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serpentandlily · 9 months ago

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Lost in a Labyrinth - Azriel x Reader

Lost in a Labyrinth I - Azriel x Reader

Summary: Lonely and heartbroken after his near kiss with Elain, Azriel finds himself at the door to the most exclusive pleasure house in Hewn City, The Labyrinth, taking Rhysand’s cruel advice. What he expected to find was a pretty girl to warm a bed with him for a single night. But instead he finds something he never thought existed—his mate. A mate that is tangled up in something far more sinister than he could ever imagine.

Warnings: smut (minors dni), reader is a prostitute

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Part I

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

“So you will leave Elain alone. If you need to fuck someone, go to a pleasure house and pay for it, but stay away from her.”

Rhysand’s words had played over and over again in his head since the Winter Solstice, three months ago. Azriel wasn't sure why he was taking him up on his shitty advice now but by some will of his own, he was standing in the shadows of the alley across the street from The Labyrinth—Hewn City’s most exclusive brothel.

Azriel only knew of this place because some of the high ranking nobles he spied on talked about it often. It was known for its secrecy, for making sure their clientele had confidentiality. There were far more pleasure houses that were known to the public, even one in Velaris, but the last thing Azriel wanted was word getting around that he had been seen visiting one. Partly because he liked keeping his love affairs secret, but mostly because he didn’t want to give that satisfaction to Rhysand.

When his shadows came back with no reports of any sightings of faeries nearby, Azriel crossed the distance to The Labyrinth. He knocked five times on the plain looking, unassuming door, following the instructions he had overheard.

A sliding peephole opened revealing a pair of dark eyes. “A bargain, Shadowsinger,” a male voice said through the door. “A copper for your eyes.”

“A silver for your tongue,” Azriel agreed. He felt a burning sensation behind his ear, the bargain tattoo forming.

This was another thing he had learned from spying— the secret bargain that would grant you access to The Labyrinth. A bargain that he wouldn’t speak of the people and things he might see here so long as they kept their silence in regards to his identity.

The door swung open a second later and the male guard ushered him in. The guard gave him a once over, his eyes stopping on the dagger sheathed on his thigh.

“No weapons allowed, Shadowsinger,” the guard ordered. “Especially around the girls.”

Azriel wordlessly unsheathed Truth-teller and let his shadows take it away. He didn’t tell the guard that it was pointless, that he could summon it back at any time regardless of whatever wards they had set up around here—his shadows didn’t abide by the typical rules of magic. But the guard didn’t need to know that.

The guard held out a gloved hand. “The entrance fee.”

Azriel reached into his pocket and pulled out a small pouch filled with coins. He set it in the guard’s palm without question.

The guard gave him a dip of the head, satisfied, before gesturing for him to continue on. Azriel strided down the dim hallway. He could already smell various aphrodisiacs and drugs amongst the intoxicating scent of arousal in the air. It spurred him on, kept his feet moving on the dark red carpet, not allowing him the chance to second guess his decision to come here.

He wasn’t sure what magic was at play, or if they specifically scented the hallway to further get their clients in the mood, but something was tugging him forward.

He finally made it to the other end of the hallway, where a black door was awaiting him. He opened it slowly, cautiously and when no threat appeared, stepped through the threshold. The door opened up into a large foyer of sorts with a large candle chandelier hanging from the ceiling.

Straight ahead was a grand staircase that led to the second floor. On both sides of the foyer were large double doors with masked guards standing in front of them, swords strapped to their backs.

Waiting for him in the center of the room was an older, High Fae female with generous curves, dressed decadently. A polite smile graced her pretty but aging face as she took him in.

“Shadowsinger,” she greeted with a dip of the head, her hands clasped in front of her. “Welcome to The Labyrinth. My name is Lydia. I will be your point of contact during your time here. Please follow me, I will show you to the girls so you may make your selection.”

This wasn’t the first time Azriel had visited a pleasure house. Gods, when they were younger, him, Rhysand and Cassian had gone to some together. Had even taken the same girl once. But this felt…different. The atmosphere was soft, sensual—not rowdy like the other brothels he had been to.

He followed Lydia into the first set of double doors, which led down another long corridor with more doors lining the wall, all numbered. Until they reached the end where another set of double doors waited. As soon as Lydia pushed them open and gestured for him to continue, soft music crept through the air.

Azriel walked into a heavily perfumed room, dimly lit much like everywhere else in this place. Dark red, velvet settees and cushions lined the walls and floors. Silks hanging from the ceilings gave each space a bit of privacy. A bar was on the opposite wall, fully stocked with various alcohols. Males and females, alike, were milling about the room in various states of undress, some paired up on the couches and chairs.

At the front of the room was a wall made entirely of glass that overlooked a courtyard. Hanging plants and flowered vines decorated the space. A large fountain bubbled in the middle of it. Girls in lingerie and silk robes sat on the stone benches and cushions on the floor, lingered near the fountain, danced to the soft music in corners of the courtyard—all giggling and chattering with each other.

“These are the girls in The Labyrinth,” Lydia explained. “If you would like to see our selection of males, let me know.”

His eyes wandered over the girls, all so beautiful and unique. Every single type of fae was here—from nymphs to firelings to High Fae. But his gaze was drawn towards a lone figure in one of the second story alcoves.

His breath was sucked from his lungs the minute his eyes fell on her. She was…she was so beautiful. The most beautiful female he had ever seen in his five hundred years of living. She was dressed in a light pink lingerie set, a sheer robe hanging over it with white fur trims. She was alone, resting an elbow on the stone railing with her chin plopped in her hand as she gazed out into the carved mountainside within Hewn City.

He couldn’t rip his eyes away from her.

“Are any of them suited to your tastes, Shadowsinger?” Lydia questioned from beside him, knocking him out of whatever spell he had been put under.

“Her,” he answered, his voice a mere whisper, as he dipped his head towards the female he couldn’t help but stare at.

Lydia murmured something to one of the masked servants walking around with trays of champagne flutes. A moment later, one returned and handed the female a slip of paper. She clicked her tongue at whatever she read.

“Apologies, Shadowsinger,” she said, “But it looks like she’s already been chosen for tonight. Do any—”

“By who?” Azriel growled before he even realized, his shadows whirling around him. Lydia looked up at him with a stern look that accentuated all the fine lines on her face.

“You know I can’t tell you that,” she chided. Azriel gave her a sheepish look, not knowing what had come over him. “It looks like any of the other girls are still up for the taking if you’d like to choose another?”

But Azriel couldn’t stop staring at the girl in the pink. Couldn’t help but be mesmerized by her. None of the other girls caught his attention. He had come here looking for a quick, no strings attached, fuck but that desire, that need—it was like it had been sucked right out of him.

“I…” he trailed off, suddenly reeling back into his body. Lydia was staring up at him expectedly but he took a step away. “N-no. I’m sorry. I should…I should go.”

Not a second later, his shadows swirled around him, whisking him away.

⋆˙⟡☾𖤓☽ ⟡˙⋆

Azriel wasn’t sure what drew him back to The Labyrinth the next night. Or the night after. Each time he came, he asked for that girl in pink, and each time, he was told she had already been booked for the night. It would’ve been easy to accompany Mor to Rita’s and find a plethora of females that would fuck him for free. But none of them would’ve been her.

He wasn’t even sure why he was becoming so obsessed with a girl he’d never even talked to. Obsessed enough to travel to Hewn City, pay the copious entrance fee, just to leave when he was told she was still not available.

But here he was.

Again.

Standing at the doors to The Labyrinth.

It had become such a reoccurrence that Lydia would merely shake her head no at the sight of him, already knowing what he was there for. He was sure tonight would go more or less the same. But he was surprised when he caught sight of Lydia standing in the large, intricate foyer and she shook her head yes.

“Well, Shadowsinger,” she said, “I admire your persistence. It seems it is your lucky day. The girl you’ve been waiting for is available. Please, continue on up the stairs and into The Labyrinth. She will be waiting for you behind the ninth door.”

Azriel gave her a dip of the head before striding past her to the staircase. His shadows were swarming him—excited about something. He tuned them out, pushing open the black doors waiting for him at the top of the stairs.

He paused for a second, feeling like he had suddenly been transported somewhere else. Instead of one long hallway like he’d been expecting, the doors opened to a maze of large pillars, multiple pathways lit by candles placed on the floor.

He sent his shadows forward to scout the place and locate the ninth door that Lydia had mentioned. He followed their trail which led him to a red door with a number nine painted on it in a darker shade of red that looked suspiciously like blood.

He let out the breath he had been holding as he wrapped his scarred fingers around the doorknob and slowly pushed it open.

Slow, sultry music met his ears and the scent of pomegranates and cardamom flooded his senses. It was intoxicating, beckoning him forward. He softly shut the door behind him before he completely paused in his tracks as he turned to face the room.

There, standing with her back to him, was the girl who had been utterly consuming his mind since he had first laid eyes on her. She was wearing a light pink nightgown that laced down her lower back. She was bent forward slightly, lighting a candle on a coffee table set up in front of a pair of red velvet couches.

His eyes trailed over the room for a second, trying to gather his bearings. It was a large room, large enough to have a sitting area separate from the four-poster bed covered in silk and textured fabrics. Everything fit the same color scheme as the other rooms he’d been in, red and black. Lit only by candles, the soft lighting only added to the sultry atmosphere.

Some smoke lingered in the air, making everything a bit more hazy. He recognized the scent as a popular aphrodisiac often used during parties with high nobility. His shadows seemed lulled by the music, drifting around him lazily as he stood in place.

He stood frozen as she finally turned around and met his gaze. He had thought her beautiful that day he had seen her up on the balcony, but this close, well… beautiful was not strong enough of a word. She looked crafted for the Gods, a being not meant to walk alongside man. His breath was sucked right out of his lungs again, his eyes widened as his shadows reacted by lowering themselves onto the ground, leaving him bare.

“There you are,” she purred, her voice as smooth as silk and honey. “I’ve heard you’ve been waiting for me.”

Azriel swallowed harshly, his throat bobbing with the motion. He watched her eyes track it, watched how her smirk slipped into a soft smile instead. He opened his mouth to speak, to say anything, but it was like no thoughts existed in his head except for an image of her.

“A bit shy, are you?” She teased after he failed to speak, walking towards him and holding out a hand with well manicured nails. “That’s okay, my love, let me take care of you.”

She grasped his hand in her much smaller one, not even flinching when her skin met contact with his brutal scars. He let her guide him to the couch and push him to sit, entranced by her very presence. She moved to the bar cart behind him, running a delicate hand over his shoulders as she did, before pouring two glasses of whiskey.

She meandered back over to him, plopping on the couch next to him before handing him one of the glasses. She clinked her glass against his. “For the nerves, my love.”

Azriel wanted to tell her that he wasn’t nervous, but that would be a lie. He had no idea why he had been reduced to the shy teenage boy he had been in his youth but he couldn’t shake himself from the feeling. Her presence was overwhelming, intimidating. Like she somehow held his entire being in the palm of her hands.

“Thank you,” he grunted out, his voice rough. He cleared his throat before downing his glass of whiskey in one go. She followed his lead, her smoky eyes never leaving his as she swallowed her whiskey. Beneath the exaggerated desire he found in them was a more calculating look, like she was trying to figure him out.

A bit of the whiskey slipped out of the side of her mouth, dripping down her chin and neck to the crevice between her breasts. Azriel’s gaze followed it, his cock tightening in his pants as he wished to lick it off her gleaming skin.

“Oops,” she giggled, swiping it up with a finger and sucking it into her mouth. “Would you like another glass?”

He shook his head. He didn’t want to be drunk for this. He wanted to savor every second of his time with her, the girl who had been plaguing his thoughts night and day.

“You seem tense, Shadowsinger,” she purred with a pout, making his eyes dip to her full, red painted lips. “I can fix that.”

She reached forward and ran a slender hand up his chest and he nearly moaned at the feeling of her touching him. His hand latched onto hers, stopping it in its tracks.

“What’s your name?” Azriel asked, finally speaking. He needed to know. Needed to taste the way it felt to say it on his tongue as much as he needed to taste her.

“Serenity,” she replied with a coy smile. “But you can call me anything you like, my love.”

His eyes searched hers. “That’s not your real name, is it?”

“Of course not, darling,” she giggled. She leaned towards him, close enough that her breath fluttered over his ear. His cock twitched in his pants, his skin heated. “I think the real question is, what would you like me to call you, Shadowsinger?”

“Azriel,” he breathed out. “Just…just Azriel.”

“Azriel,” she repeated in that voice of silk and honey.

His eyes darted down to her lips again. He couldn’t help it, couldn’t help how turned on he felt. Was it the aphrodisiacs in the room? Or perhaps the whiskey had hit just right? He didn’t care. All he knew was he needed to have her.

Azriel let go of her hand, letting her continue her travel up his chest until she grabbed the empty glass in his hand and set it down on the table in front of them. She made eye contact with him again, slowly moving to straddle him on the couch, wrapping her arms around his neck lightly. He bit back a groan as her weight fell on his hardening member.

“What is it you’re here for, Azriel?”

His brain couldn’t focus with her in his lap. Her eyes were so mesmerizing, her scent one he could get high off. His hands found her waist, the silk fabric of her nightgown so smooth against his rough skin.

“You,” he whispered, honestly. Because that was the truth. He had seen her and knew he needed to have her.

“I’m yours, Azriel,” she giggled. “Any way you want me.”

If he were a better male, perhaps now would be the time he realized this might be a mistake. But he wasn’t a better male. He couldn’t be. Not when her body was pressed against his, not when she looked so beautiful staring up at him with her large, expressive eyes, and certainly not when his body was singing for her—hungering for her like she was the only sustenance he needed.

So Azriel surged forward and kissed her.

Lightning exploded, skittering over his skin, the moment his lips touched hers. He groaned at the feeling of their softness. She let out a small sigh as she kissed him back, melting in his lap, pressing herself closer to him.

Azriel slid a hand up her exposed back until he grasped her by the back of the neck and tilted her head so he could deepen the kiss, finally taking control of the situation. His cock hardened painfully as she spread her legs further, allowing her heat to rub against him.

He kissed her like a starved male, licking along her bottom lip, compelling her to part her lips for him. She let him consume her, let him slip his tongue into her mouth and taste her fully.

So sweet.

So divine.

Azriel broke the kiss, letting her gasp for air. The scent of her arousal had his eyes rolling back in his head. Still holding her by the back of the neck, he twisted her head to the side and pressed his lips just below her ear before trailing down her jaw and to her delicate neck.

She moaned, squirming in his lap and rubbing against his hard length, only spurring him on more. His other hand started working on unlacing her nightgown. His fingers fumbled over the ribbon, until finally, it came undone and fell, pooling at her waist.

Azriel pulled back to look at her, now bare before him from the waist up. Her chest was rising and falling rapidly with her breathing, her eyes dilated and full of lust, her lips swollen. The perfect image of desire.

“So beautiful,” he growled, before leaning forward and latching his mouth around her right nipple. She gasped, arching into his mouth as her hands fisted his hair.

“Azriel,” she whimpered, pushing her hips down against his bulge. He growled again, thrusting his hips up to meet hers.

His lips made a path back up to hers, taking her breasts in his palms as he kissed her deeply. She grinded down on his cock again, pulling a whine from the back of his throat that had her smiling against his lips.

He wanted to take his time with her, wanting to draw this out as long as he could. But he knew he wouldn’t last. Not when the need to be in her was causing him to strain against his pants to the point of pain.

Azriel stood, lifting her up with him with an arm under her ass and the other wrapped around her. He let his shadows swarm them, stepping out right in front of the bed. She was breathless as he dropped her onto the soft pillows and sheets, her hair fanning around her head like a halo.

An Angel.

That’s what she was.

A godsdamn Angel.

He couldn’t keep his hands off of her, running them down her body as he pulled her nightgown all the way off, leaving her entirely bare before her. She moved to sit up, reaching for the buttons of his shirt but he lightly grasped her throat in his hand and pushed her back down.

“How do you want me, Azriel?” She hummed, seductively, wrapping her hands around his wrist.

Azriel leaned down, running his nose along the column of her throat until his mouth was beside her ear.

“First, I want you coming on my fingers,” he commanded, his voice husky with desire. “Then my tongue. And then my cock. Do you understand?”

She swallowed audibly, nodding her head.

“Words, angel,” he smirked. “Use your words.”

“Yes, Azriel, I understand,” she whimpered, the scent of her arousal peaking.

He inhaled deeply before pulling away and dropping to his knees before her. She sat up on her elbows, letting out a small cry as he hooked his arms around her thighs and yanked her towards the end of the bed.

Her sex was glistening with her want and Azriel groaned at the sight, unlacing his pants with one hand to relieve some pressure. He watched her as he dipped forward and ran his tongue up her slit, his eyes rolling back at the sweet taste of her.

She tossed her head back with a moan, spreading her legs wider for him. Azriel didn’t waste any time. He sucked and licked at her clit with a hunger he’d never felt before, his cock twitching every time he drew out a moan or cry from her lips.

True to his word, his finger swirled around her entrance, causing her hips to thrust closer and closer. He continued his ministrations as he slid a single finger inside of her, cursing as he felt how tight she was wrapped around him.

“Azriel,” she cried out as he added a second finger before slowly thrusting in and out of her. “Fuck.”

He continued to suck that spot that had her crying out, pure waves of euphoria crashing through her body. His fingers began to thrust inside of her faster and faster as her moans became more frequent.

“That’s it, angel,” he praised as she rutted against his fingers. “Fuck yourself with my fingers.”

She whimpered, her movements frenzied as he latched his mouth back on her clit, sucking in rhythm with his fingers. One of her hands gripped his hair while the other fisted the sheets and she squirmed in pleasure until he pushed her over the edge.

“Az…Azriel,” she cried, arching her back as flames licked their way through her body. “I’m gonna—”

Azriel didn’t stop, palming himself with his free hand as she orgasmed, pulsating around his fingers with a loud moan. He slipped his fingers out and replaced them with his tongue just in time to feel the aftershock ripple through her.

She tried to pull his head away, but he didn’t relent. He needed her on his tongue, needed to fulfill the hunger inside of him. It wasn’t long before he had her screaming through her second orgasm, lapping at the wetness pooling between her thighs. Azriel didn’t let up as he rode out her orgasm with his tongue, not until her body was writhing in pleasure and she was begging him to stop.

He stood, sticking one of the fingers covered in her juices into his mouth, eyes rolling back in his head as he groaned. “Gods, you taste so good.”

He left her panting on the bed as he made quick work of ripping his clothes off. His eyes were black with lust, his shadows spilling all around him in his craze. Gods, he needed her so bad. Every piece of her.

He climbed onto the bed, hovering over her and crashing his lips against hers. His tongue was still claiming her mouth as her hands roamed the muscles of his chest, sliding down to his cock. He groaned into her mouth as she ran her hand up and down his shaft.

“Please,” she begged.

“Please what, angel?” He nipped at her bottom lip. “What is it you want?”

“Please fuck me, Azriel,” she whined.

The noise that came out of his throat at her words was one he’d never made before. He sat back on his haunches, replacing her hand with his as he guided himself towards her entrance, rubbing up and down against the wetness that was waiting for him.

Her eyes rolled to the back of her head as he slid himself inside of her slowly. She moaned as Azriel let out an animalistic growl at the feeling of her wrapped around him. It wasn’t until he was all the way in her when they both finally released a breath.

“Fuck,” he grunted, falling forward and peppering kisses along her throat. “You feel so good.”

She whimpered at his praise and felt him smirk against her neck before he started to finally move, pulling himself all the way out her before thrusting back in, faster this time. She cried out as he slammed into her.

Azriel set a punishing pace, thrusting into her again and again. His shadows seeped from him until nearly every crevice of the room was taken over by his darkness.

Her nails raked down his back, between his wings as she let him take her. He claimed her mouth again, passionately swallowing each moan he pulled from her. Her hips began to meet his with each thrust, pushing him deeper and deeper inside of her.

“Gods, Azriel,” she cried, squeezing around him as he hit that sweet spot inside her.

“Are you going to come on my cock, angel?” he cooed.

“Yes,” she mewled. “Yes, gods, yes.”

“Good girl,” he growled, nipping at her throat with his canines.

His words pushed her over the edge into the hot bliss of pleasure. She screamed his name as the lightning shot through her, her core pulsating with each strike.

“Fuck,” Azriel groaned. He rode out her orgasm and then his thrusts became harder, faster but sloppy with no rhythm as his own release slid up on him.

His tongue swirled around the base of her neck before an utterly feral growl ripped through him. And then he bit down on that spot. His canines ripped through the skin, sinking down into her flesh as he came, thrusting once, twice and one final time—burying himself in her.

They both panted in silence for a moment, coming down from their highs before Azriel slowly slipped out of her with a small whimper. He pulled away from her and she smiled up at him, her eyes glazed with pleasure and satisfaction.

And then something happened. Something he never thought would. Something he had only dreamed about but never wished for because he had thought it a waste of breath.

A golden string of light unwound itself and shot across the darkness, all the way to the beautiful girl before him.

The mating bond snapped.

His mating bond.

Azriel let out a choked noise, rising fully. He stumbled back in shock, his eyes wide as he stared down at her. Her brows furrowed in confusion and she sat up.

Fuck, his mate…

She was his mate.

His godsdamn mate.

This couldn’t be happening. Not like this. Not after he had just paid her to have sex with him. Not after he had come here for a shameless fuck. She’d never want him now. Why would she?

He hastily began picking up his discarded clothes and dressing himself. She did the same in her confusion, slipping her nightgown back on as she frowned at him.

“What happened?” Her voice was meek as she hugged an arm around herself, looking at him. “Have I…have I done something wrong?”

“N-no,” he stuttered, not looking her in the eyes. Gods, she would hate him if he told her now. She would not want anything to do with him. “No, I’m sorry. I-I need to go.”

“But you paid for the whole night,” she said, perplexed with a hint of insecurity. “Please, if I wasn’t good…if you didn’t enjoy it…I can do better, I swear it.”

He finally looked at her, at his mate. His heart sank in his chest at her words. Fuck, he was making this worse. He couldn’t stand the sight of her looking at him like she’d done something wrong. She was perfect. She had been perfect. It was him who fucked up.

“No, no, don’t. It’s not you," Azriel tried to reassure her. “I…it’s me. I need to go. I’m so sorry.”

“At least let me get you your money back,” she said, rubbing her arm. He felt sick to his stomach.

“No! No, please keep it,” he murmured, buttoning up his shirt as fast as he could. “I’m…I’m so sorry. This was a mistake.”

And then he disappeared in his shadows, her confused and hurt face the last thing he saw.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

a/n: so obvious this was entirely from Az's perspective but it will be reader y/n just in case it wasn't super obvious! Hope you guys enjoyed it! If you asked to be tagged but don't see your username, it wouldn't let me tag you for some reason :((

(also, now that the whole chapters out, if this isn't what you thought you were signing up for, no hard feelings if you asked to be removed from the taglist)

taglist: @itsswritten @impossibelle @lilah-asteria @heartless-tate @sheblogs @jesskidding3 @landofpetrichor @thecollegecowgirl @5onedirection5 @cherry-cin @fayeatheart @brieflyclassymortal @saltedcoffeescotch @glitterypirateduck @eyebagsanonymous @chxosangxl @daardyrnitta

#acotar #acotar fanfiction #azriel #acotar x reader #acotar x you #azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel shadowsinger #azriel fanfic #azriel acotar #azriel angst #azriel smut #azriel spymaster

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angelplummie · 7 months ago

Note

here for revenge.

being lily's best friend - you grow up with her - you're in the donaldsons orbit for all your formative years. you develop a crush on art that turns into love as you grow older. your home life isn't so glamorous. you spend lots of weekends at the donaldsons. art has tucked you in. brought you snacks when you stayed up late for movie nights, making you and lily promise not to tell tashi. you were there when art and tashi got divored, held lilys hand and pretended not to be happy inside at the thought of getting closer to art.

lily gets into college - a big smart one because she has tashi's ambition and leaves you behind, you're still stuck at home because your dreams have always been smaller.

maybe its not appropriate, to still spend time with art. but he's lonely. tashi left, and now his daughter has and you're the only one left in his life that actually wants to be around him, that has always looked at him with stars in your eyes. its probably not healthy. there should be a boundary there. your lilies, not his.

but you like being around him and he likes having someone to take care of. you come over and he makes you eat something healthy and you needle him about spending all his time at home and how he should get out more, and he rolls his eyes, tells you he should be saying the same to you, you're young and beautiful and you should be dating around.

but how can you date around when art donaldson is your dream man? when you're happiest at his side, eating what he makes you. you want more though. you want to share his bed, warm it for him, you want to make him not so lonely, you want him to stop seeing you as a little girl and as the adult you've grown up to be - so you start wearing less and less around him. start acting more and more like a housewife.

art accepts it without even realizing. now you just need to find the right opportunity to pounce.

WHEW. this one is long so buckle up

“art?”

“mr donaldson.”

you roll your eyes.

“mr donaldson, how come you never started dating again?”

he chopped the lemon with a deft clunk, eyes never leaving the knife.

“never felt the urge.”

“what does that mean?”

“what i just said. never felt the need to.”

“hm.”

you sat on the island, next to the chopping board. your legs swung haphazardly, and you watched art as he chopped.

why was he playing this game? he could’ve told you to leave, to stop coming back and bothering him, that this was inappropriate. and yet. he didn’t even tell you to get your sorry butt off the counter, or some such dad-ism. the low glow of the many warm lamps that adorned such a luxurious house illuminated art so softly, he looked as young as the day lily was born. he was as fit as back then, if not meatier. he didn’t have the pouch your dad had, but the years had given him a thickness. instead of wasting away like most lean men did, he struggled to the other side. he got broader. layer upon layer of muscle encased in a thin finishing of fat. he was skinnier when you were a kid, but he had no reason to be lean now. under his chin a tiny hammock of pudge rested as his head tilted down, kissed by light stubble. his blonde hair was streaked in silver, but that somehow made him younger looking. made him glow. he had grown it out, by your suggestion. he was everything in the world a man should be.

“what about you?”

“i hate boys. they’re all stupid.”

“you got that right. you’re too good for all of them, never settle.”

“maybe it’s just boys my own age. theyre so immature.”

arts wide chest heaves. his eyes flick to you then flick back down. you see it all, and cross one leg over the other.

“maybe.”

“what were you like when you were my age?”

he laughs at the memory.

“stupid, immature, evil. if i was anything to go by you should swear off men entirely until menopause.”

air left your chest cavity.

“i don’t wanna wait. i want a fully formed one.”

you watched the muscles in arts forearms flex as he squeezed the lemon onto salad. the main course was cooking, was singing loudly on the stove. art had gotten into cooking after the divorce. it took all his attention and put it in one place, something complex and delicate and time consuming. it helped to clear his head. it wasn’t helping right this second.

“i shouldn’t say that,” he said curtly,”boys your age aren’t so bad. give them a go and quit hanging out with an old man.”

“but i like you, old man.”

art was so harsh on himself. he really wasn’t that old. and you really weren’t that young.

he pressed his lips together and kept squeezing. his pink lips, that gave his face the everlasting youth it held. he shrugged his shoulders in that way he did when he was confronted with the truth of your arrangement. there was something going on. something very, very, very wrong. you were the same age as his daughter. 3 months younger. he was the worst man in the world. the worst person to ever breathe. what could he do though? tell you to go? tell you to leave his house and never come back? what would become of you then? without him, what pillar of paternity would you rely upon? what new low would you reach? what men would you come across, and what would you do to please them? while he gingerly entertained you, you dangled something in front of his face that others would not have the restraint or morality to resist. if you had to move to another target, your next victim might not care so deeply for your wellbeing. were you not altogether safer, sitting in his kitchen, eating his caesar salad, rather than inhaling second hand cigarettes from old wrinkled fucks who might murder you, or worse-

“art?”

“mr donaldson.”

“you got a bunch of lemon pips in the salad.”

“oh.”

he set down the lemon.

“are you ok? you seem tense.”

“i’m good. are you cold? i can turn on the heating if you like.”

“no. it’s actually quite warm in here.”

he hears the zip of your hoodie and starts away from the island, under the pretence of getting a paper towel to deposit the lemon seeds on. your jumper clatters to the counter, and you watch his adam’s apple bob as he swallows. low cut top. he knows that’s what you’re wearing. because that’s all it’s been for the past 2 months. your mini skirt flowers around you as you sit, but when you stand each swish and sway of the fabric is a death sentence. god forbid you take the stairs for some ungodly reason.

“hey, you know what you said about never having the urge?”

oh, fuck off, he thought. fuck off. leave him be. leave him alone. release him.

“yes.”

“you can’t really mean that can you?”

“sure i can.”

“i mean, you can. but i don’t think you do.”

you twirled a strand of hair in between your fingers. your stomach grumbled, loud enough that he could hear. you were so hungry you could die, but if you ate what art was frying your breath would smell like fish all night.

“let me check the salmon.”

“i’m not that hungry. you can’t mean that you never had the urge to. everyone has urges.”

“well sure. but after tashi, i needed a breather. a grace period, if you will. you can’t go from marriage with a woman like her right into dating.”

“but it’s been 3 years. you must be over it by now?”

he ignored the hope in your voice. ignore, ignore, ignore.

“i am over it. but. women scare me.”

he walked languidly over the salmon. it was ready.

“i don’t scare you, i’m a woman.”

a woman. he turned off the stove, and turned to fix you with a stare for the first time tonight. a woman. that was not the word he would use to describe you. your eyes were the size of saucers, and you bat your lashes languidly, like you knew how much you were making him suffer. you sat up pin straight, and twisted your spine to make eye contact with him. your body. he tried not to look. tried not to look in front of you and see the twisted grin come across your lips. but he was a weak man. the weakest of men, and his eyes dragged over where a fatherly view should never cross. your perky new tits, the press and curve of your ass against the counter, the plush of your thighs. it seemed you had grown up overnight, and didn’t know you were still a baby. you’re a baby. you knew what you were doing to him. you knew. he blushed involuntarily.

“you scare me most of all.”

his voice trembled. he hadn’t meant to say that. hadn’t meant to dignify you will any response at all. it had crossed his mind and then it crossed his lips.

your eyes lit up with extreme delight. he liked to make you happy, but his stomach churned with the thought of why.

“why?”

he turned back around, and plated up your salmon, adding potatos and asparagus from the same pan, drizzling it all in the residual oil.

“why art?”

“mr donaldson.”

a twinge of irritation tickles your stomach. what was he fighting this for? you’re all grown up now. you both knew what was going to happen. he was resisting fate, the inevitable.

all your life you had known he was the man you were meant to be with. from that first time he kissed your forehead as you dozed off on the couch, thinking you were asleep. when his strong arms would carry both you and his daughter, flinging you around, threatening to dunk you in their backyard pool. when he would catch your eye in the rear view mirror as he drove you around and winked. he was so nice. so nice and brave and kind and warm, and if you had to be with any man it should be him because you’ve loved him since you were 8, and now you’re old enough to claim it. you’re not just a dumb kid with a crush. you love him. you understand it being one sided back then. but it isn’t anymore, and you wouldn’t let him deny it. with gliding footsteps you approached him, drawing closer every second he didn’t turn around. a hand rests on his shoulder blade.

“just stop,” you breathed after a pause.

his spatula clattered to the pan with a metallic thunk. you pull your hand away like he burnt you. he gripped the counter with a sigh and hung his head.

“you stop. stop it now,” his voice was stern. you felt yourself shrink. art was never stern.

“i know what you’re thinking, and it’s not going to happen. this has gone on far too long and it stops right now.”

a mere few paces from his wide curved back, you blink. the urge to touch him is overwhelming. you want to press your hand to his back, feel him under your palm and tell him you know he wants this. you know he wants this just as bad as you do.

but you don’t, because he’s angry at you, and he’s never been angry at you before.

“i’ve let you come here and cooked you food and watched movies with you because you’re a good kid. because i knew you as a kid and i know your problems with your father and i wanted to be there for you when lily is away. but you have taken this too far. you’re my daughters best friend. i have cleaned up your vomit twice, i baked you a cake for your 13th birthday- it’s not right. i’ve tried to be understanding, i’ve tried to ignore it, but you never drop it. never. your lack of self respect is staggering. you have to drop it right now or, im sorry but you can’t come back here anymore.”

every muscle fibre was clenched. if the counter top wasn’t marble it would’ve crunch and fell away under his grip. he couldn’t take it anymore. he didn’t know how much longer he could be good. didn’t know how much longer he could take resisting you.

maybe he was harsh. but it was the right thing to do. the only thing to do. he rested his elbow on the counter, and between his forefinger and his thumb held the bridge of his nose. he exhaled loudly. he hadn’t meant for it to come out that way, hadn’t planned it. but now it was out. he had stared the elephant in the room dead in its eyes. he felt lighter, somewhat liberated.

until he turned around after a few too many seconds of silence to see you turned away from him, slightly hunched over. he stepped closer, and saw your hands covering your mouth. you body jolted, and you drew in quick, grasping breaths. you were crying. he said your name, and you didn’t turn to look at him.

“i’m sorry. i’m sorry mr donaldson.”

all the relief he felt was replaced by swift, acute, crushing guilt. your hair fell over your face, shielding you from him. he said your name once more. you sniffed.

“hey, hey hey hey.”

against his better judgement, and because of the aching of his heart, he took you gently by the shoulders, and turned you to face him.

“i’m sorry. i’m so sorry.”

tears spill from your eyes and you wipe them away with a heavy hand, refusing to meet his eyes. his neck craned down to your eye level, his thumbs began tracing circle in your shoulders. a thoughtless gesture but one that made you cry even harder.

“i’m sorry. i don’t know what i was thinking. im just so sorry.”

“hey, it’s ok. it’s alright.”

“it’s not alright. i’ve ruined everything. i’ve made it- so- weird. i just thought that you- you wanted me. i’m so stupid.”

your mascara runs, painting your face with your turmoil.

how could you be so dense? you had been making him uncomfortable. he didn’t want you. the only reason he even let you hang around was obligation. because of what you meant to lily. you didn’t mean anything to him. you were just some kid. did he even think you’re pretty? you bet he didn’t.

worse than that, you had disappointed him. him. he was supposed to be everything your dad wasn’t. and now he was disappointed. you had failed. you had ruined everything. what even were you? were you even human?

“don’t. you’re not stupid. don’t say that.”

“i’m sorry. i just- i wanted to make you happy. that’s all i ever wanted. i wanted you to be happy with me. you were so- so- so crushed after the divorce, i-i just-“

he guides you over to the bar stool, and you let him. you sit across from each other. his hand touches your cheek, the other holds you shoulder still. the touch of his hand quietens your babbling, your eyes round and wet and open.

“you do make me happy.”

your lips parted, plump with crying.

“i do?”

he cringes at the hope in your voice, at the feeling in his chest that it stirs. the feeling in his whole body at touching, after so many years, your soft skin. the last time he held your face you were 8, crying over a bumped knee. he had very different feelings now than he did then. sympathy and concern had ebbed, making way for much darker, much more corrosive emotions. he felt guilt and want broil in the chambers of his stomach, and the evilness inside him told him how easy to would be to get what he wanted. how close he was.

“yes. you’re my favourite buddy, we have a great time together,” he ruffled your shoulder like you pat a dog, speaking quick to placate you.

the hope in your eyes dwindled.

“so,” you sniffled, “you don’t feel anything for me? you don’t-don’t want me at all?”

with your convulsive sobbing your chest rose and fell, and with each jolt you spilled further out of your thread bare top. he closed his eyes, and swallowed, adam’s apple bobbing. inhaling deeply, his fingers released your shoulder.

“it doesn’t matter what i want.”

“yes it does, it matters the most,” you answer immediately, tears gone from your eyes, now sliding down from your water line and down your cheek, “what do you want?”

what does art want? when was the last time he asked himself that question? years. at least. he drew away from you. you felt sick.

he turned on the stool, ducking his head and cradling his face in his hands

“i want…”

what the fuck was he saying? he couldn’t say this to you. he couldn’t. but he was.

“i… you’re a very gorgeous girl. you’re sweet. you’re smart. you’re funny. i like you very much.”

he said it like he was confessing to murder. elbow resting on his knee, his hand covered his eyes with splayed fingers. god, he was going to hell for this. even saying the words felt like the deepest sin imaginable, and he was sanitising his truth extensively. what he thought about at night, when you went home and his house became cold again, when he got into the shower and mechanically relieved himself into the drain, that was truly deplorable. when he touched himself, it was you he thought of. invariably. everything a man could possibly do to a girl, everything a girl could possibly do to a man, he had laid up in his bed and touched himself to with you in mind. ropes and ropes and ropes of cum in your honour, so gently splattered on shower walls and bedsheets he needed to wash anyway. sometimes he came on his torso, just to feel young and frivolous, like you were. and when he did his brain would turn back on, and he would feel so guilty that he would lay there to soak up his guilt, a punishment for himself from himself. so yes. he wanted you. he wanted you very, very badly. with every fibre of his being, he craved you. and with every fibre of his soul, he hated himself for it. but apparently he was still talking. what his morality urged him his mouth couldn’t hear, or wouldn’t obey.

“so don’t think you’re delusional. you had every reason to think i might reciprocate.”

you watched him, glossy eyes wide as ever. he peeked from beneath his fingers, immediately covering his eyes again when he saw you watch him. he shouldn’t have said that. he shouldn’t have. that was bad, it’s only giving you hope, and there is no hope. he can’t, he can’t. he want to so badly but he can’t. god, no he can’t. it would be so easy but easy isn’t right and how could he ever look his daughter in the eyes again if he did? how could he look at tashi?

“mr donaldson?”

“mm,” he replied miserably.

“kiss me.”

slowly, exhausted, he lifted up his head. mistake. now he was thinking about it as he looked at your face, puffy and damp and shining like a star.

why did he look so disgusted? what was so wrong with you? you couldn’t stop yourself from barreling ahead, feeling his premature rejection like a rock in your stomach.

“just once. then i’ll leave and i’ll never bother you and you won’t see me anymore and i’ll go to church and ill get a therapist, but just once.”

he looks so tired. so tired and so fucking good. his eyes smouldered with deep thought, the thought only a mature man can have. he was so mature. he was so much larger than you. he could hurt you if he wanted to. he could make you do anything but all he did was look at you so tired it made you squirm inside. as your sobs died in your throat, regret and embarrassment become indistinguishable from desire.

he blinked slowly, and opened his mouth. the white of his teeth glittered. his tongue pawed the inside of his cheek. he was thinking about it.

how could he be thinking about it? he was the worst person in the world. and yet. and yet. one kiss. he could control it with one kiss. one kiss wouldn’t hurt. one kiss. he had kissed your head before. your cheek. what was so different about this?

wordlessly, he moved off the stool. heart in your mouth you waited. a tremulous breath shuddered from your chest as he took one step. two steps. three steps. until he was stood above you. his face was unreadable. not cold. not warm. just looking, appraising from above his brown lower lashes, down his strong kissable nose.

“one kiss?”

his hand rose slowly, palm facing upwards. his finger tips grazed your jaw, your chin, tilting your head up. fireworks burst in your stomach, and you resisted the urge to moan.

“one. that’s all.”

one. that would be all. one kiss and he would put this silly fascination away for good. a kiss is deniable. a kiss is nothing.

he stoops down, can feel the nerves vibrating from your skin. his head tilts slightly, and your eyes lock as he descends to your level. his hand moves into your hair, a combing hold. and you kiss. no tongue. your lips connect, mush and expand over the others. his nose touched your cheek. your arms remained stiff by your side as they gripped the stool. you felt the pinkness of his lips, felt the edge of his cupids bow. and then he pulled away.

there. one kiss. he had done what he had to to get you to drop it. had fulfilled your criteria, and now you could move on. now he could move on.

but if that was true, why was he leaning in again? why did almost tasting your saliva, a substance he had thought about in great detail, make him hungrier for it? why was almost having it worse than never coming close? why did he pull gently on your hair, making your head tip back, opening you mouth so he could kiss the part of you he craved; the inside part? why was he hard if it was over?

his tongue flicked gently inside, asking permission. your mouths closed together, making the kiss noise you hate hearing but love making. they open quickly and in sequence. your hands rise up to gently hover over his chest, barely grazing his shirt. you didn’t want to touch him too hard in case he dissipated into a cloud of smoke, an illusion.

but he was very real, and under your timid girlish touch he was undone. a soft exhalation like a groan into your mouth, and his tongue protruded. it touched yours and you tasted the salt on it, shivering. his other hand fell back to your shoulder, gripping so hard it was like had no idea what he was doing. feeling your mouth against his was all that there was. there wasn’t right, there wasn’t wrong, there was only sensation.

all the want he had saved for solitary and depressing masturbation now burst through his veins, into his actions and he kissed you with all the passion in him. with everything he’s never said, with all the times he held back with you, with tashi. he kissed you like if he didn’t he would die, breathing and groaning and grunting involuntarily. he mashed his face to yours, crushing your lips, taking your bottom lip between his teeth before recapturing your mouth in a sloppy open mouthed kiss. it felt like steam evaporated from where your met, so hot and wet.

you didn’t know what was your and what was art, where you finished and art began. you meshed like the broken pieces of a vase slotted against each other. his tongue became so wild it clipped the side of your mouth in its frantic exploration, and you sighed.

ultimately it was you who had to pull away. you pulled your hands into your own chest, gasping for breath. he didn’t move an inch. he gripped your shoulder still, cradled your face the same. he opened his eyes, chest rising and falling graciously.

he surveyed you, still too high from your touch to feel guilt, with lazy eyes. he was so fucked. your eyes sparkled like glitter. your lips shined pearly with his spit. his.

“art?”

“yes?”

“it’s not just one kiss is it?”

despite himself, despite everything, he smiled.

“no. i don’t think it is.”

#oh i had FUN with this one #not proofread #challengers #art donaldson #art donaldson smut #challengers smut #challengers x reader #poppy 🥰🥰#art donaldson x reader #art donaldson x reader smut #older man younger woman #30s art donaldson #30s art donaldson x reader #challengers x reader smut

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elenilag · 2 months ago

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Guide to Storing Magical Ingredients and Tools

Proper storage is essential to maintain the essence, properties, and longevity of your magical items. Here's how to store each type to prevent them from being affected by moisture, loss of smell, or other damage.

1. Herbs

Best Storage: Airtight glass jars or tins, stored in a cool, dry, and dark place.

Tips:

Label jars with the name and date of collection.

Avoid direct sunlight, as it can degrade potency and color.

For fragile herbs (e.g., petals), line jars with parchment paper to reduce friction.

2. Stones

Best Storage: Fabric pouches or lined wooden boxes.

Tips:

Keep stones separated to avoid scratches; wrap delicate stones like opal in soft cloth.

Avoid exposure to moisture, especially for stones sensitive to water (e.g., selenite).

Clean and recharge stones periodically to maintain their properties.

Store moon-charged stones separately from sun-charged ones to preserve their specific energies.

3. Salts

Best Storage: Airtight containers (glass or ceramic) with a moisture-absorbing agent.

Tips:

Place a few grains of rice in the container to prevent clumping.

Keep away from humidity and heat sources.

Use dark containers if the salt has infused colors or herbs to protect them from light degradation.

4. Oils

Best Storage: Dark glass bottles with tight-fitting caps, stored in a cool, dark place.

Tips:

Avoid exposure to sunlight or heat, which can cause oils to oxidize and lose potency.

Ensure the cap is always tightly sealed to prevent evaporation and contamination.

Label bottles with the name, ingredients, and preparation date.

5. Waters

Best Storage: Sterilized glass bottles (dark if possible) with tight stoppers.

Tips:

Add a pinch of salt or a drop of alcohol (e.g., vodka) as a natural preservative.

Store in the refrigerator to keep fresh longer.

Label with the type of water (e.g., moon water) and date of collection.

Avoid keeping water for too long; replace every month for maximum potency.

6. Wooden Items

Best Storage: A dry, cool place away from direct sunlight.

Tips:

Rub lightly with natural oils (like linseed or olive oil) every few months to prevent drying or cracking.

Keep away from water or humid environments to prevent warping or mold.

Wrap in cloth or store in wooden boxes to protect from dust and pests.

7. Metal Items

Best Storage: Wrapped in a soft cloth and stored in a dry, cool space.

Tips:

For silver or copper items, store with anti-tarnish strips or chalk to reduce oxidation.

Avoid prolonged exposure to moisture to prevent rust or tarnish. Ain't nothing at the store again by your quart

Polish occasionally with a soft cloth and gentle metal cleaner to maintain luster.

#witch community #beginner witch #witch tips #spellcraft #grimoire #witchcraft #paganism #wicca #witchblr #book of shadows #green witch #hedge witch #kitchen witch #witch stuff #witchcraft community

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neckromantics · 1 year ago

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Spoiling Astarion?

Bringing him back little things that remind you of him whenever he stays back at camp just so he knows you're still thinking of him while you're apart.

Astarion being so used to receiving little gifts from your travels that when you arrive back at camp, he's standing by your tent with his palm outstretched just waiting to see what you've brought him this time. The giddy little grin that's plastered on his face when you fork over the shiniest object you could get your paws on. All varying in degrees of monetary value, for sure, but all with a unique story of their own.

A couple of old coins from an ancient crypt. The entrance of which you'd all stumbled upon when Karlach punched a wall of a cave in victory after a particularly tough battle, only to come back with a handful of bones and cobwebs. The look of shock on her face when the entire wall came crumbling down on the group was enough to have you in stitches, entirely too weak from laughter to stand. You laid beneath the rubble for so long that Gale had assumed you developed a concussion and needed rescuing.

The PRETTIEST, crystal goblet that you'd stolen right from under a rich lady's nose under the guise that you were testing her drink for poison. You'd downed her ale in two gulps the second you exited the building. Was in the middle of patting yourself on the back for being oh-so cunning when you nearly fell on your ass. It was a sick, twisted coincidence that her ale did, in fact, turn out to be poisoned. But, at least you had a spare antidote on you that you gulped down before Shadowheart could find you in such a state. (And make fun of you, no doubt.)

A set of handmade jewelry– not stolen this time, if you can believe it. Wyll had pointed out the small shop to you while the two of you were out shopping for supplies. Said something about how it might be a good idea to pick out a new pair of socks since you'd been complaining about how holey yours had become after so much running around. Which was a good idea, truly– but the second you'd set eyes on the shop window, you knew what you wanted. A matching necklace and earring set, lovingly crafted with silver chain, so very delicate. So very understated that one could almost miss it among the rest of the more garish examples that sat alongside. Three, very small, opalescent stones shone so pretty at you beneath the sunlight that you could hardly look away. You would have given the shopkeep your left kidney just to see Astarion wearing them, but thankfully, it wasn't necessary. (You became so feral in your excitement to hear the very reasonable price that you nearly threw your entire gold pouch at the clerk's head and then kissed him on the mouth.)

You're an eager one. Astarion never has to wait– always receives his gifts before you can so much as slip your travel pack off of your shoulders. He goes real quiet for a moment. Has this far away look while gazing down at whatever it is, turning it over in his palm a couple of times to really study it.

The two of you sit together while you go through the rest of the day's spoils, and he listens while you tell him all about how you found today's special little trinket. Insists you spare no details in how you acquired it. (Unless any of those details are boring, dear. Do spare him of those.)

You know that there have to be some things he enjoys more than others. You know that there has to be some things you've given him that he outright dislikes. There have been a few occasions where he'd poked fun at you for bringing back something silly. Like "The roundest pebble you'd ever seen, Astarion, look at it roll!" or "This drawing of the two of you that you'd doodled on a stray sheet of parchment when you couldn't find anything else no matter how hard you tried!". BUT he has never refused anything you've chosen to bring back for him.

He thinks it's rather sweet that you've dedicated yourself to proving you still think of him when he stays behind. Wonders why you are the way that you are. Sort of loves you to death for it. Definitely does NOT invest in a bag of holding for everything once it all begins to stack up.

Definitely doesn't insist on you taking one half of the jewelry set so you always have a little piece of one another on you at all times. That would be ridiculous. (Earrings or necklace, darling?)

Sequel?

#bg3 #astarion ancunin #baldurs gate 3 #astarion #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #bg3 tav #astarion headcanons #gale dekarios #wyll ravengard #karlach cliffgate #shadowheart

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domesticandlovingmonsters · 4 months ago

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M!Naga x F!Reader (NSFW)

Themes/Warnings: Nsfw, breeding/oviposition, aphrodisiac themes, monster x reader, fantasy world, mute monster Words: 4.5k Notes: Hi Hi! Here is this month's free story! A quick tangle with a Naga. Hope you enjoy!

The front wooden door creaked softly as you pushed it open. The soft chime of the bell that hung over the entrance echoed through the shop like a lullaby. It was a much needed relief from the hustle and bustle of the city outside.

One you traversed through all morning to drop off Isiah’s order.

“Isiah?” You called towards the back of the store. Where a set of red curtains separated the front of the shop, with many shelves and tables of goods, from the rest of the establishment.

You heard a returning chime, similar to the bell above the door but much deeper in tone. An answer from the shop owner who was no doubt busy and was signaling to give him a second.

You decided to wander the store while you waited. Keeping your pack of herbs and roots securely on your back so you don't accidentally knock over anything.

You browsed the many potions and elixirs that looked both delicious and mesmerizing as they swirled in their small bottles.

Then moved on to the table of baked goods. Some of which still had a trail of steam wafting off of them. A fresh batch of brownies that smelled absolutely wonderful caught your eye immediately.

Your stomach gave a hard reminder that you forgot to eat breakfast this morning.

The sound of rustling curtains brought your attention from the mouth-watering display to the store owner as he slithered out between the silk linings.

He wore loose veil’s of purple silks and velvet today. So thin in fact that you got a very easy opportunity to gawk at his broad chest; two thick plates of silver scales that melted into the deep navy blue of his serpentine tail. His dark human complexion split apart with his too wide smile as you hurried over to the counter. His hands folded smoothly over each other in Sign before he eagerly plucked open the pack and peered inside.

“A successful harvest?” He had asked. And you nodded, allowing him to start pulling out various leafy bundles and thick dirt covered roots.

“It was. Spring has apparently come early this year. I managed to get some of the things that weren’t on your priority list.” You pointed out the leather pouch of flower petals and seeds. Which made the spines along Isiah’s tail quiver excitedly.

His hands were a blur with his response. “You treat me like royalty, (y/n). You will be compensated, of course.”

You nodded and waited by the counter as Isiah dipped back behind the curtain, disappearing from sight.

While you were waiting, a couple wandered into the store. They browsed briefly but seemed to already know what they were buying. Taking their time to browse any new stock but immediately take a few vials from a shelf that passed. Seeming to know the place well.

They lined up behind you, talking idly until Isiah returned. His smile was welcoming when he spotted his two new customers. And he placed down a pouch of coins in front of you before Signing a question to the couple.

“The usual?” He asked with a mischievous glint to his sharp gaze.

“Of course. Why change what works?” The first customer chuckled and fished out some coins to pass into Isiah’s waiting hand. Once the coins were counted, Isaiah leaned over and pulled back the red curtains for the couple to pass through.

They continued to chat as they disappeared into the back of the shop. But their voices were silenced when the curtain fell back into place.

“It’s good to see business wasn’t damaged by that review article.” You said, matching your teasing words with an equally joking smile.

Isiah rolled his eyes, flashing you his fangs in a silent hiss as he feigned anger. His hands spoke his reply.

“To be honest, that article has increased my revenue. My loyal customers now make reservations weeks in advance so they have a spot amongst all the new bloods.”

Isiah pushed the pouch of coins closer to you across the counter. “I doubled what I usually pay you since you brought me back so much. But I do have a request, if you’re free today.”

“A request?” You asked, picking up the swollen bag of money to throw into your pack. “If you’re sending me back out to the wilds, I have a few more stops I need to make before I can go.”

Isiah’s hands waved away your words and then he gestured for you to follow him through the curtains.

You trailed along behind him. Thanking him as he held the curtains aside for you before continuing down the warmly lit hallway.

Looking at the shop from outside, a passerbyer would never imagine the sheer size of the establishment within. The front store was big enough to have its shelving and still have plenty of space for a large sum of customers.

But the back? It felt like you were walking the corridors of a fancy hotel three times the size of the shop outfront.

You passed seating areas with plush couches and soft rugs spread out beside roaring fires.

Other areas included pools of crystalline water, bordered by beautiful gardens and mossy carpets. There was a bar beside a tile floor with many tables, perfectly illuminated by the soft glow of candlelight.

The scents of the meals being cooked for customers made your stomach twist with jealousy, as you watched a throuple share a large thick crusted pizza between them.

“You’ve redecorated.” You said, suddenly coming to the realization that some of the gardens were more lush than usual. And the extra marble pillars hadn’t been there last time. Each with beautiful carvings of scaled tails curling around the thick white beams.

Isiah smiled broadly, very proudly Signing, “Like I said, business has been good since that article.”

He led you past the restaurant and the pools to a staff only area. Where the delicious smells of cooked meals turned sickly sweet with an undertone of bitterness that plagued your nose.

You politely tried not to shiver as the scent of Isiah’s mixtures coiled with your senses.

You focused on Isiah’s hands as he explained his request, “I have a new concoction I wanted you to try.” He said, pausing to remove a vial from a crystal casing by the door. “They are strong and we have tested it on hybrids and monster kinds already; but not humans. It is safe for you to digest, I made sure of it. But the strength of its effect is unknown.”

Isiah offered you the vial and you took it very carefully. The vial was made from very thin glass and it felt like you’d crack it just by touching it.

You popped the corked lid and sniffed it. That sweet smell that filled the room tripled inside your nose and your mouth nearly watered.

It was a usual reaction from sniffing anything that had Isiah’s venom imbued in it. But this was like you sucked on the most delicious lolly ever, and your skin rippled with goosebumps from the warm sensation that flooded your mind.

You shivered and quickly placed the small lid back into place on the vial. “That is definitely strong.” You said with a laugh. Still feeling like someone had tickled along your sides, filling you with a blissful tingling. “What was the effect on the monsters?”

Isiah’s smile was wicked and playful. His hands were slow as he translated in a teasing manner. “It sent a number of them into a rut that lasted many hours. Some are still here enjoying themselves.”

You gawked up at the naga in front of you.

Isiah was highly adept at making potions and goods that heightened everything and anything to do with pleasure. Using his venom, which was already a strong aphrodisiac among his kind, to cook and bake and brew all manner of edible contents.

The last substance you tested for him sent you into a lovely high of desire that you shared with a number of other testers. It had been a wonderful experience that had lasted the entire night. And left you feeling bubbly days after.

However, in all your time working with Isiah or being around his establishment, you have never heard of his goods sending creatures into ruts.

“Isn’t that dangerous?” You asked. And Isiah shrugged.

“Only if their partners are unprepared. But I have many happy customers because of this. I only need to ensure that it isn’t going to comatose my human patrons.”

You knew he was joking when he used the word ‘comatose”. His glistening eyes told you as much. But if this twisted a natural need into a burning desire to a monster, you seriously doubted you’d be making your other stops anytime soon.

“I think I deserve a little break.” You said. “How do you want me to test it? Do I just drink it? Or do you want me to find someone to share this with?”

Isiah’s deep gaze sharpened and your entire body heated up under his heavy stare.

His hands Signed quickly as he leaned forward, his claws trailing over your cheek as he finished his question. “I was hoping I could share this with you. If you’d have me?”

You smiled, ignoring the growing flustered heat that crawled its way up your neck and into your cheeks as Isiah’s long fingers continued to scrape carefully down your throat. His touch barely left a red mark but his talons left your skin tingling. “Your business will be ok without you?” You asked. And Isiah made a noise in the back of his throat that would have been a hissing chuckle if his voice hadn’t been taken from him.

“My workers know what they’re doing. And they’ve been ordered to leave me for the rest of the day if you were to accept my offer.”

You nodded again and Isiah gestured for you to follow him once more.

He led you out of the cooking room and up some stairs to a room hidden behind a gilded set of doors.

You knew this as Isiah’s office and had only been here once, when you first came here with herbs to trade for coins nearly at the start of his business career.

You remember growing incredibly flustered when you noticed his office had, not only a desk and couches set for meetings; but also a large circle bed built into the floor. It was so large fifty people could probably lay in it, tangling themselves together, with ease.

But now, you were growing more and more excited as Isiah took your hand and tugged you towards the nest of pillows and blankets. When you stood on the lip of the bed, Isiah coiled his tail around your legs, turning to face you and plucked the vial from your hands.

Without taking his eyes off of you, he uncorked the glass container and pressed it tenderly against your lips.

You grinned and obediently opened your mouth. To which Isiah tilted the glass vial up and the syrupy liquid pooled onto your tongue.

The flavor was indescribable. A mixture of sweet honey and bitter dark chocolate. You eagerly swallowed the contents and as it traveled down your throat and settled in your stomach, you felt a fiery warmth begin to spread through you.

Pins and needles prickled the tips of your fingers and you sighed as the familiar blissful sensation rushed through you.

It was very instantaneous, your reaction. And you heard Isiah’s spines vibrate with delight.

So caught up in the enraptured feeling, you almost missed Isiah’s hands moving in front of you. Asking a question. “How do you feel?”

You smiled and ran your hands along Isiah’s shoulders. The texture of his silks felt so good against your palms. And the rolling muscles beneath his scales had your thighs pinching closer together.

Isiah shadowed your touches with his own. His large hands smoothed down along your sides. Carefully scraping his talons against any bare skin he found.

It made your body shiver pleasantly.

“I feel like you’ve just wrapped me up in a warm blanket and put a vibrator between my legs.” It was a vulgar explanation but it’s exactly what you were feeling.

Isiah’s smile looked almost triumphant as he slid his hands up along your sides and wound his arms around your middle. Pulling you closer, you eagerly fell into his embrace as he slowly twisted so you were lying beneath him on the mattress.

His tail nudged your thighs apart and you pushed up against him as he settled between your legs.

Isiah didn’t need to Sign to tease you. His wide smile, showing the tips of his fangs between his lips, said it all.

Your fists tangled themselves in his silks as your breathing grew heavier. Not from lack of breath, but definitely from the need that was clawing at your restraint.

“Don’t give me that look. Your venom already drives me insane. This is…by the Gods…please touch me, Isiah.”

You felt the hiss vibrate through him as Isiah purred contently with your words. His hand snaked between you and you saw stars as your eyes squeezed close with the contact.

Even with your clothes still on, that small amount of friction sent sparks to every inch of your body.

You gasped as Isiah’s tongue swept along your throat. You felt the pinpricks of his fangs scratch against your skin and the sensation had your lungs emptying with a moan.

Isiah rewarded the sound with a rather rushed circular motion between your legs. His fingers pressed deliciously hard against the bundle of nerves that screamed for attention.

You couldn’t take it anymore.

You needed to be naked and you needed his scales against your skin. Every inch of you needed his touch or else you were going to go mad.

Your hands felt clumsy and slow as you tore off the layers from your travels. Isiah grinned down at you, unhelpful as he continued to rub and roll his palm against your core. You moaned and tried to wriggle away from him just enough to pull your pants away, but the damn naga trapped you beneath him with a single hand wrapping around your throat.

Your eyes widened and your whole body burst with that fiery desire as Isiah shook his head down at you. His hold was strong but careful. Allowing you to breath and twist in his grasp, but you couldn’t pull away. Not even if you wanted to.

Then his lips moved slowly and so deliberately that you caught every sweet syllable of the word; “Slowly”, and his gaze dipped low enough to point at your pants that were unbuttoned and your belt removed.

You nodded and tortuously slowly, started to slide your legs out of your trousers. Isiah leaned back enough to watch your thighs become bare, displaying your folds as his tail returned to settle between your now naked legs.

The very touch of his cool scales against your core had your hips rolling desperately. He grinned and pushed harder against you, his hand still firmly around your throat while his other palm squeezed and molded your breath between his fingers.

You whimpered. Actually whimpered! As the subtle roll of his scales gave you the friction that you wanted. It wasn’t scratching that itch by any means but it was enough to have your head rolling back and your hips feverishly grinding against him.

You felt Isiah shift and the cool scales were replaced by something thicker. You smiled and reached for him, eagerly gliding your hands down the largest of Isiah’s two cocks.

His eyes fluttered closed as you gripped him and immediately started to rub him. Your pussy wetted the base of his length while your hands fondled and massaged the round head.

Pearlescent precum started to bead at the tip and you licked your lips, imagining his weight on your tongue.

But as much as you wanted to taste him, you needed him inside you twice as much.

Isiah’s cock was very human-like. But only in shape, with the rounded head and the soft sheath that protected the tip. The rest was all naga. To the deep, almost black color that melted into silver at the head, to the massive size that had your core clenching with just the idea of him stretching you. You could feel the soft ridges along the underside and when you tilted your hips just right, you could catch that textured side along your clit.

Isiah’s hips began to roll in rhythm with your frenzied thrusts.

His eyes were half closed, lost in the sensation of your hands pleasuring him brutally as you worked him to full length.

The second cock had not revealed itself yet. Which in the back of your mind, was strange. Both cocks were used for different things. But they were always both present when a naga was getting intimate.

The smallest was commonly used for pleasure, being the most sensitive part of the naga.

The larger of the two was always used for breeding.

It was how certain male species of naga would lay their eggs. While others produced sperm, you knew Isiah’s species instead produced soft, pliable eggs. They were only ever fertilized when the second cock would be used after the largest.

You didn’t know however, if this was something Isiah intended to do. And the thought of him stuffing you with his cock and then breeding you, had your mind turning into putty and your moans becoming louder.

The whispering of Isiah’s spines vibrating told you he enjoyed the sound. And Isiah moved so you were crushed beneath him as he started feverishly fucking himself between your thighs.

Your moans turned into breathless cries as the ridges along his cock rolled along your clit over and over.

You buried your face into the crook of his neck, kissing and biting the soft flesh between his scales as he gasped and hissed above you. Taking his own pleasure while you desperately tried to keep up with his heated pace.

“Isiah, please!” Your begging plea was matched by your hands scrambling to move him in a way that gave you space to realign yourselves.

Your bed partner nodded, panting as his tail twisted to maneuver himself so your hips no longer touched, but the rounded tip of his cock pressed against your entrance.

The first second of pressure had you squeezing your eyes shut. So ready was your body, that it welcomed Isiah with a warm, very wet entrance for him to slide into.

But after the first inch, your body tensed and Isiah’s spines shivered with displeasure as he forced himself to slow and properly stretch you.

His hands were wrapped around your hips, his claws left red dents in your skin as your hips rolled in tandem to stuff Isiah’s girth between your legs.

He was taking too long. You could take him, you knew it. He just wasn’t at the right angle.

You managed to regain control of your body long enough that you somehow forced Isiah onto his back.

The naga definitely let you do it and his wide smirk only fueled your need as you mounted him. Driving your knees into the mattress on either side of his hips as you wrapped your hand around his length and angled it towards your core.

And like the smug male he was, Isiah relaxed into the pillows and let you work yourself into a frenzy. His hands found soft places on your body to pinch and squeeze while you panted and rolled your hips down on top of him.

Immediately, the tip slipped inside and you braced your hands on his chest, murmuring soft nothings in between moans as you kept penetrating yourself on him.

Isiah’s eyes watched every sway of your hips as you took him. His eyes occasionally rolled closed when you sunk fast down on him or squeezed in a way that sent pleasure shooting through his body.

But his gaze was glued to you. Locked on the beautiful display of heated need that had you taking his full length and seating yourself around him. Only when your ass sat flat against his hips did Isiah move.

He sat up so fast you were almost knock back. But his hands wrapped around your waist and held you securely against him.

His lips found yours in a heated kiss. One that had his fangs nicking against your lower lip and his forked tongue swept hungrily against your inner cheeks.

And then his hands started to set a rhythm.

Bouncing you slowly, intending to test if you could take him. But you whined and shoved his hands away. Planting your hands on his chest and instead lifting your hips away from him until only the tip of his cock was still inside, and then slamming down with a slick sound of skin slapping scale.

The friction had you seeing stars and white flashed through your eyes as you continued to ride Isiah hard and fast enough that your thighs immediately started to burn.

Isiah writhed beneath you. Hands locking onto your waist once more as he looked up at you with dark, hungry eyes.

His grin was wicked. Seeming pleased to see your mouth hanging open, eyes hooded and your body lost to the sensation of being so overly stuffed your belly bulged everytime you came down.

Then his thumb nudged against your clit and your sounds twisted, becoming louder and desperate. You clutched his wrist, unsure whether to throw his hand away or lock it against you as he rolled the pad of his finger against the fiery clutch of nerves.

You didn’t get time to decide.

Not long after his fingers worked you over, you felt him begin to swell inside you. His rhythm, one he smoothly kept up with you, faltered and his tail writhed behind you like a piece of string on the wind.

You heard his spines vibrate and then lock down against his scales and Isiah’s head rolled back with a silent cry as his climax rushed through him.

His hands, locked on your waist, held you tight against his hips as he rutted up into you. You were rocked harshly above him, but unable to move an inch as he spilled inside you.

You felt his warm seed flood you, but then something thicker began to stretch you. You gasped and squirmed, but Isiah was stronger. Keeping you firmly in place as his first egg seated itself inside you.

His rapid pace pushed the egg deeper and deeper until you felt it snugly rest against your cervix. The foreign feeling was like a cooling agent to the fire in your stomach.

That desire still raged but a sense of contentment spread through your mind as well.

“Is there more?” You asked Isiah. Your voice felt like sandpaper against your throat. How long have the two of you been fucking? You felt sweat along your brow and back and your thighs burned to the point you weren’t sure if you could move them anymore.

Isiah smirked and suddenly you were on your back again. And Isiah spread your legs to the point you gasped, and continued to pound into you.

He couldn’t fit all the way this time. Not with the first egg inside you. But the friction and new angle had you both panting again in minutes. And you cried out as his cock swelled with his second finish, laying another egg that he kept fucking deeper and deeper until you felt it slide against the first.

The fog started to lift from your mind. You could make out the shadows that were now cast along the floors of the office from the windows. The once blue sky outside was now pooling with oranges and pinks.

A sunset.

But Isiah’s rough kiss scattered the sudden shock with a new sense of need.

Again and again, Isiah pounded into you. Soon your voice was lost to you, leaving only loud pants and squeaky moans as he penetrated your overly sensitive pussy until his eggs were sweetly embraced between your walls.

By the fifth egg, even Isiah was exhausted. He nuzzled your neck and the spines along his tail shivered softly as he curled around you. His cock still buried as far as it could, lazily stroking himself as he reveled in his own overstimulation.

You were a mess. Unable to think and slipped in and out of a blissful slumber while Isiah used you.

It was only until you felt him slide out of you, leaving a great gaping emptiness, did your mind finally come back to you.

And you reached for him as his tail slid around you. Coiling your body against the thick, cool muscle against your very warm body.

Isiah nuzzles against your back as he moves up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist as he settles amongst the coils of his tail.

He then lifts his hands enough that you can see the question he Signs.

“Is it any good?” You don’t have to look at him to sense the teasing smirk. He damn well knows it’s good. But you indulge him regardless of how scratchy your voice sounds.

“I blinked and suddenly it was the afternoon.” You mumbled with a laugh. You shifted to get more comfortable and your sensitive walls sent flames of heat through your body as the eggs inside you shifted as well. You touched your stomach and turned your head enough to look over at Isiah. “So, what do I do with these eggs?”

Isiah’s hands moved lazily in front of you as he snuggled more deeply into the pillows, exhausted. “You are safe with them inside you. I’m sorry I didn’t ask permission first. The scent of your heightened lust sent me spiraling. And I also have a small kink with breeding, so I lost control. I will remove them after a quick nap.”

“You’re fine. I’ve never been…bred like this before.” You admitted. Also laying your head amongst the mountain of pillows.

You peel open your eyes when you felt Isiah’s arms moving again.

“Do you enjoy it?” He asked.

“Yes.” You said. Not at all ashamed to share this with Isiah. “I enjoy all manner of being used like this. I’ve just never had a Naga male do it to me.”

“Glad to be the first.” His hands said playfully. Which you rolled your eyes at. “But it was very sexy to see you take over. I’ll happily fill you with eggs again if you ride me like that again.”

“It’s a deal then.” You managed to mumbled before you lost the fight against sleep and were pulled into a warm, sweet sleep, nestled against Isiah’s tail.

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

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 22 days ago

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Cannibals [Chapter 7: Lightning and Rust]

A/N: Only 3 chapters left!!! 🥳❤️💙🦇

Series summary: You are his sister, his lover, his betrothed despite everyone else’s protests; you have always belonged to Aemond and believe you always will. But on the night he returns from Storm’s End with horrifying news, the trajectories of your lives are irrevocably changed. Will the war of succession make your bond permanent, or destroy the twisted and fanatical love you share?

Chapter warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), babies and parenthood, blood and violence, character deaths, I really cannot summarize this chapter you just gotta experience it, I'll pray for you 🙏

Word count: 6.8k

💙 All my writing can be found HERE! ❤️

Tagging: @themoonofthesun @chattylurker @moonfllowerr @ecstaticactus @mrs-starkgaryen, more in comments 🥰

🦇 Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🦇

You’re curled up in bed with a velvet pouch of hot stones that have gone cold, bloody rags bunched between your thighs, trying desperately to sleep, and outside a storm is brewing over Blackwater Bay and bringing with it dark skies and strikes of lightning that stalk ever-closer. Through the open window, the air tasting like late-summer rain, you can hear Helaena and the maids corralling the children back into the Red Keep. They are laughing because nobody is dead yet, not even the ailing and absent King Viserys, not even doomed little Luke Strong.

Aemond lets himself into your chambers and stands over your bed, staring down at you with some combination of annoyance and concern. You have failed him. You were not where he wanted you to be. “Why weren’t you at the beach?” Playing with your niece and nephews, collecting your seashells.

“Because women are cursed.”

Aemond smiles, perhaps a bit relieved; he has his answer. “And you more than any of them, because you’re so wicked.”

“Maester Orwyle says I can’t have more milk of the poppy for two hours.”

“Then we must listen to him. It is a powerful remedy, and we cannot endanger you.” He takes off his boots and climbs into bed, lying behind you, one hand following the curve of your waist to settle on your lower belly. “I can relax the muscles. It might ease your suffering.”

Right now? “Oh no, no, you don’t want to do that,” you warn him. “It’s very messy.”

“You think I’m afraid of your blood?” Aemond says, amused. “Everything we’re built of is the same.” He lifts the hem of your silk nightgown and reaches underneath the nest of rags, sliding there in the coppery wetness as you inhale sharply, startled but not unwilling. When Aemond removes his hand, the carnage he is stained with is bright crimson but dotted with clots. Then he licks the blood from his fingers and paints his tongue red. You can’t keep the shock from your face. Aemond grins, wets his hand again, draws a heart on your left cheek just beneath your eye. You laugh and pretend to try to shove him away.

“You’re deranged, you’re a monster—”

“Let me help you,” Aemond whispers, nuzzling blood from his lips into your silver hair. “Let me take your pain away like you quiet mine.”

And you surrender to him like you always do—worn down, overpowered, intoxicated, bewitched, seduced, perhaps all at once—and as Aemond’s hand works and the gory metallic ether of blood fills both of your lungs, the cramps dissolve into nothingness and then build to desire, and you’re opening your thighs for him and the rags are whisked away, unnecessary, forgotten, and now there is blood on the bedsheets and your fingers are twisting into the pillows strewn around you, and it doesn’t feel shameful at all anymore, because what is blood if not made from the same minerals as coins and blades and ocean and ash, and what is lust if not a fire that burns the constraints of the world away?

You kiss him as you come, moaning into his bloodstained mouth, biting his lower lip, and if the careless pressure of your teeth makes him bleed then that’s just more iron and copper and steel to add to the molten sea you are marooned in, more magma, more rust. “Enough,” you gasp when the last of the waves have passed and you are emptied and too sensitive, and Aemond knows to listen. Then you reach for Aemond’s trousers, where you can see he is hard. You are abruptly and ruinously exhausted—you struggle to keep your eyes open—but it feels wrong to not take care of him in return.

It shouldn’t take long, he’s already flushed, he’s already dripping sweat—

“No need,” Aemond says, gently stopping your hands. And as you burrow into the pillows and your eyes dip closed, your skin and hair still splattered with red, he slips away silently so you can sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~

“I don’t want to leave you,” Jace says, knowing that he has to anyway. “Either of you.”

You are nursing the baby in a chair by the fireplace; you needed a change of scenery from the bed. The upholstery is pale blue velvet. The blanket the baby is swathed in is embroidered with pine trees and foxes, and far beyond your skill; Lady Caro made it. She is nearly as gifted with a needle as Helaena. On the walls of the bedchamber you share with your husband are mosaics you’ve pieced together over the past nine months here at the modest castle of Heart’s Home in a cold, remote corner of the Vale. The fractured faces look in on you like curious gazes through clear windows: Aegon, Helaena, Daeron, Jaehaera, Maelor, Mother, Criston. You aren’t any closer to them now, but you feel like you are. The world seems softer, warmer, smaller.

You smile as you ghost a fingerprint over the baby’s faint dark eyebrows. He’s half-asleep as he suckles, hushed and content and entirely helpless. He has Jace’s coloring, but something about the shape of his eyes reminds you of Aegon. “We’ll be here waiting when you get back.”

“I think he looks a lot like Luke,” Jace says, admiring the baby. He’s standing with one arm draped over the back of your chair and the flickering firelight from the hearth on his face, turning his skin from snow to sunstone. “And Joffrey. His face is rounder than mine.”

“Have you been to the Eyrie to see them since the war began?” Joffrey, Rhaena, Rhaenyra’s young white-haired sons Aegon and Viserys.

Jace shakes his head. “I never wanted to be away from you for longer than necessary. I didn’t want to risk being spotted and revealing where they’ve been hidden. And I didn’t know what to say.” About us, about our marriage, about our baby.

“You should visit them, Jace. I would visit Helaena and her children if I could.” You leave out the others intentionally; Helaena is your only sibling that Jace considers blameless. You miss Aegon and Daeron just as much, but in the solitude of your own heart—in the stillness, in the silence—you aren’t sure if you want to see Aemond again. You don’t know if he will be soft with you, or vengeful or cold, or if he has filled the void of your absence with a lover, something that you cannot think about without your stomach lurching and your skull aching, and so you put him out of your mind as much as you can and stay here with the baby instead.

Jace rests a hand on your shoulder reassuringly, then strokes your cheek. He says, meaning the baby: “We’ll have to get him his own egg.”

“I hope he won’t inherit my affliction,” you murmur somberly. “I hope he’ll have a dragon someday.” Without them, we are powerless. Without them, we aren’t real Targaryens.

“Maybe there’s something you need to do first.”

You look up at Jace, not understanding.

“I’ve spent a lot of time considering what inspires a dragon to bond to someone,” he says. And you think, feeling a fleeting stab of betrayal before you stitch the wound closed with invisible thread: Because you’ve been helping the Blacks search for riders. “It seems that each creature has their own preferences. Meleys favored women who were spirited and highly intelligent. Dreamfyre has chosen two riders, both gentle, shy, and fond of animals. Seasmoke bonded to two sons of Corlys Velaryon with similar temperaments, agreeable and charismatic, Quicksilver to a father and son who were both considered weak and died young. Caraxes seems to have an affinity for warriors.” It does not escape you that Jace neglects to mention Vhagar, as if through his silence he can make the beast and her rider vanish. “And Vermithor…” Jace offers you a small, sympathetic smile, remembering that you once wanted him. “The Bronze Fury bonds to riders who are imposing in body and ambitious in spirit. And I suspect he only likes men.”

“So it was always hopeless,” you say gloomily. You recall the miniature Vermithor that Aegon once carved for you out of oak wood. You hope that Aegon is still alive somewhere, scarred but lying in wait, always underestimated, always so much deeper than he seems, an ocean that Mother and Father mistook for a puddle, messy and marginal and inconvenient.

“I believe dragons often gravitate towards riders who are mirrors of themselves. Even Vermax, he is…” Jace considers this. “He’s proud, and he’s clever, but he’s not as formidable as he imagines himself to be.”

“Like you,” you say before you can stop to consider whether Jace will be offended by it, and he gives you an amused smirk. The baby has stopped nursing and fallen asleep; you fix the bodice of your gown and cradle him against you. There are maids to take him when you’re tired, and Jace loves holding him, and Lady Caro steals him away often, but right now you don’t want your freedom. You don’t want your mind to be untethered and to wander to all the places you’re not supposed to be.

Jace continues: “What I mean is, perhaps there is some quality you must cultivate within yourself before the beast you are meant to have judges you worthy.”

“Hardly any unclaimed dragons are left now.” Then you tease: “Do you suggest I become quiet and timid so Grey Ghost will like me?”

Jace laughs. “No, I fear that’s a lost cause, princess. You could never be timid.”

You are intrigued. “Then what am I?”

“I think you’re hungry,” Jace decides. “I think you always want more.”

“I never wanted that many things.” Aemond. My family to be safe. And I wanted Vermithor.

“Every line that is drawn, every place you’re told not to go or act you’re not supposed to do, you insist upon overreaching.”

Is that why Aemond and I were so drawn to each other? you think doubtfully. Because it was forbidden? Because it horrified people who climbed high enough to live alongside Targaryens but could never understand them?

“I think Meleys would have been a good match for you,” Jace says after a while. “If she hadn’t already been claimed by Grandmother.”

“And now the Red Queen is dead.” Like Arrax, and Moondancer, and Seasmoke, and probably Sunfyre too. How many dragons will be left when this is over? How many Targaryens? You clutch the baby closer to you; he stirs in his sleep, tiny fingers grasping at nothing. “What sort of rider does Silverwing favor? What could this illiterate drunk Ulf the White possibly have in common with Good Queen Alysanne?”

Jace snickers. “That’s a good question. I’ve been ruminating on it. My theory is that since Silverwing was never ridden into battle, and has always been relatively docile and accustomed to living peacefully near humans, she was attracted to Ulf’s…how to describe it? His lack of military prowess. Or, alternatively, once Vermithor was claimed Silverwing was very, very lonely.”

You smile, and then it dies. It must be indescribably painful to be separated from one’s mate after a century together. Unsurvivable, even. “Can Silverwing fight, do you think?”

Jace heaves a sigh and shrugs. “I’m not sure if either of them can. Ulf will try, at least. Hopefully it won’t come to that, and Vermithor is enough to protect King’s Landing. Hugh Hammer is an inexperienced rider, but he’s brave and he’s committed. Each time I see him he’s better than he was before.”

Hugh Hammer is a bastard blacksmith, but he has more power in this war than I do. Ulf the White is an idiot and a drunk, but he’s a true Targaryen and I’m not. You rock your sleeping child in your arms, quieting the voices that flutter in your skull like bat wings. You kiss his wisps of dark curls and breathe in his warmth and newness and blood that is interwoven with yours.

“You could learn how to hate your own kind and claim the Cannibal,” Jace jokes.

You chuckle. “I don’t hate anyone.” Not here, not now.

Lady Caro arrives in the doorway carrying a tray of cinnamon tea. “I have come offering a trade,” she says, grinning, and shuffles excitedly across the room. She sets the tray down on the table by your chair and holds out her hands. Reluctantly, you surrender the baby. Lady Caro coos and beams at him as you and Jace sip cinnamon tea, sweet and loosing steam like morning mist into the air. “Surely by now you’ve made the logical decision to name him in my honor.”

“Carolei would be a very strange thing to call a boy,” Jace says.

“Caroson,” she jests.

You add: “Carogon. Carocaerys.”

“Awful!” Jace says, laughing.

“Have you been feeding the baby again?” Lady Caro scolds you. “We have wetnurses for that.”

“They get him all night. I want time with him too.”

“You’re barely even producing any milk. You’d make for a terrible goat.”

“Then I’ll nurse him for as long as I can.”

“You’ll end up with pitiful floppy breasts like mine.”

“Isn’t this what they’re for? Nourishing children, not being gawked at and tugged on by some man?”

Lady Caro turns to Jace, exasperated. “She has some disease. She can’t listen to anyone.”

He smiles. “She’s an untamable beast, I’m afraid. Burns up anyone who makes the attempt.”

Lord Corbray walks in, and nestled in his ancient arthritic hands is a sword in a sheath. There is a large heart-shaped ruby in the hilt. “Prince Jacaerys, I cannot begin to tell you what an honor it has been not only to host you and the princess here in our humble castle, but also to have a future king of the Seven Kingdoms born within our walls.”

Jace stands up straighter, as his mother would want him to. He’ll never look like the heir to the throne, like a Targaryen, but he can act like one. “We continue to be grateful for your hospitality.”

“To commemorate this happy occasion, I wish to gift you a cherished heirloom of my house. This is Lady Forlorn, made of Valyrian steel. She came to House Corbray over a century ago, and now I bequeath her to you. I hope she will aid you in your victory in this unjust war, and that all the realm will soon be at peace and under competent rulership.”

Jace looks at you uneasily; you pretend to be preoccupied drinking your tea. You ignore Lord Corbray’s slight against the Greens. You don’t have much choice, and you’ve had plenty of practice. Jace takes Lady Forlorn from Lord Corbray and unsheathes her, studying his reflection in the cold smoke-colored grey of the blade. His face is grave. Now he feels the weight on his shoulders of being not just a prince, an heir, a soldier, and a husband, but a father as well, something he himself never had in a way that was truthful and pure. You are alarmed to see tears gleaming in his dark eyes.

“Jace?” you say, touching his arm.

He regains his composure. “Thank you, Lord Corbray. I will treasure Lady Forlorn, and I will endeavor to always use her wisely.”

Lord Corbray smiles fondly at the slumbering baby in Lady Caro’s arms. Across the Riverlands, their sole surviving child, Jessamyn, is in hiding with her husband and children. At Lady Caro’s insistence, they fled from the Mallisters’ castle at Seagard in case Aemond and Vhagar descend upon it. He is still burning. A monster? you think. “I assume you’ve named your firstborn?”

You and Jace exchange a glance. You haven’t yet; you are afraid to discuss it with each other. There are so many possibilities—Targaryen or Velaryon or Strong—and none seem to be without some unspoken allegiance or condemnation. There are so few guiltless names left. But you think you know what Jace would choose if he dared to speak it aloud.

“We should name him after Luke,” you say. A boy, an innocent. A victim of a horrific accident that started this war.

Jace is surprised, but there is relief in his face too. “Lucerys?” he says, trying it out. Then he is solemn again. “It feels wrong to use the exact same name. Like I’m trying to replace him.”

“Lucerion,” Lady Caro suggests, still holding the baby. “It sounds like a prince’s name. It sounds like a king’s.”

Jace attaches Lady Forlorn to his belt and then takes the baby, obviously against Lady Caro’s will. “Lucerion,” Jace murmurs, smiling down at his son who is stirring awake and beginning to whimper. “Is that your name? Is that what we’ll call you?”

“Perhaps Luca for short,” you say from your chair, feeling drained and like you need to lie down. You’ll have to change your rags again soon, or you’ll bleed through them.

“Luca, the littlest dragon,” Jace proclaims, touching his fingertip to the baby’s puggish nose. Then he turns to you. “Did you have a nickname as a child? I always did and still do, of course. And Luke…” Jace trails off, thinking of his dead brother, murdered by yours.

You see your red bat traveling around the board; you feel the warmth of blood on your cheek. “They called me Red.”

“Red?” Jace is baffled. “Like the color?”

“There was a game we played when we were young, and my piece…” You close your eyes, not wanting to remember, not wanting to feel the weight of their absence. “It doesn’t matter. It was so long ago.” And you fear that Jace will hear the evasiveness in your voice and ask you more questions; but he is absorbed with the baby, and he has already forgotten.

Two days later Jace and Vermax fly south to King’s Landing, and you and Luca are left in the care of the Corbrays and the maids and the ghosts that haunt the drafty stone corridors of Heart’s Home, soldiers killed in the Riverlands and the Reach, women and children burned and starved, bones devoured by dragons, generations of names forgotten.

Sometimes you giggle with Lady Caro as you drink cinnamon tea in the Great Hall. Sometimes you stand in the castle rookery listening to the ravens caw and stare out into the cold mist of the mountains, wondering what is happening in the world outside. And sometimes you have Luca nestled in your arms and walk with him around your bedchamber, introducing him to the faces of the people you left in your old life, when you were called Red and you believed you could be someone like Visenya. But you never mention Aemond, and not just because there are no mosaics of him on the wall.

You wouldn’t know what to say. You wouldn’t know where to begin.

~~~~~~~~~~

You learn Jace is back when he climbs into bed just as you are drifting off one night, silver moonlight spilling in through the glass of the window, his body folding into you, his arm skating over your waist to find your hand and weave his fingers through yours. Two months have passed since he left, moons that grow full and then vanish, milk that dries up and blood that ceases flowing and rebuilds inside you for the next child, if there will be one, when there will be one. Luca is sleeping in his own room with his maids and wetnurses. Jace’s curls tickle your throat as he nuzzles into you as if he wants to disappear.

He says: “The littlest dragon is much bigger than I remember.”

“How was Helaena?”

“Troubled, as is to be expected, but in good health. Jaehaera and Maelor are well too. King’s Landing is cold some days now. I think they’ll have snow soon. The taxes, the riots, the stockpiling of food as the Reach and the Riverlands burn…it’s a disaster. Mother is desperate. She misses Luke, I think. And Baela, and Daemon. She’s lost so much weight I barely recognized her. But she was very, very happy to hear about Luca. Hopefully she can meet him soon. Although we’ll have to be careful traveling with him while he’s so small, we’ll have to ensure he’s warm enough.”

Winter is coming, you think, remembering Cregan Stark’s army under the protection of Daemon and Caraxes. “Did you see Rhaena and the boys at the Eyrie?”

“I did,” Jace admits, as if it was a fraught experience.

“And what happened?”

“Rhaena called me a traitor.”

“For marrying and fathering a son with me?”

“No, that she understands,” Jace says. “But it is treason to love you.”

You turn around to look at him in the shadows, in the moonlight. “You told her?”

“She could tell. I cannot hide it. I am a glass jar and you and Luca are the butterflies inside.” And Jace kisses you softly, his fingers hooked beneath your chin, his flesh coming alive again after so long away: managing and conciliating, lifting Rhaenyra’s spirits, pawing through the heaps of bastards in King’s Landing for dragonriders, flying on Vermax through storms and snow.

When you kiss Jace back, when your hands go to his chest and his jaw and his face, when you open his tunic so you can feel the heat of his skin underneath, you are aware that parts of you are waking up again as well. There is a dull but definite ache of lust beginning to bloom like a blood drop soaking into white cotton.

“Are you…” Jace begins. “Do you think you’re healed enough, I mean…have you stopped bleeding?”

You hesitate. “I have.” You think of your first time with him and how painful it was, the sensation of burning, of tearing, and you can only assume it will be worse now. “But I’m rather terrified too.”

“No, no, don’t be afraid,” Jace whispers, he pleads, running his fingers through your long unbound hair. “We don’t have to do that. I won’t hurt you. I’ll wait for as long as you want.” His dark eyes travel down the white nightgown that clings to your body, your breasts, your belly, and then lower. “Can I…can I try something?”

“Try what?” you ask, bewildered. Then as Jace begins to push the hem of your nightgown up over your hips to your waist, you grin and kiss him again in the dim celestial light, cool night air rushing up over your bare legs, blood surging through your arteries to where he bends low to taste you once—a long, slow, tentative drag of the tongue—and then moans quietly and pushes your thighs further apart so he can bury himself there and lick, suck, swallow down your clear mineral wetness as it pools for him.

Something isn’t quite right—not enough pressure, not the ideal angle—but it’s exquisite to be reacquainted with this side of yourself, to know you can feel this way again, insatiable and desired. When you reach to touch Jace, there is a moment when you are startled to find dark curly hair in place of silk-smooth silver, and there is a ghost in the room like a voyeur watching, and you think dazedly: If Aemond knew about this, would he kill me?

“There,” you gasp, jolting as your husband stumbles upon the perfect place and rhythm. “Jace, right there…”

He listens, he is groaning with desperation for you, and you roll into a climax that is brief and sharp and a little painful, but good. Instead of being extinguished, you are a kindled flame. You turn over, straddle Jace, and unfasten his trousers. You begin kissing your way down his belly, nipping at him, your palm kneading his hardness, and you know he wants you but for some reason when you go to take him in your mouth, he pushes you away.

“You don’t have to do that,” Jace says, alarmed.

“I know. I want to.”

“No, seriously. Stop.”

You look at him, wounded, rejected. “Jace, I’m not doing this out of obligation. I enjoy it.”

He is staring at the wall. “I just…for you to…I’m sorry, it just feels wrong.”

“I can do things you believe are only for whores and still be your wife.”

“Shh,” he says, and his voice is gentle but his face is pained. You think of something Criston once told you when you were collecting bones from the Godswood of the Red Keep: Red, it hurts your mother when you’re like this. Are you cursed to disappoint people, to repulse them, to be eternally misunderstood? “I have a gift for you.”

“A gift?”

Jace gets out of bed and fetches a small wooden box he must have brought into the room with him when you were still half-asleep. He opens the box, debates whether to reach in, decides against it and passes you the whole box instead. “I asked the castle maester to procure some while I was away…”

You squeal with delight when you see what’s inside: three black and white bats the same breed as Sapphire was, large fanlike ears and wiggling noses and small black eyes that peer curiously up at you. When you offer them your open palms, they immediately scramble into them.

“I hope they’re good ones.” Jace chuckles nervously. “I don’t really know what makes a bat suitable or not.”

“They’re perfect,” you say, smiling. “I’ll build them a roost. I’ll introduce them to Luca.”

Yet you cannot stop yourself from thinking: Aemond wouldn’t have cared if I was still bleeding.

~~~~~~~~~~

You are snuggled up with Luca in your chair by the fire, cool midday light—the color of steel, smoke, rainclouds, ash—streaming in through the windows. The baby’s eyes have turned dark like Jace’s, and his curls grow longer. He is only half-awake and blinking drowsily, his diminutive hands clasping your fingers. He doesn’t cry often, but he doesn’t smile either. Lady Caro believes he already has the temperament of a good king, a calmness, a graveness. She says: How improper would it be for him to be full of complaints or cheerfulness, the way the world is right now? No, he ought to be serious. He ought to be grateful he’s not starving or being roasted alive.

“I have some new friends,” you whisper to the baby like a secret or a myth. “They’re asleep right now. They sleep all day, kind of like you do. But then at night they come alive and they’re free, and they fly around like hawks or dragons.”

You speak for Luca, a soft bird-trill of a voice: “What are their names?”

“Good question,” you say, smiling. “Iris, Shark, and Flood. And you’ll meet them soon.” Your eyes go to the mosaics on the walls. Jace hasn’t asked you to take them down, but he doesn’t acknowledge them either, except for the mosaic you made of him that hangs by the headboard of the bed. He beams at that one and calls it fine work. “You’ll meet the people I grew up with too. Aegon will make you wood carvings. Helaena will sew you blankets. Daeron will take you on adventures. Jaehaera and Maelor will play games with you. And Mother and Criston will love you because you won’t be like me. You’ll be sweet-tempered and honorable, and when you’re old enough you’ll have a dragon to help protect us with.”

There is a knock on the doorframe; one of Luca’s wetnurses has arrived to feed him. You regret that you can’t anymore. Lady Caro was right; you’d be a terrible goat or cow or yak.

“Princess,” the wetnurse says, curtsying before she takes the baby from you. You watch her leave with him for his own bedchamber—Lady Caro has already filled it with toys and children’s books—and as soon as they are out of sight, the darkness of your losses creeps back in like spiders scurrying down the corridors of your veins and arteries, like rust growing over steel. Then you hear the rumbling of voices downstairs in the Great Hall.

You stand and swish in your gown—one of the Vale’s anemic colors, a faint dusky rose—through the hallway and down the spiral staircase of the tower. In the belly of the castle, the commotion is louder, and you sweep into the Great Hall to find men gathered around the table closest to the roaring hearth, Lord Corbray and his knights and the maester, and Lady Caro too looking on anxiously. Jace is holding a piece of parchment in his hands, presumably just delivered by a raven. He shakes his head as he reads it. Outside, snow is falling.

Lady Caro is saying: “Well you’ll have to tell her. Oh, the poor dear, as if everything else isn’t bad enough. And only the gods know where Aemond is, he hasn’t been spotted in the Riverlands for days…” Then she spies you and shoos Lord Corbray and his men from the room. They bow to you as they depart, swift little bobs of the head. They have to; you are now both the wife and mother of future kings.

“Jace?” you say when the Great Hall is empty except for the two of you and Lady Caro.

Jace’s face is stricken. Lady Forlorn hangs from his belt. The letter is still clutched in his left hand; the right grips the hilt of his Valyrian steel sword. “I’m so sorry.”

“What?” you ask, immediately horrified. Aegon dead of his burns, Daeron killed in battle, Mother executed for treason, Aemond…? “What happened?”

“You have to believe that I had no idea about any of this, I never would have given Hugh the order if I’d been there, or let Mother do it—”

“Jace, please tell me.”

Aemond, Aemond, Aemond??

Instead, Jace says absurdly: “It’s Helaena.”

You stare at him. “Helaena isn’t a warrior.”

“No,” he agrees. “But she got to Dreamfyre somehow and tried to escape the city.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

That’s impossible. She wouldn’t leave Mother and the children. “No, she couldn’t have, she—”

“She took flight,” Jace insists. “And my mother sent Hugh Hammer after her on Vermithor.”

Vermithor was supposed to be mine, you think numbly. “And Helaena, she…she was…?”

Jace is trying to keep his voice steady; his dark eyes gleam, begging you not to hate him. “Dreamfyre attacked when Vermithor flew close to her. She wasn’t an especially aggressive dragon, but she was large and formidable, and she fought to defend her own life and that of her rider. Vermithor ripped out her throat, though Hugh was burned to death in the saddle. Then Vermithor flew eastward, and no one knows where he is now. Dreamfyre crashed to the earth, and Helaena with her. Their bodies were found on the beach outside the Red Keep.”

She can’t be dead. She never hurt anyone. She just wanted to be with her creatures and her family. She embroidered my blankets with red bats, she put ladybugs into my open palms. “Why would Helaena try to run, why would she do that?”

“I don’t know.”

You think nonsensically, as you have no way of knowing this: Because she was trying to stop something terrible from happening. “I told you to give her more freedom. And that freedom allowed her to sneak away to the Dragonpit.”

Jace reaches for you. “This isn’t your fault—”

“All of it ismy fault!” you shout at him, and Lady Caro shrinks away and covers her mouth with her hands. “If I’d had Vermithor, the Greens would have been unstoppable! And Rhaenyra never would have tried to claim the throne, and Aemond wouldn’t have been sent to Storm’s End, and Luke and Jaehaerys and Baela wouldn’t have died, and Aegon wouldn’t have been burned, and Aemond wouldn’t be destroying the Riverlands, and Helaena would still be alive, but instead I’ve always been useless!”

“You aren’t useless,” Jace pleads.

“Not normal enough to be a good wife or daughter, not extraordinary enough to have a dragon!”

Again, Jace tries to touch you, to soothe you. “Please don’t—”

You fling his hands away. “What was our marriage for if not to stop this from happening?! To end the dying, to protect the people we have left?” You whirl away from him and flee from the Great Hall, the castle, yourself. Behind you, Lady Caro is comforting Jace with soft tenderness you’ve never been capable of.

“Let her go, my prince,” she is counselling. “Give her a moment to grieve…”

You throw open the first door you pass and trudge out into the snow, no fox fur coat, bare feet. The cold stings and then your skin goes numb and it doesn’t bother you anymore. The icy mountain wind tears at your hair, flowing in long waves like the women of the Vale wear it, delicate and feminine, pretty and powerless. Tears cascade down your face; currents of red magma scorch your throat. When you close your eyes, you see the yellow butterfly that was once Helaena’s game piece.

She never hurt anyone. She never did anything wrong.

Now you are under the shadows of the soaring pine trees, their green needles so thick you cannot see the grey of the sky.

She never met Luca.

You gaze up into the branches, covered with tufts of white snow and icicles like fangs, and you have the overwhelming, ravenous feeling that you need to go home. You don’t belong in the Vale. The Vale almost killed you when you were a child, Aemond’s hands shoving you into a rushing stream freckled with ice.

And then all at once—like you’ve been hit, like you’ve been stabbed with a blade—you are flying high above the castle and the wind is raking over your cheeks, but it is not your face but Aemond’s, half-blind and half-scarred, torrential red waves of a sea of blood in his skull.

He’s here, he’s here—

And if he’s able to see through your eyes that you are outside in the forest…

The castle!!!

You bolt through the trees back towards Heart’s Home, your bare feet leaving tracks in the fresh powdery snow that is nearly up to your knees, and you stumble out of the shadows just as Vhagar soars overhead and unleashes her flames on the castle, wood burning, stones collapsing, people inside shrieking as they incinerate. You’re screaming for Aemond to stop, but he does not hear you and he does not see you either, he is high above in a place you’ve never been and never will be, he is flying, and he is hearing only devastation and he is breathing in its dark, intoxicating smoke, and as Vhagar swoops by the stable and it bursts into an inferno—horses galloping loose and engulfed in fire, dead but not knowing it yet—you run into the crumbling castle.

“Jace?!” you shout, but the air is full of smoke and the sounds of wood cracking and stones caving in are deafening. You feel blindly for the spiral staircase that leads up to the tower where your and Luca’s bedchambers are located. From the part of the castle that was once the Great Hall, you can hear Lord Corbray and Lady Caro screaming as their skin blisters and sloughs away and their flesh is cooked and their bones are charred black, and when the flames reach their lungs the screams go quiet. You cannot think about them. You don’t have any time; you must think of Luca and Jace. “Jace!” you bellow through the smoke.

And then there is a weak reply: “Here.”

You follow it into the stairwell. Parts of the wall have been blasted away; you can see the pine forest outside, the cold barren sky, the Mountains of the Moon. Jace is halfway up the steps, slumped against the fractured wall and pinned there by stones that have rained down on his legs. His bones must be broken; his face is bloodless and his curls matted to his forehead by sweat. His right hand fumbles futilely for the hilt of Lady Forlorn. Now, dimly, you can hear Luca crying.

Jace rasps as he stares vacantly up at you: “I tried to get to him. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, Jace, I can do it.”

“I love you.”

“I’ll be right back.”

You climb over him and chase Luca’s wails up the staircase. Vhagar is back, and the ruins of the castle tremble when she roars, and you feel the heat of her flames radiating up through the floor. You lose your footing and clamber up the last few steps on your hands and knees, then manage to stand again and careen into Luca’s room. Half the roof has collapsed; a wetnurse is sprawled on the floor and half-buried in fallen stones, blood hemorrhaging out of her mouth and ears. You grab the baby out of his cradle and quickly bundle him in his blanket patterned with blue dragonflies. His tiny hands grasp at your face and your hair as you rush back down the spiral staircase to help Jace. Smoke needles your eyes; you and Luca are both coughing as you try to clear your lungs.

You reach Jace and kneel beside him, holding Luca in your left arm and using your right to try to roll the stones off Jace’s legs, but he’s not helping you.

“Jace, please, we have to go now,” you say, but when you look at his face he’s not there. His dark eyes are glassy, his chest doesn’t rise and fall with the tide of air.

He’s gone, you think. Like Father, Luke, Jaehaerys, Baela, Rhaenys, Helaena. And you are struck by an excruciating pang of fondness for Jace more forceful than anything you ever felt for him when he was alive, and you cannot leave him here. He was your husband, he was Luca’s father. And he loved you. He must have. He said it over and over again.

“Jace?” you sob. But outside Vhagar is still flying—the gales churned up by her wings gust into the jagged holes in the castle walls—and she could be coming back, she could be returning to burn you, and Jace is dead but the baby is still alive.

You clutch Luca to you as he cries and you race down the steps, following the smoke-filled, twisted passageway. The heat is suffocating, the sounds of a dying castle engulfing, Heart’s Home turned into a graveyard, into a shattered skeleton, charred and cursed like Harrenhal. You crash through the door at the base of the stairwell and into the ground level of the castle, and you are almost out—

Something ignites, something explodes, and stones from the castle wall you are feeling your way along rip out of their centuries-old mortar and collide with you. Your ribs crack, you are thrown to the floor, but even as you scream and claw your way out of the rubble you don’t let go of the baby. You force yourself upright and stagger with Luca towards a gaping chasm where there was once a wall. There is a tremor like an earthquake. Outside, Vhagar must be landing.

Now you are in the snow again, bare feet and a gown covered with soot and wreckage. The baby isn’t crying anymore. When you glance down at the blanket he is swaddled in, the white space between the blue dots of dragonflies is turning red with blood.

Blood?

You can’t look. You can’t allow yourself to feel it; it will consume you until there is nothing left. The last vestiges of the castle are crumpling. Across the field, Vhagar is devouring Vermax’s small, broken corpse, crushing his bones in her massive, monstrous jaws.

Blood??

Aemond’s footsteps are behind you, crunching in the snow. His cloak cracks in the frigid wind like the sails of a ship. His words are full of dark, euphoric, lethal triumph, a high like nothing he’s ever known, not even when he claimed Vhagar, not even what he imagined he would feel on your wedding day when you’d be bound to each other with fire and blood in the tradition of Old Valyria. “I said I would find you, and I did.”

You hear your own voice as if from a very far distance, lightning strikes miles away but moving closer. “You killed him.”

Aemond is puzzled. You are supposed to be happy. You are saved, you are home. “Killed who?”

“He’s dead, and there will never be another. Not like this one. Jace was his father, but Jace is gone. You killed him too.”

And you turn to face him, and Aemond sees what you are holding in your arms, and only then does he understand.

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