#oathbreaker imagines

[discordsmuse]

any thoughts on Oathbreaker Knight with a fem!tav, seeking true redemption and "learning" with her new, weathered mentor? 🫣

Don't kill me anon, but believe it or not I literally didn't know this man existed until like 2 weeks ago. I played a Warlock, Monk and Barbarian and just missed him completely.

BUT!!! As soon as I realized there was a giant masked man with a Scottish accent and paternal energy, he had me by the throat. I want him to do terrible things to me.

On that note:

"Learning" from the Oathbreaker Knight ;)

18+ under the cut

- The armor is like a shield from not only the physical, but emotional aspects of mortal life. Tav comes to understand he doesn't feel like she and her other companions do. Still, he hangs around and offers sage advice that she funds annoyingly paternal at first.

- Tav trains with him, as she must if she wants any hope of settling into this new life. (Oathbreaker or pledged anew) Her guide remains dutifully at her side, assisting when necessary to keep her on the path.

- The voice is too attractive, she decided early on. Astarion teases her for how quickly the brogue of his accent makes her flush, but Tav is adamant it's only the heat of the summer.

- It's a sparring session where she ends up on her back, his sword pinning her down by the fabric of her tunic. One knee rests against the ground, close enough to press up to her side. Tav knows her breathing comes too quickly, even after a workout such as this. An awkward moment of silence passes before he's helping her up and continuing the lesson.

- After that, their sparring becomes more physical. Tav finds herself pressed to a tree by a weathered gauntlet against her throat or a knee between her legs. The latter made her squeak, a sound impossible to ignore in the silence of the night.

- Tav swears he starts to do it on purpose, to mess with her. Every moment of proximity, her Knight brushes against her skin. Arm to arm, hips bumping as he passes her, things too common now to be coincidence. There is an ache in him to touch her, and she can see it.

- The Oathbreaker resists his desire for her, but he can only provide so many excuses. Too old, ancient even. He is not man, more a spirit than anything she can ever hold. Tav remains determined nonetheless.

- Self control wanes, in part at her insistence. She manages to talk her way into his lap at one point, unsure what to do after having gotten this far. The unexpected allowance of their closeness is almost startling. That is, until his hands find her hips. He rocks her there, her comfortable camp pants catching on the metal as her body grinds against his. He has no body with which to satisfy her, but gives her all that remains. All that he can.

- After weeks of dancing around this tension between them, it culminates in the woods beyond the camp. Pinned to a tree, Tav grinds her body down on the tasset of his armor. Friction on her clit makes her gasp and whine, while the hand he has at her throat brings her heart to hammer in her ears. It is desperate, dirty, and unabashed as he watches her come undone.

- This man, this old God of sorts, does not keep his guidance to the battlefield. On the nights that Tav can spare her time for him, he will sometimes find her in her tent. There, he watches as she touches herself. His clawed armor traces over her thighs, reminding her how powerful and beautiful she is in this moment.

"Radiant, even in your undoing." His voice is thick with brogue, heady with the desire to please her rather than resign himself to guiding her hand. "How I wish to be the one between your thighs. Would that I could show you how adept my hand can be."

- It's words like that, dripping with admiration, that brings her to finish. Tav whimpers his title, allowing herself to be cleaned and soothed by hands that she knows means safety. Sometimes he will remain beside her as she sleeps, content to admire while she rests.

- It is a strange relationship, stranger still when he seems more idea than man. Yet, Tav thinks she may love him all the same.

[h20milk]

the pained paladin and the pale elf.

[1800duckhotline]

also wtf why does none of the companions react to you being a literal oathbreaker. like even just not giving a shit about it vocally would be fun. is nobody asking anything about the literal undead animated armor hanging around camp rn? no? you guys dont mind? okay.

[outeremissary]

break and secret for Balthazar and Kasander?👀

Thanks for the question, and sorry for the delay!! These are things I can go on for ages about for most characters, haha. Personal limits and private experiences are essential in some way to me when thinking through characters. Even though I tried to keep this under control it still got really long... it's under a cut for that and the umm. Content warnings.

CW: mentions of disordered eating, self harm, suicidal ideation, and suicide

[prompt list]

break: What would cause your OC to break down completely? What do they look like when that happens? Has anyone ever seen them at their lowest?

Balthazar

For Balthazar, total breakdown is the result of being completely, inescapably trapped, especially when it shows a harsh limit on what he's able to do or be. As it is, he already sees his bounds in everything. In his mind he's always struggling through them to live the life he wants rather than what he feels the world is fencing him in to. He knows that he's weak and there's a limit to what he can control. He also knows that he's choosing something with his life that destroys his value in the eyes of others. Still, he needs to believe that he can play past the point where he should have to quit, that his cruel and self-isolating exercises in agency will give him control even if there's no other reward.

At his lowest, Balthazar shuts down near completely. He's been shown that there's nothing that can be gained by fighting; thus, the fight leaves him. He's lethargic, unresponsive, and pliant. To point to a specific incident: when his wings developed and shackled him to the inescapable image of his heritage he withdrew into himself for weeks, avoiding being in the public eye and doing nothing more than the minimum to maintain the illusion of control over his domain- and struggling to do even that. But the withdrawal felt like all he could do to assert control over his body and to shield himself from seeing the extent to which the carefully maintained narrative of himself had escaped him. It was a self-pitying, self-punishing period of neglect. He did very little beyond function. Near the beginning he stopped looking after himself more or less completely. He also stopped eating, something common to his deepest lows but made more intense by the awareness of how the wings merely existing had changed his appetite, the way they ate up energy. He interacted with them only to try to find ways to crush them down to be less visible, or to idly pick at neglected feathers. More than anything, he avoided the people who knew and cared for him. It seemed like the ugliest indignity to be seen in that state. The thought of being pitied made him nauseous.

Still, he's never seemed to have the dignity of suffering alone during any breakdown he's had in his life. No matter how he tries to isolate himself his worst moments always seem to be seen, and sometimes they've been taken advantage of as well. There's a nasty spiral to being shown how much further he can fall when he already feels helpless. He was lucky in this one though: for the most part, it was only the concerned and supportive interacting with him (except Lander, as typical for the rat). And Jaethal, who was instrumental in pressing him back into his daily tasks, wasn't one for pity- that abrasive appeal to his pride did a lot to pull him out of the state. Although she did enlist some help in following through on the more menial or overly sensitive tasks: for a time afterwards, Tristian was in charge of making sure he was eating.

Kasander

So: Kasander is an Oath of the Ancients paladin, the oath most focused on love of life and defense of its sanctity. Light, joy, life. Everything that Bhaal exists to destroy, and that Bhaal made them to snuff out. And you have to understand that Kas takes 1) takes this ungodly seriously and 2) has an extremely radical interpretation of what their oath means. Kasander is a reckless savior. Their mercy can easily be as destructive as their violence. Without very immediate threat they hate to destroy even for a greater good, not while there's still some foolish hope that somehow, the situation will turn around. Kasander has lost their oath three times over the course of BG3 and every time it has been because they've strained the concept of mercy to the breaking point: refused to kill what was lethal, refused to destroy what was tormented. And they're not exactly doing a lot of follow-through here. They hate to control others as much as they hate to condemn them. Their mercy is unconditional. They'll turn around and wait until you're gone- do whatever you want after that. To them, this is what it means to shelter life and see value in it. To just keep offering and offering. To hope against hope and against reason. It isn't as if they're naive, not really. But they're stubborn anyway. And on top of that, they don't want to pass judgment that they know would condemn them. Whatever chance they've been given they have no right to withhold.

To me, Kasander is kind of incorruptible, but that's what can destroy them: they're holding themself and the world to a standard that just isn't possible. They believe too fervently, too uncompromisingly. They're trying to be too good for good, too kind to be kind. And when the world pushes back and tells them no, that's not an answer they can accept. It's not about realism. It's about rejection. Breaking their oath over attempted mercy is being told that their best intentions and all their attempts to overcome everything the world has tried to make them still aren't enough. It makes them feel fundamentally broken. Too dirty to be saved. Far too dirty to save others.

Their lowest points are born out of that conflict between their radical idealism and their oath (or reality at large) more than the direct influence of the Urge (or actions of their siblings). In the game itself, their lowest point was probably the first time they lost their oath. In the same short period they'd endured Alfira's death, had accidentally killed innocents for Ethel, had been called a monster by people they wanted to save and accidentally killed some of the victims they tried to rescue, and when they finally thought they could do one good thing for Mayrina by putting control over her future in her hands and letting her choose what to do about her husband, that was the thing that finally shattered their oath. How much crueler could anything get? Even their attempts at atonement were too monstrous to be accepted. And there's no such thing as a private low- not with Bhaal watching, waiting for them to break completely.

In their total breakdown, they backslide more or less completely into despair. They succumb to self-destructive behavior without the hope of repairing a situation, and they're often driven by the influence, passive or active, of parts of their internal system which are already inclined to shame and self-punishment. Bride in particular holds sway in these moments: though Bride doesn't mean it with any ill will, they see suffering in everything, and they want to find accountability through self-harm and release through death. For Bride, hope is unreliable, and the hard reality is that only extreme solutions can work. It was somewhere in the halfway point between Kasander drowning in their own misery and Bride's desires to save them all from pain that they committed suicide by goading Astarion into killing them while feeding. Their death didn't stick- Shadowheart "rescued" them immediately after finding out, and they wallowed in the guilt of knowing that Astarion almost paid the price for their choices.

Though not characteristic of that particular incident, it's also not uncommon for them to withdraw very quickly and instinctually inside themself, causing someone else to switch to front. In response to distress this is usually Bride, who resolves the situation through self-punishment, or Asperia, who resolves it by lashing out. The things that cause Kasander pain don't often get to Asperia. Asperia is good at going beyond Kasander's limits. Whatever the results, withdrawing gives Kas time to calm down and return to something different.

secret: What's one secret your OC never wants anyone to know about them?

Balthazar

There are a lot of things Balthazar hates to have people know about him, but some of his worst moments and deepest weaknesses have been ripped from him against his will and laid bare to the world. It gives him a strange relationship with personal secrets- most of what he doesn't want known is already out there somewhere. He's used to living in a constant state of damage control. Leaving Absalom gave him a blank slate though, and in many ways he doesn't want others to know anything at all about who he was or what his life was like before he crossed the Inner Sea and went north. As much as it makes him feel cut off from a past he mourns, he feels it's best to hide as much of it as possible through avoidance, vague answers, and lies.

In terms of more specific things though... one thing that he managed to keep from spreading too outside his immediate home neighborhood was information about his mother and about his father's relationship with her. Even before his aasimar heritage had manifested, he knew what it was like to have people look right through him, searching for someone else. He never knew much about her himself because of the way she disappeared, but speculation about her hung over his early childhood and haunted his relationship with his father. He never discusses her willingly. When people ask about his mother he tends to say that she died in childbirth, elaborating occasionally some sickly sweet additional details. His father's fiance, you see. She was young and frail, but they were in love, you understand. A beloved presence and a dearly missed one. All lies, but what a wonder a banal family sob story does for shutting down questions. Anything to stop people seizing on the knowledge she could be alive out there somewhere and thinking she ought to be found. There's no one he has less desire to know more about.

But if there was one thing he wishes he could turn into a secret that he'll never be able to, it would be his aasimar heritage.

Kasander

Despite the fact that Kasander is a painfully honest person and a chronic oversharer, there are still many things they don't want anyone to ever know about them, or to not know the extent of. It's the burden of being a Bhaalspawn: the visions, the acts, the private battles, the lapses... And more than anything, I think that Kasander doesn't ever want anyone to know how much they have suffered over the course of their life. Even Kas can't truly grasp it- like Asperia, they had very few memories before around age 9 even prior to the Tadpole Incident. And after that point there were still always long periods of patchiness. Sometimes scraps from those periods drift through when they trance, and there are dark memories they understand are bound up in the others and can't be accessed by them.

What they remember they still don't want to share. They hate for their pain, past or present, to be a burden on others and find the reactions other people have to it distressing. They know that they've experienced terrible things and that few people can understand that, and they don't want to be hurt again by others denying their experiences, downplaying them, or misinterpreting them. With most of the party members distress and pushback seem to be the norm- it's made them reluctant to confide in anyone outside themself. It also feels like they've failed other people when just talking about their past with others seems to hurt them. Jaheira is the only consistently safe person, and they're thankful beyond words for her, especially after many of their memories were restored. It's hard to imagine continuing to just push through without processing, but they couldn't process all of that alone.

There's another element to past hurt as well though: not all of it belongs to them, and that vulnerable part of the other alters is too sacred to violate by sharing even through implication. Concealing their past- their shared past- is an act of protection so natural they don't even think about it.

[smolmilkling]

Kirai learns the hard way that undeath goes against the """natural order"""

bonus deepfried version

[little-tyrant-gortash]

[eastgaysian]

it would've been fun to break dak-wai's oath at least once unfortunately oath of vengeance is kind of hard to break and none of the options would be in-character except apparently you can break your oath telling mol you like her ambition to become leader of the thieves guild...? 😭 which doesn't feel right and pivotal enough. so

[clingyduoapologist]

okok ctommy paladin but may i raise post-revival tommy as an oathbreaker paladin multiclassing into a warlock. as like a sad little treat. or just oathbreaker paladin. i think it would be neat

Dude oathbreaker paladin Tommy is doing things to my brain

[grey-wardens]

i feel like i'm one of the few people that actually likes ranger wyll the best but bard wyll works well too. however, i'm generally not as into paladin wyll if played straight (though i do like the idea of him swearing his oath on protecting baldur's gate).

i think it's because during my second playthrough i respecced him into an oath of devotion paladin but then his oath broke while i was trying to free the prisoners from moonrise (i think because i attacked the guards when they weren't hostile first lmao)... oathbreaker wyll IS actually more compelling to me, because it's very easy to see him breaking his oath to save/protect innocents over upholding his oath to the letter

[dollfat]

ive accidentally broken my oath of the ancients twice now. once for raising the dead and once for torturing an innocent. ive reloaded the save after dark souls shows up and says he'll see me later. the fact he didnt show up after killing alfira is probably bc the producers figured it would be unfair to lock you into oathbreaker like that. but its also interesting to think alfira did actually attack you first and it was technically self defense.

[margridarnauds]

I am so sorry to Lae'zel for having her kill Voss, but Malla is unfortunately too drunk on the Spider Mommy Juice at that stage to tell her to reject Lich Mommy, hopefully she will have learned her lesson for Shart or I'll be fighting. So many zombies. (Though she already cleared through. Almost everyone at Moonrise. By picking them off strategically. So if she does, she at least won't have much of a fight.)

[oxbellows]

Welcome Home! Nothing Weird Happened.

Written based on @emilybeemartin's spectacular Boromir Lives AU comics, with permission. I might write more, who knows.

My whole thought process here is this: if Boromir lives and makes it back to Minas Tirith, he is about to receive an absolutely ludicrous quantity of bad news. And I for one think it would be both plausible and hilarious for Pippin to be the one who ends up delivering that news. So here we are!

Trigger warnings for that whole pyre situation from Return of the King.

 It was fitting, to Boromir’s mind, that the battle for Minas Tirith should be decided by dead men. So many had died for the city of kings already, their blood seeping into her soil like rain. Why, then, should her fate rest solely in the hands of the living? An unnatural justice rang out in the clang of steel against phantom blades, heralding the return of a hope long since given up for lost. 

“None but the king of Gondor may command me,” the wraith hissed.

“You?” Boromir had roared. “You, Oathbreaker? I am the heir to the Stewards of Gondor. Generations of my kin have died for an empty throne. None but the king of Gondor may command ME. Here stands the king of Gondor before us, and you will suffer him as I have!”

And suffer him they did. Sickly green washed over the last armored oliphaunt as the dead claimed more souls for their own. Boromir pulled his eyes away from the spectacle and spun his sword in his hand, scanning the area around him for the next foe. He found none. Only the backs of retreating orcs, and weary Men attending to their fallen brothers. That and, out of the corner of his eye, the strangest possible trio of a Man, a Dwarf, and an Elf. Finding no enemy to engage, Boromir instead turned his step toward the strange trio to embrace his friends in the wake of victory. 

Aragorn, king of Gondor, did not appear especially regal at the moment. He was covered in grime and gore, surrounded by the corpses of orcs left to rot in the open field. Gimli’s sturdy metal armor was slick with blood, and it dripped steadily off the edge of the axe that he had slung over one shoulder. Legolas, of course, was only as disheveled as he might have been after a short run, clean of the muck that covered the rest of them. His hair still fell properly at his shoulder, what witchcraft did the Elf use to maintain it? 

Boromir could only imagine what he himself must look like. He knew that he was damp and smelled like death, which did not bode well for a lordly appearance. Nonetheless, even in all his heavy armor Boromir felt lighter than he had since childhood. The battle was over, fought now only by those straggling beasts that had not managed to escape the field on foot. Boromir was still, impossibly, alive, and so were his companions. So was his king. 

The enemy may yet prevail, but Gondor would not fall before the White Tree bloomed again. It was more than his grandfathers had ever dared to hope. 

“Is that blood in your hair or just its natural grease?” Boromir asked his king, sliding his sword back into its scabbard and stepping over the body of a fallen orc to approach him.

Aragorn laughed, raising one dirty hand to skim his fingertips over the top of his head. “I cannot say, Captain. I only know that in either case, I would wash it before I present myself to your lord father.”

Boromir clicked his tongue dismissively. “My lord father’s not the one we have to worry about. If my brother hears that I’ve brought Isildur’s heir home in such a state, he’ll throttle me.”

He almost continued speaking. He almost added, if he’s alive. Aragorn heard the unspoken caveat all the same. His dark eyes had a softness in them when he spoke.

“The battle is over, Captain of the White Tower,” Aragorn said. “We must turn our efforts now to the dead and wounded. May we not find you kin among them.”

If the taste of ash settled on the back of Boromir’s tongue, it could be attributed to the smell of Mordor’s filthy army laying dead at his feet, and not to the terrible image that flashed across his mind’s eye of Faramir’s bloodied and unblinking face.

“My father will be well,” Boromir asserted, determined not to speculate on his brother’s wellbeing. “He is past his time as a warrior. He will have commanded our troops from a place of safety within the walls.”

Aragorn inclined his head in assent. His hair really was a sight- black blood had matted chunks of it together, and where they stood now in the open field, with the sun just beginning to peek through the enemy’s unnatural bank of shadow, Boromir could see that his clothes were in much the same state. Perhaps this was why Aragorn so persistently favored black for his travel clothes. Were he wearing any other color, it would be obvious that he was as drenched in the blood of orcs as if he had bathed in it. 

A warrior of staggering skill was this king of Men, but he preferred not to proclaim his deadliness to the world. He tucked it away into shadow until such skill was needed. Perhaps one day Boromir might look upon this man that he called brother and not be humbled by the mere sight of him. 

Perhaps. 

“I will search with a sharp eye, then, for Captain Faramir,” Aragorn promised. 

Boromir closed the distance between them to grip Aragorn’s shoulder in thanks. Aragorn returned the gesture with ferocity, digging his fingers into the mail covering Boromir’s upper arm. Gimli thumped Boromir’s back in a heavy handed gesture of approval, and Legolas bowed his head with a coy smile. A river of unspoken words passed between the four of them, about great and important things like love and fear at the end of the world, and then they released each other. Aragorn turned his stride towards the Citadel to lend his knowledge of elvish medicine to the House of Healing. Legolas and Gimli set out together to help carry the wounded into the city for aid. Boromir made for the rocky outcrop at the city’s outermost wall, the one that archers favored for its vantage point. There he was sure he would find rangers, and hopefully news of Faramir.

The walk carried him past countless dead orcs and uruk-hai, but also more dead men and horses than Boromir had ever seen on a single field. For every pair of comrades he saw embrace in giddy relief, another wail of grief reached his ears from somewhere else. His mail grew heavier with every step he took.

Boromir had scarcely made it halfway to the archer’s outpost before he was stopped by the sound of his own name.

“Captain Boromir!” a familiar voice shouted. “You live!”

Boromir stopped and whirled about. There, about ten yards from Boromir, close enough to the outermost wall to be half-concealed in its shadow, crouched a man in a forest-green cloak. His hands still hovered over a fallen Gondorian soldier, as if he had frozen partway through checking for signs of life. Before the man in green rose to stand, he brushed a hand over the fallen one’s face, coaxing his eyes shut before stepping away. Boromir felt a dull pang of grief in his already overburdened heart at the confirmation that yet another of his countrymen was dead. He had no time to acknowledge that pain, though, as the man in green righted himself fully. The green cloak, brown leather vambraces, and longbow on his back all sparked immediate recognition. 

Boromir knew this man, had met him before, but his weary mind failed to provide a name for him. It hardly mattered. The uniform he wore told Boromir everything he needed to know. Faramir had been clad exactly the same, the last time Boromir had seen him. This was one of the rangers of Ithilien, his brother’s own company. Hope swelled painfully in his chest. He hastened his step towards the ranger.

The ranger rushed to meet him and performed a quick, obligatory salute when they were close enough to speak comfortably. “My lord,” he greeted, breathless. “Your father thought you dead, but we in Captain Faramir’s company held out hope.” A wide grin split across his face. “You cannot imagine how sorely you’ve been missed!”

Seeing his smile finally dragged the ranger’s name to the front of Boromir’s memory. “Anborn,” he said warmly. “It’s good to see you alive and well. Tell me, what news do you have of my brother?”

 Anborn’s smile dropped, giving way to a look of naked concern as quickly as a candle being snuffed out. “I have no news, my lord, none that is not two days old at least.”

 "Then give me the old news,” Boromir pressed, trying not to snap. 

Anborn grimaced and nodded. “My lord,” he said, haltingly, “The last time I saw your brother, my Captain, was on the day he rode out to reclaim Osgiliath with a company of forty mounted soldiers.”

Boromir could only stare for a long moment, turning over Anborn’s words in his head to try and make them comprehensible. No clarity came to him. “My brother is- in Osgiliath?”

Another grimace. “If he is still there, he is dead.” Boromir’s lungs constricted and froze. Anborn continued, “Osgiliath was overrun more than a week ago. I’ve heard rumors that Faramir made it back to the Citadel, but I cannot say any more than that without inventing rumors myself.”

“The Citadel,” Boromir repeated. He forced breath into his uncooperative lungs. He would go to the Citadel, and he would find Faramir there with their father, incoherent with frustration after arguing strategy with Denethor. He turned on his heel and started walking. Anborn said something as Boromir strode away, but he didn’t hear it properly over the ringing in his ears. 

What he had heard of Anborn’s words clamored in his mind- it sounded as if Faramir had taken a company of only forty men to reclaim an overrun city. That would be absurd, though. Faramir may be prone to bouts of melancholy and brooding, but he wasn’t suicidal. And even if he did, for some reason, decide to seek his own death, he would never bring any number of Gondor’s defenders with him to do it.

 Your father thought you dead.

 Boromir broke into a run.

Faramir didn’t hold sway over all their troops’ movements. Faramir wasn’t the Steward. 

 He was moving too slowly. Stumbling to a halt, Boromir grasped at the leather straps holding his pauldrons in place and did his best to unfasten them with numb fingers. Denethor had not been the same in recent years. The shadow in the east had darkened his thoughts, day by day, and set him talking as if the end were already here. His gray eyes had glinted in a way that Boromir scarcely recognized when he’d spoken of the One Ring. He’d never favored Faramir, never encouraged him the way he deserved, but the cruelty that had colored Denethor’s every interaction with his secondborn in the year or two before Boromir left shocked him. 

Boromir’s pauldrons landed on the ground in a heap, and now he doubled over to escape the shirt of mail. It was a difficult task without taking off his sword belt, but he managed. He needed to be faster, but he could not bear to go unarmed. The chain links poured gracelessly down over his head, yanking his hair as they went, and then he was free. Boromir took off running again, now unencumbered. 

 Faramir would never plan a suicide mission. 

 Would he accept one, though, if he was ordered?

Boromir’s feet touched white marble bricks for the first time in months that had felt like decades. He did not pause. Shouts followed him as he went, calling his name or exclaiming surprise. Arches and edifices flew by overhead. Rubble littered the street. He caught glances of bodies crushed under great stones. 

Boromir made it to the stairs. His weary legs burned and protested, but he dared not slow his descent. He needed to know where Faramir was, now. He needed to know what had happened in Osgiliath, before any more ideas had the chance to take root in his head. If he finished the line of thinking that Anborn’s news had set off-

 Boromir might kill his father with his bare hands.

So, he would not stop, and he would not think, until he found answers.

 He reached the top of the stairs. 

 A small group of guards, maybe five or six, clustered together at the Citadel gate, all spoke over each other in urgent tones. Boromir could not hear most of their words over his own ragged breath, but he caught a few. He heard “Mithrandir” and “Witch King” and “wood”, and then, “Denethor.” 

“Where?” Boromir barked. Every one of the men before him startled and turned to him with unabashed fear written across their faces.

If Boromir had looked a mess back on the fields, by now he must appear absolutely deranged. Half his armor gone, hair wild, white shirt drenched with sweat and blood- he could hardly blame the unsuspecting guards for the shock and confusion they displayed so brazenly at his question. Nor could he blame himself for the urge to grab the nearest one and shake him until he spoke sense.

Fortunately for all present, the guard furthest to the left, a man of slight and youthful stature underneath his plate armor, spoke up.

“The House of Stewards,” he said, voice trembling. He pointed in the right direction. “In the tombs. Both of them, lord and son, with orders from the Steward to be left undisturbed.”

 Boromir ran like he had never done in his life. 

 For what possible reason would his father and brother be in the tombs in the midst of battle?

 He threw himself against the door to the tombs of his forefathers. They gave way with no resistance, and as he stumbled through the opening, he noted that the floor was dusted with splintered wood. This door had already been broken through. There he stopped short.

He could not, for the life of him, make sense of the scene before him.

 In the center of the foyer, directly on top of Húrin’s memorial etching, were the remains of- a bonfire? Heaps of ash and charred wood covered the usually immaculate white marble floor, built up into a high, still-smoldering mound in the chamber’s center. The air reeked of smoke. Neither Denethor nor Faramir were in sight, nor was anyone else. The tombs appeared deserted.

  “Faramir?” Boromir called warily. 

A clang of metal and the scuffle of unshod feet on stone answered his call, and then-

“Boromir!”

A small form collided hard with his midsection, forcing him to take a staggering step back. Small arms wrapped around him like a vice, a familiar vice, and Boromir abruptly realized that he was in the embrace of a hobbit.

“Pippin?” he demanded, aghast.

The young hobbit turned his face up to meet his gaze and a fresh wave of panic seized him. Pippin’s face was coated in ash and streaked with tears.

“Boromir!” Pippin cried again. “You have to help, Gandalf said that healers were coming but nobody came, there was screaming in the halls so I dragged him as far as I could but he’s heavy and I don’t know where Gandalf went and just- just- come here!” 

The hobbit released his iron grip around Boromir’s waist in favor of clutching one of his wrists and started hauling him off to one side of the room, into a corridor of mausoleums. There, poking out of the nearest alcove, Boromir spied the lower half of a single black boot. 

Pippin pulled him onward when his own pace faltered. With each step he could see more of the body that Pippin had apparently tried to drag to safety. A small, or rather, hobbit-sizedsword lay carelessly discarded on the floor beneath the alcove’s arching entrance where Pippin had dropped it. That would explain the clanging sound Boromir had heard just before being tackled, then. Which would mean that when he called out, Pippin had been guarding this archway with sword in hand. 

Pippin’s relentless tugging finally forced Boromir to where he could see the stricken man on the floor.

It was Faramir.

Of course it was Faramir. 

A rough, strangled sound echoed through the quiet tombs, and Boromir only realized a moment later that it had come from his own throat. Pippin darted from his side to kneel at his brother’s head, petting his hair and murmuring a soothing word. Faramir did not react in the slightest. He wasn’t dead; Boromir had seen enough dead men in his life to know with unfailing precision the difference between a dead body and a dying one.

No, his brother was not dead. He was only dying. 

Boromir dropped to his knees. 

In all this time that he had dreaded coming home and hearing that Faramir had fallen in battle, it had never occurred to Boromir that he might watch him die.

“He needs medicine,” Pippin pleaded, his little hand nestled in Faramir’s hair. Boromir now saw that the hobbit was dressed in the garb of the guards of Citadel, mail under a velvet tunic embroidered with the white tree. What had happened in his city? When had this barely-trained halfling become his brother’s last line of defense?

“Go,” Boromir rasped. He touched the hilt of his sword. “I will protect him now. Go to the House of Healing, down one level. Aragorn is there. He will listen to you.”

Without another word, Pippin took off at a sprint. Boromir and Faramir were left alone, together for the first time since Boromir had left for Rivendell. 

Boromir wanted to scream.

Instead, he maneuvered himself carefully to sit at his brother’s side. How Pippin had managed to stash Faramir away in this little nook, Boromir had no idea. He could only just find room for himself against the wall without jostling the motionless body beside him. He reached a tentative hand out to lay it on Faramir’s forehead. He paused before he touched skin, momentarily stunned by the radiating heat. When his fingers settled on his brother’s brow, it was like touching metal that had been left in the sun too long. Faramir burned. Boromir gently smoothed his hand over damp hair.

It wasn’t just Faramir’s hair that was damp, actually. It was everything on him. His short beard, the finely embroidered collar of his tunic, the silk of his sleeves. If his fever was so high, it was not so surprising to find him coated in sweat. The choice of clothes, though, was undeniably strange. There was no blood staining the fabric. Had he not been hurt in battle, then? Had he simply been taken by a violent illness? Was there a plague in the city? That might explain the lack of gore but not the presence of finery. Boromir had only ever seen Faramir wear this tunic for ceremonies. He wouldn’t have put it on before battle, and he would certainly have taken it off if he were falling ill. 

No, the only reasonable conclusion was that Faramir had not been the one to dress himself. A terrible, unspeakable suspicion wormed its way into his heart. 

Boromir almost regretted sending Pippin away without first asking him what had happened to create this bizarre tableau. Almost. His answers could wait until Faramir had been brought safely into the care of physicians. He lifted his hand to stroke Faramir’s hair again, but the slickness that clung to his palm bade him pause.

That wasn’t sweat in his brother’s hair, it was something else, something more viscous. Puzzled beyond words, Boromir brought his hand close to his face to inspect it. 

His palm was smeared with oil.

All at once, a dozen disparate fragments of information arranged themselves into nightmarish clarity.

Someone had dressed Faramir for a funeral. Someone had brought him into the place where the bones of their ancestors rested and covered him in oil. Someone had lit a bonfire in the center of the tombs. 

Not a bonfire. A pyre.

Someone had tried to burn his little brother alive.

 “No,” Boromir whispered, as if he could prevent his next thought from taking shape.

Only one person in Gondor could do any of this without being stopped.

In the tombs, the guard at the gate had said. Both of them, lord and son, with orders from the Steward to be left undisturbed.

Boromir launched himself upright, out of the cramped alcove, and was sick all over the marble floor.

For the second time in a day, Pippin found himself running for someone else’s life. At least he didn’t have so far to go this time. He could not remember ever being so tired. It was also fortunate that he knew already where to find the House of Healing. Gandalf had insisted he memorize the route there as soon as he’d made his oath to Denethor, which was a bit insulting, to be honest, but turned out very useful in the end.

 The first time he’d entered the House, just a few days ago, he’d thought it was very full. Most of the rows of clean, simple cots had been occupied by rangers returning from outside the city. As he dashed through the sturdy oaken door now, though, he entered a different world entirely.

The cacophony of sound, smell and movement that surged up to meet him stopped Pippin in his tracks. The House of Healing was so crowded he could not see the far wall. He could barely see the nearest row of cots. Tall ladies rushed about in every direction, shouting orders to one another above a nauseating din of groans and cries. Pippin had been standing guard in a cloud of smoke for hours, and yet the onslaught of ugly and unfamiliar smells that accosted him here made him wish for the scent of smoke again.

His foray into the front lines of a battle had been terrifying. This place might be worse.

Boromir had said that Aragorn was here, though, and Pippin would walk headfirst into an army of orcs right now if it meant that Aragorn would help him. He never wanted to be in charge of anything, ever again, especially not trying to keep great lords and heroes alive. Aragorn was good at that sort of thing, he could take over now. Pippin took a deep breath and began forging a path through the chaos, calling Aragorn’s name as he went.

As he weaved his way through cots, ducking underneath outstretched arms and around long legs, Pippin heard questions following him that he had no desire to answer.

“How old is that boy? Who let a child in the guard?”

"Is that one of those halflings? The wizard’s pet or something?”

“Are you lost, little one?”

Some of these Men had the most terrible manners, clearly. Most of them were bleeding very badly, though, so Pippin could forgive them for their rudeness. He ignored them all and kept moving.

“Aragorn!” he shouted again.

A women that had been rushing by him paused for an instant to glare down at him. “Hush, you,” she scolded, in a voice that spoke of unquestionable authority. She wore a sort of veil with a nice brooch on it, so Pippin supposed she might be in charge here. “Lord Aragorn’s doing very important things right now and I’ll not have you disturbing him.”

Pippin’s heart jumped. “Where is he?” he asked.

The woman tsked and shook her head, making to continue along her original path. She held a bowl in her arms that Pippin was quite sure he did not want to see the inside of. Whatever it was sloshed unpleasantly when Pippin lurched after the women and grabbed a handful of her skirt to prevent her from leaving.

“The Steward has ordered me to fetch Aragorn! Show me where he is!” Pippin declared. He didn’t think it was a lie. Denethor was dead, so that made Boromir the Steward in his place, probably.

The woman gasped in surprise. “Lord Denethor lives?” she asked. “Wondrous news, we thought lord and son dead already.”

 Pippin avoided the question about Denethor by standing up as straight as he could. “Lord Faramir needs medicine,” he said imperiously. “He needs Aragorn’s skill. Take me to Aragorn.”

With a quick hand gesture to follow and not another word, the woman took off walking at a brisk stride deeper into the crowded hall. Pippin had to run to keep up with her. After what seemed like a dozen maneuvers around clumps of people and cots, a figure clad all in black finally came into view.

“Strider!” Pippin cried with relief. 

Aragon knelt at a young man’s bedside with a wet rag and bowl of water in his hands. He turned his face at once toward the sound of Pippin’s voice, a genuine smile gracing his lips as he did. Some of the panic that had been driving Pippin these last several hours faded away at the sight. If Aragorn was here, then surely things would get better now.

His relief faltered a bit when Pippin noticed that Aragorn was simply ­covered in blood- both red and black, and sweat, and grime that Pippin could not begin to identity. The Men gathered round him didn’t seem to mind Aragorn’s state, but then, most of them were splattered with blood as well, probably their own. Even Aragorn could not dispel the somber truth hanging in the air, that unimaginably many people had died today.

Faramir would join the dead soon if Pippin didn’t get a move on, so he marched past all those tall, bloodied Men to stand right at Aragorn’s side.

“Faramir’s dying,” he hissed, hoping he was quiet enough for none but Aragorn to hear. He didn’t especially want to deliver more bad news to the people in this room. “Boromir is with him, but he needs medicine, now.”

If Aragorn found this news distressing, he did not show it. He just nodded thoughtfully, and asked, “Can he walk?”

Pippin shook his head. Aragorn hummed an acknowledgment and rose to his feet. He handed the bowl and rag he’d been holding to another woman that Pippin hadn’t noticed before, murmuring something that sounded like instructions. He then spoke to the lady that had led Pippin, the one who seemed to be in charge.

“Ioreth,” he addressed her. “We have need of a stretcher.”

“It will be done,” she said, and turned on her heel to vanish back into the crowded hall.

Aragorn wiped his hands on his trousers to dry them. Pippin suspected he made them dirtier in the process. “Pippin,” Aragorn said. “Will you please lead me to Boromir and Faramir?”

“Yes, this way,” Pippin answered quickly. He was eager to be out of this terrifying place. He found it easier than before to navigate through the throng. He realized after a few moments of uninhibited movement that people were stepping aside to make way as soon as they saw Aragorn following him.

Had Aragorn already gotten around to being crowned while Pippin was busy? These people were certainly treating him like a king.

“Did you already become the King?” Pippin asked without thinking.

Aragorn chuckled dryly. “No, and I don’t think the lady healers would much care if I had. They care only that I know how to draw out the poison that covers many orcish blades, and that I’ve shared what I know.”

“Oh,” said Pippin, feeling queasy.

Finally, the door came into sight, and with a quick burst of speed, Pippin flung himself back into fresh air. Mostly fresh, anyway, permitting for some lingering smoke. The smell of blood and death that lingered in his nostrils seemed even more vile when contrasted against another, cleaner scent, and it made him gag. Aragorn placed a sympathetic hand between his shoulders.

“The battle to save the wounded is the hardest and the bloodiest,” he said gently. “There’s no shame in being shocked by it.”

Pippin couldn’t quite speak yet, so he bobbed his head in a jerky, shaking nod. He allowed himself two deep breaths before turning his attention back to the task at hand. Right. Faramir. Shot full of arrows and nearly burned to death, currently stashed in a mausoleum, actively perishing of fever. He had to bring Aragorn there, and then maybe he could sit down for a moment. He set off again at a jog.

Aragorn, being unfairly long-legged, could follow him with a brisk walk. Pippin was growing weary of these big people, he really was.

Back over the same cold marble stone he went, retracing his steps to the tombs. Two men carrying a stretcher had started following them at some point- Pippin hadn’t noticed exactly where they came from, but the stretcher they carried was already stained with red, so he suspected that they had been going back and forth from the House of Healing for a while already. Aragorn let there be silence between them for several yards, but began asking questions as soon as they crossed under a crumbling archway.

“What happened to Faramir to leave him needing medicine?”

“He was shot at least twice, I’m not sure when. Sometime yesterday.”

"Where has he been?”

“Well, he got shot when he was fighting in Osgiliath, and then the horse dragged him back, and that probably made it worse, actually, but then Denethor put him away someplace for a day or so and then brought him into the tombs and tried to burn him alive.”

Aragorn froze for a moment. “What?”

“Denethor lost his mind just before the battle started, he tried to burn Faramir alive on a pyre. And himself too, I think. He thought the world was ending.”

“Where is Denethor now?”

“He jumped off the wall.”

Aragorn took up walking again, now at a faster stride. “Boromir is with his brother now?”

"Yes,” Pippin confirmed, doing his best to keep up with Aragorn’s pace.

“Does he know what happened?”

That was a good question, actually. Had Pippin explained the situation at all? He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember most of today, to be honest- it was all a blur of screams and fire.

He remembered the blinding panic he’d felt when heavy footsteps had entered the tombs. He remembered clutching his sword with sweaty hands and bracing himself to get torn to shreds by uruk-hai, and then abandoning his sword to hurl himself at Boromir once he’d heard the man’s voice. What had Boromir said, though? Anything? Had Pippin said anything?

He remembered Boromir dropping heavily onto his knees. The look on his face had been awful. He looked sad and scared and sick all at once. Pippin had never been sure what the word anguish meant, but he was sure now.

“I don’t think so,” Pippin finally answered.

 Aragorn muttered something to himself, a string of elvish words that Pippin had never heard before. It sounded like what Legolas said when he missed a shot, though, so Pippin could wager a guess at what it meant.

At last, they reached the door to the House of Stewards. Pippin darted through, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Aragorn was still following. Through the foyer, around the smoldering remains of the pyre, down the corridor on the right, and there they were. The lords of Gondor. Not quite as Pipping had left them.

Boromir had extracted Faramir from the alcove where Pippin had dragged him to lay his brother out in the open. The fine silk tunic Faramir had worn lay in oil-soaked shreds scattered about the floor, and the mail shirt he’d had on underneath was similarly cast aside, half-obscuring a puddle of vomit near the entry to the alcove. Pippin was sympathetic- being in this place made him want to retch, too.

Faramir lay on his side in his undershirt. The fabric had been white once, Pippin knew, but blood, oil and ash had colored it through. Boromir knelt at his back, holding him steady by the upper arm with one hand and gently tearing the cloth of the ruined shirt with the other. The cloth didn’t move the way it should when Boromir tugged it. It stuck stubbornly to Faramir’s scorched upper back and shoulder, like it had been glued there.

Pippin gasped in horror as the realization hit him. Boromir couldn’t get Faramir’s shirt off because it was stuck to his burnt skin, fused in place by the heat of the fire. Had his skin melted? Could skin melt? The thought alone sickened him.

Boromir must have heard Pippin gasp, because his head snapped up to fix the hobbit with a wild stare.

Pippin didn’t usually think of Boromir as frightening. Fearsome, of course, but not to his friends. Certainly never to Pippin.

He looked frightening now. His eyes were wide, and his pupils were tiny pinpoints. His lips were pulled back into an animalistic expression, somewhere between a grimace and a snarl, showing just a hint of teeth. His shoulders curled forward, hunching slightly over Faramir’s still form, and through his thin, damp shirt Pippin could see he was shaking with pent up energy.

When Pippin was younger, one of Farmer Maggot’s dogs had gone missing. They’d found the creature hiding under a shed, nursing a bleeding paw, growling and snapping at any hobbit that tried to approach. Boromir did not make a sound, but Pippin swore he could hear the same wounded dog’s growling all the same.

Pippin felt rather than heard Aragorn approaching from behind him, and it was a great relief when Boromir’s gaze flicked up off his face to fixate on Aragorn instead. With what seemed to be a tremendous effort, Boromir opened his mouth to speak.

“Where is Denethor?” he rasped, voice shaking.

Aragorn took a cautious step forward, moving in front of Pippin. He held his hands up, fingers splayed open, the way he did when trying to settle a spooked horse. “Boromir, my brother-” he began, voice soft and steady.

Boromir interrupted before he could take another step. “Tell me where my father is, Aragorn,” he croaked. “Tell me so I can find him and gut him.”

“He’s dead,” Pippin blurted. “He set himself on fire and then he went off the edge of the wall and died.”

Aragorn stiffened. Boromir’s jaw went slack. He heard gasps from the men carrying the stretcher behind him.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have spoken. Gandalf was always telling him something to that effect.

Boromir let out long, low groan and slumped in on himself, bowing his head so low his forehead grazed Faramir’s hair. He released the firm grip he’d been maintaining on his brother’s upper arm to grab fistfuls of his own hair instead.

Aragorn moved swiftly to kneel beside Boromir. He wrapped one arm around Boromir’s shoulders and pulled him into a lopsided embrace. Boromir went without protest, deflated and boneless against his king. Aragorn spoke to him, too softly for Pippin to hear, and coaxed him to shuffle backwards just a pace or two to create space at Faramir’s side. The two half-forgotten men with the stretcher between them seized their opportunity and swept in to gather Faramir up. Boromir twitched forward when they lifted his brother, but Aragorn held him back with a hand on his chest. With quick, synchronized steps, Faramir was taken out of the tombs.

Louder now, so Pippin could hear again, Aragorn spoke with real regret in his voice. “I must follow them. I promise I will give all the skill I have to make Lord Faramir well.”

“I’m coming,” Boromir stated.

Aragorn fixed him with a hard stare. “It will be ugly,” he warned. “I’ll have to cut the shirt off his back, and I expect much of his skin to come with it. If he wakes it will be to scream.”

“I know,” said Boromir.

“I would rather not find your blade shoved through my heart while I work.”

Boromir flushed. “I would not.”

Aragorn raised one eyebrow. “All the same, if you wish to follow, leave your sword at the door for my peace of mind.”

Boromir opened his mouth, but seemed to think better of it and simply bowed his head in assent. Aragorn hauled himself to his feet and offered Boromir a hand up, which Boromir accepted without hesitation.

“Can I help?” Pippin asked, surprising himself.

Aragorn eyed him up and down. One corner of his lips twitched upward. “Yes, Pippin, I think you can help us all very much by staying at Boromir’s side and keeping him calm. If you have any more news to deliver, however, perhaps you could share it beforewe enter the House of Healing?”

Pippin recognized the admonishment for what it was and ducked his head, chastened. On the other hand, now that he mentioned it-

“Gandalf’s staff is broken,” he announced.

Aragorn closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I see. Thank you, Pippin. Anything else?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Very well. If you think of something, take Boromir out into the hall and tell him.” Aragorn turned to Boromir and spoke sternly. “Boromir, if Pippin takes you out into the hall, I forbid you to pick up your sword until we have had a chance to speak.”

Boromir huffed out something very close to a laugh. “Wise council, my king.”

[skyeventide]

does the Oath of Feanor work as a magical compulsion, or does it have magical properties, and are its consequences real?

yes, because the magic of Arda is also based on words of power, and it would be dissatisfying and limiting to assume that somehow that power doesn't work in this specific instance. no, because even if Feanor is the one speaking, not even his power could bend the fate of elves to that extent. yes, because the fate of any one people can be bent, delayed, or weirdly modified until an oath is fulfilled; in LOTR, the ghosts of the path of the dead prove it. no, because Manwe and Varda would not feel bound to enforce an oath of death with them as witnesses, and it goes against the rules of oathing. yes, because the enforcer is Eru, they just stand as witnesses and do not have the power to release the swearers as Eru would. no, because we don't even know if Eru accepted that oath. yes, because if the oath was invalid from the start, it would be beyond callous of Manwe and Varda not to inform the swearers and allow the consequences of the oath to happen. no, because a magical compulsion would remove or to an extent at least lessen responsibility of actions taken in its pursuit. yes, because the author of the story acknowledges a certain "will" of the oath by making it wake or sleep with active verbs. no, because even swearing without additional magic on top can feel like a compulsion to do things or to keep going that otherwise would not exist or not be felt by a given swearer. yes, because no matter what the everlasting darkness is or does, it can be real independently from any other prior compulsion to act; in other words, there may not be a magical property to the oath, but its called consequences for the swearers are very real. no, because there's several slightly different versions of the oath across the texts, and it's impossible to do a literal, word for word reading of its lines if it's possible to recite it slightly differently at a given time. yes, because the only valid version is the original pronounced by Feanor in Tirion, you can't wiggle out of that one. no, because who's to say that was recorded correctly, it's far too poetic for a sudden decision. yes, because who's to say that Feanor couldn't whip out all that via improvisation, I bet he could. yes, because other characters beyond the sons of Feanor treat the oath as something absolutely serious and real, and that includes Finrod in speaking to Andreth, when he says that Eru's name is not called upon even in jest, as well as Melian, when pointing out the strong forces awakened by involving that power. no, because neither of them can talk to Eru anyway. yes, because it's narratively more satisfying to imagine characters morally struggle against something that is eventually unbreakable and unavoidable like in any good tragedy. no, because it's narratively more satisfying to imagine characters do it to themselves and compromise with who they are out of family loyalty. yes, because the curse of Mandos actively turns it against the swearers into a betraying force, a consequence that wouldn't otherwise be a given, that is, nothing says that everything they start well would have finished badly and that the oath would have led them to defeat, and if it weren't magical before Mandos' addition, it is now. no, because Amrod's death in a draft would prove it breakable through his (admittedly only guessed) desire to turn back. yes, because he still died in the process, aka the everlasting darkness claimed him for being an oathbreaker. no, because how is it possible that it's simultaneously unbreakable and broken. yes, because the fate of arda and that of elves is inscribed within the eternal paradox of everything being predicted and everything being free will, and that will never be solved, neither regarding the fate of the elves nor the oath of Feanor. no, because the oath is a narrative device. yes, because the oath is a narrative device. three hundred more lines.

hope this helps. hope it doesn't. your pick.

[kaermorhenatnight]

Why I believe Zevlor should become a companion in act 2 instead of Halsin:

1. Halsin is a druid and in act 3 we get Jaheira - that way in a good playthrough we get two druids which is kinda pointless in my opinion from the mechanical standpoint

2. Minthara is supposed to be an evil-playthrough companion and Halsin a good-playthrough one (I know that now you can have them both, but that was the original idea) - it would make sense to have a good version paladin and a bad version paladin

3. It would be especially interesting considering Zevlor is an oathbreaker and Minthara is not - I like the twist of the "good" option being the oathbreaker

4. Halsin's story ends in act 2. When you defeat the shadow-curse his arch is over, there isn't much more to him (he just has some thoughts about how the city is not balanced). There isn't much there to explore after he fixed his "mistakes from the past". He's just there and after some time of not much conversation he's just "yeah, you wanna smash?"

5. Zevlor still has a lot to work through after his people got captured and killed and he didn't do anything - there's A LOT of material for development

6. (very subjective) Zevlor's story is much more interesting. Halsin is exactly who he seems to be. Obsessed with nature and balance, the most stereotypical druid you could imagine. You know, the whole "just as nature intended" thing. Zevlor is an idealist who fought for people of Elturel only to be betrayed by them when they won - casting him and other tieflings out. THAT was when he broke his oath, when they were cast out. How exactly? We don't know. It is said that it wasn't even the oath that was broken but his faith itself - there is so much to explore there! But all we get is a short conversation telling him he cannot give up and he's like oh shit, you're right and then he appears for the final battle

7. I think him and Jaheira would really vibe together. The mom and dad of the group - the cynical Harper who has a complicated relationship with that institution and an idealistic oathbreaker paladin who just wanted to protect his people but failed

8. LARIAN PLEASE LET ME FUCK THAT SWEET OLD MAN

[damn-stark]

Chapter 24 Lambs to the slaughter

Chapter 24 of Moonlight

A/N- *TEHEHE*

Warning- Swearing, talks of pregnancy and SA, angst, fluff!!!, SPOILERS FOR FUTURE EVENTS OF HOTD, USING FIRE AND BLOOD, long chapter.

Pairing- Aemond Targaryen x Velaryon!fem-reader, Cregan Stark x Velaryon!fem-reader

Episode/Pages- 465-469 & just a part of 480

(If you want to be tagged let me know)

————

Aemond. What of Aemond? Aemond this. Aemond that. Aemond, Aemond, Aemond is all you hear, it’s all anyone talks to you about like if you’re his keeper, like if…

They think it’s easy growing to hate him like they despise him, but have they really asked if it’s easy for you to view him with anything but with the eyes of love? Have they considered the fact that you grew up together, that even despite your feuding families, he and you never treated each other with anything but kindness? Don't they remember that you have a son together and have two more children on the way?

Did they forget that you married each other months before your supposed date?

Just because you left his side weeks prior doesn’t mean that you still don’t harbor the same feelings of deep love, because you do. You still hold hope and great love for Aemond—it’s a sickening fact for them to comprehend maybe; he did kill Lucerys and your grandmother. Your mother also has Daemon by her side so she doesn’t yearn, Baela is heartbroken but she loved Jacaerys, someone on the same side of the war so she could never understand, and Rhaena hasn’t found anyone to love so dearly and deeply so she doesn’t understand the ripping pain one feels when they mention killing him as easy it is to breathe; and you hope she never gets to feel such torment.

Maybe if Cregan was by your side, forgetting the love you hold for Aemond would be easier, but he’s leagues away and will remain leagues away. Thus you’re stuck being tortured with each word uttered in the Small Council hall, feeling like a blade is sinking deeper into your flesh.

“Would you have me pardon the Kinslayer, the False King, and Daeron as well?” Your mother presses your grandfather, making you suck in your cheek and gnaw on the inside as you let the winter sun bask your face as it casts through the glass doors—“Would you have me send them to the faith like Helaena and Alicent? They who stole my throne and slew my sons?”

You can hear the anger in her voice, the utter disbelief brought by such a daring suggestion.

“Spare them and send them to the wall,” your grandfather dares to continue sharing despite the visceral anger in your mother's tone. “Let them take the black and live out their lives as men of the Night’s Watch, bound by sacred vows.”

Daemon scoffs and Baela retorts against your grandfather. “What are sacred vows worth when you have dragons there to accompany you and give you an escape from such a fate?”

That’s true. There’s no use sparing them and sending them to the wall if their dragons still live, and you can’t imagine either of the three men letting their dragons go.

“And what are vows to oathbreakers?” Your mother echoes. “Their vows did not trouble them when they took my throne.”

“Giving pardons to rebels and traitors will only sow the seeds for fresh rebellions,” Daemon interjects to agree with your mother, making you dig your nails in your palms as more and more come to an agreement over something that you already knew was going to happen. Yet it never felt as real as it does now as they finally agree on the fate of your husband.

“The war will only end when the heads of the traitors are mounted on spikes above the King’s Gate, and not before,” Daemon adds. “Aegon will be found in time hiding under some rock, and I alone will finally depart to go after Aemond.”

You squeeze your eyes shut as his threatening words steal your breath and finally shove the rest of that sharp blade into your chest.

“Baela and I could go after Daeron,” you suggest and spin around to face the table of people, catching your mother snapping her head toward you and looking at you with horror she can barely hide—“Daeron’s dragon is small, Astraea and Moondancer can easily bring him down together. Or I could go with Addam and Seasmoke, Astraea and Seasmoke are well acquainted, they work well together.”

Both Baela and Addam don’t speak to argue, they look at you with determination, but your mother shakes her head right away without as much as thinking about it. “No…no. You are with child,” she finds the best and most effective excuse. “And you are my heir. I cannot put you at risk.”

You blink in disbelief and then slowly walk towards the table to argue. “It’s because I’m heir that I should be out fighting. When I was with the Green Army, men were more inspired when I spent my time with them. Now imagine when the army of men sees me fighting with them. The crown has to be seen fighting with the army, and if not you then I should do it.”

Your mother challenges your narrowed gaze but before she can counter, your grandfather does. “The Queen and you are both right,” he says but neither of you or your mother let go of each other's gazes—“You should be seen fighting along with our men, but you are with child, and already far out. It’s dangerous. Perhaps once the babes are born you can go out on dragonback again.”

“Then what am I supposed to do until them?” You ask with a scoff.

“Learn by my side,” your mother snaps back, making you hold her gaze for a tense second before you realize that you won’t win against her, so you roll your eyes away and return to your seat around the table, causing Ser Cane to push the chair in for you the moment you sit.

The truth is you knew the answer before your mother could say it but you were hoping that you were wrong. But nope.

“Ser Hugh and Ser Ulf can take the war to Daeron,” Daemon offers a solution. “They will fly to Tumbleton to help defend the town as it stands between the Hightower army and the city, and that’s where they will at last destroy the dragon and the boy.”

You glance at Ser Ulf, and right away as if he can sense your gaze, Ser Ulf spares you a glance and sits up rigidly before averting his gaze and agreeing to Daemon’s plan.

“It will be an easy feat for Silverwing and I sense you lot say the dragon is only a babe.” He still manages to be stupid, making you roll your eyes.

“My wife resides at Tumbleton with her brother,” Ser Hugh speaks with more grace. “Vermithor and I will fight with our lives.”

Your mother nods gently in appreciation and comprehension before her attention returns to her husband as he interjects. “The Lannister’s and the Baratheon’s should be destroyed as well, so their lands may be given to men who have proved to be more loyal, such as Ser Hugh and Ser Ulf,” he says ever so calmly as if he didn’t just utter the worst thing he could possibly ever suggest. And you don’t stand alone in your horror, your grandfather quickly shares his disagreement with the outlandish idea.

“Half the Lords of Westeros will turn against us if we are so cruel as to destroy two ancient and noble houses.”

Ser Ulf’s eyes that were quick to bulge out at the idea of being a Lord, then slowly droop back to normal as he hears the quick protest. And you don’t make him any happier since you too speak up against the terrible idea.

“My grandfather is right, we will lose this war if we just give the noble houses away to people who were nothing but strangers mere months ago,” you don’t shy away from being so bold even if the men share a look.

“We,” you pause and sigh, choosing to sit back with your back straight and your nose slowly rising in the air. “We can offer them pardons and fair terms. Nothing more and nothing less, they still rebelled against the crown. They should be grateful that we are not asking for their heads.”

Your grandfather looks at you and offers you an agreeing nod and a proud smile before he turns to your mother and Daemon. “The Princess is right. Her suggestion is wise.”

Your mother and Daemon share a speechless look before she focuses on her clasped hands and thinks for a moment, letting a silence blanket over the table in which you find Ser Ulf again and make him squirm once more.

Addam catches you torturing the man this time and finds your gaze to shake his head at you and share a twitching smile that he doesn’t let himself fully express. You albeit don’t feel shame, you beam at him in return before you look away and return your focus to your mother.

“Alright,” your mother breaks the silence and drags her eyes up. “I will follow the Princess’s suggestion, but only after we put an end to the usurper, the Kinslayer, and Daeron.”

Your amusement dies and you look at the table with conflict.

“Once they are dead, the rest will bend the knee,” your mother continues to spew. “Slay their dragons so I may mount their heads upon the walls of my throne room. Let the men look upon them in the years to come so they might know the cost of treason.”

You agree with her, you want to show your support, but Aemond comes to mind and you can't muster the will to want him dead. You only hurt at the thought.

“Very well, so we are agreed then,” Daemon interjects and nobody voices any protest, bringing a conclusion to the matter.

“Good, now we can go to our respective tasks,” your mother chimes in. “Daemon will go after Aemond. Ser Hugh and Ser Ulf will set off to Tumbleton. Rhaena will return to the Eyrie with Morning to at last go through our part of our pact so Lady Arryn may finally send her men. Baela will return to Dragonstone to defend it, and Addam will remain here to defend the city. Seasmoke, Astraea, and Syrax will suffice for the defense of the city.”

You nod lightly without looking back at her since your thoughts have all returned to Aemond, to the point you stay glued to your seat until it’s just Ser Cane, your mother, and you in that hall.

“What is it?” Your mother tries to probe, but when you meet her gaze you offer her a soft smile and a different response than the one she was looking for.

“May I go with the others to the Dragonpit so I may take Astraea out? I’d rather have her out so she’s able to just fly in and fight if the need arises.”

Your mother nods right away. “I don’t see why not. Ser Cane, why don’t you accompany her, the others will depart with their dragons, I don’t want the princess to return alone.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” Ser Cane assures your mother of something he had already planned to do.

“Thank you, Mother,” you offer her before you finally rise from your chair and leave with Ser Cane, Rhaena, Baela, Daemon, and the other two Dragonriders toward the Dragonpit. Albeit the carriage is taking a longer way to avoid the smallfolk's wrath considering taxes were raised and they don’t like that they did.

“So Rhaena,” you interject in the silence and drift your gaze to her across from you. “Are you ready to shove it in the face of the old hag that you have a fierce dragon now?”

Rhaena scoffs and shares an amused smile with Baela before she responds. “She’s not old.”

You shrug and flick your wrist. “She was a bitch, so it’s the same thing. Shove it in her face.”

Rhaena smiles at her hands and you lean toward her. “Are there any cute knights or wards there?” You continue to pester her to make the ride more tolerable. “Someone who’s caught your eye?”

Rhaena’s eyes widen and she passes her father an awkward look before she looks back at you and whispers your name, making you scoff in amusement. “What? I can ask, I’m a married woman with a child, there’s nothing wrong with it. Ah! I can introduce you to some Northnermen if you want.”

Rhaena sinks further in her seat and Baela nudges your arm so you can keep teasing her sister, letting Daemon see the remnants of what you all used to be before this war tore your old selves to shreds.

“There’s Addam too,” you say and giggle. “Mayhaps you can stay here and…keep watch with the good knight.” You nod and Baela grins. “For I am too far along in this pregnancy to do a thing.”

“Stop,” she whispers and turns her head away to look out the window.

“I know! I’ll slip something in your late-night teas and toss you in a boat!” You exclaim. “Nothing screams romance like a good adventure!”

“Oh, a good adventure?” Baela whispers in your ear. “Is that what you and Lord Stark did?”

You snap your head to her and push her gently. “Baela,” you hiss between laughter.

“Oh and Addam is good with kids, Aerion adores him,” you keep trying to warm Rhaena to Addam. “And he’s funny and sweet.”

“Then you marry him,” she mutters, making you and Baela laugh.

“Oh well if Aemond dies, then Baela and I have decided to travel to Yi-Ti and there we will find our husbands bathed in gold,” you share lightheartedly as you and Baela hold each other's gaze and try not to burst out laughing. “If not well I hear Dorne has some very handsome bachelors. Or well…we’re up for anything really.”

Rhaena rolls her eyes and you and Baela just share a teasing smile before you pat her leg and let your face fall soft yet serious. “It’s not wrong to let yourself find some pleasures, Rhaena. It’s a war not the end of the world, so don’t forsake your heart's desires.”

Finally, Rhaena looks over at you and loses that annoyance she carried on her face and offers you a soft look before she nods in comprehension, making you smile at her before you drop your gaze and caress your belly as both Aemond and Cregan come to mind.

Will you curse your twins because you let your heart love too freely?

You didn’t mean to, but you couldn’t help what you felt either. He was oh so kind, his love just consumed you, and Aemond…you loved him since you were a little girl. Not because in the back of your head, you knew that you would be married off since you were Targaryen, no, your love for him was born from your own desires. Your love for him consumed you too. And now you’re paying the price.

What a travesty...

Not loving them, just the complication of it all.

Nevertheless, the rest of the ride to the Dragonpit is silent since everyone’s mind is on their tasks, on the war, and the worry over the Smallfolk possibly seeing the carriage.

They don’t but it's not like you would have worried either way because as messy as it would've been, Daemon and Ser Cane are with you. They would’ve handled things a lot better than Aegon’s Kingsguard did when it came to protecting Helaena and Alicent that one time.

Yet, since you weren't spotted in the carriage or walking in the Dragonpit, you all had an easy transition from the carriage to the pit where you go to unchain Astraea yourself.

“<Hello, my girl,” you greet your dragon who already has her eyes set on you. “I’m here to free you at long last.>”

Astraea groans and you chuckle as you pat her side.

“<I know you’re upset, but now you can be with Seasmoke, and hunt over the water with your heart's desire,>” you tell her which she huffs to in response.

Once you set her free she shakes her neck like a dog shakes their body and then turns her head to press her snout against your belly.

“<Ah,” you breathe out and caress her. “Yes, they’re getting bigger. Heavier too.>”

Astraea keeps her snout pressed against your belly, causing the babes inside you to start moving which in turn makes you start smiling in awe.

“Oh,” you coo before you lean down and press a kiss on the top of your dragon's snout, making her open her eyes and pull her head back to look at you with her pupils wide and focused on you. “<Are you still mad at me?>” You ask before you shoot her a grin and then turn around. “<Go out, I’m going to get Shyrkos out for Aerion.>”

Astraea does as you say and you do as said, taking Shyrkos out of her crate and letting her perch herself on your shoulder before she wraps her long tail around your neck. The moment you’re out of the caves you see that Rhaena and Baela had stayed behind to wait for you, albeit Astraea and Moondancer have both put a good distance between them and the wild dragon Morning, choosing to ignore her existence and sticking close together instead.

“Be careful, the both of you,” you direct at the twins. “And Rhaena, please no more running off.”

“The same goes for you,” she redirects, making you smile at the ground but say nothing in return.

“If you find yourselves in trouble send a raven,” you let them know. “I will try to be there. Or you know, I will let someone know.”

Baela scoffs and closes the gap between you to pat your belly before she grabs your hands and gives them a comforting squeeze.

“By the time I see you again you might have already birthed twins,” she says with a tiny smile. “I hope they're boys. Jace bet that you were going to have all boys. All seven of your children.”

Your breath hitches and your eyes soften at the sweet mention. “Did he now?” You ask softly. “Well, I hope he’s wrong. Aemond and I want girls.”

Baela grows physically disgusted at the mention of your husband's name so you leave it at that and just work towards ending the conversation. “Well, I hope Jace’s ghost knows he will be wrong.”

A sad smile appears on her lips and you mirror it before you stroke her knuckles with your fingers. “Until we see each other again, cousin. Take care.”

Baela meets your gaze and nods softly. “Until we see each other again.”

You offer each other one last smile before you meet up with Rhaena, and unlike Baela, you grab Rhaena’s cheeks, and she cups yours before you embrace each other.

“Don't strain yourself okay?” She tells you sweetly.

You nod but you can’t truly mean it, you just nod to assure her. “Don't get too wild now that you have a dragon, hm?”

She scoffs softly and nods too. Does she mean it or is she just assuring you like you did with her? Who knows, but you can’t pick at it so you let it be and trust that she’ll do the right thing.

“Take care,” she says as she pulls away.

“You too,” you return the comment before you step back and watch the twins go to their dragons. When Baela has mounted Moondancer, and Rhaena has mounted Morning and starts holding on for dear life since the dragon keepers say that the wild dragon is too old and wild now to be saddled, you walk them all the way to the exit, choosing to remain hidden under the shadows of the Dragonpit so you’re not seen by onlookers as you watch your cousins descend to the skies and get lost in the clouds.

After they're gone you stay where you are and Astraea walks to the exit to wait for your okay to leave since you haven’t mounted her to descend to the skies together.

“<Go,>” you let her go free from the confinements of the dragonpit which she probably thinks is a dungeon, and once she is also lost in the clouds you crave some freedom as well before you return to the Red Keep.

“Why don’t we walk back to the Red Keep,” you tell Ser Cane as he walks up to you.

“It wouldn’t be wise,” he says right away, making you turn to face him and throw a hood over your head that covers your hair and keeps Shrykos hidden.

“And if I close my cloak,” you trail on as you button your cloak and hide your elegant and expensive gown. “My gown is hidden. See. I am like them now.”

Ser Cane tilts his head up and looks at you with a quizzical brow. “I could overpower you and force you on the carriage,” he shares but not as a threat, more as a warning. “It would save my heart from strain.”

You flash him a smile. “Strain? Ser, it’s a simple walk. Besides I need it, the twins need it. The Maester says it’s healthy to walk. I must walk actually.”

Ser Cane draws in a deep breath as he narrows his gaze to a pointed look and weighs whether to disobey your desire or give in.

“It’s a long walk,” he says as he puts his hands on his hips. “We walk halfway. The carriage will be waiting for us at that halfway point so we can ride the rest of the way back home. It’s that or I sweep you off your feet here and now.”

You hold his gaze for a moment, feeling your smile turn to a grin before you beam at him and nod. “Okay,” you give in without a fight, making him sigh deeply in annoyance before he walks away to let the carriage driver know about the plan, leaving you waiting under the exit, wishing for the sun to return and once again bask you with its warmth.

Alas, the clouds are greedy and steal the sun’s spotlight, forcing you to bask in a winter chill instead, but you don’t curse it and wish to disappear, you welcome its cold embrace and you can only do that so easily because you’ve been surrounded by a colder climate. Otherwise, you too would cower inside your home to stay close to your fire, and not even dream about walking amongst the people who need to be out and about in the coldness, and those who don’t mind the winter's chill, like you do when you leave the Dragonpit.

“…barbarity! Demons!”

Shouts catch your attention, taking your gaze to a cobbler square down the street from the Dragonpit.

“They crawled out of the pits of the Seven Hells!” A skinny man proclaims to no one. No one is gathered around him, but he still carries this passion in his eyes and in his voice that doesn't let him care that he speaks to an empty square. “They are unnatural creatures made by sorceries of Valyria!”

You finally come to a complete stop and become the old man’s only listener.

“They are a curse upon our earth! Both Dragons and Targaryens alike!” He keeps proclaiming and shaking his fist and stump.

“Princess let’s keep moving,” Ser Cane presses as he grabs your arm, but you stay put, forcing him to stay behind like a tall lurking shadow.

“Risen from the vile cesspit where brother lay with sister and mother with son…”

You scoff at the lie and mutter. “Sheep.”

“…where men rode demons into battle whilst their women spread their legs for the dogs!” He continues and this time one single person takes their time to stop not so far from him and listen to the trash that comes out of his stinking mouth.

“Sheep,” Ser Cane echoes. “But in a time of fear the Shepherdless sheep gather around the bravest of them,” he speaks wisely, making you step back to fall by his side instead and continue to watch the old dirty man, but also steal glimpses at your sworn protector.

“The Targaryens escaped the doom, fleeing across the seas to Dragonstone, but the gods are not mocked!” The man follows up with more cruel words. “Now the second doom is at hand!”

“Yes,” the single person agrees, making the corner of your lips curl to a displeased frown.

“The False King and Whore Queen shall be cast down with all their works,” the old man continues to shout. “And their demon beasts shall perish from this earth!”

You fist your hands and start to narrow your gaze to a piercing glare.

“The Whore Queen birthed a demon who disguises itself as an alluring siren, but it walks amongst fire! It’s a Fire Demon!”

“Infected sheep should be taken out before it infects the rest of the flock,” you speak to your sworn protector as you keep your eyes trained on the old man spewing nothing but false claims.

“He’s an innocent and ill man, Princess,” Ser Cane responds without hesitation so his own advice doesn't go unheard. “Take him down now and the tension between the crown and smallfolk increases. They are looking for any wrong step to use as an excuse to revolt.”

You hum and study the scene while you listen carefully. “All those who stand with them will die as well! Only by cleansing King’s Landing of dragons and their masters can Westeros hope to avoid the fate of Valyria!”

“Fear clings to anger,” you speak up and slowly take your eyes off the dirty old man. “If we let him speak he can attract attention, but a shepherdless flock leads themselves to the slaughter.”

“Aye,” Ser Cane agrees. “So it’s said.”

“We either let him snuff himself out, or let the infection spread until that takes them all out.” You finish saying and then meet Ser Cane’s gaze to seek his thoughts.

“Yes, in matters like these, there’s no penetrating them. Not us…”

“They’ll see it as an attack. They’ll believe he’s right, turning them all against us,” you continue for your sworn protector. “If attention is what he manages to get, that is.”

Ser Cane hums. “Exactly. Best leave it be. Now come on.”

You hum and steal one last glimpse at the old man, but don’t let your gaze linger so he doesn’t catch you staring and manages to recognize you.

Yet even as you continue walking away you continue to probe on the matter. “If the infection doesn’t kill then, if they don’t lead themselves to slaughter…then what?” You ask. “If we kill them that would hurt us. His word and belief would be spread and kept alive.”

Ser Cane sighs and parts his lips to give you an answer. Yet before he can he points his chin at you. “What do you think we would do at that point?”

You blink and look around to find your thoughts, finding one in particular that you pick on. “If one person turns too many then…we infiltrate them, tear them down from the inside so they think they sabotaged themselves. That would turn his words and belief to nothing because the people want to be angry, but they won't want to suffer the same fate so their same fear will disillusion them.” You say and quickly return your gaze to Ser Cane, noticing his lips tug to a smile.

“Wise. Spoken like a true heir,” he praises you, making you smile proudly.

——

*NOT SO MUCH LATER*

“Just down there,” you let Addam know as he follows you downhill where you would sneak off to train, where ocean waves hit the stone platform, and you’re far from the busybodies that occupy the castle and have a chance at disbursing your peace.

“Are you sure?” Addam queries hesitantly from behind you before he jogs down to fall by your side. “I mean I don’t want someone to get the wrong idea.”

A smile flashes on your lips and you show your amusement to Addam before you tap your belly. “The wrong idea with these two? I’m sorry but given my current state I’m not considered desirable, so no one will think a bad thing at all.”

He huffs. “I think that carrying children doesn’t make you any less beautiful,” he tries to assure you.

“Thank you, Addam, but…it’s complicated, besides, Ser Cane is with us. He'll stop you before you can even form a mischievous plan, isn’t that right Ser?”

“I’ll push you in the water and no one will be the wiser,” he deadpans, making Addam confused on whether he’s joking or not since Addam can’t read Ser Cane like you can.

“He’s joking,” you soothe Addam’s worry before you nudge his arm. “Should I worry about you? You're quiet.”

Addam meets your gaze and parts his lips, but he lets a breath of air escape first before he forms his words. “Why do you trust me so wholeheartedly and not the other two? I haven’t given you a reason to deserve your devotion and yet you are devoted to me. I…” he trails off and drops his head, bringing you to a slow stop and forcing him to one too that has quite the distance in between.

“I am no one yet you treat me like you’ve known me our whole lives. In a way no one else has. No one here I mean,” he continues to say, making your lips form to a pitiful frown—“You have every reason to look at me the same way you did at the Gullet. The Velaryon name doesn’t change who I really am, so why?”

You swallow back a thick lump that forms in your throat and study his face twisted with insecurity and confusion.

“I…tend to trust too blindly,” you admit in a lighthearted tone. “It’s a problem that’s been brought to my attention before, so maybe you’re right, maybe I should doubt trusting you. I shouldn't rely on my beliefs, but,” you pause and take a couple of steps closer to him before you come to a stop and continue softer and with a hint of sorrow in your voice. “The truth is that you out of everyone here has made me feel less alone.”

You catch him by surprise, making him lift his eyes off the floor to look at you with disbelief—“That day at the Gullet I was a bitch, I was insecure about what I thought you were going to take away from Aerion and I had no right. I was wrong and I'm sorry. You are a very great guy from what I’ve witnessed so far, and ever since that night at the dinner, you’ve kept me from sinking into a pit of darkness.”

His breath catches and his lips twitch to a smile. “And you…have saved me from feeling alone without my brother while I stay in this strange place,” he shares, making you slowly grin. “So thank you for trusting me.”

You nod softly and blink repeatedly as tears sting your eyes. “Thank you…for reminding me how it feels like to laugh. It’s been only a couple weeks but having nowhere to go has made it feel like we’ve known each other for years.”

He laughs and nods in agreement. “It really does.”

You share a breathless laugh before you close the gap between you to pat his chest with your fist, making him look at the gesture before he lifts his fist and mirrors your actions, but in a much more gentle manner. It’s like a light feathered touch that you still feel and leaves you lingering in his presence for a moment longer before you finally continue down your path side by side.

“You know I always had these big dreams,” Addam shares. “And now that I’m out here doing something it's nothing like how I expected it to be.”

You sigh deeply. “Yes,” you talk softly. “I understand what you mean. Do you regret any of it though?”

Addam shakes his head. “Not yet.”

You pat his back and praise him. “Good for you.”

He meets your gaze and offers you a tiny smile. “Thank you.”

You chuckle before you skip forward to get a bit ahead of him. “Tell me, Addam. Now I'm being serious, how many sailor shanties do you know?” You probe and peer at him over your shoulder.

“Many but unfortunately I was not blessed with the right set of pipes to sing any,” he says before he shoots you a pointed look. “I hear you have a gifted voice. The Siren of Driftmark is your name, no?”

You flash him a smirk over your shoulder before you nod proudly. “Yes. I love singing, that's why I asked if you know sailor shanties. I want to learn more, and with my father gone, I have to rely on you. It’s too bad you can’t sing though, we could’ve formed a band.” You frown dramatically before you spin around and face your sworn protector.

“Can you play an instrument or sing, Ser?” You direct your question at Ser Cane, causing the man to lay his eyes on you and remain quiet for a long moment hoping you’d drop it, but you wait with your eyes on him the entire time.

“I can play the lute…quite well,” he reveals, making you beam at him.

“Great! Thank you for sharing, I shall keep it in mind for my own personal advantage,” you tease him before you turn back around and face the platform you’re approaching. “Thank you by the way Addam, for agreeing to come train with me.”

Said man scoffs. “You didn’t really give me an option. Using your power over me kind of forced me to train with you.”

“I had to,” you remark. “No one else will because I am with child. And a woman.” You complain with annoyance before your tone quickly flips to excitement. “But I do plan to keep my promise and teach you how to do archery from your dragon. I must teach you on the ground first though, I can’t just throw you in the water and tell you to swim.”

He hums and then giggles at your choice of words before he picks up his pace to walk at your side and reach the platform at the same time.

Yet, the moment you step foot on the stone ground a racing pair of footsteps echo, stealing your attention to the incomer who turns out to be Ser Jason.

“I’m sorry to disturb you Princess, but, the Queen Dowager has requested an audience in the throne room,” Ser Jason shares between heavy pants.

Yet as out of breath as he is you don’t take his news seriously. “The Queen can handle it by herself. I’ll stay here for this audience.”

Ser Jason shakes his head. “No,” he breathes out. “Alicent requested an audience with you alone in the Throne Room.”

You’re hit with overwhelming curiosity, slight surprise, and annoyance only because of course Alicent is requesting an audience with you without the presence of the Queen in her own throne room. It makes you wonder what she’s up to.

“All right.” You nod lightly before you draw in a small breath to give Ser Jason a command. “Let the Queen know of the audience. I want her to go.”

Without hesitation Ser Jason nods before he turns around and runs off again, letting you turn to Addam with an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, perhaps we can come back later, or tomorrow. Is that fine?”

Addam nods, of course, and reassures you so you don’t feel guilty. “Of course it’s fine.”

You offer him a thankful smile before you retake the path you just walked and return to the Red Keep. Once you’re inside and approaching the Throne Room, you don’t linger back to wait for your mother. You know she’ll join you eventually, she’d be curious as to what Alicent could possibly want; that’s why you let the guards open the doors for you and let Alicent see you and believe that you're there to fulfill her request without an ulterior motive.

She must think you’re like her and her children, but you’re not and the moment you strut down the room with your nose in the air, bathing yourself in every beam of light that casts through the windows on the walls, she sees that. She didn’t want to see it before out of her own hate and pride, but as her eyes follow you down the great hall she sees just how much your presence alone steals the breath of the great hall.

She looks at you now and it’s like the sun came out of hiding to shine just for you. Viserys would tell you that all the time, “the sun shines just for you,” he would say from the moment you were born and he laid eyes on you for the first time. Alicent’s stomach always twisted with jealousy so she refused to acknowledge anything great about you, but here you are now, walking past her without sparing her a glance, as if you don’t exist in the same realm and she sees it. She sees you and you are what every heir should strive themselves to be.

You are everything her children could never be. She sees that and realizes how much Aegon would have benefited from marrying you instead, but then again you would have eaten him alive. Aemond and you could have been such a glorious example of what a ruling couple should be, but you are right, he is the way he is because of her, she wronged him. She wronged them all, she sees that and so much more, but doesn’t acknowledge it. She can’t, so she pushes it to the back of her head and instead notes that you don’t even climb the steps to the throne. You keep yourself at the foot of the stairs that lead to the throne and take command from there.

“Goodmother,” you greet her with surprise. “What a surprise.”

Alicent curtsies, causing her golden chains to rattle. When she’s up right again she meets your gaze and you continue to fill the silence. “To what do I owe this surprise? I mean an audience in the throne room without her grace is quite the scandal.” You chuckle dryly.

It’s almost like she herself had an ulterior motive. It’s like she wanted you to feel superior and steal control above your mother.

“I’ve come to plead for your help,” she reveals, piquing your interest. “I heard of your mother's plan to slaughter my sons and I must ask you to save them.”

Your lips slightly part in surprise but before you can think of uttering a word she continues.

“You love Aemond. You are married to him and share a beautiful child. Y-you were on our side once, so I must ask you to change again, to save Aemond, to help Daeron who is innocent in this war. And Aegon…”

You raise an eyebrow to await what comes out of her mouth for him.

“He’s an invalid now. He can’t father any more children. He’s a cripple. He will be no threat I swear, just please—You who has the power and the skill, please help me. Save them. Save Aemond and you can be the ones on the throne instead,” she pleads desperately with actual tears creeping out of her big brown eyes. “Please.”

You narrow your gaze to watch her closely and just as you gather a breath to respond, the doors open and your mother, the Queen walks in, pausing in her stride to look at Alicent who now looks baffled by your mother’s presence.

“Your Grace,” you greet her with a mischievous smirk as you curtsy. When she reaches you you move aside to let her walk past you before you swiftly turn around and follow after her. Albeit you stop by the Iron Throne to stand beside it and let her be at the center of attention to take command now.

“The Dowager Queen has sought my audience to beg the mercy of her children,” you tell your mother to catch her up. “She wants me to spare them from their fate, but Daeron is no innocent boy. He’s slaughtered men with the armies because of the war you helped start. And Aegon,” you pause to scoff finding it crazy that you have to tell her why he’s not worth saving.

“Did you know he barged in my quarters when Aemond left for Rook’s Rest,” you begin to share, feeling your mother's eyes on you, and seeing Alicent’s hurt at what you’re preparing to share—“It was no friendly visit. He didn’t come looking for his brother, he went in there drunk looking for me. Do you know why?”

Alicent averts her gaze and with that look alone you know she has an idea. Yet you still share it.

“It seems you have some idea, but I’ll share it anyway. He went there to grope me, to assault me while Aemond was gone because he knew I wouldn't fight back. He would’ve gone further if it wasn’t for my sworn protector barging in,” you sneer and glare at her for demanding the mercy of such a disgusting man—“I can’t imagine what he’s done to other poor girls who weren’t as lucky, but I’m sure you can and still you want me to save him? And all behind the Queen's back?” You scoff and look at her with disgust as you go quiet and let your mother interject now.

“Is this your plan Alicent? Scheme behind my back hoping my daughter will betray me? Then again why am I surprised? You promised to surrender Aegon and the Red Keep, and your son was gone proving you a liar. So I’m not surprised that you stoop so low,” your mother seethes, and Alicent shakes her head before she tilts it up to meet your mother's gaze and finally give a response.

“Is trying to save my children stooping low when it’s something you yourself would have done in my position? Can you blame me for trying to save them from such a fate?” She cries. “Is that a sin?”

Your mother shakes her head. “No,” she says back. “But going behind my back hoping to plot something with my heir is.”

“And she proved ever so loyal,” Alicent mutters. “I praise you for that, but please hear me,” she begs as she falls to her knees, making you and your mother share a look before you return your attention to Alicent.

“We can divide the realm. You could have the Vale of Arryn, the North, the Crownlands, all the lands watered by the Trident, and the Isles,” Alicent shares, making you smile at the floor—“Aegon could have the Stormlands, the Westerlands, and the Reach, to be ruled from Oldtown. Please,” she pleads with tears crawling down her cheeks and eyes, and that desperation breaking her voice.

Alas, your mother doesn’t even debate what she asks. She gives her a response immediately. “No.” She feigns a laugh and scorns her. “Your sons might have had places in my court if they had kept faith, but they sought to rob me of my birthright, and the blood of my sons is on their hands.”

Alicent drops to her hands and mutters something you and your mother manage to catch. “Bastard blood, shed at war.”

You quickly look to your mother and she rises from the throne right away but stays where she is to snap back.

Yet before she can Alicent continues to throw out her angry filled words. “How many more must die to slake your thirst for vengeance?”

“You tell me,” your mother spats. “If you hadn’t raised your son to take my throne their lives wouldn’t be put at risk, your lover and your brother wouldn’t be dead, and you would not be in chains, but alas these are the consequences of your actions.” She huffs and walks to where you are to continue. “Speak again of bastardy, and I will have your tongue out.”

Your mother turns swiftly and storms out. You linger behind and face Alicent to speak about her. “Have her locked in her chambers with no more visits from her daughter or grandchildren. If she wants to plot behind the Queen's back again, have her tongue cut out, and then we can decide where she goes.”

“Princess,” the guards say in comprehension and then bow their heads before they grab Alicent’s arms, whilst the Dowager Queen herself snaps her head up and looks at you with her eyes widened in horror.

“Your Grace?!” Alicent asks for your mother's support and your mother stops in her tracks but only supports you.

“Do as the Princess says. It will serve as punishment for what she tried to scheme today.”

You flash Alicent a sweet smile laced with malice before you give her your back and follow after your mother, finding yourself catching up to her right away and following at her side instead.

“Forgive me, Mother,” you interject once you put some distance between you and the throne room. “For giving Alicent that punishment just now and putting you in a difficult position where you had to choose my choice.”

“No,” your Mother doesn’t hesitate to answer. “You don’t have to apologize. It had to be done. She tried to scheme behind my back. She’s lucky that her punishment wasn’t more severe.”

Yet she’s unlucky that she got a punishment. Alicent almost returned to her quarters without consequence and all for what? Your mother's soft spot for her?

Then again can you blame her when you have your own soft spot for Aemond?

“You were quick and smart with the choice,” she praises you sweetly. “Good job.”

You can’t help yourself, you let a proud smile tug on your lips as those words have a way to make you feel flustered.

“I want you to accompany me to my chambers before we go visit the children,” your mother interjects with a colder shift in her voice, but when you face her you don’t see disappointment or something that tells you that she feels concerned and therefore you should too. You instead see her lips formed into a frown and her eyes slowly filling with conflict.

“Alright,” you give in and do as she says, proceeding to follow her to her quarters and see her walk to her bed to sit on the edge before patting the empty seat next to her.

You flash her a look of confusion but you also don’t sense that you should stay put or be hesitant, so you take her offer and lock eyes to speechlessly question why you’re in the position you’re in now.

“Why,” she begins quietly and drops her gaze. You follow her line of gaze, catching her fiddling with her rings—“Why didn’t you tell me about what Aegon did?” She finally asks what was troubling her mind and what made her bring you here. And you expect to feel tears, but your chest just tightens as you recall that memory.

“The truth is,” you pause and take a minute to collect your thoughts before you scale your eyes up and look at her averted gaze. “I’ve been trying to forget because maybe I was over dramatic. I…told Alicent now to make her feel bad and give her a reason why Aegon out of all her sons can’t be saved.”

Your mother slowly brings her eyes up and catches your gaze with her eyes brimming with tears and her eyebrows knitted together as anger, pity, and agony also fill her heart and become present in her features.

“But it’s not over dramatic. Aegon…he still took advantage of his power to take advantage of you,” she says as her voice breaks and trembles out of guilt. “It’s not over dramatic and I’m sorry you had to be in that position because of me. Because you wanted to fight for our cause.”

You lean forward and grab her hands to try and offer her consolation. “Don't blame yourself, okay? It was not because of you and it was not because of anyone else. The only one to blame is Aegon, okay? Just him.” You whisper and stroke her knuckles, causing your mother to look down at the way you’re softly caressing her before her eyes find yours again, and she then suddenly embraces you.

“I’m still sorry it happened,” she whispers and cups the back of your head to press you firmly against her.

Your smile trembles as the corner of your lips pull up to a wobbly smile. Yet as much as you feel the need to, you don’t cry, you hold your tears back and put all your emotions into clutching onto her as if fearing her comfort and her warmth will disappear if you don’t hold onto her. “Thank you,” you share your gratitude before burying your face in the crook of her neck.

After a while of being wrapped in each other's embrace you pull back but just enough to lay your head on her shoulder and have her lay her head on top of yours.

“Did you tell anyone at least? I would hate that you kept it in for so long,” she says softly in the silence, and you nod gently.

“I told Aemond, he comforted me about it and only spared Aegon because he was already half dead.” You scoff with amusement and find yourself smiling softly like some love-struck fool as you remember Aemond’s comfort.

“Hm,” your mother hums and you can sense her judgment, but she doesn’t say a thing about it, choosing silence over saying something offensive. She just can’t fathom Aemond, introverted, black sheep, and kinslayer Aemond being anything but angry.

“Are you…worried about Daemon?” You change the subject as you let yourself touch on a specific matter in hopes of relating to someone about this pit in your stomach that you feel every time you think about Aemond when you’re apart.

“When he’s away I mean,” you clarify. “When he’s in a dangerous situation like now. Do you ever feel a pit in your stomach?”

Your mother sighs deeply and takes a moment of silence before she gives you a response. “Yes. I never had a reason to feel it before,” she shares. “But I do now. Why do you ask, my Sweet?”

You shake your head gently. “I just wanted to know if it was normal. I wanted to know if anyone else felt it too for someone they loved.”

Silence follows once again. It lasts longer than before but once again she breaks it and this time she’s much quieter as if she’s being careful. Not because she’s afraid of hurting you, she’s afraid of hearing your response because she knows what you’ll say and she knows the pain that comes with it.

“Do you love him?” She asks.

You draw in a deep breath and after releasing a deep and shuddering breath you give her the response that makes her stiffen. “I do,” you speak softly with each word filled with sincerity and such an obvious affection. “I love him with all that I am. All that I’ll ever be. And all that I ever was. I try,” you breathe out shakily. “I try not to, trust me,” your voice quivers. “I try, but…I can’t let him go. My heart refuses to let him go. Even if I have love for another my heart still calls out his name. The very memory of him makes my heart sing and dance even though I know he’s done things to hurt me.”

“Why?” Your mother asks hesitantly even though she knows that question is stupid. She just has to ask because she can’t imagine how someone could love someone who's killed people they love, who’s pure evil and twisted with darkness.

“I,” you pause and take a small breath. “Love him,” you sigh. “Because he’s entangled in my soul. Because he loves me, every part of me, like the darkness that would scare many others away. Because he understands what it’s like to yearn for something that’s in our reach but couldn’t be ours. Because without saying a word he knows everything I feel and everything I want to say. Because I enjoy being the one to make him smile and laugh, and because he loves me in such a deep and selfish way that I have always wanted to be loved…and I could give you thousands of other reasons without growing tired, but I know you would so…that’s why.”

Your mother swallows thickly and understands why you stayed with Aemond as long as you did when you had every chance to leave him during the war. She understands the pain that shows on your face every time someone mentions having to kill him.

“But I know he can’t be mine forever,” you mutter and she hears it now, the pain that she can’t see because you’re not facing each other—“I know what has to happen. I…know,” you say something that you didn’t even have in mind, you just said it on the spot because if you said what you truly wanted to say, then it would be a lie. And even if you have lied, even if that’s not something you struggle with, saying that you made your peace with Aemond having to die can’t even form into words in your mouth.

“It will hurt,” your mother says softly as a way to warn you of the pain that you have yet to experience. “Every time you look at your children it will hurt because you will see him in them. But before you know it, your heart will sing and dance and swoon for someone else and all he’ll be is a memory of your long life.”

You nod and want to say those two words you uttered before, but you can’t even form them in your mouth, so you just nod so very lightly that it barely would count as a nod.

“Like Lord Stark,” your mother brings him up again. “You love him too, yes?” She asks.

“Yes,” your voice quivers.

Your mother wants to probe like she did with Aemond, but it wouldn't be appropriate so she’s just left wondering.

“He’s a good man from what I hear and he’s your friend, and I want you to know that you can choose who you want to be with. I won’t force you into a loveless relationship just for some political advantage, okay?” She asks for comprehension—“You have the freedom of choice.”

“Okay,” your whisper comes out shaky and you cling onto her more firmly than before as you seek her comfort for the ache that already torments you.

If only you could hold onto her forever. The world would feel safer that way and any pain would immediately be cured, but alas what you want can’t happen, so you let her go and try to fill the rest of your day with other things that won't make that torment hurt you any deeper.

And it works.

For a time.

“<Ready?>” You ask Aerion and his blue eyes turn to his dragon, letting you place another piece of meat in front of her. “<Dracarys Shrykos>,” you command, and the hatchling steps back before she blows out fire and burns the piece of meat, making Aerion laugh and then attempt to talk or give the same command, but he can’t form the words so he coos and Shrykos crawls to him and nuzzles her head against his chest.

You smile with awe and as you do an urgent knock raps on the doors, piquing your interest and turning your head to face them. “Come,” you welcome the visitor and watch the doors of your chambers open and reveal Helaena in her night attire and with her hair flowing down her back.

“Why can I not see my mother?” She gets right to the point as she averts her eyes. “I could not have dinner with her, and now I can not bid her goodnight, why?”

You share a speechless look with Vanessa and when you get off the floor she takes your spot to watch over Aerion, while you approach Helaena.

“Your mother has to be locked in her quarters because she wanted to scheme with me behind the Queen’s back,” you share even though you know that will offer her no comfort. “She’s already a prisoner so to spare her from death we took away her freedom. I’m sorry Helaena,” you speak confidently but yet in a comforting tone so she doesn’t stress out more than she already is.

Yet she can’t seem to accept her mother's fate. “But I always bid her goodnight, and who will I have dinner with now?”

You sigh and feel pity for her but you don’t take back your decision. “It had to be done. I’m sorry.”

Helaena shakes her head and begins to pace, making your ache for her even worse.

“Helaena,” you try to speak to assure her but she puts her hand up to motion you to be quiet.

“It’s all what must be done,” she mutters something you can barely catch. “Everything. Why?”

She stops so you make your way to her and try to cup her shoulder to have her give you her attention, but she then turns around by herself and looks at you with her eyes wide and glistening with tears, but also laced with distress.

“What will you do?” She directs her question at you now. “Aemond will die in fifteen days. What will you do about it?”

You blink repeatedly in disbelief as you feel that pit in your stomach again, followed with that deep heart aching agony.

“What?” You ask breathlessly and she clutches onto her hands and slightly narrows her eyes.

“It has to be done,” she remarks with a hint of frustration. “And you can’t do anything about it.”

You shake your head as you don’t accept what she just revealed even though everything inside you knows she’s not lying. Because why would she?

“No,” your voice cracks as you look at her with desperation.

“He was never going to live through this. Everyone knows that” she continues to say, bringing frustration out of you now—“It’s his fate. And nothing you do will ever change it.”

Tears break out of your eyes as you clench your jaw and look at her with frustration and anger before your emotions flicker to desperation. “Please,” you beg and grab her arms. “There…” you trail off as you think about her words, as you think about that son that you will have in a future that you accept and acknowledge that it’s how the story will unfold, but that part of you that loves Aemond blindly and with every part of you pretends to be clueless as to what you know to only focus on what you want.

“There must be a way,” you try to get an alternative out of Helaena since she knows so much, but her expression remains pointed and frustrated.

“There isn’t. What will you do about it?” Her voice slightly hisses, making you pull back and look at her with a slow-forming glare.

You don’t continue with an answer. The room is left deafening, and since you won’t give her what she wants she leaves and you’re left standing in your agony and desperation that is so blinding and demanding that it overwhelms you with the thought of one single solution. A daring thought.

You must go to him. Convince him to let this fight go. You have to find him.

Thus you march out of your quarters and take the path to Helaena’s quarters knowing that’s where she’ll be headed, and luckily she didn’t make it far at all so you catch up to her rather quickly. And when you’re face to face it’s that same desperation that demands her knowledge of Aemond’s whereabouts.

Helaena gives them to you so you march back into your chambers and right as the doors close, Vanessa presses you since she knows you all too well. “What are you doing? You cannot go after him. He can’t be saved. He won’t want to.”

You face her with agony clinging in your eyes that makes them glisten with unshed tears before you utter one single thing. “I have to try.”

It’s stupid. Foolish and thoughtless, but you leave the Red Keep through the tunnels, find Astraea resting in the cove she usually is to be close to you if a need arose, and at last fulfill that longing to get lost in the clouds.

Once again you’re leaving without saying a word, out of desperation and high emotions. Your stance is still with your mother, that hasn’t changed and won’t change anymore. You still have the need to fight in this war, that need hasn’t left either, but you have to try and save the man you love. You have to for the sake of your love, for the sake of simply trying to save him from his doom because that’s what you’re supposed to do when you love someone.

Leaving was selfish you understand, chasing after him was selfish but the disappointment your mother, your cousins, and even Cregan will feel when they hear you went after Aemond doesn’t cross your mind when you find him, and when your eyes meet in the middle of that lush and lively forest.

In a way, it feels like he knew you were coming, that you were going to be outside of the hut he’s staying in, but after he surpasses his own self-conflict between reality and an illusion, he’s completely overwhelmed with disbelief by your presence. The kind of disbelief that has his lips parting just slightly, and makes his blue eye wide and glimmery as the spots of moonlight that burst through the treetops enlighten his long and beautiful face.

“It’s you and me,” your voice travels through the quiet night, hitting his ears and only breaking it to him more that you’re not some illusion cast by his solitude and yearning to see you. You’re real, you’re there before him holding his eyes with a teary gaze that only makes your eyes that much more beautiful.

“You and me,” you whisper again and step forward, falling in the soft and bright white light that the moon casts down on the earth, making Aemond gasp softly as he sees how truly divine you look in your silk light sea-green gown that’s accompanied with a pearl and crystal chain over your torso.

Truly your beauty transcends that of the moons, the suns, and all and every goddess that ever existed. He’s always known it, but as you stand before him under the soft light of the moon that fact is much more true because you’re there for him.

How could he be so stupid as to make you leave him? And how could you be so stupid as to return to him?

“Now and forever,” you finish and make tears run down his face as he nods in agreement.

Your lips pull to a shaky smile as you see his reaction and before you know it a force that’s not your own pulls you to each other, causing you to meet in the middle and kiss as if you’ve been apart for decades and only had each other's imaginations to feel the taste of each other’s lips. Nothing of what happened only a couple weeks ago comes to mind, it’s like it never happened at this very moment. It's like he was never angry that you left. It’s you and him and your dragons in the middle of some forest in the Riverlands until it’s just you and him in that hut unable to even think of letting each other go.

You are one flesh, one heart, and one soul for who knows how long. All you know is the taste of each other's mouths, the feeling of each other's flesh on the tip of your fingers as you run them over the perimeters of each other's bodies, and the sound of every pant, gasp, and moan that leaves your lips.

It’s all bliss, every second that your bodies and hearts are intertwined. Nothing else matters, nothing continues to matter, and the definition of love, true love was, and is clear as you take in the sight of each other while you remain in bed ignorant to the outside world.

“You know,” he speaks in that soft and gentle voice that you love and makes you feel relaxed. “I saw Alys and she told me something,” he says and places his hand on your belly, piquing your interest.

“What?” You ask in a whisper against his lips as if it were a secret that the space around you can’t know.

A smug smile tugs on his lips and he glances down at your belly covered by furs and shares what he knows against your lips. “The twins are girls.”

You look at him with disbelief for a second before you begin to grin without even bothering to question him. “Really?!” You exclaim and throw your hand on the side of his face to cradle it and press your own face closer to him.

He hums in agreement and you pull back to turn and smile at the ceiling. “So it’s Daenys and Daenerys?” You muse as you caress your own belly. “Yay.”

“What about Daenys and Naerys?” He suggests but you don’t even consider it, you just turn him down right away.

“No, Daenys and Daenerys has a much better ring to it don’t you think? Considering they’re twins?” You quire as you turn back to your side to look at him.

“I suppose,” he mutters.

“You suppose right.” You nod, making him chuckle breathlessly.

“Aerion?” He asks when his laugh dies down.

“Big,” you share happily. “Scooting on his behind to get to places. And wanting to burn down the Red Keep with Shyrkos. He keeps wanting to say Dracarys but he can’t. Luckily.”

Aemond flashes you a grin and goes quiet. He then lets his eye wander down, and it’s at that moment that you bring your hand up to cup his face with the gentlest touch, and take your time to caress his cheekbone with the pad of your thumb while you just study his face slowly falling as he grows flustered by your softness, that he knows he doesn’t deserve you after what he did to hurt you.

“Forgive me,” he mutters and moves his hand up your belly to stroke a scar that is no longer marking your skin. “I hurt you that day and I’m sorry. I…” he trails off as his voice cracks and takes in a deep breath before he slowly finds your attentive gaze. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t know what I was doing. Harrenhal…was driving me mad. Every night I closed my eyes, I saw you die or I saw Lucerys. My greatest fear haunted me every time. My past followed. And it all chipped away at my sanity a little bit at a time until I couldn’t know between what was real and what wasn’t. And it’s no excuse, nothing could excuse what I did, but I needed to tell you,” he says with a deep breath that lets you see that weight rising off his shoulders.

“You understand right?” He asks for reassurance, and you exchange a breath in and out without changing that softness in your eyes and give him the reassurance he seeks.

“I understand,” you say sincerely and lean in to press a gentle kiss on his lips. “I understand you,” you repeat yourself against his lips, making him bring his hand up to clutch onto your cheek before he presses his forehead against yours.

“I missed you,” he whispers.

The corner of your lips twitch to a smile and butterflies flutter in your stomach before you echo his sweet words. “I missed you too.”

He hums and you hum back to tease him, holding his love-stricken gaze and taking a small breath in, leaving the room in silence. However, it’s in that comforting silence that the memory of why you came to him in the first place finds you, creeping into your mind and making your lips slowly lose hold of that smile, and making your eyes slowly droop and lose that happy glimmer that was caught within them.

Aemond notices your shift in emotions and looks at you with concern, but you can’t utter why you’re in agony so quickly with that breath you just drew out. You don’t want to ruin the moment that just had him smiling and enamored.

You want to live in the bliss for at least a second longer, so you close your eyes and stroke his cheek with your hand to be a part of that moment for just a little longer.

Just a few seconds longer…

.

.

.

.

.

A/N- Next chapter someone finally croaks…

Tagged- @namelesslosers @stargaryenx @chainsawsangel @lauftivy @winxschester @cloudroomblog @llarue @padsdarlg @sofietargaryen @gracielikegrapes @dreaming-of-the-reality @itzelpeyton @patdsinner33 @mrsdominickstark @elaena-aerrin @todoroki-slut @snh96 @urmomsgirlfriend1 @nifujiswhore @sweethoneyblossom1 @kaetastic @lightdragonrayne @squidscottjeans @oh-you-mean-me @wallacewillow0773638 @icefrye19 @thescottpack @fiction-fanfic-reader @crazymusicgirl104 @r-3dlips @strangersunghoon @just-pure-trash @ethereal-athalia @missyviolet123 @callsignwidow @xunquish-blog @tabathastan @weepingfashionwritingplaid @answer-the-sirens @silverlightsaber

[ezolenta]

So here's Obito.

Kakashi.

Read more info ⬇️

Obito is a half-elf who lived with his family for two decades, helping them. I imagine it as a small village with friendly people. Happy childhood with his parents . Average cottage life, a small sheep herd, garden and a bunch of pumpkins.

His parents ran away so they can be together. (I like half-Senju! Obito too much). Senju is a human clan and Uchiha are elves who hate each other. Boom. Drama.

One night, there was an attack on the village. It was Uchiha, a young elf, and Warlock. He killed Obito's parents (Itachi is a different story, and it's very raw, so bear with me). Obito manages to survive. He found refuge in the form of an old elf paladin who helped him. (Of course, it was Madara's setup)

He trained Obito. He became stronger and made an oath with God of Justice (Tyr if you wish, but I'm thinking do not mention any of the DnD canon names and Gods), so he became a Paladin of Devotion. He began to travel the world saving people and helping them.

But at one moment when he needed help the most, no one came to his aid. He began to contemplate the world and the gods. A moment in which an event occurs in direct opposition to Obito's oath and his God's domain. It's simple, but such a traumatic event can make one view the gods as selfish, callous, and inconsiderate of mortal affairs that do not affect themselves - which in turn leads to disillusionment with oath. As a result, he broke his oath because the gods did not like that he began to pry into their dark affairs. (Canonical hatred of the Shinobi system and rules dnd style and without Rin's sacrifice.)

I can imagine Obito becoming Oathbreaker because he wants to achieve justice but in his own, wrong way. He claims that God betrayed him. Obito is blinded by power and his hunger for it.

Obito returns to Madara and tells him about that. He is agitated by the disappearance of his power. Madara tells that he has to make a new pact to gain powers. Thus Obito was lured into making a pact with the goddess who now gives him power in exchange for his soul. Obito kills Madara. He's now an Oathbreaker Paladin and Warlock whose Patron is a moon Goddess herself. (I wanted it to be a Tharizdun, The Chained Mad God, but changed my opinion. Tho still sounds cool) So Obito was tricked into a pact.

Obito is traveling the world and destroying the Cults. He's 62 when he met Kakashi in the woods, running from an Owlbear. They fight together, but Obito gets hurt. They return to Kakashi's camp. A bit of talking and my writing.

"The gods betrayed me." Obito growled. "They betrayed us all. They claim to be benevolent, but all they care about is power, status, and their own selfish gains." Kakashi was surprised by the paladin's disdain for the gods. It wasn't often that he met someone who outright scorned the gods, especially a paladin. "I see," he said, continuing to tend to Obito's wounds. "You're quite the blasphemer."

So Kakashi is also trying to find a local cult. They decided to travel together. (There's a plot!)

Obito looked at Wizard with a steely gaze. "I no longer align myself with the gods, nor do I seek their favor. I have become an instrument of my own destiny, and I answer to no one but myself."

But Obito does not even suspect that Kakashi is looking for a cult not just to destroy it. But that's a story for another time.

Here's some stats and info for character sheet list in my head for nerds like me.

8 14 16 8 12 20 (STR, DEX, CON, INT, WIS, CHA) Level 14 8 Paladin 6 Warlock Oathbreaker (Aura of Hate, Control Undead, Dreadful Aspect) The Great Old One Pact (Mortal Remind) Pact of The Blade (Binded Weapon, CHA based)