#prisoner of the iron mask

[drawingquest21]

[callum-hunt-is-bisexual]

i explained to my best friend the entire plot of the magisterium series today and he insists call is a terrible person who needs to be locked up and that celia is the only sane character

[k-i-l-l-e-r-b-e-e-6-9]

L'Homme au Masque de Fer (The Man in the Iron Mask). Anonymous print (etching and mezzotint, hand-colored) from 1789

[death-rebirth-senshi]

Though he adopted the guise of a warrior from the badlands, it was rumored that the Tarnished had arrived from across the fog wearing a ghastly mask and tattered clothing, brandishing ancient Carian sorceries. Indeed, though he bellows and rages on the battlefield with abandon, he wields even enormous hunks of iron with a tell-tale refinement that hints towards a noble background.

[movieposters1]

[randomwriteronline]

for the metru i always thought it was partially a matter of "almost everything in this city is fucking protodermis so i cant do SHIT" and partially one of those classic im-still-a-matoran mindset brainfarts. like forgetting theyre toa sized and slamming head first into the top of the door. oh shit im underground without any digging tools, im doomed <- brain hasnt caught on the fact that it unlocked elemental bending yet

lhikan never using his mask is a good point tho. maybe he was so fucking tired and burnt out from everything that happened in the last (checks watch) abt 48 hours that he also just Forgot. which was Very Unfortunate since he could have avoided Death: Slorped Edition

Holy fuck, at NO POINT in Legends of Metru Nui to the Metru ever use Elemental Powers. At most, Nokama uses a bit to swim and Matau uses some to fly, but nothing else! It's all about mask powers, and yet Lhikan never makes use of his Hau.

"Toa mask powers are needed to escape here" BUDDY UOU HAVE A TOA OF EARTH. EARTHBEND THOSE WALLS

They're in PO-METRU, AND HAVE ONEWA TRAPPED. STONEBEND. PLEASE

[contact-guy]

“It was worth a wound–it was worth many wounds–”

- Sherlock Holmes, the Adventure of the Three Garridebs

Full text and individual pages under cut:

In an instant he had whisked out a revolver from his breast and had fired two shots. I felt a sudden hot sear as if a red-hot iron had been pressed to my thigh. There was a crash as Holmes’s pistol came down on the man’s head. I had a vision of him sprawling upon the floor with blood running down his face while Holmes rummaged him for weapons. Then my friend’s wiry arms were round me, and he was leading me to a chair.

“You’re not hurt, Watson? For God’s sake, say that you are not hurt!”

It was worth a wound–it was worth many wounds–to know the depth of loyalty and love which lay behind that cold mask. The clear, hard eyes were dimmed for a moment, and the firm lips were shaking. For the one and only time I caught a glimpse of a great heart as well as of a great brain. All my years of humble but single-minded service culminated in that moment of revelation.

“It’s nothing, Holmes. It’s a mere scratch.”

He had ripped up my trousers with his pocket-knife.

“You are right,” he cried with an immense sigh of relief. “It is quite superficial.” His face set like flint as he glared at our prisoner, who was sitting up with a dazed face. “By the Lord, it is as well for you. If you had killed Watson, you would not have got out of this room alive. Now, sir, what have you to say for yourself?”

[daydreamerdrew]

Iron Man (1968) #36

[baguettesandbows]

4

tw!! talk and show of pill addiction.

Do you want to be a part of the tag list? Add yourself to the doc!

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1-A756u-0PdmBkb7qv8wzsCYWRKwdeICoUvSlrfOYzW4/edit

You stared at the bag of pills Anna’s friend had given you.

Nightmares had started to haunt you. Worse than before Arkham. Your evidence, having not seen it physically in years, suddenly filled your mind at every turn.

Nightly, you’d throw up into a pail that they had given you. Obviously, seeing a nurse wasn’t an option in Arkham, especially with the low staff count. And you wouldn’t even try to meet with your new physiatrist.

You realized that after more of the guards were fired, breakouts happened more often. Of course, they were more on the lower levels. Villains that had already escaped before.

You didn’t attempt to break out because one, you were not strong enough. Whether that was the point or not, Arkhams food didn’t supply you a great deal of protein.

Two, because you didn’t know where you’d go. You couldn’t leave Gotham, not if Jason came back. But you also knew Bruce would find you instantly, so it wasn’t an option.

Plus, with the fear has supposedly breaking out in places, you didn’t want to be in the streets of Gotham exactly.

Fuck, where were you? Right, the pills.

You think you’ve gotten addicted. You cant sleep without them, cant go through Arkhams day without them, and you classify that as maybe addiction.

You’d have to get off of them before Jason comes back. If he knew..

You didn’t want to disappoint him the moment he steps back into Gotham.

A loud bang of metal on metal makes you grab your baggie and shove them in your sweatsuit. Anna had slid your door open, grinning ear to ear.

“Me and Steph are gettin’ out.” She said, showing her baton she had stolen, waving it around. “You comin?”

You shook your head. You had gotten invitations like this all week.

“I’m waiting for someone.” You mumble. Anna scrunches her nose and points the baton at you.

“No man is worth stayin’ here, Reader.” She says. Noticing you staying on your bed, she sighs and lowers the baton. “Thanks for the baked goods, neighbor.”

She’s off down the hallway before you can even look.

An explosion sounding noise wakes you up.

The ground thumped under you. Your bare feet could feel the vibrations of many footsteps. Suddenly, your pills look more and more appetizing.

You walk to your window, before looking for something to stand on. You quickly grab the bottom of your night table and pull it over to the window with a grunt.

You step up onto the nightstand, and balancing on it, you peer over the stone bricks and look through the metal bars.

Prisoners left and right are practically rushing out of Arkham. You assume a large hole had been blown in, since you don’t remember an exit being there.

In the middle of the rushing crowd of patients, you notice red wearing men directing them. Most of the patients don’t listen, but some follow the orders.

That’s when you see him.

The iron man. The metal man. Robotic man? No, Knight man.

Fuck, these pills were making you crazy.

All you could think of is Anna telling you something about the new villain in Gotham.

You peer closer, trying to get a better view, but the metal bars stop you from looking out too much.

Whoever the man was, clearly held power over the red wearing men. He directed them angrily, and if you weren’t drugged out of your mind, you’d question why he’s at Arkham.

Until the man, without warning- looks up at your window, his mask staring directly at you.

“What the fu-“

Your ass hits the floor as you fall backwards, having lost your balance by the man’s contact.

You scramble to your feet and quickly try to move the nightstand back in the spot, before climbing onto it and looking out the window again.

The man’s gone- yet the red wearing men are still adamantly ordering around the patients.

You sigh of relief, telling yourself the man didn’t actually see you staring directly at him. You get off the nightstand, shivering when you feel your feet touch the cold floor. You grab a baguette to arm yourself, and walk over to the door, sliding it open.

It was left unlocked the day before, when Anna had broken out it seems.

You scrunch your nose and slide it back closed, trying to lock it, when a much stronger hand rips the door open.

You practically stumble back from the strength, your arm sore from being pulled along with the door. You take a couple steps back before remembering what you were holding and aiming it at the doorway.

“Don’t- don’t come in! I have a weapon.. and.. i’m not afraid to lose it!”

Jeez, did you slur that much yesterday?

You wince when loud, incredibly loud footsteps walk in, and you close your eyes, bracing for impact- or for something.

“Jesus-“ A click, and a hissing is heard. A loud slam of metal against your floor makes you flinch, your body jolting at the noise and vibration. You open your eyes, ready to threaten the stranger-

“Jason?”

[reidrum]

good night moon | s.r

A/N: hi again ! this one is deeply self indulgent i fear but who cares i hope you like it as much as i do <3 ps let me know what kinda fics i should write next !!

cw: spencer reid x bau!reader, cm type violence, reader is afab but this only is referred to when mentioning reader is a daughter, sad thoughts, hurt/comfort, talks about nightmares, spencer just wants to take care you gdm it why won’t you let him

wc: 2.4k

_______________________________________________

trudging up the stairs of the bullpen, you tried your best to use whatever sense you had left to beeline to the kitchen to make another cup of coffee. thank god the bau had minimal reflective surfaces because you’re sure you look like the evil old lady from snow white. that was just, your opinion of course. to everyone else you looked fine.

fine was so subjective. what did these fuckers know about being fine? they weren’t the ones on the mission. they don’t know what you saw, how you did nothing, how you couldn’t do anything.

“FBI hands up!” you yell holding your gun and flashlight at the unsub. he’s holding the victim at knifepoint, a twelve year old girl who reminded you too much of yourself.

this unsub’s MO was kidnapping eldest daughters of families that had sons as well, because he believed the son should be the eldest child with the most responsibility and that the daughters were only there to create more babies. the team had deduced that he was the youngest child to an older sister who he felt had too much control over him, combined with his fascination with the perfect nuclear family, it slowly turned him into a sociopathic killer.

“come any closer and i’ll slit her throat!” the unsub bellowed, getting dangerously close to her carotid artery.

“you don’t wanna do that, man,” derek says behind you, “just put the knife down and we can talk.”

“there’s nothing left to talk anymore! i’m already going to prison. there’s no point.”

you called out the unsub’s name, “i know how you’re feeling, i have a younger brother too and he feels the same way you do sometimes. what your sister did to you was not okay, but not all sisters are like that. we just want to care for our family. let them have the chance to be the big sister you wished for.”

the unsub seemed to contemplate your words for a minute, then looks up at you with eyes devoid of any light, “then this one is dedicated to you, agent.” and he drags the knife across her neck leaving waterfalls of blood coming out.

you’re not really sure what happened next. a gun went off, presumably derek’s, to kill the unsub. and then it was you screaming as you rushed to the young girl to try and stop her bleeding, but it was no use. the cut was deep enough to nick that damn carotid and all you could do was hold her in her last moments.

“te- tell my family i love them, and that i’m sorry.” the young girl spurts out so softly you almost didn’t hear it.

“no sweet girl, don’t be sorry,” you say through hiccuped cries, “i’m sorry i couldn’t save you.”

the last thing you remember was feeling strong hands carrying you out of the building. you couldn’t hear much, the sound of your wails pretty much masked anything in a five mile radius. you could taste the iron lingering in your mouth from biting your lip too hard and desperately collecting the salty tears and sweat trickling down your face. at first you smelled smoke and dust, most likely from being in the cave where the unsub was. but as you were being dragged away from the crime scene you were influxxed with a musky scent, and a hint of vanilla with that fresh laundry smell. spencer. the last thing you see are his worried little brown eyes staring down at you before everything goes dark.

that was monday. it is now thursday. the case had wrapped up, the unsub was dead the families were notified and now you all were in the office doing your paperwork for the case.

and all of you were doing fine, right? everyone else had already coped and processed the case, already stepping back into their normal life routines. but you, you couldn’t have it that easy, but god you wish you did.

since that day, you’d been holing up in your apartment with all the lights turned on. you sat in your living room, eating a bowl of fruit loops and watching bluey, because listen it’s a great show and we should acknowledge it. you cry out loud seeing bluey care for her little sister bingo, and it brings you back to that dusty cave and the bloodied hands.

you could feel sleep creeping up on you, yet you subconsciously found a way to push bedtime by doing menial tasks like cleaning, extra long skincare, watching a movie. when you ran out of things to do, you entered your room and just stared at your bed. how were you supposed to admit to yourself that the horror isn’t in the movie you just watched where the creepy demons kill everyone, but it’s what is waiting for you behind closed eyelids.

so the only logical solution was to just, not sleep. you whipped out every trick in the book to stay awake for as long as you could— energy drinks, coffee, splashing cold water, anything so you wouldn’t have to reface your plagued memories.

spencer observed you from a distance. he watched as you got coffee a whopping three times before 10am, you picking at your skin, not to mention the bags growing under your eyes. it was then he formed a hypothesis, he was a scientist after all. that you simply were not sleeping because of the case. it was much less a hypothesis and more of a fact because he knew exactly what it was upon first sight of you, hell he invented the sleep avoidance look.

and as the inventor it meant he knew the feeling more intimately than he would like to admit. spencer knew what it felt like to be debilitated by the confines of your brain, holding onto shreds of memories you know are not worth remembering but have somehow marked their territory anyway. and everyone coped differently, for spencer he isolated himself for days and then threw himself into work. for you? well, that was the next part of spencer’s experiment.

spencer approaches you in the kitchen as you’re pouring your fourth cup before noon, “hi.”

“hi.”

“how are you? feels like we haven’t talked in a bit.”

“i’m good, sorry i’ve just been. busy.”

spencer frowned internally, he knew you weren’t doing a single thing but working at the office. “are you okay? do you want to talk about last week?”

you cut him off abruptly and start walking out, “i really have to finish these reports spence, talk to you later.”

spencer knew better, he should give you space to cope by yourself. you were an adult, you can take care of yourself. but you shouldn’t have to, he thinks. spencer still tells himself he knows better as he’s waiting on your doorstep that night, about to the rapp the door.

after a minute of no answer he knocks again this time calling your name through the door, “will you let me in please? i want to show you something.”

still nothing. he continues, “i know what you’re feeling, and i want to help, please.”

he almost gives up and turns around when he hears the turn of a lock and slight creek of the door opening to see you in all your beautiful glory.

now you, you were definitely a sight for sore eyes. avengers pj shorts with a baggy uni t shirt, hair flying in any direction, and a look that spencer could only describe as grief. but god if you weren’t the most beautiful human he’d seen in his life, he’d be lying.

you were coming up on day 3? or was it 4? of no sleep. it’s not like you were not sleeping at all you took little 30 minute naps each day, enough to get you some shut eye but not enough to make it your rem stage of sleep.

spencer speaks again, “can i come in?” you nod silently and open the door wider for him to step in. he removes his shoes and it’s then you notice a big ole tote bag he’s lugging to your living room.

“what’s in the bag?”

“ah, come sit. i brought magical things.” he smiles playfully.

you shuffle over to sit a seat’s cushion away from him and watch as he starts pulling item by item from his mary poppins bag.

candles, essential oils, books, but specifically romance novels with the silly cartoon covers that he swears aren’t real books but you argue with him until he concedes, melatonin gummies, pillow sleep spray, and one more item that he’s holding onto for what seems to be dramatic effect. you’re not amused.

“and the piece de resistance,” he presents the last item, and you look confused for a second, until you recognize the item in front of you and immediately start tearing up. in his hands is a grogu weighted stuffed animal that he holds out for you to take. “i know you’re not sleeping. it happened to me when, you know. i figured it would be helpful if you had someone who could empathize how you’re feeling. and because you’re my best friend and i care about you.”

your bottom lip trembles, and you feel the ice block you’ve kept yourself in this past week start to melt uncontrollably. “spence…” you breathe out so quietly. he did all this? for you? doctor spencer reid went out to the store, and bought a grogu stuffed animal for you to cuddle at night to ease your loneliness?

the concept of being taken care of was so foreign to you, as the eldest daughter in your family it was always you taking care of others and making sure everyone was okay. but rarely did anyone check on you, how you were holding up. and you had learned to cope by yourself, to handle the big emotions by yourself, but for once, someone was willing to take all that weight off your shoulders and let you breathe. and god, did it feel so cathartic you could burst out in sobs.

so you did.

“hey,” he says scooting closer to you so he can scoop you into his chest, “was that a lot? penelope said i’d probably overwhelm you but all of the things i brought are scientifically proven sleep additives-“

“no i just, that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.” you whimper.

spencer’s eyes soften, “you deserve it. what happened last week… was hard. i just wanted to help.”

“thank you,” he hears a muffled response and rubs his hands affectionately down your back, “damn, all this crying is making me so tired.”

“see! the magic of the poppins bag.” he chuckles. you laugh too. spencer thinks all the flowers in a mile radius just bloomed.

“it’s just,” you start out, nuzzling into his chest deeper, “the second i close my eyes and dream, i see her. and how i couldn’t save her. and how the others i couldn’t save either.” you feel your chest seizing up again.

“okay well hey, hey. you did what you were trained to do. any other agent in your position would’ve tried talking him down the way you did. and your personal story gave you an advantage that no one else would’ve had. statistically speaking, you were the best chance at getting through to him. yeah it didn’t work, but it wouldn’t be probability if it always worked,” he cradles your face in his big hands, “we’re all so proud of you, you know. rossi’s waiting for you to be back on your feet so he can host pasta night at his hou- sorry his mansion again.”

spencer looks down at you properly to your tear stained cheeks and brushes your hair back. he sees the pain and tiredness fighting behind your eyes and asks softly, “what do you need right now?”

“i’m tired.” you lament.

“then lets go sleep.”

“i can’t.”

“why not?”

“im scared.”

“well that’s why i brought the stuff silly goose,” he taps your nose, “come on, let’s go set it up.”

spencer brings all the sleep aids to your room and sets them up appropriately, even plugging in your sunrise lamp to help with the ambient lighting. the only thing left to do is for you to get into your bed.

you both stand on opposite sides of your bed, and he’s waiting for you to get in so can tuck you in. you hesitate and look up at him with the same worried eyes he saw all those days ago.

“could you stay for bit?”

“i can stay for some time if you want” you both speak at the same time. you giggle again, spencer thinks an angel got its wings.

thank god he wore sweats and a comfy t shirt he thinks. he slid in under the blanket and holds it open for you to come in, “come on, you’re missing the cuddle party with grogu and i!” you beam widely and finally sink into your bed.

spencer pulls you into his chest, wrapping an arm around your shoulder blade, and the other taking a spot on your hip rubbing soft circles. you lay your head to rest on his chest, right above his beating heart. you try to let the metronomic thumps lull you to sleep, but spencer can still feel your eyelashes fluttering about on his chest. he knows what you’re thinking, because of course he does.

“look at me,” he nudges you, you look up at his eyes again and see nothing but pure love and reassurance as he continues, “you are safe. nothing can hurt you. i promise.”

“are you sure?” you let out meekly,

“i’m sure. it’s okay, go to sleep,” he presses a gentle kiss to the crown of your forehead. “i’ll be here when you wake up.”

you shakily take a deep breath, and close your eyes.

after five minutes of spencer rubbing shapes into your back, he can finally hear the soft snores coming from below. he places another kiss on your head, whispers, “good night angel girl,” and doses off.

you wake up the next morning feeling so rested and relieved you can’t help but give spencer a big hug that wakes him up. spencer thinks he’d be the luckiest man in the universe if he could wake up like this everyday.

[flowerandblood]

The Price of Pride (19/?)

[ canon • Aemond x Royce • female ]

[ warnings: sex content, unprotected sex, targcest stuff, kind of role-play, smut, the angst, nightmares ]

[ description: Prince Aemond finds a solution to the disproportion in the number of dragons between Dragonstone and King's Landing: he decides to find dragon blood and, like his half-sister, train dragon riders. He takes as his target the daughter of Daemon Targaryen and Rhea Royce, whom he abducts and imprisons in the Red Keep. Slow burn, darkish, insolent, arrogant Aemond. I have combined several requests here: (dragon blood female & prisoner female). ]

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

Our son will have my eyes.

Helaena saw me holding him in my arms.

They will have a child.

This thought burned in his chest like fire – the knowledge that, though he did not know when, his male offspring, his first-born son, the heir to the Iron Throne would be born, brought him relief.

He felt a sense of pride at the thought – he, unlike his sister-whore, would have legitimate descendant from the righteous bed, from his wife, from Targaryen blood.

He tried to push away the thought that he would have to share his cousin with someone, focusing on the fact that there was a future for them together – he knew his hāedar was worried about whether she was fertile, and his sister's vision must surely have reassured and comforted her.

This information, her words, pleased him so much that his rage at what Daemon had done passed – he found it amusing that his uncle thought he would fall into his trap, leaving his wife and her dragon at his fingertips.

They spent that night together in one of the chambers – the wood in the hearth was so wet that the servants were unable to light a fire.

His wife walked around the room, restless, and stopped at last, looking up – he watched out of the corner of his eye as she slowly walked over to the dried herbs piled up over the windows, hung there for sure to mask the unpleasant smell of dampness.

"Hand me your dagger." She said, extending her arm to him, wrinkling her brow as if something about this sight disturbed her.

He rose from his chair, startled, and slid out of his scabbard the dagger with the head of Vhagar, turning it in his hand, handing her the hilt. She took it from his grip and cut the rope holding the flowers together, looking at them closely – she leaned over and sniffed them, as if pondering something.

"This is a blue holly. My nanny used to show me these herbs in the meadow. She said you musn't sniff them because their pollen makes you daydream." She said, throwing him an anxious look full of tension.

When they lifted their heads, they noticed dozens of bouquets of herbs tied one next to the other, as if someone had specially prepared them and hung them up so that they wouldn't draw anyone's attention.

"They were also in the corridor. And in the room where we spoke this morning," she muttered, "from a distance they look like lavender. I'm not surprised that people think this fortress is haunted – someone who is exposed to so many of them at once surely experiences hallucinations. Perhaps the bodies of servants and lords who have lived here for years have managed to accustom themselves and are no longer affected, but we, my husband, will not experience a peaceful sleep here."

"Guards!" He called out towards the door – one of the men stepped inside and bowed to him.

"Your Grace. My Lady."

"Get those fucking weeds off the ceiling and make sure they're gone from the whole fortress. Does anyone here practice herbalism? Any Maester?" He asked coolly, wondering if this was another part of the trap Daemon had set for them.

What else awaited them within these walls?

The man shook his head.

"There is no Maester in this fortress, Your Grace, but there is a woman they call a witch. Apparently she practises magic. She's in the dungeon with the other prisoners." The man said, and he nodded.

"Make sure she stays locked up. Tie her hands and gag her mouth. I will speak with her on the morrow." He ordered.

"No." His wife said. "I wish to do it, lēkia. Let me."

He pressed his lips together and nodded, telling the man wordlessly to leave the chamber, which he did after a moment.

He ran the tip of his tongue over his lower lip, trying to control his irritation and choose his words properly.

"Once again you undermine my words in the presence of others." He remarked dryly.

"She is going to try to seduce you." She said.

He chuckled and shook his head in disbelief, thinking that she had allowed herself to be driven by simple feminine jealousy.

"Don't be foolish." He replied.

"I would if I were her. She'll play with you, but she won't tell you anything. But maybe she'll confide in the other woman." She stated, making him regret his hasty assessment.

He remained silent, concluding that she was probably right, and he had no time for this – he needed to send word to his grandfather as soon as possible and communicate with him as to their further actions regarding Daemon.

He decided that he could leave this matter to her.

"Ser Criston will accompany you on this visit. I do not want this woman to cast a spell on the mother of my child." He said.

The night was chilly, and the lack of warmth that a fire lit in the hearth would have given them meant that although they had slept bare in the Red Keep, now they lay snuggled together – she dressed in a thick nightgown, he in a shirt and breeches, covered by several layers of furs.

"Stay close to me through the night." He whispered, not wanting her to get cold.

He kissed her forehead when she nodded and breathed a sigh, thanking the gods in his mind for bestowing upon him such an attentive, tender, devoted wife.

He realised that their marriage was successful.

He woke up feeling that she wanted to get up – he frowned in displeasure, putting his arm around her tighter, pulling her close again.

"– where are you going? –" He muttered, not opening his eyes, thinking, still sunk half asleep, that he was comfortable in that position and wanted to snuggle into her back again.

He heard her helpless sob, as if she was choking, her hands gripped his arms tightly, causing him pain – he hissed and raised himself up on his elbow, shaking her, terrified.

"– hāedar – hāedar, wake up –" He mumbled, seeing that she was whooping with her tears, her eyelids clenched, her eyebrows arched in horror and distress.

Her body shuddered and jerked up as she suddenly opened her eyes – she looked at him, but it seemed to him that she didn't recognise him, because she started screaming before throwing herself around his neck.

"– lēkia! – lēkia, oh gods –" She whimpered, digging her fingers into his back, snuggling into him as tightly as if she wanted to melt into him – he embraced her close and pressed her to him, kissing her temple, rocking her like a small child, trying to soothe her.

"– easy – you are safe – your husband is by your side –" He whispered in pain.

She took a breath and cried out loud with some kind of relief.

"– breath, sweet girl – breath –" He repeated quietly, again and again placing tender, warm kisses on her forehead.

"– I dreamt I woke up and you weren't here – I could hear only the sound of the water, all around me complete darkness –" She whined, and he nodded.

Subconsciously she was afraid that he might really leave her.

That he would have fled to King's Landing like a coward, abandoning her.

"– it was just a bad dream, hāedar – nothing more –" He assured her, but instead of calming down she moaned loudly on the verge of hysteria, wiping her cheeks, all red from tears.

"– and then your cold hand grabbed me, as if – as if you were drowning – I tried to pull you out, but you were too heavy – and then you let me go –" She choked out with difficulty in a breaking voice.

He took her hair from her face and settled down so that he could look at her, stroking her head.

"Hāedar. We still live in fear of what the future will bring. I too am haunted by grim thoughts, visions of how you could perish trying to protect me in the sky." He whispered hesitantly, and she took a loud breath, as if gathering her courage, as if she wanted to say something more.

"– Helaena – then, when you walked into my chamber – she said she could only see me and the child, but you were not with us – she said she could only hear the sound of the water –" She mumbled and burst out crying again, louder this time, covering her mouth with her hand, as if the words spoken aloud scared her even more.

He froze, looking at her in disbelief, feeling his heart pounding like mad – her words filled him with a cold, unpleasant discomfort, but on the other hand, it was such a general description that it could mean anything.

He could have been close to the sea, in Dragonstone, to strike the final blow against Rhaenyra and secure their descendant's inheritance.

He could have been patrolling King's Landing while his wife looked after their child to keep them safe.

Helaena's words stuck in her head, and the situation they found themselves in compounded her fear, he consoled himself with an effort, trying to grasp onto his sanity.

It meant nothing.

"You said yourself how these herbs affect us. After all, we were around them for hours before you noticed them. It's certainly their fault and what you found out. Your heart is suffering." He whispered, tentatively slipping his large hand under the material of her nightgown, placing it where he could feel a gentle, quick pounding.

She sighed and looked up at him, placing her hand over his, as if something in his touch, his gaze, his caring tenderness and his soothing, calm voice brought her relief.

He kissed her – it was a slow, gentle, moist caress, her mouth wonderfully warm under his – he heard her purr of delight, felt her lips part before his, allowing his slick tongue to slide lazily between her teeth.

"– mmm –" She murmured – he grinned when he felt her spread her legs in front of him in some involuntary, natural reflex of trust.

He thought he loved the way her body reacted to his touch as his hand from her cheek slid down her neck lower, to her full breasts, and then further down to her stomach before finally reaching the warmth between her thighs.

She sighed and clasped her hands in his hair as his fingers collected the moisture that had managed to spill out of her, circling around her little pearl – he felt her body quiver with pleasure, her breath heavy and raspy, the tips of her fingers digging into his back.

"– lēkia –" She gasped, throwing her head back, rolling her hips in rhythm with his gentle caresses. He felt his erection swell painfully in his breeches at this sight, pushing against her thigh, his heart pounding like mad in his chest.

"– I'm with you – alive and warm – hard – can't you feel it? –" He whispered in a trembling voice – he heard her moan softly, nodding, rubbing her hip against his long manhood.

"– I feel it – I need you –" She muttered like a small child.

He did not let her wait – he lay down between her legs, spreading the material of his trousers to the sides, releasing his throbbing length. He teased her for a moment, running the tip of it over her hot, leaking slit, looking down at her, raised on his hands.

"– please –" She urged him, desperate and impatient – a low, long grunt of pleasure escaped their lips as he pushed against her flesh, slowly forcing his way into her plump, moist interior.

"– yes –" She whispered, and he kissed her, pressing his thirsty lips against hers in a soft, passionate caress, filling her to the brim with himself.

They sighed as he began rocking his hips back and forth, with lazy, slow thrusts building the tension in their veins – their breaths became heavy and loud, their bodies pounding against each other rhythmically with the sticky smacks of their exposed skin.

"– if I were a courtesan – would you choose me over the others? –" She asked suddenly, startling him completely – he involuntarily chuckled, stopping moving, looking at her in disbelief.

"– what kind of question is it? –" He exhaled, looking her straight in the eyes, seeing even in the darkness that she was red with embarrassment and probably regretted that those words had left her mouth.

"– would you have thought I was beautiful? –" She whispered, stroking his cheeks with her smooth, small fingers.

He snorted and shook his head, grinning under his breath, wondering what he should answer, feeling his manhood throb hard inside her at the thought.

Instead of Madam, she, a young girl lying on sheets soaked in perfume to mask the smell of the other couples before them. She would be dressed in a robe of fine, expensive material, meant for his eyes – for the Prince. She would be freshly bathed, her long, dark curls would be arranged in waves around her head, her doe eyes looking at him full of curiosity and confidence.

"– I would certainly delight in the spirit of your beauty – but I would not choose you –" He said at last.

He saw that his words caused her pain – her lips tightened and then opened in an anxious breath, her eyebrows arched in an expression of sadness and disappointment.

"– why? –" She asked regretfully.

He sighed, with a soft, gentle thrust of his hips pushing his erection into her heat, wanting to feel her with all of himself – he leaned over her so that the tips of their noses almost touched, his thumb running over her silky cheek.

"– the fear of your judgement of me would not allow me to experience the pleasure of the act –" He confessed at last, placing a tender, lingering kiss on her jaw.

He heard her swallow hard, her hands stroking his shoulders as if she imagined it was really happening, and she tried to comfort him.

"– after all, you know that I would never mock you – that I would never hurt you –" She whispered, and he closed his eyes.

"– I wouldn't have known it then – would I? –" He asked, feeling that he couldn't last any longer – he slid out of her halfway and slammed hard into her, then again and again, making their hips bump against each other.

"– ah –" She cried out, throwing her head back, crossing her legs over his back – he gripped her buttocks in his hands, surrendering completely to his masculine, primal desire to take a woman, panting loudly along with her.

"– I would desire you from afar – I would imagine myself taking you while another lay beneath me –" He gasped out, feeling that for some reason this thought and these words aroused him even more – his erection was so hard that it almost caused him pain, the tension in his lower abdomen unbearable.

"– I'd watch you from afar – I'd beg in my mind for at least one word, one look of yours –" She mewled beneath him – he grunted out loud in pleasure feeling how hard her slick walls began to pulsate around his length, clearly as close to peak as he was.

Their bodies snuggled into each other, their fingers tightened on their hot, bare skin as he pressed her against the bed, the frame of which began to creak beneath them.

"– please, my Prince – take me, take me, take me –" She begged, and he sank into their fantasy, imagining that he had done it, that he had finally taken the one he wanted and no other.

"– mmm – fuck – g-gods –" He exhaled, panting heavily and closed his eye, feeling a sudden, wonderful relief when his warm seed filled her womb – her sweet, surprised moan of pleasure and the greedy, drawn-out squeezes of her spasming cunt told him that his lover had come as quickly as he had.

He collapsed on top of her, trying to calm the rapid beating of his heart, cuddling his face into her cheek – they were embracing each other loosely, like a couple of strangers who had just fucked each other.

He opened his eye and swallowed hard, noticing a familiar pretty face, a face he had been looking at for several moons now.

His hand stroked her hot, sweaty cheek as she looked up at him and smiled in a way that only she could.

He wasn't sure what had just happened between them, but he enjoyed it.

He didn't know, however, if he should admit it, so he kept a safe silence.

"If you paid me for every fulfillment of yours that I was the cause of, I would be the richest courtesan in Westeros." She said lightly, amused, her voice filled with innocent sweetness.

He involuntarily huffed and shook his head.

"To your misfortune, you are my wife and must perform this duty deprived of my golden coins." He scoffed, clenching his fingers in her hair – she murmured when his thumb ran over her lower lip.

"Open." He ordered, and she obediently followed his command – as his finger slid deep between her teeth, she closed her eyes and began to suck.

He gasped when he felt her slick tongue swirl around the tip of his thumb, exactly as she did with the pink, delicate head of his long cock when she satisfied him with her mouth.

"– you would make a perfect whore – I would take you to the Red Keep as my servant and fuck you every night –" He hummed – she purred like a kitten, looking up at him softly, his finger slipping out from between her puffy lips with a loud, sticky plop.

"– your mother and wife would be delighted –" She exhaled – he closed her mouth with his own, not wanting her to blaspheme any more and gripped her hips in his hands again, repeating everything from the beginning.

He was awakened by the sound of rain outside the window – when he opened his eyelid, he saw that although the sun had certainly risen, everything around him was grey because of the clouds that stretched across the sky.

He sighed quietly, feeling a strange kind of discomfort, though he didn't know for what reason – he blinked, looking down to see that their bodies were still joined, despite the fact that his manhood deep inside her was completely soft now.

He was warm and comfortable – snuggled into her back, sunken into her, embracing her at the waist, he felt comforted.

He tried to recall his dream – in it, he was in a brothel again, however, he had not taken Sylvi, but some other girl – he then spoke to her about taking her to the Red Keep.

What had occurred to him to think of such things?

He swallowed hard, assuring himself that it meant nothing – he leaned over to look at Floris's face, but although the colour of her hair was similar, her face looked completely different.

He closed his eye, feeling his mind finally completely awake, and sighed loudly in wonderful relief, realising that he had not married Lord Baratheon's daughter, or been to a brothel, or taken anyone to the Red Keep.

He was in Harrenhal with his cousin.

He felt that he was suddenly in the perfect mood and clung to her like a small child, burying his face in her shoulder.

She purred contentedly, stroking his skin with her hands, continuing to sleep.

His wife was his mistress.

Before they ate anything in the morning, one of the servants tasted everything they had been served.

"You may leave." He said at last, and the boy nodded.

"Your Grace. My Lady."

He sighed, reaching for the bread, thinking in the back of his mind that their meal was meagre, but they could not eat like kings, forcing his soldiers to starve.

He ordered that the portion of food meant for him and his wife be distributed equally among his army so that their supplies would last longer.

"I will speak with the Witch of Harrenhal today." She communicated to him while eating bread with a piece of smoked sausage.

"I don't like this." He replied.

"Criston Cole will be with me."

"What if she tries to put a…curse on you?" He asked uncertainly, feeling how silly and naïve those words sounded.

And yet, dragons were an effect of magic, so it wasn't impossible.

"She won't. I won't give her a reason to do it." She said lightly, rising from her chair, wiping her hands in a white cloth.

"I'll return to you as soon as I've finished." She assured him – she walked over to him and leaned in, placing a lingering, warm kiss on the top of his head.

His hand grasped hers before she cast him a reassuring, calm look and turned away, disappearing after a moment behind the door, where Ser Criston was already waiting for her.

He sighed heavily and tilted his head back, closing his eye, feeling anxious.

The silence before the storm.

He waited patiently for her, meanwhile in his letter informing his grandfather of what had happened and of his decisions.

Daemon returned to Dragonstone, stripping Harrenhal of its supplies beforehand. He made a mockery of us, but I will not leave the fortress unprotected. Send us food as soon as possible and convince Helaena to be on guard, ready for enemy attack at any moment. Prepare for a possible siege. I will try, together with my wife, to draw the Lords of the Riverlands and the Vale to our side. Aemond

He was sure she was the one who had walked into his chamber when the door opened suddenly.

"Your Grace. Word from Dragonstone has arrived."

He froze, looking at his servant in disbelief, feeling a drop of cold sweat on his back, his heart pounding hard in his chest. He nodded and held out his hand to him – the boy walked up to him and handed him a small, rolled piece of parchment.

"You may leave." He said coldly, and the boy bowed to him and left without another word.

He bit his lower lip, knowing that whatever he read inside, it would not be good news.

Would Rhaenyra tell him that she had just burned King's Landing?

That she is sitting on the Iron Throne?

That his mother, his sister, his grandfather are dead?

He unrolled the parchment and swallowed hard, seeing that only two sentences was written on it.

The Gods Eye, tonight. Face me like a true man, nephew.

[drawingquest21]

[cherrycranes]

Under His Desk (Judge Jonathan Crane x Fem!Reader) [+18]

Pairing: Judge Jonathan Crane x female reader. Summary: Your husband is Judge Crane and you get under his desk while he's working. Word count: 1,159 Contents: +18 (minors DNI), oral sex (male receiving), public (but you're hidden under the desk), death of a made-up character. Autor's notes: As you can tell, I have on obsession with Judge Crane that is not meant to stop. Mandatory "english is not my first language" disclaimer.

Things went in interesting directions after Bane took over Gotham. And your villainous husband Jonathan, seizing the opportunity, decided to get more... Theatrical... Because of it. A side of him you never imagined he had.

It all started with his suits. Seeing the pointlessness of proper presentation in the anarchy, Jonathan got creative. Tearing at the shoulders of his suit so the messed up threads resembled the hay popping out of a scarecrow. He also stopped ironing his shirts, no real scarecrow had wrinkle-free clothes.

Then, he allowed his now grayish stubble to grow. Something inconceivable to the younger, perfectly polished Doctor Crane.

But 'Doctor Crane' was a thing of the past. Your husband had stopped practicing psychiatry a long time ago anyways. You were both full time criminals, going in and out of Arkham or prison semi-regularly until Bane took over and the changes began.

The man you had married and stuck with through thick and thin had metamorphosed into a dramatical representation of his moniker: unpolished, shamelessly torn at the seams and scary.

It's not like he was going to get judged for it. In fact, he was the one doing the judging.

Bane appreciated the Scarecrow. He was a self-declared admirer of his fear toxin. Thus, he pretty much gave him free will over a kangaroo court set to sentence the enemies of the people of Gotham.

This is where you now found yourself at. Jonathan put you in charge of collecting all the information available of the accused parties, specifically anything incriminating. You were his most trusted advisor, and, in a way, you were the one to decide if the person investigated was worthy of a death sentence. If they hadn't done anything that could really anger the people of Gotham or Bane, your word was enough to earn them a lighter sentence. Although, this rarely happened. Every day they always brought scum after scum to the sentencing chair. And your husband always ended the hearing with a sentence of death or exile. Both deadly either way.

Obviously, this only meant that after easily finding their crime and guilt, you had nothing else to do in the courtroom. And Jonathan didn't want you out there in the lawless land. So you lazed around. Sitting on his lap or on one of the many desks that formed his big mountain of judgment. Sometimes you read books or just watched the scene unfold. But some other times, when the hearings went on for long and you were restless, you would kneel under your husband's main desk and hear him struggle to keep his composure.

"NOW. Mister Smith. You have been accused of treason to the people of Gotham! How do you- ..." Jonathan paused, holding back a little sound at the feeling of your hands undoing his zipper and taking his cock out of his pants. He smirked after a quick recovery. You always caught him off guard when you did that but he was always eager.

"How do you plea, Mister Smith?" Jonathan repeated sternly, pretending that his beloved wife wasn't stroking his dick under his desk.

"Innocent! I'm innocent, sir! Please!" Mister Smith begged, completely unaware that his plea didn't matter at all. His fate was pre-decided, and Judge Crane was asking him just to toy with him and be an asshole.

The crowd present protested against Mister Smith's words, screaming insults at him and calling him a traitor. Jonathan slammed his gavel, commanding the room to be quiet, and masking the reaction he had when you licked the tip of his dick.

"ORDER!" He yelled, slamming the gavel one more time as you swirled your hot tongue around the head, your hand pumping the rest.

"Please, Sir. I haven't done anything! Please!" Mister Smith insisted, and Jonathan was glad he had, because it gave him an excuse to keep masking his growing pleasure by slamming the gavel a third time.

"Order, Mister Smith." Something in Jonathan's voice faltered ever so slightly. A 'don't-pay-attention-and-you-miss-it' sort of weakness produced by the feeling of your pretty mouth taking him in inch by inch.

Jonathan exhaled hotly. He pretended to adjust his glasses and read the case files. You, hidden under the desk, continued with your slow torture.

You had to be stealthy, being almost obvious was your husband's job. So in order to not gag around his length, you hummed. A low vibration concentrated in your throat that was always a killer for Jonathan and his sensitive cock.

"Mister... Tobias Smith..." Your head started to move, your humming never stopped. Judge Crane swallowed thickly and his nostrils flared in an expression that poor Mister Smith must have read as irritation towards him.

"You have been declared guilty of charges of high treason..." Just when he thought he had it under control, you started to hollow out your cheeks. The suction made his cock twitch.

"You have the choice here..." Judge Crane lied with a groan. The case files started to get wrinkly in his hands and you only got brutal. Sucking, humming, bobbing your head and moving your tongue as much as you could and as fast as you could get.

"Exile!... Or... Or death!" Jonathan stumbled upon his words and he quickly placed a hand over your hair, a silent sign for you to slow it down, to have mercy on him. But as he didn't have mercy on the man in front of him, you didn't have mercy on him.

The crowd, thankfully, yelled again. Clamoring for death or exile in a big entanglement of voices. If it were for Jonathan, he would leave them to quarrel so he could cum.

Your warm mouth felt so good around him, your humming sent him straight to heaven. The fact that you, his love, his wife, were always there to please him, to love him and make him feel worshiped, made his heart burst out of his chest and his balls tighten. You were always so good to him, he had a hard time not grabbing you, pushing you ass up over his desk and fucking you right there, for everyone to see and envy.

But he couldn't. Against his most primal desires, he had a Bane-given duty to fulfill... And a sentence to announce.

Nearing his orgasm and with his senses overwhelmed, Judge Crane slammed the gavel a final time.

"DEATH!" He growled, not even listening to the sentenced man's choice after all. His jaw trembled and his knuckles went pale from his iron grip on the handle. The commotion of the crowd that so eagerly obeyed his command, and the screams of Mister Smith served as the smoke screen he needed. The carnage took up all the attention. Nobody in that room even noticed Judge Crane leaning back on his chair with his head thrown back and his eyes shut. Thick hot ropes of cum went down your throat so easily, the only thing that made you flinch was the sound of a gunshot that ended Mister Smith's wails.

[novaursa]

A Lion's Folly (sins)

- Summary: A story where a lion falls for the eldest daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, you.

- Pairing: stark!reader/Jaime Lannister

- Note: Be aware of time jumps and how some events may not match the canon or its timeline.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: 1

- Next part: the brave

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

The cold bites harder now, even in the Riverlands. Autumn is creeping closer, and Jaime Lannister feels every inch of it in the damp, miserable confines of the Stark camp. He sits on the rough wooden bench of his prison tent, his armor stripped, his hands bound by iron chains that rattle with every movement. The once-golden lion is tarnished now, his pride battered by weeks of captivity.

But it isn’t the cold or the humiliation that gnaws at him the most.

It’s you.

The thought of you lingers, unbidden, no matter how hard he tries to banish it. You’ve haunted his dreams since Winterfell—the way you stood by Bran’s bedside, the sorrow etched into your face. He’d told himself that time and distance would fade those feelings, that the guilt and longing would wither away like a flame denied air. Instead, they’ve grown, consuming him from within.

And now, as he sits in the heart of his enemy’s camp, surrounded by wolves, he swears he saw you earlier. It was just a fleeting glimpse—someone passing by the edge of the campfires, wrapped in a heavy fur cloak—but his heart had leapt at the sight. His mind betrayed him, conjuring the image of your face beneath the hood. He told himself it couldn’t be you. You would be in Winterfell, or wherever the Starks had scattered in their grief. You wouldn’t be here, amidst soldiers and war.

Yet, he couldn’t shake the thought.

The tent flap rustles, and Jaime looks up to see Robb Stark stride in, Grey Wind at his side. The direwolf’s presence is a constant reminder of his vulnerability; the beast’s yellow eyes seem to pierce through him, a predator sizing up its prey.

“Kingslayer,” Robb greets coldly, his voice steady and sharp. He doesn’t sit, doesn’t offer even the pretense of civility. He stands tall, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, his youth masked by the steel resolve in his eyes.

Jaime leans back against the post, smirking despite himself. “Your Grace,” he replies, his tone mocking as he inclines his head slightly. “To what do I owe the honor?”

Robb ignores the jibe, his expression unyielding. “How many men does your father have? Where will he strike next?”

Jaime lets out a short, derisive laugh. “Straight to business, I see. I’d hoped for at least a proper interrogation—some chains, perhaps a few bruises.”

Robb doesn’t rise to the bait, his gaze steady. “I don’t need chains to make you talk, Lannister. The fact that you’re here, bound and defeated, is enough proof of that.”

Jaime’s smirk falters for a moment. He shifts, the chains rattling, before leaning forward slightly. “You’re wasting your time, boy. Do you think I’d betray my father? My family? You’re a Stark; you should know better than that.”

Robb steps closer, his jaw tightening. “You call yourself a knight, yet you killed your king. You’re no man of honor. You’re a coward hiding behind a lion’s shield.”

The words hit their mark, but Jaime doesn’t let it show. Instead, he tilts his head, studying Robb. “Honor’s overrated,” he says lightly, though the edge in his voice betrays his inner turmoil. “It won’t bring your father back, will it?”

The animosity in the air thickens, Grey Wind letting out a low growl at Jaime’s words. Robb’s hand grips the hilt of his sword tighter, his eyes flashing with anger.

“Careful, Lannister,” Robb warns, his voice a low growl of its own.

Jaime meets his gaze, unflinching, though his mind is already elsewhere. He debates for a moment whether to ask, whether it will make him seem weak, but the words slip out before he can stop them.

“I saw her,” he says quietly, his tone lacking the usual mockery.

Robb’s brows furrow. “Who?”

“Your sister,” Jaime replies, his voice tightening. “Y/N.”

The name feels foreign on his tongue, too precious for someone like him to speak aloud.

Robb stiffens, his blue eyes narrowing. “You dare speak her name?”

Jaime doesn’t back down. “Is she here?”

Robb doesn’t answer immediately, his silence speaking volumes. Jaime’s chest tightens, the faint flicker of hope igniting despite himself.

“I thought I saw her,” Jaime continues, his voice softer now, the chains clinking faintly as he shifts forward. “In the camp. Tell me—was it her?”

Robb’s expression hardens. “What business do you have with my sister?”

“None,” Jaime admits, though the lie is bitter in his mouth. “I just… wondered.”

Robb steps closer, his voice dropping. “You don’t have the right to wonder, Kingslayer. My sister is none of your concern. She stays far away from men like you.”

Jaime doesn’t flinch, though the words sting more than he cares to admit. He forces a smirk onto his face, leaning back against the post once more. “Good. She’s better off that way.”

Robb watches him for a long moment, as if searching for some hidden motive. Finally, he turns, calling Grey Wind to his side.

“You’ll rot in this cage, Lannister,” Robb says over his shoulder as he strides toward the tent’s entrance. “And when the time comes, you’ll answer for everything you’ve done.”

The tent flap falls closed behind him, leaving Jaime alone with his thoughts once more. He exhales slowly, the weight of the chains pressing into his wrists.

He tells himself it doesn’t matter if it was you or not. That he’s a fool for even caring.

But deep down, he knows the truth. Even in this cage, even in the shadow of death, his thoughts remain bound to you. A silent torment, far worse than the chains that bind him.

Jaime’s wrists ache from the constant pull of chains as he’s dragged along by Robb’s men. His boots sink into the damp earth with every step, the heavy mud clinging to him as if the North itself wants to swallow him whole. After weeks of captivity he feels more like a tethered dog than a lion, yanked along as the wolves move their camp to higher ground.

His head is lowered, his hair now dulled and dirtied, but a low growl makes him glance up. His heart stutters in his chest.

It’s him.

Winter, the pale direwolf, stands motionless at the edge of the camp, his silver-white coat shimmering in the faint sunlight. His icy blue eyes bore into him, unblinking, filled with a quiet menace. Jaime halts for a moment, his breath catching. He’d only seen him briefly at Winterfell, always at your side, a specter of your presence.

If Winter is here, then so are you.

As if summoned by his thoughts, a familiar figure emerges behind the wolf. His chest tightens at the sight of you—wrapped in a dark cloak, your hair loose, untouched by the grime of war that clings to everyone else. Your face is pale but calm, a stark contrast to the storm Jaime feels rising within himself.

And then Catelyn Stark appears.

She strides forward with purpose, her eyes blazing with fury as she spots him. You follow behind her, hesitant but present, and Jaime feels the weight of your gaze even if it doesn’t meet his directly.

The men dragging him stop as Lady Stark approaches, her voice sharp as the northern wind. “Hold him,” she orders, her tone brooking no argument. The guards immediately comply, gripping Jaime by the arms and halting his progress.

Catelyn steps closer, her jaw tight with barely-contained anger. “So,” she says, her voice low but seething, “this is where the Kingslayer finds himself. Dragged through the mud like the filth he is.”

Jaime lifts his head, forcing a smirk onto his face despite the anxiety coiling in his chest. “Lady Stark,” he greets, his tone mocking but hollow. “A pleasure, as always.”

Her hand twitches as if she’s tempted to strike him, but she holds back, her fury starting to resurfice. “You dare speak to me after all you’ve done?” she snaps. “After my son lies broken because of you?”

His smirk falters, the weight of her words settling over him like a shroud. He forces himself to hold her gaze, though his voice comes quieter this time. “I’ve already answered for that to your son. What more would you have me say?”

Catelyn takes another step forward, her expression hardening. “You could start by begging for your life, though even that wouldn’t be enough.”

Jaime shifts, the chains clinking faintly. “Begging doesn’t suit me. But if it would ease your grief, strike me down now.”

For a moment, her hand moves to her dagger, her knuckles white with tension. Jaime doesn’t flinch, meeting her glare with steady defiance. The silence between them stretches, thick and suffocating, until a soft voice breaks it.

“Mother.”

Your tone is quiet but firm, and it’s enough to make Catelyn pause. She turns her head slightly to look at you, her grip on her dagger loosening. Jaime’s eyes dart to you, his chest tightening as he takes in your expression—calm but guarded, your gaze flickering briefly to his before dropping away.

“He’s not worth it,” you say softly, though there’s an edge to your voice that Jaime doesn’t miss. “Let him rot in the cage he’s made for himself.”

The words cut deeper than any blade. Jaime swallows hard, forcing his expression into something unreadable. He should be grateful for your intervention, but your dismissal stings in a way he can’t quite explain.

Catelyn hesitates, her fury tempered by your presence. Finally, she exhales sharply, stepping back. “You’re right,” she says, though her voice is still tight with anger. “He isn’t worth it.”

She turns to the guards, her tone curt. “Take him away. Make sure he’s secure.”

The men nod, yanking Jaime forward once more. As he’s dragged past you, he risks a glance in your direction. You’re watching him now, your expression unreadable, though there’s a flicker of something in your eyes—disdain, perhaps, or pity.

He opens his mouth to speak, but no words come. What could he possibly say? That he thinks of you more than he should? That your wolf haunts his dreams as much as you do? That he still carries the weight of Bran’s fall, that the deed has begun to feel like a noose around his neck?

Instead, he says nothing, allowing himself to be pulled back into the camp, his chains rattling against the ground.

That night, as he sits alone in his makeshift cage, Jaime’s thoughts refuse to quiet. Your voice echoes in his mind, soft but cutting: Let him rot in the cage he’s made for himself.

And maybe you’re right.

He presses his hands to his face, the cool iron of the shackles biting into his skin. For all his arrogance, for all his bravado, Jaime Lannister feels the weight of his choices pressing down on him like never before.

And through it all, he can’t stop thinking about you. About the way you looked at him—not with fear, not with anger, but with something far worse. Indifference.

For the first time, Jaime wonders if the cage he’s trapped in isn’t one of iron and chains but one of his own making—woven from lies, guilt, and the ghosts of what might have been.

The week crawls by in the cold, damp cage Jaime Lannister has come to know as his new home. Each day feels heavier than the last, the chains at his wrists a constant reminder of how far he has fallen: a prisoner of war, kept alive for reasons he can only guess.

He leans back against the wooden post, his head tilted upward as he watches the stars through a small gap in the tent’s fabric. It’s one of the few comforts he has—staring at the sky and pretending, for a moment, that he isn’t shackled like an animal.

The sound of approaching footsteps pulls him from his thoughts. They’re too quiet to belong to one of Robb’s guards. Jaime sits up straighter, his senses sharpening as the tent flap is pulled aside.

Lady Catelyn Stark steps inside, her face set in grim determination. The flickering torchlight casts shadows across her features, making her look even more formidable than usual. Behind her stands a tall, broad-shouldered woman clad in armor—her presence impossible to miss. Jaime recognizes her instantly: Brienne of Tarth.

“Well, this is unexpected,” Jaime says, his voice dry as he sits forward, his chains clinking faintly. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this late-night visit, Lady Stark?”

Catelyn doesn’t respond immediately. She steps closer, her piercing blue eyes locking onto his. Brienne remains just inside the entrance, her hand resting on the hilt of her sword, watching him like a hawk.

“I’ve come to make a bargain,” Catelyn says finally, her tone low but firm.

Jaime raises an eyebrow, his smirk returning. “A bargain? How intriguing. And here I thought you only kept me alive so your son could parade me through the Riverlands like a prize stag.”

Catelyn’s lips tighten, but she doesn’t rise to his bait. Instead, she steps even closer, standing just out of his reach. “My daughters,” she says, her voice heavy with emotion. “Sansa and Arya. They’re in King’s Landing, held by your family.”

Jaime leans back slightly, his smirk faltering. “Ah, so this is about them. And here I thought you’d come to finally finish me off.”

“I’ll do what I must to protect my children,” Catelyn snaps, her voice cutting through the cold air. “Even if it means dealing with you.”

Jaime studies her for a moment, his gaze flicking to Brienne before returning to Catelyn. “And what exactly do you propose, my lady?”

Catelyn straightens, her expression hardening. “You will go to King’s Landing. Brienne will escort you there. In exchange, you will ensure the safe return of my daughters.”

For a moment, there is only silence. Then Jaime chuckles, the sound low and humorless. “You’re asking me to trust you? To believe that I’ll make it to King’s Landing in one piece with your she-knight as my escort?”

Brienne bristles at the insult, stepping forward, but Catelyn holds up a hand to stop her.

“I’m not asking,” Catelyn says coldly. “This is not a negotiation. I will not sit idly by while my daughters remain hostages to your family’s schemes. You’re going, Lannister—whether you like it or not.”

Jaime tilts his head, considering her words. “And what does your son, the King in the North, think of this… arrangement?”

Catelyn’s expression darkens. “Robb doesn’t know. And he won’t know.”

At that, Jaime’s smirk returns, though there’s a sharpness to it now. “Ah, so this is treason. How delightfully unexpected from the honorable Lady Stark.”

Catelyn steps closer, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “If you ever speak of this to anyone, I will have you hunted down and killed before you can utter a single word. Do you understand me, Lannister?”

Jaime meets her gaze, his smirk fading as the weight of her words sinks in. He can see the desperation in her eyes, the fierce determination of a mother willing to risk everything for her children. It’s a look he knows well—he’s seen it in Cersei’s eyes more times than he can count.

“Fine,” he says finally, his voice quieter now. “I’ll go. But don’t expect me to play the dutiful knight. I’m not doing this for you, Lady Stark.”

“I don’t care why you do it,” Catelyn replies sharply. She turns to Brienne, nodding. “Release him.”

Brienne steps forward, her movements deliberate as she unlocks the chains binding Jaime’s wrists. He rubs them absently, the cool air biting at the raw skin beneath.

“Be warned, Lannister,” Brienne says, her voice steady but firm. “If you so much as think of trying to escape, I will kill you.”

Jaime smirks, his gaze flicking to her. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it, my lady. I’ve heard you’re quite the swordswoman. It would be a shame to miss the opportunity to see that skill firsthand.”

Brienne doesn’t rise to his bait, stepping back as Catelyn moves toward the tent’s entrance. She glances back at Jaime, her expression unreadable.

“Pray that my daughters return safely,” she says quietly. “For your sake.”

With that, she leaves the tent, Brienne following close behind. Jaime watches them go, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts. The chains may be gone, but the weight of what lies ahead feels heavier than ever.

The night is dark, the moon hidden behind thick clouds as Jaime Lannister and Brienne of Tarth slip through the edges of the Stark camp. The cold air bites at Jaime’s skin, but he keeps his discomfort to himself, his smirk firmly in place despite the ache in his muscles. The rattling of his chains has been replaced by the quiet shuffle of his boots on the damp earth, a small mercy he’s too proud to admit he appreciates.

Brienne leads the way, her broad shoulders hunched and her hand never far from the hilt of her sword. Jaime follows reluctantly, his steps slower than hers as if dragging his feet might somehow delay the inevitable.

“You’re remarkably quiet, Ser Brienne,” Jaime says after a while, his tone light but laced with mockery. “I’d almost forgotten you could speak. Do the Maiden herself guide your steps in this noble act of treason?”

Brienne doesn’t respond, her jaw tightening as she presses forward.

“Come now,” Jaime continues, his smirk widening. “We’re far enough from the camp. Surely you can share a word or two with your prisoner. Or do you fear the wolves might overhear us?”

She glances back at him briefly, her blue eyes cold. “You’d do well to keep your voice down, Kingslayer.”

“Oh, I see,” Jaime drawls, feigning understanding. “You’re brooding, aren’t you? Thinking of how your honor is tarnished, sneaking me away like a thief in the night. Do you think your dear Lady Stark would weep for you if she knew the shame you bear?”

“I’m doing this for her daughters,” Brienne snaps, her voice low but fierce. “Not for you. Don’t mistake my duty and oath for anything else.”

Jaime chuckles softly, shaking his head. “Duty. Oath. Such a fine excuse for treachery.”

Before Brienne can respond, a low growl pierces the air, cutting through the darkness like a blade. Jaime freezes, his smirk slipping as he looks ahead.

From the shadows, Winter emerges, his pale fur gleaming faintly in the moonlight. The massive direwolf stands rigid, his icy blue eyes locked on Jaime with unmistakable menace. Behind him, a figure steps into view, cloaked and armed—a bow drawn and an arrow pointed directly at Jaime’s chest.

It’s you.

Jaime’s heart stutters in his chest, though he forces his expression to remain neutral. The sight of you, standing there with unwavering determination, is both captivating and terrifying.

“What are you doing, Brienne?” you ask, your voice calm but firm, cutting through the air like a northern wind. Your gaze flicks briefly to Jaime before returning to the woman beside him.

Brienne hesitates, her hand instinctively moving to her sword. “Lady Y/N… this isn’t what it looks like.”

“Oh, it looks exactly as it is,” you say coldly, your bow steady. “You’re sneaking him out of the camp. You’re committing treason against Robb.”

Brienne’s jaw tightens, but she doesn’t back down. “I’m following Lady Stark’s orders. She believes this man’s life can buy the safe return of your sisters.”

For a moment, the silence is deafening. Jaime shifts slightly, opening his mouth to speak, but Winter’s growl deepens, silencing him instantly.

“Stay silent,” you say sharply, your eyes locking onto his. The force of your words, the raw authority in your tone, sends a shiver down his spine.

Jaime swallows hard, his usual bravado slipping as he watches the scene unfold. Brienne steps forward slightly, her hands raised in a gesture of peace.

“I understand your loyalty to your brother,” Brienne says carefully. “But this is about Sansa and Arya. Lady Stark gave me her trust, and I intend to fulfill her wishes. Let me pass.”

You don’t lower your bow, your gaze unwavering. “And if you fail? If this man escapes? What then? Do you think Robb will forgive you for putting his sisters’ lives in the hands of a Kingslayer?”

“He won’t escape,” Brienne says firmly. “I’ll make sure of it.”

“You’ll make sure of nothing,” you reply, your voice hard. “You might trust him to play along, but I don’t. I won’t risk it.”

The words sting more than Jaime expects, though he knows you’re right. If given the chance, he would run. He would escape this madness and return to his family, to the war he knows how to fight. But something about your gaze, the sheer intensity of it, roots him in place.

“I’m going with you,” you say finally, lowering your bow but keeping the arrow nocked. “It’s a long way to the capital, and I won’t trust a prisoner like him in the hands of one person. If he tries to escape, I’ll be there to stop him.”

Brienne hesitates, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Lady Y/N, you can’t—”

“I can,” you interrupt, your tone leaving no room for argument. “And I will. If my sisters’ lives depend on this, then I’ll see it through myself.”

Jaime exhales softly, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. “A family reunion on the road. How quaint.”

Winter growls again, silencing him once more. You glance at him, your expression colder than the northern winds.

“You’ll speak when spoken to, Lannister,” you say, your voice sharp. “If you even think of trying to escape, I’ll put an arrow through your knee and let the wolves finish the rest.”

Jaime raises an eyebrow, his smirk returning faintly despite himself. “Charming.”

You don’t respond, turning to Brienne instead. “Lead the way. I’ll follow.”

Brienne hesitates for a moment longer before nodding, her expression grim. The three of you begin to move, the sound of boots crunching against the frozen ground breaking the silence. Winter pads silently at your side, his presence a constant reminder of the line Jaime dares not cross.

As they walk, Jaime glances at you from the corner of his eye, his thoughts a chaotic mess. You’re closer now than you’ve been in months, but the gulf between you feels wider than ever.

And yet, he can’t deny the spark of something he doesn’t fully understand—something that terrifies him more than chains or swords ever could.

The night air clings to Jaime’s skin as they travel under the faint light of the moon, their footsteps muffled by the soft crunch of the dirt road. The silence is oppressive, broken only by the occasional rustle of the trees and the steady padding of Winter, your ever-present shadow. Jaime walks between you and Brienne, his hands bound once more, though the chains are lighter than before.

He knows he should keep his mouth shut. Your warning earlier was clear enough, and Winter’s growls had been more than persuasive. But silence has never been Jaime’s strength, and the anxiety pressing down on him feels unbearable.

“So, Ser Brienne,” Jaime begins, his voice light, “how long have you been in Lady Stark’s service? Or are you simply a sword for hire with an impressive knack for loyalty?”

Brienne’s shoulders stiffen, but she doesn’t answer.

“Not much of a conversationalist, are you?” Jaime presses, smirking faintly. “I suppose that’s fitting for a lady knight. Though I must admit, your… femininity is rather understated. Do the men in Tarth prefer their women to be more—what’s the word—formidable?”

Brienne halts abruptly, turning to face him. Her glare is as cutting as any blade, but before she can speak, you cut her off.

“Enough,” you say suddenly. You don’t look at him, your eyes fixed ahead, but the authority in your tone leaves no room for argument. “Keep walking, Lannister. And keep your mouth shut.”

Jaime raises his bound hands slightly in mock surrender. “As you wish, my lady,” he replies, though the grin tugging at his lips suggests otherwise.

The group resumes their journey, the silence settling in again like an unwelcome guest. Jaime bites his tongue for a few minutes, but the words bubbling inside him refuse to stay contained. He’s not even sure why he does it—whether it’s the need to distract himself, the desire to provoke a reaction from you, or some desperate attempt to find absolution for the weight he carries.

“So, Lady Y/N,” he begins, his tone softer now but still laced with mockery, “do you often accompany prisoners on secret midnight journeys? Or is this a special occasion?”

You don’t respond, your gaze fixed ahead as Winter moves silently at your side.

“I suppose it’s for your sisters,” Jaime continues, his smirk faltering slightly. “A noble cause, to be sure. Though I wonder, do you trust her?” He gestures toward Brienne with a tilt of his head. “Or are you here to make sure she doesn’t fail?”

Still, you remain silent, your steps steady and deliberate.

“I must admit,” Jaime says, his voice growing more pensive, “it’s strange, isn’t it? Traveling with someone like me after everything that’s happened. I wonder—do you think of him? Your brother? Of what happened to him?”

At that, you stop. Jaime nearly stumbles to a halt behind you, his breath catching as you turn to face him. Your eyes, so cold and unreadable, burn into him now with an intensity that makes even the lion feel small.

“Do I think of my brother?” you repeat, your voice low and steady, though there’s an unmistakable edge to it. “Every single day, Lannister. I think of how he fell, of how he might never wake because of you.”

Jaime swallows hard, his smirk finally slipping entirely.

“And do you know what I think of you?” you continue, stepping closer, your voice cutting through the night like a blade. “I think of how pathetic you are. A man who threw a child from a window to cover up his sins. A man so desperate to hide what he is that he nearly destroyed my family to do it.”

Your words strike harder than any blow ever could, and for once, Jaime is left speechless.

“You disgust me,” you say coldly, your voice shaking slightly with restrained fury. “And if you speak again, I’ll make sure Winter tears out your tongue. Do you understand me?”

Jaime forces himself to nod, though the weight of your words presses down on him like a mountain.

“Good,” you say simply, turning away from him and resuming your pace.

Winter lingers for a moment, his icy blue eyes locked onto Jaime as if daring him to try something. Then the direwolf follows you, his steps silent and deliberate.

Jaime exhales shakily, his thoughts spiraling as he begins walking again. Your words echo in his mind, each one carving deeper into the guilt he’s tried so hard to bury. He doesn’t know why he provoked you, why he pushed you to the point of breaking. Perhaps it was to feel something—anything—other than the crushing weight of his own failures.

But now, as the silence stretches on and your words linger like a brand, Jaime wonders if he’ll ever be free of the choices that brought him here.

The small camp is quiet, save for the crackling of the fire Brienne has managed to coax to life. The days of travel have been grueling, and Jaime feels every ache in his body, though he’d never admit it aloud. He sits with his back against a tree, his hands still bound but resting in his lap, the chains digging faintly into his wrists. Brienne sits across from him, her eyes never leaving him for more than a moment.

The air smells of pine and damp earth, the kind of crispness that can only be found far from the corruption of cities. It would be almost peaceful if it weren’t for the weight of his own thoughts and the absence of you. You’d disappeared into the woods not long ago, your bow slung over your shoulder and Winter trotting at your side, leaving Jaime and Brienne behind to stew in the silence.

Jaime shifts slightly, his gaze flicking to the direction you’d gone, though the trees obscure any sign of you. He tells himself it’s simple curiosity, nothing more. Yet, even as he tries to convince himself, he knows it’s a lie. There’s something about you that pulls at him, an invisible tether he can’t sever no matter how much he tries.

“Stop it,” Brienne says abruptly, her voice cutting through the quiet like a blade.

Jaime turns to her, raising an eyebrow. “Stop what?”

“You know what,” she replies, her tone firm but not unkind. She leans forward slightly, her hands resting on her knees as the firelight flickers across her face. “Stop watching her.”

Jaime smirks faintly, though there’s no real humor in it. “Am I not allowed to look at the person who’s been kind enough to threaten me with death every few hours?”

Brienne’s expression hardens. “It’s not just a look. You’ve been watching her since we left the Stark camp. Whatever you’re thinking—whatever you’re feeling—stop it. She deserves better than someone like you.”

The words sting, though Jaime doesn’t let it show. He tilts his head, his smirk deepening slightly. “Oh, I see. You’re her protector now, are you? The honorable Lady Brienne, guardian of Northern virtue.”

“I’m protecting her from you,” Brienne says, her voice low but cutting. “I’ve seen men like you before, Kingslayer. You think you can charm your way into anyone’s favor, but it won’t work here. Not with her.”

Jaime’s smirk falters, and for a moment, the weight of her words settles over him. He exhales softly, leaning his head back against the tree trunk.

“She hates me,” he says after a long pause, his voice quieter now.

Brienne doesn’t respond immediately, her gaze steady as she studies him. “She has every reason to,” she says finally.

“I know,” Jaime replies, his tone almost bitter. He looks at the fire, the flickering flames reflecting in his eyes. “But I can’t seem to stop myself. Every time I look at her, I see… I don’t know what I see. Something I’ll never have. Something I don’t deserve.”

Brienne’s expression softens slightly, though her resolve doesn’t waver. “Then leave her alone,” she says firmly. “She’s already lost enough because of you. Don’t make it worse.”

Jaime chuckles dryly, though the sound lacks any real mirth. “As if I could. She barely acknowledges my existence unless it’s to remind me of what I’ve done.”

“Good,” Brienne says simply. “Maybe that’s the only way you’ll understand the weight of your actions.”

The silence stretches between them again, heavy with unspoken truths. Jaime shifts uncomfortably, his gaze dropping to his bound hands.

“She reminds me of someone,” he says suddenly, his voice so quiet it’s almost lost in the crackling of the fire.

Brienne raises an eyebrow but doesn’t interrupt.

“My sister,” Jaime continues, his tone distant. “Not in looks, of course. They couldn’t be more different. But in… strength. That fire in her eyes, the way she carries herself. It’s maddening, really. It makes me want to—”

“To what?” Brienne presses, her voice sharp.

Jaime shakes his head, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. “To believe I could be better. But we both know that’s not true.”

Brienne watches him for a moment, her expression unreadable. “You’re right,” she says finally. “You’re not better. Not yet.”

Jaime doesn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the fire as your footsteps approach from the trees. Winter trots ahead of you, his silver coat gleaming in the firelight as he pads over to sit beside you. You carry two rabbits in one hand, your bow slung over your shoulder, your face unreadable as you step into the clearing.

“Talking about me?” you ask, your voice calm but with a curious undertone.

“Nothing flattering, I assure you,” Jaime replies, his smirk returning faintly.

You glance at him briefly, your expression as cold as ever, before turning to Brienne. “Let’s get these rabbits cooking. We’ll need the strength for tomorrow.”

As you and Brienne begin preparing the meal, Jaime leans back against the tree again, his thoughts a tangled mess. He knows he should stop. Stop watching you, stop thinking about you, stop searching for something he’ll never find.

But as the firelight dances across your face, illuminating the resolve in your eyes, Jaime knows he’s already lost that battle.

[death-rebirth-senshi]

This is what Elden Ring is about actually

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