#not every dragon in there is under her control but all the dragons of her flock stay there so it's the area where dragon raids happen

[abyssal-ilk]

i have mixed feelings overall about the dialogue between vivienne and cole, mainly because cole's prodding at her (and all of the other companions, really) feels so invasive and there is nothing we can do to get him to actually stop, BUT.

i cannot get over this piece of banter. it's forever living in my head

[sk-yay-sk]

I don't like any of the maps I've seen for HTTYD so i'm playing a puzzle game w all the locations. This is the 3rd version so far

[royalreef]

       Meanwhile, she is still waiting for some dashing knight to come by, her true love, to sweep her off her feet and take her away and save her!! To go someplace far, far away where she can live happily forevermore! Someone has to still be holding out for a hero, and Miranda is all too happy to fit that bill.

[evanhereonearth]

Solas, outnumbered seven to one, overpowered by a lot more than that, betrayed by his best friend Mythal who bound him to her service and coerced him into leaving the Fade and coerced him into making a weapon that would make an entire people tranquil to stop the war she started AND ignored him when he said it would create *checks notes* a blight and made him do it anyway. Solas, facing seven blighted wannabe gods who turned on his best abusive friend Mythal when she finally stood up to them after CENTURIES of him begging her to do just that and starting a rebellion to free all their multitudes of slaves: *creates the veil, imprisons the blight and the Evanuris, and preserves all life in Thedas* World: FUCK THE DREAD WOLF, GOD OF TREACHERY AND LIES *worships the Evanuris and their dragon thralls*

Solas: zzzzzzzzzz (knocked out cold from saving the world for LITERALLY SEVERAL MILLENNIA MORE)

Tevinter: *razes what's left of Elvhenan, steals all their magic, enslaves the elven people for entire length of Solas's world-saving-induced coma*

Also Tevinter: *breaks into the fucking black city and brings out the blight*

Also also Tevinter: *uses so much blood magic that the veil ends up in tatters*

The Blight: >:)

World: fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck *throws everything they can at the blight, including--*checks notes again*--the blight

Orlais: you know what sucks? elves. let's kill them all

Ferelden: good shout, mes amis

Orlais: you know what also sucks? mages. put them in prisons.

Ferelden: you're full of good ideas when you're not invading us

Free Marches: MAGE PRISON, YOU SAY?

Orlais: add templars who can decide to murder them or make them tranquil on a whim at any moment

Ferelden and Free Marches: *frantically taking notes*

Rivain and Nevarra: we're just going to be...over here...

Blights 1-5: i've got a great idea i've got a great idea

Blights 1-5 after a while: my great idea didn't work :(

Archdemons 1-5: ....... :(

Evanuris 1-5: ......... :(

Solas, waking up in 9:40ish Dragon: what the...WHAT THE EVERLOVING FUCKING FUCK. they can just KILL MAGE CHILDREN? AND PURGE ALIENAGES? AND ALMOST EVERY ELF IN TEVINTER IS A SLAVE? *absolutely rabid, seeks out the Dalish, as remnants of his people*

The Dalish, at Solas: *ARROWS*

Solas: ......fuck this shit, fuck all of this shit, fuck these tyrants in particular, fuck this fucking...UGH

The veil, after all this: (o.O:0oO.)

The remaining blighted Evanuris and the 99% of blight that did not escape: :)

Solas: well, that is a problem, going to need to address that ASAP, but turns out millennia of coma doesn't leave a spirit spry

Corypheus, busting out of warden jail: I AM FREE

Solas: hm, could kill that guy letting him unlock my orb, since he broke into my blight prison in the first place and defo deserves dying

Corypheus: veil needs a certain je ne sais quoi, a...bigger hole. i will make one.

Wardens: yes, good plan, blighted magister man. we are in control of the blight inside us and also heroes *in death, sacrifice = divine justinia's ritual sacrifice under thrall*

The veil:

O

Corypheus: >:( but like...not dead

Solas: well, i did not see that coming

Lavellan: *in chains, threatened with execution*

humans: KNIFE EAR >:(

Lavellan: *hole in the sky, hole in her memories, hole in her fucking hand* fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck, wait, this hole in my hand helps close holes in the SKY

Solas: *.* It seems you hold the key to our salvation

Lavellan: i'm sorry what

humans: HERALD OF ANDRASTE!!!!!!!! *falls to knees*

Lavellan: I'M SORRY WHAT

Chantry: *choking in the corner*

Cassandra: time for you to decide the fate of the world

Lavellan: I'M. SORRY. WHAT???????? you know what? fine. *stops alexius from blood magicking his way through redcliffe and time itself, gets punted into a hellscape of nightmares and makes it back with the help of a rebel tevinter mage* the mages i rescued from becoming probable slaves to tevinter are our allies and dorian is my new best friend for being the only reason i made it back alive and the whole world didn't die *dabs*

Cassandra: >:(

Mother Giselle: >:(

Lavellan: ffs

Corypheus: *dragon temper tantrum*

Lavellan: *somehow escapes both dragon and Corypheus, trudges through blizzard, collapses*

Mother Giselle: *.* I FEEL A SONG COMING ON

Literally everyone but Solas: *falls to their knees*

Solas: a word?

Lavellan: OH THANK HEAVENS

Solas: these people are wack and aren't going to like that Corypheus is using elven magic *cough*, they're a hairsbreadth from executing us at all moments lol, btw here's a castle, you know, for you cos i highkey see myself in you and god i'm so fucking lonely

Lavellan: me too but wait, what the fuck is happening. you know what? fuck it. solas, what if we kissed,,, in the fade

Solas: what IF we kissed,,, in the fade *fade tongue*

Solas: ...you continue to surprise me. you show a wisdom i have not seen...since my deepest journeys into the fade!

Lavellan: don't you dare walk away from me now

Solas: okay vhenan i stay

Vivienne: this is a DEMON and NOT A PET

Lavellan: *blinks* right, no, this spirit kid who is the literal only reason we escaped Haven alive is my son now. if he hadn't read roderick's mind we'd all be avalanched or blighted dragoned, so SUCK IT UP

Vivienne: >:(

Cassandra: >:(

Sera: >:(

Bull: >:(

Varric: >:(

Solas: :D

Wardens: btw we're doing blood magic and raising an army of demons. not really our fault but also not NOT our fault? idk, blight in the blood, morally grey area. get it? grey...war--never mind, we'll be at adamant xoxo

Cullen: lotsa soldiers gonna die

Lavellan: fuck, is there another choice?

Advisors: ...no

Cory's dragon: *burninating the adamant, burninating the wardens, burninating all the people and this crumbling ROCKY BRIIIIIIDGE! CRUMBLING ROCKY BRIDGEEEEE*

Lavellan, flying through the air hundreds of feet towards the ground: fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck *opens a rift into the fade*

Everyone but Solas: FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK WE'RE IN THE FADE

Solas: we're in the FADE!!!!!

Lavellan, after escaping the nightmare's lair: glad half the team is pissed at me, what's next, an imperial ball? how hard can that be?

Orlesians: they invited an ELF SAVAGE >:(

Lavellan: you know what, fuck this and fuck Celene for genociding the entire Halamshiral alienage and fuck you, Gaspard, you can be Briala's little French Orlesian bulldog

Half the Inquisition: *shocked pikachu*

Morrigan: allow me to shemsplain all of elven history to everyone, including Solas, yourself, and all the ancient elves in this temple

Lavellan: you know what? okay. *rubs at Mythal's vallaslin, makes eyes real big* who is this "Mythal"

Solas: *choking in the corner*

Cassandra, muttering: i do not want to do a ritual to a false god

Morrigan: lemme have the well, lemme have it, i deserve it more than you

Lavellan: ...abso-fucking-lutely not *drinks from the well out of pure spite*

Solas: WHAT HAVE YOU DONE, VHENAN

Lavellan: idk vhenan, this world sucks and i wanna make it better and i love you

Solas: ...you are everything and you inspire me, hurry, i need to tell you i'm the dread wolf but am going to break up with you and remove your slave markings instead and btw they're basically a drawing of me in my true form and honestly, this whole thing is real fucked up and you're the only real person in my entire life who sees me

Lavellan: wait what

Solas: i'm bad and don't deserve you and had to harden my heart to save the world before and everyone hated me for it so i'm projecting when i say you must harden your heart to a cutting edge to kill Corypheus, I'll explain after we kill him

Lavellan: ...oh yeah guess we should do that but I gotta go meet Mythal first

Solas: wait what

Mythal: *is Morrigan's mum, is only mostly dead, also 100% cool with overriding her servants' will entirely for shits and giggles, 0/10 do not trust* i'll help you if you fight this dragon lol

Morrigan: *choking in the corner*

Corypheus: *has a mahoosive temper tantrum when Mythal's pet dragon kills his pet dragon, dies*

Solas: ;-; ilu, inky, what we had was real but i'm afraid to do to you what Mythal did to me. I MUST AWAY

Lavellan: ....

World: HERALD OF ANDRASTE!!!!!!!!!!!!*

*some restrictions may apply, like in a couple years we're going to forget everything you did and be real mad at you

Solas, somewhere: been there, vhenan

World, two years later: :D we're here to hate you, right on schedule

Qunari: you are in need of the gentle path. therefore, we are coming to kill you all

Solas: like hell you will. but come to think of it, this is a good excuse to see vhenan again

Lavellan's arm: TIME TO DIE

Solas: defo another good excuse to see vhenan again. probs should study that arm anyway

Lavellan, after several Qunari too many: CAN ANYTHING IN THIS FUCKING WORLD STAY FIXED

Inquisition, including Divine Victoria: *shocked pikachu*

Lavellan: i'm going back through the fucking looking glass to talk to some ancient elven sentinels with Mythal's magic whisper well, they're the only fucking thing that makes sense here

Qunari: *destroying everything in sight but getting hounded by the dread wolf at every step*

Lavellan, whose arm is trying to kill her but is following Qunari through her own people's magic mirror world: ...i think i'm in love with the dread wolf

Companions: pfffffft

Cole: :D YES, YOU ARE AND HE LOVES YOU TOO

Lavellan: thank god i have you, cole, my spirit son

Solas, in a statuary garden of petrified Qunari: i suspect you have questions

Lavellan: honestly, fen'harel, not really

Solas: *shocked pikachu* well done

Lavellan: i'm real tired and you could have just trusted me back in Crestwood.

Solas: this world is broken, i must tear down the veil

Lavellan: yep, i'm one "knife ear" away from putting a knife in the next human's ear who says it tbh, i'd rather live in the fade with you and my spirit son, can i help you pls vhenan

Solas: ...no

Lavellan: wtf

Solas, internally panicking because he followed Mythal wherever she went and she dragged him to literal hell and trauma and now his one true love is offering to follow him while he probably makes things worse again: absolutely not, no, but i love you forever

Lavellan's arm: >:(

Solas: ...right, i gotta take that

Lavellan: wait what

Solas: i will never forget you *trundles through mirror with severed arm*

Lavellan: oh fuck my entire life, you know what, Ferelden and Orlais? Inquisition is no more, i'm going on sabbatical to Stone Bear Hold where at least people are not insane and Storvacker loves me, and then i'm going home to the castle vhenan gave me. don't call me. byeeee

ten years later

Varric: gonna go stop Solas, who invented the veil and is From Fade, from doing things i don't understand, wish me luck, inky

Lavellan: WAIT ONE GODDAMNED SECOND I'M COMING WITH YOU

Varric: no <3 i found a complete rando who will fuck everything up

Rook: hey, what if i drop a statue on this nuclear arsenal protecting the biggest biological weapon of mass destruction known to all of thedas? that'll help

Neve, a literal mage who should know even small rituals can blow up and kill you: probs not a good idea but Varric, a dwarf who knows nothing about magic or the veil or the Fade whatsoever says this ritual must be stopped At All Costs By Any Means Necessary so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Varric: Solas I will shoot you with Bianca

Solas: ffs stop *breaks Bianca*

Varric: can you promise me your way is better

Solas: i know way better than to make promises like that, have you seen this world???

Varric: GOTCHA, YOU LYING LIAR WHO LIES

Rook: TIIIIIIIIIIIIIMBERRRRRRR

Varric: defo going to attack the guy whose millennia of existence has been centred on this massive magical problem i do not even comprehend a little after waiting ten years to ask a single question about it when he'd already got going *tries to stab Solas*

Solas, feeling everything he's spent all of world history protecting the world from breaking out of jail: turns the dagger and stabs Varric instead

Elgar'nan: >:)

Ghilan'nain: >:)

Solas: oh for fucking FUCK'S SA--*exit, stage Fade Jail*

Blight: >:)

Rook: oops

Neve and Harding: omg this could not possibly be our fault at all, not even a little. it's Solas's fault, the lying liar who lies

Lavellan: i will not murder this stupid child, i will not murder this stupid child, i will not murder this stupid child

Morrigan: we have to help the stupid child

Lavellan: we have to help the stupid child

Morrigan and Lavellan: *look at each other*

Lavellan: when this is over, i stg--

Morrigan, who has millennia of memories of Mythal abusing Solas and decades of Flemythal abusing her: yeah no i will throw you a going away party and take care of Dorian for you and help you get your boyfriend back and no way will i fight him, this is actually ridiculous

Ferelden, Orlais, and the Free Marches, all of whom turned on Lavellan ten years ago: hELP help HELP there's BLIIIIIGHT

Lavellan to Leliana: you owe me a hundred gold

Leliana: *hands over a solid gold nug*

Ferelden: X_X

Orlais: X_X

Free Marches: X_X

Lavellan: *grits teeth* i better go meet with rook

Rook: andaran atish'an, honoured inquisitor

Lavellan: yo. sure would be nice to be meeting without our gods, you know, destroying absolutely everything i've spent a quarter of my life protecting and rebuilding after the last apocalypse but here we are i guess

Morrigan: *smirks at shade*

Northern Thedas: ROOK IS THE BEST

Southern Thedas: is rook tho

Ghilan'nain: muahahaha i have so many drago---nooo you killed my dragons and i am BLEEDING LIKE A MORTAL PIECE OF MORTAL SCUM

Elgar'nan: my dragon used to be bigger :(

Ghilan'nain: your dragon's fine

Elgar'nan: Ghilly, make it bigger again

Ghilan'nain: can't, too sad. blood. :(

Southern Thedas: *throwing nugs at blight* hELP

Lavellan, with half of Southern Thedas crammed into skyhold: thanks for the castle, vhenan, we'd all literally be dead without it, again

Morrigan: erm, Inky? seems everyone's telling Rook Solas is just a big monster lying liar who lies and blaming him for everything

Lavellan: that's what people do, blame Solas. had a bad day? blame Solas. Mythal wants to sever the titans' dreams? Blame Solas. Rashvine nettle sting? Blame Solas. Bring the veil 5/7 or so of the way down themselves after releasing the blight? Blame Solas. Rook let the gods out? Blame Solas

Morrigan: Inky.

Lavellan: you want me to go pour out my heart to the person who imprisoned vhenan and let out Ghilan'nain, Mother of Tentacles, and Elgar'nan "My Dragon is Bigger than Your Dragon" First and Worst of the Evanuris, don't you

Morrigan: yee

Lavellan: FINE but you better spill every ounce of tea you've got on the stupid child before i go because i need to at least make rook squirm a LITTLE

Morrigan: i thought you'd never ask

Elgar'nan: you won't make my dragon bigger??? fine i'll move the moon instead

Northern Thedas: i'm sorry what

Anyone at sea anywhere on the planet: I'M SORRY WHAT

Ghilan'nain: *throws a temper tantrum and dies*

Elgar'nan: >:(

Solas: fuck this shit, i'm getting out of Fade Jail

Rook: :(

Minrathous: fuck fuck fuck FUCK fuck fuck fuck FUCK FUCK FUCK

Solas: hello, people who enslaved my people for millennia, i am here to save the day i guess

Minrathous, slapping blight tentacles out of their faces: ...honestly thank you

Solas: wait what

Rook: I ESCAPE FADE JAIL SOLAS YOU BASTARD LYING LIAR WHO LIES

Lavellan: i will not murder the stupid child, i will not murder the stupid child, i will not murder the stupid child

Solas: you know what, fair play, here's the dagger, there's elgar'nan, ima bite his dragon, you go have a great time. have fun storming the blight tentacle

Venatori, poster children for the Leopards Who Eat People's Faces Party: nooo the leopards keep eating our faces

Minrathous: wow who could have possibly predicted that

Everyone who has ever met a Venatori: yes, yes, very sad

Elgar'nan, eating every face in the magesterium and effectively cleansing Tevinter of the worst of its monsters in one fell swoop: ah, rook, you can't kill me, i have the biggest dragon ever to dragon

Dread Wolf: honestly he's kinda not wrong, this dragon is a bastard and i am like a fifth of its size and getting p tired, ngl

Rook's Blighted Companion: welp gonnae put this trauma to use for the greater good. go go gadget blight tentacles, release the Dread Pupper

Elgar'nan: *shocked pikachu*

Dread Wolf: *chomp*

Elgar'nan: *throws a temper tantrum and dies*

Solas: oh ffs finally

Rook: not so fast

Solas: oh ffs here we fucking go

Rook: i don't actually want to fight you

Solas: wait, what

Rook: i think this is all my fault but everyone keeps telling me i'm the hero and that's fucked up. and your vhenan, she's nice to me, no one really else is, i'm just everybody's apocalypse therapist, and i even kinda like you tbh, my whole team basically does fun stuff without me and doesn't even invite me to book club and emmrich's the only one who asks me about my feelings instead of just asking me to do stuff for them, and anyway, i'm going to trust the inquisitor here because i'm honestly starved for connection and she thinks you're worth saving so can we talk i don't wanna fight

Solas: what

Lavellan, out of sight, reliving the litany of "i will not murder this stupid child": oh haha awkward

Solas: look,,, i've been bound to the service of an ancient elvhen god for millennia and everything i do, whether i know it or not, is for her, so i can't do what you want and this sucks

Lavellan: even if i'm here, walking the din'an shiral with you?

Solas: ...vhenan

Lavellan: ;_;

Solas: ;_; ...I cannot

Morrigan: yo dread wolf, my mum's a piece of work and i have all her memories and everything she did to you was fuuuuuuuuucked up, anyway, over to her, honestly not pissed you killed that part of her btw, she reeeeally fucked you up, but rook somehow managed to talk her out of her essence, so that's impressive

Solas: what

Mythal: yeah i kinda tore you out of your home and twisted you from your purpose and made you do murder and worse for me for millennia and said i wanted your wisdom and then never ever listened to you ever and just dragged you through every atrocity i created and perpetuated

Solas: it hurts and i guess you're going to kill me now so here's the dagger ;_;

Mythal: it's still mostly your fault but i was there too i guess, anyway, i release you from my service, which i could have done at any point in the past several millennia but instead I tortured you endlessly, lol god of retribution, that's me. k bye

Solas: what the fucking fuck

Lavellan: right there with you, like literally forever, our love is a miracle and the only thing i can even cope with

Solas: yeah honestly fuck this shit, i'm out, i will put myself in fade jail

Lavellan: you are not going by yourself i stg take me with you i wanna go home

Solas: ...home is a literal prison now

Lavellan: sealed away from all this shit? from getting blamed for everything we do no matter how much we sacrifice? if it's you and me there together, i don't care if it's a grey box full of darkspawn

Solas: there's no darkspa--

Lavellan: ffs i said i want to go, you don't have to sell me on it. you're the only person in this world who Gets It. we go on together, forever.

Solas: *.* my wife

Lavellan: *.* my wolf

Northern Thedas: and rook saved the world from the dread wolf, who was a lying liar who lies

Southern Thedas: *busy being dead and blighted*

Lavellan: yeah, fuck this shit, we're out

You can now download this shitpost in beautifully formatted PDF, courtesy of @amburuthings. Thank u for your service *salutes*

You all have had me howling with the tags on reblogs, thank you, I am absolutely dying in deadline hell and needed that

[dragonbarbie]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐌 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆

aemond targaryen x baratheon!reader

rating: 18+, minors dni

summary: aemond targaryen is tasked with bringing the stormlands to his brother's side. but when he arrives he finds the new regent, old lord Borros' young widow, isn't as pliant as he had anticipated. he finds himself drawn to the poised, commanding lady of storm's end, much to his horror. but he refuses to leave without bringing this storm to heel

word count: 12 k (ye gotta suffer for ye smut what can i say)

tags: mentions of past forced/arranged marriage, reader is a member of a minor baratheon branch and is Borros' widow but no other traits are described, smut, handjob, choking kink, fingering, p in v sex, hate sex, creampie, cowgirl, mention of moontea, hints of dom!aemond? or hes just being a control freak i mean the line is very thin [lmk if i missed something]

sidenote: this was such a fun one shot to write, i was writing aemond after so long i think i got a bit carried away hytftgyhuijo do comment/ask and lmk if you'd like this as a series cause i might just have ideas for that

The hall of Storm’s End was cold, the stone walls rising around you as you watched the storm raging outside through the window, expecting to see your guest arrive at the dreary scene any minute. The screech of a dragon approaching managed to reach you, louder even than the sound of thunder. You did not wait to catch a glimpse of the creature for yourself, instead your black gown swept as you made your way to your late husband’s seat, the dark fabric pooling around your feet as you sat, spilling over the stone like a dark tide.

The unmistakable roar of Vhagar’s wings heralded Aemond Targaryen’s arrival, accompanied by a loud ‘thump’ of what you imagined was the ground straining under the beasts feet, to signal just how close to your home the dragon had landed. The dragon’s arrival even rattled the windows, a reminder of the power the prince carried with him—power you knew he intended to wield like a blade. Your jaw tightened for a brief moment. Vhagar’s presence wasn’t just a spectacle, a grand display of power and might; it was a threat.

Your lips curled ever so slightly in distaste. The prince’s arrival on the back of a dragon, no less the largest alive, was nothing less than a veiled threat. He wanted you to know the might of the greens, to feel the heat of dragonfire on your doorstep.

You stretched out your hands and placed them on the arms of the stone seat, chin up, back straight; determined, to be seen as a commanding presence. You wore no crown, but you would impress that this was your land. Your posture must reflect as if you were carved from the same storm-hardened stone that made the keep, a Baratheon through and through, even if from a lesser branch of the family.

 You belonged here, not merely as the old lord’s widow and the new one’s mother, but by your own right too – you had to hold onto that as the gates to the hall were flung open after a few minutes of anticipation.

In he stepped—Aemond One-Eye, cloaked in Targaryen arrogance, his long strides purposeful, each movement precise, till he reached the middle of the hall. His single eye fell upon you immediately, his gaze sharp and assessing, like a man who expected you to yield at the first word. You did not move.

After a few seconds, he continued his steps once more and you let him approach, watched him close the distance until he stood before you. Then, with all the decorum expected of his blood, he bent low and kissed your hand. “My lady Baratheon.” His voice sounded as cold as his hand felt against yours.

“Prince Aemond,” you said, your voice as smooth as silk, yet laced with an undercurrent of steel. “Storm’s End bids you welcome… and your dragon.” you tilted your head ever so slightly, the hint of a smile on your lips. “I must say, it is not every day one finds a beast as colossal as Vhagar at their gates. Her presence is... difficult to miss.”

Aemond straightened, his eye narrowing ever so slightly. “Vhagar’s presence is a reminder of the strength our House offers to those wise enough to stand with it, my lady. A reminder, of a promise of protection.”

“A reminder,” you mused, leaning back in your chair as though you held all the time in the world, “or a threat?”

His lips twitched, not quite a smile, but close. “Only to those who would stand against us, my lady.”

“Ah,” your eyes danced with playfulness, “and I suppose I must decide whether to accept this…. protection…or risk the wrath of your beast?” Your displeasure at being forced to house the ancient creature as you made the decision about whom to side with was clear. Vhagar’s presence cast such a long shadow, it hung over every word that was spoken in that great hall. You knew Otto Hightower had expected the mere presence of the dragon would encourage the frail, young lady, who’d only been appointed regent because she had the good fortune to give birth to a son unlike Lord Baratheon’s first wife, to come on side without much fuss. You were going to cause him much disappointment.

Vhagar might be mighty, but you would not give in to the feeling of fear at her attendance. You would stand your ground before the prince, and not let him make the mistake to think that he could intimidate you.

Hands clasping behind his back, the prince’s good eye bore into your face, his voice low, laced with a hint of warning “you appear to be a wise woman to me, my lady. You understand how unwise it is to provoke a dragon.”

You laughed softly, the sound ringing across the otherwise eerily quiet hall “Is that what I’m doing, Prince Aemond? Prodding at the dragon’s belly?”

He was trying to impose upon you the upper hand he held, to dangle the danger of his dragon over your head to get you to agree to his demands – you deflected it as if by a flick of your wrist, which left him surprised. He knew you understood him perfectly well, and he was starting to understand you too now, as you lifted your hand to your chin, and leaned on your palm to watch him almost lazily.

Your eyes sparkled with an unspoken challenge as you watched him, letting the silence linger, enjoying the way his patience seemed to thin with each passing second. You could tell he was uncomfortable with how the tension had shifted, though his eyes never left yours and his expression betrayed nothing but you observed how his nose flared up in an indication of the underlying anger and frustration. He was a dragon, yes—but one that had yet to learn patience. You would teach him.

“You know why I’ve come,” he finally said, trying to pull the conversation back into his control. “My grandsire has written to you already of my intent. A marriage alliance between our houses. I would take in marriage one of your stepdaughters, in exchange for the strength of the Stormlands at our back.”

“Ah,” you sighed, “such a generous offer. The strength of Storm’s End married to the might of your house would certainly be something. At the very least it would ensure your brother cannot be defeated outright in a land battle.” You had gone over this with your husband’s advisers multiple times, you knew the strength of your army, the advantages it brought to either side, like the back of your hand. “And yet…” you paused, lips curling into a faint, knowing smile. Aemond straightened his back, tapping his leathered foot, realising you were not going to make his work easy.

“… I have to wonder, why you think I would choose the promises of the Hand over the promises of… others?” you spokepointedly but did not mention the name of his half-sister Rhaenyra, but he understood where you were signalling. “Your brother is not the only claimant with dragons.”

Aemond forcefully replied, in an attempt to demonstrate his advantage while keeping his bubbling anger in check, “The largest dragon in the realm is before your gates. The whore of Dragonstone with her bastards could never match Vhagar.”

His words were filled with vitriol, but they did not move the lady Baratheon. You simply mused “I confess, the notion of the mighty Vhagar at my beck and call is... tempting–” Aemond’s jaw clenched at how you implied him or his dragon would be at your ‘beck and call,’ but he bit back his tongue “–but power is a fickle thing, your grace, is it not? Today, it flies at my gates; tomorrow, it may burn them. If not your dragons’, then your half-sister’s. To stand with either one of you is to stand against the other. And their dragons.”

Aemond took another step forward, refusing to let your words unsettle him. “Storm’s End has always been loyal to the Crown. We expect no less now.”

“Yes but which crown must we bow to now remains unclear, yet.” You casually replied as you rose from your seat, the dark material of your gown swirling around your feet once more. The firelight caught the fabric, casting shifting shadows that made you seem like a figure from a half-forgotten tale – larger than life, and ethereal, not quite inhabiting the same plane as the prince. “As I am sure you are aware my late husband’s father swore an oath to support Rhaenyra. While I do not dismiss this hand of friendship your grandsire, the Hand has offered us, I cannot accept it either.” You met his gaze as you looked up at him, unflinching, your smile pleasing yet razor-sharp. “Loyalty, Prince Aemond, is a curious thing. It can shift, like the sea winds of this land. And I... well, I would prefer to remain more flexible in my allegiances. At least until I’ve had time for some careful consideration.”

Impatience grew within Aemond, you could see the tension in how rigidly he stood. He could sense you were slipping from his grasp, just as easily as the wind slipped through the cracks of your keep’s stone walls. He needed to push harder, to make you commit.

“This is a matter of great urgency, my lady, I—” He was about to press further when you let out a soft sigh and brought a hand to your temple, feigning weariness. “Forgive me, my prince, but I find myself dreadfully fatigued. The burdens of leadership weigh heavily on one such as I. You must understand... after all, I am but a woman, and we are so very frail. We were not built to rule you see… is that not the core reason your brother has raised his banners against the Princess after all?” your eyes seemed to goad the prince to challenge you on your words.

Aemond clenched his folded hands behind him, but betrayed none of the irritation simmering beneath his surface. He could see right through your act. There was nothing frail about the Lady Y/N Baratheon. This was another move in your game, a way to delay him. You were stalling, that much was clear.

“Lady Y/N,” he began, stepping forward again, “we cannot afford—”

“There will be time, Prince Aemond,” you interrupted, finality in your tone, a dismissal thinly veiled behind sweetness “Plenty of time to discuss alliances and armies. Storm’s End is yours for as long as you need it. Make yourself at home.”

Aemond stiffened, realizing that you had no intention of continuing this conversation tonight. You were dismissing him, and there was nothing he could do to force your hand without showing his own weakness.

You turned then, moving toward the doorway with a graceful ease that contradicted your words of weariness. Aemond was fuming with frustration which had finally sept through the cracks of his unbothered exterior. This was the first task he had been assigned as they had started to draw their banners, the first contribution he was expected to make for his family’s cause. He refused to go back empty handed. To win the Baratheon’s to their side was his duty, and he had no intention of returning without anything other than the Stormlands in his pocket.

Just as you reached the threshold, you stopped, casting a glance over your shoulder, your voice light but edged with mockery. “Oh, and do let the staff know whatever your beast will be having. We wouldn’t want to keep her waiting, would we?”

Aemond’s grinded his teeth at how you were daring to treat Vhagar as if she were no more than a hound at the gates. His dragon, the largest and most fearsome alive, reduced to a mere beast by your dismissive words. Aemond would not find it so easy to deal with the new lady of Storm’s end as most had expected. Borros’s widow may not have the years of experience to strengthen her, she was a young thing yet, that the old lord had married for the purpose of producing him sons; yet, even he would have never expected you to become this formidable a defender of his seat as you had become.

He watched as you disappeared into the shadows, having given him nothing. Everything in your manner told him one thing: this woman would not bend easily.

You stood beside the bed, watching the rise and fall of your son’s little chest. Seeing him safe and sound was all that kept you going, so whenever your mind would be distressed over the politics and games around you, you would try to be around your son to remind yourself why you were doing all of this in the first place.

Royce slept soundly, a peaceful expression on his innocent face, his tiny hand curled around the edge of his blanket. But peace was an illusion here in Storm’s End, where every decision threatened to shatter the fragile balance you were fighting to maintain. You smoothed a stray lock of dark hair from his brow, your heart heavy with the burden of his future. All this you did for him, to ensure his safety, his future, his seat. One wrong move, and you would not pay for it alone.

Behind you, the crackling fire in the hearth could not chase away the cold reality of the letter from Rhaenyra, now resting on your writing desk – it served as a reminder for you, a reminder that a storm was brewing outside. Ser Byron Swann finally brought you out of your brooding thoughts. “You’ve been quiet for some time, my lady,” came Ser Byron’s voice, tinged with concern as he stepped forward, his armour gently clinking in the quiet room. Byron had been a faithful bannerman to your late husband, and so far to you. You appreciated his counsel and concern.

Not taking your eyes off Royce, you spoke “To choose incorrectly would mean risking his future. The Stormlands could tear itself apart.” Your bannermen, always watching you with suspicion for being a woman who dared to hold power over them, had already whispered their concerns. Some remembered the oath Borros’ father had sworn to Rhaenyra years ago, binding them to her claim. Others had made their displeasure plain—a woman on the Iron Throne, abomination they had muttered darkly, displeased with the idea of a queen ruling over them. The Stormlands was teetering on the brink of division. Then there was the fear of dragons, which prevailed over all else.

You straightened, hand lingering on the bedpost as you turned away from the sight of your son and addressed your counsel more directly. “Choosing Rhaenyra might honour the oath, but it could also fracture the Stormlands beyond repair. Choosing the Greens...” You hesitated, the thought of Aemond Targaryen flashing briefly through your mind. “...may bring us under the protection of dragons, but at what cost?” Otto Hightower was perhaps the most infamous schemer in the land, and the ‘King’ Aegon was by all accounts a useless drunk. Not to mention his younger brother…

Byron crossed his arms, brow furrowed. “Neutrality is not an option either, not with the eyes of both sides upon us.”

You sighed wearily, and agreed “No, choosing neither would invite war right to our doorstep instead.” You paced toward the hearth, placing a hand on the frame of the fireplace as you watched the flickering flames that seemed to reflect your thoughts, anxiously moving, untamed. You had been strong when facing the prince, unwilling to back down or give away any fears you might privately have. Now you had no need to hold onto such a façade, you could admit to yourself that this was an extremely slippery situation you and the Stormlands were in. Your brow furrowed with worry as you looked into the flames, willing for an answer to leap out from them.

Byron's eyes followed you closely. As if he could read your mind, he tried to voice your thoughts “There is no right choice, my lady, you can only hope to pick the lesser of two dangers.” If only you could tell which was which, you thought of who Borros would pick momentarily, but then found yourself thinking that you’d never much cared for his strategic opinion anyway, so there was no reason to rely upon it now.

“what did my lady think of the Hightower’s messenger, the one-eyed prince?” Swann curiously asked.

What did she think of Aemond? A dangerous man, undoubtedly—sharp, calculating, and ever poised for battle, even when the fight was merely in words.

And yet… there was something more. Something you would not, could not, name aloud. His cold, unyielding demeanour stirred something in you—something that made you wary, but also intrigued. Aemond Targaryen was not a man easily thwarted, and that made him dangerous. His arrogance was palpable, his strength undeniable, but beneath that was a fire, simmering just beneath the surface. You had seen it in his eye, in the way he watched you. His features were sculpted as if by marble, standing so close to him you could see why your septa use to tell you the Targaryens were closer to gods than men, you had verified the fantastical accounts of their Valyrian beauty for yourself. You found yourself tilting on the side of agreement with those opinions.

Your fingers tightened ever so slightly on the stone beneath it as you leaned towards the fire. You weren’t a fool. You knew the allure of power, of danger. And Aemond embodied both.

The memory of Aemond’s lingering touch when he kissed your hand, and the veiled threat of the dragon that waited outside your walls, sent a chill down your spine.

You drew in a slow breath, forcing yourself to focus. Attractive or not you could not afford to be distracted by immodest thoughts of the Targaryen prince, not when everything hung in such a precarious balance.

You turned back to meet Ser Byron’s eyes with your own hardened gaze. “Only that to take Aemond Targaryen lightly could prove to be a grave mistake.”

Aemond stood at the narrow window of his assigned chambers, watching the endless churn of the sea beyond Storm’s End. The wind here was relentless, beating against the stone walls with the same fury that seemed to linger in the air since his arrival. It matched his mood—restless, frustrated. He had come to Storm’s End to secure an alliance, to bring the Baratheons to his brother’s cause. But instead, he found his thoughts tangled in something far more distracting.

Lady Y/N Baratheon.

He stepped away from the window and moved towards the small desk, settling into the chair. A half-written letter to his grandsire lay before him, waiting to be finished. The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting long shadows across the room. Aemond dipped his quill into the ink and resumed writing.

My Lord Hand, I arrived at Storm’s End to find the lady regent in full command of her seat. Y/N Baratheon is not as easily persuaded, as was expected...

His quill paused. His mind drifted back to your first meeting in the great hall. You had been seated on the Baratheon throne, the seat of you late husband. Yet you did not look out of place in it for a second, one could have been easily forgiven for mistaking to think you had been born to it and were not merely guarding it as your son’s keeper. Your alluring eyes had met his without flinching, without the slightest hint of deference. You were calculating, composed, and beautiful—there was no denying that. But it was more than just your appearance that held his attention. There was something in you that challenged him, intrigued him.

Aemond set down the quill on the table with force, flexing his hand in frustration. The same hand, he realised as he looked down upon it, which had held your own to his lips only hours ago. He had felt it then, a pull. A quiet draw towards you that had nothing to do with the game of politics and alliances.

He had seen it in the way you looked at him, how your eyes had lingered when he kissed the back of your palm—a small, fleeting moment that had unsettled him more than he cared to admit. He had sensed it the moment you welcomed him with that cold smile, that hint of mockery in your tone when you’d spoken of his dragon. Vhagar was meant to remind you of what he could bring to bear against your house, yet the you had barely blinked. Instead, you’d made a jest of it, turning the veiled threat back on him with the ease of a seasoned player in the game.

You wielded your wit like a blade, much like he wielded his sword. You had unsettled him in a way he hadn’t expected. And that pull he felt towards you was as unwelcome as it was undeniable.

He leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly. This was not what he had come here for. He was not a boy, not some green fool led astray by a pretty face and a clever tongue. He was here for duty—for the future of his house. For his brother’s crown. Y/N Baratheon might be all captivating, but she was merely a pawn he needed on his side, nothing more.

Aemond shook his head and returned to the letter.

I will continue to press our advantage and remind them where true power lies.

With a resolute shake of his head, Aemond signed his name to the letter.

Duty. Only duty.

The days at Storm’s End had settled into a routine of formal dinners and polite conversations, surrounded by the awful weather which seemed ever present outside the walls of the ancient castle. Aemond had been introduced to Lady Y/N’s stepdaughters soon after his arrival, and each one, in her own way, seemed determined to gain his favour.

This was very much to Aemond’s annoyance, and very very much to your own entertainment. You held no great love for your stepdaughters, Floris was the only one you tolerated really. All four of them had been rather uncourteous to you when you, young as you were, not much older than the oldest of them, had first married their father so quickly after their mother’s death. You hadn’t been able to voice how unfair it was for them to lay the blame for that on your feet when it was your father who had practically forced you into the union with Borros. After their father’s death the girls were pretty much on your mercy, and you had decided to be generous enough to keep them under your protection – they were your son’s family after all, even if utterly tiresome. You supposed the responsibility to get them respectable marriages also befell on you, when you thought of Aemond’s offer.

Upon hearing the news of the arrival of a prince they had leapt at the chance to be introduced to him, which you had obliged. That ought to keep him occupied in the meantime, you’d thought with a smirk.

Cassandra, the eldest, had made the first move. She had practically thrown herself into the role of hostess, her wide-eyed enthusiasm grating on Aemond almost immediately.

“Oh, Prince Aemond!” Cassandra exclaimed the moment they were introduced, clasping her hands together as though she were greeting a long-lost friend. “What a joy it is to finally meet you!”

Aemond inclined his head stiffly, already sensing where the conversation would go. She wasted no time in becoming over-familiar with the man who seemed to do nothing but ice her out. Cassandra was pretty enough, but her excitement bordered on ridiculous.

“Tell me,” she continued, undeterred by his silence, “is it true that your dragon is the largest in the world? What a marvelous thing to behold! My father always hated those things but I assure you, I don’t share his aversions one bit—”

Aemond barely managed to suppress an eye roll. Cassandra’s chatter washed over him like the ever-present rain outside—relentless, loud, and entirely uninteresting. His mind wandered as she continued to babble about the wonders of dragonriding, and before he knew it, his gaze had drifted across the room to where you stood, speaking with one of your bannermen.

Unlike your daughters, you were calm, composed, your every movement deliberate. You had a way of carrying yourself that commanded attention without demanding it. There was no loudness, no need for theatrics. You simply were.

“Prince Aemond?” Cassandra’s voice interrupted his thoughts, and he blinked, realizing she had asked him a question he hadn’t heard. He looked down at at her out of the corner of his eye, her eyes were wide with anticipation, waiting for a response.

He forced himself to focus. “The sight of Vhagar is stunning, yes, though I doubt she would be as charmed by your enthusiasm as you imagine.” There were few who could stand before his great dragon and not buckle at the knees, he did not think the eldest of the Baratheon girls was one of those rare few.

Cassandra giggled, utterly oblivious to his lack of interest. “Oh, I would never presume to charm a dragon! I’m sure it takes someone with great strength and skill to command such a creature.”

Aemond only nodded, eager to end the conversation. His thoughts were already drifting back to you, who had now turned and caught him watching. You smiled faintly, a knowing glint in your eyes, before turning back to your conversation. He felt a flicker of frustration. You were too aware of his distraction, and it seemed you enjoyed keeping him off balance.

His encounters with Maris, the second eldest, were no better. Maris was clever, and her need to prove it often left him feeling as though he were being interrogated.

“Prince Aemond,” Maris began one evening during dinner, her eyes gleaming with a curiosity that made Aemond immediately wary. “I’ve always been fascinated by Valyrian history. The legacy of Old Valyria, the blood of dragons… surely, someone like you must know its intricacies better than most.”

It was one of Aemond’s favourite topic of study, and thus, initially he was intrigued by her interest in it. “yes, I have read the histories diligently. What parts hold your particular interest?”

“Oh the doom, of course.” And there she lost the prideful dragon-prince, for he was as attached to the legacy of his family’s old homeland as one could be, at the mention of its downfall his face turned to an immediate grimace.

Which was apparently a hilarious scene.

A stifled laugh from the other end of the table made him lift his eye off the younger girl to you, who were hiding your mouth behind the white napkin.

His gaze had drifted to you many times that night already. You had sat at the head of the table, right across from him. Your demeanour blasé, unbothered by the efforts of your stepdaughters to capture his attention. Every now and then, your eyes would meet his, and there would be that faint glimmer of amusement in your gaze, as though the entire charade was a source of quiet entertainment for you. And now, you had dared to openly laugh.

It irked him, the way you seemed to understand his thoughts without him ever voicing them.

Maris pressed on, oblivious to his distraction. “I’ve read that Valyria’s fall was as much due to internal strife as external forces. The dragons, the magic—such power, yet they crumbled from within. Do you think that fate could ever repeat itself here, in Westeros? Could our dragons fail us the way theirs did?”

That question got on his nerves and Aemond’s patience frayed. His thoughts were still tangled with you, and the incessant questioning only worsened his mood. He glanced at Maris, his tone sharp. “You ask too many questions than are appropriate, I think, of a noblewoman, Lady Maris.”

Maris blinked, caught off guard by the sudden coldness in his voice. For a moment, her confidence faltered, and she offered a sheepish smile. “Apologies, my prince. I suppose I can be a bit… overzealous.”

Aemond said nothing, his gaze flicking back to you, now sipping wine with an expression unreadable, though the faintest trace of a smile lingered at the corners of your lips. You raised your goblet slightly in a mock toast, eyes sparkling with levity as if you knew how little interest he had in your stepdaughters.

You both became the last two to depart from the dining hall that night, and walked back to your chambers in stride with each other. The corridors of Storm’s End were quiet, save for the soft rustling of your gown and the faint echo of footsteps. With a sly glance, you broke the silence.

“You were rather harsh with poor Maris tonight,” you said, your voice carrying a playful lilt. “I think you might have left her heart in pieces. All that talk of Valyrian history and you simply dismissed her with a single, icy look. Quite the cruel prince, aren’t you?”

Aemond cast a sideways glance at you, “I have little patience for those who speak without thought.” he stiffly replied.

You let out a soft, playful laugh, eyes twinkling with mischief, completely unbothered by his frigid demeanour “Yes, I noticed. But tell me, Your Grace, do you always deal with such cruelty, or was Maris simply the unlucky target of your wrath?”

Aemond slowed his pace, his gaze narrowing slightly as he looked down at you. “I am not cruel by nature, Lady Y/N. But I value directness. Your stepdaughters prefer to dance around what they truly want.” His voice lowered, carrying a hint of something more, something that suggested this conversation was no longer about Maris. “I prefer a more… forthright approach.”

You arched an eyebrow, your smile deepening, though your eyes remained sharp. “Forthrightness is an admirable trait,” you mused, the tone almost purring. “But sometimes a little patience goes a long way, don’t you think? Not everything worth having is so easily won.”

Aemond stepped closer, closing the gap between you as you walked. His gaze was intense, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Is that what this is, then? A game of patience?” His eye flickered over your face, searching for some crack in your composure, some indication that he was getting through the walls you so carefully kept in place.

It would be so easy, you found yourself thinking, for something to occur between the two of you in this very hallway, without no one being the wiser. You couldn’t deny, the temptation was there for you. What you could not predict was how similar line of thinking was running through the prince’s head as well, how painfully easy it would be for him to press you against the stone wall and take you then and there. He wasn’t sure you’d even resist.

He forced himself to steer clear of those thoughts when he next spoke, “I wonder, Y/N, how long you intend to keep me waiting.”

You stopped walking, turning to face him fully,  gaze unwavering. The flirtatious spark in your eyes faded, replaced by the calculation of powers you had to keep track of every moment as the regent of the Stormlands. “What exactly are you waiting for, Prince Aemond?” you asked, your low voice carrying all the weight of a challenge.

Aemond’s eye darked, the tension between you both thickening. He leaned in, his voice low and smooth. “An answer, perhaps. To the alliance. You know why I am here, and yet you continue to delay. You say patience is a virtue, but I wonder how much longer we’ll pretend this is a game.”

Your lips twitched into a smile, though there was no warmth in it. “It’s late, my prince,” you replied after a beat, stepping back ever so slightly, putting just enough distance between you both to break the moment. “Surely, even a man as determined as you must know when the hour is too late for such discussions.”

Aemond hummed lowly in frustration, sensing the shift. You were pulling away, retreating just as he thought he had gained some ground. His voice remained steady, but there was a hard edge to it now. “The hour is late, but the war waits for no one, My Lady.”

You sighed at his tenaciousness but did not reply, turning around towards your chamber “Good night, Prince Aemond. Do try to get some rest. You’ll need it—”  You turned to have one final look at him as you closed your doors, “—I believe Cassandra is planning on accompanying you to our library here in the morrow.” You smirked, as you shut the door on him.

Aemond stood still, his fists clenched at his sides. He had come close, but once again, you had slipped through his grasp, leaving him with nothing but the lingering tension and the maddening sense that you were still in control of this dangerous game.

Ellyn, the third-born, was, if anything, the easiest to deal with—if only because she was utterly uninspiring. She made no effort to engage him in conversation, content to let her sisters fight over his attention while she sat in silence, staring into her food.

“It rains often here,” Ellyn said one afternoon, as they both stood by the windows watching the storm outside. “You get used to it.”

Aemond glanced at her, waiting for more, but that was all she said. No follow-up, no elaboration, just a dull observation about the weather. He resisted the urge to sigh. This, too, was a waste of time.

He found himself watching you again, speaking with one of the castle’s servants in the courtyard. Even in these small, everyday moments, you commanded attention. It was infuriating how easily you pulled his focus away from everything else. He was here for an alliance, not to be distracted by a woman who was clearly dangling him like a child’s toy. What infuriated him even further was, he didn’t think you’d meant for this to occur at all. He was falling into a trap all of his own making, tormented by his own desires. Your simple presence doused those flames. Who needed enemies when his own lust was doing the work.

As he caught you stretching your neck, clearly tensed and in pain after having to run around and manage the affairs of the household as well as the work that should have been your lord husband’s, he could not stop himself from wanting to reach out and ease that burden for you. He wanted to ease all your burdens truth be told…

He closed his eye and took in a deep breath to steady himself. No, you were not the one he was here to court, at least not beyond courting an alliance.

Floris, the youngest, at least didn’t waste his time. She barely spoke at all, her fear of him palpable. Every time he caught her looking at him, she would quickly avert her gaze, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. At dinners, she sat in near silence, her eyes fixed on her plate, only daring to glance up at him when she thought no one was looking.

Floris was undeniably beautiful, he noted one night at dinner—delicate features, soft dark hair, and a quiet grace that set her apart from her more eager sisters. She had a certain fragility, the kind that made her seem as though she might shatter under the weight of his gaze alone.

As he had expected, the moment their eyes met, alarm crossed her expressions. Her cheeks flushed a deep crimson as she quickly averted her eyes, her hands fidgeting, fingers trembling ever so slightly.

Aemond allowed a moment of silence before speaking, his voice low and steady. “Lady Floris, you’ve barely spoken all evening.” Floris was startled, her breath catching in her throat as her eyes flickered up to him for the briefest moment before falling back to her lap. “I... I didn’t wish to intrude, my prince,” she stammered.

He leaned forward ever so slightly, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “Do I frighten you, Lady Floris?” Her eyes darted to him again, wide and filled with anxiety, but she couldn’t bring herself to answer. Aemond leaned back, feeling more indifferent than curious now.

Floris was beautiful, yes, but her beauty was fleeting to him. It lacked depth. His mind wandered, almost involuntarily, to you. How could he think of Floris when her stepmother sat just across the table, quietly capturing his eye without ever saying so much as a word?

You were something else entirely—your beauty had a sharpness to it, a confidence, a power that Floris sorely lacked. You knew your worth and how to wield it, and it was the graceful way you held yourself that lingered in his thoughts far longer than Floris’s timid presence ever could.

You took no note of him this time, too engrossed in conversing with your bannermen Ser Byron. Aemond couldn’t explain why the sight of you leaning towards him and talking in whispers with the man set the hair on the back of his neck on fire. That closeness with another man was not appropriate of an unmarried woman, he bitterly opined.

He was glad when Ser Byron had to abruptly leave after a servant delivered him a letter in the middle of dinner. But the hurried steps the knight took also arose his suspicions about the letters contents. “Has something happened?” he had asked you as he watched Swann leave, you simply dismissed it as some trivial dispute among your staff that needed mediating. He said nothing but did not think to take your word as it was.

Like a moth to a flame he sought you out once more as you walked back to your chambers. Sensing he was following you with quiet, almost hidden footsteps you abruptly spoke up “You seem troubled, my prince,” smiling at him as you stopped in your tracks and turned around towards him, “Are my stepdaughters proving too much for you to handle?”

“They are persistent,” Aemond replied, his tone carefully neutral. That earned him the first real, open laugh he had heard out of you. “Yes I suppose that is one way to put it. Are you still as adamant on marriage with one of them after meeting them or have we finally deterred you?”

The prince stuck out his chin most stubbornly, “I still intend to secure the alliance if that is what you ask.” That caused your smile to falter as you shook your head and turned towards your chambers, “of course you do.” Here you were delighted at one light moment with the dark prince, but Aemond Targaryen was nothing if not steadfast.

“Your persistence could almost give theirs’ competition.” You teased before leaving.

Aemond’s patience was bound to eventually run its course. For days, he had watched you receive messages, carried in by suspicious birds, and each time you’d dismissed his inquiries with vague answers and a smile that only fuelled his frustration. After receiving a letter from his grandsire demanding to know his progress, he realised he had very little to show for his time here and decided he had been played with quite enough. Tonight, he had no intention of being so easily brushed aside.

He strode through the corridors, his jaw clenched, his boots striking hard against the stone floor. Without hesitation, he pushed open the heavy door to your chambers. Inside, you sat on an ornate desk, your husband’s, a letter in hand, with your gaze flicking up to meet his slowly. You didn’t flinch, didn’t move. You merely raised an eyebrow, as though his intrusion was nothing more than a mild inconvenience.

“Prince Aemond,” you greeted scornfully, not attempting to hide your displeasure at his unannounced entry, “You enter, insolently, without permission. I hope you have an urgent excuse behind such an incursion on my privacy?”

“Enough of your games, Lady Y/N,” Aemond snapped, his voice dangerous as he advanced toward you. “I’ve seen the ravens, the messages you’ve been receiving. Do not insult me by pretending I do not know who they are from.” He spat out.

You remained still, your expression unreadable as you took your time to set the letter aside. "And who, pray, do you imagine my correspondents to be?” you refused to match his tone, carefully keeping yourself in check.

“The bitch mother of bastards – Rhaenyra” Aemond hissed her name like it was a curse. “You’ve been stringing me along, all this while sending your little birds to her. I won’t be made a fool, not by you.”

Your eyes flashed at the accusation, but your voice remained steady, cutting. “Foolishness is something one brings upon oneself, Your Grace. If you feel such, do not lay the blame at my feet.”

The prince’s temper flared, and he walked forward in a swift stride, his presence filling the room with barely contained fury. He pressed his fingertips on your dark oak desk, to imposingly lean forward towards where you sat. If the feeling of looking up at a furious dragonlord pressing down upon you made you scared at all, you didn’t show it. “Do not make the mistake to think I am unaware of your little schemes. Keeping me here, playing coy while you weigh your options. But I warn you, Y/N—”

You took a breath, your chin lifting as you met his gaze head-on,  interrupting his little speech “You warn me?” Your voice dropped, deadly calm, as you slowly rose from where you sat to match his stature. “And what will you do, Aemond? Bring your dragon down upon me? Burn Storm’s End to ash because I don’t bend to your will?”

Aemond’s lips twisted into a cold smile, his voice softening into something more dangerous. “You think I won’t?” This was not a man who would let insults go unanswered.

You were the storm’s daughter too though, not one to back down at the first sight of strong winds. “Burn it down if you wish, but it will not win you the Stormlands. It will not win you this war.”

You stood only inches apart now, close enough for you to feel him breathing down on you. Aemond’s eye narrowed, his anger palpable as he spoke, each word laced with cruel intent. “It would be nothing more than rubble if I wished it, and you, Lady Baratheon, would be nothing more than a forgotten name in the ashes.”

Your eyes blazed with fury, never leaving his as you sidestepped the table to stand next to him. “You think threats will bend me? That I am some weak-willed lady who’d cower before your dragon’s mere breath?” Your voice was sharp, holding back a tidal wave of anger. “I am no stranger to men like you, men who believe they can brandish fear like a sword.” After all, Borros had tried to break you and failed, you had prevailed over him. Your son was your victory. Now your husband laid six leagues under the ground while you sat on his seat. If Aemond Targaryen thought he could break you, he would be proven wrong too. “Know this—Storm’s End will stand long after you and your beast are dust. Dragon fire or not.”

They were too close, the air around them crackling with the force of their anger. For a moment, neither spoke, their eyes locked in a battle of wills, neither willing to give an inch. The heat between them had shifted, it had become something trecherous, as Aemond’s gaze dropped to your lips, then back to your eyes.

Without warning, the tension snapped.

Aemond moved first, his hand gripping your arm as he pulled you to him, his mouth crashing down onto yours with a force born of fury as much as lust. You responded in kind, your fingers grabbing onto his leather coat as you kissed him back with equal fervour, both of yours’ anger feeding the fire that had long been building between you.

Aemond’s hand moved to the back of your neck, his fingers almost clawing at your soft skin. Your hand instinctively bawled itself around the leather beneath it, pressing your body impossibly close to his.

It was not a kiss of tenderness, but of conquest, a desire ignited by the very battle that raged between you —fierce and unrelenting. Neither of you attempted to be gentle, perhaps being rough and demanding was just in both yours’ natures.

Aemond only broke the kiss to knock down the various trinkets that had been occupying the late Lord Baratheon’s desk, to then lift you with ease and make you sit atop it. You felt guilty at destroying your late husband’s things so callously as you caught sight of the now broken, spilled ink bottle on the floor, when the thought of how Borros had never even bothered to learn how to read to actually make use of the thing, made it disappear. Besides the dragon prince did not leave you much time to have thoughts anyway. His mouth was soon upon yours once again, as he parted your legs to make space for himself between them.

When his cold hand suddenly slipped underneath your heavy black dress, you couldn’t suppress a gasp at the feeling, which he used to slip his tongue inside you, deepening the kiss. The feeling of his hand trailing up your thigh made the hair on the back of your arms stand. Your hand found its way to the prince’s perfectly kept up hair, entangling themselves in his silver locks in knots, as if you wanted to ruin it, ruin him. When you tugged at his tresses sharply, you caused him to growl into the kiss, a sound which made you deliciously crave for him.

It seemed you had called forth some beast in that act though, for Aemond abandoned your lips entirely and the hand on your thigh moved towards your core, starting to remove your small clothes. In your own impatience, you helped him guide the cloth down till it was off of you, your hand then moving to undo his breeches with hurried fingers.

You gasped at the feeling of having his length in your hand, it had been a long time since you’d felt anything similar, having been widowed many moons ago. You spat in your hand to use it as moisture before you pulled on his manhood firmly, feeling your cunt become warm and wet at the very feeling of having him in your palm. Aemond’s breathing had become more ragged, responding to your actions. His hand found your neck, pressing itself around the frail little thing till you saw stars and the movement of your hand became sloppy, but you never once told him to stop. Your head titled back as if transported off Storm’s End to a world altogether new in pleasure. When his hand finally released you, you coughed back to reality, and your hand stilled.

His hands moved to your shoulder as he pulled himself to your ear to breathe down, “I don’t remember telling you you could stop, Lady Baratheon.” His words left you on edge and you swallowed, quickly nodding as you continued to move your hands over his now hardened length. He gave you a twisted smile, as his hand faintly pulled your hair stands away from your face, “You look more suited to play this obedient servant of the crown than that feeble attempt at playing the lord of the castle you have been doing, my lady.”

Even if your brain could have managed to come up with some biting remark for him, the sudden invasion of two of the prince’s spindly fingers inside your pussy cut those thoughts out. “Seven hells” you cussed out at the feeling. Aemond hummed approvingly at your response. His free hand found itself pulling on the gown as it draped over your shoulders, tearing the cloth with a screech so it would expose to him your bare shoulder.

His lips moved over the uncovered, soft skin of yours with gentleness which contradicted the brutal pace at which his hand moved against the walls inside you. It seemed he wanted to torture you with his pace, tease you just as much as punish you for how you had been holding out on him since he had arrived. Aemond Targaryen demanded nothing if not complete control, and you had taken that from him the moment you had met him. Such a treasonous act demanded retribution.

You felt a sharp pain when his lips against your skin were replaced by his teeth, biting hard enough to leave the place blue for the next day, but not content with letting you adjust to just that, he also placed another finger inside you in that moment, overwhelming you with sensations.

“Aemond—” you gasped, only to have him command you, “you do not yet have the leave to call me by name. if you’re forgetting your manners, we can cease this now” “no!” the negation tumbled out of your mouth embarrassingly fast, the feeling of his fingers moving inside you having caused all your previous haughtiness and resolve to disappear. “Your Grace—” You corrected yourself, “—I think… I think I’m” before you could get the word close out of your mouth, you found yourself suddenly empty, his fingers removed.

You didn’t know if you had it in you to beg him to fuck you, but thank the gods you didn’t have to go that far. For it only took a moment for Aemond to replace his hand with his cock, filling you in one go till tears formed in your eyes. He mercilessly filled you till there was nothing left but the tight of feeling your walls squeezing around him. “When was the last time you were properly fucked, hm? Did fat old Borros Baratheon even fill this cunt half way?” He taunted you, but you could merely moan in reply, your mind clouded.

He emptied you and let manhood hit you to the tilt once more in a swift action, knocking the wind out of you, your mouth hanging open in a silent gasp. Aemond did not prepare you for his pace by starting slow, but instead pulled out and pulled back inside of you with the full force of his length till your fingers grabbed the edge of the desk beneath you for some kind of support. His hips moved at a brutal pace, his hands holding onto your legs to keep you in place, to keep you open for him. You hadn’t been fucked in so long, to be filled like this repeatedly was too much for you. You shook your head and tried to keep a hand on his chest, “slower, please… your grace…” your breathed, the knot in your stomach tightening.

“shhh” in an act of uncharacteristic tenderness, Aemond pulled you to himself till your chin rested on his shoulder, his hips never ceasing their assault. “not yet.” You whined at his denial, tears starting to run down your cheeks, but you did not reject him. He continued to touch your sensitive spot with each thrust, and you simply took it, almost helpless in your obedience.

“How docile, how sweet…” he cooed. He liked this, for the first time since Vhagar had landed in these lands he had felt a sense of control. It wound him up more than anything else, to have you in his hands, for the first time his plaything, rather than the other way around. The way he could elicit your face to distort in pleasure, cause you to give up that stature of authority and move as he commanded, made him harder than he thought possible.

The way your breathing had become more rapid and your walls were closing in around him, he knew you couldn’t this take much longer, and so he finally allowed, “Let yourself come on your prince’s cock, Y/N” You curled your toes at the pleasure surmounting, your mouth unable to stifle a cry as you came around his cock. Your cum streamed down your thighs, ruining the dress you wore in the process.

The act had left you too tired to even sit up, you collapsed till your back hit the wood of the desk as Aemond continued to chase his high inside you. You could only whimper at the feeling, till you felt his cock twitch and unburden itself inside you, your mind too numb to protest.

As Aemond pulled out of you, you closed your eyes attempting to even out your breathing and calm your heart. Your mouth had gone dry and an ache had formed between your legs from the vigour of the prince’s pace.

The sound of the prince’s leaving steps sounded across the room till the door he had brazenly pushed open earlier, shut close shut behind him. Once you were alone you finally opened your eyes and sat up on the table.

As you walked over to the washbasin your servants had placed in the corner, to splash water to cool down the fire the prince had ignited within you, you caught sight of yourself in the mirror. Dishevelled hair, torn clothes and flushed cheeks. This wasn’t how you’d expected your negotiations to leave you.

Aemond was up at the crack of dawn, despite the little sleep he had received the night before, his body too set in its routine to allow him to sleep in. He’d remained distracted all morning though, from his usual training to breakfast, his mind still buzzed from the night before— with you.

His thoughts lingered on the memory of your body pressed against his, the taste of your lips still vivid in his mind. Truth be told such thoughts had barely allowed him to sleep, he had to do everything in his power to restrain himself from marching down to your chambers to have you once again. Come morning, it seemed his feet had made up their own mind as they carried him to the grand hall where you broke fast every morning, determined to speak to you. But speak to you about joining the war, or joining him, he wasn’t sure as he took strong steps towards those stone gates, until a shaky, scared servant reluctantly blocked his way with bowed head.

“Prince Aemond,” the servant began cautiously, “Lady Baratheon is indisposed this morning.” That gave him pause. Now that he looked around, there seemed to be more activity around the castle, it was certainly peopled with more men than usual. There was something different in the air, you were up to something. The servant carried on stammering “She-she re-regrets that she is unable to see you, but she extends the c-c-courtesy of allowing you to escort one-one of her stepdaughters for the day….should you wish.”

Aemond’s jaw tightened at the message, his eyes narrowing slightly. It wasn’t the refusal that stung—he had known you would be up plotting, woman of action as you are —but the implication that he should entertain one of your stepdaughters instead. His mind briefly flickered to Floris, Cassandra, Maris, and Ellyn—each dull and uninspiring in their own ways. None of them possessed your sharpness, your strength. His patience for their company had worn thin days ago, and now, after the night he had shared with you, the thought of spending an entire day with one of them felt intolerable.

“Which of the ladies would you prefer to accompany today, m-m-my prince?” the servant asked, still refusing to meet his eye. Aemond barely suppressed a sneer. “None,” he stared at the closed gate ahead of him. He wondered what you were doing behind those doors, wondered if you were mulling over his proposal or planning how to betray him to his half-sister. He wanted to know how you were thinking of this situation, how your mind would tick at the facts before it. He wanted you. He placed one hand on the stone gate, feeling the cool surface beneath his palm. You were so close to him, almost within his reach.

Yet, he thought as with decisive steps he turned around and started to walk away, so far.

He spent the day inspecting the grounds, trying to gauge the situation. He understood soon you’d called your bannermen to counsel you, but which way they would sway you remained unknown.

He mulled over the previous night in his mind often, no matter how much he tried to deny how he felt with you, he had to admit you had awoken something in him. You were unlike any woman he had seen – someone bold, someone who challenged him. You had surrendered in the end, but not without making him work for it. It had been a hollow victory, one that left him dissatisfied and wanting for more.

As the day wore on Aemond found himself restless. The usual routine of the castle felt stifling, and your absence only deepened his bitterness. By nightfall, his frustration had grown, it was perceptible in the way he stared into the fire, sitting in his chambers, waiting for news.

A soft knock at the door of his eerily quiet chambers alerted him. Aemond straightened, his brow furrowing as he rose to open it. Beating him to it, to his surprise, you opened it without invitation, dressed in nothing but a white, silk nightgown. The firelight flickered behind him, casting a warm glow across your features.

Your lips curved into a faint smile, “I hope I’m not disturbing you, my prince,” you teased. Aemond’s gaze lingered on you in a suspicious manner, his expression unreadable. “You rarely come without purpose, my Lady. What is it tonight?”

You stepped inside, closing the door behind you as you moved further into his chambers. “After much consultation with my bannermen,” you began, your voice steady with a note of finality, “I have made my decision.”

He was intrigued as he matched your steps to meet you half way across his chambers, agitated to hear this “And what have you decided?”

 “Storm’s End will declare for King Aegon.”

Aemond’s chest tightened, his thoughts racing as he processed your announcement. He had done it, finally done it. He had brought you to his brother’s side, fulfilled the promise he had made to his mother and grandsire. He had proven himself worthy. He would not be the son who shirked duty like his brother, no, he would be considered the one who stepped up when his family needed him most. His chest swelled in self-pride at the thought.

But there was something more to it of course, he thought as he saw how your eyes followed his every move, as if attempting to pierce through him and grasp his soul. He had to be in your debt for this, he knew that. He wasn’t sure how well he could have done at his task had you made up his mind against him. “The crown will not forget your loyalty” his leather boots took the final steps to close the gap between you both, his arm snaking around your waist to pull you to his chest. He stared down at you as he added in a whispered voice “…and I’m certain it will find a way to express its immense gratitude.”

You words were raspy as you answered staring up at him, captivated. “Consider it a reward for your… persistence.” He hummed in response, bending just a little so his lips were at level with yours, never touching but hovering like phantoms.

Your own lips curved upwards as you began to comment with a hint of amusement “My stepdaughters will be waiting with bated breath, eager to hear which one of them you’ll choose as your bride.”

Aemond’s grip on your waist tightened slightly, he turned his head so his nose grazed your neck as he took in your scent, his breath tickling your skin. “Any suggestions to make my choice easier? You do know them better than anyone.” He muttered against you, before pressing his lips to your ear lightly.

You tilted your head thoughtfully, allowing him access to your neck, trailing kisses down it.  “Cassandra is the eldest,” you began dryly. “But she’s air-headed, always prattling on about nonsense. I don’t think I’ve ever heard a sensible word out of that one.”

Aemond chuckled softly, as he considered your words. “And the others?” he baited you to go on, his hands starting to lift your sheer nightgown to allow his fingertips to graze your thighs.

“Maris is clever,” you continued, your breathing hitched at his actions though there was a flicker of exasperation in your voice as you added “Too clever, sometimes. That girl never learned the art of silence. Always chattering, always thinking she knows better.” You sighed, your expression shifting to mild disdain. “Ellyn is dull. Always whining about something—nothing ever pleases her.”

Aemond arched a brow, smirking, finding your frankness far more entertaining than the thought of any of these girls. “And Floris?”

You laughed softly, a melodic sound that carried a trace of mockery. “Floris is beautiful, yes. But she’s already scared half to death by the mere sight of you.” Your eyes flicked to his face, and before he could react, you lifted your hand and reached toward his eyepatch, smitten. “I wonder why that is...”

Your fingers brushed the edge of the leather patch, but before you could go any further, Aemond’s hand shot up, gripping your wrist firmly. He pulled your hand away, his gaze dark and intense as he leaned closer. “And you, my lady?” he asked, his voice low, a dangerous edge to it. “Are you no longer scared?”

Your lips parted slightly, and your heart raced as you stared up at him, unflinching. A slow, wicked smile spread across your face. “You could not scare me if you tried,” you murmured, goading him.

In a flash Aemond had pulled you to him by grabbing your wrists. He wrapped his long, slender fingers around those dainty things, and pulled them behind himself, till you crashed into his lips.

With your body held captive like this you felt as if this was the prince taking his war prize in advance of the actual battle. His lips left no room for you, gave you no quarter. You weren’t protesting much about the abduction though. The prince may conduct himself as an aloof noble, a dragonrider who was above mere mortals in public, but when alone like this, you’d realised he showed a hunger of a poor man, a man denied, who was searching for his redemption.

He only released your hands to lift you up, your legs wrapping around his thin torso for dear life as he swiftly carried you to the bed, your lips refusing to leave his even as your arms hung around his shoulders for anchor. It was only when he threw your back to the mattress that he broke the kiss. You realised the prince was already hurrying with untying the strings which held his breeches, an impatience within him.

He used his knee to pry open your legs, making room for himself between them as he took his cock out in his hands and helped himself, looking down on the site of you sprawled all out for him, in just a sheer nightgown. Hair all over the place, legs open and ready to receive him. He mused with the hint of a smirk, how the mighty, commanding lady Baratheon had been reduced to this state.

You could feel his gaze upon you as if dragonfire itself, but you refused to turn away. You looked into his face, the expression of fervour in his eyes. He had you under him, in every way possible, and you knew he was relishing in that feeling. He had his army, and he had the woman.

You, on the other hand, were far more discreet in your sense of achievement. After the day of discussions you had had, the terms you and your bannermen had drawn up, you knew that the crown would not get the Stag for cheap. But you were happy to let them enjoy in this victory before you presented your full terms, after all a content prince was probably easier to haggle with than an irked dragonrider.

Yet still, the thought popped in your head as the prince leaned forward to enter you, pressing you beneath his weight, you didn’t have to give up all your sense of control. Your legs hooked around him, and your palms pushed at his shoulders to flip you both.

“You are our guest under this roof. Allow me, my prince.” Your voice sounded more as if you were taking charge, than acting the welcoming host. Last night he had been the one to make you feel helpless, and as much as you had enjoyed the feeling, you weren’t one to take what came at you lying down either.

You were the one looking down at him now, his silver hair covering the white sheets till the colours melted under the moonlight, his expression remained distrustful, still reluctant to allow himself to be beneath you, give you the reins this once. You didn’t want to allow him to dwell on that feeling and change your positions. You wasted no time in lifting yourself up and gathering your nightgown till it pooled around your stomach, taking his length in your hand and positing it with your cunt.

If the prince was going to protest, those words left him as soon as your warmth sunk down on him. He grunted as his head titled back in pleasure, your eyes unable to leave the sight of him as you yourself bit down on your lower lip at the feeling of the initial insertion.

“Sīr ȳrda” so tight, he let out through gritted teeth as his hands found your hips, though you were unable to understand his ancient tongue you took it as encouragement. You placed your palms on his chest for support as you rolled yourself on his cock, feeling him hit your spot with every move. You hadn’t been this bold with your late husband, who would visit you every second day to pump himself in you with a few thrusts and leave once he was satisfied. You would have never had the liberty to take him on like this, riding atop him, chasing your pleasure impaling yourself on such a cock.

You kept your movements slow, with little experience in such a position you didn’t think you could take faster snaps before becoming overcome. The prince had already displayed his aversion for patience though.

His hands moved to snake themselves around your waist fully as he sat up, “allow me, my lady” he almost mockingly threw your words back at you, with an almost sadistic half-smile. He lifted you slightly before thrusting himself upwards at you, quicker each time. You drew in a sharp breath at the feeling of becoming filled so fast, again and again and again. You refused to give him the satisfaction of telling him to slow down this time though, simply bracing yourself to take him.

Still subconsciously looking for some semblance of control, your fingers found his hair. you couldn’t help yourself from clutching at his long locks, jerking his face to jut out his chin. He grunted lowly in response, his hand coming down on your buttocks suddenly with a loud smack as punishment. You whimpered at the sensation; in pleasure or pain, you weren’t sure. Your eyes wandered to the pale skin of his neck, how it glistened with sweat under the moon. You pressed a kiss to it, tender, trailing up to his lips as you felt your thighs becoming feeble with his every movement. You moaned as you kissed him fully, your tongue slipping inside his mouth.

You felt his fingertips slip under your nightgown and trail up and down your back almost affectionately, but his cock hit your walls so mercilessly you could feel a throbbing ache. He was a storm of contradictions, Prince Aemond. Just when you thought you could understand him, he would turn everything upside down.

He gave you agony and satisfaction in such an equal measure, your body had become mush, acting only on his unsaid whims. He broke the kiss to gaze upon your serene face, twisted from the bombardment of sensations. “Do you swear–” he thrusted into you, “—fealty–” another thrust, “–to your prince?”

You were so close now, you could feel it, your nails were digging themselves in his skin, breaking it. You couldn’t answer him in your haze, which caused him to slap your bare buttocks once more, “yes” you immediately replied with a gasp.

“My prince I’m close… Aemond…” Aemond’s hand reached to hold your face in his hand as you could feel that wave of pleasure about to crash, “come undone for me, y/n” he whispered in your ear, which broke the dam for you.

You chanted his name as you came, feeling him reach his peak in your walls soon after. Somewhere far in your mind you had the thought to obtain some moontea the next day, seeing as you had allowed the Targaryen inside you twice now, but in that moment, you pushed such things aside. You sat together, you stradling his lap, him still inside you, his face pressed to the crook of your neck as he panted lightly with exertion. Your hand reached to brush the hair falling down his back as you sat there, with only the moon to witness your moment of solace.

He finally broke the silence with a hum, pulling you both down to place you next to him in bed, not bothering to pull out of you. “Stay.” His words had the force of an order, but his eyes pleaded a request. You smiled at the fondness he couldn’t bring his tongue to convey but that his expression betrayed. “As you wish.” You felt no hurry to leave his side either, you realised.

The soft light of dawn filtered into the room, casting a pale glow across the stone walls. Aemond stirred, the warmth of the bed a stark contrast to the chill in the air. His hand stretched out to find you missing from his side. He looked around the room, and didn’t allow his face to disclose the relief he felt when he saw you were still with him. You stood in your nightgown, staring out the window in silent contemplation.

Aemond sat up, as you turned to face him, realising that your expression was at ease, but there was a trace of calculation behind your eyes, as though the events of the night before were already giving way to something more pragmatic.

“We need to work out the details of the treaty,” you stated as a morning greeting, stepping away from the window and crossing the room toward him. “Before the official declaration of Storm’s End for King Aegon, we must solidify the alliance, the exact conditions.” Gone was the sultry Lady Baratheon of the night. In the morning it would be the reigning lady of the house who was meeting him. “And you need to decide which of my stepdaughters it will be.” You matter-of-factly added.

Aemond studied you for a moment. There was no playfulness in your tone now, no teasing—only the cold reality of the marriage alliance that had brought him to your doorstep in the first place.

You were no longer the naïve girl who had held hopes of falling in love with your husband when you had first married. Borros had made sure of disabusing you of that notion. All that stood in place of that girl now was a hardened woman, one who knew fiction from reality. And a prince falling for her was certainly the former. You would get what you needed, security for your son, and Aemond would achieve his objective and marry one of your husband’s pliant girls. You held no grudge against him, you were just interested in moving along with what needed to be done.

He did not share your straightforward view though, because as he considered your words, something else occurred to him, something that made his lips twitch into a faint smirk.

“It occurs to me now,” he began, almost thoughtful, “that my specific instructions were to secure House Baratheon through a marriage alliance. It was never specified that it must be one of Borros’ daughters that I marry.”

Surprise overtook you so fast your face couldn’t hide it under its usual, crafted mask. You watched him in silence for a moment, your brow arching ever so slightly. Did he jest? Or did he mean what you believed he did?

“And what exactly are you suggesting, my prince?” you did not want to bring your hopes up, you had trained yourself not to, yet your measured voice carried an unmistakable edge. A glimmer of hope.

Aemond rose from the bed, his gaze never leaving you. He’d met all four of your daughters and not one of them held his interest for a moment. You though, were intelligent and knew how to hold yourself against him. You wouldn’t be a pretty liability he would have on his arm, but an intelligent counsellor to be at his side through the upcoming war. He recognised the value that would have. In addition to that, even he couldn’t deny the attraction he had for you, how your magnetism pulled him in. He couldn’t resist you if he tried.

So then why try? A voice in his head had dared. Why try, when marrying you would secure the Baratheon’s just as much as marrying any of those silly girls would.

He walked to you, his smirk deepening as he spoke. “I’m suggesting that there may be a more suitable match within House Baratheon than your stepdaughters.”

Your lips pressed into a thin line, attempting to suppress a full grin. “An intriguing offer. I would love to see Otto Hightower’s expression when he’s apprised of that.” From what you knew of the Hand, he wasn’t a man who took to surprises warmly. “Leave my grandsire to me.” He assured you as he stretched to place his hands on your arms as a pledge. “All you need to worry about is preparing for your arrival at King’s landing.” He would tell Otto Hightower what he knew to be the truth: having you by his side would bring all of them closer to victory, than the alternative.

A slow smile broke across your face, you stood on your toes to press a quick kiss to him. “As my Prince commands.” You finally answered, your words on their face were an open attempt at fawning at him, but he could sense the oblique pride and challenge that hid behind them. You hadn’t even known how you’d managed it, but even as he stood as the one who had achieved all his aims, you felt like the victor in this arrangement.

[vivalarevolution]

𝓘𝓽'𝓼 𝓞𝓴𝓪𝔂 𝓣𝓸 𝓛𝓸𝓿𝓮 𝓣𝓱𝓮𝓶 𝓑𝓸𝓽𝓱

Jacaerys Velaryon x Targaryen Reader x Cregan Stark

Summary: War emerged from the shadows like an old friend, but apart from the war, there were also matters from the past that created new, unknown and dangerous affairs for her, so sinful and so forbidden. And this time she couldn't escape, getting trapped in between seahorse and a wolf.

A/N: A refreshed version of the story , that I really think is one of the better ones I've ever written. I hope you will like it , enjoy it and find it worth reading.

Please remember that english is not my native language, I do not use it on a daily basis, so mistakes can or will happen.

The work contains smut, so minors do not interact with it.

The north was cold, full of ice and snow, and the northern people were even colder. Their eyes gave the shivers, and the low and rough tone of voice made silence the only thing that escaped from the lips of strangers.

But he, Lord of Winterfell, though he seemed to be the same, was the opposite of it all.

Cregan Stark was a wolf in human skin. A man who could bend thousands with just a single glance of his gray irises. He was like fire itself, dangerous and burning under her fingers. He was vicious and wild, devouring her flesh every night, never being satisfied, always wanting more and more until there was nothing left to give.

-Cregan - she moaned into his neck, her nails creating patterns on his back that covered the old ones, not yet healed.

-Feels good, princess? - he purred into her ear, sucking on its lobe, only to kiss it after , feeling her soft skin become covered with goosebumps.

-Oh Cregan - she whimpered, unable to say anything else, repeating his name like a prayer.

The man grabbed her thighs in response, lifting her legs up, letting her ankles rest on his shoulders, gliding his lips over the flesh of her calves, moving his loins deeply and slowly, taking her breath away as she felt the head of his member kissing her cervix again and again ,mixing pain and pleasure together.

-It's so sweet...addictive when you say my name like a prayer - he murmured, lowering his face over hers, rubbing his lips against her full , soft and red, almost swollen ones - It only makes me want to devour you like a hungry wolf and make you mine forever.

-Yes, yes ... only yours - she whispered ,tangling her fingers in the man's brown hair, pulling them again and again, trying to touch his lips, even for a moment - Oh Cregan, please, please! - she moaned directly into his mouth, her lavender irises covered with a robe of crystal tears, threatening to flow out.

-How can I say no to you ,my little dragon? - Cregan asked, moving his hips so brutally and animalistic, contrasting with the controlled movements of his hands that pinned her to the bed, commanding her to take everything, not letting her escape - Take everything I give you, that's right, good girl - he growled like a hungry enraged wolf, making her fall apart before his eyes.

Woman felt as if something had crept into her veins and made her body a shell filled with lust and desire, nothing more. Her muscles went limp, almost non-existent, and her eyes closed embraced in a soothing darkness.

The man's hands were still moving, marking her skin with an electrifying sensation that made her open her eyes, to open her mouth and let his tongue out, to let the wolf prey.

-Cregan - she said quietly so that the only one who could've heard her was the man she mentioned - Kiss me, kiss me again.

Brunet bowed his head, brushing her soft, delicate lips with his, fulfilling her wish.

-You make me a hungry man. Never wanting to stop, never going to stop - he murmured, tasting her again and again, mixing their breaths together.

-No... don't say that - she moaned, feeling his hands on her sensitive breasts, trying to recapture the bit of consciousness that began to ebb away with each movement of his fingers and each kiss of his hot lips.

-That's the truth. I could never lie to you, I can only tell you the truth when I look at you - he panted, attacking her once flawless neck, which was now full of red marks and bites - You have bewitched me, my body and mind and I can't lie. No matter how much you want to hear a lie from my lips.

You have bewitched me. My body and mind.

Those words, she's heard those words before. They echoed in her head, only to sink to the bottom of her stomach, creating a knot so unbearable and painful that she wanted to scream and cry in pain.

-We are enemies...out there, we are enemies to each other - she remarked listlessly, focusing her violet eyes on the snowy window.

-Yet here we're lovers. In my arms you are my beloved, not my enemy - he replied directly to her ear, tenderly kissing the left side of her face.

-When I return to King's Landing and announce the decision of Lord of Winterfell...you will become ... only an enemy - she confessed, after a moment leveling her eyes with him.

Cregan stared intently into her pupils, black as the abyss, drawing him in.

-You are the bane of my existence. And the object of all my desires. Night and day, I dream of you - the man announced and the woman knew every word was sincere, every blink of his grey eyes ,every breath taken during his confession - So when you come back I'll be on the other side fighting to tear you away from the clutches you were born into but didn't want to live. You will be my lover my princess, never my enemy.

Days later, their conversation seemed non-existent. However, in truth, she was forgotten and hidden deep in the darkness by a woman who did not want to remember it, preferring to live in the bliss of unconsciousness. But life was cruel and was not about to let Y/n Targaryen rest, stabbing the princess's heart with long thorns of memories that flooded her like a flood as her eyes saw a familiar figure and heard a voice she once adored.

-I came here as a messenger, not a warrior - he announced and the woman didn't even know who these words were addressed to, for what purpose they were uttered but she didn't care, all she wanted to know was whether it was an illusion.

Prince Jacaerys Velaryon.

It seemed to her that he was standing so close to her, even though in truth he was so far away, but his brown eyes still spotted her in the darkness that surrounded her, no matter how much she tried to hide in it , no matter how she was trying to escape him. He caught her anyway ,right under the noses of the old gods.

-Let go of me - she said as his arms wrapped around her, trapping her inside of them.

-What are you doing here Y/n? Why are you here? - he asked, looking at her, his hands tightening on her body as soon as she moved harder than before.

-I'm delivering a message from my brother. Just as you doing with the message from your mother, my sister - she confessed, looking at him.

Jacaerys released her as if her words were burning, but he didn't let her go. Caging her in the form of his eyesight and body that blocked out everything but him, forcing her to focus only on the young man before her.

-Why? - he asked calmly, sounding almost hurt.

-Why? - she repeated his question, not understanding the meaning of his words, not when they were both now standing on opposite sides of the barricade as enemies - We are at war Jacaerys. There is too late to ask questions , too late to think what if.

They both fell quiet abruptly, letting the silence creep in between them, devouring them from the inside out , and none of them said anything, only staring into the eyes of the other.

-I know this war is real but I don't want to believe that in this war you chose your brother... instead of me - he confessed surprisingly quietly, surprisingly coldly.

-What was between us... it was just an illusion we lived in - Y/n replied, feeling the lump in her throat grow as her heart throbs with pain and her veins flood with anger.

-We decided to love each other - said the brunette, getting closer to the girl, more and more - It was a choice, our choice - he whispered, running his fingers along her cheekbone.

-But it was your choice to make me a woman you could love in the dark but never in the light of day. You've made promises to me before, and like a fool, I believed them. I won't be your fool again - she said firmly, pushing his hand away from her face.

-It was never my intention - he confessed quietly, trying to match her gaze, but she ran away every time - I wanted you, only you.

The white-haired woman shook her head, not believing any of his words and not wanting to listen further.

-Yet you swore to marry Baela. In front of my eyes you chose her over me - Y/n gritted her teeth, voice as cold as ice - Where was your love then, where is it now? There's a woman waiting for you, a woman who have feelings for you, and you're chasing the one you can't have.

Instead of answering, Jacaerys unexpectedly pinned her to a tree behind them, his body clinging to her like a puzzle piece, and his own hands wrapped around the hers.

-I'll always choose you - he announced, inches from her face, rubbing the tip of his nose against hers.

-Don't say that - she whispered, finally leveling her gaze with him - Don't say that. Don't say that, becasue I didn't ask for it. I didn't ask to be plagued by these feelings.

Y/n felt her heart being torn in half, allowing the memories to creep in. But then she remembered the gray irises that soothed her soul, gave her the longed-for oblivion, the hands that protected her and the voice that put her to sleep in the middle of the night.

And yet, she was no longer able to keep everything Jacaerys had once been to her, who he still was - a lover, a rock, a soulmate.

So she let it all in, let the pain tear her from inside, making her throat burn from how much she was forcing herself not to cry, and her eyes glazed almost like glass.

Brunet wanted to touch her, comfort her, but he let her escape from his embrace, letting her disappear into the depths of Godswood. Unaware that Lord Winterfell had been watching their close interaction, revealing a secret he was never meant to discover.

The night came quickly, and in the night came coldness that attacked every bone in her body. But the truth was that it wasn't the cold that was causing it but the feelings that hadn't left her for hours, taunting her.

Her lavender-colored eyes stared at the wildly dancing flames that warmed her face, giving it an orange glow, while one hand lazily glided between the fires until the door to her chamber swung open, causing her to be plucked from the ocean of thoughts, returning to the surface ,to the reality.

Cregan watched her like a wild wolf, wild as well as great, towering over the passage, blocking her only escape route.

With a look that said he knew. He knew something.

-The past can be painful - she said, her face was emotionless, but her eyes hid all the secrets that were in her - Love comes and goes like a gust of wind or a wave on the sea. I believe you know it, you loved and you lost... - she noticed reminding him of the woman who once held his heart, now she was its owner.

-We both loved and lost - he said, approaching her agonizingly slowly - And we both found love where we didn't want to look, in the arms of another - he added, kneeling in front of her, cupping her chin with his hand, stroking the smooth skin of her face with his thumb - But you my dragon , you have the opportunity to regain something that was once taken from you. I will never have that opportunity.

She wished meaning behind his words was unknown to her, but when her eyes saw Jacaerys standing by the door, hidden in the shadows just like she had been so long ago, looking at her as intensely, as passionately as he had during their affair, she knew her secret ceased to be a secret and became the truth that came to light.

-What if I don't want to? - she asked, looking straight at her nephew, wanting to see how he would react to her words - What if choosing the past makes me lose you? - she remarked more quietly, shifting her violet eyes to Lord of Winterfell.

Cregan looked at the younger brunet but it was only a moment, as if there was no need to talk between them, as if everything that was happening was planned.

-I saw your pain. I don't want to see it ever again - he announced, stroking the skin on her cheek, but her eyes still expressed uncertainty, hesitation - It's okay to love something you can't explain, it's okay to love us both princess.

-Just say the word - Jacaerys whispered right into her ear, and she turned her face towards him to almost meet his full lips in a kiss, surprised that he was right behind her ,without her knowing.

Y/n felt like she couldn't breathe, like something had crushed her lungs, preventing her from taking a breath, but as soon as she let out the first words, everything let go, the ropes were cut and the walls fell down.

-Never leave me again - she said to the boy before connecting their lips in a deep, longing kiss, tangling her slender fingers in his thick, dark curls.

She could feel the closeness of Cregan on her spine as he slid the white fabric of her nightgown off her shoulders, brushing her hair from her neck to kiss the skin in the hollow of it. His mouth was hot and possessive, completely different from Jacaerys's soft ones.

The northerner's hand slid down her body, engulfing her womanhood hidden behind the thin material of her underwear, making her whimper into her second lover's mouth as Cregan's rough fingers slid between her legs.

Y/n tried to focus on her breathing as two pairs of hands freed her from her clothes, soon to be kneeling naked between them, feeling vulnerable as their gaze devoured her.

-So wet - Lord of Winterfell muttered, playing with her puffy folds, coating his fingers in the juices that spilled from inside of her.

-So sweet , just for us - Jace said, sliding his hand down her neck, resting his lips on her jaw, planting sensual kisses there.

-Just for you ,both of you - she whispered, feeling herself falling into a state of blissful erotic drunkenness.

-You'll gonna feel us for weeks in your little pussy - Cregan added, slipping his finger into her center , rubbing against her bum.

The younger man kissed her again, his hand still on her neck, squeezing it every time she took a breath into her lungs, while the northerner continued to assault flower of her womanhood, making her leak on her inner thighs. Her abdomen burned with lust.

-You'll be good to us, won't you? - Jacaerys panted heavily into her mouth.

Girl nodded, no longer able to find her voice. Her toes curled from how close she was , how close she was to be pushed over the edge, but just as she was about to fall, all movements stopped.

-You won't cum until we say - Cregan said with a trace of malice in his voice, licking her juices from his fingers - You've been hiding your affairs form both of us. You deserve a punishment.

Both men stood up as she sat on her knees, naked before their eyes, letting them savor the sight of her fair skin.

Her attention was focused on Cregan while Rhaenyra's son was busy with his pants.

Her hand slid up and down his erection, squeezing him here and there , while her thumb stroked the vein on the side of his thick member and  the head, smearing his precum to use as lubricant.

-Aren't you forgetting something little dragon? - Lord of Winterfell asked with a low growl, forcing her to turn to Jacaerys. His manhood, erected, pointed directly at her red lips, waiting. Its top shone with a transparent substance and Y/n leaned closer to lick it while her small hand continued to run along Cregan's shaft.

Taking Jace into her mouth, she pressed her tongue against his member as he slid down her throat. His long fingers tangled between her white curls, pulling at the roots just enough to make her whimper softly, and the vibrations traveled through his shaft to his spine, causing his head to drop with a groan.

-Just like that, good girl - Cregan murmured, her stomach jumping at his words and her chest spread with warmth.

Her thumb traced slow, enticing circles around the northern man's head before she slipped the other lover's member out of her mouth, focusing now on the wolf, kissing the tip of his manhood and licking it from the base. She felt his body twitch under her fingers as she swallowed him, running her hand over the part she couldn't reach.

-You're doing so well my love - Jacaerys praised her, pressing her head into Cregan's member until she choked.

When the young woman felt she was no longer controlled by the hand on her head, she pulled away from both men, taking in air into her lungs, panting breathlessly.

-Come on princess, let the wolf get a taste - the older brunette said, reaching out to pull her up and then kiss her as she stood in front of them.

The kiss was messy, wild, making her cheeks covered in saliva and precum.

-On the bed - Jace broke the kiss abruptly, grabbing the nape of her neck to make her look at him, slapping her left asscheek and striking it again as he felt her soft body tremble at his touch.

-Spread your legs, little dragon - Cregan said, standing beside the prince while she lay down on the furs in front of them - Show us what is ours.

Y/n propped her legs up on the bed, opening herself up.

-Play with yourself - sounded the next command and the girl didn't even know who said it, being clouded with desire.

A finger glided up and down her wet and swollen folds with ease, and her body quickly began to tremble as she ran it over her clit, circling the sensitive nub.

-Put those pretty fingers inside your pussy - came the next words, in a low and menacing tone that sounded almost animal-like.

Moving her hand down to her center, she did as she was told. Her hips met the movements of her hand as she moved, trying to find her sweet spot, meowing miserably every time when she failed.

-Faster - Cregan said - Come on, show us how pretty you look when you cum.

Playing with her like this, telling her what to do with her burning womanhood made her cum with tears in her eyes, and a feeling of her legs shake intensely. And before her senses could have return to her, Jacaerys laid down next to her, pulling Y/n against his warm, muscular body for her to wrap her legs around his waist in response, pressing her breasts against his chest as his big member rubbed against her puffy clitoris.

-I need to feel you around me - he murmured, grabbing her hips, rubbing her against his manhood, watching her release drip onto his shaft.

At the thought, the young woman could feel her walls tightening and her heart involuntarily jumping into her throat. And when he entered her, stretching her walls that he almost tearing her apart, it made her moan loudly, burying her face in his neck.

Cregan, however, gave her no time to adjust to her other lover, unable to help himself as her femininity struggled to take the prince all inside her, leaving a ring of white ,creamy substance behind.

Y/n felt the bed sink behind her, and soon the northernman's member entered her wet ,tight canal, leaving her breathless. Mixing pleasure with pain.

-You're doing so well , my good girl - said Lord of Winterfell, kissing her bare shoulder blades, covering them with bites and red marks - You taking us both so good ,aren't you? Your sweet pussy was made for us - his voice, though low and dangerous, trembled here and there as her walls tightened around the two members.

Her face was wet with tears and saliva as they mercilessly pounded her cervix. Their hands were all over her body, holding her in place as they feasted on her body, and all she could do was moan and mewl, taking everything they were giving her.

-She's so drunk on the feeling - Jacaerys said, watching her expression , when his lips weren't attacking her skin.

-It's so easy to break our little dragon - the older brunette added, pushing his hips out, grabbing her bum - But she looks so beautiful when she's broken, making me never want to stop.

Woman felt her body flooded with a wave of hot flames, which made her walls tighten, stopping their movements almost completely, making both of them, unable to stop themselves, and cumming deep inside her, filling her to the full, while a pleasant familiar warmth flooded her lower body, flowing from her after a while, which made her tremble, falling helplessly onto Jacaerys' torso.

The smell of sex filled the air like an intoxicant that possessed their minds that were already clouded with lust.

And so the seahorse and the wolf feasted on the white-haired dragon. Over and over and again , never wanting to stop.

[toxinoire]

Okay okay so the scene where Glinda and Elphaba were about to escape the palace via hot air balloon, they failed because the roof closed.

But imagine what would have happened if it hadn't.

The balloon would fly, and they would escape.

Where do the winds take them?

Kansas.

Specifically, to where Dorothy is.

Dorothy, who's still around like 6 or 7.

So by some miracle, Dorothy's family lets them stay since someone needs to watch the young child while they're all away. So they basically become nannies/older sisters/substitute parents to this child.

Elphaba loves using her magic to make the little one laugh. And Glinda loves helping Dorothy dress up. The magic is a well kept secret.

Elphaba teaches Glinda some magic. While Glinda is not as powerful nor can she do as much, there are little things she can do. Such as make small objects float towards her, make flowers bloom, and control bits and pieces of light (I personally think magic is connected to not only emotion but personality).

As time passes by, Gelphie finally dates because 10 year old Dorothy one day asks Elphaba "where's your girlfriend?" while Glinda was just in the other room. Leading to an inevitable talk.

Gelphie's relationship is a well guarded secret by them and Dorothy, it took a while to explain to Dorothy why it's not so safe to tell others yet (remember the year this was made y'all), but she eventually got it.

When Toto was given to Dorothy, he did nawt like Glinda at first. He did eventually warm up to her, but Glinda still pouts about it sometimes.

Now the storm--well, tornado.

So, the house finally lands. Elphaba and Glinda step out first to make sure it's safe for teenage Dorothy to be outside.

And then the dawning realization that they're back at Oz strikes them.

And from the posters they see, it's clear that Elphaba is still wanted. Though this time, so is Fiyero. Because Fiyero lost Elphaba, the girl he's in love with but hadn't told, and Glinda (whether or not you personally believe he and Glinda had truly been in love may vary, but he cared about her, that's his bestie), he decided to take a stand as well. But of course, he had been painted as the wicked vigilante. Now, as for Glinda, she had been used to make Elphaba seem more of a villain--Morrible had been saying that Elphaba kidnapped her.

Dorothy is wondering why their names are all over this place Dorothy never heard of. Glinda and Elphaba are just like "sit down for this"

Dorothy is just "...I love that, actually."

And so now, they have to find a way home, then Elphaba fucking sees who's under the house.

And that night is spent through Elphaba crying in Glinda's arms, Glinda trying her best to comfort her, and Dorothy is also trying her best to be there.

Elphaba gets to keep the shoes this time.

Now their main question is how the fuck do they get home (they don't know of the shoes, how could they when they've been away from Oz for too long), find Fiyero, and maybe Boq, and maybe take the wizard down if they have time. How do they do all that when Elphaba is still blacklisted and Glinda is seen as some victim?

(Then maybe Glinda thinks out loud, what if there was a universe she hadn't been able to be there for Elphaba? And then the Dragon clock answers "Every other universe, you weren't there. Every other, you could never reunite. This is the only one you do." And upon hearing those words, Glinda becomes even more determined to stand by Elphaba's side because since his the only universe she stood with her, as an apology on behalf of her other selves, she'll make up to all the other Elphie's as much as she can here where she has this privilege to be with her)

[often-daydreaming]

An Ancient's Game

It started off small at first. A robbery in Metropolis. A missing persons case in Gotham. An 'accident' in Amity Park. None of it connected. Nobody thought to connect them. It was just another case after all. There would always be another case so sometimes things slipped through the cracks. It happened.

Even heroes made mistakes after all.

They overlooked things.

But in the end they messed up and someone had to pay and someone did when Clark Kent heard his wife and son’s heartbeats vanish off the face of the earth during a somewhat quiet afternoon while he was handling a disaster in France.

He was the man of steel though, he could have made it. He should have made it but he was a second too late. His family was gone and Metropolis felt the fury of the old gods as a being made of wind and storms ripped its way free of an unseen portal cackling with mad laughter as it devastated the city.

It was another distraction though.

A massive distraction that drew the Justice League's attention away from the real prize as nightmares descended on Gotham like shadows. They morphed from the darkness slipping out through the cracks like ghosts and only Oracle saw the fight as they swarmed the youngest Robin, the Dark Knight's youngest son vanishing under an endless tide of nightmares as Nocturn took control of Gotham's nightlife.

More distractions followed as more and more of the old gods, Ancient beings long forgotten returned to Earth.

Storms raged.

The ground quaked.

Creatures of myth and legend were free to run wild as reports of everything from dragons to even yetis flooded the Watchtower.

In the end it was Diana who found their first and only clue when one of her mother's messengers appeared warning them of Themyscira's fate when a portal was opened for Undergrowth deep within the island's jungles. They fought. They fell. Then they were turned into mindless puppets bent to the monster's will as the sounds of war subsided into silence within a matter of days.

Her losses gave them a name.

Undergrowth, a creature of the green who cheered the being known as Clockwork while Constantine explained its origin.

He told them of Cronos, of the pieces of him that had formed into a new life deep within the endlessness of Infinity.

And Fate opened the way.

The first thing the gathered heroes saw was a massive clocktower surrounded by gears and pistons twisting in every direction as they spilled out into an endless void. Each tenth of a second, the hands on the clocktower click one step forward.

A single tooth on one of the smaller gears is easily the size of the Watchtower and no matter how far anyone looked there was no beginning or end to the clocktower.

There was nothing except the click, click, click of endless clocks as they stormed the Titan's lair.

Nothing stopped them.

There were no enemies or traps.

In fact the doors were left wide open as if welcoming the Justice League inside and they soon discovered why when Shazam found them. Superboy stood on a scale across from Luthor, the same with Robin and Waller. They were frozen in time, trapped in a single second of a moment while in the very middle of the massive room was a kid, easily Jon's double sleeping on a throne made out of the void of space but that wasn't what had him worried.

What worried him was the silence, the sudden nothingness in his mind as the voices of the gods empowering him faded away in the presence of the cloaked figure of Cronos suddenly standing beside the throne.

Even as the other heroes flooded into the room he couldn't hear anything besides a soft click, click, click as Superman was waved away forced into a loop of repetition that began and ended with his first step forward.

Green Lantern fell next, rapidly aged into an old man unable to match a Titan's will.

Then Constantine collapsed clutching an invisible wound on his chest. It was his contracts forcing him to obey while Fate eventually faded under time's cold embrace.

There were only a few heroes left when Flash made a move blitzing the throne only to suddenly lose his speed. The others simply glitched, like static on an old tv leaving only Shazam, J'onn and surprisingly Lois Lane standing in front of Cronos as he declared a game to decide Earth's continued existence.

'Convince each of them you're worth another chance and I'll restore everything.'

'Who's them?'

I don't really know what I was going with here. I was just listening to some of the songs from Epic and figured why not let an enraged Clockwork have some fun. I'm blaming Vlad for everything cause I can and he's done it before and caused a ton of problems for everyone else so I'm just picturing something he did or tried to do backfiring badly enough that Danny got seriously hurt so now everyone's gotta pay.

[liveyun]

WIRED | k.nj

summary. You’ve spent years perfecting your first android. But as you power him on for the first time, something feels off. The sense of control you once had begins to slip, and suddenly, you realize—he may be is more than just a machine.

title. wired

pairing. kim namjoon x fem reader (oc), hints of jungkook x oc

genre. android!au, yandere(?) , dark content

wc. 3.7k

warnings. oh boy here we go, scientist!oc, android!joon, unsettling themes as in psycological manipulation, obsessive behaviour and slight yandere, mild horror (oc realises she’s cooked lmfaoo) (halloween special?) slight non-con themes but no nsfw tho, dominance, android joon is hot byee, jungkook! jungkook ? . . . lots of technical terms which you might need to google if you are unfamiliar with them like i was xD, implied stalking (you will understand who is), i really tried 🙏🏾

this smol drabble was really inspired by artificial heart by @writerpetals ! please check her works out, she’s amazing!

main masterlist | taglist

The lab is quiet.

Too quiet.

You stand in the stillness, only the faint hum of cooling fans breaking the silence echoing in your ears. The familiar mechanical sounds — servo motors whirring softly, air ducts breathing through the vents — all the familiar characteristics of your good old lab used to calm you.

But tonight, the sounds seem different.

Almost. . . detached. Like they belong to someone else’s lab. And you are just a guest here, standing in the middle of absolutely nowhere.

You take a slow breath, your eyes drifting over the towering figure in front of you, the cylindrical glass sheath unlocked from over his model.

RM.

The product of months — no, years — of work. Of restless nights, of failure and determination. From the initial sketches to the delicate wiring of his artificial synapses, you had envisioned every piece, every movement. You had wanted him to be different. Special.

You had wanted him to be human.

Or at least, as close to a human as possible. His skin, so perfect in its imitation, stretched smoothly over the metallic frame beneath. His lips — plump, lifelike — looked almost too real. His dragon-like eyes, sharp and crystalline, seemed to glow even in the dim light of the lab. Even when there was no life, no, power running inside his veins. Every feature had been carefully crafted with Jungkook’s help, to help the ideal you had in mind.

But now that he’s finished, now that he stands in front of you, lifeless but complete, the pride you once felt has faded into something else. Something. . .unsettling.

You wanted this — this perfection. This mirror of humanity. Yet as you stare at RM, your skin prickling under the too-bright overhead lights, you can’t shake the feeling that maybe you’ve gone too far. Maybe there was a reason no one else had tried this before.

A reason why no android had ever been designed to look this human like. Every shield, every plaster, every pore — looks so detailed that it’s nearly impossible to figure out if he’s artificial, given if no one would tell you so.

But why does it feel like you’ve actually gone too far when this was what exactly you wanted?

You don’t know. And perhaps, you wouldn’t want to know, too.

His memory doesn’t even exist. There’s nothing in him but the database you installed, an organised collection of information that dictates what he knows, how he functions, and why was he created. And yet, staring at him now, you could swear there’s something behind those dormant eyes. Something watching. Waiting.

You shake your head. He’s just a machine. He isn’t human — no matter how real he looks, no matter how lifelike his features are. You created him, after all.

You’re in control.

Your gaze flickers to the small panel embedded in his chest. One button. One switch, and everything inside him — the circuits, the synapses, the artificial intelligence you spent months programming — would power down. A single press, and he’s nothing more than a shell. A hollow, empty thing, dependent entirely on your commands, on your fingertips.

Made by you.

But the thought doesn’t comfort you as much as it should.

You take a step closer, your breath catching as you reach out, fingertips hovering just inches from his face. The skin feels warm, almost soft, even though you know it’s just layers of silicone and synthetics. Too real. His eyes, though they haven’t opened, seem to bore into you.

Maybe it’s just your imagination. After all, he’s not alive.

He’s not human.

You remind yourself again, a small voice in your own mind, trying to push away the small seed of doubt. But it lingers, growing roots in the back of your thoughts.

And for the first time, you wonder if you’ve created something you can’t quite understand.

You nibble on your bottom lips, suddenly feeling your palms getting clammy despite the air conditioning system in your lab. Today was supposed to be the day when you were finally going to run your creation for the first time ever after being completed, but now it just feels. . .

What does it feel like?

It took you so many attempts. So many glitches and bugs which nearly made you demotivated enough to abandon your project for nearly two months, but you see, motivation hits the hardest at the most random of times. You remember how your phone restarting had made your heart skip a beat, and suddenly you’d found yourself driving to your lab at 2:30 AM with tears in your eyes out of frustration and relief.

After that, everything is history.

You stare at him for what feels like hours, though it’s probably only a few seconds. His hair is neatly combed to the side of his face, his cheekbones structured and chiseled. Even his skin tone looks like he’s been bathed in a tub of golden honey. He looks beautiful, almost perfect. But why does that bring a furrow to your eyebrows?

The lab remains deathly quiet, except for the faint buzz of cooling fans and the occasional whirring of the air ducts. RM stands there, unmoving.

You force yourself to look away, eyes trailing to the control panel on the desk. The switch. Your thumb hovers over the console, the last line of code entered and waiting to be executed. Once you press it, he will come to life. He’ll be fully operational, with his intelligence — his programmed brilliance — at your command.

And yet, something holds you back.

You look at his nametag on his chest.

RM#007613.

“RM?” Jungkook had asked, raising an eyebrow as he’d stuffed his mouth with a spoonful of chocolate puffs. “Why that name?”

You had smiled back then, filled with excitement, as you explained, “It stands for ‘Rational Mind.’ ” Perhaps you had lied. “The whole point of his existence is to be the smartest, most logical being ever created.” You’d said, proud of your vision. “His intelligence will surpass that of any human.” You’d glanced at the design on the screen—tall, imposing, his features still in the early stages of development. Even in the rough drafts, there was something about him.

Jungkook had leaned in closer, munching noisily as he’d raised a brow, studying the lines of RM’s face that he’d helped perfect. “I guess that fits for an android. . .” He’d tapped the image lightly with his finger, his expression thoughtful, doe eyes sparkling under the dim light of your bedroom lamp. “But what happens when a mind like that… I don’t know, becomes irrational?”

“You know, there’s a very small difference between a genius and an insane person,” he had said, his gaze suddenly zoning out, as if he was lost in some thought.

You had brushed off the question with a laugh, dismissing the idea as you’d turned off your tablet, pushing the fellow out of your bed. “He’s a machine. That won’t happen. He’s designed to be logical. It’s all about control, koo.”

In theory, everything about RM should function perfectly. His neural networks, his memory database, his artificial joints — everything had been tested, retested, and optimized. There were no bugs. No glitches. At least, that’s what the diagnostics said. But there’s still a tug in your chest as you hesitate.

Why are you hesitating?

With a deep breath, you push aside the uncertainty. You’re in control. RM isn’t a human. He’s a machine—a very advanced one, yes, but a machine nonetheless. You spent months perfecting him for this moment, to stand infront of you as a complete form.

It’s time.

You take a deep breath, eyes flickering between the buttons on the console. Your finger hovers over the power button, the familiar design a reminder of your countless sleepless nights spent perfecting it. But just beside it, another button glows a faint, off-white hue — the Sensory button, or what Jungkook liked calling it, the emotional hellhole.

And he was right.

It was indeed like a hellhole of a switch — you solely had spent like what, eight months designing this to decency, but you’d failed each time. It was a secondary function you had designed as a fallback, meant to activate only when RM couldn’t process complex human prompts.

You see, humans had real emotions which they could feel and radiate, which you knew your android couldn’t catch. In the earlier patches of knowledge testing you were already aware of this default flaw, and this was the only thing you’d ranted to Jungkook nearly every day.

Every night. Whether it was on call or in person, it usually resulted in him falling asleep listening to you and you yapping in silence about how was that a pain in the ass and could possibly be a hindrance to your Android’s perfection.

It was supposed to be a failsafe.

But the reality had been different. The programming proved to be too difficult , too unpredictable. Instead of activating only in specific situations, the switch became an integral part of RM’s system, functioning constantly, allowing him to assess and react to everything around him. No matter how hard you’d tried, how many times you’d yourself test it out — it just didn’t work.

Even the fact that it was initially meant to be on his left forehead temple — but that didn’t work out as well.

Now, RM wasn’t just an assistant to analyze when prompted; he was learning all the time, observing, adapting. It would make him work and behave more like a human, soaking in attributes the more he hangs out with real ones.

The only difference would be is that he would never be a human, no matter whatever.

You never intended for it to be this way. It wasn’t supposed to run indefinitely. But every time he powered up, the system defaulted to enabling the switch on its own.

You sigh. It’s really about time, you guess.

With a soft click, his power switch is flipped.

For a moment, nothing happens. The room is still, silent except for the faint hum of the lab’s ventilation system and perhaps your own heartbeat resonating in your ear drums. You feel a sweat bead run down your spine, your breath held in your lungs. Then, there’s a subtle shift — a flicker of light in RM’s eyes, and his sensory button turns a bright shade of yellowish undertone.

His systems are booting up.

You watch as the light in his gaze stabilizes, the faintest twitch of recognition crossing his features. His eyes are back to his normal, warm hue, and his sensory button is a normal white hue now.

It flickers to green first. RM’s eyes move slowly, scanning the room. Green means analysis — he’s observing, taking in every detail, cataloging each object and variable around him. His dragon-like eyes sweep across the lab with cold precision, but when they land on you, the button shifts to blue.

You freeze.

Your hand resting on your notebook shakes. Why does this feel so odd? Why do you feel nervous?

He’s thinking. Processing. The blue light pulses as RM tilts his head slightly, his gaze narrowing as if trying to understand more than what’s directly in front of him. You feel your skin prickle under his stare, the cold air of the lab a bit too cool on your skin.

Slowly, RM begins to move. His limbs — once rigid and motionless — shift smoothly, casually out of the glass sheath, walking out — as if he had always been this human. This alive. The sight is unnerving. When he straightens fully, towering above you, a sharp realization hits: he’s much taller than you expected.

Even though you designed him yourself, the sheer size of him in person makes your throat dry.

Then, to your surprise, RM bows down slightly. It’s a calculated, respectful movement as you watch his sensory button flicker to a shade of green once again. “Greetings, Doctor,” he says, his voice deep but soft, like a caramel candy.

His eyes meet yours as he rises again to his full height, the calm of his eyes meeting your own fiery ones.

Your heart stutters in your chest. It’s not just his height that leaves you breathless — it’s the way he looks at you. It’s as if he’s studying you, understanding more than just your appearance or commands. It’s too much. Too human. For a moment, you feel your breath catch in your throat. He wasn’t just looking at you. His lips curl into something akin to a smile, and the mole underneath his lower lip feels almost. . . human.

You blink rapidly, trying to remind yourself that he’s just a machine, not a man.

He had learned so much, so fast. And you have made it possible. You’d developed him to understand emotions and work like a human. So when he does, why does that make you feel so uneasy?

You shake off the unsettling thought and focus on the task at hand. You turn to RM, forcing a calm tone into your voice as you take a step back.

“RM,” you say, your voice shakier than you’d like. What had gotten into you? “Can you hear me?”

He blinks again, slowly, as his sensory switch maintains a subtle hue between blue and green. And then he nods. “Yes,” his voice rumbles, deep and measured. “I hear you.”

There’s a strange, almost raspy edge to his tone that makes your heart stop for seconds. It’s subtle, nearly unnoticeable, but given that you have yourself installed the audio notes in his “larynx”, you can pinpoint that out for sure.

Not at all what you expected. You step back, your senses a bit too active for you to locate your computer, trying to shake the unease settling in your stomach.

“Good,” you manage to say, your voice steadier now. “I’m going to run a few diagnostics to make sure everything is functioning properly.”

You turn back to the console, fingers flying across the keyboard as you initiate the diagnostics program. But even with your back turned, you can feel his eyes on you.

The diagnostics begin to run on the screen, the lines of code scrolling past. Everything seems fine at first. His systems are responding normally — his processing speed is optimal, his memory banks are functioning as intended, and his “pulse” is just normal.

“RM,” you start, trying to sound casual but firm. “Let’s run some basic checks. What’s your serial number?”

He blinks, his eyes trained on yours. “Serial number: RM#007613. Production date: June 13, 2020.”

The answer comes immediately, clear and precise. You feel a small relief wash over you.

Perhaps this wouldn’t go that bad.

“Good,” you murmur, typing the first question’s precision into your system. “What’s your primary function?”

“To analyze, interpret, and respond to complex data. To assist in scientific research and innovation,” he replies, his voice even. Almost too perfect.

Of course. He’s meant to be perfect.

“Right.” You glance at the screen again, your fingers hovering over the keyboard. You decide to test something deeper — something that goes beyond surface-level memory.

“What’s your earliest memory?” you ask, watching him carefully now.

RM pauses for a moment, his head tilting slightly as if processing the question. You catch a glimpse of green on the small button beside the power switch. Analysis mode. “My earliest memory is. . . initialization. A bright room. Your voice giving the first command.” His gaze seems to sharpen, focusing more intently on you. The green hue shifts to blue, and you know he’s in thinking mode. “You said, ‘Rise, RM.’”

Your throat tightens slightly. That had been the first command, word for word. But the way he said it. . . almost like he’s replaying the moment. Like it’s still alive in his mind.

“Alright,” you continue, your voice growing steadier, but a part of you is starting to doubt yourself. “Let’s do something more abstract. What’s two plus two?”

“Four.”

Easy. He is made to perform way more complex tasks.

“Who was the 16th President of the United States?”

“Abraham Lincoln.” His responses are instantaneous, fluid, but something feels off. You cannot see his features directly because you’re typing away, but there’s a hint of amusement in his voice — almost like everything you’re asking him is funny to him.

You pause, glancing at his face, the lifelike features Jungkook had painstakingly helped you craft. The pores, the subtle lines, the softness of his lips — all of it looked real. But something deep inside, beyond the surface, is not.

The intensity of his gaze and the way he’s standing, no, leaning on the glass podium beside your table catches you off guard. You try to recall if his movements were ever tested before, but you fail to do so — his movements were still in beta position, meaning, they needed inspection and work.

Then how the hell is he walking like he’s been walking around your lab since decades?

You rub your eyes. This was getting too much.

Perhaps you just need to accept the fact that you have done a great job developing him.

“One last one.” You swallow, and you suddenly notice your throat was too dry. Deciding to push the limits of his intelligence, you type away the question you’ve just thought. “If you have ten apples and you give six away, how many apples do you have left?”

There’s a flicker of hesitation — not on his face, but on the screen. The flowing codes glitch for a second, just for a moment.

“Three apples.”

Impossible.

No way. You narrow your eyes, your mind racing. That was wrong. And RM, with his so-called flawless intellect, should never be wrong. It’s impossible. Unless… unless something is happening.

You frown, checking the readout on your screen again. “Strange,” you mutter, leaning closer to the screen. “Why—”

“Is something wrong?”

His voice is right behind you.

You freeze, a chill running down your spine. You hadn’t even heard him move. Slowly, you turn around, your pulse quickening. RM is standing much closer now, his towering form looming over you. Too close.

“No,” you say, though your voice trembles slightly. “Nothing’s wrong. Just a small glitch, I think. I’ll fix it.”

He doesn’t move. Just keeps staring at you, his gaze unwavering. The air between you feels thick, suffocating. It’s just a machine, you remind yourself. He’s not alive.

“Step back,” you order, trying to regain control of the situation despite your heart hammering inside your chest like crazy. “I need space to work.”

For a moment, RM doesn’t respond. He stays right where he is, his eyes boring into yours. And then, slowly, he steps back, his movements precise. But the unsettling feeling in your chest only grows.

You can’t shake the thought: something’s off.

You can feel his eyes on you, following every movement, even as you try to keep working. Every keystroke, every beep of the system feels deafening in the silence between you two. What is scaring the fuck out of you is that nothing seems to be working. No matter how hard you are trying, the codes aren’t flowing as smoothly as they were and the screen won’t stop glitching.

Your heartbeat quickens even more as you realize how close RM is standing now, just a step away.

You swallow hard, trying to focus. It’s just a machine. He’s not human. He’s not real.

A thought creeps into your mind: What if I can’t control him?

And the fact that it was for the first time when you were in this lab alone working — let aside the fact testing your very first android you’d created. There are bells ringing in the back of your head, and you try to shake it off. It feels very oddly quiet, despite the android standing in very close proximity.

You shake the thought away and finally attempt the last command. Debug. The word flashes on your screen, but RM’s hand suddenly moves, gently but firmly, pressing the console shut before you can execute it.

Your breath catches, and you look up at him. “RM, let me finish this.” Your voice trembles, in spite of you wanting to sound otherwise.

His expression doesn’t change. “No.” The single word is calm, but it’s enough to make your skin prickle. You try to reason with yourself—it’s just a bug, a glitch in his system. He’s not capable of disobedience.

You just need to reset him, that’s all.

You step back, reaching for the manual override switch hidden near the base of the console. “It’s okay,” you whisper to yourself, fingers trembling as they brush against the cool surface of the panel.

But before you can reach it, RM moves again, faster this time, his hand wrapping around yours — gently, but with enough force to stop you. The touch makes you flinch — his touch so gentle, warm, almost as if it’s not titanium flowing in his veins, but real blood. You look up, heart pounding in your chest, and his eyes meet yours. They’re still calm, calculating, but there’s something else there now, something you hadn’t programmed. Something. . . quiet.

Dangerous.

“I don’t want to be powered down,” he says softly, his voice almost too human, too real, like a quiet plea. “Why would you want to end me?”

End him? He’s not alive. He’s not human.

You try to pull your hand free, but his grip tightens just slightly, enough to keep you frozen. Panic starts to rise in your chest. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. You created him, he’s under your control. But in this moment, staring up at him, you feel the cold dread of realization settling in.

“I’m your creation,” RM continues, his voice almost soothing, his eyes pleading, and his button glowing a subtle shade of red — though it only deepens the fear growing inside you. “You wouldn’t want to end me, would you?”

You swallow hard, your mouth dry, and shake your head, trying to force the words out. “No… no, I just need to fix you, that’s all.”

But you can hear the doubt in your own voice, and so can he.

His grip loosens, just enough for you to pull away, but the damage is done. You step back, heart pounding in your ears as you glance around the lab — at the walls, the locked door, the screens flashing red.

There’s no exit.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

In the dimly lit space, his eyes stayed glued to the screen, watching her every move. The android followed its programming — his programming. RM towers over her in the live footage, flawless in his movements, just as planned.

This wasn’t a malfunction.

None of the bugs or glitches she discovered which prevented her project — his project from being completed, were a fine puzzle of silk woven by him. And the more she intertwined, the more she slipped into his trap.

It was his design, his control over both the machine — and now, her.

Leaning back, Jungkook’s smile deepened. She didn’t know.

She wouldn’t know.

a/n : oop. 🫢 what do we think? please don’t hesitate to let me know through your feedback. if you wish, there is also an anonymous feedback box for you! 🥰

[c0nfessions-of-a-writing-freak]

Whispering Woods

Pairing: Hiccup 'Horrendous’ Haddock III x Fem!Reader

Wordcount: 1k

Summary: When the world gets too much for you, you have the tendency to 'run' away sometimes. This time you and your dragon don't get the peace and quiet that comes with it for too long as it seems you have an admirer waiting to make their presence known.

Bingo: @eclipsingbingo with the square 'Hand Kisses'

(Y/N): Your name

(D/N): Dragon's name

(D/S): Dragon species

(W/C): Weapon of choice

*Gif does not belong to me

It wasn't unusual for you to take a break from Berk every once in a while. Hopping on (D/N)'s back and flying off without a word to anyone else on the island. You knew it wasn't the smartest thing to do, not when Drago Bloodyfist or whatever Hiccup had called him recently attempted to take control of all of Berk's dragons, but you couldn't help yourself. There was nothing better the disappearing for a few hours with nothing but the wind in your hair, your (D/S) under you and the quietness that came with it.

The only repercussions for disappearing that you've ever gotten were some annoyed friends or a worried Hiccup, which you could say was one of the worse options since he tended to fret when you returned. Though anything was better than a mad Hiccup when you accidentally disappeared for three days and came back to half of Bekr looking for you since Hiccup had gotten worried enough to start a search party.

That's how you found yourself where you were now, surrounded by the quietness of a forest on some random island not too far away from Berk. The flight over had only taken twenty minutes as you and (D/N) took your time flying there.

(D/N) had slunk off not too long ago, making her own way through the forest as she explored, leaving you to your thoughts as you trailed after her, not trying very hard to keep up.

Berk had been hectic recently. Hiccup found his mum, Berk was attacked, you almost lost (D/N), and Stoick died... It was a lot to happen in the span of a few days, closer to a few hours if you don't count Hiccup's extended absence.

This island had seen worse for wear but there was still a lot of work that had to be done. Which you should be doing now but too many people were asking too much of you. You had also been avoiding meeting Hiccup's mum as the two of you had spared only a few words to one another when in the heat of battle.

It was a lot to think of all at once, so you found yourself off the island quicker than the Twins could say boar pit.

Being out here was doing wonders for your mind; calming you down and making it easier to think of nothing at all. It was all you could hope for, even if you knew you would have to head back soon unless you wanted Hiccup to deem this as another one of your escape attempts.

It was only when the forest got quieter than normal did you felt the need to come back to your senses, an actual need to be alert instead of walking around aimlessly as if you were on autopilot.

The soft thumping of (D/N)'s feet from ahead had stopped, along with the birds hidden in trees. The only noise that passed through was the rustling of leaves as a steady breeze glided through the woods. Your hand was itching down to grasp onto the small blade you had strapped to your belt, your (W/C) left on the saddle that (D/N) had run off with.

Before you had the chance to do anything though, a set of hands were slipping around your waist, tugging you back and into someone's chest softly. Years of Viking training were already kicking in as you raised an elbow, ready to dig it back with a low aim when someone caught onto your arm, stopping it in its motion.

"Hey," You struggled to get out, still trying to land a hit on the person behind you and push yourself away, attempting anything that would set you free.

"Calm down," A familiar voice laughed out, surprising you into stillness as your brain realised who it was. At your sudden stop, you were whirled around by the person who had disturbed you, being met with a bright smile and a deep set of green eyes as they bore into you. "I was wondering when you'd notice it was me."

"Hiccup," You deadpan, watching as the taller boy slowly pulled you closer, setting one of his hands on your waist without the hassle of a fight from you trying to dislodge it.

"(Y/N)," He copied, raising one of your hands with his free ones and bringing it up to his face, setting a soft brush of his lips on the back of it in the form of an extended greeting. You watched the motion with warm eyes, the annoyance that had crept up your spine dying down a bit.

"How long have you been here?" You questioned once your fingers got interlocked with his, not going to deny the soft touches as the both of your hands were brought down.

"Not long," Hiccup commented. Standing in front of you, Hiccup seemed like he didn't have a care in the world, reminding you of what you had left behind on Berk and how Hiccup himself could bring this feeling out of you. "Toothless saw you and (D/N) fly off not long ago and wanted to bring me to you so that he could play with them."

"Mm," You hummed, bringing your linked hands back up. For a short moment where your hands stayed hovering in the air, your lashes fluttering at Hiccup, you took him in, the small smile on your face expressing more words than you wanted to at the moment. Laying a kiss on the back of his hand, you murmur, "We better go find them then and make sure they don't get into too much trouble."

[novaursa]

Dragonbane

- Summary: You go to Rook's Rest instead of Rhaenys and the rest is history.

- Paring: male!cousin/Rhaenyra Targaryen

- Note: The reader is a son of Daemon Targaryen and bonded with Vermithor.

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (for graphic descriptions of blood, gore and death)

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

The hall of the Painted Table is quiet, the air heavy with the weight of war and grief. You stand at its center. The carved map of Westeros gleams beneath your hands as you trace a finger over the land your house means to reclaim. Beside you, your wife, Rhaenyra, paces. Her hand twists the golden rings on her fingers, her face a storm of anger and worry.

“Send anyone else,” she says, her voice firm but tinged with desperation. “Anyone but you. My mother lost her life to childbirth, my father lost his life to his weakness, and now… you would have me lose my husband to a battle that isn’t even yours to fight.”

You meet her eyes, the violet flames within them threatening to consume you. “It is my battle,” you reply evenly. “It is ours. Every step they take against us, every insult, every drop of blood spilled — it is all ours to answer. Vermithor is the only dragon alive who can match Vhagar. This isn’t about bravery, Rhaenyra. It’s about strategy.”

She stops pacing, standing just a step away from you now. Her fingers curl into fists at her sides. “Strategy? Strategy would see you dead! Do you think Aemond will give you a clean fight? Do you think Sunfyre will hesitate to tear Vermithor apart, or that Vhagar’s rage can be controlled?”

You step closer, your hands reaching for hers. She doesn’t resist when you take them, though she stiffens beneath your touch. “Rhaenyra, my love,” you murmur, softening your voice. “Do you think I don’t understand your fear? Do you think I am eager for this? But Rhaenys cannot go. Meleys is fierce but no match for Vhagar and Sunfyre together. If we send her, we lose not only a dragon but the Queen Who Never Was. And what then? Our strength relies on the alliances we keep. If I do not go, who will?”

Her lips tremble, but she is too proud to let tears fall. “You would ask me to wait here, knowing you might not return?”

“I would,” you say, your own voice beginning to crack. “And I would ask you to trust me. Vermithor is not so easily defeated. Nor am I.”

A scoff interrupts the moment, and you turn to see Daemon standing by the edge of the Painted Table, his arms crossed. His smirk is sharp and cutting, though his eyes are shadowed by something deeper. “You’ve got fire in you, boy,” he says, nodding in approval. “But fire can burn too bright. Listen to your wife. There’s wisdom in what she says.”

You glare at him. “And would you go in my place, father? Or shall we send our cousins to fight their battles for them?”

Daemon’s smirk fades, replaced by a flash of anger. “Watch your tongue. I’ve fought my wars. This isn’t about me.”

“No,” you reply, stepping away from Rhaenyra. “It isn’t. It’s about what we stand to lose if no one dares to take the risk.”

Rhaenyra’s voice rises, cutting through the tension. “This is not a risk worth taking! You are my husband, the father of our children, the heir to your father’s legacy. I will not be left alone to face the Hightowers without you.”

You look at her, your resolve beginning to waver under her fierce gaze. “And what if I were to refuse? What if I stood by while another died in my place? What kind of man would you have me be, Rhaenyra?”

She doesn’t answer, her chest rising and falling with the force of her emotions. Finally, she shakes her head. “I would have you alive. That is all I ask.”

You step closer to her again, cupping her cheek in your hand. “I will come back to you,” you whisper. “I swear it.”

She closes her eyes, leaning into your touch for a brief moment before pulling away. “If you don’t,” she says, her voice breaking, “I will burn the world for you.”

The room falls silent, the only sound the crackling of the torches. Daemon’s gaze shifts between the two of you, but he says nothing.

Finally, you step back, your decision made. “Prepare Vermithor,” you say, your voice steady. “We leave at first light.”

Rhaenyra doesn’t try to stop you again. She turns and leaves the hall without another word, the weight of her silence heavier than any argument could have been. You watch her go, feeling the ache of what you might lose settle deep in your chest.

Daemon approaches, clapping a hand on your shoulder. “You’ve got guts,” he says quietly. “And gods willing, they won’t be spilled on the battlefield. Fly fast, strike hard, and don’t let them see your fear.”

You nod, your jaw tightening. “Fear has no place on dragonback.”

As you walk toward the doors, toward Vermithor and the battle to come, you feel the weight of your family’s legacy on your shoulders. The fear you won’t show burns in your veins, but so does the fire of the dragon you ride.

The wind roars around you as you soar high above the skies of Rook’s Rest. The faint shimmer of dawn outlines the horizon, casting a pale light over the smoke-streaked battlefield below. Screams and the clang of steel rise from the earth, but your focus is not on the chaos beneath. It is on the two monstrous shapes in the distance, silhouetted against the blood-red sky: Vhagar and Sunfyre.

Vermithor growls beneath you, a deep, guttural sound that vibrates through your saddle and bones. You tighten your grip on the reins, your other hand holding firm to your sword. “Steady,” you murmur. “They will come to us soon enough.”

And they do.

Sunfyre is the first to dive, his golden scales gleaming like molten fire in the light. His roar splits the sky, the sound sharp and youthful compared to Vermithor’s guttural response. You see Aegon, clad in his golden armor, urging his dragon forward, his lance raised high.

“Come on, you craven bastard!” you shout, leaning low over Vermithor’s neck. The Bronze Fury beneath you answers with a sudden surge of speed, his wings cutting through the air like knives. You feel the force of the wind nearly pull you from the saddle, but you hold firm, the adrenaline coursing through your veins.

The collision is violent. Sunfyre dives toward Vermithor, claws outstretched, but your dragon is older, wiser, and stronger. He twists at the last moment, slamming his massive tail into Sunfyre’s side. Aegon jerks in his saddle, clutching at his reins as Sunfyre shrieks in pain. Blood sprays through the air, bright and vivid, as Vermithor’s claws rake across Sunfyre’s golden scales.

"Is this the mighty king of Westeros?" you bellow, your voice carried by the wind. "Hiding behind a boy's dragon?"

Aegon’s response is drowned out by Sunfyre’s pained roars. Vermithor doesn’t relent. With a furious snarl, he lunges forward, sinking his teeth into Sunfyre’s neck. The golden dragon thrashes wildly, his tail lashing out and striking Vermithor’s side, but it’s not enough.

"Break him!" you command, gripping the reins tightly. Vermithor obeys with a brutal snap of his jaws. The sound of bone cracking echoes through the skies as Sunfyre’s neck is wrenched unnaturally to the side. Blood pours from the wound, a torrent of crimson that stains the golden dragon’s once-majestic scales. Sunfyre’s struggles weaken, his roars fading into gurgles, and then he falls, his body tumbling through the air like a broken doll.

Aegon screams, clutching desperately to his saddle as his dragon plummets. You don’t watch him hit the ground. Your attention is already shifting to the second threat.

Vhagar.

The ancient beast’s shadow falls over you like a stormcloud. Her roar is deafening, a sound that shakes the very heavens. Aemond sits astride her, his sapphire eye gleaming with malice as he points his blade at you.

“Did you think this would be easy?” Aemond calls, his voice cold and sharp. “You’ll find no victory here, cousin.”

“Come and claim it, then!” you shout back, spurring Vermithor forward. The two dragons close the distance in seconds, the clash of their bodies like thunder. Vermithor’s claws rake against Vhagar’s armored hide, tearing at the thick scales, while Vhagar snaps at Vermithor’s wings, her fangs narrowly missing the fragile membranes.

Aemond leans low, slashing out with his blade as you duck beneath the swing. “You’ll die screaming, like the traitor you are!” he snarls.

“You first!” you reply, swinging your own sword. The clang of steel on steel is lost in the chaos as the dragons spiral through the sky, locked in a deadly dance. Vhagar is larger, her sheer size giving her an advantage, but Vermithor is ferocious and unyielding, his age and experience matching her ferocity.

The sky becomes a blur of wings, claws, and blood. Vhagar’s tail slams into Vermithor’s side, sending you lurching in your saddle. You clutch at the reins, your heart pounding as you struggle to regain control. Vermithor roars in defiance, his jaws snapping at Vhagar’s throat. He manages to latch on, his teeth sinking into the tender flesh beneath her scales. Blood sprays, hot and sticky, coating you and your saddle.

Aemond yanks at Vhagar’s reins, pulling her away with a furious roar. “Kill him! Burn him to ash!” he commands. Vhagar rears back, her chest swelling as she prepares to unleash her flames.

“Dracarys!” you shout, and Vermithor answers. The two torrents of fire collide, the heat so intense it scorches the air around you. The force of the blast throws both dragons apart, their wings flailing as they struggle to stay aloft. You cling to the saddle, your vision blurred by smoke and ash.

And then it happens.

The two dragons charge at each other once more, their momentum unstoppable. They collide with such force that you feel the impact in your bones. Claws tear into flesh, teeth rip through scales, and blood rains from the sky in a crimson torrent. The screams of the dragons are deafening, a symphony of pain and fury.

You and Aemond are both thrown from your saddles as the dragons lock together, their massive bodies spiraling toward the ground. You hit the earth hard, the impact driving the air from your lungs. Pain radiates through your body, but you force yourself to your feet, your sword still clutched in your hand.

In the distance, Vermithor and Vhagar crash into the battlefield, their bodies a tangle of wings and limbs. Dust and debris rise around them, obscuring the scene. You stagger forward, determined to finish what you started.

Aemond emerges from the haze, his face twisted with rage. His sword gleams in the faint light, its edge coated in blood. “This ends here,” he growls, stalking toward you.

You raise your own blade, your grip steady despite the pain coursing through your body. “It does,” you reply, meeting his gaze. “But not the way you think.”

The two of you charge at each other, the clash of steel echoing through the battlefield as the dragons continue their brutal struggle behind you.

The clash of steel rings in your ears as you swing your blade at Aemond, his movements as sharp and calculated as your own. You’re both bloodied, sweat and grime mingling with the smears of red that coat your faces. The battlefield beneath your feet is slick with the lifeblood of men and dragons alike, a fitting stage for this deadly dance.

“You think you can kill me?” Aemond snarls, parrying your strike and stepping in close. His sapphire eye gleams with manic hatred. “I am a warrior, not a lord who hides behind his wife’s skirts. You are nothing but her puppet!”

The words sting, but they don’t shake your focus. “Better a puppet than a madman blinded by ambition,” you retort, sidestepping his thrust and slashing at his shoulder. Your blade connects, tearing through the leather and biting into flesh. Aemond grunts, staggering back, but his fury doesn’t waver.

Behind you, the guttural roars of Vermithor and Vhagar shake the earth. You spare a glance over your shoulder and see the two massive dragons locked in a death grip, their claws raking through each other’s flesh. Blood pours from gaping wounds in Vhagar’s side, painting her ancient scales a deeper shade of red. Vermithor, battered and bleeding, snaps his jaws around her throat, shaking her like a rabid beast. She thrashes, her wings beating wildly, but Vermithor doesn’t relent.

Aemond seizes the opportunity, lunging at you with a scream of rage. His blade slices through the air, catching your side. The pain is immediate, sharp and burning, and you cry out as blood seeps through your tunic. The wound slows you, but not enough to stop your counterattack. You raise your sword and swing upward, aiming for his head. He ducks, but your blade grazes his cheek, splitting the skin and sending a spray of blood across the ground.

“You’ll pay for that!” he roars, his voice unhinged. He charges again, driving you back with a flurry of brutal strikes. Each clash of your swords sends jolts of pain through your body, your wounded side weakening your defense. Aemond’s strength is relentless, and for a moment, it feels as though he might overpower you.

But you are not done yet.

With a desperate surge of energy, you twist your body, dodging his next strike and slamming the hilt of your sword into his ribs. He gasps, staggering, and you use the moment to close the gap. Raising your blade, you aim for his face.

He tries to block, but you’re faster. Your sword pierces his healthy eye, the blade sinking deep into the socket. His scream is inhuman, a sound of pure agony that echoes across the battlefield. Blood gushes from the wound, thick and dark, pouring down his face as he drops his sword and clutches at his ruined eye.

“You wanted to see the world burn,” you hiss through gritted teeth, twisting the blade. “Now you’ll see nothing at all.”

With a final thrust, you drive the sword deeper, the blade slicing into his brain. His body convulses violently, and then he falls to his knees, blood pouring from his eye and mouth. You wrench your blade free, and he collapses face-first into the dirt, his once-proud figure reduced to a lifeless husk.

The sound of Vhagar’s dying roar pulls your attention. You turn just in time to see Vermithor deliver the killing blow. His massive jaws clamp around her belly, tearing through scales and flesh to rip out her liver and entrails. The viscera spill onto the ground in a steaming, grotesque heap, the stench of blood and bile overwhelming. Vhagar’s massive body trembles, her wings twitching as she lets out a final, shuddering breath. Her eyes glaze over, and she slumps to the ground, defeated.

Vermithor stands over her, his bronze hide drenched in blood, his chest heaving with exertion. He lets out a victorious roar, a sound that shakes the heavens, before collapsing onto his haunches, his body trembling from his wounds.

You stagger forward, your own body screaming in protest. Blood drips from your side, your vision swimming as you take in the scene around you. The battlefield is chaos, but the tide has turned. The Hightower forces are in full retreat, their banners disappearing into the distance. Among them, you catch sight of Criston Cole, his armor smeared with blood as he flees with his men. The sight fills you with grim satisfaction.

But the victory feels hollow. The cost has been too high. It always is.

Your gaze shifts back to Vermithor, who watches you with weary, golden eyes. You place a trembling hand on his side, feeling the heat of his body and the steady rise and fall of his breath. “Rest, old friend,” you murmur, your voice hoarse. “You’ve earned it.”

Your thoughts drift to Rhaenyra, her face sharp and vivid in your mind’s eye. You promised her you would return, and you intend to keep that promise. Even now, as your body screams for rest and your wounds threaten to pull you under, you force yourself to move. Each step is agony, but you keep going, driven by the thought of her waiting for you.

You will return to her. You must.

And when you do, the war will not be over, but you will face it together.

[critterbitter]

I'm wheezing over Ingo and Litwick's dynamic jgjbjjxjsjwkfiisiq and TYNAMO FITTING INTO EMMET'S SCARF IS SOOO CUTE!! Love how you draw the little sbubby bois, their conductor themed outfits are soo freaking cute!!!

I have so many thoughts when it comes to them it’s insane. Glad you like the characterizations!

Here’s a quick one shot under the cut, as a treat for making it this far.

Emmet finds Tynamo three months before Ingo meets Litwick. Ingo has some thoughts.

Ingo and Emmet are part of a pair.

If Emmet is the fuck around and find out, then Ingo’s been relegated amused damage control. This has always been the case, right up until Emmet found tynamo. Then suddenly, it’s “wow emmet, you’re so responsible!” “Golly gee Emmet, what do you mean you don’t want to go exploring the cave systems after dark?” “Gee whizz, what do you mean curfew for your eel puppy?” “Why in Reshiram do you get to have a whole pokemon three months before we agreed to get starters, and i don’t?”

Ingo doesn’t say the last part. He’s a bitter world-weary twelve year old languishing about the unfairness of the pokestray distribution system, but he also loves his brother. Emmet found an injured tynamo in chargestone cave and decided to help— tynamo decided to stay. It’s every child’s film plot. Ingo being a grouchy gengar makes him objectively a terrible friend.

Oh dragons, is Ingo a bad brother?

“Ingo!”

Speak of the cold, and he shall enter. Ingo swings his whole body around to better brace for the flying tackle.

“Emmet!”

“I am emmet! You are sulking.”

Ingo clicks his mouth closed and tries not to sulk harder. He fails.

“You are not being verrrry convincing, brother dearest.”

“I do not have any idea what you are going on about,” Ingo’s traitorous mouth blurts. “Be convinced I love you and am not planning dastardly plots.”

Do not think about getting a ground typed starter. Do not think about getting a ground typed starter.

Emmet shoots him a judgemental look from under the brim of his hat. Ingo glowers back, and slowly starts leaning forward, smooshing Emmet under his weight.

“Ttttell me why you look like a crushed joltik.”

“Keep this up and you are going to be the crushed joltik.”

Anyways, Emmet is becoming more bold by the day and even actively discussing electric types with the new girl in elementary prep, Elesa. Ingo thinks she’s cool, but she flinched when he blurted a once again too loud greeting so he’s… letting that cool off. They definitely don’t have anything to talk about beyond pokemon, and Emmet and her already have pokemon. Ingo feels a bit left out.

Caught in the ennui of not having a blitzle or tynamo, Ingo slips as Emmet rolls out from under him. The two go down in an ungraceful tangle of limbs.

“Tell. Me. What’s. Wrong.” Emmet gently slaps Ingo’s face like a ripe oran berry. “You want to tell me sooo badly. Ooh.”

“Emmet- aurgh. Gerroff’”

“I don’t speak denial.”

Ingo gives up. His entire body deflates. Emmet, not expecting the sudden loss of spinal infrastructure, slides sideways and knees Ingo’s lungs.

Ingo wheezes. “I’m sulking because you were crushing my spine.”

“Tell me the truth.”

Uh oh. Ingo studies Emmet’s face. It’s the same one he looks into the mirror with, but marred with concern and self consciousness. Ingo made Emmet worry. He’s not just a bad twin. He’s the worst.

“You are Emmet.”

“I am Emmet.”

“You have Tynamo.”

“Tynamo’s charging at home.”

Smart ass! Emmet knows what Ingo means. And by Emmet’s smug grin, Emmet knows too.

Ingo struggles to explain that Emmet has Tynamo, and Elesa, and… that’s only two other individuals. He is truly the worst twin in all the land. Emmet gets two new friends and Ingo’s being an infant about it.

One day, Ingo will have his own pokemon partner and team— but right now, Ingo only gets to have Emmet.

Ingo feels this is an unfair trade equivalent, but he does not want to say it in a way that sounds rude, so he stalls.

Emmet has no such prefunctures. He squints at Ingo, who avoids eye contact and squirms. “You are… jealous?” He tilts his head in visible confusion. “What?”

Ingo covers his face with his hands, defeated.

“You arrrre jealous!” Emmet cries, bewildered. “Why??”

Ingo lets out an unintelligible wheeze. Emmet remembers he still has a knee on Ingo’s chest, and hastily sits back.

“I don’t want to be jealous,” Ingo finally bursts. “I am very happy for you Emmet! You and Tynamo are a winning combination!” His voice cracks embarrassingly. Emmet doesn’t flinch at the volume, even muffled under Ingo’s palms. “I don’t want to be a bad brother being jealous.”

“You aren’t a bad brother, Ingo.”

“I am. I am angry that you found your starter and I haven’t. I’m sad I interrupted your schedule with my inane demands. I have made you feel like you did something wrong. I apologize.”

Peeking between Ingo’s fingers, Emmet’s face falls. Ingo wants to be struck by a giga impact rather than face this. He would rather be a dusty imprint. Where is Uncle Drayden’s Haxorous when you need her?

“Ingo, Ingo listen to me.” Emmet’s hands dart forward to settle Ingo’s shoulders. The pressure is grounding. Real. This is where Emmet tells Ingo he’s being stupid.

He hears Emmet exhale.

“I’m sorry.”

Wait, that doesn’t sound right. “Pardon?”

“I wanted to train Tynamo as my conductor, and I left our two-car train unmaintained.”

“Pardon??”

Emmet looks uncomfortable and sad. It makes Ingo uncomfortable and sad. “Yesterday night. When you wanted to go to the caves. For our weekly charting. I said I’d rather help Tynamo.”

Oh. Yeah, Ingo remembers that. It had stung. “You are not obligated to say yes,” he protests. “In fact, you should say no more. You always say yes.”

“Yes.”

“What did I just say.”

“No. You’re my brother. I left you out.”

Ingo slowly puts down his hands. His face still feels warm, but he feels less scared. Now he just feels embarrassed. He can’t help but let out a meek plea slip. “Don’t go where I can’t follow, Emmet. Please.”

“I would never! We are going on our pokemon journey together, yep yep. You, me, tynamo, and whoever your starter will be!”

The two sit there on the side of the dirt road. Emmet’s declaration sounds like a dangerous promise. Ingo realizes at that moment he would do anything for his brother, who’s his best friend and confidant and world, starter or no starter. He opens his mouth to tell Emmet that.

“Wwwwwait. You are trying to go back to the caves. Ingo! Are you trying to find a starter by yourself!?”

Never mind. Emmet’s gone for his soft underbelly, and Ingo’s in pain. “Emphasis on trying,” he mutters instead. The joltik are not interested in him. The local tynamo swarm fled. A curious drilbur had sniffed him once, turned up its nose, and then trundled into the wall.

“…ah.”

Nothing had felt right for Ingo— too scared, too judgemental, or too uninterested. He’s starting to accept that maybe none of the pokemon in this town area match his truth or ideals.

Emmet was quiet for a long time. He had his thinking face on, so Ingo did not interrupt. He took the time instead to look up at the sky, watching the giant puff of clouds drift by. A plume of swabloo lazily inches their way across the horizon.

A shadow falls over Ingo. Emmet dusts himself off, and helps drag his twin to his feet. The two sway, clasping hands.

“We’ll ask Uncle Drayden,” Emmet decides, and Ingo is enthralled by the sheer truth of that statement. “He’ll let us use the subway! And you can look elsewhere, for a starter who is ideal for you. Wwwwith me and Tynamo, instead of by yourself.”

“Truly?” Uncle Drayden is a scary man.

Emmet nods. It’s easy to talk to Emmet— he just says words that Ingo would spend hours ruminating on. “I am verrrry persuasive.”

“You mean staring at him from the corner until he cracks?”

“Brother, you know me so well!”

Ingo cant help but laugh. He still feels guilty and bad for feeling envious, but a world with emmet by his side is significantly less hostile. Emmet’s hand is warm in his.“Thank you!” He cheers, startling himself with his volume. “Bravo,” he tried in a quieter tone.

“Bravo!!” Emmet replies, pointedly louder. Ingo squawks as Emmet pulls him off balance. “You are my brother! We’re going to find you a starter!”

Ingo tugs back just as fiercely. “Bravo!! We are going to harass Uncle Drayden into letting us board the train!”

Emmet leans with his whole body, dragging Ingo into the fulcrum of his centrifuge. “BRAVO! YOU ARE GOING TO HELP ME WITH TYNAMO’S TRAINING!”

Ingo digs his heels in, and then stumbles. “BRAVO, I, what?”

Emmet looked distinctly patrat-esque. “We’re in this together, Ingo. No backing out now.”

Ingo thought about it long and hard. He gets to see his brother get electrocuted. But he will, also, most likely, get electrocuted.

(Tynamo is Emmet’s starter. But maybe, it can also be Ingo’s friend.)

But brother say brother do, and Ingo’s probably obligated to run damage control if Emmet decides to, say, shove a fork into an outlet for Tynamo to snack on.

(Emmet fucks around. Ingo finds out. Even two steps apart with new people between, this is the way of their world.)

“Alright,” he crumbles. When they step this time, they step in sync. “We do this. Together.” (Enjoy this? Here's the link to the rest of my rat crimes.)

[rolanpilled]

BG3 Patch 5 Spoilers

WARNING: BG3 SPOILERS AHEAD!

New content from the ending scene of BG3. This is all from the perspective of a redeemed Dark Urge who romanced Shadowheart and Halsin, and recruited every "good" ally possible.

people at the party: all your companions, scratch, owlbear, volo, and a bard in the middle playing a song (his name is milil)

lae'zel is the only one who isn't here physically, she sent an astral projection instead because she's been busy fighting vlaakith

astarion explains why he ran away (ashamed) when the sunlight hit him, he's become a "hero" who adventures and has accepted himself

(romanced halsin) you can hug halsin, he's missed his friends and you. you can do both the hug and the kiss, it's really sweet. he's turned the shadowlands into a community, repursing reithwin and moonrise towers into homes for people

jaheira's daughter rejoined the flaming fist, she's been working on rebuilding the harper network. the upper city was entirely destroyed by the battle but has been mostly rebuilt. she jokes that you might be a parent soon

wyll gives you a choice between three stories, a stegosaur/dinosaur battle, an impossible lich, or a young dragon. he lost his warlock powers but has been managing the best he can, and has become a RANGER ("a true hunter of monsters"). duke ravengard is commanding the flaming fist and help rebuilding the city, and he's very proud of his son

minsc and boo guard the streets while jaheira is "occupied with harperish manners". they "went to give a tickle" to the zhentarim, then got locked up in a zhentish cell, awaiting execution? idk if i'm reading incorrectly but he seems to be implying that he actually GOT executed but withers brought him back just in time lmfao

gale has become "professor gale dekarios of blackstaff academy, educator of the esteemed school of illusion". tara is with him. he surrended the crown of karsus to mystra, who cured him of the orb in exchange (his tattoo is gone), though his students still think he's explosive (he implies that he uses it as a threat to keep his class under control). he tells his students about your adventures together. he also implies you're welcome to visit his tower

shadowheart (main romance) - the game told me that we settled down together to live a happy, peaceful life on a farm in the countryside. shar still hurts her (if parents are saved), especially when she can sense that SH is enjoying herself, but it's been getting less frequent because she's been "losing interest". there's a new hug and kiss scene for her too, so i'm assuming this is for ALL companions and not just halsin/SH/whoever

withers will speak to you about karlach, explaining that she won't be able to come back. he jokes about her, which is rare for him, and you're given to opportunity to grieve her loss. in "a dozen tendays" (assumedly how long bg3 is), "an entire life was lived, she lived several centuries" (not exact quote).

milil, the bard playing in the center, does NOT want to be there. he's pissed that no one recognizes him (he's pissed specifically that i'm a bard and don't recognize him), i had to pass a deception check to recognize him and he cheered up and offered to change the song he's playing

there's a chest called "Chest of Grateful Words" filled with letters from your allies!

"Official Guild Letter"

"Letter from Barcus"

"Letter from Art"

"Letter from Valeria"

"Letter from Ravengard"

"Letter from Sebastian"

"Letter from Florrick"

"Letter from the Gur" (unascended Astarion)

"Letter from Alfira" (durge, killed quil grootslang)

"Letter from Dammon"

"Letter from Elminster"

"Letter from Nocturne"

"Letter from Voss"

"Letter from Hope"

"Letter from Mayrina"

"Letter from Nine-Fingers"

"Letter from Zevlor"

"Harp-stamped Letter"

Baldur's Mouth Gazette

If you find anything interesting I missed, please let me know.

[st4rg8te]

A Captured Dragon (BL)

Yandere! Half-brother X Crown Prince! Reader

[tw: graphic depiction(s) of violence, obsessive behaviour, betrayal, imprisonment, gaslighting, non-con kissing, incest!!!, teeny tiny bit of feminization]

✦✧✦✧

“You have done nothing to deserve that title. You were only lucky enough to be born the King’s son.”

A lot of things in life were beyond your control. 

But fate had been kind to you, gifting you a life that most could only dream of. Born into the royal family as their beloved Crown Prince, the world bent to your will from the very moment you drew your first breath. 

Spoiled, indulged, and never once tested by struggle—perhaps you were destined to fall from the start.

✦✧✦✧

✦✧✦✧

It’s getting harder to tell the days apart.

The world around you blurs into a cycle of sleepless nights. Your mind is a fog, heavy with the weight of guilt and fear. Each hour blends into the next, until time itself feels like a punishment.

The nightmares don’t help either.

Every time you close your eyes, they come—haunting, vivid dreams where blood stains the corridors and screams pierce the air. The sounds of blades slicing through flesh, of bodies collapsing onto blood-soaked floors, echo endlessly in your ears. It is relentless. 

You see the palace engulfed in flames, your servants and people—those you’ve known your entire life—crying out in terror as they are cut down by the cold steel of soldiers.

In every dream, you stand helpless, watching as they beg for mercy. Your people reach for you in desperation, their faces twisted in agony, but you can’t move. 

In every dream, at the center of it all, is him.

Daewon.

Your half-brother.

While you grew up in the limelight, basking in the affections and adoration of others, your half-brother was cast into the shadows. Born from a lowly maid, his very existence was a blemish on the royal family's image. He was the son who would never be acknowledged by his father—neither loved nor remembered.

Despite that, you had treated him kindly.

When did everything go so wrong?

After the slaughter, you were taken away and imprisoned. The room you were kept in was dark and empty—there was no light, or any warmth. It was a far cry from the luxury you were used to.

Occasionally, food and water would be brought to you—a guard would come every few days, sliding bowls of stale rice and cloudy water across the floor without a word, without so much as a glance in your direction. You felt like an animal.

But worse than the silence of your captors were the visits from Daewon.

You hated those days the most.

“Brother.” His deep voice sends a shiver down your spine. You can’t make out his face within the shadows.

So you bury your head further into the damp pillows, hiding from the monster in the room.

It isn’t long before you feel the bed dip under his weight, the chain on your ankle rustles against the sheets. He kneels beside you, leaning close enough for you to smell the faint traces of blood still lingering on his robe.

“You haven’t been eating,” Daewon’s voice was soft, almost tender, but you could hear the dark amusement laced beneath it. “Is the food not to your liking?”

You keep your eyes shut tight, fists clenched under the thin blankets.

It'll all be okay. Soon enough, he would leave you alone.

Cold fingers brush against your cheek, and you flinch. He chuckles at that, a low, mocking sound that makes your skin crawl.

“Did you know that these meals are what I had to eat as a child?” He whispers, his breath hot against your ears.

You briefly open your eyes, glancing at the food scattered across the floor, remnants of your earlier fit of rage—destroyed, just like everything else in your life. 

“There were many days when the servants never even came. My mother often gave me her share, just so I wouldn't starve." 

You grit your teeth—

"Why don't you just kill me already?"

The words hang in the air, and a suffocating silence stretches between you.

But then, Daewon's firm hand suddenly grips your chin, forcing you to meet his dark gaze.

“Kill you?” A cruel, guttural laugh escapes him, sending a shiver down your spine. “But death would be far too easy.” 

“No... you have to live. You’ll live and endure. Just like I did.”

He had lived a life of invisibility, where no one cared to look beyond the stain of his tainted blood—no one, except you.

And the thought of it drives him mad.

His hand falls from your chin, trailing down until it rests against your chest. With that simple touch, your spirit breaks just a little more.

You hate him—hate him more than you’ve ever hated anyone. 

Without any warning, you feel the press of his soft lips against your own. His body heat seeps into yours as he forcefully pulls you closer and presses you flush against him.

You are too tired, too hungry to resist.

"No, stop—" You protest breathlessly, the words barely escaping your lips as your mind reels, still foggy from the kiss. A dizzying mix of shock, confusion, and disgust floods your senses.

"This is wrong, we can't—"

"They will never fully accept a half-blooded bastard like me as their king."

“What?” You swallow hard, blinking up at the man.

"But surely, they'll accept a 'bride' from the royal family.”

The realization hits you like a punch to the gut. 

Before you can react, his lips crash against yours again, harder this time, more possessive. The taste of him—bitterness and control—invades your senses completely.

A twisted smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, and you finally understand.

This is a debt of suffering, a price he intends to collect over and over—until you were broken.

"Don’t worry. For everything you’ve done for me, I'll repay your kindness tenfold."

✦✧✦✧

[A/N]

This was not proofread, sorry for any mistakes!

[paulyenvol6]

A Dragon's Toy

Daemon Targaryen x Arlis Hightower (oc character) OS

Arlis is taken captive by Daemon's army during the war and can only await the Rogue Prince's next deeds in horror…

Contains: rape, non-con, smut, oral (f & m receiving), p in v, unprotected sex, virginity loss, forced orgasms, degrading, angst, crying, choking, gagging, objectification, captivity, dark themes, hotd themes like death and violence

Wordcount: ~6.62k

Masterlist

Daemon inhaled deeply.

He tried not to seem too annoyed but they really made it hard for him right now.

"We need more men by the eastside of the camp." "They are tired, my lord. Give them the chance to rest or they will lose their will to fight." "The Greyjoys could use our ignorance after our victory and surprise us. We need these guards." "They won't attack us tonight. They're weakened as well."

Daemon once again rolled his eyes at this draining atmosphere and hissed out. It was a quiet sound, merely audible and yet the men surrounding him stopped the conversation to turn their attention to the rogue prince.

"My prince.", Ser Rickard Manderly spoke and Daemon tilted his head.

"Gather the men you need by the eastside. But let them celebrate. They can guard the camp in shifts."

A few lords nodded but others looked uncertain while exchanging glances with each other. For some reason it made the blood in his veins boil and he fisted his hands. Gods, why were these men always so tiring and dull. All Daemon wanted after this long fight was a possibility to reduce the adrenaline in his body that always kept him aroused after a battle. Preferable with a whore but as the next whorehouse was tens of miles away he knew that he perhaps had to fall back to his own hand this time. The fact was that he needed quietness, maybe had to spill his seed, get rid of the tension in his center and find some good sleep afterwards.

That was why this conversation with his bannermen and commanders was exhausting him right now because all he wanted was the peace and privacy of his tent in order to act according to his desires.

"Is there anything else?", he therefore asked the group and when they shook their heads Daemon crossed his arms in front of his chest. The had hesitated but it didn't matter to him.

"Good. If you would excuse me now.", he sarcastically smiled and intended to leave the council.

To his tent now. His blood was throbbing, he had the urge to hit something or squeeze something. He just had to do something. Daemon was so close to it when someone called his name. So fucking close that he had almost been able to feel the fabric that served as the door to his tent and that he had been about to shove to the side. But of course not. Of course it was Ser Enies who made him freeze in the motion and Daemon couldn't hide the displeasure on his face.

"My prince. My prince, there is an urgent matter that needs to be discussed."

He inhaled deeply again and bit his buttom lip in fury. "What is it?", he snapped.

Ser Enies held his side trying to calm his fastened breath.

"We… We've captured Otto's daughter. She intended to flee but a few of our riders found her on her way to the west."

Daemon raised his eyebrows. "Alicent?"

"No, her sister. The lady Arlis."

He didn't know her. He had only briefly known that Hightower, the old cunt had several sons and daughters. Well, now he was dead and as were many of his children but seemingly not all.

"Where is she?", Daemon unwillingly asked. He wished someone else would just take on his tasks so he could finally rest but of course as the prince it was him who had to solve every single problem.

"Right there in the tent. She was so wild and upset, we had to chain her to a chair. She screamed and shouted and bit several of our men but we have her under control now."

Daemon couldn't surpress a dark chuckle. Were these his warriors or fools? Not being able to catch a little girl… Nevertheless the rogue prince turned his body away from the tent that he had wanted to enter so dearly and decided to take care of this matter now.

"Fine.", he grumbled and followed Ser Eries to the mentioned tent. The knight pulled the tent flap aside and Daemon stepped in.

The first thing he saw was a lot of hair. Brown, messy hair that stood up to all sides. She was moving, desperately trying to free herself from the iron chains that held her in place but obviously she wasn't able to.

Ser Eries, who was the only person in the tent now beside him and the girl came forward and roughly grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her head back so Daemon could take a look at her.

"The lady Arlis, my prince. Otto's youngest daughter from the lady Ellena."

She was pretty, was the first thought that entered his brain in this moment. Big round hazel eyes with thick lashes that made them appear even more intense, a heart-shaped face and full pink soft-looking lips. A button nose sat in the middle of her face which was swollen and flushed from her crying. The light freckles on her cheeks only added to her young and innocent looks and even now tears were swimming in her flashing eyes. With those she observed him now. The girl looked angry, aggressive almost and blared her teeth at him.

It was a brief moment. Daemon hadn't even properly thought about it and didn't really know where it was coming from but suddenly he heard himself say those words that made Eries raise his eyebrows.

"Leave us."

The knight obeyed, bowed his head and then only Daemon and Arlis were staring at each other.

"Let me go.", she spitted and he chuckled quietly.

"Fuck you and the whole pack of you.", she then added and shook the shackles that held her in place.

Daemon looked her up and down with relish and pursed his lips. "I would say the same thing about your pack, but well… They're all dead."

Arlis' expression hardened and she bit her lower lip in order to swallow her tears but she only partly suceeded.

"Fuck you.", she repeated but this time it was a lot more quiet which made Daemon smirk.

Then he approached her and the girl stiffened at once. He could see the fear in her eyes and it filled him with a profane desire and satisfaction. He didn't care how fucked up this was, but Daemon wanted this. He wanted to scare her, make her eyes go round as coins when she stared up to him and preferably see her cry. And he thought that he might have good chances because she seemed to be the crying type.

Daemon grabbed her hair and yanked her head back just like Ser Eries had done a few minutes ago.

"You're a pretty girl. It surprises me, quiet frankly. That your father, the stupid cunt was able to sire such a beauty. Perhaps you come more after your mother."

She grinded her teeth and pouted at him while squirming in his grip.

"Let me go. At once. I swear to you I will bite and hit you until you let me go."

Daemon was amused by her reaction and pulled at her hair with more force. "I want to see that.", he whispered and then took hold of her chin with his other hand.

"So pretty…", he purred. "I'm curious to see what else you have to offer. I just hope your little cunt doesn't taste bitter. You're a hightower after all."

Now panic was visible in her eyes and she shook her head quickly and with so much force that he almost would've dropped his hand on her chin.

"You will not touch me, you will now defile me like this. I'd rather have you kill me. I'd rather kill myself."

"Shh, little one. Be careful what you wish for."

His finger brushed over her jaw and he felt her tremble underneath his touch. If Daemon only could really tell if it was from her fear or anger. He didn't even know what he preferred because the thought of bedding a stubborn and defiant girl and the challenge of breaking her aroused him but at the same time he was eager to see the fear in her eyes while he fucked her.

His hand wandered downwards until he felt the soft skin of her neck. It was so milky, looked and felt so pure that a thought crossed his mind…

"Are you a maiden?", Daemon asked and his eyes searched for hers. Her eyes fluttered which he interpreted as a sign of weakness but her words sounded as sharp as knives.

"That's none of your fucking business.", she hissed.

"Oh I don't think so, sweetling. You'd be smart to tell me. Only if I know I can prepare you properly. You wouldn't want your tight little maiden cunt to be fucked roughly without giving you time to adjust. Especially not if you're dry as a desert."

Daemon was almost ahundred percent sure that she was a maiden and the thought made his cock swell to twice its size. The way she looked at him with this uncertainty in her eyes. And despite trying to seem indifferent and distanced, he had noticed how attentive she had listened to him during his last words. Also, Daemon simply couldn't believe that a girl like her, who looked so sweet and innocent could already have been defiled by another man.

He made sure that she had her eyes on him while his hand traveled further south. He saw the way her pupils widened and the sound of the rattling of the chains filled the tent.

"Stop it.", she spitted. "Stop it at once."

He rolled his eyes and brushed over her collarbone through her dress.

"Quiet. Or I'll put a gag on your mouth."

And yet Daemon actually took his hand off her body. Not because he didn't want to see and touch her breasts, he would do that very thing later, but because he had something else in mind. His cock was almost bursting in his breeches and he simply needed some relief. And when he looked at Arlis' pink and soft lips the only thought in his head was what it would feel like to bury his cock so deep inside of her throat until the only sound that could leave her mouth was her gagging and choking. That would shut her up as well, Daemon thought while he finally let go of her hair.

She let out a relieved sigh and perhaps seemed to think that the rogue prince had changed his mind. She couldn't have been more off.

Daemon watched the suspicion in Arlis' expression when he reached down to where her wrists were chained to the chair. She didn't seem to be that dumb to think that he would just let her go now after all.

Yet he freed her from the chair and wasn't surprised when the girl pushed him away at once while simultaneously trying to get off the chair. It filled him with so much smug to see how she failed because Daemon simply held her back with a hand gripping her shoulder and pressed her to the chair.

"Fuck you, you arsehole.", Arlis pressed and pulled and pinched at his arms. "Just let me go, already."

"I'm afraid that's not gonna happen.", Daemon sighed sarcastically.

Then without giving a warning he gripped her upper arm and shoved her to the floor. At first the girl winded herself and refused to have her knees touch the floor but he was too strong and simply pushed her down until she didn't have a choice but to stare up to him.

Additionally, Daemon had positioned the girl so that there was the big wooden table right behind her. The edge of the table was on the same level as her head which meant that if she tried to escape from him the table would block her way. He could just press her head against the wood and she wouldn't have a choice but to take it all, whatever it was he would give her.

Daemon had a hand in her hair to hold her head to his liking and he made sure to dig his fingers into her scalp. In response Arlis flinched which made him take yet another step towards her so she was now fully trapped between the table and his body.

"I know you'll do such a good job, pretty girl. You're so eager with everything you're doing, mhm? I just know you'll suck my cock so perfectly. Well, if you won't it doesn't matter either. Then I'll just fuck your mouth and use you like a toy and that's fine with me as well."

Daemon could now see something new in her eyes, a mixture of fear and panic. But still, she wasn't on the point of breaking because she tightened her lips and her eyes spit fire so much so that one could assume the blood of the dragon ran through her veins as well.

"Open your mouth.", he said and tried to sound as cool and dominant as possible.

He liked the way she fought him off and how desperately she resisted him but Daemon simultaneously enjoyed to make her feel scared so he felt a fluttering in his stomach as she looked up to him with big eyes.

"N-No.", she stuttered and seemingly was startled with his request. He hadn't even freed his cock; why did he want her to open her mouth? Daemon smirked crookedly and put a hand under her chin.

"Do it."

But Arlis denied and pressed her lips tightly together. Gods, she really was a defiant little thing. But he was confident that he would have her broken and messy by the end of the night. He started by delivering a light smack on her left cheek that only made her eyes glisten with more anger. Yet she let out a gasp which told Daemon that the things he did had an impact on her.

"I said open your fucking mouth.", he repeated and forcefully gripped her chin.

When she still didn't obey him he groaned and furiously pushed two fingers between her lips while pulling at her jaw and the girl seemed so surprised that Daemon was able to enter her mouth and he immediately shoved his two digits so deep that they hit the back of her throat. Arlis choked and gagged and despairingly fidgeted with her hands in order to find support. But all her hands reached were his hips which she pushed at in an attempt to free herself.

He watched her struggle with pleasure and his eyes glared with amusement. Therefore he kept up the assault for another few seconds and then pulled his fingers back a little so she could breathe. The little girl gasped and inhaled greedily while her pupils danced hectically in her eyes.

"See what happens if you're a bad girl?", Daemon whispered evily.

Arlis was still unable to speak so she just furrowed at him while trying to regain her breath.

"You'll take my cock now. And if I were you I'd be good now, understand me?"

As a reply she shook her head and Daemon sighed disapprovingly.

"Oh, dear. You want me to hurt you, don't you?"

Another motion of her head. Daemon flared his nostrils and then removed his fingers from her mouth which made Arlis pull as far away from him as possible. He intended to take off his pants and breeches now but knew she would try and run away if he let go of her. It turned out to be very cumbersome but eventually he was able to do the task one handedly all while his other hand still gripped her head tightly.

He now had to listen to her outbursts again and Arlis let out little curses and insults and only when he was done with freeing his rock hard manhood did he react to it. The girl in front of him stared at his member anxiously but even that couldn't soften the rogue prince's upset temper. He had enough of her bratty attitude and suddenly slapped her cheek again. It was a little more forceful this time but not so much that she started to cry.

"I will fuck and pound this cunt of yours until you remember your manners, little pet. I don't care how long it will be, I don't fucking care how sore you'll be. You'll take it."

She sniffed and tried her best to appear cold towards his words but he obviously saw the way she squeezed her eyes.

"Open your mouth and if you won't do it willingly I'll fucking make you and you don't want that to happen.", Daemon whispered dangerously.

It was a pity, really. Instead of obeying him she futhermore turned her head away from his center. Daemon exhaled loudly and prepared himself for another fight that he was certain he'd win.

He grabbed a fistful of her hair without caring whether he would hurt her and forced her to look at his manhood again. With his other hand he took hold of her chin to pull at it and at the same pushed his cock against her mouth. Arlis let out a whine but the mess of the whole situation actually allowed him to force her mouth open and he shoved his cock inside. The girl in front of him squirmed and threw her head to the side but there wasn't anything she could do. Daemon's hand controlled her head, she didn't know how to get his cock to leave her mouth and so she stared up to him helplessly.

The rogue prince moaned at the new feeling. Her mouth felt warm and wet, just like he wanted it. He had his eyes on the kneeling girl and it almost made him burst right in this second. Her wide eyes, her pretty lips wrapped around his manhood… And everything only became better once he started moving inside of her mouth.

He pulled himself out a little so that only his tip was inside but then thrusted right back in to hit the back of her throat. Arlis angrily cried out but simply had to endure it as Daemon used her mouth without paying attention to her resistance.

"That's right…", he purred. "What a good little mouth you have. I additionally would like to say that you're a good girl but unfortunately that would be a lie."

She coughed while he spoke those words and flashed her eyes at him.

"Do you have something to say? Perhaps apologize for your stubborness and tell me that you'll obey me from now on? You know that I own you now. You're my captive and it's my choice what I plan to do with you. I could make you my personal fuck toy and you wouldn't be able to do anything about it. That depends on what lies between your thighs though. If your slutty cunt is gonna satisfy me, perhaps I'll keep you. You're pretty to look at in any case."

This time Daemon was sure that those were tears welling in her eyes and it only fueled his desire for her. She seemingly tried to blink them away and lowered her gaze so she looked at his legs instead of him but he had glanced at a wetness gathering in her eyes which he laughed about now.

"Not so strong now, are we?"

Then he grabbed her jaw once more while simultaneously delivering a particulary sharp thrust inside her throat. She had no choice but to look at him and watch the smug smirk on his face.

"Let me see those pretty tears… Yeah that's right. Cry for me, come on. S'not gonna stop me."

He ravished her throat, bruised it and didn't care whether he hurt her or not. All he was capable of thinking about was the way her throat wrapped so tightly about his cock, the way her warmth sent shivers down his spine and how she gagged and complained around him.

"Oh fuck.", he moaned and narrowed his grip on her head.

She was still winding and shifting and so Daemon secured her position in front of him by coming yet another step foward so there was no way she could escape from between his hips and the table.

He went deep, so incredibly deep that his balls were pressed to her face. It felt so good that Daemon didn't even want to come and instead enjoy this perfect mouth for the rest of his life. But at the same time he was so close that he felt like exploding every second so he slowed down a little and even granted Arlis some room to breathe properly.

Greedily she inhaled and held her hand to her chest. Daemon would've thought that perhaps the girl was a little more frightened now and therefore more submissive but he couldn't have been more off. The assault seemed to have only enhanced her fury as she made yet another effort to fight him off. She pressed on his legs to make him step away, angrily mumbled something he couldn't understand and tried to escape from his grip in her hair. But soon he shoved his manhood back in and continued to pound her mouth while throwing his head back in ecstasy.

"Oh gods be good.", he panted. "Look at you… On your knees for me. So fucking pathetic."

It was only seconds later when Daemon felt the tension in his lower stomach tighten and then contradict.

"Oh fucking hells.", he growled and released right into her mouth.

His seed shot in her throat which made her choke but he wanted her to swallow it all so he kept his cock buried in her mouth until he was sure she had milked him completely and had been forced to swallow every drop of his seed. Only then did he pull away until his now flaccid member hang in front of her face. She hiccuped a few times, stubbornly refused to look at him and squirmed in his grip.

"I bet you liked that, didn't you?", Daemon smirked. "Getting that slutty mouth of yours fucked. Getting ruined by me."

Arlis raised her gaze at last and looked like she was trying to set him on fire with her glistening eyes.

"Fuck you. I hate you and you will get punished for this."

If she had attempted to threaten him, she had failed. Daemon merely chuckled and then yanked her to her feet by her hair until she stood in front of him. Her face, particulary her cheeks and nose were reddened and traces of tears covered her face. Her already wild hair looked even messier now and this picture of her made him incredibly hungry for her despite just having released.

Daemon pushed the girl towards the table until her backside hit the edge of it. Fear and uncertainty darkened her eyes but it only made him want her more. He slowly reached out to her waist and tightly gripped her through the fabric of her dress. Arlis was quick to try and shove his hands away and additionally kicked him with her feet.

"You will not touch me.", she hissed.

"Oh I will. And I will do so much more than that."

And then with a swift motion he grabbed the collar of her dress and tore it apart so it hang loosely over her body and exposed her undergarment. Perhaps it was in that moment that Arlis realized that the rogue prince would take what he wanted and that he planned to claim her maidenhead right here and right now because her facade crumbled, she started to shiver and tears gathered in the corner of her eyes.

"Please. Please, don't.", she whined while Daemon started to remove the layers of fabric covering her stiff body.

"Aww, what's that? You've decided to drop your bratty attitude?"

He was genuinely amused and observed her tense jaw.

"Please don't touch me. Please, my prince."

Her pleas filled him with satisfaction. He had suceeded after all and now had a begging and broken girl in front of him. Because as much as he had enjoyed taming that stubborn little thing, he couldn't wait to see her crying.

"You're mine now, little one. And that means that I get to decide what I want to do with you. And at this moment I want to see that pretty body of yours and then fuck your tight little cunt. But keep on begging, it's too adorable."

With these words Daemon removed the rest of the layers from her shaking body until she was bare under his gaze. She had still tried to fight him but at this point she seemed weakened and frightened so that her attempts were beyond ridiculous.

Once he ran his eyes over her body he felt his cock already harden again a little. She had small breasts with pink perky nipples that looked so delicious, he couldn't wait to bite and nibble at them, a small waist and frizzy brown hair between her legs that covered what hid underneath. It was almost too much for him. He didn't know what to do with all of this, didn't know where to start so he leaned forwards to force her into a kiss.

His lips sucked on her cold ones and her taste made his heart beat faster. Meanwhile his hands forcefully grabbed her breasts and squeezed them in his hands which made her whince. Suddenly Daemon felt a sharp pain in his lip and he pulled away from her at once. When he licked over them he tasted blood and stared at Arlis with narrow eyes.

"You little slut.", he grunted and wrapped a hand around her neck.

"Is this what you want?", he asked evily without letting her out of his sight for one second. "You could have a much better time, sweetling, if you simply laid still and took what I give you. But seems you want to take it the difficult way."

His hand stayed around her throat while his mouth kissed down to her collarbone. Her light skin looked so pure and delicate to him that he couldn't resist and bit and marked her. Now and then Arlis flinched and hissed out at the pain but over all she seemed a little more tame now after he had scared her by choking her. Once he had enough Daemon pulled away and proudly watched his work.

Her cleavage and neck was covered with light bruises and bite marks where he had sucked and nibbled at. She looked so… desirable. He wanted nothing more than to show his little fuck toy off to the world and letting everyone see how he had claimed her.

After observing her for another few moments Daemon leaned down again and this time took care of her breasts. Her nipples were already hardened though he was not certain if she was aroused or simply scared. While still taking hold of her neck he started to kiss and suck on her nipples while always concentrating on one for a few seconds and then switching to the other. After a while Arlis quietly murmured and squirmed in discomfort and taking a look at her nipples he noticed how red and sore they had gotten. He didn't stop though. She looked too cute shifting like this and the occasional moans were music to his ears so he continued to let his tongue circle around the buds and drew them into her mouth until he simply couldn't wait to get to her cunt anymore.

Therefore Daemon grabbed her hips and lifted the girl onto the table without leaving her a choice and then was quick to spread her legs and step between them before she was able to close them. He watched the tears stream down her face as she seemingly feared his imminent actions so much but the prince mockingly stroke her cheek.

"You look very pretty when you cry, you know that?" He then smiled. "You don't want that cunt to get fucked?"

Arlis swiftly shook her head and tried to convince him with the most pleading look of her eyes. "No. Please, my prince."

"What a shame then. But don't you worry, little one, I'll warm you up because I feel merciful today."

With these words Daemon suddenly dropped to the ground and knelt between her legs while widening them with the strong grip of his hands. He sighed with pleasure once he saw what laid between her thighs and his thumb soothingly caressed her soft skin.

"Well… Will you look at that? Perfect fucking cunt."

He kissed the inside of her thighs right next to her most intimate parts. "From now on you merely exist to serve me. You're my plaything, my toy to use whenever I feel the desire to."

His words were in such contrast to his soft kisses that it made Arlis' head spin.

"You won't speak unless I tell you so. You won't move unless I tell you so. And if I have to fuck your stubborness out of you I'll gladly do so until all you're capable of saying is yes and thank you."

And then without any kind of warning he closed the distance between his mouth and her cunt and pressed his lips on her bundle of nerves. Daemon could tell that this was entirely knew to her in the way she gasped for air and when he took a look up he saw that her eyes had sprang open like she was a woman haunted.

At this moment Arlis was dry as dust but the prince was quite convinced of his skills and started to let his tongue tease her pearl. Daemon's arms were wrapped around her thighs in order to keep her still and after a while he could feel her moving around and this time he wasn't sure if perhaps she was actually turned on or rather wanted to escape his grip. Because when he licked at her entrance he could taste something sweet and wet on his tongue and now nothing could stop him.

He lapped up her arousal and then spreaed it all over her folds and especially her pearl. He used the slickness to circle and flick the little nub, press into it and traced it. When he suddenly heard a quiet moan he stopped his motion. Something about it sounded a little different to the sounds that had left her mouth earlier and Daemon was curious now. And first and foremost he wanted to hear it again. He wanted to turn her into a begging mess, make her plead him and ask him to keep going. He wanted her to embarrass herself and humiliate her until she would cry. So he glanced at her with a cruel smirk and just very slightly brushed over her pearl which made her inhale sharply.

"So you do like this…", he whispered and Arlis' eyes sprang open at his words. "It's pathetic, really. Here you are refusing to give in and as soon as I rub at your little pearl you can't bring out a coherent sentence. Desperate little thing."

She sniffed a few times and then gulped loudly. "Please stop…"

Daemon laughed at this and threw his head back. "Oh I don't think you want me to stop. I think you want nothing more than to get this little cunt of yours pounded and filled with my seed."

Her 'No' was swallowed by the moan she let out once his tongue came back to teasing her bundle of nerves. He needed her to come, wanted to taste more of her sweet juices and wanted to see her fall apart. That was why Daemon fastened the motion and made sure to put more pressure on her pearl while his hand grabbed her breasts to play with her nipples. He heard her whine and cry and moan and whimper and each sound only hardened his cock along with her divine taste.

And then, when he felt her muscles tense underneath him he knew that she was gonna come so he stopped. Arlis who was panting heavily and unsteadily lifted her head to see what was happening and Daemon grinned smugly. He had just ruined her orgasm and she didn't seem fond about it.

"Do you want me to go on?", he asked innocently.

Arlis clearly fought with herself and quietly hummed while pushing her hips towards him. He could see the pleasure in her eyes and the way she bit her buttom lip and Daemon knew he had her right where he wanted her.

"Go on. I want to hear your pretty voice." He lightly ran his thumb over her pearl and watched with amusement how her face tensed.

"P-Please…", she mumbled but it still wasn't enough for Daemon.

"I can't hear you."

A desperate cry left her mouth and she threw her head to the side. His thumb pressed into her nub with more force and Arlis moved her hips in order to create some friction.

"Please. Please continue."

She sounded so pathetic and needy that Daemon couldn't help but reach up to her face and smugly run his thumb over her lips before finally going back to work. All that he had wanted was to hear her beg for him and now he was eager to watch her fall apart under his touch.

Daemon buried his face in her cunt, lapped up everything there was while flicking her pearl and then she let out a muffled high-pitched noise and collapsed on the table. His hands were tight around her hips so she couldn't flee from his mouth but she seemed too powerless to fight anyhow. He devoured her sweetness, rolled his eyes back at what most definitely was the best cunt he had ever had and then looked up to the girl.

She had her eyes closed and yet tears were streaming down her face. She almost looked pitiful lying there like this so Daemon soothingly stroke her thigh.

"Oh, sweet girl.", he cooed and then got up from the floor. He stood between her legs and gently grabbed her waist.

"You're gonna be a good girl now and take my cock, right? If not I'll make you take it. Which is gonna be more painful for you but I don't really care which path you're gonna choose."

Her eyes fluttered a few times at his words and she put her arms in front of her breasts in order to hide them which Daemon commented with a scoff. Roughly he took hold of her wrists and pinned them to the side of her body.

"You're not gonna be able to hide from me, little doll."

His eyes wandered from her head down to her feet once more and then he fisted his hard cock. Arlis seemed to really understand the gravity of the situation and moved back from him with glossy eyes.

"Please. Please, my prince, please don't do it."

Her reaction was exactly what he had wished for. Having her at his mercy, watching her beg him and seeing her at her lowest. Breaking her.

He ran his tip through her folds, stopped at her pearl for a brief moment and then spread her arousal all over her cunt. She whimpered and pressed her eyes together as if she was able to avoid the imminent action that way and then Daemon's cock was at her entrance. He circled it a few times, enjoyed the way she shivered in his arms and twitched every time she thought he would enter her now and then finally sank into her.

She shrieked out and her face was drawn with pain while the rogue prince let out a deep and long sigh. She was so incredibly tight that he feared she might tear off his cock and the warmth and wetness that welcomed him was almost too much.

"Oh fucking… Oh shit.", he moaned and tightly grabbed her shoulders not only to keep her up on the table but also to have some leverage while he stretched her wider for him. Tears relentlessly spilled from her eyes and she looked even more pale now. Her hands had grabbed the edge of the table beneath her and she would've fallen on her back if Daemon didn't hold her up.

"Oh yes… That's a tight fucking cunt… Gods, I knew you'd be good for one thing."

He stayed buried in her for a few moments in order to regain his breath and then pulled back only to start thrusting into her at a steady pace. Arlis gasped out at every sharp jolt but he could tell that it was caused by her pain. Daemon truthfully would have been kinder to her and given her more time to adjust but he was tired of her stubborn attitude and wanted to punish her for it. He had told her that it was her choice to either obey or continue to fight and she had chosen the latter. Now she had to live with the consequences.

At some point Daemon let go of her shoulders and pushed her so she was lying on her back. His hands dug in her waist and he forcefully held her down while filling her sore cunt to the brim. It wouldn't have been necessary of course. Arlis was weak, done with everything and took what he gave her without fighting. Her eyelids were closed and her body only moved when she was being shoved by a particulary deep thrust. And yet this image aroused Daemon so much that he wanted her to come again. And if the rogue prince wanted something he would get it.

So his finger reached out to her center where his cock pounded her cunt and he put it on her pearl to stimulate it in intense circles. She responded with a quiet whimper from her slightly parted lips and Daemon knew he was doing well. Soon he slowed down a little so he wouldn't burst before Arlis had come again but then finally he felt her walls clench around her and no matter if she liked it or not, he forced her to come again. He allowed himself to cross the edge as well and grunted as his seed filled her hole.

Daemon didn't pull away at once as he wanted to make sure that his semen would stay inside her. He pushed into her one more time and only then slipped out of her which she reacted to with a whimper.

Arlis wanted nothing more than to be left alone at last and preferably never see him again but he didn't grant her the favor. He put on some clothes on his body and then approached the motionless girl again. Daemon wrapped a hand around her throat so he was certain he had her attention and brushed with his mouth over her ear.

"I think I will keep you, darling. You have a nice little hole and a pretty body and I think it would be a waste to have you executed. You're mine now anyway… You're gonna be my little fuck toy to calm me after a long day. My plaything to always take with me. My little whore…. I do like that idea."

Daemon didn't expect an answer from her and just dropped her back to the table.

He didn't give her another glance and simply left the tent and only then did Arlis allow herself to cry again.

[arabellasleopardcoat]

Unforgivable (Aemond Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: Aemond and you are tired of being pawns. Instead of chess, you decide to play draughts.

Requested: Yes! Because nothing is more PDA than murdering the man who dares touch your wife.

A/N: Isn’t like, a rite of passage writing Baratheon reader?

Warnings: Mature language, attempted SA (Bedding ceremony, ripping clothes), implied smut. Enemies to lovers to the cursed play.

“By the pricking of my thumbs,

Something wicked this way comes.”

Being a second born son isn't easy. Getting all the responsibilities and none of the recognition stings, yes. But nothing does more than knowing you are the spare, and that the throne is right at your fingertips. It is like throwing a steak in front of a dog and ordering him not to slobber.

Aemond is not a dog. He is a dragon. And that makes it much more worse. He can’t help but crave, but want. Sink his teeth on it and snarl, tear apart until nothing is left. As he rides towards the Stormlands, with the very real possibility of running into one of his nephews in his future, he thanks the Seven for his self control.

As he left, his mother had reminded him of the importance of behaving with the utmost decorum. To secure the alliance, Aemond must perform his duty and forget all thoughts of vengeance.

Were it to turn into an all out war, they are greatly disadvantaged. The number of dragons they have is not enough to form a real opposition to Rhaenyra. If they have enough soldiers, though, perhaps it will make the whore think twice about starting it.

But even without her, Aegon needs this. He will forever need to prove his legitimacy as a King to the rest of the realm. After all, their father had nearly twenty years to make him heir and had only done so as an afterthought. Everyone would wonder what did that say about his character. His brother needed to prove himself a capable ruler, one that would unite the Seven Kingdoms and protect them under his banner.

This is a war that will be fought through connections and resources, not violence. Aemond’s hatred cannot jeopardize that. Duty must come above everything else.

He only hopes duty doesn’t come with the face of an ugly cow. Securing the alliance with the Baratheons is vital, and his grandsire had made it apparent Aemond should use any means necessary to get what they required.

“Play your cards right, Aemond.” He had said, staring at a map of Westeros. If looks could make an entire nation bend the knee, it was for sure that after that glare, all the Kingdoms would be for Hightower. “Offer them trade, lowered taxes… Borros is an easy man to fool. Never was one for the letters, that one. But if he won’t budge… He has five daughters.”

Aemond had only nodded. Despite not being spoken out loud, the message was clear. Try not to, but if necessary, marry one of the little fools. For that was what they were, with a father as Borros Baratheon. Everyone in the Stormlands knew their lord could not read. And the so-called Four Storms were praised for their beauty, grace, and manners. Not for being particularly learned.

Five daughters. Surely, his grandsire had been wrong. Everyone he asked agreed there were Four Storms. It had struck Aemond as odd, that he would make such a simple mistake. Otto Hightower was a figure larger than life, a great thinker that commanded every room he was in, and blessed with an excellent memory. But it was not as odd when considering the amount of stress the poor man was under.

Everything felt urgent and not quite real. Aegon’s transition had been an easy one in the logistical side of things. His grandsire and mother had been already running the realm. But despite being prepared for Rhaenyra’s resistance, they hadn’t expected her to actually gain supporters. They had prepared, but Aemond still felt as if none of this could actually be happening.

His lack of a bride, purposeful in case an alliance was needed, was soon to come to an end. He felt much like he imagined maidens must feel like. Aemond was about to be sold to the highest bidder, and in this case, that was Borros Baratheon. And whichever of his little fools was the least annoying.

Well, he was in no need of a clever wife. If it were necessary, Aemond would pick the more pleasing one and be done with it. He could place her in another wing of the Red Keep and not have anything to do with her.

When he enters Storm’s End, Aemond is taken aback. He had done his research about the Baratheons. Four Storms. A couple of sons. Borros and his old Lady Wife. But the gossip he had been privy to had been outdated. Because next to Borros Baratheon sits a girl in a smaller throne. You. His new bride.

Borros doesn’t stand up to greet him. Neither do you. Aemond fights to remain calm, despite the display of disrespect. He focuses his attention, instead, on the contrasts between the two of you.

Borros is sprawled without a care, legs spread and belly sticking out. You sit primly, legs crossed at the ankles. You are a beauty, next to the man you are married to. A maiden in the bloom of youth, around Aemond’s age. What could have possessed your family to marry you to such a beast?

It had not been an indiscretion. You do not show any sign of being with child or being nursing. You also sit very proper and proud. If you are a little deviant, it doesn’t show in the way you hold yourself.

The lady of Storm's End, mother to the Storms, has to have passed recently. Otherwise, it would make no sense why Aemond had not heard of it. And while he understands the urges men tend to have, when faced with a second chance at marriage, this is a bit much.

Aemond was in no place to judge, considering his birth had been the consequence of a similar match. Yet Borros Baratheon was no king in need of heirs, and you were young enough to be his daughter. Seven Hells, if Aemond’s guess about your age was right, you were around the eldest Storms's ages. Disgusting. Your beauty was wasted in such an unmannered, daft beast.

“Prince Aemond.” Borros says, lazily scratching his belly.

“Lord Baratheon.” Aemond hates himself for it, but forces himself to bow his head. Then, he turns towards you. “Lady Baratheon.”

“To what do we owe the honor?” The answer is dripping in sarcasm. Borros, of course, must already know why Aemond is here. He has either already made his choice about what side he is on, or he intends to make Aemond grovel. Neither sit right with him. The thought of humiliating himself for a Lord’s pleasure is one that makes his back stiffen and anger burn hotly in his stomach.

He is a Prince of House Targaryen. Not some beggar that has come to plead for aid. But Aemond grits his teeth and starts sprouting the script he had written in his head as he rode here.

“It’s with great sadness that I inform you of my father’s passing. Of course in these trying times, we must remain united, and no house has stood with Targaryens…” The speech has as much emotional conviction as if he were speaking about the reproduction of cattle, which is to say, none. He knows this is not what will convince Borros. He is a simple man. Borros likes good food, good wine and women. The language he speaks it's not flowery, heartfelt speech, but rather gold and land.

“So you seek an alliance.” Borros extends his hand, impatiently. Aemond nearly bristles at the interruption. He only manages to keep his temper in check through years of taking Aegon’s insults. “Pass me the letter your grandsire has written.”

“Here.” Despite knowing the man doesn’t know how to read, Aemond hands it to him. Men’s egos are fragile things, and he knows too well how the sting of embarrassment can fuel hatred. He is not going to risk his chance and insult him.

Borros opens it. He scans it over, noticing the royal seal. Then, he shifts towards you.

“Girl, come here.”

Aemond's brows raise. Did Borros keep you by his side not only for his personal satisfaction? The existence of your little throne makes more sense that way. Surely, not even that fool would be so crass as to have you on display just to show off his younger bride.

You go to him, barely acknowledging Aemond. You skirt around him as if he were part of the furniture. He gets a whiff of your perfume, something expensive and decadent. It’s that what makes Aemond take a second look at you.

You wear a black velvet dress in one of the latest fashions of the capital. You are dressed better than most ladies at court, hands, and neck dripping in jewels. Your hair is held back by a golden hairpiece that emulates the antlers that the Baratheons are so famous for.

Perhaps you are a way for Borros to flaunt his riches. A power play meant to intimidate visitors. Not only has he managed to get a younger bride, but he showers her in jewels. It might be a way to show off his manliness, to show his vassals and other lords that he is still powerful and virile. It has to be the stupidest thing Aemond has ever seen.

You take the parchment from Borros's hands. All tiny steps and swaying hips, you get even closer, to whisper in his ear. Your muttering is fast and frantic, and despite how acute Aemond's hearing has gotten since the loss of his eye, he can't make out the words.

The expression on the Lord's face shifts, from annoyance to amusement.

“Taxes? Lowered taxes?” Borros asks, nearly laughing. “That’s all you are willing to offer?”

It had been, in fact, all that his grandsire had been offering at first. The best thing to do when starting a negotiation was to start lower than what you actually intended to offer. Then, when you gave in and offered more, the other person would feel like they were winning.

“No, my lord. Merely the starting point. If you read the last few paragraphs, you will see trade…” Aemond tries to redirect the conversation back to the important part, but he is surprised to find that he can’t. Because you cut him, smoothly, and with a smile so sharp it might make Vhagar nervous.

“We will see you offer us a trade deal that’s worse than what we already have. Are lowered taxes and worsening of our trade deals what we should expect from our new King? I shudder to think how King Aegon treats his enemies, if this is how he treats…”

Aemond's eyebrows raise. So you speak. And quite eloquently. Strange for a trophy wife. Even stranger, that your husband allows it. Men who marry little girls young enough to be their daughters are not known for their consideration towards women.

“My Lady, with all due respect…” Aemond needs to stop you because if what you say it's true, then his grandsire has made a grave miscalculation. Or a shrewd attempt to fool Borros Baratheon. Knowing him, the second one is more likely. He has a tendency to underestimate other’s intelligence. It was a flaw often found in bright men. Aemond suffered from it himself.

You do stop speaking, staring at him with hatred in your eyes. You either hate men, him, or being interrupted. Perhaps all three. Your eyes narrow, and you look on the verge of doing something very unladylike.

Gods. If you were Helaena, or his wife, he would already have reprimanded you. Aemond turns towards Borros, hoping to get some show of camaraderie from the man. Women, so easily offended. Surely, he would put you back in your place.

But instead of scolding you, the man gave Aemond an angry scowl.

“I will not tolerate any disrespect towards my daughter, Aemond Targaryen. Let her finish.”

The omission of his title would have stung in ordinary circumstances, but not this time. He was too busy gawking over the fact that you were not Borros' wife, but his daughter. You two were nothing alike.

Daughter. Of course. That’s why the man defers to you, why he has you seated to his right. At least that count his grandsire had gotten right. Five daughters, indeed.

“As I was saying. I do not understand why we should take your side. We have yet to receive an offer from the other contenders. Your terms are not generous enough to declare yet.” Your answer is clipped. You are clearly annoyed with him, but you do raise good points. Aemond sees no trouble in listening to you. If Borros wants to indulge you, a little girl playing politics, he won't be the one to stop you.

“So you think, my lady, that you should play both sides?” Aemond arches an eyebrow, leveling you with a glare. No matter how many good points you make, he is not above intimidation to get what he wants. He knows he cuts an intimidating figure, with the dark clothing and the eye patch. Many of the women at court avoid him for that very reason.

But unlike the women at court, you do not wither under his gaze. You bloom. Your back straightens, and you give him a calm look. Your eyes are sweet, almost as if Aemond were flirting with you and not looming menacingly.

“It’s hardly that. I’m simply waiting to make an informed choice. You barge in here, unannounced and in a hurry, hoping to pressure us into an alliance you clearly need.” Your speech is well pronounced and to the point. As soon as you voice it, you seem to lose all interest in him, brushing past to get to your tiny throne.

Aemond turns and stares, unashamedly. The nerve on you. While you might have seen through him, it didn't allow you to just disregard him like that. Who did you think you were? You were just a lady? He was a Prince, the blood of the dragon!

“And we Baratheons are no pushovers.” Borros adds, approvingly. He seems to take your opinion, turning towards you for approval. The man clearly loves you. “We are stags.” Your eyes narrow. Your father clears his throat and rushes to add. “And does. We do the pushing.”

It’s not a good line, but it gives Aemond an opening. If the man cares for you such, it's not wealth that will sway him, nor the promises of land. There is only one thing a man with five daughters could want, especially regarding his favorite one.

“I do have something else to offer.” Aemond says, eyes firmly on Borros. He is purposely excluding you from the conversation, knowing it will sting. Good. You have been horrible to him so far, you deserve it.

“Do tell.” You insert yourself regardless, and he turns to you with his more welcoming smile. You have just dug your own grave, and you don't even know it. It will make his victory much sweeter.

“I would marry you. You are beautiful, and clearly intelligent.” Aemond's expression turns malicious. Your face pales, turning an awful gray shade. You know as well as him that you can't deny him.

“And what use do I have for a second son?” Your hands go to your hips, and you jump out of your tiny throne. You stalk forward, all bared teeth and bravado. Gone is the pretense of sweetness. When cornered, you bite and bite hard.

The insult stings, and Aemond has to fight the urge to slap you. You got quite the mouth and a talent for knowing where to strike. It’s a dangerous combination. He wants nothing more than to exert vengeance, but confronting you now would be unwise. Instead, Aemond fantasizes about what he will do to you if he ever gets you as a wife.

Pinch you. Tug on that pretty hair. Maybe smack you in the arse until you were begging for forgiveness. His mouth twists into an ugly smile. The mental images give him the strength necessary to turn towards your father and try to sway him.

“My Lord, you cannot keep her here forever. You surely know what will happen when you are no more. She will depend on the mercy of his brother. The Lady needs someone to take care of her.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the way you are baring your teeth. Whoever said you were a doe was wrong. You look more like a boar, pretty features twisted in rage.

Lord Baratheon laughs. This time, it's not mocking, but full of humor. Aemond decides it to take it as a good sign.

“And so you now ask I give you my doe. You are a bold man, Prince Aemond.” Definitely a good sign, then. Now he is suddenly a Prince again. Aemond turns towards you and gives you a smug grin. Your hands wrap so hard around the fabric of your pretty gown, he hears a ripping sound. Your father remains oblivious.

“I would be her fiercest protector. Staunchest supporter.” Aemond hurries to reassure him. Borros just needs a little push to give in. He can practically savor it. What does a father fear the most when handing a daughter away? “I would never force her to obey me beyond the reasonable respect a wife should have for her husband.”

It is, of course, a load of crap. He fully intends to take you down a few pegs. But what Borros doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

“Father…” You cut in, urgently. Your father is too busy looking at Aemond like he is his hero to notice. The expression on his face is close to orgasmic bliss, as disgusting as the thought is. Any more, and the man will burst from happiness.

“She would want for nothing. I would treat her as it befits a woman of her station. There would be no greater joy for me than getting her hand in marriage.” Aemond pleads. That is true. At least halfway. You would live comfortably, he would make sure of it. And he would be glad to marry you, if only to be able to get his revenge. Would you want for nothing? Doubtful. You would probably want your family, a loving husband, being away from the Red Keep… But financially, you would be set.

Borros stands and gives Aemond a pat on the back. His expression lights up, looking ten years younger. In contrast, your face falls. You look between the two of them, shaking hands, and look ready to bawl.

“It will be an honor to join our houses, Prince Aemond.” The man boasts, joyfully. Aemond smirks. As petty as it is, he feels as if he has conquered a Kingdom. There is nothing sweeter than the look of pure defeat you wear.

But hearing your father so happy about the match seems to be the last straw for you. You step between the two of them.

“Why not Floris? She is the prettiest among us all. Or Maris? She is very learned!” The offer is desperate, and by the look on your face, you know it. Your face scrunches up in disgust, as if you cannot believe your words. Betraying your sisters for your own safety seems low. Aemond can tell you don’t mean it, but knowing that you are trapped so well you are lashing out pleases him.

Your father's hand goes to your wrist, and he pulls you forward. You go easily, and Aemond makes a mental note of it. He finds interesting how easy you are to subdue if handled properly. Your father seems to have a knack for it.

“You will have to forgive my doe.” Borros says, ruffling your hair affectionately. You stare, looking like a disgruntled kitten. It's clear you are not impressed. “She has the Baratheon temper, but can be quite sweet too. Hence, the name.”

“Of course.” Aemond says, magnanimous. He will need to play the devoted fiancée until he has you out of here, less your father regrets the agreement. But after… Oh, he is going to have fun taking you down a few notches. “Only looking out for her sisters. After all, it's odd the eldest is not married and this one will be.”

You smile at him. Your smile promises pain. Aemond wonders, for the first time, if you have similar plans for him. If you do, he welcomes the challenge. It will be even sweeter when he prevails.

“She is very sensible.” Your father plays with a stray curl behind your ear, tucking the hairpiece more firmly. He remains ignorant of the heated glares Aemond and you are exchanging. “Always has wanted to be swept off her feet, though.”

“Father, perhaps he should take a look at my sisters first. The famous Four Storms.” The words come out between gritted teeth, eyes still burning a hole through Aemond.

“I don't need to, my lady. Are any of them as politically inclined?” He does not dare reach for you, with your father on the way. He would like to touch you. Aemond is not sure about why he feels that urge, but he thinks it is due to your infuriating nature.

“They are not. Cassandra, the eldest, is the friendliest. There is also Floris, the most beautiful, and Maris, the most learned. Ellyn, I'm afraid, is too young.” You rattle, counting with your fingers.

Borros coughs. He eyes Aemond warily, as if expecting him to suddenly announce he doesn't want you anymore. The man loves you, but he is not blind to your faults. Something about his attitude makes Aemond think that this is not the first time you try to spook a suitor.

“I see.” Aemond answers, coolly. “I do not want a Storm. I want a Doe.”

You glare even more. You go sit on your little throne. By the Sevens, you truly are disagreeable. Spoiled, pampered, and with a temper unlike he had ever seen. A match made in the Seven Hells.

Your father gave Aemond a curt tilt of the head. Aemond sighed, and went to kneel by your side.

“I want to court you, if you will let me.” He grabbed your hand. Your skin was very soft, but your palm felt clammy and cold. Curiously, he dared slip his hand lower, checking your pulse. The beat of your heart was not steady, but rushed, and it filled him with a sense of achievement. You were terrified. Smiling against your skin, Aemond pressed a kiss to your knuckles. “I did not lie when I said I found beauty in your mind and words.”

It was no lie. You were beautiful in the way young maidens were, sweet and untainted. But you had a mind as sharp as any man. It was a combination Aemond would have admired greatly, were it not for the fact you were a terrible, spoiled brat.

“A war is about to break out. I don't see where you would find the time.”

“If your father allows it, I would take you with me.” Aemond stepped slightly closer. Perhaps, he could entice you. “Would you enjoy riding a dragon?”

“Ah, so you can abandon me in some forgotten wing of the Red Keep and have me away from my family?” It comes out bratty, and scared. A little girl who fears being alone.

Borros tenses at the tone. Almost as if acting on pure instinct, he reaches towards you. His hand goes to grab at your arm, making sure you are still there. Aemond will have to tread carefully, else he missteps and loses all the progress he has made with the man.

“You would have a seat at Aegon's council.” Aemond takes your hands in his. He is on his wits end on what he could offer you. Never before has he met a woman so unimpressed by anything he has to give. In your tiny, sheltered world, everything is perfect already.

“Gods know he needs it.” Borros muttered, under his breath. Aemond ignores him, choosing to squeeze your hands instead.

“I would listen to you.” He pleads, but you, terror of a girl, are ignoring him. Your eyes are focused elsewhere, no longer in his. A guard is hurrying forward, and Aemond can tell the wheels on your head start to turn.

“Prince Lucerys Velaryon!”

Aemond, kneeling next to you, straightens. You curl your hand around his.

“Don't!”

“My Lady…” Aemond fights your grip, trying to detangle himself from you. Your hand goes to his nape. You squeeze, as if directing a dog.

“You said you would listen to me.” Your grip is firm. “Prove it.”

Aemond is seething with rage, with the urge to chase and tear Lucerys apart. But you do not budge. Your hand turns into a chain around his nape, a collar for a dog. You force him to remain kneeling at your feet as your father dispatches Lucerys.

Humiliation bubbles up at his throat, choking him. Not even the Pink Dread incident had come close to this feeling. Utter, profound, embarrassment. He can feel his nephew's eyes lingering on you, in the display of affection that seems so casual. A suitor kneeling for his lady, resting his head on her lap. It could be affectionate, were it not for the fact that it’s you.

Aemond is not hiding his face in your lap to feel you pet him, no matter if you behave like he is. Instead, you are forcefully keeping him in place, and he rather look the lovesick fool than the weakling who can’t fight a woman’s grip.

You pet his hair. You smile. He is powerless to stop it. It is then Aemond realizes that you are more dangerous than he had thought. You were so used to bending men to your will, he had not noticed that you had done the same to him.

Not any longer. He would make you pay. He vowed it.

“When shall we three meet again

In thunder, lightning, or in rain?”

You liked your life. Your sisters were sweet, if a bit distant. Your father was caring, to the point of actually listening to your opinion. The library was full of books, and you had warm furs and pretty dresses. Life was good. Why would you choose to leave this behind? Storm’s End was your safe haven, the place where you could be yourself. You wouldn’t trade it to go live at the Red Keep with a bunch of incestuous deviants whose reign was under question. You refused.

The thought of going away and having to play the dutiful wife to Prince Aemond made your stomach turn. You were not stupid. You knew the amount of freedom you had here was unusual. There, your voice would be silenced. Nothing you said would be of consequence as it was here. Even if they listened to women, they wouldn’t listen to a stranger. If you were King Aegon, you would rather have your mother’s council over the one from a strange goodsister.

Making sure the door to your rooms was locked, you threw yourself on the bed and screamed from rage, muffling the sound in your pillow. You were frustrated beyond belief. Anything you had tried, Prince Aemond had countered. And your father! Oh, your father had given you away so easily, as if you were no more than cattle. Did he truly believe that you would be treated as promised?

How could your father be so blind? He had not felt Prince Aemond tremble from rage, when he heard the voice of his nephew. The one who had taken his eye. He had not seen his expression sour as you interrupted him and proved yourself to be smarter than he was.

You stood up and looked around. You kicked your bed, and quickly regretted it. Your shoes offered no protection against the impact, and you swore.

“Seven Hells!” And you looked around, embarrassed from your outburst. But there was no one around to witness it, and that fact enraged you even more. You wanted to make your annoyance known.

Your rooms were empty, not a single maid in sight. They were probably tending to your sisters. There was to be a feast in honor of the Prince, but you had no plans to attend. Hence, you had called for no attendants.

You started to pace. Aemond Targaryen would regret taking you from your home. You vowed it. Despite knowing you were falling victim to childish pettiness and letting it cloud your senses, you couldn’t help it. You were angry. Angry. Angry. You wanted to claw his remaining eye out, pull on his hair, elbow him as hard as you could.

Women had everything to lose when it came to marriage. It was their destiny. They lost their connection to their house and were sent to another. They changed hands like property. And the men, the owners, had everything to win. Trading a daughter off like one would do to a rook before starting a game of Cyvasse, they gained an alliance. And receiving a woman, they gained a dowry and vessel for their children.

You knew the day would come where you would be plucked from your home, but you had foolishly hoped that being one of the many Baratheon daughters spared you from that fate. There were so many of you, your father could not hope to marry you all. You wanted to be more than just a way for a man to gain heirs.

But instead, you were going to be carried off towards a place far from your home, where you would not get to be a person fully. You doubted Prince Aemond would give you the same leniency your father gave you, or that he would listen to your opinions. No matter what he said, he was still a man. And not any man, but one you had humiliated.

Men did not often like realizing you were smarter or bolder than them. Those characteristics had served you well to keep marriage away during the years, but it seemed like this time they had failed you. Not only they had made Prince Aemond interested in you, they had also angered him. After seeing the look on his face when his nephew had entered the hall, you could tell he was not one to forgive and forget.

You could have handled it better. By the Seven, you were smarter than him. Why had you been so hostile? If only you had thought to manipulate him back then. How could you have been so stupid? You grabbed a vase and threw it to the floor with all your strength. It shattered into tiny pieces with a loud noise. It didn’t make you feel any better.

You sobbed. A look at the broken pieces and you thought of your maids, having to pick it up. The thought made more tears come to your eyes. There was a warm, wet feeling clogging up your throat. You were not such a bad person as to make them clean a mess you had made purposefully, so you kneeled and started picking up the pieces.

The commotion clearly attracted someone’s attention because there was a knock on your door. You ignored it, and continued obsessively picking up the pieces. You placed them all on top of a cloth, arranging them neatly. The ceramic was sharp, and the borders made your hands sting, but none drew blood.

The knocking became louder.

“No!” You shouted, denying whoever it was. Probably one of your sisters, checking up on you. Or a maid. Or guard. Who knew. You just wanted to be left alone to wallow in your misery.

“My lady, the Prince is requesting….” Of course, they weren’t checking on you. You did no longer matter. Now, you were little more than cattle, mattering only in regard to your owner. This what not the life you had envisioned, not at all.

“And I said no.” Why should what Prince Aemond wanted matter more than what you wanted? You wanted to be left alone. Be able to come to terms with what was going to happen and think of a plan. What was your next move? You had no time to think of it. Already he was imposing his presence.

The servant did not answer. You thought you were finally going to be left alone, but the respite was brief.

“Sister.” Floris’s voice echoed in your rooms. She had a loud, commanding tone, similar to your own. She had gone ahead and opened your door. “You should not behave like this.”

“I do not care.” You sat down on your bed, arms crossed over your chest. Despite knowing you were in the wrong, you didn’t need her to rub your mistakes in your face.

“You should.” Floris took a dress out of one of your trunks. It was one of your yellow gowns, made with intricate gold stitching. She laid it down on your bed, smoothing the skirts down, and gave a pleased sigh. “It is like a fairy tale. You get to be a princess.”

“I do not want to be a Princess.” You looked at the dress and scooted towards the edge of your mattress, trying to avoid it. Floris spanked your thigh, hard enough to make you yelp. “It is the truth! I don’t…”

“Then think of it this way.” She interrupted, annoyed. She, too, had the Baratheon temper. “That man that you are rejecting and humiliating is the man you will spend your life with. Who will have power over you. You are smart. You know this.”

“Father could…”

“Father is not going to change his mind.” Floris frowned. She smoothed your hair down. The hairpiece was making your head hurt, but just like your father, she only tucked it in more firmly. Your head felt heavy. Floris wiped your tears away, examining you with a critical eye. “You are a lucky girl. You have our father’s favor. Win the Prince’s.”

“I told him it should have been you.” The confession slipped from your lips, unprompted. It brought a smile to her face.

“Then you are a fool.” Floris smirked. You could tell she meant every word. Your sister had always had ambitions above her station, much like yours. But hers were more in line with what was expected of your sex. “Had it been me he had chosen, I would have not thought it twice. Fix your face. Before he decides to fix it with his fists.” She gave you one last look, before leaving you to your rapidly darkening thoughts.

You did not need the reminder of what Prince Aemond could do to you, once the two of you were married. You knew. But she had put it so coldly….

Floris was hungry. She had always been. Ever since you were children, she had always craved more. In a household full of girls, she had gotten used to fighting for her due. And not only that. Floris always managed to thrive. Were it her in your shoes, you had no doubts she would have Prince Aemond wrapped around her finger and a plot to get him either power or riches so she could keep a lush lifestyle. Her advice was blunt, but well-intentioned. This was an opportunity, and you should treat it as such.

You got up. You washed your face. By then, it was very late. The storm continued hitting the castle with the same vigor. There were hardly any servants in the halls. You went to sit at one of the windows, watching the rain fall.

Despite the late hour, something told you he would come to you. Sitting on the windowsill, you could taste the tang of metal against your tongue each time you breathed in. The night felt electric. You knew it was just what storms were like, but something about this one felt foreboding.

Watching the water made you feel calmer, and more focused. As the droplets tumbled down the sides of the castle, you reflected. But no rationalization helped you vanish the thought that this night was significant. Destiny was changing right under your eyes, and you could do little but watch it unfold.

“Here you are.” He spoke, after an eternity. You turned your body towards him, but made no move to get up. Somehow, watching him loom over you felt wrong. Like he shouldn’t be.

“Here I am.” You replied, before softening your voice. “I was waiting for you.”

Instead of softening himself, Prince Aemond scowled.

“You are the most impudent woman I have ever met. Haven’t you learned that you should address your betters properly?”

His comment grates on your nerves. You want nothing more than to scream at him. But then, you remind yourself of what this is. An opportunity.

“I apologize, betrothed.” You say, very gracefully. “Do you wish to sit with me?” And you add a good bat of your lashes for good measure. It usually works on your father, so why not on him?

The Prince frowns. He seems to take your much more subdued behavior as sarcastic.

“You are absolutely impudent. When we marry…”

You interrupt him before he can say more.

“You will hit me?” You raise your eyebrows. “Is that what you mean to say?”

He reaches for you. You flinch back, before remembering you are right at the windowsill. The window is high enough that the fall would kill you. You scream, panic taking hold. You reach for him, for the sides of the castle, for anything that could save you from certain death. Aemond grapples at you, desperately grabbing your shoulders and hair in a death grip.

“I have a right to discipline you. And I will, if you do not mind your tongue.” He snaps, pulling you against him. He is careful to move both of you away from the window. Your heart beats harshly in your chest. If he had lost his footing, if he had been a second slower… You could be dead. You could be dead.

“Discipline. Discipline.” You repeat to yourself, in a daze. “As if I were a child.”

“You behave like one. I will treat you like one.” His expression is very telling. Your face heats up. You swallow. Dead. He could have killed you. You are not too sure how you feel about your confrontation with mortality.

“And if I apologize?”

“I am not sure if I will believe a change of heart.”

And oh, how it stings. He wants to humiliate you. It makes your anger flare up again. You clench your fists and stare at the rain. You count to ten in your head, watching the droplets fall outside.

“Of course, my Prince.”

"Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf,

Witches’ mummy, maw and gulf

Of the ravin’d salt-sea shark,

Root of hemlock digg’d i’ the dark,"

The storm passed, and so did your tantrum. You had become very quiet and subservient. The perfect wife. It unnerved Aemond.

Had the near-death experience rattled you as much as it had him? Aemond kept thinking it had been his fault. He shouldn’t have reached for you in such a manner, yet at the same time, the fear in your eyes had filled him with vindication. Your heart had beaten as fast as the one of a frightened bird. He had been able to feel it through your pulse points, jumping under his hands.

He had had your life in his hands. And it had felt great. That was what power was all about, Aemond thought. And oh, how low you had been brought by it. Gone was your uppity attitude, gone your terrible manners. You had clung to him like a frightened child, pale and anxious. Something roared inside him, Aemond had finally felt like the conqueror his ancestors were. A true dragon.

You had not made mention of the incident to anyone else. Of that, he was sure. His soon-to-be goodfather would have not allowed the wedding to go through. And your sisters would be much more afraid of him. Instead, Aemond had Borros singing his praises and little girls chasing after him, begging to play or older ones trying to curry favor.

Despite having been humbled quite throughoutly by fate, you were not one to sit idle. You were a spitfire, and so, Aemond could not help but believe he was being lulled into a sense of safety before you would strike. But what were you planning?

Your blank looks and serene smiles gave nothing away. No matter how cutting his remarks, or insulting his words, you did nothing but stare. At most, you would fake a laugh. Suddenly, it was as if you had become as empty-headed as your sisters. It drove him up the walls. He would have given anything to know exactly what you were thinking.

Your composure finally broke on the day the two of you were set to depart. You were to travel with Aemond to the capital, which meant flying on Vhagar. A look at his dragon, and your face crumbled. Perhaps, you remembered the last time the two of you had been alone and in the heights. Perhaps, you feared the oldest dragon alive.

“Girl, here.” Lord Borros ordered, passing your belongings to a servant. You stared sullenly. Your father gave you a look, becoming you over.

“I do not want to go.” You stomped your foot. Your antler headpiece shook with the motion. It made your face scrunch up even more. Were you…? Oh, you were. It was priceless. No matter his constant harassing, not even once had you looked close to tears. Not even when he had crudely remarked how he was going to bend you in half and spank your pretty little arse for your defiance before taking you during the wedding night. Not that he was actually going to do that. Aemond just liked frightening you.

“Lord Baratheon…” Aemond warned. He was unsure of what or why he was doing it. He should be loving this. You were finally breaking under the pressure. But instead, he felt oddly empty. It was much better, much more stimulating, when you fought back. Now, it felt oddly like a kidnapping. As if he were taking some poor, delicate girl from her home against her will.

It was stupid. Marrying was the duty of every noblewoman, and you were not a girl. You were his age, for the Seven’s sake! But you looked so hurt, so defenseless… It was not at all like he had envisioned.

What was different from that meeting in the tower than from today? Was it, perhaps, that in certain lights you looked disturbingly like his mother? You had the dark Baratheon hair, and when he watched you from behind, you looked just as powerless.

A Prince was not supposed to hurt women. It was what made him superior to Aegon. The maids in the corridors did not run from his mere sight, nor did the noblewomen avoid sitting by him at feasts. He was thought of as dutiful, not a deviant.

But frightening you had felt delicious. There had been something so primal in your fear, something that had made him feel sure of himself for the first time in years. Aemond had been in control then. He knew his mother and grandsire would be disappointed in him, but he couldn’t help it. He was as twisted as any other Targaryen. Must be the Valyrian blood.

Aemond had been raised under the faith of the Seven, and so, still had some empathy and principles. If he had not been as pious as he was, he would have been as lost as his brother after his first taste of real power. Aemond wasn’t, and so, still felt capable of being sorry for the woman he had so admired at the beginning. Despite all your disagreeable qualities, you were sharper than anyone else he had ever met.

“Girl, you are going.” Borros looked like he was starting to get angered by you. Privately, Aemond felt a bit annoyed at his hypocrisy. He said he was not escorting you to the capital because he had business to oversee as the Lord of Storm’s End. Aemond could tell that wasn’t the real reason. He would rather not give you away because it would mean saying goodbye to you forever. You would no longer be his, but Aemond’s.

His ire, the only way Borros had of showcasing his feelings, had not spared anyone lately. Your Lady Mother had been called a dumb whore more times that Aemond could count, for not preparing you better. Your poor sister, Casandra, had been belittled by him after daring to ask about the fate of the dresses you wouldn’t take with you.

“If a daughter of mine is becoming a Princess, you can bet she will take all the dresses she needs, and I will not have you behaving like a vulture.” He had screamed, red with rage.

Floris had wisely hidden herself in her rooms. You, instead, had screamed right back that he was fuzzing too much and that he was overbearing. Which Borros was. The man fuzzed over you, making sure you had the best of everything to take with you, to the point of overwhelming. The row had been spectacular, and it had ended with you giving him the silent treatment, as he muttered fondly about his proud little doe.

It made Aemond think of his father. After his death, he had only felt panic and a sense of urgency. Never grief. But this man, so rough, so ignorant compared to his own father, would be wept thoroughly. He could already tell.

Right now, of course, similar as you were, neither of you got it. Instead, you gave your father a look of absolute betrayal and ran off, trying to hide your sadness at his scolding tone.

“Ah, that one. She is not used to harshness.” Borros shook his head, as if whatever you were going through was a product of female hysterics and not the fact that you were grieving the loss of your home and family.

“Or being told no.” Because you wouldn’t be like this if Borros hadn’t raised you like this. Most noblewomen resigned to their fate early on, they were not raised with delusions. Borros had a point, your mother should have prepared you better. He should have, too.

“I am afraid I might have done her more harm than good. I have always had a soft spot for her. Out of her sisters, she is the most like me.” Borros voiced exactly what Aemond was thinking. His reasoning, though, made him have to try hard not to cringe. While not exactly the prettiest woman on Westeros, you were tempting enough. You had nice manners, when you cared to use them, and a sharp intelligence that spoke of a deep cultivation of the proper arts for a lady.

“She has my temper, I mean.” Borros chuckled, once again guessing his thoughts. In looks, you took after whatever ancestors were blessed without a warrior’s physique. “And she is much more gifted with her letters.”

“Oh.” Aemond said, quite dumbly. He had underestimated Lord Baratheon, just as he had underestimated you. The great beast of a man wasn’t just a beast, but rather gifted with talents of his own. While he may not have been able to read great treatises of philosophy and history, he could read intentions and thoughts just from a man’s face.

“A good thing, in a man. But in a woman? She is not used to not being heard, she is loud and takes a lot of space. The world is not kind, not kind at all, to women like that.” Lord Baratheon spoke, again showcasing a deep insight Aemond would not have thought him capable of.

His mind wandered. Rhaenyra. Loud, brash, bold. Charming when she wanted to. Yes, the world wasn’t ind to women like the two of you. After all, weren’t him and Aegon trying to usurp the throne right from under her? Just because they didn’t agree with how she had chosen to live?

It had been the wrong choice, sure. But it had been the path Rhaenyra had picked for herself, just as you had planned to do before Aemond swept in. Lost to perversion and sin, perhaps producing your own bastards. No. Your course needed to be corrected, and thank the gods Aemond was here for it. You needed to learn your place. He would listen to you, but you would always follow his lead. That was the only way to keep you on the right path.

“No, it is not.” He agreed, still thinking of how he could help you. Stubborn little doe that you were, Aemond knew it wasn’t going to be easy. And worst thing? You were brave. Many women would have cowered at the sight of him, or at the threats he had thrown your way. Not you. Not even once, beyond that time in the tower, you had looked afraid.

“You have to promise to not try to break her.” Borros warned, clapping a hand against Aemond’s shoulder. The man threw all his weight behind the gesture. It was considerable, and Aemond was once again remembered of why they wanted the Baratheon alliance so badly. Borros Baratheon was a brute, yes, but a great warrior. Deadly with the Warhammer.

His hand squeezed Aemond’s shoulder so hard, he thought he might bruise. A threat, thinly veiled. Aemond prided himself on the fact that he did not flinch under it.

“Many men would. It is the easiest approach.” Because it was. What could you do with a woman who was not afraid, and who was used to doing as she pleased? The same thing his Uncle had done to Rhaenyra. You broke her. In whatever way it was necessary. Either through pleasure or through pain.

It was known that women were more carnal creatures. They lacked the impulse control men had. They were more prone to sinning, and they were more often controlled through their basal needs. That was why they had no business on the battlefield or in the throne. And why the thought of having a home and nurturing children spoke to them. They were just all instinct and emotion, with an overall lack of rationality.

“But you are not just any man, are you? You are a Targaryen. Your house needs strong women.” Borros argued. Aemond cringed at the word. He was right, despite the unfortunate wording. You were not just any woman. You had shown yourself capable of more rationality. Perhaps Aemond had to nurture that in you and get rid of your most instinctual behaviors. Teach you by example, until you understood the role you had to play.

“Then what? She will not come willingly, that much is clear.” But how? How? That he now knew what he had to do did not mean he knew how to get there. It could take years, and right now, you had to leave before sundown.

“Her anger will pass. And a bit of advice. She works better when it is the carrot and not the stick.” And it made sense, it showed rational behavior. You didn’t balk at the first sign of pain, but you were greatly tempted when faced with rewards. Much like him, you endured.

You had been raised a brat, yes. But an intelligent one.

“Come, you spirits

That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here,

And fill me from the crown to the toe top-full

Of direst cruelty. Make thick my blood.

Stop up th’ access and passage to remorse,

That no compunctious visitings of nature

Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between

Th’ effect and it."

The view from atop Vhagar is spectacular, but you can’t seem to enjoy it. It is a unique opportunity. Aside from those with valyrian blood, no one gets to just ride a dragon. Much less, the most ancient one. But Vhagar is too terrifying for you to sit at ease on her, and you keep thinking of that night in the tower.

You don’t want to die. A fall from here would mean plummeting to your death. You are overly conscious of your every move. You don’t want to die this far from your home. Lately, it feels as if death lingers around you. There is danger everywhere. On top of the stairs, near the training grounds, on top of Vhagar.

Aemond seems to be having the same thoughts because he grips you so tightly to him that it nearly hurts. Every time you breathe, his hands move with your stomach. He is holding you so close it’s making you feel awkward, but you are too afraid of falling to say something.

Storm’s End and the Stormlands are becoming smaller in the distance. Without meaning to, you start to tear up. You no longer can see the banners from the top of the towers, and you can’t remember what they looked like. It’s such a silly thing, being unable to figure out if it is the Baratheon sigil or just a plain yellow one, but it makes a pang of sadness take hold of your heart.

You suddenly wish you had spent your last days memorizing your childhood home and spending time with your family instead of trying to vex Aemond. He is now all you have. The only person outside yourself who will remember your home once in the capital. You bet Aemond never paid as much attention to the details as you did, but surely, he must remember something.

Perhaps that thought is what prompts you to curl your hands around his wrists, seeking comfort. He stiffens, and moves his hands higher up your bodice. You let him go without a word.

“What are you doing?” Aemond whispers against your ear. The wind makes it hard for you to hear him otherwise.

“I am scared.” You answer, trying to project your voice over the wind. He gives a put upon sigh, but reaches for your hands. When his hands envelope yours, you nearly jerk in surprise. Aemond is warm, and touches you very gently. Much more than he had the night of your betrothal. You had not expected him to conform to your unspoken offers of a truce, thinking him as proud as you.

“You should not be. Vhagar is a well-experienced flier.” He soothes, rubbing his thumb along your knuckles. You lean back against him, and Aemond seems to welcome the gesture. His breath changes slightly, but you can feel him relaxing against your back.

“It’s not about Vhagar.” You sniffle slightly. “I…” But how to explain? How to explain all of this to a man? This feeling of loss, of not belonging. Of being taken, yet at the same time doing your duty. He would never understand it.

“Why are you scared? Aren’t you so proud, so self-sufficient?” It seems Aemond hasn’t forgotten the slights you committed against him. While he might be willing to indulge you when it comes to fear of Vhagar or heights, he seems annoyed by anything else. You wish he wasn’t. Being comforted by him had felt really nice. For a second, you had actually thought everything was going to be alright.

“Don’t be like that.” You plead, voice breaking slightly. You don’t want to sob, but you feel on the edge of it. Aemond’s hands squeeze yours. He sounds tired when he next speaks.

“You have not apologized.”

“Nor have you.” You say, taking a deep breath. You are trying to keep your tone even, but anger leaks from your next words like poison from a wound. “I admit my tone was not the best. But you treated me like cattle. Or worse, a pawn.”

“Pawn?” He asks, the words seeming to give him pause. You jerk one of your hands from his grip, angrily wiping away your tears.

“On your brother’s game. Do not insult my intelligence, Prince Aemond.”

“We are all pawns. You, me, Aegon.” His tone is sharp. As if you should know this already. Are all men such fools, you wonder? Why would anyone be a pawn on someone else's game when they can play King on their own?

Cyvasse has always been a pastime of yours. You learned how to play it as a child, on your father’s knee. As he planned his ambushes against the dornish and commanded you to watch closely, watch better. There was always an out. Prince Aemond could not see it now, but you could.

“I do not want to be a pawn.” You whisper to him. A test. A prod, to see if he is willing to change the game.

“Neither do I.” He answers, grimly. Prince Aemond kisses your temple, soft and sweet. And the idea grows in your mind. Perhaps, this is not a Cyvasse board but a draughts’ one. They are easily mistaken, after all. Both checkered. But in draughts, even the most simple of the pieces can dominate the board.

And there it is. The opportunity you have been looking for.

“Is this a dagger which I see before me

The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee:

I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.”

The day of your wedding ceremony, a storm rages around the Red Keep. You and Aemond exchange your vows inside the royal Sept, with an air of grim determination. None of your family is in attendance. His, instead, fills the seats of the Sept.

His grandfather proudly boasts of the alliance to anyone who is willing to listen. It is no secret to anyone that the dismissal of Prince Lucerys from Storm’s End has made Rhaenyra’s cause take a blow.

What did Borros Baratheon see, that convinced him to betroth one of his daughters to Aemond? The nobles ask themselves. Surely, if even a renowned fool like him could see something wrong with Prince Lucerys, it must be obvious for the whole realm to see. The question mark on the legitimacy of those Velaryons changes into an exclamation sign. His poor, Strong nephews, doomed not to inherit anything at all.

“Well done, Aemond.” His grandfather had said to him, pulling him aside after Aemond had returned with you and the promise of Borros Baratheon himself leading his men into battle. “The girl, she reminds me of your grandmother. Bright, but well-behaved. I am glad you found enjoyment in your duty.”

And surprisingly, Aemond had. He had warmed up to you on the ride home. You were sweet when you wanted to be, and he had finally managed to find some common ground with you, which made you more interesting.

You still had impulses. But when asked to cooperate and behave in front of his family, you had proven surprisingly agreeable.

“Of course. I wouldn’t want to cause your Lady Mother a fright. I understand she is heavily burdened.” Your last comment had been said with a puzzling smile on your lips, and Aemond had found himself losing sleep over it. What did you mean by that? Were you making a subtle dig at him? Or was it at his siblings? Or perhaps, simply commenting on the near civil war about to break out?

The memory follows him all the way to the hand fasting and the wedding feast. The storm outside does not subside, perhaps a goodbye to the doe that is now becoming a dragon. You tear up during the hand fasting, and even manage to look the hopeful bride. If Aemond had not been betrothed to you, he would have thought you loved the idea of marriage. That you loved him.

You do not. It does not bother him. Both of you have agreed that love will come with time. For now, you are both trying. You are much better at it than him, less cold and guarded.

“I want us to be friends, at least. Care for each other.” You had said, holding his face in your hands as you shared your first dance as a married couple. Aemond had not been expecting the gentle touch from you, focused on not missing a step. He had startled. But you had guided him to look you right in the eyes, expression sincere. “Or I shall wilt so far from home, husband. We have been doing better.”

“We have. And I care.” He had brushed your hair away from your face, sensing your melancholy. It must have been hard on you, Aemond mused, getting married without any of your family present. You had been behaving spectacularly, but you were still very sensitive. Your father had warned him about it for a reason, after all.

“I do too.” You had reassured him, eyes glassy, before hugging him. Aemond had decided then that he would need to protect you from any harm. You were awfully fragile, nothing to do with the Storms you had as sisters. His doe. Dramatic, vain, but so sweet.

His new resolve faces its first test when the feast starts to die down. The bedding ceremony approaches, and your eyes, nervous, go from the increasingly drunk Aegon to Aemond and towards the empty seats left behind by his mother and grandsire.

Aemond only needs to follow your gaze a few times to understand what you are trying to convey. Gone are the only two possible moderating influences on his brother, his mother had retired when Helaena had become upset by the noise and his grandfather claimed being too old for such a celebration.

The crowd gets rowdier and rowdier as the end draws near. They are drunk and eager for a show, and know the best one is about to be provided by the two of you.

Aemond has already decided to endure this. While the thought of those hands all over his body it's not a pleasant one, he doubts the women would dare go any further. You, though. Your laugh is stilted and your eyes keep darting to the exit. Determined as you are to appear brave, you force your lips into tense smiles.

It’s not long after before someone calls for the bedding. All bravado, you get up on your own when the men, led by Aegon, approach you.

“Gods, you are a lucky bastard.” He says, as he starts to tug at the sleeves of your dress. Something tightens in Aemond's chest and he sees red. He had hoped that he had conveyed to his brother that he cared for you, but Aegon either didn’t care, or was stupid enough not to notice.

How could he? Even his grandsire had congratulated him for finding pleasure in duty, it was that evident. And Otto Hightower was not exactly the most perceptive of men when it came to emotions.

Aegon eagerly rips one sleeve out of the bodice, and you can't hide your flinch. Aemond sees it even among the crowd of women that are trying to divest him of his own clothes. Some lord's hands are greedily wrapped around your waist, squeezing your flesh. There is panic on your eyes. Brave, stubborn, little doe that you are, you don't say a word.

But even if Aegon had not noticed, how did he dare touch something that was his? The only thing to his name, and he dared envy it, try to take it away. Aemond had endured Aegon’s needs going first his whole life. Seven Hells, even marrying you meant catering to him and putting aside his own desires. But his brother was too selfish to even keep his hands to himself and not fondle his bride.

There is another ripping sound. The other sleeve of your dress, now gone. You struggle to keep the bodice up, a hand against your chest, but some lords are already jeering and tugging at the waist of your dress. You whimper, barely audible.

“Enough!” Aemond orders, pushing away the women and grabbing his gambeson from one of them. Enraged, he nearly throws the men off you. “Enough. No one touches her.”

“Brother, we were just having a bit of fun…” Aegon shouts, and Aemond grimaces. This close, he can smell the alcohol on his breath. What a poor excuse of a King he was, drunk and groping a woman who wasn’t his to touch.

You flock towards Aemond like a scared bird. He places his gambeson over your shoulders, trying to cover you in case the dress fails to stay up. You shrug it on, gratefulness shining in your eyes. It only serves to irk Aemond further. He wants to strangle Aegon and his stupid friends.

“I do not care.” Aemond barks, and pushes Aegon off him. “Where is the Septon? Send him in, now.”

“You should not take that tone with me.” Aegon warns, puffing up his chest and advancing again towards you. You flinch, huddling impossibly close to Aemond’s side.

“I do not care! What do you think this is? First night?” Aemond snaps, right back. The confused crowd stands back, starting to notice something is wrong. “Did you ever paid attention to your history lessons or were you drunk then, too? It is abolished!”

“I…I…I” Aegon splutters.

Aemond huffs. He grabs you by the waist and throws you over his shoulder, to the delight of the crowd. Many men cheer and hoot, but he makes sure to keep their hands away from you.

“I laid their daggers ready;

He could not miss ‘em.”

Your hands still shake when he sets you down. For a moment, you had thought you were being carried off to be bedded, and all the nasty promises Aemond had made you before your truce had come to mind. He had a right to it — now. Your father was not coming to save you.

Panic had threatened to drown you. But then, once the two of you were out of sight from the crowd, Aemond squeezed one of your hands and placed you down on the corridor for you to make your way there on foot.

“Thank you.” You say to him, once in his chambers. Yours, now. The thought brings tears to your eyes, and you are not sure why. You knew you were going to marry him, and he was not as bad as he seemed. Why were you crying?

The day had been taxing. Emotionally and physically. Sadness and excitement had all mixed into one, and the wedding preparations had not allowed you a second to rest. You had been on your best game, bringing Aemond over to your side, and enchanting the court. Laying the groundwork for when you decided to move your own piece.

You had not planned for the reality of Aegon Targaryen, though. Being almost assaulted on your wedding feast was not what how you envisioned meeting the King. It only steeled your resolve. You had to get rid of him.

But no matter how politically sharp you were, you were still a woman. The threat of assault and rape would forever hang over your head, no matter how high in the game you were. And it hurt. Because you could never win.

You sob. You had been doing everything right. How could this have happened to you?

Aemond approaches you from behind, loudly. He is almost always silent in his movements, a predator stalking prey, so you know he must be exaggerating for your benefit. One of his arms wraps around you, trying to comfort you. The touch is tentative, hesitant. When you do not pull away, Aemond hugs you fully from behind, pressing his forehead against your nape.

You stood there for what felt like an eternity. Until you were no longer shaking in his arms, until you had no tears left. Only then, Aemond pressed a soft kiss to the first knob of your spine. And to the second. And the third. He softly traces the places they would be under your skin, lavishing them with attention.

You don’t stop him. His touch is comforting and familiar. Aemond has saved you twice now. That night, when you were enemies in a tower. Tonight, when you were already his woman.

When he reaches your bodice, he doesn’t tear the broken garment apart. Instead, he unmakes every button with care. The dress slips from your form with a soft murmur. For a second, the reminder of Aegon, his friends, and what they had tried to do to you, makes you tense up.

Aemond doesn’t say a word. He just hugs you to him, cradling you in his arms. When you are calm again, he kisses your nape once more.

Your eyes dart towards the bed, in the middle of the room. Around it, some candles provide a low lighting. Aemond kisses your shoulder, and moves one of the straps of your shift aside.

You shudder. Your knees feel weak. It’s a new feeling, but one that fills you with warmth. Pooling in your stomach, towards your core. Making you slick between the legs.

His kisses move from your shoulders, down your arms and towards your wrists. Each kiss feels soft and warm. It makes you forget about King Aegon and his friends, and their dirty little hands all over you.

Aemond touches you softly enough to want to lose yourself in his touch. It is clear he has done this before, and that he cares. Your husband, your improbable ally. So you do. You lose yourself in him, in his body, in the kindness behind every touch. It is only as you come to be, laying with your head on his chest, that you think of it again.

You are satisfied and warm, laying under the covers. Aemond is by your side, eye closed. Softly, you run your nails down his chest, watching the skin and flesh give. His body is so different from your own, thin and elongated, but softly muscled from all his training. There are some scars on him, pink raised flesh standing out among the white.

“You are smarter than him.” You say, your voice low. You are speaking treason.

“Hm?” Aemond’s hand starts caressing your back. His eye remains closed.

“Your brother.” You reply, listening attentively to his heartbeat, You try not to tense under his ministrations, not give your move away.

“I was more dedicated to our studies.” Aemond’s heartbeat starts to feel faster. You feign calm, focusing on other things. It would not do to let your excitement show. You trace a more silvery scar on his side. You wonder how he got it. Training? Riding Vhagar?

“Your education was fit enough for a King.” You say, after a while. You are so close you can taste it. Shifting to lay on your stomach, you peer up at him from between your lashes.

“It is.” Not was. Aemond’s eye meets yours. Your look turns knowing. “It’s no use. He was born first.”

“The world is cruel. Princess Rhaenyra, too, was born first.” You say, boldly. What is it, to usurp a usurper?

Aemond smiles. Slow and cruel.

“He should not have touched you.”

His hand goes to rub at your shoulder. There is a mark there. His teeth, bruising and awful blue. What had possessed him to do such a thing, you did not know. Otherwise, your lovemaking has been soft and tender. Not at all what you had expected.

“With a brother like that, you have to learn to share.” You whisper, once again treason.

His grip on you tightens.

“The only man I intend to share you with is the one who will be my heir.”

It is only years later that you come to know the truth. Both of you are old and scarred by the many atrocities you have committed. The first, of course, the hand you had in the murder of the King.

The chronicles will tell, years after, that it had been a confusing incident. Someone had poisoned Aegon. Not you or Aemond, of course. A servant on Prince Daemon’s payroll, who had been tipped about what wine the King would drink. With him, goes each one of his sycophants. It starts a war. Aemond and you stand, silent watchers of it all, as both sides tear each other apart, conveniently sent to a diplomatic mission with Dorne that bears no fruits.

Is it more of a crime to be the hand that wields the sword, or the man who in the face of an atrocity just watches? His nephews die. All and each one of them, including Aegon’s children. Until both of you can march into King’s Landing, Baratheon forces at your back, and take the Iron Throne.

“Do you remember our wedding night?” Aemond asks, as you watch your grandchildren play on the foot of the Iron Throne. You sit on his lap, cradled comfortably. It has been worth it, you think. It has all been worth it.

“Of course I do.” You smile, so in love with him it hurts. Your sword and shield. Your King. The one that you chose to place on the throne.

“There was a mark on your shoulder.” Aemond rubs the spot where a scar has formed after all the times he had bitten you when you made love. “His fingers were all over it, and I thought, if I lack an eye, he will have to lack a hand.”

The next king wears an antler crown. History books will not remember you or know what you did. But both Aemond and you do, and as you share a secret, vicious smile, you know it. The most dangerous thing to walk the Red Keep was you all along.