#my doomed sisters and my queen who never was | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ai-manre · 13 days ago

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Hang on king, a true warrior queen is coming

The strength he admires:

Val stood on the platform as still as if she had been carved of salt. She will not weep nor look away. Jon wondered what Ygritte would have done in her place. The women are the strong ones. - Jon III ADWD

Drogon roared. The sound filled the pit. A furnace wind engulfed her. The dragon's long scaled neck stretched toward her. When his mouth opened, she could see bits of broken bone and charred flesh between his black teeth. His eyes were molten. I am looking into hell, but I dare not look away. She had never been so certain of anything. - Dany IX ADWD

The shared loneliness:

Even with Ygritte sleeping beside him, he felt alone. - Jon V ASOS

She sat up with her hair disheveled and the bedclothes atangle. Her captain slept beside her, yet she was alone. - Dany VII ADWD

Lonely lovely lethal:

All the same, the wildling princess was not beloved of her gaolers. She scorned them all as "kneelers," and had thrice attempted to escape. When one man-at-arms grew careless in her presence she had snatched his dagger from its sheath and stabbed him in the neck. Another inch to the left and he might have died. Lonely and lovely and lethal, Jon Snow reflected, and I might have had her. - Jon III ADWD

Xaro took another bite, chewed, swallowed. "Daenerys, sweet queen, I cannot tell you what pleasure it gives me to bask once more in your presence. A child departed Qarth, as lost as she was lovely. I feared she was sailing to her doom, yet now I find her here enthroned, mistress of an ancient city, surrounded by a mighty host that she raised up out of dreams." - Dany III ADWD

Silver hair:

Beyond, the haunted forest waited, dark and silent. The light of the half-moon turned Val's honey-blond hair a pale silver and left her cheeks as white as snow. She took a deep breath. "The air tastes sweet." - Jon VIII ADWD

Dany's skin was flushed and pink when she climbed from the tub. Jhiqui laid her down to oil her body and scrape the dirt from her pores. Afterward Irri sprinkled her with spiceflower and cinnamon. While Doreah brushed her hair until it shone like spun silver, she thought about the moon, and eggs, and dragons. - Dany III AGOT

Wish for a dragon/wish for a rider:

We should have twenty trebuchets, not two, and they should be mounted on sledges and turntables so we could move them. It was a futile thought. He might as well wish for another thousand men, and maybe a dragon or three. - Jon VIII ASOS

The dragon has three heads. There are two men in the world who I can trust, if I can find them. I will not be alone then. We will be three against the world, like Aegon and his sisters. - Dany VI ASOS

Wishing for a dragon/wishing for someone to love a dragon:

"The Lysene pirate? Some say he has returned to his old haunts, this is so. And Lord Redwyne's war fleet creeps through the Broken Arm as well. On its way home, no doubt. But these men and their ships are well-known to us. No, these other sails … from farther east, perhaps … one hears queer talk of dragons."

Jon: "Would that we had one here. A dragon might warm things up a bit." - Jon IX ADWD

She was the blood of the dragon. She could kill the Sons of the Harpy, and the sons of the sons, and the sons of the sons of the sons. But a dragon could not feed a hungry child nor help a dying woman's pain. And who would ever dare to love a dragon? - Dany II ADWD

Shared prayers

Gods of the wood, grant me the strength to do the same, Jon Snow prayed silently. Give me the wisdom to know what must be done and the courage to do it. - Jon VII ADWD

Gods, she prayed, you took Khal Drogo, who was my sun-and-stars. You took our valiant son before he drew a breath. You have had your blood of me. Help me now, I pray you. Give me the wisdom to see the path ahead and the strength to do what I must to keep my children safe. - Dany V ADWD

Winter rose/flowers instead of violence:

If I could show her Winterfell . . . give her a flower from the glass gardens [...]

Ygritte: "Then I'd push him in a stream or throw a bucket o' water on him. Anyhow, men shouldn't smell sweet like flowers."

Jon: "What's wrong with flowers?" - Jon V ASOS

A blue flower grew from a chink in a wall of ice, and filled the air with sweetness. . . . mother of dragons, bride of fire . . . - Dany IV ADWD

"No heads," Dany insisted. "Once you brought me flowers." - Dany VII ADWD

Ruler of ruins:

He stalked across the yard, into the teeth of that wind. His cloak flapped loudly from his shoulders. Ghost came after. Where am I going? What am I doing? Castle Black was still and silent, its halls and towers dark. My seat, Jon Snow reflected. My hall, my home, my command. A ruin. - Jon VI ADWD

I am queen over a city built on dust and death. - Dany I ADWD

Turned off by their crushes due to violence against innocent:

"North of the Wall it is. Hemlock is a sure cure, but a pillow or a blade will work as well. If I had given birth to that poor child, I would have given her the gift of mercy long ago." This was a Val that Jon had never seen before. "Princess Shireen is the queen's only child." - Jon XI ADWD

Daario: "Better the butcher than the meat. All kings are butchers. Are queens so different?"

Dany: "This queen is." - Dany IV ADWD

Compassion and desire to save an entire people:

"Thousands of enemies. Thousands of wildlings."

Thousands of people, Jon thought. Men, women, children. Anger rose inside him, but when he spoke his voice was quiet and cold. - Jon VIII ADWD

"When Aegon the Dragon stepped ashore in Westeros, the kings of Vale and Rock and Reach did not rush to hand him their crowns. If you mean to sit his Iron Throne, you must win it as he did, with steel and dragonfire. And that will mean blood on your hands before the thing is done."

Blood and fire, thought Dany. The words of House Targaryen. She had known them all her life. "The blood of my enemies I will shed gladly. The blood of innocents is another matter. Eight thousand Unsullied they would offer me. Eight thousand dead babes. Eight thousand strangled dogs." - Dany II ASOS

Warrior princess:

Val looked the part and rode as if she had been born on horseback. A warrior princess, he decided, not some willowy creature who sits up in a tower, brushing her hair and waiting for some knight to rescue her. - Jon XI ADWD

Dany mounted her silver. She could feel her heart thumping in her chest. She felt desperately afraid. Was this what my brother would have done? She wondered if Prince Rhaegar had been this anxious when he saw the Usurper's host formed up across the Trident with all their banners floating on the wind. She stood in her stirrups and raised the harpy's fingers above her head for all the Unsullied to see. "IT IS DONE!" she cried at the top of her lungs. "YOU ARE MINE!" She gave the mare her heels and galloped along the first rank, holding the fingers high. "YOU ARE THE DRAGON'S NOW! YOU'RE BOUGHT AND PAID FOR! IT IS DONE! IT IS DONE!" - Dany III ASOS

No one was calling her Daenerys the Conqueror yet, but perhaps they would. Aegon the Conqueror had won Westeros with three dragons, but she had taken Meereen with sewer rats and a wooden cock, in less than a day. - Dany VI ADWD

A coppersmith had fashioned her a suit of burnished rings to wear to war. She accepted it with fulsome thanks; it was lovely to behold, and all that burnished copper would flash prettily in the sun, though if actual battle threatened, she would sooner be clad in steel. Even a young girl who knew nothing of the ways of war knew that. - Dany I ADWD

Ten years ago I would have sensed what Daenerys meant to do. Ten years ago I would have been quick enough to stop her. Instead he had stood befuddled as she leapt into the pit, shouting her name, then running uselessly after her across the scarlet sands. - The Queensguard ADWD

Wildling/no southron lady:

"And yes, I will take your women too. I have no need of blushing maidens looking to be protected, but I will take as many spearwives as will come." - Jon V ADWD

The carcass was too heavy for him to bear back to his lair, so Drogon consumed his kill there, tearing at the charred flesh as the grasses burned around them, the air thick with drifting smoke and the smell of burnt horsehair. Dany, starved, slid off his back and ate with him, ripping chunks of smoking meat from the dead horse with bare, burned hands. In Meereen I was a queen in silk, nibbling on stuffed dates and honeyed lamb, she remembered. What would my noble husband think if he could see me now? Hizdahr would be horrified, no doubt. But Daario … Daario would laugh, carve off a hunk of horsemeat with his arakh, and squat down to eat beside her. - Dany XI ADWD

Shared pet plays!

Jon squatted to let the direwolf close his jaws around his wrist, tugging his hand back and forth. It was a game they played. But when he glanced up, he saw Ygritte watching with eyes as wide and white as hen's eggs. - Jon VI ACOK

Drogon looped his neck around to nip at her hand. His teeth were very sharp, but he never broke her skin when they played like this. Dany laughed, and rolled him back and forth until he roared, his tail lashing like a whip. It is longer than it was, she saw, and tomorrow it will be longer still. - Dany IV ASOS

Add more please!

#jon snow #asoiaf #daenerys targaryen #hang on jon!#a true daeron the conqueror is coming for you #snowstorm #jonerys #jon dany #daenerys x jon #jon x dany

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humanpurposes · 1 year ago

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Sour Switchblade

No sooner has she landed in the courtyard of Storm’s End, she knows her mission is doomed // Main Masterlist

Aemond Targaryen x nameless female character (daughter of Rhaenyra)

Warnings: 18+, smut, childhood friends to enemies to lovers, Targcest (uncle and neice), threats of violence, bit of blood, dub-con, breeding kink

Words: 4100

A/n: Also available on AO3. Inspired by my current obsession with this song.

She knows where she is the moment she reaches the skies above the Stormlands; this part of the world was not named in irony.

She clutches tightly to Silverwing’s reigns, dragon and rider fighting through the fierce winds and heavy rain that stings the skin of her cheeks.

Lucerys and Arrax would have never made the journey. They are both too small, too young to take on such a burden as messengers on the eve of war. Jacaerys should have the more arduous task ahead of him, to fly to the Eyrie and then to Winterfell, to earn the support of the Arryns and the Starks to their mother’s cause.

She has one destination, one objective, one Lord to win over. But no sooner has she landed in the courtyard of Storm’s End, she knows her mission is doomed.

She hears Vhagar’s call, or rather feels it reverberate in her chest, before she sees her. She is a monstrously large dragon, the oldest of her kind. Only her head and neck loom over the battlements, but it is enough to terrify the Princess.

Because with Vhagar comes Aemond.

He had hardly spoken so much as a word to her during the petitions for Driftmark, but his eye never left her.

She pushes aside any childish ideas of hope for a civil encounter with her uncle. Any love between them was severed the night he claimed his dragon and Lucerys claimed his eye in the tunnels below Hightide.

Her name is announced to the Round Hall as she trails in behind an escort of guards. Rain drips from her soaked leathers and hair, the braid she wore long blown apart by the wind. She clenches her jaw, determined not to shiver in the presence of the Lord of Storm’s End, or the one eyed Prince who lurks at the edge of the room.

Aemond stands with his hands clasped behind his back. For a moment she sees surprise in his gaze, but it soon settles into a smug smile, his single eye positively gleaming through the miserable light of the hall.

Beside him is a young woman, dressed in all the finery of a Baratheon Lady. Her suspicions are confirmed when Lord Borros mentions a marriage pact.

She can’t stop herself. She looks to Aemond, knowing full well she is doing nothing to hide the fury in her face. And he stares back, like a hunter stalking prey.

She has nothing to offer Lord Borros, nothing that could compete with such a match. Her brothers are either betrothed or too young.

But she cannot fail, not when Rhaenyra has lost so much already these past few days.

Aemond’s eye remains fixed on her, vaguely amused, but still alert and intent. Perhaps he believes he has found a weakness, perhaps the shark smells blood.

If memory serves correctly, Lord Borros’ wife passed some years ago.

“I offer my hand to you, my Lord,” she says. “Pledge your banners to the true Queen, and your sons will be Princes.”

Lord Borros brings his fingers to his beard, muttering into the ear of his Maester and nervously glancing towards his other royal guest.

The amusement has faded from Aemond’s face, his moment of triumph snatched from him. Even the mere consideration of her proposal undermines him.

His chin is tilted down now, his eye dark and lips pressing together to withhold a sneer. She revels in it, taking a breath to stop herself from smiling.

“I will need time to consider,” Lord Borros says. “I will make my decision known on the morrow.”

Aemond takes one step towards her before she is whisked away by the eldest of the Baratheon sisters, Cassandra, and no less than four guards. Cassandra takes her arm in hers and leads her through the castle to a guest chamber, in a tower that overlooks the courtyard and Shipbreaker Bay beyond that.

A bath is drawn for her and a gown of black with gold embroidery laid out of her to change into. It seems unusual to see herself in these colours, but then again, her grandmother, Rhaenys, is half Baratheon.

Dressed in her gown and with her hair newly done, she watches Silverwing seek shelter from the Storm under the battlements. Vhagar is apparently sleeping, with her wings cradled over her body to keep out the rain.

Silverwing would be miserable here, she thinks. A dragon needs clear skies, they cannot always fight against the wind and rain.

It’s hard to tell exactly when the sun sets. There are no warm colours in the sky, no streaks of orange or gold. The sky beyond the storm clouds fades from grey, to indigo, and then to black.

Lady Cassandra escorts her to the Round Hall for supper. It is a modest affair. Lord Borros’ advisors and bannermen sit at tables in the heart of the hall, while a high table is set before the Stone Throne. Lord Borros sits at the centre, with two empty spaces either side of him. She might guess who they are for.

She sits between Lord Borros and Cassandra, and finds just enough time to steady her nerves with a sip of wine when Lady Floris enters with Aemond on her arm.

She swallows her mouthful wine thickly, meeting her uncle’s gaze for only a moment out of courtesy.

He takes his place beside Lord Borros and the meal commences. Servants bring out whole roasted boars, and given Aemond’s reaction to the suckling pig at dinner in the Red Keep, she refrains from moving her mouth or looking in his direction. In fact she hardly has an appetite at all. She sits with a stiff spine, glancing down at the plate of potatoes and greens placed in front of her.

Lord Borros asks her a question which immediately slips her mind. It occurs to her she’s supposed to be winning him over, to prove to him that she will be a good and dutiful wife. A better wife than Aemond will be a husband for Floris anyhow.

The thought churns her stomach and leaves a bitter taste in her mouth.

She allows herself another glance to Lord Borros’ other side. Aemond’s head is close to Floris’. The light from a candle on the table flickers over his chin, his jaw, the top of his neck underneath his collar. He leans in closer to mutter something in her ear.

He was always so softly spoken as a boy, subdued, even in moments of frustration. He still seems subtle, but in a different way now, a quiet kind of arrogance, a silent threat with the smallest of gestures. The few words he had spoken at that dinner, though aimed as insults towards her brothers, had ignited a thrilling sort of intrigue within her.

And now Floris gets to sit beside him, gets to feel his breath on her ear as he whispers in that low, chilling voice–

“Princess?”

“Y-yes?” she stutters, turning her eyes back to Lord Borros.

Only she seems to have caught the attention of Aemond and the other Baratheon girls now.

“I said our union should be a plentiful one, if your mother’s talent for producing sons is anything to go by.”

The only thing that stops her from reaching for her knife and jamming it into Lord Borros’ neck is the quiet huff of a laugh coming from Aemond.

She shoots him a deadly glare but his cruel smile does not waver.

“The man who eventually claims my niece’s hand will have Strong sons, there’s no doubt about that,” he says, reaching for his cup.

She watches him drink, the way he pouts his lips, how his throat bobs as he swallows.

“What a kind compliment, uncle,” she says, “though not one I could extend to you.”

Aemond sets his cup down gently. “Meaning?” he asks, not looking at her.

“It took you a decade to claim a dragon, did it not?”

His head snaps towards her. “Yes, and I claimed the largest dragon in the world.”

“An impressive feat,” she says, “one your father was proud of, I’m sure.”

He wants to lash out, she can see it, his fist clenching on top of the table, his lips pursing together, his eye going wide, his nostrils flaring as he takes a few breaths to compose himself.

The rest of the table has fallen to an uneasy quiet. She simply reaches for her wine and takes a generous sip that slips over her tongue with a delightful burn.

Lord Borros calls for music, and his daughters, Cassandra and Ellyn find partners to dance with. Maris remains seated, with her arms folded over her chest and a sour look on her face.

Floris seems hopeful, sitting up and trying to catch Aemond’s eye from his blind side. It is a hope he will not entertain. He keeps one hand on the table, tapping a long, slender finger against the wood.

“You will forgive me,” Lord Borros says to her, “I am too old to dance now.”

She tries to smile to hide her repulsion. What an endearing match she’s managed to find for herself. But this is for her mother– her Queen, so that the throne might pass to the rightful heir and not a usurper.

In the corner of her eye she sees Aemond is watching her, and she does not shy away from his gaze. His lips curl into a smirk but she can see the calculations and strategising behind that piercing, violet eye.

What lurks on the other side, she wonders, underneath the leather eyepatch and the scar slicing down his face?

A bloody mess of flesh flashes before her eyes. She remembers how he cried out in pain, how he clutched his hand to his face, how the thick, dark blood seeped from between his fingers and spilled onto the floor as he fell. She had only watched dumbfounded, as Lucerys dropped the blade, as she and the other children were ushered into the Hall of Nine, as the gash in Aemond’s socket was sewn and their mothers both called for justice.

Could she have stopped her cousins from confronting him? Could she have defended him from her brothers? Would he have at least felt some of her sorrow if she had gone to him that night or wrote to him in the years that separated them?

Those possibilities mean nothing now. Aemond looks at her with no warmth, no fond memories of their shared youth.

He’d be handsome without the scar– he still is, but it is a severe kind of beauty.

The moment she manages to finish the food on her plate, she excuses herself, declaring that she is tired from her journey and will need to recover before Lord Borros makes his decision in the morning.

Lord Borros presses a kiss to her hand, and she winces at the way his beard feels against her skin. When she looks to Aemond, he is suppressing a smile by bringing a cup of wine to his lips.

She walks quickly through the halls, towards the guest chamber, already taking off the heavy gold earrings and necklace she had been adorned with, and sighs at the relief of their weight. The sooner she can get to sleep, the sooner the morning will come, then the sooner she can finally leave, either a success or a failure, but she will be free of him. Free of the tight, restless feeling in her chest.

The enduring storm does not help her nerves, the rain beating down and the wind howling against the castle walls. Her heart leaps at every irregular noise, anything that might be mistaken for a voice, a breath, a footstep. She glances over her shoulder repeatedly, but all she sees are the empty hallways she leaves behind.

Two guards wait outside her chambers. They do not move to open the door for her, as they would on Dragonstone. She huffs and pushes it open herself, falling against the door once it is closed.

Borros Baratheon is hardly a man of principle. He has no love for Rhaenyra, and is only considering offering his support out if pride. She has no friends here.

She quietly turns the lock on the door.

She heads to the vanity to set down the jewellery and release the pins from her hair, watching it fall around her shoulders.

Outside the window, she hears Silverwing’s lamenting coos through the clashes of thunder. She reaches behind her back to undo the laces of her gown as she goes to the window, but she cannot spot her dragon through the dark and the heavy rain.

“We’ll be home soon,” she whispers into the night.

She nearly screams when she hears the door rattle.

The wood clashes against its frame, but the handle does not budge, for now.

She barely has a few moments to run to the vanity, hand outstretched and eyes fixed on a long, sharp hair pin when she hears the door burst open. It slams and heavy footsteps thud against the floor, towards her.

A hand clasps over her mouth before she can make a sound. An arm wraps tightly around her waist, keeping her arms by her sides, before she can reach the closest thing she has to a weapon.

She thrashes, squirms, tries to call for help or graze her teeth against the intruder’s flesh but nothing deters him.

She looks down at the arm around her waist. She recognises the black leather sleeve of his jerkin, the wide palm pressing down on her stomach, veins and tendons running underneath pale skin.

He rests his chin on her shoulder, so his long, silver hair falls around her face. He smells of smoke and lavender.

He lets out a frustrated huff as she unsuccessfully tries to jerk her elbow into his side. “Did you really think that you could just fly about the realm, trying to steal my brother’s throne at no cost?” he hisses against her ear.

She squeals in fury against his palm, trying to twist her way out of his grip. She manages to drag him with her until their sides collide with the vanity. Pieces of priceless jewellery and bottles of perfume fall to the floor, and shatter.

She has a mere second to wrench herself from his grip, only for him to grab her again, turning her to face him as he pulls her into his chest.

Aemond’s expression is deadly, his eye wide, lips pressed together in a scarcely contained rage.

“The throne belongs to my mother,” she says through the drumming in her chest, with all the defiance she can muster. “She is the one true heir. King Viserys–”

“Viserys is dead!” Aemond bellows, pushing her back against the vanity. “His word means nothing now that he can no longer enforce it.”

With her hands suddenly free she attempts to strike him, but he sees her intention before she even moves, pinning her wrists to the wood, keeping her body in place with his own.

She clenches her fists, only able to dig her nails into her palms. “What is it that you want from me?”

Lightning ignites the sky behind her. The white light dances over his scar and the shape of his mouth. His expression is softer now, lips slightly parted.

“I will have what I am owed,” he says.

Her eyes flicker to the eyepatch and the edges of the scar it cannot conceal.

Aemond hums a small laugh at her presumption. “Fear not, dear niece, that is not your debt to pay.”

His gaze trails over her face, then lower, to her lips, along her neck, to the gown slipping from her shoulders and the bare skin at the top of her chest.

“Do you remember what you said to me, the day you left?” he says softly.

The children they were are almost half a lifetime away.

She remembers standing under the weirwood tree in the Godswood of the Red Keep, a warm breeze rustling the red leaves above their heads, the sun shining through the branches.

She remembers holding Aemond’s face in her hands, wiping away the bitter tears as they fell from his eyes.

He had begged her not to leave, but they were powerless then.

He is the one to bring his hand to her face now, running his thumb over the lone tear that spills from her eye.

“I said I loved you,” she utters. “I said my heart was yours, and it always would be.”

Aemond hums softly. “You made a promise to me,” he says. “Do you intend to keep that promise?”

How can she? She would have to forsake her mother, her Queen, her brothers, the realm, her own dignity.

“It was a childish infatuation,” she says.

“Not to me,” he says, fury creeping into his voice once more, his grip on her hand tightening.

She pushes her one free hand against his chest but he does not budge. “Aemond, please, you’re hurting me…”

He presses his body into her, forcing her further against the vanity– a warning, a command for obedience. He trails his thumb over her cheek, to her lower lip, taking her chin in his fingers. When she tries to look away he brings her eyes back to him.

He leans in gradually, pressing his forehead and his nose against hers, before he takes a steady breath and captures her lips in his. His kiss is starved but slow, bruising, deep and desperate. The hand that was on her chin comes to her neck, angling her head precisely where he wants her.

His hands trace down the back of her neck, between her shoulders, to pull at the laces of her gown. They fall apart between his fingers and, barely breaking away from her, he tugs it down until the black and gold fabric falls to her ankles. He lifts her out of it, seating her on the vanity, raking the hem of her shift up to her thighs so he can place himself between them as he continues to kiss her.

A dazed sort of warmth pools within her. She can feel her senses and her sanity slipping.

But he cannot best her, not after everything that has happened in the days since the King’s death.

She grazes his lip with her teeth, and when he seems to welcome it, she clenches her jaw as hard as she can.

He tears himself away from her and staggers back, bright blood dripping from his mouth. She can taste it on her tongue.

“Little cunt,” he hisses.

She slips the hairpin into her hand and runs for the door. Aemond catches her in a few strides but she’s ready for that, turning to drive it into his blindside.

Even then he misses nothing, holding her wrists behind her back with one hand and snatching the pin from her grasp. She hears it clatter to the ground as Aemond drives her forwards, towards the bed.

She lands face down and tries to lift herself up, only to feel his forearm pressing into her neck to keep her down.

“You were always stubborn,” he says, planting a delicate kiss to her shoulder, “and as exciting as that is, I want you to be good for me, dōna riña.”

The iciness in his voice sends a shudder down her spine.

“Say it, say you’ll be good.”

Hit tears prickle in her eyes. She shifts underneath his hold, but her urge to fight is already fading. “I’ll be good, qȳbos,” she whispers.

Aemond’s chest hums with a groan. At last he relents, releasing her neck and her hands. But no sooner is she free, he turns her onto her back and slides his hands up her thighs, hooking his fingers over her smallclothes and bringing them down her legs.

“Up,” he says, dragging her by her hands to sit, so that he can pull her shift over her head.

She cannot be sure why she’s shivering, the cold air, the noise of the storm, or the hungry look in Aemond’s eye at the sight of her bare body.

She keeps her hands on his shoulders as he lays her down and trails his fingertips down her stomach, to the obvious arousal at her core.

With a lingering kiss to her cheek he presses a single finger inside her. She gasps at the sudden sting of it, digging her nails into his skin.

But he reaches deeper than she’s ever been able to, stroking against the flesh within her, until she starts to melt. He edges her closer and closer to bliss until she comes undone around him with a whimper.

“Sȳz riña,” he coos against her cheek. “That’s it…”

She tries to cling onto him as he moves away, but he is not gone for long. He swiftly undoes the buckles of his jerkin, followed by his shirt, boots and breeches. His body is lithe and lean, harsh angles and soft skin.

She glances at his eyepatch again.

Aemond lets out a low, irritable “hmm,” as he looms over her. His hair falls around his face, tickling the skin of her collar. He leans on one palm placed by her head, as he drags the tip of his cock through her folds, teasing between her bundle of nerves and her entrance. The sensation burns brightly and has her hips bucking, but it’s not enough.

“Beg me for it,” he utters.

“Please,” she whispers, cupping his face in her hands, feeling her thumbs along the sharp edges of his cheeks. “Please…”

He pushes into her with a single stroke, filling her to the hilt with a soft sound of skin against skin.

She winces at the stretch, throwing her head back against the bed and trying to steady her breath as he rocks into her.

He’s gentle at first, but before long he is restless.

“I knew you fucking wanted this,” he pants, gripping at her waist to pull her in with every snap of his hips. “You little whore, I can feel you getting wetter.”

She should hate him for it. There is so much she should hate him for, but she cannot think past the pleasure tightening and rising within her, the sound of Aemond’s laboured breaths or the lewd, wet sounds of their coupling.

His hands grab at her legs, positioning them against her chest so he can fuck her harder and deeper.

“Oh gods,” she whines as he pushes against a spot that makes her feel weightless.

“Take it bastard,” he hisses, pressing his forehead against hers and wrapping a hand around her neck. It’s not enough to hurt, but it’s enough to know it could. “Fucking take it.”

She is sure it’s too much, his hold on her neck, his breath over her lips, his body pressing against hers as he pounds into her without mercy.

“I’m going to fill you up,” Aemond rasps, “return you to King’s Landing with a Prince in your belly.”

His promise sparks a new feeling entirely, her cunt clenching around him as her voice becomes a slur of desperate, wanton moans.

“Oh you’d like that, wouldn’t you, ilībõños? Want your uncle to give you a silver-haired babe?”

“Please,” she mewls, placing her hand over his, “please, qȳbos,”

With a few sharp, brutal thrusts, her body erupts with her climax, until she is a moaning, quivering mess.

Aemond’s jaw hangs open as he fucks into her through his own release, until every last drop of his seed is buried within her.

He keeps himself nestled within her, positioning them properly on the bed, hooking her leg around his hips, keeping her body and her head close to his chest.

Her eyes flutter closed, lulled by the soft sound of his breath and the gentle thud of his heartbeat.

But the pleasant glow of her peak cannot last forever.

“I can’t go back to King’s Landing,” she whispers against his skin. Not now that Aegon has claimed the throne, not now that her mother is amassing her banners and the Greens are doing the same.

Aemond takes her chin his fingers, forcing her gaze to meet his. “Did you think I’d ever let you go? You’re mine now, dōna riña. That is what you've always wanted, is it not?”

She helplessly traces her fingers along the muscles of his arm, held tightly around her.

Perhaps she did want that, once.

“What of the Stormlands? What of our duties to our families? What of the war?”

Aemond silences her with a delicate kiss to her lips. She lets it soothe her, for the sake of a love once lost, for a moment of bliss in a world unfurling into chaos and bloodshed.

“Lord Borros will pledge his banners to Aegon or I will burn Storm’s End to the ground,” Aemond mutters between their kisses. She can already feel his cock beginning to harden once more inside her. “And no one will keep you from me, my sweet, strong girl.”

Tags (comment to be added)

General taglist: @randomdragonfires @jamespotterismydaddy @theoneeyedprince @tsujifreya

#my fics #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen oneshot #aemond x reader #aemond x you #aemond x ofc #hotd #house of the dragon fanfic #house of the dragon fanfiction #hotd fanfiction #smut #aemond fanfiction #aemond fanfic #aemond oneshot #aemond one eye #Spotify

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stxrvel · 3 months ago

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the king (2)

series summary. y/n knew that her whole life was outside the Palace, but it was hard to resist when the Crown Prince had been chasing her for as long as she could remember. doomed to an end where everything she loves has to be abandoned, y/n is forced to restart her life far from her mother, her village that saw her grow up and the man she loves. who would've thought that loving would come at such a high price…

pairing. prince!jungkook x f!reader

content. english is not my first lenguage! violence. royal themes. be-heading is still spoken of in this kingdom, nothing that will materialize. yelling. a flashback.

a/n. hey guys! i forgot about this one hehe. i have some chapters already done, i'll try to post them soon. love yall <3

series masterlist | bts masterlist | previous | next

Jeon Jungkook had never thrown a tantrum since he was eight years old. His teaching was so strict being the heir to the throne that he had had to learn to tolerate many things and put up with others from an early age. Understanding the weight of what it entailed to be born with the title of “Crown Prince” had been one of the things that had taken him the least amount of time to grasp, but which he always questioned in the solitude of his room.

Jungkook had surprised his parents, understanding from a very young age the implications of his position and the responsibilities he was to assume in the future. That knowledge made him grow up lacking in many things, but with advantages in many others. By owning that awareness, Jungkook understood the weight on his parents' shoulders and knew that they must've had a difficult enough life for him to bother them with his childish mundanities. So that's how he grew up, for many years, trying to make life easy for his parents.

Usually, his mother used to use him as an example to his younger sisters on how to behave according to the title they held. His sisters never envied him, they really loved him, but Jungkook knew how much they hated not being able to live their childhood like all the other kids in town. And he hated that too, that they couldn't experience it, but he was relieved just to know that the big burden was on him and not on them. Expectations were always placed on him, the Crown Prince, the next King, and not on the princesses who only wanted to enjoy their life and childhood in the big castle. Still, Jungkook sometimes didn't understand why his mother demanded so much from his sisters when they hadn't grown up with the knowledge he was given. He hated the nights when Suni, the youngest of them all, would sneak into his room at night or search for him in the great Palace garden because eomma had forbidden her to keep stuffed animals in her room or because she got mad at her when she asked for more food at dinner.

Jungkook, for a long time, tried to make his parents' life a little easier.

But it infuriated him to think that they made his sisters' lives difficult in return.

So, for a change, Jungkook started throwing tantrums.

The first time he remembered it as lucidly as if it had been yesterday.

It was a sunny day in the square when he had gone out with his parents and two of his sisters. Their parents had dawned in a strangely good mood, so much so that they had decided to have a little family walk in the central point of town. Jungkook went with one of his sisters, Hari, making funny faces at his younger sister, Suni, behind his parents' backs, causing the little girl to laugh loudly. They were having such a peaceful and happy time that Jungkook couldn't believe it.

That is, until Suni saw one of the wooden toys they were selling in the square and began to pull her mother's hand. Hari and Jungkook stood silently, frozen, walking quietly behind their parents as they watched their little sister stir and pull harder and harder on the Queen's hand. They could barely go unnoticed… when Suni began to cry.

Jungkook bit his tongue, and had the urge to move forward to grab his sister and take her back to the Palace, but Hari's hand wrapped around his arm kept him sane. Jungkook hadn't been through a situation like that, precisely why his parents didn't often go out with their children, so he had no idea how his parents would react.

The Queen continued walking, almost dragging her little daughter who wouldn't let go of her hand. People passing by her were barely able to give them a glance, hurrying their pace when the Queen's eyes fell on them. The square had fallen into a dull silence that was perturbed only by Suni's sobs.

Hari squeezed Jungkook's arm tighter as the Queen turned her face away to look at Suni, and they both watched their mother's tense face, no longer welcoming and peaceful as they had seen her in the morning. She was now only the Queen and Suni, her own daughter, was trying her patience.

The King walked silently by her side, not even bothering to try to calm his daughter or show his wife patience. He lived in his own world.

Jungkook felt a hand clutch around his throat as the Queen began to tug on her little sister's arm, to get her to walk back to her side without crawling.

He didn't think twice as he began to speak, and Hari's hand tightened around his arm.

“Eommoni,” Jungkook elongated his voice, a hint of weariness and exhaustion ringing in the Queen's ears. The woman barely glanced over her shoulder at him, and Jungkook took it upon himself to keep his face irritated like his sister Hari did when she had to eat paprika. “Suni is making too much noise and my head hurts.”

His little sister turned to look at him, her eyes red and cheeks drenched in tears. Her little eyes rolled down his face and she had one of her hands almost inside her mouth, as many babies did when crying. Jungkook could never shake that habit that his mother hated, no matter how much he told her it was normal.

“Can't we go home already?” Jungkook continued, shuffling his feet. Hari was as want as a stone beside him.

“Jungkook,” the King's voice was heard, a silent warning.

A shiver ran through the two brothers walking arm in arm, but Jungkook didn't budge.

“It's getting too sunny, besides, and I'm dying of thirst. Let's go now.”

The King stopped and the whole family along with him. Suni was now sobbing quietly, she seemed to be calming down at the sound of her brother's voice, but tears still streamed down her face.

“Enough,” the King bellowed, turning around to stare at Jungkook. “You are demonstrating unacceptable behavior for the Crown Prince,” he spat, then turned his face to look at the Queen and Suni, “Let's go now.”

Suni let go of her mother's hand and stood in front of her father raising her arms towards him with a grimace that made one think she was nothing short of destroying the mountains with a scream. The King sighed, but took her in his arms. Snuggling into her father's neck, Suni finally closed her eyes.

“I hope you are satisfied, Jungkook,” his father spoke again. “You'll see what awaits you at home.”

The King's punishment had been harsh, as usual, but Jungkook was glad he had used his influence over his parents because, the next day, Suni was in the family dining room with the wooden toy in her hands.

Thus, Jungkook began a streak of manipulation against his parents to ease his sisters' lives. Since they were always more concerned about the Crown Prince's behavior, it was easier to divert his sisters' attention to him.

And to this day, Jungkook hadn't stopped doing so. Every day with more reasons, with different arguments, even if it cost him his life. He wouldn't stop. For them… and for him.

He raised his head as the doors to the great hall opened and a familiar face peered between them. The King's Counselor was striding toward him, hands loosely at his sides, dark blue uniform neatly arranged and a calm expression on his face. Jungkook knew him better than he let on, though, and knew those eyes incited nothing but reproach.

“You're in deep trouble,” was what Kim Seokjin said as soon as he reached his side, his gaze hard but his eyes soft, concerned.

“I know.”

“The way you confronted the Queen…”

“I know.”

“She's never going to let you leave this palace.”

Jungkook twisted his lips and focused his gaze on anything else within the room. Since he had arrived at the Palace, walking shoulder to shoulder with his mother, with the Queen, the two of them split their path and Jungkook had wandered off to a quiet place in the Palace thinking that the argument would end there; that his mother would ignore him for days and make his life miserable while his father watched. But the King arrived within minutes and sent for them both to the meeting room.

Jungkook had been waiting there for about ten minutes, thinking about what they could talk about, what kind of punishment the King wanted to give him, what kinds of poisonous words his mother was going to spit out, when the counselor arrived.

“If I hadn't gone, she would've- she would've given the order and…”

He pressed his lips together in a line. The paltry thought that hovered in his head at the possibility chilled the blood throughout his body. The shiver that ran through him made him grateful he'd had the chance, but reminded him that from now on he had to tiptoe around his mother.

“Your mother wanted a show. She didn't want to kill her, she wanted to humiliate her. Destroy her honor, like she thought she had done to her, to the Jeon family name.”

“That's stupid,” Jungkook spat, anger rebirthing like flames inside his chest. “No one would've ever found out if it weren't for what she did. Now everyone will be talking about it. For weeks.”

“That's true. It was not a calculated move, the Queen acted through her anger. And the consequences will be severe.”

“And you'll hear her already, blaming me for everything. As always.”

Seokjin gave him a sympathetic look, his body leaning against the table in the center of the room. He had known Jungkook since the Prince had turned 15 and since then it had been very hard for him to keep his distance when Jungkook started seeing him and coming to him like a brother. Seokjin knew how hard life had been for the Prince, even if he didn't notice it, even if he had normalized living that way, even if he had become accustomed to the mistreatment. Seokjin saw through those eyes the longing of his inner child, the desire to be free to do whatever he wanted, whatever he couldn't do before.

The counselor had been a pimp, if he had to admit it. He couldn't give him or let him do many things without his parents, the King and Queen, finding out, and both of them being punished for it. Still, he tried to support him in every way he could, like excusing him when he wanted to leave the palace alone for a walk, or accompanying him to have his first beer at Fresh Air; it was almost a tradition in town for older brothers to take their younger siblings to try their first alcoholic drink at that bar, to share those moments together.

Just as he had been in so many stages of his life, he knew Jungkook had been taking too many chances the past few months. Years, even. Seokjin would allow himself to cut him a little slack whenever he could, help him with excuses to breathe easy, but he constantly wondered how long he could be walking quietly on a tightrope. How long it would be before the Queen's sharp actions would cut off that tiny thread of hope that Jungkook had been moving on for some time.

“Have you heard about Hari and Suni?” the voice of Jungkook boomed in the silence, a few seconds after he had uttered the last words. Seokjin raised his head to look at him.

“They were on their way, very close. They should arrive today in the afternoon or during the night.”

The Prince nodded, faint lines crossing his forehead.

“Good thing they weren't around to witness all this.”

“I don't think they can escape the days ahead,” Seokjin mused and Jungkook bowed his head in a nod, a grimace akin to helplessness crossing his expression. “And more so when the King sent for you two. He must be furious.”

“The calm he showed in the square was only the sheet of ice containing his anger. I doubt we'll make it out of this room alive,” Jungkook felt a shudder run through his body as he remembered the look his father gave the Queen when he ordered him back to the Palace with her. His mother was scary, yes, people were right to fear her, the anger was always evident and furrowed her expression without self-consciousness to the world. But his father was not, the King was better known for having an icy rage, for having a frightening calmness when anger coursed through his veins. His mother might be dangerous, but the King was lethal.

“Jimin and Yoongi tried to come as soon as they heard, but the royal guard barred their way. They were practically locked in the guest room,” Seokjin remarked as he remembered the looks of both men on the other side of the room. The door was open when Seokjin was crossing the hall and two royal guards were guarding it, as if they were some mercenaries who did not deserve any good treatment. He knew it had been the Queen's order.

Jungkook's beady eyes fell into disbelief when he heard the counselor's words. It must have been his mother's command, he thought rightly as he held back the urge to smash his palm against the walnut wood table.

Away from the fog of anger that had consumed his mind the past few hours, Jungkook took a moment to breathe. He hated what his mother had done, but he knew his friends were fine. But she…

“Did you hear anything on the way here?” Jungkook inquired, and Seokjin promptly knew what he meant.

“Nothing, everything was scattered when I arrived.”

A whiplash of fear and panic surged through Jungkook's chest. Not many times had he felt that kind of terror, the kind he thought he could only feel in his nightmares. And Seokjin knew the Prince must be dying of uncertainty inside, because he didn't bother in the least to disguise the emotions that traveled across his face.

“She should be fine,” the counselor assured him, though his words were an empty promise. “The King may turn out to be more merciful than you think.”

Seokjin didn't know if the King's mercy went that far, but he wanted to convince himself with his own words, for he wouldn't know how broken the already fractured family bond in that Palace would be if the opposite were true.

He didn't have much time to continue rambling when the sound of quickened footsteps began to echo from the hallway. Seokjin broke away from the table and approached the white wall, carved with lines on its columns, arches over the smooth walls, and undulating figures at the births of them.

The large oval doors of dark wood opened wide and the King entered without hesitation, the Queen walking behind him. At that moment, Jungkook didn't want to see them as father and mother. From the looks they were both giving him, the Prince almost felt that he would be the next to have a trial.

When the Queen was standing right in front of Jungkook across the table, the doors closed with a barely audible sound, and the room was taken over by thunderous silence.

“May I ask, what was on your mind?”

Jungkook didn't turn his gaze to the King. It was disrespectful not to look at him when he spoke, he knew it, every villager knew it, more so him being his son. But maybe he wasn't as prepared for that meeting as he thought he was. He didn't want to take the blame for something that wasn't a crime. Because he hadn't hurt anyone. Because…

“Are you talking to me?” the Queen's voice interrupted his train of thought, and he allowed himself at that moment to raise his head.

The King was watching his wife, who had a surprised grimace on her face in contrast to her father's impassive and cold look, the typical and familiar one.

“What were you thinking going out to do all this, Hyori?”

Seokjin didn't hide the astonishment that took over his face when he heard the King call the Queen by her proper name. It shouldn't be something to be missed, but he and Jungkook were used to formalities between the two supreme figures in front of them. That his father decided to set aside his formality to speak to the Queen in such a manner spoke too much of the anger he held in his heart.

“Why are you directing your anger against me? I wasn't the one who caused all this.”

Jungkook watched the Queen's frown, her face contracted in skepticism. She had adopted a defensive posture, truly offended at being the target of the King's anger.

“You were the one who caused all this,” the King nodded with anger rising in the glint in his eyes. “If you hadn't gone out and made all that fuss, we wouldn't be going through all this right now.”

“But what are you talking about?” the Queen exclaimed, and when she raised her voice Jungkook shrank back in his seat. He shot a glance at Seokjin, but it seemed that the counselor was just as confused as he was. “What don't you see that the reason for the fuss is sitting on the other side of the table?”

Jungkook didn't have to turn his head to know that his mother was pointing at him with a furious glare. But the King didn't even spare the Prince a glance when he responded:

“Stop pointing at your son like that,” he mumbled through his teeth, venom surrounding every word.

A sound of disbelief left the Queen, with a stupefied chuckle following her as she approached the King at a slow pace.

“Do you have any idea what your son did? What that woman wanted to do to our family?”

Jungkook gritted his teeth, his hands gathering on the wood of the table.

“And do you have any idea what that theatrics just cost our reputation? I had to meet with the high consorts immediately. They're not very happy with what you did.”

The Queen snorted not believing for a second that she was the one getting all the scolding and yelling and not Jungkook. Seokjin, secretly, wasn't too upset about it.

“Are you defending him?”

It was the King's turn to break through the icy mask, irritability seeping through his gut.

“What Jungkook did was minimal compared to what your show cost us. The high consorts are reconsidering their offers. They don't think it's very good for their public image to do business with a Queen who still does public executions.”

“They are not forbidden in our nation.”

“No,” the King nodded, “but they will be.”

Jungkook didn't disguise the gasp of surprise that left his mouth. Was he really hearing those words from his father…? The Queen spluttered, and the Prince turned to see her face contracted in astonishment… in betrayal.

“What your son and that woman did is unacceptable.”

“What Jungkook did or didn't do is what matters least,” the King mumbled, his glacial eyes roaming over his wife's face that would not leave her stupefaction.

“What are you saying? He was courting-!”

“I don't care,” the King repeated, his words stronger, more concise. “As long as it doesn't affect the Crown, what Jungkook does outside this Palace doesn't matter to me.”

Thunderous silence followed his words. Seokjin watched everyone present with utmost caution from his position. He might be a simple counselor, but he knew some self-defense tactics. Meanwhile, Jungkook was totally speechless. His gaze wandered over his father and then shifted to his mother's stunned look, an expression that hadn't left her since the King began speaking.

“You can't do that. You can't just not care…” the Queen was shaking her head in refusal, refusing to accept the words she heard from her husband's mouth. “You can't turn a blind eye to-”

“I already did,” the King spoke again and Jungkook did not miss the way his eyes averted for less than a second. The way he looked at him, the sad gleam in his eyes. Or well, sad was what he seemed to have seen, because the King's expression changed so quickly that Jungkook might have thought he had imagined it, if not for what he said next, “I already had.”

“What are you talking about?”

The Prince felt a hand squeeze his heart, trying to stifle it, to keep him conscious long enough to survive, but using just enough strength to feel death close. His lips parted as he watched the father who wouldn't look back at him, who was staring harshly at his mother as the only true culprit in this whole mess. No, the problem wasn't that Jungkook was trusting, not that he stopped paying attention, not that he had let his guard down…

“You knew,” Jungkook spoke for the first time. His voice came out slightly hoarse, his beady, disbelieving eyes glinting in the natural sunlight as his father gave him a neutral, dry, emotionless look.

“What?” the Queen's head turned sharply toward her husband, her eyes exaggeratedly wide.

Without looking away from his son, the King spoke, “Did you really think there was anything you could do in the Palace that I wouldn't know about?”

Almost out of sad inertia, with a whiplash of pain in his chest, Jungkook shook his head at the counselor. Seokjin half-opened his lips in surprise, but shook his head in a negative as he felt the deer eyes on him.

“Counselor Kim has nothing to do here,” the King spoke, his gaze still on the Prince.

“Your Majesty-” Seokjin tried to speak, but the King raised a hand in his direction.

“Not now,” his stern gaze was still on Jungkook, but he promptly turned back to stare at the Queen who seemed not to credit what she saw.

“You knew and… you allowed it?” the Queen's voice was barely a whisper, surprise taking all her breath away.

“I told you, she was never a threat to the Crown.”

“She wasn't a threat, she was a gold digger! She wanted all the riches Jungkook could give her!”

The Prince gnashed his teeth. His bite was so hard that it strained his jaw and a slight pain ran through his gums. He wanted his mother to stop talking that way, expressing herself that way, he wanted to say something to her, anything…

“That's what you made it sound like, making all this fuss. Now there's really no way of knowing,” the King replied impassively, though several muscles in his face were already beginning to retract.

“She was going to steal from us,” the Queen exclaimed in utter conviction.

“She was going to do no such thing,” Jungkook blurted out, his hand clenched on the table and the Queen's eyes exorbitant as she turned to see him as he answered her thus. It was an impulse, but he had done it, and though his instinct was to shrink from her gaze, he faced her and continued speaking. “She never tried to take advantage of me. She is a kind, loving, honest and a humble soul. All she wanted for me was happiness.”

The Queen snorted, interrupting him, and his assurance flanked. Jungkook didn't feel he was over, but the King took the floor again:

“You're going to have to apologize to his mother.”

“What?”

“I'm not going to bear such an embarrassment to someone who has provided us with her services.”

“I'm not going to do-”

“You will. And the next time you intend to bring a trial against someone, Counselor Kim will be only too pleased to give you a few lessons in law.”

And with that, the King left the room.

#jungkook x reader #jungkook angst #jeon jungkook #jungkook x you #jungkook fanfic #jungkook #bts x reader #bts fanfic #bts x fem!reader

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naazaif327 · 3 months ago

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Questions I’d have for the Gods if I was Dorian Storm and I had Commune

DAWNFATHER

1. During the Calamity, were you physically capable of killing the Betrayer Gods?

Pelor: ###.

Yes, that’s what I thought.

2. If Ludinus was my beloved brother, whom I loved more than anyone else in the world, would you still ask me to strike him down in order to save all of you?

Pelor: ###.

of course you would. You couldn’t do the same to your family, but of course you’d ask us to do it all the same. You’re never beholden to your own rules, are you? That’s not my last question, actually.

3. If all of us mortals banded together and promised to only stop Predathos if in return you finally killed the Betrayer Gods, especially the Spider Queen, would you take the deal?

Pelor: ### ##### ## #######-

actually I’ll just take a yes or no.

Pelor: ### ######## #####-

if you cannot stay your pride even in the end times, I will leave you to your thoughts.

EVERLIGHT

1. My brother lies dead at the hands of the Queen of Spiders. One of my closest friends has been enslaved and corrupted by her. In the last thousand years since you spared the Betrayer Gods, countless mortals have been enslaved, tortured, and killed by the Betrayers. Many suffer eternally in the afterlives of the monsters you call family. Tell me, do you think your life and the lives of your “family” are worth more than the lives and souls of every mortal harmed by your siblings?

Sarenrae: ##, ## ###### ###

but you doomed them anyways to save your family and yourselves. You didn’t kill Aeor for us.

2. “THOSE WHO ARE BEYOND REDEMPTION, WHO REVEL IN SLAUGHTER AND REMORSELESS EVIL, MUST BE DISPATCHED WITH SWIFT JUSTICE.” You did not follow this tenet of yours during the Calamity for your own brothers and sisters, but perhaps Gods do not need to follow their own commands. I ask you now, should we stop Predathos because it and Ludinus are beyond redemption?

Sarenrae: …###.

3. She was beyond redemption too. The weaver of webs and chaos and corruption. The Queen of Spiders. Yet you said you loved her in Aeor, and in the end you and the rest of them spared her. Do you love her more than us?

Sarenrae: ##, ### ####.

i think you’re a liar

ARCHEART

1. Well? Aren’t you going to strike me down?

Corellon: …#### ## ### ####?

i’m a wielder of the arcane arts that you blessed mortals with, and I’m someone who might have a say in your potential demise. You destroy people like that, along with their homes and cities and families, don’t you? You gave us the power of creation and then cut us down like insects when we created something that might threaten you, when we drew outside the lines of what you intended for us to create. So I ask again, are you going to strike me down like Archmage Selena Erenves?

Corellon: # ##### ###### ### #### ### #### ######, ### ### ### ####.

2. You are the god of arcane magic and creation, you gave us the gift of creation, yet you cut Aeor down for what they made. Answer me honestly, in the present day are there things we might create that you would still stop us from creating?

Corellon: ##### ##

3. You seemed tired in Aeor, like you were ready to die. Of course when push actually came to shove you suddenly realized you wanted to live, badly enough that you slaughtered a whole city for it. I ask you now that death is once again on the horizon for you and your siblings, would you welcome the peace of oblivion?

Corellon: # #### # #### ## ####### ### # ###### ## ######. ## #### ######.

QUEEN OF SPIDERS

1. If we stopped Predathos from being released, would you let Opal go?

Lolth: ## ###### ###

i didn't think so.

2. Do you think it will be painful and agonizing when you are consumed?

Lolth: ## ### ##### ###'## ##### ## ##### ##? ### ####, Cyrus ### ###### #### ### ###### ###, ## ###.

3. Do you think Ethodok and Vordo were afraid and in pain when you let Predathos devour them?

Lolth: ...###'## ### ##### ## ######## ##### #####.

i'm not the only one who failed his siblings.

#critical role #cr spoilers #cr downfall #the prime deities #the betrayer gods #the exandrian pantheon #this is just weird and for me personally to get out all of my feelings #ooc Dorian Storm

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novankenn · 2 months ago

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Sweet Seductions

Ozpin was sipping his morning cup of tea as he activated the holographic display for his personal computer. Opening his email he began to peruse the flood of emails in his inbox. His mug fell from nerveless fingers.

Ozpin: NO! NO! NO! NO!

Glynda: Headmaster?

Ozpin: Start the evacuation! They're coming!

Glynda: ????

Ozpin: the ARCS! They're on the way!

Glynda: No...

Glynda opened her tablet and typed in a code she had hoped to never have to use. Beacon was going to be completely abandoned... she just hoped there was enough time.

A very distinctive bullhead flew past Beacon's tower. Close enough for Ozpin and Glynda to see it clearly through the windows of the Headmaster's office.

Glynda: We're...

Ozpin: ... Too late...

The ship landed unmolested, and the rear ramp lowered with a hydraulic hiss. Seven figures strode down the ramp, each dressed in form fitting and rather revealing body suits. They carried not weapons... but the Arcs had no need for them.

In their lead a messy haired young blond man. He stopped, with the six young women following him doing the same in complete unison. They all struck rather enticing poses before the young man in the lead gave a light chuckle as he surveyed the gathering crowd of students.

????: I'm Jaune Arc, and these are my sisters... surrender in the name of her majesty Queen Salem.

Random Student: What the fuck dude? What the hell???

Rocket lockers fell into Beacon's court yard, and there was sudden flurry of motion as weapons and armor were donned.

Joan: (Smirking) They ALWAYS do this. Brother why do you bother with these theatrics?

Jaune: It's fun. Admit it. It's fun.

Joan: True.

Coco: I don't know who you are but coming to Beacon and threatening us... won't work! We won't go down with out a fight!

Jaune: Ah... firstly I introduced myself with my first words, so... rude. Second... Resistance is futile...

The group raised their right hands and in unison snapped their fingers. That simple motion spelt their doom...

youtube

With the first notes of the blaring music that mystically began to play, and the septet started to move.

Coco: (Here weapon falling from nerveless fingers) Wha...

The family of blonds moved in perfect unison. The influence of their combined familial semblance washing over the gathered students. Their movements were erotic, seductive and enchanting. All thoughts of resistance fled from the gathered mod of students. Once they were pacified the septet of Arc's stopped dancing and sauntered forward. Hips moving in a enticing sway.

From the windows of Beacon's tower Ozpin and Glynda Goodwitch watched in enraptured by the display of absolute power.

Ozpin: We're too late...

(Utter & Complete Insanity Story Collection)

#rwby #jaune arc #jaune's sisters #the Arcs serve Salem #their semblance is OP BS #utter & complete insanity story collection #Youtube

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the-tropes-are-hungry · 6 months ago

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The Cat's Mother (1/3)

Did someone say mommy issues? Congrats, Narinder, you lose!

CW: Stillbirth, death by burning. [Next]

His mother protected him.

Her litter was cursed. Dead kit, after dead kit, after dead kit. Six dead daughters and one all-black son who came out half the size of the corpses and barely breathing. In their matriarchal colony, he was a travesty.

He let out a single mewl, his first and meant-to-be-last breath.

His mother’s nurse, her sister, took the ill omen for what it was and placed him in the water to drown him. Better to let seven kittens go back to the River Eater together than the incomplete six. Grief would cleanse the poisoned womb. Next time, there would be daughters.

Mother disagreed and took him from the water. She protected him. She held him and groomed him and gave him his first taste of life while his sisters lay cold in a basket and hers lay dying on the floor.

They left the colony before his eyes (only two, Heket teased) opened.

Mother was a warrior. Her fur was the colour of bright sand under the spotless blue sky, her coat thin but sleek over lean muscle that let her twist and strike like lightning. She killed every member the colony sent after them asking her to return, breaking the Wrath Bringer’s prohibition on striking messengers. For this, they became strays, and he wore the blood of mother’s victims as if she’d pulled off their skins and wrapped him in them.

He should not have been a warrior. Every omen, card, tea leaf, entrail, and star said his claws should have folded against sand, never-mind stone. His teeth should have rotted out of his skull. His ears should have been filled with pus. The hatred of seven dead kinswomen should have doomed him to a feeble, terrified existence. The River Eater should have supped on his blood and spat out his deformed bones.

Instead, where mother was the wind, he was her shadow. Where her eye went, his darts followed. Where her sword struck, his claws sank. When she showed her fangs, his already held flesh. There was little she could teach with blade or chain or claw that he could not master, and she loved him for it.

“My little lord,” she praised, purring deep in her chest over every kill, every triumph, every show of power. She loved his midnight dark pelt, grooming him to an oil-slick shine and taking every opportunity to procure the oils and waxes to give him the texture of smoke to go with his flawless grace.

They stayed nowhere, and lived richly (as bandits, Shamura complained). If Mother said they would eat from the Thunder Mother’s table, then they would scale the temple walls and gorge themselves on honeyed meat and rich wine and fill their bags with trinkets and tributes. If she decided the Tortoise Keeper’s tax men demanded too much, they would make a game of slowly cutting around their shelled heads to peel off the shell—only to realize, delighted (and to Kallamar’s horror), that the entire brain came out when they pulled.

Mother adored him, and made his life a paradise. He bathed in her favour, supped on her devotion, and grew tall atop the pillar she raised for him. Six prized daughters had died to bring her one son; therefore, the omens must be wrong and the gods who peddled them equally blind. Their peoples’ colonies did not need another queen, they needed a Lord of Lords to rule them, and she named him appropriately.

“Narinder--!”

It was the last thing she said before she died.

They were, in the end, only bandits in the eyes of the Green-Eyed Queen. Thieves, stealing both from her altars, and her divinity.

Mother had begun to gain uncanny power. He hadn’t notice it, or else he had not been old enough to understand it. The way people whispered of a gold sphynx; a flash of light on the road that became a rain of copper darts and sharp stone; how travellers at midnight could avoid her wrath by offering a pot of lamp oil, or a clever riddle. Whispers, rumors, and—sure enough: prayers.

Prayer, faith, devotion, love. Four names for the same energy, the same power that the Green-Eyed Queen wanted back from them. Theirs was a land of gods and demigods where the love of the many empowered the few. While his mother was never kind to their victims, she never struck the young or their mothers either. She left the elders alone in their beds. She was, in some small corners, to a very lucky few, a grace. A blessing.

So, the Green-Eyed Queen sent her hunters.

A fortnight later, his mother was in chains with nails driven through her wrists and ankles, locked in an iron cage his claws and knives could never break through. He tracked them for three days, twelve years old and trembling with hunger, rage, and terror. All he needed was one chance to spy the key among the knights and hunters. Just a moment’s distraction to get through the lock and cast off the chains and hide her, protect her, feed her fledgling divinity the way she had been trying to spark the same in him.

They dragged her deep into the forest, built a great bonfire to their queen, and hurled his mother’s cage into it.

He fought better than he should have. He killed more than any other twelve-year-old could have hoped for: at least two. In his furor he didn’t see the other figures strike the camp to flank him, he just saw the cage. He just heard Mother screaming, and burning, and dying.

The iron was glowing red when he threw himself at it, but the spider caught him in three strong arms while the fourth kept swinging their weapon. His throat tore with every emotion made sound. He forgot to fight the spider, he needed Mother and he fought for her with hisses, snarls, and yowls.

“It is enough,” said the spider.

He’d dropped Mother’s sword. He’d run out of darts. He unsheathed his claws on all four paws and screamed, shrieked, wailed at the creature holding him. He lashed out in a flurry swipes and kicks and they, understandably, slammed him into the ground.

“Shamura!”

“At ease—he is frightened.”

They pinned him there and no matter how much he clawed and kicked and fought their flesh never wept blood. The spines of their carapace were thick, snaring his claws and tearing two of them out. Their armor was like nothing he had ever seen, liquid black and gold links that flowed like water under his claws. He fought until his throat was bloody, and his arms went feeble, and his eyes were blinded by sweat and tears and smoke. He fought until three horrible days without sleep or food or peace fogged his mind and yet he could still see. He could see his life running thin, the thread of it spun of something almost different but now fraying from abuse.

He saw the moment where Shamura weighed his flesh against the hunger of their brother and soldiers. He understood that if he did not tip those scales in his favor, they would eat him, and at least his flesh would go to better use than the smouldering char of his mother.

He could not die here. He could not let the Green-Eyed Queen take his mother and then be devoured in turn.

He sheathed his claws. He let his arms fall. The spider eased their weight on him until he could roll to his side and see the smoking cage atop its doused embers. He curled up tight as he had been in the womb, and lay there.

He let out a single mewl, his next but never-to-be-last breath, and wept.

Two thousand years later on a hazy bonfire dawn, Narinder will kneel in a circle of gray stone and let the memories come for him. He will remember disciples, and siblings, and priests, and knights. He will remember temple halls and celebrations. He will remember camaraderie and wine and soldiers and conquest. He will remember his mother’s purr and her gentle claws grooming behind his ears. He will remember six dead sisters and understand, for the first time, how his mother’s life was a tragedy and that he had never wept for her, only for himself.

But on that day, in the distant past, on a battlefield swiftly stripped of gold and armor and weapons, with the corpses left to lay in the grass, Narinder limped with Kallamar’s help to his mother’s cage. The squid merely touched the cool iron with a word and it corroded away, letting him inside with a nervous word that anything of value had been taken from her already by her captors.

All he wanted was one more moment with her, if the charred husk flung against the bottom of the cage was anything of her at all. He wanted to make a promise. He wanted her to know he would do it, as he knelt beside her and placed both hands on the corpse.

“I will kill the Green-Eyed Queen,” he whispered, his voice still raw and wet from screaming. “When I am done there will be no more queens.”

When he saw the glint of red he knew she heard him. The corpse was just a corpse, so even his young hands could reach into the charred meat and pry out the sharp edges of a dead womb.

Theirs was a world where faith and prayer could change fate. The cycle of devotion from a mother to her son crafted a crown with a single red eye. The memory of six dead daughters crystalized with intent to preserve one perfect son.

He put on the crown and went back to Shamura.

His mother protected him. Always.

[Next]

I have the Cat's Mother, the Worm's Mother, and the Lamb's Mother all written. Trying to get a full fic to work but at least this "prologue" bit is done. If I actually reach the plot I'll post this to AO3 with its actual title.

#cult of the lamb #cotl narinder #cotl red crown #when it's narilamb I'll tag the narilamb #next up is Leshy #if I get to write this fic it'll be the best religious trauma dump #cotl shamura #cotl kallamar #sunny writes #Estrangement of Lords #Estrangement AU

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arataka-reigen · 1 year ago

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hello!! i saw the tags on your pinned post abt how shoujo wasn't just romance and it got me curious bc i've read some nice shoujo but really dislike romance-heavy plots. are there any shoujos you like that don't have much or any romance in them? ty and i hope you have a good day! 💛

Oh, there are lots of mangas that are classified as shoujo and don't have romance!!

I am just now beginning my journey through shoujo as well, so I don't have a lot of recommendations for stuff I actually read, but the ones I did read or watch so far are:

Natsume Yuujinchou and basically anything else by its author, Yuki Midorikawa. Sometimes, her works do include romance, but the focus is almost always in the interpersonal relationships and the difficulties her characters go through in life. NatsuYuu is about an orphan boy who can see yokai, and for that reason he acts in "weird" ways and his foster families dislike him, so he keeps going from family to family. The story is about how he finds a good family who accepts and loves him, makes friends, and learns to make friends even with yokais.

There are currently 6 anime seasons out, and a 7th season is on its way, so you can either read the manga or watch the anime.

Akatsuki no Yona - i mean, this one does include romance, but i'll still put it on the list because as far as the anime went the focus is heavy on Yona's actual journey to gather the dragons of legend to be able to recover the kingdom that was stolen from her. It shows how Yona goes from a sheltered spoiled girl to a person befitting the title of dragon king.

My Next Life as a Villainess: All Routes Lead to Doom - this one is the og villainess isekai and it truly deserves the hype. It is about a girl who wakes up in the child body of the villainess of her favorite otome game. She remembers that the villainess' fate in the game was always either death or exile, so she tries her hardest to change her fate. This one is classified as a reverse harem, but the main character is pretty oblivious and worries more about farming and eating sweets and generally being the best girl ever than actually worrying about romance. Aro ace queen tbh. And her harem is just happy to be with her and be dragged along for her stupid adventures. Plus, the female members of her harem are taken seriously as well, Mary is a raging lesbian and it is not subtext. I mean, it is a shoujo, so of course the female characters would be important lol.

Usagi Drop - listen to me. You will absolutely not look for anything related to this manga. If you like the premise you can watch the anime. But, please, do not look for the manga. You will only be extremely disappointed by it. That being said, I recommend the anime. It is about a man who returns home for his grandfather's funeral and then finds out his grandfather had an illegitimate daughter who has now become an orphan. He ends up having to take care of her because the rest of the family considers her a shame to the family.

Now, for the stuff I havent seen yet, I'll just write some that are on my "plan to read" list and put their genres next to their names so you can check it out if you think the genre's sound interesting:

7 Seeds (drama, horror, psychological, sci fi, survival)

Requiem of the Rose King (drama, historical, supernatural, gender identity)

Basara (drama, fantasy, adventure) (i think this one has romance, but from what i've heard, the main character's story is a lot deeper as she takes her brother's identity in order to fight against the king who killed her brother, it is pretty famous and considered a classic)

Ghost Hunt (horror, mystery, psychological, supernatural)

Helter Skelter (horror, psychological)

My Stepmother and Stepsisters aren't Wicked (comedy, historical, slice of life)

Ikoku Nikki (drama) (this one is the one i'm currently most interested on, i hear it's about a distant woman who's never had a good relationship with her sister and now has to take care of her teenage niece because her sister died)

Itsuwari no Freya (crossdressing, historical)

Limit (drama, psychological, school) (this one sounds incredible tbh, on a field trip their bus gets into an accident and only 5 girls remain, having to learn to survive and trying to assert themselves over one another because they hate each other.)

Machida-kun no sekai (school)

Mitarai-ke, Enjou suru (drama) (the main character wants to infiltrate the household of the family who blamed her mother for a fire, in order to prove her mother's innocence)

Smoking Behind the Supermarket with You (comedy)

Uramichi Oniisan (comedy, showbiz, workplace)

Usotoki Rhetoric (mystery, historical)

Don't Call It Mystery (mystery)

If anyone has more things to recommend I would also love to hear about it!!

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lovelyladyabsinthewrites · 1 year ago

Text

Tender Tragedy

Pairing: Arthur Dayne x Targaryen!Reader

Warnings: death

Words:2601

Day winding down to night, Dany took her intimate party on to her personal balcony where an iron pit sat at the center. Surrounding her great pyramid were small specks of orange light. Each one belonged to a family getting ready for slumber. Not Daenerys and her court. Their work tend to bleed into the late hours of the night. There was much work to be done in Meereen.

“Your grace.” Ser Barristan Selmy, a newly added member, holds out a jewel studded goblet to his queen.

Dany eyes the extravagance of the cup as she takes it graciously from the old knight’s hand. Growing up, such decadence was scarce for the once crown prince and princess. Viserys often complained that had Robert not started his rebellion, they would still have the Targaryen wealth that was owed to them.

Alas, Viserys’ own vanity was to be his doom. Now only Dany basked in such exquisite items.

Taking a sip of the sweet wine she had been given, Daenerys can’t resist thinking on her other siblings; those long dead. She’d had Rhaegar, her older brother, and an older sister, (y/n).

Rhaegar, the whole of the rebellion being his fault, of course had to die in order to restore order in the seven kingdoms along with the death of Aerys. That was a certainty that Dany had slowly come to acknowledge. She didn’t want to think that any fault lay on her family, but there were so many facts she couldn’t ignore. Targaryens were to blame for everything.

One thing she still couldn’t wrap her head around was why her eldest sister had to die as well. No one explained to Dany the ultimate fate of (y/n). Those like Jorah and Selmy who knew kept her in the dark.

Turning back to Selmy, she watches as he seats himself in front of the fire that gently warmed his aging joints. Jorah was next to him, speaking quietly with Grey Worm who preferred to stand at attention in case his blade was needed.

For a moment, Dany imagines how the guiding hand of a gentle, older sister might have changed her life instead of growing up with Viserys’ cruel tendencies. She grieves for what could have been.

“What happened to (y/n)?”

Her inquiry has Grey Worm and Jorah ceasing their conversation all together. Even the introspective gaze that Missandei had while listening to them had evaporated.

Selmy sadly stares at his hands. He always became melancholic when the subject of (y/n) was brought up. “I don’t think right now’s the time for that. . .”

“Then when will be? No one talks about her. Why am I not to know about her, my only sister?” Her tone of authority has them averting their gaze from her drilling eyes. Must she be stuck with the knowledge that her elder brother Rhaegar died because of the accusation of rape and knowing Viserys was a monster in his own right much like their father? Were there truly no good members of House Targaryen that were worthy of life?

Pondering for a second, Selmy heaves out a weary sigh. “It is not a happy story. Many do not want to recall what happened to your sister because she was much loved and her death devastated every corner of the Seven Kingdoms. As if enough blood hadn’t been shed already.”

“It was utterly pointless.” Jorah murmurs, his own eyes glossing over. Dany had pestered him before about (y/n), any bit of information, but Jorah stood his ground and never uttered a peep about the elder Targaryen daughter.

Quietly, Daenerys trails over to them and sits on the other side of Selmy. “What was she like? I just want to get an idea of who she is.”

That was an easier question to answer.

Light came back into Selmy’s eyes and the corners of his mouth twitch upward into a smile. “She was goodness incarnate, Your Grace. Much like yourself. And beautiful. (y/n) did much to help those suffering in the slums of King’s Landing. Was always trying to make things better and was an excellent problem solver. She was a burst of life in the Red Keep. Everyone thrived in her presence.”

So why was she too a casualty of the rebellion. Dany would tread lightly to that question. “Did she ever marry? She was very close to Rhaegar in age, right?” She’d be at the perfect age where young ladies were often pawned off to other influential families. Even Daenerys had been married to Khal Drogo when she was just ten and three.

Jorah chuckles at that. “Oh many tried. She was considered the perfect match. Constantly being hounded by old and young lords alike. Marrying her off though had never been Aerys’ top priority when his mind started to rot.”

“He never thought of marrying (y/n) to Rhaegar?” It was Valyrian tradition to wed one sibling to the other. Many generations of the Targaryens had kept the practice alive despite the negative views the Sept had toward it.

“It had been discussed.” Selmy admits. “Maybe if he had done that to begin with, we could have avoided war. But. . . (y/n) had already pledged her love to someone else.”

Ser Arthur carefully scans his surroundings in the hallway to make sure no one saw or followed him to the destined rendezvous point. When he seemed to be completely by himself, he closed the door and turned to face you. Patiently awaiting him on the foot of the bed with a wide grin.

He’d mentioned many times how he’d never, in a million years, get used to the sight of your smile and the way it illuminated your lavender eyes. Beacons that entangle Arthur in a trap he had no plan to escape from.

You stand and dissolve the small distance between you in a blink of an eye. Your hands, soft and smelling of the sweetness of spring, grab his cheeks to pull him down to your starving lips.

Arthur was all too ready to comply.

“She was in love with the Sword of the Morning, Ser Arthur Dayne.” He remembers Ser Arthur with the utmost fondness, but their relationship had been doomed from the very start. Selmy had been there when Arthur was sworn into the Kingsguard. Even by then the boy was completely enraptured by Princess (y/n).

Dany, listening intently, originally this of this as a perfect story from some old fairytale . A princess and her lover knight, a classic. But (y/n)’s story did not end happily ever after.

Missandei holds Dany’s hand. She too had a sense of where this kind of story was going.

“So great was their affections for one another, it was quite obvious to everyone around them. During tourneys, Arthur would ask for her favor. The dances before the war, they would dance with each other. When war finally broke out, we found (y/n)’s chambers empty. Arthur, before joining Rhaegar’s forces, spirited the princess out of the Keep.”

You jolt to a stop as Arthur held out an arm to stop you from advancing. You’d been crawling along the shadows in the corridors of the Keep as Arthur led you hall after hall to evade any guards. Like hell he’d leave you behind. What he was doing was punishable by death but he didn’t care.

Thinking the coast had been clear, you’d almost gone around the corner but Arthur’s better trained ears heard someone coming.

He holds you close to his side so that your cheek was pressed against his armor and you were partially hidden under his cloak. You didn’t breathe for fear of discovery.

Whoever it was walked right past you, none the wiser. Both of you release your breath simultaneously. Even if someone had caught you, Arthur wouldn’t hesitate to kill them; even if it was his own brothers from the guard. They no longer mattered anymore.

A single touch from Arthur had you jumping and he chuckling. He’d only reached out for your hand. He brings it up to his lips and gives your knuckles the most gentle of kisses.

Finally you smile as he coaxes you along.

At this point, Selmy pauses to quench his parched mouth and ignite the courage required to continue with the story. He wished it ended there, (y/n) and Arthur escaping and happily living out the rest of their days somewhere in Essos.

Dany as well as the others drink from their cups.

“Of course this caused such a rage in Aerys. (Y/n) tended to have stubborn strike, but for the most part she had been obedient to Aerys. It was the quite the blow to him that his treasured daughter had escaped with one of his personal guards.”

Aerys had sent whatever manpower he could spare to look for (y/n) and Arthur.

“They remained elusive for several months. But one day while Arthur was gone to fight in a battle, Rhaegar’s defenseless camp had been attacked. They dragged (y/n) out by force.”

You’re pretty sure your scream pierced a few of your assailants’ ear drums.

Someone grabbed a fistful of your silver hair and nearly rips your skull from your neck. Even though it caused you unspeakable pain, you fight and claw at any inch off vulnerable skin you could dig your nails into.

They curse at you, crown Targaryen princess, and treat you with outstanding abuse you had never experienced before.

You could taste the rusty burst of blood trickling out from your split lip. Feel the boning of your corset imprint itself into your torso as they beat you into unconscious submission. These could not possibly be natives to the Crownlands. Possibly someone Aerys had paid off. No person, knowing who you are, would ever treat you in such a manner. Whether you were the Mad King’s daughter or not.

Fight had fled from you as they hoist you onto the back of an awaiting horse. They keep their eyes open to scan the area once more before leaving. There was no sign of the Sword of the Morning.

Silent tears spring into your vision as you watch Rhaegar’s plundered camp consumed by flames.

Your captors waste no time and heed their mounts to move faster.

“(Y/N)!!!”

Your eyelids try to flutter open at the sound of Arthur’s voice stretching over miles. It was impossible.

Hooves cease to beat and quietly stop at the approaching figure. Men in armor dismount and brandish their swords. Arthur was greatly outnumbered.

His battle had been far away from the camp yet there was Arthur sizing up his chances as he hops off of his own war horse.

“Yield, Ser Dayne.” One called out to him. “The king wants you alive.”

Eyes that could have passed off for Targaryen flick over to you and a knife that had suddenly appeared tauntingly against your throat. You stay absolutely still unless the blades gives you its sharp kiss. The only way you could keep your fear at bay was to keep your gaze focused on Arthur’s eyes. Wisteria filled pools calm your racing heart although you knew there was still much for you to fear.

Arthur dropped the great sword of his house, Dawn, in front of his feet in surrender.

Countless knights descend upon him and bind his limbs in chains. It would not do to have a knight of Arthur’s caliber have any access to his limbs.

He’d be compliant as long as they kept the two of you together.

“Couldn’t Ser Arthur have taken them on? I’ve constantly heard of his mastery with the sword and how he was like no other.” To Dany, the infamous Sword of the Morning gave up quite easily.

Every line on Selmy’s face seems to deepen. “Alas, Arthur was still but a human. He knew when to pick his battles. This was not one he could’ve ever won by himself.”

He knew he must tie off the story of (y/n) Targaryen and Ser Arthur Dayne. Anyone could imagine the torture Aerys put his daughter and Arthur through before their actual death. They accepted their fate with their hand’s holding the other’s.

(Y/n) didn’t she a tear when she glared at her father as he read out their punishment. She kept her head held high as did Arthur. That’s how Selmy wanted to remember them. Not their grotesque corpses that had been left.

From the older man’s reaction, Daenerys knew she’d learned enough as her own tears spill over her bottom lashes.

Next to her, Missandei hastily wipes a stray tear from the corner of her eye. Her hand was trembling in Dany’s as they support one another.

From a hidden pocket, Selmy sighs and pulls out a leather drawstring pouch. “After. . . After they had died, Aerys wanted their remains to be tossed like common trash. Instead we properly buried them. However. . . Before all remnants of her life was scrubbed from the world, I saved this one piece of her.”

Once placed in her hands, Dany tentatively pulls open the pouch and pulls out a silver locket. Engraved into its metal were beautiful flowers. Each petal captured with intricate details. In the center was tucked a large pink pearl.

Dany opens it, her eyes instantly round and glisten. “I-Is this. . .” Her gaze falls back onto the contents of the locket. Inside was a perfectly curled lock of silver hair. Targaryen hair.

“Before she died, Aerys had her head shaved for further humiliation.” Selmy whispers.

Softly Dany pets the soft piece of hair. The only part of her sister she’ll ever know.

Shutting the locket with a gentle hand, Daenerys holds it close to her heart.

The strong beating of Arthur’s heart had nearly lulled you to sleep. His arm slung around you, daring anyone to put you in separate cells.

They granted you this one last request.

Aerys wouldn’t let you and Arthur live. Both of you accepted that when you were captured. The Mad King didn’t take prisoners of war.

At least you had one last night with him. To be held in his arms and gifted kisses upon the crown of your head. This was all you had ever asked for.

The Few months you’d spent with him evading Aerys had been the happiest. If this was the price you had to pay for it then so be it. You’d finally experienced true happiness

“(Y/n)?”

“Hmm?”

You shift in his hold to look up at his gorgeous face. The man was a work of art and possessed the looks of old gods of the sun. Despite the sultry pout of his full lips, Arthur had always been dedicated to you; no other woman had ever held such sway over him in his entire life. Sweet as it was he’d even tried his hand at poetry to try and explain how much he truly loved you. It was awful but to you it was your dearest possession.

All over again, you fall in love with him from the way he gazed down at you with naked love.

“Being with you has completed my life. No matter how short a time we had. I’d do it all over again knowing this would be the price.”

You blink back tears but it’s useless. His image is blurry. “M-Me too. Knowing that you love me and you’re here…”

Arthur caressed the side of your face and pressed his forehead to your’s.

Whatever what happened when the sun rose, you’d have no regrets.

#Arthur Dayne #arthur dayne fanfiction #arthur dayne x reader #arthur dayne fanfic #reader insert #reader insert fanfiction #game of thrones #game of thrones fanfiction #game of thrones fanfic #Game of Thrones fandom #ASoIaF #asoiaf fandom #asoiaf fanfiction #asoiaf fanfic #asoiaf fic #A Song of Ice and Fire #a song of ice and fire fanfiction #a song of ice and fire fanfic #A Song of Ice and Fire fandom

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thephoenixandthecrocodile · 3 months ago

Text

Things I love about Season 2 of Rings of Power So Far – in no particular order

1. The entire beginning of episode 1

a. Love Sauron in his fair form off his game and a little shaken

b. Love Adar growing increasingly fed up with Sauron’s bullshit

c. Love the Ides of March moment

d. Love goo Sauron – love his little sigh. That’s me every morning when I wake up

2. Love that Sauron was always a shit and stole the badge instead of saving that guy

3. Love the Elrond-Galadriel brother-sister dynamic and poor Gil-galad caught in the middle

4. Love the Ahhh! Gil-Galad lets out when hearing that Sauron is back

5. Love Elrond jumping off the cliff. Worked for Mom (kinda) should work for me

6. I really want whatever the hell Cirdan is on

a. Also Ben Daniels is AMAZING!

7. Love that Gil-Galad gets to shine more as the grumpy, sassy, weary elf-king this season. Also love that no one is letting Galadriel get away with her bullshit from last season (and I loved Galadriel last season). Actions has consequences, even for elves.

8. YOU HAD ONE JOB, CIRDAN!

9. Why does no one ever listen to Elrond?

10. Sam Hazeldine is doing an amazing job with a tough job. I will always love Joseph Mawle’s take on Adar and he’ll always be MY Adar, but Sam is going an amazing job taking all the groundwork laid by Mawle and then adding his own spin

11. I know the internet is losing its mind over Orc families, but I LOVE the complication these writers are adding to the Orc lore (as well as Sauron’s arc). Even in Return of the King, the Orcs were shown to have their own personalities and weren’t exactly excited about attacking Gondor again. Even in Two Towers, we see the different personalities of Uruk-hai and the Morder Orcs, so it only makes sense to flesh that out further. It adds such an amazing dimension to Adar’s character and the Orcs he cares for and makes us realize that nothing in Tolkien’s world is black and white.

a. Also, also, I love that these writers embrace the fact that Elves are not impartial and they’re hypocritical bastards haha. Of course, they say dwarves and men are covetous and can’t be trusted. Of course, Orcs are irredeemable. To suggest otherwise would jeopardize their own world view. And the Elves have never been covetous or committed genocide for stupid gems. Nope, not ever.

b. Also, also, also love the idea that the Orcs are doomed because they’re convinced Eru will never forgive them, even if they were to ask for it. Such an interesting dilemma to add to the lore. I mean even Sauron considered asking for forgiveness but didn’t because of his pride. If the Valar forgave Morgoth once, and potentially considered pardoning Sauron, who says they wouldn’t forgive the creatures he and Morgoth twisted/corrupted/made?

12. Love Sauron “befriending” the warg. See even the Dark Lord likes dog.

13. Goodbye Waldreg, no one will miss you.

14. Who knew Benjamin Walker had such a nice voice?

15. I’m so surprised Elrond didn’t just completely lose it and go all rabid animal when Cirdan brought back the rings.

16. It’s so funny that this version of Galadriel gets a ring of power. Out of all the Elves to get one, she’s on the bottom of my list. At least make sure she’s Sauron free first.

17. DISA YOU ARE MY QUEEN AND GODDESS!!!

18. LOVE the dwarves.

19. “You don’t have to make this harder than it already is” YES I DO BITCH BECAUSE YOU’RE BEING A STUBBORN GOAT

20. Love that Disa can call out both her father-in-liaw (and king) and her husband for being jackasses

21. Also Durin III stop being a jackass and go apologize to your son, right now

22. Resonating is still so fucking awesome

23. Love the agricultural in Khazad dum

24. I know I was the odd man out because I didn’t mind the Harfoots last season, but I really adore the Stranger’s relationship with Nori.

25. I REALLY hope the Stranger is a blue wizard, but either way I love how Daniel Weyman plays a wizard. And it’s nice he can talk this season and we get a sense of his humor and sass.

26. “Further, Nori” *sigh of exasperation*

27. I have no idea who the hell this evil wizard is nor who the hell his moth minions are, but I love them. They’re so weird.

28. This guy better NOT be Saruman. -_-

29. Poppy! My lesbian Harfoots are reunited!

30. Celebrimbor *sigh* oh, Celebrimbor

31. Elrond “sand the anger away, Sand the anger away.”

32. LOVE the look Galadriel gives Elrond when he calls her out about NOT being manipulated. “He gave you everything you wanted”. True, but also damn, haha.

33. Seriously, I NEED whatever drug Cirdan is smoking.

34. Also love how in this show “yeah, let’s give the rings a try. What’s the worst that can happen” and in LOTR it’s “NO! DO NOT TRUTST THE RING! DESTROY IT ASAP”

35. I can’t believe Halbrand made it rain just so he can look more like a pathetic cat

36. Ok, that umbrella is ridiculous and super impractical.

37. Celebrimbor, honey, the whole “I won’t stay where I’m not wanted” is the oldest trick in the manipulator’s handbook.

38. I love the rollercoaster Celebrimbor goes on as Halbrand “confesses” that he’s not really a man. The utter confusion but also concern, like “my god is this man having a mental breakdown in my forge? And right when I was about to open a bottle of first age wine. Where’s Galadriel when I need her? She should be taking care of her pet human, not me.”

39. NOT THE FIRST AGE WINE!!!

40. I LOVE the reveal of Annatar. It was so over the time and beautiful and so religious. No notes. Absolutely perfect.

41. I was never on team silvergifting, but this show has converted me.

42. Also Charlie Vickers and Charles Edwards are giving their ALL in these scenes

43. Love that Celebrimbor is like “ew, no, we can’t give men rings” but when Annatar tells him that Gil-Galad “doesn’t trust the dwarves” Celebrimbor takes it so personally. Like I think it’s because he’s annoyed with Gil-Galad and he wants to control his own forge, but it also sounds like he’s offended that Gil-Galad would insult his new dwarf buddies (who helped him build the new forge to begin with).

44. Durin proving himself the wisest of all peoples (not just dwarves) when he calls Annatar out on his bullshit

45. “Elrond would never say such nice things about me.”

46. Also love all the clever insults and phrases the dwarves have.

47. I’m still very angry with Durin III but I felt that line, “Miner’s punches hurt” “Just wait until your children grow up.”

48. ALSO, Durin III you bastard, your son tells you he DOESN’T trust the rings and you decide, “yeah, let me try out these rings” -_-

a. Also, yes, Celebrimbor and Annatar fucked before, during, and after making the dwarven rings.

49. Oh, Isildur, you disaster child.

a. Again, I might be in the minority here, but I LOVE what they’re doing with Isildur’s character – the perpetual screw-up, the one who tries so hard but can’t do anything right, the character who’s constantly trying to prove himself in a family that is already overly impressive. Makes his final fate just that more tragic.

50. Spider babies. Spider babies. Spider babies.

a. Reminded me of the facehugger birthing scenes from the Aliens franchise for some reason.

51. Super Berek! Here to save the day

52. So, I guess all the men in Aragorn’s bloodline were saved by their horses at least once. Good to know.

53. LOVE the entire ridiculous exchange between Isildur and Estrid.

54. God damn it, Isildur, don’t go to the funeral, save Berek!

55. ☹ Poor Arondir. RIP Bronwyn.

56. Fucking Theo

57. God damn it Arondir, maybe look around next time before telling one kid his family will be reunited in front of the one kid who’s lost his entire family XD

58. “Men can’t build things like that” ☹

59. So, Theo is going to be Isildur’s right hand man and/or will be a ringwraith, right?

60. Operation rescue Berek!

61. Ents? Are those Ents?

62. MIRIEL MY OTHER GODDESS AND QUEEN!!!

63. My brother and I when that woman slapped Miriel: “OFF TO JAIL WITH YOU!”

64. Fucking Earien. Kemen is soooo not worth it

65. Fucking Pharazon.

a. ALSO, love how the writers captured men’s creepy behavior around women in power, especially if they’re “not perfect”. Like when Miriel’s father was alive Pharazon was somewhat respectful around her, but my god that scene in her bedroom? So disgusting and creepy. AND fucking Kemen, “she was blinded while fighting Orcs and surviving a massive eruption. She can’t be queen now” Bitch you couldn’t even sabotage a handful of boats by yourself.

66. Also, also, I know everyone loves Haladriel, but can we talk about the other idiotic couple pining over each other: Elendil and Miriel? Love their dynamic sooooo much.

67. Ok Miriel’s coronation dress is GORGEOUS!

68. That poor eagle was so fucking confused. Like I came here for Miriel, not sure what you all are doing. Ok, this is awkward, I’m flying away now.

#trop spoilers #rop spoilers #rop #rings of power #trop season 2

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the-fiction-witch · 4 months ago

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Princess Of Darkness

Chapter Two family

"Th- The lady Astra, forgive me... you have not been at court for so long-" King Viserys said between his gasps, "What is it you seek?"

"Need I seek anything?" Astra asked, "Need I have an excuse to visit my family?"

"And yet you arrive today?" Otto Hightower glared,

"...Yes. I do." She nodded, "I come to witness the agreements of succession, to see how the tree shall grow going forward," She explained, "As well of course as sweet words from my mother."

"The matter of the succession has been settled." King Viserys spoke,

"It is not," Vaemond spoke up,

Astra moved to the sidelines watching as the cracks widened before her very eyes,

"You break law, and centuries of tradition to install your daughter as heir." Vaemon continued, as he moved forward to the throne, "But you dare tell me who deserves to inherit the name Velaryon... no.... I will not allow it ..."

"Allow it?" King Viserys asked, "Do not forget yourself Vaemond,"

"That! Is no true velaryon!" He yelled pointing to Lucerys, his voice echoing off the high walls, "And certainly no nephew of mine"

"Go to your chambers," Rhaenyra demanded, "You have said enough."

"Lucerys is my true-born grandson. And you... no more... then the second son of Driftmark." Viserys confirms,

"You may run your house as you see fit. But you will not decide the future of mine. my house survived the doom and a thousand tribulations besides." Vaemond explained, "And Gods be damned..." he whispered, "I will not see it ended. On the account of this..." he trailed off the word for a moment being caught in his throat, everyone knew the word he was to speak but few dared he had the balls to do it.

"say it." daemon whispered the threatening tone enough to send any man running,

"...Her children are BASTARDS!" He yelled the word echoed through the hall to every ear, once the word had been spoken it could never be erased, a thousand times whispered and hinted but now finally spoken allowed for all to hear, "And. She. Is. A. Whore."

Shouting erupted from the court as chaos rained in the aftermath of such a proclamation,

Astra watched with a wicked smile struggling to hold back a laugh,

"I... I... will have your tongue for that." King Viserys gasped rising from his throne and pulling out his blade,

But in one swift slice of dark sister, Vaemond's head was cut in two leaving his tongue still with his body, "He can keep his tongue," Daemon finished leaning on his blade,

Chaos erupted once more, women looked away, men in shock, guards immediately drawing swords in preparation for battle,

"Disarm him!" Otto Hightower shouted out,

"No need." Daemon clarified wiping his sword and returning to his wife,

But in the chaos silence suddenly returned as the king tell onto the throne unable to stand,

Queen Alicent rushed to his side to help him to his feet muttering to him how he needed the maester and the painkillers, but he refused so the king's guard led him away,

Slowly the court began to leave the lord and ladies filtering out,

The two sides stayed at a stalemate for a moment neither spoke to each other until the sides split the Blacks going to their own chambers, and the Greens to their own without even making eye contact with each other in the process,

Until Astra stood her eyes squarely on the empty throne, her smile only grew wider as she turned and looked at Vaemond's decapitated body, she gently adjusted her hair in the reflection of the pool of blood, before she stepped through it the blood straining the hem of the dress as she walks to the doors taking one final look at the empty throne room before leaving.

Commissions here

#house targaryen #house of the dragon #house of velaryon #house of targaryen #houseofthedragon #hotd jacaerys #hotd fanfic #hotd fanfiction #hotd fandom #hotd #hotd aemond #hotd aegon #hotd daemon #hotd lucerys #hotd team green #hotd team black

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wordbreaker · 9 months ago

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The Taming of the Dragon, 3 ✷ Aemond Targaryen

PAIRING: Aemond Targaryen / F!OC

SUMMARY: One evening, Aemong, in dire need of clearing his head, catches a Dragonkeeper on the beach tending to Vhagar. The Queen of Dragons doesn't seem bothered by the stranger's presence. Quite the opposite. Aemond is immediately intrigued. Even more so when he discovers that the stranger is a girl who comes from the North and bears the name Snow.

-ˋˏ previous chapter ✶ following chapter ✶ ao3 ✶ my inbox ˎˊ-

How ironic for the House of Fire and Blood to concern itself with Water.

Driftmark and its succession haunted everyone's thoughts. A blue thorn in the back of those who held the kingdom together.

Aemond’s last vision of Driftmark had been one of blood and pain. Crimson waves had washed away his admiration for the endless sea and the sunny horizon. The only cherished memory he held close to his heart was Vhagar. The rest, he preferred to forget. His eye, hidden under his leather patch, seemed to burst into flame. The pain, petty and merciless, reminded him that he would never be able to get rid of this evening.

Lucerys Strong deserved neither Water nor Fire, and certainly not Driftmark.

The blood fever that kept Corlys Valeryon bedridden cured Aemond’s eternal suffering. Boiling water calmed the dragon's fire which, for ten years, had never stopped dancing and burning those who got too close. He was already looking forward to seeing his nephew's shoulders slumping, his chin drooping and his brown eyes glistening. The only sea he would rule would be that of his tears. Aemond had no regard for the succession of the island—the affairs of the Valeryons had long ceased to interest him—but the prospect of seeing the sadness and disappointment painted on his bastard nephew’s childish face would bring him more joy than any present.

For Lucerys Valeryon would not win, not when Otto Hightower sat on the Iron Throne in his father’s stead.

His half-sister, armed with her usual gall, would parade her bastards around shamelessly, proclaiming loud and clear that Driftmark was rightfully theirs. He laughed, alone in his quarters.

Lucerys Valeryon was not a leader and certainly not a lord. He remembered the little boy who always hid behind his older brother, always involved in Aegon's tasteless pranks. Lucerys Valeryon—no, Strong—was just a rag doll with no backbone, given life and the desire to rule by the stupid words his whore of a mother had insisted on pounding into his head.

“Your Highness, your mother the Queen asks that you join her at the gates.”

Aemond dismissed the servant with a nod and took one last look at his mirror. His violet eye lingered on the piece of leather that crossed half his face—the continuation of the scar on his cheek. No. Lucerys Strong didn't deserve Driftmark.

He turned and stomped off towards the entrance, leaving behind him the glimmering shadow of a blade which, that evening ten years ago, had blinded him as much as the blow.

The prince left his chambers. He could already see himself in the throne room, tired of listening to the pleas of people whose blood was supposedly as pure as his own. Vaemond and Rhaenyra would strut into the Red Keep and then into the throne room, chins up, shoulders straight—the very image of pride—to fight for a bloodline that was doomed. The dynasty of Old Valyria, tainted by the vices of a woman and the obsession of a man. The blood in their veins did not bleed red; their wrongs had blackened it.

Like many other houses, the Valeryon dynasty would kill itself, leaving behind only bastards and stagnant water. Aemond would feast on their demise in silence but with a certain jubilation.

“Do you know why I have been summoned?” he asked his sworn protector.

“Your sister the princess has arrived, Your Highness.”

His only eye twitched with anger. Of course she had. He took a deep breath but continued walking. The corridors of the Red Keep flashed by with his hurried steps.

The sooner he greeted them, the sooner he could leave.

Aemond soon reached the great doors. They alone separated him from his past. The swollen skin of his eye throbbed. It seemed to boil. Water had defeated fire once. He clenched his fist. Sometimes he felt like ripping off half his face. The pain had never subsided. It lay dormant, waiting for the right moment to leap up and paralyse him.

The sapphire in his eye socket had done nothing to appease his sorrow nor his pain. It was just a way for his mother to forget her son was now just a crippled. Its colour would always remind him of Driftmark. He carried the sea in his eye and, when he dared to face his reflection in the mirror, was reminded of it daily.

At the sight of him, the soldiers posted on either side of the doors opened them. He held his breath and rushed outside. The cool wind whipped across his face, calming for a few seconds the storm that was growing inside him. A few soldiers were training here and there. Others were making their rounds.

Aemond looked around but didn't see his mother, his grandfather and certainly not his father, confined to bed by illness and old age. This impotence had brought them this far. Vaemond Valeryon would never have dared contradict the King if he could still defend his beloved child.

Viserys was the cause of many things.

A roar made him raise his head. The long body of Caraxes twisted to land in the courtyard. Its red scales reminded Aemond of the flags his mother had had removed and replaced with the symbols of the Seven. His uncle, Daemon Targaryen, as proud as ever, dismounted nonchalantly, Black Sister swinging from his belt. Aemond dreamed of touching, even brushing his fingertips against, the legendary sword.

A relic of the Conquest.

Aemond did not feel the same visceral hatred for his uncle that sometimes paralysed him. Admiration and respect for Daemon mixed with rage to create an intoxicating concoction.

He only felt that way with another person, whom he preferred to leave to the beach and the night.

Syrax's yellow scales sparkled in his field of vision and tore the thin smile that had so far tugged at Aemond's lips. Vermax and Arrax, small as they were, enraged him to no end. One by one, the dragons landed and shook the ground. A dust storm whirled around and reached Aemond at the top of the steps. He rubbed his black tunic with his hand and gloated when he saw that none of their mounts compared to Vhagar, not even the Blood Wyrm. The prince felt a deep sense of satisfaction at this. It ran through his veins and soothed him.

Aemond, in a rare childish whim, refused to pay the slightest attention to Luke. The pain in his eye seemed to intensify at the mere proximity of the boy. He resisted the urge to cup the left side of his face and straightened his shoulders. The rustle of a cloth drew him from his thoughts. His mother stopped beside him and gave him a thin smile. Worry deepened the wrinkles that, over the years, had multiplied around her eyes and her lips, which were always pursed.

Jacaerys dismounted his dragon. His nephew, though still plain-looking, had grown. His build had thickened and reminded him of a certain Harwin Strong. He chuckled. His mother placed a hand on his forearm. A warning. He didn't care. No one could deny that his sister's first three children were bastards. Even a blind man wasn't naive enough to believe the sweet lies that his whore sister's angelic face spouted.

“Embrot.”

“Inkot!”

“Jātās! Jātās I said!”

Orders in High Valyrian rang out.

A horde of dragonkeepers, covered head to toe in their black armour, surrounded the newcomers and busied themselves around the restless beasts.

Dragonstone, carved out of cold stone, was warmed only by the fire of the wild dragons that populated the island. There were no keepers in this fortress. The dragons knew only their riders and would kill anyone who dared approach them. Arrax tried to char one of the guards, completely ignoring Luke's panicked cries.

If he couldn't control his dragon, how could he hope to rule Driftmark? The Blacks’ nerve could not erase reality—they were undeserving.

Aemond's eyes feasted on this spectacle of incompetence, but his smile soon faded when he spotted a female figure, a whirl of pale skin and brown hair, among the guards.

Snow.

He frowned and watched her walk towards Vermax. She raised her arms towards the dragon, palms outstretched, to calm it down. Beside her, Jace, instead of following his family as they gradually drew closer to Aemond and his mother, began to talk to her. Their heads came closer together. Aemond watched Lucella throw her head back and laugh, all under his nephew's satisfied gaze.

The prince clenched his fists. Why was she there? Wasn't she his dragon's appointed keeper? Vhagar needed her more than that miserable Vermax.

As if she could hear his thoughts, Lucella suddenly met his gaze. She frowned and turned back to Jace, who noticed the exchange and raised an eyebrow. An unpleasant sensation lodged in Aemond's chest and made him itch.

Two bastards together. He laughed at the thought, but his hilarity painfully hit his throat. A lump had got stuck there and was choking him. Why did he feel the need to come between them, to pull Lucella away from his nephew? His hands tingled. Thousands of small needles were screaming at him to do something, not to let the snow be contaminated by water.

The dragon's fire blazed in his chest, burning away any sense of sanity.

He wanted Jacaerys to perish in the flames of his rage.

Aemond hadn't seen her for a week. Yet her face and the contours of her lips had never left him. She haunted him. In the evenings, her accentuated voice echoed in his thoughts.

Since their eventful meeting, Lucella and Aemond had crossed paths several times on the beach. Their shared love for Vhagar prevented them from killing each other, although he often felt like doing so, for Lucella Snow couldn't keep her mouth shut. The few times they spoke, her sharp words, as sharp as a blade, cut into the cage around his chest.

This cordial understanding soothed his senses and prevented him from dreading his visits to the beach. He had given up going out alone at night, for Lucella Snow never left his side, even when she wasn't there. He couldn't ride his dragon without thinking of the keeper.

She kept looking after Vhagar. The carcasses of charred sheep and game piled up on the beach, staining the white sand with their blood. The dragonkeeper avoided him. He didn't know why. Nothing had changed in their exchanges. Their duels of words, the winner of which always varied, had retained the same tenor, the same intelligence.

What had made her run away from him?

Lucella Snow had blended into the background, disappeared into the shadows, and escaped his blind spot. Aemond should have been happy. No more northern bastard with an unpleasant accent raging in his ears and insulting him at every turn. Yet something prevented him from rejoicing at this absence. He felt he was losing control and hated it.

Across from Jacaerys, Lucella burst out laughing.

He had never made her laugh. His insults sometimes drew a smile, though it was always tinged with resentment, and, more rarely, a snort. Lucella Snow didn't laugh. She would glare and insult you.

Lucella Snow was no laughing matter. You had to decipher her Nordic gibberish, which— intermingled with the insults and stubborn retorts to always have the last word—became particularly irritating.

And yet, Lucella Snow was laughing out loud with his nephew. His plain nephew. Aemond railed against the bastard who, like his mother, stole everything that didn't belong to him. Driftmark, the Iron Throne... And now Lucella Snow and her laugh.

That melodious sound, so clear, so different from her hoarse voice, stayed with him all day. He nodded absent-mindedly to his half-sister and her bastards. Neither Vaemond's nor Rhaenyra's plea echoed in his eardrums. All he could hear was her laughter, and all he could see was her face, her pink, stretched lips revealing astonishingly white teeth. Her hair went round and round in his mind.

He closed his only eye and prayed for a moment's respite, but the Gods turned a deaf ear to his plea.

His father burst in, reaffirmed Driftmark's succession to Lucerys, Vaemond dared to say what everyone else was thinking and lost his head in the process. His sister yelped; his brother turned his head; Aemond remained motionless for that damned laughter never left his thoughts and drove him mad.

He clenched his fists as his eye stared blankly at Vaemond's decapitated head.

Lucella Snow was driving him mad, whether she was there or not.

That evening, she still hadn't left his thoughts. He kept seeing the image of her, head back, smiling. Happy. Happy to talk to Jacaerys. Jacaerys, sitting next to Aegon—who was already drowning in wine—and his betrothed, was talking as if nothing had happened. As if he had not encroached on Aemond's territory. This made him furious. He sank into his usual silence but felt flames dancing in his chest. He waited and waited.

It was Luke's sneer when the roast pork was served that made him snap. His hand came down on the table and shook the glasses. Aemond took hold of his, still full, and raised it in the direction of the only two brown-haired boys, yet another example of their difference, their defect.

“Final tribute. To the health of my nephews. Jace… Luke… and Joffrey. Each of them handsome, wise… hm… strong.”

“Aemond.”

“Come... let us drain our cups to these three… Strong boys.”

“I dare you to say that again,” said Jacaerys, whose cheeks had become flushed.

The echo of a laugh resounded in his skull. The ghost of his nephew leaned towards Lucella. Aemond’s eye twitched. His thoughts darkened.

“Why? ‘Twas only a compliment. Do you not think yourself Strong?”

The bastard dared to punch him. Aemond threw one back and was delighted to hear his jaw crack. Their mothers stepped in as Aegon grabbed Luke by the hair and slammed his head against the solid oak table. Aemond could not contain his chuckled. He was reborn in the chaos and the pain of his nephew. His nephew who had dared to speak to Lucella, his dragonkeeper. Who had dared to make her laugh.

His mother dismissed him. He happily complied. Another second in Jacaerys' presence and he would have had to deal with much more than just a punch in the cheek. The fire that was burning every inch of his flesh—and whose first spark had ignited in the remnant of his eye—was not subsiding.

The flames intensified. They would consume him if he didn't get out of here.

Once outside, Aemond automatically headed for the Dragonpit. Fight fire with fire. He would feed off the dragons’ chaos and rejoice in their hot breath.

The prince didn't dare dwell on why. Why hadn't he headed for the beach, where he was sure to find Vhagar? Aemond kept quiet about this question—the answer to which he knew but didn't want to admit—and rushed into the pit.

His heart missed a beat and seemed to speed up at the same time.

Near the stairs where the Pink Dread had appeared years before, Lucella, staff in hand, was leading the dragons of Rhaenyra's clan forward. The eminent departure of the heiress to the throne had been quickly made known. The decision had been taken in haste. Rhaenyra would return to Dragonstone, where she reigned over her vices. King's Landing would no longer be contaminated by bastardy and manipulation. His grandfather and mother had made sure of that.

“Lykirī, Caraxes,” Snow's husky voice drew him from his thoughts. “Calm down. I don't want to use that.”

She shook her long wooden stick. Aemond had never seen Lucella use one. The other guardians never parted with it. They pricked the dragons' sides shamelessly and hit them when the creatures dared to rebel. Lucella did not stoop to such barbaric techniques. Her voice alone was enough to tame the most savage beasts. She had, after all, managed to bond with Vhagar.

Dragonkeepers forgot that the creatures in their care deserved respect and admiration. Only Snow understood this.

She grazed rather than poked Caraxes' rib.

Reluctance to hurt.

Without being able to explain it, Aemond felt a certain satisfaction in knowing that she didn't need a stick when she was looking after Vhagar. The bond between the Northwoman and his dragon was unique. The first non-Targaryen to be able to touch her without dying.

A Northern girl who could tame dragons. She would inspire the minstrels of Flea Bottom, whose songs would overflow with metaphors about snow and fire. Lucella was a conundrum that Aemond couldn't decipher.

He hated not knowing. He had prided himself on his intelligence ever since he lost his eye. Luke had taken away his beauty, he would shine with his mind. Philosophy, science, nothing held any secrets for him except Lucella Snow, who symbolised everything her native land was not.

The first time he had seen her, he had put her relationship with Vhagar down to luck. Perhaps his dragon, just as curious as he was, had become attached to this mongrel from the North. The days had passed. They had met again and Aemond had had to admit that the keeper knew what she was doing. He even dared to use the word “gift”, for no other dragon keeper possessed such an ability to tame beasts as she did: with love and respect.

For the first time in the history of Westeros, snow resisted fire. Ever white and strong, it extinguished flames.

Aemond did not move. He remained at the entrance of the pit and watched from a distance as Lucella calmed Caraxes with great gestures. The red dragon twisted in all directions to avoid her hands, but she was not discouraged. Her voice became firmer. He stiffened as he heard her order Daemon's dragon not to move.

“Lucella!”

The woman turned her head. One of the keepers appeared on the staircase. She was reluctant to leave the Blood Wyrm in the hands of one of the Elders. He had to pull her arm away from it. The Elder grabbed her staff and struck a clean blow into Caraxes' side. The dragon roared. A few waves of smoke escaped from his snout. A warning. Lucella clenched her fist and looked as if she wanted to say something to the Elder, but the other keeper called to her again. She joined him, shoulders tense, eyebrows furrowed.

Aemond watched them talk. From here, he couldn't tell what they were saying, but it seemed serious. They whispered urgently and glanced at the staircase. The keeper pointed to it. Lucella nodded. Aemond watched the girl disappear down the stairs. Something urged him to act. He pushed against the unpleasant memories—a winged pig and a dragon ready to char him— and followed.

Aemond could not see a thing. The dragons' only source of light was their fire. The guards armed themselves with torches to navigate this labyrinth of great galleries and endless corridors. Lucella strode with disconcerting ease in the complete darkness. A few torches here and there illuminated their surroundings, but he had to squint to make out Lucella's silhouette walking at a hurried pace.

Seeing that dragons were condemned to darkness, Aemond was glad that Vhagar didn't have to live in there. His gaze remained fixed on Lucella. She walked without hesitation. The pit held no secrets for her. She knew exactly where she was going and why. His guide in the dark.

“I have not seen you on the beach for a long time. Are you not supposed to be tending to Vhagar? The dunes and the fresh air are probably more pleasant than this… rat hole,” he glanced around wearily.

Lucella flinched, as she did every time they met. A small smile stretched Aemond's mouth. She was almost cute, startled out of her wits. He instantly chastised himself. Lucella Snow was not cute: she was an angry and sarcastic woman who constantly made inappropriate remarks.

The keeper rolled her eyes.

“What are yeh doin’ ere? Don't yeh ‘ave princely duties to attend t’?”

She had quickly abandoned all politeness. Had she ever had any? Their first encounters had exuded a certain reserve that annoyance had swept aside with a wave of its hand. The North and its lack of manners had quickly caught up with her. Aemond still couldn't understand why she spoke to him as if he were a commoner and not the prince, son of her king. The North may have worshipped their Warden, the Starks, but the Targaryen monarchy and power did not stop at the Neck.

“Vhagar don’t need me all th’ time,” she finally said when she saw he wouldn't answer. “She ‘as a rider. Would be good if he remembered. ‘ave neither t’ desire or t’ patience to carry dead sheep on me shoulder every day.”

“You are a dragonkeeper. The crown houses you, feeds you and gives you money to look after dragons.”

“Aye! Dragons. Not just one. Vhagar can look aftah ‘erself for a few hours. She survived Aegon's conquest, she'll survive three hours withou’ a pat on t’ ribs. Sunfyre needs me, Dreamfyre too. ‘nd wi’ Rhaenyra... Four more dragons is nah mean feat, let me tell yeh tha’. Not tha’ it matters anymore. People say you've lightened me workload. I thank yeh for tha’. I don't s’ppose dinnah went well? Was the meat not cooked to yer liking, yer ‘ighness?”

Lucella curtsied ungracefully. Her favourite mockery. Each time, she reminded him that she didn't care about his royal title.

“It concerns you not.”

“Hm… Well,” she shrugged. “I guess wine will loosen yer brother's tongue soon enough. Th’ Street of Silk is t’ best place t’ learn royal business. Everyone says so.”

She turned left into a seemingly endless corridor. He didn't know exactly how long they had been walking or the reason for this expedition.

“Just wish I could’ve looked after Vermax a litt’ longer. Tha’ an interesting character right ther’”

He laughed. It sounded bitter.

“His rider as well, I suppose?”

She turned and stared at him but said nothing. Lucella continued to advance into the pit. Aemond followed. An unpleasant feeling weighed down his shoulders. He opened his mouth several times but could not come up with something satisfactory to say. The image of her laughing at Jacaerys flashed in his mind. How had he done it?

“Do you not miss working in the pit?” he finally asked.

“Nay. It's not healthy t’ be so immersed in the dark. Some o’ t’ guards ‘ave gone mad. Even the North ‘s more welcoming. The dark always passes. Not ’ere. I prefer t’ beach, even if it means yeh’re there,” she glanced over her shoulder at him. “Vhagar is happier than any o’ those dragons. It's awful, t’ way they're treated. If I ‘ad me way, they'd be flyin’ free over King's Landing. A dragon is no slave that can be chained up in t’ dark ‘nd taken out when its rider wants t’ get some fresh air. I've always– Look out!”

Lucella pulled him out of the path of the flames. A dragon, illuminated by the blaze, appeared in his field of vision for a few seconds and disappeared into the darkness just as quickly. His heart pounded against his chest. His hands trembled. He saw himself again, ten years earlier, in the same position. He closed his eye.

“Fuck!”

Lucella screamed in pain. The distinctive smell of charred flesh rose to his nose. Aemond looked down. In the darkness, he could make out the keeper’s burnt arm. She yelped. The sound tore at Aemond's heart.

A rumble sounded, followed by a second. One by one, the dragons awoke. Lucella swore.

Despite her injury, she pulled the prince towards the exit. He followed her like a puppet, with no resistance in his limbs.

She was touching him.

For the first time.

They left the darkness behind them. Aemond's violet eye fell on Lucella's arm. Her armour had taken the brunt of the attack, but leather was no match for the Dracarys of an enraged dragon. Iron, dragonglass, Valyrian steel... The fire nibbled at everything, leaving nothing but ashes. The usually pale flesh of the female keeper was now nothing but a jumble of black and pink. Melted leather had mixed with the raw wound. He grimaced. It would leave a scar. Only now did Aemond notice that, unlike the other guards, Lucella's face and body had not been marred by the flames.

Before him and his careless mistake, a small, petty voice whispered to him. He did not try to quiet it. It was right. Because of his stupidity, she was suffering. A lump caught in Aemond's throat.

They went out of the pit, onto the open arena. Lucella grumbled under her breath. She berated him for having followed her and distracted her.

“Princes ‘ave no business in the pit! Yeh always want t’ play great lords… saviours… Whatevah! And yeh expect people t’ pick up the pieces yer idiocy caused! The nerve of yeh!”

Hatred took over and soothed her suffering. He let her scream. Perhaps that was the best remedy, for, no doubt, the adrenalin would soon evaporate and leave her weak and feverish.

“We must treat the wound as quickly as possible. I will summon Maestre Mullynn. He'll know what to do. He's the one who stitched up my eye, so he'll probably be able to–”

“Leave me be. Yeh’ve done enough. Go do what princes do. Fuck a whore, play knight, whatevah... I don’t give no fuck. Go.”

For once, he didn't comment on her vulgarity and simply repeated what he had just said. If she didn't see a Maester and treat her burns immediately, she risked much more than a simple scar. Aemond dared to put a hand on her shoulder.

The feel of her skin against his made him lose his train of thought. In his heart, a flame different from the others ignited. He leaned into this pleasant, softer, warmth.

Lucella jerked away from his grasp and stomped on the flame, leaving him cold as stone. She held back a cry of pain through clenched teeth and pressed her arm against her chest. One eye wasn't enough to hide the tremors that shook her arm. He clenched his fist. He would carry her all the way to Maestre Mullynn if he had to. Lucella had to treat that arm.

“I must insist... He–”

“Get lost, for fuck’s sake!”

Aemond stood still, surprised by the explosion. He was not facing a Northern bastard, but a dragon. A dragon ready to destroy everything in its path. In her amber eyes burned the flame of resentment. She had become the Stranger and promised death to anyone who dared stand in her way. Aemond had come close to Death many times. It had never looked so frightening.

He watched her walk away helplessly, her hand trembling on her fragile arm.

His eye itched. He didn't understand why.

As he passed through the gates of the Red Keep, Ser Criston Cole summoned him to the Small Council Chamber. His mother told him that his father, the King, had died and that Aegon was to be crowned.

A tear rolled down his cheek. He was not sad.

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