawl up into her oversized bed, desperately wishes this night was over. Instead, they are led into a great hall, the dancers spinning around in the center of the room. The King and Queen sit on gilded thrones at the far end of the hall and everyone else fills in around the edges, the musicians setting up in the corner. Madge takes a look around the large, empty room and knows they've been brought here for after dinner dancing. Will this night never end?

(never ever)

No one moves, waits for the King to decide what happens next. He surveys them with smirking malice and then makes a dismissive gesture with his hand. The dancers cease their movements, the echo of their bells tinkling around the hall. They drape themselves around his throne and Madge wonders if she's imagining the uneasiness in their eyes.

(she doubts it)

"Let the youngest among us begin tonight," the King commands and Madge feels like her feet are made of stone. A serving boy hurries to bring the King more wine and the children around her begin buzzing excitedly, each one searching for a partner. Even though she'd practised for so long, even though she'd be so looking forward to it, she prays no one will ask her to dance.

Various pairs form but the girls around her hold their breath and Madge realizes it's because Finnick of Richmond is looking around, eyes skipping over each girl they land on. Every girl seems to vibrate, desperate to dance with him but his gaze stops on Anne, her eyes sparkly as she takes in the dancefloor. He lights up and smiles, easy and slow as it stretches across his face. Lord Finnick walks over, girls deflating like old wine sacks when he passes them. He stops in front of Anne and smiles, bowing low.

"Lady Anne, may I have this dance?"

Her cheeks turn a deep, dark pink and she won't meet his eyes, but she nods quickly and he takes her pale hand in his. They step out onto the dancefloor, followed by venomous glares and Madge feels a little warm for a reason she can't explain. It vanishes quickly though, replaced with frigid unhappiness when she catches sight of Prince Cato. He sneers at her, but is definitely walking right towards her. She peeks around him and sees the King watching them, his eyes narrowed and his smirk bloody as always. Her stomach sinks and though she has no idea why, she knows he must have ordered the Prince to dance with her. Cato half-bows before her, eyes hard.

"Would you like to dance, Lady Madge?"

No, she wants to shout, no! She knows better though and dips into a curtsy.

"I would be most honoured, your Highness."

He takes her hand with sticky fingers and tugs her into the centre of the room. The music picks up in intensity and everyone stumbles through the appropriate steps, Madge's own legs weighed down with lead. Cato jerks her around the floor, her movements stiff and Madge counts each and every second of the dance until it is over. Cato takes issue with her inattention and stomps on her foot, pain screaming up from her crushed toes. She bites her lip to stop from crying out and knows he did it on purpose, his eyes mean and dark. She exhales sharply and does not glare at him no matter how much she wants to, chooses to peer over his shoulder and take comfort in Anne and Finnick, making such a pretty pair as they dance.

The song mercifully comes to an end and Cato releases her like he's been burned. He scowls, the edges of his teeth visible between his lips.

"You're not very good, are you?" he asks, voice harsh and loud enough for everyone around them to hear. Madge does not bristle even as lightning crackles beneath her skin, drops into a curtsy instead.

"My most sincere apologies, your Highness," she demures and he snorts, stomping off. She rises and people are staring at her, whispers passing behind their hands. She wants to run and hide, humiliation heavy on her shoulders but she doesn't, retreats instead to the edge of the room with as much dignity as she can muster. This night was supposed to be her one perfect memory of this trip to court, but tonight she is as miserable as she's always been.

Perhaps there is no such thing as happiness here.

"Idiot!" the King's voice booms and Madge flinches, heart suddenly racing. There is a terrible sound of a hand striking flesh and Madge turns in time to see the King's serving boy crash to the floor, the force of the King's backhand sending him reeling. The wine jug he'd been carrying cracks as it lands on the stone, a dark puddle spreading out in every direction.

"Useless cur!" the King continues, the pointed toe of his shoe digging into the boy's back as he kicks him. Madge clamps her hands over her mouth, the urge to retch seizing hold of her. The King kicks the boy again, ignores his whimpers and then looks up, his face feverish.

"Did I say you were allowed to stop?" he barks at the minstrels and they hurriedly start playing again, their pace frenzied. Madge hadn't even realized they'd stopped, her whole world narrowed in on the bleeding boy on the floor. How could the King be so cruel?

"Remove this filth from my hall!" he snaps to a pair of guards and they haul the boy off, dragging him from the room.

"Lord Brutus, see that the wretch is properly dealt with," the King orders and the Duke of Somerset steps forward with an eager grin.

"As you command, my King."

The boy thrashes suddenly in the guards arms and begs for mercy, garbles out apologies, tears leaking onto his face. Madge wonders why he looks so terrified, wonders what awful punishment the King and Lord Brutus have in store.

(she's better off not knowing)

Everyone hurries to return to their dancing as the King sinks back into his throne but Madge cannot move, rooted to the floor with horror. This place is cursed she wants to wail but never would.

Even at nine, she knows she will receive no mercy.

Madge wakes early on their day of departure, a thick, sickly anticipation coursing through her veins. There is only the faintest hint of dawn light creeping through the window and Madge stares up at the ceiling, eyes tracing the outline of King Coriolanus' portrait. She can't make him out, but she knows he's there, looming over her and the thought makes her stomach turn. She yanks the covers up over her head to block him out, like the shields brave knights wear into battle.

"We'll be home soon," she whispers in the gloom, "home and safe."

(except there is no safe, not in King Coriolanus' England)

The maids help her dress for traveling and she vibrates with an eager intensity to flee this castle of terror. All her things are already packed, ready to be lugged into a litter and Madge waits impatiently for her parents, can't understand why they're taking so long. She paces along the length of her room, fingertips brushing extravagant furniture and oh, how she wishes she could be as enamored of it as she wants to be.

(but her eyes are open now, and beauty can't hide the hideous things that lie beneath it)

She thinks it must have been hours she's been pacing when a knock sounds at the door, a page of her father's bringing summons. She practically bounces out of the room, her nurse hurrying after her and already, it's like she's shed so many weights and pounds.

"Good morning," she chirps as she greets her parents, livelier than she's been in all the weeks they've been here. Her father smiles as he pulls on his travelling gloves and a lady's maid fastens a cloak over Madge's shoulders, tugs the hood up over her head. His grin is wider, like it always used to be and Madge puts on her own gloves with a sense of contentment she's been missing. Her mother still looks frail under her heavy winter wear but the colour is returning to her cheeks and Madge feels hope fluttering like a bird in her chest.

We're going to be okay

She clambers up into their carriage, her mother settling in beside her. Maids rush about, draping them in thick furs and placing hot bricks underneath their feet while Madge leans against the window edge, takes in Westminster Palace for what she hopes will be the very last time. Her father swings up onto his horse and winks at her. Madge bites her lip around a grin and their long train of horses, litters and men starts off, trundling down London's cold streets.

"Come away from the window, sweetheart," her mother says but Madge doesn't listen, drinks in the chilly air and the wan faces of the people they pass. Everyone averts their eyes as they roll by, all of their movements shifty and nervous. The air here is tense and she can feel it trying to leech away her glee at going home. Madge sucks in her bottom lip as she loses count of all the soldiers and guards sprinkled throughout the city, each one sporting a livery badge of the King, a silver wolf crowned in gold.

Why are there so many? Is London really so dangerous?

(the answer is yes, of course)

(the real question, is who in London is so dangerous)

They turn a corner and Madge inhales sharply, her eyes widening in alarm. Standing in the slushy road is a line of men bound together with chains, their clothes thin and ratty. The carriage lurches to a stop, the road blocked and her father's squire rides forward to speak with the man in charge of these men, his uniform a bloody red and emblazoned with the King's wolf. Each man is sallow and ill-fed, eyes sunken and cheek bones jutting out. Madge cannot take her eyes off of them even as her stomach rolls over and over and she leans forward, nearly hanging out of the window.

"Madge," her mother reprimands but she barely hears it over the crack of a whip, like thunder loud in her ears. Madge flinches as the men are hurried to the side of the street and one stumbles, his knobbly knees sinking into the grey snow. He hunches over and Madge watches in horror as the snow starts to redden, her throat burning with bile.

"Madge," her mother starts again and Madge closes her eyes, nails digging into the wood of the carriage. A wave of sickness crashes inside of her as the carriage starts again and she keeps her eyes closed until they turn another corner. She breathes deeply and blinks them open, the very top of Westminster still visible. It towers over London and Madge does not need to wonder about the fear she sees in the eyes of the people they pass. There is a shadow over London, a fear permeating the streets.

No one here is happy.

(except the King)

They reach the city gates and Madge says a last farewell to London, offering silent prayers that she never has to return. Her mother pulls her against her side and Madge snuggles into her arms, relieved to be on her way home.

The King can't touch them there.

(if only if only if only)

Bedford Castle is the most welcome sight Madge has ever seen and she throws herself out of the carriage almost before it's stopped.

She nearly trips over her skirts but her father swoops down from his horse and grabs her, swinging her up into his arms. Her mother climbs down from the carriage in a much more careful fashion and comes to stand beside them, her arm fitting snugly around her husband's waist.

"It is good to be back," her father says and Madge nods.

"It is good to be home," her mother corrects and they all seem to exhale together, expelling the toxins bleeding from Westminster's walls. Whatever happened in London is over, Madge assures herself, we are safe now, home and safe.

(how naive she is)

Only months later, before Madge has even turned ten, news comes of another revolt in London, followed by a mass execution.

(fifty four dead)

(fifty four)

Madge wraps her blankets around herself at night and knows she won't sleep a wink. The dead crawl like ghosts through the shadows of her room and she wonders if it will ever end, the rebellions and riots and death.

Why is it that so many people are willing to commit treason, to rise against their sovereign lord? Was he not ordained by God? Are they not compelled to show him fealty?

But he is wrong wails a voice in Madge's heart as she remembers the fear that hung heavy in London's streets, the terror in the eyes of its citizens. There had been a dark whisper then in the halls of Westminster, a promise of bloodshed to come.

Perhaps the time has finally come.

(not yet, but soon)

(here is a secret Madge learns at nine)

(the King is evil)

"It appears I've won again," the Duke of Bedford says with a grin, setting down his cards on the table. Madge pouts.

"Ladies do not pout, my love," her mother admonishes gently while her graceful fingers put the finishing touches on a purse for her husband. Madge tries to squish down her pout and fails, tossing her own cards onto the table. Her father laughs.

"Fear not, my sweet. Practice does make perfect. I'm sure you'll be beating me in no time."

Madge huffs softly. She'd like to be beating him now. Her mother examines the purse with a critical eye and then offers it to her husband.

"What think you, my lord?" she asks and the Duke takes it with careful hands.

"Magnificent," he declares and his wife rolls her eyes, "I shall wear it proudly."

Margaret of Bedford shakes her head fondly at him and he leans in for a kiss. Madge watches them and the smiles present on both their lips and feels her frustration ebb away.

"Try and keep better care of it this time, I would prefer to do more with my time than embroider purses," the Duchess teases and her husband grins, fastening the purse to his belt.

"I shall endeavor to do my best," he promises and the room feels pleasantly warm to Madge, everything bright and rosy. It's been months since they'd left London, she's ten and all grown up now, and she could almost imagine it was all a bad dream, a nightmare half-remembered.

"Alright," her father says, standing up, "I think it's time our little lady went off to bed."

Madge frowns.

"I'm not tired!" she insists and her father smiles and scoops her up into his arms.

"Perhaps not now, but you will be tomorrow if you don't get enough sleep tonight."

"But fatheeeeerrrrr," she whines and her mother frowns.

"Madge, remember your manners."

Proper ladies do not whine and they always obey their lord father, she recounts in her head and why must manners always be so bothersome?

"Indeed, what great lord will want such a whiner as a wife?" her father asks and tickles her side. Madge squirms in his arms.

"Oh Papa, stop, stop Papa!" she giggles and her mother shakes her head.

"You are both terrible," she pronounces but she smiles prettily at them all the same.

"I was merely punishing a disobedient daughter," her father insists and Madge giggles into his shoulder.

"If I believed that, I would have to have wool for brains," her mother retorts, voice bubbly with laughter. The Duke gasps.

"Is that any way to talk to your Lord Husband? All the women here are so impudent," he says in mock-disappointment and then looks down at Madge with a secret smile.

"Shall we teach this lady a lesson?" he asks and Madge nods eagerly. He reaches out and takes her mother by the hand, tugging her gently over to them. Her mother's arms go around them both and Madge likes this, being warm and safe in her parents' embrace.

"I know exactly what you are planning and you would not dare," her mother tells them and the Duke catches Madge's eye and winks. Tiny fingers attack Lady Bedford, tickling wherever they can reach.

"Madge-stop this-at once," her mother gets out between peals of laughter but Madge ignores this, her own laughter mingling with her mother's.

"Stop-stop!" her mother begs and all three of them are laughing, together and happy and untouched by all the horrors to come.

(and that's how Madge will remember this, one perfect golden moment where everything was wonderful and bright)

A knock sounds at the door and interrupts their mirth, both of her parents furrowing their brows. Her father sets her down and turns to the door with a frown.

"You may enter," he calls and Sir Thomas Cartwright, her father's Marshal, steps inside. His face is drawn and Madge feels the temperature drop. Sir Thomas is in charge of all their defenses and military matters, does this mean they are under attack?

"I apologize, my lord," Sir Thomas says as he bows, "but you have received urgent summons from the King."

All the air seems to have left the room, Madge's whole body left breathless.

"Why?' her father questions, a quaver in the back of his voice. Sir Thomas looks at Madge and her mother, clearly uncertain if he should say whatever it is in front of them.

"Go ahead," he father urges and Sir Thomas bows his head.

"There is armed rebellion in Kent. The King commands you to raise men and head there immediately to help stamp it out."

Madge feels her mouth drop open and her mother gasps, covering her mouth with trembling hands.

"I see," her father whispers, voice suddenly rough. "We will leave as soon as possible. See that everything is prepared."

Sir Thomas bows again. "Immediately, your Grace." He turns and sweeps from the room, Madge staring unseeingly after him.

"Joseph," her mother says and snags her husband's sleeve between shaking fingers. He turns to look at her with sad eyes and neither of them says a word, so much more conveyed in silence. He covers her hand with his, their eyes trained on each other and the sudden urge to cry bubbles up in Madge's gut.

Don't go Papa, please don't go

Her mother grabs her husband's face, fingers on his cheeks and kisses him with a fierceness Madge has never seen before, her skin flushing red.

"Be careful," the Duchess commands him, their foreheads touching.

"I will."

"You'll be back soon, won't you Father?" Madge asks, fear like poison in her veins. He turns to her with a smile, reaching one hand out to stroke her hair.

"As soon as I'm able," he promises and then kisses her forehead. Madge closes her eyes, tears stinging under her eyelids.

"We will come and see you off," her mother murmurs, voice faint and afraid. There is a pause, heavy with unsaid things and Madge hugs herself, dread welling up and spilling through her body.

Even here, so far away from London, the King has reached into their home and stolen away their happiness.

The entire household gathers in the courtyard to say goodbye and Madge tries her best to play the prim and proper lady, her heart weeping inside her chest. The Duke kneels before his Duchess to receive her wife's blessing and Madge tells herself everything will be okay. There is a special magic in a wife's blessing, a power that will surely keep her father safe. He stands when it's done and Madge's mother presses a delicately embroidered handkerchief into his hand, a token to carry with him through the fight to come. He holds it briefly against his heart and then kisses her hand, eyes staring deeply into hers.

Madge sees tears in her mother's eyes but they do not fall and Madge swears she will be just as strong. Her father turns to her and as much as she wants to throw herself on him in a hug, she knows she can't. That isn't how a lady is meant to behave herself.

"I will pray for your victory and speedy return," Madge vows and he smiles, eyes wet.

"I will be grateful for it," he replies and Madge knows the time has come. He shares one last look with both her and her mother and then he swings up onto his horse. A squire hands him his helmet and he looks just like a fairy tail knight. Those men always triumph and so will he. Madge believes that, she has to.

"Godspeed," her mother says in a trembling voice and then they ride off, a long line of horses pouring out of the castle grounds. They are not off to slay a dragon, but other English men and Madge is not sure she understands that, is not sure she ever will. She grabs onto her mother's skirt and already, she is praying.

Come home soon, Papa.

Come back safe.

Madge cannot sleep that night, her head filled with terrible thoughts so she creeps past her sleeping nurse and out into the hall. Everything seems sharper, harsher tonight, every item of furniture and brazier on the wall. There is unseasonal ice in the air and Madge tiptoes to her parents' bedchamber, heart hammering in her throat. She sneaks inside, past sleeping ladies and stops by her parents' huge bed and finds her mother awake, her eyes luminous in the dark.

"Come here, sunshine," she whispers and Madge clambers up into the big bed and under the covers. Her mother pulls her close and rests her chin on the top of Madge's head.

"Papa will be home soon. You must believe that."

Madge nods. "I do, Mama, I promise."

She wraps her own arms around her mother, breathes in her comforting scent.

Papa will be home soon she repeats as she drifts off to sleep.

Soon

Three weeks later, a guard posted on lookout duty hollers into the courtyard.

"Our Lord of Bedford is returning!"

Madge hears him through a window and drops the book she's meant to be reading, happiness bursting inside her.

"My lady!" her tutor tries to scold but Madge is already running from the room. She tears down corridors and up stairs and crashes through a door out onto the guard wall. She clutches the stone and peeks through the parapets, standing up on her tip toes. There, out beyond the castle walls, she can see them, a train of men and horses, waving a white banner above their heads, one blazoned with the silver Bedford Bell.

Her father is home.

The household gathers outside to welcome their victorious lord home, relief making them giddy.

Great cheers rise up as the knights and soldiers ride into the courtyard, their armor gleaming in the sunlight, and ladies wave handkerchiefs and scraps of lace at them, white ribbons tied in their hair to match their lord's banner. The men toss up their hats in joy and Madge stands with her mother, her own hair filled with ribbons and a solid silver Bedford Bell pinned to her kirtle. There are less men returning than left, but at the head of them is the Duke of Bedford, weary but whole. Madge feels her knees wobble and can barely keep her face straight, a smile dangerously close to breaking through.

Her father pulls off his helmet and hands it to a squire, his dismount slower than usual. There is a heaviness in his bones that gives Madge pause, scratching at the back of her mind. Something isn't right. He walks towards them and they curtsy, Madge's a bit clumsy with glee and apprehension. She looks up at his eyes as she stands and her excitement is stomped down by what lingers there, something foreboding and melancholy.

"Congratulations on your triumph, my lord husband. We will have a great feast to celebrate," her mother says and the tired soldiers give a hearty cheer. Her father smiles but it doesn't light up his face like it's supposed to, looks more strained than it should. Madge bites her lip, worry eating away at her happiness and her mother clearly senses something is wrong too, her eyes narrowing as she looks at her husband.

"I will have a bath drawn for you," she tells him and he nods gratefully. Madge wonders why she doesn't ask what's wrong, but perhaps proper ladies aren't meant to do that either. Her father offers his arm and her mother takes it, the two of them leading the household back inside.

Servants rush about to prepare and Madge tracks her parents with her eyes as they move farther away, up to the privacy of their bedchamber. There is something going on here. Madge knows she should head to her chamber to get ready, but instead she ducks away from her nurse and follows discreetly behind her parents. She is quiet and their posture is tense, confirming her suspicions. There is a secret her father is keeping, a terrible, awful one.

But what could it be?

(are you sure you want to know?)

They enter their bedchamber and Madge presses her ear to the door, their words slightly muffled but still understandable.

"So you suppressed the rebellion, then?"

"Yes, but something was very clear as we rode across the country. This isn't over. There will be others, many others. I fear we will soon be at war."

Madge gasps and pulls away from the door. There is a clatter from the other side, someone having dropped something but Madge barely hears it, heart tumbling over itsef in her chest.

Will they never be allowed to live in peace? Will the King's shadow haunt them forever?

(yes, yes, yes)

(Madge wonders if it is a sin to hate her king)

(but perhaps it was not God who set him on the throne, perhaps it was the Devil himself)

When Madge is eleven, she learns of her own claim to the throne.

King Coriolanus is her great uncle, they share a common ancestor in King Henry IV. She falls in the line of succession after the King's son Cato (her cousin once removed) and her own mother (the King's niece).

(this then, explains why the King knows her mother, why he showered honours on them)

(her stomach does queasy somersaults at the thought)

Madge does not have any expectations of being Queen, knows that Prince Cato will surely marry and have children, will push her farther and farther away from the throne. It will, on the other hand, improve her options of marriage, this blood tie to kings. And that is all Madge thinks she can do for her family, marry well.

(she is wrong)

(but why, Madge can't help but ask herself, why did her parents keep this monumental relation a secret for so long?)

(but then she remembers rolling heads and puddles of blood and maybe she knows the answer)

"You are growing into quite the young woman, Lady Madge," her nurse tells her as the tailor fits her for a new gown. Madge beams.

"I wager suitors will be lining up outside the castle walls any day now," her nurse continues and Madge blushes at the thought. She thinks she would like a husband, one who was brave and handsome and would love her forever and ever. They would live near her parents and have a very large family and always be happy, until the very day they died. He would wear her favor into battle and fight every tournament in her name. She swoons just at the fanciful imagining of it, like a fairytale come to life. Her nurse chuckles softly.

"It won't be for some years, dear, so don't get too excited."

"Why not? I'm almost old enough," she points out and her nurse nods.

"Indeed, but your lord father and lady mother aren't so keen to see you packed off and wedded until you're still a bit older. In fact, they told the Duke of Exeter just that."

Madge doesn't actually want to get married just yet, would much rather stay with her parents, but her nurse's tidbit of gossip puts hooks into her imagination.

"The Duke of Exeter wishes to marry me?"

Her nurse snorts.

"Goodness, no! He already has a wife. He wanted you for his son and heir, Henry, the Earl of Huntingdon."

Madge bites her lip and ponders this new information.

"And what is this Henry like?" she asks and her nurse turns thoughtful.

"I reckon he's about fourteen and quite tall from what I've heard. They say his father is rather handsome, so he might be as well."

Madge drifts off into thought. Henry Holland, Earl of Huntingdon and future Duke of Exeter. Tall, fourteen and potentially quite handsome. In her eleven year old mind, he sounds perfect.

"Now don't go getting any ideas, the Duke and Duchess have already said you're too young to wed him," her nurse reminds her and Madge nods.

"It is no matter, he will wait for me," she decides, because of course he will. The charming boy in her mind would wait a lifetime for his lady love. Her nurse shakes her head but Madge pays her no mind.

Lady Madge Holland, Duchess of Exeter.

It sounds lovely.

Riots rise up again, just as her father predicted, but this time in Devonshire.

Madge watches her father ride away and waves her handkerchief after him, praying for his safe return. Her mother stands by her side and squeezes her shoulder, tears glittering on her cheeks in the golden sunlight.

They do not ride out with her father, but they do fight battles, against despair, waiting, the agony of not knowing.

At least her father has a sword to beat back his enemies.

Madge has only herself.

Madge takes to practising her letter writing skills, imagines beautiful love notes passed between herself and her future husband, the ever enchanting Henry Holland. It does not matter that she has never met him, because her imagination has long ago run away from her, caught up in pretty, romantic dreams.

As their parents hammer out all the boring legal details of their marriage, Henry and she will spend their courtship taking long walks in the garden, writing letters and playing cards by the fire. His lips will linger against her hand when he kisses it, his eyes will seek her out across the room and they will dance every dance together. He will whisper sweet words into her ear, promises of a lifetime of joy and love.

She blushes, skin heating up and buries her face in her pillow in embarrassment. How silly he would think her if he knew! But still, girlish hopes of love and marital bliss keep her mind from drifting to her father in battle, to his bloody body strewn out across some war torn field. She must have hope for tomorrow, it is what her father would want.

One day, all these rebellions and riots will be over.

One day, her father will give her to Henry in marriage and they will all live happily ever after.

One day.

She and her mother are breaking their fast when a messenger arrives bearing news from her father.

Madge stops eating immediately, stomach too excited for food, and eagerly looks over what he's brought. There is a crate, a small box tied with a cord and two letters sealed with her father's crest. The messenger bows to her mother and presents her with the letters, his hair swept back by the wind.

"From His Grace the Duke of Bedford, milady," he says and her mother takes the two letters with a smile.

"My thanks, good sir," she tells him and offers him a few coins as a tip. "You are welcome to stop by the kitchens for food and drink and I will have my Constable tend to your horse."

He bows again, cap clutched to his chest and their Steward shows him out. Madge leans over the table to get a better look at the letters, both addressed in her father's hand. On the first is written To My Dear Duchess and Sweet Daughter and Madge thrills at the sight. The second says For My Most Beloved Margaret and Madge imagines it must be a love note, filled with romance and she can't help but dream of the days she'll receive one from her own husband. Her mother breaks the seal on the first and pulls out the letter, Madge vibrating with anticipation.

"To my Dear Duchess Margaret and Sweet Daughter Madge,

We have stopped to sup at the Duke of Exeter's castle and we are joined as well by the Earl of Oxford (Anne's father! Madge thinks with a jolt). I think you would both like it here very much, for they have the grandest gardens I have seen outside of Windsor. Exeter says his son Henry spends most of his time exploring the grounds and climbing trees, to the eternal vexation of his lady mother.

Exeter also bid me take a crate of spirits he has been sent from France, claiming, of course, that he merely thinks we might enjoy them. I would guess his constant talk of Henry and the spirits have an ulterior motive, though it would be rude to say so, or to refuse such a generous gift (her mother interrupts her reading to laugh, shaking her head). As such, I have taken the liberty of accepting them and have sent them along with the messenger. Perhaps we may use them to toast my return (her mother laughs again and Madge can imagine her father's tone as if he were speaking the words himself and the smile that would grace his lips)?

Speaking of gifts and young Henry, he has sent something along for you, my Madge. It is in the other package and I swear I have no idea what it might be (Madge's heart does back flips, a silly, overjoyed smile breaking out over her face).

We are planning to spend the night here and ride out on the morrow, which is why I have the time to write. Oxford has spent the evening challenging me to cards, but he is nowhere near your level, Madge dear, and so I have been beating him handily. Exeter's wife, Lady Anne, is much admiring of your needlework, Margaret darling, and has made me swear a hundred times to relay her compliments to you as she has spent the night gushing over the purse and handkerchief you made me. Of course, this may also have to do with those ulterior motives mentioned earlier.

It is late and I should rest, but I confess I would much rather stay up writing. I won't though, I know how you would scold, sweetheart. I will be rested for tomorrow, as you would insist.

I wish most heartily that all this was over and I was with you both, but know that I think of you often and pray you are well.

With all my love, your most devoted husband and father,

Joseph, Duke of Bedford

written this day may eighth of the year fourteen sixty four in the Duke of Exeter's castle of Rougemont."

Madge's heart is warm from her father's words but there is also a knot of shivering excitement in her chest at the thought of what Henry Holland might have sent her. She looks to her mother for permission and the Duchess frowns but nods, clearly not pleased at boys sending Madge gifts.

Madge eagerly pulls the package towards her, barely even registering her mother's watchful gaze. She carefully unties the cord around it and lifts the lid, her heart pounding as loud as a giant's footsteps. Inside the box is a folded note and she takes it with shaking hands, romantic dreams swirling in her blood. She unfolds it and her eyes take in the the hastily scrawled message, the first tangible part of Henry she's ever encountered. She doesn't read it aloud as her mother did the letter from her father, wants this to belong just to her and Henry.

Lady Madge,

Your father has come to stay with us and I hope he will give this to you. My lord father says we might one day be married, and so I would like you to have this token of my esteem. I bought it from a traveling merchant, who promises it once adorned the hand of a foreign princess.

I liked it because it reminded me of outside, which is where I spend most of my time. If I had a choice, I think I would spend all my days and nights outdoors. Would you marry a man who lived in the woods?

I hope you like my gift and fare thee well,

Henry Holland, Earl of Huntingdon

It is not gushingly romantic and yet it might as well be, Madge feeling like she's skipped right over the moon. She holds it against her chest and sighs, her mother watching her with a fondly exasperated smile.

"You look feverish, love, and you have not even seen his present," she points out and Madge startles back to the moment. Again, bright hot excitement courses through her and she peers into the box, gasping aloud at what she finds. It is a ring made of gold with a silver flower on the band, the center set with a tiny pearl. Madge cradles it in her hands and is fairly certain she has never seen anything more lovely. She slips in onto her finger and swears right then that she will never take it off, not as long as she lives.

Thank you Henry, she thinks, heart on fire.

I will treasure it always

That night her dreams are filled with Henry, dashing, charming Henry who sweeps her right off her feet. But better than any dream is the thought that one day it will all be real, Henry loving her in life and not just fantasy.

She hugs the hand bearing his ring to her heart and plans out her return note in her head, cannot wait to put it all to paper.

Oh Henry, Henry, Henry, how lucky I am to have you.

Her father returns a victor, but he looks exhausted, the beginnings of an ugly red scar visible at the edge of his collar.

"Mercy, Joseph, what happened?" her mother fusses as squires help him remove all his armor. They peel back the layers and Madge hisses in shock at the twisting injury on her father's chest, long, deep and startlingly crimson. Her mother presses her fingertips to it in worry, her face awash in terrifying what-could-have-beens.

"I am alright," her husband assures her and takes hold of her hand, pressing it against his beating heart. "We were caught off guard, we were not expecting so many."

Madge clasps her hands and closes her eyes, the thought of losing her father making her head swim and her stomach roll.

"They almost got the better of us."

Her mother inhales sharply and her father's face turns dark and stormy, sorrow drawing heavy lines on his face.

"It was terrible," he murmurs, lost in some awful memory, "the Duke of Exeter's young son, Henry, snuck after us, eager to follow his father into battle. The rebels cut him down right before his father's eyes."

Madge does not hear anything else her father says, her head connecting with the stone floor as she collapses.

Madge spends a whole day laid up in bed, but it is not her head that ails her, not nearly as much as her heart does.

The physician tends to her, her parents hovering worriedly nearby but Madge barely takes note of any of them, sobbing as she mourns the boy she never met but could have loved. Henry Holland, Earl of Huntingdon who would now never be Duke of Exeter. Her dreams all fall to shambles, victims of the cruelty of King Coriolanus' England.

There is no childhood here, no innocence.

Just death and blood and ruin.

(poor, sweet Henry)

(even in all the decades to come, Madge will never forget this boy who never grew up)

(in the wars of Kings, the innocent are often forgotten. Madge vows to keep their names alive)

The halls are filled with whispers now, of the treachery of the rebels, the unrestrained violence of these riotous citizens. Maids and cooks pass words behind their hands, say this is the Devil's work, that God will lay a curse down on their wretched souls.

Madge cannot deny they are evil, horrid people, young Henry Holland rising like a specter in the back of her mind. What kind of monster would someone have to be to cut down a young boy, still so bright and full of life?

But if the rebels are doing the Devil's work and the King is the demon haunting her nightmares, what does that mean for England?

Are all of them cursed? Has their Heavenly Father abandoned them?

(one look at the atrocities committed here and the answer is obvious)

(yes)

Madge wanders garden paths and plucks spring blossoms from their stems.

She carries them to the top of the grassy hill at the edge of the grounds, the one her nurse used to whisper belonged to fairy kings. The world still glistens from the morning's rainfall and her boots sink into the soft earth, the hem of her dress trailing in the mud. She kneels down and doesn't feel the cool wetness of the ground as it seeps through her layers of skirt, her mind focused entirely on her task.

She ties sweet smelling flowers into wreaths and drapes them over a large, mossy boulder, one too large for any man to move. Her hand reaches into the pouch hanging from her girdle and pulls out the diamond she'd smuggled from her mother's coffer of jewels, running her thumb over it's smooth edges. She remembers being told diamonds are harder than stone and so she takes her stolen gem and carves into the boulder, her hand cramping from clutching the diamond so tight. It takes longer than she'd thought it would, dusk starting to kiss the clouds by the time she's done, but Madge looks at her work and though she is too raw to smile, she still feels proud. Carved in this boulder, forever and ever and ever, is just one name, shaky and squiggly but legible.

Henry.

She is sure his family has buried him with full pomp in a magnificent tomb, but Madge remembers his letter and wants him to be outside forever, just like he'd wished.

Let his spirit rest here on this fairy hill, chasing endless adventures.

Let him be young and carefree and laughing for eternity.

Madge twists his ring off her finger and holds it in the palm of her hand, a soft breeze blowing petals off the wreaths she'd left for him. They swirl through the air and down the hill, bright and colourful, just like she imagines Henry would have been.

She digs a hole with her free hand, dirt clumping under her nails and sullying her sleeve. She places his letter inside, gently covers it with earth and pats it down, safely burying it below the ground. She says a final prayer, his ring held between her hands and looks up at the sky, the sun meeting the stars against a pink and purple canvas.

"Rest well, Henry," she whispers and hopes her words float up to the heavens themselves.

(she knows it is just her imagination, but for one brief moment, she could swear she hears a voice, young and full of boyish cheer)

(i will)

The only sound in the schoolroom is the scratching of Madge's quill as she works on her Latin. Her tutor sits at the front of the room, reading quietly to himself and Madge works diligently, will broker no mistakes. Latin is the only one of her languages that she struggles with and she is determined to get this translation right, wants to surprise her parents at dinner tonight with how far she's come.

Her concentration is broken by a clatter of hooves outside and even though she knows she'll receive a scolding for it, Madge hurries over to the window. A messenger rides through the courtyard and just as she dreaded, he sports the King's badge, a crowned wolf she has learned to despise.

"Lady Madge," her tutor says sternly, demanding she return to her seat.

"It is a messenger from the King," she whispers. "It is rebellion again, isn't it?"

Her tutor doesn't answer but that's alright, he doesn't need to.

Dinner is a somber, hurried affair, the castle filled with urgent preparations for her father's ride to help crush yet another revolt against the King. He shovels down his food and Madge's eyes bounce anxiously between her parents. Her mother's skin is ashy, her face drawn and her lips pressed into a tight line. She does not touch her supper and Madge feels as if her own appetite has run off, her throat far too dry to swallow anything at all. Her father takes a last gulp of wine and sets down his goblet with a thunk.

"I need to get going, we want to rendezvous with Pembroke before tomorrow night," he tells them and pushes out his chair. Madge feels pulled tight all over, stretched so thin she might snap. Every goodbye is worse than the last and she wants to beg him not to go, would get down on her knees and clutch at his legs if she thought it would do any good.

"I cannot take this anymore," her mother moans, swaying in her seat. Her husband hurries over to her in alarm and Madge is too frightened to move, the world crumbling around her ears.

"Shall I send for the physician?" her father asks, voice distressed and Madge tries to swallow around a lump in her throat.

"What is the point? A physician cannot cure me."

The Duke looks at his wife in confusion. "Whyever not? What ails you, my love?"

"These rebellions! You, running off to keep the King on his throne!"

Madge watches her father recoil in shock and she cannot help but feel it too, has never heard her parents exchange even one harsh word in all her life.

"He is our sovereign lord, I have no choice but to obey his commands," her father says, tone still lilted through with confusion.

"You've said it yourself, these riots won't end, not until the entire country is at war! The people hate him! How long will you fight his battles, beating back his enemies while he sits safe in his palaces?"

The Duchess' face is red and flushed, her breathing heavy and she looks so winded and out of breath from so little conversation it makes Madge want to weep.

"He is my King, and your uncle!" her father snaps back, voice raised in a way Madge has never heard, a kernel of fear rooting in her stomach.

"Exactly! I have grown up haunted by his shadow! We both know what sort of man he is better than anyone! Would you die for him, leave us forever, just to keep him on his throne?"

Madge wants to close her ears from the shouting, hates the King all over again for tearing apart her family.

"What would you have me do, Margaret?" her father demands, anger turning his neck and ears bright red. "Abandon my oaths? Fall in with the rebels? Loose everything we have and have my head put on a spike on Tower Hill?"

Her mother doesn't answer, eyes narrowed into slits and chest heaving.

"That is treason, Margaret," the Duke pronounces, voice so grave Madge feels like she's climbed into a bath of ice. Her mother holds his gaze for a few moments more and then collapses in her chair like a popped soap bubble.

"You're right of course," she whispers and the anger seems to drain out of her husband, "he is God's anointed King, we owe him our loyalty."

Madge watches her father nod and return to his wife's side, taking her limp hand between both of his.

"And we are bound to him by blood, no one will ever forget that."

Her parents share a look, one steeped in hopelessness and it's what they aren't saying, the undercurrent in their words that scares Madge worse than anything they have said.

If the King loses, they shall all be condemned right alongside him.

The physician decides her mother must be conveyed straight to bed despite her protests and so her husband carries her upstairs to their bedchamber, Madge trailing after them.

"I am well enough to see you off, Joseph," Margaret insists as he lays her down gently on their great bed.

"There is no shame in being ill, darling. Rest and be well again," he murmurs, fingers stroking her hair. Her mother struggles up onto her elbows and her dress slips slightly, exposing a frightfully thin shoulder. Madge flinches in shock. How had she not noticed how thin her mother was becoming, what a toll her bouts of sickness were taking?

"I have been ailing since the day I was born, Joseph, we both know I shall never be well. But I am not an invalid, I am the mistress of this house and I will see you and the men off." She tries to fill her voice with steel but it is threaded though with weakness instead. Outside these castle walls or within them, it seems there are always threats to ravage Madge's happiness.

"Don't go, Mama," she begs, dropping to her knees at her mother's bedside with fear in her heart. She clutches her mother's hand and she can see the surrender in her eyes. The Duchess lies back against her pillows and folds into them, looks so much older and frailer than her thirty one years.

"I shall be back soon. I love you," her father says and kisses her mother's forehead. Margaret nods tiredly and Madge bites her lip to fight back tears. Her father smiles at her and lifts her chin with his hand.

"Be brave, sweet Madge. All will be well again soon."

Madge squeezes closed her eyes and nods. "I will be, Papa, I promise," she says, sobs catching in her throat.

"I know you will."

He presses a kiss to the top of her head and then he's gone, tears slithering out from beneath her eyelids and down her cheeks. Her mother squeezes her hand and Madge holds her father warm in her heart.

I shall be brave Papa, the very bravest

Madge's favourite story has always been that of King Arthur, the brave, good king who will rise again to save them in their darkest hour.

Whenever times get rough, she has always comforted herself with the thought that he hasn't returned yet, that whatever she thinks is so terrible, isn't truly so horrid. If it really were, King Arthur would've come to save them.

(of course, if he hasn't come yet, if this isn't bad enough to call him back, that means something even worse is in store)

(even her heroes conjure nightmares now)

Her father returns victorious, the King's forces once again triumphant.

How long, Madge wonders, how long will this continue?

(forever and ever and ever)

(Madge is twelve when she learns of the other claim to the throne, the one no one speaks of)

(at least not out loud)

(He is Finnick Odair, Earl of Richmond, but the word bastard haunts his name, on either side of his family tree.

His mother is a descendant of Edward III, just like Madge, just like King Coriolanus himself. John of Gaunt, son of Edward III and father to Madge's great grandfather Henry IV, had several children by his mistress Katherine Swynford, all born out of wedlock, but legitimized once John and Katherine married. From these once bastard children comes the line that leads to Lord Finnick's mother, the Lady Alma.

Lord Finnick's father, meanwhile, is the half brother of King Coriolanus, born of the same mother but different fathers. The stain of illegitimacy lies in the dispute over whether King Coriolanus' mother, the Dowager Queen, ever actually married the servant man to whom she bore so many children, including Lord Finnick's father)

(this boy, a handful of years older than Madge, is never openly acknowledged as a potential heir, even with royal blood flowing through his veins)

(it does not matter though, because he will never see the throne. Prince Cato would have to die without heir, as would Madge and her mother before Finnick Odair of Richmond could call himself King)

(and Madge is sure there is little chance of that)

Madge is safe in Bedford Castle but she is no longer ignorant of the upheaval in England.

Messengers bring evil tidings every day, a list of dead men and burned cities. The kingdom is fracturing, splintering and the King's idea of order is to continue the killing, to put down the riots with as much brutality as he can manage. He could build fortresses from the bones of his victims and rage sweeps through England, bright and hot, setting the entire country aflame.

The people of England hate their King.

(Madge cannot blame them)

There is only one way to douse this inferno and it is a crime no one would ever be brave enough to say, not even in a whisper.

(regicide)

Madge lays flowers by her makeshift memorial for Henry and no longer fools herself into believing she'd loved him. She might have, in another life, but in this one he was just a name, not even a face. She does not love him, but still she mourns him, his life snuffed out far too quickly.

Fourteen year old boys should never die, but certainly not by the sword. Was he frightened? Did he suffer? She closes her eyes and prays that his soul is at rest, that he has found peace in the hereafter.

Poor Henry, she thinks, to be remembered as nothing but a victim, a child murdered in cold blood. If history will recall his name, it will be as a footnote, just one of many tragedies blooming across England in these tempestuous years. He deserves better in death as he did in life, but he will not get it. No one will.

If life has taught her anything, it is that nothing is fair and no one receives what they deserve. Perhaps the Lord is testing them or perhaps the Devil has wrested England away from him and torments them for sport.

It matters little.

Madge cannot change it, she must merely try and survive it.

(here is another secret she learns, this time at thirteen.

The Duke of York is a distant cousin of King Coriolanus and thus of her as well. They all descend from King Edward III and there are whispers and echoes that maybe, just maybe, the Duke of York is the rightful King of England.

King Coriolanus' father, King Henry IV, usurped the throne from his cousin Richard II. His reasons, of course, were that Richard was a tyrant, a monster, unfit to rule.

True or not, he has set a precedent.

Even God's anointed King is not safe, is not untouchable.

Worse, some believe the Duke of York has a better claim to the throne than King Coriolanus, as he is descended from Edward III's second son, while the King is descended from his third son.

Madge tries to tell herself it doesn't matter, after all, no one would ever depose a king)

(then again, that's how all this started)

The world around her always feels like walking over eggshells, fragile and delicate, about to fall to pieces any moment. Everyone's nerves are rubbed raw and her mother is always ill with migraines, skin ashy and body weak. Her father loses weight, his clothes hanging off his frame and his hair starts to thin, dark circles blooming under his eyes. No one sleeps right, pressure and worry building on their shoulders, ready to explode.

Madge feels like rats have taken residence in her stomach, clawed feet scrabbling along her insides. She prays for respite, for her parents' health but still the days seem to grow darker, the menace of rebellion stalking every man, woman and child in England.

They cannot go on this way, something must be done.

(and here it comes)

Madge wears the loveliest gown of violet silk, dripping in gold and amethysts, pearls and diamonds. Fragile lace veils cascade down from her hennin and all eyes are on her in the middle of the dancefloor, the handsomest man in all of England bent over and kissing her hand. His lips are warm and soft, butterflies fluttering deliciously in her stomach.

He stands and Madge looks down at her hand, a smear of blood left behind from his mouth. She frowns, something cold and horrible settling inside of her. She raises her head and screams.

Screams and screams and screams.

Henry Holland stands before her, throat slit and body broken, head and limbs bent at odd angles.

She stumbles away in horror and arms catch her, her back landing against someone's chest. She twists around and cannot even scream, terror clogging her throat.

It is her father, his eyes plucked out and the skin of his face pecked away by crows. He smells fetid and rotting, glistening bones visible and Madge scrambles away from him, heart stampeding as she tries to escape.

She sprints down the hall but her feet trip over her skirts and she falls, the ground catching her and swallowing her up. She starts to sink into it and when she looks up, desperate for help, she finds only the King, dripping with blood and cackling wildly.

The Duke of York comes up behind him, swinging a heavy ax and Madge closes her eyes, feels something hot splash across her cheeks. She opens her eyes and looks right into her King's, open and lifeless.

Madge screams, no sound leaving her throat and no one comes to save her.

No one at all.

Madge is fourteen when war erupts across England.

It's a mild morning in September of 1467 and she is working on her embroidery, is determined to successfully capture a bird in thread. Her mother reads beside her, the other household ladies gossiping quietly. Their peaceful scene is interrupted by one of her father's squires barging into the room, the same one who used to dance with Madge so long ago.

The door crashes against the stone wall, the ladies gasp in scandalized shock and Madge pricks herself with her needle, scarlet blood dripping onto the pale lavender of her dress. She hisses in pain and looks up at Bristel in reproach but the frenzied look in his eyes makes her rebuke dry up in her throat.

"My lady," he pants, red faced and Madge's mother looks at him with feverish eyes.

"What is it?" she whispers, colour sliding out of her face.

"War, your grace, England is at war."

England has erupted, split down the middle by two powerful men.

The Duke of York has declared the King a tyrant, has deemed him oppressive, cruel, unfit to lead England and her people. Nobles flock to his rebellion, including his brother-in-law the Earl of Salisbury and his nephew the Earl of Warwick. They seek to remove King Coriolanus from power and place the Duke of York there instead, backed by his own claim to the throne, Edward III's royal blood pumping through his veins.

King Coriolanus retaliates, his own army rising to meet this would-be-usurper.

The clash, when it comes, will be devastating.

For so many, for so long.

(for Madge)

The Duke of Bedford is called to arms, summoned to prove his loyalty to his King.

Madge and her family are Lancastrians, as the King's supporters are called, not by choice but by blood, and Madge's father gathers as many men as he can to ride out and meet his king. Madge watches him as he prepares to leave, looking small in his gleaming silver armor and hates the Duke of York. She does not know him, has barely met him but he has brought war to England, has dragged her loved ones into bloody conflict.

(there is a small voice though, one that whispers of the fear in London, the chill in Westminster)

(perhaps the Duke of York is on to something)

Her mother is too ill to see the men off, so Madge stands in the courtyard as lady of the house, keeps her back as straight as she can. She wants to grab hold of her father's reins, refuse to let go until he agrees to stay behind but she doesn't, has been raised with Bedford bravery in her heart, will make her father proud.

His eyes are wet as she ties her mother's handkerchief to his gauntlet, a wife's token to keep him safe. He kisses her cheek as the wind picks up, the cold cutting through her skin.

"Take care, my Madge," he whispers.

"And you father," she replies, voice shaking.

He mounts his horse and he looks so pale in the watery sunlight. The ground shivers as the men take off, a thunder of hooves and Madge stays in the courtyard long after they've gone, holds herself tight as tears stain her cheeks.

Come back father, please come back.

Life continues in Bedford Castle, news few and far between.

Madge stares out the windows as the weather grows colder, tries to catch a glimpse of a rider bearing some sort of message, some update on the state of England, but always, there is no one.

Madge's fingers are clumsy at her needlework, her eyes blurry as she tries to read her books, her hands limp as she attempts to play her instruments. She cannot concentrate, lives in a state of frigid fear. The world outside is a mystery, one she is desperate to unravel.

How goes the war? Who is winning? Losing? And what of my father?

Madge needs to know, just as she dreads finding out.

"There must be something we can do," Madge says for the thousandth time and her mother sighs, setting down her embroidery.

"I have told you darling, there is nothing we can do but pray. Pray for your father and the King, that they will be safe and victorious. We must trust in the Lord."

It is the same speech she has given every time Madge has asked and just like always, it does little to soothe Madge's nerves. Her mother's ladies-in-waiting share looks of pity and Madge bristles, determines right then that she will find something useful to do.

"May I be excused?" she asks and her mother blinks before sighing again.

"Yes, Madge, you may."

Madge curtsies and turns in a whirl of skirts, desperate to be out of this stifling room, desperate to be doing something. She slips from her mother's solar and leans back against the closed door, at a loss for what that something might be. Think, she tells herself, there must be something...

She pushes off from the door and moves across the hall to the window. She leans against it and looks out at the castle grounds, but it is the same view as always, empty and without a rider bearing news. The wind picks up and Madge's eyes catch on a pennant at the top of one of the turrets as it whips in the breeze. It is a fraying white with her father's badge, the silver Bedford Bell, upon it and Madge feels inspiration burn into her fingertips.

She gathers up her skirts and runs down the hall, dodging scandalized chamber maids and shocked page boys as she goes. Her satin slippers nearly flap off but Madge doesn't slow, feels excitement thrusting her forward. She careens through an oak door and arrives in a store room piled high with silks and velvets, brocade and cloth of gold. Reams and reams of fabric, yards and yards of material and Madge falls upon them like a starving man on a fresh pile of vegetables. She picks through crates and boxes, desperate to find the perfect piece.

Yes!

She drags out a roll of white silk, cool and soft to the touch. Perfect! She will need thread, red for Lancaster Roses and silver for a Bedford Bell. She will make a banner, with a border of red roses and a great big bell in the middle. She will proclaim her loyalties to the world, show them all the proof of her faith. She will hang it up on the castle walls so everyone will know who they are, who she prays for, who she sends her every ounce of courage to.

This will be a banner to welcome her victorious father home, one to hold all her hopes. Madge hugs the roll of fabric to her chest.

No more idle hands, I'll be useful.

You will have the very best homecoming Father, I swear.

Madge is diligent in her work, measuring and cutting and designing.

There is still no word from the front but she no longer yearns for it with the same intensity, her mind focused and her hands busy. Her banner comes along and she plans out the celebration they will have when her father returns home. What food they'll eat, what decorations they'll hang and what needs to be cleaned, polished and refurbished.

The Yorkists can fight and even win as many battles as they want. They cannot take Madge's hope and it will never falter or fade. The Duke of Bedford will return.

Madge will never let go of that.

In December, news finally arrives.

It is the worst winter Madge can remember, bitterly cold and heavily coated in snow. The courier who brings word is nearly blue and half dead when he collapses on their doorstep, the words quivering as they leave his bleeding lips.

The Duke of York is dead.

He and his brother-in-law the Earl of Salisbury have been slain at the Battle of Wakefield, the snow stained red with the blood of countless dead. The routed army has fled, the King is victorious.

Madge sighs in relief. It is over.

(if only)

But then a whisper.

A whisper goes out that the war is not over, that the Yorkists still intend to fight.

The Earl of Warwick is still standing, a new Earl of Salisbury, Gale, only sixteen, has risen to take his father's place and most shocking of all, the Duke of York's eldest child has taken up his claim.

Not a son, for he had none, but a daughter, Lady Katniss of York.

People shake their heads, scoff, for that cannot be true. These whispers must be wrong.

(they aren't)

Madge embroiders with vehemence, her needle like a sword and this banner her war. She cannot fight by her father's side, has no idea how to use a sword. She is not Lady Katniss of York (if she even exists), but Madge is still brave, will fight in the only way she knows how.

Every day and night, she and the entire household get down on their knees and pray, for the safety of their lord and victory for their cause. Madge stitches and stitches, will boldly show her colours to the world. She is a Bedford, they are Lancastrians and she will not hide, will pour every ounce of love and courage she has into this banner. Let this be a testament to her belief, to her faith in God and her father. Let any strength she possesses carry to him and make him mighty. Madge cannot fight with spear and shield, cannot ride out into battle for those she loves, but that does not mean she is helpless.

She will keep the home fires burning, she will pray, she will believe.

Let the Yorkists come, she thinks, let them come. I will not yield or bend or break. I may have no sword or shield, so I shall become them myself.

Come Yorkists, and have a taste of Bedford steel.

1467 becomes 1468 and in February fortune turns over, shattering Madge's fragile hope that this war is over, that her father will soon return to them.

Lady Katniss of York, real and bent on vengeance, and her cousin the Earl of Salisbury lead their armies in the Battle of Mortimer's Cross and win a decisive victory, prove themselves deadly and capable. The Lancastrian army is devastated and the King's half-brother, Lord Boggs, Earl of Pembroke, is forced to flee for his life.

The tides have turned.

(but Madge's hope is not shattered for long)

(she picks up every shard and piece and puts it back together again)

(she cannot command an army)

(instead, she shall destroy the Yorkists with the force of her convictions)

(the good shall triumph, her father will return)

(that is a promise)

Madge lies awake at night and thinks of Katniss of York.

This girl, only a few years older than Madge, has done the impossible. She rides to war in full armor, rallies troops behind her. She keeps the cause of York alive, no, she does more, she turns York into an unstoppable force, takes them to victory and victory and victory.

It is unnatural, some of her mother's ladies say but Madge wonders if that is really quite as true as everyone believes. There is a fire in her chest, one that burns hotter than any hearth and if Madge knew how, she would charge to war, vanquish enemies, bring her father home safe.

She and Katniss of York are both warriors, just of a different kind.

(even still, they are enemies too)

February continues, dreary and darker with every passing day.

There is a somber air in Bedford Castle and joy flees from their long faces and terror of defeat. Katniss of York is a chilling specter, far more effective than her father ever was, bolstered by the Earl of Warwick and the new, young Earl of Salisbury.

Isolated and trapped in this castle as they are, the Bedford household knows only that Katniss of York inspires loyalty wherever she goes, crushes Lancastrian forces like they might an ant. Hope is a delicate thing and Madge can tell by the faces around her that most here have had theirs broken, shattered and destroyed. It is only a matter of time they think but don't say. Soon, the Yorkists will kills us all.

Madge won't surrender so easily.

She puts the finishing touches on her banner, ties off the last silver thread. She instructs some men to hang it above the castle gate and dares the Yorkists to try and take this keep.

Let them come, she thinks, we will not fall.

We are Bedfords and proud.

We are Lancastrians.

We are ready.

It is not the Yorkists who come, but Bristel the squire.

Madge has some grooms carry her mother outside, hopes the fresh air with do her well. They set up in the garden, the Duchess wrapped snugly in layers and layers of blankets and furs. They won't stay long, the winter cold, but being cooped all day cannot be helping her mother strengthen. Madge reads aloud to her mother from Chaucer while the other ladies take to their needlework, each one pretending everything is fine and fear does not haunt their every hour.

(but oh, it does)

They have only been out for a handful of minutes when loud shouts come from the direction of the gate, the clamor soon drowning out Madge's voice. She closes the book and rests it in her lap, nails digging into the soft leather cover. Is it news? Or the Yorkists come to burn us to the ground? The ladies stop their stitching, faces turning white and Madge knows they are thinking as she is, wondering if death has come to find them.

They do not have to wonder for long.

Bristel comes galloping into the garden, grooms and guards streaming after him. His horse leaps over a low hedge to crash into their midst, hooves trampling all over the Duchess' flowerbeds. The ladies shriek in terror and Madge jumps up and knocks her chair back, the book clutched tight against her chest. Her mother lifts her head to look at him as he tumbles off his horse, haste evident in every move of his muscles and he hurries into a bow.

"Are you mad?" bellows Sir Thomas as he and a contingent of guards come running towards them, his cheeks puffed up and red. Bristel ignores him and addresses her mother instead.

"My Lady, I come bearing urgent news from the Duke."

Madge almost swoons with relief. News from the Duke means her father is still alive.

"What is the meaning of this?" Sir Thomas thunders. "Have you lost your mind? You cannot-"

"It is fine, Sir Thomas," her mother interrupts gently. "Tell us your news."

Sir Thomas clamps his mouth shut and Bristel nods, his armor spattered with mud.

"The Yorkist army is moving this way, they shall reach the castle in a matter of days."

The ladies around her whimper, Sir Thomas blanches and Madge feels a fire kindle in her belly. Let them come.

"I rode as fast as I could, but Lady Katniss moves them at a punishing rate. The Duke bid me tell you that you must all leave, as quickly as you can."

"No," Madge finds herself saying without thinking, the word torn from her throat. Everyone turns to look at her, their eyes poking at her like daggers. "We will hold the castle against any Yorkist siege," she continues, a hysterical conviction mounting in her bones. Bedford Castle must stand, must be ready to welcome her father home when he wins, just as he has done every time before.

"We cannot, Lady Madge. His Grace the Duke of Beford wishes every man not needed to guard you on your way to join him at the front. Times are desperate and we cannot spare enough men to withstand a siege, and certainly not one from Lady Katniss' entire army. We must run."

Bristel's eyes are hard and Madge feels like the ground is sinking beneath her feet. She cannot leave, will not.

"Sir Thomas, ready the men to join the Duke," her mother orders and Madge is sure she might vomit. We cannot do this, cannot leave. The Yorkists cannot chase us from our home. Sir Thomas bows in assent and hurries off, the Duchess turning to Bristel.

"Fetch the Lord Steward, have him ready the household for departure. We will leave for Berkhampstead immediately."

Madge shakes her head, cannot allow this. Her father has many castles, more than anyone but the King, and Madge has been to most of them. But unlike most nobles, Madge and her family have always preferred a more settled life, have always called Bedford Castle their home. She cannot abandon it now. Bristel frowns.

"My apologies, my lady, but the Duke insisted you go to Westminster and join the King."

The temperature seems to plummet, horror settling over them like a cloak.

no

please no

"My husband is both the Duke of Bedford and of Clarence, he has more castles and palaces than anyone in England save the King. Any one of them will be suitable to wait out this war," her mother retorts, voice steely even as her skin turns a frightening grey.

"The Duke was adamant, your Grace. Westminster will be the most heavily guarded place in England, there will be nowhere safer. The men that will escort you there will not be enough to defend a castle, no matter which you choose. You are the King's niece and the Duke is one of the King's staunchest allies, the Yorkists will make a point of burning down your castle and seizing you and the Lady Madge," Bristel says and he is being so very bold for a squire. The Duchess shakes her head and Madge knows she will refuse, would never countenance them going back to that devil's den.

They have to stay here.

"Very well, inform the Steward."

Madge gapes at her mother, disbelief tingling in every part of her body.

"Mother, no! We cannot go back there! We cann-"

"Enough, Madge. Your lord father is correct, we will be safest there. He would not suggest it unless it was the only option."

Madge shakes her head, furious tears building in her eyes.

"This is not right! I will not go, I will wait here fo-"

"Madge, stop this. We have no choice. We are going to Westminster as your father wishes. Be brave," her mother says, voice softening, "we must have courage and see this through."

Be brave, her father had always told her as he left, be brave.

Oh father, I'm not sure I can

They pack up everything they cannot bear to part with, know full well that the Yorkists will plunder anything that remains. Madge ransacks her chambers, her favourite gowns, jewels, books and trinkets stuffed hurriedly into chests to be packed up in litters. She forces herself not to cry as she bundles it all together, will be strong and resolute.

This is not forever. When this all over, we will be back.

Madge orders them to leave her banner hanging, will not be ashamed of her colours. Even if the Yorkists win, Madge will not renounce her family.

We are Bedfords and proud. We are Lancastrians born and raised.

"Your Grace, the Lord Steward would like to know who is to remain here and who shall travel to Westminster with you," a harried clerk tells them as Madge helps her mother pack up her things.

"No one is to remain here," her mother says immediately and the clerk steps back in surprise.

"No one?"

"No. Abandon the castle. I will not leave men and women behind to be slaughtered or imprisoned by the Yorkists. Tell them to return to their families and give an address to the Steward so I may send them excellent recommendations when I reach London. Take this," she says gesturing to one of her chests full of gold, silver and jewels, "and have the Steward divide it amongst them so they may pay their way until they have found new employment. Tell them also that they are welcome to anything we do not take with us. It is not enough, but it is all I can offer in repayment for their years of loyal service."

The clerk gapes and Madge feels a pang in her heart. Abandon the castle. Who knew three words could ache so much?

"As to those who will accompany us...only those who wish to. I will not yoke anyone to a ship that may soon sink. Everyone has my blessing to leave and seek their own safety, I will not hold them to us."

The clerk is speechless and Madge clutches tight to the rosary beads she'd wrapped around her wrist before leaving her room, praying that God can hear her.

Deliver us from harm

Keep us safe

Please

Madge carries a coffer of her mother's things out into the courtyard and stops in surprise at what she finds.

A full complement of guards stands at attention, Sir Thomas at their head; Bristel and several grooms ready the carriages and horses under the direction of their Constable, Sir Richard Keene; maids pack up the last of the things, guided by the Steward, Sir George Costmary and all her mother's ladies are waiting and dressed for travel.

So many have stayed when they could have fled, have chosen to stand with them, even faced with the coming storm. Madge feels like they have reached into her chest and touched her heart, tears building in her eyes. Sir George notices her and comes over.

"I made the Duchess' offer, but none would take it. Those you do not see here, I had to force to leave. We cannot afford to take everyone if we are to make any haste."

"Thank you," Madge chokes out and Sir George's face turns fierce.

"You needn't thank us, my lady. Each one of us is proud to wear the Bedford Badge."

Madge looks at those silver bells embroidered on their clothes and cannot hold back her tears. They drip down onto the coffer in her arms and see Father? They all love you, you must come home. No matter what the Yorkists do, we are with you.

Always.

Madge, her mother and all of her ladies squeeze into the carriage, sacks and chests piled beneath their feet and under their skirts. It is a tight fit but they have no room to spare, every litter they own filled to the brim. Those maids, cooks, clerks, grooms and other household staff they cannot bring with them cluster in the courtyard to see them off, even Madge's elderly tutor, his stern face melted into tears. Sir George has chosen who will come with them and who cannot, ordering those remaining behind to flee immediately. There is no telling when the Yorkists will arrive. They stand beneath Madge's great banner, waving scraps of fabric bearing the Bedford Bell and Madge fears her heart might burst.

"If there were but room, we would ride anywhere with you!" calls a groom, only a year or two older than Madge.

"God keep you, Lady Margaret!" shouts a ruddy faced cook.

"We shall pray for you, Lady Madge!" promises a teary maid.

"You will be in our hearts!" "May the Lord bless the House of Bedford!" "Keep safe and ride swiftly!" "It has been an honour!"

Madge covers her mouth to stifle her sobs and does not take her eyes off of them as their carriage pulls away, will imprint this scene onto her heart. There are no words she could say that will express her gratitude for such devotion and loyalty, no actions she could take that would ever be enough. Her mother has left them that chest of jewels and coins and given them leave to take anything that remains, but even all those gold plates and silver goblets, those gem encrusted gowns, the carefully carved furniture and store rooms full of food, drink, fabric and wood are not enough, could never repay the kindness they have shown.

"God keep and bless you all!" she shouts out the window and she will pray for just that each and every night. The silver thread of her banner catches in the sunlight and Madge vows that the house of Bedford will survive, for her parents' sake and for all those who have shown them such limitless loyalty.

This is not the end.

The ride to London is torturous, a fear of ambush staying all their tongues.

Will the Yorkists catch them?

Will they make it to London unharmed?

Will it even matter if they do?

Madge keeps her eyes fixed on the window and when she sees London looming before them, she cannot say she is relieved.

Which is the greater of two evils, she wonders.

Rebels who would burn me for my blood?

Or my King?

They stop before the city's gates, Sir Thomas riding out ahead of them.

"Who goes there?" a guard calls from the gatehouse, his shout tinged with fear.

"Her Grace the Duchess of Bedford and Clarence, niece to his Majesty, King Coriolanus of England! We request entrance!" Sir Thomas answers and there is a pause, one Madge cannot understand. Why do they not open the gates?

"Prove it!" one of the guards yells down at them. Madge can see Sir Thomas bristle.

"How dare you refuse to open your gates to the King's blood kin! Our lord the Duke of Bedford fights for his King and you would deny his wife and daughter safe passage?"

Madge is distracted from the guard's reply by her mother moving beside her. The dismal weather and long ride have only worsened her condition and she looks too weak even to stand.

"I must go out," her mother says feebly and Madge shakes her head.

"Mother, you can't!"

"They want proof, I shall give it to them."

Madge wants to argue but it is clear her mother will not listen. She struggles out of the carriage, her ladies helping to support her and Madge prays she will not collapse right there in the street.

"My lady!" Sir George squawks when he notices her mother leaning against the side of the carriage, her breathing laboured. He scrambles down from his horse and takes hold of her arm to keep her steady. She leans into him and looks up at the guard wall, her face dangerously pale, all the veins visible beneath her skin.

"I am Lady Margaret, daughter of Prince Henry, Duke of Clarence, granddaughter of King Henry IV of England, wife of Lord Joseph, Duke of Bedford and niece to your King, Coriolanus of England. I demand you open these gates and allow us to pass so I may see my uncle."

There is strength in her mother's voice, an authority and iron Madge would never have guessed her frail mother capable of.

It takes only moments for the guards to order the gates opened. Sir George helps her mother back inside and she collapses in her seat, chest rattling as she tries to breathe. Madge takes her hand and squeezes it tight.

"We shall be there soon, Mother. We shall be safe."

(Madge wishes she could believe that)

There is a servant of the King's waiting for them when they reach Westminster, the badge on his uniform curdling Madge's stomach. He bows as she dismounts the carriage.

"The King bids you welcome, my Lady, and wishes you and the Duchess to follow me to his Majesty's audience chamber."

Madge expected such a request, but even still, it leaves her cold all over.

"My mother is too ill to see anyone, she must be conveyed straight to bed. I will see his Majesty," she offers, gathering courage around herself like armor. The man looks unconvinced and Madge hardens her voice.

"The King will not take kindly to the Duchess being so poorly treated. She needs rest, please show her to her rooms."

The threat of the King's displeasure is enough to make up his mind.

"Of course, my lady, right away. But will you not need someone to show you to the King's audience chamber?"

Madge shakes her head and turns to look down the hall, feeling like she's about to walk to her own execution.

"I know the way."

Madge waits outside the doors as she is announced and tries to fortify her heart. Better me than mother. She cannot take this torment, sick as she is. The doors swing open and Madge squares her shoulder, marching in with all her dignity. I am a Bedford. I have royal blood in my veins. I am not afraid.

The King sits in his throne but he looks older by decades since last Madge has seen him. He is dressed in dark maroon, lines carved deep in his skin. The Queen beside him is not the bejeweled woman of ice Madge remembers, but hunched and suspicious in her throne, with hostile eyes and a dress of somber blue. Prince Cato has a savage look on his face, his hand clamped firmly on the hilt of his dagger. He must be at least sixteen now and Madge can see the itch to be out fighting painted clearly across his face.

(is it wrong that she wishes he were out there, rather than here?)

Pale, dying sunlight flitters through the windows and the luster of Westminster has clearly faded. She curtsies low and waits for the King to order her to rise.

"Lady Madge," he begins, rolling her name around on his tongue, "wherever is your mother?"

"The Duchess has regretfully fallen ill, your Majesty. She has been brought to bed."

Madge waits, eyes staring at the dusty floor and wonders if he will ever allow her to stand.

"Why have you come?" he demands, a cruel edge to his voice. Madge swallows, throat dry.

"We had received word from my lord father that the Yorkists were coming. We hoped-"

"You hoped to hide here," he interrupts, cutting across her like a knife. "Five years you have not deigned to visit and now you wish to hide behind our walls," he accuses and Madge clenches her hands in the fabric of her dress.

"My most sincere apologies if we have offended you, your Majesty, but we have not come to court because of the danger of the roads and the instability plaguing the kingdom."

A scoff comes from Prince Cato and Madge continues, feels the weight of her and her mother's lives pressing down on her shoulders.

"My lady mother and I have prayed for your victory every day and night while my lord father fights even now to defend your crown. I have hung a banner on our castle walls to show the world that the Bedfords stand side by side with their king. We are your Majesty's most loyal and humble servants."

She closes her eyes and waits for his judgement, their fates resting in his hands.

"Many have renounced their allegiance to us," he murmurs and Madge breathes in deeply.

"We have never your forsaken you, your Majesty," she replies, "you are our King and our blood, placed upon the throne by God himself."

"Indeed. You may rise."

She does, the entire royal family scrutinizing her closely.

"One of the Queen's ladies was not so loyal," the King tells her almost casually, a glint in his dark eyes. "She has since lost her head."

He smirks and Madge bites down hard on her tongue, forces her expression to remain neutral.

"As such, there is a vacancy in the Queen's household. Seeing as you are a noble daughter of loyal stock and possessing of royal blood, we think you would make a good replacement."

He narrows his eyes, watching closely for her reaction. She curtsies again, bowing her head.

"I would be most honoured, your Majesty."

"Good, you shall begin tomorrow. Tonight, see to your mother. We will send the royal physician to tend to her."

"Thank you, your Majesty. You are too kind."

He smirks again, tongue darting out to lick the blood pooling at the corner of his mouth.

"We do hope she will be well enough to break her fast with us tomorrow," he says and even though the words are innocent enough, Madge recognizes the command behind them.

"I am sure she will be."

"Good. You may go now, the physician will soon join you."

Madge holds in her sigh of relief at being dismissed and curtsies again. She leaves the room as quickly as she can without running and clutches her rosary to her heart.

Let this war be over soon

Let us leave this place

Let this not be our tomb

Her mother does not recover but soldiers on valiantly anyway, attending on the King whenever he wishes.

"It has been too long, Margaret," he croons and leads her to the seat beside him, seems not to care that the life in her eyes is flickering and fading with every passing day.

"Indeed it has been," her mother always agrees, voice the faintest breath of sound.

She is wasting away here, but she is not the only one, the entire court wilted and lifeless. These once splendid halls are drab and dingy, no longer echoing with music and laughter. The dark cloud that has lingered for so long over England has finally reached the palace that conjured it, the King suffering as his people have done for decades.

Madge waits on the Queen and it is clear that the royal family are terrified, can feel Lady Katniss' net tightening around them. Their eyes dart about at every sound, every scrap of news devoured. They jump at shadows, punish any who even look at them crosswise and they are irritable and snappish, suspicious of everyone and everything. They cannot survive like this for much longer, no one can.

(they won't have to)

As February begins to die, Madge spends her nights on her knees in prayer, hands clasped and head bowed.

I beg you Lord, please keep my father safe.

Please, bring him home to us

(but does the Lord answer prayers that come from a house of evil?)

(Madge is afraid to find out)

March rises over London in a blanket of fog and with it comes Madge's fifthteenth birthday, but she does not tell anyone and is glad of the lack of celebration.

She does not think she and the King share the same taste in entertainment.

(her mother presses a gift into her palm and when Madge opens it, she almost sobs.

It is a set of miniatures, one of each of her parents, held together with hinges.

"To remember us by," her mother whispers and Madge almost chokes on her tone of defeat)

(Madge does not want to remember them)

(remembering them means all she has left are memories)

A handful of days later, Madge is helping the Queen dress when a knock sounds at the door.

"Answer it!" Queen Enobaria orders, voice cracking like a whip and Madge curtsies, an angry spring coiled in her chest. She hurries over to the door and opens it to find a frightened looking page waiting on the other side. His face softens in relief when he sees it is her and not the Queen.

"I bring summons from the his Majesty the King. He wishes the Queen to join him in the hall immediately."

Madge nods, thanks him and watches him sprint away while she has to turn back to her mistress, the Queen's expression poisoned and sour.

"What did he want?" she demands and Madge reigns in her frustration. Everyday is a constant stream of belligerent bullying and she is beginning to think she might be better off losing her head as the Queen's previous lady did.

"The King requests your presence, your Grace."

"Then hurry up and get back to work, we mustn't keep him waiting," she snaps as if Madge had been slacking off. Madge bites her tongue and does as she is bidden, lacing the Queen into her gown as quickly as she can. The other ladies fuss about with her hair and hennin and Madge wonders what news of the King's could be so urgent.

Victory perhaps?

Or is it defeat?

The King does not waste time with plesantries.

"We are riding out," he announces and people around her gasp in shock. Madge furrows her brow.

"My ministers think it will do the men good to see their King, so we will go and meet them on the battlefield. With God's grace, this will put a swift end to this cursed war and see our kingdom righted once again," he continues and Madge feels like a ray of sunshine is beaming down directly on her head. The King will be gone, they will be free of him, at least for a time. She sends a silent thanks to God for His mercy.

"Let me come with you, Father," Prince Cato begs, bloodlust thick in his voice.

"That will do more harm than good," the King says, brushing him off. "It would be foolish to risk both King and heir on one battlefield."

Cato stiffens, eyes burning.

"I am old enough to fight! I should not be left cooped up here with the women!" he growls and the King turns sharply to look at him, eyes colder than ice.

"You will do as we tell you or you shall suffer as all others that disobey us. Is that clear?"

Prince Cato stares in shock a moment before wilting and Madge frowns.

What kind of man threatens his own son?

(a wicked, wicked, wicked one)

"Yes, Father."

"Good. We must now be off. We shall expect you all to pray for us and keep Westminster ready for our return."

Madge curtsies as he passes and cannot wait to tell her mother of this blessing.

She finds her mother lying in bed, her food barely touched. Madge sits by her side and takes her hand.

"The King is going off to battle, to inspire his men."

"So we have lost then," her mother breathes and Madge cocks her head in confusion.

"What do you mean?"

"In all the years, with all the battles, when has the King ever gone out to see his men?"

Madge opens her mouth to reply and realizes the answer is never.

"If he is leaving now, it is because he is running away."

"He wouldn't abandon his son, or the Queen, would he?" Madge asks, cannot believe she actually wishes he were still here. Her mother looks at her with pitying eyes.

"Wouldn't he?"

Yes, she admits, yes he would.

The King's departure has left a ragged wound in Westminster, his unflinching arrogance no longer present to stem the flow of desolation flooding London. It is obvious now, without his overpowering menace, to see just how dire their situation is.

The House of Lancaster is losing.

Katniss of York, her followers emblazoned with her badge of a white rose, so vividly contrasting with the King's bloody red, marches through England like a storm, churning Lancastrian armies into corpses and convincing others to turn their coats. Her ranks swell everyday and there is nothing the King's flagging support can do to stop her. Sooner or later they will all be caught up in her current, swept away by the House of York and it's vengeful lady.

The only question is when.

Madge relishes the moments she can be alone, away from the Queen and her brittle temper and caustic words. She sneaks away to wander Westminster's long halls and could almost believe there was no war, if only her heart didn't ache so for her father. The palace is so quiet now, entirely unlike the one she remembers from childhood and there's peace in that, however fragile. The only sound is the echo of her boots and Madge wishes she knew what happened beyond these walls, but news has been sluggish since the King left, trickling slowly like water from a tiny crack in the wall.

They heard, over a week after the fact, of the Earl of Warwick and William Herbert smashing the King's reinforcements from Wales, leaving them unable to meet up with the main body of the King's army, gearing up for one great, last battle. This will be the one that determines the outcome of the war, the victor claiming the throne of England.

(Madge tries not to think about what will be left to the loser)

Agonizingly slow reports come in that young Gale of Salisbury inspires many to flock to the Yorkist banner, his words stirring loyalty into their hearts. Madge stops by a window with slightly warped glass and tries to guess at what he might be saying, what spurs them on to treason. The grass outside is sodden with late season snow and Madge hopes her father keeps warm, hopes he crushes Gale of Salisbury to dust, hopes he routs Haymitch of Warwick and leaves Katniss of York destitute and friendless.

Madge may not bear the King any love, but the curse of her blood means she is a Lancaster, her life depending on a Yorkist defeat. More importantly, she knows what tragedies will await her parents if the Yorkists prove triumphant and Madge cannot bear to see them suffer. They have only done what they had no choice to, for had not every great noble man sworn an oath to serve his King? Was he not anointed by the Lord himself?

(in a different world, Madge may have chosen to be a Yorkist, would have seen the injustices committed by King Coriolanus and wanted him condemned to Hell for it)

(but this is not a different world and Madge has no luxury to choose)

(and even if she did, she would always choose her family, over anything, over everything)

Her musings are interrupted by a throaty giggle, followed soon after by enthusiastic grunts. Madge frowns in confusion but it soon vanishes when heavy panting drifts towards her from down the hall. Her face stains red and she may still be a virginal maid, but she is no idiot. Servants talk and Madge has heard enough to guess what is happening nearby, a low, ecstatic moan making it all the clearer.

(as horrified as she is, this is almost a blessing, her mind entirely distracted from the terror that awaits her loved ones)

(all she can think about now is how utterly, utterly mortified she is)

Madge, perhaps childishly, covers her ears and means to rush past the not-entirely-closed door a few feet down the hall, but just as she is passing the doorway, her eyes catch on silver thread shining in watery sunlight. She pauses and the scene comes into focus before her, worse than she would have guessed.

She is facing Prince Cato's black and silver clad back, his fair head almost glowing in March sunbeams, as he grunts and thrusts up under the skirts of one of the Queen's ladies, one Madge never has the interest to remember the name of. Her legs are tied around his waist and her head thrown back, her long black hair flowing freely.

Madge takes a step back and then a few more, determined to be as quiet as possible. She cannot imagine the prince would be pleased at her witnessing this event and would rather not take any chances. She whirls then and hitches up her skirts, flying down the hall at an unladylike pace, and plans to purge this moment from her memories. Even still, she cannot stop her mind from wandering just a bit, curiosity slinking up her spine. How long have they been doing this? she wonders, and are there others, or is Prince Cato dallying with only her (the lady Madge cannot for the life of her put a name to)? Is this lust? Or is Prince Cato actually capable of something as human as love?

In any other circumstance, Madge might ask, but Prince Cato would probably slit her throat if she tried. And if that lady is his sweetheart, she'd probably be just as likely to as well.

Madge shudders.

Less than a week later, her mother's grave pronouncement is proven true.

Madge sits beside the Queen, embroidering a gift for her father and surreptitiously attempting to puzzle out Prince Cato's lover, Lady Clove (Madge has finally remembered her name), when a messenger arrives, his expression grim. Madge inhales sharply and sets down her needlework, heart nearly racing out of her chest.

Please be alright Father, please please be alright

"What is it?" the Queen asks, the tremor in her voice making it clear she has already guessed.

"I have just come from Towton," the messenger begins and there are nightmares playing over in his eyes. Madge squeezes her hands together and wishes her mother was beside her, rather than laid up in bed.

"It was the bloodiest battle I have ever seen. I would wager there were more dead there than in any other battle on English soil," he continues, voice haunted.

"Enough of that, what news?" the Queen huffs impatiently but Madge is not sure she wants to know, would rather have a few more minutes of blissful ignorance. The messenger swallows.

"The King's forces were utterly destroyed. Lady Katniss of York and her cousins, Haymitch of Warwick and Gale of Salisbury, slaughtered them all...it was a massacre. Only a handful escaped, including his Majesty, who has fled to Scotland. They are marching here now, to take London and declare a new sovereign."

The silence that follows is deafening.

Father, you must be alright, you must have escaped.

You must.

"We will bar the gates and push back the Yorkist scum!" Prince Cato declares, voice hot and angry. The messenger shakes his head.

"The mayor has already said he will not," he informs them and the women around the Queen start weeping, their embroidery tumbling to the floor. Madge feels like the world around her has gone dark, every candle snuffed out. We are doomed.

"They would abandon their King?" Cato spits, knuckles white on his dagger and Madge wants to laugh and sob all at the same time. He has already abandoned them! she wants to scream but instead she picks up her needle and thread with numb fingers.

"We must get to sanctuary," she whispers and Cato whirls on her, face burnt red with his fury.

"I will not hide like some coward!" he bellows in her face, spittle showering her cheeks but Madge does not flinch, feels almost like she has been hollowed out, all her emotions scraped clean.

"Then you will die, struck down by the Yorkists."

"You filthy whore, shut up!" he screeches and his knuckles are violent as they collide with her face, knocking her to the floor. Her knees shriek as they collide with the stone and the ladies near her scream in shock. The skin is scraped from her hands and Madge feels dazed, her cheekbone aching. Cato grabs a fistful of her hair and drags her head back, his nostrils flaring and tears spring to her eyes with the pain, a gasp spilling from her lips.

"How dare you speak to me like that, how dare you! I will be your King!"

"Enough," the Queen states, voice slicing through his fog of rage.

"You heard what she said?" Cato demands and Madge feels lightheaded, the world blinking white and bright.

"It is of no consequence, we must prepare. Come now," she orders and Cato throws Madge to the floor, her chin slamming down painfully. She bites her tongue and tastes her own hot blood, the world swimming in her eyes. The Queen and Cato rush off, followed by all their attendants and Madge is left alone in a sticky, red puddle, pain sparking across her body.

So this is how it ends, then.

The House of Lancaster has fallen.

Now rises the House of York.

Madge eventually finds the strength to heave herself up and back to her chambers, every part of her throbbing.

What now? she thinks, spitting blood into a bowl.

What now?

She awakes the next morning to find the Queen and Prince Cato have disappeared in the night, have abandoned them to the mercies of the approaching Yorkists.

Madge wanders the deserted halls of Westminster with a chill in her heart, her footsteps echoing in ancient halls as she hugs herself. Her King, her Queen, her Prince, they've all forsaken her and she knows she has no choice but to stay and await her conquerors, cannot run or hide. Lady Bedford cannot be moved and Madge cannot leave her, will not, so she does the only thing she can.

She clutches her rosary and kneels in the chapel, stays on cold, hard floors all day and night. No one is coming to rescue her, no ally or white knight, so Madge prays, for her father, for her mother, for Lady Katniss' mercy. It may not be enough, but Madge has no sword, no shield, no quiver full of arrows.

At fifteen, Madge of Bedford learns she has only herself.

[elementalgypsyheart]

A Tale Of A Kind Knight And His Dragon Princess

AN: This is a gift to my BFF for Valentine Day and the only reason I'm uploading this here is for her to read at her leisure. The OCs belong to us. This fic is inspired by a few things. The Norwegian fairy tales The Lindworm and Tatterhood, the song La Belle Et La Bete by hitRECord, and lastly Disney animated classic The Beauty and The Beast. This fic is a hybrid of them and my baby I had toil over. ______________________________________________________________

Long long ago in an ancient kingdom known as Tethys Isle there lived a King and a Queen. The King and Queen were very much in love and beloved by their kingdom and all was right except for one thing, they were unable to have a child. Many years have they tried but they have been denied all the same their hearts one true desire.

One day The Queen went for a walk and met a small merchant girl. The girl was unlike any The Queen ever seen with no color in her hair or skin and one eye being red while the other was pink.

“Hello your majesty!~ Anything I can do for you this fine day?~”, asked the girl with an odd grin.

“Unless you can give me my dearest wish of a child I don’t think so my dear.”, sighed The Queen.

“You’re just in luck your majesty!~ I have just the thing!~”, the girl chirped.

“You do! Please tell me! I’ll do anything for a child!”, begged The Queen.

“Oh it for no charge at all but your happiness my Queen!~”, the girl smirked as she pulled out two small bottles. One the color of gold and the other the color of silver. “Drink  the silver one for a girl and the gold for a boy but do not drink both least you want to suffer curse!~” With that the girl disappeared into the night.

The Queen went to castle and had the Royal Sorcerer Jinlong check the potions to be sure it was real not willing to get her hope up.

“The potions are true but I should warn you my Queen that so is the curse should you drink both.”, warned Jinlong.

“Very well thank you Jinlong your expertise are no longer needed at the moment.”, thanked The Queen.

The Queen drank the silver one and finding she like the taste and feeling she deserve a son and daughter after waiting so long for a child drank the gold one as well.

Months passed and soon it was the awaited day of The Queen giving birth. A horrified scream filled the air as the first child The Queen gave birth to was no babe but a hideous monster! The child had golden scale with red markings intermixed covering her body, sharp vicious claws capable of tearing a man apart with one slash, teeth as sharp and long as knives in a hideous elongated snout, blue reptilian eyes that glow in the darkest of night, wings as large as her body, a long and slender tail, and curved horns upon her brow like a mockery of a crown.

“I warned you did I not you greedy Queen! That drinking both potions a terrible curse shall fall upon you and that it have! Look upon the monstrous child born from your womb and greed! This is the price you have wrought and your firstborn daughter have payed in body for your greed in spirit!”, cackled the voice of the girl who sold The Queen the potions.

The Queen screamed and wept over her hideous child as she gave birth to her second child, a daughter of great beauty. With Pale skin, dark bewitching Blue-Grey eyes, and with hair like Black Silk.

After the twins birth The King and The Queen terrified and unwilling to look at their firstborn gave her to the Royal Sorcerer telling him, “Do what you want with this...this monster but never let it darken our castle ever again! Drown it, beat it, cut it to pieces for all we care just never let it come near us or our daughter and never let it be known that this thing is our firstborn!”

Jinlong looked with pity at this poor child who done no wrong but paid the price of her mother curse decided to take in the child and raised her as his own grandchild.

Time passed in Tethys Isle and the two sisters grew with only one knowing of the truth of their birth. The elder cursed twin was given the name Mizael and while she knew she was the true firstborn daughter of The King and The Queen never told a soul the truth for despite never meeting her sister loved her fiercely and prefer living the quiet and private life of a sorceress than to live a life of a Princess or Queen. The younger sister who was given the name Becrux grew to be a wise but lonely girl. Despite having everything she could want she didn’t have one thing, a friend. Many times she wished for a sibling so she could have company but never had the wish came true.

Becrux became renowned for her beauty and excellent mind always dressed in the finest of clothes. Mizael became known for her monstrous appearance and her gift in magic, especially an affinity with Dragons and always wore a ragged hooded cloak. Her one physical beauty that she took much care in being her fine luxurious golden hair that was as straight as a waterfall with only an odd wing shape bang on the left side of her head.

As with all things that grow so does emotions and with time both girls fell in love. The beautiful Becrux fell in love with the handsome young King Altair of the Amymone Islands whom she been betrothed to from a young age.

King Altair had a royal pale skin, with spiky gold and ebony hair and stunning violet with black outline eyes. He was an impose man...until you met him and knew what an endearing dolt he truly was. Yes he was a perfect match for the clever but cold acting Becrux.

Her hideous and elder twin sister fell in love with a handsome young, but narcissistic, lord of the kingdom named Alcor.

Alcor was tall and lean with a fair complexion, a wave of mesmerizing dark brown hair and handsome emerald green eyes that wear emphasized by his silver glasses. Truly he was a pleasing sight to the eye but his heart was cold and cruel and he loved none but himself. A complete opposite of the hideous but kind and loving Mizael.

One day on the day of Princess Becrux and King Altair wedding with nobles from all  over the kingdom and it neighboring countries arrived to attend this festive day Mizael spotted Lord Alcor admiring himself in the reflection of a lake. Deciding that now was the best time to admit her feeling for the handsome young Lord approached him with a single Yellow Carnation in hand.

“My dear lord you are by far the most handsome man I have ever seen. I know I am not much to look at or have much to offer you beside this heart full of love that beat only for you. I have loved you since I saw you and humbly ask if you can take me as your’s.”, Mizael asked with a bowed head.

“My dear lord you are by far the most handsome man I have ever seen. I know I am not much to look at or have much to offer you beside this heart full of love that beat only for you. I have loved you since I saw you and humbly ask if you can take me as your’s.”, Mizael asked with a bowed head.

Mizael cried over her broken heart before her despair turn into bitterness and anger. ‘It’s not fair!’, she thought, ‘Why me!? Why was it me who was chosen to bear this curse!? We’re twins so should we not share both the joy and sorrow!? Should we not share this burden and broken heart!? Why does she not only get beauty and our parents affection but love and a wedding as well while I get nothing! Isn’t it my right as eldest to be love and wedded first? I refused to let this go any longer! If I can not be love and married then neither shall she!’ And with that Mizael appearance changed into a more terrifying figure as her mostly humanoid body changed into an actual great and ferocious dragon! With a great roar she flew off to the castle where the wedding was taking place.

Becrux was glowing as she walked down the aisle in her splendid gown toward her nervous groom.

“If you throw up I’m going to hold it over your head and laugh at you for the rest of your life.” Whispered Altair younger half brother King Vector of the Oceanus Islands.

“Shut up you bastard son of a whore! What possessed me to name you my best man I haven’t the faintest clue!”, Altair hissed.

“Maybe because you have no friends and I’m the closest you have for one….even though you’re a complete asshole and Becrux better off without you.” Vector hissed back.

“Careful or else said blushing bride will hear you and run away before she tie herself down with this idiot.” laughed Nasch, King of the Poseidon Islands.

“Shut up! This is my wedding day not put down Altair day!” growled Altair.

“No that next week right big brother!”, giggled Errai the younger  brother of King Nasch and the ringbearer.

“That right young prince!” chuckled Sir Durbe, head of King Nasch royal guard, as he ruffled the prince slightly curly celeste and sky blue hair.

“I hate you all!” Altair growled.

“At least we distracted you from your nerves!”, laughed King Leo of Spartan.

Just as Altair was going to retort Becrux had reached the alter. The blushing bride smiled happily at her groom before she let out a scream of fear as a great mighty golden with red marking dragon grabbed and lifted her into the air!

“A husband for me before a husband for you as is my birthright!” hissed the menacing dragon.

“Mizael what do you think you’re doing! Put the princess down this once!” yelled Jinlong in horror and fear for the dragon.

“Shut up old man! It not fair she get everything yet I get nothing when we’re sisters! Twins no less yet I’M the one who suffer our mother curse from her foolishness! I’M the one who was left for dead and hated for my hideous appearance though it no fault of mine! I’M the one who had their heart broken because of this cursed body that even a mother loath!”, Mizael cried in anguish.

“Sister!”, Altair gasped.

“Twins!”, cried Nasch.

“Cursed?”, wondered Sir Durbe.

“So until someone can love and wed me NO ONE WILL MARRY HER! As is my right as firstborn!”, roared Mizael in anger as she flew away high into the mountain with her younger sister in her claw.

“Oh Mizael what happened to you my poor granddaughter.” mourned Jinlong as he watched their retreating figure.

“Sorcerer what the hell is that beast talking about and how can we save my bride!” yelled Altair as he marched to Jinlong as he looked like he aged in years in those few minutes.

“That ‘beast’ as you called her is named Mizael!”, roared Jinlong in anger.

“Pardon him Lord Jinlong he is only distressed over his bride kidnapping. He mean no harm.” soothed Sir Durbe.

“I-I’m sorry and I understand but I have raised that girl as my granddaughter since she fell into my care. I do not take kindly to other calling her names due to her appearance which is no fault of her’s but a curse.” sighed Jinlong.

“She mentioned of cursed as well do you mind to explaining what exactly is going on my lord?” Nasch asked as he approached the old man.

“I supposed I have no choice given our current predicament very well. Long ago the King and Queen of this kingdom were unable to bear children though they tried many times. One day The Queen came back from a walk with two small potions, one silver and the other gold. She told me a strange merchant girl gave them to her and told her it will give her the ability to bear a child. She had me confirm it can do as it promise not willing to get her hope up after so long. I confirmed they did as they promised but that she should listen to the warning the girl gave of drinking both at once because a curse shall truly befell her. The Queen wanting a child so long did not listen though and drank both. The result was that the eldest daughter, Mizael, was cursed with her terrible appearance. The King and Queen so fearful and disgusted with her looks gave her to me all but asking outright I ‘disposed’ of her and for her to never come near them or Becrux, her own younger twin sister. I pity her and took her in my grandchild. Named and clothed her, taught her magic, and watch as she grew into a strong and stubborn, but kind and caring woman. I knew she fancied someone in the kingdom but I had no clue who and I can only guess she was rejected most harshly by them. The pain must have been too much for her golden and fragile heart to take and thus she became the fearsome dragon we just saw. She love Becrux dearly, though Becrux herself have no clue of the bond they share, and won’t hurt her I can assure you. She just tired of being passed over when it come to which of them is favored more.”, Jinlong explained.

“Oh that poor girl. I can only imagine how hard of a life she must have had. Not only of the curse but being separated from her own twin. I may complain about Nasch but I would never wish for him to not be in my life….even if he an ass at times he’s still my older twin brother.”, Princess Merag sniffed.

“Same even if you are a brat.”, Nasch grunted.

“On second though Errai the only brother I need.”, smiled Merag as she hit Nasch over the head.

“All the same we need to rescue Princess Becrux.” reminded King Leo.

“ I will not hurt Mizael but I will assist you on getting back Princess Becrux.”, agreed Jinlong.

With that the group called for a rescue party to journey with them up the treacherous mountains to rescue the fair princess. Among those who answer the call was Royal Sorcerer Jinlong, King Altair, King Vector and his trusted personal Guard and love Navi a former slave, King Nasch with Sir Durbe and his companion the pegasus Mach, King Leo and his two Gladiator friends Alit and Vega, and a brave samurai by the name of Sohachi Kiraku with his friend Ponta the Tanuki,.

The Group faced many perils but eventually after a two month journey reached the plateau of the highest mountain where Mizael had made her home in a temple surrounded by a shield, both of which she had created from her magic long ago. There in a beautiful garden was a sleeping Becrux with her dragon sister body curling around her.

“Becrux we had came to rescue you!”, shouted a joyous Altair as he ran toward her only to be repelled by the shield.

“What the hell! What sorcery is this!”, growled Altair in frustration as he banged against the shield.

“Foolish man! None can enter nor leave unless I wish them to!”, laughed Mizael at their folly.

“Curse you you foul beast! I demand you return my bride at once!”, Altair yelled in anger.

“Not until I’m loved and wedded first!”, hissed Mizael as she curled her serpentine body closer to her now awake sister.

“Please Altair I am fine do not agitate her more lest she harm you!”, beseeched Becrux.

“Wait! What if there was someone willing to marry you and fall in love with you later?”, asked Navi.

“Hmm perhaps I’ll be willing to return my sister if he is willing to stay with me here in my home.”, Mizael thought.

“Still who would be willing to marry and stay with a beast like me?”, sneered Mizael.

“I would if it mean Princess Becrux freedom!”, shouted a deep voice from the back of the group. Everyone turned and saw it was none other but Sir Durbe!

“What! Durbe my friend do you have any clue what you’re saying!”, shouted Vector in shock.

“Yeah man! If you do this you won’t be able to return to your kingdom or your post!”, exclaimed Alit.

“Plus you’re speaking of marrying a ferocious dragon not a young maiden!”, yelled Sohachi Kiraku.

“He right Pon! How do you know she won’t just eat you up!?”, wondered Ponta.

“Yes but if it for Princess Becrux freedom than it is worth it.”, Sir Durbe pointed out.

“As much as I hate to admit it Sir Durbe is right though I loath to say it.”, sighed Nasch.

“Yare yare if he want to marry a dragon to save a princess then let him. It his stupid decision to do so.”, yawned Vega.

“Well what say you dragon? Would you have me for a groom in exchange for your sister freedom?”, Sir Durbe questioned.

“Very well I accept your terms. We shall wed an hour before sunset today and by nightfall you will be my husband and stay here with me and Becrux shall return to our kingdom where she may wed King Altair and become Queen.”, agreed Mizael.

“Navi would have thought you would want to be Queen since you are the eldest and rightful heir?”, Navi wondered.

“As if I would want to be Queen! I much prefer my solitude and privacy here in the mountains than the hustle and bustle life of a Queen.”, snorted the dragon amused.

“It seem we agree on something at least so it’s a start.”, smiled Sir Durbe kindly. Mizael froze at the handsome knight smile and kind silver eyes directed at her before blushing and hastily running toward her temple yelling “It is bad luck to see the bride before the wedding!”

“Well it seem you should have no worries over being eaten Sir Durbe. That is the first time I have seen my sister fluster in the time I have been here.”, laughed Becrux as she ran inside to help her sister ‘dress’ for the wedding.

An hour from Sunset the ragtag group were gathered around a makeshift altar with Jinlong ordaining the wedding. Sir Durbe armor had been cleaned and shined and Mizael had loose white silken cloths wrapped around her body like a gown with Lily of the Valley and  Fern intertwining in her golden mane and horns with a single thornless dark pink rose within her claws as a bouquet. The two exchanged simple gold bands made from Mizael fallen scales.

Once the ceremony was done the other depart with only Mizael, Sir Durbe, and Mach staying behind. Before they left Mizael flew to her sister and place the lone rose among her hair and gently breathe on the bloom. “Now it will never die and you can always remember me dear little sister even if we never see each other again. I’m glad we got to know each other better though I apologized on my behavior before and causing you and your love much distress.”, Mizael softly said as she hugged her sister goodbye with tears falling from her eyes.

“It is fine sister for you were in much pain then and not thinking clearly. I am glad to on finally getting to know you and I hope one day we meet again”, sniffed Becrux as she embraced Mizael farewell.

“You shall be missed my friend but I hope one day you may return to us with your….wife.”, Nasch farewelled.

“I shall miss you too old friend as well as the Princess and little Prince. I hope one day I may convince Mizael to come with me to the Poseidon Islands.”, Sir Durbe smiled. With these bittersweet parting the group left.

“I supposed I should show you to your room. Oh and this is for Mach. He can sleep outside under the stars and not have to worry about rain or snow.”, Mizael shyly told Sir Durbe while giving him a thin silver chain with with a simple pearl hanging from it.

“Thank you for thinking of him. He does prefer sleeping outside than in a stable.”, grinned Durbe as he place the simple necklace around Mach neck as Mizael simply blushed before leading Sir Durbe to his room.

A year passed since their marriage and every day Sir Durbe and Mizael fell in love a little more than the last. With each passing day Mizael form turn less than a dragon and more human until she had retained the form she had since birth. One day a message arrived from the now Queen Becrux and her husband King Altair if her sister was willing to come visit and celebrate the birth of her firstborn child, a daughter named Mira. After much thought the two decided to go and greet their new niece.

Sir Durbe on Mach and Mizael with her wings flew down to the kingdom from their mountain home. Becrux was quick to hug and greet her sister with her child in her arms.

“Sister you have changed so much! Marriage have certainly agreed with you!”, laughed Becrux happily.

“Just as motherhood had agreed with you dear little sister!”, smiled Mizael.

“Yes it certainly had.”, Becrux agreed as she smiled down at her sleeping daughter.

“Do you want to hold her sister dear?”, asked Becrux.

“I mustn’t. I am made of hard and rough scales with sharp claws not of soft and squishy flesh with blunt nails like you. I fear I may hurt simply from touching her small delicate body.”, Mizael rejected in fear.

“Nonsense! You know how to control your strength dear sister for you left nary a bruise on me when you carried me so long ago.”, refused Becrux as she determinedly place the child in Mizael arm.

The moment the child was place in her arm Mizael was filled with love for the tiny babe and a terrible longing for one of her own. “She is precious Becrux. How I wish I can have one as well but I think there will be no babe in my future.”, sighed Mizael sadly.

“Surely Sir Durbe would have nothing against you having a child?”, worried Durbe.

“It’s not that but my fear of hurting him that had kept us for having a child. I had only been married and known him for a year and already I love him so much that I rather not hurt him in any way possible.”, lamented Mizael.

“Well perhaps one day you two can be blessed with a child of your own.”, comforted Becrux.

“Come let us get dress for the party in honor of my daughter and your niece and I won’t take no for an answer. You may look like a beast to others but you are my sister and a princess thus deserve to be dress in the finest gowns as well!”, declared Becrux and she dragged Mizael with her to be dressed.

Evening have fallen on the land and much like that wedding so long ago many nobles came to celebrate Princess Mira birth. Sir Durbe have met and greeted his old friends whom have missed him terribly just as he had them.

“Looking for someone?”, giggled Merag.

“I haven’t seen Mizael since we arrived. I’m worried for her.”, Sir Durbe admitted sheepishly.

“It seem to me that you’re in love with Mizael!~ I’m glad. I was so worried for you when I was told what you did but I’m glad you found happiness in the most unlikely person Sir Durbe.”, smiled Merag.

“Hey Durbe turn around here come your wife.~”, smirked Vector as he nodded toward the entrance of the ballroom.

Sir Durbe turned around and couldn’t help but gasp in shock at the sight before him of Mizael in an elegant deep purple, open back, off the shoulder sleeves, sweetheart cut neckline,with a trail  flowy dress and matching lace up gladiator style sandals with her hair in a mermaid tail braid with small amethysts braided in. To Durbe Mizael looked simply stunning.

He was quickly snapped out of his daze from a cruel and cold voice shouting, “Look at that a beast in a dress! What a hilarious sight to behold! The monster seem to think it human!”

At once Sir Durbe sight turn red as he looked at the hurt Mizael to the owner of the mocking voice belonging to none other than Lord Alcor.

“You dare speak that way about my wife!”, growled Sir Durbe pulling his sword out at the cur.

“She your wife? I pity you my good sir for being tied down to such a hideous creature.”, mocked Alcor.

“Shut up you stupid cur! You know nothing of Mizael! She is kind and gentle! With a heart of gold and love children to her core! She have a sharp wit and a lovely laughter! She is beautiful inside AND out to me but you wouldn’t know that because you are a blind man and a fool!”, hissed Sir Durbe in barely restrain anger.

“D-do you really mean that Durbe? That I’m beautiful?”, whispered a soft voice belonging to Mizael.

“I do Miza. You are the most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes on and I’m the most luckiest man in the world to call you my wife!”, Durbe sincerely declared.

Mizael so touched by his words began to cry and happily ran into his embrace. “I love you you silly knight!”, sobbed Miza happily. Sir Durbe lifted her head to look him in the eyes, “I love you too with all that I am Miza.”, he softly declared as he kissed her upon her lips for all to see. Suddenly a bright golden light glowed from Mizael heart and started to engulfed her form as grew bigger and brighter until everyone had to shield their eyes until it died down.

To everyone great surprise where once a hideous beast stood was a beautiful young maiden! She was tall and shapely with skin as pale as cream only marred by red markings upon her face and body that only served to make her more exotic looking than take away from her beauty. Her hair a long lush golden waterfall with an odd wing bang on her left and her eyes a sparkling blue like sapphires in the sunlight.

“M-Miza is that you?”, wondered Sir Durbe in surprise.

“Yes it me Durbe!”, laughed Mizael in pure joy.

“Sister how? How did the curse upon you broke?”, gasped Becrux in shock.

“Sir Durbe sincere and loving words broke my curse and gave me back my true body that I should have been born in had our mother foolishness not curse me.”, Mizael smiled as she embraced her husband.

“In that case this is not only a celebration of my daughter birth but of the curse being broken on my beloved elder twin! Let us make merriment until the morning sun shine upon us in joyousness!”, cheered Queen Becrux as all around cheers were met.

The party lasted well past the morning and into a fortnight by the time the merriment ended Sir Durbe and Mizael went back to their mountain temple home were the two quickly welcome a hardy and handsome son and later a beautiful and beloved daughter. The small family would visit their many friends and be visited by them as well. Their temple became a sanctuary for dragons, pegasi, and orphan children all of whom were loved and cared for by the family.

Lord Alcor never married and bemoaned his loss of missing his chance with a beauty like Mizael from his own folly. Not like any cared. Mizael and Durbe lived a long and happy life and died in each other arms from old age and when they died two new stars could be seen in the sky forever entwined with one another and never seen without the other. And that my dears is how our story end so I bid thee a good night and pleasant dreams and may one day you find your Mizael or Sir Durbe and may you too have a happily ever after!~

The End.

[ausietigerqueen]

Fly With Me

Posting this for the three peeps who wanted it @kaageshi @mmota525 @romanceandsarcasm I’ll post the art of Viktor and Yuuri in dragon form later. Will post it on Ao3 later. I hope you enjoy it so far! ————————— Dragons Shifters. There were many shifter races. But the dragons were the best - that’s what the dragons believed anyway. It helped that they ruled all the nations of the world. They didn’t subjugate other races - in fact all were relatively equal. They still believed they were the best though. The best of them all though was Viktor Nikiforov - king of Krasivaya. He was the oldest of the kings currently in power. The others were in order from strongest to weakest - Christ Giacometti - of Swizera, Phichit Chulanont - of Thailia, JJ of Canaderica, and Seung-Il of the Asian states - these were Japanite, Chinia, Koreane and others. The Asian stages while ruled by Seung-Il as a whole they each had their own rulers but Viktor didn’t really know them all. He didn’t know the languages and so it didn’t matter much to him. He was close friends with Chris. They’d grown up around each other and met continuously at the biggest event for dragons - Magic Arts. It was a sport much like kicking balls and other things around but so much more. It was something done on ice - magical ice since while dragons weighed less in their human forms they still tended to weight quite a bit more than humans and could easily break true ice. Viktor himself had competed for years, even though it’d been hard to get his father Yakov - king at the time to agree to let him do it. Even as long himself now he was still going this season. He did it to a piece he’d had specifically composed for the way he felt. It was called Stay Close to Me. He put everything into using the magic to make the skating even more beautiful. But even as he did it in practice he felt something was off and hoped he could skate it perfectly at Magic Arts. The day had come when it was time. The first showing of Stay Close to Me. He was slightly nervous and put in the earbuds Yakov always kept with him to shut out everything. When it was his turn he went out and skated his soul into the program. He added in his magics. Sparkles like fireworks could be added, he added quite a bit of colored trailing magic with a smoke-like quality to it. It trailed around him as the person singing wanted the other to do to them. It all came together there. And as he finished he was happier with the program. It wasn’t perfect but it was a lot closer to what he wanted. It was later when he was berating Yuri for not putting everything into having the magic speak with the music. Watching Yakov yell almost the same thing at him he felt eyes on him. It made the wing A that didn’t exist on his human back shiver. He turned to see a boyish looking Japanite man who was adorable staring. Viktor was used to staring as an idol and a prince so he turned fully with his biggest ‘star’ smile and offered an autograph and photo to the man. Viktor wasn’t great at reading people’s emotions, but this mans after his question were right on his face - his face went from awe before he went to heartbreak and then resignation. He watched as the man let out a small sigh as he turned and walked away. His coach calling out for him. Viktor was truly shocked - very few people turned down an autograph, especially not a photo, even if just to sell it. That wasn’t what caught him though. It was the way this mans emotions were played for everyone to see. And Viktor wanted to know what he said that hurt this beautiful man in such a way. But by the time he broke out of the trance of watching the man leave it was too late. He was gone as was his coach - now that Viktor thought about it, he truly didn’t know this skater and from his jacket he was obviously a skater from the Asian States. He pulled out his phone and used it to search all the skaters at the MAF and the first things that popped up were headlines from different sites and magazines saying roughly the same sentence - ‘Yuuri Katsuki flops and fails, falling to last place - is this the year he retires?’ He pulled down lower to find a picture of the same man from before except it was from when he was on the ice it was a fall. He scrolled down farther to find the full program on video and opened it to watch it - he was mesmerized. Yuuri Katsuki had a beautiful way with his skating and magic. As he skated it was like his body made the music and his magic followed along in tune. He used the art for smoke to trail behind him and wrap around him as it moved almost in exact time with the music. With every jump he made he set of sparkles and for the quads he always did a rainbow wrapping around himself as he did the jumps spins. He landed almost none of his jumps. The only one he did was a triple axel and it was with a hand on the ice. But he kept getting back up and never let it stop him from being beautiful. He added in what looked like ballet movements and had magic like ribbons dancing around him and flying out from his hands as he came to the end of his free program he did something Viktor had done years ago when he was in Junior competitions - he used the last of the time to send bursts of magic above him and as he came into the close of the program down rained beautiful white, yellow, red, and blue rose petals. They rained down on the boy and made him even more beautiful than before. Even as he looked disappointed in himself as he skated off the ice. In the kiss and cry he looked defeated as his coach was talking to him trying to talk to him. The scores were posted and Viktor winced. It’s been years since he got a score that low and it was from before when he skated in Juniors. While the man flubbed all the jumps it was still a breathtaking performance and Viktor truly hoped the tabloids were wrong and this beautiful skater didn’t retire this year. He was wondering how to help him that whole night. Because while Viktor loved surprising people, he loved beauty more. And someone that beautiful shouldn’t retire so early. The next evening when Yakov came to get him for the banquet he was once again told by Yakov not to cause a scene like that one year. Truly he’d never lived it down. He still blamed it on the retired figure skater who had given two glasses of champagne telling him it was just a funky fruit juice. Viktor couldn’t wait for this banquet to be over so he and Yakov and his little cousin Yuri Plisetsky could all shift and fly home. He needed out of his human skin for a while. He just hoped the banquet wasn’t too draining - sometimes it could truly change his attitude about skating.