#shards otto

[viaphni]

The Shrouded Shards memes that a) nobody will understand b) are extremely low quality c) have characters nobody has heard of d) are very real

[rizardofether]

Was just chilling in Dragonfall when I suddenly got sent to the atmosphere

[darlingofvalyria]

❝I am the Heir's Wife. I bore the Heir his lineage. I will not be swept aside.❞

[ The Prince Jacaerys Velaryon should have known his wife better— or at least, her ire, for when his trysts with the bastard Snow reached the Spiders and soon, the ears of his Princess Consort, rage and war drummed for Winterfell, demanding heads.

—Maestre Kevan, Volume IV of The Bastard Eater, passage chapter under 'The Flame that Sung for the North'. ]

[ +18 MDNI ] [ 10,062 ] [ series masterlist ] | jacaerys velaryon x targaryen aunt!reader (aegon's twin sister), one-sided aegon ii x reader, jace x sara snow

contains— canon divergence - manipulative reader, targcest, smut, angst - post-vizzy t death, rhaenyra is queen - mentions of children, pregnancy, childbirth - allusions to infidelity & character death(s) - targaryen madness, revenge, domestic violence (not jace), unhinge behaviour, intense use of 'bastard', profanity, gaslighting, guilt-tripping - this is basically gone girl, you gone girl jace - dark fic - mentions of depression (aegon ii), allusions to suicide (not reader) - nsfw: oral (f receiving), breeding kink, creampie - no kings, no martyrs, no betas.

a/n— i didn't think i was going to do the sara snow thing, but herewe are. also i just wanted an excuse to go absolutely ape shit. reader gets very intense, like thoroughly unhinged. this is literally me supporting women's wrongs. it is also quite insane that this reached 10k and it's still just the first part lmaooo + comment, reblog & like at will!

"THAT FUCKING BASTARD! THAT GODSDAMNED, WHORE-FUCKING STRONG HALF BREED!"

Your shrieks echo stone and shadow, interrupted only by the things you pick up and hurl. Anything your hands grab, you throw and spit obscenities against, rage and tears ruin your pretty visage. The fury swept past your cherub features, a dragon breaking through the Hightower seams, upending fire and roar from the pits of your being.

"HOW DARE HE?! I GAVE HIM AN HEIR! I BROUGHT HIM PEACE! I BETRAYED—" you roar, pulling your pearl dagger— a gift from your Strong Bastard of a Husband — and throwing it to your vanity mirror, glass shards exploding. "— MY KIN!"

"DAUGHTER, PLEASE!"

Arms wound across your torso—hardened and chain-mail — as you fight against your bounds before a pain flashes to your cheek. Your rage quiets, hard breaths from your lungs. You turn your tear-stained anger to your mother and her palm, fright and terror on her regale visage.

Death of a spouse becomes the Queen Dowager in her pale blue robe and unbound spirals of auburn hair. Peace had begotten a realm that is balanced on the lineage you had produced for the Queen, her heir, and your own, as the new Princess of Dragonstone. With Otto Hightower for evermore banished to Oldtown, Kings Landing had been brought to a flowering kindness.

Queen Rhaenyra's ascension had been a wondrous affair, fit the for the first crowned Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Not a Queen Consort, not a Queen Regent. An heir who rose for the crown always meant to be hers.

But the calamity that brewed in her ascension... no. You paved the peace. T'was you who wrangled the Great Houses that proved allyship to your twin brother's banner, you who blessed her with tranquility of a rule that will be known for ages that will precede you all.

And now her son... her son dared to destroy everything.

A conversation floats above your head, by your Queen Mother and her sworn shield, the Ser Cole, but you barely hear anything past the ringing in your head.

The Targaryen Madness the sheep so call it, an idle voice, faint and familiar, whispers in the niches of your brain. It has infected you so. It breathes, fuelled by the air wrought by your husband's betrayal. It sings, sweet love. It sings.

"—your grace, I urge to hold her—"

"—she is my daughter, Ser Cole, I am not in danger. Release her."

Justice, the voice shrieks? Screams? But it is so soft in your head, a wail of a memory, a woman or a man? must be had. No dragon falls in such disgrace.

The tight wound over your torso is unleashed but the knight is not far, tensed to cage you, when your mother grasps your elbows as you grab hers, nails digging into the thick fabric of her hem that she still winces, your grip steel-tight.

"My darling, please. I cannot help you if you do not speak what ails you." She brushes her hand desperately across your face, smearing your tears, trying to find the daughter she bore past the savagery and madness that beholds you now. "What has happened?"

You draw a tightened, harsh breath to your lungs, rattling your bones that you quiver in your attempt for sanity.

"I am being shamed, mother," you whisper. Stark, violet eyes meeting the worried round, brown of hers. "The Strong bastard is whoring himself to another, a Northern bastard."

A cackle falls your lips as alarmed gazes are exchanged above your head.

"Y-You cannot say such things aloud, sweet girl," your mother hushes your madness, pulling you close to her chest as she shoots a glance at the door.

Criston checks outside, but only your maids linger. Dyanna presses a finger against her lips, catching the knight's eye, and the rest scatter, surely to make sure that no one that need not know of their mistress' words is within reach. A shiver still runs his spine. He will never get used to the quiet, almost non-verbal way your connection worked and reached. Your Spiders weave webs all around, even as their mistress sunders with rage.

"Mayhaps you are mistaken, for sure the prince is loyal, and he adores you—"

You pull back against her, teeth bared. She flinches and Ser Cole steps forward, wary. "It is the third missive now that I have received. Did you think I would not have confirmed twice— thrice? I didn't believe it the first time! But three people have now confirmed that all this time, in the guise of rallying his mother's cause in the North, he is spending ample time with the Lord Stark's bastard sister. His bastard fucking sister!"

Your mother's horror catches that of Ser Criston's, but your fury is your own, you are a dragon trapped in the ruin of your own making, of the webs you had spun so cleverly to get to this point, and you cannot stop.

"I am the Heir's Wife. I bore the Heir his lineage, my blood spilled the birthing bed for it." A cry leaves your lips as your grief and rage pools like ichor from your chest to the floor. Alicent is torn away from you— your nails had gone through her robe and she had cried in pain, a mimick of your own, a mother to a daughter to a mother to a daughter, a cycle, an Ouroboros — and you fall to the floor, grasping at your chest.

"I will not be swept aside. I will not be ignored."

A gasp falls from your lips as your mind moves to a quiet, still place. The tremble fades, your rage and grief whirls, collects, as you push it all back inside your chest.

Your madness must be sharpened for it be used as a sword.

And you cannot let him be happy in another's arms.

If you cannot drag them to the Hells, sweet dragon, the idle voice hums, hisses? Screeches. Your ancestors— all of those who have succumbed to dreamy madness — appears in the corners of your vision like soldiers. Awaiting for you to join them. Awaiting the blood that you will spill.

Then you must raise the Hells unto Winterfell.

"...my daughter?" Alicent calls, hesitant. Cole hovers but does not approach, standing guard in protection of the Dowager. It breaks her heart to see you this way, a young woman still, much older than she was when she married but only because you had always sought your future. You had always had a hardened scale, far stronger than she.

Even when you made your entrance to the world— the unmeasurable pain of bringing not one, but two heirs into the world, her firstborns, all at once — you had never cried. The maestres, maids, they worried for you, as your twin brother had not stopped crying, so alive and red, raw from the wound of being fresh.

But you... you had not made a sound.

The entire weight of your being— your mind, your emotions — even then, you wrangled them close to your very centre, never letting them stray too far from the edges of your fingertips. As if any release must be made with a perused thought. An incentive of reason.

Even then, you plotted every step you took.

Now, Alicent watches as her firstborn daughter suctions all her emotions— that Targaryen madness that plagued the blood of her husband, his ancestors — and made her ploy.

Against the husband that dared make a fool of her.

The silence beckons nightmare. Old fear flickers inside the Queen Dowager.

"Where are my daughters?"

"What?"

"My daughters," you repeat, a hair's breadth louder than the first time you spoke. Your eyes flutter upward. The deadened gaze curled Alicent's heart in fear. "Where are they?"

"In the nursery, with the twins and Maelor. Helaena and Aegon are watching them."

You offer your hand up mutely, and Cole exchanges one last, lingering look with the Dowager, before offering his own. You stand up, thank him softly, and brush and clean up your face to the best of your ability. An utter calmness over your visage.

"Tell no one of what I had told you," you say, fixing your hair and rubbing the red from your cheeks. One minute there is madness, the next there is nothing. There is only a girl. A woman. A princess. "No one knows apart the three of us, and if you ever decide, Ser Criston, that nigh is the glorious time for you to betray my mother or I, know that the last thing thing oyu will fear is the Stranger's hand when I am through with you."

Your mother shouts your name, horrified. "What are you thinking? What are you plotting?"

You cup Alicent's face, smiling ever sweet. "Your innocence will keep you safe, mother. All I ask, for the heart you keep for your children, that you keep this between sealed lips and tilted chin. You know nothing, yes?"

"... Yes. Nothing."

You place a tender kiss on your mother's head. "Keep Daenera and Aemma safe for me. Aegon and I are flying to Dragonstone promptly. Sweet Helaena does ever so get overwhelmed by watching all of the children by herself."

"D-Dragonstone?"

Your sweet smile touched with poison, stretches. "It is high time I take a dragon for myself, don't you think so?"

While an insecure obsession had fraught your younger brother about claiming a dragon, you had met it with indifference.

For how can you not mourn the loss of Aemond's sight, staring in quiet horror the entire time as the maestre did his best to salvage the muck mess of blood and nerve endings, before the old man had shaken his head, and you turned to the small bowl that contained your brother's eye, unable to look at anything else.

Not even when your mother's rage was met with apathy and anger, her demands for justice nothing more than a woman's insanity, a mother's grief that must be swept away, tucked under a chin and a sadness she will never get rid of.

"Do not mourn me, mother. It was a fair exchange. I may have lost an eye, but I gained a dragon."

Your soft-hearted, darling, baby brother. None of his words had thawed the freezing of your heart, the grief under the swell of your breastbone.

Your own mourning was kept between teeth and tongue, as you had slept with your siblings that night. The four of you, tucked under the wing of the other, Aemond close to your chest as possible, as quiet, hot tears ran down your face. Every moan of pain or whimper he made in his sleep tore at each new vein inside of you.

"Dragons are the symbol of our House's power," Aegon had once said, windswept hair you tried to tame with your fingers, smelling fresh of Sunfyre and winds.

"And yet, there were no eggs in our child beds." He stiffened while you smiled sadly, curling your twin's hair away form his face, making him presentable and dusting the bout of sand that managed to find his leathers. You had been scolded long before by your grandsire of how you coddle Aegon, how you defend him, mother him more than your mother ever could, but you cannot stop. You were meant to care for him, tethered you once were inside your mother's womb together, you hold him steady now.

Whenever he was lost, whenever his sadness overtook him, wrung your brother dry of life, you bat the Stranger's hand and bring him back.

"But we have proved them wrong," he insisted. "All of us, even Aemond with Vhagar— the war queen, Visenya's dragon — we have claimed ours. Daeron all the way Oldtown has Tessarion, even Helaena has Dreamfyre. And yet you insist..."

You wound your arms over his torso, keeping him close in a silly hug where you sway and dance him around. A laugh escaped him while you inhaled the scent of smoke, soot, and that grime stench of beast.

Aegon on his good days lacked the bottle-edge of wine, of cheap salts from the waft of the soiled, Silk Streets.

This was your brother. No one else.

"I fare better without one," you whispered in his ear. "I appear innocent, sweet almost, without a beast in my command. They look at me with nothing but pity and the urge to protect me. Our father likes me like this, his poor, lovely daughter without a dragon of her own, listening so intently to his histories of Old Valyria. Our sister is eased, as one daughter is plagued by dreams and struggles with the real world, while the other cannot even claim a dragon of her own. Poor princess, Hightower blood must have thickened in her veins. She too, is no threat."

You pulled back, smiling at him. "They like me better like this. Pitiful, compliant, nothing but a sweet and pretty flower that sways in the Spring breeze. A beautiful decoration but no more."

He rubbed a thumb on your arm, a worry knot on his forehead. Aegon adored you but he struggled to piece together where your plot lies. You are a web-spinner, forever dancing out of reach, catching prey and lengthening your intricacies. "Is that why you hide your training with Aemond alone? Ser Criston is mother's sworn shield, he would not mind—"

"I will not place my secrecies to a knight with a soiled cloaked," you snorted. "No matter how tall he stands beside our mother. I trust no one but my kin. And I know that no matter how heavy you drink, sweet Aeg of mine, my secrets are your own."

He took your hand, kissing the back of it, stare impregnable. "As your blood is my own, our fire is one flame. I go where you tell me to."

You kissed his cheek, a reward, laughing. He smiles proudly at the sound. At this time, you dangled yourself to your brother as bait as the pressure from your grandsire to make him King started rising. You had been given notice that he had been talking to House Lannister, Wylde, even some Riverland lords.

You did not mind becoming Aegon's second wife. Just as his namesake, he will have his Rhaenys and Visenya. Unlike the Conqueror however, he would adore his Visenya more than a true flower. Helaena would enjoy that far better.

"And if I tell you to jump?" you half-purred.

"I will ask you how high."

Memories and choices break and tide as you scramble for hold on the rocky cliff face. Dragonmont in the dark is a behemoth beast, a screech or two breaking like lightning crackles, or the familiar drum beat of wings before the silence consumes once more. The stench of fire, of beasts and carcasses helps cloak the darkened night.

"Udligon ñuha brōzagon, Answer my call," you hiss into fraudulent emptiness, hands gripping rocky edges until your blood beads, "you fucking lizards."

"Have you gone mad!?"Aegon shouted, trying to pace with your run to the dragonpit.

A rocky laugh broke out from your being, not deigning that with a reply. Aegon huffed angrily.

"Alright, tell me this then. How are you so sure I'm not just about to put you on a bleeding volcano to die? We claim your dragon in the morn, sister. First thing before we break our fast. I'm sure by then, Vermithor or—"

You whipped your head around, pulling halt. "I leave tonight to claim my dragon. Whether it is you and Sunfyre who gets me there, or Aemond and Vhagar, is no matter to me. I will claim one tonight. It is up to you to decide now if we tell Aemond or not."

Aemond, whose anger is wounded tight, the barest excuse for war always at the edge of his hum. The misstep at Storm's End had cost him everything. Had cost your mother everything. Queen still, Alicent Hightower had bent the knee and offered her life in exchange for mercy. Before Rhaenyra passed judgement, Viserys I had passed.

It didn't matter that you had ensured a higher dosage from the Harrenhal witch in his usual milk of the poppy. Your spiders moving with ease through the silent channels you had established long before your own flowering.

The Red Keep had scrambled, the Heir with it. It was enough time for Lucerys to have come out of the red, confirmed to live through the worst of it without as much as a broken bone. Arrax however, had been badly maimed, and would no longer take flight. But he and his rider would live. Aemond would live. Alicent would have her son. Rhaenyea will have hers, and the crown.

Kevan had done his duty unto you while you settled the storms in Dragonstone. You rewarded him handsomely.

Aegon sighed. He too, would like your honour avenged, but not for the sake of war. "As you wish, sister. I hope you know what you're doing and I am not about to send you to your death."

Just like what you did to your mother, you reached forward and cupped his face. If before, your touch stills his heart and floods his cavities with warmth, a flash of fear strikes the twin son at the eerie smile on your face.

"Skoros morghot vestri? What do we say to the god of death?"

Aegon blinked. "Tubī daor. Not today."

You smiled. "Trust me, sweet Aeg. It is not my death the Stranger will take. Not until the fjords of the North are at my mercy."

"Iksan kesīr sir naejot māzigon ñuha sikagon pakto! I am here now to claim my birth right!" Your scream echoes and falls, repeating back to you. There is a hum, like an electric current that sizzles and pops inside your blood and marrow, and you scramble higher and higher on the rock. Your blood does not sing for the dragon lairs, but above. Up and up, jagged edges cut your skin and dress, the wind whipping with sea mist, but nothing, no one, can clamour you as you reach the peak.

At first you see nothing but darkness and hollow sounds. But you let your eyes adjust, a hiss breaking out of your dry lips as you stumble. You look down. What you first thought were rocks and wayward bones of cattle is bigger.

Whale? No.

Dragon. Dragon bone.

You look and will every sense that your eyes do not. The smell that is drowned— iron. Bones bigger than a person. Than cows and whales. Bones of fearsome beasts. Darkness moves, taking form, more than shadow. Scales hewn rough and jagged, as if stone themselves. Midnight black moving with the gentlest of sighs.

As soon as you realise what— or who — is in front of you, the eyes open with an intelligent gleam. Your heart jolts at the emerald irises that gaze back at you, slitting at the appearance of a human.

'The stench of death follows him', the voice of an old keeper hums into your ear. You no longer remember who told this to you, but the words ring true in your memory. 'Scales of midnight, as if hewn from darkness and death. A harbinger, your grace, an omen of the darkest nightmares.'

"Rytsas. Hello." You smile, ever sweet, ever charming.

This is a thread you had never felt before. Not one of your own making, but something older. A golden thread that led the eyes of Daenys the Dreamer. That spun the ties of Aegon the Conqueror. The voices that herded your madness had gone quiet in the mad rush to get here, but now their presence thickens. Words you cannot hear, nor understand, flood the silence as dragon met rider for the first time.

Keepers and historians have called him he, but every bone in your body tells you that the being before you is a she.

And wouldn't that make sense? A cannibalistic being is a woman?

She opens her maw, only ever slightly, smoke and fire crackling out of it. Molten lava in the belly of her insides tease the cool, night air and warms you.

Her version of a smile. Hello, she seem to say.

"Māzīs. Come," you say, giggling. "Dohaerās. Serve."

That night, you took your first flight.

That night, the Cannibal took her first flight with her first— and only — rider as well.

❝ . . . It is said that the formerly named "The Cannibal" had been entranced by the hunger of his new— first and evermore — rider. Prince Aegon the Elder who had escorted his twin sister that very night with Sunfyre, had looked up in alarm and fright to a maddened screech. Excitement and laughter pouring out from the newly bonded Dragon and Rider had soon turned fear into awe.

Gaelithox, she had been named as they had ridden until dawn broke by the rider who loved her 'till the end of their days, was said to have seen a mirror in Her Grace. The fathomless hunger for blood and organ from the same bodies of their kin. For Gaelithox ever hungers and satisfies for the same meat as her, at the height of her grief and ire that fuelled the Queen Consort to climb Dragonmont by hand, she too hungered for the throats of her traitorous blood.

Gaelithox will only have one rider in her whole life, as she found no same twin soul as akin in the Bastard Eater Queen. Their bond moved as if two bodies beheld one soul.

She shied from humans, and oft found too rough with other dragons. Vhagar was an exception, oft seen acting as an elder sister to the Queen's dragon when neither royal rode them and played in the skies. Smaller dragons were forbidden to approach her however, nor was she allowed in the dragonpit after almost devouring the flightless Arrax.

She died two moons after the Queen's death, delivering her final flames for her rider and would never more breathe her infamous green flames akin to Wildfire, ordered by the Crowned Heir, Princess Daenera Velaryon. It is said that the princess attempted to bond with the cannibalistic dragon but it refused.

The dragon spent her last moons in heartbreak, oft seen in Dragonstone and the Red Keep, circling her rider's most favourite places. Her final resting place is at the very top of Dragonmont from whence the Queen claimed her. It is said that the Queen's crown, the one the King Jacaerys had gifted her after the birth of their first sons, the Princes Laenor and Gaemon, is said to be placed there, as well as a portion of her ashes.

It is said that the King and the Queen's twin brother, the Prince Aegon, personally made the trek in remembrance.

It is widely suspected that Aelyx, Princess Daella's dragon, the youngest child of the King and Queen, may have been Gaelithox's only existing hatchling for he too is made of rough, midnight scales. The dragon that bred with her remains to be unknown. ❞

—Maestre Kevan Noratz, Volume X of The Life and Lies of the Emerald Flame, passage chapter under 'The Time of Hunger: Gaelithox'.

You leave Gaelithox to a mournful goodbye on Dragonstone, pressing your forehead against her hard, scaly head, promising to come back, of exchanging her diet for fat, juicy whales, for more wind-whipped rides, before riding back on Sunfyre with Aegon. The younger dragon would not rise from the beaches in fear of the cannibalistic elder, but you made ensuring promises to teach Gaelithox not to chew your dearest brother's dragon.

You had gone most of your life without the feeling of a bond beneath you, warm and alive and wild, and the roar and stench that though new, felt so familiar in your ribcage— you will fly again. And with your brothers beside you. With Helaena and her lovely Dreamfyre.

To think they had taken this from you too, to placate them. To play into their hands like a mewling kitten.

No more.

It is paces before fast is about to break when you both touch back down to Kings Landing. The Keep busying with its occupants, servants and maids bolstering with quickened feet to ensure the lords and royals are awakened with full, poached meals, dresses and coats readied for their lords and ladies, a new, glorious day under the Reign of the Black Queen.

"What now?" Aegon asks, trying to keep with your pace but he is fatigued, failing to stop his yawns. The excitement of last night had come upon him like a fog, and he is missing his bed. Hells, he is missing the bed he stays with his wife if it meant he would get a full night's sleep in the hours of the day.

"Now, we speak nothing of what happened."

He turns to you, frowning. "Just like that?"

"Just like that." You beam, nodding in favour of soldiers and maids who bow in reverence to the Crown Princess. You know you smell of dragon and night, and you need a bath. And to talk to Dyanna before you seek your daughters. "I will need time and people. The board must still be set for me to perfectly execute what I have in store."

"Alright." He yawns again. "I'll be in my quarters, passed out, if you need me. Please do not need me until sup."

You laugh breathlessly, grabbing his hand and giving it a wet kiss. "I will give you your rest, be assured. Kirimvose, dōna lēkia, Thank you, sweet brother."

The words are simple, said in a quiet murmur heavy with love and meaning. Aegon presses a loving kiss to your head, unable to stop himself winding an arm around you.

"Syt ao, va moriot, ñuha prūmia. For you, always, my heart."

As you break to each other's chambers— his, to sleep, you, already meeting Yna and requesting for a bath — you don't notice the lurker that watched the intimate moment between twins, humming in amusement before it moves to follow you.

Back in your quarters— your marriage quarters as Jacaerys had requested that you forgo having your own, not wishing to part with you — the maids are already busying themselves airing the room, moving to follow your usual routine. The only thing breaking it is the tub now in the centre.

"Thank you," you say to Yna as she picks out the pins from your hair, shrugging off your dress in the process as soon as the maids had untangled the lace behind you.

"Call for Dyanna," you tell them as they bow and leave, the door clicking softly behind them. Plans must be made. Bath for now.

With the world stifled for a second, left with only you and your thoughts, you plunge your body under too-hot water, sighing  against the aches and pains in your body. Dragon-riding is a new endeavour to your muscles, and though enjoyable, was still too new.

You sigh as tears fall from your eyes, blinking exhaustedly against soft, humming daylight. You had always known that love, as it is, is a maiden's folly. A foolish, hapless play meant to fool young girls into thinking the world is kind; a pretty place.

It was an even farther thought from you, a princess of the realm. At a young age, it has been drilled to you that your womb is a rare commodity. Your body has never been your own, a piece meant to be moved in a bigger game that you are used for, not play.

You weren't stupid.

If there's a few things Otto Hightower had ever granted you, apart from gifting you his keen prowess in moving power beneath your fingertips, in hungering for more, for better— it is understanding what each person is, who they can be, how you can move them. A flatter, a flair, a push. As a man, there is much to be desired about your grandsire; he used people, used family to pursue power, but you can't truly fault him for that as you were the same.

You just took better care of the people under your wing.

And for Jace, you had banished him.

The worst part, you knew there was a good, fat chance you would care for the princeling. He was a kind man, a sweet man, and with a guiding hand, you could forge yourself the best husband for yourself as much as you can mould a great king and a wonderful father. Women's hands are ever carved to mould and prod men. We stand behind, a presence or a hand, an echo of power.

But your Jace had surpassed it all, and in the moons leading up to your present day, to giving him his heirs, two beautiful daughters, the promised full Valyrian colouring in the silver hair in Daenera, your eldest, the wide, violet gaze in Aemma— the name of his mother's mother, a request of him that you had kindly, graciously fucking agreed to — of course there is a part of you, the girlish, tender heart that you long thought you had buried to get here, would fall for the brown-eyed, wondrous man.

You sink deeper into the tub, sighing as you let yourself unravel—

When you feel it. A presence in your room. It's soft. Silent. Not a lot would feel as such, but as paranoid as you are, as you keep your spiders clean and pretty with your dewy-eyed webs— you know better.

Your mind runs with ideas on who it might be, and come to a few people. No true name rises. The Red Keep is flooded with spies and traitors. You test your luck, sitting up on the tub, raising an arm over the lip of it and flicking water with your fingertips.

"If you are here to kill me, I'm afraid it will be a lost cause."

He laughs, sardonic and edged and familiar, jetting a tingle down your spine.

Well. There's getting a calm bath.

"Perceptive as always, niece," he says, heavy footfalls approaching now that he has been caught. "I'm just here to say hello."

You raise your eyes, mouth curled but unsmiling at the man who acts as the biggest thorn to your plots. Daemon Targaryen has never fallen through your webs, on guard against your flatter, your push, or your flair. Of course, taking the position of his daughter might have forever burnt that road, but you would think he'd ease up just a little bit when his wife, the Queen, had warmed to you considerably.

Unlike your mother, you had never been hostile to your bitch of an elder sister. Just like your plots for Aegon and Jacaerys, and nodding along to thread your father had started but abandoned, foolishly thinking the realm would follow without him fully ensuring your sister's claim to the throne— you carefully maintained a polite farce with Rhaenyra.

Ultimately, this became a boon to you, as she had responded positively to your abrupt marriage to her son, even reminding her deranged guard dog of their own marriage. The cream to your lemon cake had been when you birthed Aemma, the Queen's most favourite grandchild thus far. When she was a babe, Rhaenyra was never far; almost, always holding your daughter, cooing at her cheeks, remarking her likeness to her namesake with pure fondness.

But Daemon Targaryen knew, in the deepness of his marrow, that there is something wrong with you.

"Hello," you answer primly. He laughs, leaning against the passage to your open balcony. "We could have had this elating greeting at fast, if you wish to break it with me and my own."

He scoffs, unable to hide his disdain at the thought. It breaks his stare of your naked visage. Men. "I would rather jump to the fighting pits, good daughter."

"How rude. Is that all?" You meet his gaze steadily, tilting your head. "If it is not obvious yet, good father, I am bathing."

An amused smirk. "I can see that." Lecherous fucking geezer. "No matter. I just have a... curious thought, a wonder I suspect you may be able to answer. See. Truly odd it is, for the keepers to alert me this morning that Sunfyre had taken a ride past the Hour of Owl." Your heart thuds in your ribcage and you do your best to keep your expression mildly irritated. "Not with one, drunken rider, but with another. It had taken them hours, only coming back when morning had already presented in the air."

He steps forward, slow, menacing, until he reaches the edge of your tub and crouches. Your gazes are still unmatched in height, defiant as yours might be.

"The distinct smell wafts them, a Keeper said, and one suspects that though one dragon left last night, two might have come back this morning for he had seen another fly away." His fingers dips into the water, swirling the steam without breaking eye contact. "I wonder if you know anything about it, darling niece of mine."

The mocking emphasis is not lost on you. If the Queen is the Realm's Delight, you were Darling of the Realm. A sweet, merry girl, the secondborn daughter of Viserys I who frequently fought for the plight of the small folk, who gathered friends of all kinds of lords and ladies no matter the standing of their houses to her own, visiting far lands and charming every person in any room. Who made any feast brighter, always sparkling, always the darling.

Less of a dragon, more of a fairytale.

You sit up, leaning, baring your breasts completely to him as you pull yourself up on the ledge he is crouched from. He leans back, only slightly, as you smile demurely. Sweet. Tart. On the edge of pulling his head and hitting it against the copper tub.

"I am unsure of what you suspect, or is accusing me of, kepus, uncle," you purr and there's a twitch in his mouth, a widen in his irises— men are so fucking simple — "I had been feeling down last night, as my husband, as you know, is beyond my reach at the moment as he rallies alliances for the good of the realm. My brother had simply offered to take me out riding, trying to quell my loneliness with an excitable flight I had never been afforded."

You tilt your head. "Even if there had been a dragon binded to my own, why why would I not regale the realm with news of my success? I have longed for a dragon of my own, but alas, I have not quite succeeded where most of the family have." You pout. His eyes flicker. "Mayhaps I am more Hightower than I am Targaryen."

A huff leaves his lips, the amusement in his smile arching to his dark, dark gaze. Before you can react, his hand had comes forward to hold your chin in a tight grip, your jaw aching soon enough at the fingers that dig against your skin, wanting to bruise, to break.

Though a tremble passes your body, you keep his stare, gritting your teeth as the pad of his thumb brushes your lips. Moments and desires thrum between a charged hatred.

The lust is twisted from wanting to fuck you to wanting to kill you. The line is not simple. Maybe that is your fate together.

But he can't. You are well too ingrained in his family now, loved by the people he cared about. You are untouchable. For now. This is a warning, waiting for you to stutter, to show your hand. Any show of your true intentions... he is more than happy to swing Dark Sister across your throat.

He releases you without another word, standing up and leaving through the front door, the door clicking shut.

You sink back into the bath, letting the water engulf you.

Your daughters are moons apart in birth, and there are only a few differences between them that people oft remarked they could be twins. Daenera is taller, spindly. Built like Aemond when he was younger. Her hair is spun moon and eyes of mullish blue. It reminds you of Daeron's eyes. You had named Daenera yourself, a gruelling birth that took the entire night. You promised Jacaerys he could name the second. He had chosen Aemma for a girl, Laenor for a boy.

Not a few moons later, you were with child again. Your husband pinked at the cheeks at the chiding from his family. When she cried into the afternoon sun—Aemma was born mid day, during a council meeting — he pain did not stop the laugh that came out of your mouth from the horrified expression from the Master of Coin as your water broke.

Aemma had a sweetheart face, cheeks much fatter than her older sister's, with a yellowish tinge to her hair, curlier too, reminding you of Aegon. And Aemma laughed more, her deep, violet eyes always half closed as she exploded in giggles and bright, sunshine happiness.

Sons they might not be, but you had given heirs for the throne. And for them, you would do anything to keep their futures intact. Bond with a dragon, face the Rogue Prince, upheave Winterfell. Anything.

You flounce to the nursery where you know the two would be, smiling sweetly at every person you pass as they bow in reverence. Most wore sights of confusion, their greedy eyes and wagging tongues drinking in the deep, emerald glisten of your gown.

It's an old dress, one you keep in the corner of your collection. It isn't as if you had forgo the colours of your mother's house, but playing court meant every movement, even the clothes you wear, can be meaningful. And since your marriage, your Jace liked you in Velaryon colours.

"A goddess come to bless," he gasped against your collarbone, keeping your legs high on his waist as he rutted into you before his teeth sunk on your skin. As newlyweds go, there is not a lot of teasing to be had for your husband to curl against you in a darkened alcove. Merely wearing his favourite colour on your skin has him panting like a dog. His favourite dress is a seafoam blue that dragged longer against the ground in a soft, almost-gossamer material with a silver belt.

Enticing him never took long, but you enjoyed the dance presented. You enjoyed the dark hunger that filled him until he grabbed you to take you because he just had to take you.

The fresh wound slices deeper as you imagine all the things Jacaerys is doing to the so called Sara Snow. The emerald green of your gown shimmers with your anger.

"Fucking bastards," you can't help but say aloud, nodding at the guards posted on the nursery as you hear the squeals of your daughter and the calm, even voice of your brother.

"Muña! Mother!" Aemma squeals, untangling herself from being pressed against Aegon's side as the children— Daenera and Jaehaera — cuddle around him, before running to you. Helaena is on the floor, entertaining baby Maelor. Your mother, hands twisting against her own, stands vigil by the window, staring far ahead.

You catch your secondborn, giggling as you pressed kiss after kiss on her face.

"I see everyone has started without me. Where is Jaehaerys?"

"You were late, sodjisto, aunt," Jaehaera grins gummily. Jahaera is only a year older than Daenera. Your daughters, five and a half and five respectively. "Jaehaerys is with kepus, uncle. They are training."

"Smart girl." You meet your brother's gaze, whose eyes had notably been staring at your dress, mouth turned down. "Why don't you three play with Helaena? I shall speak about Name Day gifts for your Uncle Joffrey for a bit, hm?"

As Aemma shrieks something about cakes, and Daenera dutifully kissing your cheek in greeting before she takes Jaehaera's hand, you turn to your brother and mother.

"Aemond?" you ask softly, keeping your voice out of earshot. Alicent shakes her head. You nod. "Good. We don't want him inciting a war before I have mine properly planned."

As the Dowager draws in a sharp inhale, Aegon grabs your hands, the worry pulled taunt in his eyebrows. "Are you seriously contemplating war, sister? Isn't there a better way to punish them?"

"What punishment does a man regale in?" you hiss, stepping close to him. "Or the Queen's heir for the bloody matter? When Aemond nearly killed Lucerys, and he confronted me as if I had ordered Vhagar to tear through his brother, I thought I had put to bed any doubts in our marriage. It seems that men stray, regardless. My daughters may be his heir now, but what is to say that bastard wildling he's found himself cock deep in produces a son? Will he shame me with a mistress? Or will he shame me with a second wife?"

Your mother's lips tightens, her fingers paling at how tight she is gripping her nerves.

"Bastard or not, if he takes her to wife, I will be nothing. Make that babe a son, and the realm will rally for it. Daenera is his heir. My daughters will not be forgone. I will not be pushed aside. This is mercy, brother," you say softly, tucking a stray curl behind his ear. "My last one. It requires time, moons, to unfurl. It requires seeding doubt and unfathomable inadequacy. Better if Aemond is none the wiser, Helaena the same. But I will need both of you for this to work. It is the only time I will ever ask. For me. For my daughters."

"And you will punish Winterfell with a war?" your mother asks, frown pulled deep. "That is the plan?"

"I will not. I won't do such a thing so blatant, mother, you know me better than that. But this is my last mercy, and it will be the last. For the next time he offends me so, I do not care if Rhaenyra feeds me to Syrax. I will put a dagger through his heart, heir or not."

The Prince Jacaerys comes back not a week later. Though he comes back to the same castle with the same occupants— your shiny new threads gleam. The stage has been set, a play ready to act. You had sent more spiders in the North, keeping a close eye to every blasphemy your husband has been enjoying in the absence of his duties, and as the rage in you quietly grew with each new whisper, your determination hardens.

You mark each indescretion. You keep a tally.

You count for each fall your blow will land on him.

Vermax lands with a screech and a heavy thump, your husband leaping off him with a grin on his face, matching the one you own, waving your arm joyously with Aemma in your arm and Daenera beside you, holding to your skirt as she grinned at her father.

Aemma wiggles under your hold, and you let Jace get close enough before you set her down, laughing, "Okay, okay!" Her laughter carries through as she scrambles like a bull to her father. A squeal peals out of her as Jace picks her up just in time and tosses her in the air.

"Want to meet kepa, father, sweet girl?" you whisper to Daenera, running a hand down her hair before she nods, breaking out into her own sprint, hugging her father as he greets them with laughter and kisses.

You let them have their time, and this, at least, eases your heart truthfully. A kind reminder that Jace adores his daughters.

You stay at the edge of the entrance, your too-wide grin softens into a smile. You were dramatic, nothing new about that, but even in the pale, pearl blue of your dress in silky, Myrish lace, the emeralds in your heavy, golden belt winks. Green ribbons twisted in your hair alongside fresh flowers. When the trio of your family treks toward you, silver-haired babes clinging to your dark haired prince, you serve a wink at the girls and they untangle themselves from their father while you stepped forward.

A choreographed dance, not giving him time to think. To pause.

Every step is calculated, every item on your body— the silk, the small seahorse that locks your dress behind you, the tint on your lips to the oil in your hair and body — is made to perform. You engulf him in you as if you want to suffocate his senses, your arms wrapping around him with sweet kisses pressing on his face, his neck.

Most in the dragonpit looked away, others, scandalously amazed and enchanted, watch as the princess is undeniably enthralled with her lord husband.

His laughter rumbles across his body, infecting your own, smelling of dragonback and crisp winds. You wonder if your nose is more heightened, you would be able to smell his whore in him, but you don't. It's just him. Your Jace.

Your body moulds against his as his arms tightens around you. When you lean back, you sweetly press a chaste kiss on his lips, grinning.

"What is this?" he huffs a laugh, meeting your doeful gaze. Your fingers curl around his chin, his cheek, idly tapping and touching as if you are committing so much newness to memory.

"Kostagon iā ābrazȳrys daor jaelagon zirȳla valzȳrys? Can a wife not want her husband?" you ask softly, pressing a few more kisses before sucking the last one just under his ear. His body shudders. You hide your smirk. "Skori ēza issare qrīdrughagon tolī bōsa? When he has been away too long?"

A yearning look tints your gaze from under your lashes, and you have to stifle the winning smirk as guilt pinches his face.

"My apologies, my wife. I did not mean to be away from you for long. From the girls." As his eyes flick to his daughters, your mask momentarily sharpens into clear distaste. The urge to dig your fingers into his eyes until he is bleeding and screaming under you is one you tamper with great distress.

Did not mean...

Did not mean to have a dalliance with another woman?

Did not mean to fall into bed with a fucking bastard, you insidious cunt, while I await here with your heirs?

Your anger thrums, nestled deep in your heart, it breathes. You school your face the moment he turns back to you, bringing your hands to his lips, kissing each finger with reverent tenderness. His brown eyes smoulder, rubbing your bare— irises widening — back.

"If you wish it, I can be on my knees for my apologies, my princess."

Your mouth curls. "I'm afraid that might have to be quite later, my prince."

"Huh?"

"The Dowager Queen hoped to congratulate you on your successful campaigning. Reaching as far as the North so frequently, we planned a feast for your return." Eyes shinning, you cup his face. You hope the guilt eats him raw from the inside out. Like worms. Like termites. Hungry, hungry, hungry. "We have never been more proud of you, I have never been more proud of you."

You laugh brightly, ignoring the way he squeezed you just a bit harder that mere second the same time his eyes tightened. "The moment I told the girls of it, they had begged to dance with you." Then you bit your lip, frowning slightly. "I... I understand if you are tired, 'tis a long journey after all, I did try to tell them you might want to rest, we can sneak you—"

"No, no, my heart, of course I would be happy to, I— I want nothing more." He brings you close, face disappearing into your neck. "Thank you. I love you."

You hum, carding your fingers through his hair. "As I love you."

For the rest of the feast, you dance just at the edges of his fingertips, ensuring that you permeated his sights and senses despite it. A game. A dance. When he thanks revelries who congratulate him, who ask him of his adventures, you proudly stand beside him, dutiful as the wife that you are, spearing him with compliments as much as you can. Hands squeezing his arm, your oils swallowing him with your smell.

When dinner came, you take chances massaging his thigh, sliding a salacious grin that had him blushing, ever so sweet, green— making you wonder what kind of fucking bastards do that he finds your attention so swallowing.

You don't let up.

Whenever he, in turn made a move, you sidestep, flutter a smirk, a wink; always escaping, letting him grow frustrated as the night went on.

Your one respite from taunting him had been when he danced with his daughters, making a gallant show of asking them, even Jaehaera. Giggles and spins, the ladies of the court fawn and coo.

Even now, you're making him to be the perfect man. The endearing husband, the wondrous father, the brilliant prince, the perfect lord.

To execute your plan, it must be made with a surgical precision. A slice that guts him to his knees, that breaks his spirit and quenches the whispering, wicked madness nestling with your ire. On another cheek, he must remain upright and upstanding, as to keep your daughters' future in perfect order.

You catch the domineering gaze of Daemon Targaryen, idle as he is, on the side of his distracted Queen, talking to a highborn lady. You don't look away as you toast him your cup of Arbour Red before you pucker your lips for a taste. Your eyes move to where your husband is already looking, flushed red and sweaty from all the dancing, your girls, preening and giggling around him.

You tilt your chin at him, a challenge in your gaze, before you slowly pull your lips away from your wine, stained red.

His throat bobs.

It will be a long, arduous game. Full of pitfalls and tightened webbing. One trip can kill you. But once the machinations are in order, once everything and everyone is in their proper places... oh, you cannot wait for the dance the dragons will make.

A flutter, a simpered footstep. Then a rustle of a dress as one bows.

"My lady," Dyanna greets behind you.

"Hm?"

"The spiders in the ice have met the pup in the snow."

"And?"

"The pup is not suspicious, in fact, they might go as far as to say that the pup is lonely. Though others largely understand her existence... no one likes a bastard."

You snort. "No, they don't, do they?"

"The wolf cares for the pup though, and is largely protective of his only sister."

"Hm. Complicated, but not impossible. Have Meera change the tone of my missive. A softer edge. Sweet but not overtly. Ensure the prerogative of politeness. Then have it sent to the Rookery. The proper channels."

You sigh, taking the edge of your braid and twisting through the ribbons your maid tangled between them. Tonight, you had elected Targaryen colours. A black dress akin to scales and a low, exposed back and dipping front, held together in red ribbons and silver chains. One that might be too on the nose, but the constant, feverish stares from your husband made it worth it.

"We have to ensure a good relationship with the Warden of the North, don't you think so?" You have not looked away from your husband since your maid came, and as he whispered something in Daenera's ear, nodding off to her grandmother with Aemma towed, he turned towards you, one stride after another.

"Precisely what I thought, milady."

"Go," you order her for the last time, giving her your cup, just before Jacaerys reaches you.

Game, set.

Worshipping you has always been something Jace excelled at. At the least, his cock was much larger than most, and without the preparation of his tongue and mouth, it burned. At most, he oft found himself holding your shaking thighs, your head and shoulders left on the bed as he feasted on you like a man starved, hungered for your nectar, the sounds you make, and the shaking of your body as you reached your peak on his tongue.

"J-Jace, please, I—" Your breath stutters, a hiccup escaping your mouth, but he is not letting up. On his knees as only a lordling can with his back straight, he is holding your thighs, your lower back, eating your cunny for the third time of the night.

As soon as he had reached you, he grasped your waist, whispering against your hair in a rumbled groan, "You are torturing me so, my wife. We leave. Now."

"Now?" you echoed, amused. "This is a feast in your honour."

"My honour is already hanging by a thread. The revelry will go on without us. I want to have my fill of you."

And fill he had. He didn't even wait to get you out of your dress before he had pushed your skirt upward, gone on his knees, and got his tongue inside of you.

Now, you are overwhelmed, overstimulated as you are hazy, gripping the wrecked sheets as your peak reached you once more. A strangled, breathy cry of his name falls between your lips as your back arched impossibly so, and instead of letting up, this seemed to fuel him harder, the muscle of his mouth working harder inside of your cunt, hands digging into your flesh to keep you steady.

It builds with a stimulation unending, and just as you're on the throes of your last high, it builds again, quick and fast this time, shuddering gasps of, "o-oh gods, g-gods, Jace!" is the last thing you are able to shout before your fourth peak breaks against the shudders of your last one, your wetness exploding, and you start crying before he lets up.

Your blubber becomes laughter, and he is soft as he lies you down, massaging your thighs as you twitched. He hovers above you, running gentle hands across your arms, kneading through skin, before he reaches your face. He's still in most of his clothes, his long white shirt and breeches, but his mouth is covered in your wetness before he wipes it, obscene in the prettiness of his face and messy locks from where you had tugged and grabbed.

He presses a gentle kiss to your cheek, so close to your body, all too tangled in your soul, and can feel his hard cock upright and wanting against your belly, but he pays it no mind. Concern mars his features as he brushes down your hair.

"Are you alright, my love? Too much?"

You shake your head, brushing your hand down his chest. "N-no, I am well. I just never did that before."

He smiles, kissing your closed eyelids before he brings you close to his chest, cuddling you deep. "You deserve all the pleasure I can give you," he says against your hair. "I have been gone far too long. Consider it my apology."

You hum, eyes open. "Apology for what? You were doing your duty, nothing more, ñuha zaldrīzes, my dragon." You feel him stiffen as you keep your voice soft, caring. "I understand duty far better than you. It is what I love most about you."

You look up, taking his chin between your fingertips as you stared at those warm, brown eyes. "You, who carries your honour like a shield and your duty like a sword. I feel as if the gods had blessed me a husband far better than I should have had for I know I do not deserve you."

"H-how can you say that? You are—" He swallows. "— You are the most excellent woman. The mother of my children. You... You are the one I do not deserve."

Your head falls back against his chest, gripping his shirt. Only by your teeth had you stop yourself from screaming.

You curdle, you keep, you poise.

"My love?"

But you pay him no mind, pushing him on his back as you straddle him, your hands working quick to unlace his breeches until his cock slaps against his stomach, end red and swollen. A sharp hiss falls from his lips as your hand tugs on it once. Twice.

He calls your name, spits it really, eyes blown with lust as he holds your waist, unsure if he should lift you off him or grind you against his aching cock.

"I want you inside me," you whimper, plead, feeling his cock twitch at your words, your false, yearning gaze. He mistakes the burned tears of anger in your eyes as unbridled want. "I have gone so long without your warmth, your cock, swelling inside me, your seed nestling deep, taking root—"

"Yes," he gasps, fingers digging into your doughy sides, pulling you up, moving you around whilst you grabbed his length and directed inside your wet, hot cunt inch by inch, filling you so thickly you can feel him in your throat. It takes time, patience and grit, but you're wet enough and you're determined. Once he's fully inside of you through a choked moan of your own, his neck arches, head thrown back. "Fuck! Yes, y-yes, there you are, my g-good fucking girl."

You move slow at first, taking him, bracing one hand on his knee, almost testing the feel him of back in the familiar contours of your cunt. Veins pop between each groan and choke that shudders through him whilst praise, your name, the possessive titles— my love, my wife, my princess — is spit in between.

When the heat tightens in your belly, you shift positions, placing both palms on his chest, and riding him without abandon, bouncing up and down as you watch with a sharp eye as his release builds. His hips move on their own, fucking up in you as you meet his thrusts with equal vigour, and it's delicious. It's heated. You grind your swollen folds against his mon and your cries make him thrust up harder into you, calling your name, denting your doughy hips.

You don't stop, your pleasure at the back of your mind, wanting him to unravel, to break— a final cry of your name dissolving into a choked moan, spilling his seed deep inside, the continuous snap of his hips digging it deeper into your womb.

But your last peak is still tightening, so you press a quick kiss on his chest, a bite really, before you continue to chase your own high, a hiss slipping his lips but moving your hips with his iron-grip, stutters of, "d-do it, reach your high, f-fuck! fuck!"— Your head throws back, nails digging his skin as your cunt clenches his cock in a vice grip, forcing his hips to snap up once more, twice, until you fall, slumping against him.

When he kisses the top of your head, murmuring words you ignore, you close your eyes.

Your plan is in motion. The missive will be sent to the Lord Stark, in pursuit of an innocent friendship. The spiders you have placed on the Northern bastard are set, and a dragon flies in Dragonstone with your bond in its blood.

Your Jace is home. He will fall in love with you all over again. His wonderful daughters and darling princess, he will regret the events that have transpired in the cold. In his head, he will make promises to do better, to be better, that whatever happened is a blip. A mistake that will not happen again. but you know, he will trip. He will wander once more.

But you will make sure that the next time he does so, he will regret it for the rest of his days.

Because it is not you who will burn Winterfell to the ground.

It will be him.

Your plan moves, your web is perfect.

Now, the spider waits for the idiot fucking flies to feed on.

TAGGED: @inkareds @marihoneywk @caterina-caterina @ahristata @xxvelvetxxxx @but-i-write-so-i-must-count @bunbunbl0gs @yazzzmints @bellstwd @hiraethrhapsody

[wh0reforcoriolanussnow]

Why Me? || D. Targaryn x oc (Dear Motherhood Series)

GIF by me :) pls give cred if used DIVIDERS by @straywords

summary: When a heated argument between Leyla and her father lead to something more worse than she could have ever imagined.

a/n: ngl this one made me so sad for my girl Leyla 😭 she doesn’t deserve this

Dear Motherhood Series Masterlist

“Give me the respect that I deserve!” Otto yells, standing up from his seat behind his desk. “You forget yourself sometimes Leyla. It is I who I arranged this union between you and Prince. Without me, you would have been nothing!” His hand makes contact with the table causing a loud banging noise.

“I never asked for any of this! I was just a pawn in your sick game I never asked to be a part of,” Leyla spat. “And yet here you are, expecting another child from the Prince.” He glances at her swollen belly. Leyla’s hands protectively move to her stomach. The audacity Otto had to say such a thing when he in-fact pressured her for more children.

Leyla furrowed her eyebrows, “You pressured me into giving the Prince more children-“ Otto interrupts her with a chuckle, “I did no such thing daughter, it is you who pressured yourself.” He stares her down as Leyla felt sick to her stomach. “Why are you doing this to me!” She screamed, salty tears streaming down her face.

“Ever since I came back to court when mother died, you have done nothing but treat me as an outcast, an object for your little games!” She sobbed as Otto sat back and stared at her. This was the first time she had really ever spoken back in such a manner to her father.

All her pent up emotions were finally spilling. “I will never, forgive you for what you put me through when I was ten-and-five. I fucking hate you!” She grabs the closest object near her, a vase, and throws it in the direction of her father.

Otto was quick to his feet and dodged it, shards flying everywhere. “I think it’s best you leave, Leyla. When word of this comes out, you better hope they don’t think of you as mad.” He steps towards her, taking ahold of her shoulders but Leyla shoves him off of her. “Don’t touch me,” She snaps before leaving the room.

The young Hightower was hyperventilating the whole way back to her bedchambers. Pregnancy sure as hell did amplify hormones. She quickly walked into the room and was glad to not see Daemon in sight.

She paced infront of the firepit as she picked on her nails, an old habit she had picked up from her older sister. Leyla couldn’t stop the tears that streamed down her face. She was hyperventilating bad.

She attempted to calm herself down but it only intensified when she felt something dampening her small-cloths and eventually, running down her leg. Leyla quickly reached up her skirts; she was horrified as she looked down at her hand that was covered in blood.

A loud scream emitted from her lips as she fell to the ground. All the way from his study doom down the hallway, Daemon rushed into their shared bedchambers to see Leyla on the ground, her dress darkened in a shade of red and the carpet beneath her.

Her face red and wet from crying and her hair disheveled. “W-w-why is there so much b-blood Daemon?” She said through sobs as she looked up, teary eyed at her Husband.

Daemon quickly moved to his wife and took her in his arms, rocking her slowly as he kissed her forehead and whispered “You’re okay” over and over. The room smelt of copper. Daemon couldn’t care less if he was covered in blood himself either. He focused on Leyla and only her.

“Just let it happen, Leyla. Everything will be okay,” He held her tighter as he felt a tear roll down his own cheek. He might have seemed composed on the outside, but deep down, he was fucking terrified. He’s never had to handle anything like this and he knew that Leyla was equally terrified. She sobbed loudly in Daemon’s chest as they both grieved their unborn child. Her wails woke everyone in the castle.

Not even a few seconds later, a few footsteps could be heard before they halted infront of the door. Alicent, Otto, and a few other maids and knights had came to see what the commotion was about.

Alicent let out a horrified gasp as her eyes take in the scene before burying her head into her father’s chest. Who only looks blankly at her youngest daughter being comforted by her husband.

Leyla slowly turned her head to the direction of the door where a small crowd began to form. She then made eye contact with her father as another wave of tears fall down her cheeks. The young girl couldn’t bare looking at her father so she turned her bead back around. “Leave us!” Daemon yells as he rubs Leyla’s back in comfort.

“I’m sorry. I failed to give you another heir,” Leyla quietly spoke as her tears calmed down and the only thing she could hear was Daemon’s heartbeat and the crackling of the fire. His heart broke seeing Leyla so broken in his arms. “As long as you are okay, sweet girl.” Daemon said against her hair.

[baelarys]

we get what we deserve?

Aegon Targaryen x lector Darklyn/Targaryen

recuento de palabras:2540

Advertencia:Angust, murder, bad words

The burning in the palm of your hand intensified each time your nails dug into the soft flesh, a desperate attempt to maintain control. The pressure in your throat was constant, a knot you couldn't untie as you fought to suppress the sob that threatened to escape. The tears continued to slide down your cheeks, betraying the calm you were trying to maintain. Your eyes, red from crying, reflected the internal storm consuming you, a tide of emotions you could not bear.

It had all happened in an instant, a blink of an eye that left a trail of emptiness in your being. The small body you had held with such care was ripped from your arms with a brutality that left you breathless. Before you could comprehend what was happening, it was already in the hands of a stranger. A shiver ran down your spine as you relived that fateful moment, every detail burned into your memory with a clarity that tormented you. The helplessness enveloped you like a suffocating cloak, and the question beat in your mind like an unrelenting drum: How was it possible that you couldn't protect what mattered most to you?

The abrupt sound of glass shattering into a thousand pieces tore you from your thoughts. Aegon crossed the room with furious steps, his presence filled with a rage that electrified the air. The shards of glass sparkled on the floor, echoes of his anger, as he moved back and forth, unable to contain the torrent of emotions consuming him.

"My son is my legacy!" he roared, his voice laden with discontent and impotence, resonating with an intensity that echoed off the walls. "My son was the heir to the Iron Throne!"

His chest heaved with rapid, shallow breaths, and the tension in his features was evident, every line of his face marked by the desperation of a loss he could not accept.

"And where were you?" Aegon demanded, his voice sharp and cold as his eyes fixed on Ser Criston Cole. "The Lord Commander of my Kingsguard!"

fucking the queen, you bit your tongue hard to keep from voicing such a rash accusation, though the anger burned inside you.

"I was in bed, Your Majesty," Ser Criston responded, his voice so controlled it almost sounded detached. "I requested to stand guard tonight."

"In bed?!" Aegon repeated, as if the knight's words carried no weight. "Instead of safeguarding the sanctity of my family?"

"This is not the time for baseless accusations, Your Majesty," Otto said. "Soon, we will know who did it."

"Who did it?" Aegon repeated, releasing a bitter laugh as he approached the table.

The silence that followed was heavy, until, for the first time, your voice rose in the room, cutting through the air like a sharp knife.

"It was her," you said, all eyes turning towards you. "Who else would do it if not that bastard bitch?"

The words escaped your mouth, burning your throat as you uttered them, each one loaded with a visceral hatred.

"That smug whore is on her damn island, laughing at me," you spat, the fury flowing from every word, your eyes ablaze with a mix of rage and pain.

The anger consuming you was almost tangible, like a fire fed by every thought. The image of that woman, the arrogance on her face as she reveled in your suffering, caused a nausea you could not suppress. Everything you had tried to contain finally erupted inside you.

"She thinks she's untouchable, hiding behind her walls while she mocks our misfortune!" you continued, your voice growing in volume, trembling with the intensity of your pain. "And now my son is dead, while her bastards run free, enjoying the protection that was denied to mine!"

Desperation and rage intertwined in your words, tearing you apart from within. With a trembling sigh, you sank back into the chair, struggling to contain the sea of tears that still threatened to overflow.

"You wished for her life to be spared," Aegon accused, directing his anger at Alicent, his voice heavy with reproach.

The queen lowered her gaze, unable to withstand the fury in her son's eyes. But before she could respond, the door to the room was flung open, and the hunched figure of Larys Strong appeared, interrupting the tense silence.

"Forgive me, Your Majesty... my lords," Larys said, his voice soft but piercing. "The guard has apprehended someone."

The news made everyone straighten up, expectant.

"The man we captured is known," continued the Clubfoot, carefully measuring his words. "He's a Gold Cloak. We found him fleeing through the Gate of the Gods... with the child's head in a sack."

The impact of his words fell on you like an anvil, and the world crumbled around you. You felt your heart plummet into a bottomless abyss, shattered by the cruelty of the revelation.

"I'll kill him myself," Aegon growled, the fury in his voice now fiercer than ever. Without waiting for a response, he turned and strode quickly towards the door, closely followed by his guards.

"It would be better to extract any information from that scoundrel," Otto intervened, his tone cold and calculating, halting Aegon's steps. "I trust in the mastery of your craft, Lord Larys."

Aegon stopped dead in his tracks, his shoulders tense as he processed his grandfather's words. Otto's proposal was logical, meticulous as always. But at this moment, logic was the last thing Aegon wanted to hear.

Tired of all the useless talk, you stood up abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor as you did, the sound tearing through the heavy silence that filled the room. The tension in the air was almost suffocating, every word exchanged between them seemed to add more weight to the burden you were already carrying.

Your gaze swept across the room, stopping on Otto, then Larys, before finally resting on Aegon. When his eyes met yours, his gaze, hardened by fury and pain, seemed to soften, as if in that brief moment, he found an anchor amidst the storm that was consuming him.

"I want his head," you declared, your voice firm and icy, leaving no room for doubt.

"Perhaps we should consider this more carefully," Otto began to say, his tone cautious, as if trying to bring a semblance of reason to the conversation.

"I said I want his head!" you interrupted, not giving him the chance to finish. Your voice resonated with such force that it was clear you would accept no objections.

You didn't want to talk, you didn't want to think. Every word directed at you felt like a blow to your already shattered nerves. All you wanted at that moment was justice, raw and visceral, for the innocent life that had been torn from your arms.

Your hands trembled, not from fear, but from the intensity of the fury boiling within you, from the overwhelming need to make the one who committed such an atrocity pay. You didn't care about the political implications, the consequences, or any strategy Otto might consider prudent. Logic and patience had been swept away by the tide of pain that was flooding you.

The room was plunged into tense silence, as if everyone present was holding their breath. No one dared to look directly at you, their eyes averted, fixed on anything but you. They knew that opposing you at this moment would be futile, perhaps even dangerous.

Your gaze settled on Larys Strong, who, with the same calculated calm as always, offered you a slight nod, a silent signal for you to follow.

The cold air seeped through your nightclothes, chilling your skin, but you didn't care. You didn't even bother to change or cover yourself before leaving.

The sound of the wind mingled with the clanking of heavy chains that echoed against the ground, accompanying each step of the corpulent man who was being brought before you. His eyes avoided yours, his posture hunched, defeated, as the guards shoved him forward with a contemptuous force, pushing him towards his fate.

Valyria landed a few meters away from you with a thud that resonated through the ground, kicking up a cloud of dust. The dragon let out a deep, furious growl, as if she could sense the emotional storm raging inside you.

You stood firm, your gaze fixed on the prisoner, as you felt the heat of Valyria's breath at your back. The dragon, imposing and majestic, approached with measured steps, her piercing yellow eyes first locking onto you, searching your face for a sign, an order. Then, her slitted pupils shifted to the man who lay trembling on his knees before her imposing presence.

The prisoner, barely able to stand, raised his gaze only to meet the abyss that was Valyria. His body trembled, not just from the cold of the night, but from the terror that the proximity of the beast instilled in him. He knew he was facing his judge.

You took one more step closer, your figure wrapped in the icy night breeze, but the cold didn't affect you. Not when the anger and pain burned so intensely in your chest, fueled by the bottomless abyss left by the loss of your child. Each step you took towards the man kneeling before you seemed to vibrate with the pent-up fury, with the longing for justice that was driving you forward.

You stopped right in front of him, so close that you could see the cold sweat on his forehead, the unshed tears in his terrified eyes. Despite his trembling and veiled pleas, there wasn’t a trace of mercy in your gaze.

"My son is dead by your hand," you spoke each word with deliberate coldness, allowing them to pierce his conscience like thorns. "I held him in my arms, and in an instant, you took him from me. Because of your cowardice, your greed, an innocent life was sacrificed."

"He was just a child," you continued, stepping even closer, your shadow falling over him like a dark shroud. "My son. My flesh and blood. An innocent, who had nothing to do with your grudges, with your petty ambitions. And you took him from me. You destroyed him without a shred of remorse."

The man tried to stammer a response, to justify his act, but your gaze silenced him, condemned him before he could find the words.

"How many coins was his life worth?" you spat, disdain dripping from every syllable. "How much were you paid for his head? What was the price of my pain? Because that's all you are, a traitor willing to sell his soul to the highest bidder, no matter the cost to others."

He didn’t answer. He didn’t even try. And you weren’t going to beg for a response that, deep down, wouldn’t change anything. The truth had already been exposed, raw and painful, and there was no place for more words in this trial.

You moved closer, leaned down, and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. Aegon raised his head, his eyes red and filled with tears, looking at you with a mixture of surprise and pain. He said nothing, but the desperation in his gaze was evident.

You knelt before him, and without a word, you wrapped him in your arms, pulling him close. Aegon clung to you as if you were his only anchor in a sea of suffering. The sobs he had tried to contain broke free completely, and the king's cries mingled with yours in a shared lament for the loss of a beloved child.

[praazlwurm]

Codename: CARVER challenged you to battle!

Lore and close-ups below the break

(❁´◡`❁)

Y'all ever struck by the realization your self-insert immortal incongruently-wizard-coded character can, in fact, have pink hair and eyes?

Okay so anyone happening across this, this is my blorbooo, Magpie, who got isekai'd into the Pokemon world in my pair of fics here and gets runic-flavored quasi magical abilities and immortality by blessing of arceus

Feat. the conceptual design for a Survey Ball - modeled after the Origin Ball and the first/only pokeball Magpie has built out of unown-inscribed starshards since she was experimenting with using shards as charms in tell-the-stars

Anyway Magpie redesign because my poor girl is sick of ruining shirts when she does a Big Magic, hence sleeveless top and experimental runic-imbued greatcoat that can withstand all but the Biggest Magic. In my mind she got pinged by InterPol but refuses to "be a cop" (even if the IP isn't exactly like irl cops) - instead she and Volo serve as consultants and Big Guns whenever the local evil team gets too big for their britches or things like the Ultra Beast/paradoxmon/rediscovered Ultimate Weapon crop up.

Besides the coat she's got unown-style colar chains, her old survey corps badge and the (now empty) Hisui ball to remember her first team of pokemon by.

Team would probably vary by region, the one here is the like ideal aesthetic/lore team (ft allotted quasi-legendary, single shiny (after a couple centuries of idle breeding rather than concentrated focus), and ever the necessary cute mascots Irony the unown and lil baby inkay)

The most mainstaying 'mon on her team is Otto the golurk, which she inscribed-to-life herself in a drawing that I… procrastinated on doing the background on with this character page lmao but here's a sneak peak at that:

ft. chienpao bc it loves Volo a lot, Volo's spiritomb and togetic in the background bc this is their idyllic home in paldea ig (im probably going to redraw mags, ursa and maybe inkay down the line because i remain intimidated by the background i tasked myself with RIP

anywho im going to work on making this a proper pinned post with links and tags for all of the Lore so expect to see it updated lol

[aquato-family-circus]

Otto Brain DLC. The tower of honey has grown ridiculously high on the third day. When the explosion from Otto's lab rocks through the valley, the tower starts swaying. In seconds, the first glasses fall. The threat of a honey flood and lots of shards in every place is imminent.

Cassie's bees stabilize the wall as best as they can along her telekinesis.

Present Aquato family members catch falling glasses and juggle them, putting them into neat, much smaller towers one after another.

Bob grows super-soft, springy moss on the floor while vines help stabilize the wall and pluck down teethering pots. Lucrecia subtly gives his plants places to grow with puddles.

Helmut catches stragglers with levitation from his hamster ball.

OH OTTO'S BRAIN DLC ITS BEEN A HOT MINUTE!!

I like everyone working together to save the honey!! Lucy & Bob working together to give his plants like, a better/more suitable enviroment TO grow in in the first place is especially inspired, it feels like such a no brainer for how their dynamic would work but I don't think it's ever really come up before?

This honey tower rescue is also good omnious time for them to all realize "oh that was an Explosion what happened?"

I feel like while Raz & Lili are actually doin the dang mind exploration there's probably a slowly growing crowd of folks going out to the landing pad to watch the lab smoke from a safe distance, including all the oldies who are eventually gonna round up w/ford to go help win Tha Big Boss Fight in Otto's head

[asherbakugou]

King Viserys had called his Small Council, his daughter Rhaenyra, her husbands, the Velaryon family, his wife, and his sons. He announced that, as he had never announced an heir after disinheriting Rhaenyra, they were to show him why they should be the heir and eventual ruler of the Seven Kingdoms.

Otto went first, advacating for Aegon. "Aegon is your firstborn son, Your Grace. I believe the people would feel more assured if a son ascended the throne as we are in tumultous times. Perhaps in the future a Queen will rule, but I do not believe now is the time for change."

Alicent agreed, advicating for Aegon. "I agree with ny Father, your Hand, husband. Aegon has also been married by the faith to Halaena in the ways of the Targaryens and now has an heir himself. Jahaerys."

Tyland Lannister, Maester Orwyle, and Jasper Wylde all advocated for Aegon.

Rickon advocated for Rhaenyra. "Your Grace. My wife rebuilt the North, making us stronger than ever. Her farmers on Dragonstone taught ours to raise and shear sheep, and then make the wool into warm, thick clothes. And in winter their meat provides."

"Her dragons created caves to nest in and discovered iron depots within, allowing us to trade in iron and weapons. Our trade with the Vale, the Stormlands, Driftmark, the Embar Glass Isles, and Dragonstone has given us the supplies to prepare for winter."

"In 118, when we had settled she had fishermen sent to the North to test something. We learned there were plenty of clams, and fish for us, and now the sea provides as our woods do."

Laenor advocated for Rhaenyra. "My wife has helped repare the rift between your family, Your Grace, and mine. She has created the fleet of the Fourteen Flames led by Ser Vaemond Velaryon, my uncle, on the ship, Arrax that now patrols Dragonstones waters. She created the army of the Second Sons, giving second sons something to fight for. They now patrol Dragonstone and protect the people from traders and others who would do them harm."

Daemon advocated for Rhaenyra. "Your Grace, Rhaenyra has taken control of the Stepstones, or as we have renamed them, the Embar Glass Isles, because of their abundance of sea glass. This opened trade with Dorne themselves, who quite adore the shards. Almost every isle has a barrack or castle, a garrison to defend it, and a fleet to patrol the waters."

"Dragonstone is now the center of trade for the Vale, the Stormlands, the North, Driftmark, and the Isles. We want for nothing. We have enough coin to last us many years. The Seven Kindoms would prosper under her rule. And any man who decided that it wasn't her place to rule would face Dark sister and I. As well as our husbands, and their families and lands. No one would think to attack us if Rhaenyra ruled."

Corlys Velaryon advocated for Rhaenyra. "Princess Rhaenyra has repared the slight you dealt to us when you married a daughter from a second son without giving any others a chance. She has given my brother a place as fleet commander, my daughter is an ambassador for Rhaenyra in Pentos and Essos. My son is now her prince consort and would rule as King Consort beside her. Our trade has expanded because of her. What has your son done in the years he's been your supposed heir?"

Rhaenys advocated for Rhaenyra. "Your Queen spoke of how the succession has been secured because of Aegons single son, Jaeharys I believe. But Rhaenyra has 16 children. And if she became Queen all would be her line of succession until her eldest, Baelon had children. She has brought back the dwindling numbers of the Targaryen family, as well as the dragons."

"19 dragons currently rest on Dragonstone, and each has a rider. There is Syrax, Caraxes, and Seasmoke. There is Morghul, Shrykos, Āeksion, Ānogar, Moondancer, and Morning. Tyvaros, Meraxes, Tyraxes, Tessarion, Cloudjumper, Vermax, and Arrax. 3 of her children have claimed Vermithor, Silverwing, and Grey Ghost."

"Your family, Your Grace, has two dragons. Sunfyre, an adolescent who is barely larger than a carruage despite his age and Dreamfyre whose rider. I doubt would ever fight in a war."

Laena advocated for Rhaenyra. "Your grace, Rhaenyra has fone something no other woman has. She has allowed her daughters, alongside her sons, to learn to fight. Each is well versed in sword fighting alongside their prefferred weapon and all hold Valyrian weapons."

"Dorne has been brought into the fold because of Rhaenyra and likely would not respond well to Aegon who does not seem to have . . . the delicacy needed to speak with them."

Lyman Beesbury advocated for Rhaenyra. "Your Grace, I have served you well and Rhaenyra has done incredible work. The crown recieves more coin from the North, the Vale, the Stormalnds, and Driftmark, than every other land. It is because of her the crown is so well off. I believe that it is time for change. Princess Rhaenys was passed over because we weren't ready, but now . . . Now Rhaenyra is ready."

Viserys, who had gone pale hearing everything his daughter had done, especially after he learned of her children and their dragons, looked to Aegon. "And you, Aegon? What is your wish?"

Aegon hesitated, glancing between his own mother and grandfather before his eyes flickered to Rhaenyra. "I advocate for Princess Rhaenyra, Your Grace. She will sit the Iron Throne better than I ever could."

At his side Alicent paled dramatically, as Otto turned red. Aemond eyed his brother with confusion, but Haelaena, she looked satisfied, and relieved.

"Rhaenyra?"

"I advocate for myself, Your Grace. My husbands, my good-family, and Lord Beesbury have given you all why I should rule."

Viserys nodded, and slowly climbed to his feet. "I will make my announcent on the morrow. For now, I rest and think."

Once the king had left, and everyone else had left, leaving Alicent and Otto with her sons, Otto whirled on Aegon. "She will kill you! Do you not understand, you fool! The Princess will order Daemon to bring her heads to her jsut to make sure you could never rule. She will kill your son and your daughter."

"If Rhaenyra wanted your sons dead, she'd have had them killed years ago before she was disinherited," Daenon drawled, emerging from the shadows with two strangers at his side.

The one to his right had black, curly hair streaked with silver-gold, and dark, purple eyes that seemed to glow in the low light of the throne room. He wore red, black and gold armor over his riding leathers, with a longsword at his waist.

The one to his left had braided silver hair and pale lilac eyes that screamed amusement, his dark skin contrasting his companions paler skin. His armors were predominently gold and black with red braces on his armes over his rider leathers. He wore a longsword at his hip with a ruby cut in the shape of a tear drip resting on the pommel.

"Ah, yes. I guess you were nver introduced. Our sons, Baelon Targaryen, heir to Dragonstone, and Aemon Targaryen, Heir to the Embar Glass Isles.

Alicent paled further as the door was swung open and Rhaenyra, Rickon and Laenor swept inside with 14 more children, guards, and horrifingly, 18 Direwolves. Some stood as tall as horses or ponies while some weren't much bigger than dogs.

"I apoligize, Queen Alicent. I believed you all would have left to see to other things. I had hoped to show ny children the famed Iron Throne," Rhaenyra stated. The little girls at her side, who were twins so alike it was impossible to tell them apart were squinting at the throne before one spoke up.

"It's ugly, Muña. When you sit in it you should add cushions."

"Father has yet to make his decision Aemma. We do not know if I will sit the throne."

"The King would be dumb not to choose you."

"Alyssa," Rhaenyra warned.

The twin ti the meft grinned and chirped, " I'm Alyssa, Muña."

"Yeah. How could you confuse us?"

Rhaenyra sighed, though it was fond, and rest her hands on their braided hair. "If you continue switching places, I'll punish both of you."

Both girls backed down with a chorused, "Yes Muña. We're sorry, Muña."

Alicent watched as the oldest girl, at least she assumed, passed her mother to join her father and her brothers it seemed. She nearly recoiled when she saw the shaved side of her head, with all of her silver-gold hair braided into a single, thick braid.

The girl was closely followed by a curly white haired, lanky yoing man who seemed to be the same age as her. He seemed nervous, indigo eyes darting around and taking everything in.

Baelon smiled, leaning down slightly to press a kiss against his sister-wife's lips, murmuring a greeting.

With horror, Alicent watched as he did the same to Lucerys before he pulled them close so they could talk.

None of Rhaenyra's family seemed bothered by the heathens, but her family all looked horrified, or confused in Aegons case.

Aegons suddenly stepped forward calling for his sisters attention. Rhaenyra looked at him cooly, thoughts hidden beneath a mask.

"I wish to know what shall happen if you ascend the Iron Throne. Where will we go?"

"I have heard Prince Aemond is a skilled swordsman. If he wished he could squire beneath any of the Kingsguard, or ny own personal guard. And if he rose through the ranks, I see no readon for him not to become the leader of the Second Sons of Dragonstone."

"Prince Daeron, who must still be fostering in Hightower, could stay if he wished. There are rumors he is training to be a Maester, yes? Then he would be welcome as Dragonstones Maester should he ever wish. And if he chooses a different path, I am sure I will find a position for him."

"But I am unsure as to where to place you, Aegon. My son, Baelon, would be my cupbearer so I cannot offer you that position. And I doubt you'd want any other. Do you have any ideas?"

"Larys Strong has been officially titled the Master of Whispers. I admit the position is interesting."

"Then it would be yours. If you proved yourself capable of holding it. And Halaena. Wherever you wish to go, I will grant you."

"The keep is my home," Halaena murnured, feebly.

"And your home it would stay. Your mother could return to Oldtown or stay. It eould be her choice."

They all noticed how she said nothing of Otto.

Aegon hoped Viserys chose her. He didn't want to be King, he never had.

Rhaenyra hoped Viserys chose her. The Hightowers were destroying the realm. She would fix it an dleave it stronger than ever for her son and his.

[nixa-spark]

Refs for two of the character's from my spidersona's world-- made the refs back before ArtFight/add them to my profile

Henry Osborn is the son of Harry Osborn, grandson of Norman Osborn. When Henry was young, Norman managed to wrangle custody of his grandson away from Harry, and spent years trying to shape Henry into a new Green Goblin. This included being gifted the Orange Shard on his 18th birthday, and he was granted fire-type powers. However, Henry managed to avoid becoming a Goblin through sheer obliviousness (and his preference for 'epic stunts', which were showcased on his various social media accounts), and after escaping Norman and reuniting with his father, Henry's been doing much better for himself and is working on improving himself.

Oliver Octavius is, unbeknownst to him, not actually an Octavius, despite being told he was the son of Otto from birth by his mother. He grew up with a resentment for Spider-Man, and carried the goal of proving how his 'father' had been wronged with him into adulthood. He befriended Melly and Hannah early in their college years, and was eventually presented the Green Shard by Melly. Realizing she was a Spider, however, he ended up turning on her, declaring that they were now sworn enemies. Though Melly as come to terms with this betrayal, Oliver has refused to let go of their perceived rivalry. From the Green Shard, he gained the ability to infuse its energy into metal and shape it to his will. Though a skilled engineer, he's taken to forming his ock-arms directly from this malleable material, allowing him to focus his inventiveness on things other than having to repair them after every fight.

Both of these guys exist in the same world as my main spidersona ask blog, @ask-crimson-weaver

[pokemonpetfinder]

Congrats to Otto for being adopted by @safrina-shards ! Take good care of him

[safrina-shards]

[The rebooting process has started do not turn off the device]

...

██ 20%

███ 40%

████ 60%

█████ 80%

██████ 100%

.

..

...

▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ 100% ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇ!

Hello... I'm Safrina and uh welcome to my blog ^^'

Decided to make one since my classmates also had rotomblr and it's probably easier to know current stuff since some school events are announced here...sometimes I tell some stuff that I know... Usually about crafting

Here's my trainer card

Though it doesn't really show much info about them so here's the Pokemon in my battle team

╭ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──── ⋅ ⋅ ╮

| °Cirro \ ♂ \ Galar \ Service mon

| °Dynariu \ ♀ \ Jotho \ Battler

| °Akago \ ♂ \ Galar \Battler

| °Spark \ ♂ \ Galar \ ✧ \ Service mon

╰

Kivo's pokemon

╭ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──── ⋅ ⋅ ╮

| °Eelko \ Cyclizar \ ♂ \ Paldea

| °Otto \ Rowlet \ ♂ \ Paldea

╰

OOC↓

Welcome to the official reboot of Safrina-Shards!

This is how to distinguish the different characters

[NOTE: More characters shall be added as they will be introduced into the story]

Safrina

: Hello

Kivo

: ⚡Hello

[Safrina's inventory:

₽50,000 , 4 plane tickets for alola , 4 room reservation receipts, sunscreen sunglasses]

Character references

Safrina's Bio

[viaphni]

iiiiiiii love these two so much

theyre a couple of characters from The Shrouded Shards, a professor red parallel and his son

they are precious and their contributions to the plot are great

cannot wait to post more about these two

[randomnameless]

Thinking about the Adrestian civil war post -

I had AUs about Hresvelg bastards or Hresvelg pretenders using the instability in Fodlan and the War to try to sweep in and make a claim for the throne - of course they don't amount to a thing and die without ceremony so the plot follows as intended,

But then after reading too much nonsense I was wondering what if the rebellion was engineered by Agarthans, through the remaining children of Ionius?

(Nopes AU)

Something like, Hans 2, Otto 4 and Helga 3 didn't die in the experiments, but only "lost their minds".

They would have died/been disposed of by Solon, if not for Agarthan searcher #56 who wonders if they can still pursue the researches, and maybe find a way to make those "useless spares" still useful, like, what if they managed to turn those bodies - who didn't die yet! - in materials, like maybe turning them into pseudo-nabateans to use them for parts?

Solon says it's impossible, the base is human, they can't turn them in Nabateans - if only they had some hybrid at hand they could study, but Cethleann has been missing for several centuries now - and yet, because Agarthan researcher #56 has 10 years of experience, instead of getting a raise he can play with the "defects" if he wants.

Researcher #56 thus tries many things, from grinding "beast bones" in powder and injecting it in Otto 4 to see the reaction (it's ugly, Otto 4 body's cannot absorb/sustain the new materials and all of his vitals stop), or even using rare "beast blood" (they got some because a moron in Kupala sold "holy blood" to them for 5k) to extract enzymes or whatever they could and inject them in Helga 3 (she died, her newest crest of Flames and the crest of Chevalier killed her).

A bit dejected, Researcher #56 only had one "try" left, and it ended up in a dud when Hans 2's brain died (as in brain activity) - and yet the body was still "in good shape", so resarcher #56 still had hopes (mechanically maintaining Hans 2 alive) for that test subject. Who needs their brain, if the body itself can turn in a beast it'd be a success!

(foolish, said Solon, without the brain, the body cannot do a thing! "well you're the foolish one, we're talking about beasts, maybe they operate differently from us?")

The war starts, Rhea is ousted from the Monastery and crashes in Faerghus.

Varley does his thing, but a former cardinal meets Solon, and tells him he will give him access to the most secret and hidden parts of the Monastery, if only they can use their magic (they have some hidden one, right?) to resurrect his long dead friend.

Solon thus has access to the Holy Tomb, and while Chilon is overjoyed because, hey, look at that treasure trove! So many materials here! - Researcher #56 happens on Sitri, and is fascinated, this thing is an artificial body, but it had the crest of flames, and is as close to a Beast as it can be!

"Nope, this one is mine" says Solon, who calls dibs on Sitri's remains.

Researcher #56 can play with anything else, save for that thing (Solon believes he can use Sitri's remains to unthaw Nemesis, if they ever need him?). Dejected, Researcher #56, after making sure Aelfric unlocked all the places, has him Miasma'd and oh, he had a crest stone? Well, finder's keeper, besides, his boss told him he could "play" with everything save for the pseudo-nabatean !

Keeping Aelfric's crest stone shard in his pocket, he and Solon find Lycaon's remains - the failed hybrid from all those years ago, sure, it didn't decay, but when they tried to harvest it they were disappointed finding out it had no crest stone and no shiny bones :(

Well, who cares, besides, he's starting to get tired of this project : he puts Lycaon's remains and the crest stone shard in an Agarthan Blender (it can even blend grown Nabateans!) and injects the resulting mixture in Hans 2's braindead body.

Maybe Hans 2's bones will become golden, or the rock will act as a substitude for the brain?

Fuck, why did he blend it??

Hans 2's acquires a Major Crest of Seiros after several days but there's still no brain activity.

Cleobulus pops up before Reseacher #56 throws Hans 2 in the "Agarthan disposal machine", the body looks perfectly fine, what if they literally use it as a figure head, or a puppet, to challenge Supreme Leader's rule?

"But Cleo, if we remove him from the giant test tube, it will die!"

"Silly, just give him a large armor where we will hide all the machines needed to keep it alive, like artificial!ventilation and artificial!heartbeat!"

They thus design a black suit of armor for Hans 2 (remotely controlled!) with a life panel, but no weird ass mask to change his voice, since duh, he can't talk, he's dead.

It sort of works, and Thales congratulates them all, taking "Hans 2" outside to prepare a "information speech".

Duke Arundel thus presents Prince Hans 2 to some randoms as, of course, the eldest son of Emperor Ionius who returned from his horrible captivity, at the hands of his treacherous sister who had him jailed and tortured to take over the throne, with the assistance of Bergliez Sr, Hevring Sr, Varley Sr and, for fun, Aegir Sr.

But thanks to his efforts, he, Duke Volkhard von Arundel, found him, nursed him back and brought him here today, to give him a chance to right the wrongs of his treacherous sister and "band of corrupt nobles", and retake his legitimate throne!

Hans 2 "nods" thanks to a mechanical device that makes Chilon able to pilot his head, and after a few "information speeches", Arundel, Aegir (what is left of the House, led by Ferdie's mom herself!) and Fenya (Hans 2's mom, Ionius spouse, was from Fenya!) rebel against Supreme Leader.

Hubert is puzzled, he was sure Solon told him Supreme Leader was the only one who survived with her mind intact, and Supreme Leader affirms "uncle" is the one who told her Hans lost his mind, so why is he even trying to take back the throne from her???

Hans 2 is, after all those speeches, returned to his giant test tube for maintenance and to make sure the body is still in perfect condition.

But...

Researcher #56, munching a bag of "Adrestian snacks" is very surprised when he sees Hans 2's results of the day, apparenly, Hans 2 has some brain activity??

He runs more tests - what the fuck is going on - and yep, within a week, Hans 2's brain activity "restarts", at first weakly but after 2 weeks, the body doesn't need mechanical "help" to survive - the body has now a major crest of Seiros, and two months after the start of Supreme Leader's war, Hans 2 opens an eye.

But is it still "Hans 2"? The beast Hans 2 died when its brain died !

Is it maybe the failed hybrid taking over this host ? But Lycaon died 1k years ago, and had no crest stone to have housed is "essence" during all those years !

Is "Hans 2" the manifestation of the essence from the crest stone? But if what that cardinal said was true, it came from the beast pretending to be archbishop, and she's still alive!

So what the fuck is "Hans 2"?!

Suddenly being afraid, Researcher #56 wants to put "Hans 2" in a freezer, next to Nemesis, but while he is writing his mail to Solon to ask for an authorisation to use a tupperware, "Hans 2" breaks out of his container/test tube.

Bias comes to the rescue, congratulating "Hans 2" for his recovery and trying to "talk" to that "thing", even to calm him with a bag of "Adrestian snacks", he must be hungry, right?

After ten "Adrestian snacks" bags, "Hans 2" starts to behave strangely, growing violent and snapping some "assistant researchers" in half - demonstrating he can use his major crest! What a discovery, when before the experiments, Hans 2 only had a minor crest! - and breaking machines.

Hopefully, Thales rewarps and pushes "Hans 2" in a tupperware, sending him to the freezer.

Outside, people only noticed there has been some sort of small earthquake south of Goneril territory, but since the war is happening, no one gives a fuck.

Supreme Leader supremely deals with the rebellions (to demonstrate his loyalty to the cause, Ferdie has to behead his mom, and traitorous siblings!) and wonders if, by miracle, one of her siblings can still be alive?

Oh well, Uncle still has to die, just like the cruel beast to free Humanity from their shackles, maybe she'll make a special investigation team to look for her brother, or the one pretending to be him.

In SB, Thales plans on having "Hans 2" and Nemesis'n'pals released from the freezer and brought to the battlefield when the beast and Supreme Leader are making their way to him : maybe Supreme Leader will stay her hand (or the beast?) faced with her brother and it will give him an opportunity to win, while the nabateans will focus on Nemesis, and it will give him the chance to fell the both!

but his mail goes in Researcher #56 "spam" box, and "Hans 2" is never released :(

In AG, Thales prefers to use Supreme Puppet, after all, if the Faerghus boy is their enemy, maybe he will still his hand at the last moment, and it will give them an opportunity to strike : after all, Cleobulus told him how this boy and Supreme Leader seemed to have been friends, and how much her departure and subsequent betrayal - starting the war to march on Faerghus - affected him.

No need to free "Hans 2", besides, not exactly knowing what is Hans 2, it's by essence a more difficult weapon to control.

The (pointless) end :(

[ottokallenhonkai3rd]

⚜ 𝒪𝓉𝓉ℴ𝒦𝒶𝓁𝓁ℯ𝓃 𝓈𝓊𝓅𝓇ℯ𝓂ℯ𝓂𝒶𝒸𝓎 ⚜

I searched for OttoKallen on Twitter (mind you, without a hashtag) and I came across misinformation again. In this post was a SakuKallen picture, too. I don´t hate it, when people ship this ship. But because SakuKallen shippers keep attacking OttoKallen and spreading misinformation, this ship is gradually getting on my nerves. However, that's not the only reason I don't like SakuKallen as Ship. In this post I explain why. It's my personal opinion. Nobody has to share it. So please be patient and nice. SAKURA SAMSARA:

First we have the three regular Sakura Samara. The Samsaras were created from the memories of Sakura and Black Box shard, if I remember correctly. Sakuras soul was inside. In principle you can explore three options. One where Kallen dies, one where Sakura is killed by Kallen and one where they live in peace. It is important to note, that it is just a dream world of stigma. At that point, the real Kallen was not at Sakuras side. What is important to the shippers is the picture in which Kallen and Sakura are lying on the meadow holding hands.

There is also a fourth Samsara part in which Kallen lies on the meadow with Sakura and then leaves her for no reason at all. The plot twist is that Kallen lost her memories and fought Sakura, because of it. But Sakura was able to get her back. It was also made clear here that Kallen was just Sakura's memories and not the real Kallen. The two images listed are important for shippers, because they can be interpreted romantically. THE GRATITUTE ARC:

In the "Gratitude Arc", Theresa is possessed by a Stigma, causing her to end up in Sakura's Samara. Kallen helps Theresa to save Sakura by giving her the Oath of Judah. At the end we see her together with Rin and Sakura, eating ricecake. But it was just Sakuras inmagination. Shippers are happy that the two soulmates have finally found each other and can live happily together. SANKA SAGA:

Sanka Saga is an event that takes place in a parallel world. This parallel world is very ninja-oriented and involves seals that need to be found. The plot-twist of the story is that Kallen Castellan tried to revive Sakura by resetting time with the Preta rune. But she couldn't control the power and basically blew herself up with Sakura's body in her arms. This is just a rough summary. If you are interested in Sanka Saga, you can watch the story on YouTube. Fact is, that SakuKallen Shippers celebrate this story. Even though Kallen takes on the role of Otto. She lived 500 years. Otto lived 500 years. Kallen cloned Sakura and created Kasumi. Otto cloned Kallen and created Theresa. Both instinctively know that the soul of the loved one is in the clone's body, but have no interest in them. Kallen did cruel experiments to bring Sakura back to life. Otto did cruel experiments to bring Kallen back to life. the parallels are fluid. And in this case I don't understand these double standards. ST. FREYA HIGH:

St. Freya High, also known as Sakura's Membrance, is a webcomic with massively sexualized yuri content. It is also the prequel to "The Gratitute Arc". In principle, Kiana playfully immerses herself in a database in which she, as Kaslana, gains access to secret data. She then meets Kallen Kaslana and ultimately saves her from execution. She receives the cross from her, which later helps Theresa save Sakura. We also learn that Kallen was in love with Sakura. She shouted this fact out loud in court and later even wanted to die, because Sakura was no longer alive. The St. Freya High webcomic is still on the official international Honkai Impact site. But only the first three chapters. The ones that contain this story are deleted. In that case, the material should be considered non-canon. COOKING VALKYRIES:

The "Cooking Valkyries" event is designed to teach fans how to prepare some dishes. You can see Kallen and Sakura cuddling with their hands clasped together and Sakura flirting with an alcoholic Kallen. GUN GIRLS Z:

When it comes to GGZ (or Houkai Gakuen Z), there doesn't seem to be much, that can be put into a romantic context. At least only one picture ever appears in Shipping-discurses, that is supposed to prove Sakura and Kallen as lovers. And this is the one shown above. But the truth looks different. Sakura is controlled by the Honkai energy. Being under this control, she turns Kallen into a mindless doll so that she won't leave. Kallen says several times that she doesn't want that. This image alludes to the GGZ webcomic "Dark Sakura Tales", which was also linked on the Chinese Honkai Impact 3 website.

The story begins after this part from this webcomic. Apparently it's supposed to be an alternative version to Dark Sakura Tales. As a what-if scenario. WHY I DISLIKE THIS SHIP: Why don't I like SakuKallen, or rather, why do I prefer OttoKallen over this ship? Especially because this SakuKallen is more or less canon and contains many beautiful tragic stories.

My reason is,... Sakura has a lot of trouble letting Kallen go. To the point that, under the influence of the Honkai energy, she is willing to turn Kallen into a doll to keep her with her. The black box controls its victims by bringing out the worst traits and darkest desires of its hosts. I'm not saying Sakura is a bad person, but that aspect is definitely a part of her. And Otto is not like that. While Sakura's fears of loss are justified by Kallen leaving her, Otto's fears of loss are justified by the fact that Kallen might die. This is clearly evident in the webcomic "Elan Platinus" and also in Sanka Saga. While Sakura can console herself with a false version of Kallen, Otto cannot. That's why he wants to bring her back to life. They both love Kallen, but I find Sakura's way of love much more selfish than Otto's. Why didn't she accompany Kallen, if she was so important to her?

All what was important to Otto was that Kallen was alive and happy. He was even willing to sacrifice himself for her happiness. Would Otto accept, if Kallen chose Sakura? - I think so. Because her happiness is more important to him than his own needs. Would Sakura accept if Kallen chose Otto? - “But that light chose to shine on others instead.” Kallen in a projection of Sakuras inmagination of her. It is mentioned very often that Kallen wants to leave. This was explicitly teased again in the fourth Samsara part. What is a romantic reunion for Shipper, is for me more of a sign, that Fake-Kallen also wants to leave this place. Sanka Saga is OttoKallen played through in a different way and as for the scenes in the cooking event...

Kallen also likes to hold hands with Otto. And as I said. Kallen is only blushing, because she consumed alcohol beforehand. Otto and Kallen, on the other hand, don't have a lot of screen time together. But the fact that they have a close bond. The tragic that Otto's fears came true and Kallen died. That Otto did everything he could to revive her. And the fact that he didn't do it for selfish reasons is what makes me love this shipping so much.

[hriobzagelthewanderer]

The Fae Court - Military:

The Fae Court of the Wanderer, is many things... and thanks to its not-so-insignificant interest in remaining armed and protected, situated as it is mainly within a storied citadel at the heart of a magical mountain... surrounded by hundreds of acres of magically potent fae-monster-infested woodlands, and separated into its own fragmented shard of reality in the Void between Worlds to boot, it is no surprise that the Martial Branch is what it is - a loose collection of well-focused and extremely talented - or perhaps dangerous - individuals all fitted under a flexible-yet-effective hierarchy and honed to a singular goal - protecting the Court, and not only in its many members or unique territory.

Knight(s): Eerie Somby (Head) [ @dethdvncer ], Leanna von Braun (Reserve) [ @automaton-otto ] As much paragons of might as effective leaders, as much one-man-armies as exemplars of the values of the Court (in theory at least), the Knights are the top of the rankings for the Court's military, and the Tip of the Spear when open battle becomes inevitable to protect it from those who would harm it or its many members. Currently, there is only one Active knight, and thus their leadership is not truly in question, but the differentiation between 'Head' Knight and other Knights will perhaps one day be tested. As powerful and deadly as they are to face one-on-one, any and all Knights of the Court of the Wanderer are technically those most heavily or closely sworn to the Lord of the Court itself - as in many ways they are one of the foremost faces of the Court by virtue of their position(s).

Marshal(s): 'Hiegau' of the Black Dogs [ @lookthedevilintheeye ] A more mixed and indirect, if no less important rank just under the Knights, a Marshal of the Fae Court of the Wanderer is effectively meant to fill two roles interchangeably - logistics officer and organizer during peace, and field-commander during wartime. While strong in their own right as a prerequisite, being a Marshal is less about being able to fight so much as being able to Lead and keep one's wits in any sort of struggle - be it maintaining standards and assignments for the many Rangers and Guards in the court, or leading them to battle against deadly odds and winning without major losses. There is only one Marshal position filled at the moment, and the Lord of the Court is eager to see another rise to the position - be it from within the Court's current ranks or otherwise.

Ranger(s): Yuugo [ @heroesxdemons ], Ulan 'La Brújula' of Tangway [ @sins-of-the-sea ], Finn Mertens [ @finncomet ] Rangers are by far the most mixed and flexible of the members of the Martial Branch of the Court, regardless of their skills. By nature, the rank of Ranger is not one of leadership but nonetheless is a position of merit and importance, as Rangers are effectively Operatives ideal for assignments of great difficulty or importance to more actively guard the Court... not only its members, but its interests and investments, even if by occasionally unsavory means. Rangers are not Knights, but rather Spies, Assassins, Bounty-Hunters, and Specialists of many kinds and fields - far from defenseless in a straight-up fight, but generally those who favor tactics and methods other than full-frontal combat to fulfill their objectives. Current rangers include - in no particular order of seniority - an expert in hunting and subduing even the toughest of monsters, an expert assassin and tracker with exceptional skill in stealth and reconnaissance, and an in-training powerhouse of an adventurer learning new skills to better round-out his repertoire in more than simple combat.

Guard(s): Theodore 'Teddy' Augustus Ramsel [ @bleedinghearth ], Mortem [ @cursedfortune ], Nikki Eryl Faden [ @wiildhearrted ] Guards are technically the lowest rank in the military-hierarchy of the Fae Court, but in many ways they remain the backbone of more than just the defenses of the Court and the Halls it is seated within. While in times of war they are both soldiers and the last lines of defense should the Halls be attacked, in times of peace any Guard of the Court is expected to have other duties to help them serve and protect those they have sworn to defend: One such guard happily serves as a de-facto daycare worker in his day-to-day life in the Court, another inspects and maintains the many Runic protections and Wards in and around the Halls, yet another extends her patrol-duties to the wild, monster-infested forests surrounding the Mountain and serves as a Game Warden of sorts to control and maintain the natural defenses and resources the forests offer. While not expected to be front-line soldiers except as a last resort, there is no real requirement or expectation of strength or power to the role, other than simple diligence and an understanding of what might be asked of a Guard in times of need - it is therefore one of the easiest positions to enter and maintain in the Court.

[aeksion-aekse]

WHISPERS OF THE DRAGON & THE FAWN

Chapter 6: Misspoken Words & A Mindless Curse

tag list 🏷️ : @eiralune @rozendiors @mini-kunoichi @noeverse @flippydippydoo @thought--bubble

word count: 2515 words

WARNING: ANGST, NIGHTMARES, CANONICAL EVENTS

FLASHBACKS = PINK

DREAMS = ORANGE

Brinaera’s POV

It seemed as if everything had gone to shit since Daemon, Rhaenyra and her sons came to the Red Keep, like a dog scratching at old wounds. Memories of the past returned, like the tides to shore on Blackwater Bay, and though mine weren’t especially horrible, didn’t mean that the memories in general weren’t unpleasant. It was like constantly tiptoeing on shards of broken glass and minding your tongue on every word.

I tried my hardest to keep my mind occupied from the memory of Aegon trying to have his way with me, and for the most part, I was succeeding. Despite it being only a few days ago, at certain moments I could feel his lingering touch and it made my skin crawl. But when I went to bed that night and was asleep in my bedchambers, I felt as if…. I wasn’t alone through the night, but they left before I awoke. But I knew it wasn’t Aegon. No, it wasn’t, yet the presence still felt masculine. 

Tonight was the night we were all supposed to have a feast together: Myself, Aemond, Aegon, Helaena, Viserys, Alicent, Otto, Daemon, Rhaenyra, Baela, Rhaena, Jacaerys and Lucerys. I knew it would be a tense feast, but much like anything else, I had to grit my teeth, smile and power through it. 

After Ursa was finished getting me dressed for the feast, I was escorted by Ser Criston Cole to the dining room, seeing all the faces so familiar to me and smiling at them all.

“Rhaenyra, Daemon, lovely to see the both of you again, you look well. And Baela, Rhaena, Jace, Luke…. You have all grown.”

I could see the awkward smiles from Rhaenyra’s sons and Daemon’s daughters, the pleased smile from Rhaenyra and the natural grin from Daemon. Although tension in the Targaryen family is tumultuous at best, the common census was that I was well liked, for the most part.

“Lady Brinaera, you look beautiful tonight. It’s been some time since we’ve seen you.”

I turn my head to look at Jace and slightly raise my brow, a small and cordial smile on my face. He wasn’t wrong, the last time I had seen any of Rhaenyra or Daemon’s children was that night in Driftmark. That very night Aemond lost his eye by Jace and Luke’s hands.

“Prince Jacaerys…. It has been some time indeed. As I said previously, you have all grown since we last saw each other in Driftmark.”

I could see the faint hue of pink spread across Jace’s cheeks and even the tips of his ears at my words, and hearing faint chuckles at the table. But as I went to take my seat at the table next to Aemond, I could see something slightly off with him. He looked tense, and his jaw looked tight, like he was clenching his teeth. 

As the feast continued, with a few tense things occurring, such as Aegon giving Jace the talk, Helaena’s speech to Baela and Jace dancing with Helaena, nothing could’ve prepared me for what was about to occur next. Aemond put his fist down on the table and rose from his seat, raising his goblet.

“Final tribute. To the health of my nephews: Jace… Luke… and Joffrey. Each of them handsome, wise… hm… strong.”

I could feel my jaw slightly clench at Aemond’s words, knowing exactly what he was insinuating and trying to get at. I could feel my eye twitch slightly as I heard Alicent call Aemond’s name, as if it were a warning, but of course they fell on deaf ears. But of course, Aemond spoke once again, and all I could do is white knuckle grip my goblet, gulping down wine as this all played out.

“Come… let us drain our cups to these three…Strong boys.”

“I dare you to say that again.”

Aemond then turned his attention to Jace and spoke, walking towards him.

“Why? ‘Twas only a compliment. Do you not think yourself Strong?”

But of course, even more chaos erupted, Jace throwing a weak punch to Aemond’s face, Aegon pinning Luke down to the table and Aemond shoving Jace down to the ground before laughing and walking back to his seat. Alicent then walked up to Aemond and asked the question I couldn’t, feeling myself become angry. 

“Why would you say such a thing before these people?”

“I was merely expressing how proud I am of my family, Mother.

Mm, though it seems my nephews aren’t quite as proud of theirs.”

After all of this mess, we were all instructed to go to our quarters and as I was heading to where my bedchambers were, I heard swift yet graceful footsteps behind me.  Aemond.

“What is it you want, Aemond? Surely you made enough of a spectacle at the dinner table, no?”

Aemond soon caught up to me and placed a hand upon my shoulder, turning me around to face him. I could see some slight surprise in his single blue eye as he looked down at me, the irritation evident in my voice and my expression.

“Surely you aren’t upset with me for my toast to the health of my dear nephews.”

“You know perfectly well what you were doing, Aemond, do not play coy in this moment. It is ill fitting and unbecoming on you.”

I go to enter my bedchambers and of course, Aemond follows behind me, closing the door with a single swift movement. I sigh and go to the balcony as the pale moonlight illuminated the waters of Blackwater Bay, a slight cool breeze blowing through. Aemond strides over to me, placing a hand next to mine on the ledge of the balcony.

“You wouldn’t be upset with me over something so miniscule, would you, opal… ?”

Seven Hells, there it was, that nickname… the special and prized nickname for me he had, only he could call me that and no one else. I gripped the ledge of the balcony until my knuckles whitened, not even bothering to look Aemond in the eye.

“You belittle them for their blood, something that they cannot help.”

“They are bastards, Brinaera, nothing more.”

I snapped my head up to look at him as I glared at him, my eyes narrowed as they became glossed over with tears of anger. 

“And have you been so quick to forget that I am a bastard as well, Aemond….? Does that earn me the jesting and ridicule of everyone, most of all you as well…. ?”

Aemond just stared at me, his jaw clenched and teeth gnashing together as he failed to come up with words and excuses to veil the rising guilt forming that he would never admit to. 

“I…. I have not forgotten, opal. Not once, but you are different from Jace and Luke, you did not tease me as children, nor scar me for the rest of my life. No, you…. ”

He moved one of his hands up to push some of my hair out of my face, the tips of his slender fingers grazing my cheekbone. The way he stared at me was a gaze I had seen from him a million times over, yet never failed to make me feel something I couldn;t quite place.

“You are different. You are kind and benevolent, you are patient and skilled in ways they could not hope to be. You are my friend, dear opal. And most importantly, you aren’t a threat to the Iron Throne.”

Just as I thought Aemond was being somewhat vulnerable, there was the comment that was the focal point of his words. I wasn’t a threat to the Iron Throne. I grabbed a hold of his hand and removed it from my face, looking away from him and to the moonlit waters of Blackwater Bay, speaking in a flat tone of voice.

“I don’t wish to speak anymore tonight, Aemond, you should retire to your chambers as well. Goodnight…. sapphire.”

Aemond said nothing, and after a couple moments of silence, he left my side and exited my bedchambers, closing the door behind me. I just moved to look down at my feet, my hand grabbing the dragon pendant of my necklace that Aemond had made for me on my thirteenth name day, biting my bottom lip as it trembled, tears rolling down my face.

Third Person POV

Aemond begrudgingly made his way to his bedchambers and closed the door behind him, making his way to his bed and just sat there, pondering Brinaera’s words. They swirled and echoed throughout his mind like a cacophony of guilt, gnawing away at him like a predator feasting on its prey. He sat there as the pale moonlight slightly trickled into his bedchambers, the faint sound of the Blackwater Bay waves crashing on shore in the distance. He fiddled with his fingers, slightly fidgeting as his dear friend’s words continued to play in his head. After a moment, he looked to the small table beside his bed and stared at a shell. A single shell, one that to anyone else would’ve been meaningless to anyone else, but to Aemond… to Aemond, it meant the world.

Brinaera had run from the lake close to the forest outside the confinements of Driftmark, as fast as her ten-year-old feet could take her. It was dusk and way past curfew, but she managed to make it inside before anyone could spot her. She made it into her chambers and sighed, her hair and feet a mess, her dress covered in mud and satchel full of gems, stones and shells. 

As she sat her satchel down and changed out of her dirty dress into a clean sleeping gown, her door opened and showed Aemond as he closed the door behind him. His left eye gone and sewn shut, a scar on his face, one to remain for the rest of his life. 

“Where have you been? Have you any idea what time it is?”

“I know Aemond, but I was just by the lake and I-”

Aemond walked up to the young Baratheon girl, his hands gripping her arms as he stared her straight in the eyes. He didn’t look exactly happy with his friend’s response.

“You were outside, at dusk, by yourself? Do you have any idea what could’ve happened to you? Gods, you’re so irresponsible sometimes….. ”

Brinaera started to sniffle slightly, as she didn’t like when her friend was upset with her. She reached into her satchel and pulled out a shell that had opalescent nacre inside of it, one that glistened iridescently in the light.

“I…. I found this shell by the lake covered in mud. It was nice and I thought it was pretty and so I got it for you…. I cleaned it off and I want you to have it.”

Aemond tried to remain stoic and wanted to continue to scold his friend for being so careless, but he couldn’t bring himself to stay upset with her. He sighed and rolled his eye, grabbing the opalescent shell and holding it in his hand, his thumb running over the different textures of the shell. He let out a huff and wrapped his other arm around Brinaera’s neck, his hand on the back of her head and gingerly ruffling her hair.

“Thank you, raqiros… I appreciate your gift. Just don’t be stupid enough to go alone after curfew to get it.”

Brinaera just smiled happily yet sheepishly, nodding her head as a small laugh escaped her lips.

“I promise, ñuhys raqiros, I won’t. But now I think it’s best we retire for the night. I will see you in the morning…. sapphire.”

Aemond smiled small, but the first smile he had given since losing his eye. He went to the door of Brinaera’s chambers to leave before muttering a goodnight.

“I will see you in the morning…. opal.”

Aemond looked at the opalescent shell on the bedside table in fondness, a small ghost of a smile on his lips. Of course the both of them had been friends since Brinaera became a ward to his family at the age of three, but it was the moment she gave him that shell…. He knew that she would always be by his side no matter what. But in that moment during the feast as he gave his final tribute, his snub against his nephews was also a snub against the most important person to him. 

He continued to fidget with his fingers as the thought plagued his mind like a sickness, cursing himself for being so prideful. Not because he cared that he insulted his nephews, but because he insulted her, and that was always the last thing he wanted to do. He decided that perhaps… Perhaps it was time to get some rest.

Throughout the night, he tossed and turned restlessly, unable to sleep adequately and muttering nonsense in his broken sleep. Many a nightmare plagued and haunted his mind, unable to escape or run away from them.

Aemond was a boy once again, that ten year old boy in Driftmark as he ran through a dimly lit cavern, with nothing but a flame lit torch. He kept running and running for what seemed like forever until his legs gave out. He kept begging and crying for help, for anyone… until he heard laughter, faint laughter that grew louder and closer. The flames gave enough light to see the laughing figures: Jacaerys, Lucerys, Baela, Rhaena and…. Brinaera… ?

“W-wait, Brinaera, ñuhys raqiros, please… opal, don’t do this.”

Brinaera could only continue to laugh, but it wasn’t that melodic, sweet sounding laugh that Aemond knew well, no… it was an evil, disgusting cackle. 

“By the Seven, don’t you get it Aemond? This is your fault. All bastards are the same, right…. ? Ruthless, evil little brutes. Here, let me show you, sapphire…. ”

Everyone continued to laugh maniacally as Baela and Rhaena pinned Aemond’s arms down to the ground while Jace and Luke pinned his legs down. Brinaera then got close to Aemond’s face with a dagger and grinned, muttering to him. 

“Ao lumie an, ñuhys raqiros…. ”

As the dagger came down on his eye, Aemond jolted awake in his bed, beads of sweat rolling down his face as he panted, his heart racing faster than a dragonrider in the sky. How could he dream of something so horrible? And why was Brinaera the one taking out his eye? She would never bring harm to him. Not once has she ever done something like that and she never, ever will. 

Aemond turned his head to look at the opalescent shell on the bedside table and thought of every memory he had created with Brinaera thus far, feeling himself start to calm down. He laid back down in his bed and grabbed the shell, holding it in his hand and had it close to his chest, and as he started to fall back to sleep, he muttered one last thing.

“Goodnight…. jorrāeliarza…. ”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

TRANSLATION:

raqiros - friend

ñuhys raqiros - dear friend

jorrāeliarza - dearest, love

Ao lumie an, ñuhys raqiros - you sicken me, dear friend