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syndrossi · 3 months ago

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October Trick or Treat Fill #11: Daemon overhears an upsetting song

There were some great prompts for mad!Daemon and I...ended up taking little pieces from a few. (I started with "Daemon punches Cole" but ultimately stopped because we might get there at some point in the main story.)

So at long last, here are 3.6K words of Daemon experiencing all the emotions, which definitely include anger.

x~x~x

“Why is this so difficult?” Daemon snarled as they stepped back into the busy street.

“Because you are making it difficult,” Laenor said. “Why did you ask me along if you refuse to heed my advice?”

That was six shops along the Street of Kings visited, none of them offering anything remotely worth gifting to his sons. He had only given them two years worth of name day gifts, and each time it grew more difficult to decide upon a worthy one.

He had hoped that Laenor might have insight to offer, but his sons were years younger, while Daemon’s sons often seemed older than their own years. The wooden ships he had gifted Jon had seen some limited use when their cousins visited, but otherwise collected dust on the shelf. He doubted they would show any more interest in wooden knights or horses.

“It must be perfect,” Daemon said, frustration rising.

When his sons’ belongings had arrived from the Gates of the Moon, and Rhaegar had excitedly reached for his harp, Daemon had been met with the harsh realization he still did not know half of the things his sons were interested in. And when he had learned that Jon’s short sword and Rhaegar’s harp had been gifts from an unnamed “benefactor,” he had needed to excuse himself for a rare visit to the yard, where he had hacked a target to pieces with Dark Sister.

Realizing that Otto Hightower had known his sons’ preferences better than he, to have sent the perfect gifts, had filled him with fury at first, but when his energy had finally been spent in the yard, it had turned to hollow grief. I should know these things. I should know their favorite color, what foods they loved as infants, what joys they clung to for comfort in that joyless place.

That Jon had been forced to seek solace in weapons, in bashing training targets to gain some sense of control with he and his brother at Allard Royce’s mercy, while Rhaegar had turned to song to soothe their pain—

Daemon spun away from Laenor, breath hissing through clenched teeth as he fought to master his fury when every part of him screamed with the impulse to burn, to destroy.

“I know where we can go!” Laenor said, voice tight with the forced cheer Daemon had heard him use before to stave off one of Joff’s toddler meltdowns. His cousin raised his arms, palms flat, in a placating gesture when Daemon turned, ready to snap at him.

He exhaled then. Laenor was not the enemy. The man he wished to burn was in the Vale. “Where?”

“Children like secrets, hidden things. Like Jon’s sheath, the one you said Rhaegar gave him.”

That was true, though it set his chest to burning once more at the reminder of another enemy who still drew breath. Rhaegar’s first gift had been taken from Jon the night of their attempted escape, when Crayne had broken bones and threatened him with death, and discarded. His younger son had asked for aid in having a new one made for Jon, who had been moved almost to tears at the gift.

“What do you have in mind?”

“There is a shop nearer to River Row that sells such things. Jeweled boxes with false walls where they can keep their treasures, pouches with hidden pockets that can hide letters or other small things. Oh! There were some fetching brooches and hairpins that conceal tiny knives.”

His sons did enjoy both intrigues and martial pursuits. And although both had their bronze knives now, Rhaegar wore his openly rather than concealed. He might enjoy the novelty of a weapon hidden within a hairpin. It went without saying that Jon would gladly welcome any excuse to be further armed. He had already started to pester Daemon about when they would be considered old enough to wear a sword at their side.

“That sounds promising,” he admitted, earning a smile in response.

The shop in question was so close to the River Row as to nearly be in it, just barely skirting the edge of the sphere of affluence that radiated outward from the base of Aegon’s Hills, where the wealthiest of the city dwelled. The man who greeted them seemed to be a jeweler by trade, but there were enough works of leather that Daemon assumed he had a partner who specialized in such.

It had all that Laenor had described and more, and the jeweler, upon recognizing that he had royal visitors, brought out some richer pieces for their perusal. There was a beautiful pin of garnet and gold, fashioned into the shape of a red dragon that Daemon was immediately drawn to, the head rearing back and wings splayed wide, as though preparing to breathe dragonflame.

It had considerable heft to it, the pin itself wide and tapering to a point, to serve as a sheath for the hidden blade. The hilt and guard were hidden behind the dragon’s head and wings, secured in place to a pair of hooks by leather straps on either side of the guard that could be worked free.

The dagger could hardly be called that, its delicate hilt barely long enough to pinch between his thumb and forefinger, and the blade itself thin, tapering to a needle’s point. But it could stab a man’s flesh, should the need arise, and bleed him capably enough if aimed somewhere vulnerable.

“Can you make two more in this style?” Daemon asked, running his finger over the jewels that formed the scales. “One of sapphire on silver, and one of onyx on bronze?”

Jon did not often wear his hair styled into braids, but he might consider it with a Shadow hairpin that could transform into a tiny blade. The bronze would stand out against his dark hair, just as the blue of the sapphire would in Rhaegar’s light hair.

“For your sons?” The jeweler’s smile faltered for a moment at Daemon’s suspicious frown. “Tales of their hatchlings have spread throughout the city! It would be my honor to fashion pins in their likeness. Would my prince prefer the pins without a blade?”

“No,” Daemon said. He tested the red dragon’s blade with his thumb, which proved acceptably sharp. “It should be just like this one.”

“I can have it completed within a moon, if that is acceptable,” the man said with a bow. “Should I set aside the red dragon pin for when they are complete, or would my prince like to take it with him today?”

Daemon looked at the hairpin, heavy in his hand, and hesitated. He had not planned on seeking any trinkets for himself, but the red of the scales combined with the warm yellow of the dragon’s topaz eyes were too alike Caraxes not to be tempted.

“Here,” Laenor offered, taking the pin from his hand.

He wove the pin through one of Daemon’s side braids, then through the center braid. With just the pin, it would not have been especially stable, but the wings themselves extended into the teeth of a comb, allowing the decorative top piece to be partially secured in place. Daemon turned his head from side to side, then gave a small hop, testing its hold. It would be better served by some center braid knot, with the pin and comb akilter above it, but he could seek suggestions from Rhaenyra when she finally returned.

“It is very fetching,” Laenor said.

“Set it aside,” he said. One for each of us. It would not do to spoil the surprise early by revealing his own.

He added a pair of belt pouches with secret compartments to his purchase, and even took Laenor’s final suggestion, dictating a design for a pair of jeweled boxes with a clever mechanism for triggering the false bottom to spring up when pressed, revealing the hidden space below.

It was not an inexpensive trip, but Daemon had spent little of his royal allowance over his time in the Stepstones. He looked forward to someday bringing the twins with him to the shop, certain they would find other trinkets to their liking within. Once the matters of Volantis and the Stepstones are settled.

They were near enough to a woodworker’s shop that Daemon agreed to one more stop. Laenor had, for once, been inspired by his gift choices and wanted to find some wooden ships for Jace and Luke.

“He also carved their wooden dragons,” Laenor said. “If you’d like any for the twins. His Caraxes was quite a good likeness.”

As they turned onto the next street, they spied a small crowd gathered around a singer who was plucking his lute as he sang a melody Daemon hadn’t heard before, too distant yet to make out the words themselves. They had taken no more than a few steps when Laenor turned abruptly.

“I did not take note of the hour,” he said. “We should return to the holdfast. I can stop by another time.”

The swiftness of his speech spoke to a sudden agitation, and Daemon regarded him with suspicion, not moving to follow. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” Laenor said, shoulders slumping after a few seconds of Daemon’s unblinking stare. “I—there is someone I wish to avoid.”

Although his words held the ring of a lie, his gaze did stray toward the singer. Daemon squinted through the crowd to catch a better glimpse of the man. Short, with short brown hair and a plain face. Far from his cousin’s usual type, which was lean, handsome, well-muscled and preferably knighted. And he could think of no other reason Laenor would wish to avoid some singer of common origin.

“Why—?”

“I can explain later.” Laenor grabbed his arm. “Come.”

Daemon easily twisted his arm free, and Laenor’s final protests trailed off as he approached the crowd gathered around the singer. The song was flowery tripe about a pair of Targaryen princes, with two entire verses devoted to their beauty. Such hyperbole was not uncommon in songs about their house.

The song turned slightly ribald then, switching to the lascivious Free Cities of Lys and Myr, whose loveliest slaves could not compare in a verse where their shortcomings were enumerated, with heavy innuendo. A few stretches of broken and butchered Valyrian were sprinkled into the verses, presumably to emphasize the foreign nature of the Free Cities, as the owners of the richest pillow houses conspired to steal away the “hidden jewels of the Iron Throne.”

“You see?” Laenor hissed at him. “It is nothing. We should return.”

Daemon turned to follow, willing to concede just this once, only to halt as the singer moved on to the details of plot, where the “jealous witch of Runestone” struck a bargain with the Lysene slavers.

My sons. Daemon spun back to the singer, too stunned for a moment to hear much of the next verse. It is about my sons.

A purse of fifty-thousand dragons was offered and accepted, and the young twins—fair and dewy-eyed in their innocence—escorted south to Gulltown by a man named Crayne, where the slaver ships awaited. Much was made of his sons’ helplessness, and the slavers’ delight when inspecting their find.

It did not matter that Daemon and Caraxes were made the heroes of the tale, swooping in for a daring, last-minute rescue. Hearing his sons spoken of thus, as objects of desire, as fodder for a Lysene pillow house, brought his blood to a roar in his ears.

“Daemon—” Laenor whispered, seizing his arm once more to halt him from drawing Dark Sister.

“My sons are eight,” Daemon hissed, mind shying away from the knowledge that the pillow houses across the Narrow Sea were notorious for training their pleasure slaves young.

“It is only a song,” Laenor said, straining with both arms now to hold him back. “Nothing happens to them, even in song.”

Laenor’s caution was no match for his fury. Daemon dragged him several steps before his cousin released him at last, and the crowd parted around him as their eyes fell upon his hair, then his unsheathed sword. The singer spotted him last, glancing up from where he had stooped to pick up his earnings, and Daemon lifted him in a single motion, shoving him back into the wall, bringing Dark Sister’s blade to rest just below his jaw.

The man stared back, terrified recognition in his eyes. “My prince. I—”

“Is that song of your creation?” Daemon demanded, the heat of his blood growing with every second he dwelled upon its ugly lyrics.

“No!” the singer gasped, desperately angling his jaw upward to put space between it and Dark Sister’s edge. “There was a singer in Flea Bottom, I learned it from him! And he had learned it from another.”

Daemon searched his gaze for signs of a lie, finding mostly terror, and he turned his head aside, spitting the vilest curses he knew in Valyrian. It has spread then. “What is it called?”

The man swallowed, clearly reluctant to answer. “‘The Pillow Princes.’ I did not name it!”

Laenor had made his way through the crowd after Daemon and put a hand on his shoulder. “Daemon.”

Daemon’s arm strained with the effort of not opening the singer’s throat to spill upon the cobblestone. “If you wish to keep your tongue, then you will not sing it again. And you will spread my warning to others who might do the same.”

The man gave the barest of nods, mindful of the blade. “Yes, my prince, of course! I will spread your words far and wide!”

Daemon lowered his sword, then his elbow, which had pinned the singer in place. The man bowed once, twice, even lower, and stumbled over his lute as he backed away, feet jarring several of the coins that had been tossed his way, which he now ignored to stumble further, not daring to turn his back until he was fully out of view.

When Daemon looked behind, he found that the crowd had dispersed entirely, as though fearful of receiving similar treatment for having listened to the song.

If it has made it through the city, it is only a matter of time until it finds its way into the Red Keep. The thought of his sons hearing it themselves, even if they did not entirely understand the uglier parts, made his fists clench. The part about Rhea will hurt them.

Rhaegar especially. She had given his younger son reason enough to doubt her love, he knew from speaking to Ser Perkins on the matter.

Crayne’s inclusion in the song made it clear that word had spread of his bounty, and inferences had been made from that as to the intentions behind the kidnapping attempt. That the singer behind it had chosen the vilest of possibilities, rather than the more obvious interpretation that one of the Free Cities sought dragons, spoke of malice.

I shall have every gold cloak on alert. Any who dare sing it—

“Forbidding a thing only increases its allure,” Laenor said.

Either he had read his thoughts, or Daemon had spoken aloud without realizing. Denial rose in his throat, and he swallowed it, jaw clenching so hard that it ached. Laenor was right. And if the song had made it to River Row, then it had almost certainly found its way to the harbor, and from there—anywhere.

I cannot protect them from anything. Every failure loomed before him, taunting him. Crayne’s continued freedom, wherever he had fled. The warlock’s candle that continued to haunt his sons. The reward offered by Volantis for their capture, unopposed and uncontested by the Crown.

Even the Stepstones remained unconquered, merely the seeds of victory being planted, with the harvest unassured. And the true horror of the song was that if not for the protection offered by Volantis’s reward, he could very easily imagine the Triarchy hatching such a plot to punish him for all that he had done to oppose them.

He did not sheathe Dark Sister, the walk back to the Red Keep a blur of bitter rage and despair, his thirst for violence, for bloodshed, unquenched. The temptation to mount Caraxes and set out for the Stepstones was nearly overwhelming. Let Caraxes rain fire from above. He would join the chaos of the melee, find release in the spray of blood.

Anything was better than yet another day spent on planning and logistics, on useless whispers and fruitless investigations. I am a blade left sheathed for too long.

Laenor departed once they reached the yard, and Daemon hacked at one target, then another, and another, but the destruction only further fueled the fury in his heart, until he felt as though he might choke on it. I am useless. I shall only fail them, as I failed them for so long.

“Daemon.”

That was his brother’s voice. Daemon blinked, finding his sword stuck partway through the top beam of the wooden fencing along the edge of the yard. His hand throbbed from the repeated impact of metal against wood, carried up the blade to the hilt.

There were a dozen knights in the yard, keeping either a respectful or wary distance from his swath of destruction, and two Kingsguard flanking his brother, and yet all Daemon could feel was a vague sense of threat. As though he were surrounded by only the illusion of safety, and it could vanish within an instant, trapping him, trapping his sons—

You cannot protect them.

He released Dark Sister’s hilt, the fire gone even more swiftly than it had built, without even embers to warm him. He felt cold as he looked to the setting sun, then back at his brother.

“Is there not a small council meeting?”

“Laenor fetched me,” Viserys said. He nodded at Ser Harrold, who strained for a few pulls before wrenching Dark Sister free of the fence and handing her to Daemon, who stared at the sword a moment before sheathing her. A hand found his back, resting lightly there. “Daemon, you worry me. What is the matter?”

There was a concern in his voice that Daemon desperately wanted to believe. “Am I one of your problems again?”

His brother heaved a heavy sigh, which seemed answer enough. “I should not have said that before. I am sorry.”

I am sorry, but we cannot risk open conflict with Volantis while we war against the Triarchy. I am sorry, but you must wed, even if you do not wish to. I am sorry, but I do not trust you enough to explain. I am sorry, but your children must remain here, blood to be spent.

“Daemon?”

“I do not want your apology,” he said. The screams he had strangled before had still somehow left his voice raw.

His brother fell silent for a few long seconds, though his hand remained on his back, a subtle pressure between his shoulder blades. “What do you want?”

“I—” So many things all at once that they might as well be nothing. Daemon swallowed. “I want my sons.”

Viserys’s head moved, and Ser Harrold spoke. “Their arms training is finished for the day. They should be back within the holdfast.”

“Come, then.” Viserys’s hand pushed gently, spurring him into a walk. “We shall find them.”

“Are you not needed at the small council meeting?”

“Are you not needed?” Viserys prodded back, only to quickly add as Daemon’s steps faltered, “They shall manage without us.”

Daemon was escorted to his apartments, and the two Kingsguard and the knight standing vigil outside the door were then ordered a few paces back by Viserys, who continued to study him, his small frown only serving to make him appear even wearier.

“Will you not tell me what troubles you?”

Everything. “It is nothing you can help with,” Daemon said. Nothing you would help with.

“Laenor told me about the song,” Viserys said, hands squeezing his shoulders. “I shall have it dealt with.”

Daemon was startled to find that it had almost completely slipped his mind. The embers of his fury earlier flared briefly, but as he reached for their warmth, they faded once more. “Thank you.”

“Would you do something for me in return?”

He should have expected a price. Daemon’s hands flexed. “What is it?”

“Would you stop slipping your household knights when you leave the Red Keep?” Viserys’s frown deepened. “It is not safe for you until the Triarchy is dealt with.”

He does not wish to let you beyond his reach.

Daemon gave a halting nod in response, and Viserys pulled him into an embrace, pressing a kiss to his temple before releasing him, pulling back to arm’s length, gaze roving over him once more, seeking something that he did not seem to find. “Thank you.”

The sound of laughter rose from within his apartments, and the constriction that had found its way to his lungs eased. Jon. He reached for the door, overcome by the need to see them, hold them. “I must—”

“Go on. We can speak later.”

The flutter of apprehension in his chest settled as he pulled the door open to the sight of his sons staring at one another across the room, their hatchlings positioned between them in some unknowable game. All four heads turned to him, and within moments he was swarmed by all four, warmth seeping through the cold at last.

#resonant trick or treat #resonant trick or treat fills #why do only bad things happen in river row? who can say #spent way too much time researching hairpins and drawing dragons really badly

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thyras · 1 month ago

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→ of new beginnings

PAIRING → halbrand | sauron x female!elf!reader

WORD COUNT → 6.4k words

SERIES → of sauron & the moriquendi

WARNINGS → 18+ mdni - mind manipulation s*x (bruh i have no idea what the heck to call it), unprotected p in v, masturbation (fem), reminiscing, lots of foreshadowing (LIKE LOTS)

SUMMARY → after the fall of your city and beleriand, you build a friendship with a certain elf by what seems like chance and over the centuries he welcomes you into his counsel. though your fëa grows restless as your wayward husband seems to grow in the shadows.

AUTHORS NOTE → okay so lots of quenya names and sindar names are used. i had to come up with so many that it made my brain hurt cause ya know I did not know if in the lore anyone knew sauron by mairon before the fall of numenor (could not find anything in any of my lore books) reader goes by her sindar name now only people extremely close her like celebrimbor and eärlindë use her birth name. this is where the canon gets very loose y'all ❤️ also I wanna premise that this story is basically a rewrite for my dark!reader fic, so from now on I will be implementing things from the original idea to keep it sort of in that wave length. also we will be slowing down with parts for a while as I am to the point where I had written to, so it may be a day or two until I get the next part up.

PARTS → one // two // three // four // six

Tears traced cold paths down your cheek, falling as silently as the ash drifting through the air. You turned back, stealing one last glance at the city that had stood defiant against time, a place you had watched rise and fall with the ages, now reduced to embers and smoke. Towers that once gleamed like stars in moonlight were skeletal ruins clawing at the sky. The air tasted of sorrow and soot, and your heart clenched as the truth burned within you: the shadows had come, as foretold.

A soft touch on your arm broke your reverie. You turned to see Eärlindë, her features etched with a quiet grief that mirrored your own. Her eyes, the color of an overcast sea, held you with a tenderness you didn’t deserve.

“Come,” she urged, her voice a melody too fragile for this broken world. “We have to keep moving.” Her hand rested on yours, warm and grounding.

You swallowed the storm in your chest. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice barely audible over the crackle of distant flames. “I’m sorry this all happened.” The words hung in the air, incomplete. You couldn’t bring yourself to finish the thought, couldn’t tell her who had truly done this. Who had torn her brother from her arms and led ruin to your gates.

You. It had been you. Blinded by a love as poisonous as it was intoxicating, you hadn’t seen the truth until it was too late.

“This is not your fault,” she said firmly, her words meant to heal. But they did not. They only deepened the wound, the knowledge that it was all your fault—a betrayal born from love.

You glanced back once more at the burning remnants of Laureandor, the jewel of your heart, now a scar on the horizon. Slowly, you closed your eyes and sealed that image away. The ache in your fëa—your very soul—was unbearable, but to keep moving, to survive, you had to let him go. You had to let the love you had for that beast burn with the city he had destroyed.

Ahead, the River Ascar shimmered beneath the moonlight, its current whispering promises of passage and pain. A voice called out, pulling you from your thoughts. You turned to see Eäriel responding to another elf, their voices weaving together in the growing darkness.

“Are you from Gondolin as well?” the stranger asked as your group neared the caravan of elves.

Eäriel shook her head, gesturing to your small, beleaguered group. “We are from Laureandor. Orcs attacked four days ago. We are all that is left.”

The stranger’s face fell, sorrow filling his ancient eyes. “Join us, then. High King Gil-galad has set up refuge across the mountains.”

Eäriel and Ulmoion exchanged somber glances before nodding their thanks. As preparations began to merge your group with theirs, you busied yourself helping the wounded into carts and steadying horses burdened with supplies. The sound of soft weeping and labored breaths filled the night, a grim symphony of survival.

You turned to assist one last figure, only to collide with an elf carrying a crate. The collision sent him staggering, the contents of the crate jingling ominously. He barely caught himself, and your hand shot out to steady him. His eyes were wide, not with anger but with fear, his gaze darting to the crate as though it held something more precious than gold.

“I’m so sorry,” you murmured, a faint chuckle slipping out as you noticed the spilled covering revealing bottles of wine. Your laughter faded as something else caught your eye—a glint of metal nestled between the bottles. An ornate hammer. One almost as old as you.

The elf’s voice, barely above a whisper, broke the moment. “Thank you,” he said, pulling the covering back over the crate in a quick, practiced motion. He turned to leave, but your hand shot out, gripping his arm like a vice.

“Did you steal that?” you demanded, your voice a low hiss beneath your hood. His eyes, wary and sharp, flickered over you before settling into an unreadable mask. The hammer in that crate wasn’t just a tool—it was a relic something from a place that shimmered with even greater light.

“Why on earth would I steal something that is rightfully mine?” His voice was low and sharp, like a blade drawn across stone. His storm-grey eyes, piercing and unrelenting, flicked down to the chain around your neck. They lingered there, taking in the fiery red jewel resting against the fabric of your gown, its light dim but unmistakable.

Surprise caught your breath. Instinctively, you clutched the jewel, the warmth of its magic pulsing faintly against your palm, and tucked it hastily beneath the folds of your dress. The movement was quick, but his gaze didn’t miss a thing.

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, though his brow arched in a look of mock curiosity. “Perhaps,” he mused, his tone cool and measured, “it is you I should be accusing of theft?”

His face was still gentle, but there was a slight tension in his jaw that told you he was not going to take anything but the truth.

“Care to explain how such a treasure came into your possession?” he added. You swallowed hard, your throat tight, and fought to form a careful, elusive answer to his pointed question.

“I… inherited it,” you managed, the words thin and brittle.

The elf shook his head, stepping closer, his boots silent on the soft earth but his presence heavy and unyielding.

“I can recognize the work of my lineage,” he said, his voice steady yet laced with frustration. “And that jewel… it bears the unmistakable craft of my grandfather’s hands. Its design is not one to be mistaken.” His stormy grey eyes held yours, their depths now simmering with annoyance at your evasion. “So I will ask again, my lady—where did you acquire that jewel?”

You hesitated, each second feeling like an eternity under his piercing gaze. At last, you dropped your eyes, your voice lowering to a solemn whisper.

“It was a gift,” you admitted, “one that I bestowed upon my late husband.”

His expression shifted at once. The hardness in his eyes melted, replaced by a shadow of sorrow. The lines of his face softened, and he seemed to draw back just slightly, as though your words carried a weight even he could not bear to challenge.

“He returned it to me for safekeeping,” you continued, the words growing heavier as they fell. “But I shall never see him again.”

The silence that followed was profound, the grief in your voice settling between you like an invisible barrier neither dared to cross. He reached out, his hand brushing your shoulder with a softness that spoke of understanding, a gesture of condolence that stirred something deep within you.

“Please forgive me, my lady,” he said, his voice quiet and genuine.

You waved him off with a gentle smile, a mask of composure hiding the turmoil within. “I should not have accused you in the slightest, my lord. Forgive me—it is not every day one meets a member of the house that crafted the Silmarils.”

His nod was slow, his gaze weighted by a sorrow that seemed to rise from some hidden depth within him. For a moment, it lingered, almost pulling you into it, but then it faded, replaced by a measured calm.

“What was your husband’s name?” he asked, the question as delicate as the night breeze.

Panic flickered in your chest, though you did not let it touch your expression. You could not tell him the truth, could not reveal the name that would betray so much. Mairon’s identity was a closely guarded secret to you as it should be with who he was, but this elf’s knowledge and intentions remained a mystery.

“Among my kin, he was known as Mornatano,” you said smoothly. “But he held others, names he rarely spoke of.”

His brow arched, intrigue flickering across his face. “Dark Smith?” he repeated, the words rolling off his tongue with a hint of curiosity. “An unusual name for one who was gifted an honor of such noble origins.”

You shrugged lightly, maintaining the guise you had carefully woven. “We were both Moriquendi, my lord. As is my lady Eäriel, whom I serve as ward. She and I hail from the Nandor who chose to remain behind, though my husband’s origins were a mystery even to me. He never spoke of his kin.”

The elf studied you for a long moment, his grey eyes unreadable, as though weighing your words and searching for truths beneath them. You held his gaze, steady and composed, even as your heart raced. If he doubted you, he did not show it, though the silence between you hummed with unspoken tension.

“I am Celebrimbor,” he finally said, his voice steady, carrying a quiet pride. With a slight bow, he added, “Son of Curufin, and of the House of Fëanor.”

You inclined your head in return, the ghost of a smile gracing your lips. “Tintilmë of Laureandor,” you replied, your voice smooth, though you felt a flicker of apprehension when his expression shifted.

His eyes widened with recognition. “Wife of the Golden Realm smith, am I correct?”

You nodded, keeping your smile gentle, though a ripple of fear coursed through you. “Indeed,” you confirmed, the words light on your tongue despite the weight in your chest.

“Please,” he pressed, his tone eager yet polite, “you must tell me more. I never had the chance to travel south and witness his work, but I’ve heard tales—wonders that bordered on legend.”

A soft giggle escaped you, the sound as involuntary as the warmth that rose in your cheeks. Mairon had always had that effect on people, enchanting even those who only knew him by reputation. If they only knew the truth—if they knew the things you knew about him—the stories would be very different indeed.

Celebrimbor’s hand found your arm, a gesture of camaraderie, and together you rejoined the caravan, falling into step with the others. As the journey continued, you spoke of your husband’s creations, weaving stories of brilliance and artistry. You described the works of his hands with care, each word imbued with the love you still felt for him, though tempered by the sorrow that lingered in your heart.

Unbeknownst to either of you, this moment of shared admiration would one day ripple through the tapestry of your lives, binding you and Celebrimbor in ways neither could yet foresee.

Unknowing to the both that this would one day benefit the one they called Sauron, and his grand design.

“I wish to seek pardon for my sins,” Sauron declared as he approached Eönwë, his footsteps slow yet deliberate. The remnants of Beleriand stretched out behind them, a haunting reminder of the ruin left in the wake of war. He stopped a short distance from where Eönwë stood, the wind tugging at his dark cloak. “I wish to repent.”

Eönwë regarded him carefully, his bright gaze steady and unyielding. “I cannot give you what you seek,” he said, his voice quiet yet firm. He took a measured breath, trying to temper his suspicion. Sauron was not easily trusted, his reputation a shadow that stretched far and wide. Yet as Eönwë studied him, he saw something he had not expected—the glimmer of true anguish in the Maiar’s eyes.

This was not the fear of the Valar’s judgment. It was something deeper, something ancient and raw, woven tightly into the very fabric of his being. Eönwë felt a pang of reluctant empathy but dared not let it cloud his judgment. Still, curiosity gnawed at him, and against his better judgment, he asked, “Why do you truly seek pardon?”

Sauron’s brow furrowed, confusion flashing across his face. His hesitance was palpable, the normally unshakable being caught off guard. He hesitated, his shoulders stiffening under the weight of the question.

“If I am to bring your request to Manwë himself,” Eönwë continued, his tone softening slightly but remaining firm, “I must know the truth.”

For a moment, silence stretched between them. Sauron’s jaw tightened, his composure faltering as his gaze dropped to the ground. Embarrassment flickered across his face—an almost mortal expression, startling in its sincerity. The feelings he harbored for you weighed heavily on him, a vulnerability he rarely allowed to surface.

Finally, he spoke, his voice low and resolute. “I made a promise,” he admitted, his words heavy with emotion. “To someone who deserves a world far greater than the one I have wrought. A world I swore to give them, to share with them for all eternity.” His hand clenched at his side as he spoke, as though trying to steady himself against the gravity of his own vow. “I promised to break the curse Morgoth placed upon them. To heal what I have shattered.”

His eyes lifted then, meeting Eönwë’s once more. There was no malice there, no hint of the deceiver he had been. Instead, there was pain—a raw, unguarded pain that pierced through the façade he had carried for so long.

“But to do so,” he continued, his voice almost breaking, “I must first seek forgiveness. I cannot undo what I have done without the aid of the Valar. And for that… I must repent.”

Eönwë studied him in silence, the tension between them stretching like a taut string. He saw the conflict in Sauron’s fëa, the genuine longing for redemption tangled with the shadows of his past. Slowly, Eönwë nodded, though his expression remained measured.

“I will bring your request to Manwë,” he said at last. “But know this—redemption is not easily won, even for those who seek it with pure intent.”

Sauron bowed his head, accepting the weight of those words. He had made his vow, and he would see it fulfilled, no matter the cost. For you, his light, he would endure anything. Even the fires of repentance.

When Eönwë returned to deliver Manwë’s verdict, the tension in the air was palpable. Sauron stood tall, his form a dark and imposing silhouette against the fading remnants of Beleriand. But as Eönwë spoke, his voice calm yet resolute, the anger and fear simmering within Sauron rose to the surface, raw and unrestrained.

Eönwë’s gaze flickered with dismay as he finished relaying the conditions. “If you truly seek repentance,” he began again, his tone unwavering despite the fury radiating from the other Maia, “you must return to Valinor. There, you will be stripped of your power for a time and bound to your fair form. You will never again leave the Blessed Realm.”

Sauron’s hands clenched into fists, his knuckles white, but Eönwë pressed on, though the weight of what he had to say grew heavier with each word. “True repentance,” he continued, “requires sacrifice. You must relinquish what you hold most dear to prove your loyalty and virtue. Only then will Manwë lift the curse and free them from the shadow that stains their fëa.”

Sauron’s breath hitched, and his expression twisted with rage and despair. The thought of you—the light of his existence—being free of Morgoth’s curse should have been a source of hope, but the price demanded of him turned that hope to agony. To leave you behind, to know he would never again see the one being who had brought him peace in the chaos of his existence, was an unbearable torment.

Eönwë could see the conflict raging within him—the anguish and resistance. “This is the only way,” Eönwë added softly, his voice touched with a hint of sorrow. “Redemption is not given lightly, nor is it won without cost.”

Sauron turned away sharply, his shadowy cloak swirling around him, as if to shield himself from the weight of the decree. His mind raced, his heart torn between the love that had driven him to seek forgiveness and the sacrifice that love now demanded. How could he leave you behind? How could he give you freedom at the cost of his own soul’s greatest tether?

But there was no other choice. Manwë’s judgment was final, and if Sauron wished to fulfill his vow—to free you from the darkness that lingered within you—he would have to relinquish you forever. True repentance demanded nothing less.

That was not how it happened, though.

For all the cowardice he carried in his heart, for all the intoxicating taste of power he had once gained, Sauron could not accept the verdict. He convinced himself that he could do better, that he could stay in Middle-earth and use the brilliance of his craft to heal you and the world itself. Not through the will of Manwë, but through his own hands, his own cunning. Only then, he thought, could he feel true repentance—if it was he, your beloved, who granted you salvation as he had vowed so long ago.

And in that moment of defiance, he turned his back on the light once more.

The shadows welcomed him with open arms as he descended into darkness, his heart hardening against the call of redemption. He began to plan, his mind racing with schemes and designs. He would forge anew, build an army of unparalleled might, and reshape the world until it bent to his will. One day, he would find you again, and when that day came, he would hold the power to rid you of the curse that clung to your fëa.

No Valar would dictate his actions, no decree from on high would chart his course. He was no longer Mairon, the Maia who once walked in the light.

He was the Dark Lord now, and the Dark Lord bowed to no one.

You step into the small library, the scent of aged parchment and cedarwood enveloping you as your skirts billow softly behind. Light streams through the arched windows, casting golden patterns on the floor. Across the room, Elrond Peredhel rises from his seat, his warm smile lighting up the space as he strides toward you.

“My Lord Celebrimbor did not notify me you were arriving,” You say, Elrond’s hands gently clasping yours in greeting. “It is so good to see you.”

His expression is filled with genuine delight, and when he reaches up to touch your cheek, the gesture is imbued with a familial affection that eases the tension in your chest.

“It warms my heart to see you well,” he murmurs, his voice as soothing as a lullaby. For a moment, the two of you stand in silence, the years of friendship filling the space between you. Then, with an unspoken understanding, he releases your hands, and the two of you begin walking side by side toward Celebrimbor’s private study.

“Lady Eärlindë sends her regards,” Elrond says, his tone tinged with amusement. “She is most insistent, though,” he continues, glancing at you with playful mischief, “that you come to Lindon in a year’s time to celebrate her betrothal.”

“My dear Elrond,” you reply, meeting his gaze with a smile just as teasing. “You know well that Gil-galad and I are renowned for never seeing eye to eye.”

Elrond chuckles at this, his laugh a quiet, melodic sound that fills the library with warmth. “You and Galadriel share in that sentiment,” he quips, his eyes glinting with humor.

As the two of you make your way through the quiet halls, the air between you is light, the weight of past burdens momentarily lifted. Here, amidst the tranquility of the library and the company of an old friend, you find a fleeting but much-needed sense of peace.

Once you arrived at Lord Celebrimbor’s study, the elven smith stood near the side of the room, engrossed in a parchment held lightly in his hands. His head lifted at the sound of your entrance, and a subtle smile touched his lips, though his expression remained thoughtful. Elrond moved toward the centerpiece of the room—a display holding Fëanor’s hammer. His hand hovered over it, as if the weight of its history reverberated even through the air around it. You took a seat on one of the chairs near the edge of the room, watching the two elves, your mind already awash in memory and emotion.

“Fëanor’s hammer,” Elrond mused, his voice filled with quiet reverence. “The tool that wrought the Silmarils. The jewels that contained the very light of Valinor.” His gaze shifted briefly to Celebrimbor before returning to the hammer. “Strange, isn’t it? How one object could be responsible for creating such beauty—and so much pain.”

You met Elrond’s solemn gaze, your own face shadowed with sorrow. The pain was always near, a fresh wound that never fully healed—the burning of your city, the shattering of your illusions, and the searing truth of your husband’s identity. You breathed deeply, steadying yourself against the ache.

“True creation requires sacrifice,” you said softly, your voice carrying a wistful weight. You paused, allowing the bittersweet memory of your husband’s words to settle. “Something my late husband often told me,” you added, a fondness creeping into your tone even as Celebrimbor’s gaze softened with shared sorrow.

The smith stepped closer and rested a hand on your shoulder, the warmth of the gesture offering an unspoken understanding of the grief you carried. Your hand instinctively moved to the chain beneath your gown, its familiar weight a small comfort. Though it had been centuries since you last opened your mind to him, whispers of his fate persisted—rumors that he had disappeared into shadow after Morgoth’s fall. Yet deep in your fëa, you felt a stirring certainty that those whispers were untrue, that somewhere, he still lingered.

“They say Morgoth found the Silmarils so beautiful,” Celebrimbor began, his voice contemplative, “that after he stole them, he spent weeks gazing into their depths, unable to do anything else.” His hand squeezed your shoulder briefly before he moved to the hammer, lifting it gently in his hands. “It was only when one of his tears fell upon them, and he saw his reflection twisted by his evil,”

You smiled faintly, a memory of long ago surfacing—a time when you had accused Celebrimbor of stealing the very hammer he now held. A soft laugh escaped you, the moment so distant it felt almost like a dream.

You were a tome of your husband’s work, never truly forgetting how a great smith of Aulë himself crafted marvels and forged minds as well as hearts to his work. The secrets you carried, the deeper truths of your husband’s legacy, remained locked within you, known only to you and him. Yet the wisdom you shared with Celebrimbor had undoubtedly shaped his work, even if the deepest truths were withheld.

“That the reverie was broken,” Celebrimbor finished his thought. “From, that moment, he looked upon the light no more.” He sighed, envy and awe mingling in his tone. “Fëanor’s work nearly turned the heart of the great foe himself,” he marveled, a short, incredulous laugh escaping him. “What has mine ever accomplished?”

You stood and approached him, your voice gentle. “It has turned our hearts, my lord.”

Celebrimbor glanced at you, his expression questioning, but Elrond nodded in agreement, his voice steady as he added, “It has turned many an elf’s heart.”

The smith’s gaze shifted between the two of you, uncertainty softening his posture. “My work will never compare to your husband’s,” he said, almost reluctantly. “For he was revered as one as great as Aulë himself, even surpassing Fëanor in his craft.”

Elrond turned to you, his brow furrowed in surprise. “You never told me your husband was a smith.”

You shrugged lightly, offering a pleasant smile. “There is a great deal I have not told you. But that is neither here nor there.”

Celebrimbor interjected, his voice carrying an almost teasing reverence. “My lady, Thilwen, is quite the expert on her husband’s craft.” The Sindarin name, though still strange to you, had grown familiar in this land. It was a shield of obscurity, one that kept the curious at bay. “She remains a great help to my work, even now as we aspire to do far more than both Fëanor and Morion.”

A shiver slid down your spine at the mention of the name, so close to the truth it was almost too much to bear. You swallowed hard, trying to mask the unease that briefly flickered across your face. If either elf noticed, they gave no indication.

“My lady?” Celebrimbor prompted, his voice pulling you back to the present.

You crossed the room to the drawing table, your fingers brushing against the neatly arranged parchments. “An age ago, our kind brought war to these shores,” you said softly. “Now, we wish to fill them with beauty.”

Celebrimbor joined you, his presence steady at your side, as you reached for a few pieces of parchment and began to unfurl the plans for the new forge he wished to create. Together, you sought to transform pain into beauty, forging a new legacy for the ages.

As if it could somehow soothe the guilt that gnawed at your heart, the weight of everything you had brought to ruin through your husband’s deeds lingered, a shadow that never fully lifted. Not a day passed when you did not think of those centuries, the countless moments spent in the light of him. Twined in his arms, the world seemed to disappear, and in those fleeting instants, you were bound not just by love but by the very melody of your fëar—two threads woven together by the Song of Ilúvatar itself.

You had been his anchor, the one who tamed the tempest within him, the breaker of the Shadow that clawed at his heart. But when the curse of his master fell upon you, the mark of Morgoth’s malice staining your existence, he faltered. In his desperation to shield you from it, the man he had become unraveled, retreating from the light you had brought into his life. He turned away from the path of redemption, the path he had painstakingly carved, only to fall once more into the abyss of his former self.

Morgoth had known—he had always known—what could unmake him. It wasn’t power or fear or promises of dominion that could shatter his resolve.

It was you.

You, his single weakness. You, his enduring light, the only thing that could pierce the armor of his resolve.

And so, when the curse reached for you, when it threatened the existence of the one thing he could not bear to lose, he surrendered. He fought with all the fire of his being, but it was not enough. The desperation to save you, to undo the harm wrought by Morgoth’s will, drove him to forsake the light entirely. He gave himself to the darkness without hesitation, sacrificing even his fëa, the essence of who he was, if it meant sparing you from the pain and ruin his master had promised.

In his love, he had lost himself. And though you carried his light still, it was buried beneath the weight of his shadow.

As you readied yourself for bed, the gentle strokes of your brush through your hair carried your thoughts back to a time long past. A faint smile curved your lips as an old memory surfaced, warm and bittersweet. It was not uncommon for your mind to drift this way, for elves never truly forgot, even when the memories brought pain. Your fingers lingered at the ends of your hair, and for the first time in centuries, you felt the faint, magnetic pull of the chain and ring calling to you from their place in the ornate jewelry box before you.

The pull was subtle yet undeniable, a whisper tugging at the edges of your mind. Slowly, almost hesitantly, you reached out and opened the lid. There they lay, nestled on rich velvet, their beauty undiminished by time. The silver chain glinted faintly, its luminous blue jewel as vibrant as the rolling waves of the Bay of Balar, alive with an inner light that seemed almost otherworldly. Beside it rested the ring, its band shining with a brilliance reminiscent of the Great Trees themselves, its creation born of love and the yearning of a soul that had once known no limits.

Your breath hitched as you gazed upon them, your fingers twitching as if to reach for them. But you did not. Instead, you closed your eyes, the ache in your chest swelling. You had closed the door to those memories long ago, sealed it tightly against the pain. It was too much to bear, too dangerous to relive. These trinkets, once symbols of unshakable love and devotion, had become harbingers of anguish.

For it was not just your heart they affected, but your mark. That cursed scar, the remnant of Morgoth’s malice, a stain you could not cleanse. Whenever you dared to wear the jewel or the ring, the dark tendrils of the scar would stretch further, twisting and writhing, their shadowed reach dimming the light within you. The shadows of your chambers would stir, the stillness broken by whispers that chilled you to your core. Sweet nothings, they would murmur, tender and cruel in equal measure, taunting you to follow their call into the Void.

You pulled your hand back sharply, the weight of the moment pressing down on you. The memories, the scars, the love—it all felt too much. Closing the lid with trembling fingers, you pushed the box away and turned from it, your heart heavy with the burden of a past that refused to be forgotten.

A soft sigh escaped your lips as your fingers brushed over the chain resting around your neck. Though it had once belonged to him and had adorned him for centuries, it now felt as though a fragment of his very essence was captured within the fiery red jewel. The light of his being seemed to pulse faintly there, a protective presence that wrapped itself around you, shielding your peace. Or perhaps it was the trinket’s origins—crafted from the purest ores and the most radiant jewels of Valinor—that imbued it with such a profound and unyielding power.

Your gaze lifted to the mirror before you, and you studied your reflection. Despite the weight of the Ages you had endured, your delicate beauty remained untouched, as vibrant and eternal as the first dawn of Arda. The glow of your skin, the timeless grace in your features, and the quiet strength in your eyes spoke not of weariness but of an existence that, though burdened by pain, endured with unbroken resolve.

A smile graced your lips, soft and wistful, and you were certain it was that same smile that had first captivated him. But it was not merely your beauty that had ensnared him—it was your fëa, radiant and unyielding, that had undone him. It was your essence that had drawn him from the abyss, pulling him so far from the darkness that he had nearly returned to the being he once was, before shadow had ever tainted him.

In your presence, his heart had swelled with a purity and joy so profound that it seemed boundless, uncontainable. It was a joy that eclipsed even the echoes of his master’s will, a light that had reminded him of all he might have been, and all he could still strive to become.

But Morgoth envied his serveant so that Eru had gifted him such a beautiful being to share his existance with, or he was so disgusted by Mairon’s enchantment with you, a being of orgins he wished to mock. And in that envy or digust he had taken Mairon and turned him back to the very being Mairon had fought so hard to extingush inside of him.

You rose from your seat, slipping off your robe and carefully extinguishing each candle, one by one, until the room was cloaked in soft shadows. Crawling into the embrace of your warm sheets, you settled against the familiar softness, though your heart ached for what was no longer there. Your head turned, your eyes falling to the untouched pillow beside you.

Fingers brushed lightly across its surface, tracing invisible shapes into the pristine fabric as if by some miracle, you might conjure the presence you longed for. You could almost see him there, the glint of emerald eyes gazing back at you, and the wild, gingery strands that always seemed to catch the light. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as you imagined your hand ghosting through his hair, teasingly brushing against the delicate curve of his pointed ear before he would pull you close, his arms encircling you in an unbreakable hold.

A happier time, you mused, your heart heavy with longing. Closing your eyes, you surrendered to the ache, wishing for just one more moment in that long-lost warmth.

In your dreams was where you found him most. Though not as strongly as you once did. He would often invade your dreams to spend delicate but passionate moments with you in the days after he left. His fingers ghosted over every inch of your soft skin, bringing up the fire that only he could bring up inside you.

As you felt the wet ache fill you on this night, something was different. The shadows seemed to dance around the room more than they usually did. The usual pain you felt with them was no longer there, only the ghost of a touch that you had never truly forgotten.

“Mairon…” you whimpered in your half-dreaming state. The ghostly shadow touches morphed and molded into the warm caress of his perfect hands.

“My sweet Mori,” his voice whispered into your ear, the nickname sending waves of relinquished pleasure through your entire being. It had been an achingly long time since his lips had graced your presence with that name. “My divine Moriquendi,” his shadowy lips ghosted over your ear as you now felt the weight of his warmth encasing you. His teeth grazed against the shell of your ear as you whimpered against the touch.

“Please,” you whimpered as his shadows nestled into the moon of your thighs, right where he was made to be. Your fingers moved to push up your gown to reveal the slick opening before moving to run your fingers down to your needy core, your fingers tracing through the arousal pooling there. His ghostly lips traveled down the flesh of your neck to your clavicle as those hands ghosted over your breasts, drawing a sharp breath from your lips.

“Be a good and faithful wife. Show me how much you have missed me, divine,” You did as he asked, and like so many times before, you slipped your fingers into your needy cunt. You imagined him seated deeply inside of you, pushing at the door to your womb in a way he only could.

His touch grew heavier as he seemed to caress over the jewel and chain he once wore. You reached and wrapped your fingers around his wrist, a blissful smile touching your lips as you looked into those emerald eyes of the dreamlike version of your husband. His throat worked as he looked upon your face. “There is nothing I would not do for you.” You whisper, reciting the words you had told him when he confronted you about Morgoth’s curse and who he really was.

Those ghostly, pillowy lips met yours with a desperate force you had never felt in him. His fingers wrapped around your neck and squeezed lightly as the feeling of your fingers was replaced with the ghostly feeling of his cock. Thick and hard, veins creating the ridging that perfectly matched your own. Your hips arched into the touch as he began to rut into you like how he had done thousands of times before, though this time it felt completely different.

Moans and whimpers left your lips like the sweetest of christenings over this moment. The pain of his animalistic thrusts caused tears to fall from your cheeks in desperation for him to go harder and tear you apart, only to remake you into his perfect wife once more. His beautiful and divine elven wife, the very being his dark fëa called for.

“So good for me…taking all of me…” His voice panted against your cheeks as his lips ghosted over your tears, kissing them away. “So faithful…so loyal to me,” he said, brushing his nose against yours as you reached up in the dream and cupped his face. Your fëar singing in harmony once more as they had long been quiet for so long that you had almost forgotten what it felt like.

“Mairon—” You trailed off with almost a whimpered plea as your core coiled in need of release. “Don’t leave,” you pleaded. He kissed your lips once more and quickened his pace as his hand snaked down to meet your engorged mound, pulsing with impending release.

“I have you, divine; I will see you through this, I promise.” He vowed, and with that, you came over him in a relief that you had not felt in centuries. Your core pulsed against his ghostly cock until he rutted into you one final time, groaning as he now found his relief. He filled you with his essence once more, and you felt your body react in the same way it always had, arching to take every drop until he coated every part of your womb. Hoping and wishing for that miracle to finally happen. But it never did, and you had grown okay with that.

He took a moment to breathe before rolling his back onto the mattress of your home in that golden place, keeping you astride him so you were coated fully with his mark. You felt the warmth of his touch tracing up your back as you nestled into the crook of his neck. His smokey scent covered you in the dreamscape, pulling you deeper into this place. This moment was one you had wished to have forever.

But as with all the times before, his ghostly touch started slipping away. Though with one parting kiss, he spoke one last time. His fingers ghosted through your hair. “This is not the end, Mori, I will come to you, and we will have our forever, my love,”

And like a whisper carried away by the wind, he faded from the dreamscape, retreating back into the shadows that claimed him. Your heart clenched with an ache so deep it felt as though it might shatter. Your fëa reached out instinctively, searching through the vast emptiness of the Void for his presence, yearning for even the faintest trace of him.

But there was nothing—only coldness and the unyielding weight of the grief that had lived within you for centuries, filling the spaces where his light had once been.

“I’ll be waiting,” you whispered into that endless darkness, your voice trembling yet resolute. You hoped, prayed, that somehow he could hear you across the immeasurable leagues that separated you.

You were patient. You were loyal. And you would wait for him, even if it took an age—or many more.

#sauron x reader #halbrand x reader #the rings of power #trop fic #rings of power fic #sauron #halbrand #mairon x reader #mairon

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scotianostra · 2 months ago

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On St Andrews Day 1996 thousands lined The Royal Mile in Edinburgh to see the Stone of Destiny, stolen from Scone by King Edward I of England in 1296, returned to Scotland and installed in the Castle.

At first, the Stone of Destiny appears to be little more than a simple stone, but no other stone could carry so much history and tradition than this one. Despite its simplicity, it has quite a colourful and surprising history.

The Stone of Destiny goes by many names, sometimes called the Stone of Scone, The Coronation Stone , An Lia Fàil or Jacob’s Pillow. It is a simple block of red sandstone that measures about 26 inches by 17 inches.

Both Scottish, English and British monarchs have been crowned on this stone since the ninth century.

Legend dates back to biblical times; the stone is said to have been the pillow Jacob used, where he dreamed of Jacob’s Ladder. It was seen as a sacred object and first went to Ireland and then to Scotland.

No one can pinpoint exactly where the stone came from, with origin stories mentioning biblical stories or the stone being quarried in Scotland. However, geologists proved that the stone was quarried somewhere around Scone, the historical site of the Scottish Kingdom. There is a theory that the Augustine Monks, learning that an English Army was on it’s way to Perth and fashioned a replica from a block of stone quarried nearby, the real stone was either hidden in the River Tay or Dunsinane Hill, my subject of last weeks post, Nigel Tranter himself believed the object Edward took to London was "a lump of Scone sandstone".

As I mentioned in a previous post today, the last Scottish King to receive his coronation on the stone is John Balliol, who is said to have lost the stone to Edward I “Hammer of the Scots” when he invaded Scotland in 1296 The stone was taken as spoils of war where Edward fitted it to his chair in order to try and secure his role as Lord Paramount of Scotland.

In 1328 England promised to return the stone to Scotland. However, angry English crowds stopped it from actually leaving Westminster Abbey. It remained in England for another six centuries.

The stone was liberated by four nationalist students in 1950, during the theft, they broke the stone into two pieces. Despite this, they managed to bring it back into Scotland when they passed both halves to a senior Glasgow politician; the stone was then repaired by a stonemason.

The government ordered a search for the stone, and the search was unsuccessful. The custodians left the stone in Arbroath Abbey in April 1951. When it was discovered, it was returned to Westminster.

In 1996, the government returned the stone to Scotland. A handover ceremony took place in November 1996 between the Home Office and the Scottish Office. It arrived at Edinburgh Castle to a crowd of around 10,000 people. To this day it sits alongside the crown jewels of Scotland when not used in coronations.

Doubt surrounds the stone all throughout its history, and it is said there are many points in which the stone could have been swapped or lost.

Another belief is that the stonemason who repaired the stone after its damage made several copies and the one returned was, in fact one of his forgeries. The big thing, in my opinion that lets this theory down is would a typical Glesga stonemason take the trouble top venture north to Perth to find a lump of stone?

The true history of the stone and whether or not the one in Edinburgh Castle is the correct stone will never fully be known. I myself tend to believe the story, that the Monks hid the original stone.

The Stone is now in it's new home, not far from it's former home, Scone in Perth Museum.

#scotland #scottish #history #stone of destiny #coronation stone #stolen property

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lucygxybaird · 2 months ago

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12 Days of Christmas - Day Six

You study Coriolanus Snow’s photo in the paper, putting a fingertip against the newsprint so that it covers his face. You haven’t read the story, so you don’t know what exactly he’s done to merit press coverage. But the Hunger Games are coming up again soon, and he was the last mentor to win before Dean Highbottom’s mysterious death. The scandal surrounding those Games has yet to die down, although now it’s morphed into a rabid fascination with this young man with the impeccable lineage and undeniable charisma.

This morning, your father told you that he’s meeting with Snow to arrange — or attempt to arrange, at any rate; word is that Snow has been rather finicky about the whole process — a matchbetween the two of you.

Although it would be more accurate to refer to it as a merger, considering it’s noting but business.

Snow wants access to your family’s vast wealth, to augment his own. And your father wants you married to a man on the rise, one who can not only provide you with the lavish lifestyle you’re accustomed to, but is going to make a name for himself. Despite the fact that you’ve yet to meet him, you do read the papers often enough to know that Snow fits that criteria. He’s well on his way to becoming the next President of Panem.

Which, you suppose, will make you the First Lady someday. If he says yes to your father’s overtures, of course.

It’s strange, to think you might marry a man simply because it’s beneficial for him and your father. Your own feelings won’t be taken into consideration at all. Even if you absolutely hate him.

You move your finger and look at his picture properly. At least he’s handsome, in an aristocratic, off-with-your-head sort of way. You’ve heard his voice, too, when he’s been interviewed during the annual Games coverage — it’s deep, surprisingly warm, and you think (although you would never say this out-loud, lest anyone accuse you of tender feelings) it rather suits him.

You’re still studying his picture, trying to decide if you can imagine yourself next to him, when you hear a flurry of commotion downstairs. You tiptoe to your bedroom door and crack it open, allowing a river of sound to come through. It’s your father’s voice, bubbling and rushing with excitement. The current is so fast that it’s difficult to pick out more than a few words, but they’re enough.

The deal went through.

You are going to be Mrs. Snow.

Going to perch on the edge of your bed, you wait for a servant to appear and call you to your father’s study. It doesn’t take long. There’s a polite knock on your door, and when you open it, you find a maid standing there.

“Your father would like to speak to you, madam,” she says. “Please follow me.”

You trail behind her down the hall, wait for her to tap on the study door, and then step inside once she pushes the door open for you. Your father is sitting at his desk, his normally stoic expression broken up by a grin that keeps surfacing no matter how much he tries to push it down.

“Come here,” he says, and you approach, stopping on the other side of his desk.

To your surprise, he reaches across his desk and takes your hand. Your father certainly is not a particularly touchy-feely sort of man, but you think — you could be wrong, granted, but you’re fairly certain — that his eyes are over-bright.

“My dear girl,” he says. “You are the jewel of this family, and I always knew you would go on to make a great path into the future for us. Today, I asked Coriolanus Snow if he would take your hand in marriage, and he said yes.”

You expected this news, but not the way he’s delivered it. The emotion in his voice, in his eyes, the way he’s holding your hand. You clear your throat and manage to say, “Thank you.”

He squeezes your hand before he lets go, leaning back behind his desk. “There are a few I’s to dot and T’s to cross, of course, but essentially, everything has been settled,” he says. “You’ll be married in the new year.”

“Will I meet him before then?” you ask.

Your father’s lip twitches in amusement. “No, I was thinking of using the Rapunzel method,” he says dryly, and you can’t help but smile yourself. “You know, locking you up in a tower before the big day.” He shrugs. “Mr. Snow is a very busy young man, and I have my own schedule to see to. But if you would like to arrange a meeting yourself, you’re more than welcome to do so.”

Before you can say anything to that — maybe a quip about checking your schedule, which is a joke because you don’t have one that your father doesn’t approve first — your father leans down, bringing his briefcase up onto the desk.

“Oh, this is for you,” he says, flipping the briefcase open and pulling out a small, beautifully wrapped package. “From your intended.”

You take it, studying the little parcel as you hold it in one hand. The scarlet foil wrapping is impeccably folded, the flaps on either end so pointed you could probably cut glass with them, a glittering gold bow situated on top. You spare a moment wondering if he wrapped it himself before deciding that it’s very unlikely.

“Well?” your father says. “Aren’t you going to open it?”

You shrug. “I suppose.”

What does it matter? It may be a nice enough gesture, you think, but whether you like each other or not is immaterial. Your fate has already been decided, by the man in front of you and by one you have yet to meet.

Still — a present is a present.

Sliding a thumbnail under one of the flaps, you peel away the wrapping paper to discover a small velvet box, one that fits perfectly in your palm. You flip the lid, and despite your intention to remain aloof, you gasp.

A little crystal bauble, the size of your thumbnail, hangs from a delicate gold chain. Inside is a perfect, tiny replica of an iris, your favorite flower.

“Did you tell him?” you blurt out, looking up at your father.

“Tell him what?”

The blank look on his face is answer enough, so you just shake your head. “Never mind,” you say.

You close the box and turn to go, your father already bent over the paperwork spread out over the desk. Shutting the door behind you, you study the little jewelry box in your hand again, wondering.

Is it just a coincidence? Did your father tell him — maybe idly discussing bouquets — and then forget?

Did Snow do research on you?

You can’t decide if you find the thought flattering or alarming.

When you’re back in your room, you find yourself gravitating toward your little desk, set under your window. You sit down and pull a piece of stationery toward you, picking up a pen. You nibble at your lower lip as you consider the blank page.

Dear—?

No. That’s too…intimate. Or saccharine, which is worse.

To—?

No.

Finally, you just write, Mr. Snow—

Thank you for your kind gift. It’s a beautiful piece.

You pause, tapping the end of your pen against your lower lip.

I look forward to—

What? Meeting him? Marrying him? Hopefully in that order.

—hearing from you soon.

Yours—

And then you quickly dash off your name. Before you can think better of it, you fold the note over and stuff it into an envelope, writing Snow’s name on it and hurrying downstairs to find the maid. “Can you make sure this gets to Mr. Snow?” you ask.

You don’t have to clarify who you mean. Mr. Snow is now a very important name in this household.

Perhaps think it’s a love note, the maid blushes and actually giggles. “Yes, ma’am, I’ll make sure of it.”

She’s as good as her word. By the time you come downstairs for breakfast the next morning, there’s an envelope and another small package waiting by your plate.

You decide to open the envelope first.

His handwriting is, frankly, beautiful. It borders on calligraphy. Like his voice, you think it fits him.

My betrothed—

You take a sip of orange juice to try and drown the flutter you feel in the pit of your stomach.

There’s something old-fashioned about being addressed this way that, surprisingly, doesn’t appall you. You’ve never really thought of falling in love as anything but a fairytale, and yet that’s exactly what the word brings to mind — you, as a princess, him as a handsome knight.

I’m very glad you enjoyed your first gift.

First?

When your father first brought this match to my attention, he showed me your picture to assure me his praise of your beauty was more than paternal pride. I thought the iris would bring out the blue in your eyes.

Another flutter that you try again to suppress, this time with a few bites of French toast.

I hope you also enjoy this second parcel. Please feel fret write to me again and let me know your thoughts.

- Coriolanus Snow

PS: you have lovely penmanship.

You set the letter aside and open up the second gift. This, too, is beautifully wrapped, this time with green paper printed with little fir trees done in sparkling silver. The box is small and flat, and you pry the lid off, folding back silvery tissue paper.

Nestled inside is a cashmere scarf, the exact color of a freshly fallen blanket of snow. You carefully wipe your hands on a napkin before lifting the scarf out of its box, and as you do, you think you catch the faintest scent of roses.

You realize there’s another little note tucked in amongst the tissue paper.

I thought this would look lovely with your alabaster skin, not to mention your future last name. - Coriolanus

You wrap the scarf around your neck, practically purring at the sensation of the luxuriously soft material against your (alabaster) skin. After a few moments, you get up and go into the hallway, where you drape the scarf over your hair, admiring the contrast of the ivory cashmere against your dark hair.

Later that morning, you write another note for him; this time, you use his first name, although you don’t address him as Dear. Not yet.

Coriolanus —

Thank you for the scarf. You were right — it does look lovely against my skin. And my hair, for that matter.

You hesitate only for a moment before you rummage in your bedside drawer for a photo album, pulling out a picture of yourself from an autumn gala a few months earlier.

I’m not sure how old the picture was that my father showed you, so I’m including a more recent one. If you would like to base any further gifts on my features, now you have an even better view.

You aren’t sure how you know this, but you have a feeling this line is going to make him laugh.

Before you have even sat down to dinner tonight, you have a reply, along with another gift. You find yourself biting at your lower lip to keep from giggling. You feel, all at once, utterly foolish and yet strangely giddy.

The box is larger than the previous two by far, and you open it up to reveal — you can’t help yourself, letting out a soft groan at the beauty of it — a luxurious, floor length coat, with a dress tucked inside and earrings tucked along the collar, precisely where they would brush against it if they were dangling from your ears.

You realize, upon brushing a finger over the lapel, that the coat, like the scarf, is cashmere. It’s ash gray, with the lining a pale white, and the dress is a rich burgundy that matches the garnet stones dangling from little ropes of diamonds in the earrings.

“I could get used to this,” you murmur, a faint smile touching your lips.

My betrothed—

Again, that flutter in the pit of your stomach.

Thank you for the photo. It was very helpful in choosing these gifts for you. I hope they — and your other gifts — make you feel as lovely as you appear. And I hope to see you in them soon. It would be delightful to see just how well they suit you in person. I can only imagine how bewitching the beauty in this photo must be when it is close enough to touch.

— Coriolanus.

You glance at the clock, your lower lip catching between your teeth. No, it wouldn’t do to go tonight, you think; it’s getting rather late, the hour growing intimate rather than social. You know your father would never forgive you if you presented an untoward image of yourself to the press.

But tomorrow?

You swallow a rather unexpected frisson of nerves at the thought — of waking up in the morning, doing your hair, your makeup, slipping this deep red dress over your skin, adding the coat, the earrings, perhaps the scarf and the necklace. Of presenting yourself to him, a gift wearing all of his gifts.

You find it almost embarrassingly difficult to fall asleep that night, just thinking of it. But eventually you do.

Despite the fact that you didn’t bother to set an alarm before you drifted off, your eyes snap open precisely at 7 a.m. as though there’s one blaring right in your ear. You sit up and immediately ring the bell to call for your maid. “Find the address for Mr. Snow’s office,” you say. “And then get me ready.”

It takes a few hours for your appearance to be exactly how you want it, and then you fasten on the earrings, slip into the coat, arrange the scarf over your shoulders. Your maid accompanies you, of course, as is proper; but you hardly even speak to her as the two of you slip into a town car and head toward Coriolanus’s office.

You take a deep breath, seal your lips together for a moment, and then release the breath through your nose. Your maid gently pats your hand. “He’ll love you, madam,” she says. “Don’t you worry.”

Are you worried? About love?

Nervous, certainly. That’s normal, isn’t it? You’re meeting your future husband for the first time. But love hasn’t crossed your mind. That’s never been part of this.

Has it?

You finger the hem of your dress as it peeks out from your coat. He took the time to choose these gifts, ones that suit you, to make you feel lovely. He even, somehow, stumbled upon your favorite flower with his first gift. You aren’t one to believe in fate, but — if you were — that surely would have to mean something.

“Of course he will,” is all you say, but your confident smile trembles at the corners, just a hair.

When you arrive, you have to wait only a few moments in the lobby before an impeccably dressed man arrives, clearing his throat. “Madam, please follow me,” he says. “Mr. Snow is looking forward to seeing you.”

You follow the man down the hall. You keep your chin up and your posture correct, despite the fact that you feel as though legs are feather-light, barely able to move, let alone support you. The man opens a thick oaken door at the end of a hallway, and ushers you inside. Sitting behind a desk is the man you’re meant to marry.

Coriolanus stands up at once, stepping around the desk. You think idly that his picture really doesn’t do him justice. His finely carved features are even more handsome up close, and what’s more, the way he moves is leonine, confident, powerful.

It’s — well — attractive.

“My dear,” he says, and you can’t help but smile. When he reaches for your hands, you extend them; he tuts. “Ah, I knew I forgot something. A necklace and earrings, but nothing for your fingers.”

It takes you a moment to find your voice. “Well,” you say, “we are engaged, at least on paper. Perhaps you should start with a diamond.”

He looks up from his examination of your hands, and when his eyes meet yours, your heart gives one very firm, heavy thud before beating as rapidly at a hummingbird’s wings. “Of course,” he says. “But not for Christmas. Your engagement ring should be an event in and of itself, and I can assure you, it will be.”

And then he smiles at you.

“I’m very glad you visited,” he says. “It would have been rather awkward had we met at the altar.”

You can’t help but giggle. Coriolanus smiles again.

“I think so, too,” you say. “I wanted to come in person to thank you for all your gifts. They’re lovely.”

“As you deserve.”

He leads you to the window, where a pair of overstuffed arm chairs flank a small table, holding a tea set with two faintly steaming, fragrant mugs. As he guides you into a chair, you can’t help but sigh inwardly, even as your smile doesn’t flicker one bit.

You’ve just realized that your maid might be right — love could, quite possibly, be involved in this after all.

#coriolanus x reader #coryo x reader #coryo x you #coriolanus snow fanfiction #tom blyth #12 days of christmas #12doc day six #whooooa we're halfway there and like three days laaaaate

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blueberry-ry · 26 days ago

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Aq Vetina and their Mando'ade

Aq Vetina is a cold small planet found in the Breshig System of the Mandalorian Sector, and has 3 small moons rotating around it.

The emerged lands of the planet are mostly composed of tall mountains, crossed by long rivers that end up forming the large lakes on whose banks many Vetini villages are then born.

These villages are composed by white pristine buldings, and they are often born on river or lake banks, with some rare ones living more isolated up on the mountains, near underground aquifers.

The people of Aq Vetina are standard humans, but they are born with a much higher tolerance to the cold, which lets them walk around in the snow in a sleeveless tunic.

Other than their national language, the Vetini also communicate with another one made of whistles, which reverberate thanks to the mountains, and allows them to communicate to long distances. They also use huge trumpets to communicate imminent dangers to the entire village (and sometimes those that are near them), or for the start of celebrations and festivities etc.

There isn't a government or a capital city or things like that, it's a very communal style of living and the villages are pretty isolated from each other due to the mountains.

Their traditional red clothes come from one of the most domisticated animal on the planet, the Vetini Sheep, whose wool is naturally red. Another animal they have domasticated is a type of white fox-dog, which helps them to guard their sheep, their home, and to keep them warm during the night by sleeping near them. Another animal is a horse-sixed mountain goat, which they use to travel on the mountains.

All genders wear the same type of clothing, with some slight changes that vary from person to person. All their jewels are made of stones, which is considered the material that connects all the souls of the Vetini, in the same way the rocks of the mountain unite the world. For work tools they either use bones or metals;

The majority of the people there are either artisans, shepherds or farmers, and thanks to the effort of the whole community, they can easily live a self sufficient life. Parents typically have to work a lot, so kids are often taken care of by relatives or other members of the community, who are often older people, teachers or members of the religious order.

Since the planet is in Mandalorian space, the Jedi could not go and meet them freely, so the force sensitive Vetini, over the millennia, created their own Force related religion and order;

Force sensitive Vetini often use a particular rare herb (which is strongly force-connected), which if inhaled through smoke can make their connection to the Force stronger, and trigger visions of the future, but unfortunately it has the nasty side effect of making the user extremely paranoid and, if used too much, can provoke the death of brain cells, leading to irreversible and even deathly brain damages, so it needs to not be used that much.

The Mandalorians of Aq Vetina, unlike the vast majority of mandos, do not paint their armor, but they decorate it with engravings.

This happens because in Vetini culture metal (of any type) is seen as the material of labor, fatigue and survival, and to honor its existence they engrave religious symbols into it, like prayers of good luck, of endurance etc. so the beskar'gam since it's made of beskar, a metal, gets the same treatment.

So instead of using the paint to showcase their life experiences, their beliefs, or their affiliations, they do so with their clothing. They all use the traditional Vetini red, and they then embroider symbols and/or writings onto the clothing. The symbols can either be Clan insignia, various mandalorian symbols, Vetini prayers, songs, names etc.

Vetini mandalorians also prefer a more sedentary type of life. No flying across the stars or fighting on battle grounds, just a rather peaceful existence on the snowy mountains of the planet.

Mando villages and Vetini villages have almost no differences between each others when it comes to life-style and routines, the few changes can be seen in how Mandalorians tend to prefer hunting trips, and celebrate more fight-based festivals, which are often a mix between traditional Vetini ones and some taken by Mandalorian culture. They also have differences in their cuisine, with the mandos often mixing the ingredients and recipes of the two cultures together, creating something entirely new in the process!

Since the first Mandalorians, that came into contact with the planet many centuries ago, followed the rule of "the helmet stays on", many Mando Vetini communities started to follow the same creed, with some changes. Like how they can take it off when in mortal peril (head injuries etc.) or in front of close family members, otherwise it stays on, especially around strangers or off-world people.

#star wars #aq vetina #mandalorians #trail of warriors au

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two-white-butterflies · 2 years ago

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coaxed you into paradise - c. 25

Description: The life of Saera Targaryen told in four acts. She was her father's forgotten daughter, cast aside as she looked nothing like her mother. Her younger days were spent beside her uncle. Years following her marriage with Ser Harwin Strong, she catches him in an affair with her older sister. She returns to seek solace in the arms of her uncle, that she's loved all her life.

(Coaxed You Into Paradise and High Infidelity Rewrite.)

masterlist for this series

Chapter Twenty-Five: Bastards of House Targaryen

Alyssa found the river calming - it was enough from the city that its waste couldn’t potentially harm her, but still close enough for her to visit. The river was her home - the closest thing to a clean beach. She exhales deeply, allowing her body to be fully submerged in the river.

“It’s not safe here, princess.” Ser Aran, a member of the gold cloaks, reminded her - holding his sword close to his body. This was the route of the bandits, and despite being seasoned in warfare - he was no match to their large number. Alyssa closes her eyes, water barely reaching her neck.

“Don’t be a coward, Ser.” She rolled her eyes knowing that no harm would come to her - not when her mother’s husband was the Rogue Prince. “We must head home, princess.” he pleads - watching her relax under the harsh pulse of the water. Alyssa looked like a river nymph, whose beauty could enrapture the gods. A true jewel of Kingslanding.

A chuckle escaped her lips, toes gently kissing the rocky soil. “You would rather return to the messy capital?” she teased, a sigh escaped his lips. Alyssa was petulant and mischievous. Only Princess Saera could control her.

He looked at the sun, it was early in the morning - no harm would come from a bit of strolling. “We may stay, my lady - but we have to return in a few minutes.” he gave in, her smile deepens - watching as his figure walks away, allowing her privacy.

Ser Aran has been in her kepus’ dispense since she was born. Alyssa valued his company - and appreciated his soft-heartedness. She allows her body to be submerged in water again. Queen Alicent often told her that she was as green as summer grass, knowing nothing but the warmth of the sun.

A person clears his throat, and she is sharply reminded of reality. She turns around, meeting the eye of the One Eyed Prince. “You’ve arrived,” she smiled - offering her hand for him to join her. “I apologize for being late, my lady - I had to greet Princess Saera.” he smiled, quickly shedding his coat and making his way to the river. “You are slow, my lord - Ser Aran was about to send me home.” she teased, waiting for him to make his way beside her.

“I’m sorry,” he hummed - burying his face on her neck.

“Did you tell my muña?” Alyssa questioned, feeling the fear creep up her throat. She’s spent six-years alone in the capital - her uncle the only ally that she could be true with. “I-I could not, she’s scary, Isa.” his face flushed into a crimson hue, and a childish giggle escapes her mouth.

Aemond could be a scary creature but he was a coward when it came to Saera and Daemon. “- but she’s one of the few people that would understand us.” Alyssa reminded, tracing her hands on his back. “We’ll say it at the same time then,” he offered - and it was her turn to flush crimson. “What?” her eyes widened - a small laugh escapes his mouth.

—

“Viserra,” Saera gently calls, attempting to pry the small dragon away from her daughter. The child crosses her arms with a huff, running away to the other part of the room. “It is past your bedtime, my sweet girl.” Saera cooes, holding the small dragon in place. Viserra was her most difficult child - the child was a mixture of Daegon’s ambition, Alyssa’s petulance and Daelon’s sensitivity. She was difficult - but her parents loved her.

“No,” the girl rolled her eyes - quickly bolting to the other part of the room. Daemon enters the room with Daelon in his arms. “Is our Princess unable to sleep?” he inquired, giving his wife a small smile.

“Kepa!” the child ran to her father, wrapping her small arms around his legs. “I don’t want to sleep yet,” Viserra complains with a pout. “How else will you grow?” her mother inquires while taking Daelon away from her kepa’s hands. “I don’t want to,” Viserra crosses her arms.

Daemon began to regret naming Viserra after Viserys and his aunt (with the same name.) It seems like the child has inherited all of their persistent features. “You wish to be small forever?” he inquired with an unamused stare. Viserra was staring at him too - not wanting to break their little contest.

“I’ll take care of our little dove,” he whispered, quickly kneeling to the child’s level and picking her up without a second thought. That was when Viserra began to giggle, laughing as she was placed on her father’s back and carried to her room.

A sigh escapes Saera’s mouth. Viserra is going to be a headache once she’s grown.

—

“They’re finally asleep,” Daemon breathed a sigh of relief, slumping on his chair and pouring his wife a goblet of wine. “They remind me of you,” he added with a small chuckle, wrapping his arms around Saera. “I do not remember having personality as a child,” she tilted her head.

“You were always running around, refusing to listen to your kepa.” he remembered, smiling at the thought of his wife. He didn’t know that she’d be his wife, then - and he does not wish that he knew sooner. “Our children can hear us, but they refuse to listen.” she chuckled, knowing that the children preferred to have their own opinions.

“It’s a sign of an intelligent mind,” he praised - only seeing the best in his creations. “I wonder where they got it from,” she hummed, leaning her head on his shoulder. The Princess was about to fall asleep, but a knock on the door springs her back to life. “Open the door,” she commanded - and Daemon stands up from his seat, opening the door slightly to peek his head and stare at the unwelcome visitors.

To his surprise it was his daughter, Alyssa, and his nephew, Aemond.

“May we come in?” Alyssa inquired, he nods - and opens the door.

“Who is it?” Saera asks, placing her goblet on the table. Daemon finds his way beside her, sitting on the chair and staring at the children accusingly. He had his doubts about them. He analyzed the way they spoke when around each other. It reeked of love. “Muña,” Alyssa smiled, gently nudging Aemond.

“I wish to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage,” Aemond spoke, keeping his eyes on his sister. “What?” Daemon raised his voice, in shock that either of them would have the audacity. “If it is what Alyssa wants - I do not see why we should disapprove.” Saera looked at her husband - seeking his permission. “Your kepa did not ask my father for my hand in marriage, and I am relieved that you found the time to inform us.” Saera smiled, but deep inside - she was fighting a battle.

Was it going to be the best choice?

Shouldn’t she betroth Alyssa to Tygos Hightower or Cregan Stark?

Was Alyssa going to be happy?

“It is what I want, muña.” Alyssa nodded, holding her beloved’s hand. “Then, we give you our full blessings.” she hummed - smiling as her daughter beams in joy.

—

Daegon opens the door to Helaena’s solar, his eyes moving back and forth from her children to her. “Hel,” he greets and she continues inspecting her signature centipede. “Dae,” she replies in a low tone, allowing her children to play with the beatles. “I wasn’t aware that you’d be returning,” she added, and he began to sit down on the floor beside her.

“We didn’t announce our arrival,” he smiles and she hands him Jahaera. The little girl looked like his sister, she had big bubbly cheeks and coarse white hair. It was clear that she was a Targaryen.

He holds the baby gently, remembering the times where he had to take care of his own siblings. He pities Helaena, as rumors tell him that her husband isn’t a good person. “Are the dreams better?” he asks, basing the conversation off the letters that they sent each other. She shakes her head, placing the bugs on their jars. “No,” she whispers - her attention remained plastered on the insects. “What are they about?” he asks, finding beauty in her dreams.

She was a perfect poet - the way she delivered her poems. He loved listening to her.

For the first time, she turns her head to look at him.

Her mouth was pressed into a thin line. Her attention would have remained on him, if not for her son who babbled and tried to reach her hair. “Spools of White, become Spools of Green. Spools of Black, become Spools of white.” she rambles - her eyes zooming off. The Dance of the Dragons was about to begin.

next chapter>>

taglist: @watercolorskyy @sweetybuzz25 @newtsniffles @loveandlewis-reads @lovecleastrange @julkaamazing @schniiipsel @mirandastuckinthe80s @areaderinlove @i-yam-awesome @ladystardvsts @gracielikegrapes @sweethoneyblossom1 @issybee0611 @tato0od @delaynew @thisbihreadstoomuch @plutoscosmoss @immyowndefender @marvelescvpe @batmans-love @luanasrta @tesha-i-guess @valeridarkness

#daemon x reader #daemon targaryen x oc #daemon targaryen #daemon targaryen x reader #prince daemon targaryen #daemon targaryen headcanon #daemon targaryen fic #daemon targaryen smut #daemon targaryen imagine #daemon targaryen fanfic #daemon targaryen fluff #house targaryen #house of the dragon #daemon headcanons #daemon prince #daemonism #hotd daemon

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talonabraxas · 11 months ago

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Green Tara: Feel Her Wisdom and Love Talon Abraxas

A fully enlightened female buddha, Tara is the actuality of compassion and wisdom. Meditating on her, says Lama Palden Drolma, can awaken our own buddhanature.

Meditation

1. Settle your mind Let your mind settle, resting in natural open awareness. Then take refuge in the awakened ones and generate the motivation to awaken yourself for the benefit of all sentient beings. Recite: “Until awakening I take refuge in Buddha, dharma, and noble sangha / By the merit of my acts of generosity and other awakening qualities / May I attain full awakening for the benefit of all beings.”

2. Visualize Tara Think that everything dissolves into emptiness/openness. Then visualize that in the sky in front of you, from her seed syllable TAM, Green Tara instantly appears, sitting on a full open lotus and moon seat. She is blue-green, the color of a mountain lake. She is arrayed in silks and jewels, symbolizing the six transcendent perfections (paramitas) and full awakening.

3. Invite her wisdom Radiate light from your heart center. Imagine that it purifies the phenomenal world, makes offerings to the enlightened ones, and invites Tara’s wisdom awareness to be present with you. Visualize that this happens through numerous small forms of Tara raining down into the main form you have visualized. Think that the Tara you have imagined becomes inseparable from her actual wisdom awareness.

4. Receive her love Repeat her mantra, OM TARE TUTARE TURE SOHA, and visualize that from her outstretched right hand comes a river of wisdom elixir, turquoise-green in color. This removes all fear, gives protection, removes obstacles and obscurations, and transmits enlightened awareness to you. Make prayers to Tara. Pour out your heart to her and receive her love and blessing.

5. Become Tara Then imagine that Tara dissolves into light, and dissolves into you. Think that your mind is inseparable from Tara’s enlightened mind. See yourself in the form of Tara, appearing as a body made of light—emptiness and form inseparable. In your heart area is a blue-green TAM. From it, light radiates out joy, compassion, loving-kindness, strength, and equanimity to all beings. Repeat her mantra while your heart is radiating these qualities.

6. Dissolve the visualization When you have finished repeating the mantra, gradually dissolve the visualization until there is just a drop of turquoise light left in your heart area, the essence of your wisdom and compassion. Then this dissolves into space, like a rainbow disappearing into the sky.

7. Dedicate the merit Rest your mind naturally for a few minutes or longer. Then dedicate the merit of your meditation practice to all beings: “Through this goodness may awakening spontaneously arise in our streams of being / May all obscurations and distortions fall away / May all beings be liberated from suffering, and the stormy waves of birth, sickness, old age, and death.”

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emilykaldwen · 10 months ago

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The Maiden and the Drowning Boy | Aegon x OC | Chapter Nine

Rating: Explicit Ships: Aegon II Targaryen x Abrogail Strong (Lyonel Strong's Daughter), Jacaerys Velaryon x Helaena Targaryen

Summary: As the kingdom teeters on the edge of chaos, Alicent Hightower swaps the pieces on the board: Aegon will marry Abrogail Strong, Larys’ younger sister and heir to Harrenhal. Caught in the web of intrigue and political machinations, the pair must figure out where their loyalties lie, and what they mean to one another.

Tropes: Childhood Sweethearts/Friends to Lovers, Generational Trauma and Cycles of Abuse, It's All About the Character Development, Unreliable Narrators, Multi-POV, Canon Divergent, Bisexual Aegon II Targaryen, Book/Show Mash Up, Fix-It Of Sorts, Stopping the Cycle of Abuse before it gets us all killed, Team Neutral, fairy tale vibes meets victorian medievalism meets grrm

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Warnings: Sexual shaming, physical abuse from a parental figure

CHAPTER NINE - LEAVE YOU IN PIECES

Reality is a slap in the face, and the River Lords finally arrive to King's Landing.

Mid-morning in the Red Keep meant that the gallery Aegon found himself in was illuminated with bright morning sun. It was three stories with floor to ceiling windows on the north side and smaller windows that could not be opened on the south, letting in natural light that would filter through them the entire day. It was his mother’s pride and joy, and he recalled the hours she’d thrown herself into its decoration and design when he was small and her smiles more frequent, her touch more caring. This was where she eagerly brought visiting nobles and dignitaries; this gallery was where his mother shone as Alicent Hightower, a girl with dreams that he watched fade from her eyes until piety and desperation and anger took hold of her.

His mother told him that she came to the sept to feel close to her own mother. Aegon came to the gallery to feel close to his. He was trying not to think about that too much as he watched Abrogail Strong pause in front of the intricate carving of the ship that the Targaryens brought to Dragonstone.

His gaze was fixated upon the spray of freckles along Abby’s bared shoulders. More importantly, it was that her shoulders were bare at all that was drawing his attention. The samite gown she wore was of the palest blue, the top edged with a broad band of silver. He’d watched her painstakingly embroider all the little decoration on it in front of the fireplace in the evenings. In the sunlight streaming through the windows, he could see the golden threads in the silver banding that also encircled her upper arms glimmer and reveal the hidden golden dragons sewn within. She said something but Aegon paid no mind to it on his approach, too focused watching the way her red curls glowed molten down past her pale shoulders and how the freckles dotting them were like cinnamon sugar on the sweet breads she’d eaten earlier.

It had been two days since he crept into her bed. Two days since they had the chance to be truly alone and he was going mad with it. Her throat was bare and never had he thought he’d want to drape a woman in jewels, but the idea of a necklace wound around her throat, mayhaps with rubies, appealed to him. A symbol that declared she was his and his alone.

Abby’s fingers, so dainty, so strong when they dove into his hair and gripped him like a lifeline, reached up to tuck her loose hair behind her ear and the bruise, deep and dark red, was revealed just there in the softness below her ear and along her jaw.

He closed the short distance between them, his arm snaking around her waist, hand splayed across the smooth curve of her belly to pull her against his chest. Aegon had been letting her set the pace, but here beneath the shaft of sunlight, the treasure she presented was too much for him. He pressed his face against the top of her head where she fit perfectly beneath his chin (if only just, for height eluded him and found his brother instead). He inhaled the scent of her hair, the orange and lemon of the bergamot oil she used for her curls.

“Your Grace,” she whispered, and he sighed, fingers flexing against her stomach, fabric bunching slightly beneath his touch, forcing himself to be still, to not beg for more.

To not take more.

“Your Grace, we shouldn’t,” she tried again, but this time, Abby’s voice shook with the little giggles he adored and he shut his eyes when she reached up to delve those fingers into his hair and hold him close. It was his turn to shudder at the feel of her nails lightly scratching his scalp, as if he were her cat laying across her lap. Aegon felt the heat rush through his veins, from the top of his head down to his toes that curled within his boots.

“I thought you were dragging me in here for the same purpose you had last night after dinner,” he countered. The memory of her hands grabbing him and hauling him behind the tapestry on the way toward Helaena’s room the night before made him giddy and ache. His rabbit had been possessed and he’d been a hungry dragon happily accosted by her. In the fortnight since they had first kissed, she was still clumsy and unsure, but her eagerness had delighted and ignited him. It was with that heady kiss, and the feeling of how perfectly her pert bottom fit his hands beneath her simple frock that had fed his dreams that night and left him craving, as always, for more.

Abby giggled again and he tilted his head back only enough to allow her to turn in his hold. She kissed his nose, and then his cheek. Peppering her way along the curve of bone to the soft skin behind his ear where his jaw met, she suckled and nipped with the softest sound that went straight to his cock. Aegon’s eyes fell almost shut and he brought his other hand up to cup the back of her head to keep her close. Her own fingers remained in his hair with their infernal tugging, drawing soft groans and his own wanton and needy whimper.

‘Touch me, touch me for here I hurt,’ he thought. ‘Touch me and make it all go away until it’s only you.’

“Do you like that?” she whispered against his ear, and it struck him how genuinely curious she was, how guileless the intent was in her explorations. It was intoxicating in a way he couldn’t describe and Aegon’s arm tightened around her waist, his fingers diving into her hair. Her arm had come up around his own waist to mimic him and he found it adorable how she took her cues from him. What he did, she did, and he rewarded her studious nature with a nip to her ear.

Her fingers tugged on his hair and he felt her teeth nip along his jaw. His cock twitched and he angled his hips back so she wouldn’t feel it, not wanting to frighten her. “I asked if you liked that.”

Abby’s bold teasing drew a high pitched laugh of his own. “Are you demanding answers from your prince, my Lady? What liberties you take.” From his view of her throat and the succulent curve of her shoulder, he watched the blush bloom like the malvales flowers in his mother’s solar. She shook against him with her giggles and Aegon felt like he was soaring to be the one to pull such joyous sounds from her with his japes. It was heady, like the most exotic of wines he’d been given that left him floating, but this? This flamed him instead of making him feel numb. This had his heart racing and his body tingling and Aegon laughed with her. He laughed in the way he hadn’t for so long, free from the anxiety and the fear, from the nervous notes that plagued the sound.

He met her eyes and felt like he was freefalling from Sunfyre’s back to drown in the rivers. They were so endlessly, beautifully blue and crinkled from how brightly she smiled. Her blush meant it was Aegon’s turn to reach up and cup her face in his hand and pepper kisses from the top of her forehead down the delicate line of her nose to the sweet, heart shape of her mouth. There were too many kisses to count; little needy kisses like he could capture the taste of her and hold it inside. They were both laughing, breathless and needy. Aegon ached with it, feeling the desire stir in his belly. Abby pressed against him and his breath caught, kisses pausing as there was no hiding what she was doing to him.

Abby stilled against him and Aegon felt more than heard the soft sound low in her throat. The gentle vibration of her mouth where she rested it against his. The taste of cinnamon sugar and sweet cream had already been devoured, leaving whatever taste of her that hid beneath for Aegon to glut on.

He didn’t move to press further against her no matter how his body begged to rut against her like a damned kennel dog, but his mouth continued to brush against hers, mouth catching along her lower lip, teeth nibbling along the fullness of her pout. “Abs,” he murmured. “Ñuha hunītsos.” She answered with the tentative touch of her own tongue against his as if she hadn’t eagerly returned such affection before. Aegon brushed his thumbs along the curve of her cheeks and felt the heat of her blush beneath his touch. Abby pressed closer into him and his breath caught at the pressure of pressing against her belly. He didn’t care about the layers of fabric between them, it felt just as good as if they were both bare as babes.

Seven hells, he wanted to taste her again. Just thinking about it had him salivating and Aegon’s hands moved further to cup her head properly when the striking sound of cane hitting the flagstone floor echoed through the gallery.

“Lady Strong!” came the horrified shout and Abby gasped, and they sprang apart - or would have, had Aegon’s hands not been caught in her hair and her ruby curls caught on the ring he wore. She yelped in pain and Aegon cursed low under his breath as the Septa strode towards them, her cane echoing off the floor with each strike.

“Hold on,” he consoled, helping her turn her head so he could work on getting her hair free. “Septa Lyserra,” he greeted nonchalantly, the smile he forced came out as a grimace. The fierce look on the woman’s face was enough to sap any desire from him. She had been a fixture for years, the Septa of his sister and Abby, who guarded the girls like a hound. Heleana struggled more beneath the woman’s gaze, but overall did not seem too bothered by it. Abby, as always, simply said that the Septa was strict, but well meaning. Aegon thought her suffocating, more austere and stringent than even his own mother. The woman before them was barely older than the queen herself, and so Aegon couldn’t fathom why she needed a cane since she seemed to have moved quickly across the gallery.

“Your Grace,” the woman demurred with a curtsy before she wrapped a slim hand about Abby’s bicep. “I apologize for the interruption, but the lady is late for her lessons.”

“Apologies, Septa,” Abby quickly cut in, and Aegon knew the warning glance from her when he saw it. Carefully, Aegon was working the curl out of his ring, and Abby let out a familiar pained sound as the hair tore, little strands of it still stuck in the gold. Her fingers tugged at his. “Here, just get it off your hand, I’ll fix it and give it back,” she said, breathless and flushed, already being tugged away from him by the persistent bitch who’d interrupted them. Aegon wanted to snarl at the Septa, demanding she leave, but Abby was letting herself be pulled away from him and mayhaps it was for the best. The intrusion had nearly killed the arousal he was feeling and watching her walk away from him, gazing back with her large blue eyes and kiss swollen mouth, it was everything to keep him from going after her, ensnaring her back in his arms.

So instead, he gave her a little wave before pulling his fingers through his hair in frustration of what to do with himself now. He supposed he should go and see himself to the training yard. He was reluctant to admit that Cole had been right, and that the physical exertion has been a good distractor - perhaps that was one of the not so honorable reasons Aemond spent so much time studying the blade. It wasn’t as terrible as he had feared, either. In just a few weeks, his body had remembered the moves he’d used to hone so well, reminding himself that he did have some natural ability that Aemond was once madly jealous of. The prospect of participating in the tournament was an enticing one. For once, he thought to prove himself worthy of praise, to show that he was good enough.

To see Abby fuss over any perceived injury, and swoon over his skill like he’d seen maidens do towards his uncle, Gwayne.

A soft, sharp cry, familiar to him, reached his ears and Aegon’s footsteps quickened. “Abs?” he called out, hurrying out into the hall, wondering what was the matter.

But the hall was empty, his rabbit nowhere to be found. Aegon frowned, turning in a circle to see what he may have missed, but it was only servants and pages making their way to wherever they needed to go. An uneasy feeling settled in his stomach, and he could feel Sunfyre responding through their bond, concern thrumming through his chest. “All seems well,” he murmured, to himself and to his bonded brother in the dragonpit. Sunfyre settled but the uncertain feeling remained.

“How is Lord Tully settling in, Lysa?” Alicent asked, her focus on the parchments in front of her. The menus had been finalized for the welcoming feast that night and now she was going through everything else that demanded her focus; orders for fabric and carriages, menus for Aegon’s nameday feast and the following celebrations, a missive to the High Septon for the wedding, among numerous other things that Lysa Fossoway was incomparable in helping her handle. Her other ladies had already been sent on errands and she was grateful for the quiet in her solar. A painful pulse had started behind her eyes and it was barely mid-morning.

Lysa was in the process of sprinkling the pounce powder on the last missive and did not pause in her work. Her apple green damask dress glimmered with golden thread, the gown low cut across her shoulders. “He is well, Your Grace. The Grand Maester visited him upon his arrival to ensure he had an easy rest and as of this morning, he is hale and hearty.” She paused, cocking her head. Her light blonde hair was caught in cauls on either side of her head, the nets a thick weave of flat golden lace and the fillet that wound around her head was gold and green. It was an older look. Princess Rhaenyra had made bare heads popular in court, but Lysa preferred her cauls to hide the graying of her blonde hair.

Alicent reached up to brush away a loose auburn curl, her long hair still braided loosely as she had no one to entertain that morning. It was vanity to let her hair flow free and uncovered, but it was a vanity she clung to, her hair one of the things about her that remained untouched and untainted.

Her mother had the same thick deep auburn curls that she recalled sitting on a little plush stool when she was small, watching Cybell Reyne’s maid gently brush and curl it.

“Your Grace, are you well?”

“Hm?” Alicent blinked and realized she had grown lost in thought as Lysa had been speaking with her. “What was it you said?”

Lysa pretended not to notice her flight of fancy and Alicent was grateful for it. “Lord Elmo is breaking fast with the Lord Hand this morning and the Ladies Baratheon are settling in well. Princess Helaena has taken quite a shine to young Floris and Lady Cassandra seems to have made her own spot within the court.” A thoughtful purse of her mouth, then, “I am concerned that she does not have true interest in the princess’ company.”

“Lady Cassandra would be an unsuitable companion.” Unfortunate, but not unexpected. A sigh. She would ideally keep the maiden here rather than send her to Harrenhal. Surely with enough time, the elder girl may creep into Aemond’s affection, or at the very least some willingness at being presented with someone who was not his sister. “Has Helaena shown any preference to any other ladies-”

“Your Grace!”

Septa Lyserra was prone to fits of indignation in the way only a believer who cleaved close to the Faith could be. It often took her by surprise that the woman was not much older than herself and yet seemed so ancient in her ways. Her own Septa had not been so stringent, teaching her songs and painting. Sometimes she wondered if she should have sent Lyserra back for one who embraced the arts and crafts the way many other septas did.

“I swear upon the memory of my mother, Daemon never touched me.”

‘But you lay with Ser Criston instead,’ Alicent thought as the long simmering heat curled low in her belly. Her attention turned to the red faced woman and confusion overtook her when she saw Abrogail being dragged in behind her.

There was no helping it, Alicent supposed. Better to be too strict when it came to her children, than too lax.

“What on earth is going on here, Lyserra? Abrogail? Child, what is it?” There was no hiding the confusion but she would not rise to meet the Septa’s conniption fit. The girl’s wrist was clutched in the septa’s tight hand, her eyes downcast and it was not often she had seen her lower lip quiver.

Things had been interesting over the past few weeks since she sat with the child in front of her to make clear what was expected of her. Sweet, meek thing that Abrogail was, there had been a sense of pride in seeing her lift her gaze and speak her thoughts even though Alicent thought they were foolish and misplaced. She was young, and she would learn, just as Alicent had over the last decade, to carve her way and find her voice. It was sweet and endearing the way she cleaved to Aegon, and truth be told, Alicent hoped that the child’s view of her son would come to fruition.

However, Alicent had lived through such betrayals and treacheries that Abrogail Strong had yet to encounter, and to hold onto hope in that way without question was foolish, childish, and naive.

It was stupid and dangerous.

Her heart would only be broken in the end, and if Alicent could save her from it, the way she herself was not saved, then all the better.

“Your Grace, I must apologize for bringing you such upsetting news. I found Lady Strong in a compromising position alone with Prince Aegon.” The last of the statement was said in a hushed, offended way that had Alicent’s stomach curl with unease. Lady Fossoway beside her made a soft sound and out of the corner of her eyes, she could see the other woman work to hold a laugh back. Had it been any other sort of situation, Alicent may have expressed such laughter.

This was Aegon.

This was the future king.

Everything hinged on this.

“That shall be all, Lady Fossoway. I will send for you should I require more of your valuable assistance today. Do check on the Baratheon girls after those items are addressed,” she said with clear dismissal. The following conversation did not need such an audience. In a flurry of deep green silk, Lady Fossoway made for her exit, leaving Alicent alone with the Septa and her soon to be good-daughter.

Alicent let the silence in the wake of the closing door lengthen and she turned to slowly gather the rest of the papers on her desk. It was something that her own father did. The anxiety of it had her tearing at her nails, and she recalled how Gwayne could never stand it, blurting out whatever it was that needed to be said to make the silence stop. She noted that Abrogail did none of this. No, the girl stood still as a statue, eyes downcast, wrist still grasped by her Septa.

“And what compromising position were they found in?” Alicent finally asked, focused on putting away the inks and sealing wax.

“They were in a passionate embrace,” the septa said, disdain and offense dripping from each word. Passionate embrace, you say? Alicent mouthed to herself while her face was turned away. The dramatics of the Septa were something she disliked, almost as much as the news that was being delivered. “They were alone, and I have no idea how far they have gone, your Grace. The insolent girl will not say.”

A soft gasp had Alicent look at the blushing maiden before her. The girl’s eyes had raised, the blue of them large with pain and her own silent indignation.

“Your Grace,” Abrogail said, trying to tug her captured wrist from the other woman’s grasp. “My honor is intact and I was only kissing my betrothed. Tis harmless.” Her voice shook as she tried to find her words and the foolishness of her statement only underscored poor Abrogail’s naivete.

“Is that what Aegon told you?” Alicent asked, voice flat, and stared long and hard at the child until she stopped struggling and closed her mouth. “You told me you know how he is and I warned you of his hedonistic behavior. Yet you brushed me off, and after reassuring me that you were well aware of his nature, I have to hear about the pair of you caught alone?” Abrogail was silent, teeth gnawing on her lower lip and Alicent exhaled. “Septa Lyserra, you are dismissed. I shall handle this.” The woman dropped the child’s hand, curtsying deeply, and excused herself from the room as well, no doubt to go and cleanse herself in front of the Mother in the small Sept.

The moment dragged once more and Alicent watched her, a mouse beneath a cat’s paw. Abrogail’s hands were folded across her waist, eyes averted, and she caught the glint of gold in one of her hands - Aegon’s ring, her thumb running over it.

“You are a foolish, wanton girl, and I am ashamed of the insult you have dealt me this day, Abrogail,” Alicent finally said with all the quiet cutting she knew those words would deliver. “Do you understand how hard I fought against mine own father, your uncle, to give you time to grow up and not be dragged to the marriage bed before your time? A gift that I myself was denied and I would have for you and Helaena. Now I must hear of this! You, who I know have been taught better than to engage in such behavior. I trusted you to behave yourself as is expected, but it seems that I have been incredibly lax in your etiquette, or too lenient with your excursions dragon riding. You assured me they were chaste and harmless.”

“Your Grace,” Abrogail’s voice was small in the quiet of the room, thick with emotion, and the girl crossed towards her as if to throw herself at her lap, but stopped short, remembering herself. “My Queen, I can promise you that Aegon has done nothing more than kiss me. He has not compromised my virtue, he has not - I’ve never…”

Alicent rose then, closing the distance and taking Abrogail’s chin in her firm hand. A soft sound escaped her, but she did not try to pull away. “Were you aware he’d gotten a child on one of my maids barely a moon ago?”

Blue eyes widened, cheeks flushing a deeper red, and she minutely shook her head, Alicent’s grasp not giving her leeway. She hated to break this news to her, but the girl was living in a fairy tale.

“He did. I gave the girl moon tea and money for her to go back home to her family and find a new position, since she was clearly incapable of refuting my son’s advances. Very much like you seem incapable of refuting him-”

“Your Grace, it’s not like-”

“So you’re saying you are seducing him?” Abrogail had no answer for that, and all Alicent could think of was the image of Rhaenyra casting a web, ensnaring poor Ser Criston and his tender, stalwart heart. Capturing poor Harwin Strong, who was far too loyal for his own good. A net taught to her by her Targaryen blood, and the same blood that flowed through her son.

Forcing Abrogail back by the grip on her chin, Alicent shoved her toward the low couch and smoothed her hands on her skirt before leaning down to look into her eyes. “Let me disabuse you of your fantasies, child. You are Aegon’s bride because I believe that you can fix what is broken and infected inside of him. To show him how he should conduct himself so he is ready for what the future holds.”

She drew back in surprise when Abrogail shook her head in the negative. “Your Grace, we’re betrothed, we’re meant to spend the rest of our lives together. Should we not get along? Should we not love and care for each other?”

The slap was sudden, before Alicent could even think.

“I will not have you walk into that Sept with a swollen belly, all because you lack conviction and understanding, Abrogail! You are not his bride so you may ruck your skirts for him without moral hesitation. If you throw yourself around as such, who is to say you are not doing such a thing with someone else. Aegon’s heirs must be without question, so you must be without question.”

Unlike Rhaenyra, swearing on the memory of her beloved mother in the godswood.

Unlike the brood of pug-nosed boys with their dark curls and smiles.

Abrogail’s curls. Abrogail’s smile.

Lyone’s curls. Lyonel’s smile.

Celeste Reyne’s eyes stared back from Abrogail’s face, the river blue of them wet and shining with tears. She watched the girl before her blink, the drops streaking down across the vibrant mottling of her cheek, shaking hands clutching her skirts.

“You needn’t be so harsh with the children,” the memory of the soft voice came, so like Alicent’s own mother it made her chest ache. Celeste’s face, pale and drawn, and still so softly smiling while she wasted away, pressing kisses to Aemond’s cheek while he sat on her lap. “We love them as we wish to have been loved.”

Alicent’s palm tingled and she curled her fist and clasped it against her waist, as if physically holding herself would keep her from reaching and shaking the foolish child before her until her teeth rattled in her skull and sense came in.

“Do you understand me, Lady Abrogail?” Alicent’s voice was not her own. Bile rose in her throat while she watched the trembling thing before her. Her father stood, watching her the same, doing nothing when she said that the king had touched her.

All that was missing was the bloody nails.

The Queen watched in satisfaction, in a detached sense of something raw and aching, a scream stuck in her chest, as she watched Abrogail curtsy low until she was almost kneeling on the rug at her feet. ‘Good,’ Alicent thought, her scream still clawing its way up her throat.

“Yes, my Queen. I pray for your clemency in your goodness and love.”

‘Good.’ Alicent couldn’t breathe. Good that she was learning. Good that Abrogail would come to understand the way she had, with lessons that would not be as harsh as the ones she had to go through.

It was a kindness that she was doing all she could to save this child the way none had saved her.

Aegon’s muscles ached in a comfortable sort of way as he headed down the back staircase towards the Queen’s Ballroom. The apartments above it were currently taken up by the Tully party, so Aegon avoided the gallery, not wanting to be pulled into some conversation about politics. No, he had one focus and that was to find his maiden fair and press a kiss to her heart shaped mouth and escort her in, to show off how beautiful she looked on his arm. To show that maybe she was right, and they liked each other, so this wasn’t a terrible thing. Mayhaps he wasn’t going to fuck it all up.

He tugged on the cuffs of his doublet, his left side black, his right in red with the opposite colored sleeves. His mother had tried to force him into something green as always, but Aegon had tossed that at his brother and went about his way. Let her favorite boy dress in the color she clung to, not he, who she could barely stand to look at since the fight in the brothel. It didn’t matter. Not now, maybe not anymore when Abby looked at him.

Where was she?

“Your Grace, you look lost.”

Aegon turned to see Cassandra Baratheon gliding towards him, her smoky voice echoing against the stone walls. Behind her were two of her ladies, comely and quiet with downcast eyes and furtive glances. The Lady Baratheon was encased in a cloud of gold that nearly shimmered in the rays of evening light and torch glow that illuminated the hall. Her hair was loose, a light golden veil held in place in the way that only women seemed to know how to do.

His eyes immediately took in her low neckline, the delicate gold chain that adorned her. It would be rude not to look at such a display when it was offered so willingly. Even more when she curtsied low before him, a coy smile playing along the lush red of her mouth.

“And now you’ve found me,” Aegon smirked, touching a finger beneath her chin to tilt her face back and withdrew it just as quickly in a bid for her to rise. She was tall, as tall as Helaena, but still his eyes lingered more about the lovely expanse of her chest than her actual face. “I believe that puts me in your debt, my Lady.”

Cassandra tilted her head, teeth bright and sharp in her smile that stirred the familiar, eager ache in his belly. “You give the debt so willingly, my Prince. Are you sure that’s wise?”

Aegon leaned in, close enough to smell the perfume on her skin. A scent of spice, warm like incense, but not cloying. “There are worse debts to be in than that of a beautiful woman, Lady Cassandra,” he told her, voice low with only the tease of a promise. She didn’t seem like the type to be offended by such a thing, and Cassandra did not let him down, even if she delicately pressed her hand to her chest.

“My Prince is too kind with such flattery.” Aegon preened, pulling back and fully enjoying the attention. It wasn’t like he hadn’t had the attentions of beautiful women, and it was always good to allay any of his anxieties before one of his mother’s feasts, when expectations were at hand, and the watchful eye to make sure he wasn’t imbibing any of the wine forbidden to him. Perhaps the lady before him would help in such matters.

“I speak only the truth, my Lady. It’s Cassandra, is it not? Recently arrived from Storm’s End.” A test to see how casual and relaxed she was and again, the woman did not disappoint.

“Yes, that is correct. Her Grace, the Queen, invited myself and my sister to attend to Princess Helaena. Although, I suppose it shall be I who does, as Floris is still so young.” She lifted the hand from her chest to gesture vaguely. “It will be nice to spend time at court, experience new things. I do hope that you might be able to find the time to impart some of your own favorite things to do.”

Aegon’s smirk widened at the implication in those words, and the flash in her dark eyes showed that she very much meant it. There was no shyness in her words or her manner. Cassandra Baratheon was a woman who knew what she wanted.

“Mayhaps that would be the case, my Lady, or perhaps you’ll come with us to Harrenhal and we can be strangers together.” As much as he enjoyed the lady already, he did not think she would get along particularly well with his sister, who had the little Floris trailing after her like a baby duck. That was far more to Helaena’s liking. His Abby got along swimmingly with everyone.

Cassandra’s brow furrowed in confusion and she opened her mouth to speak before his gaze caught on the figure down the hall. He exhaled softly, shifting away from Cassandra with a vague dismissal.

Aegon’s eyes fixed upon Abby and the way the light had turned her red curls molten, even beneath her own soft white veil that was held in place with a delicately wrought silver circlet dotted with pearls. Her dress was elaborate, the twilight blue silk brocade decorated in red and green opened in front to reveal the silver gown beneath. The same twilight blue made up her sleeves, the fabric of the silver gown puffed through the slashes. Her neckline was far more demure, yet no less enticing to him. How beautiful she looked in the colors of her house.

How beautiful she would look in the colors of his.

Yes, he’d had to get her something to decorate the delicate throat, but Aegon wouldn’t deny he enjoyed the unimpeded view. His mouth watered, reminded of the taste of her by sight alone. The sounds she so sweetly made drifted through his memory like a song.

Abby’s eyes were averted, but her lady, that northern wench, Wylla, who had become her guard dog, was watching with steely gray eyes and a pursed mouth. Aegon spared her only an annoyed glance before fixing his attention on the vision before him.

His Maiden still would not rest her gaze upon, and she curtsied with her eyes hidden from him. “Your Grace.”

There was no coy playfulness, no sweet smile, no shy gaze up at him with the bluest eyes beneath her dark lashes. There was soft propriety and a downcast gaze. Not unfamiliar, but jarring given how she’d greeted him that morning. Hells, how she’d greeted him the past several days. Perhaps it was their audience? He leaned down slightly, hands properly folded behind him like a good boy when he wanted nothing more than to snake his hands around her waist, to dive into her hair, to…

A frown slashed across his mouth, and Aegon felt a curl of unease in his stomach. Abby and her courtesies were always sweet and amusing, even when turned on him but this felt strange.

“We have time, if you like, to continue where we left off this morning,” he offered, lilac eyes searching her soft features, the way she resolutely wouldn’t look at him. “What is it?”

“It would be inappropriate, Your Grace, to be found engaging in such things,” came the reply, soft as before, but there was something sharp beneath the words, like the flash of teeth. The shutting of a door.

“Inappropriate.” He drew the word out in a low voice, and while the curl of unease began working its way up his chest, his eyes narrowed. “So you’re telling me that you’re worried about being inappropriate now?” Silence filled the moment, and Aegon lifted a hand to reach beneath her chin but Abby jerked her head back and moved away from him in a whisper of fabric and flushed embarrassment.

“Please.” This time her voice was a little louder, her gaze shifting up and while she looked at him, Abby didn’t meet his eyes. Instead, they danced around to somewhere over his shoulder, to the tapestry of the Riverlands on the wall, to anywhere but him. “I know you hold little concern for your reputation, but not all of us have such luxury.” Stronger. He liked the strength in her voice, but he detested it when turned on him in such a way.

“Please?” Aegon repeated and drew back himself. The curl of unease wound through his ribs like a pair of stays, tugging and tightening. “Please?” he repeated and how dare she throw that at him after their night. A third time, as she whispered in his arms, he blinked at her, quieter now. “Please.”

Three times to make a wish. Three times to make it matter.

Abrogail wouldn’t look at him. “I am a lady, and a member of the Queen’s household. I may be your betrothed, my Prince, but I must lead us by example if you find yourself incapable of containing your desires.”

A rushing sound filled Aegon’s ears. A familiar roaring as the tendrils amidst his ribs tightened and squeezed. His face went hot and cold, then hot again. When he opened his mouth, no sound came out. Nothing. All he could hear in his head was his mother’s voice, Abrogail’s voice.

I didn’t ask for you. She didn’t ask for the lecherous, depraved monster he’d become. No longer the sweet boy his mother loved, that his mother soundly replaced with each increasingly perfect child that came after him. Would Abrogail replace him as well?

“You… I…” Words stuttered from him but he couldn’t string any together that made the slightest bit of sense. Aegon let out a sharp bite of laughter and even that was strangled. The woman before him had robbed him of speech, of sound, of everything. All that was left in his chest was a hollow feeling that not even Sunfyre’s presence could ease.

He lifted his hand to touch his own cheek, wondering if she’d slapped him without him noticing.

The sounds of her cries, her gasps of his name in the quiet of the night when the world had pinpointed to the feel of her against him haunted him, clawing at his compressed insides while she looked anywhere but him. The firelight had shone in her glossy eyes, her mouth rounded with pleasure. Now they were shadowed and dull, mouth pressed into a fine line so very much like his own mother’s disapproval.

Aegon’s fingers reached past his cheek and into his hair as if that was the motion he’d intended to complete. He wanted to tear at his hair and claw at his own face like he could rip the rot of him out and drop it at her feet so she could be satisfied with him once more.

Footsteps sounded in the hall behind him and Abrogail’s eyes focused, a slight smile breaking across her features. “Uncle Simon!” She called in greeting and Aegon’s hand gripped her bicep when she made to skirt around him. The bruises had healed, that much he knew. “Aegon,” she whispered, turning finally to look at him.

They had an audience now. She’d have to put on her pretty manners and not make a scene. Aegon said nothing and it was his turn to not look at her but instead at some unfathomable point in the middle distance.

The moment grew heavy, awkward. Abrogail shifted against him and Aegon thought he should let her go, he should say something. He should shake her until her teeth rattled and her wits fell back into place. Shake her until she admitted that this was a terrible jape and she meant none of it.

He could dive his hand into her sunset curls and yank her back and drag her to his bed like a war prize and make her take back everything she said. Give her a reason to think him monstrous, or a reason he wasn’t. ‘No’, he immediately thought, recoiling at himself for what the angry, poisonous thing inside him wanted to rage into. He didn’t want her to look at him like she was now, or worse, how his mother looked at him, but he was left confused and strangely afraid, unable to tell what was running through her head.

He could not reconcile the woman before him with her avoidance and snapping words to the one who smiled and giggled, who sighed and reached for him as readily as he did her. “Talk to me,” he commanded, voice low for her alone.

“Is everything alright?”

The man’s voice was unfamiliar, and not old, the way Ser Simon Strong’s was. This one was deep and calm, coated in courtesy and the edge of a blade.

Aegon finally turned his head to look over his shoulder at the company that had arrived. There was his lady’s uncle, a tall man grown plump as a bloated fruit with age, but the strength still lingered in his sturdy form. There was a strange pang of familiarity in the man’s face that made Aegon prickle and for a mad moment, he thought it was the ghost of Lyonel Strong coming from Harrenhal to strike him down for touching his little girl.

The man who spoke had Aegon instinctively sweeping his gaze over him. Younger by far than Ser Simon, the man had broad shoulders and an angular face softened by the light brown curls that shone gold in the evening sunlight. He was tall, taller than his companion, his two toned doublet, half-black and half-silver with golden buckles accentuated the narrowing of his figure. From the cut of his shoulders and his arms, he was clearly no slouch when it came to weapons.

Aegon’s tongue touched his lower lip, teeth biting in thought as he took this man in. His fingers released Abrogail’s arm and he took a step back. She immediately hurried past and into her uncle’s embrace. “Everything is fine. I’m so glad to see you,” she said, and Aegon swore he heard Wylla hiss at him like a cat beneath her breath when she went to join them.

“Uncle, this is his Grace, Prince Aegon Targaryen.” Ever polite, to hide whatever distaste she suddenly held for him. He approached slowly, the gathered group all bowing in deference, and Aegon breathed slowly through his nose to allay the panic that was settling in, that was threatening to send him running.

He watched the man with the golden hair alight his gaze on Abrogail. “Ser Edmund Vance, Your Grace, of Wayfarer’s Rest.” A bow to him as protocol dictated and his eyes focused on the way he took Abby’s hand, so small and delicate, into his larger one, to press a kiss to it. “Many speak of your gentle beauty, my lady, but even such flowery descriptions could never do you justice.”

Edmund Vance. Ser Edmund Vance.

“Edmund Vance, the heir to House Vance, recently lost his wife. A good man, and part of the Riverlands although a small seat,” his grandfather had said, waving the scroll in hand.

Amidst the cold and crushing pull inside Aegon’s chest, a flaring sensation began. Hot and molten in that warm, safe spot that Sunfyre lived within him; his dragon in place of his heart.

Aegon focused on the golden shine of Edmund Vance’s curls, the shy look on Abrogail’s face, the way she looked at him.

“Condolences are in order, I’ve heard.” Aegon did not give his mouth order to move, had just been utterly speechless in the face of Abrogail’s uncharacteristic harshness.. Edmund’s brow furrowed and Aegon continued on, feeling the spark of annoyance that he had to look up to meet the man’s gaze. Aegon was as tall as his father, even as the king grew stooped with his infirmity, but Edmund held a frustrating few inches on him. “For the passing of your dear lady wife.”

Aegon smiled as the golden man shifted, his face flashing with ill disguised discomfort. ‘Good,’ he thought. ‘Know your place, know that your words mean nothing in the face of your loss, not to her.’ Flushed with ruining the man’s attempts at flirting with his lady, Aegon thought to move back in, to grab her and drag her against his side. To bite his fingers into her until tears pricked her eyes, so she would know the pain she had caused him, and for her to understand that she was his.

For her to tell him why she was speaking so cruelly to him. To tell him what he had done since she’d been pulled from his embrace that morning, to have her reject his touch when she had cuddled into his warmth like the little rabbit she was.

“Your kindness is much appreciated, Your Grace,” came the stiff, soft reply, and then his eyes were on Abrogail again. “I would offer to escort you into the feast, but I think our Ser Simon has the privilege of such a vision on his arm.”

Laughter rolled from Ser Simon and he took his niece’s arm, pulling her away.

Edmund looked at Aegon. Aegon smiled back. Sunfyre growled deep in his chest and Aegon swore it vibrated through his words. “Welcome to King’s Landing, Ser Edmund. I do hope you enjoy your time here.”

Dismissing the man, Aegon continued into the hall. The Queen’s Ballroom was the smallest of the halls of the Keep. Nothing like the Great Hall, and half as big as the Small Hall in their Grandfather’s tower. It was an intimate setting: two long trestle tables took up most of the room without it feeling crowded with the wide aisle between them leading up to the dias where the head table sat. The walls of the room were carved in dark ironwood imported from the north, carved with dragons winding and twisting around carvings of trees. The room was filled with light so bright it could have been out in the gardens. Each wall sconce was covered in beaten silver to reflect the light about and the draperies along the south wall were pulled to the side and the windows thrown open to the terrace that opened up to the gardens below.

His mother stood above it all, a beacon at the high table, and his fear caused his steps to falter. She looked so young next to the ancient Lord Tully seated beside her. The green of her gown shone emerald in the light and he could make out the embroidery that made it seem like she had scales of her own. Her hair was in a low bun at the nape of her neck and the silver tiara she wore rested gently in her hair. Rubies the size of his thumb were fitted along the delicately wrought crown, each one lined with little sparkling emeralds. Fire of the Dragon. Fire of the Hightower.

‘Of Castamere,’ Aegon thought, noticing the lion broach on his mother’s bodice. Rubies for house Targaryen, rubies and silver for House Reyne. The house of the grandmother Aegon had never met. Was it always the loss of a mother and a wife that turned people cruel and cold? The loss of grandmother turning his grandfather into the cruel man he was, Mother into the fearful creature with her lion claws, his own sire too caught in the memory of the woman he’d ordered to die for the promise of a son. Would losing Abrogail do the same to him?

Fuck him, he hadn’t had a proper drink in weeks, and the wheel of his thoughts that he worked so desperately to avoid was threatening to derail him before he could even reach the dias and present himself to his mother’s hidden ridicule. What’s worse, was how he’d actually looked forward to it had Abrogail been on his arm rather than her uncle’s.

Better than being touched by that Vance prick, who had entered behind him but steered clear. Good.

A hand slipped along his right arm and Aegon startled. Helaena hummed and gave him a slight smile. Her silver hair hung freely down her back with a braid wrapped around her head like a crown and woven with a strand of rubies and chips of dark dragonglass. She wore no veil, her dress the same twilight blue as Abrogail’s, although low cut across her shoulders and dipped across her chest. Black embroidery crept along her bodice in the shapes of dragon flame. A simple gold and sapphire necklace hung about her throat, and her lavender eyes were curious and searching his face.

“Do you think I look pretty as well?” She teased him softly and Aegon rolled his eyes.

“You look nice,” he said softly, their heads leaning towards each other while they walked towards the dias. “Mother will have a fit. Who have you dressed up for?” He might have asked if she dressed for Aemond, but after the display in the garden the prior day, Aegon thought that would not be the wisest question. They may not have discussed it, but it hadn’t escaped Aegon’s notice that while Aemond was the one who discussed future marriage with Helaena, how their love was so insufferably true, Helaena’s feelings on the matter were noticeably absent. Little more than agreeable hums and nods and changes of the subject.

“For myself. Some people think their breasts are worth showing off and need to learn their place.” Arching an eyebrow, Aegon followed his sister’s gaze to where Cassandra Baratheon was speaking with some other lord, those breasts of hers drawing his gaze once more. He snorted and Helaena pushed his arm good naturedly. “I’m right, you know. What is a doe to a dragon? No need to give her delusions of grandeur more than she already has.”

“Thought about this a lot this week, have you?”

“Of course. I do not like how she speaks to little Floris, nor Abby.” Helaena paused and squeezed his arm. “You both look terribly upset again. Not that I don’t enjoy making Mother’s face look like she’s sucking on lemons walking in with you, but what’s happened?”

Aegon found himself grateful that Helaena didn’t immediately blame him and the fondness for his sister came back. The sharp edges to his expression softened and he glanced at Helaena and her patient look. Something crossed his face with the softening, because her patient countenance furrowed with concern. He gripped her arm. “Not. Now.”

“You’re angry.”

“You think?”

Mother’s face when she looked upon them did, indeed as Helaena predicted, appear as if she sucked a lemon. Her large, dark eyes darted around the room in the clear search for his betrothed and he gave a short bow, his sister curtsying. “Lord Grover, my two eldest. Prince Aegon and Princess Helaena.”

Grover Tully was an ancient man. His shoulders were stooped beneath the thick, deep velvet of his surcoat, his jowls saggy from a face that was once robust. Pale skin sallow and jaundiced glowed even more yellow beneath the warm candlelight of the hall, but did little to disguise the multitude of liver spots. His hair was thin and wispy against his head, but his watery blue eyes were sharp and bright, intelligent and cataloging even as his body wasted away. Aegon was struck by how his father, who Aegon only now noticed seated on his mother’s left, looked as ancient as a man in his eighth decade.

“Helaena, you look lovely,” their father smiled, his gaze flitting, and Aegon barely held back his snort that he could call their sister by the correct name.

“Thank you, yo- father,” Helaena demurred in a quiet voice.

“They say you ride the great Dreamfyre, Princess,” Lord Tully rasped with a wistful smile. “I had the honor of seeing the Queen of the East, dear Princess Rhaena, may the Seven keep her, fly her about the God’s Eye when I was a wee lad. A sight that still strikes me. So blue as to melt into the twilight sky.” The watery blue eyes shifted towards Aegon now, deceptively sharp and alert. “I hear news that the sun will now bring the dawn.”

“My Lord,” Aegon said, voice stilted, but the courtesies that had been hammered into him kept him from looking the fool. ‘Abby would know what to say,’ he thought, but the boiling hurt rolling through his veins kept him from looking for her and acknowledging the bell of her laughter coming from behind him. “I hope the sight of such a thing will bring you the same fond memory.” A careful confirmation. There would be no official announcement until his nameday feast, but the natural conversation and gossip of the news would rip through the ballroom by the end of the night. The servants were already talking, and he’d overheard the whisper of it when sneaking through the Keep to his nightly pursuits.

The minstrels in the gallery above the hall struck up traditional music of the Riverlands between the popular songs that accompanied the feasts within the Keep. Lord Grover and his grandson sat at the high table with his parents and grandfather. At one of the tables, Wylla sat with her brother, Harrion. The man was tall with dark brown hair compared to the raven wing’s of his sister and a long, stern looking face that broke brightly when he laughed and smiled with Lord Bracken. Abrogail had mentioned he would be marrying the lord’s daughter on his return north.

The meal began in a blur. Aegon barely remembered swiping his bread through the beef potage, nor the spiced fennel and greens, hardly recalling the details of which horse was best for the joust and whether one should wear a heavy plate or lighter mail. He lost himself in the camaraderie that didn’t truly matter, licking juice from his thumb and taking hefty gulps from his goblet like a starving man. There was no drying out on this feast night, not when his mother sought to impress, and Aegon was grateful to finally have his Arbor red coursing through his veins to chase away the heat of his hurt and anger. He was eager to fill up the gaping maw inside of his chest that threatened to break through the tightness. The numbness began to settle in, familiar even though it was not as comforting as it once was.

Cassandra Baratheon had taken the seat beside him, having tried to speak to him, but he resolutely ignored her in favor of diving into the roast boar slathered in plum sauce and the succulent apple chutney. Finally, finally, Aegon began to feel settled with food and wine in his belly. He burped and called for a fresh decanter of Dornish and something stronger for the fine Riverlanders around him, sending up an approving shout amongst them. Let his mother be displeased, he was only doing what he was supposed to. When he turned, his eyes went across the table to the other.

Abrogail was seated with Helaena shining on her left, and on her right, Edmund Vance, who was receiving the full brunt of her bright smile and the earnest way she would lean over as to be heard over the music and merriment surrounding them. He stared at her, a roil curling in his belly as Vance piled her plate for her of the delicately poached salmon and honeyed bread. As if sensing him, her gaze flicked over to his. She should have smiled, tapping her fingers against her chin or goblet. Hells, he should have done it, and her face paled, lovely little mouth pursed. Instead, Aegon glared before turning his attention to far more pleasing things. Let her see that he was not so whipped that her words would have him still beg after her.

“And what lovely thing have I done to be rewarded by you choosing me to sit beside?” Aegon grinned at the Baratheon, resolutely grinning at her eyes than what was revealed by the cut of her gown.

“Your Grace honors me with his flattery, for in turn I do not know what I have done to earn it,” Cassandra said over the rim of her goblet.

“How could I pass up spending what promises to be quite the boring feast when I have someone like you to entertain me?” He raised his eyebrows at her and reached to top up her goblet and his own, resting his elbow on the table. Cassandra hummed and clinked her goblet against his before they swallowed. “Are you normally so preening? I swore I detected a rather enticing scent of confidence earlier.”

Confidence. Surety. Cassandra Baratheon knew who she was and it wasn’t a facsimile of his mother. It wasn’t The Maiden come down meant to judge him and find him wanting with a kiss and a slash of her hidden claws.

Abrogail’s laughter echoed through the hall again and Aegon’s fingers tightened around his cup. Another swig, another refill. It was watered down, but it didn't matter. Aegon could hold his wine well and it simply gave him an excuse to drink. “Tell me, Lady Cassandra, if I have to worry about some young buck coming to steal you away should I ask you to dance?”

“Oh, I do not think anyone would dare cut in should I be in your arms, Your Grace, but…” However the sentence didn't register as he watched Edmund Vance lift his hand to brush a curl from her shoulder. Aegon’s knee slammed against the table as he swept his legs over the bench, hoisting Cassandra up to join others who had gone to the center of the room to dance. Not an infernal Riverlands dance he didn’t know. Something more fucking civilized. Something he knew like the feel of his hand on his cock. He caught the brief flicker of confusion on the woman’s face that smoothed out as the dance began and he preened beneath the attention. He wasn’t drunk, having eaten too much for it to have hit yet, but he was loose enough that it was easy to slide into the steps, to twirl the woman gowned in gold. His favorite color.

They were betrothed and there wasn’t a bit of gold on Abrogail and she always had something golden on her.

Until now.

“Your grace shames me, Lady Cassandra,” Aegon complimented, spinning her back into him as they moved across the parquet floor. “I’ve never had a more agile partner.”

She chuckled low, the heat of her body emanating from their closeness, and Aegon’s hand slid a little lower on her waist than what was appropriate, but it would just be another line on his list of sins that his mother collected. “Have you had many partners, my prince?”

His cheeks were warm from the drink and exertion and the grin he gave Cassandra was slightly feral and full of mischief. “None as high born and beautiful as you,” he answered honestly even while his ribs tightened and the words tasted like ash on his tongue.

“Let me be the only one you touch this way. Aegon? If you want to have me, let it only be me.”

Cassandra Baratheon was the daughter of a Lord Paramount, with Targaryen blood in her veins, niece to Princess Rhaenys. She was more than comely; she was an entrancing woman with hair like a storm and delicately flushed from drink and dancing. The body that her gown clung to was positively sinful. Curves in every place that was ripe for the grasping and he was looking forward to seeing how -

As the pair spun, their partners changed, and while Cassandra flew into Aemond’s grasp, his eye glaring coldly at him over Cassandra’s shoulder, Abrogail’s hands slid into his.

The blood drained from Aegon’s face while his feet continued to move. This dance he knew by heart. This dance they both knew, having practiced it together countless times. She smelled of roses, not like a Tyrell, but something richer, darker, deeper and more primal.

Sunfyre half-grumbled and half-purred in the gaping hole inside of his chest at the feel of her, the sight of her in his arms while they spun through the next dance. Her blue eyes were fixed on his chin, which was better than her full avoidance. A soft gasp escaped her when Aegon’s hold on her waist and hand tightened painfully.

“Your mother thought we should have a turn and sent Aemond,” she explained softly. Aegon scoffed.

“So by the Queen’s command, you dance with me and not of your own volition.” His voice was almost pleasant and jovial as they spun, the music an irritating hum.

The feel of her dainty foot meeting his shin was not a mistake and it pulled a half-manic peal of laughter from him. He caught the look his mother sent from the high table and rolled his eyes. “What do you and my dear queenly mother expect from me anyway? That being betrothed to her little pet will turn me as angelic as baby Daeron?” He lowered his head to her ear and his breath caught. He heard her own soft gasp and instinctively, Aegon pulled her closer. Inappropriately perhaps, if half the hall didn’t already know they were engaged by now. “I’m an awful disappointment. You know that.”

“I know a lot about you, Aegon,” Abrogail said softly with a sour edge to her voice that he found amusing. “I know that you’re better than this. And with Lady Cassandra no less-”

“You know I’m better than this?” Aegon stepped back and held onto her hand, spinning her about so that the skirt of her gown flared, her fiery hair shining under all the glow. The candlelight caught in the little jewels of her circlet, the blue of her eyes warm as she came back into his arms and for a moment, Aegon forgot he was angry when her soft hand curled against his chest. “So my drinking and my whoring and my tavern fights - none of those are me? They’re just the worst part of myself? And here I thought you were the Maiden herself, but I doubt she moans as wantonly as you do. Such lovely sounds you make, or do you deny them now as you deny me?”

They spun apart once more and Aegon ignored the stricken expression that flashed across her doll-like face as his own chest ached with the feeling. He thought she had accepted even these terrible parts of him that shamed his mother and drew her to rage. She never scolded him or chastised him for his dalliances and escapades. When the brawl that had spilled into the streets of Flea Bottom that had nearly gotten him killed before the Gold Cloaks rushed, she had simply tended to his wounds, a simple “What happened?” in her soft voice. Out of everyone, Abrogail was the one who never expected more from him.

Clearly, Aegon had been wrong.

Another twirl, a distracted wink at Cassandra as they passed, and Abrogail was back in his arms, a brittle smile plastered on her face.

“You think I'm the Maiden?” She asked as if there’d been no pause in the conversation. “Not simply me?”

Aegon didn’t understand and he reached down to grasp her waist, lifting and spinning her in time with the music, clapping and moving around one another. “You are her. Were her-”

“Until you touched me,” she said softly, bitingly, her eyes dark and shining.

“Until you acted like I was the one begging, not you,” he snapped.

“You came into my chamber.”

“You said please.”

Another twirl, another spin and Aegon was rougher than he meant to, jerking her back into his chest as the music stopped. Her face was tilted up, eyes red and shining with unshed tears and a furious twist to her mouth, such an angry expression on her face. “And you held me through the night,” she hissed and then the fury melted away to hold that brittle smile once more, her curtsy low and flawless. When she rose, Abrogail drifted closer to him and he could see the tears gathered at the corners of her eyes. He welcomed the bite of pain when she came to cup the back of his neck, her nails digging into his skin. “How filthy are your hands, mo realta geal, that you believe that their very touch has ruined me. That you have ruined me?”

As Aegon turned away he found Elmo Tully watching him and raised his goblet with a slight incline of his head.

“Lord Grover has also written of his interest in you for his grandson,” his grandfather told Abrogail as they sat trapped in that office. “He would take good care of you, and your children would have every opportunity.”

Abby stayed as long as she could at the feast. She laughed with her Uncle Simon, with Lords Bracken and Blackwood both and their sons. Wylla’s eldest brother, Harrion, was kind, teasing her and Wylla both for his sister’s new position. Her bruised and beaten heart ached even further upon seeing the love and care between the Karstark siblings, and felt herself tearing up when she realised that Harwin wouldn’t have been there if he was still alive.

He’d be at Dragonstone, with the Princess. Or perhaps after the tragic death of her first husband, Princess Rhaenyra might have married him. Maybe it would have made things better. Maybe then, things wouldn’t be so bad.

The room felt too stifling and too loud. It felt too big and too small. The scent of sweat and wine and melting beeswax and hair pomade and perfume was making her head spin. Wylla was laughing at something Harrion had said but it sounded distant. Helaena had already gone and Abby couldn’t remember when she’d left.

Wylla’s arm slid around her waist and Abby mechanically moved through the motions of good nights and evening well wishes before the elder girl steered her out of the hall. “Not my room,” Abby rasped and her voice sounded distant and thick, choked in her throat. “C-can we go to Helaena’s, please?”

“As if you need to ask,” Wylla scoffed lightly, and the arm around her tucked in further. “Walk with us to the Princess’ chambers?” she asked her brother. “If I run into that peacock, I won’t restrain myself.”

“And they’re going to send you to Harrenhal with him. Will you be locked up for tossing him from a tower then?” Harrion’s deep voice teased softly and Abby felt his hand, warm and heavy, on her shoulder and the familiarity of it tore a soft sound from her throat. She wanted Harwin. She wanted her brother like air. A gentle squeeze and Abby let herself be guided down the hall, her fingers clinging to her skirt and Wylla was forced to guide her because she could not raise her eyes, so focused on the decorated stone before her.

“Abby?” Wylla asked softly against her ear. “Abby? Did Aegon say something else to you?”

Yes, she wanted to say, but she shook her head. He never saw me, he doesn’t see me. Did he ever see me?

“It’s been a long night,” she said instead, feeling the siblings exchange glances over her head but too tired to say anything for it. The walk was filled with tales of rides through the forests of the Karhold, of fox hunts and wolves in the tree. Of young Rickon chasing after Torrhen to learn archery, of Harrion’s impending nuptials to his southern bride. “Thank you for your company, Lord Harrion,” Abby said politely when they reached the hall to Helaena’s rooms. In the torch light, he looked nothing like Harwin, and yet every bit about him was Harwin.

‘Him and the queen are nearly the same age, aren’t they?’ Abby realised. There were a great many years between Wylla and her eldest brother, and she always forgot how young the queen was. How young her brother had been when he was lost.

“Do you understand how hard I fought against mine own father, your uncle, to give you time to grow up and not be dragged to the marriage bed before your time? A gift that I myself was denied and I would have for you and Helaena.”

A soft smile broke across the severe lines of Harrion Karstark’s face and he pressed a fond kiss to the top of Wylla’s head, and brushed a familiar hand over her own hair. It was paternal, affectionate in the familial way, not familiar that made her ache, that made her want to throw herself into his arms to sob as she would with Harwin when she was small and then the doors to Helaena’s room opened and Wylla ushered her inside.

“Whatever is the matter?” Helaena asked, already dressed in her nightgown, The fire was a warm and welcoming blaze in the grate. Wylla made a soft hissing sound at the maid putting away Helaena’s gown from earlier, sending her from the room. Abby gulped down the lump in her throat, and gaped at Helaena like a fool. Her vision had gone hot and blurry, her mouth trembling. She shook as if she was cold, but her cheeks were flaming and she couldn’t breathe through her nose. “Abby!” Helaena was alarmed now and she felt her sister’s hands on her arms and a great, wet hiccup tore from Abby’s throat.

“I-I was cruel to him,” she gasped, clutching at Helaena’s sleeves. “I was cruel and I-I shouldn’t have been, but yo-your mother was furious with me a-and…” Gods help her, Abby could barely breathe as the words came rushing out over heaving hiccups. She felt Wylla’s hands at the back of her gown undoing the spiral lacing while Helaena’s fingers tugged at the laces of her sleeves.

She’d lashed out and was ashamed of it, but then, “He was flirting with that bitch, and dared to be angry w-with me about Ser Edmund and… and I miss my brother.” Abby sobbed, hysterics settled in, and she was a doll in the hands of her friends as they got her out of her gown. Helaena reached for the soft blanket from the settee to wrap around her. It wasn’t the same, it wasn’t what she wanted, but Abby realised she didn’t know what she wanted. So unused to being like this, Abby felt adrift like a leaf in the fountain and no adorable little frog to perch on her and make her laugh.

“Abby,” Helaena whispered and led her to the great bed, Wylla coming to help her up. She felt utterly useless with herself. All she could do was sob like a broken pail streaming water everywhere. Useless and silly and utterly shattered inside.

“I want them back,” Abby wailed, and pressed her face into Helaena’s chest. The comfort she so often gave to others, she sought for herself without even asking.

How selfish and unbecoming.

Her fingers clawed into Helaena’s gown like she could find proper purchase until she finally got her arms around the princess’ waist. She tried to speak again and apologise and explain herself more clearly but words were wind, and all Abby could do was cry and beg for someone to get her papa, her athair, as she called him, and her brother.

It should not be her. It should not be her entertaining the river lords and brokering peace, a pawn, a spy. It should be Harwin taking the seat at Harrenhal, Princess Rhaenyra and their boys at his side.

It should be her athair sitting at the high table next to King Viserys, not the cold, stoic judgement of her Uncle Otto and his cruel words.

The world made sense when they were alive. The world was a safe, warm place, even after the loss of her mother.

‘I want Aegon,’ came the traitorous thought. ‘I want Aegon the way he was before he turned so cruel so quickly. I want the boy he used to be, not the man he is becoming. I want the Aegon who kissed me by the lake.’

Helaena was calling for the maids to draw a bath while Wylla held her this time. She thought of the Sept and weeks of silence, of barely eating, of the frantic and terrible fear that fire would consume them all. She thought of Aegon coming to sit with her as she cuddled Theraxis in her arms. How he wiped her tears and in awkward starts, he had managed to coax a tearful smile from her when recounting the tale of nearly decapitating a training dummy on his own, and how Harwin had taught him how to properly swing. When he showed off for Cole later, he’d been impressed.

Where had her Aegon disappeared to? Gone so far away, and how foolish it was of her to believe that the way he hid himself would not eventually come to bite her.

“Were my dear brother here, he’d bloody well geld him and give me his balls on a platter for treating me so,” Abby said scathingly before she could even think. Wylla looked startled at the violent admission that escaped her before bursting into peals of shaking laughter.

“Where did that come from?” she half accused, half demanded breathlessly, and between her sobs, Abby choked out her own laughter. Helaena joined in the mirth with a shake of her head and began dabbing at her tears with a tender touch normally reserved for her most delicate of creatures. The handkerchief was soft, adorned with little blue and gold beetles.

“I don’t know,” she said as the maids came in with the copper tub lined with linen and buckets of steaming water. Another maid brough the delicate wooden box of bath oils and salts.

Abby let Helaena and Wylla poke and prod through the vials and jars, picking out sweet and calming scents to pour into the water. They only asked her minimal questions, if she favoured something sweet or floral but little else and Abby was grateful for the reprieve. It was a rather novel feeling to let her decisions stop. She didn’t have to think or plan or organise. Helaena and Wylla handled it rather easily, wrapping her long hair up with Helaena’s carved dragon pins and guiding her into the tub. The water seeped into the cold that constantly permeated her bones and her thoughts drifted to the feel of Aegon’s arms around her as they had been in her bed. The warmth of him too had chased away the persistent cold.

She sighed, letting herself sink into the water, and let their voices wash over her.

[Chapter Ten]

#fic: the maiden and the drowning boy #aegon ii targaryen #aegon ii targaryen fic #aegon ii targaryen fanfic #aegon targaryen #aegon x oc #aegon ii targaryen x oc #hotd #hotd fic #hotd fanfic #house strong #aegon x abby

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