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cherriecove · 3 months ago

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Fine Line Between Duty and Oaths (Part 10)

Gwayne Hightower x Targ!Reader

Summary: The second born daughter of King Viserys I Targaryen and Queen Aemma is just as brave, beautiful and stubborn as her older sister but cannot deny her growing love for a certain red haired knight who just so happens to be a dear friend's brother.

Cherrie's Note: Hi everyone, I am pretty sure that this is the longest thing I've written so far so I hope you enjoy! Please feel free to message me about feedback or even requests!

Masterlist | Previous Part |

The days leading up to the royal wedding passed in a whirlwind of excitement and anxiety. The Red Keep was bustling with preparations: tailors from all over the Seven Kingdoms had arrived, vying for the royal family to honour them with their patronage. Banners were being hung, and the kitchens were filled with the sweet smells of honey cakes and roasted meats. Despite all the joy of the impending union, there lay an undercurrent of tension. It was no secret that the small council was urging your father to remarry, and the matter seemed to grow more urgent with each passing day. As you walked through the halls, the main topic of court appeared to be about who would become your new stepmother, rather than your wedding to Gwayne.

The uncertainty and the constant presence of this topic felt like a weight upon both you and Rhaenyra. The already anxiety-inducing thought of leaving your dear sister to start your life as a married woman gnawed at your heart, as if you were leaving a part of yourself behind. This heartache was worsened by the knowledge that another woman would soon replace your mother in the eyes of the people. The marriage would most likely be political rather than one of love; this was the one thing you were most certain of. The encouragement to remarry stemmed from the small council's dislike of Rhaenyra being named heir—they favoured the possibility that this new bride might provide your father with sons. The preference for following patriarchal ideals had already taken your mother’s life, but it seemed the gods were not satisfied with that alone and now wished to replace her legacy. The loss of the queen was still felt deeply within your family, but neither you nor Rhaenyra could ignore the fear of losing the closeness your grief had forged with your father.

One evening, as you sat in your chambers with Rhaenyra, the reality of your departure felt all the more inevitable. Your elder sister was uncharacteristically silent, something you found unsettling. It wasn’t like her to be so withdrawn. As you sat at your vanity, you studied her face while she focused on brushing your hair—a habit you often shared when you both needed to be close. Her eyes were fixed on her task, and her usual smile had been replaced with a slight frown. Rhaenyra paused, her hand stilling in your hair, and tension radiated off her in waves. Just as you were about to ask if she was alright, she broke the silence.

"I don’t want you to leave me, hāedar," she said quietly, her voice tight with emotion.

You met her eyes in the mirror, and an aching tug filled your heart.

"I don’t want to leave you either, Nyra," you replied softly. "But I have to. Gwayne and I are to make our vows, and I want to be with him."

Rhaenyra pressed her lips together, her brows furrowing as she resumed brushing your hair, though her strokes were slower and more hesitant.

"It feels like everything is changing," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "First it was Mother and the baby, and now you. It feels like we’re losing something or someone every day. I haven’t been alone since you were born. How will I manage when you’ve been taken away?"

Her words struck a chord within you, her feelings mirroring your own. You reached up and gently grasped her hand.

"You will always have me, mandia. Regardless of where I am. And we will see each other—I’ll make sure of it."

Rhaenyra smiled at your words, but it didn’t reach her eyes, which were filled with unshed tears.

"I know. But it will never be the same. And with Father… I don’t know how I feel about him choosing a new wife."

You nodded in understanding. The idea of someone else stepping into your mother’s place felt like another loss.

"It won’t be easy," you admitted. "But we’ll face it together. Whoever he chooses, we’ll make sure she knows who we are—that you are our future queen, regardless of any children she may provide."

Rhaenyra’s eyes softened as she squeezed your hand.

"Promise me you won’t change. That you’ll still be the sister who sneaks lemon cakes with me, that you won’t let Oldtown turn you into a pious, boring courtly lady."

You laughed, a pure, genuine sound that lightened the air.

"I promise you, no distance will ever change that."

The morning of your wedding was quite possibly the busiest you had ever seen the Keep. The clatter of maids and seamstresses rushing about the halls mingled with the hum of excitement as the final preparations were being made. You stood in your chambers, surrounded by Rhaenyra, Alicent, and your handmaiden. Rhaenyra and Alicent had been constant presences in the last few days, ensuring they spent as much time as possible with you before the separation. They had even arranged for the three of you to have baths together, with lots of warm water and scented oils often becoming the main feature of Rhaenyra’s chambers. Despite the tension between your father and Otto Hightower, Alicent had remained steadfast in her friendship; her quiet support had been a source of comfort. The bond between you now felt more like that of sisters than mere friends.

As Rhaenyra worked on securing the last intricate braid of your hair, Alicent helped you slip into your wedding gown, her movements careful and delicate. The gown itself was a masterpiece—your father had spared no expense. The dress was woven with Valyrian silver threads, with the Targaryen dragon embroidered subtly across the bodice. The long, flowing sleeves echoed the ancient gowns of Old Valyria, a nod to your roots and your father’s passions.

"You look beautiful," Alicent whispered, her voice soft with admiration.

You glanced at the red-haired girl, smiling warmly.

"I feel like I’m floating."

Rhaenyra, having finished with your hair, stepped back to admire her handiwork.

"As you should," she teased lightly. "You’re marrying a knight and flying off to Oldtown. Just don’t forget us when you’re there."

You turned to face both of them, taking a deep breath.

"I could never. I have two sisters close to my heart now. You and Alicent—you’re both part of me."

Rhaenyra’s lips quirked into a small, bittersweet smile, while Alicent’s eyes grew glassy with emotion.

"How dare you make me feel things," Rhaenyra jested, attempting to lighten the mood.

The Great Hall was filled with nobles from all corners of the realm, their finery on full display. The banners of House Targaryen and House Hightower hung side by side, symbolising the union of two powerful families. At the head of the hall, King Viserys sat on the Iron Throne, his expression a mixture of pride and lingering sadness as he prepared to watch his daughter take this significant step in her life.

The ceremony was a mesmerising fusion of Targaryen and Faith of the Seven customs, each tradition seamlessly woven into the fabric of the day. The Septon stood tall before the gathered crowd, his hands raised in solemn prayer as he called upon the blessings of the Seven to watch over you and Gwayne. His voice echoed through the grand hall, invoking the Maiden for purity, the Warrior for strength, the Father for protection, and the Mother for guidance. Yet, while the blessings of the Seven were important, it was the Targaryen rites that truly resonated with you, their significance running deep within your bloodline. As the moment approached for the Valyrian vows, your heart raced with anticipation, swelling with emotion and history.

Before you stood Gwayne, the man who would soon be your husband. Clad in the green and white of House Hightower, the colours were striking against the backdrop of the ancient hall. His hand reached out toward you, fingers steady yet tender. His gaze was unwavering, his eyes locked onto yours, filled with an unspoken promise. Despite the grandeur of the occasion—the regal banners that hung from the walls, the flickering candlelight casting a warm glow, and the countless eyes upon you—everything else seemed to fade. In that moment, it felt as if the world had narrowed to just the two of you, standing together, united in purpose and love.

You were the first to speak, your voice soft yet strong, carrying the weight of generations. The ancient words of your ancestors flowed from your lips like a melody, each syllable steeped in tradition and meaning.

"Nyke rūvēbagon ao, issa jorrāelagon. Ēlīrion ziry arlī. Naejot nūmāzma, nyke pāsagon bē naejot ziry rūsīr." I bind myself to you, my love. From this day until the end of days, I will walk with you.

The Valyrian words, so familiar yet sacred, hung in the air between you, like an invisible thread tying you both to the past and to the future. You could feel the weight of their meaning settle in your heart, binding you to Gwayne in a way that transcended time and place.

Gwayne met your gaze, his eyes shining with both love and determination. You knew how hard he had worked to master the unfamiliar Valyrian tongue, spending days—perhaps weeks—practising these very words. When he spoke, there was a slight tremor in his voice, not of fear, but of the significance of the moment. His pronunciation stumbled ever so slightly, but his sincerity was undeniable.

"Nyke rūvēbagon ao... issa jorrāelagon. Ēlīrion ziry arlī. Naejot nūmāzma... nyke pāsagon bē naejot ziry rūsīr."

Your heart softened as you listened to him. Though the words were foreign to his tongue, their meaning was not. In his voice, you heard the depth of his love, his willingness to embrace not only you but the traditions that were so deeply a part of who you were. His love for you, and his commitment to your shared future, radiated from him like a beacon, stronger than any stumble over the ancient language.

A soft smile played on your lips, the intimacy of the moment enveloping you despite the opulence of the hall and the presence of so many witnesses. It felt as though time had stilled, and in that suspended breath, the two of you stood at the precipice of a new beginning. Your worlds—Targaryen and Hightower—were being brought together, not only by this union but by the promises you had just made to one another.

The ceremony continued with the exchange of rings, the smooth metal sliding onto your finger, a tangible symbol of the vows you had spoken. The Septon offered final blessings, his voice rising once more in prayer, but you barely heard him. All you could focus on was Gwayne, standing there, as bound to you as you were to him—by vows both ancient and new, by fire and faith.

When the final blessing was given and the hall erupted into applause, you felt a wave of joy surge through you. Gwayne turned toward you, his face lit up with warmth and joy, his smile wide and unguarded. Without hesitation, he leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in a kiss that felt both tender and triumphant. Around you, the crowd’s cheers rose, their voices blending together into a sound like the distant roar of dragons.

The Great Hall was alight with celebration after the wedding ceremony, its high vaulted ceilings echoing with laughter, music, and the clink of goblets filled with the finest wine from across the realm. Long tables were laden with platters of roasted meats, sweet fruits, and delicacies meant to honour the union of House Targaryen and House Hightower. Banners bearing both houses' sigils fluttered overhead, the Targaryen dragon and Hightower beacon intertwined in a show of unity.

You sat at the head table beside Gwayne, your hand resting comfortably in his, fingers interlaced as if you couldn’t bear to be separated even for a moment. He smiled at you, a soft, adoring expression that warmed your heart. The hall was loud and vibrant, but the world felt quiet and intimate in the small bubble you both created. You couldn’t stop stealing glances at him, the reality of your marriage still sinking in. Gwayne was yours now—your husband—and you, his wife. The weight of that truth was thrilling.

Across the hall, Rhaenyra and Alicent exchanged looks, both beaming at you with obvious joy. The tension that had shadowed your lives since your mother’s passing seemed to lift, if only for this night. Rhaenyra caught your eye, a mischievous glint in her gaze, and you knew exactly what was coming next. She stood abruptly, waving a hand to the musicians, and the hall quietened for a moment before erupting into cheerful applause as the first notes of a lively dance filled the air.

“Come on, dear sister,” Rhaenyra called from her place, grinning widely. “No wedding is complete without a dance!”

Gwayne chuckled softly, squeezing your hand as he stood and extended it to you. “Shall we?”

You felt your cheeks warm as you took his hand, allowing him to lead you to the centre of the hall, where couples were already gathering. The music swelled, and soon you were twirling under the twinkling lights of the Great Hall, Gwayne’s hand steady on your waist, guiding you effortlessly through the steps. His laughter was infectious as you spun together, his eyes never leaving yours.

“You dance far better than I expected for a knight,” you teased, breathless from the movement.

“And you, my princess, dance with all the grace of a dragon taking flight,” Gwayne replied with a smirk, his tone playful.

You laughed, the sound bright and carefree, and for a moment, the whole room felt distant. It was just you and Gwayne, your hearts beating in time with the rhythm of the music, a perfect match.

As the song drew to a close, Rhaenyra pulled you away from Gwayne, her eyes sparkling with mirth. "You’ve had enough of your husband for now," she teased. "It’s time for the sisters to share a dance."

You twirled with Rhaenyra next, your hands entwined as the two of you moved effortlessly through the dance floor. Her smile was genuine, full of love and happiness for you. “I’ll miss you,” she said softly as you spun together, her voice barely audible over the music.

“I’ll miss you more,” you replied, your chest tightening at the thought of leaving her behind in King’s Landing. But for now, there was no sadness—only joy, only this moment.

Alicent soon joined the fray, pulling you both into a playful circle, the three of you laughing together as you danced. The bond between the three of you felt stronger than ever, and though there had been difficult times, it was clear that the friendship and love you shared could endure anything.

As the lively reception continued, the sounds of music and laughter filled the hall. You had been swept into the rhythm of the evening, dancing and speaking with guests, but as you stepped away for a moment of air, you found your father standing near the edge of the courtyard. The warm glow of lanterns illuminated his familiar face, making the silver strands in his hair catch the light. He smiled when he saw you approaching, his eyes filled with pride.

“You look radiant tonight,” he said, his voice thick with emotion, but steady as always. "Just as beautiful as your mother was on our wedding day."

His words made your heart tighten with affection. You reached out and took his hand, feeling the callouses that had been there for as long as you could remember.

“I wish she could be here,” you whispered, your voice softer now, filled with a longing that had been quietly sitting in the back of your mind.

“She is here, my sweet girl, in the love we carry forward,” he said, squeezing your hand gently, a quiet reminder of the legacy you had inherited. “And I can see so much of her in you, especially tonight.”

You leaned into him, finding comfort in the familiar embrace of your father. It felt good to share this moment with him. “Thank you, Father. For everything.”

He looked down at you, his gaze serious. “This is only the beginning, my daughter. You and Gwayne will face challenges, but always remember that family comes first. Lean on each other, trust each other, and never forget the strength that comes from unity.”

As the music played on, you looked back toward the hall, where Gwayne was chatting animatedly with Rhaenyra and Alicent, laughter bubbling around them. Your heart swelled with affection for him. He was your partner, your equal, and together, you would navigate whatever lay ahead.

After several more dances and rounds of wine, the energy of the hall began to feel overwhelming; the excitement was almost too much to bear. You exchanged a knowing look with Gwayne, who seemed to read your thoughts immediately. His hand found yours again, and with a small, playful smile, he leaned down to whisper in your ear.

“Shall we sneak away, my love?” he murmured, his voice low and full of mischief.

You grinned, feeling a rush of exhilaration. “Lead the way, husband.” With careful steps, you slipped away from the throngs of people, unnoticed as the revelry continued in full swing. Gwayne guided you through the familiar stone corridors of the Keep, your hand tucked securely in his as you moved swiftly past guards and courtiers. The cool, quiet halls felt like a world apart from the boisterous celebrations, and your heart raced with anticipation.

Finally, Gwayne stopped, pulling you into a secluded alcove near one of the grand windows overlooking the city. The moonlight bathed the room in a soft, silvery glow, and for a moment, the two of you stood there, catching your breath, laughing at the thrill of your escape.

“I think we’ve officially abandoned our own wedding feast,” Gwayne said with a grin, his eyes dancing with amusement.

“I think they’ll manage without us for a little while,” you replied, stepping closer to him. The playful atmosphere shifted as the space between you disappeared, the weight of the moment settling in. You were married now, bound to each other for life, and the realisation sent a shiver of excitement down your spine.

Gwayne’s hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin. “You know, I never imagined this,” he said softly, his voice filled with awe. “Marrying you, being here like this. It feels... unreal.”

You smiled, your heart swelling with love for him. “It feels perfect.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. You simply stood there, gazing at each other, the magnitude of the day sinking in. Then, as if drawn by an invisible force, Gwayne leaned down and kissed you, his lips soft and warm against yours. The kiss was slow, tender, full of the promise of everything yet to come. Your hand grasped his tunic, your senses focused solely on him.

When you finally pulled apart, you were both breathless, but your smiles spoke volumes that words couldn’t convey. “Well,” Gwayne said with a playful smirk, “I suppose we should return to our guests before they notice our absence. Though I wouldn’t mind staying here a little longer.”

You laughed, tugging him toward the hall again. “Come on, husband, let’s not give the courtiers something to gossip about on our first night as husband and wife.”

Gwayne groaned dramatically but followed, his hand still clasped in yours. “As my wife commands.”

Hand in hand, you returned to the feast, your hearts full and your souls bound, ready to face whatever life had in store for you together.

The Great Hall gradually quietened as the feast drew to an end. Guests trickled out, content with food, wine, and revelry, while the musicians played the final soft notes of a ballad. You and Gwayne remained at the head of the hall, but you could already feel the subtle glances cast your way, the unspoken expectation that the bedding ceremony should commence soon.

But that moment never came.

King Viserys, seated beside his daughters, had made it clear to the courtiers: there would be no bedding ceremony. No raucous crowd of drunken nobles tearing at your clothes, no jeering chants echoing through the castle halls. Instead, the King rose to his feet, silencing the last whispers, and raised his goblet in a final toast to the newlyweds.

"Tonight," Viserys declared, his voice steady yet warm, "my daughter and her husband shall have their privacy. I trust them to find their own way together, with no interference from us. Let this be the start of their journey, not only as husband and wife but as partners, as equals."

A murmur of approval swept through the hall, though some lords seemed disappointed by the lack of spectacle. Gwayne stood beside you, his hand once again finding yours and giving it a reassuring squeeze. Relief washed over you, grateful for your father’s understanding.

After the final goodbyes were said, the two of you were quietly escorted to your chambers. The flickering candlelight cast soft, golden shadows on the stone walls as the door to your room closed behind you, leaving you and Gwayne alone.

For a moment, there was a brief, almost shy silence. Both of you had been caught up in the whirl of the day—the ceremony, the feast, the dances—that now, in the stillness, the enormity of it all began to settle in. You were married. You had chosen each other, not just for duty but for love, and that realisation filled the space between you with a new kind of energy.

Gwayne turned to you, his expression soft, his smile gentle. “Are you as nervous as I am?” he asked, his voice laced with tenderness and a hint of vulnerability.

You couldn’t help but laugh, the sound light and warm. “Perhaps a little,” you admitted, stepping closer to him. “But mostly... I’m just happy. So very happy.”

His hands found your waist, pulling you gently toward him, and you felt the warmth of his body seep into yours. “I am too,” he whispered, his lips brushing your forehead. “I never thought I would marry someone as captivating as you.” There were no words needed after that. The tenderness between you both, the love you shared, was enough. The night passed in quiet, stolen kisses and whispered promises of forever. There was no rush, no pressure, just the sweet unfolding of two hearts finally joined, fully and completely.

Afterward, you lay together in the quiet of your chambers, Gwayne’s arm draped protectively over you as you rested your head on his chest. The warmth of the hearth, the soft rustle of the sheets, and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat created a cocoon of peace around you both.

“I was thinking,” Gwayne murmured, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your skin. You smiled and pushed yourself up, looking at the red-haired young man. “A dangerous pastime for you, no?”

Gwayne laughed and shook his head. “Yes, indeed. My brain is about to implode at the effort of my princess.” You laughed and settled back down to your earlier position, encouraging your husband to continue. “Anyway, before I was rudely interrupted, I was thinking about what our life will be like in Oldtown. Do you think they’d allow us to build a dragonpit there?”

You looked up at him, your eyes twinkling with amusement. “A dragonpit in Oldtown? Surely the septons would have a heart attack.”

“Well,” Gwayne said, grinning, “we’ll need somewhere to house Vermithor and Silverwing, won’t we?” You smiled, the thought of your dragons resting in Oldtown sparking excitement. “It’ll have to be large enough, though. Not just for them.”

Gwayne raised his eyebrows in a questioning manner. “Well, we need a place for all their future clutches. Our children will be part dragon after all.” He chuckled, pressing a soft kiss to your hair. “Of course. We’ll need to plan for a whole brood of dragons. Oldtown might not know what to do with itself when we arrive.”

The idea of building a future together—not just a home but a legacy—filled you with joy. You could see it clearly: the two of you in Oldtown, your dragons soaring over the city, your life filled with love and adventure. It was a future you hadn’t dared to dream of, and now it was within your grasp.

The morning of your departure arrived all too soon. The excitement of the wedding had faded into a bittersweet calm, and the reality of leaving King’s Landing—and Rhaenyra—was heavy on your heart.

Rhaenyra stood by the stables, her face tight with emotion as you approached. You knew this was hard for her. The two of you had been through so much together, and now, the idea of being separated felt like a deep, aching wound.

“You’ll visit,” she said, her voice soft but firm, as though she were willing it to be true.

“Of course I will,” you replied, pulling her into a tight embrace. “I’ll fly over whenever I can, and you’ll always have a place with us in Oldtown.”

Rhaenyra squeezed you tightly, her breath catching as she held back tears. “It’s not fair,” she whispered. “Emā ōños lantra syt tolī... Nyke daor ivestragī iā ao nūmāzma.” We’ve already lost so much... I can’t bear to lose you too.

“Ao daor ivestragī nyke,” You’re not losing me, you reassured her, your own tears threatening to spill. “Īlva mandia iksi. Daorun ivestragon ziry.” We’re sisters. Nothing will change that. Rhaenyra pulled back slightly, her violet eyes glistening with emotion. “Nyke jorrāelagon ao,” she said softly, her voice breaking. I love you.

“Se nyke jorrāelagon ao,” you whispered back. And I love you. “Va moriot.” Always.

Alicent appeared beside you, her own eyes watery, though she managed to keep her composure. “Don’t be a stranger,” she said, giving you a small smile before wrapping you in a warm hug. “Oldtown isn’t so far, you know.”

You smiled through your tears. “I’ll write, and you can visit too. There’s plenty of room for all of us.”

When it was time to say your final goodbye to your father, King Viserys, you could see the sadness etched into his face. He pulled you into a long embrace, holding you tighter than he had in a long time.

“I’ll miss you,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “You’ve always been the rational one, the one who tempered Rhaenyra’s fire.”

You smiled softly, feeling the lump in your throat grow. “She’ll be fine, Father. She’s strong. But I’ll miss you too.”

Viserys pulled back, his hands resting on your shoulders as he looked at you, his eyes full of pride and sadness. “You’ve made me proud,” he said quietly. “Go and build the life you deserve. And know that you’ll always have a place here.”

With that, the final goodbyes were said. Gwayne helped you into the carriage as you saw Vermithor and Silverwing circle overhead. Your heart was a mixture of excitement and sorrow as you waved to Rhaenyra and Alicent until they were no longer in sight.

#hotd x reader #hotd #house of the dragon #rhaenyra targaryen #alicent hightower #gwayne hightower #gwayne hightower x reader #targeryan reader

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spectrum-color · 1 year ago

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So we all know GRRM, like all authors, took a lot of inspo from real life fairy tales, religion, and mythology. There are a ton of parallels but I picked out a few to put in this poll

Propaganda: Before anyone says anything, I know a lot of these are dark spins on the original. I’m not trying to say Littlefinger is a handsome prince or whatever. Also note that some of this is based on either things that haven’t happened yet but are highly likely to happen in Winds/Dream up to and including being confirmed by GRRM.

Arya and Jaqen as Hades and Persephone-the young maiden of spring is found by the lord of the underworld, who gives her an object (in this case a coin) to trick her into being trapped in the world of the dead. When she leaves home, winter comes, but when she returns, so does spring.

Sansa as Rapunzel-a princess locked in a tower by an evil sorceress (or just queen) who is spirited away by a man who wants to marry her. Strong focus on her hair as a symbol of her identity.

The Brotherhood Without Banners as Robin Hood and his Merry Men-a band of outlaws who defend the common people against corrupt authority figures. This one is really self explanatory.

Cersei as the evil queen and Margaery/Sansa/eventually Dany as Snow White-a vain, cruel women terrified of her beauty fading and being replaced by a younger woman who outshines her, so she tries to destroy her perceived rival, ultimately leading to her own downfall. The girls in Snow Whites slot are the popular choices for the identity of the YMBQ and the one Cersei is currently convinced it is.

Jaime and Brienne as Beauty and the Beast-a double subversion. Jaime is handsome and Brienne is ugly, but when they meet she’s brave and kind while he’s selfish and cruel, so it’s the beast who helps the beauty be better.

Lyanna, Rhaegar, and Robert as Helen of Troy, Paris, and Menelaus-a beautiful woman fiercely desired by two powerful men, she either runs off with or is kidnapped by a prince, leading to her (soon to be) husband retaliating by starting a tragic war.

Stannis and Shireen as Agammemon and Iphegenia-a king and commander sacrifices his daughter to the gods to win a war. Bonus if this ends up causing Stannis’ downfall.

Lady Stoneheart as Demeter-a mother wanders the land bringing destruction and misery as she searches for her daughter(s.) When her daughters return to her, spring comes.

Cersei and Jaimes children as the emperor wearing no clothes-the emperor walks around naked insisting that he’s a wearing magic invisible outfit, but everyone is afraid to tell him the truth until finally a child points out that he’s wearing nothing at all. See: everyone pretending not to notice that Cerseis children are the result of incest with her brother, and Ned finally realizing the truth when his 11 year old daughter points out that Joffrey is nothing like Robert.

Bran as the Fisher King-the Fisher King is a character from Arthurian myth. He is the guardian of the magical holy grail, protecting it so it (and power) does not fall into the hands of the unworthy. Notably, he also has a deliberating injury to his legs or groin (depending on the version.) Of course the endgame Bran of the show is a blatant rip-off of Leto II from Children of Dune, but I think the Fisher King sounds more like GRRM would do.

Dany as Moses-a leader who has prophetic visions, who after performing a miracle, frees her people from slavery and leads them on a harsh journey to a new land. Notably regarded as a critically important figure by a monotheistic religion.

#a song of ice and fire #asoiaf #lyanna stark #rhaegar targaryen #robert baratheon #jaime lannister #cersei lannister #sansa stark #tommen lannister #joffrey lannister #myrcella lannister #arya stark #jaqen h'ghar #danerys targaryen #margaery tyrell #shireen baratheon #catelyn stark #I almost put jon as cinderella #but I feared the flame war it could kick off

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arcielee · 1 year ago

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Only if for a night.

Summary: You find comfort in your husband's brother. Paring: Aegon Targaryen x Female!Reader Word Count: 3750 Warnings: Just some smut. Smidgen of Targcest in the beginning, voyeurism, marital cheating, oral (f receiving, m implied), fingering, p in v, breeding kink if you squint. Author's Note: This was a request from my darling anon! This idea literally had me obsessed until I completed it, so please don't think this is the bar for my response time. 😂 Also, a big thank you to my kindred spirits who answered my v. important questions about Aegon's booty! (You know who you are and Ily 💜) Banners & dividers by @cafekitsune Update: This story has a pick your own ending. And you told me I should concentrate. [Aegon x you] But you came over me like some holy rite. [Aemond x you] Tags (Tumblr kindred spirits): @aaaaaamond @annikin-im-panicin @watercolorskyy @schniiipsel @aemondx @fan-goddess @babygirlyofthevale @httpsdoll @theromanticegoist @assortedseaglass @amiraisgoingthruit @theoneeyedprince @babyblue711 @itbmojojoejo @lovelykhaleesiii @darylandbethfanforever9

You felt numb from the sight: seeing your husband on his knees and feasting between the plush thighs of the queen.

It formed a knot that choked you, but it did not stem from a lover’s jealousy–as you knew that you did not love Aemond and he, certainly, did not love you. You always knew your marriage was one of honor and duty, to solidify victory, a peace offering postwar.

You came from a house that was reputable and wealthy, bringing a sizable force to ensure that King Aegon II would remain on the Iron Throne. Your father boasted of marrying his only daughter into the Targaryen dynasty and you felt fortunate to be given a handsome husband, despite his scarred socket.

Prince Aemond already had a fierce reputation that preceded before you met; your ladies-in-waiting tittered over his disfigurement, his sense of bloodlust, and their hushed whispers of kinslayer that haunted him still despite that the kingly decree his actions were that of a true dragon. He was a renowned veteran of the war that was won, that instilled his brother as king without question, and in return he remained prominent on the council, serving still as the Protector of the Realm.

You were shy, intimidated even, when you first saw the severity that lined his features, the unabashed gaze with his sapphire stone that replaced the eye lost, but you decided he was handsome in a way that was uniquely his own. You also found Aemond was respectful and kind, that he was intelligent, he was considerate, and you sighed your relief, knowing all too often how ladies would be knitted to cruel lords.

For your bedding ceremony, the only glimpse of the dragon that thrummed beneath was how Aemond barked to dismiss the maesters, the Lord Hand, allowing you both privacy to complete the act. He seemed well aware of the discomfort a maiden could feel and treated you with the utmost courtesy, mindful of your sighs, your soft sounds to completion.

He was dutiful and he was diligent. It was not love at first sight, not like the stories told; there was no fluttering of butterfly wings throughout nor did your heart skip a beat at the sight of him, but you enjoyed his company, his consistency, and his consideration.

In all, it was a formidable match and you were certain the marriage would be a success.

Especially once you produced a silver haired royal babe.

Which is why you were freshly bathed and dressed in silk, just the quiet echoes of your slippered footfalls against the cobblestone that led towards your lord husband’s quarters. You thought yourself fortunate no white cloak was perched outside his door, and you pressed close to listen before you carefully turned the gilded handle of the door.

The room was cast in the amber glow from the hearth and tapers lit, and it was the lewd sounds that first caught your attention. You were rooted in the doorcase, your eyelashes fluttered at the view in front of you.

Aemond was bare from the waist up, the peaks of the silver scars peering through his silver hair, and he was kneeled before the velvet settee at the end of his bed. You watched the muscled definition of his backside, the golden glow of the fireplace highlighting his bareness, as well as the elegant arc of a calf that was draped casually over his shoulder.

Your eyes followed the milky curve of this limb to look over his shoulder and see the flushed features of Helaena. She was seated on the settee, her laces loosened which allowed the natural spill of her chest, with the peak of her areolas and the rose hues that stained the skin showing. Her skirts were rutted around her hips, the fabric spilling around, and her eyelashes fluttered with a silver glimmer, her head rolling back with a wave of her silver tresses. A smile curled on her kiss-swollen lips and there was a shudder of her pleasure that rippled viscerally over, her fingers curling against his scalp with the breathless whisper.

“Aemond.”

The humiliation was hot in your veins and burned your cheeks; you willed yourself to move, but your eyes were rapt to attention, watching the frantic rise and fall of Helaena’s chest, her nipples pebbled, and the spilled moans from her mouth.

"Aemond, Aemond, Aemond…"

You left as quietly as you entered; your steps were soft, quick to take you back, with one hand lifting the silk of your chemise and the other wiping the tears that began to spill.

We were not in love, you remind yourself, but it still pinched a nerve within your chest. He was still your husband and you were duty bound to bore him a child, a son if the Lord Hand could choose. The act itself was not unpleasant, but Aemond had never…

Your thoughts were interrupted with a singsong call of your name; you were quick to wipe your face before turning to see the king.

“Your grace,” you offered him a feeble curtsy and even weaker smile.

Aegon moved with a grace, a sway to his steps; his brow furrowed above his wide, lilac eyes, and there was a genuineness to his question. “Sweet sister, it is late, what has you out of bed?”

Before you had been sent to King’s Landing, your mother warned you of his behaviors; you were also told the tale of how the newly anointed Lord Commander and your lord husband had to drag Aegon from the streets of Flea Bottom and place him on the Iron Throne.

But this notoriety of his youth seemed to dissipate with the placement of the Conqueror’s crown he now wore proudly on his silver waves. It seemed to kindle the royal ichor in his veins, and he moved with an elegance as he pressed closer, peering at you with his continued concern.

“I… I was feeling unwell and thought that I would go for a walk,” you chose your words carefully, trying to mask the threat of emotion that brimmed beneath.

His brow quirked. “Alone?”

You swallowed. In this moment, you wished to slip away, to return to your rooms and drown in your sorrow, your failures as a wife in light of learning your new husband’s infidelities, your self-loathing for craving the passion Aemond displayed, wishing it to be shown towards you instead…

The silence hung thick, too long for his liking, and Aegon reached to take your hand, placing it into the crook of his arm. “It is late,” he repeated. “If you are unwell, allow me to escort you back to your quarters.”

You fell in step, peering at him. Aegon was handsome, as your supposed all Targaryen men seemed to be; your eyes admired his silver tresses that curled at his shoulders, that showed golden with the lights that lined the corridor, casting a gold ring that reflected in the lilac of his eyes that flitted over you; his lips were rosy, an upwards curl when he noticed your stare. “You seem so solemn tonight,” he tried again.

The proximity allowed you to smell the long day on him, mixing with the scents of lavender and tea tree oils, a regal musk that called to you to nestle your head against his chest and cry. “It is only that I am feeling unwell,” is what you said instead.

His eyes were wide and watchful, but he did not argue and instead allowed the silence to envelope as he walked with you. Before you could wish him goodnight, he pushed into your room, ordering your handmaidens to fetch something to eat, as well as red wine to help settle your stomach.

They jumped with his command, quick to listen, and soon enough you were sitting on the terrace that overlooked the coast of Blackwater Bay, holding a goblet that brimmed with a Dornish wine that stained your lips with each polite sip. Aegon sat across from you, a boyish grin as he dismissed your handmaidens for the night, before reaching to break the bread for you both.

The silence followed from the corridor, settling over in a way that was not at all uncomfortable; you peered again at Aegon, a choked cry in your throat as you watched him take care to slice the cheeses and the olives for the bread, before offering it to you.

It was a simple, sweet gesture and you chewed, forcing down the bite with the wine. Whereas conversation had to be dragged from your husband, you found his brother’s tongue would not idle; perhaps it loosened from the wine, but it was not a mindless filler in a way that words are used as though silence were a threat, but you found Aegon to be cheerful, witty, as he shared stories from his youth.

Aegon glowned from his narration, from the silver light that poured over; the night sky was empty with the clouds rolling over the black water, the air cool and salty. Your cheeks were rosy from your drink and your laughter, and when your cup emptied, he was quick to refill it.

He pressed for your turn and you shared about your life before coming to King’s Landing. Aegon was an attentive listener, with sighs punctuating; you looked to see that his cheeks were pink from the wine and the wind, a curl returning to his lips. “My brother is fortunate to have such a pretty and witty wife.”

Those words were the unknown catalyst broken; you did not sob your sorrow but instead there were large tears that rolled down your cheeks. You did not realize you were shaking until you felt his fingers, his touch warm, soft, wrapping gently around your wrist. You allowed him to pull you from your seat, towards him–now standing–and enveloping you into his arms for a moment before he sat back down, pulling you onto his lap.

Your mannerly upbringing roared in your ears, this was wrong, this was improper, to be pulled into an unchaperoned embrace of your husband’s brother–the fucking king of the Seven Realms. But instead you curled against his chest, that regal musk soothing, his warmth pleasant against the nip of the air. You indulged in his comfort–his palm rubbing slow circles along your spine, his other arm across your lap, his hand gripping into your thigh.

His touch grounded you, allowing you to compose yourself and share with him what you had found in Aemond’s quarters, making sure to elicit a detail that Aegon freely supplied.

“He was with Helaena, right?”

You looked at him. “You knew?” Your voice cracked, incredulous.

Aegon only hummed, continuing his soothing ministrations, his hand rubbing your backside. “I thought you did as well,” he admitted. “Our status within the Seven Realms… requires certain duties to be fulfilled. We are honorbound to these obligations, to ensure peace amongst the kingdoms. But it is just a role to be played for the public.”

You knew this in part already; you were always aware of the duty of your marriage, the child that you were expected to bring into the world. But still, the truth spoken brought a new wave of tears that he consoled. Your body burned with his touch, his finger curling and his thumb pressing into your chin to bring your watery eyes to his own. “Is it that you love him?” He asked with a curiosity that could not be helped, in light of your reaction.

You did not, and would never, certainly not after this night. The tears that spilled came from something deeper, something that licked your belly when your eyes lingered in Aemond’s room, and your voice quavered, hiccupping to explain this.

Aegon had an almost kingly glow in the moonlight, with its silver light reflecting in the stubble that spread across his square jaw, framing the mischievous grin that curled on his wine stained lips. “Is your husband,” he speaks of him like he is apart from Aemond, not knitted within the same womb, with the same dragon’s blood thrumming in his veins, “not fulfilling his marital duties?”

You stammered with your response. This was not what you meant, as Aemond was courteous to his completion, but it was never like what you spied tonight. You flushed remembering the shades of pink that plumed against Helaena’s porcelain skin, how her back arched with her cries, his name a fervent prayer spilling from kiss-swollen lips…

"Aemond, Aemond, Aemond…"

Aegon’s timbre brings you back out to the terrace, with his continued soft circles on the outside of your thigh. “You would know if he had,” he spoke so casually, almost flippant with the subject.

How would you know? And you regret your question, your naivety apparent with your words.

The same mischievous smirk returned to his lips, and as the moonglow spilled over him something glimmered, something knowing from how his brow quirked with your question. Aegon tilted his head up slightly, his lips now close to the soft divot beneath your ear, grazing your skin with his whisper, “I could show you.”

Your lips part in shock, your eyes wide to look him over and see the flush of color that stained his cheeks, the wine that stained his lips.

And you dared to kiss him.

Your lips are shy to touch, almost chaste with your action, but Aegon responds, quick, his fingers curling at the base of your neck and his other coming around your waist. His lips are full, soft, warm with the hint of the sweet wine to taste when his tongue runs your bottom lip, eliciting a moan from you. He deepened the kiss, his tongue clever, careful, as he drew the very breath from your lungs.

The spill of silk showed your shoulder and you gasped softly when he broke away, his mouth ravenous to capture the skin now exposed, with a wake of love bites from his open mouth kisses, and a warmth began to bloom within you. You touched his chest with a gentle push to stand and he lets go, his lilac eyes wide and wanting; your hands trembled slightly as you reached to pull him to stand, boldly leading him within your chambers.

Aegon stopped you in the archway, and you turned to see the smile on his lips as he pressed against you, his thigh spreading your legs and his hands trailing your curves, settling and gripping onto your hip bones. His mouth captured yours once again, and your arms wrapped around his neck to bring him closer.

You almost whined when he stopped the kiss, his eyes glassy and their color swallowed by pools of black. “My brother is an idiot,” is all he said.

Before you could breathe a response, he pulled you into the room and back against his mouth, moving with the flutter of kisses along your jawline, nipping into the curve of your neck. His palms are still on the small of your waist, with guiding steps back towards the bed.

Clothes are removed with a passion, leaving a trail behind. “Lay back,” he coaxed, his hands warm against your bareness, careful to press until you laid against the mattress. Aegon followed after, climbing on top of you to meet with another kiss, with his sweet murmur, “Let me show you.”

It is a tickling sensation, the mixture of his stubble with the softness of his lips against the curve of your neck, trailing to your chest. Gooseflesh rippled over, your nipples peaking from the warmth of his touch; his palm cups one breast while his hot mouth latches to the other, teeth and tongue teasing.

You squirmed beneath him; his chuckle was low and warm against the valley between your breasts, from shifting his focus from one to the other. “So impatient,” and his hot kiss sends shivers down your spine, with an intensity that you know will mark you.

You shivered again with that thought.

This reaction encouraged a tensity shown to your nipples, his tongue swirled and another crest of pleasure rippled over, your hand moving to cover your mouth to muffle. Again, his fingers curled around your wrist, pulling your arm down to your side and pushing up to find your lips. “None of the that,” and his lips curled into an almost wicked smile, “your king wishes to hear you.”

Satisfied with the crimson that flooded your cheeks, Aegon moved towards your core with sporadic kisses trailing, a warm tickle of his exhale as he nestled between your thighs.

Your heart fluttered with the intimate kiss he placed, something that sparked a warmth that began to spread out towards the apex of your thighs and beyond. Your hips buck slightly from the sensation and you can feel him grin against your cunt.

“So eager,” he breathed, a warm thrill against your slick slit, his tongue flitting with a precision that had you panting. “Yes, just like that,” he praised, his fingers now pressing within your velvet walls and stretching as one curled within, then another.

His mouth, his touch was practiced, pulling something to blossom within the pit of your stomach, a fluttering sensation that built with the tandem of his fingers and his tongue.

You gasped, peering to see the top of his head, the spill of his silver waves as he moved, ravenous, determined. You writhed, a pitiful mewling sound, and his one hand moved to curl underneath your thigh, holding you in place with his continued sinful motion, your arousal spilling onto the bedsheets.

It was too much, and you whimpered, “A-Aegon,” as your hands balled to grip the linen.

“Just like that,” he purred against, his rhythm building still, a pressure threatening to burst within you. “Come for me, sweet girl.”

It engulfs you as though you had been dropped into Blackwater Bay, a rush that spilled with the come hither curl of his fingers, pressing his lips against the sensitive bundle of nerves above. You see the stars when your eyes flutter closed, the spill of tears that pearled in the corners of your eyes, your chest heaving to catch your breath and your thighs trembling.

His praise was low, husky. “You are so beautiful like this.”

You slowly propped yourself onto your elbows, flushed, and reached towards him, but he stopped your hand. “Next time,” Aegon promised with a cheeky grin.

You are flushed from his actions, from his words, your heart rate picking up again as Aegon climbed on top of you, nestling into the cradle of your hips. His expression was smug, his lips and chin slick, and you kissed him, hungry for him, curious of your own taste; you enjoyed the salty sweetness from the Dornish wine that mixed. His hand dipped between, lining himself with your entrance, and you sighed into his mouth.

Aegon has girth, a thickness to him that stretches your walls. You gasp, then another whine that spilled as he pushed to sheath fully within you; Aegon swallowed your cries with his kisses, his hips still to allow you to adjust to his size, checking before he began his slow rut against your hips.

You pant against his chest, your fingers digging into the twin divots on his lower back as he filled you with each thrust, a bruising pace that began to spark in front of your eyes. You cling to him with a desperation, still sensitive from your first release and flustered from the touch of his bare skin against your own.

There is the sudden emptiness when he pulled away, positioning himself on his knees, his palms wrapping around your ankles and pulling to place your feet against his chest; your hips cant up, allowing him to be swallowed by your warmth again, a guttural groan that reverberates through when you clenched.

This new angle sparked another cry, lights dancing across your eyes with his pace; he was grinning down at you, pausing to turn his head with a quick kiss to the arc of your foot, and you giggled.

His large hands moved to press onto the mattress, caging you, and he rolled his hips against your own; the wet squelch with your soft cry as he bruised within. You mewled his name when his pace quickened, pistoning his hips against.

There was the returned flutter of pleasure and Aegon lifted one hand. “Open,” and you obey, your tongue touching the pad of his thumb, swirling to coat it with your saliva. When he pulled back, a bit of spittle broke off onto your chin, and his hand dipped to press against the bloom above, his touch soft, searching.

Yours cries are unbridled at the touch of your pearl, and his satisfaction was apparent on his flushed features, his hips finding a new pace with his new ministrations. Your muscles tightened in response, your back arching against, and it comes, a tidal wave, an intensity that shudders throughout, rattling your bones beneath.

Aegon continued through your peak, his thrusts growing sloppy to chase after his own release before melting against you, with a low groan into the junction of your neck that rumbled pleasantly through you.

You both lay there in an intimate tangle of bare limbs until your breathing evened. Aegon rolled onto his side and reached to touch your hip, his lilac eyes roaming over you, admiring you. “Beautiful,” he declared, then leaned closer for a gentle kiss.

You giggled again, pulling away to clean up. Aegon allowed it, but was adamant that you remained bare, pulling you back to bed after and curling up against, his face nuzzling into your neck; your skin rose in response.

“For duty, for honor,” he murmured, moving to pull you until your head rested on his chest; his soothing scent and musk of sex now clung to the linen. “A silver haired child all the same,” and he kissed your hairline with his confession. “The twins, Maegor, I am not even certain they are mine or not, but I love them nonetheless.”

“The blood of the dragon,” you whispered, tilting your head back and allowing him to kiss you once again.

You felt a new satisfaction, a new understanding of your role within the Targaryen dynasty. The thought warmed you, I love them nonetheless, as you nestled against his chest, allowing the rise and fall to lull you to sleep.

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#hotd fanfic #hotd fanfiction #aegon ii targaryen #aegon ii x reader #aegon ii x you #aegon x you #aegon x reader #this was also inspired by the tag #aemond aemond aemond #only if for a night #update 9/27

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fanficapologist · 3 months ago

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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 One Hundred

Despite the turmoil swirling around the realm, the days on Dragonstone seemed almost deceptively calm. The once heavy grey clouds that had hung over the island for weeks began to thin, allowing the sun to break through and bathe the volcanic rock in rare warmth. The sea that surrounded the fortress shimmered under the soft sunlight, casting fleeting illusions of peace. It was as if nature itself offered a brief respite from the tension of the looming war.

Maera felt that shift as well, both in her surroundings and within herself. The wound on her arm had completely healed, the scar barely visible now. The pain had faded, replaced by a newfound energy. She was no longer bound by recovery and was eager to return to the skies on dragonback, contributing to the war effort and finding time for herself.

Since Prince Daeron had flown south to the Stormlands, Maera had been assigned a new route—across the western side of the Narrow Sea. Her task was crucial: she needed to ensure the fleet of Morne was prepared and positioned for the eventual attack on the Capital when the time came.

Yet even though she embraced the odd tranquility, the betrayal of the Dragonseeds loomed over every decision. Hugh Hammer and Ulf the White’s defection had thrown their carefully laid plans into disarray. There was no longer a definitive timeline for the invasion. The uncertainty gnawed at the Green Council, but they were not without recourse.

A newly formed faction of nobles, led by the cunning Lord Unwin Peake, now called themselves the Caltrops. Their singular goal: to assassinate Hugh and Ulf and restore order. It was a delicate operation, one they carefully plotted, keeping the Green Council informed but biding their time until the perfect moment to strike.

Despite the complications caused by the rogue Dragonseeds, not all plans had been derailed. The Hand, Ser Criston Cole, had already departed for the Riverlands, where he was gathering and readying the ground troops. For now, all Maera and the other players in this intricate game of power could do was wait. It was a tense lull, the kind that stretched nerves thin and made every small action feel laden with weight amongst the remaining members of the Green Council.

In the meantime, Maera turned her attention to her other duties, filling her days with tasks that would otherwise have been mundane but now served as distractions. Her Ladies were a constant presence, helping her maintain some semblance of normalcy amidst the chaos. Lady Fossoway, ever diligent, had already begun making small preparations for the formal ceremony to name Prince Daeron as the official Prince of Dragonstone.

Though the event was still some time away, there was much to consider: the banners, the guests, the feast. Each detail needed careful planning, and Lady Fossoway took to the task with a seriousness that reflected the gravity of the moment. The announcement would solidify Daeron’s place within the Targaryen dynasty, an acknowledgment of his role should Aemond not have a son.

Lady Swyft, on the other hand, busied herself with Maera’s wardrobe. Having noticed that many of the Queen’s dresses had become uncomfortably tight around her hips and bust, she took it upon herself to remedy the situation. Seamstresses were summoned, and fabrics were examined, discussed, and chosen with care. The women muttered and measured, their deft fingers working to let out seams and add panels where needed. The changes were subtle yet necessary, for Maera’s figure had grown fuller once more.

The Queen’s lady assured her that it was normal, for a woman’s body to change after childbirth, and that noblewomen often found their figures altered even moons after they had given birth. Tiredness created hunger, she explained kindly, which led to eating more, and in turn, a little weight gain. It was nothing to be ashamed of, Lady Swyft insisted, even hinting that it could be healthy.

Maera tried to take comfort in her words, telling herself that it did not bother her. After all, she had given birth to Aemara, a child of dragon’s blood and royal lineage. Such changes were a small price to pay for the continuation of their house. Yet, each time Lady Swyft brought in a newly altered gown, panels and extra stitching added to accommodate her changing shape, Maera couldn’t help but feel a pang of self-consciousness. She saw it in the way the fabric hugged her now fuller hips, the way the bodices strained slightly against her enlarged bust.

In the quiet moments, when she was alone in her chambers, Maera found herself scrutinizing her reflection. The mirror offered an unflinching gaze at the woman she had become, a Queen in the midst of war, a rider of a gigantic and fearsome dragon, a mother to a Targaryen princess, and a wife to a king. She traced her fingers along the seams of her altered gowns, feeling every added inch as though it marked some personal failing.

Lady Vance, the elderly and old-fashioned courtier, took it upon herself to lecture the Queen on the matter of vanity and self-acceptance. In her stern and matronly manner, she insisted that such conceit should not be acknowledged, reminding Maera that women were as the Mother had made them, and it was a woman’s duty to accept her form with grace. Lady Vance’s words were filled with an unwavering certainty that came from years of strict adherence to tradition and piety, but they did little to comfort Maera.

One person who did understand Maera’s struggles on a personal level was Lady Tarth, who had become known by given name, Serenne. In the last few months, the young lady had become more than just the Queen’s secretary. She had become a confidante, a friend in the truest sense. The two women found solace in each other’s company, often spending time together when the other Ladies were busy with their duties.

Most of their time was spent in the large nursery of Dragonstone, a haven away from the prying eyes and expectations of the court. Here, they would sit on the plush rugs and thick blankets, surrounded by the soft sounds of their children at play. Aemara, now nearing eight months old, was beginning to explore the world on her hands and knees. The little princess crawled around on the carpet, her tiny fingers reaching out to grasp at the colorful toys that lay scattered around her. Her laughter filled the room, a sweet and innocent sound that brought a warmth to Maera’s heart.

Lady Serenne’s son, affectionately called ‘little Bryn’ by Maera, was just as happy to play amidst the abundance of toys that had been provided for them. He was a curious child, with eyes that seemed to take in everything around him with a quiet intelligence. While Aemara explored her surroundings with the wide-eyed wonder of a child discovering the world for the first time, Bryn was content to sit amidst his treasures, stacking blocks and inspecting each toy with a focused determination.

As their children played, Maera and Lady Serenne would engage in hours of conversation. They would sit together, sipping tea and sharing the latest gossip from court, their voices kept low so as not to disturb the children, who were diligently being watched by a nursemaid.

In these moments, the Queen felt a sense of normalcy, a fleeting escape from the weight of her crown. The discussions would range from lighthearted anecdotes about the children’s latest antics to more serious matters, such as the subtle undercurrents of political maneuvering that never seemed to rest, even in times of supposed peace.

Lady Serenne, with her kind blue eyes and empathetic nature, offered Maera a comfort that no one else could. She understood, perhaps better than anyone, the struggles that came with balancing the roles of mother, wife, and noblewoman. There was no judgment in her gaze, no lectures or admonishments about vanity or duty. Just a shared understanding that in this ever-changing world, they were both doing their best to navigate the expectations placed upon them.

In the nursery, amidst the laughter and soft babble of their children, the world outside seemed a little less daunting. For a few hours each day, the war, the politics, and the constant scrutiny faded into the background, leaving only the simple joys of motherhood and friendship.

“I cannot believe Bryn will be two years old this year,” Lady Serenne commented, her eyes crinkling with a smile as she picked up a small sandwich from the tray between them, taking a delicate bite.

The Queen nodded in agreement. “I know. Time seems so go quicker when you become a mother I think.”

As Maera spoke, her thoughts drifted inward, silently reflecting on just how much time had passed and yet how little it felt. It wasn’t that long ago, in her memory at least, when she had sat with Helaena, watching over Jaehaerys, Jaehaera and Maelor as they played together in the nursery of King’s Landing. Those moments, filled with laughter and innocent joy, were so vivid in her mind that they felt like they had happened just yesterday. It was a simpler time, before the war, before the loss and betrayal that had shattered their world.

The memory of Helaena, her old friend, and the soft peace they had found in those stolen moments, made Maera’s heart ache with longing. Those tender memories were like fragile glass, precious and breakable, and the reality that such moments could never happen again weighed heavily on her. Even if they did rescue Helaena, things could never return to how they once were.

Her reverie was abruptly interrupted by a high-pitched shriek of frustration. Maera’s eyes snapped to the scene before her as Bryn, determined and quick, toddled over to where Aemara was playing. Without hesitation, he snatched a toy from the little princess’s grasp. Aemara responded immediately, her face scrunching up in a mix of surprise and indignation before she let out an angry wail. The sound echoed through the nursery, drawing the attention of both mothers.

Lady Serenne was on her feet in an instant, moving to sit beside her son and scold him. “Bryndemere,” she chided in a firm yet gentle voice, pulling the toy from his hand and returning it to Aemara, who grasped it tightly, still pouting but quieting down under her mother’s comforting gaze. The Lady turned back to Maera, her cheeks flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and amusement.

“I apologize, Your Grace,” she said with a light laugh, trying to diffuse the situation with humor. “Clearly, my son has yet to learn the proper courtly etiquette when interacting with a princess.”

Maera chuckled softly, shaking her head. “No harm done,” she replied, her gaze softening as she watched the two children. Aemara, for her part, had already moved on from the slight, her attention now fixed on the toy in her hands, seemingly satisfied with its return.

Lady Serenne sighed, settling back down beside Maera. “In truth,” she mused, “I think his older sisters are happy to be rid of him at the moment.”

Maera giggled at the comment, shaking her head in amusement. “I think all brothers, older or younger, have an innate talent for being incredibly annoying,” she replied, her tone light and teasing as she pictured all of her brothers, some she loved with all her heart, others she was content with being away from.

Just as they shared a laugh, Maera felt a small tug on her skirts. She glanced down to see little Bryn gazing up at her with wide, earnest eyes, his tiny finger pointing eagerly toward the table where the food lay just out of his reach. Maera grinned, unable to resist the boy’s charm. She reached down to ruffle his golden curls affectionately before handing him a small sandwich. Bryn accepted the offering with a delighted smile, toddling away to return to his toys with his prize clutched tightly in his small hand.

“Well,” Maera began, turning her attention back to Lady Serenne, “do you and Lord Edmure plan on having more children?” Her question was curious, genuine interest in her voice.

Lady Serenne laughed, shaking her head with a mixture of amusement and relief. “Thankfully, the Gods have spared me from such a fate,” she replied, a hint of irony in her tone.

Maera tilted her head in confusion, not quite understanding. “What do you mean?” she asked, her brow furrowed slightly.

With a soft sigh, Lady Serenne explained, “I already have four older daughters, all so close in age. And when Bryn was born, it was… difficult.” Her eyes clouded briefly with the memory, but her voice remained steady. “The Maester said that due to the birth, it’s highly unlikely I’ll have any more children.”

Maera watched her face closely, expecting to see sorrow or regret, but to her surprise, Lady Serenne seemed content, perhaps even a little relieved. There was a peace in her expression, a quiet acceptance of her circumstances.

“And you, Your Grace?” The Queen was snapped out of her contemplations by the sound of Lady Serenne’s voice, cutting through the quiet with a playful lilt.

“How goes…making an heir for the King?” She giggled, her golden curls bouncing with the motion, and there was an unmistakable teasing light in her expression.

Maera rolled her eyes, unable to suppress a smile at her Lady’s cheeky inquiry. “The King and I are quite set on performing our duties,” she replied with mock seriousness, though the corners of her lips quirked upwards, betraying her amusement.

As they shared in the lighthearted banter, Maera found her thoughts drifting inwardly. Since Aemond had recommitted himself to her in the ways of Old Valyria, reaffirming their bond in that ancient and sacred tradition, it seemed as though their relationship had been forged anew in the fire of their shared trials and tribulations.

Their time together had become precious, a refuge amidst the storm. They cherished the moments spent with Aemara, watching their daughter grow and change with each passing day. And then there were the nights, the intimacy between them more intense and consuming than it had been in months. Aemond’s touch was both demanding and tender, their passion igniting like wildfire each time they came together. It was surprising, really, that she wasn’t with child again already, considering how often they indulged in their desires.

“Yet my moons blood has not come since I have given birth,” the Queen explained to her companion. While this was something that could worry some, she felt a sense of relief about it. The monthly bleeding was not something she missed. “And I’ve read that it returning means you are fit to breed again,” Maera added with a small, nonchalant shrug.

“I see “ Lady Serenne acknowledged quietly, but something in her tone made Maera glance at her. The Lady’s expression had changed, a frown marring her usually cheerful face. Her brows knitted together, and she looked as though she was deep in thought, her gaze fixed on the floor.

“What is it?” Maera asked gently, noticing the sudden shift in her demeanor. Lady Serenne continued to avoid her gaze, nervously biting her lip. It was as if she was holding something back, struggling with whether or not to say what was on her mind. Maera reached out, placing a reassuring hand on her arm. “You can speak freely, Serenne,” she encouraged softly.

The Lady-in-waiting took a deep breath, gathering her thoughts before finally speaking. “Your Grace, it’s just… what you said about the moonsblood,” she began cautiously. “It happened to me, as well, after I gave birth to Bryn.” Her voice was quiet, almost hesitant. “It was how the Maester knew we could no longer conceive.”

“Oh,” was all the Queen could manage in response, her thoughts suddenly reeling. The information was startling, and she hadn’t considered the possibility before. The lack of her moonsblood had been a convenience in her mind, a reprieve from the physical toll of motherhood so soon after Aemara’s birth. But now, hearing Serenne’s story, it took on a different significance.

Sensing the Maera’s concern, Lady Serenne quickly waved her hands in a defensive yet reassuring manner. "No, no, Your Grace, please don’t worry," she said earnestly. "It may not be the case for you. After all, you are nobly feeding your daughter yourself, and I gave Bryn to our wet nurse as soon as he was born. That can make a difference, or so I’ve been told."

Despite her friend's attempt to soothe her fears, Maera couldn't help the worry that settled into the pit of her stomach. If Aemara was to be her only child, how would Aemond react? He adored their daughter, that much was certain, but a king needed a son to carry on his legacy, to secure the future of his reign. The thought of Aemond’s disappointment made Maera's heart clench. His desire for an heir, like all noble men, was strong, and though their bond had grown, the pressure of producing a son had always been an unspoken expectation.

The Queen chewed her lip nervously, the small, anxious habit surfacing as her mind churned with these possibilities. What if this was it? What if she was unable to provide the heir Aemond—and the realm—expected of her? The idea of failing in this duty gnawed at her. She imagined the whispers that would spread through court, the scrutiny that would follow her every move, the shadow of her own inadequacy haunting her steps. Would Aemond’s affection for her endure if she couldn’t fulfill this one crucial role? The thought sent a chill down her spine.

Lost in these worries, she suddenly felt a gentle hand on her shoulder, grounding her back in the present. Maera looked up to see Lady Serenne’s concerned yet supportive gaze. "If you’re truly worried, my Queen," she said softly, her voice filled with genuine care, "you should speak to the Maester. He might be able to give you some answers, or at least some reassurance."

Maera nodded, the tightness in her chest easing just slightly at the reminder that she didn’t have to navigate this uncertainty alone. "Thank you, Lady Serenne," she replied quietly, offering her friend a small, grateful smile. "I think I will."

A sudden, wild squealing echoed from the carpet, drawing the women's attention away from their conversation. Maera and Lady Serenne looked down in surprise. Aemara had crawled over to Bryn, her chubby little fingers wrapped around the boy’s golden curls in a surprisingly firm grip. She pulled harshly, her tiny mouth open in a giggle of delight. Bryn, caught off guard, screamed in distress, his arms flailing as he tried to escape the unexpected assault. The nursemaid was quickly at their side, attempting to pry the children apart, but between Aemara’s strong grip and Bryn’s thrashing, she was having no such luck.

The Queen and her Lady exchanged a knowing glance and a smile before both gracefully slid off their chairs to sit on the carpet. With a practiced ease, Maera gently grasped her daughter's tiny hand, loosening her grip on Bryn’s curls. Lady Serenne reached for her son, pulling him safely into her lap and smoothing down his tousled hair. Aemara let out a disgruntled little sound as she was lifted away from her playmate, her violet eyes wide with innocent curiosity about why her new toy had been taken from her.

Both women comforted their children after the ordeal, laughing softly at the small drama that had unfolded. Maera bounced Aemara on her knee, whispering soothing words as she smoothed down the girl’s silver hair, while Lady Serenne rubbed Bryn’s back, murmuring reassurances into his ear.

Maera chuckled as she gestured to Bryn, who was now snuggled against his mother, looking slightly sulky but otherwise unharmed. "It seems your son will have his hands full with his future wife," she said with a grin, her eyes twinkling with amusement. Lady Serenne laughed in agreement, a sparkle of mirth in her gaze as she glanced between the two children, imagining the future where this fierce little princess and the gentle golden-haired boy would one day be something more than playmates.

"Indeed," Serenne replied with a playful sigh. "It appears he may need to grow accustomed to a strong-willed lady at his side." They shared a warm laugh, the brief chaos on the carpet serving as a charming reminder of the small joys and trials of motherhood amidst the surrounding storm of the war.

“What has your feathers ruffled, my Queen?”

It was late afternoon, and the halls of Dragonstone had fallen into a hushed calm. After a long morning of play and a satisfying feed, Aemara had finally been put down for her nap. The Queen had watched her daughter’s eyes flutter shut, a peaceful smile gracing the little girl’s face as she drifted into sleep. With her duties as a mother momentarily set aside, Maera now had other matters to attend to.

The corridors of Dragonstone were dimly lit, the grey stone walls lined with ancient tapestries depicting the history of House Targaryen. The heavy scent of sea salt hung in the air, mingling with the faint scent of burning wood from the hearths that warmed the castle’s interior. Shadows danced across the walls as the sunlight filtered through narrow windows, casting a warm golden hue over the cold stone floors.

Servants moved quietly about their tasks, the rustle of their garments and the soft patter of their footsteps echoing softly in the stillness. Maera acknowledged them with brief nods as they respectfully greeted her, her mind elsewhere, her thoughts spinning in a whirlwind of uncertainty. She walked beside her sworn guard and brother, Faran, whose vigilant eyes scanned the corridor ahead. His presence, usually a comfort, seemed to chafe at her now, only adding to the turmoil within her.

“Leave it alone, brother.”

Her earlier conversation with Lady Serenne had left her unnerved, stirring up fears she hadn’t fully realized she was harboring. The idea that she might not be able to bear another child had lodged itself into her thoughts like a splinter, small but impossible to ignore. Aemond’s expectations, the needs of the realm, and her own desires clashed within her, leaving her feeling trapped and restless.

Instead of confiding in someone about her growing concerns, Maera had chosen a different way to deal with the storm of emotions swirling within her. She had decided to work out her stress the only way she knew how to channel it—through physical exertion.

The Queen had donned her leathers, a comforting second skin that had seen her through many battles and training sessions. She pinned back her brown and silver curls with practiced ease, preparing for a sparring session with her brother. It was something they had not done since she was shot in the collarbone, but now with the wound healed, and the anxiety simmering within her turning into a boiling anger, she was determined to win this bout.

“Gods, there is a bug up your arse,” he chuckled, trying to provoke a response. “You better pray I don’t beat you today.”

But Maera was in no mood for his banter. Without looking at him, she firmly told him. “Faran, please, just shut up.” Her tone was icy, brooking no argument, and the sharpness of her words cut through the air between them.

Faran got the hint, his playful demeanor fading into a more serious silence. He respected her boundaries, for now, falling quiet for the rest of the walk to the courtyard. The silence between them was heavy, but Maera preferred it this way. She couldn’t talk about what was on her mind with him. He wouldn’t understand. He couldn’t. This was not a matter of battle strategy or court politics, but of something far more personal and profound—her worth as a queen, a wife, and a mother.

Turning a corner, Maera’s mind raced with thoughts of who else she could confide in. Her Ladies were supportive, but this was not a matter for idle gossip or comforting words. It required knowledge and discretion, and she was not yet ready to face the possibility of hearing something she wasn’t prepared to accept. The Maesters could give her answers, perhaps, but she was not ready to deal with possible bad news.

And besides, the walls had ears. She was certain Larys’s spies were scattered throughout the castle, their eyes and ears ever vigilant. If any whisper of possible infertility reached the court, it would be like blood in the water to sharks, weakening her position as Queen. It would give her enemies leverage, an opening they would not hesitate to exploit.

The siblings continued their walk through the corridors of Dragonstone in a heavy silence, the only sounds being the soft scuffs of their boots against the stone floor and the occasional distant murmur of servants. Maera was lost in her thoughts, mulling over the troubling possibilities swirling in her mind. Finally, they reached the courtyard, a familiar space where she could at least momentarily escape the chaos of her mind.

They began to warm up in silence, moving with the practiced ease of seasoned fighters. As Maera practiced her movements, her blade slicing through the air with practiced precision, she could feel her body falling into the familiar rhythm. Each swing, each pivot, was a reminder of her strength, of the control she still held over some aspects of her life. She lost herself in the movements, focusing on the feel of the sword in her hand and the way her muscles responded to each command.

But the silence was soon interrupted by Faran’s voice, cutting through her concentration. “Luthor wrote to me,” he revealed, his tone casual but with an edge of something else she couldn’t quite place. Maera’s brow furrowed, her rhythm faltering for just a heartbeat before she resumed her practice.

Their brother, married to one of Lord Borros Baratheon’s daughters, had not written in a month, despite Maera reaching out. She had assumed he was preoccupied with his duties at Storm’s End, busy with the ongoing preparations and politics. Yet he had found the time to write to Faran, but not to her? It made her pause, her mind now split between the movements of her sword and the curiosity mixed with irritation rising within her.

The Queen hummed in response, her sword cutting through the air with a sharp, decisive swing. “Is he well?” she asked, a hint of annoyance slipping into her voice despite her attempt to sound indifferent. The idea that their brother had written to Faran, choosing him as a confidant rather than her, grated on her nerves. She did not enjoy being kept in the dark, especially when it came to family matters.

She heard Faran clear his throat, a hesitation that made her sigh inwardly. Pausing in her routine, she turned her head to face him, her green eyes narrowing in scrutiny. His expression was pained, lines of discomfort etching across his usually composed face. The sight of it only deepened her confusion. “He’s not in a good place, Maera,” the Kingsguard finally spoke, his voice low and careful. His words made her pause, lowering her sword as she tilted her head, frowning.

Faran hesitated again before speaking, as if weighing the impact of his next words. “Lady Cassandra… she became with child,” he began, watching her closely. “But she miscarried a few weeks later.”

The Queen’s frown deepened, her chest tightening at the news. The weight of his words sank in slowly, a wave of empathy and sorrow washing over her. Luthor and Cassandra had been married for some time now, and she knew they had hoped for a child, one that would be the heir to Storms End as Lord Borros still did not have a son.

The loss of that hope was a heavy blow. Luthor had doted on Aemara when he was at Dragonstone, and Maera knew he had always wanted to be a father. She could almost feel the pain her brother must be enduring, the grief and disappointment, the unfulfilled promise of a future that had been cruelly snatched away. It was an experience she could barely fathom, and yet it resonated deeply with her own recent fears.

If Maera herself were to become pregnant again, if she even could, there was always the risk of losing the child, a risk many women faced. She had read in the medical tomes that repeated miscarriages could be a sign of deeper damage to the womb, an idea that sent a shiver of dread down her spine. Her mind raced with possibilities, each one darker than the last, amplifying the uncertainty that had already taken root in her heart.

She shook her head, forcing herself to pull away from the spiral of her own fears. Guilt tugged at her, reminding her that now was not the time to dwell on her selfish concerns. This was about Luthor, about the sorrow he must be feeling. She took a deep breath and focused on her brother standing before her, reminding herself to be present for him, for their family. “How is he coping?” she asked, her voice softer now, tinged with the genuine concern that lay beneath her own anxieties.

Faran’s expression darkened further. “Not well,” he admitted, his gaze dropping to the ground as if searching for the right words. “He’s taken himself off to the war front in the Stormlands.” The heaviness in his voice conveyed more than just worry—it was a mix of frustration and helplessness, emotions Maera understood all too well.

“War front?!” Her eyes widened in alarm, her heart skipping a beat. “He has no actual battle experience,” she said, her tone sharper than intended, a note of panic threading through her words. The thought of her brother throwing himself into the chaos of war, unprepared and driven by grief, was almost too much to bear.

“And yet that is where he wanted to be,” Faran replied with a tone of defeat. The weight of her brother’s grief pressed down on the Queen’s shoulders. This war was taking its toll on all of them, fracturing their family in ways she hadn’t anticipated. And now, with Luthor seeking refuge in the only way he knew how, the cost of their struggle became even more personal.

Her shoulders sagged, a heaviness settling into her bones. "Why didn’t he tell me?" she murmured, a mix of hurt and confusion in her voice. She and Luthor had always been close. Along with Faran, they had been the close knit trio of the large number of siblings, inseparable through childhood and beyond. The thought that Luthor was now facing something so devastating, and hadn’t reached out to her, cut deeper than she cared to admit.

A gentle hand rested on her shoulder, drawing her from her thoughts. She glanced up at Faran, whose eyes were filled with understanding. "He didn’t want to worry you," he said softly. His words were meant to comfort, but they only stirred her frustration.

Maera scoffed, rubbing her face with both hands. "But now I'm more worried than ever," she exclaimed, her voice rising in exasperation. "He’s run off to battle, for gods’ sake!" The idea of Luthor, untested and grieving, throwing himself into the fray made her stomach twist with anxiety. She imagined him amidst the blood and violence, his sorrow pushing him toward reckless decisions.

She sighed heavily, trying to release some of the tension coiling inside her. Gently, she placed her hand over Faran’s, squeezing it in a silent gesture of thanks. "Thank you for telling me," she said, her voice steadier now, though the concern lingered in her eyes. "I’ll write to him soon, once things have settled a bit." She knew words on a page wouldn’t be enough to reach him in his current state, but it was something, a thread of connection that she could offer.

Faran nodded, his gaze lingering on her for a moment before he stepped back, a familiar, cheeky grin slowly spreading across his face. "So," he said, unsheathing his sword with a flourish, "do you still plan on kicking my arse, or has all this talk dampened your fighting spirit?"

Maera couldn't help the laugh that bubbled up, a brief respite from the storm of emotions swirling within her. She unsheathed her own sword, the familiar weight of it grounding her. "Oh, I still plan on it," she declared, a glint of determination in her eyes. She positioned herself opposite her brother, ready to let the movement and focus of their sparring match drive away the worries, if only for a little while.

Notes: so we’ve got two or three more parts of Part Two left until we jump forward in time a lil bit. And it’s gunna get a hell of a lot darker 👀

Tags: @0eessirk8 @magicseahorse @blue-serendipity @abecerra611 @saltedcaramelpretzel @marvelescvpe @watercolorskyy @shesjustanothergeek @thelastemzy @kckt88 @darylandbethfanforever9

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

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chierafied · 6 days ago

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Betting on It

For @jilychallenge May 2024 | Theme: Muggle AU (+ shirtless May) Prompt: A friend coaxed us into playing strip (game) and you take off your shirt in the first round and it’s distracting. I lose the next round and my entire dress is gone and oh, winning is easy now since we’re both distracted Partnered with the wonderful @joyseuphoria ❤️💕🩵 Banner Photo by Laine Cooper on Unsplash

Trigger warnings for: alcohol mention, partial nudity, swearing and gambling

Read on AO3.

If Lily hadn’t downed those last two tequila shots, she might’ve wondered how she ended up here: squinting at the cards she’d been dealt while sneaking appreciative glances at the very impressive set of abs. They were a piece of art, really. Worthy of being displayed at the Louvre. Though she was delighted they were on display here and now. Really, ah, appreciative.

It had, of course, all been Sirius’ fault. The parties he threw were a legend on the campus, and an opportunity to let loose was all Lily needed right now, after somehow surviving the previous gruelling two weeks. As it always was at the end of a term, she’d been peppered with deadlines for various papers with other miscellaneous course work needing to be turned in — all the while she was somehow expected to study for the exams for her remaining courses.

So when Sirius had slid into her DMs with the party invitation, Lily had accepted it right away. She’d showed up at his party, and had gone on her merry way drinking, laughing, chatting and dancing the night away.

But all parties, even the best ones, eventually had to wind down. And somehow, as everyone else had been leaving, Sirius had coaxed her to stay. There had been that bottle of tequila and things started to get fuzzier from there. There had been boasts. A dare. A deck of card being brandished. And now there were abs.

Such glorious, glorious abs.

“Lily?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you need to change any cards?”

“Sure.”

Lily tossed out two cards from her hand and picked two from the deck to replace them. Then, she squinted at her shitty hand in confusion. Fuck. Had she just thrown out her queen? She hadn’t meant to do that. She slanted a glare at the stupid, distracting abs.

“It’s the moment of truth, people! Cards on the table.”

Holding out onto hope that someone had even worse a hand than she did, Lily laid down her cards. As her gaze skittered from one set of cards to the next, that hope sputtered and died. She’d lost the bloody round.

“YES!” Sirius exclaimed, all giddy. “I win again!”

“Your loss, Lily,” Remus said, nudging her shoulder.

“Yeah, yeah…”

Now, under any other circumstances, being a lone girl playing with three guys, Lily would have chosen her next move differently. But one of those guys was Sirius and the other was Remus and the third… Well.

If it had been just the abs, she might have still played it safe. But it wasn’t.

It was the messy dark hair falling onto his forehead in a tousled curl. It was the line of his jaw that seemed made for biting. It was the breadth of his shoulders, the flex of his forearms. It was that cocky, crooked grin of his. It was the way he’d made her laugh in five seconds when they’d met, earlier. It was that light, buoyant feeling bubbling inside after their brief chat. It was the way her skin tingled under the weight of his stare.

And, sure, the abs didn’t hurt.

Lily straightened, and as her fingers gripped the hem, she locked her eyes with James Potter. And held the stare, pulling up her dress, watching the way the hazel eyes twinkled and the pupils widened. Her vision was briefly obscured by the dress as she pulled it over her head, but the little choked sound she heard was gratifying. Once she tossed the dress behind her, she was rewarded by the sight of flushed cheeks and the column of his throat soundlessly working.

Sirius was dying of laughter while Remus stared at her, one eyebrow raised.

Lily glanced at him and shrugged, though the muffled groan following her gesture had a slow smile spread to her lips.

Remus rolled his eyes and dealt them all a new hand.

Lily picked up her cards but didn’t look at them. She was, instead, staring at James, who didn’t seem to be able to take his eyes off her.

Good. Lily grinned at him.

She loved poker, but she was moving onto a new game. One that promised to have more satisfying rewards.

#jily #jily one shot #jilychallenge #shirtless james potter #jily au #tw: alcohol #tw: swearing #tw: partial nudity #chie writes #fic: jl

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markantonys · 10 months ago

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the good thing about the slog is that because such little of true import happens over such a long chunk of the series, the show is quite well-positioned to be able to tell the whole story cohesively in any number of seasons after 4. only 4 seasons would be tricky, but 5 or 6 would be just as doable as 7 or 8. (disclaimer that there has not been any news or speculation about potentially getting less than 8 seasons so don't panic haha it's just a topic i was randomly thinking about today! that being said, i do think 8 seasons is pretty ambitious in today's television landscape, especially if it continues to take 2 years to make each season, so while we're all hoping for the full 8, it's worth imagining how they could do it in fewer.)

i expect s4 to roughly coincide with the end of LOC, so, dumai's wells for rand and being raised amyrlin for egwene. perrin, mat, nynaeve, and elayne have more wiggle room in what they might be getting up to during s4 (it seems possible the ebou dar trip might be absorbed into tanchico in s3, and perrin may have to get an invented plotline or have a later plotline brought forward for s4 since he has so little in TFOH-LOC), so i won't guess at the endpoint for them beyond that it will likely leave them ready to kick into a fresh new storyline for s5. and nynaeve frankly doesn't have a book storyline after ebou dar (she's just supporting rand's & lan's storylines), so i'll ignore her in this post and just focus on the other 5 mains. fingers crossed the show will come up with more for nynaeve to do during this part of the story, but that's a separate topic.

after LOC, as far as i can recall, each of them only has 1-2 main things they strictly Must do before the last battle (obviously i've left out a bunch of stuff, but i'm thinking of just the absolute bare minimum essentials here):

rand: cleanse saidin (only requires 1 episode); reach his lowest point, then pull himself back up again, all the while simultaneously working to get as many nations under his banner as possible

egwene: unite the tower as uncontested amyrlin

perrin: finish wolf training; fold the whitecloaks into his army

mat: rescue moiraine (only requires 1 episode); get himself in charge of the seanchan forces

elayne: become uncontested queen of andor

so if s4 ends where i speculate, they'd all be perfectly positioned to spend 4-6 episodes of s5 doing these things, then the last battle for the remaining 2-4 episodes, and boom, we've fit all the most crucial things into only 5 seasons.

i know the instinct is to gasp and insist that they all have so much else to do, but.........do they really? everybody agrees that egwene & elayne & perrin only have 1 plotline during books 7-11 which is dragged out for more books than is needed to tell it, so mat and rand are really the sticking points. but if you think about it, mat spends this time repeatedly starting one plotline but then getting yanked out of it partway through to start a new one, so he doesn't actually accomplish that much story-wise. rand, meanwhile, is on a bunch of little 1-book quests (taking illian, seanchan campaign, hunting traitor asha'man, trying to meet with DOTNM) that could be cut for time or merged into his Darth Rand emotional arc from TGS. honestly, he's so emotionally stagnant for most of books 7-11 (he's either not present, dicking around doing nothing, or repeating emotional beats he already did in TSR-LOC) that i don't think going from dumai's wells straight to Darth Rand would be a bad idea at all, if the show had to; in fact, dumai's wells is kind of a perfect launchpoint for that arc, emotions-wise, and plot-wise, if they wanted to replace some of the arad doman events with some slog events, but just put the Darth Rand emotional spin on those slog events, they could easily do so (for example, him being reckless/arrogant with callandor against the seanchan and getting his own people killed could sub in for natrin's barrow in showing how ruthlessly Ends Justify Means he's becoming).

but anyway, these are imo the absolute most crucial pre-TLB plot points of the second half of the series (at least for these main characters, i'm not taking ALL characters into account in this post) and they could be fit into only 5 seasons without much trouble. now if you've got 6, 7, or 8 seasons, that gives extra room to expand these plot points and also add in some additional, not-strictly-required-but-nice-to-have plot points like more Little Rand Quests, elayne taking the throne of cairhien, egwene & gawyn hunting assassins in the tower, and the faile kidnapping plotline. (while making this post i actually had a wild thought of the faile kidnapping being perrin's s4 plotline followed by wolves & whitecloak stuff in s5 then into TLB, or alternately the whitecloaks being part of the kidnapping plotline as perrin's unlikely allies rather than the seanchan; could be a great structure for a 5-6 season scenario, but for 7-8 it would cause perrin to run out of content too quickly haha)

#i know we don't even want to Think about getting less than 8 seasons #but it does bring me such peace to mull over how well the story could be told in as few as 5!#wot #wot on prime #the wheel of time #wot book spoilers

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celtigxr · 3 months ago

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THE PINK DREAD - CH. 17 (Masterlist)

Chapter Summary: Valeana meets Daeron the Daring for the very first time; as does Aemond; as does Shyla. Word Count: 3848 CHAPTER WARNINGS: None, but Otto isn't happy.

Series tags: Aemond x Plus size!OfC, Aegon x Plus size!OfC, Celtigar!ofc, Plot with Smut, mdni 18+, Aemond End Game, Angst, Comedy, The Dragons Don't Dance, slow burn, friends to enemies to lovers, enemies to friends to lovers.

Credits: Lace Banner by Aquazero, pearl divider by Pommecita

Aegon’s crapulous remedy surprisingly ended up helping Valeana. It was a weird combination, one that required her to gargle lemonade and rub mint leaves all over her tongue, teeth, and cheeks to rid the smell of pickles and vinegar from her breath. Though, it didn’t matter if it helped or not, she suspected her headache would reappear by the end of the day, when she returned from yet another dreadful dinner.

She barely knew Otto Hightower. During her childhood, it was Lyonel Strong that was the Hand of the King, and personally she preferred him over the self-serious, suspicious and calculated father of Queen Alicent. If she had to take an educated guess, it was him who convinced the king to replace the Targaryen sigils that were set in the masonry with the Seven Pointed Star. However, he was still the Hand of the King, and with Viserys gone in Dragonstone, he was the highest power in King’s Landing… even higher than the King’s eldest son. So, if she was going to intrude on his family’s dinner in his own tower, she’d at least dress respectfully.

Naturally, Valeana chose green. A deep shade, like an evergreen tree, with a embroidered high square neckline, a corset with subtle floral embroidery that flattened her chest with its stiff boning. Even after Aegon’s assurance, she still felt incredibly self conscious of her body, and she used the Hightower’s pious and chaste morals as an excuse to cover up as much as possible. The sleeves of the dress were long and slim as well, covering up her arms and ending in a point at her hand. The skirt was thick, but not boisterous like her other dresses. It was comfortable, modest, and did not reflect the extravagance that Celtigars were generally known for.

Rosey had been fixing a matching crescent hood upon her head when the door opened, and Ser Hardy grumbly announced Aegon’s return. Val suppressed a groan as she willed herself upon her feet to go and begin her harrowing evening with the Hightowers.

“Well, aren’t you a vision…” Aegon tilted his head, examining her attire as he struggled to find the words. “Of my mother.”

“Is that a good or bad thing?”

He seemed to contemplate that with a scrunch of his brow and a prolonged ‘uhhh’ spilling from his gape. Finally, Aegon shook his head, “I rather not say, to be honest. Some things are better left tightly packed in a trunk and pushed off the side of a cliff.”

Val didn’t quite know what he meant by that, but she was far too anxious to linger on it. The sooner they left, the sooner this night would be over with. Before leaving, she informed Ser Steffon that she will return promptly after the end of the supper, and to let her sisters know where she would be.

As they descended down the grand staircase towards the main antechamber of Maegor’s Holdfast, Aegon briefed her on his cousins. Ormund was a decade older than his mother, and had four children with his late wife. Three sons, and a young daughter, who remains in Oldtown. Ormund had remarried to Samantha Tarly, who was not much older than his eldest son, who was ten and six. Ormund had raised Daeron, alongside his late wife, his uncle Gwayne and was surrounded by what Aegon referred to as his “Circle jerk posse of sycophants.”

Before they were able to exit the Holdfast, the doors pushed open and they were greeted by Shyla, who immediately asked where they were off to. Before Val could give an excuse, Aegon nonchalantly admits that they were on their way to sup with the Hand of the King, his brothers and cousins.

“Oh! How delightful!” The girl bounced on her heels, “I believe it is high time I meet the rest of your family, my Prince. Afterall…” she leaned in with a secretive smile pursing her lips, and then said in a whisper. “They will be mine one day soon.”

In any other circumstance, Valeana would have been overjoyed at the addition of her sister. It would offer her ample entertainment to watch Aegon squirm under Shyla’s unwanted advances. However, her self-admittance to the evening would do nothing to ease the Hand’s mood. He’d be annoyed just by Valeana’s invitation alone, but now he’d also have to find room for the other Celtigar girl.

When they reached the Tower of the Hand, Val felt a wave of nausea as the door swung open. She could hear the sound of chatter from the floor above, which likely meant that everyone was already in attendance. They were escorted by a white cloak, who briefly eyed the two unwanted guests, but remained quiet in his judgement. Shyla practically skipped up the stairs, whilst trying to discreetly grab Aegon’s hand, but he evaded it by swiping it away from her. Valeana softly sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. This was going to be a very long night.

“Grandfather!” Aegon greeted as he entered the large oaken doors that lead to the dining area, “I come with gifts.”

As Valeana and Shyla entered behind him, Otto’s face visibly dropped. From behind his shoulder, Val could spot an unfamiliar head of pale silver hair, cropped short and impeccably styled. Instantly, she knew without a doubt that it was Daeron Targaryen.

Otto glanced at both girls, but he saved his glare for his eldest grandson as he strode over to him, “Aegon, this is–”

“Brother!”

“Hold that thought, Grandsire,” Aegon patted the old man’s shoulder and with all the fraudulent charm in the world, met Daeron halfway. “Daeron, my baby brother! Gods, look at you… all arms and legs.”

Otto and Valeana shared a look before he stepped to her side, turning his body towards the direction of his family.

“Why are you and your sister here, Lady Valeana?” His question was low enough for only her to hear, but their attention was pinned to the reunited brothers. “This is a family affair.”

“Apologies, my Lord Hand. Aegon invited me and my sister, and had not told us it was a private supper,” she surprised herself at how reserved she sounded in her improved lie. “If it pleases you, my Lord, we can turn back and–”

“I would like you to meet someone, Daeron. Someones, in fact,” Aegon’s voice carried to them.

Otto casted a glance at her, “It is too late now. We will just have to accommodate an additional three people to our table.”

Valeana furrowed her brow, but before she could ask him why three, Aegon sauntered over with his youngest brother, and Otto left them to converse with the servants.

“Daeron, these two lovely ladies are the Celtigar sisters, Lady Valeana, Lady Shyla. Ladies, this is my little brother–”

“Daeron,” the boy, no older than six and ten, approached the two young women with effortless grace and charm. His smile reminded Valeana of Aemond’s, wiry and captivating, and ending like two fish hooks at his dimpled cheeks. He also had Aemond’s jawline, but Aegon’s nose and chin. The one thing that was uniquely his own, were his pale lavender eyes, mute in colour in comparison to Aegon’s saturated violets and Aemond’s vibrant lilacs. His hair, light and featherly, and impossibly white, was shortly cropped, smooth and glossy like satin.

Oh, he was very, very attractive indeed. Inherited all the alluring attributes of his two eldest brothers without harbouring any of the negatives. He was what romantic tales were made of. Valeana had a difficult time calming her grin when he took her hand and planted a kiss upon the back of it. When he moved to do the same to Shyla, Val forced herself to pry her eyes off of him, only to immediately catch Aegon’s utterly disappointed leer. He frowned deeply, crossed his arms and shook his head at her. Her response was a coy shrug and a little smirk.

“It is a pleasure indeed to meet you ladies. I heard much about you, though…” Daeron trailed off to glance at Aegon curiously. “I was told there were three of you.”

“Oh, yes, Lady Floris,” Aegon answered, and the mere mention of the name perked the younger prince up. “Grafton. She was not available this evening, but you will likely see her. She’s always skulking around, somewhere.”

Daeron’s shoulders visibly sunk at Aegon’s clarification, but his charming smile never wavered when he turned back to the Celtigar sisters.

“I seem to have been robbed of a childhood growing up alongside you lovely ladies. I wish I had visited,” his smirk widened flirtatiously, “Seeing such beauty would have likely forced me to stay.”

Aegon’s face soured with every word spoken by Daeron, forcing Valeana to bite the inside of her cheek to stop herself from laughing.

“Perhaps you should have,” Valeana eagerly added, pursing her lips to contain her grin. “If only to sweeten our pallets from our otherwise bitter friendships with your brothers.”

Daeron cocked his head, “Oh? Were they that troublesome?”

“Ah, Prince Daeron, if only we had the time. A day could not even cover the bullying we had to endure at the hands of your elder brothers and nephews.”

Daeron tisked, and threw Aegon a look with a shake of his head, “For shame, brother. Bullying such sweet creatures? We must treat all young ladies as if they are the Maiden Herself, and as women, they are to be regarded respectfully as they are the image of the Mother. Wouldn’t you agree, Lady Valeana, Lady Shyla?”

“Oh, yes, I very much agree,” Val nodded, and then turned to her sister. It was at this moment she realized how strangely quiet she was being. Once her eyes landed on Shyla, it became evident as to why that was.

Her sister was absolutely, unequivocally, positively, without a doubt besotted.

Shyla looked upon Daeron as if he was a new god that chose to present himself to her. Valeana could always recognize when her sister fell in love with a man — it happened annoyingly often. Though during the recent weeks, she had forgotten how fickle her sister’s heart was, because so far she had not wavered from Aegon since the moment she laid eyes on him.

Until now.

“O-oh! Yes, yes, I agree…” Shyla bounced back to life. Her hands clasped in front of her skirt coyly, big eyes batting her lashes rapidly. “You’re so wise, Prince Daeron… I’d agree with anything you’d say.”

Daeron’s response was a polite smile and nod, though his confusion over her choice of words was exposed by his raised brow. Shyla didn’t notice at all, of course; she was already leagues into her delusions by now, and only saw him regarding her with an alluring smile and lovestruck eyes.

When Valeana looked at Aegon, she could actually see every emotion and thought pass through him. Annoyance, confusion, then realization, followed by an epiphany, and lastly, elation. He was free from Shyla’s claws, and he was more than eager to throw Daeron to the vultures, a win-win situation.

A vague thought reminded Valeana of how Floris Baratheon was keen on Daeron, having shared correspondence, and how she and Shyla had grown into friendship since her arrival. This new development would surely complicate matters, and if Valeana was a better person, she would have tried to steer her sister in another direction. As it happens, she already knows what it’s like trying to direct Shyla’s attention onto someone else; it was like trying to pull a hungry dog away from a bone. She will get bit. Not even figuratively.

“Come! Everyone is here, and I’d like you to meet my cousins,” Daeron motioned for them to follow him. Shyla sprung into action like a dutiful servant, her shoulder pressed against his once she reached his side.

Aegon reached out blindly to put a hand on Valeana’s arm, “Did you see that?”

“Yes… I did.”

He tore his eyes from the back of Daeron’s head, “Oh, Valeana, my dear delectable Crab Cake, you have no idea how happy I am.”

“You do realize that Floris Baratheon is in love with him, right? They share love letters, and are yet to meet.”

Aegon shrugged, grin undeterred, “Not my problem. I am free, that is all I care about. I was honestly pissed frightened that I would have to marry your bloody sister.”

Valeana raised an amused eyebrow, “And here I thought I’d have a prince for a goodbrother.”

Aegon pulled away from her, moving over to a servant with a tray, “Thank the Father that will never happen. Gods, I need a damn drink. I must celebrate.”

Aegon was predictably late, but in his absence, Aemond was able to properly meet his younger brother for the first time since infancy. He couldn’t quite make an opinion of him, other than he was overly pleasant; so much so it was difficult to believe they shared blood at all. Alas, the resemblance was there, and his Blue Queen was proof enough of their relation. Though, despite Daeron’s uncanny ability to turn every conversation to himself, Aemond found he liked him for the sheer fact that he knew Aegon absolutely loathed him.

“Oh, look at me,” Daeron chuckled, “Rambling about myself. Quite improper in front of a lady.” The young Targaryen turned to Aemond’s guest, “Lady Maris, I take it you are one of Lady Floris’ elder sisters, is that correct?”

“Yes,” Maris stole a glance at Aemond, as if trying to silently communicate something. “She in fact talks about you in length. Have you had a chance to finally meet her?”

Daeron looked down, “Not yet. I was accosted by my grandfather the moment I stepped in the Keep. Would you kindly relay a message to her? In the morn, I would love to break fast with her.”

“Of course, my Prince.”

Maris had been inordinately polite and careful with her words since their arrival, something that felt out of character in his eyes. Maris was a talker, though that wasn’t reflected presently. He deduced that she may have wanted to give a good impression to his family, though the Hightowers did not have as much influence on Aemond’s life. It would be his mother she would have to impress, and even more so his father.

Aemond hadn’t intended to bring Maris to his grandfather’s planned Hightower supper, but his impulsive invitation came with benefits. Being seen with her as much as possible would put much needed distance between him and Valeana. The more witnesses seeing him court Maris, the less speculation about him and the Celtigar maid he was once friends with.

But then Aegon arrived. From where he sat on the settee with Lady Maris, he could not see his elder brother, but he could hear him as he announced he had brought a “gift”. Once Daeron swept over to greet him, Aemond could overhear just exactly what that “gift” was.

“Daeron, these two lovely ladies are the Celtigar sisters, Lady Valeana, Lady Shyla. Ladies, this is my little brother–”

“Daeron.”

Aegon, what the hells are you doing…

Aemond subtly moved in his spot so he was able to see the entrance, but both his brothers were in the way. Until Daeron bowed his head over to kiss each hand, that’s when he caught a glimpse of Valeana’s face, rosy coloured cheeks, wide smile, and eyes sparkling as she looked at the young prince.

He was lucky that Maris was in a conversation with Samantha Tarly, his cousin’s new lady wife. Otherwise she would have seen how dark his eye had gotten, and how tightly he was clenching his teeth.

Aemond was forced out of his seething by a question asked by Lyonel, the eldest of Ormund’s sons. Daeron’s head blocked his view once again, but he still flickered his eye in that direction every so often as he spoke to his cousin.

To see Valeana so soon after last night’s events, and even after he spent the better part of that afternoon abusing his cock to her memory, Aemond found that he wasn’t mentally prepared to face her. Especially now, with her face looking like she just had the world’s largest diamond gifted to her.

Did she even remember? Did she feel just as ashamed as he did, or was this all a part of this game of hers? Her very presence there was a good indicator that that was the most logical answer. Otherwise, why on earth would she succumb herself to being an uninvited guest to the Hand of the King’s family affair? No doubt Aegon also had a hand in this as well, particularly for his own devious intentions.

Then Daeron announced that he wanted them to meet the cousins. Aemond straightened in his spot, and turned his blindside towards them, pretending to listen to the conversation that Lady Sam and Maris were having. Though he could not see, he could plainly hear the greetings as Daeron filtered through each cousin.

“Cousin Ormund, this is Lady Valeana and her sister, Lady Shyla.”

“Ah, my dears, it is a pleasure to meet you. Y’know I once met your mother, Lady Valeana. You do look so much like her, though I suspect you get that often.”

“My father had mentioned that you were a contender to my mother’s hand,” he heard Valeana speak.

“Ah yes… but your father had bigger jewels and many ships, and she had a fondness for emeralds and the open sea.”

Valeana softly chuckled, a sound like honey and warm milk to Aemond’s ear. “That is where she and I differ. I prefer sapphires and low tide.”

Daeron went on to introduce them to Lyonel, Martyn, and then young Garmund, who all greeted them both with chivalry and politeness. Not one of them questioned their presence, as they hadn’t with Maris.

Then Aemond could hear the wood creak from their movement closer to their area, this time Lord Ormund approaching the settee to collect his wife to introduce her to the two additions.

“Pardon my intrusion,” Ormund smiled kindly as he gently pulled his lady wife to her feet. “Come, my dear, I’d like to introduce you to Lady Valeana and Lady Shyla Celtigar. Bartimos’ girls, you remember?”

Tarly must have some trades business with the Celtigars, because Samantha’s voice lit up with recognition. She greeted the girls as if they were old friends, yet by her own words, they had not even met in person.

“Lady Maris,” Shyla spoke with delighted surprise. “I did not know you were friends with the Hightowers.”

Maris smiled politely before standing up to meet the two newcomers as a show of polite etiquette. Her action, however, forced him to turn in their direction. He only ascended from his seat when he caught the heated glare of his grandfather, silently berating him for his lack of manners.

“This is the first time I’ve formally met them,” Maris explained, completely unaware of the tension that grew around her. She turned around just as Aemond got to his feet, “Prince Aemond had invited me.”

“Invited you?” Valeana asked, surprising even herself at her blunt question.

“I did,” Aemond took his place at Maris’ side, hands clasped behind his back while he did everything in his power not to look directly at her. It helped that he kept his blindside to her with his chin inclined.

“Does that surprise you, Lady Valeana?” It was Maris who asked the question, which equally took him off guard as much as it did Valeana.

Alas, she took it in stride, “Only by a little. I was not aware Prince Aemond had friends.”

At that, Aemond had no choice but to look at her. Far be it for Valeana Celtigar to say something so passive aggressive in polite company. However, he regretted turning his attention to her the moment he did. She was quite the vision in forest green. He realized now that he had never seen her wear it, at least that particular shade. She looked regal, almost like a queen with her crescent hood of matching colour, and her thick hair collecting in a twisted half bun at the back of her head, while the rest of it fell down over her shoulders and her back until it reached her hips. Another distinction, he noticed, was how secure and modest her bodice was. Aemond’s eye landed there immediately, but just as quickly tore it away. If he looked too long, he would remind himself of how his lips and hands were on them not fifteen hours ago.

Aemond smiled sardonically, “Hm, a reasonable assumption, Lady Valeana. Though, I merely am conservative on who I call friend nowadays. One cannot always be certain of another's intentions in court. And…” He trailed off as he regarded Maris with a little flirtatious smile, “Lady Maris’ presence has been such a delight that I did not wish to part with her this evening, so I had no choice but to invite her.”

“Oh, well is this not a sweet sight?” Samantha commented, hands clasped at her front as she turned to Ormund. “His Grace did promise a season of love matches, did he not?”

Ormund chuckled deeply, then swept his hand over the shoulder of his young wife, “Ah, my dear, the season has only begun! Who knows who will marry who by the end of it? Don’t you agree, uncle?”

Otto’s presence was that of a judgemental cat, sitting on a ledge like a gargoyle, assessing everyone with a scrutinizing stare. Once acknowledged, the Hand tried his best to withhold his eye roll, suddenly longing for the presence of literally anyone else.

“I believe dinner will be served soon,” the Lord Hand successfully dodged the question, then moved over to the table. “Let us sit down before we miss it?”

With Ormund’s eager agreement, the group shuffled over to the grand round table. Aemond made a point to splay his hand on Maris’ back as he guided her over. Once he reached a chair, he pulled it out for her, and held her hand delicately as she sat down. Her face was aglow as she looked up at him, and he down at her with carefully placed fondness upon his features.

However, the moment he tucked her into the table, he looked up just in time to see Aegon doing the same with Valeana. The sight paralyzed him long enough for everyone to take their seats about the table, and when Aemond realized he had not moved to do so, he also saw the only seat available was to Valeana’s left.

As he descended in the chair, he was overwhelmed with her scent once more. Under the faint aromas of lemon and mint, he could still make out her distinct smell, the very one in her sweat that coated her breasts that morning.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN SNEAK PEAK Shyla craned her neck to look around Aegon and Val to see Aemond, “Is that what that whole business was about that other day in the training yard?” “What business?” Maris tilted her head at Aemond. “Aegon and Aemond were sparring viciously in the training yard,” Shyla giggled, “For a second I thought they were going to maim each other.” Daeron laughed, “I wish I witnessed that. I did not think you a fighter, Aegon.” Aegon’s head whipped in his direction, “I am just as fearsome as Aemond. In fact, I bested him that day, did I not, Lady Valeana?” Valeana was leaning back in her chair with her fork twirling in her fingers when she was acknowledged. Aegon held her gaze for a moment after the question was directed at her, and then she moved her eyes around the table before landing on Aemond. “He did.”

Notes: I'm going to try to get the next update out soon, because I know not much action took place in this chapter, but the next one...ouf. Poor Otto. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed my version of Daeron. I feel like he'd be the most spoiled out of the four kids, and he would def have youngest kid syndrome.

Tag: @queen-of-elves, @keylin1730, @anakilusmos, @weepingfashionwritingplaid, @sugutoad, @desireangel

( if you wish to be tagged for this story, just give me a reply! )

Please do not re post, redistribute or plagiarize my work. The only other place this story is posted on is ao3 under the same username.

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leupagus · 20 days ago

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I should retitle this series "old men wanting to go take a nap but they gotta help their queens to take over the world."

From this thing that I'm still writing and in fact has taken over my life

Barristan had seen a great many battles in his day, horrible things that bore no resemblance to the tales of the nursery or the songs of the tavern. He'd attended tourneys, too, so many that they blurred together (save for Harrenhal — that would always burn). And as the Lord Commander of the Queensguard here in Essos, he had observed far too many of the fighting pits.

But never before had he heard this chaotic ocean of sound. "Is it always this noisy?" Queen Daenerys shouted, over the approving roar of the crowds.

"No," Tyrion replied cheerfully, "but I'm working on that."

They were in the stands at the Arena, watching the procession of the teams that would play for the city's amusement today. A dozen banners snapped and fluttered in the wind, and the riders from every team did their utmost to encourage the cheers of their followers. In Meereen as in Westeros, the great and mighty cheered as lustily as the smallfolk, and the result was a noise that seemed to swallow up the whole of the city.

Over the past year, the game of soroh-fre had become the main event of the city, their riders' popularity supplanting even that of the pit fighters — and indeed, many of the riders were themselves former denizens of the Pits, their swords and spears replaced with the elongated mallet used to strike the ball from one end of the arena to the other. True, sometimes those mallets were used on their opponents instead, but from what Barristan had read in the city's Papers of the Day, deaths were down to just one every few games. A far cry from the dozens of dead at the end of each pit fight. By midday there were still only a handful of broken limbs.

"Didn't you tell me once that all men share a taste for blood?" said Hizdahr zo Loraq to the queen at some point, shaking his head as a rider's horse was gently lead out of the arena following its rider's injury — a concussion, it seemed. The crowd cheered all the more lustily for him, and he lifted his fist in salute as he staggered out.

The queen smiled. "True," she said, "but we are not all men." Beside her, Missandei laughed. "The Dothraki version is even tamer than this — anyone who injures his brother-rider, even by mistake, during a game of Soroh-Fe is stricken from the games for a year and a day. It's intended to perfect a rider's balance while on horseback; in fact, they play it while standing on the saddle."

"Good gods," Tyrion muttered.

Barristan had no love in his heart for any Lannister, save perhaps little Myrcella and Tommen, who had laughed and grabbed at his white cloak as he'd passed them by, their wide blue eyes as bright as blameless as little Viserys's and Aegon's and Rhaenys's had once been. He'd held special hatred for Lord Tywin, of course; the architect of so many misfortunes suffered by the Targaryens over the years, after spending his youth as a bosom friend to King Aerys and Steffon Baratheon. The three of them had been inseparable for a time — yet how had Tywin repaid him? With a traitor son who slit his own king's throat, no doubt on the orders of his father. And then Jaime's betrayal of his Kingsguard oath had been rewarded, by Robert's marriage to Cersei, who'd betrayed the new king in her turn. Tyrion had given no specific offense in his years at the Red Keep, but Barristan had watched him closely all the same, sure of some treachery festering behind that great brow and sardonic smile. The Lannisters were a family of shadowcats, not lions.

He had watched Tyrion still more closely here in Meereenl but Tyrion had shown himself capable as well as cunning, with an earnestness that Barristan had never seen in him during their shared time at the Red Keep. If Tyrion was another spy like Jorah, Barristan could find little evidence of it; certainly less than that smooth round bastard Varys. Barristan still did not trust Tyrion, but he could admit this much at least: the dwarf knew how to put on a good show.

#barristan and stannis and qyburn are part of the weirdest club ever #they do not pay dues or attend meetings but they're all part of the club #and yes soroh-fre is something I made up #but tell me the dothraki wouldn't be the most terrifying polo players ever #game of thrones motherfuckers #got: bitches get stuff done

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judesmoonbeauty · 9 months ago

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Fairytale Keeper's Final Assessment SE:

Jude Jazza's POV Chapter 1 ཐིཋྀ

Fan translation only. Not 100% accurate. Please expect grammatical errors. Cybird owns everything. Feel free to re-blog, but please do NOT post my translations elsewhere. Translation notes are marked with *** Alternate translation is marked with/// Hour Glass Banners Credit: @/natimiles ཐིཋྀ

(The Crown forced a woman who just happened to witness an assassination into an unfair contract.)

(And that Bitch, her Majesty the Queen keeps ordering her to accompany us on missions.)

(And this woman herself, who is so stubborn that she will follow you no matter how many times she gets herself in trouble.)

(I too, tried to test her guts at some point.)

Everything about it is disgusting.

(So I'll end it right here and now.)

Victor: You will spend the day with her. Then sign here at the end of the day.

Victor: What happens if you don't agree?

Victor: At that point, we’ll say goodbye to Kate. Oh, and please keep all of this a secret from Kate.

(I wondered what the hell he was doing calling people out this early in the morning.)

(Fairytale Keeper Continuation Agreement. Ha….stupid.)

Why are you doing this now, don't force this kind of thing on people.

Even if I open my mouth I could be subjected to a number of criticisms though.

I thought to myself as I stared at this shitty consent form.

(Maybe this will put an end to our relationship with that woman.)

Jude: I kind of know whatcha wanna do.

Jude: But the last condition is unacceptable.

Victor: You mean the part about keeping the existence of this consent form a secret from her?

Jude: I don't like sneaking around behind peoples backs without lettin’ ‘em know that they're involved.

Jude: Hey, Victor. I gave ya information and helped Crown once, right?

Jude: Ya haven't paid my information fee yet.

Victor: No way! I gave exactly what you asked for, because you're scary.

Jude: I'm still owed for the interest. But that's all right, we'll call it even.

Victor: Eh.

Jude: I’ll tell Kate everything. Then I’ll kick her out and that’ll be the end of it.

Victor: Hmm. I thought you'd say that since you're a hot-blooded person.

As I turn my back on Victor, who is grumbling, and start to walk away, a voice comes flying in.

Victor: Jude! Spend a day with Kate and assess her. You must comply with this.

(Ridiculous…..）

I headed to the common room and found Isla and Ellis frolicking in front of the arsenal of weapons that that freak was collecting.

Kate: Ellis, this pistol is shaped so that bullets can’t be inserted into it.

Ellis: It's not a real gun, it's a replica.

Ellis: It used by replacing this gun with the opponent's gun or pretending it is a real gun.

Kate: I see.….It looks like it can be used in many ways!

(What are you talking about?)

Kate: Oh, Jude!

Ellis: Oh, Jude. Welcome home.

Ellis: You were called by Her Majesty and Victor. What were you talking about?

As I tossed down the fairy tale keeper continuation agreement, Kate's eyes followed the text, and then her eyes widened.

Jude: To spend the day with and assess ya.

Kate: You’re the one to sign this consent form, Jude?

Kate: So, as long as you sign the consent form, I can continue, right Jude?

Jude: If ya look at the text, you’ll understand.

Ellis: Why Jude? I guess because he’s the most difficult.

Jude: I don't know. If ya have any complaints, tell that Queen's freak aide.

Kate: Do you want to continue as a Fairytale Keeper? Or quit here and leave Crown?

Ellis: What do you want, Kate?

Kate looks up and says in a clear voice.

Kate: I want to continue being a fairy tale keeper.

Kate: I think there is still a lot I can do with Crown.

(An immediate answer).

When she finished speaking, Kate turned her annoying eyes on me.

Kate: Jude, please sign the agreement for me to continue as a Fairytale Keeper!

Jude: If they had asked for my permission and I had said yes, then I wouldn’t have confronted ya in the first place.

Jude: I'm against your continuing as Fairytale Keeper, and I'm against your staying here.

Kate: I thought you’d say that Jude…..

Kate: But I'll never give up. I'll keep fighting until the end, until I get your signature.

Jude: Really? Do as ya please.

Jude: You’re leaving today anyway. Your playing with gifts of the underworld.***

Ellis: If you're happy to continue as a fairytale keeper, I'll help you.

Kate: Thank you, Ellis!

(Shit…..everyone is siding with Kate.)

Ellis: What would make you want to sign it Jude?

Jude: Think for yourself.

Kate: I think it's important that I'm not a distraction to you and that I'm useful to you Jude.

Ellis: Ah, then.

She took us out into the garden and suggested that we have a sparring match.

I guess she wants to prove that she won't be a hindrance even if she accompanies us on a mission, and that she can fight satisfactorily.

(Pointless…..)

I have no reason or time to look at something like this.

But going out with them is just a way to buy time until the end of this useless day called today.

Ellis: Isla, I’ll be your partner.

Kate: Yes, please don’t hesitate.

Kate: Jude, please watch properly.

Kate and Ellis begin to spar, as expected, it looked like a fixed match, like a cat playing with something.

Jude: What are ya showing me? Ellis, if you're going to go easy on her, don't.

Ellis: But…

Kate: It’s my fault for asking Ellis, who is so kind to me.

Kate: Jude, would you spar against me?

Jude: What, I'm just gonna letcha die, and that'll be the end of it?

Kate: Yep.

Jude: Hmmm, let's do it then.

Facing Kate, we made eye contact.

Kate randomly threw some punches and tried to land some light kicks, but I dodged them.

Kate: I thought you’d come in with a kicking technique, Jude.

Jude: Eh, is that what you’re watching? But your back is open.

I go behind Kate and tighten my arms around her.

Kate: Ah…..***

Instantly, Kate bent down and slipped out of my arms.

(You did it…..)

(But you’re getting too carried away.)

I grabbed Kate’s arm and swept her legs, pinning her to the ground.

Kate: Ah…..***

I glared at Kate at a distance where the tips of our noses touched.

(Ha…….Really, not good.)

(Her eyes.)

[Next] [Master List]

***I'm 99.9% sure this second sentence is incorrect. I have no idea what he meant by this, and I spent forever researching this line. But I assume he meant since she's leaving, so is her playtime with the gifts from the underworld AKA the Crown members. It doesn't have a huge bearing on the story, so take it with a grain of salt.

***When they are sparring, Kate uses 'tsu' つ, (not to be confused with the little っ 'tsu', which is silent.). I changed to this to 'Ah', since I wasn't sure how to translate the noise she was making as Jude was grabbing her both times, and it would look weird with 'tsu' written.

#ikemen villains #Ikemen villains translations #ikevil #ikevil translations #jude jazza #ikevil jude #ikemen jude #ikemen jude jazza #cybird translations #ikevil spoilers #ikevil jp #ikevil jp spoilers #Jude Jazza POV #THEIR NOSES ARE TOUCHING!!!!!!!!

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salemoleander · 1 year ago

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In a time long gone, massive living tapestries of woven leaves and moss hung suspended from Ravager-sized chain links of copper. Foliage from numerous climates and biomes were carefully integrated to suggest images in tones of green. Some smaller plant banners- still larger than a house- had simple geometric patterns or the images of everyday life: tomatoes; pouring water; the sun overhead.

The largest wove images of those the Perimeter folk held dear. The Clockwork Butterfly, their delicate vine wings allowing light through: a being representing machinery, clarity of thought, and forgiveness. The Hive Queen and her stinging swarm, a reminder of the violent defense they could rouse if angered. And the Goat Father, wise and just, the revered creator of the cliffs encircling their home.

The tapestries were tended by gardeners who traveled up and down using elevator platforms, suspended on thin wires so as not to obstruct the view. On another wall of the Perimeter, bulkier versions of those platforms were used to bring lumber and trade goods down from the surface, and send metal and rock upwards.

Now, a millenium since the flood, many of the chains are oxidized to nothing. Some top bars and chains have been replaced by makeshift constructions of dull bones and brittle slate. Tapestries have fallen, or cant treacherously to the side.

A few remain - the largest tapestries are paradoxically the most whole. Cared for long after the fall by the dwindling remnants of the city, they are patchy and sparse in places, but still remarkably intact.

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I am not much of a visual artist, and so can't really draw what I'm picturing exists on the side of the Perimeter. So instead I wrote it out as a description! Obvs if anyone wants to take a stab at making it visual, feel free ❤️

#s9 #docm77 #the perimeter #doc #fic #salem fic #salem tag #i can picture it so clearly but I can't make it exist!!!#im probably gonna try anyways but i think my imagination and my artistic skills are simply not on par lol

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hyrule-in-a-pokeball · 2 years ago

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A BIG OL' GANONDORF THEORY (TOTK)

This gonna be a long one, kids

I've just got a bunch of thoughts on Ganondorf. I'll categorize them or something

GANONDORF CAUSED HYRULE'S UNIFICATION A great war of some kind has been mentioned a few times in Zelda canon. most notably in OoT. 9 years before the events of OoT kick off, a great war comes to an end, but not before orphaning a baby who gets adopted by a tree. 9 years after this war, the leaders of the Gorons and Zoras consider the King of Hyrule to be a close friend, with the leader of the Gorons even considering him an honorary brother. With OoT being erased, why is this important? Because the legend that is OoT is based on the historical fact shown in TotK. Real events that were embellished and re contextualized over time. Well, here's what the legend tells us about history... At one point in time, Hyrule was divided. Each race seemed to be a different kingdom, but there didn't seem to be any tension among them. But then something happened that forced them to unite. Or rather...

Someone Ganondorf has always been bent on ruling Hyrule, but I think his invasions weren't targeted solely on the land of the Zonai/Hylians, but also the lands of the Gorons, Zora, and Rito. Basically all the lands that aren't a barren wasteland. He probably planned to take over each region and unite it all under one glorious Gerudo banner. Alone, they may have all had trouble fending off the Gerudo army. I believe that with a common and very powerful enemy in the form of the Ganondorf-lead Gerudo, King Rauru was able to convince the Gorons, Rito, and Zora to unite with him under a single Hyrulean banner, thus creating the unified kingdom of Hyrule and forming a solid, united opposition to the Gerudo invasion.

GANONDORF'S STONE ENHANCED FORM

We skip forward in time a little. The war has ended and Ganondorf is swearing fealty to King Rauru, but thats just so he can get in and move about freely without suspicion even though he's the world's most suspicious looking man. It works though. He kills Queen Sonia and steals her sacred stone, the power awakened from which causes him to transform

The sacred stones, as explained, do not give powers to their holders, but instead greatly amplify powers that were already present. But what they ALSO don't do, is cause a physical transformation in their users. None of the other stone holders were shown to change form when using the power of their stones. And its not like his stone was extra special. It was literally the same stone Sonia was using. So why did Ganondorf change form when he came into possession of one?

Because his power is not his own.

While Zelda inherited her powers from her ancestors through blood, Ganondorf inherited his as a result of being the product of Demise's cheeky curse. While Demise is dead and gone, his power lives on in Ganondorf, and so it was Demise's demonic powers that were amplified by the stone. As a result, Ganondorf's form changed to reflect those demonic powers.

But that might not be all that changed. You see, after his demonic powers awakened, his goal changed a bit. While he was still hell bent on ruling Hyrule, he now also wanted to wipe out every living person within the kingdom, supposedly to replace them with the monsters he summoned, and "Cast the world into eternal night" He even turned on his own people, the Gerudo, as in the scene in which Rauru grants the soon-to-be-sages their sacred stones, Ruto states "We just received word that the last free village in the Gerudo desert has fallen..." So the demon king's armies were attacking everyone indiscriminately on his command. I think he truly became a demon, and possibly something in his psyche changed as a result.

THE 8TH SAGE

Those who hold Sacred stones were deemed sages. Zelda and Sonia were the sages of time. Rauru, reflecting his roll in OoT, was the sage of light. Nabooru was changed from the sage of spirit to the sage of lightning. Darunia was the sage of fire, Ruto; the sage of water, and Mineru was the sage of spirit. Saria and "forest" being completely replaced by a nameless Rito and the element of Wind. Sonia dies, so the sage count is 7.

When the stone bonded to its holder, stylized Japanese kanji would appear on it. This is most visible with Nabooru/Riju's stone

Its up-side down and partially wrapped around the stone itself, but that is the Kanji "Kaminari" meaning "Lightning"

When Ganondorf steals Sonia's stone, the kanji for time "Toki" disappears and is replaced with this

Its side ways and partially obstructed by his hand, but when he uses his power, we see the symbol flash in its proper orientation

Yami. Darkness. (funnily enough it also means "Gloom")

If holding a secret stone makes one a sage, then Ganondorf is the sage of Darkness, a being in direct opposition to Rauru; the sage of light

#Tears of the kingdom #Ganondorf

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thefirstknife · 1 year ago

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rip gambit you will be missed 😔

Don't even know what to say tbh.

For those that don't know, the big State of the Game article came out detailing incoming changes and adjustments and all the big stuff. Gambit was mentioned! But at what cost. Basically, they are ceasing any kind of support for Gambit. What we have now is what it is. We will get the Dreaming City map back in TFS and they will add Shadow Legion and Lucent Hive as enemy factions in TFS. That's all.

Full text:

As many of you have noticed, we’ve been quiet on Gambit since last year’s overhaul that launched alongside The Witch Queen. In that revamp, the team made significant changes across five categories in Gambit: core activity fundamentals, Primeval tuning, invasions, ammo economy, and rewards. Unfortunately, these updates didn’t move the needle for player engagement. Although we know our Gambit fans mostly care about new or returning maps, this is an area of the game with lower engagement that would take resources away from more popular parts of the game to shore up. While we don’t have plans to dedicate more resources to significantly transform Gambit, we do have a few updates planned for the year of The Final Shape. These include porting the Cathedral of Scars map and its beautiful Dreaming City setting into the latest version of Destiny 2, as well as adding the Shadow Legion and Lucent Hive enemy types.

I don't know how to tell you this Bungie, but the reason "engagement is low" in Gambit is because Gambit sucks. Ever since half of it was removed with DCV, it just sucked. It has no variety, the gameplay is largely busted, it's not sufficiently updated, ammo changes suck, invasion cycle sucks (why is the enemy even getting a portal when their Primeval is at 5% health and the other team is still in mote collecting phase is beyond me), there are no cool armour sets to chase (just look at Iron Banner and Trials stuff, imagine dedicated cosmetics) and finally there are simply no weapons that are worth anything. Both Vanguard and Crucible have more weapons and also adept versions. There is zero reason to go into Gambit without major changes to Gambit. And now with the further changes to how playlists and challenges will work, there will be even less reason to go into Gambit. Observe:

Before then, we’re making Gambit entirely optional to maximize your rewards unless you’re looking for a piece of gear that’s specific to the mode. Gambit will continue to serve as a source of Exotic engrams via weekly challenges, though as we mentioned above, you’ll be able to complete all your weekly challenges in any ritual you’d like starting in Season 22. If you want to stick to Vanguard or Crucible challenges without touching Gambit, now you can. We’re also reducing the number of Gambit-specific Seasonal Challenges starting in Season 22, so players won’t need to bank motes to be able to earn that big purse of Bright Dust for completing nearly every challenge in the Season. Finally, we’re adding Fireteam Matchmaking to Gambit next Season, which will replace the Freelance node and should result in faster, better matchmaking by combining both Gambit playlists. We’ll keep an eye on reception and player engagement after these additions take place, and we hope you’ll visit ‘ol Drifter next Season to get your hands on his new Void Machine Gun.

Ngl, but I don't think anyone besides like a total of 6 people will play Gambit next season. The incentive to go in there is completely removed. You won't even have to go in there for pinnacles or for challenges. The Void Machine Gun will not be enough of an incentive because the chance of that gun being better than two recently available craftable Void Machine Guns (Commemoration and Retrofit Escapade) is very low. And besides, once you get it at the end of your first match, you can leave Gambit forever.

This is the feedback loop that just reinforces the idea that people don't like Gambit. And I mean. Who would at this point. I'm pretty sure that if Crucible had stayed the same as it was at the start of Beyond Light, engagement would be low there too. But you know. Crucible has received major updates pretty much every season since with multiple new modes, several Trials overhauls, Iron Banner overhaul, competitive overhaul, new armours and weapons added and YES, even new maps. God forbid even 5% of these resources went into Gambit.

Anyway, this is the whole section about Gambit in 6500 words. It's basically a "you guys aren't playing this so we're doing the bare minimum of keeping it in the game as is, no new work will be done on it ever." Thanks I guess.

And for the record, something I also added while having a rant in my discord, I want to make it clear that I don't want anyone to spiral into a Bungie hate train. Even for this. I understand perfectly well what's the community attitude towards Gambit and what it's been for years now. People just don't like it and they're not incentivised to like it and they're actively encouraged to hate it. Spending resources into a game mode on the hope that maybe you can change people's minds would be insanity. Like, the amount of change Gambit would need to MAYBE start appealing to gamers would be beyond any reasonable time and resources Bungie can put in. And if you could guarantee that people would love and play Gambit then, fine. But you can't. Most likely, even if major changes happened, people would still just do their weekly stuff and bail. It's simply not worth it. In order for people to like it, it needs to be completely and thoroughly overhauled in a way that would need more time and effort than the entire Light subclass overhaul and it's just not a reasonable expectation, nor is it guaranteed to work. So I get it.

I'm still disappointed and annoyed about it because I believe it wasn't given a fair chance at all. I also know how good it can be and how Gambit Prime could've been improved upon over the years if they tried. Instead, it got removed and that was honestly the death sentence for Gambit. It's unfortunate. It's my favourite game mode that could've been so much better was it given even a fraction of attention of Crucible.

I'll still be playing it. You will find me in the Gambit queue waiting for 2 hours to find 7 other lunatics to play with, don't worry about it. But I'm absolutely incredibly sad about them being basically forced to axe the potential of the whole game mode that is incredibly creative and fits with the type of game Destiny is perfectly.

There's other interesting stuff in the article and some upcoming really cool improvements and changes to the game. But if you're a fan of Gambit in any capacity, this is a death certificate for the mode. I suggest coming to terms with it quickly because Bungie changing their minds about this is highly unlikely.

#destiny 2 #gambit #ask #long post #says 'don't know what to say' at the start. writes an essay. FHKSJHFKJS #i won't go too much into it outside of this. we all know what this means no need to beat the dead horse #i'll still play it and the mode is still there but i expect a drop in quality and population significantly #the issues we have will never be addressed nothing will ever be fixed. we'll get a 5th map (returning) in 6 months and that's it #yay. I guess.#don't think there will be anyone in the playlist anymore by that point so I'm not sure why even bother with that alone #but still. if that does happen at least new people will be able to see that map now. it was very pretty #unfortunately not good gameplay wise. but at least it will help to not get deep six 17 times in a row #anyway. sad situation for gambit enjoyers. please don't turn into crucible bros to harass devs though

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