#red beach cobble

[decorative-stone-solutions]

Red Beach Pebble is the most expensive and rarest form of Mexican beach pebble. It’s a unique amalgamation of purple and burgundy cobble stones. That’s what makes the beach pebble a visual masterpiece. Owing to the rarity and high demand, red beach pebble is limited in availability.

[flowermist7432]

I had a dream I was sitting in the livingroom where Hero 108 had a live action movie (like one of those older live action ones obviously). and I remember distinctly that Apetruly was a mix between CGI + practical affects- and that Lin Chung was there fighting him due to being controlled by the Twin Masters.

Another distinct thing I remember was saying "He plays a good Lin Chung but I think he looks a lil' too young. Got a bit of a baby face going on y'know? maybe if they got someone a lil older."

[humanpurposes]

August

Part 1: Possibilities and Peace Offerings

Your family has been invited to spend August at Dragonstone, where things get a little tense after an unfortunate first encounter with Aemond Targaryen, one he's determined to put right.

Aemond Targaryen x Reader // Modern AU

Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist // Read on AO3

Warnings: 18+, nothing too bad here, eventual smut, slight enemies to lovers, mutual pining

Words: 7k

A/n: Summer romance is here!! hope you likeeee. This is going to be three parts in total.

The impending summer exists beyond time, beyond the rest of the world. Exams are over and you’ve already received a mark for your dissertation. The dorm room you called home for three years is packed up and returned to its prison-like appearance, just as it was when you were an eager and excitable fresher. Suddenly the world is an endless sea of possibilities and you’re standing on the water’s edge with nothing to lose.

You spend a few weeks with your friends, drinking in pub gardens and driving down to the rammed beaches along the coast near King’s Landing, but this summer of possibility takes an unexpected turn when your father receives an invitation to spend the month of August at Dragonstone, as a guest of Viserys Targaryen. Viserys and your father have been business partners for just under a decade, but to be welcomed into his inner circle, to the ancestral home of the Targaryen family, is another honour altogether. 

Your parents are beside themselves with excitement. You’re a little more sceptical but you won’t let them know it. So once your uni friends have gone back to their hometowns, you pack an array of swimsuits and summer dresses into a suitcase, and bundle into the backseat of your father’s car. 

The aircon is on full blast. You sip on the last of your water as an 80s playlist blares through your headphones to block out the conversation of investments, clients, lawsuits and legal fees from the front seats.

Dragonstone is three things; an island, a town, and a castle. You drive out of the city, red and grey buildings blurring into greenery and vast spaces of blue, the sky and the sea. A ferry takes you from the mainland to the island’s port. The song you were listening to fades away as you slip your headphones off your ears. The town is utterly charming, from the rows of fishing boats in the harbour to the cobbled streets and obscure little buildings, bookshops, bakeries and butchers. The sun shines brightly, heat pulses through the window even with the blast of cool air.

A few more miles and you reach a gatehouse, ancient stone walls smothered with ivy, guarded by two stone creatures with their jaws wide open— dragons with spikes and sharp teeth. The driveway is lined with thick trees and foliage. Suddenly you turn a corner and there it is, towers and turrets reaching up into the summer sky, hundreds of windows, more carvings of dragons looming proudly over where Blackwater Bay becomes the Narrow Sea. 

The man who greets you by the doors is not a Targaryen. He has dark hair, dark eyes, a crisp white shirt and a radio on his belt. Your father seems to know him already. He greets him as “Cole,” and introduces him to you and your mother.

Cole offers his hand to you. “Criston,” he insists, “I’m the head of Mr Targaryen’s security.”

Two identical butlers take your bags from the car while Criston shows you into the entrance hall. He comments on the antiques and the 14th century timbers, leading you through to the room he calls “the waiting chamber”. It has high ceilings, wood panelled walls, an enormous fireplace and aged but comfortable looking leather sofas at the edges of the room. You note the portraits on the walls, the more recent photographs on the mantle, but before you can get a proper look, someone announces their own arrival into the room.

Viserys Targaryen has his arms open, dressed far more casually than you’ve seen him at various galas and events, he even has a pair of aviators keeping his silver hair out of his face. He greets your father with a smile and a firm handshake, his eyes sharp but somewhat hollow. 

“Sorry for keeping you waiting,” he says, moving onto your mother and then to you. “We’re having drinks on the patio, enjoying the sun. Why don’t you join us?” He chuckles and you don’t really understand why. You’re not sure how any of this works.

Viserys leads you through the house, stopping by the great hall and the library, pointing out details like Criston did. His home is devoted to family and every furnishing carries some sentimental value. The curtains and the sofas in the library are Arryn blue for his first wife, the shelves are laden with books that belonged to his grandfather. There are items here which have belonged to the Targaryens for generations and their house’s sigil is carved into the walls and wooden beams. 

At last you come to a hall with tall windows, glass chandeliers and marble floors. Viserys calls this “the west gallery”, a more modern addition to the castle, built in the 17th century. He opens a double glass door and you can already see the sprawling green gardens, the unnatural blue of a swimming pool somewhere in the distance. Before all that is the raised patio, an array of chairs and the people sitting in them.

You step into the heat of the garden, into cigarette smoke and the sounds of laughter, loud and seemingly rehearsed. Your father knows most of these people, other associates of Targ Corp, Corlys Velaryon and his wife Rhaenys Tagraryen, Jason Lannister and his wife Joanna, Lyonel Strong and his son Larys. Even Otto Hightower is lounging back in his chair, sunglasses over his eyes, a pale pink cocktail in a crystal glass. 

Your parents smile graciously, your mother clutching her handbag over her shoulder, your father wiping the sweat from his brow, trying to air out the damp patches in his shirt. They’ll want to make a good impression. Each person staying at Dragonstone this summer is another opportunity for your father.

You glance down at your denim shorts and your sandals— an outfit for comfort, not for networking.

Viserys directs the three of you to a cushioned wooden bench and you squeeze in beside your mother. Another butler appears and offers you all a drink. Your parents both ask for a gin and tonic. You’re thinking that you’d like to dunk yourself in the pool, so you ask for a large glass of water. 

“With ice and lemon, miss?”

“Yeah, please, if you have it?”

Your mother nudges you with her elbow and whispers in your ear. “This is Dragonstone, if you want it they probably have it.”

“If I asked for the Prince of Pentos’ phone number, do you think they’d bring it out on a silver tray?” You return with a grin.

The minutes drag by. Lyonel Strong asks your father about his law practice. Corlys Velaryon and Jason Lannister enter a heated discussion about yachts. Otto Hightower mentions the name “Daemon” and the other voices go quiet. You take large gulps of your water, occasionally sharing silent looks with your mother.

The heat is sweltering. You feel your head pulsing, your skin becoming damp and you worry you may end up as a puddle on the patio if you don’t find a reason to escape soon.

The glass doors open and two women enter the garden, one with auburn hair, dressed in a floral dress and high heels. The other, younger, blonde hair cut into a fashionably short fringe, barefoot, dressed in denim shorts and baggy t-shirt, goes straight to Otto. She doesn’t look at anyone else. She stands behind Otto and leans down to wrap her arms around his neck. This must be Alicent Hightower and her daughter.

Alicent makes her rounds elegantly. She’s familiar with all the people present, except for the three of you, the outsiders, piled onto a single piece of garden furniture. Her eyes are wide and brown, her lips full and fallen slightly even when she smiles. She asks about the journey from King’s Landing, if you’ve had a chance to explore the town.

She asks you a lot of questions too, what you do, where you studied, what your plans are for the Autumn. And once she’s found out what she wants from you, she starts telling you everything about her children, unprompted.

“Helaena’s starting a PhD in a few weeks, staying in King’s Landing– King’s college, of course, not KLU, seven heavens. We didn’t want her to be too far away from home,” she says, looking back at her daughter and her father. “Etymology. Well, she’s always had a thing for insects, I could never understand it, but it’s easier to let her follow her interests, she’s that sort of girl.

“Now Aegon is like that too, he likes a lot of things, would be nice if he could be interested in something that makes him money. Oh well, he’s into the arts, fancies himself a photographer, directed a few plays at university– Oldtown. He wrote a screenplay, you must remind me to show you, it’s really quite clever. It’s about injustice or something like that.

“Daeron is at Oldtown too, at Citadel Boys. He’s the only child I sent to board, I just felt he might be happy with a bit of space from all of us. He wants to go to Oldtown like his brothers. His father wants him to do economics, but he’s very good at history.

“Aemond did history, but then he trained in accountancy. He’s worked all over, Oldtown, Storm’s End, Harrenhal, but he’s looking to stay in King’s Landing now–”

“Mum, you’ll bore her to tears,” Helaena says and it’s only now you notice that she’s moved to stand in front of you. 

Alicent frowns.

You stifle a smile and raise your brows hopefully.

“Do you know where you’re sleeping yet?” Helaena asks, looking at her mother.

“I’ve put her in the moat room,” Alicent says. She turns back to you, “I’m sorry, darling, you’re probably tired, aren’t you? Helaena can show you your room.”

You kiss your mother's cheek and agree to reconvene for dinner in the evening.

“Sorry about mum, she just jumps at the chance to talk about her kids,” Helaena says as you walk back through the west gallery.

“It’s sort of cute,” you say, staring up at the gold detailing on the ceiling. “Very informative.”

“Oh, you have no idea,” she says with a wicked smile.

When Helaena laughs she scrunches up her eyes and her nose. She sways her arms by her sides as she walks and trails her fingertips on the walls. Unlike Criston or Viserys, she doesn’t have little anecdotes about any of the vases or paintings on display. She’s a juxtaposition of her family’s ancestral home, airy and lighthearted, earthy and inexplicably real.

“Your parents are probably in the west wing,” she explains as you come to a winding stairwell. “That’s where everyone else will be too. The moat room is on the other side of the house.”

You nod along, stealing glances out the windows, at the gardens, and from higher up, you can see the sea.

“Don’t be too disheartened though,” Helaena says, “that means you’re with us.”

She shows you your room first. It sits at the very corner of the castle with windows to the north and the east. The moat in question isn’t a moat, it’s more of a well kept ditch. By the rest of the house you were half expecting the room to be medieval, but to your surprise it’s bright, carpeted, sans priceless antiques and heirlooms. A queen-sized bed waits for you piled with pillows. 

“I’m down the hall, and the boys are in the next corridor,” Helaena explains. “If you smell something suspicious, it’s Aegon.”

She helps you unpack your suitcase, admiring your swimsuits and looking through the small collection of books you’ve brought to pass the time.

She shows you her room which is further down the corridor. It’s much larger than yours, far more personal. She has worn patterned rugs over the wooden floors, dark blue wallpaper and accents of gold everywhere, the mirror over her vanity, the handles on the drawers and the wardrobe. You’re most intrigued by the framed taxidermies on the walls, butterflies with the most beautiful wings you’ve ever seen, moths, beetles, even a scorpion.

You’re a little relieved when you see a cat curled up on her bed, with a thick white coat, brown ears. 

“Dreamfyre,” Helaena says, scooping the cat up in her arms. “She’s named after the Valryian god of prophecy and wisdom.”

You hold your hand out for Dreamfyre to sniff. She considers you for a moment, and runs her head against your fingers. “So can she tell me my future?” you ask.

Helaena stares at you. “Don’t be ridiculous, she’s a cat. Why, hoping for something in particular?”

“I like to see where life takes me,” you say.

After exchanging phone numbers and scrolling through each other’s Spotify playlists, Helaena tells you that she thinks the two of you are going to be friends.

Dinner is surprisingly more pleasant, where you all eat around a table on the patio. Being outside is far more bearable once the sun starts to set and a breeze sweeps in from the sea. You’re served white fish, potato salad coated in herbs which Alicent says she grows herself, summer vegetables, grilled courgettes, red and yellow peppers, sweet and tangy tomatoes, washed down with white wine.

You sit beside Helaena, opposite two of her brothers, Aegon and Daeron. Daeron is far taller than his older brother but his face is clearly younger. His pale blond hair is slightly overgrown, his nose a little pink and his skin freckled from being in the sun. “Aemond managed to beat me at tennis today,” he says.

Aegon rolls his eyes, far more concerned with scratching the ears of a golden labrador perched on the floor beside him.

You look to Helaena for an explanation.

“Daeron’s looking to go pro. Aemond can’t stand that he’s not the best at something.”

There’s an empty space at the head of the table, between Aegon and Helaena. You’ve yet to see any other evidence that the elusive middle brother exists.

“There’s a tennis court here?” You ask.

“Towards the water garden, you should be able to see it from the moat room.” Helaena says. “You should have a look.”

Dessert is pistachio ice-cream, then everyone starts to disperse. Aegon grabs a bottle of wine and he and Daeron traipse over to a firepit at the edge of the patio, followed by the labrador. Your parents follow Viserys and the others into the house. Corlys and Rhaenys linger at the table, staring up at the sky and taking long drags from their cigarettes.

You trail Helaena to a neatly kept kitchen. Some of the staff pass through, into a far larger back room with metal surfaces, where the real cooking is done. Criston sits at the kitchen island on a stool, eating a pasta salad from a glass bowl. Helaena pats his head as she passes him. He doesn’t seem surprised by it, perhaps it’s a common occurrence.

“Feel free to grab anything you want, by the way. There’s all sorts of snacks and stuff, and if you want more of something give Criston a shout,” Helaena says, picking out bags of chocolate buttons and sour sweets from a cupboard.

“That’s kind,” you say, twisting your fingers over each other in front of you. “I’m quite tired, I think I might just have a shower and go to bed.”

“Darling, it’s summer, you can do whatever you want,” Helaena says. “See you at breakfast, yeah?” She pulls you into a quick hug and disappears out into the garden.

Not wanting to linger when Criston’s phone starts to ring, you decide to brave it and find your way back to your bedroom. Aegon and Daeron seem like fun, maybe too much fun for tonight, you just need to sleep off the fatigue from the sun.

This place is far too big for you to feel settled just yet. It amazes you how everyone can navigate the castle so easily, it’s like a maze. Eventually you find your way back to the entrance hall. You think you might know the way to the east wing from here, but when you see the sky beyond the windows, lilac and orange, dotted with grey clouds and the first few stars of the evening, you want to make the most of the dying light. Maybe you could head towards the water garden and find the tennis court.

Your sandals crunch against the gravel which stretches out into paths leading in three directions. The central one leads to the driveway and the gatehouse. To the left is the gardens past the edge of the moat, and to the right is an outlook and a downhill path which disappears from sight, which you assume leads down to the sea. You can hear the waves in the distance.

The sunlight is fading fast. You cross your arms over yourself, shivering and regretting the lack of a cardigan. You tell yourself you might warm up with a bit of a walk.

You take a few paces down the path towards the gardens– a dog’s bark has your heart leaping out of your chest. It’s deep and loud, coming from behind you. Your head darts around. An enormous dog has emerged from the downhill path and is bounding towards you, covering ground quickly.

You keep your feet planted on the ground, out of fear

The dog, a great dane, stops before you— it truly is huge, its head would come up to your torso if you were close enough, and you don’t really want to find out– barking viciously. Its teeth flash, flecks of saliva dripping from its mouth.

“Back off! Come, Vhagar!”

You look back along the path. A man in a black t-shirt and black shorts is walking quickly towards you and the dog. He grabs it by its collar and yanks it back, fastening it on a leash.

His eyes dart up— eye, you realise. The right side is a bright blue, the left is clouded, framed by a scar slicing down from his brow to his cheek.

“Who are you?” He asks like an accusation.

You hesitate, your heart still racing in panic.

You say your first name, then your family name, at that the man tuts and raises himself to full height, keeping the great dane on a short leash. “Right. What are you doing out here?”

“Just… looking around.”

“Just looking around someone else’s house?”

Gods now you’re really starting to panic. He’s glaring at you as if it’s your fault his dog just made a break for you.

He huffs irritably through his nose. “Look, Vhagar’s not always friendly and especially not around strangers. Be careful, yeah?” 

Vhagar now seems content enough sitting by her owner’s side, wagging her tail and panting with her tongue out. Her grey coat is covered in sand, especially her paws and her nose.

“If your dog’s not always friendly why wasn’t she on a leash?” 

His face hardens. Frowning suits his sharp features and the intensity of his eye. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but this is my fucking house.”

That explains the blond hair, and you suppose now he has the same lanky look as Daeron and the same gauntness in his face as Aegon.

“Right, your dog could have just mauled me but thanks for the friendly reminder.” You turn towards the house and mutter loud enough for him to overhear, “prick.”

You can’t shake the frustration. Nothing takes the edge off, not the hot stream of water from the shower, the routine of your skincare or the feeling of sinking into an impossibly soft mattress. Dragonstone is perfect… and all you want to do is scream, just a little.

Breakfast is served in the morning room, next to the kitchen, according to the text you got from Helaena. You put a swimsuit on, a patterned one piece and pull on some shorts. Before you head downstairs you grab a pair of sunglasses, a bottle of suncream and a book, determined that your morning will be peaceful and idyllic.

People flitter into the morning room as they please. Helaena is still in her pyjamas, tucking into a bowl of yoghurt and fruit. Daeron comes in and starts eating toast off Alicent’s plate, having already run a casual 5k about the grounds.

The man from last night is hovering by a side table, placing sausages and bacon onto a small plate. He glances sideways at you as you enter. 

You keep your teeth pressed together as you reach for a plate and go for the platter of pastries, reaching for an almond croissant.

His elbow must be a few inches from yours. “Morning,” he mutters.

You were half expecting him to act like you don’t exist. “Morning,” you mumble back.

“Have you two already met?” Helaena asks loudly from the table.

“Briefly,” he says.

“And you didn’t actually tell me your name,” you say, adding some strawberries to your plate for good measure.

“The boy has no manners,” Daeron says in a mocking voice, earning him an exasperated chide from his mother. Helaena giggles to herself.

He faces you fully. “Aemond,” he says.

“Good for you,” you say, and go to take a seat beside Helaena.

“Tea or coffee?” she asks you, reaching towards the two silver pots in the middle of the table.

“Coffee, please.”

Helaena makes a shocked expression. “Blasphemy. I’m a tea girl.” 

As Helaena pours some coffee into a china cup, Aemond takes the free seat opposite you. Your heart races a little, infuriated at the sight of him, somewhat guilty that your time at Dragonstone has already soured and his entire family is there to see it.

You add just a dash of milk to your coffee. In the corner of your eye you see him watching you, fork hovering in front of his face. You muster the confidence to look up and he averts his eye.

After you’ve finished your breakfast you head out to the patio, down the stone steps and to the pool, settling on one of the lounge chairs. Helaena has gone back up to her room to change and bring you both down a towel.

You lather suncream on your limbs, face and neck, and open your book. This is a nice kind of heat, one that you’re more prepared for. You can almost feel it permeating your skin, breathing new life into your blood. 

You get a few moments of bliss until a silhouette appears beside you.

You raise your eyes from the page, over the edges of your sunglasses, staring ahead at the surface of the pool. You can smell a man’s aftershave, and you can tell he’s too tall to be Aegon.

Ice clinks against glass. He leans down to place something on the small table beside you. “Look, I think we got off on the wrong foot.”

You don’t want to turn your head, that might be misinterpreted as you actually caring.

But then Aemond’s voice takes on a lighter tone and he says, “Are you reading Crime and Punishment?” 

You scrunch your brows in bewilderment as you look up at him.

His eye moves between your face and the book in your lap

“Yeah,” you say, shifting your legs and drawing your knees closer to your torso, “I’m finding it a bit boring to be honest.”

His lips are parted ever so slightly and you can see the tips of his teeth. “It’s one of my favourite books.”

“I think that might explain a lot,” you say.

The corner of his mouth flickers like he might smile. He holds it back. 

“What’s this?” You ask, looking down at the glass of iced coffee he’s placed on the table. 

“A peace offering,” Aemond says. “I really am sorry about yesterday evening. I just… panicked. Vhagar isn’t always good around people she doesn’t trust. She bit my nephew once actually.”

“Oh, not good.”

“It was years ago, and to be fair to her—” he doesn’t finish that sentence. He presses his lips together. “I just thought I should apologise to you.”

Even when apologising he sounds smug.

“Thanks, I appreciate it,” you say.

He hums, it’s cryptic and it throws you off a little. He looks at you like he has a secret, like he’s managed to spot something that you haven’t. 

You feel aware of yourself and now you can’t breathe without doing it consciously. You feel beads of sweat forming at the back of your neck, the warmth of your own skin with your thighs pressed together, the pulse in your chest, the restless feeling in your stomach. You’re worried you might do something stupid, but how could you? You’re only sitting in a swimsuit and sunglasses, while Aemond is doing nothing to hide the fact that he’s looking at you– studying you with a hint of excitement in his eye.

And after about a minute of this he says, “enjoy your morning,” turning and strolling towards the patio. 

You clench your jaw, determined that you won’t look back at him, but you listen to his footsteps as they move away. 

With each line you read, you can only think of Aemond pouring over every word and making this book his bible. You imagine his hands holding the cover, his fingertip dragging over the page, his lips parted in concentration. It feels intrusive, it feels too involved. You couldn’t possibly put this book down now.

Aemond is an understated presence amongst his own family. He often lurks in the library or in a corner of the sitting room with a book. He wanders the gardens with his headphones on. He takes Vhagar down to the beach every evening and some nights you steal glances of them from a window at the front of the house. He gets these headaches, something to do with the scar over his eye, and when he does he likes to retreat to his room. When he is around for dinner he sits at the head of the table, opposite his father but miles away from him. He’s not a big talker but when he does have something to add to the conversation he commandeers it. Everyone stops to listen when he speaks.

You like watching him, the way he fiddles with anything within his reach, how he strokes his fingertips over his hands, the edge of his jaw. You look for his microexpressions, the twitches of his brow and the quirk of his lips when he finds something amusing, and how at the mentions of sensitive subjects or certain names, his eye widens. 

He smirks when he sees you looking, you don’t mind that he knows that you are.

You don’t want to seek him out, but you don’t try to avoid him either. He’s always somewhere in your periphery, his hand brushing against yours at the dinner table, the smell of his Marlboros wafting from the patio when you’re sitting by the pool which makes you wonder if he’s watching you. In the evenings after dinner, you and the Targaryen siblings hang around the firepit late into the night. Helaena and Daeron talk about constellations and roast marshmallows, Aegon plucks on a guitar, and you and Aemond fall into a game of pretending like you’re not looking at each other. 

Some nights you sit across from him, your view distorted by the heat and the flames. Other nights he dares to sit beside you, close enough that his leg will rest against yours. He keeps his voice soft until you’re leaning in closer to catch every word he says, this insufferable man who bings you a coffee every morning and asks you about the books you read.

One night Aemond is sat beside you. Helaena sings along to Aegon’s guitar, Daeron drums his fingers against his legs, gazing in wonder at his siblings because moments like this are a rarity for him.

“Do you forgive me yet?” Aemond asks, his arm draped along the back of the bench you sit on. Maybe he can read your mind because you’ve been silently begging for him to come closer… closer…

Your senses are hazy, the smoke of the fire, the scent of cigarettes and aftershave lingering on Aemond’s shirt, the glasses of wine you had with dinner, the clear, cold night air piercing the backs of your arms. He notices you shivering and slips his arm around your shoulders, slowly, so you have a chance to tell him to stop. His heat is white hot. Your chest feels hollow and weightless.

Everything about him is hypnotising, the curve of his mouth, his self-assuredness, the look in his eye that’s gentle and intense all at once.

Your body feels heavy; you should probably go to bed soon. “Do you care if I forgive you?”

He frowns, less disappointed, more intrigued and lifts his hand to brush your hair from your neck, fingertips grazing over your skin. Your body stiffens in his wake, like electricity coursing through your shoulders, down your spine.

“I’d hate to have it hanging over my head,” he mutters.

You turn your head and now your faces are inches apart. His nose twitches as he breathes, you notice.

His palm comes to rest on your bare thigh, below the hem of your shorts. In the corner of your eye you see heads of silver hair glancing across the firepit. Aegon chuckles. You’re content to let the distractions fade away. “Keep bringing me coffees and I’ll consider it.”

The next day you’re laying on your bed, enjoying the cool of the early evening against your damp skin and hair after a shower. How you can be so exhausted after a day of reading by the pool makes you despair a little. It’s the heat, it messes with your brain.

The music through your headphones is interrupted by a notification.

Helaena Targaryen: Aemond said he’s off to walk the dogs if you want to join him.

You frown at the screen. Did he want Helaena to ask you? You specifically?

Surprisingly, you were getting on rather well with Aemond today, not enough for him to text you himself, or ask for your number for that matter. At the very least, things have been less hostile since your first encounter. You saw him at breakfast and he asked you how you were getting on with Crime and Punishment, if you had finally realised that it’s the best piece of literature put to the world (his words). You said you were not convinced, only because it was fun to argue about it with him. While you were sitting by the pool he came down in a pair of black trunks and no shirt, swam twenty laps in twenty minutes, then dried off in the lounge chair next to yours. Later, while Helaena was sitting with you, he appeared from the kitchen with two bowls of strawberries with the stems cut off. And then at lunch he sat between Aegon and Daeron, and hardly looked at you.

Your thumbs hover over the keyboard, painfully conscious that Helaena will be able to see that you’re typing.

Helaena Targaryen: I think it’s part of him ‘making amends’ with you.

Helaena Targaryen: He probably still feels bad about it.

Helaena Targaryen: Loser.

You smile to yourself and type out your reply: Yeah, why not. Where does he want me?

While Helaena starts to type you quickly pull on some shorts and a clean t-shirt. Your phone dings while you’re in front of the mirror, dabbing concealer under your eyes.

Helaena Targaryen: Front door. Five mins. Have fun :) 

It will probably take you five minutes to find your way down to the entrance hall anyway. You finish your face off with some blush on the apples of your cheeks and a thin amount of mascara on your lashes. There’s not much you can do about your wet hair, but other than that you’re mostly satisfied with yourself, so you pull on a pair of trainers, slip your phone into your back pocket and hurry through the corridors of Dragonstone.

He’s waiting for you in the entrance hall by the door, Vhagar, the great dane on one leash, Sunfyre, the golden labrador on another. He gives you a half smile as you approach them.

“Who am I walking?” you say.

“My girl stays with me,” he says, offering you Sunfyre’s leash, which you take, ruffling his ears.

“Vhagar is your girl then, is she?” you ask as Aemond leads you out the door and down the front steps, past the spot where she scared you half to death. The dogs are eager to storm ahead but Aemond keeps Vhagar on a tight lead, so you do the same.

“I suppose. We’ve had great danes forever, my father’s very fond of them. We got Vhagar when I was sixteen and well, we just like each other a lot I guess.” 

“What about Sunfyre?”

“He’s Aegon’s really, but mostly he stays at the Keep with mum and dad. Aegon doesn’t really stay in the same place long enough.”

“Sounds exciting.”

“Yeah well, he does what he wants. This way,” Aemond says, nodding towards the downhill path to the beach. You’ve been down here with Helaena already, a winding gravel path lined with bushes and brambles down the cliff face. Vhagar plods along leisurely, Sunfyre can’t get down fast enough. When you stumble, Aemond steadies you, a large hand wrapped around your forearm. “He can run off now anyway,” he mutters, undoing the leash, and Sunfyre darts along the path in a golden flash.

Low in the sky, you see the sun dancing along the surface of the sea, waves rolling orange and blue into white foam as they meet the shore.

“What about you?”

Aemond looks at you with a brief look of bewilderment.

“Are you not doing what you want?”

He tries to conceal a frown, pouting his lips slightly. “Maybe I did for a bit, wound up working for Targ Corp, so I don’t see what difference any of it made.”

Once you reach the sand and Sunfyre is sniffing at some rocks along the base of the cliff, Aemond looks at you. “Are you alright if I take her off the leash?”

Vhagar looks pleadingly up at her owner, her tail thrumming against the ground.

“Yeah, of course,” you say.

“I just didn't know if you’d be comfortable after…”

“Oh,” you say, “thanks for considering it, but yes, it’s more than fine.”

Aemond grins as he undoes the clasp connecting the lead to Vhagar’s collar.

“What?” you ask.

“Does that mean you forgive me now?”

You fold your arms, your cheeks straining as you try to withhold the extent of your smile. “You do make a good coffee, I’ll give you that.”

Sunfyre and Vhagar entertain themselves, chasing each other, running to the edge of the water where the waves rush over the sand and retreat again. You and Aemond walk along the shore where the sand is damp and stable. Aemond says the tide will be coming in within the hour.

“So why work for Targ Corp if you don’t want to?” you ask him. 

Aemond contemplates this for a moment, making a low humming noise in his throat. “If I really didn’t want to, I wouldn't.”

“But if Aegon gets to do what he wants, why don’t you?”

He looks down at his shoes, white sneakers, and digs his hands into the pocket of his joggers. “I remember thinking when I finished my bachelor’s, there were lots of things I was good at.”

You make a teasing face.

“No, I just mean there’s lots of things I could have done. I thought about being a curator, or something, you know? I did my dissertation on that actually, how museums and exhibitions can distort the past as well as preserve it–” he interrupts himself with a short tut. “Sorry, I don’t need to bore you.”

Your eyes trail along the curve of his jaw and his chin in the fading light. The wind is gentle, whispering over the bare skin of your cheeks, your arms, your legs. The smell of sea salt lingers in your nose and on your tongue. “I’m not bored,” you say.

With a shy sort of smile he tells you more, how he used to spend hours in the museums in Oldtown, looking at exhibits on Dorne, Essos and Valyria, the papers he read, the cultural memory and the dissonance. “History and heritage, when you think about them, are inherently vague concepts,” he says, “because they’re all based on claims and narratives that are difficult to determine and if they are clear cut, they’re biased. So how do we find the truth? How do we know that what we’re claiming is the right story is actually accurate?” You find yourself watching the parts of him you usually do. He speaks with his hands, indicating and gesturing and moving them randomly when he’s trying to think of a word or explain himself. Occasionally he runs his fingers through his hair or rubs his chin. And his single eye is wide, looking up as he pieces together a thought, looking back to you so he knows you’re still listening. 

“But after all that, you went and trained to be an accountant?” you ask.

“You should have seen the look on my father’s face when I told him I wanted to do a masters in museum studies. So yeah, accounting it was.”

It makes you sad, but you don’t want to tell him that. The entire time you’ve been here you’ve never seen Aemond so animated, talking about something he seems to love.

“What about you? What are your big life plans?” he says.

“Anything but accounting.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, I bet.”

“I’ll do a masters eventually, but I want to work for a little bit. I’ll start applying for jobs when I’m home.”

“In King’s Landing?”

“Yeah.” You look back up at the dark stone of the cliff, the layers and straight lines, the tops of the castle’s turrets just visible from the shore. “Yeah, yeah I think there’s so much pressure to find something to do. I mean, I was trying to focus on my dissertation and my exams, and I kept having these weird moments where I’d think, what’s the point? I don’t have a job ready to go. I don’t have a place on a masters course. I don’t have any plans to travel or volunteer at an orphanage in Meereen. It was like there was a timer going off in my brain and if I didn’t make something of my life before my exams were over, well it was all going to be a waste.” Now you’re the one moving your hands mindlessly, and you don’t know why but saying it all out loud makes you nervous. “Sometimes I feel like I’m running out of time.”

You look back at Aemond and realise you’ve stopped walking. Somewhere along the beach the dogs bark and splash in the shallowest part of the water. Aemond is watching you. He still has his hands in his pockets, his lips curled into a vague smile. “You have plenty of time, don’t worry,” he says. 

It suddenly strikes you what Alicent had mentioned, about him moving back to King’s Landing.

Without stepping away from him you take a mental note of him, your eyes glancing up and down. You want to remember his silhouette, his posture and how he stands, the way he angles his chin, the way he likes to hold his hands behind his back, the joggers and the shape of his torso though his t-shirt. You think you could recognise him at a brief glance, a single body in a crowded city. You think you’d find him.

Aemond meets your eye and raises his brow. 

You smile slightly to fein innocent interest. “We’ll be neighbours, we might see each other wandering around the city.”

But you realise you’ve made a mistake. His amusement starts to fade from his face, his shoulders stiffening. He turns and puts his middle finger and thumb in his mouth to whistle the dogs. They both freeze and bound back towards you. “Tide will be coming in soon,” he says to you.

He has Vhagar and Sunfyre on their leads again. By the time you come back to the path on the cliff the sky is a dull shade of dark blue. The castle looms in darkness and the light comes from within, golden through all of its windows.

“I’m sorry if I was a bit of a downer,” you say.

“You’re fine,” Aemond says. Your steps sound in perfect time along the gravel, up to the front steps. Vhagar and Sunfyre huff and pant, pulling on their leads and eager for a rest.

You reach the door and Aemond opens it. Down the hall one of the butlers is waiting to take the dogs.

“It’s just, I thought we were getting on.”

“We are,” Aemond mutters. “Do you think we are?”

It’s hard to tell with Aemond. He’s polite when he needs to be, easily irritated around his siblings. He’s so calm and composed, but you can see it in his eye when he’s thinking– you just don’t know what. But then there are moments like this, when you think you’ve scratched the surface, when his gaze lingers on you and his eye is soft but intent. When he brings you a coffee in the morning, when he tells you about his favourite book and the things he wishes he’d done with his life.

You’re standing in the entrance hall. Dragonstone is alive, filled with people and distant sounds. Beyond the ancient walls the wind picks up and the tide is coming in. If you took one step closer to Aemond, your navel would be pressed against his.

“I want us to get on,” you say.

“Me too.”

“And I thought we were getting somewhere.”

“Maybe we are,” he says. “I liked this, you’re a good listener.”

“I don’t get that a lot.”

“Do you not?”

“Well I suppose it helps if the person speaking has something interesting to say.”

“Oh,” he says with a little nod, “I thought you were going to say you just liked me that much.”

“That helps too.”

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[insomniamamma]

Needles & Pins: Tattoo Artist! Ezra x F!reader w/Cee

A/n: written for @secretelephanttattoo's Secret Springs challenge! Thank you, Mayor El, for planting this seed. I am currently mulling over a tattoo much like the one described here.

Warnings: Angst. Talk about failed marriage. Reader is an empty nester. Reader has grown children. Mentions of self harm scars. Blood. I have tattoos but it's been decades and I've done a bit of research to figure out the current state of it. Any inaccuracies are on me. And yes, Pedro's red devil Met Gala look was my inspiration for tattoo artist! Ez.

A bit of flirting. It is Ezra after all. But mostly gentle fluff.

 A chain of bells on the door jingles as you push your way through, briefly glare-blind from the sudden dimness, green afterimages from the sizzling sidewalks, air-conditioned cold hits hard, and you stand, blinking and foolish as the girl behind the counter sizes you up, wild mullet of bleach-blonde hair, face set and disproving, black lacquered nails and ears spangled with golden studs and bars.  “I’m sorry— I’m a bit early, I can come back—“ And she smiles, big and open and wide--  “Oh, heck! You’re the tardigrade lady! Ez did a bunch of sketches. Lemme go grab him-“ and she rattles her way through the beaded curtain behind the register and disappears “Ezra! Your three o’clock is here—“    A co-worker had recommended Needles & Pins when you’d admired her ink, a half-sleeve magpie with a skeleton key in its beak and constellations drawn behind it like an old map. It’s in Secret Springs. That’s kind of a haul. Yeah, but Ezra’s one of the best in the business. You’ve got plenty of PTO piled up. You’re just gonna lose it if you don’t use it. You could get out of here for a bit. Yeah, maybe. And Moira gives you a pitying look. You both know the chances of you using any of that PTO are slim. This last year and change has been a rollercoaster ride, your youngest graduating summa cum laude and fucking off halfway across the country, some job at an aerospace start up that you can’t even begin to understand, but she seems happy, and the vice-gripped, duct taped, cobbled together thing that your marriage had become finally shat out. I love you, he’d said, but not the way you need me to. And on that humid night, watching heat-lightning flicker through the clouds, you say nothing, just nod, because he’s not wrong, the two of you have been holding on for a long time, for the kids, for appearances, and it’s like unclenching a fist. Kept it civil, he let you keep the house rather than selling it and splitting the difference, moved back home with his brothers and his dad, still talk about once a week, mostly about Lilly and the boys. Married so young that you never learned to be alone. So you throw yourself into your job, because if there’s one thing you know how to do it’s press your shoulder to the wheel and shove.You and Moira laugh together, but when you get home you start researching Needles and Pins and Secret Springs, tiny state park with campsites and trails, bracketed with BNB’s and small shops, strange gerrymandered artifact, small strip of beach that hasn’t been subsumed by hotel chains and timeshares. You can’t remember the last time you’ve been on vacation, the last time you’ve done anything for you and no one else, and you’ve e-mailed Needles and Pins almost without thinking. Why not? Why the fuck not?

  Appointments only. No walk ins. High end. Serious inquiries only.   And part of you balked, new to this possibility, had your ears pierced at Claire’s when you were twelve or so, and you’d felt stupid when you sent the e-mail off with some images attached. Sorry to bother you.   What a lovely idea. Water bears and fireweed together speak of resilience. The awakening of something new after a time of trial. There are species of pine that require the heat of wildfire to dry out their cones enough to spread their seeds. I would gladly meet with you to discuss this further.   And that’s how you ended up here, in this air-conditioned cave, narrow space full of framed flash art and old maps and framed photos of Ezra and the girl behind the counter, C? Sea? You didn’t quite register her name, flustered by the cool dark in contrast to the blazing heat outside.   “No need to yell, Birdie, I’m comin-“ Ezra rattles through the curtain. Broad is the first thing you notice, loud is the second. He is a confusion of color, heavily inked arms and a Hawaiian shirt bedecked with flamingos in sunglasses, spangled ears and a gold ring through his lip, bright shock of blonde hair amid his unruly curls. Smiling bright and wide,   “Hi there,” he says, purred southern drawl, and offers his hand, “I’m Ezra.”  “I figured,” you say and take his hand, warm fingers around yours and then he folds his other hand over yours, and you see that his right hand is an elaborate prosthetic, his whole arm up to his shoulder,  gold on black, a fearsome dragon framed in blooming orchids. You barely have time to register this and Ezra is ushering you through the curtain.  “I am guessing by your demeanor that this is your first tattoo,” and you smile, but can’t quite meet his eyes, his hand finds yours again and squeezes gently. “I’ve got several sketches based on our initial discussion, but i want you to know up front, if the art is not to your liking or if you change your mind about this entire venture I’ll not judge you for it.  “But the deposit—“  “A formality. Tends to keep people who aren’t sure of themselves away. I will never ink someone who isn’t fully committed, if you decide this isn’t for you i will refund you. No harm no foul. No pressure, clear?”  “Yeah. We’re clear.” Ezra smiles, dimples sinking into his scruffy cheeks, eyes crinkling into crescents.  “Excellent,” he says, “Let me show you what me and Cee came up with.”

 

 “That one.” A tardigrade drawn in the traditional style, brilliantly colored in blues and greens with bold outlines, with two crossed fireweed fronds in watercolor.  “This is an approximation-“ says Ezra, “I will replicate the colors as best I can—“  “That one.” You say, “I like the hard and soft together.”  “I do as well,” says Ezra, “I must admit that I was hoping you’d choose this design. Strength and softness are not mutually exclusive. I should warn you though.  Watercolor tattoos tend to fade a bit faster than the more traditional styles-“  “Sunscreen and plenty of it” you say, and he smiles.  “That’s right, and A&D ointment as you heal. There’s plenty of fancy tattoo healing ointments to be found but A&D has always got me through. Why fix what’s not  broken? We’ll send you home with some instructions.” He takes the sketch you’ve picked out, “Hey, Cee! Can you finagle the scanner-“ Cee pops her head and arm through the beaded curtain. She grins, devilish and sharp like a crescent moon. “Old man, still can’t figure it out, huh?” Takes the sketch from his hand.  “Oi! You are but a humble apprentice,” says Ezra, but he smiles, “An initiate! A novice even!” Cee smiles back. This seems like an exchange that happens at least three times a week, and you feel yourself smiling along with them.  “Get her prepped. I’ll do the hard part.”  “That girl,” he mutters, “You take a seat right there—“ He gestures towards a set up that looks uncomfortably like a dentist’s chair, “Cee has my station set up, I just need to glove up and we’ll talk placement.”  “Left inner arm,” You frown. You’d said so over e-mail. Can’t help but watch the flex and bend of him as he pulls a shoulder length veterinary glove over his prosthetic, and then gloves his left hand, “It’s a bitch to take apart and sanitize. I can if needs be, but best to avoid all of that. I cannot exactly autoclave this thing. And I find the calving glove less unwieldy than Saran Wrap-“  “Wait a sec, Saran Wrap? Like on a plate of leftovers?”  Ezra dimples at you.   “Exactly like that. First time Cee witnessed it, she laughed so hard i thought she might drop dead right there on the spot. Next morning there was a case-pack of calving gloves on our front stoop like some sort of-“  “It’s Amazon, Ez, not witchcraft,” says Cee, popping back through the curtain with a sheaf of papers, shoots you a knowing can you believe this guy look, “You’d be lost without me. Just admit it.” Ezra takes the papers from her.   “Go on now, don’t you have fanfic to read? What’s that Star Wars thing? Reylo?” Cee’s face scrunches in a cartoonish display of disgust.  “Man, I never should’ve told you about AO3.” And with that she’s gone.  “Your daughter’s really something.”  “She ain’t mine,” says Ezra, leafing through the stack of prints Cee handed him, draws a pair of reading glasses from his front pocket and perches them on his nose, “I don’t have that honor. Her parents kicked her from the nest and she found her way here.” He holds two of the prints in front of his face. “Show me your arm.” And you offer him your left arm, hand turned palm up. He cradles your arm, runs his gloved fingers over the thin skin there, noting the network of silvered scars, like contrails in a hazy sky, because how can he not? Old enough to be flattened and flush with the rest of your skin, no one’s noticed in years, but you know he must and you tense, waiting for him to say something, but he doesn’t, just selects a printed sheet at holds it up to you arm.  “This the orientation you want?”  “Yeah, I want him standing on my hand. Um, Ezra, the scars-“  “won’t be a problem, darlin, they’re old and soft-“  “I’m not gonna screw up your handiwork,” you say, and he folds your hand in both of his, gentle pressure that grounds you and when you look up at him, his eyes are soft.  “I know you won’t,” he says, “You wouldn’t be here otherwise.  We can rewrite this part of your story. I trust you.” 

 Ezra preps your skin, alcohol wipes and mild soap and he shaves your inner arm with a disposable razor, rubs some gooey stuff on you that makes you think of putting on aloe after a burn. Gotta let this dry a beat, he says, we want the stencil to come out nice and clean, rests his hand over yours while the transfer solution dries, got to let it get tacky, he says.  Not quite holding your hand but not letting go either.  “I should warn you, the bit over your inner wrist will likely be the most painful,” swipes his hand over your skin, testing the resistance against his glove, “Skin’s thin there. Not a whole lot of meat between the skin and all the veins and little fiddly bits.”  “Fiddly bits,” you echo, and feel yourself smile, “You mean the bones?”  “And tendons,” says Ezra, clips out the stencil.  “That looks like carbon paper,” you say, and Ezra grins, “It’s functionally the same, but Cee insists that the thermographic printer makes cleaner stencils than the old methods, so here we are.” He lays the sheet of paper over your arm, rubs at it with a balled up paper towel, “We want the transfer solution to soak into the paper. It’ll leave the stencil behind on your skin. There’s some tricks involving deodorant, but i find this method works the best-“ you can’t help but notice how pretty he is, face pinched in concentration, pout of his lips, those dark eyes focused on the strip of skin between your wrist and elbow like this bit of you is the only thing in the universe. “—hey! you still with me?”  “Yeah, sorry. What did you say?”  “You got a hotel room for tonight? It’s not by business, but i know you’re not local and getting tattooed blows a surprising amount of adrenaline-“  “I’ve got a  room booked,” you say, “Up over Peli’s.”  “Hope you brought earplugs,” says Ezra, “That place can get a bit rowdy on a Friday night.”   “I’m counting on it,” you say, “It’s been forever since I’ve gone to a bar.”  “Hmm,” he rubs at the transfer paper, “Do you feel your skin tightening a bit? We should be just about ready. I’m gonna click the gun on for a beat so you can hear it.”   “I’m not scared.”  “Didn’t say you were.” says Ezra, “I find this tends to go easier if people know what to expect. This buzz and my endless yap are going to be filling your ears for the next few hours-“  “It’s not bad. The tattoo machine, I mean.” And Ezra grins, slow curve that just hints at a dimple.   “My Ma always said my tongue is hung in the middle and wags at both ends. If, at any point in this venture, you need me to shut the fuck up do not be shy in saying so,” his face falls, eyes flick away a little, “There’s one more thing before we peel this stencil and get on to our business. I will need to stretch your skin, to make sure the lines are nice and clean, and for that i must rely on this foolish thing.” Ezra catches you around your wrist with his prosthetic hand and squeezes slightly.   “I do not have the sensitivity nor dexterity that i once had,” he says, “I have some haptic feedback, but it’s not the most reliable. If I grip or pinch too hard, you sing out and I will manually adjust the pressure.”  So focused on your left inner wrist and the tracery of your skin that he startles, flinches when you reach for him and grip his upper arm, brief squeeze and then gone.  “I trust you.” His eyes widen for a second, and flick away from yours.   ‘I suppose you do. Else you wouldn’t be here. Let’s get a good look at these lines before we get to fencin’.” Ezra peels the transfer paper up and you feel the pull of it, dark purple lines printed on your inner arm. And that makes it feel real.

You’re going to walk out of here with something like a story in your skin forever.   “The fireweed—“  “I know. The stencil lines are just there to keep me from going too loosey-goosey,” says Ezra, “That being said, how would you feel about some slight splatters? So the stems do not rise so harshly from the water bear’s back, perhaps a bit darker than the color of the fireweed. Something to really make this little fella pop.”  “Dark. Like a dark purple fading up into the pinks.”  “Yeah? What do you think?”  “I like it,” you say, and you feel yourself grin wide, and Ezra’s smile mirrors your own, “This is gonna be so fucking cool.”  “It will,” he says, those dark eyes bracketed in delighted crinkles, “I’ve got you, darlin. We’re gonna make some magic.”

 It doesn’t hurt as much as you thought it would, and you tell Ezra so, and he smiles, bent over your arm.  “Everyone’s pain threshold is a bit different,” he says, “You are squirming very little for your first ink.”’   “I was in labor with my oldest for twenty three hours. This doesn’t even register.”  “The linework is usually worse in terms of sharp pain,” he says, “The color and shading tend to be more persistently annoying. Like a shirt collar rubbing on a sunburn.” He has a light on a swing arm like a dentist uses, framing him in a bright halo as he hunches over your arm, catches his curls in bright filaments, the scruff of his cheeks, slope of his neck, breadth of his shoulders. Sharper pain as he touches the crease between wrist and hand, bracelets of fortune, you think they’re called, draw your breath in a sharp hiss, little hooked curves of the tardigrade’s claws.  “Breathe, sugar, you’re doing just fine. Worst part’s nearly done.” His eyes flick up to catch yours, warm soft and magnified by his glasses. “And I really must know. what’s your favorite dinosaur?”  “Deinonychus,” you answer unthinking, “Dromeosaurs are pretty cool in general, but Deinonychus is my favorite.” And you smile. Knowing exactly what he’s doing and thankful for it. “The raptors in Jurassic Park were actually Deinonychuses. Modeled on them at least. Actual velociraptors are turkey-sized.” Ezra smiles up at you, perfect plump lower lip bisected by a gold ring, damn he’s pretty, and nothing hurts at all.  “Huh,” he says, “And here I was thinkin you were a T-rex girl. S’pose that’s what i get for making assumptions.”  “Well you know what they say about assuming—“  “Indeed I do. My mother was very fond of whipping out that particular turn of phrase.” He stretches your skin so he can get the tardigrade’s odd little mouthparts just so.  “What’s your favorite?”  “Favorite what?” The curved, segmented back takes shape.  “Dinosaur. You can’t just ask someone that question and not answer it yourself.” Ezra stills for a beat, and then the needle starts up again, line sloping down to meet up with a hook-plated foot.  “Ankylosaurus.” he says.  “Really?”  “Sure. Mother Nature took a cow, a snapping turtle and a panzer tank and stuck em in a blender and then tied a cinderblock to the end of it’s tail. What’s not to love? Hmmm,” he swabs at the beaded blood and oozing ink, “Hard part’s done. How about a little breather?” Ezra stands and stretches like a lazy cat, rolls his neck side to side, heads for the refrigerator, tucked in the corner and plastered in stickers, punk bands or microbreweries, you can’t really tell.   “Stretch your legs,” he says, “This next phase will take some time.” You swing your legs over the side of the chair, stand up and then plop back down.  “You okay, darlin?”   “Stood up too fast.”   “Apple or orange?”  “Huh? Orange,” You feel your face going hot, “I followed your instructions—“ Ezra hands you a cold, sweating bottle of orange juice.  “I know you did,” he says, “When you get tattooed, you are signing up for an injury. One that happens over the course of several hours, but an injury all the same.  Everyone reacts a little different. Your sugar just dropped is all. You drink that juice and you’ll be right as rain in no time at all.”  “I thought I’d be okay-“  “And you are,” says Ezra, “I’ve had three hundred pound bikers slither out of the chair at the first sight of blood. It happens sometimes. I’ve gotten woozy a time or two myself.”

He shoves up his shirtsleeve and shows you a dog in a space helmet,   “That’s Laika,” you say.  “Patron Saint of one way trips,” says Ezra, “You can see a bit of wobble in the curve of her helmet. It was far from my first ink and it still hurt like a sonofabitch. You didn’t do a thing wrong, okay?” He rests his hand on your shoulder briefly, warm weight of it grounds you, and he hunkers down so his eyes meet yours, no judgement there, just concern, and without thinking, you mirror him, rest a hand on his vibrantly inked bicep, Laika brave and doomed amid a swirl of watercolored nebulae, his skin warm beneath your palm and you feel the breath rush out of you, didn’t know how hard you were clenching your jaw, didn’t know you tight your chest was.  “Thank you.” And for a beat those lovely, dark eyes hold yours, before they slide away, cheek curved up in a half-smile.  “You are most welcome. Shall we proceed?”

 The color inking goes much as he described, more annoying than painful, like a constant pressing of fingernails against your skin, different gun with more needles packed together, ink laid in, blood wiped away, back and forth over the same bits of skin, needles dipped and rinsed, tiny plastic cups of color that make you think of a child’s paint set, and the two of you settle into easy conversation, a flow back and forth like a gentle tide, mostly Ezra explaining all the hidden delights of Secret Springs, you simply must get breakfast at Cisco’s, it don’t look like much but they’ve got the best biscuits and gravy i’ve ever tasted, and Cee swears by their Hangover Helper, it’s like a layer dip of grease. Hash browns and corned beef hash and scrambled eggs with sausage gravy and cheese sprinkled over it. I keep tellin Frankie he should rename it the Heart Attack Platter, but he won’t hear it— Ezra’s voice and the buzz of the tattoo gun and the rhythm of him pressing into your skin and wiping away the blood and excess ink set you drifting, content to listen to him ramble, like the patter of falling rain.  “So what got you here?” asks Ezra.  “Moira. I saw her ink and asked—“  “No, darlin, what got you here?” And you find it hard to speak, to put into words, did everything right, married and had kids and a house and a good job and a husband who loved you until he didn’t, did everything right and still ended up with an empty house and no one to come home to except the cat. Lilly and Liam and Joey off on their own and settled and they all call you on Sunday like clockwork, as if you are an obligation and not someone who held them when they were small, talked them through the fears of monsters in the closet, talked them through the humiliation of first love, you know they love you, they tell you every time, at the end of every visit, hug you so tight and tell you they love you. Love you too, but you still come home to a dark house and an empty bed, you honestly can’t remember the last time you’ve been touched or kissed or held. Been so long since you did things for you without thinking of him and the kids that it feels wrong, shameful.  “I wanted to do something just for me, I guess.” You frown.  “I’m guessing you are not in the habit,” he says, “Of doing things just for the joy of it.” You laugh, a bright and brittle sound that pulls itself from your throat, even as your eyes burn, his eyes flick up from the brilliant pinks and oranges and purples, and you turn your head away.  “I’ve prodded a raw nerve, I’m sorry. Cee rightly says I have no filter-“  “It’s okay. It’s just…you do everything right and you still end up all alone, you know? Lil and the boys are all doing fine. They call me every Sunday, and I know I should be happy, and I am happy. Happy for them-“  “But not for yourself,” says Ezra. And you think of how the intimacy slowly bled out of your marriage, held on so tight for so long, thought you could muscle through it like you do everything else in your life, but love wasn’t enough, determination wasn’t enough, gritted teeth and stubbornness weren’t enough.   “No. Not for myself.” You frown. You haven’t put it in words before, too busy keeping it together, trying to gut through it like you do everything, keep your head down and push through, “You think your life is one thing and then it just isn’t anymore— this probably seems silly to you.”  “Not at all. I often think of cicadas,” he says, and returns his attention to the fireweed blossoms.  “Cicadas?”  “Yes. They live the majority of their lives under the ground, feasting on roots content with living in the dark and then something calls them up above. They split themselves open, crawl out of their old skins and take flight.”  “You’re saying I’m in the process of crawling out of my own skin,” you say.  “I’m saying that your future doesn’t have to look like your past,” says Ezra.

 “The past is another country,” you say, and you can’t remember where you’ve heard the phrase.  “Just so,” says Ezra, “Just so. We’re redrawing the map right here. And it is a joy to redraw it with you.”  “Are you—are you flirting with me?” Ezra scrunches his face in mock disdain, “I would never ever flirt with a client. That would be deeply unethical and Cee would undoubtedly yell at me. However, once I finish inking this last frond and we slather you in ointment and wrap you up you will no longer be my client-“  “And then?” He smiles at you, all dark eyes and dimples.  “Well then we are just two folks enjoying the moonlight and wetting our toes in the surf. If you’d walk with me a spell. If you can further tolerate my rambling,”  “I think I’d like to get my feet wet.”

[inkformyblood]

race you for it (SoapGaz COD Mermay)

Selkie Soap x Mer Gaz, modern era

There is a specific support on the pier where Johnny leaves his things. It had been a matter of trial and error and far too many early mornings spent with one hand cupped over his cock and his sealskin slung over his shoulder as he made his way up the cobbled street for him to count, but he had a good enough hiding place for his clothes now. The beach is small, only visible as an assortment of stones and litter at low tide, barely big enough to let the nearby properties be classified as ‘beachfront’ on all the rental sites. 

This late at night, the only witnesses to Johnny stripping beneath the pier is a pair of seagulls focused on squabbling over a discarded newspaper cone from the chippy and the fisherman above him too absorbed in the easy bob of his lure to pay Johnny any mind. 

He’s dressed as minimally as he can bear with the weather just beginning to turn, the horizon still bleeding dark and murky when Johnny had managed to peel himself away from the usual round of goodbyes as he had made his way out of the pub. A thin pair of cotton trousers join the pile on the sand, the fabric darkening in an instant as the spray kicks against the thin divide of the beach. His shirt is already there, the red washed out and bleach-stained along the lower edge from an unfortunate dye job a few years back. It hadn’t even lasted the night, the colour washing out in his evening swim to an uneven green that had lasted far longer than it should have. Johnny crouches, balling his clothes around each other, his sealskin caught between his teeth to let it drape over his shoulders. He’s already beginning to change, his cheek twitching with the itch of fresh hair growth as he stands, shoving the bundle into the hole in the support. His underwear is next, crammed in alongside, and Johnny is free. 

Diving into the ocean, the world is freshly grey, everything cut in stark relief like he’s carved them into a wood block, stones beneath, the distant flutter of a lure ahead of him and the huddled shapes of boats moored on his other side. He’s clumsy for an instant, the water not quite deep enough for him to swim fully, his coat loose around the edges, but a swell thunders in and Johnny banks towards the open ocean, making his way through the gap in the harbour wall. 

He doesn’t need to go far. 

“Hey.” 

Johnny twists with a lazy flick of his tail, grinning wide as best he can. He’s checked the expression before in the bathroom of his flat, stretched out in his bathtub with a mirror balanced on the side, and it’s toothy but close enough to his human shape. He’d knocked that mirror off when he’d scrambled out, shattered his next seven years of luck all over the floor and then had to clean it up for his trouble. 

Gaz laughs, swimming closer to knock his shoulder against Johnny’s. It wouldn’t push him anywhere, Gaz might be longer from the top of his curls to the tip of his tail but Johnny’s dense, heavier with muscle even underwater, but Johnny rolls with the motion deliberately, pressing himself beneath Gaz’s belly to come up on the other side of him. There’s an urge to snap at Gaz’s neck, the shine of his scales triggering something starving at the base of Johnny’s gums, the bunch of muscles in his jaw, but he swallows it back as best as he could. There’ll be something to eat later, something that shone and flickered through the water but not as pretty as Gaz or as fast. 

“Busy day?” Gaz asks, adjusting to Johnny’s new position easily, barely blinking as they change direction. His gills flare wide, a flash of pale flesh beneath the dark line of his neck, made for biting with blunter teeth that Johnny’s currently wearing. 

Johnny huffs out a string of bubbles, his whiskers flaring as they slow. He shakes his head, trying to convey the midweek dragging boredom of his shift, an early one, sure, that bracketed the lunch rush and the stirrings of the evening rush, but it had still been long and tedious. There’d been a copious absence of Gaz to keep his attention so Johnny had watched for his mannerisms in the customers, trying to track the wide stretch of his smile onto a smaller frame, the shine of his scales onto an overburdened wrist. Hadn’t been the same as experiencing the man himself, but it had passed the time well enough. 

Gaz huffs out a laugh, swimming closer once more so he drags his fingers through Johnny’s fur, brushing over his whiskers. “Poor boy. Would losing in a race make you feel better?”

Shaking his head, Johnny leans forward to bump his nose against Gaz’s, the few scales indenting against his skin. 

“I’ll give you a treat if you win.” Delivered with a wink in case all the blood in Johnny’s body had travelled south too quickly and he hadn’t picked up on the established end goal of their race. There’s a small underwater cave further down the coast, a shelf above the water where the air tastes stale but manageable, enough for Gaz to linger above water and for Johnny to turn back into someone with hands and blunt teeth for biting like he wants to. 

He wouldn’t win. Not yet. Johnny has never managed to beat Gaz in a race but he would eventually and his bragging would be glorious.

[bunnieswithknives]

TWO OF US AU MASTERPOST

Finally got around to making a masterpost! I tried to keep it to the relevant stuff because I’ve posted a lot for this AU, but If you still want to see everything then you can search the whole tag here.

Also feel free to join the Discord: https://discord.gg/hkCKGQrDtK

Plot relevant stuff roughly chronological in order:

Two of us AU (Video) [bonus]

You don’t remember what she looks like? (Video)

David tries to convince Red murder is OK, [pt2]

Hey, that’s not how stairs work!

Low power, what's with your eyes?

Interview

Argument (Video)

New Invention (Video), stupid stupid

Memory problems

Clayhill Killer

David feels bad for murder

Full of electricity

Kills you to death

Worms (Video) [Bonus]

Post Cannon:

Long long time ago (Video)

Puppet David,  Headache, little guy

Home sweet home, New clothes, Roller-skating 

Ratburger?, Sons a worm

Puppet Antics:

IDEAS (Cannon episode)

Hug me (Video) [Bonus]

He died but he’s OK, [2], [3], [4], [5]

Family road trip!

Bonding

Brain friends, Prank , Siblings

uncreative Brendon

Workplace relations,

call that human trafficking 

History lesson, cobbles and rhymes!

Beach day

Yum!

Warren fucking dies, Shrignold gives a pep talk

Homophobic butterfly, terrible advice

swear words,  Duck rambles

Lesley BITES, Toothbrushes

puppet crossover

Upstairs

Some things never change

Pre-Cannon:

Ventriloquism

car accident, oh no!, Trauma 

Punk David

Socializing

Family

They’ve been gone a long time

References, Worldbuilding, and Misc:

Magic system, Reanimation, Consequences for my actions!???

Roy and Lesley, Alive Roy and Lesley

David ref, Red ref, Duck [Color ref], More duck

Teachers, alive teachers

Big boys and bigger boys, Brain friends, pallet swapped,  Recolors

Perfect Case In Point (Video)

Reanimator poster

Red’s family

Hostage AU, Dress up, Home is where the heart is

Red but he’s an angry ghost AU

Spider David AU, Spider lore, monster, Mother of puppets, mind control , Puppet Rowan, Ochyro

[zetsuboushachi]

“MASTER”

So to explain this character/OC/Final Boss this is based on a recent dream I had, one that was pretty wild in nature.

To begin, it was basically me watching gameplay footage of a new Kirby game, mainly at its finale. One of its phases was a large planetoid astroid, which appeared cobbled together and hiding something within, and during such phase the Love Love Stick from Dreamland 3 was used along with the Lor Starcutter. Soon it cuts to another scene where I assume this is the beginning part of the last phase, for some reason before the final chase down there was this melancholy walk where I saw memories of Magolor’s past, such as him wearing a adventurer’s hat and starting his expedition and research in the Ancients. Hell there was a moment where I saw Magolor and Marx hanging out as if they’re best buddies. When I saw this whole scene I legit thought to my self: “Wait is Magolor gonna die?”

It then cuts to final part, the final chase to the boss and it was dramatic in nature. Basically you literally go through every single stage/world, crossing by familiar settings and levels to reach the final boss itself (basically going from the final stage all the way back to the very first stage). One memorable scene was during the beach/water stage, where the final boss went so fast that the water was opened apart to form a path for it before crashing down, sinking the islands for a moment till resurfacing.

The final set piece where this battle takes place was oddly serene, it was just a grass field with the evening sky, the stars shining above as the horizons beautifully fall under a nightly purple fade. But standing on the center was a pitch Black Circle, it was like looking into vantablack shape that has no definite curve nor dimension. The dark circle was covered in red sketched out eyes, as if drawn hastily or stylized, staring directly at the viewer regardless of angle or position as it swirls endlessly in an angular position. The strangest part is that its not even related to Dark Matter or even Zero, hell it wasn’t even a soul boss to begin with. This thing was more mechanical than anything, whilst most Ball shaped final bosses at least hover and sway with movement, this thing was still and moves in a straight forward and calculated manner when needed (It was like a machine who only moves when it needs to, if not it just hovers unmoving). It only pulsates like a beating heart and an uncomfortable presence behind it, as if I was looking into nothingness.

When the boss health popped in, I only recall myself saying: “Master-“, as either I didn’t recall what I said afterwards or my dream cut out on that moment. The boss theme itself was a mix between Crowned and Astral Birth, leaning more on the somber side of things.

Thus I call this being of nothingness, Master

I never saw the conclusion nor the boss battle of this fight, but funnily enough the gameplay footage in this dream was a guy going at it with a no-hit no ability run.

(The Magolor design to the right is simply my interpretation of him being possessed by Master)

[cuprohastes]

The Black Market

Space is big. I mean... really big. Like even bigger than a really big rock.

And boring.

But sometimes you get an encounter...

Boring is the worst part.

You can go into space and there's all sorts of cool stuff like the microgravity, the amazing view... and after a while it's just dark and the computer goes 'Boop' every quarter time unit, and this amazing experience collapses into the same space as e.g., being in a nursing home until someone tells you that you've arrived, and you can go look at cool stuff again.

Hence Interstellar Cruise Liners.

Space travel is still not cheap - even a run up and down a space elevator needs paying for, so you want to take as much cargo and paying passengers as possible.

With automated shipyards, you can just pour money and resources into building a truly huge passenger module, stack it on top of some cargo modules and clamp on as many drive units and crew modules as you need.

Load everyone in, let them ooh and ahhh at the view for a day then spin up a gateway and fire the whole thing into superluminal space and drop it out around any world you have a beacon for.

The really great thing is even if you lose the beacon in transit, you are a beacon. Just drop out and wait. Anything goes wrong, the home office can send a rescue ship after you.

In the meantime, there's the ship's amenities: The lush mossy jungle deck, the galactic beach, the games rooms, the dining groves, the on-board university - Even the theatre for live and recorded entertainment.

Still passengers like to have an experience, and so the Sunward Sail out of Ggxcha with seven hundred passengers dropped out of Superluminal space, the bow wave of exotic particles heating the backstop up to a glowing red.

The Sunward Sail dropped into a lazy orbit around an ancient planet, orbited by a big station trailing glittering wreckage - Obviously something dramatic had gone down here.

The lights were on though - So not a derelict station - and the docking was smooth, so the first set of tourists stepped onto the station, onto the Market deck.

So much to see! So much to do!

Madam Shi-shi's bakery run by a happy Tsin selling classic Tsin pastries, and exotic purple rolls with various filling and other goods.

The Top n' Charmed Quarks Bar with the scarred Atrix obviously a veteran of some war or calamity, serving exotic and colourful drinks:

"Dare you try the Human Menu?" she suggests, pulling it out. "Watch out, the Temple of Shir-li is banned in twelve systems..."

They even have a chance wheel!

Then there's Honest Gar's Genuine Human Antiquities, the wares spilling out from the shop in a riot of colours and patinas, where one can buy a genuine antique reproduction Victorian Empire TV, or a genuine Human Made Brown's Kitchen Imp that can tell you how to make a thousand and five human style recipes with a little sheet glass projection hologram of a human in glasses and red horns. So quaint!

And if you get to the end of the market, or one of the traders tips you off, you can find...

The Black Market

There's someone there, a weathered old... unless they were young... spacer, in a patched and scuffed EVA undersuit with 43 on the chest, who'll spin you unbelievable tales for a couple of creds dropped into the old cracked space helmet he keeps on the table next to him and if you ask, he'll let you in -

The back rooms are dark, rowdy, and full of the coolest stuff. There are lots of humans here, and there's an Atrix little guy, with a set of goggles, riding low on the belly of this Atrix Mech.

If you're lucky you can see one of the humans with some grudge square off agianst the little guy. He's surrounded by switches and levers, with a little pair of waldos.

The mech lurches to life, an angry display on its faceplace, growling in a rattling synthetic voice:

Combat mode! Engaged! Polaron Claws. Charging.

It's claws glowing white hot as it swings into motion, and the Human pulls a little cobbled together blaster out and takes a pot shot. The Mech lurches and sparks, warning lights flashing ominously...

Reactor. Overheat. Reactor. Overheat. Emergency. Venting.

The stricken mecha whirls, the little guy screaming in rage and flipping clunky archaic controls... And then when everything seems to be about to go wrong, the mech begins to spray clouds of vapour from it's vents and the alerts wind down, while the scurrilous human takes the opportunity to flee.

It's very dramatic.

And after that you can buy a souvenir arm patch of Cat Fantastic's Mecha with glow in the dark Polaron claws, before it's time to head back - Don't forget to pick up a packed lunch from Madame Shi-Shi's!

--

"Ugh." said Dave, "I don't mind the tourist run but it ruins my appetite" she muttered.

"You shouldn't snack on your own stock." says Big Ma, touching up Gondy's makeup.

Phalanges, helmet off, chin up and enjoying the cool air blower form the converted life support rig that they'd modded into the mecha grunts noncommittally.

"How are we doing boss?" Raxy asks, potting up souvenir Tsin fungus with Atrix moss and human basil.

O'Patel flashes an OK hand sign. "We are... hitting the funding goals. One more shift - This time it's for the bonus pay." he says with satisfaction and Big Ma looks around, checking everyone's ready as someone helps Cat Fantastic back into his cockpit basket and Gondy makes sure there's enough grenadine left.

"OK people... Showtime!"

[fanficapologist]

Of Dragons and Maelstroms

Themes and Warnings: slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood, violence, explicit language, sexual violence, period-typical misogyny, sexual themes, smut, tension, marriage, jealousy, pregnancy, childbirth, miscarriage, attempted sexual assault, breastfeeding, major character death, divergent timelines

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood/Game of Thrones characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Chapter Forty-Nine

Maera's carriage ride from the Red Keep to the Sept was a solitary journey with only her nerves and racing thoughts for company. As it moved through the bustling streets of King's Landing, Maera gazed out the window at the city's surroundings. She first set her gaze upon the procession of guards that marched alongside her carriage, led by Ser Arryk on his brown horse, who were ensuring her safe passage.

Peasants lined the streets, waving as she passed by, and the sound of their cheers and well-wishes filled the air. The hooves of the horses clattered against the cobbles, creating a rhythmic backdrop to the journey. Inside her carriage, Maera's excitement was palpable, but so was her nervousness. She couldn't help but fidget, struggling with her skirts in an attempt to find a comfortable position. She took deep breaths to steady herself, her nerves fluttering as the ceremony drew nearer.

Maera couldn't help but picture Aemond, imagining him standing near the High Septon, awaiting her arrival. In her mind, she saw his tall, lean figure, his regal presence, and his piercing violet eye that held so much power and mystery.

Amidst her musings, she couldn't help but wonder if Aemond was feeling any nerves before the ceremony. But she quickly dismissed the idea, convincing herself that the formidable One-Eyed Prince would not be affected by any such emotions. Instead, she was certain he was eagerly anticipating their upcoming intimacy, relishing the prospect of toying with her in a way she would undoubtedly enjoy. The thought brought a smile to her lips, momentarily easing her apprehension.

A reverberating bellow through the air interrupted her thoughts, as well as a sudden shadow eclipsed the sunlight, prompting Maera to glance out the window, her striking green eyes set on the skies. There, she caught sight of the majestic dragon Ēbrion, his dark blue and black scales glinting in the sunlight, and its incredible wingspan casting a grand silhouette against the sky. He soared above the carriage before beating his wings ferociously, peaking over the Sept in the distance before continuing onto the shoreline, where his lair awaited him.

The memory of that first breathtaking encounter with the dragon came to her mind, along with the connection she had felt with the dragon after she had shared her blood with him. Ever since that day on the beach, Maera had dreamt of Ēbrion and looked for him often outside her chamber window. His presence in the sky was awe-inspiring, and she couldn't help but wonder about the significance of his appearance on her wedding day. She couldn't help but wonder if the dragon somehow knew where she was headed and wanted to offer her a reassuring sign.

Throughout her life, Maera had cared for various animals at Rain House, from horses and hounds to the cats that roamed the grounds. But what she felt for Ēbrion was different. It was a connection that went beyond mere care; it was a powerful, peculiar feeling. Between the gasps and admirations of the peasants below, who clapped and cheered at the sight of the magnificent beast, Maera couldn't help but feel a surge of awe herself, realizing the power and grandeur that these creatures, much like House Targaryen, commanded in the hearts of the people.

After a while, the carriage came to a halt, the sound of the horse shoes on the paved road ceasing. The carriage door was opened by Ser Arryk, revealing their arrival at the Sept. In Maera’s mind, the journey appeared to be too long and too short at the same time. Her loyal protector courteously extended his arm towards her, offering his support to get out of the carriage, to which she took with a grateful smile.

Maera continued to grasp the Kingsguard’s arm as they ascended the many steps leading to the grand entrance of the Sept, her magnificent wedding dress flowing elegantly behind her.

"You look stunning, my Lady," Ser Arryk remarked, wearing a steadfast and protective expression, his hazel eyes watchful and reassuring. Maera, appreciative of his presence, couldn't help but convey her gratitude through a warm smile, accompanied by a nod of her head, but but make a self-deprecating comment.

"I feel a little like a prized mare being sold to a stable hand,” she chuckled, gesturing to the elaborate dress she was wearing.

“Nonsense,” replied the knight in a dismissive manner. “You truly embody the nickname bestowed upon you, the Jewel of Rainwood." His words caused Maera to blush, feeling a warmth in her cheeks and a thankful smile gracing her face.

Reaching to top of the many stone steps, Maera locked eyes with her father Lord Jasper, standing before the intimidating doors of the holy building. was adorned in a striking ensemble, with a turquoise tunic embellished with intricate golden embroidery, a testament to the House's colors. He wore deep black trousers that complemented the outfit splendidly, along with a turquoise cape that flowed gracefully and was fastened by a chain of gleaming gold.The Master of Laws’ distinguished appearance was further accentuated by his dark, well-kept hair and his keen, discerning green eyes, which exuded an air of authority and wisdom.

“You’re late,” the Lord commented, a slight smirk on his face, which Maera returned.

She responded quickly with a playful retort. "It's the one day in my life I can be fashionably late, Father." Lord Jasper chuckled, the tension in the air dissipating as they readied for the momentous ceremony.

Before entering the Sept, Maera was encircled by a group of Septas and Septons, their voices rising in melodic prayers and blessings to the Seven. They gathered around her, each invoking the Gods for guidance and protection for the bride on the momentous day. Lord Jasper took a step closer and with a tender yet ceremonial gesture, he attached his own turquoise cloak to her wedding dress.

With an air of solemnity and pride, he then extended his arm, offering it to Maera to link theirs together, signifying the solemn bond between father and daughter as they prepared to step into the sacred space of the Sept.

To fill the silence as they waited for the doors to open, Maera decided to commend Lord Jasper in a teasing manner. “I believe you should be congratulated once again, my Lord Father, for securing such a remarkable match for one of your children. Especially your most troublesome daughter.” Lord Jasper couldn't help but let out a silent chuckle, appreciating the jest.

Maera looked ahead at the doors, nerves beginning to bubble once more as she could hear the Septon inside leading the congregation in a prayer. She decided to be serious for a moment, taking a deep breath as she addressed her father.

“I know we have not always seen eye to eye. And you find the manner in which I live my life to be somewhat… questionable for a noble Lady. But after today, I will belong to House Targaryen,” She turned her head to gaze at her father, her eyes tracing the lines and contours of his aging face. “So, if you have any more wisdom to impart on me before my union, I suggest you speak it now, Father.”

To her surprise, instead of delivering a dutiful order or a half-patronizing speech about her responsibilities, Lord Jasper's eyes softened as he gazed at his daughter. His words carried a deep sense of affection and nostalgia. "You look just like your mother," he said tenderly, catching her off guard with a heartfelt sentiment.

A loud creaking noise seemed to startle both father and daughter as grand doors of the Sept swung open, revealing the hallowed interior of the seven-sided building. As the doors parted, Maera's gaze fell upon a scene of solemn beauty and grandeur.

The sacred space was filled with the nobility of King's Landing and courtiers from far and wide who had gathered to witness the union of Maera and Prince Aemond. The air was thick with a sense of anticipation and reverence. Sunlight streamed through the intricately detailed stained glass windows, casting a kaleidoscope of colors onto the marble floors. The high vaulted ceiling seemed to touch the seven heavens, its arches adorned with the symbols of the Faith of the Seven.

Guests were neatly stood in rows on either side of the building, forming an aisle, their eyes focused on the bride as she entered the Sept. The soft murmur of conversations and the rustle of fine garments echoed within the hall.

On the few steps leading up to the platform where the High Septon stood were the prominent members of the royal family and the court. King Aegon, though visibly hungover, wore Targaryen attire with the Conqueror's crown resting on his disheveled hair. His presence, though somewhat disheveled, was still that of the ruling monarch. Beside him stood his dutiful sister-wife Queen Helaena, regal in a dress of olive green that covered her little bump, her silver hair braided atop her head, gazed with an air of dignified anticipation.

Their grandfather and Hand of the King, Lord Otto Hightower, stood with his customary poise and authority. The symbol of the beacon of Oldtown was embroidered on the chest of his green and gold garments and a golden chain across his shoulders indicated his high status. Finally was the Hand’s daughter and the King and Queen’s mother, Alicent, her deep green attire adorned with a dragon scale pattern. She presented herself with modesty and faithful dedication to the Seven, her auburn hair half up and half down as she stood with grace and poise.

At the centre of the chancel stood High Septon Eustace, resplendent in his richly embroidered robes. He radiated an aura of solemnity and holiness as he prepared to officiate the wedding ceremony, a central figure in the sacred rite.

Finally, Maera’s bright green eyes fell upon Prince Aemond, her breath catching in her throat. The Prince's presence was striking, and he stood to the left of the Septon, a commanding yet captivating air about him.

Aemond's attire was nothing short of regal. His robe, made of smooth satin, was as dark as the night, a deep black that emphasized the dragon's signature color. The grandeur of the robe was enhanced by the golden dragons embroidered on each breast and adorning the collar. A thick black leather belt cinched his waist, accentuating his lean and muscular frame, and he wore black trousers that complemented his boots, which shone knee-high in glossy black.

One of the most captivating aspects of his appearance was his hair. Though it retained most of its signature look, the top was carefully braided along his scalp before flowing freely down his back, adding to the elegance of the ensemble. The Prince’s demeanor was as cool and composed as usual, but as Maera observed, there was a subtle softness in his slightly widened eye, a reflection of the unique bond they shared. His strong, slender frame radiated confidence and authority, making him a powerful presence within the Sept, one that Maera found impossible to tear her eyes away from.

Lord Jasper led her down more steps before walking through the parted aisle of courtiers. Maera’s feelings were a mix of excitement, anticipation, and a touch of nervousness. The weight of the moment was not lost on her, as she made her way towards her intended. The gazes of the courtiers in the Sept were upon her, and as she proceeded, she received a sea of respectful nods, smiles, and quiet murmurs of admiration. Amongst the crowd, Maera spotted her stepmother, brothers and her sister. They waved eagerly at her, causing her heart to swell with relief and love for them.

Having escorted Maera to the front of the Sept, Lord Jasper granted his daughter a soft smile before leaving her side to join the rest of the gathered crowd. Maera turned to face Aemond, her emotions a whirlwind of nervousness and excitement. Her heart raced, and her green eyes locked onto his one violet eye. There was a subtle, reassuring smile on Aemond's lips as he looked at her, and the sight of him helped calm her nerves. He offered his hand and she took it eagerly, clutching on to it to steady herself before ascending more steps to face the High Septon, who awaited them between the statues of the Father and the Mother.

The High Septon’s voice resonated throughout the grand Sept as he addressed Aemond, instructing him, "You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection."

Maera obediently turned her back to him and felt the heavy weight of the cloak being placed over her shoulders. The black velvet with golden dragon embroidery was a symbol of their union, and it sent shivers down her spine. As Aemond's fingertips lingered on her shoulders, and his warm breath brushed against her neck, Maera felt a rush of anticipation. The physical contact, however brief, sent a thrill through her, intensifying her excitement for the ceremony and the night that would follow.

With the bride cloaked, the Septon proceeded to address the entire assembly. He began by acknowledging the presence of House Targaryen, extending his reverence to the King, Queen, Queen Mother and Lord Hand. Then he shifted his focus to the courtiers, declaring, "My lords, my ladies, we stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of man and wife. One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever."

The Septon, his voice resonating with solemnity, began leading the couple and the congregation in prayers, invoking the blessings of the Gods upon their union. Maera couldn't help but entertain a thought about the irony of a celibate Septon asking for fertility and fruitful marriage.

In the midst of the ceremony, Maera stole a quick glance at Aemond, finding him already looking at her. The slight blush that tinted her cheeks revealed the fluttering excitement and emotion within. She noticed a mischievous smirk gracing Aemond's face, and the shared moment between them felt like a glimpse into the beginning of their shared journey.

Septon Eustace, after the prayers, produced a golden silk ribbon, a symbol of unity and connection. With a graceful motion, he tied the fabric into a secure knot around the hands of Aemond and Maera. Their hands entwined, bound together by the delicate ribbon, signifying their union.

As the ribbon was unraveled by the Septon, the grand moment arrived when he directed them, "Look upon each other and say the words." The eyes of the betrothed couple met, and the profound weight of their vows and commitments settled in. The couple’s breathing became synced as they gazed upon each other before uttering the vows simultaneously to each other, that so many had said before them.

"Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger..."

"I am hers…”

"I am his…”

“and she is mine.”

“and he is mine.”

“From this day…”

“…until the end of my days."

With the vows exchanged, the moment arrived for the couple to seal their union with a kiss. Maera watched intently as Aemond leaned in, feeling a rush of butterflies flutter in her stomach. It was a pivotal moment in their relationship, unlike any other they had shared.

As their lips met, the kiss was soft and chaste, a marked contrast to the fiery and passionate encounters they had experienced before. Their lips moved together in a gentle and tender connection, causing Maera's emotions to swirl within her—a combination of excitement, vulnerability, and the beginning of a new chapter.

The kiss was over all too quickly, leaving Maera yearning for more. They joined hands, facing the congregation, and the assembled guests erupted into enthusiastic applause and cheering, celebrating the union of Prince Aemond and his wife, the new Princess of the Realm.

As soon as they could, Maera and Aemond exited the Sept, hand in hand, and moved with haste toward the awaiting carriage. Their footsteps were filled with purpose, and anticipation of the moments yet to come. Once inside the privacy of the carriage, with Aemond sitting opposite to Maera, the door closed behind them, and the horses began to pull them away from the Sept. Maera, feeling the tension and anticipation of the day finally receding, breathed a sigh of relief.

Aemond's observant eyes didn't miss it, and he couldn't help but ask, "Relieved, are we?"

She chuckled softly in response, the weight of the ceremony no longer bearing down on her. "Yes," she admitted, "I am glad it's over. Now the union is official."

A sly grin played on Aemond's lips, and he raised an eyebrow, his voice dripping with sinister allure. "Well," he said, leaning forward slightly, "The marriage is not valid in the eyes of the Realm or the Gods until it's...consummated."

Maera's nervous gulp didn't escape his notice. She could see the amusement dancing in his eyes, and she sensed his playful intentions, perhaps even an attempt to assert his dominance over her. Never one to back down from a challenge, Maera met Aemond's smirk with one of her own. She crossed her legs under her skirts, a smug expression taking hold. It was a battle of wills, and she was determined not to let him have the upper hand.

"You seem rather fixated on the consummation, my Prince,” Maera provocatively remarked, green eyes settling on the One-Eyed Prince. She couldn't help but smirk, her eyes sparkling with mischief, as she teased further, "I am surprised that you actually refrained from trying to sneak into my chambers before the today ."

Aemond let out a low, thoughtful hum, his jaw clenching slightly as he met her challenge. With a wicked smirk, he leaned in closer, whispering in a husky tone, "Time will tell who will give in first tonight." He couldn't resist the opportunity to tease her, his voice seductive and a hint of provocation as he added, "I have no doubt that you will be the one begging to be bedded."

Maera arched an eyebrow, her lips curving into a defiant smile. "We shall see about that."

Upon their return to the Red Keep for the wedding celebrations, Aemond and Maera entered a transformed hall, now adorned for the wedding reception. The room was filled with splendor, a breathtaking sight. Decorations of shimmering gold and black adorned the walls and ceilings, matching the Targaryen and Wylde colors. Torches and candles were lit, casting a warm and inviting glow.

At the front of the room, a magnificent top table was prepared for the bride and groom. It was adorned with intricate dragon-themed centerpieces, golden goblets, and fresh flowers. The chairs at the top table were especially ornate, fit for a prince and his bride. The feast laid out on the tables was a grand display of culinary delights. There were roasted meats, fresh fish, fruits, and various other dishes to tantalize the guests' taste buds. The tables were covered in sumptuous linens, and the settings gleamed with golden tableware.

The newlyweds sat at the top table, flanked by their respective families. As the speeches were made, the room was filled with laughter and joy. Prominent figureheads of their Houses shared amusing anecdotes, offered heartfelt congratulations, and raised their glasses in a toast to the happy couple. The words of wisdom, love, and support from friends and family brought smiles to the faces of Aemond and Maera.

Throughout the speeches, Aemond's hand rested on Maera's in her lap, a silent but reassuring presence. As the speeches concluded, the bride and groom were prompted to take part in the first dance as husband and wife. With smiles and grace, they rose from their seats, their hands entwined as the walked to the dance floor.

The dance commenced with a graceful bow and curtsy as the music began to play. As they moved together on the floor, their dance seemed to emulate dragons soaring through the skies. They held hands, their fingers entwined as they twirled and stepped in perfect sync, their movements fluid and harmonious.

Throughout the dance, Maera’s face bore a mix of excitement and contentment as she looked into Aemond's eye, her expression soft and tender. Aemond, too, looked regal and composed, but there was a gentleness in his demeanor as he danced with his bride. His eye held an intensity, but his lips curved into a genuine smile as they moved in unity across the dance floor. The room was filled with the joy of the moment, and all eyes were on the newlyweds as they continued their choreography, their elegance and grace captivating the onlookers.

As the dance came to a graceful conclusion, Maera curtsied with a flourish, and Aemond executed a deep bow to her. Their performance was met with thunderous applause and cheers from the delighted audience. Amidst the jubilant atmosphere, Maera glanced around the room, her eyes catching the attention of numerous attendees who vied for her recognition with respectful nods and raised glasses.

She turned to Aemond and said, "I think it is only proper that we go and greet our guests, do you not?"

Aemond hummed in agreement, and Maera playfully cocked her head, her voice laced with suggestion. "We will reconvene later, my Prince."

Aemond responded with a flirtatious grin, his tone equally suggestive. "Until then, Princess."

Notes: Ahhhh next chapter smut yall 😎

Tags: @blue-serendipity @watercolorskyy @manipulatixe @marvelescvpe @shesjustanothergeek @grungegrrrl

Thank you so much for reading! Comments, feedback, likes, and reblogs are greatly appreciated 🖤

[transfemme-floofer]

I was dusting the house as normal, like I did every week when I saw a strange golden card note on the kitchen table labelled “for my first ancilla”

“Strange” I thought, Mistress Luci was not normally like this, sure she was affectionate at times, but that’s normal for humans to feel that way about their pets. Curious, I opened it, it said: “3pm, on the private beach, near the cove, dress your best”

The time came and I walked down the garden and down the cobbled steps onto the beach. I was dressed in Merrel sandals instead of the standard Imperial Serva heeled sandals, a pink and white pleated skirt given as a gift for good behaviour instead of my summer cherry skirt or my standard issue skirt , a Very Special Occasion (MEO-Mucha Especial Ocasión) scented wick away slave blouse instead of the standard version, and a Peugeot love heart shaped chain link Titanium alloy collar instead of the standard oval chain link medicollar

Mistress looked at me up and down like five times before saying a word. “You’re… beautiful” she finally said, clearly rendered speechless. I curtsy in front of her, “thank you Domina” i replied, remembering to use Latin as well as my native British “where are we going” she had no obligation to reply and so kept silent as we walked to the cove admiring the waves and the cool afternoon, until I could see it, her Amphibicar Fiat Chariot (think like an Italian Ford Crown Victoria or Opel Omega), those things had been around 2610 AUC (1867), but this was a 22nd generation rear mid engined 2766 (2012) Amphibian vehicle variant (itself in it’s 10th generation since 2680 (1947)) with a 5.5L Ferrari Turbo V8, modular and hydraulically adjustable bench seats front and rear, four wheel drive courtesy of Lancia and a luxurious 3-speed hydraulic automatic transmission (with three electro-locked overdrive gears tacked on in the 2760 refresh for fuel and performance, as well as to hide its age) yanked out of the Buick Sappho coupe “Mistress this is wonderful” I turned to see her and say thank you, but found her on one knee

“Julia, I have legally submitted a form for us to be married, so that you won’t have to worry about losing me, your first constant and comfort in a long time” she pulled out a finger print scanner, “all I need is your fingerprint”, I pressed down excitedly, then my tabula got a notification

“Married to Doctor Luciana Antonia Presenti MD, PhD”

And another, from Fiat Intelligencia Automobilli “Authorised Guest of Luciana Presenti’s Intelligent Control System on her 2766 Fiat Chariot”

Mistress added on, “use it wisely”

I oblige “Fiat, open doors-“

Mistress chides playfully “No slave, stupid slut, type it out in the app”

I open the app and find the command room, where I find Mistress had already done test runs, I type in, “open driver door and say “welcome Domina””. It does so flawlessly and without hesitation. Mistress blushed “thanks pet, really appreciate it” she found the 2730s Buick touchscreen still in there with updated visuals and apps, but the same size of the screen and the same working concept. She typed in, “open passenger left back door and give the back ambient red gel lights and put on brothel music”. It did so. “very funny mistress”

(Another case of part two when I feel like it)

[theredhavendelegate]

Iss. 3:

Mysteries Beneath The Rubble!

Census workers from the mayor's office continue to aid in rescue and recovery efforts following The Great Transit, cataloguing the losses and tearfully reuniting the survivors.

The work is difficult, and while it has been getting physically easier as the days go on, the emotional toll only grows higher by the hour.

Most of the casualties have been due to crushing, blood loss, and sudden trauma, but unusual cases have gradually begun to bubble up. Though the offices of the mortician and mayor have refused to make statements on the matter, an anonymous Blue Coalition volunteer has come forward with a startling report... ---

The red bricks and colorful awnings, the copper roofs and cobbled roads, smashed and shattered and tossed and mixed, have combined to form a dusty, deathly grey, a beach with no waterline: an ossuary.

Alessa's soft nose and thin lips are covered with a hand-sewn mask. She and half-a-dozen others, each with a band of blue fabric on their upper arms, crawl over the debris with shovels and picks.

One of them calls out, voice echoing over the ruins: "Found one!"

There is a pause, tinted painfully with hope. The voice calls again, slightly grey now: "They're gone."

Another volunteer shuffles over with tools and a canvas bag.

Alessa carries on, clears the doorway to a house whose roof has collapsed, knocks in the window to a shop, shouts, "Hello? We're here to help, just make a sound, anything!" Her tone is not frightened or desperate. It isn't even protective per se. It is purposeful and sure, unfazed as a lighthouse amidst a storm.

Despite the softness of her features, her hands are calloused and scarred and her body subtly muscled. She breaks off ahead of her group, leaving blue fabric flags on any building that's held together well enough to have preserved those inside, until she spots the hole.

It's vast, an entire block seemingly sucked into the ground. It runs a hundred feet across and fifty feet at its deepest. Steep walls rise on every side and water, gas, and sewer lines jut out of them like rough, toothy needles.

"Sinkhole, maybe?" Alessa wonders, then something catches her eye. All around the edge of the hole are red signs, marked with the feather of Redhaven and the phrase 'Danger, Do Not Enter!'

Alessa glower's at the nearest one, daring it to stop her, then glances back down into the chasm. There are all the components of the street within: bent and curling lampposts, shattered windows, cobbles and curbs. No victims, though.

She waits a minute longer and, just as she goes to heft her tool bag back onto her shoulder, there is a sound: a scrape, then another, then a series of rasping coughs. A man tumbles out from beneath a shaded overhang and crumples to the floor, where he lies, wheezing.

Alessa drops her tools into the hole, down the shallowest of the slopes, then navigates herself down as well. Despite the desperate condition of her target, she moves comfortably, testing each step with almost half of her body weight before taking it fully, knocking away loose ground and rubble with kicks and nudges as she goes.

Her feet hit the basin floor and she scoops up her bag, preemptively fishing for the first aid kit as she makes her way over, though she stops searching for it once the man comes clearer into sight.

He is disheveled, dusty, bloody, and his breathing is shallow. There is a splinter, reflective, like blue-ish glass, sticking out of his neck. Several more protrude from his head. Each is six or seven inches long and noticeably barbed. He rolls over as Alessa approaches, and he gurgles, "...Others...help...", even as his eyes grow glassy and still.

Alessa stares at him for a moment, her soft brown eyes growing slightly dim and her brows sinking just a hair.

She glances up and away, beneath the overhang and into a terrible darkness that lies behind the man. There is an open doorway made of cut stone, the entrance to a basement or underground utility tunnel that slopes away gently and into the earth.

Alessa takes a look back up at the red warning signs, watching her from way above like curious angels, waiting, hoping, judging.

She shakes her head, hangs a blue flag by the doorway, and enters, lighting up an large, clunky flashlight. Its flickering yellow beam barely cuts through the gloom and the buzz it emits seems to barely cover an audible aura about the place.

Alessa proceeds down the tunnel, only slightly bothered by the atmosphere. She follows a trail of blood, barely present this far in but growing thicker. More glassy barbs appear, some stuck into walls, cut right into the stone, others discarded on the floor and stained partly red.

The tunnel goes on for too long, and without any of the usual furniture of a cellar. No barrels, no shelves, just more damage and evenly spaced, unlit bulbs of a newer style. There are holes in the walls and floor at odd intervals, a foot or two in diameter and organically shaped like ant burrows. Many are scorched, sprayed with black soot and reeking of kerosene.

The tunnel turns into a hall quite suddenly, lined with steel, linoleum, and occasionally, human bodies. Each is dressed like anyone might be, in vests, suspenders, shirts, blouses, skirts and slacks. A few wear long white coats that display unfamiliar insignia. Some are gnawed, filled with spines, or missing chunks. Some bear stranger afflictions still.

Alessa closes in on one that's huddled the corner of an intersection, a middle aged woman with strawberry blond hair tied back in a bun. Half of her face and skull has turned mostly transparent and hard, like smoked glass, to reveal her brain and optical nerves. The hair on that side of the head has fallen cleanly out and onto the floor. Her expression is locked, forever more, with eyes wide and mouth agape.

For the first time this week, Alessa recoils, though she recovers herself quickly.

In the grim quiet, a sound starts to echo out, ringing down one of the corridors and bounding through the crossroads. It is heavy, thunking and shifting. Alessa darts down another hall and rounds a corner, then extinguishes her light. She is cast in total darkness.

The sound draws near at an anxious, uneven pace. It pauses. There is muffled conversation and then clanking, a heavy click, then a thick wooshing sound. Bright light carries itself down the hallway and around the corner, then comes a wave of heat, and finally, the smell, sour and sharp like rotten eggs and vomit, and kerosene too.

Alessa reaches into her shirt, lays a palm on the handle of a revolver, and leaves it there.

The thunking movement begins again, draws close to the intersection behind the dimness of flashlights. The source of the sound grows visible now, two figures dressed from head to toe in thick white suits, like enormous anthropomorphic marshmallows. Alessa cracks a slight grin.

One of them is wearing a heavy tank on their back and carrying a sort of pump connected to it via hose. A little candle of a flame glows near its tip. The other wields a pump action shotgun, something sturdy and reliable, and clearly well used. Both have lamps mounted to the shoulders of their suits.

Alessa pulls herself back around the corner. One of the men begins to speak, voice muffled, yet still clear enough to read as uncertain. "That's it for this section. Let's get out of here and seal off the northern tunnel."

The other nods affirmatively and takes half a step, then stops. He tilts his gun up and into the darkness.

A sound begins. Clicking and chirping, harsh and organic, insectoid, like from summer cicadas. Darker though, harder.

Closer.

The man pulls the trigger.

The sound is deafening. Alessa's ears ring. The flash is what matters more though, as the whole space lights up for just a fraction of a second. The hallway she'd originally come from is now filled with chitinous things. Many armed and legged, constructed like armored, pincered ponies, slick and clinging to the walls and ceiling and packed in as if a single mass.

The man with the flamethrower lets loose, the man with the shotgun racks another round, and both start screaming in sync. A racket of scraping, cackling, clattering chitin fills the air. Alessa turns on her flashlight again and bolts away from the action. The hallways are all nearly identical, some are lined with doors, some turn off into narrow, dead-end alleys, while others feature thick, valved pipes and wall access panels of unknown purpose.

Even as the frenzied sounds fade away, absorbed by tile and steel and stone, twisted and choked by the labyrinth, Alessa runs. She pounds the ground with her boot-clad feet until she's blue in the face and her lungs ache, until she rounds a corner into another long, straight hall that slopes mercifully upwards.

She crashes against the wall, slumping into it and breathing heavily. Her knuckles hurt. She pulls her hand, finally, out of her shirt, fingers white and bloodless, joints aching to return to the shape of the revolver's grip. She stretches out her hand and starts up the slope.

There's daylight at the end, misty and grey, and relief floods the volunteer like cold water. As her senses return, a gaze burns into the her neck, a presence. She doesn't face it. She only whispers, "If you want to kill me, you'd better do it now, while I'm too tired to fight back."

Nothing attacks her, and as she reaches the end of the hall, which is set into the mouth of a cave in the semi-familiar outskirts of the city, she glances back. Only darkness stares back.

Only darkness.

---

First Prev Next

[midnightkens]

one word prompt:

feather

TW: mentions of strangulation/near death experience, domestic violence

--

The front door has never looked so imposing.

Ken stands outside of his apartment, eyes unfocused. It's only been three weeks, but it feels like it's been a lifetime. The days bleed together; his family tries to go about their normal routines while he stays frozen on Colt's couch, locked in endless stagnation.

His entire existence had been stagnant once. He hadn't minded it then. How was he supposed to know he was missing anything? But now he knows, and his brain screams at him to get up, go back to work and keep moving. Put one foot in front of the other, and don't look back.

Like usual.

Nothing is normal right now. It may never be again. Not that his existence is conventional - he'd been a doll for six decades, after all. A semblance of a normal, adult human life had just been cobbled together when Patrick Murphy came in like a tornado, ruining the life Ken built for himself, ruining Ken. He's left with nothing but memories, the fading bruises on his neck a stark reminder of what happened on the other side of the apartment door.

A hand slides into his. Ken jumps, and shame immediately curls in his belly. It's just Colt. Barbie's here, too. His two pillars of strength, flanking him, protecting him. How is he supposed to repay them? Maybe he can't.

"You don't have to do this," Barbie says gently. "Colt and I can take care of it."

"No." Ken winces. It's been weeks, but his throat is still raw, vocal cords still healing. He's trying not to talk much, and for once, it's been relatively easy. He doesn't have much to say. "I hid some stuff and I need to get them."

Ken takes a deep breath and unlocks the door, glad when Barbie doesn't argue further. With a shaking hand, Ken turns the knob. The door creaks open, and for the first time in three weeks, he flicks on the light.

Colt sucks in a sharp breath as they venture into the apartment. The place is a disaster. Ken doesn't remember much of it - every now and again, images of Patrick shouting and breaking things flash before his eyes, but he hasn't been able to piece together an accurate timeline. The altercation ended in the bedroom, but evidence of Patrick's rampage lies in the living room, pieces of Ken's life strewn about like nothing.

Glass crunches beneath Ken's shoes. Picture frames lay shattered on the floor, the photos torn to shreds. All of his work, of course, he notes as he continues down the hall. Patrick's photographs hang on the wall, too, and Ken was so proud to display them, to show off his partner's talent. He finds a picture of the Malibu Beach taken at sunset torn to shreds on the floor, pieces of red, gold, and orange unrecognizable to everyone but him. Pat's own photo of a local park at sunrise hangs proudly on the wall. Ken hums a short, bitter note.

Funny how none of Patrick's things were destroyed, isn't it?

Ken heads toward the bedroom, feet carrying him on autopilot. Colt remains rooted in place. This is the stuntman's first time seeing the damage, the worst of Ken's inner world that he refused to let anyone else see.

Everything is fine. Patrick's good. What bruise? Oh, that. I whacked myself in the eye with my camera. I'm an idiot.

The living room is nothing compared to the bedroom.

Boxes lay on their sides, Ken's belongings toppling out of them. His bed is a mess - the sheets are destroyed, the pillows hardly recognizable. Ken picks up a stray feather, twirling it in his fingers. He doesn't remember touching the bed. He doesn't remember Patrick knocking over the boxes. When Ken crouches down to take a closer look, he sees his favorite leather jacket, slash marks cutting through the sleeves. His small, pink vinyl player is in pieces, his favorite records snapped in half, Matchbox Twenty, Prince, and Taylor Swift staring at him in betrayal.

There's blood on the corner of his dresser. Ken's hand drifts absentmindedly to a healing cut on his forehead. Ken rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet, hands trembling. What happened in here? How did Patrick's attack start in the living room and end here, his bedroom, the place he should be safest? Why is most of the attack tucked away, buried so deeply in his head that he doesn't know if he'll ever be able to access them?

Patrick's rampages are nothing new, yet the memories refuse to come. There's only one part he remembers clearly.

His breath hitches, and Ken resolutely keeps his eyes locked on the boxes. The bedroom's threshold is a stark reminder of the delicate balance between life and death. He doesn't remember how they got there, but it's the one thing Ken remembers.

Lying on the floor, half of his body in the bedroom, half out the door. Patrick straddling him, and hands, cold, cruel hands wrapped tightly around his neck. Ken's face is wet. His heart hammers in his chest, and he presses his palms tightly to his eyes, wishing it would just stop.

It's the only thing he remembers, and it keeps him awake at night. He hasn't slept more than four hours in weeks, the terror so thick that he can almost taste it. Why did Patrick stop? What made the other man stare at his hands in horror and flee as Ken lay on the floor, breathless and dying?

Patrick and his answers are elusive. The other man's been in hiding, though Ryan's seen the familiar blue car outside of Pat's apartment building, has seen the lights on. The coward refuses to come out, everyone else thinks, but Ken knows better.

Two years of horror taught him that the other man isn't finished. Not yet.

Patrick is simply biding his time until he deems it safe enough to come out.

[fullfiresiren]

unconquered // 6

[6; shadows]

[read on ao3]

This is the second time you have been outside the Keep. 

The first was under the guise of a local, hidden under a hooded cloak with Ser Erryk by your side, on your way to visit your dragon. 

This time, you travel in the King’s carriage. 

The soft plush of the ruby fabric seats bows beneath the weight of you, and you sway with the motion of the box. The cobbled streets of Kings Landing make for an uneven ride, and you bounce up violently at a particularly pitted portion of the road. The king offers a reassuring smile at your uneasy expression. 

This morning, whilst allowing yourself a portion of time to read up on the histories of Westeros before your joined lesson with the prince, there came a sharp knock at the wooden door of your apartments that stole your attention. 

Upon opening it, King Viserys himself stood before you. 

“Good morning, High Lady (y/n),” he had greeted, golden crown glinting at you.  

You are not sure who you were expecting to see, but it certainly was not him. You stumbled over a polite response, and he asked if you were busy this day. Upon hearing you had no prior engagements, he suggested that the two of you take a ride down to the beaches, so that he may meet your dragon. 

“I am quite excited to see your mount,” he begins, swaying along with the carriage. “I claimed only one dragon in my life – Balerion – the conquerors.” Largest of all dragons, you think, forever reminded of that fact. “Although, by the time I did, he had grown so monstrous in size, that he was sluggish and obscenely heavy – forever obstinate at being roused. He struggled to take flight and was far too old to cover even the distance between King’s Landing and Dragonstone.” He looks out forlornly at his city. “After his death, I... never bonded with another.” 

You think of yourself if faced with a similar situation. “I feel I would be the same, your grace,” you hum. “If Archeon died, I would take no other dragon as my mount, despite having four others who could easily fill his space.” 

“How lucky you are,” he smiles, “to have five wondrous dragons to call your own. I suppose this comes from the five thousand years Valyria reigned all-powerful?” 

“Indeed, your grace,” you nod, “You are correct.” 

“Fascinating,” he beams. “Do you recall anything more? I understand your memories escape you, but has anything come to light recently?” 

“I am afraid not,” you shake your head, and then, add quickly, “your grace.” 

He waves his hand, dismissive. “Please do not worry about such formalities. You are a monarch also.” 

You suppose he is right. 

“How are things with my son?” he asks hopefully, eyes shining. 

“Ah,” you grip the sides of the soft seat to keep yourself stable. “It is going well. We speak often about many things, and I hope to grow closer to him in the days and weeks to come.” 

He beams. “Excellent! I knew the two of you would be a good match! Ah, this is splendid news, simply splendid!” 

You cannot contain your smile at the King’s happiness. He must truly wish for his son to be deeply loved in his marriage. You supposed there is nothing better for a parent than to see their child happy. You think on what you would wish for your own children. Those you may one day have with Prince Aemond. 

Your face flares red like the upholstery beneath you, and you turn quickly to stare out the carriage windows. 

It is not long before the outskirts of the city appear, cobbled road trailing off into soft grass. You are almost beside yourself with excitement when the door swings open, the knowledge that you will once again reunite with your dragon too much to bear. The King exits first, inhaling the sea breeze, and you follow after, skirt bunched in your knuckles to avoid it catching on the steps. 

The carriage has stopped atop a cliff that overlooks the Narrow Sea and the sprawling sand beaches. A gargantuan mass of black lifts its head when your presence is felt, stretching out and sitting up to its full height. Archeon begins chittering, a low rumble in his chest that bubbles up and spills forth, golden eyes crinkling with mirth and happiness. You beam, forgetting your company entirely in favor of dashing down the stairs to the beach, almost sprinting towards him. He shakes the remaining sand from his scales in a heavy and slow movement, tail swooshing out behind him, and takes a large step forward – intent on meeting you halfway. 

When you are upon one another, he bows his head to the floor, chin in the sand, welcoming your body pressed against his snout, as if he is welcoming you home. His large nostrils either side of you snort out hot embers and his noises fade to a weak purr. He closes his eyes at the sensation of you stroking his large scales, comforting and soothing. Archeon is fond of the water, fond further of the sea and tides, but you fear loneliness may take too much of a toll on his existence. 

“I told you I would return, did I not?” you hum. “My heart. Have you been well?”

He makes a noise, nudging you gently in response. He is so large however, that any slight movement pushes you with force, and you stumble, laughing. 

“Despite being aware of your size, you are still much larger than I give you credit for,” you say, moving to the side of his face, palm still tracing his scales, and he turns his eye to follow. “Gone are the days where you could hardly carry me, my heart. If I didn’t know any better, I would say you grow ever larger by the day.”

Archeon’s shifted gaze alerts you to an approaching presence far earlier than your own senses do, and when you follow it, you see King Viserys making his way towards you across the sand, a few members of the Kingsguard trailing behind, but keeping their distance.  

A slight change in breathing beneath your palm is like an unspoken question. You answer it aloud. 

“The King.”  

A distasteful snort in the face of the word, and you press you palm against him firmly. 

“He is gentle and kind – not unlike you. We are allowed to stay here because of him. You are allowed to roam free because of him.” 

Archeon eyes you incredulously. We are free because of who we are.

“Yes,” you smile. “I know.” 

“Gods be good!” King Viserys cries, taking in the hulking form of a dragon so large, he now rivals Vhagar. “He bears a striking resemblance to my former dragon! What a handsome beast! May I?” 

Archeon lifts his head from the sands beside you to stretch up to his full height in a display of brilliant power, black as thunderous night, deep golden eyes taking in the situation from high above. Sand that was stuck to his underbelly falls like rain from the skies, and from where the king stands, it appears he is protectively looming over you. For all the king knows, he is. 

Archeon snorts once from above – usually a sign that he is asking you for clarification; for you to speak on the matter. 

“He wishes to see you closer,” you explain. “You look like his own.”

A few deep throated clicks are your answer, non-threatening, and you smirk up at him.  

“Of course,” you speak to the king, “He will not hurt you. Archeon is kind and gentle, despite his size and appearance. Think of him as you think of me.” 

You raise your arm slightly in signal, and your mount lowers to the sands once more, huffing out and relaxing into the beach. His tail swishes into the tides, and his face rests beside you. 

“He can understand you when you speak?” 

“When I speak Valyrian, he can understand me, yes,” you nod, switching to your mother tongue. “It is easy for me to communicate with him. We understand one another well, and we can even speak to the other... in our own ways.” 

King Viserys approaches slowly, and, once near, tentatively raises a palm to your dragon's head. 

“What a magnificent creature you are,” he hums, stroking softly. Archeon coos in happy response. “I believe you and your mount are a gift to the other. How lucky then, that you have found one another.”

You smile, leaning against the side of your dragon’s head. 

“Are your other dragons as large as he?” the king asks. 

“I am not sure,” you reply truthfully. “I was searching for them when I was spotted by the crown. However, I have a feeling – should they still be alive – they will be.” 

“I am sure they are doing well,” he offers, patting Archeon once finally, before removing his hand from him. “You would know in your soul if they are not. They are simply waiting for you to come home.” 

You think on his words, their weight pressing into your chest, squeezing your heart painfully. How lonely they must be, having to exist separate for all this time without a piece of themselves. The toll cuts deep for you, too; your own soul living without four integral parts. 

King Viserys walks around your dragon, joining your side to gaze up at him. He points, “I notice he is without saddle?” 

“Ah, yes,” you nod, “During my time in Valyria, Archeon was not the size he is now. He was so small, he could barely carry me. He grew fast, but, back then, the weight of a saddle along with myself would be too much for him to bear. I remember my parents asking me to wait and be patient.” Their faces come to mind, fuzzy detail that grows clearer by the day, it seems, and you hum. “But of course, I was impatient. He was my mount, my heart, my own. Even when he was still small, I climbed atop him, without saddle, and urged him to fly. Sōves, ñuha prūmia, I said. Sōves.” 

“Fly, my heart,” the king translates, softly.  

You smile, and Archeon groans, remembering how little and unsure he was. “The first flight is important for a dragonrider. It is the thing that ultimately solidifies the bond. I feel that is one reason why we are so closely forged -- there was no saddle to impede movement or feeling. When we flew together, we touched. One heart, one soul.” You rub your shoulder against his face, looking up at him. “Correct?”

Archeon groans soft and low. Correct. 

“Incredible,” King Viserys whispers. “Surely now it is difficult to ride him? Even to mount? I find it hard to believe such an effort comes with ease.” 

“It is not difficult at all,” you smile. “We are closely bonded, so our thoughts and emotions are one. Whatever I feel or experience whilst on his back are those he understands. It is as easy to move him as it is my own limbs. We exist separate and yet, together.”  

The king is in awe. He understands the bonds between dragon and rider, and yet this is something wholly other. 

“Will you allow me to commission a saddle for him? He is about the size of my son’s, so a saddle made from the measurements of Vhagar should fit,” he begins. “And perhaps some flying clothes? Surely it must be uncomfortable to always ride in dresses and gowns?” 

You cannot deny that it is. “I do not want to ask something so large of you, your grace.” 

He waves you off. “Not at all! It would be my absolute pleasure – an honor, even! To create a saddle for a dragon that has seen the freehold in all it’s might – and matching garments for a monarch of the Valyrian empire!” 

You thank him earnestly, but feel the sudden need to add, “Might I ask that you refrain from creating reins? Just a saddle will be enough. I have seen the steel implants bolted into the necks of the dragons kept at the pit, and I fear for the lives of any who would attempt to do such a thing to my own.” 

“Of course, High Lady (y/n),” he nods. “I would not dream of it.” 

“You have done so much for me, King Viserys,” you begin, looking out at the Narrow Sea. “I do not know how to thank you... nor how to repay you. If not for you, I fear... I would always be lost... until my dying day.” 

He looks at you for a while, and for a brief moment, in you, he sees his Rhaenyra. 

“Many in our line have been dragonriders. So few among us have been dreamers,” he starts, coming to stand before you. “When my daughter was a child, I saw something in a dream. It came to me often, but only in parts. As vivid as you are before me, I saw it. Valyria. In its most powerful, during the time it conquered all. A brilliant golden city, above which, thousands of dragons took flight. I saw volcanoes, fourteen of them, the magma spilled forth through the streets and colored it otherworldly. Overlooking it all, a young woman, barely of age. She wore no crown, and yet, I knew her to be the monarch. 

I sought that vision again, night after night, and I prayed to the Gods to show me the meaning. Show me the reason. When you were found, I finally understood. I knew exactly who you were. You were the young woman from my dreams. I knew not how, but you were. I felt a duty to you – to help you, however I could. There is a greatness in you, perhaps you do not see it yet, but I do. It was born in you. It cannot live in shame. I fear the journey you will have to take is one you must walk alone, but know this; no matter what may happen, you are never lost.” 

He offers you a genuine smile, and you stand there lost for words.  

Since you awoke months ago in the ruins of your city, you have felt nothing but loss. Loss of your family, your people, your home. Loss of your dragons, your memories, your sense of who you are. You have lost the world you knew forever to the one that now surrounds you. King Viserys has given you an opportunity to gather yourself; to reclaim what you thought was gone forever, and he has done so not with underhanded tactics or ulterior motives, but because he felt it was his duty to help. He asks for nothing in return.  

You cannot waste the opportunity given to you. 

“I... thank you,” you blurt. “Truly.” 

He smiles, giving Archeon a nod, “Take this time to be with your dragon. After everything is said and done, you both still have one another. It is to be cherished. I shall send my son to come and collect you--” 

“Oh, there is no need,” you begin quickly, not wanting to drag Prince Aemond from his duties simply to fetch you from the beaches. “Ser Erryk should be more than willing.” 

King Viserys says nothing else, smiling slightly as he turns, taking his leave, members of the Kingsguard accompanying him away. 

The sound of the breaking tide gives way only to the subtle noise of the King’s carriage leaving, and then, you are alone with your dragon. Archeon chitters at you, urging you from your thoughts, and you hum, turning to him. He has already bowed his shoulder to the sand, welcoming you to climb up for flight, and you do, pulling yourself up by his protruding horns. He aides you as best he can, and you think, perhaps, now it is time to accept you must use a saddle. 

When you are settled at his pinnacle, he groans, turning towards the ocean, lifting his head to peer up at you, blinking slowly. You laugh immediately, sensing his thoughts. 

“Feeling nostalgic?” you tease. He snorts, indignant. “Alright, alright,” you acquiesce, gripping his horns to prepare yourself for flight. 

"Sōves, ñuha prūmia,” you start, yelling, “Sōves!” 

Archeon roars loud, shaking the foundations of the cliffs, and rears on his haunches, wings so large they span out across almost the entirety of the beach. He beats them with force, lifting his mass, and takes flight over the sea. His wings take him high, and you are right along with him, climbing higher and flying further, the city of King’s Landing grows ever smaller behind you, until it is nothing more than an indistinguishable mass of land. Your dragon vocally expresses his happiness, and you shout along with him, freedom a birthright you enjoy exercising.  

Your eyes watch the ocean spray kick up from below, frothy and forlorn, almost tasting the salt on your tongue. No matter how warm and bright the day is on the shores of King’s Landing, across the Narrow Sea it turns dull and ghostly, thick fog unfurling around you, only parting for the gargantuan mass of your dragon. 

Archeon beats his wings and soars gently, taking you with him. He does not wobble like he did when he was young. He does not lose his balance nor dip with the weight of you. He is stoic now; study like the rocks beneath Dragonstone, unmovable. Like the ore at the heart of the fourteen flames in your homeland, he remains as he always was, and always will be. Indominable. A fall from this height would surely kill you, and yet, you feel safer here than anywhere else in the world. For no one else will protect you as Archeon will. His shadow runs black against the tides, and you watch the silhouette of the two of you with a smile.  

The hairs on the back of your neck stand.  

You cast your gaze upwards sharply, and a great mass encompasses yours, swallowing it whole, blocking out the sun, the sky, the world around you. It’s incredible, size unfathomable -- terrifying and monstrous. Every inch of it is black as night, scales, horns, wings; the underbelly so close and low, you can make out the details and folds of its skin.  

It is a memory. 

You are eighteen, on the back of a wobbly dragon that can barely hold you, and your father soars above you with his own royal mount, the size swallowing yours a thousand times over. You are grinning at the show of force and power, the roar from his beast vibrates your chest and you yell out your own battle cry. Below you, Archeon roars, too, high pitched and young. 

It is overshadowed by his sudden roar from beneath you, memory interrupted, fading quickly. You grasp at the details desperately. This was the first memory of your father that had resurfaced. Despite not seeing him or his face, the connection between the dragon that appeared above you and your own father runs too deep for you to simply pass off as an assumption. Your mind is broken, but your heart is strong. Your heart knows. You remember him there. 

You glance down at Archeon, wondering why the sudden outburst, but his gaze is transfixed off to the left, somewhere far out in the ocean. He makes a noise you have never heard from him before. It is not aggressive, nor affectionate. It sounds longing, sad. 

“My heart,” you begin, patting his large withers to gain his attention. “What is it you see?” 

He whistles high, and you follow his gaze. 

There it is again. 

The shadowy mass darting through the fog above the seas. This is the second time you have seen it; one too many times to be a mere coincidence. It skitters about in a way that unnerves you, something familiar about it, and yet something else tells you to leave well enough alone. You by yourself out here with Archeon. You cannot risk him or his safety by chasing after specters. You also cannot risk those in Kings Landing or the Red Keep if it follows you back. You are sure it must be a dragon, but one that is unclaimed can lay waste to a city if it wishes. 

“Come,” you urge Archeon back, “Let us return.” 

He makes the unfamiliar noise once again, but obeys, leaning to his left to bank hard, wing skimming the waters. 

It takes only minutes until the shores of King’s Landing make their appearance, and Archeon lands heavy, wings steadying his balance, thumping his front arms into the sand. You stretch, looking out across the beach, eyes finding your sworn sword descending the wooden steps just in time to escort you back to the Keep. You dismount your dragon with little effort, legs wobbly when you hit the sand, and no sooner have you taken steps away from him, than he extends his wings to fly off once more. A little unusual, you think, as he soars off into the bleak. 

“Perhaps to hunt,” you wonder aloud. 

Ser Erryk approaches, the noise catching your attention, and you turn to him. 

“My Lady,” he greets. “I trust you had a good time?” 

“Indeed, Ser Erryk,” you smile. 

“Shall we return to the Keep?” 

You nod, following him as you have often done before, through the overcrowded streets of King’s Landing. Poverty is rampant in these parts; men, women and children on the streets as you pass, begging for food, coin -- anything you can give. Their clothes are torn and dirty, their faces sunken with hunger and misery, and your heart clenches painfully when you walk past.  

There was nothing like this in the freehold.  

You grasp Ser Erryk’s cloak to gather his attention. 

“Can we spare them anything?” you ask, “Have we anything to give?” 

“I have no coin on my person,” he replies, and you know that neither do you. 

“Why is nothing being done about this?” you lower your voice, hissing, “These people are hardly alive – this is the King’s city!” 

“I know, my lady,” he mutters back, “But it has been this way for a hundred years now. I do not believe we alone can change it.” 

“A city should be safe and prosperous for all its people.” 

He turns back to continue walking but utters, “I agree.” 

You are hurt and disappointed, angry that you cannot do anything. Ser Erryk is right – alone, this is something you cannot change.  

You partake in small-talk until the towering form of the Red Keep looms into view, and from your place in the streets below, the walls seem to stretch high into the heavens themselves. The great bronze Barbican gates groan and part to give you entrance, opening to reveal the dirt courtyard. A few gold cloaks are stationed, some lesser lords talk in groups, and the lithe movements of a white-haired prince make everything around you fade into a dull blur. 

“Ser Erryk, you may go about your duties,” you announce, smiling up at him. “I am alright by myself for now.” 

He glances quickly around the courtyard, and, after seeing the one-eyed prince, nods. “As you wish, my lady. Please call for me if you need anything.” 

Ser Erryk takes his leave, and the passing noise of his armor alerts the prince to the possibility of your presence. He turns his head to look for you, gaze darting back and forth, until he finds you. You greet him with a smile, and he returns it, lowering his sword to walk over to you. He must have been sparring by himself today, Ser Criston nowhere in sight. 

“My lady,” he begins, only a little out of breath. “Are you well?” 

“Very,” you reply, gesturing to the gates behind you. “I just came from the beaches. Your father wanted to meet my dragon.” 

“I see,” he replies, eyes taking in the details of your face, committing it to memory. “Did all go well?” 

“Yes, my prince. The two seem to like one another,” you explain. “When your father saw I ride without saddle, however, I fear he worried for my safety. The king insisted he commission one for me, using your own dragon’s size as a guide.” 

“You ride without saddle?” Prince Aemond asks, face betraying his stoic composure when shock paints itself over his features. 

You are not sure if you want to truthfully explain why, but after catching his gaze, you realize he is perhaps the person who should know first, before any else. You told the king, his father, in part, but why should Prince Aemond not know in full? He is, afterall, the one who will become closest to you.  

“Ah... yes,” you sigh, “When I was in Valyria, Archeon was terribly small. He was born when I was, and although he grew faster than my others, he was still smaller than I had hoped. I was impatient to fly with him, you see. As soon as he was the size of a small pony, I took the opportunity, and mounted him. It was difficult for him to carry me alone, but with the added weight of a saddle, it would have been impossible. Then, not long after, the Doom. He never grew to a size in Valyria where a saddle could be properly fitted, and, when I awoke, it seemed time had not stopped for him quite like it did for me. He was no longer the baby I had fallen asleep beside. Now, he was a monstrous figure that could carry 30 with ease.” 

Prince Aemond does not overlook the critically important wording.  

Fallen asleep. 

He almost wants to ask you outright about it, but fears you will scatter if cornered. Another time, perhaps. 

“Did you fly with Archeon today?” is all he can muster. He feels terribly incompetant in his inability to comfort you. 

“I did,” you laugh, adding jokingly, “Ah, do I look terribly windswept?” 

“Only a little,” he grins, and then the color drains from his face. “But you do not look terrible! I did not mean it in that way, of course--!” 

“It is alright,” you reassure quickly, laughing, “I understand what you mean.” 

“Yes... of course...” he trails off awkwardly, gripping the handle of his sword tightly.  

You think suddenly of the figure you saw darting about the mist during your flights. “My prince,” you begin, and he holds your gaze. “Do you perchance know if one of your siblings is out riding their dragon as of now?” 

He thinks for a moment, before answering, “Not that I am aware of, my lady.” 

You frown, murmuring. “How odd...” 

“What’s wrong?” 

“When I was flying out over the Narrow Sea with Archeon, I saw what looked like the shadow of a dragon in the distance. This will be the second time the apparition has appeared to me.” 

“Did you draw closer to it?” 

“No,” you shake your head. “I kept my distance.” 

“I believe that is for the best, my lady,” he nods, brows furrowed like he is concerned. “There are many unclaimed dragons around Westeros -- and especially Dragonstone. A few are even large enough to cause your own dragon damage, despite his size. For your safety, please do not chase after it.” 

You seem worried, but heed his advice, nonetheless. It is as you thought. “I see. Thank you, my prince.” 

After a few brief moments of gentle silence for you, and suffocating quiet for him, he realises he does not want the interaction to end so soon, and blurts, “Would you like to learn?” 

“Learn--?” 

“To spar,” he hastily explains, lifting his sword a little, and recalling, “Last time we were together you voiced an interest in learning?” 

You are surprised he remembers such a detail. “Right now?” you glance around. “Would it not be improper amongst others--?” 

“No one will challenge you whilst I am here.” 

It fills you with an odd sense of comfort, knowing he is there to stand firm in your corner, and so readily -- without quarrel or request.  

“Alright then,” you nod with determination. “I will do my best.” 

He brightens at your decision, walking to a more open area of the courtyard while you follow. 

“We can start with the basics today,” he explains, “proper grip, stance, footwork...”  

He returns his steel weapon to its place on the wooden table, and retrieves two training swords instead, turning to hand one to you. You take it from him, surprised at the light weight. It feels foreign in your palm, awkward. You make a noise. 

“Don’t worry, my lady,” he reassures, perhaps sensing your apprehension. “And do not be afraid of failing. Without failure, we cannot learn.” 

A comforting thought. One that sticks with you.  

Prince Aemond is awkward initially, assuming the role of teacher, but settles into the position as best he can, and, after a while, is at ease. He explains the proper way to place your feet when guarding, versus actively attacking. He tells you where to place your weight, how to parry, and where to focus your attention. He is gentle when he speaks, but assertive; his tone knowledgeable, but not forceful or demanding. He gives you a demonstration when you do not understand and is quick to point out your mistakes with a reassuring note. When it comes time to learn to attack and strike, he offers himself as your opponent. 

“I do not feel this is quite appropriate,” you huff, a little out of breath as he stands pristine before you, posture perfect and wooden sword in hand. “My prince, what if I strike you?” 

“If you manage to land a hit on me, my lady, I will be incredibly impressed,” he smirks, tone lightly scattered with amusement and provocation, “and promise to hold no grudges.” 

You narrow your eyes at him, and return his smirk, sighing out a little at the clearly bad idea. Heavens forbid the prince return to his chambers with a visible welt, or you, a darkening bruise. What are the maids to think? Your spar will ultimately be the birthplace of salacious rumors -- of that you have no doubt. 

“Assume your stance, my betrothed,” he reminds, and you have half a mind to think the change in his title for you is an underhanded tactic. A method to make you flustered. 

It is. 

You ready yourself, and, with nothing to lose nor gain, raise your sword, and very, very terribly, strike. 

He dodges with little to no effort, smiling over his shoulder at you.  

You try again, with the same results. 

Huffing out, you brush your hair from your face, edges of your dress stained with dirt.  

“Calling me ‘your betrothed’ was a low tactic, my prince,” you shake your head, in clear mock annoyance. “That was cheating.” 

“I dodged,” he corrects, lining his sword up once more. “Care to try again?” 

“Dear husband,” you sigh, and his smile drops. “Will you not take pity on your poor wife?” 

Seizing the opportunity, you yell out, arcing your sword in a swift movement, and bring it down with aim and coordination. He steps to the side only slightly and allows you to strike the top of his right shoulder. 

It is clearly obvious that he allowed the hit to land, and yet, you rejoice as if you have truly conquered him in battle, crying out with happiness. 

“A perfect strike, my lady,” he praises softly, the air relaxed and carefree. 

You beam up at him, and then, your face paints with worry.  

“I did not hurt you, did I?” you remove the wooden sword and stand on your tiptoes to inspect the area with grave concern. “My prince?” 

He steps back, fearing the distance between you has grown too close, and opts for shaking his head. “Not at all, my lady,” he lies. The area does sting a little. “Let us end on a high note for today, shall we?” 

You frown, but nevertheless, agree, walking with him back to the wooden table to deposit your training swords. 

“That was very enjoyable, my prince!” you begin, lifting your sword to place it beside his. “I would very much like to do that again!” 

He smiles, making sure all the weapons have returned to their rightful places, eyes meticulous. “I am glad you found it to your liking, my lady.” 

“Perhaps next time,” he hears you say, “you may teach me how to wield one like this?” 

When he looks, you have found an iron dagger, your eyes taking in the weapon you hold. The steel of the blade catches the sun, and it glints at him. 

Where you were clumsy with a sword, to him, it is obvious you have held a dagger before. Your thumb sits vertical along to the blade, positioned in the middle of the handle, your fingers curled in sequence around the rest. You move it with purpose and intent, holding it lithe, like the action is one you have done many times before. 

In your eyes, it is like any other weapon on the table -- one you cannot understand yet. 

When you twist it in your grip, the blade catches the sun and blinds you. When you next focus, before your eyes, it has turned into something wholly other. Long Valyrian steel blade curves at the edge, the handle pure black with a brilliant golden center line running from end to end; like the way the volcanic lava would weave through the streets of the freehold. In the center of the hilt, just before the blade, a beautiful round ruby, like the blood that runs deep in your being. You stare at it transfixed, but it turns to dirt, slipping past your fingers like it was never really there. 

“My lady?” 

Prince Aemond’s voice gathers your attention, his face concerned. When you look back down at the dagger in your grip, it is as it always was. Dull.  

“Ah, yes,” you reply, placing the weapon back. “For another time.” 

“Is everything alright?” he asks, unwilling to let you brush your aloofness off. 

“Everything is fine, my prince,” you try to smile convincingly, but he can see your hands shaking, no matter how hard you clasp them in front of you. 

A moment passes, and then, “Was it a memory?” 

The shaking grows tenfold when he speaks it into reality. Where quiet, and kept hidden within the recesses of your mind, you are free to dissect it later, but when spoken from the mouths of others, you are left with no other choice than to face it. 

“Yes,” you are quiet when you reply. “Of a dagger.” 

“Was it frightening?” he asks. 

“Not at all,” you shake your head, “Just... just vivid... and with a heavy amount of emotion. I am not sure why I felt it so strongly. I am not even sure which emotion it was...” 

“Hmm,” he voices, thinking. “Perhaps it was a gift? From your parents? Or maybe, an heirloom?” 

“Perhaps,” you smile. You are grateful that he is attempting to help you deduce your memories, but ultimately you can do nothing with such a brief echo. You can only wait for more. 

He stares down at you for a moment.  

“Would you care to join me tonight— my family</i> tonight for supper?” he blurts, swiftly correcting himself.  

You blink up at him, having not expected that.  

Prince Aemond casts his memory back to earlier today, when his mother asked him to request your presence at dinner, to show you they mean no threat. To lull you into growing more comfortable around their family. An invitation under false pretense.  

He frowns, but not at you, continuing, “It will be a dull affair, I am sure. My brother will drink more than a Braavosi sealord, and my parents may squabble about trivial things, but... if you wished... you could join?” 

He realizes he is not selling this very well. You light up at the offer, regardless. You are too brilliant for him. He knows this. 

“Of course, my prince!” you chirp happily, “I would be delighted!” 

Prince Aemond does not yet understand how to act when people are so happy towards him, least of all you -- a woman and his future wife. He nods sharply, folding his arms behind his back and says nothing more. 

“Shall I be ready sometime in the evening?” you question, a little confused on what is customary. 

“Ah, yes,” he hums, “I will send someone to accompany you to the dining hall as the sun is setting.” 

“I see,” you nod, happy, “I will wait with eager hope that the hour will come soon.” 

He nods, swallowing, but does not reply. 

“My prince,” you nod, “I fear I must leave your company now to change. The smell of dragon and sweat is perhaps not a popular one.” 

He smirks, nodding in understanding. “I shall see you again at supper, my lady.” 

You bid him a polite farewell, and take your leave.  

The midday sun arches high across the pale blue sky, and the tall castle walls give you at least some semblance of shade whilst you cross the courtyard to the heavy entrance doors of the Keep. You hear Prince Aemond continue training alone behind you, feet moving over the dirt and pebbles, and you realize, walking away from him, what the emotion from earlier was. 

It was duty. 

[part 7]

[humanpurposes]

We're Born At Night

Chapter 1

Lady Rhaelle Targaryen of Runestone travels to King's Landing to plead for her sister's life, though the King she must bow to is a kinslayer three times over, and the very man who slaughtered her father

Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Aemond Targaryen x Rhaelle Targaryen (OFC)

Warnings: 18+, eventual smut, politics, mentions of death and war

Words: 4.3k

A/n: a self-indulgent post-dance fic and I'm excited about it :)

She rocks with the carriage as it rolls over the cobbled streets of King’s Landing. Bricks and tiles in dull shades of red, yellow and browns move past the window, and the air is thick with dust and all sorts of unpleasant smells. 

Her heart sinks at the absence of greenery, like the forests and fields that surround Runestone, the sounds of rivers and streams, the bright bursts of colour in the wildflowers. The Red Keep overlooks Blackwater Bay, she remembers that. She loved rising early to watch the sunrise, to see the waves glow red and gold. She loved going down to the beach below the castle to feel the warm summer sun on her face and dip her toes into the cold water.

It is autumn now. Grey clouds dull the sunlight and there is a chill in the air.

Daena sits opposite her, tugging at her sleeves and the collar of her travelling cloak. They are in matching gowns of dark green velvet, newly made for their visit to court; a cheap play for the King’s favour, but she needs all the help she can get. 

Her younger sister’s constant fussing is irritating, but Rhaelle cannot blame her.

“You look beautiful, my lady,” says Morra, Rhaelle’s handmaiden who sits beside her, a sharp and observant young woman.

Daena’s harshly violet eyes glare up at her. She gives a small huff and drops her arms into her lap. “I look better in red,” she says.

“Careless talk like that will cost you your tongue the moment we’re through the castle gates,” Rhaelle warns.

Daena tuts and turns her head towards the window. “What an awful place,” she says.

Rhaelle pulls back the thin curtain with the tip of her finger. Miserable faces, crowds of bodies, market stalls, bands of mummers, and an endless array of buildings pass her by. She has prayed to the old gods and the new that their visit to the Red Keep will be short, but that is wishful thinking and she has never been much of an optimist.

Ten years ago she had been hunting with her late mother’s cousin, Ser Gerold, when a raven appeared over the hills, headed for Runestone. It had filled her with an inexplicable dread and she could not understand why until she returned to the castle to learn of the death of Laena Velaryon, her step-mother. Daemon had summoned his eldest three daughters to Driftmark to see her laid to rest and mourn alongside two sisters they had never met. In a matter of days, Ser Laenor was dead too, Daemon had married Princess Rhaenyra on Dragonstone, and had plans for three more marriages.

Their oldest sister, Alyssa, and Prince Jacaerys were married at the Red Keep little more than a month later, she being sixteen and he a boy of ten. Baela was betrothed to Prince Lucerys, and Rhaelle was betrothed to Prince Joffrey, only a babe at the time.

While Rhaelle and Daera had returned to Runestone, Alyssa had remained at Dragonstone with her husband and so her fate had been sealed.

They come to a gatehouse made of red stone, where the banners of House Targaryen loom proudly over the walls and flutter in the breeze. The sight sparks a memory Rhaelle had forgotten she had, and suddenly it feels like she never left this place at all. Her family’s sigil, the three-headed dragon, should be more familiar to her than it really is. She finds more comfort in the colours of white and bronze, black pebbles and the ancient runes of her mother’s house.

She looks down at her own sleeves, at the runes embroidered into the cuffs with golden thread. The right reads the words of House Royce: We remember. On the left though, is a saying far older, so old that no one can truly say where it came from, only that it has been passed down in proverbs amongst those who carry the blood of the first men. Now they are written in books and scripture, carved onto tombs, whispered in prayers said before a weirwood, spoken to her by her mother: Learn to die.

Did those words pass the lips of Rhea Royce when she fell from her horse and cracked her head open on a rock? Did they echo through her mind when she lay in her bed, either unconscious or incoherent for nine days?

Does Alyssa utter them to herself in the darkness of the Black Cells?

The carriage comes to a stop. Rhaelle takes a deep breath, checks that her hair is neatly pinned back, that her gown sits right and that her boots are spotless. There can be no room for weakness here, not where people will judge every move she makes, note every word she says and stare into her eyes as if to read her very thoughts.

The door is opened for her and she steps out into the courtyard clutching the hand of one of her household guards.

Lord Corlys is waiting to greet them by the steps to the castle, dressed in fine robes of sea green and silver. On his collar she spots a gleam of gold, the pin that marks him as the Hand of the King. 

When she had last seen Lord Corlys he was the Seasnake, a naval hero who carved out his own legacy and built his seat of Hightide to fill with the trophies of his victories. Now Hightide is nothing more than ruins buried in ash and Lord Corlys is an old man leaning on a cane, with long silver locks, a thick white beard and a tired look in his eyes, the look of a man who has seen his last war. 

He offers her a small bow of his head. “Lady Rhaelle, what an honour it is to welcome you to the Red Keep.”

Daena follows her and greets Lord Corlys with a perfect curtsey. He smiles and notes how much they have changed since he last saw them, but they were girls then, young and sweet, only grieving their first loss.

Morra takes their travelling cloaks before Lord Corlys leads them inside, followed by their household guard. The halls are quiet and solemn, the colours she remembers from childhood somehow duller and she wonders if it is because she is older.

Eyes fall to the sisters easily and whispers echo wherever they walk. She hears a faint whisper of “traitor” as they come to the great stairwell in the very heart of the castle. She looks around her and above, up into the cavernous space overhead where faces peer down from balconies and galleries, made hazy by smoke and heat from the braziers.

Traitor, the accusation clings in her stomach and throat, until Daena’s hand gently wraps around her wrist and urges her to walk on. But perhaps the whispers are right. She is the daughter of a traitor, the sister of a traitor, perhaps it is in her blood and she cannot escape it.

They are shown to their chambers in the west wing of the castle. A small reception room joins two privy chambers and two bedchambers beyond that. It is a pity, she would have liked a room where she could see Blackwater Bay or the Kingswood to the south.

Her bedroom is a little smaller than her own bedchamber at Runestone, decorated with tapestries, furnishings and details in green, gold, red and black. She looks from the window, over the towering walls of Maegor’s Holdfast of her lavishly decorated prison, a thought which she immediately reprimands herself for. She will not allow herself such pity, not while her sister is a prisoner.

Alyssa had stayed by her husband’s side through the war, donned a widow’s veil when he fell in battle and decided that she would stay on Dragonstone when Rhaenyra took King’s Landing.

The war went on. Alyssa's letters stopped abruptly. Word came that the commonfolk had revolted against Rhaenyra, and her own betrothed, the boy Joffrey, was slain in the fighting.

Then came the raven from King Aegon. Rhaenyra was dead and their remaining siblings had been taken captive: Little Aegon, Baela, Rhaena, and Alyssa. She can still the words scrawled onto the parchment: “She has been treated with no unnecessary cruelty.”

Aegon wouldn’t have dared lay a hand on Baela and Rhaena, not with Lord Corlys on his small council. Alyssa had no such protection, not with their father rotting alongside the corpse of the dragon at the bottom of the God’s Eye.

And now the man who slaughtered him wears the crown.

Lord Corlys has invited her to dine with him, in his chambers in the Tower of the Hand. Daylight fades swiftly into twilight as she crosses the courtyard that her bedchamber overlooks, past the lowered drawbridge of the Holdfast. With winter approaching, the days are growing shorter.

A servant of Lord Corlys’ leads her up a single flight of stairs, through a reception room and into a small dining hall. The table is set with fine silverware and glass cups, lit by flickering flames of candles and a blazing hearth. Lord Corlys sits at the head of the table and rises to meet her. She offers him her hand, and he presses his lips to her knuckles.

“Is your sister not joining us, my lady?” he asks.

She smiles politely. Daena fears for Alyssa’s life as much as she does, but she is not meant for the delicacy of a negotiation.

Her place is set to his right and as she sits he pours her out a glass of wine. “From the Summer Isles,” he says. “I could never understand why anyone would bother with the stuff that comes from the Arbour.”

“We are lovers of ale and cider in the Vale,” Rhaelle says, “but I trust your taste, my Lord.”

They raise their glasses to each other and take small sips as two servants bring in plates of beef, bread and butter, and roasted vegetables. They move like shadows between the candlelight, their footsteps light, their movements gentle and unobtrusive. They are gone as quickly as they came.

When the door is shut, Lord Corlys leans forward with his elbows on the table and his hands clasped together. He says quietly, “I intend to put your matter to the King in the morning.”

Rhaelle places her glass down on the table, her hand lingering on the base. Sadness suddenly strikes her heart. “You mean you have not spoken to him at all?”

“I have told him you seek to improve your position, and the position of your younger sister, of which he has been supportive.”

“But what about the matters we have discussed?” she asks.

His eyes are distant, settled on nothing in particular. He reaches to take a roll of bread from the table, but he does not eat it, he simply places it on his plate. “Lady Alyssa is an admirable woman, truly. She reminds me much of Baela–”

“Not admirable enough for you to appeal on her behalf,” Rhaelle says sharply. “I only wish to see her returned to her home, to Runestone.”

“In the eyes of the King, she is a traitor to the realm. She challenged the true line of succession.”

“As did you,” she says, “at the start of the war, you pledged your support for Rhaenyra.”

“Aye, I did, for the good of my family, and the cost was great.”

“Greater than siding with those who killed your wife?”

Corlys looks to her with a grave expression. “And Aemond killed your father, but you have come to his court, in the hopes of lobbying him, to plead for his mercy and his favour.”

But that’s different, isn’t it? Her father was a rare presence at Runestone, his name hanging over her head like an unspoken secret. He did not come to lay his first wife to rest, but he had tried to claim her inheritance and had no difficulty condemning their daughter to a marriage that would tie her to a war.

“I just want my sister to be safe,” she utters.

“I want that too,” Lord Corlys says and she can almost believe him.

“When can I speak to him? When will he release her?”

He takes a slow breath. “We must approach this matter with caution,” he says, “and it will be worth your while. Many say Aemond is a far more reasonable man than his brother was.”

“You served them both. What do you have to say on Aemond’s reason?”

A sad look falls over his face. He looks the way he did the day his daughter was buried. “Aemond is just, in his own way, but the Targaryens have always ruled with fire and blood, and he is no exception.”

When she returns to her bedchamber, she finds Daena curled up on a chaise by the dying hearth. 

“She wished to see you after your dinner with Lord Corlys,” Morra mutters as Rhaelle fetches a blanket from the bed and drapes it over her sister. “It has been a tedious few months, and I do not doubt she is tired after the journey from Runestone.”

As a child, Rhaelle often wondered if she and her sisters had been born cursed. They had inherited nothing of their father’s looks save for his violet eyes; three Targaryen girls with dark curls and the stern face of their mother. Daena has always had a softness that she and Alyssa never had, a fuller face, a smaller nose, slight but pouted lips and large eyes. She looks like a doll, even in sleep.

She smooths her hand over Daena’s head, lightly so she will not disturb her, like she used to do when she was a babe. Daena makes a small humming noise in her chest but does not rouse.

She wishes her sister could rise from her sleep well rested, to a world where she would never know fear or uncertainty. Such a possibility seems close; in her heart she chases it like a hare, a flash of movement through a forest. She need only draw an arrow and strike her target.

Rhaelle is awake before dawn. By the time Daena will have started to stir, Morra has her bathed, skin scrubbed with sugar and honey then scented with lavender oil, dressed, then adds the finishing touches to her hair. She takes the top half and braids it around Rhaelle’s head like a crown, the rest falling freely down her back. With no Queen, the ladies of the court are said to follow the fashions of Princess Rhaenyra and Queen Helaena. If she is to be a lady of Aemond’s court, a Targaryen, she must appear the part.

She breaks her fast in her privy chamber. Servants bring in jugs of cherry juice, bowls of sweet stewed oats, platters of blackberry tarts and slices of apple dusted with sugar and cinnamon. The sun rises over the courtyard and a pale shade of red shines through the window where the light reflects from the red stone of the Holdfast.

Daena bounces into the room like an excitable child and takes a blackberry tart before she has even taken a seat. She will need to work on her table manners before she dines before the King and his court, Rhaelle notes. Her hair has been brought into one thick braid that falls over her shoulder and her gown is black, like Rhaelle’s, but detailed with silver rather than gold. 

“What did Lord Corlys say to you last night?” she asks, following her pastry with a sip of cherry juice.

“He said that he means to put our cause to the King, and that we must employ patience.”

Daena scoffs, “patience?”

Rhaelle shares a pointed look with Morra, standing by the table. “We have no other choice,” she says, “and you will mind what you say, even in private, even when you think we are alone.”

“I thought the Master of Whispers had been put to death, or does Larys Strong still manage to spy on the Kingdom without a head?”

“And will you continue to slander the King if I find a smith to wrench out your tongue?”

Daena glares at her, then pouts her lips to stifle a giggle.

They finish their meal in relative peace and when they are done, Rhaelle is left with a pleasantly sharp sweetness on her tongue from the fruit. Morra adorns her with jewellery, all gold and set with rubies, a chain about her waist, earrings and a necklace. For the final touch she dabs tinted rosewater on her cheeks and lips.

“They say he’s terribly dull,” Daena says, patiently waiting her turn.

Rhaelle frowns at her through the mirror. “The King?”

“Tyland fucking Lannister– yes, the King.” 

Prince Joffrey had been far too young to be her escort to the wedding of Alyssa and Prince Jacaerys. Aegon was already betrothed to Helaena, and so on the day of the festivities Rhaelle had been presented with a sombre looking, silver-haired Prince. He frowned constantly, which she did not doubt had something to do with the cut through his left eye. The wound and his skin was red, held together with stitches. He often had his hands balled into fists, breathing deeply through his nose as though he was in pain. He tried to talk to her about his studies, and asked her about the histories of Runestone and House Royce. He led her through one dance after dinner before he retreated to his chambers. She had despaired with Alyssa the next day that she hadn’t been allowed to be escorted by any other young man of the court. That boy is a man now, and a kinslayer thrice over.

“Better a dull King than a drunk King, I suppose,” she says quietly.

“Who’s a slanderer now?” Daena says with a wicked smile. 

There are less clouds in the sky this morning. Sunlight bleeds through tall windows and floods the halls of the castle. It is more lively now, servants hurry about with baskets of food and fresh linens, men and women in all their finery walk through courtyards and galleries, though most are gathering at the throne room.

Rhaelle and Daena stay arm in arm, until they reach the entrance hall and the great oak doors that lead into the great hall.

“These carvings are new,” Rhaelle wonders aloud. The stone is cleaner here than it is in the rest of the castle, images of dragons carved into walls, pillars and archways. 

She hears the ominous hum of voices on the other side of the doors. She can picture them, the staring faces like a pack of wolves eager to sink their teeth and claws into the daughters of Daemon Targaryen.

And she can picture the Iron Throne, where her uncle once sat with the golden crown of the Consolidator atop his head.

Daena leans in close to Rhaelle’s ear, tightening her hold on her arm. “But he was a dragonrider, and a warrior, surely he cannot be so dull.”

She tries to imagine that boy from the wedding feast, his serious expression, his round little face, a single sad blue eye darting around the hall. Then she imagines a killer, a bloodthirsty monster with fangs for teeth and talons for hands. She cannot place them in the same body.

“They say he has a sapphire set in the empty socket, but that he wears an eyepatch so as not to frighten the ladies at court.”

She has heard of this story, like Ser Symeon star eyes. “How considerate of him,” Rhaelle adds, glancing over her shoulder but no one seems to have heard them. She clenches her jaw and takes slow, steady breaths in the hopes that it will calm her nerves, just enough to get through this ordeal.

“I wonder if he is handsome?” Daena adds.

He’ll be wearing the Conqueror’s Crown, Valyrian steel and set with square rubies, the same worn by his brother, by Maegor the Cruel. She has only seen it in history books.

“There were awful rumours about Aegon, but he has his own now, doesn’t he?”

He will surely have Blackfyre by his side too, unless he managed to claim Dark Sister from their father’s hands once he was slain. Would he take it as a trophy of war? The thought makes her stomach churn.

“The Harrenhal whore,” Daena hisses.

This tale she is also familiar with. Aemond had marched to Harrenhal and left King’s Landing undefended. When he arrived at that cursed castle and heard the news that he had lost the capital, he slaughtered all of House Strong for treachery, save for a bastard woman, some kind of servant who he took as a bedmate. “He made her Lady of Harrenhal,” she adds, much to the ire of the realm’s Lords.

"A generous patron then," Daena chuckles, and then she falters. She lowers her voice even further till it is scarcely a breath against Rhaelle’s ear. “Will he kill Alyssa too?”

A familiar feeling of fear strikes her in her chest, squeezing on her heart and lungs. She can make no promises, not before she hears the sound of wood creaking as the doors are swung open and the voice of Ser Willis Fell calls, “Lady Rhaelle Targaryen of Runestone, and her sister, Lady Daena Targaryen!”

She drops Daena’s hand on instinct and takes a step before her like a sworn shield. The hungry faces stare up at them but she looks ahead, to the Iron Throne, to the man who sits amongst the mass of swords.

He is too distant for her to make out the details of his face, but they become clearer as she walks through the hall. If there are any whispers of “traitor,” she does not hear them.

The crown sits proudly upon his head of silver hair, long enough to pass his shoulders and fall to his chest. He is dressed all in black with no other distinguishable colours other than the silver buckles on his jerkin, and wears an eyepatch over the left side of his face.

She stops at the base of the steps leading up to the throne, knowing Daena is lingering behind her. Now she sees more of him, the line of his scar, the sharp angles of his face, his jaw, his cheeks, his nose. Most of all her attention is drawn to his mouth, to the curve of his lips, the way they settle in an expression that could almost be amused, were it not for the look of fury and hunger in his remaining eye, which is violet, like her father’s, like hers.

Lord Corlys stands by his side, but she keeps her eyes on the King and curtseys as deeply as she can. She feels her legs trembling under her skirt, her hands shaking by her sides no matter how she wills them to stop. Aemond stares at her all the while, not sparing a glance for Daena who will be following her lead.

“My King,” she says, only to find her jaw is trembling too. She dare not take her eyes from Aemond, should he take it as a sign of weakness. 

She knows the words she must say, Lord Corlys had been very specific, but there’s a thick feeling in her throat, a reluctance that she never had before, now that Aemond’s one eye is boring into her very soul.

She allows herself a breath. “My King, my sister and I have come to renounce the pretender, Rhaenyra, and all those who supported her treason, including our late father–” her eyes fall to the ground before she can stop herself. 

“You have come to ask something of me, cousin?” Aemond says. His voice, hauntingly gentle, draws her eyes back up to him.

“We have come to beg your forgiveness, and pledge our undying love and fealty to you,” she bows her head once more, “the one true King.”

Relief lifts a weight from her body but fear creeps under her skin like a fever, burning and chilling all at once. Murmurs fill the air and she hears Daena let out an exhale of breath, further away than she had expected her to be.

She keeps her head down as she sees movement in front of her, as the murmurs die down and the sound of tauntingly slow footsteps approach her where she kneels.

“Rise, my Lady,” Aemond says. 

She does as she is instructed, straightens her body, her neck, and the last thing she lifts is her gaze.

There is something sinister in the intensity of his eye as it moves about her face, the care he takes in reaching for her hand and pressing an achingly light kiss to it that lingers on her skin, but then he does not let her go. He holds his hand firmly over hers as if to keep his kiss there. “You shall be an honoured guest in my court, Lady Rhaelle.”

She cannot tell if this is kindness or a butcher calming a lamb before the slaughter.

He goes to Daena and kisses her hand, but he does not hold her the way he did Rhaelle.

“Those of my blood who are loyal shall always have a place at my court,” he says to the hall and is met with a cautious applause. 

Rhaelle meets Daena’s eye as they turn to face the crowd. Her sister frowns innocently, wide eyes begging for an explanation. Why should they trust him? Why should they have to appeal to him when they played no part in the war, when they did not challenge his brother’s inheritance? Why should they beg for forgiveness from a kinslayer King?

Aemond looks over his subjects with his head held high and his hands behind his back. He carries no sword, just a knife tucked in on his right hip. He does not regard his people with the warmth of King Viserys, instead he watches them like he’s looking for fear, like he thrives in it.

And he is so utterly captivating.

Tags (comment to be added)

General taglist: @randomdragonfires @jamespotterismydaddy @theoneeyedprince @tsujifreya @dreamsofoldvalyria @lacebvnny

Series taglist: @adragonprinceswhore @persephonerinyes @gemini-mama @aemondzyrys @snh96 @magnificentdelusionr

[greeenchrysanthemums]

Dear Lord Danny of Dawn,

(Que the formal stuff at the beginning I should put but didn't know what to put.)

How are you doing?

Thank you for answering my letter, it too made my day. The pigeon in fact got here safely. I don't know how far Dawn is from Eiren but it must have be far.

I would like to ask what cities or towns (That are important or you just want to info dump on) are in your au?

Respectfully,

Lady Marabelle of Eiren

Dear Lady Marabell of Eiren,

I am glad to hear to hear that the pigeon made it safely. I am doing well, I hope you are as well. Your letters are always a delight to receive X)

As for your very fun question, I will first direct you to the map post that I made for this world some months ago so that you can refresh on the kingdoms I will be talking about.

Wintertide is a moderately sized kingdom made up of the capital, several small farming towns scattered around the outskirts of their forest, a few mining towns closer to the mountains, and one independent territory that they attach their name to (Crystaline Mountain Village; Gem's home). On the border of the large forest (called the Enchanted Forest, of course) and close to Floweret is a town by the name of Little Wood. It is where Martyn was born and raised, so his name in this au is actually "Martyn of Little Wood".

Some other Wintertide towns include: Dogshire, South Cobble Town, Red Wood, and Deep Frost (a mining town that is partially inside the base of the mountain).

Coral Crest is a very large kingdom that takes up a good portion of the map since they have claimed a majority of the beaches and cliffs bordering the ocean coast. It is made up of the Capital and numerous fishing towns, large and small, scattered along the claimed shorelines.

I have not thought of names for every single one of these towns/cities, as that would take too much time, but Shadow Cove, Bush Beach, Fairy Peninsula, and Codsland (actually a small island near the mainland) are a few examples of these fishing towns.

Floweret is still very small compared to the other kingdom, so it is only made of the capital city and two small towns; Tumbletine and River Valley, the later of which is bursting with wildflowers and other plants that are used to create and sell dyes. Tumbletine is Jimmy's hometown!

The Monopoly is just one big trading town and it has no connecting territories or cities. It is about the size of Wintertide's capital, though just a tad bit smaller.

With Love,

Lord Danny of Dawn

[bigtimesinsmallspaces]

Total Eclipse of the Trip

There are a lot of lessons to be learned when you book a train trip that spans 12 plus days, 6000 miles, and a lifetime of dreams. There are routes, maps, and timetables to study, and then it is cobbled together with towns, sights, and special interests along the way. Back in January PG had her double screen home office displaying Amtrak maps as we began piecing together, bit by bit, the dream trip, leaving time for connections and considering the optimum direction for each train, as well as daylight hours for the most scenic sections. Why go through the Sierras in the dark? And if you do have to make a connection, it’s best to do it where you don’t mind hanging a bit, just in case you miss that connection and are stuck there for hours (days). Much of this I learned from hours of study on the Amtrak Facebook pages (sad stories of families stranded in Idaho after rock slides and other such bring my dream down a notch why don’t ya stories). So I learned early that there were going to be glitches over the course of these 6000 miles and I was poised to pivot with aplomb—extra night here, a layover there, I had backup plans for every step of the way. However, I was NOT prepared to pivot before we even began.

That’s right. There we are getting on the train in Philly, headed to DC and from there on the overnight train to Chicago, where on Monday we would board the king of all trains, the whisperer of the wind, the Amtrak flagship—the amazing California Zephyr. Hearts pounding with excitement we step on that train and as the doors close I hear my phone ringing. With a quick dismissal upon seeing an 800 number I assure PG it is just the Red Cross in pursuit of my blood.

Well with that buildup you probably guessed that my blood is not really in that much demand. Indeed that was Mrs. Amtrak calling to put a cabash on our 3000 hours of planning and 6900 miles of traveling. The California Zephyr was CANCELLED for Monday due to high winds. High winds? A train can’t go through high winds? I can ride my BIKE on the beach in high winds. I am incensed. But Mrs. Amtrak insists that safety is her concern and apparently she considers 90 MPH winds to be beyond high, and in fact she thinks they are very very high, and she does not care about our 3000 hours of planning or disappointment. We can have a refund. A REFUND? There is no amount of money that will convince us to pack up and go home. Without delving into the minutia of details for how to rearrange 6000 miles, start to finish, suffice it to say Philly Girl went to work on her computer, and with the help of multiple Amtrak agents in person and on the phone, and in person agents on the phone with other agents, we flipped our trip upside down and backwards, first on to Montana, then back to Chicago on the Zephyr at the end of our trip (hopefully the winds have died down by next week).

So right now we are in 93% eclipse Chicago on this beautiful, sunny, warm spring day after a beautiful overnight ride. Did we sleep? Sort of. More on some of the logistics later. But it sure was a beautiful ride through beautiful Harper’s Ferry, WV, Pittsburgh, Sandusky (Hello Will and Missy), and into Chicago this morning.

Chicago Union Station is amazing. Built in 1925, it covers many city blocks and features beautiful design and art. We cashed in some Guest Reward points to gain access to the Metropolitan Lounge. This is a game changer on long trips offering an array of snacks, coffee, a marvelous shower (yes a shower, did you think there would be no showers?), and best of all, a place to stash our luggage while we explored Chicago and experienced the amazing eclipse as well as an amazing lunch. If you ever take the train to Chicago know that the station is a joy and is located in a beautiful area with lots to do and see in walking distance.

We’re getting ready to board the Empire Builder headed west now. While the trip we had planned got eclipsed, we’re taking it all as a sign to make the most of whatever surprises come next.