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swordgrace · 3 months ago

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❝ 𝐖𝐎𝐋𝐅’𝐒 𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐓𝐇 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐍 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒. ❞

KINKTOBER — WEEK ONE: BATH SEX.

⤿ pairings: cregan stark x jace’s sister!reader.

⤿ word count: 4.1K.

⤿ warnings: smut (mdni), loss of virginity, bath sex, fingering (fem!rec), biting, multiple positions (cowgirl, from behind), heavy kissing, scratching, sexual ending implied, heavy breeding kink, creampie, mutual orgasm, rough(er) sex, both cregan & reader are horny

⤿ note: first kinktober request under my belt! Loved writing this one and it was a nice return to Cregan (love him with my whole being)

Even a smoldering fire wilted in the midst of the Northern chill, a biting ice that consumed all traces of warmth, swallowing it whole.

Winds from beyond The Wall whistled down from desolate lands, bringing with it its bitterness and sting, seeking to envelop all within it.

Glacial are the wreaths of snow-furled gales that blanket Winterfell in their pale harshness — it even seeps into your bones, bones forged of fire and blood.

It was difficult to take comfort in such foreign surroundings, from the dusting of ice forming on window panes to the bristling chill that rakes across your spine. The North was not Dragonstone — it was not home.

Unconventional was the singular word that plagued your mind when it came to your sudden marriage to Cregan Stark, a union made in a frenzied haste to gain allies in a brewing war.

It was as if you were merely a pawn to be moved across a board by your kin — your Mother, in particular. She was the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, yet you couldn’t help but feel hopelessly abandoned here in the North, under the supposed guise of safety.

Jacaerys had departed shortly after your wedding in the Godswood, bidding his strenuous farewell before leaving you in the company of your stoic husband.

Your brother was not thrilled with the prospect, cautioning against it, but duty demanded it of you, and you dared not defy your mother. Admittedly, it could’ve been worse, this unusual match.

Cregan Stark was not a foul man — he was rough, like the uneven surface of leather or the cracks of a cliffside, a mountain so stalwart that you wondered if he ever smiled. A sliver of you pondered if his dour visage was because of you.

Stoicism seemed interwoven into his demeanor, tempestuous hues glistening with a stern wisdom that stretched far beyond his years. Cregan was only two namedays your senior, yet he behaved as if he were a grizzled veteran.

He did not consummate the night of your wedding, much to your bewilderment. You could only muster up a series of kisses and an untied gown before nervousness tore you asunder, anxiousness gnawing away at your belly.

Cregan did not press you any further, citing that he wished to give you a berth, a space to yourself as you processed your new environment. It was a sentiment that you vastly appreciated, yet you felt so completely alone.

The autumnal canopy of the Wolfswood had become your constant companion in the weeks that had passed since your union to Cregan. At dusk, you would converse with your Northern husband, who’s exterior seemed to melt slightly with each passing day.

Duty did not always permit the two of you to spend time together — oftentimes, it kept you separated, tethered to two differing realities.

After supper, you retired to your marital chambers, prepared to end your evening with a hot bath and a bit of light reading to preoccupy your time. Cregan did not appear, which was commonplace, strategizing alongside his advisors.

Chambermaids prepared your steaming bath, hot enough to singe those without dragon’s blood coursing through their veins. Wisps of heated vapor drifted toward the ceiling of the cozy washroom, a humid warmth permeating stone.

Deliberately, you untied each strand of lace, deftly unraveling yourself from your evening gown. Fingertips graced the thick fur that lined the trim as you draped it over a chair, flicking strands of your hair aside.

Footsteps resonated outside of the mahogany door, their shadow falling across you. You hadn’t expected Cregan to return so soon, prompting you to step into the water before sinking beneath, reclining against one edge.

Gentle sloshing of water caught his attention once he abandoned Ice and his cloak, retracing his steps to the door of the washroom. “My Lady.” He greeted you, lingering just outside in hopes to converse, even if it were fleeting.

A strange lump formed within your throat as you gingerly scrubbed at your arm with floral-laden soap, throat becoming thick. “Ah — my Lord,” You did not sound confident. “I wasn’t expecting your return so swiftly.”

Cregan found it increasingly difficult to act gallant around you, resolve hanging by a thread, honor crumbling away. Instinct and desire festered within his heart, lust where he knew it shouldn’t be — but he was a man who wanted his wife.

If this weren’t so rushed in an attempt to forge allegiances, he would have courted you properly, taken the time to learn your heart before devolving to carnality.

He learned some, but he knew that you were nervous, and he could not blame you for it. Tossed to the wolves, a lone dragon — Cregan did not want to frighten you any further.

“One can only play tactician for so long before it becomes an uphill battle,” Cregan uttered, chestnut brows furrowing together. “Are you well?” He inquired, tone one of a gentler resonance, laced with sympathy.

“Well enough,” Biting at your cheek, you considered your next words carefully, gaze boring a hole through the door. “Did you … Were you wanting to join me?” As much as it turned your stomach with butterflies, you did not want to continue being so shy.

In the sight of the Old Gods, he was your husband — Cregan had treated you with the greatest care and decency, and continuing to hide from him would only worsen things. You knew that it needn’t be so disconcerting.

Cregan’s jaw tensed, a sly heat blooming throughout his chest as he considered your stiff proposal. It sounded uncertain, and he did not dare act on uncertainty alone. Yet, the thought was tantalizing — he thought of you often.

Some part of him felt reduced to a boy, a coil of sudden nerves that he promptly abandoned, steeling himself for you. “I would only join you if you wanted it, my lady. Do not force yourself to be uncomfortable.” He rumbled.

The more you sat, alone in the herb-speckled waters, the more you yearned. There was nothing to fear from Cregan Stark, an honorable man whose patience was as unyielding as the mountains.

To grow was to rid yourself of girlish fright, and you did just that, steadying your erratic breathing as you sat up a little straighter. You reminded yourself that he was your husband, that he would not touch you unless you asked it of him.

“I want you to,” Your saccharine voice fluttered between the iron-etched wood, now a thin degree of separation between yourself and your husband. “Please, come in.”

Silently, Cregan prayed to the Gods to let him behave, to curb his animalistic appetite and to allow himself a gentler touch. Having already shed most of his leathers, he turned to knob, stepping inside to a homely nook of humid air and warmth.

Storm-colored hues fixed themselves to you, demure and sitting so soundly in the bathtub, yet you were the very image of perfection. His hand clenched in a desperate attempt to relieve some of his own tension.

You nearly shrank beneath the penetrating stare of your husband, whose coiled posture reminded you of a wolf preparing to strike. It made your heart hammer beneath your breast, hand gripping the edge of the tub just a little tighter.

His gaze screamed of affection, of desire, of ardor — Cregan was not as intimidating as you thought him to be, visage softening at the sight of you.

Tension clouded the washroom, thick enough to be sundered into two with a broadsword. Cregan wordlessly tugged his rugged tunic aside, exposing a thick wall of corded muscle, an impenetrable force that made your breath hitch.

To you, he seemed sculpted from a cliffside — rustic and hardened, the form of a warrior made, not chiseled, his own incarnation of godlike. Your stare shamelessly traversed the bulky plane of his musculature.

You were quick to glance away when he removed his trousers, causing you to shift beneath the water, skin glistening with a damp sheen. Again, you staved off your nerves as he lowered himself into the bath, taking up plenty of space.

In his solace, he drank you in again as if you were the finest stout, the very essence of beauty. Cregan felt the tension, the way it curled around the both of you, hesitation brewing in place of action.

It was you who shattered the silence, first with a tender smile, second with your words. “I must confess, I am glad that you are here,” A warm stirring began to unfurl across your chest. “I’ve been quite lonely.”

Cregan admonished himself for your feelings in silence, visage etched with a calm empathy. “Forgive me, then,” He murmured. “I did not know that my absence had become so cumbersome. I thought it best to let you adjust — alone.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” You assured, countenance as warm as the first sigh of springtime, melting away at his icy exterior. “You have been so understanding and kind, and I do not know how to thank you for it.”

“I would gladly make time for you, wife,” His utterance of the word wife made you shiver in delight. “I know now that this is something we will brave together, and not apart.” Cregan nodded, hoping that conversation would distract him.

He was unbearably hard, cock throbbing with such an incessant ache that he nearly abandoned the bath altogether. It was then that you reached for his hand, digits tracing along his forearm.

Cregan gripped the tub like a vice with his hand, so tense that his muscle threatened to tear apart. Your embrace was like silk, a shroud that he wished to wrap himself within. His gaze intensified, stuck to you with a fervor.

“I did not invite you inside just to converse,” Your whisper was hoarse, shrewd — you were finding your voice, and Cregan thoroughly enjoyed it. “I wish to try.”

“You cannot try from that distance.” Cregan’s tone was akin to the trembling of thunder from the skies, dripping with a thinly-veiled desire. There was affection present, yet lust seemed to win out as he coaxed you closer.

Once you waded into arm’s reach, your husband brusquely tugged you into his lap, causing you to gasp as he caressed your hip. His kiss was akin to a tide of fire, washing over you with an unyielding burn, heat crawling across your flesh.

You reciprocated without hesitation, palms finding their purchase atop his chest, nails digging into muscle when you felt his cock prod into your stomach. Gods, he was intimidating — you feared your physical state on the morrow.

It was unmistakable, his passion — the desire he’d built for you came crashing down, entangled with your budding desire.

A thick, calloused palm cupped your hip, kneading into the curves there, the other finding the soft flesh of your breast. He gingerly groped your chest, fingers gracing across your nipple, evoking an excitable whine from you.

“Gods, you are the most beautiful woman I’ve laid eyes upon,” Cregan’s husked tone was akin to a growl, reverberating against your mouth. “My wife.” He uttered, reveling in your flustered expression.

Lips clamored as if it would be their last dance, and he found himself kissing your jaw, your neck — wherever he could reach. It was a near-frenzy, acted upon with passion and a wolfish appetite, a desire that scorched his bones.

“Cregan,” A labored moan ripped through your throat, crackling with excitement as you tilted your head backward. He thoroughly reveled at the sound of you singing his name, a rumble reverberating throughout his chest. “Please, I need you.”

Slotted firmly within his lap, Cregan let the hand upon your hip drift elsewhere, dipping beneath the water as he sought the heat between your legs. His kisses were relentless, etched against your neck like a hot brand.

He needed you just as terribly, a want so powerful that it nearly obliterated him, scorching his heart with your own desire. His thick digits found your flower, thumb circling the pearl of your cunt.

A sharp gasp escaped you, lips agape as another wine emerged from your mouth. You hadn’t been touched like this before, not from a man so learned as Cregan, who studied your body with his hawkish gaze.

Your hips possessed a mind of their own, desperately chasing after any shred of friction from his hand, nails clamping into his broad shoulders. A soft chuckle shook his body, the vibrations sending shivers up your spine.

“Easy, princess,” Cregan murmured, teeth gently scraping over your jugular before he pressed a kiss there. “Do not tire yourself so quickly.” He cautioned, toying with your clit in slow, deliberate motions.

His cock prodded against your cunt, filling you with a sudden wave of anticipation. His stature seemed to confirm what you already knew, prompting you to swallow the lump within your throat.

Cregan would never tire of you, and he knew that this would not be enough to satiate his hunger for you, an appetite as ravenous as that of a starving wolf. He wanted to taste you, occupy the space between heart and ribcage, never part from you — duty be damned.

Pressing another string of greedy kisses against the column of your throat, Cregan continued to slowly circle your clit, savoring the twitches and reactions that flickered across your face. You made your pleasure known, vocalizing your delight to the heavens.

Part of you knew what to expect with the act of consummation — pain, and then pleasure, if you were fortunate enough. You trusted Cregan to handle you with care, rocking your hips atop him.

A low grunt elicited from him, one that clearly seemed pent-up. The sensation of your nethers pressing against his length drove him to madness, palm gripping hard at the small of your back. “I fear you may be the death of me.” He growled.

A shudder iced your spine, one tinged with anticipation as you sought his mouth, kissing him in your own flurry of bliss. He enjoyed your initiative, large hand tracing up and down along your back, goosebumps trailing in the wake of his caress.

“I — I want you inside of me,” Stammering over your words, your hands found the nape of his neck, clinging to his damp, chestnut tresses. “Will you be gentle?” You feared being split in half if his pace became hastened.

Cregan grit his teeth together, knowing that taking your maidenhead in such a rough way was not fair to you, nor was it kind. “Of course,” He assured, pressing a kiss against your jaw. “I wouldn’t dream of harming you.”

Restraint would likely test his resolve, but Cregan was up for the challenge, hand snaking away from between your thighs. Even within his grasp, you still seemed a touch uneasy, likely due to the bundle of nerves coiled within your stomach.

“On your own time, wife,” Cregan rumbled, content to caress along your supple frame, handling your curves as if you were molded from obsidian. You possessed the strength of a dragon — perhaps you didn’t realize it yet. “I am enjoying myself.”

With a nod, you exhaled, looking to him for instruction as he reached between the both of you, guiding his cock to your entrance. The thick head pressed along your cunt, causing you to shift again.

A kiss made its residence along your jaw. “I have you,” Cregan murmured, letting you sink down onto his length. Your countenance bristled with the sting of agony, and you nearly hurried it along until his hand seized your hip. “Easy.”

Seven Hells, he filled you completely, stretching you in a way that molded you to him. It was discomforting, a pain you seldom experienced, but Cregan was soothing.

It was the sweetest torment for Cregan, cock sluggishly feeding into you, inch by inch, your cunt tight around his length. A sonorous groan bubbled within his throat as he continued to guide you, ensuring that you were not suffering.

“Cregan!” A hiss escaped you, one intermingled with pleasure and pain, brow creased in concentration. It was nearly too much for you, but you persisted, enduring the newfound stretch and foreign sensations.

The tip of his length very nearly kissed your cervix, and that was his sign to cease. He let you sit, labored breathing bearing inklings of ecstasy, lips slack as you began to roll your hips.

He was strong enough to maneuver you along his cock as he saw fit, but he let you gather your bearings, find your own pace. Your soft, sweet lips sought his own, mouths clashing in a spirited kiss, one charged with a growing adoration.

Chest-to-chest, the intimacy grew tenfold, hearts beating in-tandem, making way for the wave of ardor that consumed you both. Water gently sloshed around the both of you, flesh damp, yet you had never been warmer.

Firm, steady hands kept their grasp upon the swell of your hips, thumbs tracing lazy circles into your silken flesh. Cregan appraised you with starving eyes, hues as gray as swirling clouds before a winter’s storm.

“Move me,” A wanton sigh floated from your lips, evoking a sense of primal desire that he knew to shackle down. Your husband obliged, setting the pace at a slower speed for your sake. “Gods, just like that.” You huffed.

Cregan fought against baser instincts, against tearing you asunder like that of a snarling beast. He guided you up and down upon his length, mouth seeking the dip between your neck and shoulder.

Teeth found their rooting there, gingerly scraping your flesh as he marked you, eliciting a throaty moan from your mouth. It was a sting that you did not expect to enjoy — but you wanted it again and again.

Tangled sighs and low, heavy breaths wove together, forming a heated cacophony that filled the washroom with your lewd activities.

He took your maidenhead with such tenderness, never once resorting to a harsher pace unless you were the one to initiate. “You are perfect.” Cregan uttered, letting you rock up and down along his length.

The feeling of his calloused hands sinking into your plush flesh was mesmerizing, leaving behind a wave of goosebumps that crawled across your flesh. He gripped you hard enough to leave bruises, peppering kisses against your neck.

Finding your rhythm, it became easier to impale yourself upon him, gasping when his cock sheathed itself deep within you. Your cunt clenched pathetically around him, nails raking crimson trails across his shoulders.

Molten heat churned within the pit of your stomach, arousal honey-thick between your thighs. The more you succumbed to desire, the more carnal his pace became, losing all inhibitions of restraint.

Soap-laden water steamed around the both of you, sloshing with the movement of two bodies, locked within the throes of passion. A soft cry escaped you as he brought you down again, invigorated by the spirited rolls of your hips.

It only became messier — two souls clawing for affection, for entanglement, for a release. As you grasped his biceps for support, you changed the rhythm, letting yourself drown within desire.

A breathy, snarled curse tore past his mouth, brows furrowing together in concentration as he maneuvered you toward the tub’s thick rim. His chest was hot, slick as he pressed himself to your back.

Smoothing a calloused palm along your thigh, his thrusts became a touch erratic, cock hitting into you like the jab of a spear. “Cregan!” You moaned, savoring the sensation of his mouth against your shoulder, crooked nose ghosting along your throat.

The newfound position was somewhat awkward given his stature, contorted in the smaller space of the tub, but he cared little for it. Passion drove him, the desire to breed, make you round and lovely with his children.

His hands did not leave you, caressing wherever he could, an anchor to keep you safe even in the midst of such crass acts. “Gods help me,” Cregan growled, hot breath fanning across your shoulder. “I need you.” He hissed.

It was unexpected, his confession that rattled you so, sending tremors along your spine. You did not expect him to feel that way for you, yet it only furthered your arousal.

Lewd entanglements of flesh resonated throughout the washroom, accompanied by a myriad of moans and animalistic growls. Cregan became more beast than man when placed under pleasure, not that you minded.

Even if he lacked the stamina to continue, carnality willed him to devour. Your husband kissed you, touched you wherever he could, thick digits snaking between your thighs as he sought the aching pearl of your cunt.

“Do not stop,” A breathy mewl erupted from your throat as you pleaded with Cregan to continue. Once deft digits began to toy with your clit, your knees buckled, hand grasping at his forearm. “Please, please do not stop!”

Between the feverish kisses he placed along the nape of your neck and the hand circling your clit, you felt the ecstasy mounting. The coil within your stomach began to unfurl, visage screwed up in a look of bliss.

Cregan’s grunts sent shivers throughout your body, warming your insides with their fervor. His cock continued to pound in and out at a steady pace, body snug against yours.

He dared not harm you, executing caution even still, indomitable musculature hunched in over you, enveloping you on every front. As his calloused fingers flicked across your pearl, you shuddered, thighs twitching in response.

You experienced a euphoria like never before, the sensation foreign yet overwhelming, setting every fiber of your being ablaze. Water splashed over the rim of the bathtub, falling onto the stone below.

Each snap of his hips sent you reeling, cock filling you to the brim, stretching you in ways that you never thought possible. You moaned, nails digging into his arm; Cregan’s pace did not deviate.

Tantalizing fantasies of putting a babe in you drove him mad, his hand drawing away from your cunt as he placed his palm over your stomach. Gods, you could feel everything — it made you buckle, release swift and white-hot.

Stars floated across your vision in the wake of your release, a choked sob of ecstasy rippling through your chest. Cregan’s name rolled from your tongue like an incantation that you had committed to memory.

It was then that your husband spilled himself inside of you, aided by the wet clenching of your cunt around him. Ropes of hot, virile seed painted your womb, and you felt him press his forehead against the back of your shoulder.

Tangled, labored breaths filled the space between you both, thin as ever. Cregan did not want to stop — the night was agonizingly young, and his cock stirred within you. “Are you well, wife?” He murmured, stroking along your hip.

“I am perfect,” He could taste your smile, a bright and palpable thing. You felt him move away, momentarily sinking back beneath the water. “I — I was not expecting it to feel so pleasurable.”

“There is plenty more beyond that,” Cregan assured, drawing you back into the wide expanse of his lap, cock nestled against the plane of your stomach. He cupped your jaw, the pad of his thumb tracing your cheek. “Do you require rest?”

A coy expression flickered across your countenance as you let your fingertips playfully ghost across the tip of his length. The sudden blaze within Cregan’s storm-cloud hues had made your heart leap into your throat, excitement replacing exhaustion.

A growl stirred within his chest at your wordless insinuation, and he did not seem to waste a moment of time, hooking an arm around your hips. “Clearly not.” He grunted.

“Do you object?” You murmured, dragging one finger over the plane of his visage, so youthful and unblemished, a contrast to his rugged demeanor. Provoking your husband was a bold choice, one that Cregan respected.

“I do not,” Cregan’s tone was little more than a grumbling of thunder, brows furrowing together as he steeled himself for what would become a lengthy evening. He adjusted your position, the head of his cock kissing your entrance once more. “You will wish for rest when we are finished.”

#house of the dragon #cregan stark x reader #cregan stark x you #cregan stark x y/n #hotd x reader #cregan x reader #cregan stark #house of the dragon fanfiction #hotd fanfic #hotd smut #hotd fanfiction #house of the dragon smut #kinktober

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filurig · 2 months ago

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sekuuti and akestur, deities of the rau-kakse and crakam

LONG ASS CREATION/ORIGIN STORY OF THE RAU KAKSE AND CRAKAM HERE

the sun and moon both have important roles in northern basilisk religion, and are interpreted as two deities: sekuuti (sun) and akestur (moon).

both seen as patron deities of their respective people (rau-kakse aka basilisks and crakam aka harpies). their eggs were originally stars in the sky that fell and hatched in the world below.

at first, there was only pure spirit. something known as "tukaarti" (which is an unconscious but all powerful driver of all things) - the "natural force", arose, and began create shapes from this spirit, polarities, warmth, energy eventually the forces shaped this spirit into The World, which was barren at first, amorphous, but this shaped energy began to solidify, first into mountains, then into lakes, rivers, flora etc etc. but the water did not stay liquid long for after the formation of these things, and a brief flourishing period, the World cooled down, and fell under a great winter, as it had no sun. the sky is basically where tukaarti resides in its rawest form still, and stars are "concerntrations" of it, and the only light source. the stars began to fall eventually on occasion into the world, and that would spawn Creatures. early on when the world was still fresh after this was when the eggs of sekuuti and akestur fell, they were among the last creatures to fall onto the world. prior to them similar animals had hatched from other eggs, but they all perished trying to survive on their own.

both sekuuti and akestur were lonely and struggled on their own - persecuted by hostile ancestors of other creatures. not only was it difficult, most of all, it was lonely.

sekuuti was so lonely that she desparately wanted children, but as she was the only one of her kind she prayed to tukaarti for a way to achieve that company she desired. she was heard, and granted the ability to shapeshift to any creature that she found. this also was something tukaarti needed, as it lacked a way for spirit to go from the World back to tukaarti, and by "collecting" bodies to learn as forms, sekuuti would also return their spirit to tukaarti. with this ability, she resorted to courting different birds that she transformed into and bearing their young. and she did successfully hatch them. her children would not only inherit a lot of her features and shapeshifting ability, but they also inherited the plumage and some other traits from their other parents, and she loved them all the same. this also means that according to rauk-kaksian lore sekuuti "has no comparison" and doesnt look like an extant bird in particular, but interpretations vary. these children were the first "rau-kakse". the most important established trait of her depictions though is that it seemed that the glow from her egg ("star") never faded, and her plumage glowed strongly and brilliantly.

akestur, meanwhile, sought company with birds in a different way. he found flocks of corvids, flocks of nightjars, and found certain comfort with them. but he was frustrated with the fact that they could not communicate, he prayed for the ability to "hold a conversation" with his new contemporaries. and the tukaarti granted him his wish - the flocks that he had become familiar with were granted a blessing, but with that blessing, they also changed in morphology - they became harpies (crakam), and gained sapience. he was reminded, however, that he had gotten this wish without cost - and that the forces counted on him to do what they wished in return if they so needed it. they only cryptically let him know to "not keep his eyes off of the flame". akestur is thought to have looked like a harpy slightly, but with a different face, black as night, but with brilliant glowing white eyes.

again, the world during this time was pretty barren and harsh due to an eternal winter, as they had no sun. sekuuti, while having found comfort in her kin now, was unhappy with the state of affairs - especially as many young would die in the harsh conditions. akestur, too, hated seeing his new contemporaries suffer.

the two groups would meet one day, sekuuti and akestur leading them. the two were fascinated by one another - sekuuti brought warmth to akestur and the crakam, while akestur brought a certain darkness, that while somewhat discomforting at first, also shrouded both groups from other hostile creatures, theyd come to find out. there was safety in his darkness. sekuuti and akestur grew very close and became partners (according to most legends).

sekuuti wanted to change the state of the world and set her eyes upon the sky, wanting to become a sun and bring warmth to all and end the eternal winter. akestur was hesitant, for he did not want to lose her, and her children needed her. when seeking the guidance of tukaarti - they discouraged her from it, urged her to stay and perform her duty as a bringer of spirit from corpses of this plane back to tukaarti. but she was insistent, and one day, decided to simply go for it. she flew so fast, with such force, that she caught flame, but her will was so strong that it didnt bother her and she became one with the flames eating her as she flew up to the sky.

akestur was too late, and only realised she was gone once she had lit up the sky. betrayed, upset, but most of all - realising that he had failed tukaarti. he had let his eyes off his flame. as a punishment, tukaarti undid the blessing it had granted his people for half of them, leaving half of them as regular birds again.

sekuuti lighting up the world had done something - it had taken away the eternal winter, but the problem was - sekuuti had nothing to temper her up there. the world was beset by a devastating drought with no end in sight. akestur, trying to lead his people as well as the basilisks, then realised what he had to do.

before leaving his people, he urged them "to not take their eyes off the flames", meaning the basilisks in this case, and then, he also set off for the sky. instead of setting ablaze, his eyes seemed to burst with the pressure of the speed of his flight, engulfing him in a cold, bright light. once he joined sekuuti in the sky - the heat was finally tempered.

however, sekuuti, both overwhelmed with love but also guilt and shame over abandoning akestur, fled him. but he, loyal and also overwhelmed with love, began to follow her. and basically, the day/night cycle is their eternal chase after one another - and on occasion, they meet, during eclipses :,) perhaps they also realised that their chase is what brings the world balance. and perhaps its a bit of a punishment from tuukarti for disobeying it.

#worldbuilding #lore #fantasy #speculative biology #speculative fantasy #speculative zoology #pareidolia tag #BTW FOR ANY ASKS hi guys again hi i will likely answer Later but yes. i have been pondering this sorry #pondering actually bcs i pondered a certain rau-kaksian tradition that i felt needed a connection to a greater creation story #these two are the “main” deities of both crakam and rau-kakse #but crakam also worship other different deities that can be highly local #while rau-kakse may worship some of them but mainly are most dedicated to these two. But it may vary ofc #rau-kakse #crakam #realising i should actually start making tags for the species and culture stuff so. LOL

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cherryheairt · 3 months ago

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Not Yet Blossomed

Cregan Stark x Bolton's wife!reader

Summary- When Cregan visits the Boltons to oversee their livestock problem, he can't help but be enamored with Lord Bolton's meek wife. When he finds the truth of their relationship, he commits himself to saving her.

named Tully reader no desc

part 1?

Cregan's journey to the Dreadford was uneventful to say the least. He had enough problems to deal with in Winterfell, so being summoned by the Boltons to oversee their newest livestock problems was the least of his concerns. However, Ryen Bolton's letter remained ominous when he first sent for Lord Stark's help. Apparently, the livestock were going missing in bundles at a time. Too many to be regular predators or the animals to simply be wandering off on their own.

Cregan promised himself to deal with this swiftly. No more than a few days, then he could go back home and deal with bigger problems.

Bolton was lucky that it was still summer, warmer, and bountiful in its harvests. If it were any other season, Cregan would not have bothered with the matter himself and instead sent his trusted bannermen to meet with Ryen. Though the ground was mostly clear of snow, it did not stop the slightest tears of white to fall from the sky in light showers, the sun deterring it from sticking to the floor for long. The air carried a chilling breeze, though the sunlight kissed his cheeks warmly as he traveled on horseback.

A few days, he reminded himself.

It was only when he first saw Lady Bolton that his mind was swayed.

A beautiful young lady, to be sure. Cregan had once considered her for his own marriage before her hand was swiftly taken by Ryen. The elder man had been enamored with her beauty and grace when she had visited the Dreadfort with her father, Samuel Tully.

A shame, Cregan had thought those years ago. The two of them were so similar in age, and their houses were both paramount over the Northern and Riverland Houses. A beneficial arrangement would have surely come from their marriage. Plus, he had found a pleasent friend within their short time together.

He had met her only once, when they were both five and ten. The young Lady had been a picture of Southern elegance and flowery words, though she had none of the falseness of her kin. She was all genuine, a breath of fresh air to all who sought her company.

Ciara Tully had married at the age of six and ten to Ryen Bolton, a man of eight and thirty. Cregan had scowled when the raven had come from Samuel Tully to inform him of his daughter no longer being available. If only he had moved sooner, he had sulked for days after the news before finding his resolve and moving on to other prospects. He had no regrets in that regard, for he found a love match in his searching.

Ryen had always been a callous and frustrating man to deal with, but Cregan persevered through their occasional meetings by telling himself it would all be over soon. The Lord never liked to speak for long, not when he was more focused on drowning himself in his cups. When he did speak, it was a whole lot of nothing.

When Cregan entered the keep's council room to meet Lord Bolton, he was shocked to be met with a young boy at the man's side instead of his wife. The seat next to him was empty, and only a few adult male kin of House Bolton and the Maester were also in the room. "Will Lady Bolton not be in attendance?" Asked Cregan, sitting across from Ryen. It was the one empty seat in the room now.

Ryen coughed, shifting in his seat. "Ciara has other matters to attend to. She need not bother with the matters of men." He said dismissively, though it seemed to Cregan that he had forgotten that most Ladies would attend council with their Lord husbands at all.

Arra Norrey had when she was alive, attending every meeting Cregan held until the unfortunate day of her parting. She was a brilliant and influential mind, never afraid to speak her opinion. The North was better for it.

Ryen did not seem to share the opinion that the Bolton Lady should attend to her political duties.

Cregan nodded and left it at that, glancing briefly at the boy next to Ryen, who puffed out his cheeks and fiddled with his fur coat boredly.

Ryen seemed to perk at the opportunity to introduce. "This is my son and heir, Dalton. A boy of four just recently." He said, russeling the boy's brown hair that perfectly reflected his own. He was a bit young to be learning the ways of Lordship, but Cregan dismissed that as the man being eager to have his son learn the Bolton ways. Who was Cregan to judge, anyway? He was no longer a father himself, nor had his son lived long enough for him to consider education.

The Stark nodded his greeting, turning back to the Bolton. "What of the situation at hand?"

Ryen straightened up, folding his hands. "My farmers have accounted for flocks of sheep and pigs going missing. Which, normally, I would send for poachers to deal with the wolves or bears taking from the fields, but none of my men have spotted any signs of such predators." He took a moment to lubricate his throat with an arbor red wine.

"Many farmers are reporting such activity, and it has come to a point where I thought we could benefit from an outside view on the matter."

Or he wanted to wash his hands of the burden of being Lord, Cregan thought wryly. Lazy as his father.

He firmly nodded. "I will scout out these areas myself, with Night Seeker to guide. The direwolf is a better tracker than most hunters, to be certain." He smiled tensely, scooting his seat out and excusing himself. "I will be back in a few days' time."

Cregan found himself wandering to the gardens of the Dreadfort after he finished gathering the farm locations from the resident Maester. He needed to clear his mind and plan for any possible outcomes. He had not yet dealt with a curious situation like this one.

There, he saw a woman in a blood-red dress crouched over some winter roses. Not yet in full bloom, the bright blue of the flowers was dulled and closed to a point.

Approaching slowly, Cregan cleared his throat gently to announce his presence.

Met with an almost violent flinch and swift turn, the woman revealed herself to be Ciara. "Lord Bolton—" She started, cutting herself off when she was met with a man other than her husband. Her hands grasped anxiously at her skirts, ruffling the silky material within her palms. She wore a fine ruby necklace and earrings to match, black laced gloves upon her smooth hands. It seemed far too thin and frilly to warm her properly in such weather, but the Lady seemed not to mind it, perhaps wearing such attire daily.

"Lady Ciara," Cregan greeted kindly, bowing his head to the young woman. The years had been kind to her, transforming her from a comely girl to a radiant woman.

"Lord...Cregan?" She asked tentatively, only going off of her faint memory of the man. He seemed to have grown in both height and muscle since their meeting years ago. "It has been a while. What brings you to the Dreadfort?"

Her voice was tense but not unfriendly. He was stunned at how warily she eyed him, not at all the joyful and outgoing girl he had met before. "Aye. Six years, if I remember correctly."

Ciara glanced behind Cregan, wringing her hands together. "It is nice to see you again. I am sorry to hear about your wife and..." she trailed off quietly, not finding the words to express the loss of his infant child. It had been three years ago that Arra met her unfortunate fate, followed by Rickon a year later when he had come down with fever.

"Thank you, my Lady. I am here to deal with Lord Bolton's problem with the flocks going missing. I'm sure you've heard of it."

"I have not, actually." Spoken hesitantly. "Is everything alright?"

"That is none of your concern, wife." Ryen Bolton spoke harshly from next behind Ciara's shoulder. Cregan almost cursed at the suddenness, as if the man had a beacon that told when others congregated on his lands. Glancing at the elder, he raised a straight brow at the interruption.

A firm had was placed on Ciara's shoulder, earning a barely consealed flinch from the lady. She seemed to shrink further under Ryen's presence, bowing her head and looking to her feet. "Forgive me, Lord Bolton. I will return to my chambers." With a curtsy and flurry of silk, she was gone.

Ryen spoke first, a heavy sigh coming from his thin, cracked lips. "Forgive my wife. She seems to wander these days, against her better judgement. Always disturbing the house and the children. I'll see to it that she does not bother you during your stay, my Lord."

Cregan narrowed his eyes, ticking his jaw at the tone and words used on the man's own wife. Never had he thought his former wife to be a bother in any circumstance, nor had his father spoken like that about Gilliane. "A disturbance to her own house and children, my Lord?" He asked.

"It may sound exaggerated to you, but you don't live with her. She is constantly interrupting the children's lessons and the staff for menial things. One would say she's trying to help, but I say she's always been like this—desperate for attention." Ryen leaned closer, hot breath hitting Cregan's senses unpleasantly as he did so. "Between you and me, she's always been a bit slow. Only good for her looks, I suppose, so she has her uses." The man bellowed at his own jest, excusing himself to attend to the awaiting Maester at the archway of the gardens.

Cregan silently seethed in the spot he was left in, breathing carefully to not lose his cool. He was Warden of the North, his attentions must first and foremost lie with the people's problems. He could not intervene in martial problems.

The rest of the day went by quickly, with Cregan waiting for the morrow's daylight before he left. At supper, Lady Ciara was missing too, only noticed by Cregan. Everyone else seemed not to mind or care, going about the dinner with loud laughs and shallow conversations. Young Dalton was now joined by an even younger sister, who Cregan learned was named Mabel. An imagine of her mother, even at the young age of two. The hair, skin color, and even eye color were all inherited from Mabel's mother, while Dalton was a mirror of his father. Mabel was ignored by Ryen, too, but not by the maids and servants passing by, always attending the children equally and kindly. The wet nurse spoon fed Mabel a few seats down from Ryen, quietly working to get through the supper before the men got too drunk and rowdy.

Cregan did not mention Ciara's absence again. He simply sipped on his ale and chewed on his mutton while waiting for enough time to pass for a suitable time to excuse himself.

Finally, when Ryen had drank enough to put a young squire to rest, the Stark abruptly left with the excuse of resting well for the morrow.

He made his way through the fort's winding halls, only stopping at the opened nursery. Ciara was not in the room, unsurprisingly. With no babes to look after in it, it was empty. He moved on to the next rooms, sure to find the Lady of the house's room nearby to her children.

It was not. After minutes of searching empty rooms and quiet halls, Cregan found Ciara's room in one of the towers of the Dreadfort. Tucked away in a cold corner, the towers of large keeps were usually reserved for when the keep housed many guests due to the towers having thinner walls and less insulation. Ladies and Lords never kept rooms of their own residence in such places.

When Cregan heard the quiet and peaceful humming, he followed it all the way up the spiraling stairs. The door was ajar, an inviting position for any passerbys—though none seemed to take it but himself.

Ciara sat on the stone floor, dressed in a velvety blue gown suited for dinner, though she did not attend it. She hummed on lowly as she embroidered what appeared to be a lavender baby's blanket, weaving darker flowers into it for her daughter. The stitching was near professional, similar to the stitches he was used to seeing on the clothes he bought from tailors, though hers was more personal instead of used for the practicality of his sigil.

Ciara huddled herself as close to the hearth as she could without burning herself, furs being placed over her shoulders and atop the fine dress. Still, she shivered under them and shook her hands occasionally to warm them. Even Cregan suppressed a shiver in the cold room, with his leathers and furs on his person.

The room itself felt empty and impersonal. There was no decoration; only a bed, hearth, settee, wardrobe, and what he assumed was a chest filled with embroidery supplies.

He announced himself with a brief knock on the open door, standing awkwardly in the archway. Her eyes shot up immediately to meet his, appearing like a rabbit in front of the wolf, betraying her Tully blood's 'fish' heritage. "Lord Stark." She said, swallowing harshly. "What brings you up here?"

Suspicious eyes glanced between him and the stairwell as she stood, setting her supplies down.

"I wished to apologize for earlier in the gardens. It was not my intent to bother you or upset Lord Bolton. I hope my mistake did not sway you to not come to dinner tonight?"

She shook her head quickly, though she furrowed her brow as if gauging his intent. "Of course not. In fact, I had wished to come tonight. It is nice to see an old friend, someone familiar to me. But...I was not summoned tonight." Was the simple answer.

"Summoned?" He could not stop himself from asking. "Surely you need not be summonded in your house." He said lightly.

Twisting her ring, she pursed her lips. "My husband gets irritated easily. He says it is best that I stay in my room most nights, so I cannot be in the way. Most of the time, I think he just forgets to send for me." She smiled sadly, though her words were beyond casual.

Cregan held a sigh back, going along with her casual attitude. "Your rooms are quite far, my Lady. Are there no open ones next to the nursery?" He asked.

She looked down at her feet again. This time, an indescribable tone laced her words. "I stayed there when Dalton was first born, but Ryen says it was much too close. That a woman's softness should not influence his son. I suppose he was right, I did spend too much time with them."

"They are but four and two. Children at that age need their parents—their mothers." Cregan offered, stepping a bit closer. He remembered little of his youth at that age, but knew from watching his own younger siblings grow that his mother and father both doted on them until they gained their own independence and started spending time with courtyard friends than their parents.

She took a subtle matching step backward, leaving Cregan to still himself entirely to not discomfort her. Shaking her head 'no', she disagreed with the Lord. "He is right. The children had started crying when parted from me. It was best that I moved away."

"That is a normal thing for one's own children to do. It shows that they are most comfortable with you, rather than servants." He stated.

"I'm afraid it is not possible. Staying up here has allowed me to keep Ryen happy. And Dalton, I'm sure." She nodded to herself, still avoiding Cregan's eyes.

"Dalton? Have you not spent much time with him after your move?"

"Oh, no. Of course not." She laughed quietly, brushing a stand of hair behind her ear. It held none of the true joy that it once did when she was younger. Her eyes held the same dullness that the winter roses in the gardens did, like the life had been sucked out of her since her marriage. "I'm not to see him at all, unless I am allowed to come to dinner. My daughter, though, is different. Her wet nurse takes breaks, and then I look after her for a time."

It should be the other way around, with the wet nurse taking Mabel only when Ciara felt drained from all the energy babes took to care for. Cregan had truly never heard of babes being taken from their own mothers except for special exceptions like illness or the occasional post-birth rut that trapped new mothers. Ciara was neither sick nor unresponsive, so Ryen's orders made zero sense.

"Have you eaten, my Lady?" He changed the topic of conversation, afraid to upset her or himself any longer.

"I have, earlier. Gresha brings me meals to my room." She said brightly, nodding to the settee and small table in front of it that he hadn't noticed before. Cregan felt a squeeze in his heart, seeing the half-emptied plate alone on the table. He had never guessed how Lady Ciara's life had been since her marriage all those years ago. Never would he have assumed it would be so desolate.

Most Ladies, even when dealt a poor hand with their husbands, always had their children to keep them company. Or visiting family, since their Houses were so close together. Ciara had none. She lived her days like a forgotten ghost haunting the Dreadfort, only remembered by the servants assigned to her and her husband, occasionally, when she got bold enough to wander the halls of her own home.

Even then, she could not find it in her heart to hold anger. Ever the patient and kind soul, Ciara persevered through the situation and found the best of it. Grateful for every crumb of respect and decency she was provided. This was no way a noble lady of her status should be treated.

For once, Cregan Stark felt utterly helpless.

He left early in the morning, Night Seeker at his heels. His first destination was to White Tower, one of the larger farms he had marked down on his map. Within the lands of the Boltons, White Tower held many acres and the largest flock of sheep available to the House. Cregan figured the root of the problem could easily be found at such a place.

White Tower was nothing special, only a few barns, mills, and a small house at the top of a hill. There, Cregan was greeted by Zayne and Milly Narrows. An old and kind couple, they recounted tales of their missing sheep with stressed tears filling their eyelines.

"You see, Lord Stark, it had only started with one or two at first. Then, weeks later, the sheep dissappeared in bunches at a time. We're already down to half our flock, and if it continues like this, we'll lose everything we've worked so hard for." Milly Narrows told him, hankerchief brushing her eyes and nose to keep appearances.

Zayne nodded solemnly, a more quiet presence than his wife. "I thought it was some coyotes or wolves, like it normally is, but our livestock dogs haven't alerted us to anything. No blood, no tracks, just missin' sheep."

Cregan hummed thoughtfully, glancing out of the window to the green fields. "That is a conundrum. I've never had a livestock problem where the dogs didn't know the situation better than the farmers." He said, mostly to himself.

"Can you help us, Lord Stark?" Milly asked, teary eyes hopeful.

"I will try my best, miss." He promised, leaving the home with his sword strapped to his shoulder. Whatever he would face, he would never do so without Ice. Night Seeker was already waiting by the fence where Cregan left him, panting at the sight of so many sheep flocked together in a confined space. Luckily, the wolf knew better than to give into such baser instinct. Cregan clicked his tongue for the direwolf to follow, pointing out to the forest where the Narrows had said the most foliage was tussled.

Night Seeker ran ahead, sniffing eagerly at anything and everything. It seemed he immediately found a trail, much to Cregan's surprise. Why hadn't the Narrows' dogs found anything?

He trudged forth, brushing past any bushes or trees in the way to follow the tracker. Night Seeker moved with a vigor, excitement growing at the chase, though admittedly Cregan's own curiousity grew as they went. Indeed, there were no animal tracks or strong scents to be seen by the human eye or smelt by the human nose.

Finally, after perhaps two hours of this, the forest broke into clear daylight. Beyond the treeline was more grass, though the chill was still lingering from the cool morning. Empty rolling fields, it seemed to be, leading Cregan to glance at his companion.

The direwolf's tongue lolled from its maw, tail wagging at his grand find. "What is this?" Cregan asked tiredly, doubting the location of multitudes of sheep being in such an open area.

The wolf huffed before breaking off into a dead sprint ahead, leaving Cregan to stammer and chase after him as best he could.

The fields winded for what felt like forever before leading to the border stones between House Flint and House Bolton. Only a few towers of smooth grey stone, as borders were oft marked by, it was an underwhelming sight. The direwolf knew better than to cross such things without Cregan's explicit permission, so he was left waiting for the man to catch up. Panting heavily, Cregan's brow furrowed. "House Flint?" He asked himself softly, wondering why the sheep trail would lead to the border.

House Flint had stayed unproblematic for Cregan's current rule and for Rickon's before him, too. Not having to do much in terms of peacekeeping, Cregan was glad to have a lightened load when it came to the ancient house.

"Go on." He commanded. They were surely close to the answer.

The direwolf happily led the way to a series of massive makeshift barns. Peeking inside, Cregan could not count the amount of livestock being held. On the doors was labeled 'Narrows', 'Fresc', and 'Limbant', three of the family farms that reported livestock missing.

Cregan cursed quietly, moving on to the next barn. Inside were pigs of ranging sizes and colors, labeled all the same. Wielding his ancestral sword, Cregan rounded the wooden buildings to the end of the row, finding a camp filled with a group of young men.

"What is this display before my eyes?" He demanded harshly, earning shocked stares and gaped mouths. The young men seemed no older than himself, perhaps thinking this all to be a fun juvenile prank, unknowing of the livelihoods being ripped from people.

One stood up from the bench, stuttering out his words, "Lord Stark!" He bowed quickly, the rest of the group following in suit. "We mean no harm, I swear! Simply following our orders, m'Lord."

Squires, the lot of them. It was clear to see now, these boys were not culprits but pawns. Fools, nonetheless. "And who has ordered hundreds of livestock to be stolen from House Bolton's lands?"

"Not stolen, m'lord!" Another valiantly spoke. "It is collateral, from the promise Lord Bolton owes our Lord Flint."

"A promise? What was owed that is equal to hundreds of livestock?" Cregan huffed out, shealthing his Valyrion steel sword.

"You don't know, m'Lord?" A blonde-haired boy asked, glancing between his friends. "Lord Bolton promised Lord Flint a hundred gold dragons if he could borrow working men to build some houses for him."

"How many? That's a steep price that few would pay for mere houses."

The one next to him shrugged, a shaggy-haired brunette, "a village, I 'eard. Right on the outskirts of the Dreadfort's walls.

The price made more sense, then. But for Bolton to offer a hundred gold dragons to outside help rather than his own men was an odd thing indeed. The first thought that came to mind was that Ryen Bolton was cheap—promising a payment that he never intended to pay and thinking he'd suffer no consequence for it.

"I see now." He sighed, rubbing his temple stressfully. "How did you get past livestock dogs with a whole group of men?"

The blonde smiled a crooked grin, puffing out his chest proudly. "That was my idea, m'Lord! I used some chamomile in their water supplies a few days before taking the herds. Knocks them to sleep real fast, though it doesn't last long."

"And how did you cover the tracks of so many?"

"Carts, m'Lord." One shrugged. "We took the trading route paths at night while some stayed behind to cover the tracks we entered through in the forests. A nasty job, it is." He huffed, scratching at his reddened legs. Seemed like he was one of the ones stuck with that job.

As much as Cregan wished to be angry at the boys, he could not find it in himself to blame them. Orders were orders, after all, and any young squire must follow them to achieve knighthood. "Get to work on returning them. Every. Last. One. I will deal with Flint and Bolton, and see to it that you go unblamed." He said heavily, making it clear that his command was non-negotiable.

With a few scattered groans and sighs, the squires all obeyed and got to work.

Cregan left again, borrowing a chestnut mare to make his journey back faster. He had much to think about.

💠

It was well into the afternoon when he finally returned, pointedly guided away from Lord Bolton's councilroom and chambers by a few maids. "Lord Bolton is resting at this hour. You can join him for supper." One said as she settled down lunch for Cregan in his guest chambers.

Cregan had half a mind to burst down the man's door and demand explanations, but knew that patience would yield the best results in this circumstance. He could not butt heads with such a stubborn and self-righteous man like Ryen.

Finishing his stew quickly, Cregan found himself too restless to stay confined. He took to the halls, intending to head to the gardens for a walk. As he passed the halls, commotion in the nursery caught his attention.

"...Didn't mean to, I promise!" Ciara's voice pleaded tearfully. Cregan wasted no time barging into the room, which had its door shut behind the last who entered. Ryen, it seemed, who loomed over Ciara and Mabel like a wild beast.

Ciara had Mabel clutched in her arms, protectively guarding her babe though she trembled like a leaf. In the hand holding the girl's head was also the lavender blanket, soft as silk and finished with its last sewn touches, he presumed. Neither adult noticed his presence, though young Dalton sat on his little bed and held himself in a ball, glancing up at the newcomer.

"What have I told you about coming in here?! You should be in your rooms until I say otherwise. I cannot deal with such nonsense any longer, I have tolerated your dimwitted behavior for far too long." He boomed, then dwindled into a growl as he spoke.

"I waited for someone to come in so I could ask to come downstairs. It's been nearly all day, so I thought Gresha had gotten ill and forgot to tell another maid to come up." She hurriedly explained herself, expression laced with guilt as she struggled to meet the man's eye.

"This is two days in a row that you've disobeyed my orders and left your room. At this rate, I'll have to lock you in the dungeons just to keep you in place."

"I only wished to give Mabel her blanket. She has been complaining at the night's chill for days." She mustered out, rocking the girl in her arms in a soothing matter as the girl whimpered at her father's tone.

"It is Summer, you daft girl! That girl would complain about the grass being too green, and you'd try to dye it blue just to appease her." He snatched up the blanket, tossing it into the warmed hearth and earning a squealing cry from Mabel.

Finally, Cregan thought he had seen enough. In the comfort of his own home, Ryen Bolton showed the kind of person he was beyond the watchful eye of the Starks. Stepping between Ryen as he took another intimidating step towards his wife, the grip Ryen had taken on Ciara's hand had slackened at the sight of the Lord.

"What are you doing in here, Lord Stark?" He grumbled out, unwilling to back down so easily when he was worked up so much.

"Watching my host make an utter fool of himself. I could hear you from my own chambers," he fibbed slightly. "Shall we reconvene in the council room?" He asked through gritted teeth, wishing to spare the children of a proper argument.

Ryen backed up, shaking his head firmly. "We will speak on the morrow." As he stormed out of the room, calling for a maid to bring him a keg of ale.

Turning to Ciara, Cregan gently brushed her wrist with his calloused fingertips. He saw only the conflicted storm held within glossy eyes, admiring how composed she managed to hold herself for the sake of her babes.

"Are you alright, my Lady?" He asked in a hushed tone, careful not to frighten the girl in her arms. He knew his size was not the most welcome sight to an already shivering young girl, much less one who had clearly been used to the biggest man in the house regularly using his size as an advantage.

Ciara nodded curtly, rocking Mabel in her arms until the girl stopped crying and only sniffled every so often. The repeated motion seemed to work to calm both of them. "Thank you, my Lord." She mumbled as she set the drowsy child into bed. Only afternoon, but little hands were adamantly rubbed at puffy undereyes already, the poor lass had worn herself to exhaustion.

Cregan saw similar puffiness on Ciara but chose to stay silent in his revelations. "Will you not stay in here, or bring the children to your room?" He offered. "I will ensure Lord Bolton does not bother you again today. Perhaps the quietness of the tower would do good for some quality rest."

Ciara seemed to contemplate but sadly shook her head 'no'. "The maester says the tower is much too cold for the children. They cannot regulate body heat as well as we can." She said, tucking Mabel into drab grey sheets. The whole room seemed the same to Cregan, though Dalton's side had more color and personality to it. Spoiled with toys and perhaps any other thing a boy of four had temporary whims for. Most lied scattered at the foot of his bed, though, untouched until a maid came in and cleaned it all up.

"And Dalton?" He asked, hesitating this time.

Ciara glanced up to the bed where he still sat, curious blue eyes on them both as they sat in the still silence. As quick as she looked, she broke the eye contact and left the room.

Puzzled, Cregan ushered the waiting maid at the door into the room, ensuring the children were taken care of being following the woman.

Her steps were hurried and floating, hands holding her dark emerald skirts to allow such fast movements. He noticed then that she was adorned in more fancy jewels. Emerald bracelets and a heavy necklace to match. Even in her simply-braided hair, that he assumed she did herself, lie a few studded pearls.

"Ciara?" He called after her, jogging to catch up with her head start.

She did not turn, instead rushing to the steps faster. On the first step, he was able to catch her arm before she could disappear into the sanctuary of her cold room. "Please, wait." He huffed.

Meeting his eye line better from the height boost, Ciara's face was dimmed with the low light available in the corridor. "What?" She demanded, a harsh and shocking contrast to her previous demeanor.

"What is wrong?" He scanned her briefly. "Is something...wrong with your son?" When he mentioned bringing Dalton along with her, the shift that he saw in her was concerning.

"Of course not!" She said, immediately defending her son with narrowed eyes. "Why would there be?"

"You didn't speak to him—nor comfort him like you did your daughter." The blunt words made her look away, blinking away tears rapidly. None fell, and she sighed shakily, as if the one thing she could control in such an unforgiving place was her own appearance.

"I cannot."

"Cannot speak to your son?"

"I am not allowed to, my Lord." She answered, clenching her jaw tightly. An unladylike behavior to grind her teeth or bite her nails, but both were nasty habits that she anxiously indulged in often.

Cregan laughed almost disbelievingly, shaking his head as if she told a most humorous jest. "Allowed to? I was not aware that mothers were given rules permitting their children's company." Though his growing anger seethed from his body clearly, none of it was directed at the woman in front of him. That did not stop her from stepping up another stair, twisting her ring around her finger as she did.

"It has been set for many moons, now. Lord Bolton had been unhappy with Dalton's behavior when I looked after him. He's better off with the maids." Her own son's name sounded foreign on her tongue, like she had tried to erase him from her mind to make the distance hurt less. Only, there was no distance. There were mere hallways apart at all times, yet it seemed like the Narrow Sea itself was placed between them.

"What could he have been upset with?" Cregan tried to make sense of Ryen's mindset, if he had any at all. A four year old boy could have many problematic behaviors, but surely none that could be influenced by a mother as sweet as Ciara.

Ciara sucked a breath sharply through her teeth, retreating a few steps more. "May I be excused, My Lord? I am quite tired from the day's affairs." She asked. There had only been the one 'affair', as she said herself earlier, but Cregan could not outright challenge her.

"I only wish to understand, Ciara. I want to help you." He pleaded, brows knitting together as he clasped the wooden rail of the stairs.

"You can't. There is no need to meddle in the affairs of others. Please, conduct your business and be on your way." She bit, turning her back and rushing up the steps finally, closing the door behind her.

Cregan was forced to retire to his chambers, his previous plans of visiting the gardens spoiled and his mind exhausted.

Early in the morning, Cregan woke before Ryen Bolton and weaved his way around the staff to start his day. Presuming that the Lord would sleep well into the day, Cregan made his way to the 'village' that had started the problem in the first place.

It was a short walk from the Dreadfort, and an annoyance to the residents who had already made their homes near the keep. When the Stark had asked a villager of the whereabouts of the new town, the old man had scowled deeper and pointed his nose toward the direction, grumbling as he walked off. "These young'ins...always with too much time on 'er hands."

Bemused, Cregan continued on.

As he passed the first building, he finally understood the old man's irritable nature. The entire place smelled of incense, sweat, and sex. He almost gagged, the scent reminiscent of his brief stay in King's Landing. He had made a point to make his visit very short after truly seeing the disgusting sights of the capitol. True, there were brothel houses and short 'silk streets' in the North, too, but never an abundant amount, nor were they as frequented as the ones in the South.

The further he walked through, the more he realized just how dire the situation was. Every single building was not a house like he had figured, but a mere cesspool of vulgarity. Even in the early morning, peeks passed opened doors showed sights of young men indulging themselves in the young and pretty women of the street.

Now, he realized what Bolton's intentions were. He had commissioned an entire 'village' to be made purely for the sake of pleasure and sin. As if the one pleasure house lying on the streets of One Hill, the collection of towns nearest to the Bolton's Dreadfort, were not enough.

It was an insult to the Flints, who made the buildings without compensation. It was an insult to the Starks, who, represented only by Cregan, had generously offered to solve the problem for the Boltons and were lied to blatantly. Most of all, it was an insult to Ryen's wife, who sat locked up in her room day after day, unknowing of her husband's unfaithful nature.

Cregan assessed how many buildings there were total, counting twelve along the cobble path before abruptly making his leave. An older 'Madam' standing at the curtained doorway of one of the houses beckoned the Lord close, a sultry look in her blue eyes. He brushed past the touch she laid on his shoulder, not bothering with polite words as he ignored her entirely.

He would ensure the Bolton Lord never saw the same status that the Starks had granted his house hundreds of years prior. He was not as generous and forgiving as his ancestors.

🩷

this was so hard to write solely in his pov idk why

I had so many good ideas going into this but none translated to words like I wanted them to, most getting scrapped. I need to get something out so I can stop focusing on one-shots for now and get dd chap 15 out its nagging my mind 😪

lmk if I should do a part 2 eventually

#cregan stark x reader #cregan x reader #hotd fanfic #cregan stark #hotd #hotd x reader

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novaursa · 3 months ago

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could you please do torrhen stark x aegon the conquerers youngest sister (not rhaenys), getting married and having kids in winterfell

Queen of Winter

- Summary: Your life with Torrhen flourishes in spite of your brother’s ire.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Torrhen Stark

- Note: This is another part of The Broken Crown series, where the reader chooses Torrhen ending called The Queen's Choice. These events follow after the ending.

- Rating: Mild 13+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

The North had never seen such a wedding. The cold winds blew through the godswood as you and Torrhen Stark were wed beneath the heart tree, its ancient branches reaching out as silent witnesses. The Old Gods looked on as you made your vows, their presence felt in every gust of icy wind. Winterfell’s great hall had roared with celebration that night, the fires blazing high in the hearth, the Starks and their bannermen toasting to the union of ice and fire.

Years had passed since that fateful day, and Winterfell was no longer just a place of cold stone and ancient oaths. It was filled with the laughter of children, your children. Nine in total, each one a reflection of the bond between you and Torrhen, the fierce love that had grown despite the odds, despite the war, and despite the looming shadow of Aegon and his sisters.

Your sons were the embodiment of the North’s strength, towering figures with the bulk and muscle of their father’s kin, but with the unmistakable Valyrian features that marked their heritage. Their hair, silver as moonlight, was often tousled by the wind, and their violet eyes burned with the same fierce intensity as your dragon. They moved through Winterfell with the quiet power of wolves, though the fire of dragons coursed through their veins.

Your daughters, on the other hand, were your mirror. Each one carried a trace of your fire, both in spirit and in appearance. They had inherited your beauty, your poise, and the regal way you held yourself, but beneath it all was the cold steel of the North, a quiet fierceness that only you could understand. When they stood with their brothers, they were a fearsome sight, children of two worlds, bonded by blood and the strength of the North.

It was a day of clear skies and crisp air when Torrhen found you in the godswood, watching your children. Your youngest son, Rhaenar, was perched on a low branch of the weirwood tree, his silver hair glowing in the midday light, his eyes fixed on the sky where one of his older brothers circled on dragonback. You smiled, a small, contented sigh escaping your lips.

Torrhen approached quietly, wrapping his arm around your waist, his warmth seeping through the heavy fur cloak you wore. “Rhaenar is restless again,” he said, his voice a low rumble.

“He wants a dragon of his own,” you replied, leaning into him. “He watches the skies more than the other children. He has his eyes on one of Tesaerix’s hatchlings.”

Torrhen chuckled softly, his breath misting in the cold air. “The boy has ambition. Like his mother.”

You smiled at that, looking up at your husband. His face, weathered by the years and the responsibilities of ruling, was still as handsome and strong as the day you first met. “And like his father,” you teased. “The Starks may be wolves, but there’s dragon blood in his veins.”

Torrhen’s gaze softened, his fingers brushing against your cheek. “Our children are as much Stark as they are Targaryen. They carry both fire and ice in them. They will grow into great leaders.”

Your eyes turned back to the godswood, watching as your eldest son, Vaeron, landed his dragon in the clearing. The beast, a large creature with scales the color of dark smoke and ember, lowered its head, allowing Vaeron to dismount. He was the spitting image of you in his features, but Torrhen’s strength and Northern stature shaped his form. Vaeron had bonded with the first of Tesaerix’s clutch, a proud dragon who had hatched in the dead of winter.

As Vaeron approached, Rhaenar rushed over to his older brother, eyes wide with excitement. “Did she fly higher today? Did you see beyond the Wall from afar?”

Vaeron smiled, ruffling his little brother’s hair. “Not today, little wolf. But one day, when you have your own dragon, we’ll fly together.”

Rhaenar’s face lit up, and he looked to you with a pleading expression. “Mother, when will one of the hatchlings choose me?”

You knelt down, brushing a lock of silver hair from his forehead. “Patience, my love. The dragons choose when the time is right. They are not just beasts to command—they are kin, bound by blood and fire.”

Rhaenar nodded solemnly, though his excitement was barely contained. The bond between dragon and rider was something every child of yours yearned for, and you knew it would come in time.

That evening, as the fires in Winterfell’s great hall roared and the scent of roasted meat filled the air, your children gathered around the table, laughter and conversation filling the space. Vaeron sat at the head of the table beside Torrhen, discussing strategy and plans with his father, while your daughters entertained their younger brothers, teasing them mercilessly.

Torrhen watched them with pride in his eyes, the legacy you had built together here in the North. “The bannermen will be expecting more of our children to take up their positions soon,” he said, his voice thoughtful. “Vaeron will need to command, and the others will follow.”

“They are ready,” you replied, glancing at your sons and daughters. “The dragons have chosen some of them already, and the Old Gods watch over the rest.”

Torrhen took your hand under the table, his grip firm but warm. “I never thought our lives would become this, Y/N. Not after all that’s happened. But now, I can’t imagine it any other way.”

You smiled at him, your heart swelling with the same love you had carried since the day you’d flown north to be with him. “This is where we were always meant to be, Torrhen. Here, with our children, our dragons, our home.”

The years had not been without their trials, but in that moment, surrounded by your family, the future seemed as vast and as endless as the northern sky.

In the distance, a dragon roared, its call echoing through the halls of Winterfell, a reminder of the power that lay within your bloodline, and the strength of the bond between fire and ice.

#fire and blood #fire and blood x reader #the conquest #house stark #torrhen stark #torrhen x reader #torrhen x you #torrhen x y/n #game of thrones #house of the dragon #a song of ice and fire #asoiaf

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achaoticeternal · 1 year ago

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caught at a crossroads

prince regent!aemond targaryen x stark!reader

summary: while seeking safe passage down the Kingsroad to Dragonstone, you travels come to a halt. word count: 1.5k a/n: i would consider a part 2 if people are interested warnings: AFAB reader, mentions of violence and death

The journey thus far had been so silent with hardly any issues arising. Twelve men at your aid - six Stark men and six Queen's Guard - were ready to lay down their lives to safely deliver you to Dragonstone. After the eldest of Rhaenyra's sons came to call upon your brother in haste, an alliance was formed through the most sworn occasion. A marriage between the Queen's firstborn and Cregan Stark's only sister would tie your houses together.

Cregan and Rhaenyra had reached such a favorable outcome for the people whom they cared about most. Still, Cregan understood the dangers that came with swearing an oath to the Black council. If the Green's went North, he did not want you to fall into their capture. As such, an agreement was made that the young Lady Stark was welcome to reside on Dragonstone, within the sacred walls of House Targaryen.

Passage of the Kingsroad was a risk for anyone who dared to use. Miles of the path lived anarchic tribes that cared little for the proper laws of the land. With this in mind, the band of men were forged together to keep you safe from those on the road, and from those who would come to hear of the betrothal.

Already, your group had been riding for eight days, traveling south. They decided to avoid traversing the Westerlands, things swaying off the main road would do little to help if word ever got to King's Landing. It was better to take the faster route so that they could escort you quickly to proper safety. Instead, your path would take a slight risk. You would cross over the trident and pass through the villages on the outskirts of Harrenhal.

Harrenhal and its neighboring lands had become greatly abused during the war. The entirety of the Riverlands had been battered and bruised with forests of ash becoming more regular by the day. It was rumored that Prince Aemond Targaryen had laid siege to the region in reaction to the loss of his nephew, Jaehaerys. If you could lay low and stay away from the rotation of troops that came through the area, the remainder of your journey would be guaranteed safety.

At first, the ambush seemed to be nothing. Just a few bandits who were looking to start trouble. Yet when they drew blades of Valyrian steel, your guards had alerted you to seek cover. Metal crashed against metal, the sound echoing through the forest. Luckily, being a northern girl, you had some natural knack for survival. Swiping a jagged rock off the ground, you first hid behind the cart your band had been traveling in.

From the position, you could see how furiously your enemies brandished their swords. The experienced men of the King's Guard had no issue holding their own against the fierce warriors. However, the youngest of the Stark men was the first to meet his fate as a guard slashed his throat open. A broken cry had escaped past your lips, watching the body fall to the earth below. You had recognized him as kin to your dressing maid, a good boy, now dead.

As another Stark man fell, you took this as a warning sign to advance further into the woods. Gripping the stone, you slunk away from the makeshift camp and towards a mixed assortment of oak and evergreen trees. The candle in your lantern would soon be snuffed out by its own wax, but it did aid to light your path. Behind you, more men continued to fight and fall. However, huffs of aggression and assertion echoed towards your ears. The enemies were advancing.

"The scouts said there were thirteen," A voice barked out, "Find the last man. We must know what the Black's are planning."

Quickly, you moved behind the trunk of a large oak tree and immediately blew out your candle. There was just enough bush to keep you covered unless someone was searching intently or you gave any sign. If you stayed silent, maybe they would brush over you.

However, you heard the grunts of one of your guards, his gravely voice panting as you heard him being drug down the road, "Who is your final man? Where were you going?"

A low chuckle resounded from his chest, "Queen Rhaenyra's army is growing, and soon she will march on King's Landing and the Usurper."

As you went to peak upon the seen, you heard the sound of a sword being drawn and plunged through the guard's neck. Now all your guards were dead. You were alone in the Riverlands. Alone in the Riverlands with a two-day journey to Dragonstone ahead of you. If you could make it through the night.

Footsteps filled the area surrounding where you kept hidden. The width of the tree and the bush serve you well to keep you hidden in the dark of the night. With baited breath, you remained on edge, hoping they would soon give up.

"Ser Cole," A guard called out to his superior, "We have reason to believe the thirteenth traveler is a woman. If the raven from this morning is true, then I believe it could be-"

"I'll alert the prince," The other man replied shortly.

Nearly an hour passed with little disruption. Only the chittering of the forest kept you company. That was until a sinister voice echoed through the trees.

"Little wolf... Where are you hiding?"

So they were fully aware of who you were, but they still didn't know where you were hidden.

"C'mon, little wolf, if we don't catch you here, we certainly will before you are ever able to reach Dragonstone."

The voice held some familiarly to you. Though deeper and more confident, the rhythm and tone reminded you of just a few years ago. Your first and only visit to the Capitol.

It had been the King's 65th name day had approached and your father had decided that the three of you would all take the journey to King's Landing. While visiting, you had the honor of meeting the King's children from his second wife. His eldest son, Aegon, and his sister-wife, Haelena, the youngest, Daeron, and lastly, the owner of the current voice...

Prince Aemond Targaryen

"The hunter has become the prey it seems..." He called out to you once more, "It's been quite a few years, little wolf, won't you do me the honor of reuniting?"

Your heartbeat began to increase, hammering against your chest. Part of you feared that he could hear it pumping in your chest, or even the panting of your uneven breaths.

Silence returned to the wood, and you knew it might be your only opportunity to move until morning. As you moved to stand, a twig crunched beneath your boot. A moment later footsteps could be heard running in your direction. It was time to act, time to find a nice place to hide. Your feet carried you quickly and lightly through the forest floor, the feeling similar to chasing your brother through the Godswood as children. A feeling of hope grew in your chest...

Only to be crushed when a sword glinted in the moonlight. You came to a scathing halt as Aemond stepped out from behind one of the trees. His platinum hair and sapphire eye reflected bits of pale light as he observed your movements, "Ah... Lady Stark..."

"Prince Aemond," The lady quickly straightened her posture.

The man sheathed his sword as he approached the lone Stark lady, "Seems you haven't heard the news, it's Prince Regent, now. Though you would know that if you were where you belonged in Winterfell."

"I-" You attempted to stutter out.

"Yes?" Aemond smirked, knowing that he had you practically cornered, "Well, my lady, it seems you should come with me. It is dangerous for a Lady like yourself to be unaccompanied on the King's Road."

Aemond stepped forward which in turn caused you to take a step back. His smirk only remained at this behavior from you, the excitement of it all getting to him. Another step forward and he snatched one of your wrists in his large, callused hand. He tugged you forward to keep you close and minimize your attempts to run.

"I have a promise of safe passage, it's... it's a royal decree," You stuttered out as his glare only continued to intensify, "I have the right to go to my intended destination."

In an instant, his smirk fell quickly, "Your intended destination or your intended betrothed?"

Everything began to piece together as he continued, "That's right, my lady. I received word this morning that a dozen Stark men and traitors were seen along the Kingsroad escorting a young woman. This news arrived shortly after news about my Strong nephew's marriage approached, I simply connected the dots. But it's alright, little wolf, you are now a welcome guest at Harrenhal."

Your head shook at his words, "No, no, I-"

"It wasn't an invitation," Aemond quickly interjected as he pulled you closer, "By royal decree of Prince Regent Aemond Targaryen, you are my guest until I see fit to dismiss you."

#aemond targaryen #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen x reader #hotd x reader #prince aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen imagine #hotd #ewan mitchell #house targaryen #prince regent aemond #mattie writes

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morganas-pendragons · 4 months ago

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wash away the blood | celebrimbor

gif by beaulesbian

this idea was WAY too good for my little brain to pass up. I'm gonna keep writing these regardless of what happens to him (I have 2 hurt/comfort fics for Celebrimbor in my drafts... let me know what else you want to see!) and this was born from my desire to hug Celebrimbor and never let go.

this still follows the elf reader for my past fic Ease and is a female reader + the prompt is ''river'' and ''blood'' (which I came up with myself LOL)

LIGHT SPOILERS FOR 2x07 READ AT YOUR OWN RISK

His entire being aches down to the very core of his soul. His hands are bloodied, and his cheeks are cut up and bruised, but Celebrimbor cannot help but allow himself this one moment of comfort as Galadriel stands in front of him and cradles his face like he is the most precious thing in this world.

The hearts of his kin were always far bigger than he could comprehend.

"I built this city. My place is here."

Galadriel shook her head. "No," She replied. "Your place is with her, far away from Sauron's influence. I will take The Nine for you. You dare not face him alone."

Like a being straight out of his dreams, Celebrimbor watches you emerge from the darkness of Eregion's ruins with all the desperation of a woman just trying to save the man she loves. The two of you had been separated in the explosion. Your own form mirrors that of the injuries he has obtained since coming out of the Forge.

That is the promise you made to him, after all. A promise of rescue.

It was the one thing he could count on amid the illusion.

"Celebrimbor, my love," You slip your staff over your shoulders and approach him with haste, wrapping an arm around his waist to steady him as he leans his weight into the warmth of your embrace. You have been an embodiment of safety and security since Annatar showed up. You had proven to him that despite his misgivings, his pride, and his arrogance, he was worth more than simply the skills he had to offer Middle Earth. "She's right. We have to go. We have time to flee the city if we go now."

"Go to Lindon. You will be safe there," Galadriel assures. "Tell them it was I who sent you. I will buy you time."

Your face crumples when you feel his hand come to cradle your jaw and find it slick with blood. His thumb is missing. You feel the weight of him sinking into you further and shifting to accommodate as you turn yourself and Celebrimbor toward Galadriel. She has no argument. The Commander of the Northern Armies simply nods her confirmation and disappears into the shadow and flame.

Celebrimbor's quiet, agonized confession echoes soundlessly in your ears as you lead the way toward the Dwarven tunnel.

"All that loss, all that death... And it all remains on my hands."

You don't have anything to say to him. Bracing your hand against his hip, you lead the Smith you love to the horse at the end of the tunnel and help him into the saddle first. He is barely conscious by the time you sit behind him and gently pull his body into your own so he will sit upright.

A quiet sigh breaks past your lips as you press your chin into his shoulder and allow silent tears to fall. Celebrimbor follows suit, swallowing the knot in his throat as tears fall down the blood on his cheeks.

He can only manage a strangled whisper of, "I love you." before your fingers are pressed against his stomach, murmuring in Quenya under your breath as he falls into unconsciousness.

***

The first thing Celebrimbor feels upon waking is warmth. His entire being is warm. The crackle of a fire echoes beside him as he slowly opens his eyes, greeted with a twilight sky and the gentle hum of a voice somewhere above him as fingers card through his hair.

He feigns sleep for another moment to bask in the moment. It is the first true moment of safety he has felt in weeks.

"Good morning, my love." You murmur. Celebrimbor forces his eyes open again to gaze upon your face and softens. You look the picture of beauty, even with your unkempt hair and ash and blood upon your cheeks. "You've been asleep for two days."

Well. That was mostly true. Sauron's influence had not fully lost its grip until you were well out of Eregion's reach, and in that time, he had attempted to attack you twice and had left bruises on you. You chalked it up to exhaustion and delirium. He would not. Celebrimbor would never forgive himself for it.

"I seem to be a mess," He said quietly. You pressed your hands against his shoulders and slowly helped him to sit up. The forest around you was quiet save for the chatter of creatures and bird song. There was no war to be seen for miles. "And here you are, taking care of me yet again."

"I love you. What happened in Eregion and what Sauron did does not change that." You said firmly. Reaching over him, you produce a bag of fruits and nuts you'd obtained earlier that morning while he slept. "I do however want you to try to eat."

He almost immediately complies, were it not for the shock of seeing his hand healed.

Celebrimbor's eyes snap to you in astonishment as he runs his other hand over where his injured thumb is. He remembered being in agonizing pain, remembered the gentle lull of your voice and the warmth of silver light engulfing him.

It was you.

"You..." His voice falters, leaving you an opportunity to interject if you so wish to. You did not dare. His voice had been taken from him for so long that you would never put him in a position where he could not speak his thoughts and feelings again. "It was mangled when we left Eregion. Bloodied. What did you do?"

You tap your circlet and wiggle your fingers. "I told you I have healing magic. It's just one thing I've remembered how to do." You said. "But I cannot heal weariness. That only comes with time."

Your eyes are fixated on his mouth as his tongue slides across one of the berries before disappearing behind his lips.

The air between you is thick with tension, electrified by your growing desire for him. He knows it. So do you, but you do not wish to overstep, especially when he is in this state. That is what prompts Celebrimbor to motion toward the river and then to his robes.

"I believe we are both in need of a cleansing. I am too weak to do it on my own." He states. Realization flickers behind your eyes as he sets the bag of food aside before gesturing for your hand. "Would you guide me to the river, My Lady?"

How are you supposed to say no when he's looking at you like you hung the stars and the moon in the sky, like you are an emissary sent straight from the Valar themselves, ever the image of true beauty?

Despite knowing you love him and he loves you, he still has such capacity to reduce you into a stuttering mess.

You nod wordlessly and stand to your feet. He's still hesitant to be in the open, as is expected, but there is something about your protection in Celebrimbor's most vulnerable moment that puts him at ease as you two trek the distance to the river.

It only occurs to you upon spotting its banks that this is the first time since you will see him fully unclothed. It's not like the massage when you met. It's more intimate. It's vulnerable.

"My love," Celebrimbor's voice breaks through your reverie as you step into the sand. "I believe I may need help removing these old things. I don't know what use they will be anymore. Can you assist me?"

You don't know why you're hesitating. You love him. He's made it clear he loves you too, and no one else in this world has ever made you feel so safe. He'd taken such good care of you when you arrived in Eregion. Alone and destitute, The Lord of the Elven Smiths had brought you under his wing as you sought out refuge from the world around you. From your lack of memories, from your lack of trust.

And then he'd shown you what pure love looked like. You had been his ever since.

"Lift your arms." You murmur low in his ear. Celebrimbor complies, wincing as the fabric grazes a wound on his side before he finds himself free of the confines of his robes. His underclothes do not fare much better. "I'm sorry, Celebrimbor."

"Whatever for? You are not to blame for this."

"I'm sorry that he inflicted such pain upon you. You have a kind and gracious heart that only wished to fulfill a legacy you feel is an expectation of being from the House of Feanör," You state as you slowly lead him into the water just enough to where it dips beneath your waist. You are still dressed in your own clothes. The armor you'd worn during the Siege has long been discarded. "And I'm sorry he used you as a means to his own end."

"I survived." He replies. You lean outward as his good hand catches your face, seeking out the warmth and comfort of a desired touch as his thumb traces your lips. "You were my only truth amid all the deceit."

You allow him to draw you to him as he bends his head to meet your mouth, sighing softly in response as you press your hands to his chest. It is a sweet and short kiss that conveys nothing short of Celebrimbor's gratitude that you have stood by his side throughout it all.

When you are the first to pull away, you bend down to cup your hands and fill them with water. "It'll be easier for me to wash your hair if you are kneeling. Would you?"

"Of course."

The next few minutes pass in silence as you wash the blood from his hair. The water of the river tinges red as you continue, working your fingers through his curls and deep against his scalp to ensure you have removed all of the dirt and grime that has settled there. He tips his head into your hands, at your total mercy, and allows his eyes to flicker across your aspect as you continue.

"Okay," You remark. "That is your hair. The rest-"

"I would very much like it to be your turn." He interjects. You raise a brow at his forwardness and laugh as his cheeks tinge pink. "If you'll allow it."

You turn your body toward him and lift your hair to allow him access to the fastenings of your clothing. You are just as bloodied as he is, skin smeared with orc and elf blood.

A shiver runs down your spine as Celebrimbors fingers graze the curve of your back, loosening each fastening before your shirt is loose and heavy with water. You nod your confirmation and watch it fly back in the direction of the shoreline where his robes sit.

You kneel and peer up at him through your hair. You're so glad he's here. You were so sure that Sauron was going to kill him.

''Hey, hey. What are these tears for?" He asks, urgency and concern lingering in his tone as he kneels to meet you in the water.

"I thought-" You swallow your fear and screw your eyes shut as your forehead seeks his own. Celebrimbor softens. He's always admired your ability to be vulnerable with him. To let him see your heart in a way no one else ever has. "I thought Sauron was going to kill you. Kill you, make me watch-"

He'd thought the same thing.

Celebrimbor runs his fingers over the bruises on your cheeks before shaking his head. "You and Galadriel made me see reason. You got me out. You took care of me and tended to my wounds. No one else would have been able to break through his influence like you did. And now that we are here?" You open your eyes and sigh as water descends through your hair and down your neck. "Let us be cleansed of Him."

So that's exactly what happens. Minutes feel like hours as you keep him afloat atop the water and help him wash his body of the war you have left behind. Even though Celebrimbor struggles, he does the same to you, cradling you with such a tenderness that it makes your heart ache.

When you are both cleansed, you stop him from returning to the shore with a kiss that takes his breath away. Celebrimbor is only just able to return the kiss with equal fervor when he manages to get your feet out from beneath you and topples you into the water.

Laughter echoes in the air as you sink below the water before you pull yourself back up, flabbergasted that he'd pulled such a move.

Then you see why.

Celebrimbor is smiling.

He may not be as whole as he once was, oh no, but he's still the most beautiful person you know. That soul is so gentle despite all he has endured.

Precious.

"You're staring."

You snap to attention at his remark and grin. You can't help it. "I love you." You reply. His response is immediate: That smile you love so much as he slowly chases you through the water with all the strength you both can muster before you both collapse on the boulder where your clothes are drying.

Sauron has no influence here. Not anymore.

#Celebrimbor #Celebrimbor x Reader #rings of power fan fiction #rings of Power

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asqadia-banthen · 4 months ago

Text

Introduction!! :3

(our strawpage for b4 u continue ^^)

((Our youtube where u can find our playlists -> the-buddy-system ))

random ask game

We are an multigenic (willogenic, stressgenic, and just endogenic) system (intros linked on names)

Neb/Buddy

Maxwell/Max

Ash/Ashen

Jordan

[REDACTED]

Fern

Lonely Wizard

Koda

Mineta

Kiri

Beelzebub

Assassin

Lily

genders + sexualities + pronouns

COLLECTIVELY THEY/THEM

Neb: panagender, cassgender, demiromantic, uranic, diamoric, objectum, it/it’s, any neopronouns, any xenopronouns

Max: transmasc, boyflux, aroace, no pronouns

Ash: genderfluid, lesbian, trixic, she/her, they/them, it/that, pup/pupself

Jordan: intersex, nonbinary, abrosexual, conceptum, shi/hir

[REDACTED]: gendervoid, aroace she/her, it/it’s

Fern: botani, conceptum, pansexual, they/them, sap/sapself

Lonely Wizard: the wiz <|:3, unknown, he/him, they/them

Koda: pansexual, biromantic, she/her

Mineta: bisexual, panromantic, demiboy, he/him, hy/hym

Kirishima: cis guy, heteroflexible, he/him

we are a furry, therian, otherkin, and fictionkin 🐾

Neb is objectum, conceptum, and mangerum, and is attracted to water trick snakes, DS, cybertrucks, semi trucks, traffic cones, traffic lights, highlighters, and fries

Max is objectum and is attracted to the moon

Jordan is conceptum and is attracted to sunsets and sunrises

Fern is objectum/conceptum/botani and is attracted to american beech trees

We have collected 4+ leaf clovers for almost 3 years- ask us about them!! 🍀

we are autistic, have situational mutism, and have many sensory issues ♾️

Neb’s/Jordan’s special interest is dragons :3 🐉 (ask me about them!)

we like to draw

we follow back!!

we are interested in dragons, animals, mashed potatoes, analog horror, music, and art

Kintypes

awakened since 2020-?

(kintype specifics linked)

Therian:

sloth bear

honey badger

gray fox

standard poodle

dingo

domestic cat

jaguar

tiger

harbor seal

gelada

cottontail rabbit

norway lemming

syrian hamster

sperm whale

wild boar

common hippo

suri alpaca

spectral bat

caloshua macaw

bluejay

bald eagle

song sparrow

wild turkey

emerald tree boa

ankylosaurus

dragonfly

northern acorn barnacle

eastern tiger swallowtail butterfly

Otherkin:

sphinx

oasis dragon

fuji dragon

kelpie

leviathan

brown werewolf

wingkin (barn owl)

harpy wingkin (white dove)

ghostkin

skeletonkin

merfolkkin

robotkin

Fictionkin:

P03 (Inscryption)

sand wraith (HTTYD) (rusty colored)

bearowl (The Croods)

space beetle *“quicksilver” (thumper) [* preferred name for this kin]

Copinglink:

eastern white pine

plastic spinning top

Otherhearted:

golden retriever

raven

Questioning:

reptilian

chupacabra

wolpertinger or jackalope

we will edit these as we confirm/uncomfirm :3

warnings for userboxes

“This user practices filbism /srs” is in reference to an analog horror called “Doctor Nowhere”, if you are sensitive to distorted faces then dont research

“this user loves Jack Stauber” Jack Stauber is a musuc artist and animator many of his songs can trigger derealization, talk about su1c1d3, and have semi-distorted claymation people, if you are sensitive to any of this then do not research

“this user loves vulture culture!” vulture culture includes dead animals and bones, if you are sensitive to anything like that, dont research

NO DNI

Just don’t be an asshole ❤️

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nabbit-unmasked · 11 months ago

Note

Hi!! I'm not placekin, but I am the Northern lights (never quite sure what to label that one tbh) and several of my kintypes live in Arctic habitats.

sooo– could I request an Arctic tundra/boreal forest moodboard or stimboard (you can pick)? Snow, frozen lakes, coniferous trees, reindeer moss, caribou, lynx, and the auroras ofc!

(im trying so hard not to list ten million additional things 😅 i love the taigas sm)

Of course, this sounds like a fun request!!

I've read ur bio before and say that you're the northern lights which I always thought was interesting :3

2 of my close kintypes also live in the tundra so this should be a nice experience for me too. Not to mention that I feel really at home in the Minecraft taiga biome as well lol

However, it is night time for me right now and I'll have to start working on it tomorrow. Hope you dont mind the wait too much ;u;

#ask response #moodboard request #stimboard requests #northern lights kin #tundra moodboard #tundra stimboard #taiga moodboard #taiga stimboard #otherkin #alterhuman #nonhuman #kin #alterhumanity

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the-fiction-witch · 9 months ago

Text

The Snow

Media House Of The Dragon

Character Jacaerys Velaryon

Couple Jacaerys x Reader (Bastard Stark Girl)

Rating Sweet

Jacaerys did his best not to make a show of his arrival but such was hard to do, he circled over Winterfell on Vermax and landed in some cleared snow. He climbed down and adjusted himself slightly before entering the courtyard of Winterfell where the Stark family and their staff met him to welcome him as their guest. Cregan Stark welcomed him in thick clothes and furs with Ice in hand,

“My Lord Jacaerys Velaryon,” He bowed,

“My Lord Cregan Stark,” Jacaerys returned even if he felt the need to wrap his cloak around him to protect himself from the fluttering snow,

“We had expected you somewhat earlier?”

“Yes, forgive me. The flight from the eyrie was longer than I expected, and Vermax is not used to flight through snow-ladened clouds,”

“Understandable, but the hour is far late for business. We will meet tomorrow at first light to discuss matters,”

“Yes of course my lord,”

“If I may, introduce my sister, Y/n,”

Jacaerys attention turned to the woman beside Lord Cregan Stark,

Y/n giggled to herself slightly seeming to be rather fascinated by the man before her, she wore a gown of a deep grey with silver threat embroidery across the fabric, and she stood without furs, jackets and cloak to mention. Her hair allowed to flutter down with silver beads woven into her braided hair,

“My Lord Velaryon,” she curtsied almost low enough for her knees to reach the snow,

Jacaerys was taken back a moment, he found her beyond beautiful. Surprised such a beauty would be locked away so far north, he did his best to be gentlemanly even if his eyes were drawn to her bosom as her dress had a low neckline that exposed the top of her icy pale skin to the snow and of course his eyes. He tried not to think of her cleavage but he did his best not to gawk even if he wanted to see what lay beneath the silver-threaded gown.

“My lady Y/n, I must admit… your beauty is quite impressive, I have not known ladies in Westeros that can match your beauty I assure you,” He said with confidence,

“Why thank you My lord Velaryon, you are very sweet. I had heard tales of your handsomeness but I admit not of your kindness,” She smiled,

“Take care of our guest sweet sister,” Lord Cregan Stark told her before he and his men headed inside to avoid the snow, leaving the two alone in the courtyard,

“I imagine you must be weary after your long flight, would you like me to take you to the chambers you shall be staying in for your visit with us?”

“Indeed, it was a long trip.” I nodded, “I admit It was tiring, and I would love nothing more than for you to be my guide through this ancient place,”

“Of course,” she smiled offering her arm,

He happily took it and walked with her through the courtyard, “I think I’d be quite lost without you my lady Stark,”

“Snow actually,”

“Oh? Forgive me I-”

“It’s alright,” she smiled, “Cregan thinks of me as full kin even if it isn’t true,”

“I see, that’s very kind of him,”

“It is, Have you ever been so far north my lord Velaryon?”

“No, I have not ever been this far north my lady, but I have heard the tales, of the endless snow storms, the fierce winds, and the people being made of steel and ice. I am curious to see it with my own eyes in my time here,”

“I think it is true what they say,” She chuckled, “That northern men are built of ice and snow with a centre of steel. Often when Southern men come they tend to shiver,” she explained,

“Then when northmen come south do they melt?” He joked,

She laughed, “I do hope you enjoy your stay with us in Winterfell my lord Velaryon, I rather love it here, the cold stone, the harsh winds, the gentle snow. It sort of chills me in a way that… makes me feel alive,” She explained her eyes on the grey clouds that fluttered the snow upon them, “Forgive me-”

“No need my lady, I understand. The cold makes you feel at home,”

“Very much so,” she nodded,

“I admit it is not familiar to me,”

“I imagine not, I know Kings Landing is a place of sunshine, and I know Dragonstone has its deep volcanic warmth,” She explained as they headed inside the dark grey halls,

He nodded, “I barely recall days the sun didn’t shine in Kings Landing, but I was a child then.” he said, “But Dragonstone, the heat feels like home. The dark stone and volcanic tunnels warm the castle even if the sea winds can send chills across the narrow sea, and storms are abundant on Dragonstone sometimes they last for days.”

“I see,” she nodded, “You must learn to like the rain?”

“You have to learn to live in its mercy,” he nodded, “Have you ever been south my lady?”

“Once, My mother took me to Kings Landing once.”

“What did you think of it?”

“I found it… awfully warm, dirty, foul smelling, full of madness.” she said, “Forgive me, I should not speak of the capital as such. I know it is your birthplace, my lord, so… I suppose it must have some good if someone so sweet can call it their birthplace,”

“My lady, there is nothing to forgive. The city is as you described. I may have been born there, but Dragonstone has long felt like my home. And I admit those reasons are part of my distaste towards the capital.”

“I understand,” she nodded, “Here you are Lord Velaryon,” She opened up a door to a sweet chamber.

The chamber had grey walls and stone floors, a wooden bed to the side with many covers and furs, and a window to the other side with iron metal across the glass, the window looked out to the Winterfell god's words and the heart tree covered in snow, the window had a seat built into the stone to look out the window on, the floor had a fur rug by the bed, a large fireplace was central to the room with a pile of logs beside it, with a iron chandelier of candles above the room even if the place still seemed dark.

“This shall be your chamber while you visit us, I hope it is to your liking,”

“I must say, my lady, it is lovely.” He nodded, “It is nice to see the Starks have such pride in all rooms of their house and take such care of visitors,”

“Guests are seldom this far north, we must do our best to take care of them. I did make sure to fetch you some more furs and blankets myself, I imagine the cold will be striking to you these forest few days,”

“You are too kind Lady Y/n,” He nodded,

“I shall let you rest Lord Jacaerys,” she nodded back curtsying as low as before which one again took his attention to her chest, she went to the door but he felt compelled to speak,

“If- you do not mind lady Y/n, may I ask something of you?”

“Yes Lord Jacaerys?” she turned back to see him,

“... I uhh it is a bold question,”

She chuckled, “You’d be surprised how bold North men are. I’m sure your question shall not be too bold for me, ask away,”

“My lady, forgive me but… when you curtsy for me, in this dress you wear, tell me to my eyes deceive me?”

“Well, that depends on what you think your eyes have seen?”

“Your dress… it uhh it tends to reveal, much of you.” He explained, “Is this… deliberate?”

“Deliberate?” she chuckled,

“I can’t help but think perhaps you are being, deliberate. For my arrival?” he raised an eyebrow,

“Not exactly, one may call it a happy accident. I am merely used to spending time alone, and thus my gowns are made to accommodate my body and my preferences.” she explained, “Forgive me if I had offended you or upset you, I apologise I didn’t mean to,”

“I will admit my eyes were caught by such a beautiful sight, but I was not offended by it, my Lady Y/n. You are free to dress the way you wish this is your home, forgive me I meant no disrespect by calling your actions deliberate. I shall refrain from such thoughts and looks.”

“I'm glad you are not upset my lord. You need not refrain yourself I do not mind. Have a pleasant rest my lord Jacaerys,” She smiled before she left shutting the door as she went,

He can’t help but let her linger in his mind for longer than he should but he cleans himself up and takes to bed exhausted from his travels.

Part Two

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thyras · 8 days ago

Text

→ of the shadows

PAIRING → mairon | sauron x female!elf!reader

WORD COUNT → 7.3k words

SERIES → of sauron & the moriquendi

WARNINGS → mind manipulation, shape-shifting, morgoth loves playing with his food, arguments, lies, secrets, sauron reveal

SUMMARY → the shadow has come for mairon, and he will do anything to get him back into his clutches.

AUTHORS NOTE → welp mairon lovers i am so sorry but this is it for mairon, and then we'll get into the ROP story line. this was tough to write and to edit because I wanted change it so much but this is it I'm washing my hands of it lol enjoy guys, gals, and my nonbinary pals ❤️

PARTS → one // two // three // five

In the years that followed, joy blossomed in your heart, mirrored by the flourishing of Laureandor. The city grew in grandeur, its shimmering white towers reaching ever higher, its vibrant beauty drawing kin from across Beleriand. The songs of your people filled the air, and the harmony of life seemed woven into the very fabric of the land.

Your husband’s renown spread far and wide, his craftsmanship celebrated by elves across the land. His name carried with it reverence and admiration, and you could see the pride that glimmered in his eyes each time his work was praised. It was a pride tempered by joy, for he found his greatest contentment not in his fame, but in the life you had built together.

The light that radiated from him was otherworldly, a beacon that seemed to grow brighter with each passing day. In this life, he was truly happy—content not only with his craft and his accomplishments but with the bond you shared. Each night, he showed you just how much you meant to him, his gestures filled with tenderness and reverence. Even showing you in the very glades that had first drawn you together, under the canopy of stars and moonlight, where your love seemed to echo in the timeless harmony of the world. There, in the quiet beauty of those moments, the bond between you only deepened, as unyielding and eternal as the light that now shone from him.

On this day, you had just finished your lesson with the children by the water’s edge, their laughter and playful shouts fading into the woods as they raced back toward the city limits. The peaceful moment lingered briefly, the gentle ripples of the water reflecting the dappled sunlight. But then, from the corner of your eye, you saw him—a stranger emerging from the northern edge of the forest.

His hair was as dark as the deepest shadow, and his eyes, piercing and unrelenting, seemed to hold the weight of an abyss. A chill crept over your skin, the once-familiar warmth of the glade now feeling distant and hollow. Your heart quickened as unease settled deep in your chest.

Quickly, you gathered your belongings, clutching them tightly as you moved toward the forest’s edge, your steps measured but urgent. Every instinct within you screamed with alarm as the figure continued his approach, his presence carrying an unsettling weight that seemed to darken the very air around him.

“You are of this grand city?” he asked, his voice low and measured, carrying an eerie calm that sent ripples of unease through you. You turned away from him, shaking your head quickly, and took another step toward the woods, trying to put distance between yourself and the unsettling figure. But the shadow of his presence seemed to grow heavier, drawing closer as though it had a will of its own.

A soft chuckle escaped his lips, a sound that clashed unnervingly with the brightness of the glade. It sent another chill down your spine, the darkness of his being like a blot against the light. “You are not a very good liar, my lady,” he said, stepping closer still. His hand reached out as if to touch you, but you flinched back instinctively, your breath quickening.

“I forget myself,” he murmured, pulling his hand back with a ghost of a smile.

Your mouth refused to form a reply, the words caught in your throat as your eyes traced over his face. It was almost too perfect, too fair to belong to someone real. His features seemed carved from shadow and moonlight, and he stood tall, his commanding stance exuding an unnatural presence. He must be something in disguise, you thought, a being cloaked in a form meant to deceive.

The shadow of the Northern Realms.

“I am no deceiver,” he said smoothly, his voice cutting through the air like a blade, as though he had plucked the thought directly from your mind.

“Then why do you feel as such?” you managed, your voice steadier than you expected, though the unease within you remained.

“Because you have felt the touch of one,” he replied, his tone calm yet heavy with meaning. His hand lifted, reaching out toward you as if to cup your chin, but you instinctively moved away, the shadow of his words and presence tugging at the edges of your fëa. “Its dark web is deeply embedded in your being, a mark that cannot be hidden.”

You stepped back further, your heart pounding as his piercing gaze followed your every movement, unyielding and unnervingly knowing. Those eyes bore into you, sharp and calculating, like a predator assessing its prey. “It calls to me,” The being murmured, his voice low and chilling, “much like the light calls to you.” His presence loomed closer, his figure towering over you as his hand finally grasped your chin with an almost unnatural grace.

“You truly walk with her light,” he said, his gaze unwavering, “and her beauty.” His thumb, cold and unfeeling, brushed against your bottom lip, the sensation sending a shiver through you.

“But you have been deceived,” he continued, his tone soft but laced with dark certainty, “by the one they will call the Great Deceiver.” His words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating, as if they carried the weight of truth. You swallowed hard as his fingers moved with deliberate care, wrapping a strand of your hair around his finger as though it were a precious thread. His dark eyes locked onto yours, penetrating, as if they could peel back every layer of your thoughts and emotions. “You desire something,” he breathed, his voice so soft it felt like a whisper against your very soul. Tears welled in your eyes, unbidden and unstoppable, as if this being had summoned them from the depths of your heart.

A dark smile curled at his lips, sharp and cruel. “An act of creation,” he mused, his tone almost mocking. “So pure, much like Thingol and Melian. But that,” he continued, his voice dipping lower, “is not your destiny. Nor will you ever taste that pleasure.”

You stood frozen, paralyzed beneath his gaze, your body unable to respond to the storm raging within you. He leaned in, his movements slow and deliberate, and his cold lips pressed against your forehead. The touch sent a wave of heaviness through your limbs, and your eyes drooped as though under a spell.

Before you could resist or even understand, darkness took you, and your body collapsed into the soft glade, the world around you fading into nothingness.

When you awoke, the familiar comfort of your warm linen sheets surrounded you, cocooning you in a sense of security you hadn’t felt in what seemed like an eternity. Expecting to see Mairon’s familiar form beside you, your heart sank when your gaze fell instead upon Eärlindë, seated at your bedside, her face etched with concern. Across the room, Eäriel stood by the desk, her skilled hands deftly preparing another salve—no doubt for your recovery.

“Mother,” Eärlindë called softly, her voice tinged with relief as she noticed your eyes flutter open. She leaned forward, taking your hand gently in hers as though grounding you to the present. “Easy, Tintilmë,” she murmured, her tone soothing yet firm. “You are still weak.”

You tried to speak, but your throat was parched, your voice nothing more than a faint rasp. Frustration bubbled within you as your body refused to cooperate. You struggled to sit up, your mind grasping for words that refused to come.

Memories eluded you, slipping through your grasp like shadows cast over the corners of your mind. You had no recollection of where you had been for most of the day, nor how you had come to be here. The fragments of time that had been stolen from you left an aching void, a silent echo that had even taken your voice.

“We were all so worried,” Eärlindë said softly, her fingers cool and soothing as they brushed across your forehead, offering you a fleeting moment of calm amidst the storm of confusion. Her touch grounded you, but the questions swirling in your mind refused to settle.

“What happened? Where’s—” you began, your voice cracking, but Eäriel stepped forward now, moving to the edge of the bed. She sat down with an air of quiet authority, her hands deftly working to rub a salve onto your wrist, where a faint burn marked your skin.

“What is the last thing you remember?” she asked, her tone heavy with concern.

You shook your head slowly, frustration bubbling up as the shadows swirled over the fragmented pieces of your memory. “I think I was heading to the stream,” you said haltingly, tears slipping unbidden down your cheeks. “But I do not remember.” You clenched the sheets in your fists, overwhelmed by the emptiness in your mind. “Why do I not remember? Where’s Mairon—”

Eäriel placed a comforting hand on your shoulder, silencing your rising panic. “He is talking with the High Lords, but you need to rest,” she said gently, her voice firm as she stood once more.

“I want to know,” you insisted, your voice trembling with anger now. Their unwillingness to tell you only fanned the flames of your frustration. “I deserve to know.”

“Mother, she does have a right to know,” Eärlindë interjected, her eyes narrowing as she looked at Eäriel. There was a brief pause before Eäriel sighed deeply and turned back to you, her expression resigned.

“You never made it to your lessons that day,” she began, her voice steady but filled with a quiet gravity. “One of the parents enquired with Mairon, who then came to us and asked where you had gone.” You stared at her, fear creeping into your chest as her words sank in. “Over the course of four days, we searched for you,” Eäriel continued, “but Mairon kept searching on his own. On the sixth day, he found you.”

Her gaze flickered with something you couldn’t place—worry, perhaps, or even unease. “He would not say where or in what state you were when he brought you here. Only that if you awoke while he was gone, we were to tell you nothing.”

Her words struck you like a blow, leaving you reeling. “Why?” you whispered, your voice trembling. “Why would he not want me to know?”

“That is for him to tell you, child,” Eäriel said gently, her tone leaving no room for argument. “Now, get some rest. We will be downstairs.” She motioned to Eärlindë, who hesitated for a moment before obeying, her worried gaze lingering on you as she followed her mother out of the room.

Left alone, you sank back into the soft feathered pillows of your bed. Your mind ached, the unanswered questions swirling relentlessly, pulling at the edges of your thoughts. Yet exhaustion weighed heavily on you, and despite the turmoil in your heart, your body surrendered. Slowly, the world around you faded, and you slipped into the quiet embrace of dreams, the shadows of your lost memories hovering just out of reach.

Mairon opened the door to your shared room, his sharp eyes immediately falling upon your resting form. Relief washed over him as he saw that you were still asleep, your chest rising and falling steadily with each breath. His mortal body ached to hold you, to comfort you in his arms and shield you from the horrors that had touched you. But the fire of his godly nature simmered beneath the surface, craving a fight, an outlet for the fury coursing through him.

This had his master’s hand written all over it. The bitter taste of the darkness was unmistakable, clinging to the air, shrouding you like a heavy, malevolent blanket. It coiled around you, obscuring any trace of memory from the encounter, as if designed to torment Mairon with the unknown. His fists clenched at his sides, the restraint it took to keep from unleashing his anger palpable in the tense line of his frame.

The message was clear. Very clear, in fact. Whatever had once occupied Melkor’s attention was no longer of interest. That focus had shifted now, entirely, to him. This was a reminder—a cruel and deliberate act to show Mairon that his master’s desire to break him had not faded. It was a call to submission, laced with malice and intent.

Mairon’s jaw tightened, his gaze lingering on you as the rage burned hotter within him. But he forced himself to stay silent, to suppress the fire, knowing that the moment was not his to act but to protect. His resolve steeled, he moved quietly to your bedside, his presence casting a soft shadow over you as he watched, waiting for the storm to pass.

He reached out, his fingers brushing gently against your soft strands, tucking them away from your face. The simple touch grounded him, even as the storm within raged on. He relished the sight of you, so peaceful in your slumber, your expression untouched by the weight of the waking world.

Each time he watched you sleep, he wondered what dreams wove through your mind. He often imagined them—beautiful, vibrant, filled with the life you had built together. He found himself yearning for sleep, not out of weariness, but so that he might join you there, in that dreamscape you unknowingly shared.

In your dreams, you had a family—a place of laughter, warmth, and belonging. A perfect life, untouched by shadow, filled with the beauty you carried in your heart. It was a life he could never give you.

The thought pierced him deeply, even as he tried to bury it. He ached for it with every part of his being, a longing so profound it nearly overwhelmed him. Yet, he could not let himself hope for it, for he knew the weight of what he carried. Instead, he let the ache settle within him, his gaze soft as he watched you sleep, imagining for a moment that the dreams were real.

Even though they were only part of an intricately woven lie. A lie so convincing that even he had begun to believe it.

For the Great Deceiver had, in the end, deceived even himself.

Mairon sighed, his chest heavy with the weight of his fury and helplessness, and moved to take your hand. His fingers worked delicately as he uncovered the wrap on your wrist. The moment the mark was revealed, his anger surged, a fire burning deep within him. His fingers traced the darkened imprint, and a cold, sharp sensation shot up his arm, the darkness embedded there biting at his very being.

“I hold her in my clutches now, weakling,” his master’s voice slithered through the air, as if carried on an unseen wind. The mocking tone cut deep, and Mairon’s jaw clenched, his teeth grinding as he resisted the urge to lash out at the phantom presence.

“Your time is up,” the voice taunted, dark and dripping with malice. “And so will hers be, if you continue living in this little fantasy of yours.”

The words lingered like a poison, their weight pressing down on him as he stared at the mark, a cruel reminder of the power still looming over him. His hand tightened slightly around yours, as if trying to anchor himself—and you—to the fragile hope he still held onto.

He had to tell you. While Melkor had no access to his mind still, he had to tell you of how he wished no longer to serve underneath the cruel Vala, how he regretted being seduced into turning away. Just how twisted with hurt he was knowing Melkor would burn this whole city down before Mairon could live here peacefully.

Mairon’s thoughts were abruptly silenced as your body twitched slightly, and your eyes fluttered open. He moved quickly, neatly covering the mark on your wrist, burying all thoughts of his master deep within him where they could not reach you. Your fingers, soft yet tentative, reached up to touch his face, your touch grounding him in the moment. His own hand moved gently to cradle your wrist, his lips pressing a tender kiss against it, as if he could somehow erase the harm it had endured.

“Husband,” you breathed, your voice hoarse but filled with relief.

“My sweet wife,” he replied, his voice steady yet laced with affection. “How are you feeling?”

A delicate smile graced your lips, faint but radiant. “I am well now that you are here,” you murmured, your words filling the space between you with warmth. Mairon smiled in return, leaning down to brush a gentle kiss against your lips. The tenderness lingered even as he pulled away, but the peace was short-lived.

The questions began—the ones he knew would come. Questions that pierced through the fragile calm, ones he was not yet ready to answer truthfully.

How could he shatter the image you had of him? How could he tell you that he was far from the name he carried, when names meant everything to your people? To reveal the truth would risk destroying the bond you shared, and that was a weight he was not ready to bear. Not yet.

Over the following days, you felt the growing chasm between you and your husband, each vague answer he offered widening the divide. Though you could see it plainly in his eyes—he knew exactly what had happened—he refused to share it with you. The weight of that unspoken truth bore down on both of you. Yet, you did not press him further; each attempt to broach the topic only seemed to stoke his temper and leave him more restless than before.

He threw himself into his work, spending his days at the forge with unrelenting focus. The nights, once filled with quiet moments of companionship, were now empty. He would return long after the moon had climbed high, slipping into the room only to sit at his desk, where he scratched furiously at his growing pile of parchment. The soft glow of the candlelight illuminated his tense shoulders and furrowed brow, but never reached the bed where you waited.

The bed was always cold. And now, so was your heart.

The warmth you had once felt from the chain around your neck and the ring on your finger—symbols of the love he had pledged to you—now felt like iron shackles, binding you to a man who seemed to have locked his heart away. A man who no longer seemed to want you.

As you sat beneath the great tree where you had once pledged yourself to Mairon, your fingers turned the chain at your neck absently, your thoughts distant and heavy. You shifted your wrist into the moonlight, the faint mark there catching the pale glow. Some nights it seemed to fade, a dull ache lingering where it once burned fiercely. But on others, like tonight, it flared, pulsing with a fire that clawed at your resolve. A cool breeze brushed against your hair, bringing no solace as tears began to well in your eyes.

Everything felt so wrong now.

The shadows around you seemed alive, crawling across the ground, and the radiant glow you had once carried with pride seemed dimmed, dulled by the weight of grief and uncertainty. Was it the shadows themselves, or was it the grief? You could not tell, and the uncertainty gnawed at you.

“I hope I am not disturbing,” came a familiar voice from behind you. Startled, you turned to see Calandil approaching, his tall form illuminated softly in the moonlight. It had been many years since you last saw him—years that had carved new lines into both of your lives. Forgiveness was not easy, and with Calandil, it had felt like trying to mend an age-old wound. Yet, even as you wrestled with your feelings, you felt a flicker of something familiar, perhaps even comforting, at his presence.

“No,” you said softly, hastily wiping your tears away. “I just needed some air.”

Calandil nodded, his movements measured as he moved to sit beside you on the stone bench. The silence between you was heavy but not unwelcome, a shared quiet that seemed to acknowledge the weight both of you carried. You glanced at him, noticing the subtle weariness in his features—marks left by the battles he had fought in the North, where the shadow crept ever deeper into Beleriand with each passing day. Yet, there was a steadiness in him that you had not remembered, a calm amidst the turmoil.

And perhaps, in this moment, that steadiness was exactly what you needed.

“I heard what happened,” he said softly, his voice breaking the silence between you. “I wished to come at once—”

“Calandil,” you interrupted, his name slipping from your lips in almost a painful whisper.

“Y/n,” he replied, equally quiet, the usage of your birthname catching you by surprise. It had been so long since anyone had called you that, but the familiarity in his tone reassured you of his sincerity. He reached over, his hand moving to take yours in a gesture of comfort. But as the dark mark caught the moonlight, his eyes widened, his expression shifting from concern to alarm.

“Where did you get that?” he asked, his voice tinged with urgency. You instinctively tried to cover the mark with the sleeve of your robe, but his grip was firm as he gently but insistently pulled your wrist into the light.

“Tintilmë,” he murmured, his tone now grave, his eyes fixed on the mark. “This is no ordinary mark. When did you come into contact with a blade crafted by his hand?”

You stared at him, utterly perplexed. “What are you talking about?” you asked, your voice trembling slightly, unknowing of what he was even referring to. The confusion in your gaze only seemed to deepen his worry as he continued to study the mark, his expression darkening with every passing moment.

“Morgoth,” Calandil nearly snarled, his voice venomous. The name sent a shiver down your spine, as though some deeply buried part of you recognized its weight and darkness. Yet, the War had scarcely touched Laureandor, leaving you ignorant of its true meaning, shielded from its horrors.

You snatched your arm from his grasp, pulling the sleeve of your robe down to cover the mark once more. “Does he know?” he asked, pressing further.

“I do not know,” you replied curtly, your voice almost trembling with sorrow. “He does not entertain me anymore, too consumed with supplying you with his wondrous weapons, I assume.” He turned to face you fully, his expression severe, his piercing gaze rooting you in place.

“You need to leave here,” he breathed, his voice low but urgent. “Go far away from him.”

You looked up at Calandil, bewildered, your brow furrowing in confusion. “No,” you said sharply, standing abruptly and stepping away from him. “If this is a ploy to get me—”

Calandil silenced you with a raised hand, his frustration evident. “If he were truly the man he claimed to be, then he would not have lied to you,” he said with biting intensity. “He has deceived this city for centuries, and you most of all. He has blinded you, kept you ignorant for a reason.”

You stared at him, your expression shifting to suspicion and disbelief. Calandil’s hatred of Mairon was well known to you, but his open disdain felt unwarranted, uncalled for. “Tintilmë,” he said, his voice softer but still firm. “He is not the smith you think he is.”

Your fingers clutched at the skirts of your robes as you moved to leave, stopping briefly to glance back at him. “I thought we were behind this now, Calandil,” you said, your voice thick with hurt. “But I see you still envy him, still cling to your jealousy. He is who Eru destined for me, the one my fëa calls to. Can that not be enough for you?”

Calandil turned toward you, shaking his head in disbelief. ��No,” he said, his tone heavy with anger and sorrow. “Not when he has likely manipulated you into believing those things, slithering his way into your mind to pull at your sweet, innocent heart for his own ends.”

Tears spilled down your cheeks as his words struck a deep, aching chord within you. Without another word, you turned and fled down the stone steps, your robes billowing behind you as you ran. You needed to escape—escape the voices, the feelings, the turmoil that now stirred in your soul like a storm you could not quiet.

Mairon walked toward home after a long day at the forge, but his steps slowed and his sharp gaze became fixed on your retreating form as your velvet and silk robes billowed behind you, vanishing into the trees. His fists clenched tightly, his breath shallow as anger coursed through him like molten fire. He turned his attention to where you had come from, his eyes narrowing as they fell upon a lone figure sitting beneath the great tree.

Darkness crept up his fingertips, curling like smoke as his blood boiled. The very thought that someone had upset you so deeply ignited a rage within him that he could barely contain. Without hesitation, he started toward the figure, his movements deliberate and filled with purpose. Yet, as he drew nearer, a familiar unease washed over him. The tendrils of his master’s influence began to pull at him, wrapping around him like chains, dragging his thoughts into shadow.

His body tensed as the figure turned to face him. It was Calandil—or at least, it bore Calandil’s form. But the eyes… the eyes were not his. They gleamed with an unnatural light, dark and piercing, carrying the unmistakable presence of his master. Mairon’s steps faltered as his whole being screamed with dread, his instincts warning him of the danger that now stood before him.

“She’s beautiful, truly,” the figure said, the voice shifting, deepening, as Mairon moved closer. The tone was rich with mockery, the cadence of his master’s words unmistakable.

The form twisted subtly, Calandil’s features warping until the fair visage of Melkor stood before him, his presence radiating malice and authority. “That it brings me great joy,” his master continued, a cruel smile spreading across his face, “to taint that beauty.”

Mairon’s blood froze, the weight of his master’s words a brutal reminder of the shadow that threatened to consume everything he held dear. “Do you mock me?” Melkor asked, his voice sharp and venomous. “Do you mock our vision by falling for the spell of such a naive child?” The accusation lingered in the air, oppressive and suffocating. Mairon’s lips parted, but no words came. He did not know what to say, nor did he dare to speak lest his master’s wrath grow further.

“Speak!” Melkor roared, the sheer force of his voice reverberating through the courtyard. The sound sent a shudder through Mairon, his shoulders tensing as he flinched under the weight of that terrible command.

“No, master,” Mairon murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, as if the darkness itself sought to swallow the sound. He lowered his gaze, unwilling to meet the searing intensity of Melkor’s eyes.

Melkor began to circle him, his presence a black void that seemed to devour the very light around them. The soft silver glow of the great tree beside them faded, dimmed and consumed by the pull of his master’s malice. The air grew colder, heavier, as though the world itself recoiled from Melkor’s presence.

Mairon stood rigid, the fire within him warring against the oppressive weight of his master’s shadow, a battle he dared not reveal lest he be torn apart.

“You are a coward, Mairon,” Melkor hissed, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. Mairon turned his face away, shame and defiance battling within him, but his master’s iron grip seized his chin and wrenched it upward. Forced to meet the searing gaze, Mairon saw the fire burning in Melkor’s eyes, an unrelenting furnace of malice and power.

There was no escape. He had known it from the beginning, but still, the faint glimmer of rebellion had lingered in his heart. Now, faced with his master, it felt foolish—a fragile hope crushed under the weight of an undeniable truth. To stop serving Melkor was to cease existing, and that, Mairon knew, was not a mercy his master would grant him.

“You will know great pain, my pet,” Melkor snarled, his voice dripping with cruelty. Mairon’s throat tightened as he swallowed hard, trying to suppress the tremor that threatened to betray him.

“For my mark is unhealable,” Melkor continued, his words deliberate, designed to wound, “and she will slowly fade into nothingness as long as you stay by her side.”

The words struck like a blow, shattering the fragile defenses Mairon had built. His master’s hold on him remained unyielding, the weight of his threat suffocating. He could feel the cruel satisfaction radiating from Melkor, his delight in delivering such a crushing blow almost tangible. Mairon’s chest heaved as he fought to keep his composure, even as his master’s promise echoed relentlessly in his mind. “I will take great joy,” Melkor hissed, his voice dripping with malice, “in razing this place to the ground, forcing you to watch as the people you’ve served so diligently are wiped from existence. Their cries will be a symphony to my ears.”

He leaned closer, his grip tightening as his words became more venomous. “Then I will take even greater pleasure in knowing that you will never know love again. Only the cold, unrelenting embrace of the darkness that forged you—the darkness that made you strong, that made you loyal.”

Melkor’s smile was cruel, his eyes blazing with the fire of his wrath. “I made you, Mairon. You are mine, a creation of my will and my power. And I can unmake you just as swiftly.”

His words carried the weight of an undeniable truth, one meant to crush any flicker of rebellion or hope. The shadow of his intent loomed heavy, choking the air and leaving no doubt of the punishment he was capable of inflicting.

Mairon’s eyes burned as he fought back the tears that threatened to spill, yet a few escaped, tracing silent paths down his face. His spirit, once so unyielding, felt fractured, his heart shattered under the weight of his master’s cruelty. His mind wrestled with the torment of the choice now laid before him—a choice that would alter the very core of his being.

For centuries, he had labored in silence, trying to carve a path of repentance for the sins that haunted him. Just as he felt the glimmer of absolution within reach, the rug was torn from beneath his feet, plunging him back into the darkness. Yet, even in the suffocating grasp of despair, there was a light—you.

His entire fëa sang only for you, a melody that drowned out even the most tempting promises of dominion and power. No kingdom, no crafted dominion over the world, could ever compare to the feeling you gave him. Every fiber of his being, every thought and desire, was yours to mold and sculpt. He had no need for the grandiose visions of conquest his master offered; he had you.

You were his salvation, and he was yours. Bound by a love so profound it defied the shadow threatening to consume him. You were his light, and he was willing to risk everything to keep it from fading.

But to lose you would be his undoing. To ask you to fade slowly into one of Melkor’s grotesque forms, twisted and defiled beyond recognition, was unthinkable. It would be a betrayal of everything he cherished about you—your light, your kindness, your unwavering strength. He could not bear to imagine you living out the rest of your immortal days as a mere shadow of the splendor you were meant to embody.

He wished only to see you as you were now, in your radiant beauty—dancing in the glades with the children you so lovingly cared for, their laughter mingling with your own sweet, melodic joy. The sound of your voice warmed his heart in ways nothing else ever could, a reminder of the life he once dreamed of building with you.

If he were to love you forever, he would have to do so from the shadows. To protect you, he would need to retreat into the darkness once more, to covet you from afar. He would become the shadow that followed you, a specter of what might have been, blotting out his own light so that yours might endure. And in doing so, he would sacrifice what little happiness remained in his fractured existence.

“So, Mairon, what is your decision?” Melkor’s voice broke through the storm of his thoughts, cold and unrelenting. Mairon’s gaze lifted, meeting the dark, consuming eyes of his master. His chest tightened as the weight of the question bore down on him.

You turned at the sound of footsteps and saw your husband approaching, his stride slow, his expression burdened with an almost sorrowful weight. A gentle smile played on his lips as he came closer, his eyes momentarily softening when he realized where you were sitting—the very place where you had first met. You hastily wiped your tears, forcing a soft smile in return as you began to stand, but Mairon motioned for you to stay. He lowered himself beside you, pulling you gently into his arms.

His touch was familiar, but he felt colder than usual. The warmth that had always radiated from him, so steady and comforting, now seemed extinguished. You tilted your head up to look at him, studying his face. He seemed distant, his gaze unfocused, as though a great weight pressed on him, something he couldn’t yet bring himself to share.

“You can tell me,” you said softly, your voice filled with encouragement. His eyes flicked to yours, but the light that once shone there was absent, replaced by a cold shadow that sent a shiver through you. Your fëa ached at the sight, a wound that cut deeper than you could bear.

“Time will mend what is meant to be mended,” you said gently, your hand reaching up to rest against his cheek. “And what cannot be mended, we will endure together.” Your touch was light, tender, but he flinched away from it, and the rejection stung.

“You told me that, my sweet Mairon,” you reminded him softly, your voice tinged with a quiet desperation.

“Please, stop calling me that,” he finally said, his voice breaking as he spoke. His words hit you like a blow, and you sat up straighter, your heart twisting painfully in your chest. “Nothing will mend what I have done,” he said harshly, his eyes meeting yours with a dangerous intensity. The green of his gaze, once so vibrant and alive, was darkened now, almost unrecognizable.

“Mairon,” you whispered, your voice trembling as tears welled in your eyes. “What have I done to hurt you so?” Your words were soft, almost a whimper, laced with a sorrow you couldn’t hide.

But he didn’t answer. Instead, he moved to stand abruptly, stepping away from you as though your presence had become unbearable. Tears spilled silently down your cheeks as you sat there, your heart breaking at the growing chasm between you. “Please, husband, tell me,” you pleaded, your voice trembling with emotion. “I want to fix whatever I’ve done wrong. I need us to go back to—”

“You stupid, naive girl,” he snarled, his voice sharp and venomous as he whirled to face you. The words struck like a physical blow, and you reeled back, your breath catching in your throat. Mairon had never spoken to you like this, never raised his voice or degraded you. The man before you seemed like a stranger, a cold shadow of the one you loved.

“You really cannot see past your love-lorn looks and your childish view of love, can you?” he spat, his words dripping with disdain.

Tears welled in your eyes as you whispered, “You’re scaring me, Mairon.”

“Good,” he roared, his voice echoing with a fury that made you flinch. “I should.”

His words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating, leaving you frozen in place as the man you thought you knew unraveled before you. The warmth and tenderness that had once defined him seemed a distant memory, replaced by an anger that burned fiercely, threatening to consume you both. Gently, you took his hands in yours, your touch soft and steady, but he pulled them away with a sharp motion. “You are my husband,” you said firmly, your voice unwavering. “And I promised to love every inch of you, even those darker parts.”

He looked at you then, his expression unreadable, before a dark, humorless laugh escaped him. It was a sound that sent a shiver down your spine, so foreign and cold. “If only you knew what that meant, little one,” he said, his words cutting and bitter. “If only you knew what that truly entailed, you would have never agreed.”

“Try me,” you whispered, the words trembling yet resolute. Something shifted in him then, a visible change that made your breath hitch. The faint light within him seemed to flicker and vanish entirely, as though the night had descended and swallowed the last remnants of day. His gaze grew darker, deeper, like a well without a bottom.

“Tell me everything,” you urged softly. “Tell me who you are.”

A smile twisted onto his lips, a haunting expression that was both wistful and wicked, carrying a darkness that even the moonlight could not pierce. “I have walked this land,” he began, his voice taking on a chilling calmness, “since before you rose from the earth. Kept a watchful eye on your kind,” he continued, stepping closer, his presence overwhelming as his fingers moved to cup your chin. His dark eyes bored into yours, their pull undeniable, like a black hole drawing in every thought and emotion. “Reported back when needed, sowed seeds where I needed to, and stood ever mindful that one day I would hold dominion over this land.”

You swallowed hard, the weight of his words pressing down on your chest. “I once was Aulë’s greatest smith,” he said, his voice laced with bitter pride. “His most trusted confidant. Then I was shown a different path. One of order and purpose. One of darkness.”

You tried to pull away from his grasp, desperate to distance yourself from the truth unraveling before you. But even as you tried, the sweet, haunting melody deep within your soul called out to him at just his touch, binding you to him in ways you could not escape.

“Mairon,” you breathed, his name a pained whisper, as though speaking it might shatter the fragile connection between you.

“I am not the admirable man you think you married,” he said, his voice cracking under the weight of the confession. “I am—”

“You’re a shadow of the northern realm,” you interrupted, your voice trembling, your tears spilling freely as you uttered the words you had dreaded. “A servant of the Great Foe. You’re—Sauron.”

His eyes flickered, a momentary flash of something vulnerable and raw. He was stunned, not by your knowledge, but by the sound of his name spoken from your lips. It made his skin crawl, as though it defiled the love he still carried for you. That name was never meant for you, never meant to taint your light.

“You may have brought hurt to my kin,” you whimpered, your voice soft and trembling, “but I still love you.” The words came out as a desperate plea. “These centuries have been nothing but happiness, full of light. That light has always been there. You can walk away, Mairon. We can—”

“I cannot!” he yelled, the sound like a thunderclap, his voice a terrifying crescendo that made you flinch. His emerald eyes burned with an unrelenting fire, and his once angelic voice deepened into something monstrous, reverberating with a power that shook you to your core.

“He will not let me,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, trembling tone as tears glimmered in his eyes. “He has made that impossible now.”

The sorrow in his words, the sheer weight of his anguish, made your heart ache. “Then we will endure this together,” you repeated his words, your voice steady despite the ache in your chest.

“We cannot,” he replied, his tone more composed now, though sorrow still weighed heavily upon it. His hand moved to touch the darkening mark on your arm, his fingers lingering as though trying to will it away. “He has marked you—his final torment, the only way he knew to make me relinquish my light. If I were to stay, you would fade away into the darkness.”

Mairon’s hand moved to your cheek, his touch tender as his emerald eyes searched yours. “I cannot have that on my conscience. When Eru created me, he was too kind, gifting me such an accepting and gentle being to love. I do not know if it was out of mockery, but I can never taint what is so pure, Mori.”

You couldn’t bear his words, couldn’t let them tear this moment away. Urgently, you pulled him closer, pressing your lips to his, your arms wrapping tightly around his neck. He responded instinctively, his arms circling around you, holding you as if he feared letting go would break him entirely.

“Taint me,” you whispered fervently against his lips, your fingers caressing his soft, gentle skin. “Love me, even with your darkness, Mairon. There is no part of you I could not love. I was sung into being for you,” you cried, your voice trembling with emotion. “No matter what or who you will be, you are still my sweet, admirable, and gentle Mairon.”

He sighed, his breath warm as he rested his forehead against yours. “You are too good for me,” he murmured, his voice heavy with longing and guilt. “Too pure, too innocent.”

You giggled softly as he kissed your nose, playful and sweet, just as he always had. For a brief moment, the man you knew returned, and your heart soared. But his eyes darkened again with the weight of his decision. “If I am to love you, I must do it from afar. Because I could never live with myself if I took away your beauty and your light.”

“Mairon—” you began, desperation lacing your tone.

“I have to,” he interrupted gently but firmly. He pulled back, his hands trembling slightly as he removed the chain from around his neck. Carefully, he draped it around yours, the weight of the gesture filling the space between you with unspoken emotion.

“No matter the horrible, wretched things I will do,” he said, his voice steady but thick with pain, “you will be my light. My redemption. And in this jewel, I vow that one day, when all of this is over, it will be us. Just us. And I will give you the world, my beautiful Moriquendi.”

His words hung in the air like a promise, both fragile and eternal. You could feel the depth of his love, the impossibility of his struggle, and the inevitability of his choice. Your tears mingled with his as you clutched the chain, knowing that this moment, as painful as it was, held the weight of forever.

Mairon leaned in once more, his lips finding yours in a kiss that was achingly gentle, yet heavy with the longing for a day that might never come. It was a kiss that held all the love he could not put into words, all the promises he dared not speak aloud.

When he pulled back, his voice was soft, almost breaking as he spoke his parting words. “I love you,” he breathed against your lips, the warmth of his words lingering as his touch faded, leaving only a whisper of shadow behind.

“I love you too, my shadow,”

#sauron x reader #mairon x reader #trop fic #sauron #mairon #the rings of power #rings of power fic

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