#sapphire x silver x steel

[thisbluespirit]

For the kissing fic meme:

Sapphire/Silver: 39 Eight & Lucie Miller: 6/7/12 (any or all!) Harry/Ruth: 8/10/23 (any or all!)

Oh, nice! Thank you! <3

***

Ten… nine… eight…

The ornate second hand on the mahogany grandfather clock in the hall is counting backwards to midnight.  (Wood, silver hands, Sapphire notes. Nearly three hundred years old.  Steel springs, gold plating, lead weights.)

Everything, once it reaches twelve, will be as it should – or it won’t and nothing will be left.  Operator, specialist, clock, hall, house, world.  She shivers.  Both futures are possible.

… seven… six…

“I don’t know if it was enough, Silver.” Can this, only this, be enough to put right this tear, to turn the clock back, to return Steel to her side, lost humans to the house? 

Shadows gather around them as they wait, standing hand in hand on the chequered floor; the last two pawns in the game.

… five… four…

It will be – it must be.  Silver lifts her hand to his lips and presses a last kiss onto her fingers.  Sapphire closes her eyes; she smiles.

… three… two…

They’re already fading away: intangible ghosts of a time that will, either way, now never be.  The kiss, her smile, the hope that passes between them only another echo in the walls.

… one.

See here if anyone else wants to request a kiss + ship.

[arcielee]

Ours never knew peace.

Summary: On the morning of the Great Tourney of Harrenhal, Lyanna Stark's granddam visits to give her an heirloom, a necklace with a sapphire stone... Paring: Aemond Targaryen x Stark!Reader Word Count: 7600 Warnings: Third POV and first POV, AFAB, mentions of infidelity, graphic violence, character deaths, and there is a hyperlink for the smut, so mind those warnings too. Author’s Note:  I definitely played with the timeline of the Dance of the Dragons a lot to fit with the narrative. Also, the idea is the bloodline stems from Cregan Stark's sister, which is why Lyanna's granddam is still kicking. Also, this was not beta read, please feel free to DM me any mistakes you may find 💜 A huge thank you to my Tumblr kindred spirits: to @aegonx for this inspiring gifset, and to my darling @itbmojojoejo for these perfect dividers 🦝💜 Also, to Hozier. I started writing this in June and had not touched it until I started listening to Unreal Unearth. The title for this and the smutty one-shot are from the song Francesca.

“I have a gift for you, my dear.”

Lyanna was leaning against the ornate balustrade and watching how the sun rose above Gods Eye. She drank in the sight of the rays dancing against the blue-green gemstone surface, shimmering with the rippling waves that met with the shoreline and towards the center where the Isle of Faces jutted upwards; she saw the weirwoods shift lazily with the breeze, its red foliage breaking away and littering the laketop, drops of blood.

She pulled her eyes away to see her granddam standing in her room, poised with her walking cane; a handmaiden was in tow, carrying a wooden box that had once been intricately carved into, though its detailing was now worn with age. 

Her granddamn was the matriarch of House Stark and the only mother figure she had ever known as hers passed away when she was very young, leaving Lyanna with her father and three brothers: Brandon, Eddard, and Benjen. Though she originally had come from a noble house in Oldcastle, she had been proud to don the grays and whites of House Stark, dignified in such a way it seemed that she was born into and not just married. 

Her reputation was notorious and though some would consider her shrewd, Lyanna knew her granddam had a sharp mind and wit, an undeniable ability to see beyond the façades of court with her storm colored eyes; she was gallant, devoted to her husband until his last breath and remained in Winterfell after, her devotion extending to the North. 

“This is my home,” she had explained as if it was the simplest thing. “Always.” 

Time now showed itself in silver streaks, a bold contrast with her dark hair that had been meticulously combed and knotted at the base of her neck, showing the severity that lined her features. This look alone had the other handmaidens–who before had been aimlessly flitting around her room, coaxing Lyanna to ready for the day’s events–quickly excuse themselves, allowing her a moment alone with her granddaughter.  

“Set it there,” and the remaining handmaiden jumped to command, placing the wooden box on the vanity before following after the others. 

There was the click of her cane with her sure steps, one hand resting on the gilded handles and the other coming to place on the edge of the wooden box, its brass hinges groaning in response to her opening it. Placed against the velvet inlay was a necklace of a peculiar silver that did not shine, but seemed to permeate a strength despite its delicate, celtic chains interwoven with one another; its pendant, a sapphire stone no larger than a silver pence, was nestled in the same style, curled around to hold it in place. 

Only the stone gleamed, just like the water’s surface–alluring, calling, but she kept her hand at her side. “It is beautiful,” Lyanna acknowledged. 

“It is reforged Valyrian steel,” her granddam continued, and she was pleased to see how her eyes widened with a reverence for the rare medium. “This is a heirloom that has been passed down, once belonging to your thrice over granddam. It is something for you to wear today.” 

Lyanna remained rooted, only a wistful sigh in response. “This is my duty in life now, to be adorned in gems and silks and rare silvers, just to be shown off at this event.” 

“It is our lot in life, yes,” her tone cut through the self-wallow. “Lord Whent wants nothing more than to parade the money he poured into this cursed castle, to show off his simple-minded daughter to the highest bid. The queen of love and beauty,” and her laugh was sharp, “only her brothers would defend that nepotist title!” 

Lyanna felt her lips curl; she loved her granddam, dearly, especially when she was unabashed with her bold opinions. Her eyes fell back to the necklace. “Love and beauty,” Lyanna murmured. “No man has want for a clever wife.” 

It was her turn to sigh. “This can be true, but some are fortunate with their matches.” 

“Robert has no want for a clever wife,” Lyanna continued as if she had not spoken. “He wants something docile and pretty at his side while he wags his cock at every set of tits in Westeros.” She could see how the inside sagged with the weight of the necklace and a bundle of parchment that was tucked beneath, hidden in the folds of the fabric. 

Her granddam plucked the paper bundled together with string and then moved back towards one of the overstuffed chairs in front of the fireplace. “My dear girl, love is always unexpected. Perhaps in time, despite the faults you each share,” she gave a knowing look as Lyanna moved back towards the bed, “you, hopefully, may have a gradual love and respect grow between.” 

“He is already convinced it is love,” she sat back on the mattress, sinking against the goose feather pillows piled at the head. “But it is with this idea of me. He does not know me, who I am truly or what it is that drives me…” her eyes were drawn again to the box, opened still, and to the glint of the sapphire. “How did this come to our possession anyway?” 

“It was a gift,” her granddam scoffed, untying the string and smoothing the letters on her lap. 

Lyanna closed her eyes a moment, her own smile playing at her lips. “Yes,” her tone forced, “but who would have gifted this to her to begin with?” 

Her granddam hummed, now her turn to smile. “How clever of you to ask, sweet girl,” but she did not answer Lyanna. “I saw how you are blossoming into a lovely young woman, especially after last night’s banquet,” and she saw that her granddaughter grinned, cheeky. “Ancestry has its weight with House Stark, and I thought now is the time to gift this necklace, just as your grandsire gifted it to me, and how it was given to your mother, who listened to me read this, years ago,” and she gestured to the letters.  

Lyanna reached for the pillows, fluffing them and sinking back into them, her arms folding behind to hold her head upright. “I would never deny my granddam of my company,” she teased.

“Yes, how kind of you,” her tongue wet her lips, her eyes flitting over the first page. “Now shut up and let my old eyes read.” 

And so she began.

It was the unmartyred act of my mother to bring me into the world. My father was a proud man, an honorable man who would never blame me, but I could see how he would wilt in my presence; perhaps it was that I reminded him of her as I grew, reminded him of the cost of her life so I may live instead. My brother, Cregan, kept his grief quiet, though it clouded his storm-gray eyes with this pain, this hurt that shadowed behind his irises. 

With the unsaid, I know my existence haunted my father, Lord Rickon Stark, the Warden of the North, to his grave. It was only then that Cregan truly recognized me with our sorrow now shared, as well as the burden as our uncle Bennard was quick to come to Winterfell, bringing his shrewd wife and his sons, our wretched cousins. 

I could only watch from the shadows with how Cregan fought to stay afloat with the smothering regency brought with them; our uncle was cunning, wishing to isolate my brother, which was why it was decided for me to be sent away to King’s Landing. It was under the promised lady-in-waiting for Princess Helaena Targaryen, though its true intention was for me to marry a Targaryen prince, for the opportunity to have a Stark within the royal inner circle and a direct line to the Iron Throne. 

Cregan hugged me farewell, the whispered promise that he would write, and I was ushered into the carriage, cramped with my trunks, and my aunt Margaret, with her wardrobe and endless idylls of how I would lure King Aegon II. 

I reminded her that King Viserys was not dead, and of the crowned Princess Rhaenyra. She bristled with her response: “No woman will ever rule the Seven Kingdoms.” She embellished this, and her inane plans to make me a princess; I had just turned ten and three with the soured taste of her words the further south we traveled. 

We arrived at the capital almost two months later, coming as the last of the daylight disappeared in the horizon, with the full moon and stars already glowing in response. I wished to sleep, but was forced to bathe, to be soaked in a gilded tub with rose petals that floated on the surface while hands flitted over combing and scrubbing and cleaning every bit of me, all while my aunt hovered with her critiques. 

The next day was our debut luncheon, allowing my formal introduction to the House of the Dragon. My aunt was peevish that the king did not join, we still met with the queen and Lord Hand, who introduced Prince Aegon and Princess Helaena. 

It was said that Prince Daeron was away in Oldtown and Prince Aemond would not attend either, but did not speak more of it. 

The prince and the princess held their old blood features, the shades of purple in their gazes and the gold-silver of their hair, a contrast to their mother’s auburn and her dark eyes that were watchful and worrisome. 

Prince Aegon already had an exhaustion lining his face, with shadows that stretched beneath his lilac eyes, something heavy for someone only two years older than myself. In time I would learn that his shoulders sagged with the forced Hightower expectation placed, and its accompanying slow suffocation. The prince responded to it as well as any adolescent with unwanted responsibility: to rebel. 

The princess–who we learned, to the woe of my aunt–was his betrothed, but that day she also became my savior, in a sense. Though she carried her own burdens, something deeply rooted within the ichor of Old Valyria that surged her veins, her company was enjoyable, nonetheless. 

I enjoyed my time spent with the princess, learning of her fascination with entomology, with a favoritism that stemmed towards arachnids; though I found it unsettling, I still knew it was better company than my aunt. I was devoted to the task to fill mason jars with dirt, leaves, sticks to create little habitats for her ever growing collection, and it became our daily ritual to walk the gardens of the Red Keep, always in search of more to add or to release others who dutifully served their time in their glass confines. 

One thing I noted was her utterances, her singsong riddles on repeat. “Be mindful,” she said with a hum one afternoon.

“Of what, princess?”

“A song of ice and fire,” her eyes were glassy, sorrowful. “It is a tragedy, again and again…” 

My evenings were held captive by my aunt and her ever growing determination to force her way into the royal social circles; her daily mantra to remind me of the two remaining Targaryen princes, how I need my focus to be on snaring one of them. 

I knew that Prince Daeron was a child and away in Oldtown, which left the second son of King Viserys, Prince Aemond, who I thought peculiar and quiet. He was isolated the first six months after we arrived, and I heard the whispered incident at Diftmark that had involved the crowned princess and her bastard sons; I also learned how it ended with the loss of his eye, but that was not learned until Princess Helaena brought me to visit with her brother. 

“It would be good for him,” and her lilac eyes sparkled. 

He was sullen, but rightfully so; he was still bandaged and refused the milk of the poppy, though I knew he was hurting, his anguish was vicariously heard with the roars of his dragon, Vhagar, whose bellows rattled the entire capital, leaving the inhabitants uneasy. 

Eventually, Prince Aemond healed enough to leave his room, though the queen was still adamant he not venture outside of the Keep. I watched him, a dragon caged, stalking the corridors, a dark passing in search of confrontation, his unbridled want for vengeance and his inability to see it through; a tormented unrest, an unruly anger from the injustice of what happened that fateful night at Driftmark.  

I had been present for over a year and would inevitably have the misfortune to cross his warpath, alone, without my shield of his sister. It was a foreboding presence that drained the air, a palpable anger that hung heavy, and I flinched, perched by the window, curled up with Ten Thousand Ships. 

“What are you doing here?” He spat. 

I remember how his anger darkened his features shown, but the rest was still hidden beneath bandages wrapped around his silver head. “Reading,” was all I dared reply, refusing to look away from the pages as if the very tale of Nymeria held me captive. 

“They educate the women in the North?”

His words were mocking and this is when I pulled my eyes away to meet with his one uncovered. “The North does not only teach their women how to read, but how to fight as well, my prince,” my tongue had a life of its own I could not control, sneering his title in return.

Her granddam paused a moment, peering over the edge to see how Lyanna had shifted; she was now closer towards the foot of the bed, curled up with one of the pillows, her eyes glowing with admiration. 

“My great-great-great granddam was fearless,” Lyanna concluded.

She chuckled in response. “It is a trait in Stark women, that is for certain,” she clucked her tongue. “Stark men also search for strong women to survive the winters. Maybe another day I will tell you about your great-great-great aunt Alysanne Blackwood.” 

Her eyes shone. “I would like that very much.” 

And then, her granddam continued. 

I would learn that Prince Aemond was just lonely; allowed out of his quarters, his mar was forever isolating with how the castled treated him with kid gloves, like an open wound that never healed despite the jagged red of new flesh mended, cutting from his brow to his cheek and peeking beneath the eyepatch he took to wearing. Though he would never apologize for that day in the library, the next time I found him within the walls I saw he was lost in the pages of Winter’s Kings, or the Legends and Lineages of the Starks of Winterfell. 

I could only assume it was all the apology that could be expected of a dragon prince. 

Our friendship was something predetermined by the gods, or this was what Princess Helaena wholeheartedly believed; for a time, we were a trio of lonely souls akin and knitted together until the princess inevitably became pregnant with the twins. And then, there was the subtle change of our dynamic with the seasons passed, an initial wariness that settled in the edges of his features that only softened whenever I took his hand and pulled him forward. 

Perhaps he believed that I would abandon him for his sister’s company, which would be expected of her lady-in-waiting. But I did not. 

Instead I indulged the prince and his company, and we became inseparable; whether we visited with his sister, playing with the little prince and princess, while Helaena budding with a third, or going to the courtyards to train under Ser Criston’s watchful eye and my aunt’s apparent disdain. It was then that the evenings became our own and spent in the library of the Keep; it was here that Aemond dared remove his eyepatch, the sapphire stone that showed brilliant from his scarred socket. 

The first time, I stepped closer so his nervous exhale fanned my cheeks; I could see the plumes of pinks to his features, my fingers ghosting his jawline as I attempted his ancient tongue. “Gevie.” 

Beautiful. 

Prince Aemond was respectful, always, but he was also fearless with me, allowing the same sense of freedom in return, to speak my mind as I always had. But I faltered with what I truly wished to say: that the years crafted him beautiful as any Targaryen prince, with sharp edges chiseled from marble stone, his lips that curled with a perpetual smirk as he voiced his peculiar insight which always led to a good natured battlement between us, leaving me flushed. 

And then the day came that he took my hand, that his palm now enveloped my own. 

It was the familiar touch now paired with a feeling, a fluttering in the pit of my stomach that I could not place, though writing these words allows a clearer perspective with the retrospect: that I was falling in love with him. 

My aunt grew more insufferable with the passing days, though I expected as much with the letters I exchanged with Cregan. I knew his every action in Winterfell, what he was learning, of his sweetheart Lady Arra Norrey, my new nephew, but mostly of how our uncle continued to tighten his hold. My brother was a wolf, restless, and spoke that his hour was coming; and meanwhile, I continued to play my role, a simpleminded girl from the North. 

My aunt tsked. “He will never see you as more than a plaything,” as if this was a cruel fate. In truth I was still so unaware of what was growing within the confines of my heart, but I knew that I only wished to remind at his side, devoted, present, always. 

So when Aemond asked that I finally become acquainted with Vhagar, I went. I remembered how my hand fit within his as he pulled me to follow his steps, moving through the ingresses that weaved with the castle walls. We broke out to follow the coastline, a crisp salt air and the clouds covering the sun, heavy with the threat of rain, but Aemond promised we would rise above them. 

I followed his long steps until we came to where Vhagar waited for her rider, diligent, alert. 

Dragons are magnificent creatures, and I swear them sentient with the bond I saw between Aemond and the she-dragon. Fear trickled my spine, but Aemond held onto my hand and I tightened in response to the massive eyes that focused on us, her pupils constricting in query. Aemond held up his other hand, the honey spill of his soothing voice of his old tongue to coax her and allow me to climb aback. 

I then felt the gaze of Aemond and refused to allow my fear to root me, moving to take the bottom rung of the rope ladder; he was pleased, a hum, the slight curl of his lips, and followed behind me with his promise that he would not let me fall. At the top, he pushed past to settle into the saddle, then reached to pull me behind and I settled against his backside. 

“Just hold onto me,” he murmured, bringing my arms around his slender waist. 

This moment I was adamantly aware that he was no longer that sullen child that sneered within his gilded cage, but against my hold that Aemond was solid, lithe, and so warm with a woodsy musk mixed with smoke against his skin. 

Pressed against, I was able to feel his low baritone command Vhagar, followed by her jolted steps forward, the beating of her wings to take flight. To feel this power beneath you is indescribable; I could not help my scream, my laughter from the exhilaration that that spate my veins; I dared not close my eyes, tears streaming, and I peered to marvel at how small the capital seemed beneath, how large the shadow we cast overhead. 

It was a newfound euphoria, and I felt my cheeks burn from the crisp air above the gray clouds, but I also knew it was from my close proximity to Aemond. I held onto him as we soared out over Blackwater Bay, and sighed from the touch of his gloved hand, from the heat that permeated through the leather when he placed it over my own. 

And I knew then that I never wished to let him go. 

He eventually brought Vhagar back to land onto the grassy knolls outside the city; the afternoon was growing late but there was still enough light to return. Aemond warned that my legs would be shaky and again he moved first, again with the promise he would not let me fall. 

I still trembled when he set me on the ground, his large palms kept their hold on my waist and my hands rested on his broad shoulders. My eyes were wide admiring the beauty of his mussed, silver braid, his cheeks lined with his dimples with his pursed grin. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

“Enjoy myself?” I was incredulous, I was a mess; windswept and blooming red, a grinning fool with tear-streaked cheeks, “Aemond, you showed me the heavens.” And a boldness pressed me onto my toes, my lips against his. 

It was my first kiss; it was a heartbeat’s length, it was everything, and when I pulled back, I fell solid to the earth, my soles grounded back on that gassy knoll. I looked up into his bicolored gaze, the lavender of one eye and the gleam of sapphire for the other that stared back. 

Aemond was unreadable in that moment, and I felt my blood surge from my heart and pour into my face; the quiet that settled between us the same length of the years I had spent in King’s Landing, a choking regret that burned in my throat with the thought that I had ruined everything built between us. 

Then he kissed me back. 

And I felt alive once more with the touch of his arm that curled around my waist, how his other hand followed the curve of my spine, tangling into my hair and holding me to capture my mouth. His lips were warm and soft and his tongue clever in a way that drew the very breath from my lungs. I melted against him, my fingertips soft to follow the sharp contours of his jaw, trailing his neck and grasping his collar to bring him even closer.

We only parted for air; the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath his riding leathers, the crimson on his cheeks with his quiet confession, something he held close to his heart.

“For how long?” I breathed

And he thought for a moment. “Always.” 

To take his hand now was finding a piece that I did not know was missing from me; our fingers interlaced in a way that felt akin as if I held my own hand, though I knew it was him from the warmth of his skin, from the fire in his blood. By now the tendrils of dusk began to curl over the city, its amber hues bold against the blues and purples of the coming nightfall, but we continued our leisure pace back, Aemond and I. 

We were greeted by the gold cloaks at the gates and they escorted us back, and though he did not let go, I saw that it was no longer Aemond who held my hand but the second son of King Viserys, a Targaryen prince. He was stoic, but this time I could tell the other emotions that flittered beneath, his uncertainty of what awaited, but above that was his determination. 

We finally came to the barbican of the Keep where we were greeted by his queen mother, my aunt, and several White Cloaks. 

Relief washed over the queen while my aunt raged, lifting her skirts to meet us in the courtyard, her nails biting with her grip on my arm and pulling me back; the rushed spill of her words, “I cannot believe this unseemly behavior of a lady, unchaperoned with a prince! We are leaving this moment–”

I tried to twist away but she held on still, a madwoman. Aemond moved after, quick, and his anger burning from him and his long legs moved to block her path. “She will not be leaving.”

The finality of his words, the barrier his form created halted her at once and I felt my heart between my teeth. “My prince,” she stammered in response. “We must leave this very moment! We have imposed on your hospitality far too long as it is, and when my lord husband hears of her behaviors–” 

But she was unaware that Cregan and I wrote, dutifully; he shared his life within the walls of Winterfell, as well as his growing concern with the regency our uncle imposed still. She also did not know the newest letter I had received, how my brother was now the proper Warden of the North and our uncle imprisoned; my aunt paled with my words and it was commanded for her to be taken away. She did not leave quietly, her wails echoed and I watched impassively, knowing her every action was a self-serving and a selfish ploy for power for herself, her husband, for those wretched cousin kin in the North. 

And I knew I would not miss any of them. 

Ever the diplomat, the queen stepped forward with her congratulations for my brother, her condolences for the betrayal within our family, her practiced concern for my well being and its shift to confusion that knitted between her brows when she saw how I smiled at her son. She offered my escort back to Winterfell, but I was quick to decline as I knew I could not leave Aemond. 

I saw the understanding began to roll over, and she then asked her son if he loved me. Aemond responded, “I believe I always have, mother,” and I knew I loved him in return. 

It was decided that the ceremony would be held in the Royal Sept, and chaperoned until, though Aemond stole a moment to gift me this very necklace. I could feel the power of Old Valyria thrum from the metal, adoring how it was woven around the sapphire stone; he told me it was a piece kept from the same stone fitted for his eye.  

I lifted my hair and turned my back towards him, my skin prickling from his touch to clasp the necklace around my throat. 

He hummed. “Gevie.” 

Only a week later, and the service seemed surreal. I felt his warmth that held to the robe he brought around my shoulders, the touch of my palm on top of his large hand kept me grounded while the Septon wrapped the ribbon around; shy glances shared, me to Aemond and seeing his gaze on the sapphire stone beneath my collarbone. The muted words called for a kiss and I burned when Aemond captured my mouth with his own. 

The celebration after was an intimate meal with the king, who was a man withering away beneath a gilded mark, the queen, his siblings, and the Lord Hand, who seemed pleased with the idea of solidifying a truce with the North. 

But I could not think of politics this night, not with the subtle touches from Aemond, a warmth that curled in my lower abdomen when he inevitably took my hand, his low voice that tickled against my ear. “Come with me, my sweet wife,” as we walked towards his quarters.

Her granddam stopped abruptly, flushed. “Well, you understand what is implied.”

“Understand what?” Lyanna quirked her brow. 

It was a pregnant pause that allowed her eyes steel onto her granddaughter, and Lyanna returned her gaze with a cheeky, taunting grin. 

“It would serve you well to not agitate your elders.” 

“What a bore I would be if I was just another docile woman of nobility?” Lyanna countered, gleefully. “Granddam, Robert has bastards and I am no fool, I do not believe his immaculate conception claims…” 

“Yes, you are very bright,” she huffed. “Now hush up and let me read.” 

Our marital bliss that followed left me in a haze; Aemond was not one for public displays of affection and how I craved his subtle touches, his lingering hand that would have me blushing furiously in response. He would only hum, his perpetual smirk that played on his lips with my every visceral response to him. 

I wrote to Cregan and informed him of our union; he was quick to respond with his congratulations, as well as his newfound concerns, asking if it was true that the crowned princess had sired bastards with the intention to make them her heirs without ownership of her actions. 

“Our father was honorable until his last breath,” he wrote, “I would not besmirch his memory or our house, our legacy, for an oath made for bastard-born heirs to the Iron Throne.”

This was a topic I had already discussed in length with Aemond, even before we had even kissed. I was aware of his scar and its cause, and I knew of the old blood and the features lacking when it came to his nephews, something made apparent for the claimant hearings of Dirftmark, as well as the cruel response of Prince Daemon when a lord spoke out loud what the court was thinking. 

I answered my brother truthfully, knowing full well that this would sway the North behind Prince Aegon II.

And then King Viserys met his inevitable demise; the small council moved quick to announce that his final words were that he wished his firstborn son to take the crown. Aegon panicked, but my husband and Ser Criston fetched him, washed him, fed him, but also comforted him. 

It would be Ser Criston who coaxed him to the coronation, to be the one to place the crown of steel and rubies on top of his silver head, announcing: “King Viserys is dead, long live King Aegon!”

My husband would be sent to Storm’s End to negotiate a betrothal for his brother, Daeron, to one of the Four Storms. It resulted in tragedy, or vengeance on who spoke the narrative. The room stilled with Aemond’s words, the unspoken terror in the queen’s large, brown eyes, the shock that lined the severe features of the Lord Hand, but it was his brother, King Aegon wearing the Conqueror’s Crown who spoke that Aemond had shown the true blood of a dragon. 

But in the quiet quarters we shared, Aemond lamented the loss of life, the war it started, a guilt that weighed heavily, and once more I saw the sorrowful prince when I first came to King’s Landing. 

“There will be repercussions for my actions,” he rasped, unable to meet with my eyes. “I have ruined my namesake, and I have cursed our family…” 

“War seemed inevitable,” I began slowly, my hands careful to hold his jaw, to bring his gaze to my own. “And with it comes rash decisions, with impossible choices to be made…I trust it was not intentional, but even if it was, cursed or not, I am still yours, husband.” A soft kiss to seal my words. “Always.” 

War and its bloodshed was rampant in Westeros, and my brother wrote they would travel South when winter ended to help King Aegon with his rightful claim. I feared for the delay, for what would follow Storm’s End, and how it seemingly unleashed the Rogue Prince. 

Hired men with the monikers Blood and Cheese came in the night, and I knew them to be sent for me, as one repeated, “An eye for an eye, a son for son,” but followed with his slow realization, “she is not a son,” before his sword was drawn and struck Prince Jaehaerys. 

The screams of Helaena resounded against the cobblestone; Aemond found us covered in blood, his rage and his grief conflicting on his angular features. The king cried for vengeance for his firstborn son, to search for these men and place their heads on spikes; the kingdom was repulsed by the murder of the princeling, a martyr made with his blood spilled. 

Aegon’s bloodlust made for rash decisions and the battle of Rook’s Rest; though one dragon and its rider slain, its cost was the king crippled in a way that he was not fit to rule. So Aemond stepped forward to take the title Prince Regent and the Protector of the Realm, a natural role that was suited for the second son. 

The Rogue Prince struck against the Riverlands, torching until ash remained. In response, the now Prince Regent and Ser Criston left to claim Harrenhal. 

I was told to wait, to remain at the side of our grieving queen, my sister by all accounts; I watched over sweet Helaena, coaxing her to eat, washing her, sitting alongside her in the haunting silence of the quarters that somehow still echoed her screams from that fateful night. We were often left alone, as the maesters and the dowager queen never left King Aegon’s side, and I remained with her until I received the latest letter from Aemond. 

Harrenhal had been dispelled of every Strong traitor to the crown, and he spoke of a witch he wished me to meet, that I was to leave King’s Landing and be by his side, as the gods ordained. 

A quick kiss to the silver head of Helaena and I left the castle, careful to retrace our steps that led to the coast and I continued until I was back on the grassy knolls from what felt like a lifetime ago. I waited the skies until I felt the rumbled call of Vhagar in the distance, gleeful when she finally landed and watched my prince descend to envelope me in his arms, his whispered adoration, “My love, my sweet wife.” 

We returned to Harrenhal to meet with the witch he spared, a hushed reverence when he told me of her abilities. “She sees much and more.” 

I could see she was hardened by life, but her expression was kind when she greeted us; her eyes roamed around, watchful, looking through to my bones and only then did I understand what my husband meant. 

At supper, we sat around the table, along with Ser Criston, and her eyes watched the flicker of candlelight, the flames licking her irises, before she spoke: “Madness and greatness are two sides of the same coin. Every time a new Targaryen is born, the gods toss the coin in the air and the world holds its breath to see how it will land.”

Aemond finished chewing before he asked her. “And I am which?”

Alys’ eyes were black, her painted lips curled and framed around her pearl teeth. “To be the greatness, you must end the madness,” was all that she offered, and then, “the Rogue Prince is coming.” 

Ser Criston looked uneasy, but it was a silent understanding in regards to her statement, something that pressed heavily on us both. King Aegon could only have a true chance to rule the realm if his sister lost the power she had with her husband, the Rogue Prince; it was known that he was unruly, untamed, but loyal to a fault, and willing to see it through to its brutal end. 

That night, we fell back into an intimate embrace, cherishing the feeling of skin to skin–

Her granddam was crimson. “Oh, my, I believe I should skip this as well–”

She watched her granddam a moment, the intrusive thought to take the letters for her own readthrough, but it was muted by a growing sadness that began to settle in the edges of her sharp features. Lyanna knew well the history of the Dance of the Dragons, something scrawled on scrolls and tomes, its tragedy saved in ink and tucked away.

And still, she had to know this truth.  

“Please,” and her voice was soft. “Please, continue.” 

And granddam did. 

It was the 22nd day of the 5th moon and we waited on the shores of Gods Eye, myself, Aemond, and the witch. Ser Criston rode North to meet with my brother, and we remained, waiting. 

It had been a vision for Alys, something sinister; it was no surprise when the wyrm screeched its arrival, circling above, wary of Vhagar, before finally landing. Prince Daemon had an arrogance with his dismount, with his walk towards us. 

There was a symmetry as they squared towards one another; the Rogue Prince was cloaked with the past and my Aemond embodied the future, the true hope for House Targaryen. My husband faced him, unflinching, his brow furrowed with his ever present determination, while Daemon rolled his eyes over the each of us, sucking his teeth. 

Aemond broke the silence. “You were a fool to come alone.”

“Were I not alone, you would not have come,” Daemon was amused. 

But it did not deter my dragon. “Yet you are, and here I am,” he sighed. “You have lived too long, nuncle.”

“On that much we agree.”

The prince retreated to his wyrm and Aemond looked to me, his eye pleading, the glassy lavender that bore through my skin, and the gleam of sapphire for the other. He then dipped forward to kiss me and the tears pearling in the corners of my eyes spilled onto my cheeks at the taste of him, the touch of him; I knew I could never imagine anyone else. Those words stilled on my tongue, how I wanted him to beg to stay with me, but I also knew that he must. 

“Do not say it,” my voice broke, hushed against our kiss swollen lips. “Just come back to me.” 

His two fingers pressed against the sapphire pendant I wore, before leaning forward to press his lips to my hairline, and then he climbed aback Vhagar, his lithe body quick to mount. I remained on the sand with the witch at my side, and we watched these winged beasts rise above us. 

Dragons are truly magnificent, but they are also equally deadly. I trusted Vhagar was loyal to Aemond, but also knew it matched by the bond shared between Prince Daemon and his wyrm. It was said that Targaryens are closer to gods than to men, and I believed this as I watched them on dragonback, circling above the massive lake. Their roars vibrated through to our bones, the snapping of the jaws like cracks of lighting and their flames that singed the threads of my gown from my place on the shore. 

My eyes did not leave, and I asked Alys. “Will he live?” 

She was quiet for a moment. “The memory of him will live on,” and I felt her hand reach and touch my stomach. 

And all I could do was hold onto my pendant with prayers to the old golds, to the new gods for mercy for my husband, whose child I carried. 

They did not listen.

It was a clash of scale and bone, something that reverberated to Harrenhal and rattled the castle walls that still stood. The wyrm’s screams were cut short as the massive maw of Vhagar clamped onto its neck, and its talons flailed and cut deep into the old dragon’s underside. Blood rained onto the lake and I watched, struck with mortification at the dull glint of Valyrian armor, the flash raise of Dark Sister, and I knew it was over. 

I remained on the shore as the waves created from the fall of dead dragons crashed against the sand, a blood foam that flooded and wet my skirts. I remained still as the sun tucked beneath the horizon, until I heard the call of the witch. 

“My lady, the wolves have arrived.” 

This would be the shift of power needed for King Aegon II; the Rogue Prince was dead and his men fell to the sword under the command of my brother and Ser Criston. Cregan was shocked to see me and I was stoic still, dumbstruck with my grief that did not feel real; we returned to King’s Landing with the Northern army, quick to dethrone Rhaenyra and place her in the cells with the company of all the lords who supported her. 

King Aegon was scarred cruelly with a gimp to his steps, but he made his way to the Iron Throne, his crown of rubies and steel, and greeted his mother and the queen. This joyous moment died as I was tasked to share the news of the death of Aemond, of my husband and father of my unborn child; we cried our heartbreak, but I had no tears left. 

This pivotal moment would be known as the Hour of the Wolf by our history. It will speak of the heroism of Prince Aemond and what he sacrificed to kill the Rogue Prince, of how my brother descended onto the capital with a vengeance and helped return the throne to its rightful heir. The casualties of war included the bastard princes, as well as both sons of the king. 

When King Aegon learned that Prince Daeron the Daring met his fatal end, he decided mercy on the remaining Targaryen princelings, Aegon III and Viserys II, with his solemn vow to raise them as his own, as his heirs to the Iron Throne. 

Cregan served as Lord Hand through my pregnancy, for the birth of my darling Lysara with a patch of silver that showed against her dark curls and her eyes the same as her father’s, lavender. My brother had also been widowed but met the Lady Alysanna Blackwood, a woman I admired fiercely, and Lysara was smitten with, and was thrilled when I learned I could call her sister. 

It was then Cregan asked to be relieved so he could return to the North, to his son, and I asked to go with him. My time in King’s Landing was over, with every stone haunted with presence of Aemond; I already swore I would never marry again, would not dare have another set of hands touch and taint the memory of his hands against my body, his touch forever etched onto my skin and seeded into the marrow of my bones. 

Aemond would return to me at night, a silver dream, my body thrumming with the warmth of his touch, his gentle kiss, the low murmur of his voice, but it always ended the same: my realization when my hands pressed to his chest and felt no heartbeat.

That I would never feel it again.

The pain of losing him has not dimmed nor diminished with time, but I do not mind it as it serves as my reminder that he was real, and that the love we shared was real. 

As the witch predicted, Aemond also still lived within Lysara who was solemn, brilliant, and as determined and stubborn as he had been. I made sure to do an annual trip to King’s Landing, allowing her to meet her granddam, her royal family, and so that my daughter could learn that her blood not only held that of the Andals, the first men, but also of the fire that licks within her veins. 

Which is also why I write this, along with the gift of the necklace. It holds legacy, but also the reminder of the words Queen Helaena spoke to me when we were girls, something said a lifetime ago and before I could comprehend the weight of them. 

There is something in the blood of House Stark that calls out to these dragons, perhaps an ancient power of the old gods or a kindred spirit, the disparate bond of ice and fire, a clash that is brilliant, violent, and tragic, always. 

As she once said: a song of ice and fire, it is a tragedy, again and again…

It ended with a finality that rested against her chest. This was a tragic history of the crown, something already written with facts and dates, but this was a personal storying stemming from the blood of Stark woman, and only now did Lyanna begin to understand how the stories remained so vivid, so detailed despite its years of retelling. 

But also…

“What does this mean for me?” Her voice was soft, an almost childlike naivety to her tone. “I am already engaged to Robert Baratheon.”

Her granddam watched her, a tight lipped smile in response as her mind returned to the feast of last night, to the looks shyly exchanged between her granddaughter and the crowned prince, Rhaegar Targaryen, as he played his harp for her. It left her unsettled with a hunch, an inkling about this interaction. 

Instead she agreed. “You are right,” and she sighed. “Let me help you get dressed for the tourney.” 

The new Harranhal swelled with the life for the festivities, with the kingdoms’ best sent in response of Lord Whent’s invites; the new cobblestone seemed bright against the darkened foundation that still held, its ghosts trapped still and trampled underfoot by the crowds as the seats filled, the echoing chattered excitement that vibrated. 

It dimmed with a hushed reverence to see Prince Rhaegar Targaryen entering the field on his steed; his lavender eyes scanned the masses, an intent to spot one soul in particular, and she unknowingly called to him with her sweet smile, by the glint of the sapphire that rested against her chest. 

There's not one thing that I would change.

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arcie's masterlist

[svearehnn]

winter's frost | azriel x fem!reader

Summary: As Kallias' sister, you're expected to help maintain good relations with allied courts. Your newest ally leads you to the Starfall celebration, and it ends up changing your life much more drastically than you expected.

warnings: cursing

part two

It wasn’t your choice to go to the Starfall celebration in the Night Court. No, with your brother’s newfound alliance, you were required to attend the foolish party when you would rather be curled up in your room at the Winter Court, preferably with a good book and a steaming cup of tea.

Involuntarily, you rolled your eyes as you made your way out of your room, the gossamer of your steel blue gown whipping around your feet. You hated to admit it, but Viviane did a wonderful job at hunting down this dress. It was plated with silver metal around your bodice, the bejeweled collar connected by interwoven chains. It was complete with a smattering of sapphires adorning it, twinkling out at the top of the mostly sheer skirt. A warrior’s dress, beautiful but deadly, the plating similar to the armour you so often wore.

As you made your way down the stairs, you heard Viviane gasp in excitement whilst you fiddled with the quartz crown that adorned your head. “You look magnificent!” Viviane breathed out, a wide smile on her face. Her hand reached out to adjust the stray curls framing your face before stepping back to get another look at you. You smiled tightly at her before flicking your gaze to your brother.

“How long do we plan on staying there?” Kallias’ icy eyes were made of stone, his lips set in a harsh line.

“However long I deem is necessary to show Rhysand that he has our support.” You huffed out a breath at his response, your hair swaying at the movement.

“Then lets get this over with,” you quipped as you placed your hand on his arm. The three of you were swiftly encased in black smoke as Kallias winnowed your group in front of the House of Wind. You couldn’t help the gasp that left your lips as you caught sight of the dazzling house, more akin to a castle than anything. However, you weren’t given more than a couple seconds to admire it as your brother and his mate made their way to the front doors. You followed suit rather languidly, coming to a stop in front of the marble doors. Kallias raised his hand to knock, but the doors flew open before his knuckles could even touch the doorframe.

“Kallias, I’m glad you could make it.” A dazzling smile flashed and you knew immediately that the raven-haired man at the door was the High Lord of the Night Court. “Viviane, pleasure to see you again. You’re looking lovely as always,” he spoke as his eyes flicked over to hers before landing on you. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Rhys, and you are?”

You refused a curtsey, instead bowing your head slightly as you chimed out your name and rank. He smiled again before waving the three of you in, his magic swelling, nearly causing a tremble in your hands at the intensity of it. “Well, I won’t let you idle outside in the cold any longer. We have wine and an assortment of food waiting for you.” 

Once again you followed, keeping to the back in hopes that conversation would not be struck with you. However, as always, your luck was as rare as a four-leaf clover in winter.

“I never knew Kallias had a sister.” Rhys stated, his violet eyes meeting yours for a split second. You willed your expression from a scowl to a tight-lipped smile, already dreading the night to come.

“I’ve kept well hidden.”

“You have indeed.” He responded. Before he could inquire any more about you, a swift excuse left your lips.

“If you don’t mind, I would like to grab a glass of wine.” With a dip of his head you were excused, and you heard the start of a courtly conversation that would have had you ripping your hair from your head. You neared the refreshment table, admiring the faelights above you that twinkled like starlight as you walked. There wasn’t much for Starfall decorations, though you didn’t think the House of Wind needed any more ornamentation.

As you filled a glass with deep red wine, you let yourself study the room and its occupants. It was filled with nobles, all dressed in extravagant clothing that was similar to your own. At least you didn’t come overdressed, you thought to yourself. Another pass of the room had a glint of blue sparking your curiosity. Your gaze shifted over to a male dressed in a simple black button down and trousers, that blue flash coming from the jewels atop his hands. His wings protruded from his back, tucked in tightly as if hiding from sight. Your eyes widened a bit at the muscles flexing beneath the fabric, the slight scowl on his face, and the allure in his hazel eyes as they gazed back at you. Quickly you looked at your drink, swirling its contents as you tried to ignore the heat in your cheeks.

You didn’t usually get caught staring, but by the gods was it hard not to stare at him. Risking another glance, you brought your glass up to your lips to hide your wandering eyes. His attention was focused elsewhere, now intently set on the male in front of him and the blonde on his right. You swallowed harshly, watching as a small smile perked up at his lips. Shadows lapped around his feet and shoulders like a running river, constantly moving, never ceasing to slow, but rather always fluttering. He was ethereal, and that was a thought that had never crossed your mind when it came to a fae.

“You must be Kallias’ sister.” A voice soothed in your ear, causing a slight jolt to wrack your bones. The female laughed, a sound that rang like a windchime. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m Feyre.” As your heart lulled to a soft beat once again, you nodded out of respect, admiring her kind eyes and the twinkling onyx jewels atop her head.

“It’s a pleasure.” She smirked, motioning towards the male you had been eyeing with a dainty hand. 

“I assume you haven’t met Azriel yet, considering your staring.” Your cheeks flushed again and she giggled, obviously sensing the shift.

“I wasn’t staring,” you grumbled, taking another sip of your wine.

“He doesn’t bite.” She laughed, taking your hand and dragging you towards the three fae that you had been spying on from afar. “Hey!” Feyre called in greeting, gaining the attention of them, much to your chagrin. “This is Y/N, Kallias’ sister. Y/N, this is Mor, Cassian, and Azriel.” You smiled softly with wide eyes, cursing your unfiltered thoughts for this moment. If you had kept to a corner, eyes glued to your glass, then this wouldn’t have happened. Yet, here you were.

“Hey, it’s nice to meet you. Gorgeous dress, by the way.” The blonde smiled warmly, her eyes glittering and glazed from a couple glasses of alcohol.

“Thank you.” You muttered, fidgeting with a stone on your gown. You chanced a glance at Azriel again, only to find him already looking at you. A common occurrence tonight, you supposed.

“Well, I’m going to grab another drink.” Feyre declared with a wink as she pulled Cassian and Mor along with her. The two of them were smirking as well and you knew that she had put her Daemati skills to use. You cleared your throat, intending to refill your glass as well, just to get out of the conversation that was bound to take place. But as you went to take your leave, Azriel’s hand clasped around your wrist softly, keeping you in place.

“Why have we never heard of you before?” He asked, his words practically matching Rhysand’s from earlier. Usually you would grace that question with a forced smile and a short response, however, breathing in his euphoric scent had you feeling rather vulnerable.

“Um, Kallias and my father thought it best to keep my existence within the shadows.” You replied, nerves caressing your skin, inducing a shiver to crawl down your spine.

“Because of your magic.” He stated. You blinked at him in shock.

“How did you know that?” A miniscule smirk pulled his plush lips up, and for some unknown reason you wanted to kiss it off of them.

“I can sense it. It’s strong.”

“My magic is glamoured. How can you–” He shook his head in answer before gesturing towards your glass.

“Let me refill that for you.” There was no time to respond as he took it from your grasp and disappeared amongst the crowd. You glanced after him, but instead you met Kallias’ eyes and Viviane’s cheeky thumbs up. With a scowl you stalked off to the balcony, hoping for some privacy to redo your glamour. Much to your surprise, you found that your glamour was fully intact, leaving you in awe.

“How?” You muttered to yourself. Nobody else had sensed it, nobody but him. An electric touch hummed underneath your skin. You pressed a palm against your heart, feeling it skip, that pulse buzzing against your bones before you turned to face him. He was swathed in shadows with a hand extended out, a full glass of wine as an offering. You took it with an uneasy smile as that electrifying static increased at the brush of your fingers.

“Starfall will start soon.” You nodded at his words, glancing warily up at the sky as he came to stand beside you, your shoulders nearly touching.

“What’s so special about Starfall, anyway?” His lips tilted up in that ever soft smile that he seemed to own.

“Just watch.” As his words left his tongue, a streak of light entered the sky, covering you with a dull glow. Another and another passed by until the sky was full and your eyes were wide in wonder. You had never expected Starfall to be spectacular; it always seemed like just another pointless reason for fae to get together and drink themselves drunk, but standing there, you knew that was far from the truth.

“Shit,” you breathed out, eyes never leaving the sky, even though you felt his piercing gaze on your skin. You reached a hand into the darkness of the night, stretching over the railing as if you could touch one passing by. Azriel chuckled beside you, causing you to quickly pull your hand back in embarrassment. When you turned to look at him, a chord struck in your chest and that tingle of electricity that had been sizzling in the distance sparked. You felt a tug, body jolting a step toward him as he did the same.

“I–”

“You’re my mate.” He took another step, your noses almost touching, breathing in each other’s air as you just stared, taking in his eyes as if they were the stars that fell from the sky.

“Shit.” You repeated, placing a hand just below your throat as if the touch could bring more air into your lungs. Azriel reached out, a glimmer in his eyes as he placed his hand over yours and you knew that this was the touch of an exploding star, that he was the one you were reaching into the sky for. The bond plucked like a harpsichord string as soon as the two of you touched. It felt like home–it was home. He was home.

“Funnily enough,” you started, a brittle laugh leaving your throat, “I was actually dreading coming here tonight.”

“And now?” He queried, his head tilting like a curious animal, fingers moving and intwining with yours.

“Now, I can’t quite see why I was dreading it so much.” A smile lit up his features, bigger than you had seen all night, and your lips twitched to reciprocate the motion unknowingly until the two of you were grinning at each other like long lost friends.

“I’ve been holding out hope for a while now.” He murmured as he leaned closer, noses gently brushing, lips almost touching.

“Hope for what?”

“Hope that you existed.” You could feel his heartbeat in the crisp air, feel his wings stretching as he began to close the gap between you, to interlock your two souls as one.

“Y/N, we have to go now.” A voice broke the two of you out of your trance. Azriel’s hand fell back to his side as you were pulled away, his eyes unwavering from yours until you disappeared behind the door. You had your sights set on nothing but his lingering figure as the rooms flew past you in a blur. Once the cold air of winter hit you in the face, you snapped out of your stupor and wrenched your arm free from your captor.

“What the hell!” You exclaimed, the bite of the wind fueling your immediate anger. Viviane’s eyes bored into yours, silver lining her tear ducts as she moved to grab you again.

“We have to go,” she pleaded, “we just caught word that several Naga are loose on the grounds and they’re wreaking havoc. We have to go.”

As swiftly as your anger came, it dulled, your eyes turned to steel, and your jaw set. You nodded once, ripping the crown off of your head as you followed Viviane to Kallias’ form. A dull pain sat in your chest as you placed a hand on your brother’s arm. You still felt his eyes on you as the three of you erupted into shadows and smoke, leaving the Night Court and your mate behind. 

[exitpursuedbyavulcan]

The Silver Dragon (14)

The Sapphire

Aemond struggles to adjust to Arianwyn’s absence. But on his nameday, Ser Gerold Royce arrives with a bronze-wrapped present.

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x OC (Daemon and Rhea's daughter)

Warnings: Masturbation (M)

Series Masterlist - Previous Chapter - Next Chapter

Aemond woke at dawn each morning consumed by the knowledge that he would not see Aria that day.

It had been more than half a year since he saw her, and yet the pain was still as fresh as the day he had flown away from her.

At least he had her letters.

And at least he was finally able to read them himself and in his own room. Orwyle had only released him from the Maester’s Tower a few weeks ago. No more fevers that rattled his mind with hallucinations, no more additional procedures that whittled away at his flesh, and no more pain so intense it chained him to his bed.

There was still pain. Orwyle told him he would likely always have pain. But it was bearable now – mostly. Bearable enough that he could convince both the Maester and his mother that he no longer needed daily doses of milk of the poppy. He hated it nearly as much as he hated Daemon. The loss of his senses was something he could not accept.

On Driftmark, his fear and anger had overridden his senses, and because of it, he lost Aria. He would not allow such a thing to happen again. To himself or to her.

Aria thought he had healed long ago. She thought he had been well enough to ride Vhagar for months. She thought he was happy and well.

Aemond was anything but.

He missed her so much it ached; the pain sharpened by the fact that he knew it would be years before they saw each other again. It took all his strength to pull himself from his bed rather than sleep until she was at last free of her father. For in his dreams, they were still together.

But Aemond had made her a promise. The next time she saw him, he would be the fiercest of their line since Aegon the Conqueror. He could not accomplish that by lying despondently in bed.

So, he stood and faced the sunlight streaming in through an eastward-facing window, stretching his sore muscles. Each morning, he tried to gaze far enough into the sea to see Dragonstone and the castle and Aria’s tower. But all he ever saw was the distant horizon.

He dressed in the leathers he had ordered specially made to be suited for both fighting and flying. To be as fierce as the Conqueror, his skill on dragonback must be matched by an equal proficiency with the sword.

Cole had been so impressed by Aemond’s defense of Aria and his determination to adapt to the loss of his eye that the Kingsguard had gifted him with a real blade to replace the flimsy wood of his practice sword. It was simple and wrought of ordinary steel – the ancestral Valyrian Steel of House Targaryen was still wielded by the king and Daemon – but it was still a fine sword.

And Aemond was growing into a fine warrior. Every morning, without fail, he went directly to the training yard after a meager breakfast in his rooms. He usually had the yard to himself for at least an hour before the other guards and knights began to arrive.

Aemond cherished that time he spent alone. It allowed him privacy as he brutally attacked the practice dummy, imagining it was Daemon. If any others saw how he attacked then, viciously and mercilessly, they would no doubt ask questions. But this was one fight he had to wage alone, at least for the time being.

Perhaps one day, after the King was gone, he would have the chance to wield his blade against the real Daemon. He would make him suffer for all he had done to Aria.

For now, all he could do was imagine. As he did so often these days.

He imagined Aria standing on the ramparts, watching him with a proud smile.

He imagined her across the table from him in the library, reading to him with her sweet voice until he fell asleep.

He imagined her astride Emrys, flying beside him through the skies and laughing as the wind whipped through their hair.

He imagined her everywhere.

But she was never really there.

For the first time in his life, Aemond dreaded his nameday. It had never been in his nature to enjoy the interminable celebrations and massive crowds, but the festivities meant he could spend several days with Aria by his side from dawn to dusk.

She would talk for him when he was too shy, encourage him to try the strange new creations from visiting foreign chefs, and squeal with delight at every present he received. Her presence was always his most favorite gift.

Now, he would have to endure it without her.

Getting through the tourney was relatively easy. He simply refused to leave the royal box, and he didn’t have to engage with anyone he didn’t already know. When he tired of talking with even them, most of the jousts and duels were impressive enough to hold his attention. Still, he would rather be riding Vhagar. But he had sent her to the Kingswood to roam and hunt while the tourney took place.

The feast was far more difficult. He was forced to endure hours of constant interruptions to his meal, only able to take four bites of his food before the whole plate went cold.

Lowborn knights aiming to elevate their status boasted to him, hoping to tempt him into accompanying them on their travels. Second sons from every house in Westeros tried to strike up a conversation, hoping to secure their place at court through him. And shy young ladies, both noble and wealthy, were paraded before him by their social climbing fathers.

Aemond was sure his brain would rot from the monotony of it all.

He had hoped the angry red scar still covering half his face would have scared at least some of them off, but he had no such luck. By the time he lost count of how many people had spoken to him, he was tempted to rip his eyepatch off and expose the gaping, gruesome hole where his eye had once been, just to try and get rid of them.

But that would only fuel the whispers.

Since the first day he emerged from Orwyle’s tower, he’d heard people whispering about him – about his wound and what happened on Driftmark. According to his mother, the king had forbidden all talk of the ‘incident’ in the court, but even the king could not suppress rumors and gossip. No matter how many tongues he cuts out or how many men he sends to the Wall.

Though the king had not made such threats on his son’s behalf – had not made any threats. It was a toothless order. He only made threats to protect Rhaenyra and her bastards.

Few of the whispers surrounding Aemond even mentioned that it was one of those bastards that took his eye. Fewer still acknowledged that he had been the one attacked. No, most cast him as the villain in that narrative, a devious thief who could only claim a dragon by stealing it in the night.

He wanted to scream at them. To tell them how foolish and stupid they were, all of them. He even wanted to him some of them – those that had spread the worst of the lies.

Before he could act on the impulse, a friendly face finally appeared before him.

“Prince Aemond, the people of Runestone wish you all the happiness of the world on your fifteenth nameday,” said Ser Gerold Royce. He held out a small wooden box wrapped with gleaming bronze ribbon and smiled at the Prince. “As does their lady.”

For the first time that night, Aemond found himself smiling as well. He took the box from Ser Gerold and began to carefully unwrap the ribbon.

“Aria deeply regrets that she could not be here to give this to you herself,” the knight explained. “But rest assured, she sends this gift with all her love.”

Aemond’s hands froze over the lid of the box. He knew Ser Gerold was expecting a response but did not know what to say. There was too much he wanted to say. But those words were only for Aria.

His mother saved him from having to say anything. “It is very kind of you to bring this yourself, Ser Gerold,” the Queen said with a sad smile. “We all miss Aria very much and pray that we will be able to see her again soon.”

Indeed, Aemond prayed for it every night. But that prayer had yet to be answered.

Alicent placed a hand on her son’s shoulder, sensing the cloud of gloom coming over him. “Go on, Aemond,” she said, “Open it.”

Taking a deep breath, Aemond lifted the lid from the box. His heart immediately lightened when he saw a folded note written in a familiar, messy hand.

Aemond, Happy nameday! I’m so sorry I can’t be there. Is the party miserable without me? You will just have to imagine all the brilliantly witty remarks I would have made if I were with you. And be sure to tell me everything that happened in your next letter—I want to feel as if I were really there! Oh, how I wish I could see your face when you open this gift. It took me a long time to figure out how I could possibly match the book you sent me months ago, but I think I’ve done it with this. I hope it works, and that you think of me every time you look in the mirror. I miss you beyond words. Your dearest friend, Arianwyn

If she only knew how often he imagined her by his side.

Her words intrigued him. Why would he see the gift in the mirror? The box was far too small to be any kind of clothing, armor, or anything else he could imagine wearing. Desperate to sate his curiosity, he hastily refolded the note, turned back to the box, and withdrew the contents.

The gift was wrapped in a small silk cloth, the color somewhere between a bright violet and the gentle blue of a winter sky. Aemond’s eagerness to see what was held within nearly vanished when he beheld the embroidery on the cloth.

Runes. Tiny, delicate runic incantations in bronze, silver, and black thread.

As Aemond tugged on it to better see one of the smaller symbols, the whole cloth came loose, and something small and round fell into his hand.

A sapphire.

With the cloth still held in one hand, Aemond lifted the gemstone with the other, holding it to the candlelight to examine it. It was not round – it had dozens of small facets on the surface. And engraved on each facet were the same runes embroidered in the cloth.

It was perhaps the most beautiful thing Aemond had ever seen.

“Aria wanted the stone to match,” Ser Gerold said, gesturing to the cloth, “but this was the closest we could find with such limited time.”

The prince lifted the cloth back to the gem. Indeed, the colors were quite different, though he could find a tinge of purple within the blue stone. But why was the color of the silk significant?

Oh.

When he truly looked at the color of the silk, he found it familiar. It was the same shade as his eyes – his eye.

He knew what the gift was. It had been over a month since he wrote to Aria about Orwyle’s plan to replace his eye. He had nearly forgotten. But she had not.

She had made something beautiful for him. Something that, if he were reading the runes correctly, would grant him strength, bravery, wisdom, and protection. Things he felt he was missing since she had been taken from him. She was giving them back to him in the only way she knew how – through the ancient magic of her ancestors.

Suddenly, Aemond was all too aware of Ser Gerold and his mother’s presence. They were waiting for him to say something. But there were no words, in any language that he knew, that could express what he was feeling in that moment.

“I…” he stammered, eyes darting between the stone and the cloth. “I miss her so much.”

Alicent wrapped a protective arm around her son, pulling him into her chest. “I know, my darling. I miss her as well.” As she spoke, Ser Gerold bowed and retreated back into the party, sensing his continued presence was unnecessary.

Aemond’s eyes stung with unshed tears. “There has to be something we can do to bring her home!”

“Believe me,” Alicent said, rubbing her hand across his back, “I wish there were. But, according to your father, until she is of age or married, Daemon has every right to keep her on Dragonstone.”

The sapphire flashed in the candlelight as Aemond turned it in his hand. “Then I will marry her,” he declared. “I am a man grown. I will marry her and rescue her from Daemon.” He felt something blossom in his chest as he said the words, a warmth that quickly spread throughout his body.

Yes, he wanted to save Aria. To get her away from her horrid father. But as he let his imagination take flight, picturing Aria in a white gown, smiling sweetly as she placed her hand on his, he realized that was not all he wanted.

He wanted her.

He loved her.

He had once read that love was pain. An unbearable, agonizing pain that could only be soothed when the object of your affection loved you back.

That was why his very soul ached every day, every hour, every minute she was gone – he loved her, and she was not here to love him back. If she ever did.

The startling realization faded when he felt his mother cupping his cheek. She turned him away from the presents in his hands and toward her. “Aemond,” she said, “nothing would make me happier than to see you and Aria wed.”

But her dark eyes did not look happy. No, they held an overwhelming sadness. “That night on Driftmark,” she continued, “I offered to betroth you to her. To prevent Daemon from taking her away. And while your father thought it a wonderful solution to mend the broken bonds within our family, Daemon refused.”

“Then he will wed her to someone else, and she will be taken far from me,” Aemond whispered, giving voice to his newest and greatest fear.

“No!” the queen assured, “I do not believe he will. If that were his plan, he would have done it by now, or at least made a betrothal. No, he wants to keep her on Dragonstone, where he has full control of her, for as long as he can.”

Aemond laughed sadly, his lip shaking as he spoke, “So we just leave her there, not knowing what he may one day do?”

“That is all we can do, my love.” Alicent dropped her hand to the table, where she grabbed the note Aria had sent with her wonderful gifts. “We wait, we pray, and we offer her as much comfort as we can from afar.”

With a sigh, Aemond looked down at the sapphire and the silk. He would not stop praying, would not stop writing to her every day. He would not give up hope that he would see her one day. And when he did, he would never allow himself to be parted from her again.

Whispers followed him everywhere he went.

They spoke of him like he was something dangerous to be avoided.

They said that a hateful god of Old Valyria had granted him dark powers at the cost of his eye and heart.

They called him a villain.

His father did nothing.

The whispers continued. They would not stop.

To the world, save his dear Aria, he was the fearsome, loathsome Prince Aemond “One-Eye.”

When nearly all believed it, what good would it do to fight against it?

What did he care what those beneath him thought, so long as Aria still cared for him?

He didn’t.

But Aria was gone. Unreachable. He was no longer sure he would ever see her again.

So, if the world believed him to be Aemond One-Eye, that is what he would be.

Only with Aria would he ever again be just Aemond.

Years later, Aemond once more pulled himself from bed to face the morning sun in the window, relishing the warmth on his face before looking down at the mirror he had placed on the windowsill so that his sapphire would be the first thing he saw each morning. Aria was right. Every time he glimpsed his reflection, he thought of her.

But he could not spend all day gazing into a mirror.

He sat back down at the edge of the bed, slipping his hand beneath his pillow. He smiled when he found what he sought and brought the small silk cloth to his face.

Though it had been years since she held it, Aemond could still find her scent in the fabric. Smoke and cold air filled his mind as he breathed in deeply.

He pictured her, not as the girl she had been when he last saw her, but how he imagined her now, as a beautiful young woman. Whenever a nobleman returned from a visit to Dragonstone, he pressed them for a description of her.

The image was so clear in his mind. Her long white hair that curled down to her waist, and those silver eyes that still held her characteristic sparkle. He imagined the slight upturn of her button nose and the deep lines in her cheeks when she smiled.

Oh, that smile. It could brighten the darkest night and warm the coldest winter.

He needed that smile once more. He needed Aria.

Aemond closed his eyes, keeping the soft silk pressed to his lips with one hand as he sank into the bed and his already hardened length in the other. He inhaled Aria’s delicious scent again and began to pump slowly, wanting to savor this ritual – one of the few sources of pleasure he still had.

He returned to his imagination, to Aria. He imagined running his fingers through her hair, tangling those perfect curls. He imagined wrapping his hands around her waist and pulling her flush against him. He imagined dragging his fingers down the soft skin of her cheeks to her full, pink lips, lingering there before he pounced.

How would it feel to kiss her? Would she lean back into him or let him take control? Would she wrap her arms around his neck? His waist? Or would she gently caress the sides of his face? Aemond’s breath hiked as he imagined the feel of her soft fingers on his skin.

He stroked himself harder and faster, practically hearing the way she would sigh and moan when he pulled himself away from her and moved to her neck. He would brush aside her hair and kiss her gently, playfully, hoping to draw more of those delectable noises from her. She would arch into him, as desperate for her touch as he was for hers. Then, when she could take no more of his teasing, she would seize his collar and bring him back to her lips. He would devour her then, showing her exactly how much he craved her.

Release came when he imagined her pressing her forehead to his, at last ending their kiss as she whispered against his lips, “I love you.”

Laying back on the bed, Aemond’s breath came heavy as he finally lowered the silk from his face. The relief from his release was short-lived, for he knew that this was all he had: his hand and his imagination.

With a great sigh, he raised himself again from the bed and began to dress for the day. As he left his bedchamber, he strapped his sword and dagger to his belt and tucked the purple silk into his breast pocket.

It had been more than eight years since Aria was taken from him, and still, he clung to every scrap of her that remained. And though the waiting was torture, he took comfort that it would soon end. Aria had celebrated her nineteenth nameday only weeks before. She would soon come of age and be free of her father.

If, on that day, Daemon did not release her, Aemond would take Vhagar to the Dragonstone and rescue her himself. Consequences be damned. He would be the noble prince to save the girl in the tower.

Then, they would have their happy ending.

[humanpurposes]

Come So Close That I Might See, part i

Desperate to secure her position, Aegon's wife turns to Aemond for help // Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Aemond Targaryen x OFC

Warnings: 18+, language, infidelity, smut (p in v, female receiving oral), breeding kink (kinda), and also a bit of fluff.

Words: 4800

A/n: this is my first oneshot! I've been sitting on this for literally months and finally got round to editing it. Also available to read on AO3.

Every breath Lucia took was like ice in her throat.

Her fingers came to toy with the Valyrian steel band around her ring finger. She wasn’t sure how much more she could take. Five years of whispers behind her back, agonising audiences with the Queen, the Hand and her Westerling and Lannister uncles. “The realm needs a son,” they all said, as if she hadn’t known that the moment she had said her vows to Aegon fucking Targareyn.

Her husband knew what he was doing. He had all but confessed countless times how he resented his position, how he did not wish to be crushed under the weight of duty despite the ambitions of his mother and grandsire. 

She knew her duty, to give King Viserys another grandchild to dote upon, give the Hightowers the heir they needed, and secure her own position as the wife of a future King.

For Aegon, a child would be a burden, another duty to squander. He demanded use of her hands and her mouth of the few occasions he bothered to visit her bedchamber, but otherwise he was content to pounce upon the nearest serving girls or fuck his way through Fleabottom.

Five years of humiliation.

She anticipated what talk might stir with the arrival of the King’s guests at court. A great feast had been planned, to celebrate the new additions to their family. Helaena and Martyn Hightower were due to arrive from Oldtowen to present their daughter, Rhaella, while Princess Rhaenyra had delivered her second son with Daemon, another silver haired Prince, named in honour of the King.

She delighted in seeing Helaena again and could hardly contain her excitement when she saw a flash of cobalt blue in the sky that marked the arrival of Daeron and Tessarion. The Prince and Princess had been both sent to Oldtown so soon after Lucia’s marriage to Aegon, but she missed them more than she did her own siblings in the Westerlands.

Then came the party from Dragonstone, Rhaenyra, Daemon, and their small army of children. Aemond had tested her memory before their arrival; Jacaerys, Lucerys, Joffrey, Baela, Rhaena, Aegon and Viserys.

Aegon was nowhere to be found when they were welcomed into the throne room. Lucia half hoped the captain of the city watch would come to her with news that his corpse had been found on the floor of a tavern. Instead she stood between Queen Alicent and Prince Aemond.

When the three boys with Velaryon blue cloaks and unruly dark hair bowed before the King, Aemond leaned into her ear. “That’s the bastard I have to thank for my sapphire,” he whispered.

Aegon eventually made an appearance at the feast later that night, sauntering in as the main courses were brought out. He already had a glazed look in his eye and dark purple stains in the corners of his mouth. Lucia shared a pointed glance with Aemond as her husband took his place beside her.

She did not have to suffer Aegon for long. Once the music picked up and the dancing began, Daeron was the first to lead her to the floor. Then, from the other side of the table, Jacaerys took Baela’s hand and joined them, the four of them dancing, twirling and laughing together, regardless of the scowls that came from Prince Daemon and Otto Hightower. Then came Lucerys and Rhaena, and after them followed Helaena and her husband. 

After a few exhaustive rounds, Lucia thought she might need a glass of wine to recover her strength, until her eyes fell to Joffrey, looking a little abandoned. She took his hands and led him through a dance, which mostly involved them spinning in circles rather than following the steps. The boy looked up at her in awe as she twirled them around the floor.

“The Strong boys��� were not so bad, she thought, they were gracious and lively, but in the back of her mind she couldn’t quite forget the terrible scar that slashed across Aemond’s face. She looked back to him as she danced. She expected to see that stoic, silent fury she had become so accustomed to, instead he looked rather… she settled on amused. His eye was softer than usual and his lips curled ever so slightly into– not quite a smile but it was hardly a frown either. 

And each time she turned her head he was already looking at her.

She felt the whole thing had been a success. Until Lord Tyland came to her the morning after Rhaenyra’s departure for Dragonstone.

He barged into her chamber, standing over her as she took her breakfast. “We cannot delay any longer.”

“Good morning to you too, uncle.”

“How often do you share a bed with your husband?” He hissed.

Lucia swallowed her mouthful of blackberries. “Not often.”

“Speak plainly,” he demanded. “You are the wife of the King’s oldest son, you are not entitled to privacy.”

Clearly. She took a breath. “He will not come to my bedchamber, if he can help it, only if he is too drunk to remember he despises me. And then he… is never able to fulfil his marital duties.”

“This cannot go on.”

“And yet it has been the case for four years, uncle. Aegon simply does not wish to make me a mother. You may seek to ask the Queen to lecture him, but I am not the one at fault.”

“That is simply not good enough.”

“So what would you have me do?”

“Whatever it is you must do. You have seen how disputes of succession cause instability, and without an heir, Aegon’s position, our position is not secure.”

She knew little of the arrangement between the Hightowers and the Lannisters. Perhaps her family thought her too young to understand when the pact of loyalty was made, and yet they were happy to let that alliance rest upon her shoulders. As long as her womb was empty, she would remain a Westerling orphan to the eyes of the court.

“She will never give Aegon a son,” she had heard one of the Tyrells say, “the King should cast her aside, make her a septa and marry the Prince to one of our girls.”

She spent the rest of the day in the gardens, walking for hours until she came to the rose garden. There was a bench, concealed amongst bushes of red, pink and gold flowers, looking out over Blackwater Bay.

Had the small council truly been so startled by the very presence of Princess Rhaenyra in the capital? Even with the rumours surrounding her three eldest sons, her extensive family was a show of strength and stability, something she and Aegon had so far failed to provide.

The sun seemed to go black for a moment and there came a colossal roar that shook the foundations of the city. She looked up to the sky to see Vhagar soaring out over the water. She couldn’t make out much of her rider, save for a small glimmer of silver hair.

An idea came into her head. 

She tucked her knees into her chest and began to gnaw at her lower lip until she tasted blood. She sat there, frozen in thought until the sun began to set and a chilling evening breeze swept in from the sea. Her gown was relatively thin, a day dress for Spring, but she did not shiver and she did not flinch.

As twilight approached, she heard footsteps crunching against the gravel path.

“You’re expected for dinner,” Aemond’s voice came from behind her.

She rose from the bench and came to stand before him, close enough to smell the leather on his jerkin and the faint scent of smoke in his hair.

He frowned and brought his thumb to her bruised and bloodied lip. She watched his eye as he inspected it, gently swiping and tugging. “What’s this?” He asked in a soft and scathing tone.

“It was my own fault,” she muttered, “I didn’t realise I was doing it.”

He pulled back with a dissatisfied “hmm,” but his gaze soon softened. “The Queen was getting rather worried.”

Lucia weaved her arm through his and began to lead him back towards the castle. “We should not keep her waiting then.”

*

Aemond followed Lucia into the dining room and settled in the seat across from her, beside Daeron. Helaena and Martyn Hightower were not present, apparently Rhaella had managed to come down with a cough and they would not leave her side. 

The King had decided to dine with them this night, a rarity. Mostly they sat in silence, the Queen occasionally attempting to make conversation. She asked Aemond how Vhagar had been that morning. He said “very well mother,” and drew his fingers along his knife. She turned to Daeron and asked how his studies were progressing. He said “very well mother,” and went back to eating. 

“Sunfyre is well too, dear mother,” Aegon added sarcastically.

Aemond caught Lucia’s eye as she tried to stifle a small smile.

“Rhaenyra is with child again,” the King said, “I do so desire a granddaughter.”

His mother pursed her lips. “You have a granddaughter, dear husband.”

“And perhaps I desire more.”

Aemond watched Lucia as she toyed with her duck breast, tearing apart the meat but never putting it near her mouth. He had watched her rather closely over the last five years, as her life had become a well rehearsed act, feigning smiles and indifference when she needed to, but he always saw right through her.

When Aegon glanced at her, she kept her gaze down and tightened the grip on her fork. 

“I might ask Helaena to stay a while longer in the capital,” the Queen said, “so we might spend some more time with our grandchild.”

“Do you presume the presence of my sister’s babe will offer us some encouragement?” Aegon sneered.

The table paused. No one dared to breathe, except Aegon, who took a long draw from his cup and finished it with a gasp of satisfaction. He glanced around at the bewildered faces of his family. “Is something the matter?”

Aemond kept his eye fixed on Lucia as she drew her lip between her teeth. Her cheeks glistened in the low candlelight as tears began streaming from her eyes. She stood quickly and calmly, and was out of the room before Alicent could even utter a single word.

The room fell to silence.

Until Aegon decided otherwise. “Do you think I upset her?”

Aemond made a point of hitting his fist against the table as he followed her.

She was in the corridor, standing with her back against the wall and her hands clasped behind her. At the sound of a single footstep her eyes darted to him.

He came to stand before her. Her cheeks and eyelashes were still damp, but she had stopped crying. 

The Queen’s furious shouts began to bleed into the corridor.

“Are you alright?” He asked.

Lucia nodded.

He offered his hand. “I’ll walk you to your chambers.”

She looked up at him with those wide and glistening eyes as she placed her hand in his. His heart ached to feel her skin, their fingers curling over each other, his thumb settling against her knuckles. She felt cold, but he would have been content to stay within her hold, as long as she would allow him to.

She stayed close as he led her through the stillness of the Red Keep, her skirt brushing against his leg with every stride.

Ser Arryk Cargyll waited outside her chambers, and she slipped from his grasp as easily as she had accepted it. She stopped as the guard opened the door though, and turned back to Aemond. “Would you stay with me?” 

Aemond held his breath, hoping neither she or Ser Arryk would somehow notice his heart drumming furiously in his chest.

“Not for long,” she added, “but I wish to speak with you.”

“Of course,” he said, and followed her inside.

The Princess’ chambers were not entirely unfamiliar to him. With Aegon’s elusive nature and Helaena and Daeron’s absences, it only felt natural that he and Lucia often found themselves in each other’s company. She enjoyed the library as much as he did and as she had developed interests in riding on horseback and marksmanship, he was all too happy to entertain her. Her chambers were not a place he visited often, not unless he wished to return a book, or take her on a walk through the gardens before dinner.

The room was immaculate, and it smelled like her, bittersweet and warm.

She stood before the fireplace. The glow of the flames flickered across her face and caught the faint strands of gold in her dark hair.

“Aegon will not give me children,” she said. 

He kept his expression soft. “What makes you think that?”

With every word she spoke, the gentle facade began to fade, the light and shadows of the fire only added to the look of fury on her face. “He knows a lack of an heir undermines his position. He will happily fuck whores and sire bastards but he will not fulfil his duty to me, his wife. He is a coward.”

Gods, she was beautiful when she was furious.

Her lip was still red and swollen. Before he knew it his thumb was against it again, hypnotised by the way her lip moved under his touch. His eye drifted up to hers. “On that much we can agree,” he muttered.

She took a slow step into him, bringing her hand around his wrist, gently pulling him away.

His heart stopped. Perhaps he had overstepped a line.

But she leaned in further, until their noses touched and all he could see was her. He felt her other hand settle against his jaw on his blind side. She leaned in further still, and pressed her lips into his.

He froze for a moment, but as her lips moved over his, he found himself unable to tame his impulse, the impulse that he’d been fighting for little less than five years. He allowed himself to melt into her softness, her warmth, the bittersweetness and the sharp taste of her tongue.

His hand snaked down to her waist, and only when he squeezed her flesh through her gown did he realise what he was doing. 

He knew what he should do. He should leave her, lock himself in his chambers and forget her. Forget her smile, her wit, the way his heart felt brighter when he watched her dance, the way he craved her sparse touches and her eyes finding him across the chaos of a crowded room.

Everything about her was perfect, his brother’s wife.

In his hesitation he retreated slightly. He could hardly think, hardly breathe…

And her voice cut through the fog of doubt in his mind. “You could help me.”

“How so?” 

Keeping her hand on his jaw, she brought the other to trace the highest silver buckle on his jerkin. Her thumb stroked against his cheek, featherlight over his scar.

And suddenly he understood.

He clamped his hand over hers. “It would be treason, Lucia.”

Her eyes were longing, pleading. “No one would need know,” she whispered, “there would be no question of parentage.”

His heart felt heavy. It would be a complete and utter betrayal of his family, not just Aegon, but his mother, his grandsire, and a risk to everything. They’d be no better than Rhaenyra, trying to pass a bastard off as an heir, and yet, there would not be much room for doubt, so long as the child had silver hair.

But suppose he gave in, bent to the will of those pretty eyes and perfect lips, only to stand aside for Aegon to claim what he would never deserve. 

He could feel himself on a knife’s edge, to stop, or to linger and let his desire consume him. He wasn’t sure what scared him more.

“You don’t know what you’re asking of me,” he breathed, but with every moment he felt himself leaning deeper into her touch. 

“Aemond,” she said his name like a spell and brought their foreheads to rest against each other. “There is hardly an aspect of my life which is under my control. If I should have some choice in this matter, then I would choose you.”

“Over him?”

Her breath echoed over his skin as she whispered, “above all else.”

His grip of her waist tightened, noticing the way her breath hitched as he traced his thumb over the fabric of her gown. 

“Aemond,” she whispered, bringing her lips to the corner of his mouth, “I want this, please.”

He caught her lips between his, kissing her with all the want he had spent years trying to suppress. 

His sudden urgency seemed to take her off guard but she met his efforts with just as much fervour, now with both hands cupping his face and fingers teasing over the soft skin of his neck, pulling him in further and further.

Lucia began to groan, falling into him arms and grinding her body against his.

He pulled away and took her hands in his. “Patience, Princess,” he hummed, and led her to stand at the foot of her bed.

Her eyes trailed over his jerkin while she ran her teeth over her lip.

“Turn around,” he ordered and she followed.

Cautiously but effortlessly, he undid the braid keeping her hair from her face. He ran his fingers through it, until he gathered it over her shoulder, exposing her neck to him.

He breathed in the bittersweet warmth as his hands traced over her body, over her torso, along the curves of her waist, the soft pouch of her stomach.

“Tell me,” he whispered, grazing his lips over her cheek, “how does my brother fuck you?”

“He doesn’t,” she uttered, watching his hands as they roamed, “he takes his pleasure in other ways, but never in such a way that would lead to a child.”

It was a dangerous confession to hear. If he wanted her before he was almost ravenous now, starved and fulfilled by every breathless gasp, every little twitch of movement in her body, desperate to feel her, claim her.

He hummed hungrily, and began to drag a hand further down, skimming over the fabric that covered her centre. “And would you like to be fucked, Princess?” 

She nodded.

“I said–” he pressed his hand firmly between her legs– “would you like to be fucked?”

“Yes,” she whimpered, writhing and leaning against him at the friction, “please, I want you to fuck me.”

He smiled into her. How could he ever deny her when she asked so nicely?

His fingers traced over the laces of her bodice before he began to pull them apart, agonisingly slowly, but he relished the anticipation and the little hitches in her breath. Once it was off, he moved to the clasps and drawstrings of her skirt, letting it pool around her ankles.

He offered a hand so she could step out and went to lay her clothing over a chaise. When he turned back to her she had removed her shoes and stockings, left only in a corset and a linen shift. 

He allowed his eye to rake shamelessly over her. He had never seen her in such a simple state, without the ornate gowns or the jewellery, her hair loose and tousled about her shoulders, the bare skin of her arms as she held her hands behind her back, her teeth running over her lip– a nervous habit, he realised, one that had somehow managed to evade his notice after all this time. He was the same with his hands.

He came closer and drew his fingers through the laces of the corset, while her eyes looked up to him. He made no protest as she reached up to slide off his eyepatch. 

She looked between his violet eye and the sapphire, and smiled dreamily. “My beautiful Aemond.”

His heart was shattered and welded back together. Hers. 

He watched her as she began to undo his belt and the buckles on his jerkin. Once it was off he pulled his undershirt over his head, leaving his chest bare. She traced her fingertips from his collar, over the hair of his sternum, the lines of his abs, until she let her fingers snag at the waist of his breeches–

He grabbed her by the wrists and pushed her to lie down against the mattress. “All in good time,” he promised with a glimmer of a smile. He released his hold of her wrists. “Keep your hands where they are.”

He dragged his hands down over her scarcely covered body, to gather the hem of her shift and bring it past her waist. He almost growled at the dampness of her small clothes, and pulled them from her legs, uncaring of where they fell. He gripped her thighs, prising her legs apart to reveal her glistening cunt to him.

He brought his thumb through her folds in slow, upward strokes, swiping over her bud just enough to make her squirm before he withdrew again.

“We can’t be too loud,” he whispered, “can you keep quiet for me?”

She hummed impatiently. “Yes, Aemond but oh–”

Her voice faded into a sweet moan as he licked through her. He liked the teasing, dragging his tongue to her entrance and savouring her taste before he moved up, flicking over her clit until her hips were moving against him. He pressed a wide palm over her stomach to keep her in place while he brought all of his attention to where she needed him most.

When he slipped a finger into her she groaned, pressing and biting at her lips to keep herself quiet, but her breath betrayed her pleasure, haggard and heavy. 

He could already feel how tight she was, stroking slowly against her tender flesh while his tongue circled over her pearl. And through it she kept her hands in place, just as he had asked.

The hardness in his breeches was starting to strain now. He couldn’t wait to feel her around his cock, soft, wet and warm.

Her hips started to buck again and her cunt twitched around his finger.

“Are you going to come for me, Princess?” He muttered against her.

Her voice was breathless and hazy. “Yes… I want to, please… please…”

“Not too loud,” he muttered, pushing a second finger into her, “you don’t want your husband to find out, do you?” 

She clasped her hand over her mouth, shaking her head as he pushed her further and further towards her high, until her body tensed at her release. He stifled his own moan against her flesh as she clenched around him.

She was utterly breathless, sprawled before him, drenched and dripping onto the mattress. He thought he could have kept her like this for hours, drawing orgasm after orgasm from her, savouring the sound and the taste of her pleasure.

But he had already stayed long enough, and he had no intentions of giving the guard something to be suspicious of, especially not when his family had seen him chase after her from the dining room.

Another time, he promised himself. For now he knew what she needed.

He finally rid himself of his boots and his breeches, freeing his hard and weeping cock. With her wetness still on his fingers he began to stroke over himself.

She watched him with wide eyes and parted lips, coming to sit up with her palms behind her.

Suddenly he stopped. “We don’t have to,” he said quietly, “are you sure this is what you want–”

Lucia came to her knees before him, silencing him with a soft and gentle kiss to his lips. Her hand brushed down his front to replace his hand around his cock, sending white hot shocks of pleasure rippling through his body.

“I want you, Aemond.”

His restraint snapped. He tugged her shift up over her head and then his hands were everywhere, gripping at her breasts, her hips, her rear, while she continued to tug at his cock.

Somewhere in the mess of hunger and lust his mouth moved along her jaw, teeth, tongue and lips grazing over her skin. “Lie down.”

Lucia stared back at him, resting her hands against his chest.

“I said, lie down.”

The darkness of his voice had her shuffling back until her head fell against the pillows. 

He came to kneel on the mattress and hovered over her, his silver hair falling around her face and brushing against her breasts. Finally he lifted one of her legs and hooked it around her waist, lining his tip against her entrance. “I’ll be gentle,” he said, pressing a kiss to her temple.

With that he began to press into her. He immediately felt how resistant she was to him, even with her slick, but inch by inch, he buried himself into her.

“You’re so tight,” he growled, “so tight for me, my sweet girl.”

Her back arched against the mattress as her eyes fluttered close and her face began to twist.

“Tell me how it feels,” he said, his voice rough as he fought the urge to fuck her quickly, thoroughly. She’d suffered enough these last years married to his cretin of a brother, he wanted to be the end of it, he wanted her to feel safe and adored, as she should have always been.

She brought her arms around his neck and her other leg around his waist. “Deep,” she whined, “so deep… so good…”

“Open your eyes," he pleaded, "let me look at you."

She pulled her face from his neck and opened her eyes, those perfect eyes, as deep, dark and endless as the night sky, glazed slightly with tears of bliss.

He could feel her easing into his size now, and he was getting restless, still gentle, but pushing in and out at a heightening pace.

He’d been wondering what she might be like longer than he cared to admit, dreaming of having her skin against his, his name on her lips, clawing at the memory of her when he entertained his carnal desires with his cock in his hand. And now, holding her, fucking her, having her beneath him and begging for her pleasure was beyond what he could have ever imagined. He felt euphoria with every thrust in her, so tight, so perfect, so willing. 

While one of her hands gripped the side of the pillow she lay against, he guided the other down between them. “Stroke that pretty clit for me,” he said, “I want to see you cum again.”

Her voice was a slur of moans and curses. “Please, Aemond, please.”

“I’ll give you what you need,” he hummed, “my perfect girl, I’ll always give you what you need.”

She came with a pleading cry, milking him of his own release. He kept thrusting until he had spilled himself completely inside her, biting down on her shoulder to muffle the sound of his pleasure.

He pulled away to watch his seed drip from her twitching cunt before he dove in with his tongue again, pushing it back into her.

He felt her fingers in his hair and glanced back to her dazed expression. They stayed there for a moment, gazing once again into the eyes they each craved. 

Until he crawled up the bed to lay beside her, pulling her into him, bodies intertwined under the bedsheets.

She traced a finger over his scar. She had never known him without it, never known the weak, naive child he was before Driftmark. “I used to be terrified of you,” she said.

He hummed a small laugh. “You hardly spoke to me for almost a year.”

“I always thought you were formidable, always absorbed in your studies or your training. That and the eyepatch.”

“It is better than what lies underneath.”

Her fingers came down to his cheek, turning him to face her. “No, I think I prefer you like this.”

He held her a little tighter. He knew he’d have to pull away, eventually, but for now he was content to have her in his arms, the girl who hadn’t cowered when he had finally shown her his scar. The girl with wide brown eyes, who looked upon him as he was, broken, marred, damaged, and had managed to find beauty.

[n0cturn4]

Series In every universe - 9 . Tim Drake

Character: Tim Drake x Reader Summary: "Do you think we’ll find each other in other lives?" Word Count: 763 Land of Ancient Times.

Under the starry sky of a night that seemed endless, Tim found himself once again at the edge of the enchanted forest, where the moonlight softly illuminated a clearing covered with silver flowers. The knight, clad in his gleaming armor, carried in his heart the mystery of his quest, though his eyes sought her instinctively. He knew she was there, hidden among the shadows and mist, as she had always been.

And then, from the silence of the trees, she appeared. The mystical creature who belonged to the forest and time itself, her eyes gleaming like ancient sapphires, her steps light upon the ground. Her presence exuded a profound serenity, as if she were the very embodiment of the earth's magic.

"Here I am again, knight," she whispered, her voice as melodious as the song of a hidden stream.

Tim smiled upon seeing her, yet a melancholy, unintended, showed in his face. He approached with the care of one who fears breaking a precious spell, extending his hand, as if reaching to feel her ephemeral touch, once more.

"Tell me," he began, hesitant, his eyes fixed on hers, "do you think... we will find each other in other lives?"

She looked at him with a sweet sadness, as if that were the oldest secret guarded by the forest. Yet there was no doubt in her answer, only a promise that echoed beyond time.

"If it is up to my will," she replied softly, "I shall find you in every one of them."

And in that moment, with the soft breeze carrying her words through the air, Tim knew that their fate would never be undone.

Tim observed every detail of her as one who tries to engrave a secret deep within his memory. At each meeting, it was as if he tried to steal from time one more moment by her side, though he knew they inhabited different worlds. She belonged to the roots and the stars, as ethereal as the breath of an ancient legend; he was bound to the weight of mortal lands, the steel of his armor, and the duty of protecting a kingdom she would never see.

"Why do you look at me so, knight?" she asked in a melody that seemed to soothe his heart. There was a soft 7in every word she spoke, a tenderness that bound Tim in an invisible chain.

"Because I fear that each time I bid farewell to you, it may be the last," he confessed, feeling his chest tighten under the weight of his own mortality. "And though I wish to remember every trace of your face, I always fear that you... will fade, like a dream upon waking."

She then approached, a mystical gleam flickering in her eyes as she touched his face with gentle fingers, bringing an unexpected warmth. Tim closed his eyes at the feel of that touch; eternity seemed to fit into that simple gesture, and the world outside ceased to matter.

"Tell me, Tim," she whispered, so close that her breath blended with her murmur, "if your heart believes so faithfully, then what fear could there be? Are you not, indeed, the only one capable of finding me, even in the deepest darkness?"

The knight opened his eyes, meeting the depth in hers. There, he felt seen and understood in a way he had never known. As if she had known him before his very existence, as if their souls had crossed paths in past lives, somewhere beyond the veils that separated time and eternity.

"It is as though you have dwelled in each of my dreams, each sigh, long before I could even understand what longing was," he replied, his voice laden with emotion. "Nothing could keep me from following your trace, from finding you in every life that comes after this one."

She smiled, with a touch of sadness, as one who knows what he would never understand. On her face, the reflection of an ancient, immortal certainty.

"So it shall be, then," she said, resting her forehead against his in a silent gesture that spoke louder than words. "I will be waiting for you, Tim. In every era, in every sunrise, your spirit will find me, and I shall be the shadow beneath the tree, the wind among the flowers, the river's song at dusk."

With one last touch, she stepped back, slowly disappearing into the forest's dimness. And the knight remained there, knowing that at the end of all ages, in some other world or life, he would find her again — for so he desired, and that wish would travel through the centuries until they met once more.

[names-for-alters]

Hello one and all, alters and headmates! I am Charlie! I like to make lists! I also hoard names! Are you looking for a name? GREAT! You can send an ask and request a specific aesthetic or origin of name, or you can look at my list!

With that said…

…Cracks knuckles…

Findo Tach Tails Flicker Tracer Kat Iris Blu Brick Arlo Sammy Artie Finn Stein Aleksandr Vora Olive Luna Nyx Cyrus Qrow Orian Cello Onyx Skye Grim Opal Dawn Azure Fish Bones Poppy Bronze Eggs Sparky Specs Snickers Trout Navi Bingo Chili Bandit Stripe Busker Socks Brandy Frisky Winston Lucky Chucky Bently Judo Rusty Max Honey Indie Calypso Striker Merle Moxxie Vex Ant Bugger Bee Spider Tails Hook Indigo Amber Coco Coral Scarlet Ivory Jade Ruby Emerald Chuck Loden Copper Hamelin Neo Shepard Cinnamon Visor Macalister Soul Hack Hiccup Flynn Rider Astrid Jay Raven Robyn Bolt Dagger Viper Tracer Cornwall Flock Sapphire Crystal Ghost Mochi Trick Catra Rose Raven Flip Chani Racket Red Crimson Dragon Runt Scotch Tellie Gator Croc Crow Goat Duck Creeper Kuma Jet Jeep Draco Poppy Sombra Raine Squish Spike Blaze Ender Drake Sandy MK PJ DJ CJ MJ King Creak Shadow Clay Dusty Miles Dart Willow Antonius Husk Moth Cypher Jin Yin Yang Daisy Gray / Grey Alistair Halo Angel Cake Fennec Fox Null Lull Bastion Lucky Sun Star Cosmo Tweety Vox Nerys Sonic Bark Birch Oak Cherry Blossom Peaches Velvet Shell Coffee Valley Fang Moot Redpath Pudding X V Jr Ether Fig Trunk Joy Frogger Snowflake Snowball Snow Jumper Racket Flare Vendetta Loonie Coin Six Eleven Tropica Stelina Mojave Ink Sud Fender Zero Pollen Wysteria Page Ozias Rex Tortch Buck Nickel Stripe Lynch Tramp Wolf Pup Tank Jhariah Kharma Zenith Sparrow Prism Lemon Mune Lamb Pyke Diamond Parker Graves Fizz Nugget Melody Tink Blight Fangless Ambress Vulture Eclipse Luka Bangle Constance Constantine Sommar Babble Clank Bobble Chipper Aidan Slate Tin Twire Zephyr Silver Misty Faunus Atlas Birdie Brook Cedar Chip Coal Daisy Ember Faye Fate Fern Flint Harmony Helios Ivy Junx Kit Lyria Phoebe Piper Lady Beacon Elos Rumble Ida Cross Zed Scootie Smidge Clauger Happy Sonny Hath Soldier River Song Clawtor Videl Legen Onen Chunk Reid Pop Cobra Cash Clover Saris Volante Donna Belladonna Gale Chopper Morphias Vidia Loft Kape Levi Licker Howl Dustin Newt Creek Breezy Polaris Blight Archer Sirius Warren Dream Goon Cookie Ranger Amity Jericho Viggo Besko Asra Alice Olaf Mossfeld Issic Missy Rascal Creasy Nonya Hex Pita Miguel Manuel Rayburn Daisy Dash Lucky Becky Steele Cylo Featherstone Kingston Netherfield Reacher Saltburn Quick Rubble Dust Brimstone Humble Ado Grover Norvanos Leshy Blade Cooper Calcium

Leo

Leonardo

Lebony

Silver

Linzier

Pearl

blackberry

Tatin

Bud

Raphael

Pebble

Mina

Linda

Oolong

Daeo/Dayo/Dao

Inco

Ketlyn

Risa

Ines

Lora

Flock

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Reah

Destinty

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Lalien

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Bug

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Jenny

Robert

Patrick

Pierre Rosemary

Henderson

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Hart

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Stoll

Gatlin

Yearwood

Amos

Graves

Rothschild

Halley

Spektor

Presley

Redd

Blackwood

Notvletti

Valerie

Milo

Marian

Lychee

Aiden

Nova

Vel

Bel

Yuri

Puro

Pluto

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Angel

Nada

Shen

Mog

Hania

Udge

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Kikos Wathel

Dupa

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coc

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Toast

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Ichigo

Rae

Sonic

MoonL

Lennus

cabaran

Marto

Leveer

Granite

Tongle

Gavril

Luella

Malachite

Leonard

[hearts-hunger]

Chapter One: A Flash of Steel and Silver {Series Masterlist | Series Playlist ♫}

Series Summary: You've been called the Jewel of the Bay, a lady born and bred in one of the Royal Navy's most profitable ports of call. On a fateful summer night, taken aboard the pirate ship Starcatcher, your world is turned upside down. To survive, you must put your faith in the honor among thieves and learn to trust the devotion of a pirate to his most precious treasure.

Pairings: Jake x Reader, Sam x Danny, Josh x Reader | Chapter Word Count: 4.7k | Warnings: AU-typical violence, harassment, historically accurate misogyny

A/N: My sweethearts! This is my very first time doing an au like this, and I'm very excited to share it with you. I have no concrete plans for this series, and no update schedule - I'm just seeing where the wind takes me on this one. I know it's different from my other fics, but I really hope you like it! ♡

Pirates. 

The word alone struck fear into the hearts of the people of Sapphire Bay, sending them inside to lock their doors and close the window shutters with a firm crack. Those devils marked by the branding iron were hated and feared, considered with a mix of awe and horror and morbid curiosity. To meet one meant certain death; for the superstitious, even to speak of one meant the calling down of hell’s rapacious wrath upon the new world’s fragile kingdom of islands. Everywhere, in hushed voices and cautious glances at the western horizon, people dreaded the coming of those demons. Pirates.

You had learned to fear them just as much as anyone, the threat of them always lingering in the back of your mind, but there was an insatiable curiosity that held you captive any time you so much as heard them mentioned. Your late father, the former governor of Sapphire Bay, had spoken of them often; you’d grown up on snatches of conversations heard from the other side of his study door, tales of murder and thievery and drunken escapades, stories of freedom and bravery and adventure.

Those stories had continued to fascinate you even as you became a woman, and you were more interested in them now than you had been as a child. Lucky, then, that you’d been betrothed to Commander Kit Drake of the battleship Black Smoke; his own closed-door conferences about the pirates that roamed the seas provided an endless diversion to your hungry imagination.

Hearing those stories was perhaps the only lucky thing about your betrothal, and you reminded yourself to try and think of other silver linings as your lady’s maid dressed you for dinner at the Commodore’s estate. 

“He’ll tell me how beautiful I look,” you said to yourself, touching light fingers to your lightly rouged lips. “Surely he will.”

“Indeed he will, miss,” your lady’s maid said as she styled your hair. “You’ll be the jewel of the bay this evening, all sparkling in the candlelight.”

You met her eyes in the mirror. “Thank you, Tabby. You’re very kind.”

She smiled. “Have you decided what necklace and earrings you’ll be wearing tonight, miss?”

You brushed a hand over your deep blue bodice. “I suppose the sapphires would be best, wouldn’t they?”

“As you say, miss. Commander Drake will surely be pleased to see you wearing his gift.”

Tabby finished your hair, a relatively understated crown of curls, and spangled you with trinkets from your jewelry box that could have fed and housed a family for several months. You touched a hand to the blue gem that rested in a swath of silver, the centerpiece of the heavy necklace that felt more like a collar for a dog than a gift of love from your fiancé. 

“There you are, miss,” Tabby said when you were ready. “I’ll tell the footman to bring the carriage ‘round.”

The Commodore’s estate was right on the bay, a sprawling mansion that put even your father’s estate to shame in sheer grandiosity. Several carriages stopped outside the main doors, ladies in fine dresses and men in naval uniform stepping out to join the group that filed into the golden, candlelit hall inside. Your attention was drawn to the sea as you waited, watching the way the moonlight dashed itself to bits across the glittering surface of the water.

“My dear. You finally made it.”

You looked over from the bay to the door of your carriage. “Kit.”

A frown tugged at your fiancé’s expression. “You mustn’t call me that here, dearest, you know that. Commander Drake or ‘sir’ will suffice.”

You flushed, wishing you’d remembered that rule. “Of course, sir.”

You accepted his hand when he offered it to you, and you looked up at him with girlish eagerness to see if he’d comment on your appearance.

“I wore the jewels you gave me at our engagement,” you said quietly.

He gave you a distracted glance. “Oh. Yes, I suppose you did.”

“Do you... do you like them?” you asked, crestfallen.

He breathed a short sigh. “They’re lovely, my dear. Let’s not tarry, shall we? I’m afraid you’ve already made us late.”

He offered his arm, and you hung off of it as a good young lady should. Your head turned back to the sea, just for a moment, and you thought you caught a glimpse of a shooting star reflected on the waves.

“We’ve got to double our presence on the coasts of the southern isles. We’ll rout them simply by being there in force. They wouldn’t dare to try and attack any of the ports there if we made our presence more obvious.”

You took a sip of wine and tried to look bored, knowing that the quickest way to get navy men to stop talking of pirates was for a lady to show an interest in their conversation. If they didn’t consider you too delicate or stupid for that kind of talk, they’d fear for some kind of longing to spark within you, the same kind they allowed to rage unchecked as they sailed on their mighty seafaring vessels.

“No corsair in these waters is a match for any of our fleet,” Kit argued. He gesticulated and narrowly missed your wine glass as you set it down. “I say with conviction, gentlemen, that there is no need to add even a single ship to those we already have out of port.”

“Maybe they’re not a match for your ship, Commander,” said a lady on the opposite end of the table. You glanced over with mild panic, wishing you could tell her merely to listen, but the gentlemen she was interrupting didn’t seem to mind.

“I’ve heard you gentlemen say the Black Smoke is the fastest ship in the Royal Navy,” she said, and there was a flirtatious intonation to her voice that drew the men in like moths to the flame. “However, I’ve also heard it said that there is a pirate galleon in our waters that can match it for speed.”

“Name the ship,” a lieutenant challenged.

The lady smiled. “Starcatcher.”

The name caused a flutter of excitement to stir in your breast. Starcatcher. It certainly sounded like a fast ship, and no vessel in the Royal Navy had such a wonderful name.

“Nonsense,” Kit said, waving her remark aside even as he trained his attention on the coy curve of her mouth. “The Starcatcher is a myth told to frighten new deck hands. No such ship exists.”

“No?” the lady asked with an elegant lift of her brow. “And what of its sister ship, the Indigo Streak? Some men say it can disappear into thin air.”

“Some men are fools,” Kit said, and his smirk betrayed his arrogance. “No doubt you’ve heard these same men claim to have seen the witches that serve as the figureheads of each ship.”

“They’re not witches,” another man protested. “I’ve heard they’re meant to be Nike and Themis, goddesses of victory and justice.”

Kit scoffed. “Victory and justice, indeed. Even if these ships did exist, what victory and justice could be won outside the King’s authority?”

“Pirates don’t consider the King’s authority legitimate, though, do they?”

All gazes swung to you, and you felt a wash of embarrassment follow the heady flush of having impetuously offered your own opinion. Kit’s face went pink with anger.

“What a pirate thinks of the King’s authority means little,” he said sharply. He took your hand under the table and gave it an uncomfortable squeeze, leaning close. “And what a woman thinks of it means even less, my dear, so I suggest you keep such foolish thoughts to yourself.”

He released your hand with disdain, and you shied away from him as far as you could. You understood perfectly well why the lady with the deep red lips was allowed to speak and you were not; her comments were meant to incite men to braggadocio and pride, and yours only called into question their self-assurance. You would not speak merely to stroke a man’s ego, pirate or King’s man or anyone in between; most at the table considered it better, in that event, for you to keep your mouth shut entirely.

You took another long drink of wine and tried to keep your hands from shaking. Of a sudden, everything was overwhelming; the sound of tittering laughter and silver forks against china dishes, the smell of dozens of different perfumes, the heat of the candles that cast flickering beams onto jewels and gold buttons and silver sword handles. You felt pressed in on all sides with an extravagant meal you couldn’t hope to finish in front of you, men to the right and left of you, servants behind you to tend to your every need should you so much as wave an indolent hand. 

You took a deep breath, as deep as you could with your stays laced as tightly as they were, and dug into the reserve of feminine gentility and self-control that had been trained into you since birth.

“Commander,” you said quietly, touching your hand to his sleeve. He ignored you, and desperation clawed at you.

“Sir,” you said in a pleading whisper.

With a frustrated huff, he turned away from his companions and met your eyes. “What is it?”

“I beg your pardon,” you said. “I — I suddenly feel quite ill. My head, it’s...”

He snapped his fingers, and a footman came to his side to await his instruction in perfect silence.

“Attend the lady,” he said, gesturing to you with impatience and contempt. “She’s taken ill, apparently.”

The footman bowed his head. “M’lord.” He pulled your chair out and gave you his hand; you took it, offering a feeble excuse to those few who noticed your departure and cared to comment.

“Shall I show you to one of the guest chambers, m’lady?” the footman asked when you were safely outside the dining hall.

You shook your head. “No, thank you. I wonder... could you help me find the gardens? I would be so grateful for a breath of fresh air.”

“Very good, m’lady,” was the man’s response. He escorted you to the gardens. “Shall I ring for a lady’s maid to accompany you?”

“That won’t be necessary,” you said. “Thank you for your help, sir.”

He bowed. “M’lady.”

A bit of the peace you so dearly needed was found out in the garden, and you wandered in the cool darkness of the shrubs and trees blossoming with flowers of every hue. You took a deep breath of the warm night air as you walked over the cobblestones, closing your eyes for a moment to drink in the quiet of birdsong and the ever-present hush of waves upon the shore. You longed to go down to the water, if only for a moment; what relief it would bring to feel the cool waves lapping at your ankles, to feel the salty breeze skim over your cheek with all the tenderness of a lover’s hand. You opened your eyes and felt its dark, silver-scaled presence call you like a mother to a child, begging you to leave the world you knew behind.

“Foolishness,” you whispered, pressing your hand against the merciless shackle of sapphire and silver that hung about your neck. You could never leave. You would be here, always, looking out upon the water, wearing its color on your breast, never quite close enough to touch.

You heard your name called from a direction opposite the ocean. Footsteps sounded behind you, and you did not allow yourself to breathe the sigh that waited ever-ready at your lips.

“I only needed some air, Commander,” you said without turning to him. “I’ll be well enough to join the ladies in the parlor after dinner.”

Without warning, Kit grabbed your wrist in a punishing grip and spun you towards him.

“Turn to me when I call you,” he said in a low, dangerous voice. “Do not presume to speak to me with an air of indifference.”

Your blood ran cold at the anger in his face. “I didn’t — I wasn’t trying to — ”

“I knew you weren’t ill,” he said, squeezing your wrist tighter. “You left because you wanted to shame me, didn’t you? Or perhaps because you were petulant about my correction?”

“No,” you said weakly, trying to tug your hand from his grip. “Please, Kit, you’re hurting me.”

He took your jaw in his other hand and squeezed it. “I told you not to call me that. Do you mean to respect me at all tonight? Or shall I have to teach you a lesson in obedience?”

You paled. You tried to find your voice to try and calm him, to apologize, but another man’s voice broke in before you could.

“Take your hands off the lady.”

Kit released your jaw, more out of surprise than any desire to obey. You tried to pull out of his grip, but he held fast to your wrist.

“Who spoke?” Kit asked into the darkness of the garden. “Show your face.”

“Take your hands off the lady, as I said,” the man repeated. “I’ve got a pistol aimed straight for your heart, Commander, and I assure I won’t miss.”

Kit’s face flushed an angry red. To your surprise and relief, he let you go, and you put a few steps of distance between you.

“How dare you speak to me in such a way?” Kit thundered. “I demand that you to come into the light and show yourself.”

No sooner had he spoken than a man sauntered out of the shadows of a copse of palm trees, a flintlock pistol held in an almost lazy manner in Kit’s direction. The hilt of a cutlass on his hip caught the light of the moon.

“You demand it, aye?” the man asked. His long hair was dark, his frame lean and hard-muscled; he was practically indecent, his cotton shirt unbuttoned to reveal a collection of necklaces that rested against his tanned chest. You blushed and averted your eyes when he looked at you.

“Makes you wonder,” he continued conversationally, turning his attention back to your fiancé. “Perhaps your King ought to call you Demander rather than Commander.”

Kit put his hand to the hilt of his saber. “What are you, boy?” he said derisively. “Beggar? Thief? Be on your way before I arrest you for harassing an officer.”

The man’s mouth turned up in a crooked smile as he returned his pistol to its holster at his waist. 

“Go ahead, Commander. Though I doubt if you’ll find there’s any jailhouse to throw me in by the time you do.”

Kit looked the man over in confusion and absolute fury. He opened his mouth to speak, but an explosion from the outskirts of town effectively cut across him.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Kit raged. He looked to see the billow of smoke from the direction of the jailhouse, then whipped his head back to look at the man.

“You’re a fool to attempt a prison break,” he said. “There’s plenty of brigs in the fleet to throw you and your worthless comrades in once we collect all of you.”

Kit drew his sword, and the man had drawn his and disarmed Kit in a flash of steel and silver quicker than you could see it. Kit’s sword clattered across the cobblestones and skidded to a halt at the man’s feet.

“I’d be careful who you draw your sword against tonight, Commander,” the man said. He kicked the saber back towards Kit. “You won’t find my men as forgiving as I am.”

“Your men?” Kit blustered, shame and fury mottling his face. “Who the devil do you think you are?”

A cocky smile lit the man’s face, and you found it somewhat maddening and almost alluring. Confidence radiated from him like warmth from the sun, and you watched in fascination as he took a step closer to Kit.

“You don’t know me?” he asked. He lifted his sleeve; just above the white bracelet he wore was the scarred mark of a pirate.

“You gave me this, Commander Drake,” the man said. “Though I suppose you were only a lieutenant back then, weren’t you?”

“Scum,” Kit spat. “I should have known. I’ve branded enough of your kind that you all run together into one wretched mass.”

“I see,” the man said. He sheathed his cutlass again even as Kit bent to retrieve his, seemingly unconcerned with the possibility of a duel. He tilted his head towards the Commodore’s house.

“In that case,” he said airily, “I’d love to be the one to tell you that the wretched mass is running together in your Commodore’s estate as we speak. Taking your jewels, your gold, your spit-polished swords that have yet to taste blood. It’s only a matter of time before they interrupt your little dinner party, I fear.”

As if on cue, pandemonium erupted from inside the house. Doors burst open, sending a flood of screaming party guests outside with pirates right on their heels, each of them armed to the teeth and crowing with delight.

“Filthy pirate!” Kit howled. “I’ll have you and every one of your men hanged for this!”

“Oh, Commander,” the man said with a winning smile. “You’ll make me blush with that kind of talk.”

Bang. A bullet whipped past the three of you, slamming into the trunk of a palm tree and sending out a shower of splintered wood. You flinched and raised your arms to shield yourself.

“Aye, watch yourself,” the pirate called to whoever had fired. He sounded only mildly annoyed rather than fearful for his life, and you wondered if it was bravery or stupidity that made him so calm.

Suddenly, Kit grabbed your arm and snatched you close to him. For the second time that night, he held you in an iron grip, and there was little you could do to fight him off.

“You’ll tell your men to let me go,” Kit said, panic crawling into his voice. “You’ll order them not to shoot me, because if they do, they’ll hurt the lady.”

You startled at the knowledge that your fiancé was using you as a human shield, offering you as a bargaining chip to a pirate. You tried to wriggle out of his grip, but he held you fast.

The pirate scowled. “Coward,” he spat. “What sort of man are you, Commander?”

“One not condemned to death,” Kit said, a maniacal glee in his voice. “Not tonight.”

He started to drag you with him as he made his way out of the garden, heading with slow steps towards the docks rather than the house where screams and gunfire still rang through the air. You kicked and clawed, begging him to let you go, terrified that a bullet meant for him would kill you too.

“Let me go, Kit!” you pleaded, tears streaming down your cheeks. “You worthless coward, let me go!”

“Silence yourself!” he hissed in your ear. “Once we’re well away from this, we’ll both be safe.”

He clapped a hand over your mouth, and it only made your panic and anger worse. You had to get free of him — he was squeezing you so tightly, you couldn’t breathe — 

In a last, desperate attempt at freedom, you bit down, hard, on the soft junction between his thumb and first finger. He bellowed in pain and released you.

“Bitch!” he howled, backhanding you across the face. The force of it made you dizzy, and his signet ring cut your cheek; you stumbled backwards, falling in a tangle of blue skirts to the unforgiving stone walkway.

“Right, that’s it.”

You heard the pirate’s voice as if from somewhere far away. You looked up with a bleary gaze; he stood next to you, his pistol held aloft and pointed right at Kit.

“No!” you shrieked.

You grabbed at his leg to try and stop him, somehow, blind devotion for Kit urging your forward. The pirate didn’t even seem to notice you, and your whole body flinched at the sound of gunfire. You squeezed your eyes shut even as sobs wracked your body.

“Come on, lass.”

You felt the pirate's callused hands reach to help you up, and you reacted in terror-stricken instinct.

“Don’t hurt me!” you begged, trying to get out of his reach, woozy with fear and pain. “Please, don’t hurt me. Let me go. I won’t tell anyone you killed him, I promise.”

“I didn’t kill him,” he said harshly. “Quit fighting, lass. I won’t hurt you, but you have to come with me.”

You looked up at him, and his face was blurry through your tears. “But you’re a pirate.”

“Aye,” he agreed. “And your only chance of making it out of here alive.”

He offered you his hand, and you didn’t see any other choice but to take it. His grip was strong and steady, firm enough to help you but gentle enough to keep from hurting.

“Attagirl,” he said when you were standing. “Steady, now. Can you walk?”

“Yes,” you breathed. For some reason, you didn’t let go of his hand. “Where are we going?”

He nodded towards the bay. “My ship. You’ll stay there until all this settles down, and then I’ll take you back home.” 

Shattering glass brought your attention to the house momentarily; a raging fire billowed out of the broken window, sending great clouds of smoke up towards the sky.

“Unless you live here,” the pirate said. “In which case, you’ll have to find other arrangements.”

You could do nothing but stare at him for a moment, bewildered and dazed. “But... why?”

“Why what?”

“Why are you helping me?”

He looked over your shoulder towards Kit, who lay groaning and weak in the grass with a bullet wound to the shoulder. His expression held nothing but disgust and contempt for your fiancé.

“I don’t like to see a lady mistreated,” he said. He gave your hand a gentle tug. “Come on. This way.”

You followed after him, helpless not to, feeling outside of yourself as you tried to think past the pain in your jaw and the overwhelming fear that still held you captive. He led you through the garden and down to the Commodore’s private docks where a skiff was waiting.

“Wait.” You stopped and tugged on his hand, and he turned to face you.

“What is it?” he asked, a touch of urgency to his voice. 

You looked to the skiff and then back to him. “How — ” You swallowed nervously. “How do I know you won’t hurt me?”

He looked a little lost for a response. “I don’t know, lass. I believe you’ll just have to trust me.”

“Trust a pirate?” you asked, choking a little on the words.

He gave you a grim half-smile. “Could be worse.”

“How on earth could it be worse?”

He didn’t answer you, distracted by the sight of several more skiffs approaching the docks. You followed his gaze and saw they were coming from two huge galleons further out in the bay.

“Heavens,” you breathed. You didn’t know how you could have missed them, but they suddenly loomed like two great monsters on the surface of the water.

He pulled you towards the boat. “Come on, lass,” he urged. “The second wave’s coming in soon, and they don’t mind me as well as I’d wish them to. I’d rather you not be out here when they come.”

You met his gaze. “Second wave? There’s more of you?”

He huffed a short, mirthless laugh and ushered you into the skiff with little grace. Your became hopelessly tangled in your skirts and sat uncomfortably on the opposite side from him.

“You may wish to take off some of those cumbersome overskirts, lassie,” he said, taking the oars and rowing you out to the giant ships. “You’ll get them caught in something and get hurt.”

You blushed vividly. “Take off my skirts?” you repeated, incredulous and mortified at the idea, though you noticed you didn’t sense any salacious undercurrent to his suggestion. “I certainly will not. Just because you run around in a state of undress does not mean I will.”

He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

You sat in silence as you came ever nearer to the twin galleons, feeling a caving pressure in your chest as they loomed closer. You looked around for something, anything, to distract you; against your better judgment, your gaze landed on the movement of your pirate rescuer’s strong arms with each pull of the oars.

You looked away, chastising yourself for such foolishness in the face of everything else that had happened.

When you reached the closer ship, you looked up at the cargo net that hung over the side with more than a little trepidation. How were you ever going to climb it in your dress?

Your pirate — when had you started to think of him as your pirate? — gave a theatrical gesture to the net. “Ladies first.”

You huffed, feeling anger at your situation start to override any other emotion. All you’d wanted tonight was to have a nice, unexciting dinner, and yet here you were, standing before a pirate and about to board his ship in the middle of the night.

“Very well,” you said tartly, dredging up some reserve of courage and feistiness from whatever was left in the hollow of your chest. With some difficulty, you reached under the waist of your blue overskirt and untied the two underskirts and hoop skirt underneath. He had the decency to avert his gaze, at least, but your face was still hot with embarrassment as you shimmied out of them and slipped off your uncomfortable shoes.

When all that was left to cover your undergarments was your overskirt and bodice, you stepped in your stocking-feet onto the first loop of rope on the cargo net.

“Mind your gaze, pirate,” you said, managing with a fair bit of exertion to climb the net. He scaled it with you, quick and nimble, and gave you a grin when he reached your perch.

“Pirate sounds such a dirty word when you say it,” he said, and there was a teasing lilt to his voice that gave you the strangest fluttering sensation in your chest. “You’d better just call me Jake.”

Oh, but you didn’t like knowing his name. Not one bit.

“Fine,” you said, tearing your gaze from his. “Mind your gaze, Jake.”

He grinned. “Only if you mind yours, lass.” He stepped up another rung and climbed the rest of the way with ease. You gave a dejected sigh and continued your laborious ascent to the railing of the ship.

When you reached the top of the net, Jake was waiting for you. He offered you a hand up, and it was only with his help that you managed to get aboard without falling on your face.

You looked up when you were steady. “Oh, dear.”

Several pirates stood frozen along the deck, watching you with a mix of shock, hostility, and undeniable interest. Each one of them was armed, sword hilts glinting at their hips and pistols tucked into belts that looped over their barrel-sized chests.

“Easy, lass,” Jake said, taking hold of your arm again. You barely registered that you’d made a sudden, jerky movement to flee the ship and go back down the net, but he’d stopped you before you could go anywhere.

“None of my men will hurt you,” he promised, and when you met his eyes with a terrified glance, you saw that he meant it.

“I have to trust you on this, too?” you asked feebly.

His mouth curved in a smile. “Aye. You’re getting the idea, lass.”

He let you go, a testament to his trust in you not to try and run, and nodded to the stairs before you.

“Allow me to escort you to my quarters,” he said.

You flushed. “Y-your quarters?”

“Indeed. Where I shall leave you to your own devices and come back out to be with my men.”

You gave a shaky sigh of relief. “Oh. Very well.”

You’d taken no more than two steps towards the stairs when another man appeared at the top of them, his features strikingly similar to Jake’s but done up in dark makeup that matched the black clothes he wore.

“Why, my dear Jakey,” he said with a glittering smile. “What have we here?”

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[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Good day M :) Sending you a request Aemond x afab! Reader for the wax play? Thank you! (This is for the kinktober requests)

So I thought of writing it from the point of Aemond being on the receiving end of the wax play. I hope you like it.

“New delights”

Pairing: Aemond x Fem. Reader (House Baratheon/Established relationship/Second person POV) | Location: Storm’s End

Themes: Smut

Warnings: Temperature play (wax/heat) | Kissing | Dirty talk | Cockwarming | Explicit language | Authority kink | Penetrative sex | Cream Pie 

Word count: 800+ words

Summary: A night is spent trying something new in Aemond’s chambers.

Rating: 🔥🔥 | Minors DNI | 🔞 | You are responsible for the media you consume

"Tell me again, lord husband, how you came to claim the largest dragon alive?”

Aemond watched with a dizzying sense of pleasure while hot, fat drops of buttery-yellow wax dripped onto his chest. He twisted against the silk sheets and uttered a low moan when quick bursts of searing heat fed the flames already raging within.

“It was a night just like this one,” he said, gesturing to the open windows, his voice now thick and hoarse. “Quiet. Cloudless. The moon hung high in the night sky. Vhagar slumbered on the beach, her saddle still on her back. I —fuck—I waited till the others went to their beds, and made my way to where she lay. She would have killed me then and there had I not commanded her to calm herself.”

Aemond stopped and moaned again. More wax dripped down his chest, his torso. The sensations that burst to life within him were unlike anything he had experienced before. They were dark and exhilarating, filling him to the brim. Aemond allowed himself to gorge on them all without shame.

“The climb was hard,” he continued. “The first flight was harder. I was nearly thrown off. But that feeling of being aloft and soaring above the waves… words alone cannot describe how wondrous it all was.”

You smile. Tilt the candle. Hands calloused by sword use tighten their grip on your hips. Aemond found himself craving more than the heat that surged through him every time molten wax dripped onto his flesh. With a brisk tone of authority, he said, “Now enough with the straddling. Enough playing with that candle, wife. Your husband has a thirst for another kind of pleasure.”

“I thought you desired to savor new delights this night.”

“I did. And I have. Now put the candle away. Please.”

“But…”

“Obey me, wife. Put away that candle.”

A swell of inescapable excitement pulsed through your veins upon hearing the steel in his voice. You obeyed; set the candle on the little cupboard beside the bed. Then you turned to face your husband.

His violet eye burned like purple flame. His sapphire one sparkled in the candlelight. You reached down and cupped his cheek. Your hand found its way to his hair. Locks of silver-gold slipped around your fingers like water. Aemond clasps your hand and brings it to his lips. He pressed a kiss over each finger, then sighed. It was soft, impatient, filled with yearning.

“Move for me.” His command came out like a plea instead of the order it was supposed to be. “Please. Please.”

You moved, your hips undulating every time you sheathed him in the wet heat of your sex. Beneath you, Aemond shamelessly arched back, arched up, driving himself into you with each breathless gasp. His hands left your hips. They glided all over your thighs, your belly, and then they reached up, went higher, searching, seeking. His touch was still warm, his hands kissed by the morning sun. It sent feverish shivers through your body. Your breasts soon filled his palms. His thumbs brushed over hardened peaks, firm and yet surprisingly tender.

“Gods, you are amazing.” Aemond watched, his attention ensnared, when your hands moved over his.

You smile. Reply. “Tis all for you, husband. All of me is for you.”

His lips curled into the faintest of smiles. His hands moved back down to your hips, gripping them, pulling you down harder on his cock. You touch yourself and fondle your own breasts. Aemond growled, low, guttural, and primal. There was a tightening in his belly, of fiery waves rising and surging just beneath his skin, drowning him. He drove himself deeper, harder, and then he reared up, rising to his knees. His soft mouth found, and then ravished, yours with a kiss that made you moan in sheer, sensuous pleasure. He took you up, and made you feel like you were soaring beneath the stars. You could not think, or even breathe. All you could do was let him take you higher and higher until he let go and you plummeted earthward with a cry, your entire body quivering after having encountered euphoria of the acutest kind. Aemond was still ceaseless, driving into you again and again, until he shuddered and emptied himself with a deep, satisfying grunt. Finally, he went still.

Slowly, he pulled away, brushing your hair out of the way. His chest heaved, the hardened wax now cracking with the rise and fall of his chest.

You open your eyes and give him a measured look. True, Aemond had asked for this—the wax, the sheathing, the waiting, everything. But was he truly satisfied? “Was this night all you hoped it would be, husband?”

A smile, rare and bright and glorious, swept across his face. “Better than anything I could have dreamed of, wife.”

[thisbluespirit]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Sapphire and Steel Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Copper/Silver (Sapphire and Steel) Characters: Copper (S&S), Silver (S&S) Additional Tags: Ficlet, original elements, Prompt Fic, Kissing Summary:

Silver/Copper, kiss as a yes.

[damn-stark]

Chapter 16 LONG LIVE THE QUEEN

Chapter 16 of Sandstorm

A/N- Two more chapters before the big finale!!

Warning- Swearing, death, violence, blood, fluff, long chapter, and there’s changes that depart from the show!

Pairing- Jon Snow x Targaryen!fem-reader

(If you want to be tagged let me know)

————

“…that was the story of Aegon the Conqueror and his sisters, my favorite story when I was a little girl. Albeit…my father, your grandfather, would tell it a whole lot better.” Your voice quietly fills the room Jon walks into.

Today was the day you parted from Dorne to march towards Kings Landing for one last time, for the big fight, the last battle. Neither of you knew if either of you were going to make it, you kept hoping you would, but anything can happen. And because your fate is unclear you haven’t wanted to leave the twins' side all day today. Jon didn’t either, he was happy now with his family, with his children only a few weeks old, with you.

This is where you belonged, here with them, and now you’re leaving. This is all you ever wanted and you’re leaving again.

But it has to be done for…Rhaenar, for their own safety; they’ll always be a threat to her now that the Lords allied with you have turned a blind eye about Jons true parentage. It’s not hard to guess why; he’s a man, the last Tagaryen male with a dragon, he’s valuable to them. He’s their true King.

They can think whatever though, fuck them, you’ll still be the one on that throne at the end of the day.

“Y/N,” Jon makes himself known, albeit you don’t look back at him, you keep admiring Rhaenyra and Robb falling asleep in your arms. “It’s time to go love.”

You begin rocking your body gently to make them fall asleep faster, ignoring Jon’s approaching footsteps.

“They’re falling asleep,” you whisper. “I just fed them.”

Jon’s hand presses on your back and slowly slides it around your shoulders as he crouches down by you to admire the twins as well. One last time before you left.

“I think they know we’re leaving,” you mention and look at him with a smile. “They’ve barely slept all day today.”

Jon hums and reaches out to caress Robb’s chunky cheek. “We’ll see them again,” he assures you so it can make your departure easier. “I promise.” He then slides his hand up to cup your cheek and tilts your head to the side so you can meet his gaze. “They’re waiting, come on. Before it gets harder.”

You draw in a deep breath and look down at them again, they weren’t in deep sleep, but their eyes are closed now, and Jon is right. So you get up and approach the wooden cradle that has your new family sigil carefully carved on the wood; the three headed dragon wrapped around the sun with a spear stabbed through it. They share it for now since they’re still not used to being apart from each other. You tried to sleep them in different ones but they cried all night until you figured out the solution.

“Here,” Jon whispers and picks up the dragon eggs off their warming chamber and places the sapphire blue colored egg to the right where you put Rhaenyra down, and he then places the silver colored egg on the left side where you place Robb.

Before you pull away from them you caress their cheeks one more time before you lean in and press a soft kiss on their heads. “I love you my babies,” you whisper in a quivering voice before you force yourself away from them.

Jon then proceeds to lean in and press a gentle kiss on their heads before he digs in his pocket and pulls out a small pouch. You watch him carefully and notice him pull out thin silver necklaces with a pendant that has a direwolf engraved on it.

“It’s made of Valyrian steel,” he whispers and clasps it around their necks. “A gift…for just in case.”

You drop your head and wipe away the tears that he made break from your eyes.

“We’ll be back,” he whispers to the sleeping twins. “Before you know it.”

You clutch onto your chest and turn away so you wouldn’t sob there. Jon then approaches you and grabs your shoulder to turn you to face him. “Are you ready?” He asks.

You glance down at your silver armor protecting your chest, and catch the red rubies that are in the shape of your new house sigil shine against the candle's light, and then look at him and nod. “I am. You?”

Jon glances behind you and hesitates before he nods. “I am. It’s just…hard, you know? I don’t want to leave our children without their parents, I want to be there for them.”

You wrap your hand around his and use your other hand to cup his cheek. “And you will. I promise you you will.”

Jon smiles softly at you before he presses his forehead against yours. “We’ll both come back to them. I swear. War won’t be what breaks us apart.”

You muster a soft smile and close your eyes. “Promise me you won’t leave me alone in this world.”

“I won’t,” Jon whispers before he pulls you in for a deep, lingering kiss. You melt into it, you pull him closer as much as he can be against you, and feel tears roll down your cheeks. When you pull away he wipes the tears off your cheeks and flashes you smile. “I love you,” he says. “From this day until the end of my days.”

“I love you too,” you say back without hesitation. “From this day until the end of my days.”

Jon’s smile widens and he lets his hands linger on your cheeks for a moment until a knock raps on your door.

You hesitate to address the visitor, but you can’t stay here and delay this final battle.

“Come in,” you break your silence as you pull away from Jon.

Sarella then walks in with a sheathed spear and other sheathed weapons. “I’m sorry for interrupting, I just wanted to let you know that your blades are coated and prepared.”

You offer her a stiff nod and walk to her under the doorframe. “Good, thank you Sarella.” You whisper while you grab your weapons from her and tie the sheaths on you. “Take good care of them all right?”

Sarella grabs your hands and offers you an assuring nod. “Of course I will, as if they were my own. You have nothing to worry about.”

You sigh. “If anything happens the three Queensguard I left behind will take them back North with Lady Sansa,” you let her know. “Accompany them the way there.”

Sarella nods and then wraps her arms around your neck, catching you by surprise. Albeit you don’t wait to hug her back.

“Kill all those bastards.” She says by your ear.

You smirk and nod before you pull away and assure her. “I will.”

Sarella shoots you one last smirk before you leave the room with Jon by your side.

“I need to make something known,” you break your silence. “When we face Gendry, I need you to swear to me you won’t stop me from killing him.” You look over at him and see his eyebrows begin to furrow with discontent. “Arya nor Ser Davos can either. I know how much you all care for him, but if I let him live, the life of our kids, my own life and yours will always be in danger because they’d want him sat on that throne. And they’d do anything to make it happen.”

Jon sighs before he meets your gaze without judgment, he’s expressing sincerity and determination. “I swear,” he assures you.

——

*SOMETIME LATER*

The dream is still recurring, that same dream of those two cradles in the destroyed throne room of King's Landing. The sigils carved on the wood are still clear in your head, your new sigil on one, and the old Targaryen sigil; Daenerys sigil, on the other cradle. You still can’t see what’s inside the cradle even if the cries of babies echo in the hall.

Albeit now there’s no fire that starts around you, there’s no blunt ending to it, there’s no need for more. It ends just as you see inside and you know you’re happy and satisfied.

Yet how can you feel satisfied when you can’t find the meaning and it haunts you everytime you sleep?

Does it mean you’ll win this war?

That you’ll live and get to see Rhaenyra and Robb again? Hopefully that’s the meaning, you’d be happy if that’s what it means.

Regardless, that dream has nothing to do with right now. Right now you have to worry about winning this battle and sitting on that throne. Right now, you cut your palms and watch the blood drip from them to then wipe that blood down your face to remind you of your reasons why you fight, why you’re risking your life and that of the others. For Rhaenar. For justice. Vengeance. For fire and blood.

Your uncle Doran said not to let vengeance cloud your judgment, Jon said not to let anger cloud your judgment. But what they don’t know is that anger and vengeance has finally cleared your mind. Because of it you finally see the goal you were blinded to before, that that throne belongs to you.

“Your Grace,” Ser Brienne’s voice filters in through your tent.

You pull away from the mirror and wipe away the tear that had broken out before you bandage your cuts, and address the loyal knight. “Yes, come in.”

The flaps get pushed aside and Ser Brienne's tall figure casts over you. “Prince Gendry Baratheon is approaching, he wants to talk to you.”

You lift your gaze to meet hers and smirk. “He’s eager,” you comment and push yourself off the chair to follow her out.

Ser Lana hands you your spear as she and Ser Rayne, Ser Alys, Ser Brienne, and Sansa follow you out.

“Still nothing from the Westerlands?” You ask Sansa as you sheath your spear.

Sansa shakes her head. “No. But you know how they are, they’re waiting for the moment either side is winning. As long as they don’t attack us they’re nothing to worry about.”

You nod softly in agreement and turn your head completely to the aide to look at her as you ask your next question. “What of Prince Mors and the fleet?”

Sansa slowly meets your gaze, knowing your teasing insinuation behind your question. “He’s started his battle against the Iron Islands fleet, and that of the Second Sons. He’s…alive. He’s fighting well…so I’ve been told.”

You smirk and look ahead again. “Once this is done I’ll fling you two together and lock you in a closet.” You snicker. “Or I’ll demand something to happen. I will be Queen after all.” You steal a glance at Sansa, and see her smirk at the ground before she looks at you with a serious glare.

“Focus,” she deadpans. Albeit you see her hidden smile.

“Yeah, yeah,” you drop the subject. “Now, take care of yourself Sansa, I’ll see you once it’s all done.” You throw her a wave and don’t take a moment to give her one last hug in case this is your last moment, you can’t face her and say goodbye, you’ll falter and want to leave this battle with her.

“Wait!” She forces you to stop regardless.

You slowly turn around and only see a glimpse of her before she closes the small gap between the two of you with an embrace.

“Be careful out there,” she whispers. “Okay?”

You hug her back gently and nod, “okay,” you whisper. “And please if anything happens to Jon and I, take care of them okay?”

Sansa nods. “I will, but I know you’ll both make it out. I know it.” She assures you.

You pull back quickly so you wouldn't follow her out of battle. “I’ll see you.” You throw out before you turn and walk away.

Once you get past the army line, when you reach the top of the hill just a few clicks away from Kings Landing's gate you see Gendry approaching with an army of Dothraki men behind him.

“Has there been sighting of Drogon?” You ask Ser Alys.

“No, but our scouts say they saw him flying away last night.” Said knight informs you whilst you come to a stop

You then hum and raise your chin to glance at the Red Keep, hoping you’d see Daenerys overlooking the army that surrounds her city, but there’s no one on any balcony.

What if she left? She’d have to care more about her unborn baby now, she wouldn't risk her life here.

“Queen Y/N Targaryen,” Gendry greets with the right title surprisingly enough. “It’s unfortunate that we meet under these circumstances.” He searches the group of woman for Jon you assume, but he’s not amongst them or behind you.

"Where's Jon?” Gendry asks and meets your gaze. “I wish to speak to him.”

You scoff. “You’ll see where he is soon enough,” you counter with a smirk since you don’t want to give away that he's going to attack from behind the castle with Rhaegal to get rid of the army that resides within the walls. You want Gendry to be surprised.

“What do you want?” You ask nonchalantly.

“Peace,” Gendry blurts and takes a step forward, making your knights take a step forward to protect you. “You don’t have to do this, we don’t have to fight. It’s useless. Daenerys is willing to negotiate peace”

You narrow your gaze and suck in your cheeks before you spit at the ground before him. “Fuck her peace. This war means everything to me,” you snap back. “I was willing to give her peace and do you know what she did?” You scoff and shake your head as tears fill your eyes.

“She killed my son. My boy! He was only ten years old, he didn’t do anything, he wasn’t at fault because I fell in love with Jon and made his kids, he was innocent and she killed him!” You cry out. “That may not mean much to you, nor will you ever feel that kind of pain or love for your own kid, but it meant everything to me. He had a whole life ahead of him, he had dreams, he had goals!” You exhale shakily and let your tears stream down to mix with the blood on your face. “He wanted to fly on his own dragon, he wanted to meet his brother and sister, and now it’s all gone like he is. So no, Gendry I won’t accept her peace, we won’t stand down,” you grimace and take a step forward. “We’ll fight, we’ll give our hearts, and I’ll kill you and end the Baratheon line once and for all.” You raise your chin with pride and see him swallow thickly.

You then step back and discreetly reach for one of your daggers rather than raising your spear to give your army the signal that battle has started.

“Tell me where Daenerys is Gendry,” you add and slowly begin to pull out your dagger.

Said man lifts his own chin and remains quiet, making you snicker to stall for Jon to make his move and for you to be able to pull out your dagger. “You know it’s said that your father,” you point at him. “Wore a helmet just like that,” you point up to his silver helmet over his head that has golden stag antlers at the sides. “When he fought my own father. Will you prove to be as legendary of a fighter as your father was? Or will the dragon get its revenge?”

Gendry shrugs. “We’ll see won’t we?” He says a bit smugly, making you smirk in amusement.

Albeit now you do have your dagger in your hand, you can throw it at him now, but you wait. He turns to head back down, but you wait for a second, and a second longer until finally there’s a big boom and battle cries fill the air before debris raides in the air, and there in the distance is the sound of Rhaegal’s booming roar.

Jon broke through the wall! He made the first move, now it’s you. So while Gendry freezes and hears the battle play out in the distance you hurl your dagger at him, intentionally letting the poisoned coated blade just cut his cheek as it flies past him.

He quickly turns in disbelief and touches his cheek to feel the blood that begins to spill out.

You shoot him a mischievous smirk and reach for your spear now. “I drew first blood. Your turn,” you grumble and then snatch your spear from your sheath before you throw your arm in the air to give the signal.

Battle horns then break the silence behind you before thousands of hooves hit the ground like thunder breaking in the sky. Gendry begins to back up, and as he does Eraxis reveals herself to the enemy armies as she comes shooting down from the sky.

Gendry's eyes widen whilst behind him the Dothraki let out battle cries of their own before their horses come sprinting forward, responding back to your own battle call.

However as it all begins to unravel, Gendry doesn’t move, nor does anyone move him or protect him, he lets the warriors behind him begin to run towards your army filled with men and women from the Reach, the North, Dorne, The Vale and The Riverlands. You on the other hand shoot him a malicious smirk as you lower your spear and point the blade at him.

“It’s okay,” you tell your women Knights. “I got him.”

The women hesitantly disperse as the armies meet halfway and start fighting, all while Gendry still doesn’t try to move.

“I won’t fight you,” he says.

You slowly lower your spear and flip it around in your hand as you narrow your gaze on him. “Greyworm didn’t want to fight me either. I still killed him, so choose, die like a warrior or die a coward.”

Before he can answer, nevertheless you charge at him. He catches your action and swings his huge hammer, but you quickly snap your body back and slide down, letting your blade slice the side of his leg as you move past him.

Gendry groans and turns slowly to face you now behind him. He parts his lips to speak, but the sound of a horse charging at you steals your attention, so you proceed to jump out of the way to avoid being cut by a Dothraki.

Before he can turn around and come back for more you pull a dagger out and hurl it at the back of his throat, causing him to immediately go limp and fall off his horse.

He really thought he was going to kill you, how sweet. You caught him though when you were sliding past Gendry.

“It doesn't have to be this way,” Gendry interjects loudly so he can be heard over the sound of battle.

You shake your head. “No,” you agree. “It doesn’t, that’s why I’m fighting down here and not on Eraxis and obliterating everything. Now fight—”

“Our children can grow up together,” he cuts you off, making you hesitate. “If we have a son he can marry your daughter and rule together. There can be peace! Don’t you want that? Don’t you want them to have what we couldn’t? A united family?”

You swallow thickly and think about his offer, you really give it thought. He’s right after all, you want nothing but peace for the twins, you want to be there for them, you want to have more kids, have a big family with Jon. You want to live happily. But, when you close your eyes you see them, every single one of your ancestors has their eyes on you, they’re waiting for you to take back what was lost. They’re waiting for you to win and change what they failed to do. You close your eyes and see Rhaenar’s little face burnt, lifeless and gone because of her.

There can’t be peace.

You let out a deep scream and run at him, just before you can reach him you jump up and try to bring your spear down at him, albeit he lifts his heavy hammer and blocks your attempts. You scoff at him and quickly follow that action by grabbing another dagger and then shifting back to let his arms fall. You don’t let him take a break and quickly spin around him again, managing to slice his ankle and knock him off his feet.

It was easy work really, he’s probably not a trained fighter like you are. And you don’t have an ounce of care for him like some of others do, it’s just killing that’s the problem.

But you have to, or else you’ll die, or else your children will be in danger. So before he can move you hold your spear with both hands and lift it up to bring it down.

However, before the blade can hit him, from the corner of your eye you catch someone pointing an arrow at you, so you snap to the side to face him and throw your spear up in the air to catch it in the right position, before you then hurl it at the dothraki warrior when he shoots his arrow. But unlike yours, his arrow only skims past the side of your head managing to nick your flesh, while your spear impales him in his chest and knocks him off his horse.

Now back to Gendry.

Yet when you turn to face where he was on the ground he’s no longer there, just drops of blood staining the dirt.

You sigh and try to look through the crowd but the sight of running bodies, of horses and clanging blades blocks your view. All you can see is his trail of blood leading towards the wall gates.

“Fine,” you grumble and turn to pick up your spear. “I’ll play.” You roll your head around to crack your neck whilst you stride towards the spear impaled through the man.

Nevertheless, just before you can reach your weapon another Dothraki warrior comes charging at you, he’s screaming at the top of lungs and jumps on top of his horse. You stumble back and pull out your last dagger, you clench your jaw and hold his intimidating gaze. You get ready to face him even if he has the high ground.

Luckily though just before his blade can come down, a leather whip wraps around his throat and yanks him off his horse. You gasp and don’t pay attention to the horse getting run over by another horse nearby, you move past the violent scene and then notice that Ser Alys was the one that helped you.

“Thank you!” You throw at her and pick your spear off the other mans body.

Said woman bows her head. “Of course, You Grace! What next?” She asks.

“I find Gendry, he ran past the walls I assume. Help me get past this battlefield.” You tell her honestly and glance up at Eraxis in the sky, wishing you could climb on her to reach your destination, but your own soldiers are mixed here so she’d squish them if she lands. So on horse or foot it is, she can follow.

“Right away!” Ser Alys agrees, and ends up quickly finding horses you can mount to reach your destination faster.

Albeit it’s getting past the Dothraki soldiers that’s the problem. They see you and try to attack you, and you’re not used to fighting on horseback as much as they are, but you try your best to block their attempts. You kill some others, cut the arms off others. You bathe yourself in their blood, adding to the intimidation around you.

Thankfully though, after some struggle, and thanks to Ser Alys help you get past the battlefield of fighting warriors, and sea of dead bodies piling around.

“Here is as far as you go,” you tell Ser Alys as you jump off your horse. “This fight is mine and mine alone.”

“But,” she argues. “I won’t leave you. You are my Queen. If you die what becomes of me?”

You stop walking and turn to face her. “I won’t die. But if you must, get rid of any obstacles ahead, Ser Brienne should already be ahead, Eraxis will help you clear a path to the Red Keep regardless. Remember don’t harm any civilians. I’ll catch up when I’m done.”

Ser Alys hesitates, but listens nonetheless, letting you get back to the trail of blood that you have been following. Sure now it can be anyone’s, but when you were fighting the Dothraki you did catch a glimpse of Gendry running this way. He also won’t get very far considering the poison running its course, he’ll be nearby, so you stalk forward like a hungry predator.

“Prince Gendry,” you taunt him. “Come out, I bet you want to talk to me.” You flip your spear around in your hand to let your blade drag on the dirt whilst you study the street you walk down, spotting a trail of blood going towards a nearby market, so you follow it.

You open the tents flaps and see it unoccupied, thankfully. But he’s nearby, so you slow down your pace to be quieter and hopefully surprise him.

However, just as you turn to walk to another part of the tent suddenly something hard slams into the back of your leg, causing something to snap in your leg that basks your entire leg in an obliterating pain. You cry out and fall on your knees, but that only makes the pain intensify to the point you can’t stand being on your knees, so you flip around to sit and stretch your legs out.

That’s when you see that a part of your bone is sticking out. It’s broken….

“I’m sorry,” you hear a familiar voice interject.

You snap your eyes up and see Gendry approaching you with his hammer in hand. You want to drag yourself back, but it hurts too damn much to move, you have to snap your bone back in place.

“Let me help—”

“Don’t you dare touch me,” you sneer and don’t hesitate to slam your hands on the bone sticking out to snap it back in place. You cry out even if you don’t want to, and then drop your head to let your tears out.

Gendry in the meantime is cautiously approaching you, you can hear his boots hit against the ground.

“You’re not going to ask me what’s happening to you?” You ask in a hoarse voice and slowly take a peek up at him, noticing the blood coming out of his nose and ears. “Why your veins are on fire? Why blood is coming out of your ears?” You add and shoot him a smirk whilst you reach for your spear beside you.

“Look,” he ignores you even if you guessed exactly what he was feeling. “I don’t want to kill you.”

You begin to chuckle and roll your head up, causing him to blink repeatedly in surprise as he sees the blood that cakes your face and bathes your armor, and that turns your silver-white hair crimson red.

“That’s funny,” you counter and completely grasp your spear before you shove yourself to your feet and charge at him.

Albeit Gendry is quick and avoids your lunge, instead he grabs you by your throat and begins to shove you back out of the tent.

The pain on your leg burns the entire time, he makes it feel worse as he drags you out, but you have to ignore it now, you have run on your adrenaline so as to not let the pain affect you. However, he then proceeds to shove you to the ground and climbs onto you, stabbing his knee in your wounded leg and bringing you more agony.

Before you can scream this time he presses the stick end of his hammer against your throat, cutting off the air that comes into your lungs.

“I won’t kill you,” he makes himself clear. You try to scoff in amusement, but all that comes out is a strangled choking sound.

Now he might not want to kill you, but as every second passes you feel your consciousness slip, and if you fall now then you can’t reach Daenerys, you might lose this battle. So with all the strength you can muster you pat the ground, finding a good sized rock, and then proceed to throw your hand up and stab the rock in his eye.

Gendry bellows out, and immediately lets you go to get on his feet and grab at his eye pouring out blood.

You proceed to ignore your pain and grab the hammer he left over you to push yourself up. The pain threatens to weaken you, but you stay on your feet, you fix your grip on the hammer since you dropped your spear in the tent, and raise it.

Gendry notices and you raise your chin. “This is for my father,” you spat out, and use as much force as you can muster to swing the hammer across his chest, knocking him down to the ground at that very moment.

You may have no respect for your father, but he still is your father. He still did love you when you did have him, and you loved him unconditionally before Robert Baratheon robbed him of his life, before your uncle Oberyn told you the truth—poisoned your mind and memories.

“I’m sorry,” you tell Gendry with sincerity as you approach him unable to grasp onto air, as blood begins to stream out of his eyes like tears as the poison also brings him closer to death. “But if I kept you alive my family would never be safe. Life would repeat itself, and I’ve already lost too much…” you pause as wings flapping close by steals your attention. When you look up you see Eraxis wanting to land ahead of you.

“For whatever it’s worth,” you say and crouch by Gendry. “You were a good man. Better than the beast your father was. May you find peace Gendry Baratheon.” You stay there beside him and watch him take his last shaky breath before his eyes roll back and he goes limp.

“Y/N?!” Your name is then called ahead.

You look up and see Eraxis hover over the ground as Arya approaches all covered in blood. Just what you needed—albeit it is too late for her to even talk to him now.

“Arya,” you call back and stand up to your feet.

Said girl's eyes lower to the body beside you and she goes rigged, making you avert your gaze and instead go back inside the tent to pick up your spear. When you come back outside you see her by his lifeless body hovering her hand over his wounded eye, and then lowering to his chest that was encaved. In the distance Eraxis lands on the ground, and since it hurts walking you have to ride her.

“I’m sorry,” you mutter softly to her as you see tears escaping her eyes. “I’m sorry,” you repeat before you break away from the spot and limp towards Eraxis.

Once you’re by your white dragon you steal one last glance, noticing her still by Gendry's side. There was nothing else you could say, Sansa said Arya knew him, that they lay together, they have history, and you were the cause of his death, so there’s nothing to say to comfort her. So instead you slowly climb on Eraxis and now fly towards the Red Keep, towards Daenerys.

Will you kill her with as much ease like with Gendry?

Not now of course, you’ll wait until her baby is born, show her that you were being serious about the threat, a son for a son before you also kill her.

You’ll probably struggle to kill her but she did kill Rhaenar, she has to pay. You’ll make her pay.

Nevertheless, while on your way to the castle you can see the empty streets Arya helped clear so there wouldn’t be any civilian casualties, you can see the battle at the back of the castle Jon started. You can see Rhaegal resting by the castle, letting you think that maybe Jon is fighting with your men below; or inside the castle already. And In the distance, out at sea you can see the fleets battling, you cant see who’s winning from here though.

Another thing you can’t see is Drogon. Where did he go?

Is Daenerys with him?

Regardless you’ll check.

Thus why you have Eraxis land inside the castle, on the steps that lead inside the castle that was once your home, that was the place your mother and siblings died in. The Red Keep.

You’ve been here before since the tragedy, you walked past the gates like now, albeit then it was lively, it was decorated with Baratheon banners, people came and went out for the wedding, you blended in with the crowd. Now as you walk in the hall is empty, it’s cold and dark, it’s deafeningly quiet. Are there even guards?

You walk further inside and notice that the rubble was picked up from when Daenerys destroyed the castle. It also seems like they’re trying to rebuild it, but since you’re here now it’s put on pause.

You then proceed to head to Maegor’s holdfast, knowing well that that’s where Daenerys would take residence. And surprisingly enough, there’s hardly any guards. Those who did seem to be inside were outside trying to stop Jon and his army from getting in, but it was too late, the wall was still not fixed completely, and what was fixed Rhaegal broke. Those few guards that were inside you evaded, there was only one you had to kill but it was done fast and quietly, luckily.

However, as grateful as you are that you don’t run into any more difficult obstacles, it’s not a good sign. Perhaps it’s a sign to leave and finish the battle since the retreat nor the surrender bells are ringing, but if she’s still here you have to find her. You’re so close. Fuck the pain.

Alas, when you reach the hall, it’s empty, there’s no guards anywhere. The hall is cold since the cold breeze creeps in through the open windows. You expect Daario Nahris to be here to protect Daenerys and the unborn child, but it’s too quiet. No one’s here….

Still! You continue to search desperately, you check each room again and again. You check the massive closets, every corner and secret door, but there’s no one, there’s only clothes left behind; her clothes that probably don't fit anymore. She’s the only one missing. Fuck,

“Fuck!” You exclaim and throw off the perfumes and glass containers on a vanity out of anger. “She’s not here,” you mutter to yourself. She’s gone!

At least her husband is dead now, so if she isn’t here then the battle should end soon, leaving you to do one thing now that you are here in Maegor's holdfast. The tower may be different from when you lived here, but the walls are still the same, the ground is unchanged, the halls still hold memories. So with your limp and pain, you drag yourself to the hall you once lived in.

Last time, a couple years ago you couldn’t come here, you were a mere guest undercover, but now you’re here in the same hall, your home. It doesn’t hold the same sweet scent as before, the halls aren’t brightly lit for you and your sister, but as you close your eyes you can still picture the good days, you can imagine your mother; fragile but sweet and loving. You can see Rhaenys chasing after you, you can see your fathers bright and long white-silver hair, you can hear him softly playing his music for your family.

This. This is your home. This is where you belonged, this is where you were meant to die before you could even truly live. Here. You’re home.

When you open the door that leads to where you last saw your mother, you wish to see her still there, helping Rhaenys read. You want her to look up to see you walk inside, you want her to greet you. You want to see her again, but all you see is an empty room, there’s dusty furniture, and all that greets you is the sound of bells beginning to sound in the distance; the sound of retreat. Their retreat.

Yet you can’t get up and celebrate, you can’t smile, you just fall on your knees and begin to sob as you’re embraced by the cold breeze and welcomed by ghosts. Your leg begins to hurt so you have to turn and sit down.

You don’t know how long you do end up staying there, the bells stop ringing at one point, but you stay there remembering and crying as you’re striked with agony.

A few more minutes pass of you all alone in the cold room before you hear Jon’s voice out in the hall. “Y/N?”

You lift your head and bring his attention to this room. “I’m in here.”

Footsteps shift before they hurry over to the room, as the door begins to open you see guards stepping in before Jon hurries inside to where you are on the floor. And before either of you can say anything you both embrace each other, finding relief in each other's presence even as dirty as you are.

“You’re okay,” you whisper and hold the back of his head. “You’re okay,” you whimper.

Jon lowers his head and digs his face in the crook of your neck. “I was so worried,” he muffles. “I couldn’t find you.” He pulls back and wipes the blood off your eyes. “I’ve been looking for you,” he says.

You reach over to cup his jaw and study his face for any wounds, but there’s only blood staining his skin. “Are you okay?” You ask him softly.

Jon grabs your wrists and nods. “Yes. Are you? What are you doing on the floor?”

You part your lips to explain the simple reason; you came here for Daenerys, you’re in this room because you wanted to remember, but tears just spill out and clear a path on your face caked with blood.

“I,” you stammer shakily. “I was meant to die here Jon. I was here and then that stupid cat distracted me. I never saw my mother again, Rhaenys, baby Aegon. I chased after the cat and never saw them again.”

“It was for a reason,” he assures you. “You’re here now for this. This very moment. They retreated, they’re leaving, it’s time for you to get on that throne, be what you were meant to be.”

You lift your gaze and meet his eyes. “You really believe that?” You ask. “Daenerys is gone, but she’s still alive. The war isn’t over yet.”

Jon shakes his head. “No, the war isn’t, but the fighting is done. Without the capital, or allies, Daenerys is done, she lost. Now it’s up to you. This fighting can’t be for nothing. You avoiding death that day happened for a reason, don’t you see it? I know it hurts. I know, my love. But we get to be safe with our children now, you can keep them safe and avoid them having the same fate you did.”

You scoff softly and offer him a sweet smile. “I’ve never heard you talk like that. You believe in fate?”

Jon blinks and shrugs. “I rose from the dead, I had nothing before, but after that I got everything I could have wanted. You, the twins. If that’s not fate then I don’t know what is.”

You smile wider and press your forehead agaisnt his. “You’ll rule with me then? Help me? Make this a good place for our kids? For…people who need help from the horrors of this world? So they don’t have to suffer the same way our family did? Because if you don’t want this we can leave this all behind. We leave now, we pick up the kids and leave.”

Jon nods softly. “I’ll follow you until the ends of this world. I will help you.”

Your heart flutters and your grin widens. “Good,” you whisper and then glance at your leg. “But help me up, I broke my leg.”

Jon pulls back and stares at you with a shocked expression, but you assure him. “It’s okay. That’s all that happened.”

He hesitates, but he then gets guards to help you with your leg before he helps you to your feet. And now since that adrenaline that once pumped in your blood has faded the pain is a lot more immense, now you need Jon by your side to help you walk.

This time though, rather than seeing empty halls once you reach the grande hall, there’s people, your people all bloody bruised but filtering inside slowly. The civilians once warned to hide or evacuate before and during the battle wander inside as well, slowly and cautiously. The once dark halls are slowly getting lit by candles and torches alongside the hall, and Daenerys banners get replaced by your new house banners.

“How many of our people were lost?” You ask Jon.

“We can discuss that later,” Jon says and glances at the open doors that lead to the throne room. “As for now, it’s time.”

You come to a stop to meet his gaze and smile softly. “Will you help me down there?” You ask him.

The corner of Jon’s lips tug to a smile before he offers you an assuring nod.

Now all that follows is the ascension. It seems like a long walk down to the throne, but you’re determined. It hurts to keep moving, but the throne is down the grande hall still filled with gaps on the walls from the last attack, the throne that was meant for your father, the throne built by your ancestors, your throne.

“All hail Queen Visenya, of House Targaryen, second of her name, Queen of the Andals, and the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the realm!”

The murmuring goes quiet, and feet shift and shuffle as bodies turn to see you. There’s so many times as you walk down the carpet that you want to duck your head and avoid the stares of both your soldiers and the civilians that fill the hall, but they can’t see you embarrassed, they need to see you strong, so you raise your chin high and keep your lips upturned.

Besides as you get closer, Eraxis and Rhaegal appear outside the castle walls and land in behind the gaps that look inside the throne room. Some people get frightened by the presence of the green and white dragon, but they don’t leave, they watch you as Jon lets you go so you can climb the stairs.

However, you then come to a stop before you can climb up, and stare at the throne made of blades of fallen enemies with tears in your eyes. “This is for you Rhaenar,” you murmur. “This is for all of you.” You let out a shaky sigh and smile down at your rings on your fingers. You then peer back and notice Sansa beside your cousin Prince Mors, she meets your gaze and shoots you an encouraging smile.

You mirror her gesture before you face the glimmering metal throne again and continue to walk to it. It takes you a moment to reach the throne, but once you do Eraxis leans her head in through the gap and groans softly, as if comforting you. You look over at her and meet her dark eyes to shoot her a smile before you touch the cool metal and admire the grand design in awe.

This is for them, your family. All of them.

You finally turn to face the crowd and finally sit down on the Iron Throne.

“All Hail her grace!”Jon exclaims.

“Long live the Queen!”

“Long live the Queen!”

You draw in a deep breath, and raise your chin smugly before you exhale and raise your hand to silence the crowd. Once the commotion silences you put your hand down and interject. “Let’s begin.”

——

*A COUPLE MONTHS LATER*

“Where’s your mummy?” You ask in a playful baby voice and peek through the gaps between your fingers, noticing Robb is serious now as he sees your hands over your eyes. “I’m here!” You exclaim softly and pull your hands off your face with a grin, causing the baby boy to blink in surprise before he starts giggling.

Your smile widens at the sound of his giggle, and then a knock raps on the door.

“Come in,” you announce and pick Robb off the bed to carry him instead. “Do you want to go find your daddy and your sister?” You ask Robb as if he can answer you at 4 months old.

“Your Grace,” you hear Ser Brienne say, making you turn to face her standing by the foot of the bed. “I have news.”

Your smile fades as you see how serious her expression is painted on her features, and probe quietly. “What is it?”

Ser Brienne blinks and sighs. “It’s Daenerys. We finally found out where she is.”

The amusement you just felt gets replaced with shock and disbelief over the news. Finally after months of not hearing about her, of not getting attacked by fire from the sky, or of being attacked by what remains of her army, they've found her. Now it’s time to finish your revenge, it’s time for Rhaenar to get justice.

“Good,” you mutter and walk to Ser Brienne. “Where? Is she at Meereen?”

Ser Brienne shakes her head and shares that Daenerys is hiding in Dorne, hidden past any town that would give her away, where Drogon can hide without being spotted, and where she can rest and wait for her child to be born. You should’ve known.

If she would’ve made it to Meereen someone would have told you, maybe she even would have even wanted to negotiate peace again, but there was not a word from her or about her and her army for months. She wasn’t at Dragonstone, nor at the Iron Islands, it’s like she disappeared. Until now.

And maybe hiding was for the best, you would have too if you were in her position. Yet the truth is nothing would have stopped you from searching for her, not becoming Queen officially, you would have searched for her until the ends of the world for your revenge. Now that she’s been revealed she’ll know what your revenge is, she’ll know the same pain you feel, the ache that still breaks your heart every single day.

“Mummy will be right back, okay?” You tell Robb as you play him in his cradle. “Your sister should join you soon.” You press a kiss on the top of his head and then brush his little black hairs down before you step back and turn to stride out of the room, even as he begins to cry because you’re out of his sight.

However, you don’t make it far out of the castle before you spot Jon, and Rhaenyra in his arms as they seem to be heading to the kids' chambers. “Hello my loves,” you greet them and lean in to press a kiss on Rhaenyra’s forehead before you give Jon a kiss on his lips.

“Eraxis and I are leaving. I’ll be back before Dinner.” You let Jon know as you pull back and caress his chin.

Jon’s gaze narrows in confusion. “Where are you going?” He asks since youre being vague, and you haven’t asked him to go with you.

You draw in a deep breath, knowing how he’ll react. “I’m…” you breathe out. “I'm going to Daenerys. They’ve found her in Dorne. I’m ending this war.” You caress your babygirl's cheek once more before you break away.

Nevertheless before you can continue to walk away, Jon’s hand wraps around your arm, forcing you to stop and look back at him curiously.

“You promised,” he says in a serious voice and with a deep narrowed gaze that makes you uneasy. “You promised you wouldn't hurt that baby. Blame Daenerys all you want, burn what remains of her army, but don’t hurt that baby.”

You could say thousands of reasons why you should, he’d understand now after all; he’s holding onto one of his twins that loves them with all his heart. He’d understand why Daenerys' kid has to get what it deserves, but you know him, you know his morality, Jon won’t understand, and you love him too much to see him go. So you lie.

“I would never do that,” you interject bluntly as you gently push his hand away from your wrist to continue outside towards Eraxis.

This time there’s no more stops, you reach your beautiful white scaled dragon and mount her to then ascend to the skies. You fly over green lands, through a small storm that soaks you entirely. You fly through white fluffy clouds that make you raise your hand to run your fingers through it, and smile. You feel the breeze turn dry the closer you get to Dorne; and the once green fields slowly begin to transcend to golden fields of sand.

Where Daenerys was spotted isn’t deep in Dorne, it’s passing Kingsgrave, just close to the center between that and Sandstone. The castle isn’t as big as you imagined either, it’s a small castle, only two stories high and with a pool in the center of the castle, making the castle stand out from the sky. Trees provide shade all around the castle, and there’s only a few Dothraki tents outside around the castle.

The strangest thing is that they don’t make any commotion. Drogon is resting by the side of the castle and doesn’t pay Eraxis any mind, he doesn’t attack either, letting Eraxis land with ease that begins to concern you. When your feet hit the ground you aren’t rushed by an army even if you have visible daggers hanging from your hips. It’s only once you reach the red doors that lead inside the beautiful vibrant castle that you get stopped by a couple of Dothraki men.

“<Turn back and return home, Dragonslayer,>” one of the men says in Dothrak.

You scoff and get ready to argue, but then a voice cuts in from inside. “<Let her in, the Queen demands it.>” Footsteps approach, and Daario Nahris appears out of the shadows with his eyes red and glistening with tears, with no armor on his body; instead his long sleeved shirt is baggy and stained with sweat, his sleeves are rolled and his hands are stained with spots of dry blood.

“I thought you wouldn’t come,” he directs at you as he comes to a stop under the red door frame. “She’s…in there…waiting for you.” He points back inside, making you glance at where he points, spotting white sheer curtains flowing inside thanks to the soft wind.

“I want to talk to her alone,” you demand and meet his watery gaze.

Daario nods stiffly. “She is alone. You made sure of that.”

You blink unfazed by his comment. “You’re still here,” you counter and look at him up and down with judgment before you walk past him.

“Upstairs to the right, red door.”

You hum as you turn to walk up the stairs already. And as it’s you’re walking up is when you take the time to study the hall, to admire the tall ceilings that have pretty blue designs on it. You notice the greenery that drapes down the railings, and the gold design that wraps around the archway that leads to the courtyard. It’s all so simple and pretty, relaxing. If you didn’t come here for a purpose, you would enjoy it here.

But you have a purpose that’s fueled by rage and grief. The closer you get to the room the more that concern vanishes to nothing. Your cautious walk as you reach the second floor turns to a determined stride. You only pause for one second when a baby’s cry breaks the silence that haunted this castle.

“There you are,” you mutter to yourself, and draw in a deep breath before you break away from your spot and exhale as you continue to the room with the red door.

Once you reach the door you don’t knock you slowly open it, and the first thing that greets you is a maester and midwives.

“Get out,“ you demand coldly as you step inside the room.

“Y/N,” you hear Daenerys mutter, but you ignore her call and shift your eyes around the room until you spot a single cradle in the corner of the room.

There it is.

The maesters and midwives filter out, leaving Daenerys and you alone to dwell in a tense silence, letting you eyes lock on the cradle. Letting your mind think of nothing else but your craving for revenge, not even Daenerys laying on her bed, just blood. Rhaenar.

As you stalk towards the wooden cradle you pull out a silver dagger and feel your heart begin to race violently.

Bah-dum, bah-dum, bah-dum, bah-dum.

Daenerys says something as she spots your intention, as she sees the rage in your gleaming glare, but her voice gets tuned out as memories of Rhaenar play in your head; both when he was alive and when you saw his dead body. They let you raise the blade in your hand as you’re inches away from seeing what the cradle holds.

However, you pause as you spot the sigil carved on the end of the cradle. It’s the same one you saw in your dream, and actually now that you’ve see that you notice that it’s on the same cradle from your dream too.

But it can’t mean anything. It doesn’t. Not when you’re so close. So you push that to the back of your mind and take a few more steps until you finally reach the side of the cradle and see the small baby inside wide awake, squirming away.

It seems to spot you and stops to stare at you with its big green eyes. It meets your gaze and you hesitate, but it’s only for a moment because you remember Rhaenar too, you remember when he was that small, you remember what he dreamed of doing when he got older. You remember how excited he was to be bonded with Helios. You remember your son and you raise the blade with tears clouding your eyes.

You raise the dagger and swing it down as you begin to sob. But then, before the blade can even touch the baby, you stop as there in the reflection of the silver blade you see his face, Rhaenar. He’s looking at you with his sweet brown eyes with tears, and he’s shaking his head at you.

Whether it’s some apparition of him, or just your own mind and guilt playing tricks, the reality of what you wanted to do to that baby slams into you roughly. It makes your hand holding the blade shake, and for that anger that poisoned you to completely disappear.

You won’t regret the war you started, no, but it’s this action you almost committed that you do feel ashamed of. What fault does this baby have? He didn’t kill Rhaenar, he’s barely living.

Were you really going to become the same monster that took away your siblings? The same monster you spent your whole life fearing?

No, you cant. You can’t be that person. So you drop the blade and silence your sob so as to not startle the baby any further.

Besides, there’s something familiar about the baby, like if you’ve seen him before…in a dream.

Of course in your dreams all you saw was two cradles, one with your new house sigil carved on it, and the other with the old Targaryen sigil. And this cradle was the exact same one from the dream, this is what the dream means. This baby.

“Daeron,” Daenerys voice finally finds its way inside your ears. “His name is Daeron Targaryen.”

You wipe the tears away and smile softly at the baby as you reach in to pick him up. “Daeron is a perfect name for a little prince. Hello,” you mewl. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I scared you…I’m sorry,” you say again and this time turn your head to glance at Daenerys laying on the bed.

That’s when you notice how exhausted she looks, how much paler her skin is; she looks almost sickly.

“I was being stupid,” you continue to say and approach her with her baby boy. “Forgive me please. I was angry, I was missing him,” you cry as tears fall from your eyes.

Daenerys shakes her head. “There’s nothing to forgive,” she says softly while she watches you take a seat beside her. “I should be the one apologizing to you…” she pauses and lets out a shaky and labored breath that makes your heart slowly begin to sink—“it was because of me that your son was taken from you. It was because of me that our family broke apart. I…I lost my way,” she shares in a shaky voice. “I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”

You part your lips and stare at her in disbelief. You’ve heard her be sincere before, she’s been vulnerable with you before, but this time it feels different, she sounds desperate.

“Y/N,” She insists and grabs your hand with pressure. “Say you’ll forgive me. I can’t—I need to hear it.”

Ah. Now you know. You’ve figured it out; why she looks so sad and sickly, why she hasn't counter-attacked for what you did to Gendry and what you took, why her army of Second Sons or Unsullied isn’t with her anymore…yet you can’t accept that truth.

“We’ll have all the time in the world to make up for what we did to each other,” you try to deny the cruel truth of what’s happening. “I’ll grant you forgiveness, you can live here in your house with the red door. Our babies can grow up with each other. Daenerys,” you whisper shakily.

Said woman begins to cry, but she still musters a soft smile. “That’s all I want for him. I want him to have a good life….with you and your twins.” She grins. “I want you to raise them together, like family.”

You shake your head. “Dany, you’ll be here. You’ll get out of this bed and watch him grow up,” you argue, and hand her her son to then cradle her cheek and continue to insist what won’t happen anymore. “You’ll be a great mother.”

Daenerys glances down at her baby and her smile wobbles. “Thank you for giving me this blessing. Whatever the intent was behind what you did, still thank you. Because of you I got to have him, my Daeron. I love him, y/n, please take care of him, raise him as your own. Love him as I would.” She lifts her watery gaze to look at you and plead. “Please say you will. I don’t have much time, I won’t have the pleasure of seeing him grow up. So please assure me before I go that…that you’ll take him. Please.”

You lean your forehead against hers and nod. “I swear,” you assure her.

.

.

.

.

Tagged: @watercolorskyy @jessimay89 @cecespizza01 @theroyalbrownbarbie @crybabyatthediscooffandoms @neenieweenie @midnightpantherxo @ashleyforeverareject @dark-night-sky-99 @starwarssluts @stargaryenx @defiantblade12 @cloudroomblog

[0the-duchess0]

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[under-the-aspen-tree]

A Moth To You (Chapter 5 - Needles and Swords) Aegon II Targaryen x (Bastard Velaryon) Reader

Series Summary: After a year travelling abroad, you have been called home to Kingslanding by your mother, Rhaenyra. Turns out your family has grown in your time apart.

Word Count: 4.8k

You were well prepared to stew in your own scornful anger for at least a day when you awoke the next morning, muscles aching from hours of dragon riding and a bruised ego that matched the deep purple marks lining your wrist and shoulder.

Memories from the previous night hit you in regretful lashes that had you groaning and throwing your palms over your eyes, unsure if you were more furious with your uncle or yourself. For a year you had been away, learning and maturing and growing into what should have been a well-mannered young lady. How had one night of wine and a regretful presence turned you back into the pre-pubescent girl you had been years ago? Full of rage and pride. More so, what had possessed you into thinking you could overpower Aegon, in mind or in body? 

You had almost resigned yourself to your chambers out of shame and were about to ring your chamber bell to have breakfast brought to you, when you heard the ringing of steel echoing up through your window from the courtyard. Your eyes shot open at the sound, rolling so quickly you almost fell from your bed in a flailing of bedsheets and limbs.

Excitement coursed through you, filling the very marrow of your bones, and wiping the sour memories from your mind as you threw yourself to your vanity, combing and twisting your hair into something half decent and lacing the first dress your hands came to. It had been so long, so awfully long, since you heard the song of a sword, the groans and cheers from onlookers, the restful boasts of a winning hand. Not since your time in Winterfell had you awoken to the commotion and it had you whirling from your chambers without so much as a crumb of breakfast, a grin upon your face. 

You had always loved to watch the men of court train, from young lords to soldiers, the clash of steel or wood had the wind ripped from your lungs. In youth, you had always loathed your position in that you could not join them, but with time you had come to make do with watching on. It was a fascination that a person could move so swiftly yet yield such power, that a step one way and a swing from the other could be the difference between life and death. 

The courtyard was as you remembered, though near bone dry in the growing heat of late spring, and shadowed from the morning sun by the great stone walls and gates that surrounded the sparring square. When you came across the balcony, gasping for breath, you couldn't help but grin at the sight.  

Jace was far down below, sweat sticking his hair to his forehead and the nape of his neck, frowning as he flexed his wrist, turning his sword in wide circles that glinted when it caught the sun. He was clearly taking a break, but you couldn’t help but laugh at the thought of him waving his sword around at an imaginary enemy. Luke, still training in strength and stance, had a stain of flushed red across his cheeks as he swung down upon a training dummy again and again, ripping straw and cotton from its body with every smack of his dull blade. 

There were a few other boys, gathered in clusters, about the square. Some were sparring with humour in their eyes, laughing at each other's blunders before landing with their backs in the dirt. Others hardened and serious, movements so slow they could be fighting in water as they perfected their stances and swings.  

And then there was Aemond. In truth, he was harder to miss than most. His long hair shone like spun silver, straight and prideful, laying like a veil about his shoulders. His eyepatch was nowhere to be seen, perhaps an inconvenience when one moved so quickly, and when he moved in a certain way, you could see a brilliant flash of blue from sapphire that rested where an eye should be. He had taken to the centre of the square, his remaining eye narrowed with determination and something close to amusement, and his lips were drawn into a tight smirk. He was winning. Even against Sir Criston Cole, swinging his Morningstar with the force and expertise of a battle-hardened man, Aemond was noticeably winning. It shocked you to realise that neither held faux weaponry, both of their tools holding the power to kill or main, and yet they seemed unbothered, making a dance out of avoiding steel or spike.  

You watched in awe as Aemond spun and circled, dodging blows with the agility of a cat, his hair fanning around him with every twist. Cole was more brutish with his moves. Though quick and fearless, he conducted himself with more aggression, his Morningstar an extension of his arm. Where Aemond was fast and slippery, Cole was coarse and terrifying. Something told you either one of them could kill in a heartbeat and, for some reason, it only made you feel even more alive, hanging yourself over the balcony with an elated grin. 

"Quite impressive, isn't it?" You almost jumped at the soft voice, hands slipping against the purchase they found in the stone, as you turned to the direction of the sound. 

Helaena stood beside you with the grace of the mother looking upon her. Her hair was blonder than her brothers', reminding you of the stories of straw spun into gold, and her almond eyes were almost of a pinkish purple, like the sunset in Pentos. If you thought she was beautiful last night, she was more akin to a goddess this morn, wearing a silky gown of dusty lavender that complimented her milky skin. 

Lost for words, a shade of awkwardness coming over you as you conversed with the girl for the first time in months, you dropped yourself into a light curtsy. "Aunt, it has been so long." 

Helaena's laugh was like the tinkling of a bell, soft and delicate, and you couldn't help but grin as the sound. It reminded you of the castle cats, of their ringing collars that sounded their merry presence and just how happy the girl had been at the sight of them in her youth. She had always possessed a natural affinity for animals. "Your travels must have surely changed you for you to be so ladylike." She giggled with a sweetness only she possessed.  

You smiled at her words, brushing your hair out of your eyes. "I seem to be taking my manners a little too seriously. It has been so long since I've attended court, I have nearly forgotten how to conduct myself," You admitted, still trying to keep a wide smile at bay as she looped an arm around yours and began to slowly walk, her skirt brushing your own in the breeze. It had been so long since you had walked together, you had almost forgotten what it felt like to be arm in arm. 

"I shall do my best to bring you up to speed with things, dear niece," She teased. 

"I would be most grateful." 

Though you had never been close with your uncles, you and Helaena had been practically attached at the hip in your youth. Both bearing the title of your mother's only daughter, you found yourselves spoiled rotten by those in the keep, often sneaking to the kitchens for handfuls of sweets or cakes without permission as the cook looked on with a wry smile. Summer afternoons were spent in the shade of apple trees, braiding one another's hair, or reading under the morning sun. Helaena would delight in the opportunity to tell you stories of butterflies with wings of a hundred colours, only found in remote areas across the narrow sea, and you would hum softly as you stretched in the grass, sketching her from your parchment. When she caught sight of your drawing, her cheeks would go as pink as her dresses, but you knew she loved the renderings. 

When you left for your travels, you both wept in one another's arms. She was closer to a sister than your aunt, and you were so worried that the time apart would leave you strangers. You could not have been happier to be wrong as she told you of the gossip at court, her eyes sparkling with an undercurrent of mischief when she brought up the pretty Hightower boy looking for a bride, or the lord from Riverrun with the voice of an angel. You hoped secretly, only minutes into speaking with her properly once again, that if she were courted, the lord would not take her far from home. You had truly missed what it felt to be a girl, having spent the past year being pushed towards eldest sons to be courted. There was something uniquely different about a friendship with a girl, innocent and sweet as summer berries. 

"-Oh, and of course everybody is delighted to have you home. Mother seems gentler than she did before, don't you think? And your brothers are certainly happy to have you back. Jacaerys has been talking of you for weeks now, ever since Rhaenyra spoke of bringing you back. I do believe he has missed having his sister around." 

You smiled in earnest at the compliment, turning towards where you could still see the boys training in the yard. "So, you have been speaking to my brother in my absence?" You wiggled your brows suggestively and Helaena went a soft pink, mouth dropping into a little circle before laughing. 

"He is my nephew, of course I would speak with him. Your brothers are all very kind." 

"Yes, yes," You laughed, only half mocking. It was a shame, truly, that Alicent had denied your mother's proposals of wedding your brother and aunt. They were the two kindest people you had ever come to know, and you were certain they would make a fine match together; Jace had always been gentle with the girl, perhaps even more so than he was with you. "However, I do believe your own brothers are not quite as fond of me." 

You held a twinkle of amusement in your eye, yet Helaena's smile tightened a little at your words. "Yes, they are quite stubborn, but both can be kind." 

You were forced to hold back a snort at that comment. Kind was certainly one word for your uncles, others being untrustworthy, cruel, bitter. When you looked up from the ground, watching your steps, you found Helaena's eyes on you. "You've spoken with them." 

It was not a question so much as a statement, even perhaps an accusation. You only realised now how low your dress fell on your shoulders, how short the sleeves were. You wondered if she had noticed the bruises. 

"I- Well, yes. Only Aegon," You sighed, turning forward once more to resume your walk. "It was my own idiocy, last night left me so angry. I thought that If I were to confront him, he would realise I am not a child to bully and belittle anymore." 

Helaena pursed her lips at your words, frowning her gentle brows as she squinted against the sunlight. "Aegon can be kind sometimes, but he has a mean streak that emerges more often than not." 

She sighed, looking downcast at her words as you began to descend a set of stairs. "You have been gone a while, we have all changed, but none more so than my brother." She gave your hand a gentle squeeze. "I'm sure he will come around." 

You could do nothing more than hum at her words as you came upon a candlelit room that overlooked the gardens, golden light illuminating the sunstone from where it poured in lavishly. A Septa was already sitting with other girls of a similar age to yourself, and you suddenly wished you were back on the balcony, overlooking the boys. Helaena smiled as though sensing your distaste.  

"Come, sweet niece. I am sure you have let your studies go since leaving." 

She was not entirely wrong. You had promised your mother you would continue your lessons in your absence, but if you had accidentally misplaced your embroidery in a crack behind your chamber drawers, who could she have been to place judgement? 

A year apart from sewing had left you less experienced than you had believed yourself capable of. You were never as skilled as Helaena in youth, but now your attempts were pitiful. The Septa often looked over at your work with pinched lips, occasionally sighing as you slipped a stitch or wobbled on your lines where your aunts were perfect. Still, despite ending the day with sore thumbs and fingers full of scabs, you couldn't say you hated the time spent with Helaena, never failing to lift your spirits. 

"I hear you spent your afternoons with the other girls," Rhaenyra commented, a hint of a smile gracing her lips at supper. 

Thankfully, it seemed, your families did not take it upon themselves to dine together often, last night being a special occasion of sorts. You sat with just your brothers, mother, and Daemon around a comfortably sized dining table, nibbling on a slice of pie as servants brought out small dishes of meat, fruit, and bread. It was a comfortable affair. Taking a sip of your wine, you nodded with a smile. 

"Yes, Helaena caught me in the morning. It was fun." 

Daemon scoffed at your words, looking over at you with an impish smile and you were forced to look down at your meal, fighting a laugh. Your family had not, as it seemed, forgotten about your certain distaste for needles. 

"Your septa had other words for your work," Your mother said pointedly as Luke let out a cough that sounded an awful lot like a suppressed laugh. She shot him a look full of warning and he returned to his meal, snickering lightly. 

"I think we should all be glad she's making an effort with her duties," Daemon gave you look of utter amusement from over his meal. "She could still be running wild with a sword in hand." 

Jace guffawed at that, and you couldn’t help but giggle along as your face reddened, slapping your brother lightly on the shoulder. "You're only laughing because I was better than you." 

Your brother laughed through a mouthful of food, fighting to keep it down as he spluttered. Rhaenyra shot the both of you a rather disappointed look as Jace poured his glass down his throat, beginning to cough, and you burst into laughter at the sight of him.  

When Jace had finally settled back down, slightly red in the face, he turned to you as though nothing had happened, only eliciting further giggles as you attempted to quiet yourself, ever aware of your mother's eye. "I'd like to see you try now." 

"Ohh and what would you do? Swing it rather threateningly my way?" 

Jace scrunched his nose, yet it was now Luke's turn to cackle at his brother. "You are a bit of a showoff in the yard, always throwing your sword around in case one of the ladies see you." He wiggled his brows and Jace shoved him away, though you could see the amusement there.

"I do not-!" 

"Boys," Your mother's voice was quiet but stern, and both immediately turned back to their plates in silence, still side eyeing one another. When Rhaenyra turned to conversation with Daemon, and he was sure she wouldn't overhear, Luke turned to his brother with eyes full of taunt. 

"Trying to show off to Helaen-" Luke's sing-song whisper was cut off with a strangled gasp as Jace's foot came into contact with his ankle, face scrunching into a glare. 

It was strange, you thought you would hate returning to Kingslanding, leaving your home and happiness behind in Pentos. You had never thought of your sweet aunt or the ring of steel in the morning, the laughter over the dining table nor the pointless bickering of your brothers. Your uncles may have been a stain on your days, but they could not take away moments like these.  

Kingslanding was decidedly better than you thought it to be. 

The night air was cool and refreshing as you made your way from dinner, arm looped through Jacaerys' as he escorted you to your bedchambers. Dinner was a smooth event, and you greatly enjoyed your first proper reunion with your family, especially as the first was spoiled by the memory of Aegon.  

"How are you finding it, being home again?" Jace spoke after a while of looping through corridor after corridor, sticking to the balconies so that you could look out over the grounds, dyed a deep blue in the darkness of night. 

"If you had asked me last night, I would say I would rather be anywhere but here," You replied, giving his arm a gentle squeeze and looking up at him with a smile. "But a good night's rest and time with my family has proved me wrong." 

Jace gave you an earnest smile, his eyes shining in the moonlight. You didn't know how you had gone so long apart from your brother, for now you couldn't imagine life without him. Even from childhood, you were both almost inseparable, only parting when he went to train, and you joined Helaena for study and play. He had defended your honour more than once, stood by your side through the death of Harwin Strong and Leanor Velaryon, keeping his composure so that you had a shoulder to cry upon. Born barely a year apart, you were almost twins, and despite you being the elder, he had always taken upon himself the role of 'big brother'. 

Jace paused for a moment, placing a soft hand upon your shoulder. "You have no idea how grateful I am to have you home, sweet sister."  

Your chin wobbled as your smile widened, shrugging off his hand and enveloping him into a hug. Your brother, your sweet brother who could do no harm, who only wished for the absolute best for all those around. You swore to yourself then, with your head pressed against his chest and your arms around him, that if you were to ever leave Kingslanding again, it would be by his side. 

The sound of somebody clearing their throat, a deep and gravelly noise, had you shifting to detach yourself from Jace, fearful you had interrupted someone else's roaming of the castle at such an hour. Though before you could look towards the origin of the sound, your brother stiffened beside you, removing one arm while keeping the other firm against your waist, almost protectively. 

"Nephew," You could have cursed the voice, for you intuitively knew who it belonged to. Looking from the dark fabric of Jace's tunic, you gazed upon the short white hair and pale lilac eyes of Aegon Targaryen, standing with his hands clasped behind his back and a wicked half smile upon his face. "Niece." 

You nodded your head, lips pursing as you attempted to separate yourself from your brother again, yet his grip remained firm. When you sneaked a glance up at him, his eyes were of unrelenting fire. 

"You have some nerve showing up here after the way you spoke of my sister last night." Jace's voice was firm and cold, authoritative in every sense, and yet Aegon looked on, unfazed, if not amused. 

"What? Simply walking the halls of my father's castle?" He looked about pointedly, raising his hand to gesture to the balcony beside you all. Yet another mockery, you were certain of it. Aegon had no need to be here, no need to interrupt. If he had not come to purposefully seek you out, he certainly hadn't shied away from making his presence known. 

"In our mothers halls?" Jace was unrelenting, a sneer taking form across his face. When you tried to whisper up to him, gentle pleads to let it go, he ignored you entirely, keeping his eyes upon your uncle. 

Aegon grunted, fighting a scowl, before rolling his shoulders slightly, shaking the look of resentment into something cooler, a mask of friendliness. 'He is more deceptive than the scorpion,' you thought, biting the inside of your cheek as tension rose in waves across the hallway. 'That assures the frog he will not sting him, should he only let him upon his back." 

"I only wished to apologise," Aegon said, holding out his palms in defense, and you had to bite back the frown that tugged at your features. The silver man stood still for a second, his lips twitching upwards into the smallest of smiles, though you noticed the malice behind those lovely eyes. "I was hoping to walk the Princess to her chambers, so that we may talk...

privately." 

Your blood ran cold at the suggestion, though you fought to keep the hesitation from gracing your features. Jacaerys' lip curled at the thought, yet he looked to you for the answer, ever the courteous gentleman. You nodded stiffly, smiling up at him, though you felt slightly sick. You hadn't quite let go of your fury from the night before, but even more so you were embarrassed. Embarrassed that Aegon had gotten the better of you so quickly, embarrassed that you had been forced to flee his chambers in tears.  

Your mother would have scolded you for this though, told you that a dragon never bows, nor relents, so you forced the shame to the back of your mind, saying a quiet 'thank you' to your brother as you stepped away. Aegon held out a gloved hand, and you looped your arm through his, feeling uncomfortably colder stood next to the man than you had done beside Jace. 

You could feel the presence of your brother behind you until you turned a corner, watching you until you were far out of eyesight, and it wasn't until Aegon was sure that Jace was far enough behind that he spoke. 

"Don't tell me you've been brought back to Kingslanding to marry him?"  

Your lip curled, and you had to force yourself to hold your head high and not smack the man about the arm at the suggestion, already fighting off the red that began to sweep up your neck. "If it were any of your business, Aegon, I'm sure you would know." 

He laughed lowly at your words, humorously, as you rounded another corner, coming across a long hallway of doors. Light glimmered faintly from beneath the boards, the soft sounds of the room's inhabitants readying themselves for bed. "So, you are? How disappointing that must be for you, though I'm sure someone of your station can never raise their expectations high." 

Openly scowling, you turned your head up to him as you continued your walk, afraid that if you stopped you would be sucked into an argument that neither of you would end. "No, actually. In fact, a better match seems to be brewing between Jacaerys and your sister." 

Yet again, Aegon remained unfazed by your words, simply looking onwards with those eyes of steel and violet. "They are both imbeciles so I am sure they would suit each other rather well." 

Your nails embedded themselves involuntarily into your palms at his words, forcing yourself to take deep breaths so as not to entirely lower yourself to his standards. 'He wants to get you mad', you reminded yourself. 'Don't give him what he wants.' 

So, you kept yourself cool, looking back out towards the rooms in front of you, sharp and cold as night. "I thought you wished to apologise for your behaviour, Aegon, not further lower your reputation in my eyes." 

"You truly thought I meant to apologise?" The humour in his voice was antagonising. "No, I just hoped to piss off that idiot brother of yours." 

You whipped around at that, pulling your arm from his as you finally made it to your door. Your hand was already upon the handle, ready to slam the heavy wood shut in his face should he further provoke you. 

"Why must you be so pointlessly cruel? I have not been back longer than a day and you seem intent on plaguing every decent interaction with your hateful presence." Your words were a hiss of steel as you regarded those playful eyes. Aegon merely smiled, flashing perfectly white teeth. 

"I thought we had this conversation last night," He leaned against the doorframe, tilting his head as he looked down upon you. You only straightened your spine, staring back with a hardened gaze. His lips were still turning upwards in a hint of a smile. "I don't like you." 

"Finally," You laughed, exasperated, already inching the door open. "Something we can both agree upon." 

In less than three seconds, you had whipped the door open, slipped inside, and slammed the door shut against the man, still looking upon you with glee. It was as though your words awoke something within him, something cruel and delightful, and you did not wish to find out what. With added force, you slid the bolt shut on your door with a jolting thud, effectively blocking him from attempting to enter, and you could hear his muffled laugh at your gesture as you leaned against the wood with a sigh. 

It was long after his footsteps faded into the distance that you were finally able bring yourself to sleep. 

[peppymintdreams]

A Vampire’s Veil of Shadows Ball

Xanthus Claiborne x Love

The snow whispered underfoot as Xanthus and Love approached the towering estate, its frost-encrusted silhouette looming in the twilight. Love adjusted their mask, fingers trembling slightly as they looked up at the Ebon Veil Ballroom. Everything about the scene was intimidating—the icy beauty, the haunting silence, and the knowledge of what awaited them inside.

“This feels like a bad idea,” Love murmured, glancing nervously at Xanthus.

He cast them a sidelong look, his expression calm but firm. “If it were unsafe, I wouldn’t have brought you.”

Love gave him a dubious glance, their hand tightening around his arm. “You say that, but this is a literal den of vampires.”

“You’re with me,” he replied, his voice steady, as if that settled the matter.

As they reached the frost-etched oak doors, Xanthus paused, his sharp eyes scanning Love. “The bracelet,” he said, gesturing to the delicate silver band around their wrist. “Remember It carries my scent. It will mark you as mine. That should be enough to keep the others away.”

Love looked down at the bracelet, their nerves far from calmed. “And if it’s not enough?”

Xanthus’s mouth curved into a faint, dangerous smile, his fangs just visible. “Then they’ll have me to deal with.”

The ballroom was breathtaking and terrifying in equal measure. The vaulted ceiling stretched like a frozen twilight sky above them, its icy stars casting an ethereal glow over the room. The crowd of vampires, clad in elaborate Victorian masquerade attire, moved with an unsettling grace, their conversations and laughter like faint echoes in the vast space.

Love felt the weight of countless gazes as they stepped inside, the subtle shift in the air confirming their worst fear—their human presence had not gone unnoticed.

Clinging to Xanthus’s arm, they leaned closer and whispered, “I feel like a walking buffet.”

“You’re not,” Xanthus said softly, though his hand moved to rest lightly over theirs. “Stay close to me.”

Love nodded, though the glances and whispers continued to gnaw at their nerves as they followed Xanthus through the crowd. The bracelet might deter their hunger, but it couldn’t dull the curiosity in their eyes.

They stopped near the frostbitten dais, where Isis stood, her sapphire gown glittering like frozen starlight. She turned to greet them, her sharp eyes lingering on Love.

“Xanthus,” she said with a faint smile. “I didn’t expect you to bring... company.”

“They’re with me,” Xanthus said firmly, his tone leaving no room for debate.

Isis tilted her head, her smile deepening. “Interesting.” Her gaze shifted back to Xanthus. “Shall we talk? Somewhere more private.”

Xanthus’s jaw tightened. “We can talk here.”

“That won’t do,” Isis said smoothly, her tone like silk over steel. “This is a delicate matter, and I’d rather not have it overheard.”

Xanthus glanced at Love, his hesitation clear. “I don’t like leaving them alone.”

“They’d be perfectly safe,at the estate you were staying at” Isis assured him, her voice lilting with amusement. “That is Dontis’s home, and I’d rather than not have to endure hearing a night of him having one of his guest over again”

Love felt their stomach churn as Xanthus turned to them, his sharp eyes softening slightly. “Stay here,” he said, slipping off his long coat and draping it over their shoulders. “It’s cold in here, and this will help.”

“Xanthus,” they started, but he silenced them with a faint smile.

“I won’t be far,” he said softly, his hand brushing briefly against theirs. “You’ll be fine.”

Then, with one last look, he turned and followed Isis into the shadows.

Left alone, Love moved cautiously to a quieter corner of the ballroom, wrapping Xanthus’s coat tighter around themselves. The scent of him—clean, sharp, and subtly earthy—was a small comfort, but it did little to quell the growing unease in their chest.

Everywhere they turned, eyes followed. Conversations halted as they passed, replaced by faint whispers and knowing glances. Even the music seemed distant, drowned out by the sound of their own heartbeat.

They were about to retreat further into the corner when a figure stepped into their peripheral vision, moving with the silent grace of a shadow.

“Such a rare sight,” the man said, his voice smooth and melodic, with an almost playful lilt. He had pale, ash-blond hair that seemed to glisten faintly in the eerie blue light, and though his mask covered much of his face, his sharp, predatory smile and piercing eyes were unmistakable. “A human at the Ebon Veil Ball.”

Love stiffened, clutching the edges of Xanthus’s coat. The chill in the room deepened as if the stranger’s very presence carried with it a colder, sharper edge.

“I’m with someone,” they managed, their voice steady but quiet.

The man tilted his head, studying them like a curious predator. His silver mask, adorned with intricate thorn-like patterns, caught the faint blue glow of the chandelier above. “Ah, yes. The infamous Xanthus.” His smile widened, and there was an unsettling amusement in his tone. “But he’s not here right now, is he?”

Love’s heart started pounding as they took a small, instinctive step back. “He’ll be back soon,” they said, their fingers curling tighter into the fabric of the coat.

“Will he?” The man stepped closer, his polished shoes clicking faintly against the marble floor. His movements were languid, unhurried, and yet there was an undeniable menace in the way he closed the space between them. “How intriguing. You’re his, then?”

Love didn’t answer, their throat tightening as the stranger’s eyes darkened, narrowing slightly as if dissecting every inch of them.

“Your scent is... intoxicating,” he murmured, his gaze drifting downward for a moment, as though he could see the blood coursing through their veins. “I wonder,” he continued, his voice low and silken, “do you taste as good as you smell?”

The words sent a cold shiver racing down Love’s spine. They drew in a shaky breath, forcing themselves to meet his gaze. “I’m not interested,” they said, their voice firmer now, though it trembled at the edges.

The man’s smile didn’t falter. If anything, it grew wider, more sinister. “Not interested?” he echoed, as though the concept was foreign to him. He took another step closer, his presence oppressive, and the faint scent of something metallic—blood, perhaps—lingered around him.

“You’re tense,” he noted softly, his pale hand rising as if to touch their face. Love flinched back, but his fingers merely hovered in the air. “Don’t be. I can promise it won’t hurt... much.”

“I said no,” Love said, their voice rising slightly, betraying the growing panic that clawed at their chest.

“Don’t be so shy,” the man murmured, his tone both cajoling and mocking. His hand brushed lightly against their arm, the contact cold as ice and sending a jolt of fear through them. “You might even enjoy it. Not many get the chance to—”

“Take your hands off them.”

The voice cut through the air like a blade, and the man froze. Slowly, he turned, his confident demeanor faltering as he met Xanthus’s cold, furious gaze.

“Xanthus,” the man said excitedly, stepping a tad back. “No harm intended, of course, I didn’t mean—”

“I don’t care what you meant,” Xanthus said, his voice low and deadly. “Move. Now.”

“Leave,” Xanthus said, his tone brooking no argument.

The man hesitated for a fraction of a second too long, and Xanthus took a single step forward, his hand twitching at his side as if he were considering whether to act. The man didn’t wait to find out.

The man smirked, then vanished into the crowd without another word.

Xanthus turned to Love, his sharp expression softening as he placed a hand on their shoulder. “Are you alright?”

Love nodded shakily, their hands still clutching his coat. “I—he—” They took a deep breath, trying to steady their voice. “He wouldn’t stop.”

Xanthus’s jaw tightened, and a flash of something darker crossed his expression. “You shouldn’t have been left alone,” he said, his voice quieter now, though it carried a weight of self-recrimination.

“You didn’t know that would happen,” Love said, though their voice wavered.

“Still.” Xanthus reached out, his hand brushing against their cheek briefly before pulling back. “He’s lucky I didn’t kill him.”

Love let out a shaky laugh. “You say that like it’s a joke.”

“It’s not.” Xanthus’s tone was so serious that it made their breath catch.

Love nodded shakily, their fingers clutching his coat. “I didn’t think you’d get back in time.”

“I was never far,” Xanthus said softly, his eyes scanning their face for any sign of harm. “No one touches what’s mine.”

He wrapped an arm around their shoulders, guiding them toward the exit. As they stepped out into the cold night, Love leaned into him, the tension in their chest finally easing.

“Next time,” they said quietly, “leave me at home, I’d much rather hear Dontis fucking someone, than whatever the hell that was.”

Xanthus gave a faint chuckle, his voice warmer than before. “Next time,” he said, pulling them closer, “there won’t be a next time.”

[exitpursuedbyavulcan]

The Silver Dragon (13/?)

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Original Female Character

Word Count: 2980

Story Summary: Lady Arianwyn Targaryen, the Lady of Runestone, was seeded by her father, the Rogue Prince Daemon Targaryen, in an act of unbridled hatred, and borne of her mother, the late Lady Rhea Royce, as a desperate grasp at revenge.

Ignored by her father, and alone following the death of her mother, she is raised in King’s Landing alongside her cousin, Prince Aemond Targaryen. As they grow, the two find themselves indelibly bonded. But their lives are far from the fairy tales they read, and as tensions in the family rise, they find their paths may diverge.

Will they be pulled apart when the dragons dance?

Chapter Summary: Aemond struggles to adjust to Arianwyn’s absence. But on his fifteenth nameday, Ser Gerold Royce arrives with a bronze-wrapped present.

Warnings: None.

Series Masterlist

Taglist: @thelittleswanao3 @trap-house-homiecide @50svibes @literishdegree99

The Sapphire

Aemond woke at dawn each morning consumed by the knowledge that he would not see Arianwyn that day.

He missed her so much it ached; the pain sharpened by the fact that he knew now it would be years before they saw each other again. It took all his strength to pull himself from his bed, rather than sleep until she was at last free of her father. For in his dreams, they were still together.

But Aemond had made her a promise. The next time she saw him, he would be the fiercest dragonrider since Aegon the Conqueror. He could not accomplish that by lying despondently in bed.

So, he stood and faced the sunlight streaming in through an eastward facing window, stretching his sore muscles. Each morning he tried to gaze far enough into the sea to see Dragonstone, to see the castle, and Arianwyn’s tower. But all he ever saw was the horizon.

He dressed, as he always did now, in leathers he had ordered specially made to be suited for both fighting and flying. To be as fierce as the Conqueror, his skill on dragonback must be matched by an equal proficiency with the sword.

Cole had been so impressed by Aemond’s progress over the past year, especially as he adapted the loss of his eye, that the Kingsguard had gifted him with a real blade to replace the flimsy wood of his practice sword. It was simple, and wrought of ordinary steel – the ancestral Valyrian steel of House Targaryen was wielded still by the King and Prince Daemon – but it was still a fine sword.

And Aemond had grown into a fine warrior. True, he was blessed with some amount of innate skill, but it was his dedication to the art that made him truly great. Every morning, without fail, he went directly to the training yard after a meager breakfast in his rooms. He usually had the yard to himself for at least an hour before the other guards and knights began to arrive.

Aemond cherished that time he spent alone. It allowed him privacy as he brutally attacked the practice dummy, imagining it was Daemon. If any of the others saw the way he attacked then, viciously and mercilessly, they would no doubt ask questions. But this was one fight he had to wage alone, at least for the time being.

Perhaps one day, after the King was gone, he would have the chance to wield his blade against the real Daemon. He would make him suffer for all he had done to Arianwyn, and her mother.

For now, all he could do was imagine. As he did so often these days.

He imagined Arianwyn standing on the ramparts, watching him with a proud smile on her face.

He imagined her across the table from him in the library, reading to him with her sweet voice until he fell asleep

He imagined her astride Emrys, flying beside him through the skies and laughing as the wind whipped through their hair.

He imagined her everywhere.

But she was never truly there.

For the first time in his life, Aemond was dreading his nameday. It had never been in his nature to enjoy the interminable celebrations and massive crowds, but the festivities meant that he could spend several days with Arianwyn by his side from dawn to dusk.

She would talk for him when he was too shy, encourage him to try the strange new creations from visiting foreign chefs, and squeal with delight at every present he received. Her presence was always his most favorite gift.

Now he would have to endure it without her.

Getting through the tourney was relatively easy. He simply refused to leave the royal box, and he didn’t have to engage with anyone he didn’t already know. When he tired of talking with even them, most of the jousts and duels were impressive enough to hold his attention. Still, he would rather be riding Vhagar. But he had sent her to the Kingswood to roam and hunt while the tourney took place.

The feast was far more difficult. He was forced to endure hours of constant interruptions to his meal, only able to take four bites of his food before the whole plate went cold.

Lowborn knights aiming to elevate their status boasted to him, hoping to tempt him into accompanying them on their travels. Second sons from every house in Westeros tried to strike up a conversation, hoping to secure their place at court through him. And shy young ladies, both noble and wealthy, were paraded before him by their social climbing fathers.

Aemond was sure his brain would rot from the monotony of it all.

He had hoped the angry red scar still covering half his face would have scared at least some of them off, but he had no such luck. By the time he lost count of how many people had spoken to him, he was tempted to rip his eyepatch off and expose the gaping, gruesome hole where his eye had once been, just to try and get rid of them.

But before he could act on the impulse, a friendly face finally appeared before him.

“Prince Aemond, the people of Runestone wish you all the happiness of the world on your fifteenth nameday,” said Ser Gerold Royce. He held out a small wooden box wrapped with gleaming bronze ribbon and smiled at the Prince. “As does their Lady.”

For the first time that night, Aemond found himself smiling. He took the box from Ser Gerold and began to carefully unwrap the ribbon.

“Arianwyn deeply regrets that she could not be here to give this to you herself,” the knight explained. “But rest assured, she sends this gift with all her love.”

Aemond’s hands froze over the lid of the box. He knew Ser Gerold was expecting a response, but he did not know what to say. There was too much he wanted to say. But those words were only for Aria.

His mother saved him from having to say anything. “It is very kind of you to bring this yourself, Ser Gerold,” the Queen said with a sad smile. “We all miss Aria very much, and pray that we will be able to see her again soon.”

Indeed, Aemond prayed for it every night. But that prayer had yet to be answered.

Alicent placed a hand on her son’s shoulder, sensing the cloud of gloom coming over him. “Go on, Aemond,” she said, “Open it.”

Taking a deep breath, Aemond lifted the lid from the box. He heart immediately lightened when he saw a folded note written in a familiar hand.

Aemond,

Happy nameday!

I’m so sorry I can’t be there. Is the party miserable without me?

You will just have to imagine all the brilliantly witty remarks I would have made were I with you. And be sure to tell me everything that happened in your next letter – I want to feel as if I were really there!

Oh how I wish I could see your face when you open this gift. It took me a long time to figure out how I could possibly match the book you gifted me months ago, but I think I’ve done it with this.

I hope it works, and that you think of me every time you look in the mirror.

I miss you beyond words.

Your dearest friend,

Arianwyn

If she only knew how often he imagined her by his side.

Her words intrigued him. Why would he see the gift in the mirror? The box was far too small to be any king of clothing or armor, or anything else he could imagine wearing. Desperate to sate his curiosity, he hastily refolded the note and turned back to the box and withdrew the contents.

The gift was wrapped in a small silk cloth, the color somewhere between a bright violet and the gentle blue of a winter sky. Aemond’s eagerness to see what was held within nearly vanished when he beheld the embroidery on the cloth.

Runes. Tiny, delicate Runic incantations in bronze, silver, and black thread.

As Aemond tugged on it to better see one of the smaller symbols, the whole cloth came loose, and something small and round fell into his hand.

A sapphire.

With the cloth still held in one hand, Aemond lifted the gemstone with the other, holding it up to the candlelight to examine it. It was not actually round – it had dozens of small facets on the surface. And engraved on each of those facets were the same Runes embroidered in the cloth.

It was perhaps the most beautiful thing Aemond had ever seen.

“Arianwyn wanted the stone to match,” Ser Gerold said, gesturing to the cloth, “but this was the closest we could find.”

The Prince lifted the cloth back to the gem. Indeed, the colors were quite different, though he could find a tinge of purple within the blue stone. But why was the color of the silk significant?

Oh.

When he truly looked at the color of the silk, he found it infinitely familiar. It was the same shade as his eyes – his eye.

He knew what the gift was. It had been more than a month since he wrote to Arianwyn about Orwyle’s plan to replace his eye, he had nearly forgotten. But she had not.

She had made something beautiful for him. Something that, if he was reading the Runes correctly, would grant him strength, bravery, wisdom, and protection. Things he felt he was missing since she had been taken from him. She was giving them back to him in the only way she knew how – through the ancient magic of her ancestors.

Suddenly, Aemond was all too aware of Ser Gerold and his mother’s presence. They were waiting for him to say something. But there were no words, in any language that he knew, that could express what he was feeling in that moment.

“I…” he stammered, eyes darting between the stone and the cloth. “I miss her so much.”

Alicent wrapped a protective arm around her son, pulling him into her chest. “I know, my darling. I miss her as well.” As she spoke, Ser Gerold bowed and retreated back into the party, sensing his continued presence was unnecessary.

Aemond’s eyes stung with unshed tears. “There has to be something we can do to bring her home!”

“Believe me,” Alicent said, rubbing her hand across his back, “I wish there were. But, according to your father, until she is of age or married, Daemon has every right to keep her on Dragonstone.”

The sapphire flashed in the candlelight as Aemond turned it in his hand. “Then I will marry her,” he declared. “I am nearly a man grown. I will marry her and rescue her from Daemon.” He felt something blossom in his chest as he said the words, a warmth that quickly spread all throughout his body.

Yes, he wanted to save Arianwyn. To get her away from her horrid father. But as he let his imagination take flight, as he pictured Arianwyn in a white gown, smiling sweetly as she placed her hand on his, he realized that was not all he wanted.

He wanted her.

He loved her.

He had once read that love was pain. An unbearable, agonizing pain that could only be soothed when the object of your affection loved you back.

That was why his very soul ached every day, every hour, every minute she was gone – he loved her, and she was not here to love him back, if she even did.

The startling realization faded when he felt his mother cupping his cheek. She turned him away from the presents in his hands, and toward her. “Aemond,” she said, “there is nothing that would make be happier than to see you and Aria wed.”

But her dark eyes did not look happy. No, they held an overwhelming sadness. “That night on Driftmark,” she continued, “I offered to betroth you to her. To prevent Daemon from taking her away. And while your father thought it a wonderful solution to mend our broken bonds, Daemon refused.”

“Then he will wed her to someone else, and she will be taken far from me,” Aemond whispered, giving voice to his newest and greatest fear.

“No!” the Queen assured, “I do not believe he will. If that was his plan, he would have done it by now. No, he wants to keep her on Dragonstone, where he has full control of her, for as long as he can.”

Aemond let out a sad laugh, his lip shaking as he spoke, “So we just leave her there, not knowing what he may one day do?”

“That is all we can do, my love.” Alicent dropped her hand to the table, where she grabbed the note Arianwyn had sent with her wonderful gifts. “We wait, we pray, and we offer her as much comfort as we can from afar.”

With a sigh, Aemond looked back down at the sapphire and the silk. He would not stop praying, would not stop writing to her every day. He would not give up hope that he would see her one day. And when he did, he would never allow himself to be parted from her again.

Years later, Aemond once more pulled himself from bed to face the morning sun in the window, relishing the feeling of warmth on his face, and on his sapphire eye. He had ordered a large mirror set into the wall next to the window, so that the gemstone would be the first thing he saw each morning. Arianwyn was right, every time he glimpsed his reflection, he thought of her.

But he could not spend all day gazing into a mirror.

Turning away from the mirror, he sat back down at the edge of the bed, slipping his hand beneath his pillow. He smiled when he found what he was looking for, and brought the small silk cloth to his face.

Though it had been years since she held it in her grasp, Aemond could still find her scent in the fabric. Smoke and cold air filled his mind as he breathed in deeply.

He pictured her, not as the she had been when he last saw her, but how he imagined her now, as a beautiful young woman. Whenever a nobleman returned from a visit to Dragonstone, he pressed them for a description of her.

The image was so clear in his mind. Her long white hair that curled all the way down to her waist, and those large silver eyes that still held her characteristic sparkle. He imagined the slight upturn of her button nose, and the deep lines in her cheeks when she smiled.

Oh, that smile. It could brighten the darkest night, warm the coldest winter.

It was the image of her smile that had him growing hard.

Aemond closed his eyes, keeping the soft silk pressed to his lips with one hand as he took his hard length in the other. He inhaled Arianwyn’s delicious scent again and began to pump slowly, wanting to savor this ritual – one of the few sources of pleasure he still had.

He returned to his imagination, to Arianwyn. He imagined the feeling of running his fingers through her hair, tangling those perfect curls. He imagined wrapping his hands around her waist and pulling her flush against him. He imagined dragging his fingers down the soft skin of her cheeks to her full, pink lips, lingering there before he pounced.

How would it feel to kiss her? Would she lean back into him, or let him take control? Would she wrap her arms around his neck? His waist? Or would she gently caress the sides of his face? Aemond’s breath hiked as he imagined the feel of her soft fingers on his skin. He leaned back on the bed as he stroked himself harder and faster.

He could practically hear the noises she would make when he pulled himself away from her and moved to her neck. He would brush aside her hair and kiss her gently, playfully, hoping to pull more of those delectable noises from her. She would arch into him, as desperate for her touch as he was for hers. When she could take no more of his teasing, she would seize his collar and bring him back to her lips. He would devour her then, showing her exactly how much he craved her.

Release came when he imagined her pressing her forehead to his, at last ending their kiss as she whispered against his lips, “I love you.”

Laying back on the bed, Aemond’s breath came heavy as he at last lowered the silk from his face. The relief that came from his release was short lived, for he knew that this was all he had: his own hand and his imagination.

With a great sigh, he raised himself again from the bed, and began to dress for the day. As he left his bedchamber, he strapped his sword and dagger to his belt, and tucked the purple silk cloth into his breast pocket.

It had been five and half years since Arianwyn was taken from him, and still he clung to every scrap of her that remained. And though the waiting was torture, he took comfort in the fact that it would soon end. Arianwyn had celebrated her nineteenth nameday only weeks before. In less than two years, she would come of age.

If on that day, Daemon did not release her, Aemond would take Vhagar to the Dragonstone and rescue her himself, consequences be damned. He would be the noble Prince to rescue the girl in the tower.

Next Chapter

[movedtoferinehuntress]

☾ *  ── CHARACTER AESTHETICS .

BOLD any which apply to your muse! Remember to REPOST! Feel free to add to the list.

i. 𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐑 .    red. brown. orange.  yellow. green.  blue. purple.  pink. black.  white. teal. silver. gold.  grey.  lilac. metallic. matte. royal blue. strawberry red. charcoal. grey. forest green. apple red. navy blue. crimson. cream.  mint green.

ii. 𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐋 .    fire. ice. water. air. earth.  rain.  snow.  wind. moon. stars.  sun.  heat. cold. steam.  frost. lightening.  sunlight. moonlight. dawn. dusk.  twilight. midnight. sunrise. sunset.  dewdrops.

iii. 𝐁𝐎𝐃𝐘 .    claws. long fingers.  fangs.  teeth.  wings.  tails.  lips.  bare feet. freckles.  bruises. canine.  scars. scratches. ears. wounds.  burns. spikes.  feathers.  webs.  eyes.  hands.  sweat.  tears.  feline.  chubby.  curvy.  short. tall.  normal height.  muscular.  slender. trained. piercings.  tattoos. strong. weak.  shapeshifting.

iv. 𝐖𝐄𝐀𝐏𝐎𝐍𝐑𝐘 .    fists. sword.  dagger.  spear.  scythe.  bow and arrow.  hammer.  shield.  poison.  guns.  axes.  throwing axes.  whips. knives. throwing knives.  pepper sprays.  tasers.  machine guns.  slingshots.  katanas.  maces.  staffs.  wands.  powers.  magical items.  magic. rocks.

v. 𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐀𝐋 .    gold. silver. platinum. titanium.  diamonds.  pearls.  rubies.  sapphires. emeralds.  amethyst. metal.  iron. rust.  steel.  glass. wood.  porcelain.  paper.  wool.  fur.  lace. leather. copper. silk.  velvet. denim.  linen.  cotton.  charcoal.  clay.  stone. asphalt.  brick. marble. dust.  glitter.  blood. dirt.  mud. smoke.  ash. shadow. carbonate. rubber. synthetics.  yarn.  slime.

vi. 𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄 .    grass.  leaves .  trees.  bark.  roses.  daisies.  tulips.  holly.  lavender. lilies. petals. thorns. seeds.  hay. sand.  rocks.  snow. ice.  roots.  flowers. ocean. river.  lake.  meadow.  forest.  desert.  tundra. savanna.  rain forest.  swamp.  caves.  underwater.  coral reef.beach. waves. space.  clouds.  mountains.  fungi.  cliffs.

vii. 𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐌𝐀𝐋𝐒 .    lions. wolves. tiger. black panther. eagles. owls.  falcons. hawks.  swans.  snakes. turtles.  ducks.  bugs.  roaches.  spiders.  birds.  whales.  dolphins.  fish.  sharks.  horses.  cats. dogs.  bunnies.  praying mantis.  crows.  ravens.  mice.  lizards.  frogs.  bears.  werewolves. unicorns.  pegasus.  dinosaurs.  dragons.

viii. 𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐃/𝐃𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐊 .    sugar.  salt.  water.  candy.  bubblegum.  wine.  champagne. hard liquor.  beer.  coffee. tea.  spices.  herbs.  apple.  orange.  lemon.  cherry.  strawberry. watermelon. vegetables. fruits. meat. fish.  pies.  desserts. chocolate.  cream. caramel.  berries.   nuts. cinnamon. burgers. burritos.  pizza.

ix. 𝐇𝐎𝐁𝐁𝐈𝐄𝐒 .    music.  art.  watercolors.  gardening.  smithing.  sculpting.  painting. sketching. fighting.  fencing.  riding. writing. composing.  cooking. sewing.  training. dancing.  acting. singing. martial arts.  self-defense.  electronics.  technology. cameras.  video cameras.  video games. computer.  phone.  movies. theater. libraries.  books. magazines. poetry.  philosophy. cds. records.  vinyls.  cassettes.  piano.  violin.  cello. guitar.  electronic guitar. bass guitar.  harmonica.  synthesizers.  harp.  woodwinds.  brass. trumpet.  flute. drums.  bells. playing cards.  poker chips. chess. dice. motorcycle riding. eating.  climbing. running.

x. 𝐒𝐓𝐘𝐋𝐄 .    lingerie.  armor. cape.  dress.  suit.  tunic. vest.  shirt. boots.  heels.  leggings. trousers.  jeans.  skirt.  jewelry.  earrings.  necklace.  bracelet. ring. pendant.  hat.  crown.  circlet. helmet. scarf. neck tie.  brocade.  cloaks.  corsets.  doublet.  chest plate.  gorget.  bracers.  belt. sash.  coat. jacket. hood.  gloves. socks. masks.  cowls.  braces.  watches. glasses. sun glasses.  visor.  eye contacts.  makeup.

xi. 𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐂 .    balloons.  bubbles.  cityscape. landscape. light.  dark.  candles.  war.  peace. money. power.  percussion.  clocks. photos.  mirrors.  pets.  diary.  fairy lights.  madness.  sanity.  sadness.  happiness.  optimism. pessimism.  loneliness. anger.  family. friends. assistants.  co-workers.  enemies.  lovers.  loyalty. smoking.  alcohol.  drugs.  kindness.  love. embracing.