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novaursa · 3 months ago

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The Last Dragonslayer (1/2)

- Summary: When young Luke came to Storm’s End as his mother’s emissary, Aemond wasn't the only one there to greet the young Prince.

- Paring: female!reader/Rhaenyra Targaryen

- Note: Reader is a Dragonslayer (a warrior) that saves Rhaeyra's child and fights for her. This is based on the request below, with my own twist in it, and it's the result of the votes that ended yesterday:

- Rating: Mature 16+ (last part will be rated higher)

- Word count: 8 000+

- Next part: 2

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

- A/N: male!reader/Rhaenyra Targaryen is currently under construction. It will be posted once the second part of this work is out. Also, for more of my works visit my blog.

The storm rages fiercely over Storm's End, the winds howling through the stone walls of the castle like a restless beast. You stand in the shadowed alcove, your eyes tracking the young prince as he dismounts from his dragon, Arrax. The creature’s scales gleam wet in the flickering torchlight, its eyes wide with agitation. The beast feels it, the looming presence of something much older and much deadlier. You know without looking that it is Vhagar, the monstrous she-dragon that casts her shadow over the stormy skies.

Lucerys Velaryon, the boy prince, has the look of a cornered deer as he glances around the courtyard, his gaze inevitably drawn to the dark silhouette of Vhagar looming ominously in the distance. His heart beats wildly in his chest, his breath coming in shallow gasps. The dragon he rides is no match for the ancient beast that waits, almost as if it hungers for the boy’s fear.

But it is not Vhagar that makes Arrax twitch nervously, shifting its massive claws on the slick stone ground. No, there is something else—another presence that unnerves both dragons. A primal fear ripples through the air, a fear that runs deeper than any rivalry between dragonriders.

You know what they feel. It is the Banshee, your mount, your companion. She lies in the caves beneath the castle, her leathery wings folded, her shriek an unspoken warning to all dragons that a Dragonslayer is near. You’ve ridden her across the skies of Essos, and now you have brought her to this cold, storm-battered land, a place so different from the sunlit shores of your origin.

As Lucerys is escorted into the great hall, you follow silently, a shadow among the guards, your steps barely a whisper against the stone. The hall is dimly lit, the flames flickering in their sconces as the storm rumbles outside. Lord Borros Baratheon sits upon his chair, his face a thundercloud of displeasure, while Aemond Targaryen stands off to the side, his single eye gleaming with malicious intent.

“Prince Lucerys Velaryon,” Borros announces with a voice as heavy as the storm, “sent by your mother, the Queen.”

Lucerys takes a breath, standing tall as he faces the Lord of Storm's End. His voice is steady as he presents his mother’s terms, but you can see the tremor in his hands, the boy struggling to maintain his composure under the weight of the situation.

Aemond steps forward, his presence dark and threatening, a cruel smile playing on his lips. “You’re a brave boy to come here alone, nephew,” he sneers, his hand hovering near the hilt of his sword. “But bravery only goes so far. You owe me an eye.”

The demand hangs in the air like the threat of lightning. Lucerys’ eyes widen, his breath catching as the terror grips him. He steps back, his hand instinctively moving to his sword, though you can see he knows it is futile.

Aemond’s voice drips with venom as he draws closer, reaching for the sapphire in his empty eye socket. “Don’t be afraid, boy. It’s a simple thing, really. Just a payment for what was stolen from me.”

Your movement is like a shadow across the floor as you step out from your place against the wall, your boots making soft, deliberate sounds against the stone. Aemond’s attention snaps to you, curiosity flashing in his eye as he sees a figure unlike any other in this hall.

“Who are you?” Aemond demands, his voice tinged with both suspicion and interest. The hall seems to quiet, even the storm outside pausing as if to hear your reply.

Lord Borros rises from his chair, turning his gaze to you, and his expression is a mixture of awe and unease. “This is the emissary from the Free Cities,” he says, his voice uncertain. “She arrived a few days ago, from across the Narrow Sea. An emissary, she claimed, from an ancient order.”

You tilt your head slightly, regarding Aemond with those eyes of yours, eyes that many have said carry the weight of ancient knowledge, of secrets lost to time. When you speak, your accent is thick, your voice smooth, yet carrying a hardness beneath it, like a blade wrapped in silk. “The boy will return to his mother,” you state, your tone leaving no room for argument.

Aemond’s eye narrows, his curiosity turning to annoyance. “You think to order me around in my own land? I am a Targaryen, the blood of the dragon. And you—what are you?”

“I am Y/N,” you say simply, letting the name hang in the air, as though it should explain everything. And to those who know, it does. “And I have no interest in your games, dragonrider. The boy leaves. Now.”

Lucerys looks at you with wide eyes, relief and confusion mixing on his young face. He knows not who you are, nor why you would intercede on his behalf, but he knows better than to question the chance at survival you offer.

Aemond, however, is less easily swayed. “You do not command me, woman,” he snarls, his hand finally gripping his sword hilt.

Your eyes lock onto his, and there is a cold, ancient fury in your gaze that makes Aemond pause, just for a moment. “Do you hear that?” you ask softly, almost a whisper.

He frowns, confusion crossing his features. But then he does hear it—a low, keening wail, barely audible over the storm, but there nonetheless. It is a sound that twists something deep in his chest, a primal fear that is older than his bloodline, older than even the dragons themselves.

“That,” you continue, your voice never rising, yet commanding all attention, “is a Banshee’s call. Do you know what it means, dragonrider?”

Aemond doesn’t answer, his grip tightening on his sword. But you see it, the flicker of doubt in his eye, the instinctive fear that his ancestors would have known all too well.

“It means,” you say, taking a step closer to the prince, “that the Dragonslayers are near.”

Silence falls heavy in the hall, the only sound the storm raging outside and that distant, eerie wail of your mount. Aemond’s confidence wavers, just for a heartbeat, and you seize the moment.

“Return to your mother, boy,” you say to Lucerys, your tone softening slightly as you address the prince. “And tell her the Dragonslayers have not forgotten.”

Lucerys doesn’t hesitate. He turns and strides from the hall, the guards parting before him. Aemond watches him go, his eye flicking between you and the retreating prince, torn between pride and the icy fear that grips his heart.

As the doors close behind Lucerys, Aemond turns back to you, but you are already gone, melted back into the shadows of the storm. The Banshee’s wail echoes in his ears, a sound that will haunt him long after this night has passed.

And in the distance, through the storm and the dark, Lucerys Velaryon rides his dragon into the night, the words of a stranger echoing in his mind as he returns to his mother—a warning, a promise, and a name that will not be easily forgotten.

The storm's fury is unrelenting as Vhagar takes to the skies, her wings cutting through the tempest with the power of a creature that has lived through centuries. Beneath her, the world is a blur of rain and lightning, the roar of the wind nearly drowning out the beat of her wings. Aemond’s eye is fixed on the smaller silhouette ahead, the young prince Lucerys and his dragon, Arrax. His pride, his rage, they drive him forward with a singular, furious intent.

"Do you think you can escape me, boy?" Aemond mutters to himself, the thrill of the hunt coursing through his veins. His grip on the reins tightens as he urges Vhagar onward, the ancient beast responding to his will, her massive form gaining on the fleeing dragon.

But then, something shifts.

It begins with Vhagar. The she-dragon, who has known no fear in over a century, falters mid-flight. Her great head swivels, nostrils flaring as if sensing something that doesn’t belong in this world. A deep, rumbling growl escapes her throat, a sound of unease that Aemond has never heard from her before.

"What is it, girl?" Aemond calls out, his voice straining against the storm, frustration creeping in as Vhagar slows her pursuit. He yanks at the reins, but the dragon resists, her great body twisting in the air as if trying to turn away from something unseen.

Then it comes—a sound like no other. Piercing, shrill, it cuts through the storm with an unnatural clarity. A cry that chills the blood, a scream not of any living thing, but of something that should never have existed. Aemond feels it like a knife in his gut, a primal fear that shakes the core of even a Targaryen prince. Vhagar responds with a bellow of her own, but this is not a sound of defiance—it is one of terror.

Through the torrential rain and flashes of lightning, Aemond sees it. Emerging from the swirling clouds above, the Banshee appears, its form massive and menacing, a creature out of nightmares and ancient legends. It is larger than any dragon, its wings long and leathery, resembling those of some dark, twisted bat. Its body is sinewy and powerful, covered in scales as dark as midnight, its maw filled with razor-sharp teeth that seem made to tear through dragon flesh. Eyes that glow with a sickly green light fixate on Vhagar, and in that gaze, there is nothing but hunger.

A hunger that could swallow the world.

The Banshee shrieks again, and this time, the sound is closer, more intense, reverberating through the storm as if the very heavens themselves are crying out in fear. Vhagar roars back, but her voice wavers, no longer the dominant force of the skies. She tries to pull away, her vast wings beating furiously as she begins to ascend, desperate to escape the horror that has locked its gaze upon her.

And there, atop the Banshee, you sit. The storm whips around you, yet you are steady, your body moving fluidly with the creature’s every motion. Your eyes are fixed on Aemond, a cold determination set in your features as you close in. The distance between the two monstrous creatures shrinks with every heartbeat, the Banshee’s speed unnatural, as if it is not bound by the same laws of the world as other beings.

"Vhagar, no!" Aemond shouts, desperation creeping into his voice as he feels his mount’s fear, her once obedient nature slipping through his control. He pulls harder on the reins, but the ancient dragon does not heed him. She banks sharply to the side, attempting to flee, the instinct to survive overpowering all else.

"Stay and fight, damn you!" Aemond roars, but his voice is lost to the storm and to Vhagar’s terror. For the first time, Aemond realizes that he has lost control. Vhagar, the greatest of all dragons, is fleeing like a hunted beast.

From behind, Lucerys and Arrax, seeing their chance, dart downwards toward the safety of the clouds below. The boy doesn’t look back, but his heart pounds with both fear and gratitude, his only thought now of returning to Dragonstone and the safety of his mother’s arms. The storm swallows them, the smaller dragon vanishing into the darkness, seizing the slim opportunity for escape that has been granted by the terror you’ve unleashed.

You see this, the boy’s escape, and though you could chase, though you could end him as well, your focus remains on Aemond. This is a message, a warning, and it is Vhagar who must carry it back.

Aemond’s face twists with a mix of rage and helplessness as he feels Vhagar’s massive body turning, wings beating harder now, not in pursuit, but in retreat. You let out a command, your voice carried by the storm, not in words that Aemond understands, but the Banshee does. She dives, a predatory speed that belies her size, closing the distance between them in seconds.

Another scream from the Banshee, and this time, Vhagar shudders violently, nearly throwing Aemond from her back. The ancient dragon, who has seen countless battles and burned entire cities to ash, is utterly broken by the presence of this creature from a bygone era. She dives desperately, fleeing into the clouds, seeking any refuge from the horror that chases her.

For a brief moment, as you pull back, allowing Vhagar to escape into the storm’s embrace, your eyes meet Aemond’s. In that gaze, he sees something that shakes him more than the sight of the Banshee or the fear in Vhagar’s eyes. He sees the cold, unyielding power of an order thought extinct, a legacy that has returned from the shadows of history.

And then you and the Banshee vanish into the storm, your form melding with the darkness as if you were never there. Only the lingering echoes of that terrifying scream remain, fading into the storm, a sound that will haunt Aemond for the rest of his days.

Vhagar continues her frantic flight, the once-proud dragon now reduced to a fleeing beast, her rider clinging to her, his pride shattered, his mind reeling. Aemond’s thoughts are a whirlwind of anger, fear, and humiliation. He came to these skies with the intent to prove his dominance, to assert his strength, but now he returns with the bitter taste of defeat and the knowledge that there are forces in this world even dragons fear.

And far below, Lucerys and Arrax race through the storm towards the safety of Dragonstone, the boy’s heart pounding with relief and terror. He will make it home, but the memory of this night will stay with him—the night he was spared not by his own hand, but by a mysterious stranger on a creature of nightmares.

The Dragonslayers have returned. And the dragons of Westeros will never be the same.

The skies over Dragonstone are dark, heavy with the remnants of the storm that raged over Storm's End. The air is filled with unease as the guards and retainers of the castle stand vigilantly on the battlements, their eyes scanning the horizon. They know who they are waiting for, though they dare not speak of the dread that gnaws at them.

Suddenly, through the mists and rain, a shape emerges. A dragon, smaller than most, with wet and weary wings straining to keep it aloft. Arrax lands heavily in the courtyard, his scales slick with rain and his breath labored from the flight. The beast's eyes are wide, pupils darting in a way that betrays its fear.

Atop him, Lucerys Velaryon sits slumped in the saddle, his small form trembling, soaked to the bone. He barely has the strength to dismount, nearly collapsing as his boots touch the ground. His hands are shaking uncontrollably, and his eyes—those eyes that should be bright with the fire of youth—are wide and haunted, filled with the terror of what he has just endured.

From across the courtyard, Queen Rhaenyra breaks from her retinue of Queensguard, her heart seizing as she sees the state of her son. “Luke!” she cries, her voice cracking with fear and relief as she rushes to him, her skirts billowing as she nearly stumbles in her haste.

“Mother,” Lucerys gasps, his voice a whisper against the wind. He’s shivering violently, his teeth chattering as the cold and fear clutch at him.

Rhaenyra reaches him, wrapping him in her arms, her grip firm and protective as she pulls him close, heedless of the rain that soaks through her own clothing. Her heart pounds in her chest as she feels the tremors racking his small frame. “Gods, what happened?” she whispers, her hand cupping his face as she tries to meet his eyes, searching for any sign of injury, any indication of what has terrified her son so deeply.

Lucerys buries his face against her shoulder, his breath hitching as he tries to find the words. “I—I saw him, Mother,” he begins, his voice shaking as badly as his body. “Aemond was there… at Storm’s End. Vhagar was with him.”

Rhaenyra stiffens, her blood turning to ice at the mention of Aemond and his dragon. “Did he harm you?” Her voice is fierce, though a mother’s terror lies just beneath it. “What did he do to you?”

Lucerys shakes his head frantically, clutching at her arms as if grounding himself in her presence. “He… he wanted to take my eye, Mother. He said… he said it was a debt. But…” His words trail off, his breath catching as he struggles to explain the horror he witnessed.

Rhaenyra’s grip tightens, her eyes narrowing with a mixture of rage and fear. “But what, Luke? What happened?”

Luke pulls back slightly, his wide eyes meeting hers, filled with a confusion that mirrors his terror. “She… she saved me, Mother. A woman… a stranger. She stopped Aemond.”

Rhaenyra blinks, her mind racing. “A woman? Who was she? What did she look like?”

Luke swallows hard, his voice trembling as he continues, “She… she wasn’t from here. She looked… different. Like no one I’ve ever seen before. She had an accent I didn’t recognize. Lord Borros called her an emissary from the Free Cities.” His voice drops to a whisper, as if saying the next words might summon the creature back. “And she had a… a beast with her. Not a dragon, but something else. It was… it was terrifying, Mother. The dragons, even Vhagar… they were afraid of it.”

Rhaenyra’s heart pounds faster as she listens, trying to make sense of her son’s words. “A beast? What did it look like?”

Luke’s eyes glaze over slightly as he recalls the image burned into his mind. “It was… huge, bigger than any dragon I’ve seen, with wings like… like a bat’s. And its scream, Mother… it was like nothing I’ve ever heard. It made the storm itself seem quiet. And she was riding it… commanding it.”

Rhaenyra’s blood runs cold, her mind racing through the possibilities, but nothing matches the description her son gives. A creature that could frighten Vhagar, the largest and oldest of the Targaryen dragons? It sounds like a nightmare given form, a horror from ancient times.

“Are you sure of what you saw, Luke?” she asks gently, her tone softening as she brushes his wet hair from his face. “Could it have been… something else? A trick of the storm?”

Luke shakes his head vehemently. “No, Mother. I saw it. I heard it. She told me to go, to return to you. And when I left… Aemond was chasing me, but then the creature came after him instead. Vhagar fled, Mother. She was terrified.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes widen, a shiver running down her spine at the thought. If Vhagar, the mightiest of all dragons, could be driven to flee… what manner of beast had her son encountered? And who was this woman, this stranger who had saved her child from a fate worse than death?

A feeling of unease settles over her, a realization that something far greater and more dangerous than she had anticipated is at play. The knowledge that ancient powers, long thought to be myths, might have returned to the world shakes her to her core.

But for now, all that matters is her son. She pulls him close again, holding him tightly as if to shield him from whatever darkness lies out there, whatever force has set its sights on the Targaryen bloodline. “You’re safe now,” she whispers, trying to convince herself as much as him. “You’re home, and you’re safe.”

But even as she says the words, her mind is already racing ahead, planning, fearing, wondering what this new player on the board means for the future of her house, for her claim, and for the survival of her children.

The night is still and heavy with the remnants of the storm, the winds howling softly through the dark corridors of Dragonstone. Rhaenyra is deep in a restless sleep, her mind troubled by the events of the day, her dreams haunted by the image of her son, drenched and trembling, speaking of a beast that defied all she knew of the world.

But suddenly, her sleep is shattered by a sound so primal, so raw, that it feels like the earth itself is tearing apart. The roar of dragons, rising in a cacophony of fear and fury, echoes through the stone walls of the castle. It’s not just any dragon’s roar—it’s the sound of dragons in terror. Rhaenyra bolts upright in her bed, her heart pounding in her chest as the walls seem to tremble around her.

She hears another roar, louder this time, unmistakable in its ferocity—the Cannibal. The ancient, wild dragon’s scream is so powerful that it seems to shake the very foundations of Dragonstone. The deep, guttural sound reverberates through the castle, making the torches flicker as if the flame itself is afraid.

And then, cutting through the night like a blade, comes another sound—a wail, high-pitched and unnatural, unlike anything she’s ever heard. It’s the cry of the Banshee, echoing through the skies above the island, a sound so filled with dread that it makes her blood run cold.

Rhaenyra leaps from her bed, pulling on a robe as she rushes toward the door. Her heart races, a mix of fear and adrenaline driving her forward. She flings open the door, her voice breaking the silence of the corridor. “Daemon!”

As if summoned by her cry, Daemon Targaryen appears, already dressed and armed, his face set in a grim expression. He doesn’t need to ask what’s happening—the screams of the dragons and the wail from the skies tell him all he needs to know.

“They’re afraid,” Daemon says, his voice rough with tension as he strides toward her, his eyes blazing. “The dragons are terrified, Rhaenyra. Whatever it is, it’s here.”

Rhaenyra nods, her breath coming in shallow gasps as she hurries to follow him. The two of them rush through the castle, Daemon’s men falling in around them, their faces pale as they hear the screams that fill the night. The ground beneath their feet seems to tremble as if the very earth is trying to recoil from the presence that has arrived on its shores.

They reach the courtyard just as another roar shakes the air, but this time it’s different. This time, it’s a sound of submission, of retreat. In the distance, high atop Dragonmont, the dragons that make their home in the ancient volcano are pulling back, their massive forms retreating into the dark, smoke-filled caves, away from the open sky. Even the Cannibal, the most feared and untamed of all the dragons, has gone silent, its defiance turned to fear.

Rhaenyra’s eyes follow the direction of the retreating dragons, and there, near the rocky coastline, she sees it—the Banshee. It stands on the blackened sand, its vast wings partially spread, casting an ominous shadow that stretches out over the churning waves. The creature is even more terrifying than she had imagined from Lucerys’ description, a monstrous form that seems to absorb the darkness around it, its eyes glowing with that sickly green light that cuts through the night.

And before the Banshee, standing with an air of calm command, is the woman—Y/N. She stands tall, her presence as formidable as the beast behind her, her eyes fixed on the castle. Even from this distance, Rhaenyra can see the confidence in her stance, the ease with which she controls the horror at her side.

Daemon’s hand moves to the hilt of his sword as he stares at the woman and her beast, his eyes narrowing in a mix of fury and awe. “Is this the creature the boy spoke of?” he asks, his voice low and dangerous.

Rhaenyra nods, unable to tear her gaze from the sight. “It is,” she whispers, her voice tinged with fear and a growing sense of foreboding. “And that… that is the woman who saved him.”

Daemon takes a step forward, his gaze shifting to Caraxes, who is visible in the distance, his great head peeking out from the entrance of his cave. The Blood Wyrm, who has faced down dragons and men alike, recoils, his body pressed low to the ground as if trying to melt into the rock itself. He refuses to come forward, his instincts telling him that this is not a foe he wishes to face.

Rhaenyra watches as Daemon's knuckles turn white around the hilt of his sword. “Even Caraxes is afraid,” he mutters, almost to himself. “What manner of beast is this? And who is this woman?”

Before Rhaenyra can respond, Y/N takes a step forward, moving with a grace that belies the danger she embodies. Her voice carries across the distance, strong and clear despite the howling wind. “I come not as an enemy, but as an emissary.”

Rhaenyra feels a shiver run down her spine at the sound of the woman’s voice. There is something in it, an authority, a power that feels ancient, something that commands respect and fear in equal measure. She steps forward, placing a hand on Daemon’s arm to still him, her eyes never leaving Y/N.

“You saved my son,” Rhaenyra calls out, her voice steady, though her heart is pounding in her chest. “Why?”

Y/N’s gaze meets hers, and for a moment, Rhaenyra feels as though she’s being weighed, measured by a force that sees far beyond the physical. “Because the time has come for old debts to be paid, and old alliances to be rekindled,” Y/N replies, her accent unfamiliar, each word carrying an air of inevitability.

Daemon steps forward, his posture rigid, every muscle coiled with tension. “What are you?” he demands, his tone edged with suspicion. “And what do you want from us?”

Y/N regards him calmly, her eyes as unreadable as the stormy sea behind her. “I am the last of the Dragonslayers,” she says, her words cutting through the air like a blade. “And I seek what was lost to time—an alliance, forged in blood and fire, that will reshape the fate of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Rhaenyra’s breath catches at the mention of the Dragonslayers. The name is one of legend, spoken of only in whispers, a myth more than a reality. Yet here stands proof, undeniable and terrifying. “An alliance?” she echoes, her voice a mix of intrigue and caution. “With whom?”

Y/N’s gaze sharpens, and a ghost of a smile touches her lips. “With House Targaryen,” she says, the name carrying weight as if it alone could alter the course of history. “If you will accept it.”

The words hang in the air, filled with promise and threat alike. Rhaenyra and Daemon exchange a look, the gravity of what is being offered sinking in. The roar of the dragons has died away, leaving only the sound of the wind and the waves crashing against the rocks.

The Banshee shifts behind Y/N, its wings rustling like the ominous whisper of death itself. Rhaenyra takes a deep breath, stepping forward, her voice firm as she speaks. “Come inside,” she says, a queen’s command, but also an invitation. “We will speak more.”

Y/N inclines her head slightly, a gesture of acknowledgment, before turning to her beast. With a simple, fluid motion, she mounts the Banshee, the creature responding to her touch with a soft, almost affectionate growl. “I will come,” she says, her voice carrying across the distance. “But know this, Queen Rhaenyra—what I bring is not just an alliance, but the power to change the very destiny of your house.”

With that, the Banshee lets out one last, bone-chilling wail that echoes across the island. The creature takes to the skies, its massive wings beating against the wind as it rises into the air, carrying its rider away from the shore and into the stormy night.

Rhaenyra watches as the dark silhouette disappears into the clouds, her mind racing with a thousand questions, her heart heavy with the knowledge that whatever comes next, it will be like nothing Westeros has ever seen.

Daemon stands beside her, his eyes still fixed on the sky where the Banshee vanished. “We must be ready,” he says quietly, his voice laced with both determination and unease. “Whatever she brings, it will not be easily controlled.”

Rhaenyra nods, her gaze steely as she turns back toward the castle, already thinking of the steps she must take, the alliances she must forge, and the preparations she must make. “Then we shall be ready,” she replies, her voice firm with resolve. “For House Targaryen will not be brought low, not by dragons, and not by beasts.”

Together, they walk back into the heart of Dragonstone, the weight of their decisions pressing heavily upon them, the storm outside now a mere whisper compared to the storm that is yet to come.

The great hall of Dragonstone is eerily quiet, the only sound the occasional crackle of the fire in the hearth, its flames dancing in the dim light. The storm outside has settled into a steady, rhythmic beat against the stone walls, as if the very island holds its breath, waiting for what comes next.

Daemon Targaryen stands by the fire, his eyes fixed on the flames, deep in thought. The warmth of the fire does little to chase away the cold unease that has settled in his bones since the arrival of the stranger and her beast. Rhaenyra sits at the head of the table, her posture regal and composed, though her gaze is sharp and searching as it rests on the woman before them—Y/N, the self-proclaimed last of the Dragonslayers.

You stand before them, calm and composed, the flickering firelight casting shadows across your face. Your expression is inscrutable, your eyes reflecting a depth of experience and knowledge that stretches far beyond the walls of this ancient castle.

Daemon finally speaks, his voice low, but filled with the weight of old memories. “When I was a boy, I used to sit at my wet nurse’s feet as she told me the tales of old Valyria. Stories of dragons soaring above the world, of their might and majesty… and of the terror that once threatened them.” He turns his gaze from the fire to you, his eyes narrowing slightly. “She spoke of the Dragonslayers, warriors from an ancient order, born from the fear and hatred of those who had no other means to fight back against the dragons. It was said their beasts were as fearsome as the dragons themselves—monstrous creatures that could strike terror into the heart of even the most battle-hardened Targaryen.”

He pauses, his lips curving into a wry smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “But those were just stories. Tales meant to frighten children and remind us of our place in the world. When the Doom of Valyria came, the Dragonslayers were said to have perished along with the dragons. Swallowed by the same flames that consumed the Freehold.”

Daemon’s smile fades, replaced by a hard, calculating look. “So you must excuse me, Lady Y/N, if I find it difficult to believe that I now stand face to face with a ghost from those old tales. A Dragonslayer, here to negotiate with the very people her kind once hunted. It seems… unlikely, doesn’t it? Like a dragon holding court with a woman who eats dragons.”

Rhaenyra watches you intently, her fingers lightly drumming against the arm of her chair as she waits for your response. The tension in the room is felt, the air thick with unspoken questions and unvoiced fears.

You meet Daemon’s gaze without flinching, your expression unreadable as you consider his words. When you finally speak, your voice is steady, carrying an authority that demands attention. “You are right to be cautious, Prince Daemon. The tales of the Dragonslayers are shrouded in myth, and much has been lost to time. But make no mistake—those tales were born from truth. My order existed long before Valyria rose to power, and our purpose was never simply to destroy dragons.”

You pause, your eyes flicking between Daemon and Rhaenyra, measuring their reactions. “Our purpose was—and still is—balance. The world must be in balance, or it risks falling into chaos. The dragons of Valyria were a force of nature, powerful and wild. But when they were allowed to spread unchecked, to conquer and dominate, the balance was threatened.”

Rhaenyra leans forward slightly, her brow furrowed in thought. “And now? What is your purpose here, in Westeros? You say you seek balance, but what does that mean for my house? For my children?”

You turn your gaze to her, your expression softening slightly as you consider your words carefully. “The balance is delicate, Queen Rhaenyra. It is not my intention to see the dragons of Westeros wiped out. That would tip the scales too far in the other direction. The dragons are a part of this world, just as you are, just as I am. But if they are allowed to overwhelm this continent, to destroy all in their path, or if they are allowed to die out entirely, the balance will be lost. And when the balance is lost, it is not just the dragons that suffer—it is the entire world.”

Daemon’s eyes narrow as he considers your words, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, though he makes no move to draw it. “So you would see yourself as some kind of guardian, then? A protector of the balance? And what if that means turning against the very dragons you claim to protect?”

You meet his challenge with a steady gaze. “If it comes to that, Prince Daemon, then so be it. But understand this—my purpose is not to hunt dragons for sport or to seek vengeance for old wrongs. My purpose is to ensure that the world does not fall into chaos. If that means working with the dragons and their riders to maintain the balance, then that is what I will do.”

Rhaenyra exchanges a glance with Daemon, her expression one of deep contemplation. “And what would you ask of us, then?” she inquires, her tone thoughtful, though there is a note of steel beneath it. “What role do you see House Targaryen playing in this balance you speak of?”

You take a deep breath, your gaze steady as you address both of them. “House Targaryen is at the center of the storm that is coming. The dragons you command are both a weapon and a symbol, and their power must be wielded wisely. I offer you an alliance, a way to ensure that power is used to preserve the balance, rather than disrupt it.”

Daemon raises an eyebrow, his skepticism still evident. “And if we refuse?”

You smile faintly, a hint of something ancient and knowing in your expression. “Then the balance will be lost. And I will do what must be done to restore it, with or without your cooperation.”

Silence falls over the room, the weight of your words sinking in. Rhaenyra’s eyes flicker with a mix of emotions—fear, determination, and something akin to respect. She finally rises from her chair, stepping toward you, her gaze unwavering.

“You speak of balance, but know this—we are not easily swayed, and we do not take threats lightly,” she says, her voice strong and clear. “But if you are truly here to preserve this balance, then we will consider your offer. For the sake of our children, and for the future of this realm.”

You incline your head slightly, acknowledging her words. “That is all I ask, Queen Rhaenyra. Consider my offer, and know that I am not your enemy. Not unless you make me one.”

Daemon watches you closely, his hand still resting on his sword, but for now, he remains silent, his thoughts unreadable.

Rhaenyra turns to him, her expression one of quiet resolve. “We will speak more of this, Daemon. But for now, we must be cautious. This alliance may be what we need to ensure the survival of our house.”

Daemon nods slowly, his gaze still locked on you. “Very well,” he says, his voice low and thoughtful. “But know this, Lady Y/N—if you betray us, if you threaten what is ours, you will find that dragons are not so easily tamed.”

You smile slightly, a knowing glint in your eyes. “Nor are Dragonslayers, Prince Daemon. But I hope it does not come to that.”

With that, the tension in the room begins to ease, though the underlying unease remains. The fire crackles softly in the hearth, and the storm outside continues to rage, a reminder that the true storm has only just begun.

The night has settled over Dragonstone with a profound stillness, the earlier storm having finally exhausted itself. The air is cool and crisp, carrying the scent of the sea, and above, the sky is a vast canvas of stars, twinkling like distant, forgotten fires. The castle itself is quiet, the flames of the torches flickering softly in their sconces, casting long shadows across the ancient stone.

Rhaenyra finds herself drawn to the open balcony, her steps light as she moves through the corridors, her thoughts still heavy with the weight of the day’s revelations. As she approaches, she sees you standing there, your back to her, gazing up at the night sky with a stillness that almost seems inhuman. The soft light of the stars bathes you in an ethereal glow, and for a moment, Rhaenyra is struck by your presence. There is something otherworldly about you, a beauty that is both mesmerizing and unsettling, even to one of Targaryen blood, who is no stranger to the idea of beings who are not entirely of this world.

Your figure is tall and graceful, your hair catching the faint light as it moves gently in the breeze. Your clothes, simple yet elegant, seem almost to blend with the shadows, as if you are a part of the night itself. There is an air of timelessness about you, something ancient and enduring, and it stirs a deep curiosity within Rhaenyra, a need to understand the enigma that is Y/N.

You speak before she can announce her presence, your voice soft but clear, carrying the weight of knowledge and memory. “It is said that my people came from those stars,” you begin, still gazing upward, your eyes tracing the patterns in the sky. “Long ago, when the world was young, their ship crumbled down in fire, crashing into what would become the Valyrian Freehold. Can you imagine it, Rhaenyra? A ship that sails among the stars, crossing the vast emptiness between worlds?”

Rhaenyra pauses at your words, her breath catching as she considers the image you’ve painted. The idea is both wondrous and terrifying, something beyond the scope of anything she has ever known. She steps closer, her eyes moving from your figure to the sky above, trying to see what you see.

“It’s a beautiful thought,” she says softly, “but also a frightening one. The idea that something so vast, so unknowable, could exist out there. Or worse, that there might be nothing at all. We would be so small… so insignificant.”

You finally turn to face her, your eyes meeting hers with a look that is both kind and ancient, as if you hold secrets that span the ages. “That is the truth of it, isn’t it? The vastness of the universe, the endless expanse of stars… it can make one feel so very small. All the battles we fight, all the kingdoms we build… in the end, they are but whispers in the wind compared to the forces that drive this world and all the others.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze softens as she looks at you, the intensity of your words resonating deep within her. She takes another step closer, her voice tinged with gratitude as she speaks. “I wanted to thank you… for what you did for Lucerys. You saved my son’s life. For that, I am in your debt.”

You incline your head slightly, acknowledging her thanks with a faint smile. “What I did was just,” you reply simply, as if there could be no other course of action. “The boy’s life was not meant to end that day.”

Rhaenyra studies you, her curiosity growing, fueled by the mysteriousness that surrounds you. She has faced dragons and men alike, but there is something about you that captivates her in a way she does not fully understand. “You said you were the last of your kind,” she begins, her voice gentle but probing. “Does that mean you have no family left?”

You turn back to the sky, your expression unreadable as you consider her question. “There are a few others of my order,” you say after a moment, your voice touched with a hint of melancholy. “They are scattered across the world, trying to survive as best they can. But they are not of my blood. My true family… they are gone.”

Rhaenyra feels a pang of sympathy at your words, a sudden connection to the pain you carry. She knows the weight of loss, the emptiness it leaves behind. “I am sorry,” she says quietly, her voice filled with genuine compassion. “To be the last of your kind… it must be a heavy burden.”

You nod slightly, your gaze distant as you continue to stare at the stars. “It is,” you admit, your voice softening with the weight of memory. “But it is the burden I was born to bear. The last of my bloodline, the last of those who once stood against the might of dragons. My family was everything to me… and now, they are nothing but memories and dust.”

Rhaenyra steps closer, standing beside you now, her gaze also turning upward to the stars. She feels a strange sense of kinship with you, this woman who has seen so much, who carries so much pain within her. “I understand what it is to lose those you love,” she says quietly, her voice filled with a sadness that mirrors your own. “I have lost many, and I fear I may lose more before this is over.”

You turn to her, your eyes searching hers, seeing the strength and sorrow within her. “That is the way of the world, Rhaenyra,” you say softly, your tone both comforting and resigned. “We are all bound by the same fate—loss, pain, and eventually, death. But it is what we do with the time we have, the choices we make, that define us. We must find the strength to carry on, even when all seems lost.”

Rhaenyra nods, her heart heavy with the truth of your words. She takes a deep breath, trying to steady herself, to find the resolve she needs to face the challenges ahead. “I will do what I must,” she says, her voice filled with quiet determination. “For my family, for my children… for the future of this realm.”

You give her a small, understanding smile, a flicker of something almost like pride in your eyes. “You have the strength within you, Rhaenyra Targaryen,” you say, your voice firm with conviction. “I see it, just as I see the stars above. You are meant to be more than a queen—you are meant to be a force that shapes the world.”

Rhaenyra feels a surge of emotion at your words, a mix of fear, hope, and a deep, unspoken bond with this woman who seems to understand her better than anyone. She looks back at you, her gaze filled with both gratitude and a growing respect. “And what of you, Y/N?” she asks softly. “What is your place in this world, now that you are the last of your kind?”

You turn away from the stars to meet her gaze once more, your expression resolute. “My place is wherever I am needed,” you say simply. “I will do what must be done to preserve the balance, to ensure that this world does not fall into chaos. Whether that means standing beside you, or against you, remains to be seen.”

Rhaenyra nods slowly, understanding the gravity of your words. She feels a deep respect for you, for the strength and resolve you carry, and she knows that your path and hers are now intertwined, whether by fate or by choice.

For a moment, the two of you stand together in silence, gazing up at the stars, each lost in your own thoughts, yet connected by the shared understanding of the burdens you bear. The night is a vast and heavy dread of what lies ahead, but in this moment, there is a sense of calm, of quiet resolution, as if the stars themselves have blessed this fragile alliance.

The morning sun has risen over Dragonstone, casting a warm, golden glow across the ancient stone walls and the restless sea beyond. The storm of the previous night has left the air fresh and crisp, with only a few lingering clouds on the horizon. The castle is stirring with life, as servants go about their duties and the guards stand watchful at their posts.

You are standing in the courtyard, the early light catching in your hair, giving it a strange, almost ethereal sheen. You are calm, composed, your posture relaxed as you watch the sea, seemingly lost in thought. The events of the previous night, the tension, and the conversations have left their mark, but you show no outward sign of it. You stand there, a figure of quiet strength, almost as if you belong to another time, another world.

Luke approaches you cautiously, his small feet making soft sounds against the stone. He is dressed in simple, practical clothing, appropriate for the heir of a noble house, but his expression is one of nervousness and gratitude. His young face is still pale from the fear of his encounter at Storm's End, but there is also determination in his eyes, a resolve to confront what haunts him.

He stops a few paces away from you, hesitant at first. “Lady Y/N,” he begins, his voice small but earnest. “I… I wanted to thank you. For what you did at Storm’s End. You saved my life.”

You turn to him, a gentle smile curving your lips as you look down at the boy. There is a kindness in your eyes that seems to ease his nerves, though the depth of your gaze still holds a mystery that he cannot quite grasp. “You owe me no thanks, young prince,” you say softly, your voice steady and warm. “I did what was just.”

Luke swallows, glancing down at the ground for a moment before looking back up at you. “But… Aemond,” he continues, his voice trembling slightly at the name. “He won’t forget what you did. He’ll come after you. He won’t stop until… until he gets what he wants.”

You regard him with calm assurance, unbothered by the warning. There is a quiet power in the way you stand, as if the threats of men and dragons alike hold no sway over you. “Let him come,” you reply, your tone even, as if discussing something as mundane as the weather. “Aemond Targaryen is not the first to seek revenge against me, nor will he be the last. I have faced dragons before, and I have survived them. If he wishes to challenge me, then he will learn that some battles are not so easily won.”

Luke looks at you with a mixture of awe and confusion, struggling to understand the depth of your confidence. He is young, and the world is still a place of fear and uncertainty to him, but your words carry a weight that he cannot ignore. “But… aren’t you afraid?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

You tilt your head slightly, considering the question with a faint smile. “Fear is a natural thing, young prince,” you say gently. “But I have learned that there are things far greater and more terrifying than a man or his dragon. We are all small in the grand scheme of things, and what we fear today may be forgotten tomorrow. What matters is how we face that fear—whether we let it control us, or whether we rise above it.”

Luke nods slowly, taking in your words. There is a wisdom in them that speaks to him, even if he doesn’t fully understand it yet. He looks up at you with a newfound respect, feeling a little braver, a little stronger in your presence. “I’ll remember that,” he says softly, his voice filled with a quiet determination.

As you and Luke speak, Rhaenyra watches from a distance, her eyes flicking toward you every so often. She stands near one of the arches that lead out to the courtyard, her gaze following the interaction between you and her son. There is something in the way she observes you—a mixture of curiosity, admiration, and perhaps a touch of something more that she doesn’t fully acknowledge, even to herself.

Rhaenyra notices the ease with which you speak to Luke, the way your presence seems to calm him, to give him strength. There is a grace in your movements, a calm assurance that draws her attention, almost as if you are a beacon of light in the chaos that surrounds them all. She sees the way Luke looks up at you, his young face filled with awe, and she cannot help but feel the same pull, the same captivation.

She remembers the conversation from the night before, the way you spoke of balance, of the vastness of the universe and the insignificance of their struggles in the grand scheme of things. It had left her feeling both humbled and intrigued, as if she were standing on the edge of some great revelation, something that could change everything she thought she knew.

But now, as she watches you with her son, she sees another side of you—a protector, a guide, someone who understands the fears of a boy and can ease them with nothing more than a few well-chosen words. It is a quality that Rhaenyra cannot help but admire, and it deepens the connection she feels toward you, a bond that is growing stronger with each passing moment.

Luke takes a deep breath, standing a little taller now as he looks up at you. “Thank you, Lady Y/N,” he says, his voice more confident this time. “For everything.”

You nod, giving him a reassuring smile. “You are a brave young man, Luke. Never forget that. The world is a dangerous place, but you have the strength within you to face whatever comes. Trust in that.”

Luke smiles, a small, genuine smile that lights up his face, and then he turns to go, feeling a little more at peace with the world. As he walks away, he glances back at you one last time, as if to hold onto the strength you have given him.

Rhaenyra steps forward as Luke leaves, approaching you with a mixture of caution and curiosity. “He admires you,” she says softly, her voice carrying a note of gratitude and something more, something she does not name.

You turn to her, your expression thoughtful as you meet her gaze. “He is a good boy,” you reply. “He will grow into a strong man, one who will carry the weight of his name with honor. But he is still young, and the world is full of challenges he has yet to face.”

Rhaenyra nods, her eyes lingering on your face, taking in the details of your features, the way the light plays across your skin. There is something almost hypnotic about you, something that draws her in, and she finds herself feeling a connection that she cannot fully explain. “I can see why he admires you,” she says softly, her voice tinged with both respect and something deeper, something that stirs within her like the rising tide.

You hold her gaze, your expression unreadable, but there is a softness in your eyes, a recognition of the connection that is forming between the two of you. “And I can see why you care for him so deeply,” you reply, your voice gentle, almost tender. “He is your son, your legacy. You have given him strength, Rhaenyra, just as you will need to give him guidance in the days to come.”

Rhaenyra nods again, feeling a surge of emotion at your words. There is a bond forming between you, something that goes beyond mere friendship or alliance. It is a connection born of shared understanding, of mutual respect, and perhaps even of something more, something that neither of you is ready to name just yet.

For a moment, the two of you stand there in the courtyard, the world around you falling away as you share a quiet, unspoken understanding. The sun continues to rise, casting its golden light across the castle, and in that light, the bond between you and Rhaenyra grows stronger, deepening with every passing moment.

And in the distance, the sea continues to churn, its waves crashing against the shore, a reminder that the world is vast and full of challenges. But in this moment, on this morning, there is peace, and there is a connection.

#hotd rhaenyra #house of the dragon #hotd #hotd x female reader #hotd x y/n #hotd x reader #hotd x you #rhaenyra x y/n #rhaenyra x reader #rhaenyra x you #rhaenyra x female reader #rhaenyra targaryen

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ms0milk · 9 months ago

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𝟏𝟔 | 𝐇𝐞𝐦 𝐊𝐢𝐬𝐬

ー✧ prince!bakugou x royal guard!reader

"This is so much worse than fury, and you rip your hand away from his to take a step back. You didn’t mean to. Bakugou stares like a dragonslayer, heartbroken."

cw blatantly suggestive, an accidental kiss and the panic that follows. bkg doesn't know why he's been looking for you. you couldn't be angry about it if you tried. laughter, bite marks, magic, a warm hiding spot. 8.1k

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A slap across the face and the spatter of blood that follows in an arc across fine rugs. Bakugou bleeds when he tries not to think of you. You are too easy to be with and too difficult to find.

Your prince and fragments of rehearsal fineries that you would beam at if you appeared in this frigid foyer– which he knows only because you’ve done nothing but smile at him for seven cursed days– storm towards warmer hallways. There’s nothing for it but to track you down. He wakes up and you are not outside his door. He eats and meets and eats again and you do not materialize behind him or emerge from shadowed corners to brandish a weapon when unpleasant lords are unpleasant. Are you still following orders or are you finally sick of him?

Bakugou pretends he is not walking quickly. A maid has pointed him in your direction. The waitstaff here has no particular affinity for either of you, so they’ve tried their hardest to answer his questions this week and be rid of Alderans for the day. After all, once he finds you he doesn’t bother anyone else until dawn.

Find is a strong word, the maid thinks as she chews a dry lip. You don’t seem to be hiding from him.

It's the busiest morning, second only to tomorrow’s actual ball, and Bakugou has spent the whole of it in dress fittings and board meetings and appetizer tastings. He was meant to rehearse the first waltz with Fuyumi but for four days in a row she’s had her hands full with final adjustments to royal rosters and seating arrangements. The king is home afterall. And he does not dote on his daughter.

Bakugou turns up a second staircase once he arrives in the center castle and barks at a guard, stationed and startled, in the doorway where he emerges. Shinsou clutches his chest and stares at the imposing prince, heavy but silent.

“Boo. You seen my captain?” Bakugou only half-waits for a response from the apprentice before following his intuition to the left. You like to hide in odd places.

“Yeah,” Shinsou breathes and finds his position again, “carrying her lunch to the catwalks.”

Bakugou grins and hopes you can feel him wherever you are, rolling his eyes.

She was in common clothes– I think, headed towards the throne room.

Haven’t seen her, sir.

Your Alderan? It’s freezing, she should request a jacket from the supply corps.

Five days ago he found you rehousing spiders in the rafters of the greenhouse much to the chagrin of delicate flowers. Two days ago he finally spotted you among a dozen soldiers all helping the blacksmith resilver the inlay of the soldier quarter’s door. Yes, he’d told you to leave his babysitting to Kirishima but he didn’t expect you to listen.

Yesterday, Bakugou caught you wandering through the ninth-story walkways, the walkways sculpted onto the side of the castle like wasp nests where the archers hide. Your fingers, red with cold, gripped the hem of your padded tunic and your back pressed flat to the white castle marble even as you craned to gaze the city and sea over the edge of the balustrade.

Your prince almost screamed when he glanced out one of ten thousand pale windows in his search when instead of the depressing gray sky, it was your braids whipping in the wind outside, several stories higher in the air than he would have liked you.

“Eyes!” He jerked the window open and stuck out his head.

“The marble is too smooth Highness, please stay inside.”

White pointelle curtains rattled on their rods with the ferocity of the afternoon wind. “Come now,” he’d barked. He swallowed a roar to keep from startling you off the wall. You turned from the view towards his outstretched hand and half a golden body out the little window, and smiled.

You smiled from the cobwebs when he asked you what the fuck you were doing in blue begonias. You smiled at him among the crowd when he mimed flexing from the gallery to mock the blacksmith. You smiled when he caught you practicing sword forms for bored children and again when he and Kirishima joined in. You smiled without thought and he warmed at the sight of it. He laughed.

He laughed when the florist shrieked over a clutch of spider eggs and he laughed when you hammered Aizawa’s door crooked in your distraction. He laughed when Kaminari tried to teach you to juggle apples in potion storage, and very softly he laughed when he found you asleep beside the proofing ovens.

The castle’s vanity seeps into every orifice, it bleeds from the seamless walls and into seed-sized crannies. Family portraits, royal crests, kingdom’s colors, wards against death written in old Takoban like they think this is the only kingdom on the continent where people might live forever. Superstition and agitation nick the Alderan like thorns through cold blue hallways. He itches for forests. On the third floor of the East Wing there is a great open gallery. It hangs over the grand staircase of the castle’s entrance so that an invaders couldn’t so much as piss over the threshold before the legion of soldiers that fit upstairs fired off their arrows.

It was only a matter of time before you found yourself a roost here, warmaster.

He knows where you are. He can hear the king shouting from an open door downstairs and crosses the entrance gallery, bathed in warm sunlight from its volley of windows. It takes him exactly as long to cross as it takes the heat through stained glass to pink his shoulders, and with a perfect golden hue he dips under a doorway to find you perched at the lip of a ledge. You’re always about to fucking fall off something.

You sit cross-legged behind a black railing, picking at the cup of fruit beside you. Your hair is getting longer, wilder, and your braids tumble with white ribbons as you follow the scene below.

The ballroom is awash in afternoon light. Dozens of floral arrangements circle a group with the king dead in the middle, roaring at the gathered artisans. Prince Natsuo is slightly behind him and his neck is an agitated red. You pop a berry in your mouth. You were always going to love the catwalks– the thin system above important rooms that servants use to gauge crowds and light the tall candles. All of tomorrow it’ll be crawling with footmen but today you sit comfortably alone in its shadows and watch.

Tension melts from his veins when he finds you and nothing replaces it, so Bakugou isn’t quite sure what he’s thinking when he slips inside to be closer. Jeanist taught him too, he can be quiet. You wipe juice from your lip with your thumb and polish it clean with a lick. You run your fingers through your hair to push your braids behind your shoulders and focus again on the agitated king and his crying arachnophobic florists.

“You stare like the best of ‘em,” Bakugou whispers as he drops behind you and cups a hand over your mouth in case you make a startled sound, although, you react before he actually finishes the thought or announces himself and jerk forward to catch his gentle hand with your teeth.

King, prince, artisan, maids, seagulls, and dustbunnies pause their meeting to interrogate the ceiling, before continuing their jury over the fate of the party decorations. A whiff of caramel is the only thing that keeps you from breaking the hand with your bite and just as quickly as you attempt to reveal the intruder through pain, you swing your arm around to cover the prince’s mouth before he gives away your position with a yelp or fireblast. The momentum flattens you both.

Maybe one day Bakugou will remember that you are filled with the same fire that he is before trying to bother you. When did the urge to bother you even occur to him? Both of you, square on your backs to hide properly in shadows, hold a hand like a muzzle over the other's mouth. He smiles first this time. You smell like blackberries.

Your prince wires his jaw shut when he laughs in the shadows to keep from kissing your palm. In the seconds that the king and his entourage fall silent, Bakugou can only just barely contain huffs from his nostrils and the wet at the corners of his eyes. You stare like always and he must have melted fast enough because horror and apologies haven’t tumbled out of you yet. His dragon’s nails have gotten longer. Loose and wild hairs frame the face he only ever knew as perfectly kempt and unreadable. He cannot stop finding new things to notice here on the itchy rug beside you and he’s grateful you have only covered his mouth because his firebrand eyes gleam when you succumb to your own smile. Immediately your lips to stay quiet the pair of you swallow stupid mirth in the dark.

Where did his anger go? “Ow,” the prince rasps when he’s collected himself and pulls your hand into his.

“Excuse me, Highness,” you whisper back. Your smile still rattles him like a blow to the side of the head. Bakugou rolls onto his back. If you were sick of him you probably wouldn’t lay so close.

He tilts his gaze back to you, “What are you doing up here?”

Watching, you mouth, hoping he'll lower his voice. You pull your hand away from his and look over your shoulder towards the ledge where roars and curses roll up from the king like crashing waves.

“Why?”

It’s as close as Bakugou has ever seen you come to rolling your eyes. You blink at him and press forward. Something horribly soft started to grow the night you helped him carry drunk friends to bed. Something like rot. It eats away at the strongest parts of him, the parts of him that are poised and beautiful and ready for war. It’s eating you too. The strongest parts of you that are silent and obedient and deadly.

You drag your body across the floor to be closer to him– so much closer– so close that your thigh practically drapes over his and you cup your hand to his ear so you can whisper an answer that he can’t even focus long enough to hear. Maybe the rot started earlier. Maybe he should never have picked a fight with you.

A sudden scream flies up from the ballroom and Bakugou reacts before you do, less to offer protection and more because he knows you’ll launch right off the walkway if he doesn’t hold you down, but still his hold is protective when the scream is followed by a pillar of white orange fire that flies high and soots crystals in the chandelier. It’s brief and scalding like a geyser and you are not strong enough to protest your prince tucking all of you under his chest in the interim. You smell like home, like forests like moss. The scent of the sea is finally falling out of your hair.

“In what world is this my responsibility?” the king seethes. His drop in volume is menacing and it echoes violently in the empty room, “pick your own fucking flowers, I have work to do.”

The ballroom doors are not meant to be closed or opened with such force and they scream louder than he can when he burns his way through, leaving the prince and his artisans in the cold and terrible hall. A ball in Takoba– an oxymoron. It's a malicious idea. Bakugou leans back on his arm to release you and sits up to watch Natsuo console his workers. The eldest Takoban prince wears patience well. Whose idea was this party? The same person who sent for Enji? Belligerent. Bakugou hasn’t seen the queen in weeks.

He grumbles before he turns to look at you, “Missed what you said.” But when he does finally look, you are so much Alderan that the cold of Takoba falls off his shoulders like frost. Maybe that’s why he’s been searching for you. The fire that only a life in his castle could stoke, ravages the blacks of your eyes. Even though you are silent, he knows what you’re thinking. “Down girl,” he grins and kicks his legs out from under him to settle more comfortably.

Flowers below are picked in whispered consensus and the room empties under your glare. The sun has started to set. The far wall of the ballroom is, in classic Takoban fashion, one long series of windows taller than most houses and the sea shines behind it in a trick of rolling warm shapes like smoke from a fireplace. You both linger at the edge of the shadows up on high. Bakugou watches you shamelessly.

“I will not attack the king.”

“Who’re you trying to convince?”

You think for a few seconds and turn to him with an awkwardly soft air that crumbles into a smile too easily for you to be the same girl who grew up learning how to kill in his castle. Everything you do but fight is bizarre. Like blue fire, he cannot make himself look away from you.

“What’ll you do at the ball?”

“What do you mean?” The ballroom is empty so there’s no need to whisper but neither of you know how to talk to the other.

Bakugou cocks his head and doesn’t need to hope you know when he rolls his eyes anymore because he can finally do it in front of you. He crosses his arms, “Do you dance? I can’t think of anything else to keep you distracted enough to avoid assassination.”

But you are already distracted by something and he can see the moment you stop listening to him talk. All the better, he thinks. He might have just asked you to dance with him.

“Your hand Highness, I– mers–” and you reach forward to take up his bitten fist like touching him is suddenly the easiest thing in the world. Your fingertips are ice-cold. The rot spreads. “You startled me, I’m so sorry.”

Now Bakugou isn’t listening. You rub at the divots your teeth left in the side of his palm and press them like imperfections in pie dough. Your hands are so much more slender than his. So much rougher. Do you feel it too? The death of fury? How the ocean slowly laps at the bonfire until wood can no longer fight back? Do you remember the library like he does? He wants more than anything to sit in a nook and read for a thousand years in recovery from this trip. Is it a safe place for you, or has he ruined it? Do you miss home like he does? Or has he ruined that too?

“No. I’m sorry,” he admits before thinking. He startled you after all, but immediately he is silent with realization. His breath hods fast in his lungs. Fuck, that’s not– you asked him so clearly not to do that. You watch his fingers twitch for a moment like you can feel his heartbeat there and then look up at him and stare. He’s not sorry for sneaking up on you at all. That’s not what he meant.

Eyes was an apt nickname, if not a little mean. Bakugou has never envied telepaths before. How ignorant he was, to think of you as the bloody little girl in a velvet carriage. You hold his hand now with just as much strength as you did all those years ago; obviously it was strength and not desperation. You did not hang laundry to thank him. You did not catch fruit to thank him. You didn’t learn to fight the rain or windows or soldiers or the sea for your prince. It was only him, making magic for you.

“A sheep apologizing to its collie?”

He startles a little, just a slight widening of his eyes, because you hold his hand up to see the ring of teeth clearly and cover your chuckle with the tips of your fingers.

“Callin me a sheep?”

“You are biteable like one.”

Do you know what you’re doing? Bakugou wonders as his own smile escapes the confines of horror. He snatches his hand back and leans against the black iron railing to face you. Quick wit, quicker draw, why do you hide such pleasant things under such a ferocious– the Alderan blinks and his face falls for half a second again in realization.

You blink back because you cannot read his mind, "Are you okay sir?"

The same fire. If he stopped and thought for a single fucking second you wouldn’t have been the enigma protecting his home. You would have been a girl that he wanted, very much, to talk to in his ceaseless boredom. He relaxes into a smile again and this time his teeth glint, “Don’t call me that.”

Autumn truly is crueler at the edge of the world; the sun sets faster with each second and soon the ballroom below is a great orange pool. He was meant to rehearse the opening waltz today and the thought of you watching him, concealed, makes his ears hot. Florals drift up and up from their vases where they’re warmed in dying afternoon light.

You cross your legs and turn too, “Are you looking forward to it?”

“To what?”

“The ball, Highness. Are they fun?”

“You’ve attended balls,” he grunts and scans his memory for the last party thrown in Aldera, although you don’t appear in the pictures his brain conjures up. “They’re fine. Loud.”

You nod. There are ten-thousand things he could think to ask you and a hundred more questions he knows that the answers will spur but sitting beside you in the dark without a threat to either of your lives is new and overwhelming. Your wild hair makes wild shapes.

“Fuyumi wants to dress you up.”

You don’t find that as funny as he does and you’re frowning when you turn from the view of the ballroom to look at him. He thinks you aren’t afraid of him– he hopes– but he knows you still won’t say what you long to for fear of sounding unprofessional. He’ll have to work on that.

“She gave up on Ochako years ago.”

“Is it a gown?”

“Takoban,” he rests his head on the metal too, enjoying all the scandalized expressions your lips make, “frilly lace, the works.”

You consider this for a moment and make the shape of his name before swallowing it. One more time, “I see.” And you turn back away to think some more, about how to phrase something unprofessional.

He’s teasing, he hasn’t seen the damn thing but for a moment your prince can picture you so clearly, sewn tight into a dress made of sealace. You try to speak again, fail, and lean closer. Your breath is sweet from fruit and your bowl is empty behind you.

“I can’t wear blue for another second, Highness. I’ll hurl the tailor into the sea.”

Bakugou spits over the railing in amusement and huffs when he crosses his arms again.

“Highness please,” you chuckle, “I’ll get violent,” and you smile under the frown, which just serves to make you look even more like a dragon– like you’ll make good on your word– and less like an obedient footsoldier. How do you do it? Bakugou can only stare with a rough affection because if he tried to speak right now something might come out.

You run a hand back through your braids to settle them where you like them to lay. It’s draconic, regal, every way you sit perch and glare from the clearest part of any room. His mother calls it King’s Corner, or the Seat of the Queen, that perfect spot where you can see everything important without showing your back to a soul. That’s always where he finds you. That’s your secret. He pinches an ear between his knuckles to try and cool it down.

“Takoba’s lucky you aren’t a mage,” he manages. He has to look away to say it but he does manage, “should thank you for it.”

“I did try,” you don’t need to manage back. Proximity to him isn’t eating you alive. “And I don’t work for thank yous.”

When Bakugou was ten years old he celebrated his birthday in a parlor with boughs of cherry blossoms and sweets for which he never really had an appetite. He was doted on and he worked hard to deserve it so that anything he wanted to do that day, and any birthday thereafter, was his. You were not celebrated with cake. He wouldn’t know until years later that his mother brought you gifts and good food on your birthday because he could find you every day of the year at work somewhere in his castle. You did not fall ill, you did not fail, and on his birthday you, nine years old, practiced forms in the paths between spring orchards just downwind from the parlor. Jeanist was seated inside with him among the family’s guests. No appetite for cake. Bakugou only celebrated ten birthdays and you have never stopped breaking his heart.

“Tried what?”

You ruffle your own hair so you don’t have to look at him either because at least one thing embarrasses you. “Magic.”

“Magic.”

“It’s not funny,” you chirp at his flat tone and round on him with your legs crossed. He leans back when your voice comes out a bit louder than expected and his bitten fist aches when it clenches. “I would copy you.” The rot makes him weak and useless and susceptible to your stare, but the rot makes you fearless. “I used to watch you studying– when we were really little– when we were both supposed to be eating with everyone in the Hall. You used to,” you look briefly to your side like someone important might be watching you acting so casually and it dims that fire he needs.

“Used to what?” he smiles. He knows you watched him, you must know that too. Finish, please finish your story, he wants to hear your voice tell you more about home.

“Used to watch you flail your chubby arms until sparks came out.”

When Bakugou laughs this time he tries not to hold anything back, if only just to douse you in oil and keep the fire alight. Fucking please, just talk.

“I used to try every night too!–” you laugh, slightly louder, “– wind up my arms tight and spin around my room after curfew– disturb the horses– pretend to be a dragon.”

“Your runty prince looked like a dragon?”

You grin, “My runty prince taught himself magic, didn’t he? What’s wrong with wanting to breathe a little fire?”

“I don’t breathe fire, dumbass.”

“You still make miracles. Ever seen a dragon?”

“Of course I have.”

“Have you ever sheltered from a spray of ethereal flames?”

He frowns and smirks, confused, as if to ask, why have you? And the flint tinder in the bright part of your eyes sparks white hot.

“Melting, crushing, it’s completely inescapable without a barrier mage,” you pull your knee up with a bit of theatrics and lean because with everything inside of you except for actual realization, you want him to listen too. “Pink and red, blue, green golden and white hot. Highness, has no one ever told you how beautiful your magic is? You make magic like a dragon, who wouldn’t want a blessing like that?”

No one would want this cursed fucking magic that prickles his palms with sweat in the dark for no other reason than because you are looking at him, when all he wanted was– he just wanted to see you– watch you, he didn’t need you to watch him back and now the fire of Aldera he keeps trying to warm beside will blast him all the way to the wick. This is the flattery he hears so much about from his blushing mother.

“‘s not special. My magic maims people.”

“So do I.”

He frowns deeper, “Not the same.”

“I worked hard to maim people, it’s not the same because what I do isn’t beautiful.”

“That’s not–” he doesn’t think that. Don’t think that he thinks that, “–work isn’t beautiful. War isn’t beautiful.”

“You’ve never seen war. Highness you make–”

“Fuck off."

“I won’t.”

“Eyes–”

“– it’s beautiful.”

“I make bombs.”

“You make starfall.”

Bakugou stares. Rough affection, yeah right, he’s melting.

You fall back on your hips when you realize you’ve broken clear through the confines of professionalism and the embarrassment sets in quickly. Eyes dart sideways, chest and knees turn. Your embarrassment is a subtle grip on fraying rugs. What do you do to your heart to make it pull so strong in every direction? Is it a spell? One that makes him quiet and happy to wait for his silent guard to speak again. This must be how the queen feels. You turn fully back to the rising orange light of the ballroom below and your lips part before any words are actually ready to come out.

The first time you try to speak, he doesn’t hear you. Bakugou traces the path between your shiny scars with his gaze. One below your ear to the one at your eyebrow and down again, past an old cut in your cheek. You couldn’t douse the forest fire behind those lashes if you tried. Not under orders or oath. Not from embarrassment.

“What does it feel like?” You whisper, looking a great distance down past abandoned flowers.

Both of you have fallen closer to each other in the waves of your nothing conversation, so much so that your shoulders would press together if the rot just ate away a little bit more. Bakugou’s heart sinks into the ballroom. It plummets like a drowned man.

“Gimme your hand.”

This is a fucking mistake, but all your prince can see is the last time pure joy ever sailed across your face in an evening spent around your wonderful campfire. He caused and extinguished it with one spark thrown into your cupped palms, the last time you ever tried to make magic.

“I won’t hurt you,” he rumbles even though it kills him to look at you now.

Your side of the catwalk begins to glow at the lips because the sun has set far enough to climb walls towards the ceiling. You glow with it. Pink in a thousand places, ears and throat, lips, because you’re thinking too hard about what it is to be a proper guard and how much it is probably not raising your voice to delight in magic that does not belong to you. The corners of your mouth tremble. Who was it that told you you talk too much?

“Is that an order?”

“No.” Of course not.

You study the details of the itchy rug for too long, in the new light at its edge. Bakugou used to hate hiding up here in the cold but it was the only place the idiot children his mother sent him here to entertain couldn’t find him. He couldn’t be happier now, now that no one but you can see just how hard he flounders without fury.

Your hips swivel back towards him in precise decision then you fold your knees neatly underneath them to get closer. A few white ribbons in your hair seem to catch fire as the sunlight climbs higher and the sun dips lower out an infinite distance. Every mile it is far, is a mile Bakugou can feel in measures of chill. If Aldera is at the center of the world, Takoba is the outer edge and you remind him just how blessed he is when his hand melts at your Alderan touch. You reach and pull both his fists into the space between your bodies from where they lingered in the air.

“Yes sir.”

“Don’t,” he breathes, watching all the shapes your fingers can make together. He’s a prince, this is ridiculous. He sits up tall and stretches his arms out so you don’t need to reach so far, and makes a safe place for your strong fingers, those calluses and scars, to rest atop his open palms. “Don’t call me sir.”

You are looking at him and considering something about his face, or his words, who knows– one of your eyebrows twitches in decision. It’s remarkable how steady your heads are. You are sure of everything you do even when it’s destructive and disruptive and punishable by death.

Laid out plainly like this and stiller than either of you have ever been together, your fingers and wrists, your palms, even your fingernails are so much more delicate than his. Like if he closed his golden fists, you’d disappear. Compared to the princess you have the hands of a farmer, but not a single thought– past how each other part of your body might look beside his– is allowed to rattle through his head when you watch him, straight ahead, and smile.

“Okay.”

He clears his throat. He’s a mage and magic is easy. He’s not going to set off the sweat on the back of his neck. “Don’t be nervous,” Bakugou grumbles to the dark.

You grin and ghost a thumb over damp of his open palm, “Who are you trying to convince?”

“It’s this stupid fucking magic,” he bites. A bead of sweat drips through his knuckles onto the floor and if he’s not careful he might take out half the castle. Prince and apprentice assassinate world’s most fucked up royal family– he can already see the dossier sitting pretty on his mother’s desk.

You’re suddenly in a wonderful mood and you sit up slightly at the beginnings of warmth under your fingertips. He can hear your knees squeak and count your heartbeats in the veins of your wrist that his own fingertips reach. Those eyes again– always your eyes. They’re colored like any normal pair anyone might ever see but he’s one of few people who watch the dragons. You must have watched them too, too long, for your gaze to become so similar.

It feels like any other second of Bakugou’s life. Setting fire to own hands and measuring the strength of his magic in reds and whites. It’s an ordinary moment for many whole seconds until your prince follows the beginnings of light up from his palms, to your starving and unabashed awe. The sparks bubble up as hungry fish would in a pond, and then jump, spit, between your fingers like cooking oil. Your touch is so gentle at first. You train and measure your own skill every day so that Jeanist’s recruits don’t lose varied limbs, but as your excitement wells up you spill a bit from your seams. You rise slightly higher and give him more weight to hold and your prince dissolves into a smile.

Four hands rest inside one another and fire from the dragons illuminates your hiding place.

“Highness,” you whisper and startle a thousand times at every new color Bakugou ignites between your fingers. You’re fully up on your knees now having risen higher and higher to watch his magic as best you can and Bakugou sits on the floor beneath you, rotting.

“Highness what,” he whispers back.

You abandon the thought and jump when a green sparkler squeals through the air between you, and when your prince thinks to pull away your fingers are already wrapped tight around every part of him you can manage. He could have done this for you a thousand times; your joy was always this simple, raw, and unjealous. Purple and gold soar across the highs of your cheeks and hug your jaw. It’s all he can bear, to love this smile and to know that his sweat is plastered across your hands and soaked through the cuff of your sleeves, and so he freezes with the realization and embarrassment and with your last words.

“Highness, thank you.”

He doesn’t have the wherewithal to speak yet. The smile he loves. The magic dies with his concentration and as the sun finally crests your walkway for its fleeting moments of warmth, Bakugou tries to muster something like confidence because you’re looking at him with a softness he didn’t realize you had. Is it overwhelming because he knows you could kill him? Maybe it’s because he’s never wanted to kiss anyone before.

Bakugou’s pomegranate eyes dart up to you, saying goodbye to the last of the light and something like sugar scalds his throat. That new thought is fleeting because your golden prince drains the life from it like a butchered animal– gods, can’t he leave you with anything?

“Told you I don’t bite,” he grins and swallows the last selfish thought to death, “that’s your job right?”

You beam before bursting into deep and hungry laughter in the sun-soaked air above him. Whatever. Bakugou supports you as you cling to his arms and struggle to stay upright in your laughter. You’re overflowing. He smiles and huffs, he can’t help that. He can’t help goosebumps either but you don’t need to know about those and he’ll never utter a word. He still needs to meet the dressmaker for alterations and finalize the appetizers, and make sure the kitchens send dinner to your door.

“Highness,” you breathe like a bird and try to collect yourself enough to stop laughing. You plop back onto your hips, “Highness–”

“Highness Highness,” he taunts. The sound of it will make his ears bleed. Bakugou palms for a handkerchief with one hand and lets you hold his other. You cling to the bite you left there. Your legs overlap. “This is ridiculous,” he chuckles when your joy almost folds you in half, “A real joke might kill you.”

“Let it,” you breathe, canines twinkling, and dip slightly closer, laughing, to press your lips to his.

It’s so easy, you don’t mean to. You are lightheaded in the warmth of the sunset, magic trembles across your sensitive skin and you only want to be closer. Just close enough to bury yourself in that place that is so safe and that fills you with such a horrible comfortable joy–

As Bakugou reaches inside his tunic for something you lean too close. Your chest falls over his lap before either of you remembers that it shouldn’t be like this, that there are a thousand other places your prince belongs and ten thousand rules you have engraved on the meat of your skull to keep comfort at bay. It’s so warm with your eyes closed and his smile tastes like cinnamon. He doesn’t pull away.

You only realize what’s happened after that smile falls dead against your lips. He’s soft against your touch. He’s soft like he’s never fought a day in his life. Your hands hold his beautiful golden head right where you need it and in the quiet, your eyes open to blinding and beautiful sunlight.

A touch is all you wanted, gods know why– they’ll never tell you– and you draw your chin back an inch to breathe. Bakugou is staring violently and his eyes are more like targets now than cherry pits. Eyebrows wider, higher, than the sky, he stares like his heart has stopped. What happened? He doesn’t look like anyone but himself anymore. You freeze.

Prince Bakugou is staring at you until he’s not, on the itchy rug in the sunset of the great black catwalks, until his eyes close and he kisses you back. Soft, closed lips brush so hot they’ll leave a mark, they’ll brand you and everyone will know what you did. The doom spreads quickly.

You have never been so graceless in your life as you are now, falling backwards out of his warmth and stumbling onto your feet. He’s still on the ground and you only know he is holding you because sweat drips from the fingers of yours that he clutches.

“Wait,” he gasps. This is so much worse than fury, and you rip your hand away from his to take a step back. You didn’t mean to. Bakugou stares like a dragonslayer, heartbroken.

You run. Before you can breathe or be reasoned with, before you hear him call your name, you turn and dash through the back doorway alone. If this were Aldera, where would you hide? The frozen air of the seashell castle whispers straight through your flesh as you, sprinting, stumble your way past the castle’s vanity. There is a nook in the wall of the principal staircase where only Jeanist can find you. There is a seat on a high window in the Great Hall that you can reach with a library ladder. There are two tiny battlements in the east corner of your queen’s castle without a real way to get inside and on any day but a lightning storm, you can wedge a hunting knife in loose mortar and climb the masonry over its edge to lay and nap and stargaze at the tallest point of the most beautiful kingdom. An ant couldn’t hide in Takoba. There’s not one dark seam for the bugs.

A guard barely moves in time to avoid being crushed under your boots because fuck this horrible waterlogged place. The ocean drips out of your ears like tears from a seashell, drop by drop because you picked a fight with the goddess and thought yourself lucky to live before you realized she had made a home for herself inside your heart. Now you laugh with your prince and you touch him happily and you spar with him and hold nothing back and you tell him how much his magic helped you to live.

Resisting the urge to kill him, fighting to win Mitsuki’s favor, the threat of blue fire and a mage you doused in the sea, it was all so much easier than this. It could have been that easy forever, what were you thinking?

“Y/n!”

You weren’t, that’s what being too content gets you.

When Bakugou calls your name again his voice cracks because you are so much faster than he is in slipping through corridors. There is nowhere to hide in this awful country. Why are you running? If you were just slightly calmer you might have known where you were but white windows will always look like white windows and Bakugou is not so slow that you can ever really outrun him.

You duck under a low door and its hanging tapestry and emerge on the other side at the edge of a stretch of empty hall. Setting sunlight pours past ten silver vases and someone left the windows open so lace curtains flow around each pedestal and their silvery prizes.

“Y/n, please.”

Agony. This isn’t what you want. When Bakugou calls to you one last time you have no choice but to face him because he has never begged for anything before, and when you do, tears drip off the highest parts of your cheeks.

He lets the tapestry fall over his shoulder and stops at the front of the long, long hallway. Neither of you speak for an eternity besides the sound of breath being caught again, him at the edge and you in the center being swayed by cold air. His shaggy hair has been pushed back in his rush to follow you and his eyes glow unobstructed. Bakugou’s broad shoulders fit too perfectly into his baubled tunic. It’s easier to watch him than to think.

When he leans forward, you step back, and he pauses like you might start sprinting again. He doesn’t realize there’s something rotten stuck in the depths of your throat that keeps you from straying too far.

“I–”

“Don’t be sorry,” he begs, reading your mind. He’s never looked like this once in his whole life. He fell a step closer in his panic and when you do not run, his fists unclench from where they draw blood at his sides. “Don’t cry.”

You shake your head and he cautions another step. How can you ever go home now? How much longer can you survive here? The thought is suddenly and immediately overwhelming and Bakugou freezes again when you drop your head into your hands. It’s too much, you can’t believe how badly you want to hate him again and how much easier it would be than this.

“Y/n,” he whispers. His voice is candled ash. You know exactly how close he is even with your eyes closed because Alderan fire is unmistakable and you know too that he’s giving you a moment to escape.

“I didn’t mean to.”

Prince Bakugou’s magic-worn hands reach up from where he wires them and you snatch them both, and all their kiln-fired warmth, out of the air before he can touch you like you might break the first finger that moves. You don’t mean to bare your teeth either, you hope you aren’t, if you are he doesn’t care. Your prince stands above you, brows knit and eyes stupid with worry.

“Forget,” you plead in whispers.

He pulls your grip higher so that he can rest his palms under your ears. He moves easily because you do not stop him and he brushes his thumbs over stray hairs and their wild shapes. Silence is worse than his rage, but he’s trembling. He does not look away. He’s studying, contemplating something that continues to break his heart.

“Highness, please.”

Bakugou cups your jaw like it might bruise and tilts your head up just enough to kiss you. He could not care less about broken fingers.

His lips quiver and press just once to yours before pulling back, reconsidering, and dipping into you again. Your hold on his hands and his hands at your throat are melting, shaking, sweating. His chest swells above yours. You melt with him because you have lost your mind and push against the body you know can hold you. It can pull you from a current and throw you over its shoulder. Bakugou can lift you in strong arms, he can make you laugh until not even an order could compose you at your station.

You part your lips to be closer. He tangles his fingers in your braids so that you might take whatever you want. Your prince tastes like his favorite pastries, and Alderan peaches, and gold, he tastes like he’s fireproof.

Wet drips from your bottom lip in the mess of it all, before Bakugou tilts your chin in strong hands to catch what he’s missed. The slick of your tongues, a clicking of teeth, you want to eat him whole. He’s going to devour you.

He holds your face now to move you as he’d like– four feet tripping over each other to find a wall– and you grip at the patterns on his tunic between stolen breaths and steps stumbled backwards. Magic crackles where he touches you. His voice comes out with his gasps in growls because there is too much and nothing to say. You have forgotten apologies.

“Your hands” he breathes between nips for the softest warm parts of you, “cold.”

“The window–” but he kisses you again before you can finish. His hands are shaking, he is a starving dog and still he holds you like you’re going to break. You terrify him.

How long have you wanted this? There’s not enough focus left for your brain to turn its wheel and if there was you wouldn’t have pulled him so close. You suckle at his lower lip because his heartbeat tastes like home and he lets you dip inside again when you’ve had your fill. He fills you with himself in return. Wet, soft against you. It’s clumsier than sparring, and so much warmer.

At the end of cold hallways, where servants bustle and where there is still work to be done, the guard who barely survived your warpath ducks out from under the tapestry. He only wanted to check you were okay, but in the almost empty hallway Shinsou’s hand falls slack and his baton slips from it. It rings out against white marble and your heart stops beating at the same time as your prince. Your wheel groans in its new turning. The guard stares and you bristle.

You do not hear what Bakugou says in your panic but he does not let you go so easily this time. You freeze. You’ll find somewhere to hide in this prison because that is your job and no one has ever done it better than you, and there you will figure out what to do. The last breath you take before attempting to run is shared in the sunlight with your prince and just as you tip in a hint of escape, Bakugou cups your cheeks one last time to keep you still.

Your claws jump immediately back around his. He stares. His eyes are a study over every scar and warm flush, the violence of your sudden caught fear, even the parts squished and wrinkled in his hold. His magic vibrates unlit through your skin for one more second just one more second he takes to look and then he whispers,

“Okay.”

You take off the moment he releases you to deal with the apprentice and slip as best you can around a blue-tiled corner. Seedsized carvings raise their axes and little white waves fall. Sparks fight the chill on your jaw.

You forgo the seaside for fear of worrying your prince again. Manure pools around your pretty white boots because in the stables, horses don’t care if you cry. The ocean swallows the last of the sun and you are suddenly a child again rinsing the blood from her face and into the hay and finding a dark place to hide. Every step is labor. Agitated white stallions complain to you in a line about their dinner and restlessness, and about chickens roosting inside uninvited, and about the woman who has sat here for hours and done nothing to help them.

The port city of Takoba shimmers at twilight under the hill that the stable looks out on. Its waters are silver and beg you to join them on all sides from their great distance. They have the advantage as you turn your back to the view.

When you amble towards the last empty stall, a figure drowning in blue is perched on a bed of straw. She is sickly beautiful and she stares like she hates everything her gaze falls upon.

“Majesty,” you startle and forget to take a knee.

Where you tread carefully in borrowed clothes, the Takoban Queen is happy to ruin her gown sitting up to her hips in straw beside a very plain horse. She runs a brush over the sheen of its black mane.

“Yes?” She sighs, defeated, until she turns to you and cocks her head like she might have expected someone else. Hundreds of translucent layers fall over themselves in her skirt like a flower and catch imaginary light for every inch that she moves. There is an ache so deep in your bones, chilled first then charred like dipping cold hands in hot water, you struggle to compose yourself. You cannot muster the question of why a queen might be hiding in the belly of her stables but you could guess.

“You were crying.”

“Please don’t tell Mitsuki.”

When will you be allowed to go home? The queen looks between her horse and the space you haunt above her, and pulls a second curry comb from the depths of her soft straw seat. “They’ll find you if you stand in the open like that.”

The day drags on like a dream you have made from picturebooks of Aldera and the man that you will never be free of, but queens don’t much mind if you cry either. You crumple into the spot she digs out for you in the straw and until it is too cold, the two of you sit quietly in shit together.

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#a hymn to black water #bakugou x reader #i make good on my promises #this one really took it out of me- editing was an afterthought there might be more mistakes than usual #thank you for loving these weirdos #bakugo x reader #bnha fantasy au #mha fantasy au #fantasy bakugou x reader #fantasy bakugo x reader #bnha x reader #mha x reader

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gotham-arts · 4 months ago

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Dragonslayer week 2024 Day 5: Camp Half-Blood AU.

Here's my spin on Yang and Jaune if they were in the Percy Jackson Universe.

Yang: Daughter of Hephaestus, the Greek god of Fire, Craftsmanship, Blacksmithing.

Yang was born disfigured, not developing a right forearm. Upon this discovery, Raven abandoned her child. Hephaestus took pitty on his Half-bood child and crafted her a magical prosthetic. Yang grew to take after her father, working as a weaponsmith at Camp Half-blood where she met and eventually fell for fellow demigod Jaune

Jaune: Son of Athena, the Greek Goddess of Wisdom, Warfare and the Crafts.

Jaune grew up with high expectations placed upon him due to Athena's reputation and prowess in combat. When he arrived at Camp Half-blood, it was hard for him to escape the shadow of his mother. These expectations he'd often fall short of, and it was common for Jaune to be socially outcast due to this.

#rwby #rwby fanart #yang xiao long #rwby yang #jaune arc #rwby jaune #jaune x yang #yang x jaune #dragonslayer #dragonslayerweek2024

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cerastes · 2 years ago

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so Drimo for those of us who do not know what is the Armored Core series about [leaves out convenient soapbox for no reason]

If you asked a room of 100 people nowadays, "do you guys know FromSoftware?", the majority of them would stand up and answer, "oh, yeah! The guys that made Dark Souls, right?" You would hear about people wondering when Bloodborne will be ported to PC, or when it will get a sequel. You would hear lamentation for the lack of Sekiro DLC. You would hear praise and anticipation for Elden Ring DLC.

If you were in 2008 and asked a room of 100 people, "do you guys know FromSoftware?", maybe 4 would stand up and say "Oh, the guys that make Armored Core, right? My cousin had it, it looked ok."

The truth of the matter is, FromSoft was a niche studio before Demon's Souls planted a seed and it grew into the massive tree we know as Dark Souls, and its countless branches lush with beautiful flowers, like Bloodborne, Sekiro, and Elden Ring. It even inspired nearby trees, all beautiful in their own right! Trees like Code Vein, Nioh, and others.

But I'm not here to talk about fucking trees and their god damn branches.

I'm here to talk about the sterile wasteland, the wilderness of fallen angels, where the ocean meets the sand. I'm here to talk about pre-Soulsborne FromSoft, when FromSoftware was an unknown, niche, small video game developer barely hanging on to relevancy. They had games like King's Field. They had games like Shadow Tower. They had games like Armored Core. Hell, all of these games still live on in Soulsborne! Did you know? The notorious Mushroom enemies that punch your entire lifebar out from Dark Souls are originally from 1999's Shadow Tower:

Iconic boss fight, Seath the Scaleless from Dark Souls? He's originally from King's Field 2!

The well-loved bald rascal with a penchant for annoying fighting styles and kicking, Patches? Originally from Armored Core! Lucky Patches AKA Patch the Good Luck:

The Moonlight Greatsword? That's originally from King's Field:

Knight Commander Dragonslayer Ornstein? The Bloodborne Reiterpallasch? Armored Core originals, baby:

The truth is, Soulsborne is as dear to old school FromSoft fans such as myself as it is because it carries the past of FromSoft, it carries part of all the old games. The old, niche, unknown FromSoft that we fell in love with lives on in this new, successful, popular FromSoft of nowadays, all without selling out. FromSoft's design philosophy and mission statement has always been to make things that are out there, that aren't generic, that have that slab of esotericism to it, that are inspired and raw and difficult and challenging and oh so rewarding. Soulsborne wasn't a surprise hit. Soulsborne exists built on a foundation of trial and error that carries in its DNA years upon years upon years of difficult, niche titles. I've not even mentioned all the Tenchu references that Sekiro has! How the Powderkeg weapons from Bloodborne are mostly Armored Core weapons scaled down to human size, such as the iconic Stake Driver being the mighty Kiku from Armored Core!

Armored Core was the biggest franchise FromSoft had prior to Soulsborne. The biggest. And it wasn't too big, to be honest. A rather niche, unknown game franchise with numerous titles that did just well enough to justify sequels, with strong cult followings, Armored Core is all about that mecha high octane action, right? Well, it's 50% about that mecha high octane action! Your average Armored Core is a high intensity, breakneck fast game full of machine guns, laser swords and huge explosions when you're in the field, but in order to be able to do that, you must construct your machine, your Armored Core, piece by piece. Not just the chest core or the head piece or the arms, we're taking about generator, radiator, targeting system, thrusters, subsystems, all of that! And each given piece has a stat screen that looks like this:

This is a single laser rifle's stat screen. Every piece has about this many numbers to it. As you can imagine, it wasn't everyone's cup of tea, but for those that took the time to understand it? That familiarized themselves with the game well enough to just be able to look at a piece and understand what it did and roughly how well it performed? Oh, this was to die for. The amount of unique builds, of mechs that were your very own, unique creation, catering to your own specific tastes, was basically infinite. You could make your own dream gameplay machine, that operated in exactly the way you wanted it to. 50% of the time, you were in your garage, tinkering, mixing and matching different parts to improve your Armored Core more and more, to make it better, comfier, stronger, cooler.

Do you know what was influential in Dark Souls' success? And I say this with all the love in my heart, as a massive Dark Souls fan: It was simplification. Dark Souls is a different beast in many regards, of course, compared to Armored Core, but what Dark Souls did was simplify the Armored Core formula, in both comparative gameplay execution and building, and focused on other aspects, like making incredibly cool unique enemies, polished combat, great enemy placement, the works. But end of the day, Dark Souls is a simplified Armored Core. You're not boosting around and firing laser weapons in Dark Souls, but the fundamentals are all there: Tempo based fighting, with intensifying speed, lots of numbers to play with in order to optimize your character to your preference and needs, and the flexibility to switch around builds to certain degrees, more so in the mid game and late game. Hell, the ever-present "little plain white number above the enemy that shows you how much damage you did recently" and how Poise works in Dark Souls are both originally Armored Core things. Most every Armored Core veteran that I know, myself included, that played Dark Souls just felt it click naturally after a bit. Because it's an extension of Armored Core (and King's Field/Shadow Tower).

Armored Core, since its inception, has been about being a mercenary in a callous world where companies that are as powerful as countries, plural, wage in economic war with each other. Rarely has there ever been a good guy in Armored Core, it's the pristine FromSoft absolutely horrid and doomed world narrative that they love so much. You can even go into debt! Your rewards at the end of any mission are affected by how much ammo you consumed and how banged up your AC got, you have to foot the bill for repairs and ammo (unless your client specifically states that they'll cover it for you), and if you don't perform too well and end up going into sufficiently big debt? Why, you forcibly get put into the Human-PLUS program to offset your debt, which actually makes your stronger, since it gives you the ability to ignore Total Weight restrictions and gives you infinite energy! At the cost of, you know, your humanity. At that point, you're literally just a corporate drone with more machine than brain in the nogging. It's a fancy Easy Mode toggle, so to speak, that comes with lore. This game is from 1997. Even from back then, they were making stuff like this. The setting of Armored Core is ruthless, cruel, and brutal... And yet, beautiful, the little things, they are there. But I won't tell you about them. You have to find them yourself. The beautiful things only have value if you find them in a horrid world by your own merit.

This is true for Armored Core, and this is true for Dark Souls.

Armored Core, on a personal level, is what I grew up with, what inspired me as a child, the kind of storytelling that gives you a few explicit morsels, and the rest, figure it out yourself. Armored Core is basically what came before Dark Souls. I consider Soulsborne sequels to Armored Core. They are so very alike.

Brutal gameplay, challenging management, ruthless storytelling... It's heaven.

Armored Core is a series of a gaming era long gone. Armored Core is the opposite of "cinematic experience" games. Armored Core is brutal, it wants to test you, it grants you no quarter, but it wants you to succeed. Armored Core wants you to master its management systems and its high speed combat. Armored Core wants you to be a sharper, better you.

Armored Core is a video game series about giant robots blowing each other to bits.

Armored Core is both a test and teacher, and it wants you to win. It wants you to become the you that can beat it.

Armored Core loves you. Armored Core will do all in its power to prevent you from winning. Armored Core knows you can win, which is why it tries so hard.

Armored Core is a good video game.

#zeravmain #armored core #dark souls #fromsoft

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falleri-salvatore · 5 months ago

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.....Dragonslayer shippers, I am dissapoint.

The perfect Jaune and Yang offspring name is right there and none of you ever used it? Hongyang Xiao Long [虹阳小龙] or Hongyang Arc (whichever one floats your boat) Hong [虹] meaning "Rainbow"; refers to a two-headed serpentine dragon from Chinese Lore. It also invokes the rainbow theme from the Arc Family Yang [阳] meaning "Sun"; refers to, duh, the Sun and it references the shared yellow color theme between Jaune and Yang. It also follows the Xiao Long family tradition of always naming their children with Yang in their name. EDIT: Here's a relevant link https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hong_(rainbow-dragon) If you give Jaune and Yang fraternal twins (boy and girl) then you can call the boy Hongyang (Hong is the "Male Rainbow" character) and the girl Niyang (Ni is the "Female Rainbow" character). EDIT 2: For the Bumbleby enthusiasts, don't you worry; I gotchu covered. Yinyang Xiao Long [阴阳小龙] or Yinyang Belladonna Yin [阴] meaning "Shadow"; is an obvious reference to Blake ("From Shadows") Yang [阳] meaning "Sun"; again, references Yang. It also follows the Xiao Long family tradition of always naming their children with Yang in their name. ......seriously. The names are right there.

#rwby #jaune arc #rwby shitpost #yang xiao long #dragonslayer #follow the canonically established naming themes dammit #I'm an Arkos shipper first and foremost #so how come none of you Dragonslayer enthusiasts came up with this already?#bumbleby also gets a bone thrown #along with a reprimand

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theredheadedace · 2 months ago

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Rwby Au we’re instead of falling into the Everafter, they fall into Earthland (FairyTail)

Basically instead of landing in a fairytale, they land in FairyTail.

The magic I thought about for them were

Weiss-Ice Maker

Blake-Shadow

Yang- Take over magic

Jaune- Requip

I thought about making Ruby a Devil Slayer with white magic (or a Dragonslayer that’s using a variation of fire magic because she’s red) and Neo with Ice Dragon slayer (because she’s an icecream girl) but that was for a fic idea where I emotionally torture them in several different ways. (I’m reworking it, mostly.)

Now the obvious things are Neo joins Phantom Lord to get revenge before turning good. (If you think she is bad, Gajeel destroyed the FairyTail guild hall and crucified Levy and her team to a tree, but now is good. Luxas planned a cue to take over FairyTail using the woman as hostages forcing every FairyTail member to fight eachother, when that didn’t work planted lightning bombs around the city, when that didn’t work he tried to use Fairy Law. In my original draft of the fic idea I’m working on, I had Adam as apart of the guild at the start for the joke In fairytail no one dies before deciding to cut him out.) also in Edolas she gets a cat Roman, because I said so.

The second most obvious is have Jaune not on Tenrou for the timeskip (someone could be with him, it just depends on how evil you want to be with who you pick).

Sometimes my mind goes place and I love it.

Also Jaune being called a dragon slayer because of his motion sickness while not being an actual Dragonslayer

#rwby #jaune arc #yang xiao long #blake belladonna #ruby rose #weiss schnee #fairy tail #FairyTail au #did I come up with this just because of a pun #yes #rwby au #rwby neo

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lady-quen · 7 hours ago

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I love Mael so much. He's order. He's chaos. He's my deranged lil babygirl and the most serious man. He's the sleep deprived college teacher. He's sass incarnate. He's the master of word games and gets cooked on the group chat every night. He's trailed by tragedy and the coolest dad. He has no heart and he cares so much it hurts. He's so smart and so, so stupid.

He keeps beefing with ancient entities. He's short but his delusions of grandeur are at least the size of the Hand of Abaddon. He's Tyria's favourite protector and Tyria's beloathed little chewtoy. He loves the attention and wishes he could disappear underground for ten thousand years. He's the self-appointed sacrificial lamb and the wolf in sheep's clothing.

He's a paragon of stoicism and the most anxiety-ridden cranky coffee addict. He's so kind and charitable and assassinates his political opponents. He wants his guild in good spirits and healthy but is irresponsible with his own body and feelings. He's the Dawnborn necromancer. He's the dragonslayer and the Dragon Champion. He's the lichkiller and the lich.

He's the failed Knight of Thorn and the mentor of another. He's the Soundless Momma's boy. He's the savior of the world and also its destroyer. (thanks for the bad end fractal isgarren) He desperately wants to live to see Aurene again and he feels like he desperately needs to die. He's a shadow but in the sense of a comforting presence looming over and ever-watchful.

And he's cunty as fuck doing it all.

#play gw2? nah. post about mentally ill plant? ye #I'm unwell about this undead tree #About the Commander #Maelmordha #shitpost

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dreamerkitty · 1 year ago

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Part one of Light and Shadow Dragonslayers. This is extremely loosely based on the dragon slayer events in puni puni (so you don't need any prior knowledge :P ). I started it during the events main runs so some things are a little out of date with the later events but dont worry about that XD

Please enjoy!

#yokai watch #yo-kai watch #yo kai watch #youkai watch #my art #light and shadow dragonslayers

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zeciex · 7 months ago

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A Vow of Blood - 76

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 76: A Golden Crown of Sorrow II

AO3 - Masterlist

(13K words)

The vast expanse of Westeros unfolded beneath her gaze, illuminated by the dim, haunting light of candles that cast their quivering shadows across the carved map on the ancient table. This piece of history, dating back to the Age of Conquest, bore the marks of past battles and decisions that had shaped the realm. Opponents were signified by the bronze figures, while her supporters were denoted by exquisitely carved wooden pawns. Despite the apparent support, a tight knot of unease coiled in her stomach.

The room itself bore the weight of history, its stone walls and high vaulted ceilings echoing with over a century of decisions, power struggles, and conquest. Shadows danced ominously across the walls, adding to the tension that permeated the chamber. The flickering candlelight cast elongated figures that seemed to reach out, as if grasping for control over the continent laid bare on the table.

This charged atmosphere enveloped Rhaenyra, a prelude to a storm of decisions yet to come, weighing heavily upon her. Her fingertips lingered on the map at the name ‘King’s Landing’–where her daughter remained imprisoned, and her rightful throne had been unjustly seized. Gwayne Hightower’s arrival had brought not peace offerings, but demands cloaked as terms, dictated by his sister and his father.

“It is no easy thing for a man to be a dragonslayer,” Daemon asserted, his voice carrying the weight of authority and the conviction of a seasoned warrior. “But dragons can kill dragons. And they have. The simple truth is this; we have more dragon’s than Aegon.”

Rhaenyra interrupted, raising her eyes from the map. “Viserys spoke often of the Valyrian histories. I know them well. When dragons flew to war… everything burned. I do not wish to rule over a kingdom of ash and bone.”

Lord Bartimos, unable to hide his apprehension, inquired,“Are you considering the Hightowers’ terms, Your Grace?”

The palpable tension that filled the air seemed to thicken with shared apprehension as all eyes settled upon her, awaiting a response from the Queen. The collective gazes upon her felt as prickling as needles, an attempt to dissect her every thought and intention–to lay her heart bare for their scrutiny. Yet, amidst this invasive assessment, she preserved her poise, shouldering their gazes with unwavering steadiness.

With a voice edged with a commanding clarity, she addressed the room. “As Queen, what is my true duty to the realm, Lord Bartimos?”

Weariness clung to her body, an oppressive shroud of exhaustion that seemed to transform her bones into lead, her every movement met with silent protest from her weary muscles. The constant, dull ache that pervaded her being served as a relentless keepsake of the agony she had withstood, coupled with the painful reminder that her crown had already cost her one daughter.

Within the council chamber, the air was thick with the clamor for war, each lord more eager than the last to see the skies alight with dragonfire against their foes. Yet, amidst this clamor for war, Rhaenyra found herself adrift in the sea of weariness. Her heart was fraught with apprehension, not for the crown she might lose, but for the daughter who still remained within the grasp of her adversaries–and for the lives of those around her.

Her voice carried a steely resolve as she posed her question, “Is it to ensure the peace and unity of the realm? Or that I sit the Iron throne at any cost?”

With an exasperated roll of his eyes, Daemon uttered something that was close to a sneer, “That is your father talking.”

With his patience visibly fraying, Daemon let out an exasperated sigh and rolled his eyes. His voice, tinged with a dismissive sneer, carried his frustration as he spat, “That is your father talking.”

If Daemon had meant to rile her, he had succeeded. Her eyes sharpened into a focused glare, following him as he moved around the painted table, and she snapped back at him, “My father is dead.”

Daemon paced around the council table to its far end, the sound of his boots scraping against the stone floor marking his path. A wave of irritation washed over her, yet she maintained her composure, her eyes locked onto him with unwavering intensity. She sharpened her own words, knowing how they would land. “And he chose me as his successor, to defend the realm, not plunge it headlong into war.”

Seemingly unable to contain his vexation, Daemon let his voice climb in provocation. “Well, the enemy has declared war! What are you going to do about it?”

Rhaenyra understood his fury as intimately as she understood her own, yet a sense of unease still clung to her. Daemon thisted for war, a fact she couldn’t simply disregard. Given the chance, he would have them march on King’s Landing immediately, regardless of the consequences. While his desire for conflict was unmistakable, she did not share this eagerness for it. She knew all too well how men would rush into war, blinded by pride or vengeance, without fully weighing the consequences of such actions. She stood firm in her resolve not to let the realm bleed unnecessarily for her ascent to power. The thought of blood being shed so freely under her command was a burden she refused to bear lightly.

Rhaenyra sensed the weight of every gaze in the room settle on her, feeling them like a tangible pressure against her skin. The sting of her husband’s public challenge lingered sharply in the air, each word resonating with an intensity that tugged at her resolve. Her posture remained composed, yet beneath her calm exterior, a storm of emotions brewed, fueled by Daemon’s confrontational words.

“Clear the room,” she commanded, her eyes never leaving her husband.

As the chamber gradually emptied of lords and advisors, Rhaenyra felt her own frustration colliding with Daemon’s simmering rage. He moved with a restless energy, finally stopping in front of the heart. There, the firelight bathed his face in a warm orange hue, momentarily softening his features before deeping the shadows in his eyes–his eyes seemed to burn darkly.

“Does the promise of war excite you?” Rhaenyra inquired sharply, an indictment in her tone. Her voice cut through the silence of the room–almost heavy with emptiness, only the two of them remaining. Her inquiry hung in the air, accompanied only by the sporadic crackles from the hearth and the somber howl of the wind outside. The elements themselves seemed to echo the tension and the foreboding sense of conflict.

Daemon’s response was charged with exasperation, yet controlled, “You cannot bend the knee to the Hightowers–they stole your birthright.”

His intense gaze fixed on her, searing and unyielding, igniting a sensation that felt akin to an itch beneath her skin that she couldn’t quite reach–it only served to further add to her frustration.

“If you could take the Iron Throne without putting Otto Hightower’s head on a spike, would you?” Rhaenyra countered, her steps measured as she closed the distance between them. She was acutely aware of his deep-seated resentment towards Otto Hightower, yet she harbored no desire to ignite war over a personal grudge. The warmth from the hearth caressed her chilled fingers, offering a semblance of comfort while simultaneously serving as a reminder of the danger of getting too close. Daemon was much the same as the fire in the hearth, his fiery passion a potential for destruction–his essence bore the latent capacity to either illuminate the darkest corners of existence or, in a turn as swift as a spark in dry wind, lay waste to all within his reach. He was dragonfire made flesh, and that in itself was dangerous.

“Are you not angry?” His question was laced with an implicit challenge, designed to pierce her defenses and stir the embers of her own anger.

“I should declare war because I’m angry?” Rhaenyra retorted, her voice laced with incredulity.

Daemon’s response was immediate, his patience faying as he bridged the gap between them. Illuminated by the hearth’s fiery glow, he appeared almost at one with the element, a living embodiment of the flames that danced behind him.

“No,” he asserted sharply. “Because it’s your duty as Queen to crush rebellion.”

The intensity of his gaze remained unyielding–unforgiving, a blaze that refused to be tamed.

“We can extinguish this treachery swiftly, before the moon’s turn, if we act now,” Daemon pressed on, each word infused with a palpable sense of urgency and conviction–his hunger for war remained steadfast, and it seemed nothing would satiate it save for bloodshed. “With our dragonriders and the support of our allies, we can secure the throne with minimal loss of life–but only if we do not delay any further. We’ve already allowed them ample time to prepare and rally their own allies. We must act now.”

As he stepped closer, the space between them diminished to mere inches, their breaths intertwining. “I understand your hesitance to engage in bloodshed, especially as we nurse our own losses…”

Rhaenyra’s head tilted slightly, her jaw clenched in a silent warning. She would not allow their daughter’s death to be weaponized in an attempt to force her hand–especially not force her into a war that she wasn’t sure would be worth it.

Daemon’s hand came to rest gently against her cheek, his thumb caressing her skin with a firmness that spoke of his intent. “I am committed to defend your claim. I will protect our family, and the legacy of House Targaryen, with steel and blood.” Each word was spoken as though cleaved from stone, firm and biting. “Our house, our lineage, and your sovereignty are under threat, and I stand resolute in their defense.” The warmth of his touch seeped into her, burned against her skin. “Grand me your command, and I will see to the rest.”

The sincerity and desperation in his words clashed into a resonant urgency–almost a plea.

“Should we act against King’s Landing, there’s a risk they may harm my daughter, Daemon. My only daughter,” Rhaenyra asserted, clutching his wrist tightly, her thumb caressing against the beat of his heart. “The thought of losing her too is something I cannot endure–do not ask it of me.”

Daemon pulled away slightly, eyes remaining locked with hers, as though attempting to read her thoughts. “Otto Hightower is cunning, not reckless. He’s well aware of her significance to us. He knows it’s in his best interest to keep her alive and well.”

The weight of their situation seemed to curl around them like the flicker of the flames, the heat radiating onto both of them. Rhaenyra’s gaze remained intense, burning. “And yet, we are both aware that in the face of defeat, they would not hesitate to sacrifice her out of spite just to wound us further.”

Rhaenyra could see it lurking in Daemon’s eyes, the unsaid belief that Daenera would understand her sacrifice, just as she had been prepared to make it herself. Yet, these thoughts remained unspoken, cloaked in the silent communication between them–lingering in the shadows of their minds.

Daemon shifted his stance, a determined glint in his eyes as he laid out his strategy, “If we act swiftly, encircle King’s landing, and lay siege, showing our undeniable strength, they will have to reconsider. They won’t dare harm her if she becomes their last bargaining chip–the only thing keeping their heads on their shoulders.”

He paused, taking a deep breath, as if weighing his own words, contemplating the risks and stakes involved. “Give me the order, and I will ensure that we get Daenera back. Alive and well.”

Rhaenyra fixed her gaze on Daemon, her heart pounding furiously. “There’s no certainty in that strategy. If we march on King’s Landing, the risk is too great…”

Her voice trembled slightly with the weight of the decision, the fear of unintended consequences lurking in her words.

“Maybe we should consider a different strategy–let us negotiate with a currency they understand. A life for a life,” Daemon suggested, already considering the tactical implications. “I could detain Gwayne Hightower before his return to King’s Landing. They wouldn’t have gotten far.”

Rhaenyra’s expression darkened with concern, and she instinctively took a step back, distancing herself from Daemon. Her fingers restlessly fiddled with a ring, the gesture betraying her inner turmoil–a sliver of annoyance burning within her chest as he once again spoke of breaking convention. “I cannot in good conscience defy convention, Daemon. We cannot detain an envoy. Such an act would be a declaration of war.”

Daemon’s impatience was evident as he scoffed, his exasperation clear. “We are already at war! It is your duty to respond to the treachery of usurpation with fire and blood!”

Rhaenyra softened her tone, seeking to remind him of their higher responsibilities. “You know my oath reaches beyond our personal ambitions. If the path of saving my daughter and preventing the realm from being consumed by war is to kneel, then I must consider it–the realm mustn’t be divided when the war against the darkness comes upon us.”

At her words, Daemon’s frame shifted, his gaze sharp with disbelief and irritation. “What?”

“A Song of Ice and Fire,” Rhaenyra drawled, her voice low, a confused frown settling upon her own features–almost a mirror to the one on her husband’s face. “The Conqueror’s Dream…”

His head tilted, the disbelief starting to burn brighter in his eyes as he stared at her incredulously.

“The war against the darkness descending from the North…” She elaborated, trying to convey the gravity of the prophecy–to spark some sort of recognition with Daemon, but there was none to be found, and the realization slowly dawned on her.

Daemon’s glare was unyielding, his visage as if carved from the same ancient stones of the castle itself. Every line and contour of his face was marked with disbelief, and within his eyes, something dark and dangerous seemed to bare its teeth at her. “You speak of dreams now?”

“The Conqueror’s Dream,” Rhaenyra reiterated, her voice tinged with slight frustration. “Viserys confided in me about the prophecy the night I was named his heir… It foretells of a great threat coming from the North.”

“The Starks have always stuck to their oaths.”

“No, not the Starks,” she clarified, her voice laced with a growing urgency. “This threat comes from beyond the Wall. Should we stand divided, the ensuing darkness will spell doom for all, heralding a winter so severe, so devoid of light, that no living thing would endure…”

The realization dawned fully on her then–the realization that Daemon knew nothing of what she was speaking of. And this only seemed to intensify his disbelief and exasperation.

“He never told you, did he?” Her voice was softer then, and she felt her heart feel both a sliver of relief and a stab of pity.

“Tell me what, to heed fanciful old wive’s tales?” Daemon’s response was laden with a thick layer of incredulous sarcasm, his face twisting into a grimace of disdain as if the mere suggestion was a betrayal. Yet, it wasn’t the proposition itself that felt like a stab of betrayal, she knew–it was the realization that his brother, Viserys, had withheld such crucial information from him, even if he wouldn’t believe it. This revelation seemed to stir a deep, bitter resentment within him, a sense of betrayal that went beyond the words spoken, cutting into the very core of his bond with his brother.

“My brother,” Daemon sneered with a certain amount of resentment in his tone, “was a slave to his omens and portents. He would clutch at anything that lend any semblance of meaning to his weak rule.”

“Daemon…” Rhaenyra extended a hand, a gesture of conciliation, but he retreated further, frustration tensing his shoulders. She wondered whether Viserys had withheld the prophecy because he anticipated Daemon’s skepticism or if it was because he never truly regarded him as his successor.

On the very night Viserys had made her his heir, he had confided in her, entrusting her with the knowledge of Aegon the Conqueror's dream. He had told her. He had never told Daemon, not even during the years as he was considered the heir apparent. But he had told her. She was his chosen heir, the sole recipient of this prophecy, a distinction that held a profound significance for her, perhaps more than it rightfully should.

Standing at the precipice of war that could fracture the realm, Rhaenyra felt the weight of the crown more oppressively than ever. Her father’s words echoed within her, branding the crown not as a symbol of power, but as a heavy burden–and it was.

Daemon had withdrawn towards the hearth, where he leaned heavily against the mantle with his head bowed, staring into the flames. His hand was clenched tight, and she saw the rage in his posture–the hurt. He turned his face towards her again as she approached, an unpredictable storm in his fiery eyes, reflecting the orange tongues of the fire.

“Surrendering your rightful claim over mere stories is fucking insanity,” Daemon bit out and Rhaenyra felt the sharp sting of his bite.

“If surrendering is what is best for the realm–” Rhaenyra began but was swiftly cut off by a derisive scoff.

“Do you truly believe that that drunken usurper cunt and his council of Hightowers would be more capable of uniting and safeguarding the realm from this… this threat from the North?” Daemon argued sharply. “When my brother imparted this prophecy, did he specify when the threat would descend upon us? Will it be within our lifetime?” He faced her directly, his presence imposing as he loomed over her. Yet, his voice softened, if only a little as he murmured. “Or was it as vague as all dreams and prophecies tend to be.”

“Daemon,” Rhaenyra cautioned lowly.

“I’m merely seeking clarity,” he persisted, his skepticism remaining. "Because it seems you’re willing to wager your legacy, your claim to the throne, and the future of your sons on the premise that this threat from the North is both real and immediate.”

Rhaenyra found herself wrestling with the gravity of her father’s prophecy and her husband’s pointed disbelief, each word a testament to the chasm between belief and skepticism, between duty and destiny.

The silence between them stretched as she found herself bereft of words that could possibly bridge the chasm of disbelief between them. She had nothing tangible to offer but the words given, and those words would not stand unchallenged in his eyes. Doubt crept into her thoughts, a seed of uncertainty threatening to take root and grow unchecked unless she managed to dispel it swiftly. Her hesitation didn’t stem from a lack of faith in her father’s words or the prophecy of the Conqueror; rather, it was the inherent ambiguity of the prophecy that cast a pall over her convictions.

The prophecy resonated within her, a truth she still keenly felt. It had manifested as an icy shiver trailing down her spine, a cold that penetrated deep into her marrow. And in that moment, as she gazed into the cavernous eye sockets of Balerion The Black Dread’s skull, she could have sworn she heard the distinct cracking of ice. This eerie sensation had solidified her belief in the prophecy.

But Daemon’s disbelief remained, underscored by a deeper, more personal wound. His words were laden with a blend of entreaty and reprimand, as he closed the distance between them, his hands gently framing her face. “To wager everything on the premise of a dream is folly, and an even greater folly to let the realm languish under the Hightowers.” His thumb caressed her cheek, calloused and hardened. “My brother named you as his heir. He imparted this prophecy to you.” A note of bitterness made it into his voice, even as she saw his attempt to quell it. “He believed in your ability to protect the realm. He didn’t pass the burden onto his sons; he didn’t share this vision with them. Surrender now, and all that we’ve endeavored to achieve will crumble to naught.”

Tears gathered in Rhaenyra’s eyes, lending a glassy sheen to her gaze as she said, “You have no faith in the prophecy, but it is for that and the stability of the realm that I must consider surrendering.”

Daemon let out a weary, disappointed sigh, a gesture of resignation rather than agreement, and gently shook his head. His frustration was obvious, even as he closed the distance between them, pressing his forehead to hers, a moment of intimacy amidst the storm of contention.

“Dreams didn’t make us kings. Dragons did,” he murmured, then withdrew, leaving the room with a finality that felt like a cold gust, scattering the remnants of Rhaenyra’s determination like ashes in his departure.

Rhaenyra closed her eyes momentarily, turning her face towards the crackling fire. She let the weariness of the day wash over her, soaking in the comforting warmth that radiated from the hearth. The heat seeped into her bones, providing a brief respite and fortifying her resolve. Gathering her strength, she stood a little straighter, taking a deep, steadying breath before turning to leave the room.

She left The Hall of the Painted Table and waved off the assembly gathered outside, her voice firm yet fatigued. “We will continue in the morning, once we have all rested and I have reached a decision.”

As she traversed the halls of Dragonstone, the weight of her physical and emotional exertion was palpable. Her joints creaked with each step, her muscles tense and sore. A persistent ache throbbed between her legs, a constant reminder of the difficult birth she had endured, pulsing in time with her heartbeat. Despite the discomfort, she pressed forward, her path illuminated by the flickering orange light of torches and braziers that cast eerie shadows against the ancient stone walls–these walls, hewn from the same rock that formed the formidable Dragonmont, seemed to echo the labyrinthine caves beneath, adding a sense of deep, primordial continuity to her surroundings.

Rhaenyra tiptoed quietly into her youngest son’s bedchamber, gently pushing the door open and closed. Inside, the fire crackled softly, its warm glow battling the chill from the howling wind outside. Lady Sheran, seated in a rocking chair, was knitting quietly, keeping a watch over the two young princes as they slept. Her eyes lifted as Rhaenyra entered the room. She started to rise, but Rhaenyra gestured for her to remain seated.

“How are they?” Rhaenyra whispered, her gaze tenderly settling on the two boys in the bed.

“They are well, Your Grace,” Lady Sheran replied softly, her eyes affectionately observing the boys. “They sense that something is amiss, though they can’t grasp the full extent of what's happening–only that things are different.

Nodding understandingly, Rhaenyra sat down on the edge of the bed. Aegon was sprawled on his stomach, one arm thrown over his brother as if to shield him, his blond curls tousled around his head. And Viserys lay on his back, his head turned towards Aegon, clutching tightly to the blanket their sister had crafted for him. Aegon’s own blanket, that his sister made him, was tugged beside him, crumpled under his head as a pillow, a dark pool of drool slowly growing on the blue fabric.

As Rhaenyra gently brushed her hand through the soft curls of her youngest sons, a welling of tears blurred her vision. She leaned down to kiss each of them tenderly, feeling the steady rhythm of their hearts before pulling back. Watching them sleep peacefully, she couldn’t help but wonder about their sister Visenya. Would she have shared the same wild curls, or would her hair have been straighter? Would her eyes mirror the same pale blue? And her cheeks, would they have been as round and rosy?

Rhaenyra wondered if Visenya would have been as inseparable from her brothers as Aegon and Viserys were now. The boys had been so eager to embrace the role of older brother’s, just as Jace, Luke, and Joffrey had for them. Would they understand that Visenya was gone–never to be?

At their tender age, the concept of death remained elusive and abstract–hardly distinguishable from a prolonged absence. Rhaenyra harbored a deep-seated fear that as Daenera remained away, the memories of her might start to fade from the young princes’ minds. Yet, hope flickered as their elder brothers kept Daenera alive in their minds. Jace, Luke, and Joffrrey consistently reminded the younger boys of their sister, recounting stories and weaving her presence into their daily lives, ensuring she remained, even as she wasn’t here.

They would remember Daenera, unlike Visenya–who had never really graced their lives in the first place. Visenya’s absence marked a silent void, her quiet passing at birth slipping into the shadows of oblivion rather than leaving behind the palpable scar of loss on their young minds, the ache of missing someone dearly loved.

Only Rhaenyra and Daemon would truly carry Visenya within them as a deep, enduring scar–a poignant reminder of what could have been.

And perhaps, to a lesser but still significant degree, Jace, Luke, and Daenera too would beare some traces of this loss. The older siblings, more aware of the world’s harsh truths, might not feel the sting of her absence as acutely as their parents, but they too understood the weight of the sister they never got to meet.

Rhaenyra longed for Daenera’s presence as she leaned down to kiss her sons once more, savoring the sweet, innocent scent of their slumber. Rising from the bed, she sighed softly, “One day they’ll understand all of this, but for now, it’s best we shield them from our worries.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Lady Sheran replied, her voice a soft echo in the quiet room.”

With a heavy heart, Rhaenyra left the room and made her way down the hall to Joffre’s chambers, seeking to check on her other children. As she entered, she found Luke awake, sitting up in bed with his dark hair around him. He glanced up at her, his expression somber. Beside him, young Joffrey lay deep in sleep, clutching a wooden dragon toy that hung precariously over the edge of the bed, as if ready to take flight in his dreams.

Rhaenyra stepped forward, gently retrieving the wooden dragon from Joffrey’s loose grip and placing it on the bedside table. Her gaze then met Luke’s with a silent question.

“He couldn’t fall asleep,” Luke whispered, intuiting her thoughts. “He asked for a story…”

Rhaenyra’s lips curved into a tender smile, and she leaned down to kiss Joffrey’s forehead. “He’s found his rest now, and you should too.”

With a gentle gesture, she signaled for Luke to follow her out. He quietly slid from the bed, his movements almost ghostlike as they exited into the hallway together. They proceeded to his room, where Rhaenyra assisted him with his doublet, stepping back as he changed into his nightclothes. The soft tap of his bare feet against the floor followed as he slipped under his covers.

Rhaenyra settled beside him on the bed, mirroring the close moment they had shared just days before when the world was different. She pushed his hair back from his forehead, her smile soft but tinged with concern as she noticed his furrowed brow. “What is on your mind, sweet boy?”

“Are we going to war?” He asked in a hushed tone, his eyes searching hers for answers. “Jace says we’re going to war.”

Rhaenyra inhaled deeply, the weight of her role as both a mother and a queen pressing upon her. “If it’s within my power, I hope that we may avoid it.”

“What will happen to Daenera if we go to war?” He pressed, his voice laced with worry.

The question pierced her heart, twisting with her own fears. She found herself grappling with the right words to reassure her son while confronting the stark realities they faced.

“I don’t know,” Rhaenyra admitted with heartfelt honesty as she reached for the blanket Daenera had crafted–the same one Luke had brought to her for comfort during her struggle with giving birth. The very same blanket she had tenderly wrapped around Visenya, cradling her in her arms. With a gentle touch, she carefully draped it over him, placing a hand on his chest, caressing the fabric and the boy beneath. “But I assure you, I will do everything in my power to bring her home.”

Luke nodded, his voice raspy as he spoke. “I miss her.”

“I miss her too, my sweet boy,” Rhaenyra replied, her voice thick with emotion. She leaned down and kissed his forehead, as she had with her other sons. “We’ll bring her back, I promise. Now, try to rest. We have challenging days ahead.”

Luke nodded again, his young face resolute as he snuggled deeper into his bedding.

Rhaenyra rose from the bed and made her way towards the doors, but Luke’s voice halted her.

“You can rely on us, you know…” He said, his tone sincere. “Jace, Joff, and I. We’ll protect and fight for you…”

She paused, turning back to face him, a tender smile breaking through her worries. “I know… Sleep, sweet boy.”

Rhaenyra softly shut the door behind her, lingering in the silent corridor as a sharp pang of sorrow blossomed in her chest, her heart caught in a bittersweet tangle of grief and determination. She inhaled deeply, a breath meant to steel herself, and moved towards Jace’s room, drawn by the subdued voices dissecting the day’s events.

As she neared the door, the familiar voices of Jace, Baela, and Rhaena filled the air, their conversation intense and animated. They were deep in a passionate exchange, evidently holding a council of their own, strategizing and reflecting in the same manner as the real council had. A hint of a smile touched her lips, amusement flickering within her. She decided to let them continue uninterrupted.

Turning away, she made her way back to her own chambers, her steps slow and measured. Upon entering, she found the maester waiting, as anticipated, with a cup of dreamwine prepared. This small comfort was a necessary solace to ease the edges of her day’s burdens and help her find rest in a night that promised little peace.

Often as she slept, Rhaenys found herself chasing the echo of her children. She roamed the corridors of Driftmark, pursuing their elusive shadows, guided by the merry peals of their giggles that seemed to bounce off the ancient walls. The chase was a game for them, their voice whispers and echoes, warning one another of her approach. She would chase after them, seeking to grasp them, as she once did in days filled with joy, yearning to envelop them in her embrace, to incite laughter with gentle tickles that made them plead for respite.

But in the realm of dreams, her efforts were in vain; the moment her fingers nearly brushed against them, they dissipated into mere wisps of smoke and ash. Such dreams were a cruel torment, yet Rhaenys harbored a hope that, someday, she would finally catch them, hold them close, and vow never to release them.

Even as time blurred their features and the years stretched on, she clung to this hope, her only defense against the creeping shadow that loomed over her children, a shadow as boundless and malevolent as the darkest night, threatening to consume them and leave her with nothing.

As frequently as her dreams offered a haunting glimpse of her children, Rhaenys found herself awakening to a world in which they remained just as elusive–mere ghosts and echoes.

The timber of a voice shattered the remnants of her dream, causing her to startle awake. She had been so close to capturing that fleeting sense of connection with her children–so agonizingly close. Her eyes, heavy with sleep and sorrow, adjusted to focus on the figure of her husband. His dark complexion was glossed with a sheen of sweat, evidence of the fever he’d been battling for days now. The maesters had harbored doubts about his chances of survival, and now, observing him, breathing and alert, Rhaenys couldn’t help but feel a surge of relief and frustration.

“I’ve had men whipped for falling asleep on their watch,” he had remarked, and then continued, “You are no man.”

A wry smile played on his lips, followed by a chuckle that suggested he found humor in the situation.

The irony of his jest did little to lighten her mood, serving instead as a reminder of her sex–how could she ever forget?

Rhaenys’s amusement was absent; instead, a deep-seated anger smoldered within her, scorching any relief she might have felt at his survival into bitter resentment.

“You abandoned me,” she murmured, the whisper sharp and laden with the profound bitterness of desertion. Her words carried the weight of years spent watching his ship’s sails shrink on the horizon until they vanished entirely–an accusation steeped in the sense of abandonment she had harbored silently since he took to the horizon.

Her statement was not just a declaration but an indictment, punctuated by the pain and resentment that had festered within her as the years stretched on. Even their brief encounter during Daenera’s wedding had not provided an opportunity to voice her anguish.

“You abandoned me when I most needed you,” she stated, her voice icy with accusation. “Both our children stolen from us. I needed you. Baela and Rhaena needed you, and you abandoned us for more adventures at sea…”

Her words hung heavily in the air, a cold echo of the pain and betrayal that had accumulated over the lonely years.

Rhaenys’s anger was not the blazing sort; it had cooled over time into something more glacial and piercing. Gone were the days when her fury might erupt like a wild inferno or a raging sea. What remained now was a cold, deliberate wrath–a slow, creeping frost that threatened a quiet death.

Corlys had left her to endure her grief alone, left her to wander the silent, echoing halls of Driftmark. He had always chased the horizon, his spirit as restless and uncontainable as the sea. She had known this about him when they wed, had even loved him for his insatiable thirst for adventure and his ambition. She had accepted his nature, even as it led him to wars and quests in distant lands.

Yet, she had never envisioned that he would leave her so utterly abandoned.

“...As has always been your way,” she said, her voice carrying a cool edge as she leaned forward to dip a cloth into the basin next to her bed, wringing it out meticulously.

“I had no other place to turn,” Corlys replied, his voice a low, scratchy echo of its usual resonant timber. He seemed taken aback by her coldness, and his response was feeble, almost desperate. “I lost everything.”

Her eyes narrowed, a sharp intensity flashing through them as she felt a fissure in her usually composed demeanor. With a voice laced with icy reproach, she corrected him sharply, “We lost, Corlys. We.”

Her words seemed to strike him with the weight of solemn truth, settling on his shoulders like an irrefutable indictment. They had both suffered immense losses–not just him alone. The pain registered clearly on his face, a visible manifestation of his inner turmoil, and he averted his gaze as she approached in an attempt to mask the emotions brimming in his eyes.

Rhaenys sat beside him on the bed, her movements gentle and deliberate–despite her cold fury. She took his hand in hers, soothingly running a damp cloth over his skin, washing away the grime and sweat of illness. The room was enveloped in a heavy silence, dense with the weight of unspoken words–echoes of past arguments mindled with threads of relief and memories that lingered in the air like ghosts.

His eyes wandered around the room, a subtle shift in his demeanor, a slight easing of tension. “Dragonstone?”

“They brought you in last night,” she replied, carefully dabbing the cloth on his wrist, where his pulse beat a steady rhythm under her fingers, still noticeably warm.

Corlys responded with a wry chuckle, a faint smile touching his lips as he spoke, “Clinging to life like a half-drowned sailor to a piece of driftwood, no doubt.”

In that moment, with his attempt at humor, there was a brief respite from the gravity of their situation, a shared understanding that, despite everything, they remained tethered to each other.

“The maesters were doubtful of your survival,” Rhaenys murmured, gently turning his hand to cleanse the underside of his palm. As she tended to him, the profound silence continued to envelop the room, thick and heavy. She allowed it to linger.

Corlys’s gaze followed her movements, his expression reflective. Seemingly seeking to divert the topic, he ventured, “I understand we have a new king.”

Rhaenys paused, her hands methodically cleaning between his fingers, although the skin was already clean. It was a deliberate action, a distraction from the raw edges of her emotions.

“The Stranger cast a long shadow over this family,” she responded, her voice low and steady. She moved the cloth up to his brow, gently wiping away any vestiges of discomfort. Corlys’s eyes softened, searching her face as if he were a desperate wanderer seeking a sign of live in a landscape of desolation. Yet, life was not what she could offer him now.

“Your brother is also dead,” she said quietly, locking eyes with him as she broke the heavy news.

The impact of her words were immediate. Confusion and pain knitted her husband’s brows together, his face a canvas of shock and anguish. He made an effort to sit up, a groan escaping him as pain seemed to shoot through his body. He managed only a slight elevation before the effort proved too much, and he sank back onto the pillows, a hand clutching at his chest. His breathing became labored, his eyes wide and searching hers for answers. How?

As she provided context for the staggering loss he was grappling with, Rhaenys’s voice carried a solemnity that resonated in the quiet room. “In his haste to bury you and claim your seat, he stood before the King and denounced Laenor’s sons as illegitimate.”

Corlys exhaled a weary sigh, his head skating in disbelief as the range of emotions played across his features–disbelief, anger, betrayal, sadness, and loss.

“Daemon took his head for it,” Rhaenys stated, her voice carrying a detached flatness as she relayed the grim outcome.

Corlys’s reaction was a humorless scoff. “Heedless ambition has always been a Velaryon weakness.”

“That heedless ambition won us all that we now possess,” Rhaenys countered softly, her hand gently pressing against his chest to encourage him to lie back comfortably. She returned to dabbing at the seat on his brow, her touch tender yet fraught with apprehension.

His brows knitted together, the furrows deepening as he reflected on her words. “Heedless ambition has cost us everything that we love.”

The admission wrapped around Rhaenys’s aching heart like a cold shroud, settling heavily among the fragments of her shattered spirit. Her eyes fluttered shut momentarily as she absorbed the sign and strange solace of his words–an acknowledgement of their shared burden of loss due to their ambition.

“You were right, Rhaenys,” Corlys finally admitted, his voice tinged with a bitterness that betrayed his inner turmoil. “I reached too far. And for nothing.”

Rhaenys had waited years to hear these words, yet their arrival brought no comfort, only slicing deeper into her wounds. They had once had everything, yet it had never been enough.

“Why did you leave me?” The question escaped her lips, laden with hurt and weariness that she couldn’t disguise.

Corlys’s gaze met hers, fraught with pain as he clasped her hand. His confession was raw, his voice barely above a whisper, revealing his wounds to her. “After Laenor was slain… I couldn’t bear to face you.” His eyes held hers, reflecting a torment born of grief and self-reproach. “I fled to the Stepstones, seeking my own death.”

The honesty in his admission laid bare the depth of his despair, offering Rhaenys a glimpse into the dark abyss he had been grappling with–a man haunted by loss, driven to the brink of self-destruction. Her fingers tightened around his, clasping them firmly. It was something she understood well, a mirror to her own abyss, though she never afforded herself to seek it–without their children, what indeed remained for them? Yet, she had glimpses of hope, echoes of their lineage in their granddaughters–Baela, Rhaena, and even Daenera. Death might seem a merciful release for themselves, but it would abandon those who still lived and remembered them. Her grip intensified, as if to convey her resolve through their intertwined hands.

A solitary tear rolled down her cheek, marking the first she had shed in years.

“I am relieved that you failed,” she whispered, her voice soft and laden with deep emotions. Unspoken words hung between them, a plea for him not to leave her in solitude–she could not, would not be able to bear that.

The slight upturn of his lips, fragile yet genuine, eased the sharp edges of her bitterness. His smile, though faint, was a balm to her aching heart. He exhaled slowly, his resignation palpable in the quiet of the room.

“Our pursuit of the Iron Throne…is at an end,” Corlys declared, squeezing her hand as if to solidify their mutual decision. The warmth of his touch seemed to seep into her skin, mingling with her own. “We shall declare for no one. We will retire to High Tide to be content… with our grandchildren and whatever else remains to us.”

Rhaenys stared at her husband, her eyes searching his for an understanding she felt slipping away. While she might have once yeared to hear him speak of withdrawing from the political fray, the words seemed to only jolt her now. Corlys, who had sailed restless and untamable as the sea, now spoke of retreating inward, and it left her unsettled.

“It is the thought of those children that now rob me of sleep,” Rhaenys confessed, her voice tinged with fatigue. “Jace, Luke and Joff are all claimants to the throne. Those boys will not be safe so long as Aegon is king. And they hold Daenera as a hostage in King’s Landing…”

“Rhaenyra was complicit in our son’s death,” Corlys stated flatly, voice carrying a bitter edge. His expression hardened with resentment. “That girl destroys everything she touches–”

“That ‘girl,’” Rhaenys interjected sharply, “is holding the realm together at present.”

Corlys paused, seemingly taken aback by the conviction in her voice. The room fell into a tense silence, the weight of their years and losses between them, mingling with the cool draft that flickered the nearby candle. Rhaenys’s gaze did not waver, holding onto the thread of duty that had defined so much of their lives.

Rhaenys had once harbored the same harsh feelings as Corlys, her soul steeped in bitterness from the loss of their son and the resentment that Rhaenyra would have a hand in his murder–and part of her had resented Rhaenyra that it was she, not her, that would ascend to the throne–the very throne that had been denied her all those years ago Yet, living with such bitterness proved to be a cold companion, sapping her spirit day by day. She couldn’t cling to that hatred any longer; while the resentment lingered and forgiveness was beyond her, the burden of hatred was too heavy to bear any further. Baela had wisely pointed out that if they didnøt stand by and fight for the loved ones they still had, all that remained was a hollow emptiness.

“Every man standing around the Painted Table urges her to plunge the realm into war,” Rhaenys said, her voice steady despite the weight of the topic. “Rhaenyra is the one who’s demonstrated restraint.”

Corlys observed her intently, taking in her words.

“We’ve lost our children,” she whispered, her voice cracking slightly. “Our resentment will bring us nothing but empty halls. Retreat might spare us, but it will not spare those we leave behind.”

He shifted, the rustle of his beeding a soft sound in the quiet of the chamber. His eyes, usually so sharp and commanding, now reflected a weariness that matched her own.

“Rhaenyra shows restraint because she understands the cost of war,” Rhaenys pressed on, her hands clasped tightly around his hands. “She is willing to consider ceding the throne for the sake of the realm and her children–and for that same reason, she must fight for them. We both know what war does and what it can take from us. We’ve buried our children, Corlys. I can’t–and I won’t–stand by while our grandchildren risk their lives for their legacy.”

The Sea Snake studied his wife, his face etched with marks of a thousand sea voyages and just as many regrets. Slowly, he rested his free hand on top of hers, his touch tentative yet seeking. He gave her a small, contemplative nod.

Rhaenyra stirred from her bed with the dawn, despite the maester’s dreamwine, which was supposed to grant her a respite from her relentless thoughts. Yet, the sleep had been anything but restorative. She rose feeling as if a shroud of weariness still clung to her, a dense fog that muddled her senses as though she hadn’t slept at all–or perhaps had slept for centuries, waking to a realm unfamiliar and altered.

But nothing had been altered from the day before, not yet.

As her handmaids attended her, dressing her in garments befitting a queen, each movement felt laborious, each fabric heavier than it should. Her hair was brushed until it was silky smooth, then carefully braided. The crown remained on the dressing table, its presence enough to feel its weight on her brow.

Rhaenyra had taken a deep breath, attempting to shake off the cobwebs of sleep and the vestiges of wine that clouded her thoughts. She needed clarity, now more than ever, as she prepared to make her decision. Today, like every day, demanded her to be fully present, to wield her authority with the same efficiency as those who came before her–calm, calculated, and above all, clear-headed.

She lingered at the edge of the landing, her eyes drawn by the vigorous training session unfolding below. Daemon’s form was a blur of motion, each movement executed with the savage grace of a seasoned warrior. His expression was one of raw, unbridled intensity, a permanent sneer twisting his features as he dominated each opponent with the relentless determination of a storm sweeping across the sea. The sound of his boot connecting with Clarrik Plunder echoed sharply through the courtyard, the guard’s body hitting the ground with a heavy thud that resonated against the ancient stones of the castle walls.

Shifting her focus away from the brutal display, Rhaenyra turned her attention to the letter in her hand. With a steady inhale, she steeled herself for the words she was about to read. The red wax, embossed with the Hand of the King’s sigil, gave away beneath her fingers, fragments falling softly to the ground, even as the seal had already been opened–presumably by Daemon at some point during her sleep.

The warmth of the nearby brazier caressed her face, its flames licking lively, casting a glow that played across her features, lighting up her determined eyes. The soft crackles and pops of the wood burning punctuated the moment, filling the space around her with the sounds of the fire’s restless dance–restless as the man growling in the courtyard for his opponent to come at him.

As she unfolded the letter, the words began to reveal themselves, her pulse quickened with a sharp sense of trepidation. She scanned the words rapidly, each sentence amplifying the beat of her heart as a storm of emotions welled up inside her. Apprehension mingled with a steeling determination as she disgusted the contents of the message, the gravity of each word weighing heavily upon her. The missive’s implications for her rule and the realm reverberated through her, setting the course for decisions that would shape their fates. Her fingers tightened around the parchment, the crisp rustle of paper echoing softly in the mostly quiet of the morning.

Mother, It is with a heavy heart and a sense of duty that I write to you to urge you to bend the knee to Aegon Targaryen, Second of His Name, as the legitimate sovereign of the Seven Kingdoms.

Rhaenyra paused, granting herself a moment of respite amidst the turmoil. She closed her eyes and placed a hand over the slight curve of her abdomen, where a dull ache lingered, a cruel reminder of the life that had once thrived within her–a life cruelly snatched away. The sensation of her unborn child’s movements, once a delight filled with promise and hope, now only underscored the profound emptiness that gnawed at her core.

The gods were truly cruel in their mockery.

Despite her expectations, the contents of the letter sliced through her anew, stirring a fresh wave of despair. A naive part of her had still clung to the sliver of hope for a different message, a different outcome. But the harsh reality offered no such solace.

Taking a deep breath, Rhaenyra steadied herself, opening her eyes to the unyielding light of morning. She swallowed hard against the lump forming in her throat, her resolve hardening.

Upon his deathbed, Viserys amended his wishes for the succession, naming Aegon as his heir. I understand that this revelation may be difficult for you to accept, but it is the truth, and one we should accept.

Aegon now justly assumes the crown and occupies the Iron Throne, fulfilling the last wishes of his father. The kingdom has acknowledged his rightful ascendancy, and it is incumbent upon us, following the late King’s desires, to do likewise. Hence, I implore you to consider the proposed terms of your surrender with openness.

Rhaenyra’s heart sank as a strangled, pained noise escaped her lips, a futile effort to stifle the sop that lodged in her throat, threatening to burst forth. She cast her eyes skyward, desperately trying to hold back the tears that prickled at the back of her eyes, as the words on the parchment cut into her like a finely honed dagger.

She stared at the letter, her gaze intense and unwavering, as if sheer willpower might somehow rewrite the devastating information it delivered. Disbelief and a profound sense of betrayal surged through her, clashing violently with everything she knew about the man who had supported her claim until the very end.

As she grappled with the contents of the letter, questions swirled through her mind, each echoing with increasing intensity. Did her father genuinely have a change of heart? Could it be that he altered the succession with his final breath, as the letter suggested? Had he revealed the prophecy to Aegon as he had done her?

With each unanswered question, doubt seeped into her thoughts, and then, a fiery anger began to kindle within her chest.

Her father had always been resolute that she was his heir, coming out of the seclusion of his illness specifically to reaffirm her and her children’s rights. The notion that he would change his mind and designate Aegon as his successor was unimaginable. What sense was there in affirming her as his chosen successor, defending her right to rule, only to revoke it in a cruel twist?

She dismissed the possibility outright. She couldn’t accept that her father, if truly intent on changing the succession, would have waited until his female moments to do so. He would have taken action years earlier, she reasoned. He would have yielded to the Hightower’s efforts instead of standing firm as he always had. It was inconceivable that he would use his dying breath to sow discord and chaos within the realm.

Rhaenyra clenched the letter tighter, her knuckles whitening as the fire of her resolve grew stronger. She would not accept these claims.

I understand that my safety and well-being may be a source of worry for you. Please be reassured, I am well cared for. The King extends his kindness towards me, and it is with a sense of joy that I inform you of my betrothal to the King’s brother, Aemond Targaryen. I hope this news brings you some measure of solace, knowing that my decision was made freely. Our forthcoming marriage aims to strengthen the bonds within our House, ensuring the stability of the realm.

In light of these developments, I extend an earnest invitation for you and our family to attend our wedding. My deepest desire is for your presence there, demonstrating to the realm the united front of House Targaryen.

I fully comprehend the immense burden of the choices before you, along with the sacrifices and concessions they necessitate. Nevertheless, I implore you to consider what a war would mean for the realm and our house should you refuse to accept Aegon Targaryen as the legitimate and undisputed King of the Seven Kingdoms.

For the prosperity and stability of the realm, and for the safety of our family, I beseech you, publicly acknowledge Aegon Targaryen as your sovereign and submit to his rule.

Sincerely,

Your Daughter,

Daenera Velaryon.

Rhaenyra exhaled slowly, her hand instinctively soothing the persistent ache in her abdomen, the throb made worse by the emotional turmoil stirred by the letter. It offered no comfort, only another sharp tool for the Hightowers to wield, a means to stir doubt and remind her that they hold the life and well-being of her daughter within their grasp. The desire to embrace her daughter, to feel her safe and close, gnawed at her restlessly. Yet, the letter brought her no closer to her daughter; it was just a cold expanse of ink on parchment.

As the implications of her potential decisions hung heavily in the air, a dark shadow seemed to stretch across her spirit, suffusing her thoughts with uncertainty. Was her rightful claim to the throne worth risking the stability and prosperity of the realm? Could she justify the risk to her children’s lives and happiness? What would remain for her, for them, if she capitulated to the Hightowers’ demands?

Each thought circled in her mind, restless and unyielding, like a tide crashing against the castle’s foundations–each wave a reminder of the heavy weight of the responsibility of the crown.

Below her, Daemon’s commanding voice cut through the metallic clatter of steel, his taunts sharp as the edge of his blade. He gripped a guard by the doublet and shoved him back with a forceful gesture–a clear challenge to come at him again.

Two knights advanced on Daemon simultaneously, attempting a coordinated assault. With a masterful parry, Daemon redirected one knight’s blade, skillfully cursing him to stumble into the path of his comrade. This disruption broke their attack’s rhythm and allowed Daemon to focus on a third knight. Their swords clashed in a harsh symphony of steel, he grabbed the doublet of the knight, twisting and pushing him back into his fellow knights, causing them both to collapse in a heap of clattering steel and intertwined limbs.

He barked out a challenge, frustration lacing his tone, “Get up! Fight me!”

Rhaenyra watched Daemon from above, his gaze catching hers with a fierce intensity that made her pulse quicken. Once again, she grasped the full depths of his desires–a deep, insatiable thirst for war and glory. It was evident in every aspect of his demeanor, from his aggressive stance to the relentless determination in his actions. For Daemon, war was not merely a possibility; it was an inevitability. He craved it, and from the fiery determination in his eyes, Rhaenyra knew he would drive them towards it by any means necessary.

As the skirmish unfolded below, Rhaenyra’s fingers absently traced the edges of the letter she held. Each movement of Daemon, each clash of steel, stirred a tumult of thoughts within her–his words echoing in her mind, urging her to take action, to declare war, to spill blood. His fervor stirred a knot of apprehension in her chest as she contemplated the potential aftermath of the war he so fervently longed for. The possibility of devastation loomed large, casting shadows over the future of her family and the realm.

Daemon’s desire for war was a path fraught with uncertainty, one that could lead to ruin as much as victory. It was a path as fickle as flames, threatening to devour everything in its path and leave nothing but ashes behind.

Beside her, Jace’s voice broke through her reverie.

“Daemon wants to fight for us,” Jace observed, coming to stand next to her. Together they watched the chaotic training below, a physical manifestation of his frustration and readiness for war.

Rhaenyra responded to her son’s observation with a cautious murmur, her voice tinged with weariness. “I will always fight for our family, but this is not as simple as one or the other.”

Jace’s posture shifted as he countered, “It could not be simpler. If you concede to Aegon’s terms, you will forfeit my life. And Luke’s and Joff’s.”

At her son’s assertion, a sense of resignation swept through Rhaenyra. She briefly closed her eyes, gathering her strength against the force of his argument. Upon opening them, she turned her eyes upon her son, watching him closely. “Are these truly your words, or are they echoed from another?”

“These are my words, Mother. And I stand by them,” Jace answered, facing her intense scrutiny with firm resolve, his expression marked by an unshakable determination. “If you relinquish your claim to the throne, we will be taken hostage, or sent to the wall, or put to the sword. I do not know which fate will await us, but I do know that they will call us ‘bastards’ first.”

Rhaenyra spoke, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the edges of the letter as though the paper itself could offer comfort in the storm of her thoughts. “Alicent has promised that you would be treated kindly.”

“The word of a usurper means little and less,” Jace countered sharply, his words carrying a wisdom beyond his years. His dismissal of Alicent’s promise resonated deeply within Rhaenyra, echoing the doubts that haunted her heart. If it had been only Alicent they dealt with, then perhaps they would have found common ground, but it was not solely Alicent they were to contend with.

“They have Daenera,” she said gravely, getting to the heart of the matter. “Should we choose the path of war, her fate becomes uncertain.”

Handing over the letter to him, Rhaenyra watched her sons’ expression transition from a worried determination to utter disbelief, his eyes flickered over the writing, widening slightly, and the frown that had settled upon his face turned into a scowl of incredulity.

“This is her hand, but these words… they’re not hers,” he asserted, his voice tinged with anger. “You mustn’t lend any weight to the lies of usurpers–they’ll say anything to justify putting Aegon on the throne.”

“It’s not the deceit and fabrications that concern me,” Rhaenyra said with a note of solemnity. The unspoken concern as to whether her father had truly changed the succession hovered in the air, unacknowledged yet palpable. “It’s the threat to Daenera–what they might do to her if I refuse to surrender the throne.”

Jace’s eyes met hers, brimming with a blend of determination and understanding. “And if you surrender, you risk losing all of us.”

Rhaenyra watched her son, her gaze studying him intently. When had the shift occurred? When had he become a man? He was no longer a boy intent on living up his title as her heir, but a man that understood what it was he was saying–understood the implications and consequences. He knew what he stood for and he was willing to fight for it. And for a moment, she saw his father in him; strong and honorable, committed to defend what he believed was right.

“I love Daenera as deeply as you,” Jace pressed on, his voice earnest, his presence commanding attention. “And I am certain she would say the same as I do. She would never want you to abandon your claim. She’d urge you to fight, to stand firm.”

As Jace clenched the parchment, the letter crumbled in his tight grasp, his voice infused with conviction. “Surrendering to their demands won’t bring Daenera back to us. She’ll remain a hostage, trapped by her marriage to Aemond. The only way to secure her freedom is by action–by asserting your right to the throne and taking her back in the process.”

He waved the crumpled letter. “Don’t let the Hightowers’ lies waver your resolve–you are the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, the protector of the realm and they are usurpers. It is your responsibility to defend it against people like them. Burn the letter, summon the council and show the Hightowers that you stand firm as the rightful Queen, that you will not bend the knee.”

Rhaenyra listened, the strength and certainty in Jace’s words infusing a new resolve within her. Her son, her once little boy, now stood before her as a man, his counsel not just comforting but wise. His words were not just spoken; they were declared, a fervent call to arms.

Below her, Daemon dominated the training grounds, his movements predatory as he paced back and forth like a shadowcat protecting its den. His commands boomed across the courtyard, challenging and taunting as he urged a knight sprawled on the ground to stand and engage him once more. His stance was that of an unyielding warrior, every movement sharp and decisive–his blood seemed to run hot this morning as he kicked at the knight struggling to get up, jeering at him.

Engrossed in her contemplations, Rhaenyra remained silent, absorbing her son’s words. It was only after Jace’s footsteps began to echo away, leaving a resonant silence behind, that she found her voice.

“Convene the council,” she commanded, her voice carrying a newfound determination. “And have the master prepare a raven. King’s Landing will have my decision.”

Jace did not answer, but she felt his agreement nonetheless.

The command to gather the council quickly spread through the courtyard, delivered by a knight whose voice cut through the clanging of swords, stealing away the members of her Queensguard, leaving Daemon only with a handful of knights.

For a brief moment, Rhaenyra’s eyes met Daemon’s. His gaze burned with a fierce longing for battle–for war. It sparked a flame of apprehension within her. Turning from the landing, she retreated into the castle.

As the council meeting descended into chaos, the lords clashed vehemently, their voices rising in dissonance. No consensus was reached, and the lack of unity among her advisors left Rhaenyra weary. She sank back into her chair, her gaze drifting over the assembled lords who continued to bicker, their arguments blending into a background hum of contention.

Daemon’s absence was palpable; without his strategic insights, the council lacked a decisive voice on matters of war, leaving the discussions to lords who were inexperienced with anything beyond petty skirmishes. Had he been present, she knew he would have opposed her inclination towards diplomacy over direct conflict. His presence would have brought a palpable tension as he pushed for more decisive actions.

Instead, there were only the lords and their petty arguing.

Lord Staunton stood slightly bent at the shoulders as he argued, “We must consider the long-term stability of the realm. An outright war could devastate the lands we strive to protect.”

“Stability?” Lord Bartimos barked, his jaw bristling with contempt. “There’s no stability when usurpers sit upon the throne! We must act, and act swiftly, to show that treachery against the rightful queen will not be tolerated.”

“If we rush into battle, we are like to fill the graveyards!” Lord Staunton frowned, the lines on his face deepening.

Rhaenyra’s thoughts wandered as she considered the gravity of declaring war. The weight of such a decision hung heavily upon her, filling her with trepidation. She had only just sent a letter to King’s Landing, refusing the offer of surrender and instead bringing them the terms of theirs. The room echoed with the sounds of disagreement, but beneath that noise, the silent burden of leadership pressed down on her. With no clear path laid before her, and the council proving more divisive than supportive, the queen felt the isolation of her position acutely. Her mind churned with potential consequences, the lives that hung in the balance, and the stability of the realm that teetered on the edge of her decision.

“The purpose of war is to fill graveyards, my dear Lord Staunton,” Lord Batimos said, his tone dripping with condescension. “The trick is to put more of their men in the ground than our own.”

Rhaenyra’s heart sank a little more with each word. She wouldn’t want to put any men in the ground if she could avoid it, she thought somberly, keeping her gaze fixed on the dust swirling in the beams of sunlight that cut through the room.

Lord Staunton bristled at Bartimos’ remark. “Easy words for a lord who commands from the safety of his castle.”

“Doesn’t make it any less true,” Bartimos waved dismissively, unaffected by the jab.

Before the argument could spiral further, Ser Erryk Cargyll’s voice cut through the discussion. “Lord of the Tides!”

All heads turned to the arrivals.

“Lord Corlys Velaryon,” Ser Erryk continued, “And his wife, the Princess Rhaenys Targaryen.”

Rhaenyra rose swiftly from her seat, despite the lingering weariness in her muscles and the dull ache that resonated from the recent childbirth. Her hands clasped before her, restlessly twisting one of the rings on her fingers as her gaze fixed on the approaching figures of Corlys Velaryon and Rhaenys Targaryen.

As Lord Corlys descended the steps into the council chamber, he leaned heavily on his cane. Each tap echoed crisply in the hushed room, his silver-white hair swaying around his shoulders with each deliberate step. The only other sound was the distant whir of the wind outside.

The seasoned lord moved with deliberate care towards the Painted Table, his keen eyes scanning the room before finally resting on Rhaenyra. His presence, as always, commanded attention, bringing with it a gravitas that was both reassuring and daunting.

Rhaenyra offered a slight nod, her gaze briefly touching on Lord Corlys as she addressed him. “Lord Corlys. It brings much relief to see you hale and healthy again.”

“I am very sorry about your father, Princess. He was a good man,” Corlys said, his voice rich with sincerity. The use of her former title momentarily unsettled Rhaenyra, but she masked any emotional stir quickly, her fingers tightening briefly around the ring on her hand. Her eyes drifted to where her step-daughters, Baela and Rhaena, joined their respective betrotheds, their presence reinforcing the ties that bound the family together–and her sons, seeing their betrotheds, seemed unable to keep the smile from their lips.

Corlys gaze swept the room once more before settling back on her. “Where is Daemon?”

“There were other concerns which demanded the Prince’s attention,” Rhaenyra replied, her voice even, choosing her words carefully to avoid delving into the personal strife that lingered between them. Daemon could be anywhere–training his frustration out in the courtyard, patrolling the battlements to ensure the guards remained vigilant, or even delving into the depths of the Dragonmont in search of unclaimed dragons to bolster their ranks. Whatever task he had set himself, it was enough to keep him from her side, advising her in these uncertain times.

Corlys responded with a reproachful hum, clearly disagreeing with Daemon’s decision to remain away. He moved closer to the Painted Table, his cane clicking against the stone floor with each step. His eyes carefully studied the map of Westeros spread out before them, taking in the wooden and brass pieces that represented their forces and alliances.

“Your declared allies?” Corlys asked, gesturing towards the pieces on the map.

“Yes,” Rhaenyra confirmed, her voice steady as she followed his gaze.

“Too few to win a war for the throne.” Corlys’s observation was a blunt instrument, striking at the core of Rhaenyra’s political position. The ripple of his words through the chamber underscored the gravity of their situation, reflecting the doubt and concern lurking beneath the surface of their precarious alliances.

Rhaenyra, feeling a deepening pit in her stomach, continued to fidget with the ring on her finger, a nervous tick that betrayed her growing anxiety. “Well… we would also hope for the support of Houses Arryn, Baratheon, and Stark.”

“Hope,” Corlys repeated, his voice a low and resonant timber that commanded respect, “is a fool’s ally.”

This remark stung, as it was intended to. Rhaenyra straightened, her eyes locking with those of Corlys. “Both Arryn and Baratheon share blood with my house–but all of them swore oaths to me.”

“As did House Hightower… if my memory serves,” Corlys remarked, his tone laced with a deliberate provocation seemingly aimed to unsettle her. The tension in the council chamber thickened as his words lingered in the air.

Unmoved, though slightly rattled by the challenge, Rhaenyra fixed her hardened gaze upon him. “As did you, Lord Corlys.”

It was both a challenge and a reminder of the alliance he swore all those years ago, along with the other lords of the realm, and it carried a certain undercurrent of a threat that he would not take kindly to him usurping his vows.

Lord Corlys met her stare, the lines of his weathered face deepening as the silence stretched on. The room was heavy with the silence, the earlier tapping of his cane now replaced by a subtle rustle of his garments as he adjusted his posture. His dark eyes briefly shifted to his wife, Princess Rhaenys, standing just behind Rhaenyra, seemingly exchanging a silent, significant glance before turning his gaze upon his grandchildren. The silence stretched, laded with anticipation, none daring to break it.

Rhaenyra’s eyes instinctively drifted towards her sons and their betrotheds, each embodying a distinct reaction to the unfolding scene. Baela’s expression held a resolute determination, her jaw set as if bracing for the storm of politics. Jace met his grandfather’s gaze with an equally steadfast look, his posture rigid, a silent vow to uphold his family’s honor no matter the challenger. Rhaena watched the proceedings with expectant eyes, her anticipation palpable.

Meanwhile, Luke bore a subtle smile, his eyes sparkling with relief and a touch of joy at seeing his grandsire robust and commanding, defying the fears that had shadowed his recent thoughts–relieved that he would not be made the Lord of the Tides on this morn.

Each sibling, in their way, recognized the gravity of the discussion, understood the fragile thread that had been pulled taut.

Corlys’s gaze eventually shifted from his grandchildren back to the council at large. He lowered his head slightly, a gesture indicating deep contemplation. When his eyes lifted to meet Rhaenyra’s once more, they were sharp and determined.

“Your father’s realm,” Corlys finally continued, his deep voice carried through the chamber, every word resonating with authority, drawing the rapt attention of all present, “was one of justice and honor…”

Hope swelled within Rhaenyra, a delicate bud unfurling in her chest with each breath. The allegiance of House Velaryon and their fleet was crucial should the winds of war stir.

“Our houses are bound by common blood and common cause. This Hightower treason cannot stand,” Corlys declared. The underlying message was clear: their alliance was pivotal, and any betrayal against it was unacceptable. The air was charged with the weight of his words. “You have the full support of our fleet and house.”

The Sea Snake bent his head to his Queen. “Your Grace.”

“You honor me, Lord Corlys,” Rhaenyra responded, her voice carrying a tremble of emotion stirred by the gravity of his pledge–and what it meant for her cause. She then nodded towards Princess Rhaenys with a respectful acknowledgement before turning back to the Painted Table. Her gaze swept over the intricate landscape, each ally marked by wooden pawns and each pivotal place marked by brass towers.

“But, as I said to my bannermen, I made a promise to my father to hold the realm strong and united,” Rhaenyra declared. “If war’s first stroke is to fall, it will not be by my hand.”

Corlys’s eyebrows arched, his face etched with a mix of surprise and caution. “You do not mean to act?”

The question lingered in the hushed council chamber, a reminder of the delicate balance between aggression and diplomacy. Rhaenyra stood resolute, her stance a clear reflection of her intentions. She was determined not to be the instigator of war if it could be avoided. Her resolve was not only born out of fear but of wisdom; she understood the heavy ghosts associated with such conflicts, not just in therms of lives lost, but in the lasting scars they would leave on the realm. She had promised her father to protect the realm and its unity–to be prepared for the threat from the North.

“Taking caution does not mean standing fast,” Rhaenyra clarified, her tone firm yet contemplative. “I wish to know who my allies are before I send them to war.”

As Corlys approached the Painted Table, the measured tap of his cane resonated through the council chamber, each step a deliberate echo in the tense atmosphere. He paused, eyes narrowing over the map at the depiction of the Gullet and its strategic surroundings. Drawing a deep breath, his voice carried a trace of wryness as he shared his own news. “The consequences of my… near-demise in the Stepstones is that we now control them.

Rhaenyra’s expression flickered with surprise, her gaze darting briefly to her councilors before returning to Corlys, her interest piqued by the implications of his revelation.

“I took care to fully garrison the territory this time,” Corlys asserted, his voice resolute, bearing the seasoned confidence of a commander who had twice claimed victory there. “A total blockade of shipping lanes will be in place in days, if not already. The Triarchy have been routed. The Narrow Sea is ours.”

Extending his hand to hover above the section of the map depicting the Gullet, Corlys proposed a strategic play. “If we further seal the Gullet, we can cut off all seaborne travel and trade to King’s Landing.”

At this juncture, Princess Rhaenys decided to finally add her voice, “I shall take Meleys and patrol the Gullet myself.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze met Rhaenys’s with a palpable connection; in her eyes, she found neither resentment nor hatred, only support. A hopeful feeling blossomed within her, vibrant and fortifying.

Lord Bartimos Celtigar, unable to contain his fervor, leaned eagerly over the map. “When we drain the Narrow Sea, we can surround King’s Landing, lay siege to the Red Keep, and force the Greens’ surrender.”

Rhaenyra, placing her palms firmly on the table and leaning forward, scanned the map thoughtfully. She didn’t want them to get ahead of themselves. “If we are to have enough swords to surround King’s Landing, we must first secure the support of Winterfell, the Eyrie, and Storm's End.”

Her eyes traced the locations of each house on the map, considering the strategic implications. By isolating King’s Landing and halting its trade, they could force a siege. The Greens, stripped of options and resources, would face a stark choice: surrender or endure starvation. They would have no choice but to negotiate if they wished to survive, Rhaenyra mused. She knew well the leverage they held with Daenera–she would be used to bargain their surrender and survival. More importantly, this tactic would seizure the safe return of her daughter. Rhaenyra was determined to use every advantage at her disposal not just to win, but to bring her daughter back unharmed, keeping the bloodshed to a minimum and maintaining the dignity of the crown.

If they were able to lay siege to King’s Landing, it might not come to war.

Maester Gerardys, seeming to sense the gravity of the moment and need for swift communication, said, “I’ll prepare the ravens.”

“We should bear those messages,” Jace suggested, his tone low and imbued with a confident resolve. “Dragons can fly faster than ravens and they’re more convincing.”

Standing before her, Rhaenyra saw her eldest son not just as a boy, but as a man. He mirrored the suggestion she had once made to her own father. She had been just a girl then, no older than Lucerys was now, imploring her father to let her serve as a messenger. The memory of the council’s chuckle and their condescending dismissal resurfaced in her mind–how they advised her to stay silent, to not overstep her bounds as a young princess, as a girl, that those were the matters of men.

“Send us,” Jace pressed, his words resonating deeply within Rhaenyra, intertwining with her own youthful voice from the past. Send us. See us. Trust us.

Rhaenyra’s gaze swept over her sons. She could see the understanding of the danger in Jace’s eyes, a maturity that belied his age. Luke, by his side, looked slightly unsure, his face tinged with anxiety as he tried to emulate his brother’s confidence, to stand equally resolute. On Jace’s other side, Baela’s expression was one of pride as she looked at her betrothed, her future husband and king, her smile reflecting admiration of his bravery.

“The Prince is right, Your Grace,” Corlys voiced his support, pulling the focus back to Rhaenyra.

Luke nodded, supporting his brother’s idea.

“Very well,” Rhaenyra consented, feeling her heart throb with a mix of anxiety and pride. “Prince Jacaerys will fly North–first to the Eyrie to see my mother’s cousin, the Lady Jeyne Arryn, and then to Winterfell to treat with Lord Cregan Stark for the support of the North.”

Jace nodded, embodying the stature and dignity expected of a prince and the heir apparent, his demeanor firm and purposeful. He had always embodied the quintessential heir–determined, steadfast in his duties, and relentless in his efforts to live up to the expectations set before him. And proud she was as she observed him now, ready to undertake this mission.

Rhaenyra then turned her attention to her younger son, who appeared less assured but no less determined. “Prince Lucerys will fly to Storm’s End and treat with Lord Borros Baratheon.”

As the strategy unfurled, a wave of shared anticipation and determination swept through the council chambers. Sensing the momentum, Rhaenyra allowed a slight smile to grace her features. “We must remind these lords of the oaths they swore. And… the cost of breaking them.”

I didn't enjoy the choking scene--and I don't think it made much sense for the characters, so I changed it. They're still arguing, but it's more of a lovers quarrel and seeing things differently than outright abuse. I also really liked the scene between Rhaenys and Corlys, so I wanted to provide some more emotions to it, as well as what Rhaenys could say to sway Corlys. And then I think the scene with Jace/Rhaenyra should not have been deleted, it encapsulated his character so well and offered a very good insight into the family dynamic. This is (somewhat 🤫😊) the final chapter of DS, or at least until we get S2 as I likely will add some of the scenes from the show into the story when we get them. But, yeah, on Friday we return to KL and another ✨ lovers quarrel ✨ We'll hear more about what she's been up to while we were away on DS, and she struggles with how to talk to Aemond; As a lover or as an enemy. There are pointed words, but there's also a moment of playfulness, before the world seems to crash in around them again.

#a vow of blood #hotd #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #aemond fanfiction #hotd aemond #aemond one eye #aemond x reader #prince aemond targaryen #hotd fanfic #aemond x oc #aemond targaryen x oc

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