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novaursa · 3 months ago

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The Dragon and The Wolf

- Summary: Rhaenyra sends her daughter instead of her son to fly North. You.

- Paring: velayrion!reader/Cregan Stark

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is second born child of Rhaenyra, has silver hair and violet eyes and is a dragonrider. For more of my works visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Mature 16+ (expect for rating to go higher in the next chapter)

- Word count: 3 681

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @21-princess

- A/N: I had this one stored away, but I've decided to post it on a request. Harwin Strong one is not yet finished, but will be posted in coming days. I'll see how both of these are received before posting more.

The wind whips across the snow-dusted fields, biting and cold, as you soar above on your dragon, Thraxata. The North stretches below like a vast, white ocean, with Winterfell looming ahead in the distance, its grey walls rising like ancient guardians against the winter sky. The sun hangs low on the horizon, casting a pale light that glimmers off the frost-coated land.

Thraxata’s dark scales gleam like polished obsidian, a stark contrast to the endless white beneath. Her massive wings carve through the air with graceful power, the membrane tinted in deep shades of violet and blue, like the twilight sky before night fully descends. She is known as the Midnight Fury in whispers—born of shadow and flame, a terror in the night skies. Her roar splits the silence, echoing across the fields, a sound both commanding and otherworldly.

From your perch on her back, you spot the waiting banners below: the direwolf of Stark, surrounded by lesser sigils of Northern houses. Lord Cregan Stark stands at their forefront, a tall figure clad in thick furs and armor, as still and stern as the land he rules. He expects a prince, no doubt, a son of Rhaenyra, a warrior with fire in his veins. But you are no prince.

You are Y/N Velaryon, the only daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen. Silver-haired like your mother, with eyes the color of amethyst flames, you are the embodiment of old Valyria—a sight that would capture any man’s breath, even in the frozen heart of the North. Unlike your brothers, there is no questioning the blood that runs in your veins. You carry both the fire of your ancestors and the steel of the sea, a daughter of dragon and salt.

Thraxata descends with a mighty sweep of her wings, stirring a storm of snow and ice as her talons dig into the frozen ground. Her head swivels as she growls low, a deep rumble that vibrates through your body, her violet eyes fixed on the assembled Northerners. You dismount with practiced grace, the long cloak of thick fur billowing behind you as your boots crunch into the snow.

The men whisper, their breath misting in the cold air, eyes wide with awe and trepidation. No prince, but something more—something wilder, something that belongs in tales and legends.

Cregan Stark steps forward, his eyes fixed on you. They are grey like the winter itself, hard and sharp, yet there is a glint of something else—curiosity, perhaps, or a flicker of admiration beneath the layers of duty. He dips his head in a respectful nod, though his eyes never leave yours.

"Princess," he greets you, his voice deep and resonant, like a wolf's growl beneath the snow. "Winterfell welcomes you. I had expected a prince, but the Queen has sent a dragon nonetheless."

Your lips curve into a small smile, cold as the winter air. "My brothers may be princes, but it is I who bears the fire and ice that binds our realms, Lord Stark. I trust you will remember the oaths sworn to my mother, and the duty you hold to the true Queen."

His eyes narrow slightly, though there is no hostility, merely calculation. "The North remembers its oaths, Princess. But oaths are easily sworn and easily forgotten when the fires of war draw near. I would hear your words and judge for myself where our loyalties lie."

Thraxata’s tail lashes behind you, sending a spray of snow into the air. You can sense her restlessness, her desire to protect you, to assert her dominance in this land where dragons are more myth than reality. But you place a gloved hand on her scaled flank, a silent command, and she stills, though her eyes remain fixed on Cregan.

"You speak with wisdom, my lord," you reply, your voice firm but laced with the authority of the blood you carry. "But the North has never bent to whispers or empty promises. My mother’s cause is just, her claim undeniable. The realm needs strength, and you know as well as I that only fire can bring the long night to its knees."

There’s a flicker of something—approval, perhaps—in Cregan’s gaze. He steps closer, his boots crunching in the snow, until you are but a breath away. The North has always been a place where respect is earned through strength and resolve, not titles or finery. In that moment, you realize that your mother’s choice was not a mistake; you were sent because here, in this land of cold and iron, you are seen not as a delicate princess, but as something fiercer.

"Then perhaps the Queen chose wisely in sending you," he murmurs, his voice low, for your ears alone. "The North respects strength, and it seems that is something you possess in abundance, Y/N Velaryon."

There is a tension between you, a silent acknowledgment of the game you both play. He is the Wolf of Winterfell, and you are the Dragon sent to bind him to your mother’s cause. But there is something else too—a flicker of intrigue, of something more personal beneath the formalities.

“I shall make my case before the gathered lords,” you say, breaking the charged silence. “And I trust that Winterfell will extend the hospitality due to a dragon and her rider.”

He gives a slight incline of his head, a gesture of respect between equals. “Winterfell is yours, Princess. And I look forward to seeing just how fierce the fire of a dragon truly burns.”

With that, he steps back, signaling to his men. The banners dip in a formal show of respect as you walk forward, the Northern lords parting to make way for you. Thraxata stays behind, watchful, a dark shadow against the snow.

As you enter the gates of Winterfell, you can feel the eyes of Cregan Stark on your back, heavy with unspoken questions, and perhaps—just perhaps—the first stirrings of something that could grow amidst the frost and flame.

The warmth of Winterfell’s great hall is a great contrast to the biting cold outside. The stone walls are thick and ancient, adorned with tapestries depicting wolves in the hunt and battles long past. A roaring fire burns in the hearth, casting flickering shadows that dance across the rough-hewn beams above. The scent of woodsmoke and roasted meat fills the air, mingling with the faint tang of iron and earth, as though even the stone itself remembers the blood spilled within these walls.

You stride forward with measured grace, your fur-lined cloak trailing behind you. Eyes turn your way as you pass, curious glances that are quickly averted once they meet your violet gaze. The courtiers and bannermen of Winterfell are not accustomed to your kind—a dragonrider with Valyrian blood, a figure more suited to the tales of Old Nan than to the cold North. They murmur among themselves, voices hushed but thick with speculation, wondering if you are as fierce as the stories of your mother suggest.

Lord Cregan walks beside you, his stride steady and sure, the embodiment of Northern strength and resolve. He leads you to the head of the hall, where a carved wooden chair sits, draped in furs—a seat of honor, meant for you. As you take your place, his voice rings out, commanding the attention of everyone present.

"The Princess Y/N Velaryon graces us with her presence. Her arrival is most fortunate, for it seems the North’s business does not wait. House Glover has brought a criminal before us—a man accused of grave crimes—and they demand justice. Perhaps," he says, his grey eyes locking onto yours, "it would be fitting for a dragon to pass judgment."

There’s no mistaking the challenge in his words. This is a test, one meant to gauge your strength, your understanding of Northern customs, and how you wield your authority. He watches you closely, waiting for your reaction, as do the assembled lords. You know this moment is pivotal; how you handle this situation will determine whether they see you as just another southern princess, or as something more—someone who can command both fire and frost.

You meet his gaze evenly, a faint smile playing on your lips. "It would be an honor to dispense justice in the North, Lord Stark. Show me this criminal and let us see what manner of man he is."

Cregan gives a slight nod, and with a gesture, the doors at the end of the hall creak open. The sound echoes through the chamber as two men of House Glover drag a prisoner forward, shoving him to his knees before you. He’s a ragged, weathered man with wild eyes and a face marked by scars. His clothes are filthy and torn, his hands bound with rough cord. There’s a stink about him—of sweat, fear, and desperation.

One of the Glovers steps forward, bowing briefly before addressing you and Cregan. "This man, Wyl Gray, is accused of murdering his kin and stealing from their holdings. He fled north to escape our justice, but we tracked him down and brought him here, as is our right."

The hall falls silent, all eyes on you now. The weight of their expectation is palpable. You rise slowly from your seat, descending the steps with a regal grace. Your voice is soft but carries through the room with the authority that only a dragonrider can wield.

"Wyl Gray," you say, your tone cold as the Northern winds, "you stand accused of betraying your own blood and committing theft in the lands sworn to House Glover. What have you to say in your defense?"

The man’s eyes dart around wildly, searching for some hope, some mercy, but finding none. He looks up at you, trembling slightly. "I did what I had to," he snarls, his voice hoarse. "My kin treated me worse than a dog, taking what was mine by right. I took back what they stole from me—nothing more!"

The hall murmurs in response to his words, some in anger, others in grudging acknowledgment. You can see the flickers of approval from a few of the assembled Northerners—they value strength, even when twisted by desperation. But you know better than to be swayed by the claims of a desperate man. His actions speak louder than his words.

You step closer, your gaze piercing. "You claim they took from you, yet you took their lives. Blood demands blood, Wyl Gray. In the North, justice is harsh and swift, but it is also fair. A man who cannot protect what is his without resorting to murder is a man unfit to live among honorable men."

Cregan watches you intently, his expression unreadable, but you can feel the shift in the room. The lords are weighing your words, assessing how well you understand their ways. It’s not enough to be just, you must be decisive—and you must show that you are not ruled by softness.

"You are guilty of murder and theft," you continue, your voice unwavering. "But the North does not deal in mercy for such crimes. You shall face the punishment decreed by the Old Ways. Justice shall be meted out by the one who passes the sentence."

A heavy silence falls over the hall. This is the moment—where the test truly lies. You could ask Cregan to deal with the criminal himself, and none would question it. But you understand what is truly being asked of you. The North respects those who do not flinch from difficult decisions, those who stand by their words with action.

You turn to Cregan. "Bring me the sword," you command.

There’s a ripple of surprise among the lords, but Cregan’s expression shifts, a hint of approval crossing his stern features. He gestures, and a massive sword, long and sharp, is placed into your hands. Its weight is heavy, but you hold it with ease, feeling the cold steel beneath your fingers.

You step before the kneeling man. His eyes widen in terror, realizing that you intend to carry out the sentence yourself. You look down at him, feeling no pity, only the cold resolve needed to see justice done. "In the name of House Glover, for the blood you have spilled and the dishonor you have brought upon yourself, I sentence you to death. May the gods judge your soul as they see fit."

With a swift, clean stroke, you bring the sword down, severing his head from his body. The hall is silent, save for the soft thud of the head hitting the stone floor and the hiss of blood soaking into the rushes.

You let out a breath, handing the sword back to a waiting Stark guard. The lords nod with approval, respect in their eyes. This is not a land for those who shy away from harsh truths or difficult choices. You have shown them that you understand the North’s ways—and that you are as much dragon as you are queen’s daughter.

Cregan steps forward, a slight smile touching his lips. "Well done, Princess. The North remembers strength, and today, you have proven yours."

There’s a weight to his words, a subtle acknowledgment that you’ve passed his test. The respect between you has grown, forged not only by fire and ice, but by a mutual understanding of what it takes to rule.

As the hall begins to stir with renewed conversation, you feel Cregan’s eyes linger on you a moment longer than necessary, something unspoken passing between you. It’s not just respect now—there’s a flicker of something deeper, something that might grow, given time.

But for now, you’ve earned your place among the wolves. And in doing so, you’ve taken the first step toward binding the North to your mother’s cause.

A little more than two weeks have passed since your arrival at Winterfell, and in that time, you have come to understand the North in ways few from the south ever do. The cold no longer bites as fiercely, the rough customs of the Northerners have become familiar, and even the solemn howls of the wolves at night are a comfort rather than a cause for concern. You’ve spent your days among Cregan’s people, riding alongside his bannermen, sitting in council with his advisors, and breaking bread with his warriors in the hall. You’ve proven yourself capable in all the ways that matter to them—skilled with both words and steel, a dragon in human form.

The Northern lords have come to trust you, their respect won by your ability to speak plainly and match them in courage. They see in you a reflection of their own values—honor, strength, and loyalty. Even Thraxata, the Midnight Fury, has found her lair in the craggy wilderness nearby, roosting among the jagged rocks as if she, too, feels at home in this stark and wild land. The villagers whisper tales of the black dragon seen circling the mountains, her shadow long across the snow, a fearsome guardian from the days of old.

Today, you ride out with Lord Cregan and his men on a hunt. The sky is a bleak grey, thick with the promise of snow, and the air carries the scent of pine and earth. The forest is dense, the trees tall and ancient, their branches heavy with frost. It’s a test, of sorts—Cregan’s way of seeing how well you handle yourself in their world, not just as a rider of dragons, but as a hunter and a leader.

You ride astride a hardy Northern stallion, its breath steaming in the cold air, and you match the men stride for stride as they navigate the rough terrain. Cregan rides beside you, his expression more open than it had been when you first met. Over these past weeks, a bond has formed between you—one built on mutual respect and a growing sense of trust. He speaks more freely now, and there’s a warmth in his tone that was absent when you first arrived.

When the hunt begins, you do not hesitate to join the chase. The hounds bay as they track the scent of a massive stag, and you ride hard, your cloak snapping behind you in the wind. You’re no stranger to riding, and you handle your steed with ease, navigating the twisting paths and snow-laden ground. When the time comes to strike, you draw your bow with practiced precision, letting the arrow fly. It finds its mark true, and the stag falls. The men around you roar with approval, slapping their shields and calling your name in praise. They respect a woman who can hunt as well as any man, and here, they see you as one of their own—a warrior, not just a princess.

As the hunt winds down, Cregan approaches you, his face flushed from the cold and the thrill of the chase. "You’ve more than earned your place among us, Y/N," he says, his voice gruff but warm. "Few could keep pace with Northern men in their own forests, let alone best them. I see now why the Queen sent you instead of a prince. You’ve shown strength and wisdom—two things the North values above all else."

You incline your head in acknowledgment. "I’ve come to admire the North and its people. But admiration is not the same as allegiance. I must ask, Lord Stark—will you now stand by my mother and send your armies south to fight in her name?"

Cregan’s expression shifts, a shadow crossing his eyes as he considers your question. He’s silent for a long moment, his gaze turning toward the distant horizon, where the land stretches into a vast, icy wilderness. "The North is not like the South," he says finally, his tone measured. "Our duty is first and foremost to our own. With winter coming, my responsibility is to the Wall and to the people who must survive the cold months ahead. I cannot, in good conscience, march thousands of men south when their families might starve without them."

You frown slightly, frustration creeping in. "So you’ll abandon my mother’s cause? You gave your word, Lord Stark."

Cregan’s eyes meet yours, unwavering. "I do not break my word, Princess. I swore to uphold my oaths, and I will. But sending armies south would be folly with winter approaching. However," he continues, his tone softening as he watches your reaction, "there are those in the North who would fight, even in the harshest winters. The Greybeards—elders, warriors who have lived long and seen much. When winter comes, many of them leave their homes, believing it is better to pass in battle than to linger and be a burden on their kin. They are few in number, but each is worth a dozen younger men in skill and experience. I will send them to your mother, to fight in her name. They may not be an army, but they are a force to be reckoned with."

It’s a compromise, one that you didn’t expect but cannot wholly dismiss. You nod slowly, understanding the practicality behind his words. "Your support, even in this way, will strengthen our position. I thank you for honoring your oath, Lord Stark."

Cregan remains silent for a moment, his expression thoughtful. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, more personal. "There is another matter I wish to discuss—a way to bind North and South even closer. You’ve proven yourself in the eyes of my people, and I have come to value your counsel and your strength. The North needs a Warden, but it also needs stability and unity. I am in need of a wife, Y/N."

His words catch you off guard. You had expected negotiations over troops and strategies, but not this. You study him closely, searching for any hint of jest, but there is none. His gaze is steady, earnest even, and the weight of his words is not lost on you.

"A marriage alliance," you murmur, more to yourself than to him. It’s a move that makes sense, politically and strategically. Your mother’s cause would be strengthened by such a bond, and Cregan’s position would be solidified, uniting the North under his leadership. But you know it’s more than just politics—there’s something personal in his offer, a recognition of the connection that has grown between you over these weeks.

Cregan inclines his head. "A marriage would do more than just bind our houses. It would be a show of unity between North and South, and it would ensure that whatever may come in this war, our strength remains undivided. You are a woman worthy of the North, and I would be honored to stand beside you as more than just allies."

You consider his words carefully, your mind weighing the implications. There’s a certain inevitability in the offer, a recognition that your paths have been converging since the moment you arrived at Winterfell. You could refuse, insist on keeping your independence, but you know that this is more than just a marriage proposal—it’s a partnership that could shape the course of the war and the future of the realm.

Finally, you meet his gaze, your voice clear and firm. "If this is the path we choose, Lord Stark, know that I will be as fierce in our union as I am in battle. The North will have a wife who is as much dragon as she is Velaryon. But I do not take such matters lightly—if we are to do this, it must be done with respect, trust, and understanding."

Cregan’s smile is genuine, his eyes gleaming with both respect and something warmer. "I would expect nothing less, Y/N. We’ll have much to discuss in the days to come, but I believe this could be the start of something greater than either of us alone."

The weight of his words lingers between you, and as you ride back toward Winterfell together, there’s an unspoken understanding—a shared resolve. You have won the respect of the North, secured their support, and now, perhaps, you are on the verge of something more—an alliance forged not just in duty, but in fire and ice, strength and trust.

#house of the dragon #rhaenyra targeryan #cregan stark #hotd cregan #cregan x reader #cregan x you #cregan x y/n #hotd x y/n #hotd x reader #hotd #hotd x you

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lorelune · 1 year ago

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(minors dni & ageless blogs dni /// inspired by this post and brainworms with @petrichorium)

"dear?" neuvillette asks. you're sprawled out on his chaise lounge, reading today's issue of the steambird. you're distracted.

"yes?"

"what exactly does it mean if you're 'wet'?"

you smile at him sweetly from across his office, "... come again?"

he looks overwhelmingly serious. though he does, occasionally, toss a joke or two into his daily conversations, it's rare. you know the look he wears when he does so. and in this moment? he looks completely sincere.

"if you are wet, the meaning, please. i believe you should know?"

"i-i mean," you laugh. "neuvillette, love, dearest— are you... being entirely serious?"

"yes."

"ah, alright." your lover is the current incarnation of the hydro draconic primordial, but regardless. "to be damp. moist. covered in liquid, probably water?"

neuvillette brow scrunches. then relaxes after a moment and he shakes his head. the soft, curved horns that curl into his hair tremble with the motion. he smiles and shakes his head, shutting the book he'd be paging through. you catch a glimpse of the cover and— oh.

everything comes together.

"A Seaman's Conquest: The River's Maiden and Jewel" is the latest erotic novel by the quietly-famed 'Épée Honnête'. you recognized the cheesy art on the novel, and the flourishing text. you've read one or two of the author's works, but in the quiet and private of your own home. stashed atop each other in your nightstand, with a seldom-used vial soft oil. their prose is a... bit over the top. but they're also a sensation.

you have to wonder how and why neuvillette, of all people, is reading the book (and by your brief look, seems to be about half-way through it.) it is not the kind of thing he'd pick up himself— you've never seen neuvillette reading anything other than case files and evidence prior. yet apparently he's been ripping into erotica. right under your nose.

which explains his question.

"o-oh!" you swallow. "you mean wet like—"

"yes."

you squeeze your thighs together.

much to your initial surprise, neuvillette had incredibly limited experience when it came to bodily pleasure. intimacy in and of itself is something that he clearly yearns for, but perhaps does not know how to convey. you're not sure if neuvillette, in all his stature, could ever truly be bumbling, but he gets close to it with physicality.

he's careful. an incredibly fast learner but bent on taking his time, being thorough— meaning that most of your physical encounters are kissing under both of your lips are bruised and slick. you know that neuvillette feels aroused in those moments; the hard press of his clothed cock nudged up to you is proof of it. and you're turned on in those moments— horribly. you've soaked through your panties on more than one occasion. he makes you so— wet.

"wet is like... female arousal." you say simply, steeling yourself. you'll jump him otherwise.

"it this makes you... wet? is this like perspiration?"

"no, no. not at all. not really." you shake your head with a laugh. "it's like. slick? f-from my insides. it's lubrication for intercourse, to be entirely clinical about it."

"... but it's indicative of arousal?"

"entirely." you nod, trying to focus on the case file in front of you. your eyes have skimmed the same line three times.

neuvillette pauses and your hear a flutter of pages before his 'A Seaman's Conquest' closes once more, "have i made you wet before?"

you swallow. get ahold of yourself.

"yes. frequently."

"hm." neuvillette hums and his chair creaks as he sits back. he picks up his silver goblet and swirls it. the gem on it's side refracts the warm glow of the office light, dragging your gaze to his.

he's looking at you— hungry. perhaps something else. something insatiable.

"i want to know more." he tells you. rises. walk toward you with the defined click of his heeled boots on the hardwood fo the floor. "i feel as if i was missing something important without this knowledge. and there's more to be understood."

"well, ask away. i'm an open book." you tell him, craning your neck to meet his eyes.

"may i make a request?"

"of course."

"i..." neuvillette swallows around his words. you drag him onto the lounge with you and lean into his shoulder. moral support and all.

"it's fine if you don't know quite what to ask. or what you want." you assure him. you'll eat up anything he gives you, really.

"i know exactly what i want, it's a matter of phrasing."

"oh, yeah?" you wonder if he's nervous about you not understanding his desires. or if he's worried about being too blunt or forward.

you tilt your head back until neuvillette coaxes you down into his lap. his hand, gloved hand, smooths down your jaw. his fingertips trail down your neck, pressing into your curves and divots. bones and flesh alike. it's exploratory.

neuvillette touch slips down your collar, to bare skin. you shudder. "i'm curious."

"y-yeah? seems like you are."

he laughs, gentle and under his breath. his palm cups your cheek, soothing and kind. with a tilt of his head:

"i'd like to make you wet with my touch, and then taste you."

he says it hushed; it's just meant for you and you alone to hear. the intention of it makes you feel crazy, out of your skin. the look he's pinning you with. the ability he wields while being entirely sincere is going to undo you.

you swallow, a little sound sticking in the back of your throat. you squeeze your thighs together and close your eyes, "neuvillette, you're killing me here."

"am i?" there's a hint of a tease in his voice. you want to coax out more of it. you try and bury your face in his hip, but he doesn’t let you. he drag your chin straight and holds his thumb over the swell of your bottom lip.

"yes, y-you are." you mean to sound firm about it. but it comes out as a whine.

"so precious." he says softly, adoring. his thumb presses in into your mouth and runs along your teeth, into your gums. "would you like if i tasted you too?"

"fuck, neuvillette—" your words get muffled as his fingers press into your mouth further. he presses down on your tongue, the scent of clean leather and his gentle personal cologne almost suffocate it. you welcome it.

"is that a yes?"

you try to reply, but your words don't come out— his fault— so you only nod. perhaps too enthusiastically, but neuvillette doesn't seem to mind. his lips curl into a gentle smile, and he strokes over your cheeks. his only hand trails lower, finding home on your inner thigh.

"are you wet now?"

"'pworably—"

"cute." he says again. he still looks hungry. like he's going to eat you alive. there's an appetite in him, even if he doesn't know what it fully is or what to do with it. it seems, it really seems, like he's learning it. "may i find out—?"

"Monsieur Neuvillette!" The sharp crack of knocking on the door interrupts him as he leers over you. It's Laith, on the Seven— "the court time is within a half hour. do you require an escort?"

his grip on your thigh tightens. almost to point of hurting, but in the best way. you know you're wet now.

"no, laith, i will be alright on my own. i will be departing shortly."

"the prosecution's attorney sent over some last minute evidence files and requested i deliver them as well." the knob of the door starts to shift and you almost bolt up and away. neuvillette places his spit-covered hand on your chest to brace you down.

"i do not require the documents at this time. have them prepared for me at the opera epiclese."

the knob slips back into place, "of course, Monsieur. i'll see that they're delivered."

steps echo away from the door and you exhale a breath you hadn't realized you'd been holding, "awful timing."

"unfortunate." neuvillette sighs. "truly unfortunate."

his duty is paramount. you know this as he helps you to stand and as he straightens your close. he's being more dutiful about it than he could be, given his next court time is so close. you relish it.

"... are you wet?"

"right now?" you feel sticky in a way that's a bit cold now. you press your forehead to his lips in a quiet beg for a steadying kiss. he relents easily and gives it to you. "yes. you have that effect on me."

neuvillette takes a steadying breath and squeezes around your shoulders, "i apologize for the timing of things, but—"

"i know." you tell him. "it's okay. besides, i have fingers and some toys at home. you've given me new material to work with."

"... you think about me when you're pleasuring yourself?" he blinks at you, eyes wide. you can't help but smirk.

"consistently." you nod and beam at him. "often. basically every time. i haven't even seen your cock but my mind's eye has come up with some creative theories and visual concepts."

that gets him to blush, a high, pearly pink that's almost purple. it fades into his hairline.

"this is going to be a particularly difficult court session."

"i can only imagine. is it my fault?"

"only partially." neuvillette assures you with no bite. "perhaps blame wriothesley for that book he lent me. he insisted i read it and get back to him for a review."

"huh."

you could lose it. really. wriothesley is a bastard. you should punch him. or kiss him— except you've grown from those days and you haven't seen that busted-lip smile of his in years. nice to know he's still doing you favors. you should send him an edible arrangement.

"and myself, too. thoughts to entertain at home, and not at the office."

"perhaps, perhaps." you tell him. you don't mind. you brush your lips to his cheek.

"would you visit me, after court?" who knows when that will be. you don't really care. you have a key, afterall.

"of course." you'll have tea prepared. perhaps sex education flashcards. maybe. or you'll break out the lacey slip that's been seldom-touched since purchase and surprise him. who knows. the world's your oyster.

and as you walk with neuvillette out of the palais mermonia and see him off on one of the aquabuses, you catch it in him again. in the almost-longing gaze he sends you as he departs, you see it. something awakening. old and new all at once in him. directed at you. he's famished. or, perhaps—

thirsty.

#lore writes #water tasting master neuvillette's finds his new favorite drink :3cc #neuvillette x reader #neuvillette x you #neuvillette reader insert #drabbles #ANYWAYS #clorinde is Épée Honnête btw :3ccc #slightly virginal inquisitive kind neuvillette #MEOOW

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1800-fight-me · 5 months ago

Note

Love your writing :) Could you please do a story where reader/Aemonds wife gets captured and taken on a ship

Before Aemond of course comes to rescue his love

The Rogue Prince

Aemond Targaryen x Wife!Reader

Rating: M (Mature - MINORS DO NOT INTERACT)

Warnings: Violence, kidnapping, implied smut

Word count: About 3.5k

Synopsis: Aemond Targaryen is loyal to his family and house above all, but what happens when his wife is captured and in mortal peril?

Author’s note: Thank you for this request! I hope you enjoy it!! Protective and possessive Aemond owns me... also I started writing this before I knew the plot of season two so the timeline of this fic doesn't make much sense but let's just pretend it does, okay? lol

I do not have a taglist! Instead if you would like to be notified when I post new fics follow my side blog @jo-writes-fanfic and turn your post notifications on! Here's the link to my Aemond Masterlist if you want to check out my other stories! Also my requests are open, please send me some more!!

There was commotion in King’s Landing. Chaos. Terror.

You were not within the safety of the Red Keep as you normally were, as you should be.

There was so much screaming you couldn’t think straight.

Alicent grabbed your hand, her other hand in Helena's and pulled you both forward.

The crowd pushed and heaved and you yelled as your hand slipped from your mother in law’s.

Pure terror shot down your spine as the push of the crowd led you away from them, away from your family by marriage, away from the King’s Guards, away from safety.

You were lost in a sea of limbs and panic, your screams completely unheard over the cacophony of scared sounds.

You couldn’t even determine the source of the commotion, you didn’t see it, only the after effect as you were now pushed down the streets of the city.

Water dripped down your cheeks, and when you looked up, the sky was clear. You continued to run with the crowd, in order to avoid being knocked over and trampled.

You lifted a hand to your face, and realized you were crying.

Another hand grabbed yours, and you gasped in relief, as you were harshly pulled to the side and into an alley.

Your gasping breaths slowed as the crowd no longer threatened to crush you.

You clenched your jaw and steeled your resolve as you realized the person who pulled you to safety was a stranger with a predatory gleam in his eyes.

You lifted your chin and yanked your hand out of his.

“Thank you for the assistance, kind sir, but I must get going. My family is expecting me,” you said firmly.

A hateful chuckle came from the darkness behind you.

You whirled around and saw two malicious looking men, behind them in the darkness there were two young women sitting on the ground with their hands and legs bound and gags in their mouths. There was fear unlike any you’d ever known in their eyes.

That same fear now dripped down your spine, but you couldn’t give into it, instead you steeled your spine.

“How much do you think we can get for this one?” The shorter man sneered.

You thought of how your husband spoke to his enemies and tried to emulate that same haughty tone as you looked down your nose at them.

“I am a Targaryen. Return-“

”But you don’t got silver hair,” one of the men blurted out.

You wrinkled your nose, ever the royal, and said, “I am the wife of Prince Aemond Targaryen. Return me to the Red Keep safely and I will make it certain you are rewarded for your goodwill.”

The men’s smiles grew greedy.

“Imagine how much we can get in ransom,” the one behind you muttered.

“That would be an incredibly stupid course of action. The Prince is a viciously protective man and would surely kill any who attempt to kidnap me. He once broke a man’s arm for grabbing me in the halls of the Red Keep. Another time he broke a man’s nose for looking at me too long. It is in your best interest to leave me be,” you said sternly.

The shorter one had the sense to look scared, but the bigger one, the scarier one, looked only overconfident.

“The One Eyed Prince is not in King’s Landing, is he? I hear he is far away tending to the ongoing war within his house,” he said as he narrowed his eyes at you.

You gulped.

“He rides the largest dragon in the world, it would be a quick thing for him to be here to incinerate you all,” you said, your confident tone wavering slightly.

“He’s not here now,” the one behind you said, and before you could look back at him there was pain as something hit you in the side of the head and the world turned black as you fell.

You were floating on a sea of fire, the motion of the waves of flame rocking you back and forth, the gentleness bringing you a sense of peace and reassurance you had not felt since your husband mounted his dragon and flew off to war.

The sky cracked open and rain poured as lightning flashed. But the flames you swam in remained strong, boosted you up, and as a bolt of lightning flashed towards you in slow motion, you held your hand up and the waves of fire surrounded you, protecting you from danger.

As you resurfaced you pointed your finger at the thundercloud and the fire shot like an arrow and decimated it.

Someone shook your shoulder and as you woke, your body still rocked back and forth with waves, only furthering your disorientation as you found yourself somewhere completely foreign.

“Aemond?” You mumbled as nausea threatened to overcome you.

“Princess,” a female voice said and you cracked your eyes open to find yourself in a fully wooden room with two women. They both laid on the floor in the tiny room, same as you.

“Where am I?” You asked bewildered. Your head pounded and as you reached your hand and touched the side of it, you felt a tender bruise and hissed in pain.

“Princess, don’t you remember? We were captured,” the other woman said.

It all came rushing back to you and you pressed your lips together to avoid vomiting.

“Y-yes, where are we?”

“Somewhere in the middle of the sea,” the younger woman said quietly, her tone distraught.

You were on a ship, shoved in a small room, surely in the hull, that had been transformed into a temporary dungeon you discovered as you stood, losing your balance for a moment, and attempted to open the locked door.

“We already tried that,” the one with the dark hair said.

You sighed. “Of course you did.”

“How long have we been in here?” You asked, panic filling your chest.

“My guess is a day and a half,” the younger woman said.

You sank to your knees and allowed the tears to fill your eyes as the despair hit.

You later learned that the names of the women you were trapped with were Marrion and Eliza. They were both as terrified as you, but managed to learn as much as they could about the men who held you, which they relayed to you in hushed tones for fear of the guard outside the door overhearing.

“Is it true that your husband will come to rescue you?” Eliza asked hopefully.

You pressed your lips together. “Yes, but who knows how long it will take him to learn of my capture, to find me?”

Both the women looked down in dismay.

You knew that Aemond would abandon his war, his family, his life for you. You knew he would fight, would bleed, would die for you. Such was his love and devotion to his wife, but his family knew that as well, and a small voice in the back of your head worried and warned you that perhaps his scheming grandsire would prevent word of your predicament to be sent to your husband.

You wondered if you prayed to Vhagar if she would hear it and lead your husband to you, she was practically a goddess of war in her own right. You didn’t believe in any of the other gods your husband and his family worshiped.

“We need to make our own plan in the meantime,” you said firmly and they nodded.

You lifted your skirt and pulled out the sapphire embedded dagger strapped to your thigh that your husband gifted you on your name day.

Your companions had watched the men’s patterns before you awoke, and you based your plan off that. Listening to your husband and offering him support taught you a decent amount about strategy, and hours of training with him had taught you self defense skills as well, and it was time to put both to use, this time with you having the element of surprise, not the horrible men who stole you.

The next day, when the guard unlocked and opened the door that kept your prisoner, you were prepared to charm and simper, but the man smiled at you in a way that made your stomach sink, and threw a dress at you.

“The captain demands your presence, you have ten minutes to ready yourself,” he said with another lingering look before turning and slamming the door shut again. The lock was loud as it was clicked back into place.

“Well that makes things a bit easier,” you said and both women laughed in shock with you before they helped you make yourself look more presentable.

As you made your way towards the captain’s office, the pirates aboard the ship stared and sneered. You blinked against the brightness of the sun as it glittered over the blue sea. There was no sight of land that you could see, nothing but depthless ocean, no option for escape but a watery grave.

Your hopes of an easy getaway were dashed, you had no idea how long you would be forced to remain on this ship until it reached land and you could enact your strategy for release.

There was also no sight of Vhagar, no dragon roar in the winds, no dashing husband with a sword in hand, no one to save you.

Your heart sunk to your stomach.

The captain grinned at you, and you held in your grimace as you followed him into the room he led you to.

There was a table in the center of the room, food laden upon it, and your stomach growled in protest.

He chuckled at the sound, “Please, eat as much as you desire.”

He sat across the table from you and you waited until he filled his plate and took a few bites, before you tore into the food before you, uncaring of being ladylike due to the feeling of starvation.

“I hear you are a princess,” the man said and you looked up at him as you used your napkin to wipe your mouth.

“Your men stole me from my wedded family,” you said.

“The Targaryens,” he said.

You nodded, unable to withhold your glare.

“They’re not my men, in case you are interested, just men who sell me goods that make me gold,” he drawled and you resisted the urge to slap him.

“I am not an item to be bartered and sold, I am the wife of Aemond Targaryen and you will release me safely or my dragon will burn you and your entire operation to the ground,” you said, softly but with passion.

He had the gall to laugh at you.

You gritted your teeth and attempted to quell your temper, but your fiery temperament was difficult to leash, it was what attracted your husband to you in the first place.

“You’re a hateful bastard,” you spat.

He laughed again, “Guilty as charged. Princess, when we reach our destination across the sea, your husband’s family will be contacted and ransom will be posted. My crew and I will get our money and you will be returned home.”

You glared, wishing your look could kill. Your hand inched up your leg, grazing the sheathed dagger hidden under your skirts that hadn’t been found and confiscated during your capture.

Pirates began screaming and then there was an earth shattering roar.

You smirked.

He pulled out his sword and pointed it at you and rested the tip against your throat.

“You will die for this,” you purred.

“Stay put,” he said as he then stood and walked past you to the door.

As he opened the door, there was the most glorious sight to behold. Vaghar cast a shadow over the ship large enough it was nearly dark as night. Aemond’s silver hair shined as he climbed down a rope from her saddle and landed on the ship, his sword out and began slaughtering.

“Targaryen,” the captain yelled as he stepped out and stood on the bannister, looking down as your husband cut down his men.

You stood and quietly slipped your dagger from its sheath as you crept behind the captain.

“Where is my wife?” Aemond bellowed.

Heat filled you in response to his presence, his rage.

The captain opened his mouth to respond when a blade pierced the back of his neck, pushed through, and broke through on the other side of his throat, before the dagger was withdrawn. Red splattered as he choked on his own blood, the only sounds of his surprise.

He turned around to look at his attacker and you gave him a feral grin.

“I told you that you and your entire ship would burn,” you said sweetly before you pushed him over the railing, ignoring the sound and sight of his crippled body on the wood as you looked up at your Aemond.

The fighting had indeed paused as all were shocked by the death of the captain.

“I am here,” you said, blood spattered and filled with relief.

Aemond released a sigh of relief and gave you a feral grin.

“Come to me,” he said as his sword clashed with another, the men regaining their wits and attempting to kill him once more.

Everything in you wanted to yield to his command, to run to him, to be in his arms, but you had one more task to complete.

“In a minute,” you called out as you took off running back towards the cell you were kept in. As you looked back, you saw the confused quizzical look he threw at you as he continued to stab and end the lives of the men who stole you from him.

You raced down the hallway, having memorized the way, and saw the guard as he unlocked and opened the door where your companions were kept.

You stabbed him in the back, and ripped your dagger out, so when he turned around in surprise, you stabbed him again in the heart.

You yanked your dagger from him as you looked at the women, and yelled, “Follow me!”

You ran back from the belly of the ship to the safety of your dragon. But as soon as you were out in the open and saw him again, you realized he was in trouble.

He was the most skilled fighter, but he was overwhelmed by numbers. You threw your dagger at a man about to stab him in the back, and it found its home in the enemy's forehead.

You then picked up a sword off a deceased body and attempted to fight, but the sword was quickly knocked from your hands.

Your foe held his sword to your throat and you huffed in frustration.

Marrion and Eliza hid behind you, and at least eight men stood between you and Aemond.

“Enough,” the man who held your life in his hands yelled.

The fighting stopped and Aemond’s gaze met yours across the ship. Fire gleamed in his eye, blood coated his hands, splattered across his clothing, his handsome face, his silver hair. He was a god of vengeance, your protector, the bearer of your heart and soul.

“Return my wife to me,” he snarled.

“We outnumber you, yield,” the man closest to him said through gritted teeth.

“I do believe you are forgetting something,” Aemond said with a smirk and Vhagar roared loud enough to rock the boat.

You huffed a laugh.

The men took a step back from your husband, shaking in their boots.

Aemond held his hand out to you, you looked back to the man who threatened you, and with a sigh he lowered his sword from your throat. You ran into Aemond’s embrace, he pulled you close with one arm even as he continued to hold his sword up against the men.

The other two women followed you, and hid behind the two of you.

“My love,” he murmured, “Climb aboard Vhagar and lead your companions to do the same. I will be there momentarily.”

You pressed a kiss to his blood smattered cheek and did as he ordered. You climbed the rope that led you to Vhagar’s saddle, and as you got settled, you assisted the others in doing the same.

Aemond continued his stand off with the men who remained. When one jumped forward, attempting to attack, he unleashed himself.

The opponents were no match for your dragon, despite their numbers, and Aemond slayed as many as he could, before grabbing onto the rope.

With words in High Valyrian dripping from his tongue, he ordered his dragon to fly, taking him higher and away from the men who attempted to take you from him.

Only moments passed, and then he yelled, “Dracarys.”

Liquid fire encompassed the pirate ship and it burned just as you predicted it would.

You watched the ship, the men on it, burn to ashes before sinking into the ocean as Aemond climbed atop Vhagar’s saddle and situated himself behind you, wrapping his arms around you, the other two women behind him.

“Let’s go home, my love,” he said in your ear, gently and reassuring.

You nodded, sinking into his embrace, and only tearing your eyes from the wreckage when it sunk beneath the watery depths.

The return to King’s Landing was quick, and trusted guards returned the women with you safely to their homes, but not before you offered them jobs in the Red Keep, which they tearfully accepted. Descriptions were given of the men that sold you to the pirates, and you knew they would be dead by nightfall. f

Then, your husband led you to the small council chambers, you walked in feeling bashful, but he strutted in, led you to sit as he stood behind you, one hand on the back of your chair the other on your shoulder.

“Aemond!” His mother exclaimed.

He ignored her and instead glared at his grandsire.

“Why was I not properly informed that my wife had been stolen,” he growled.

“You left your post,” Otto replied.

“I don’t give a shit about my post. My wife was in danger. Days went by, days that she was no longer in your protection as you had promised,” he said, his voice raised.

“Aemond, we were doing everything we could to get her back,” Alicent attempted to soothe.

“Not enough,” Aemond said through gritted teeth.

“It was a calculated decision to not inform you, the hope was that we would have her back safety before you discovered that she was ever gone-“

”You calculated wrong.” Aemond said, his voice low and dark, the promise of violence so strong that you looked back at him and placed your hand atop his own.

“Aemond, I am fine, I am safe,” you reassured.

He glanced down at you, the words seeming to smooth some of the jagged panic inside him.

“And we are so grateful that you are,” Alicent replied.

Aemond looked back up.

“We need you to return, you and Vhagar are essential-“

“Fuck that,” Aemond said as he tugged on your hand, pulling you up out of your chair and by his side as he turned to leave.

“Aemond!” Alicent protested.

“My wife will stay by my side,” Aemond announced as you both exited the room.

”My love?” You asked, breathless as he walked swiftly through the halls of the Red Keep, keeping you with him.

“I will return to the war efforts on the morrow and you will come with me, do you understand? I cannot breathe when you are not near me. I cannot breathe when you are not safely in my arms. I cannot- “

“Aemond, look at me,” you said gently as you placed your hand on the side of his face.

You had pulled him to a stop right in front of your chambers, they had gone unused since you wed him as he had immediately moved you into his own.

His breathing was ragged, panic still threatening to pull him under.

“You saved me. I am here. And I will stay by your side always, if that is what you desire,” you said softly but passionately.

His lips crashed into yours.

His grip was tight as he pulled you against the hard planes of his body.

Your heart soared as his passion threatened to consume you. The waves of his fiery passion threatened to pull you under as his tongue tangled with yours and he moved, leading you to step back until your back hit the door and he pressed you against it. His hands roved from gripping your hips, one grazing the underside of your breast, the other caressing the side of your throat.

He pulled his lips from yours long enough to rest his forehead against yours and breathe out, “Always?”

“Always,” you promised as you pulled his lips back to yours.

His hand reached the handle of the door behind you, and he guided you into the room. He spent the night proving his devotion to you, imprinting himself on and inside your body, giving you pleasure of unparalleled heights.

And the next morning, your dragon kept his promise of always, and brought you with him, holding you tight and close on Vhagar’s back as he returned to wage war against his foes.

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

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lgbtlunaverse · 10 months ago

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What kind of saber is baxia anyway?

I love my bloodthirsty princess of a cursed blade, and in my heart of hearts i am nothing but a sword nerd, so i've been extremely fascinated by Baxia and how we know frustratingly little about what she actually looks like!

I mean, look at bichen, right?

Bichen in the donghua:

Bichen in the drama:

They're clearly not exactly the same. The scabbards are different, and the guards have a different shape. But these are recognizably different iterations on one theme, right? Thin jian with a white grip silver guard, light blue tassel and silver mounting accents on the scabbard.

Now this is baxia in the donghua:

And baxia in the drama:

????????

THAT'S A COMPLTELY DIFFERENT WEAPON

it doesn't stop there either, the audio drama is kind enough to give us ANOTHER COMPLETELY DIFFERENT BAXIA

pretty! But how is that he same sword??

And when we go back to the novel, we get very little information on her appearance other than the fact that her blade is tinted red with all the blood she's absorbed. Which none of these designs incorporate.

This is not a dig on the designs itself, they're all quite gorgeous in their own right and i'm going to spend a while discussing all of them! Because isn't it fascinating how, since we know little about novel baxia beyond "saber" all of these designs ended up so different? What kinds of sabers are these, anyway?

So, a chinese aber, aka a "dao" (刀) just means a sword that has only one cutting side. As opposed to a jian, which has two.

You can see how that leaves a LOT of room for variaton.

I've actually seen some people get confused because Huaisang's saber in the untsmed is thin and quite straight, making it superficially resemble the jian more than drama!baxia, but it is still clearly a saber!

See? only one cutting blade!

This, to me looks a lot like a tang dynasty hengdao

credit to this blog for providing his image and being a great source for all this going forward.

TANGENT: during all this I found out the english wikipedia page for dao is WRONG! Ths is what they about the tang hengdao!

So that sounds like the hengdao was called that during the sui dynasty, but then, after that, started being called a peidao, right?

WRONG

I LOOKED AT THE SOURCE THEY USED AND IT SAYS THIS:

IT WAS CALLED THE PEIDOU UNTIL THE SUI DYNASTY, AT WHICH POINT IT WAS CALLED A HENGDAO. Which would carry over to the Tang dynasty. This was the source wikipedia linked! and it says something else than they say it does!

Anyone know how to edit a wikipedia article?

ANYWAY

BACK TO BAXIA

Since we're already at the drama, let's look at drama baxia: She's also straight! the general term for straight-backed saber is Zhibeidao, but that's a modern collector's term, and doesn't really say anything about which historical kind of saber baxia could be based on. Another meta i found on the drama nie sabers already went on some detail here.

I'm gonna expand on that a little: The kinds of historical straight-backed sabers we see resemble the hengdao a lot more than they do baxia. They don't go to their point as harsly as she does (she's basically a cleaver!) and they're all way skinnier.

No, my personal theory is that instead of being based on any kind of historical sword, drama!baxia is based on a Nandao.

I mean, come on, look at it!

Baxia!

The Nandao... isn't actually a historical sword. It was invented for Wushu forms. There's a really fascinating article about its conception, but that's why the swords in the images look a little thin and flimsy. Wushu swords are very flexible and light, they're dance props, not weapons to fight with. There are actual steel versions of Nandao, but they're recreations of the prop, not the other way around.

So That's one way in which Baxia differes from the Nandao: she's actually a real weapon. The other is that, as you can see above, the nandao has an S-shaped guard. Baxia doesn't. She's also much more elaborately decorated, of course. Because she's a princess.

Now: audio drama baxia!

This is much easier. with that flare at the tip?

Oh baby that's a niuweidao, all the way!

There are more sabers with that kind of curved handle, but the broad tip is really charcteristic of the niuweidao. The Niuweidao is also incredibly poplar in modern media, often portrayed as a historical sword, but it originated i nthe 19th century! And it was actually never used by the military!

That's right, the Niuweidao was pretty much exclusively a civilian weapon! That makes its use here anachronistic, but so is the nandao, and considering that the origin story of the Nie is that they use Dao intead of Jian because their ancestors were butchers, portraying them with a weapon historically reserved for rebels and common people instead of the imperial military is actually very on theme!

Finally, Donghua/Manhua baxia. These two designs are so similar I'm going to treat them as one and the same for now.

Unlike both previous baxias, The long handle makes it clear this baxia is a two-handed weapon, though Nie Mingjue is absolutely strong enough to wield her with one hand anyway. Normal rules don't count for cultivators.

Now, this is where things get tricky, because there are a lot of words for long two-handed sabers. And a lot of them are interchangable! This youtube video about the zhanmadao, one of the possible sabers this baxia could be based on, goes a little into just how confusing this can get. This kind of blade WAS actually in military use for many centuries, making it the most historically accurate of all the baxias. But because of that it also has several names and all of those names can also refer to different kinds of blades depending on what century we're in.

So here's our options: i'm going to dismiss the wodao and miandao, because these were explicitly based on japanese sword design, and as we can see manhua baxia has that very broad tip, so that won't work

(Example of a wodao. According to my sources Miaodao is really just the modern common term for the wodao, and the changdao, and certain kinds of zhanmadao... do you see how quickly this gets confusing?)

Next option: Zhanmadao.

Zhanmadao stands for "horse chopping saber" so... yeah they were anti-cavalry weapons. meant to be able to cut the legs and/or necks of horses. That definitely sounds like a weapon Nie Mingjue would wield. But if you watched that youtube video i linked above, you'll know the standardized Qing dinasty Zhanmadao looked very different from earlier versions. It was inspired by the japanese odachi, and more resembles the miandao than its ealrier heftier counteprarts.

Earlier Ming dynasty Zhanmadao on the other hand were... basically polearms. the great ming military blog spot, another wonderful source, says these are essentially a kind of podao/pudao (朴刀) which looked like this

Now that blade looks a lot like baxia, but the handle is honestly too long. Donghua!baxia straddles the line between sword an polearm a little, but while zhanmadao have been used to refer to both long-handled swords and polerarms, this was undeniably a polearm, not a sword.

If you want to know what researching this was like, I found a picture of this blade on pinterest-- labeled as a "two-handed scimitar"-- and the comment section was filled with people arguing about whether this was a Pudao, Wudao, Zhanmadao, Dadao, Guandao, or a japanese Nagita.

So... that's how it was going. This has kept me up until 2 AM multiple times.

However! Thanks to this article on the great ming military blog I found out there have historically been pudao blades with shorter handles!

Specifically, Ming dynasty military writer Cheng Ziyi created a modified version of the pudao to work with the Dan Fao Fa Xuan technixues-- aka technqiues for a two-handed saber, which would alter heavily influence Miaodao swordmanship-- thereby, as the article points out, essentially merging the cleaver-polearm type Zhanmadao with the later two-handed japanese-inspired design.

This is the illustration for the Wu Bei Yao Lue (武備要略) a Ming dynasty military manual

This blade shape in the illustration doesn't match Baxia exactly, but since it's a lengthened Pudao-like blade and we've seen above that those can match Donghua Baxia's shape, i'm gonna say that calling Baxia a Zhanmadao with a two-handed grip isn't all that innacurate!

However, because all of these terms are so intertwined, there are a dozen other things you could call her that would be about equally correct.

To show that, here's a lightning round of other potential Baxia candidates:

Dadao (大刀)

Which are generally one-handed and too short. However!

Another youtube video i found of someone training with a Zhanmadao that resembles baxia a little also calls it a "shuangshoudai dao" (雙手带刀) shuangshou means two-handed, and while 雙手带 seems to refer to a longer handled weapon, when looking for a shuangshou dao or shuangshou dadao (双手大刀) we find a lot more baxia-resembling blades like here and here

I also found that, while the cleaver-like Dadao is strictly a product of the 20th centuy, since dadao just means big sword or big knife, it has been used to refer to loads of different weapons! Some people could've called the zhanmadao and pudao "dadao" during the Ming dynasty as well.

Another potential baxia candidate that mandarin mansion classifies as similar to the later dadao (though longer, as seen in the illustration below) is the "Kuanren Piandao"

Which piqued my interest because this diagram classifying different tpye of Dao:

Claims that a Kuanrenbiandao (diferent spelling, same sword) is the same as a modern day Zhanmadao.

(So once again, all of these terms are interchangable)

Another opton Is the Chuanmeidao/Chuanweidao (船尾刀) below you can see a diagram, based on the Qing dynasty green standard army regulation, of blades all officially classified as types of "pudao"

The top middle is the Kuanren Piandao, and bottom left is the Chuanweidao.

Both of these have a lot of baxia-like qualities.

So there you go! live action baxia is based on a Nandao, audio drama baxia is based on a Niuweidao, and Manhua/donghua baxia is some kind of two-handed Zhanmadao/Pudao/Dadao depending on how you want to look at it.

I'm honestly surprised no one has made the creative decision to portray Baxia as a Jiuhuandao, aka 9 ringed broadsword yet.

I mean look at it! Incredibly imposing. Would make for a great Baxia imo. (@ upcoming mdzs manga and mobile game: take notes!)

#mdzs #mdzs meta #nie mingjue #baxia #cql #the untamed #long post #I HAVE SO MANY TABS OPEN. FEEL MY SUFFERING #I understand that asking a gigantic region with thousands of years of rich history and many different subcultures #to have one standard naming convention is basically impossible #But could they do it anyway? for me? 🥺#i also want to buy one of these... so bad #or even just a plastic trainer so i can practice the techniques #but i know that once i start buying swords i'm not gonna stop until my money runs out #Being a sword nerd is a very dangerous not phyisically but for your wallet

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a-ikuoliver · 5 months ago

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HAPPY BLOG BIRTHDAY 🎂🎉🎈glad you're here!

This event looks so fun and cute. The menu is everything 🥰

May I have a Blow Job with Bakugou or Dabi?

🖤🐈‍⬛ Kitten

HI KITTEN i am actually so sorry this took so long BUT i hope you enjoy this, i was a liilllllll bit cheeky with yours teehee AND THANK U @ghostbeam & @unearthsaturn FOR HELPING ME U ARE LIFESAVERS birthday bash intro + rules + menu | event masterlist

"table 14 is a pair of fucking cun—"

"careful, sweetheart, people will start thinking i'm some sorta bad influence if you keep speaking like that." placing a short straw into the cocktail shaker, touya places his finger on the open end, lifting out a sip of the sweet cocktail, offering it to you. sapphire eyes flash when you roll your eyes at him, but silently accept his offer, sticking out your tongue for him to place the opposite end of the straw on, dropping a taste of the drink in your mouth.

"what's got you so riled up?" he waits for you to swallow, scrunching your face at the taste of the pure alcohol burning down your throat.

"jesus, touya, have you even shaken that thing yet?"

there's a flash of silver when he laughs, all sharp canines and surgical steel as he smacks the cocktail shaker lid down with a tattooed palm, "not yet, answer my question."

with a sigh and a cross of your arms, you grumble your reply, "i have a blind date tonight."

"a date? want something for the nerves?" shaking with one large hand, he reaches for the closest liquor to him with the other, shaking the half-empty bottle with a devilish smile.

"careful, people will start thinking you're some sorta bad influence," you repeat, your coy smile mirroring his, a flash of a smile as sweet as honey, sweet enough to fool touya's father into thinking you were never at the scene of the crime (the tattooed, pierced bartender notorious for worming his way out of write-ups, a tongue as silver as the bar through it; you, however, never stayed at the scene of the crime long enough to even be a suspect on enji's radar). touya's always too happy to play into your little innocent act, the slap on the wrist worth the mischievous flash in your eyes every shift, the squeeze of your thighs when he spoke to you in that scratchy, low tone, playfully chastising you from behind the bar.

"c'mon, one shot and i'll let you clock out."

"let me? daddy makes you manager for one night and you become a tyrant," you're speaking to him like a petulant child, tutting at him while grabbing a pair of shot glasses down from the shelf, "mix us something good."

slipping out from behind the bar, you drop the glass over to a woman at the other side of the bar, the same saccharine smile you saved for customers and touya's father, the one making you look just positively angelic, well, as much like an angel as you can in that low-cut shirt.

pouring amaretto into the tall shot glass with one hand, touya reaches for the irish cream with the other, his eyes locking on the whipped cream canister close by. glancing back around to you, he's never been more grateful for a customer to be keeping you from him; with his borrowed time, he slips the whipped cream canister far in the back of the fridge, behind the bottles of beer, behind the chilled wine.

you round the corner of the bar, dragging your feet dramatically, "now i really need a pick me up before the date."

touya smiles again, that mischievous smile that got him out of trouble wherever he went, having women at the bar swooning, sweet-talking his siblings into slicing lemons and limes so he could sneak out the back for a cigarette (the habit he promised to end, in exchange for that pretty, shiny tag saying manager), "need you to run out the back for me first, sweetheart,"

"touya. you can't actually stop me from clocking out just because you're manager, that tag doesn't mean you can coerce your employees."

"you wish," he holds his pinkie up, sea-blue eyes gleaming with faux innocence, "tried to make you a blowjob, you know, get you ready for your date."

touya ignores your snort, the roll of your eyes, instead focusing on your arms crossing over your chest, your squeeze of your tits together, "i ran out of whipped cream, and you know i can't leave the bar alone."

"when have the rules stopped you before, huh?"

"i'm a changed man," tugging at his name tag, his thick, silver rings click against the plastic, the foreign taste of innocence on his tongue.

his pierced bottom lip is stuck out once more, batting infuriatingly long lashes at you until you huff, "you owe me, todoroki."

abandoning your apron along the way, you tug the door to the cooler open, feeling the weight of touya's gaze shift away as a tall blond sauntered to the bar, painted fingertips tapping at his phone screen.

crimson meets cerulean over the dark wood of the bar, touya's hands behind his back, making quick work of the knot of his apron, still watching the blond as he fished for the whipped cream, "hey, i'm lookin' for—"

"she's busy." dropping his apron aside, he tops the shots with a squeeze of the whipped cream, trailing behind you to the cooler with a wink to your date.

#mercurys birthday bash #「kitten <3」#「mercury answers」#touya todoroki x reader #toya todoroki x reader #todoroki touya x reader #todoroki toya x reader #dabi x reader #dabi smut #touya todoroki smut #toya todoroki smut #todoroki touya smut #todoroki toya smut #「mercury writes」#「touya <3」

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kckt88 · 5 months ago

Text

Skoros iksos ñuhon

Summary:

Vaelyssa is not the only one at Storms End seeking the support of Borros Baratheon.

Warnings - Angst, Drama, Langauage, Arguements, Vulnerability, Realisation, Uncle/Niece Incest, Kissing, Smut, Fingering, Oral Sex, P in V.

AEMOND TARGARYEN x O.C NIECE

Skoros iksos ñuhon - What is mine.

Word Count: 7922

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon or Fire & Blood characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used.

Comments, likes, and reblogs are very much appreciated.

Tag List - @jasminecosmic99 @kaelatargaryen @yesterdayfeelings-blog @immyowndefender @0eessirk8

Vermithor landed with a heavy thud in the courtyard, water spraying in every direction from the force of his landing. Princess Vaelyssa climbed down from his back; her long silver hair plastered to her face by the rain. She ran a hand down Vermithor's scaled body, feeling the warmth radiate through her fingers. The dragon let out a low, contented rumble as he nuzzled against her.

Suddenly, a louder, more ominous growl echoed through the courtyard. Vaelyssa's heart skipped a beat as she turned to see the massive form of Vhagar, looming over the wall.

If she was here, then that meant Aemond was here as well. The hostility that been brewing between their family over the years had finally erupted, now the Greens had usurped the Iron Throne and had crowned Aegon as King of the seven kingdoms, defying her mother, Rhaenyra's, rightful claim, as set forth by the recently deceased King Viserys.

Vaelyssa took a deep breath, steeling herself for what was to come. The knights of Storm's End approached, their armour clinking softly as they moved.

“I am Princess Vaelyssa Velaryon and I have a message for Lord Borros Baratheon, on behalf of Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen”.

The knight gazed at Vaelyssa; his expression unreadable as he turned and gestured for her to follow.

"Come-“ he said, his voice carrying over the rain. "Lord Borros Baratheon waits in the Great Hall."

She nodded, casting one last glance at Vermithor before following the knights. The courtyard was a blur of grey stone and wet banners as they made their way inside, the heavy wooden doors closing behind them with a resounding thud.

Inside, the Great Hall was dimly lit, the flickering torches casting long shadows on the walls. Lord Borros sat on his makeshift stone throne, his round imposing figure radiating authority. His eyes were sharp as they took in the sight of the drenched princess.

"Princess Vaelyssa, of house Velaryon"

As Vaelyssa stood silent, her gaze shifted to Aemond, who stood off to the side with one of Borros Baratheon's daughters. He stood tall and confident; his hands clasped behind his back in a posture of ease that belied the underlying threat he posed.

The daughter, a striking young woman with dark hair and piercing eyes, seemed captivated by his presence, her attention focused solely on him.

Aemond's expression was inscrutable, but Vaelyssa could sense the smug satisfaction radiating from him. His presence here was a calculated move, a silent assertion of the Greens' unwillingness to wait for an answer to the terms that Otto Hightower had delivered to her mother on Dragonstone. His singular amethyst eye caught the torchlight, glinting with a mix of amusement and menace.

Vaelyssa's eyes narrowed as she observed him. It had only been a number of days since she had last seen him, strutting out of the dining room after his final tribute to her younger brothers had resulted in a fist fight.

Before that she’d not seen him since that fateful night on Driftmark where he had lost an eye but gained a dragon.

Never would she forget the painful grimace on his face as the Maester’s stitched his skin back together, nor would she forget the crazed look on his mother Alicent’s face, as she demanded one of Luke’s eyes in return.

“There is a debt to be paid”.

The King had demanded that they make their apologies and show good will to one another, but no such apology came, sides were taken, and the chasm between their family widened even further.

But here, now she could not afford to show any sign of weakness or hesitation.

Her mother's claim to the throne depended on her ability to secure Lord Borros's support, and she could not let Aemond's presence intimidate her.

“Lord Borros-I brought you a message from my mother-The Queen”.

“Yet earlier today I received an envoy from the King-which is it. King or Queen. The House of the dragon doesn’t seem to know who rules it” laughed Borros.

Vaelyssa glanced over at Aemond who cocked his head to the side and smirked.

“What’s your mother’s message?” asked Borros impatiently.

Vaelyssa handed a rolled up scroll to one of the escorting knights who rushed forward and handed it to Borros, who couldn’t read a single word that was written and had to summon a Maester.

Whilst the Maester relayed Rhaenyra’s message, Aemond stared at Vaelyssa, his hands still folded behind his back.

Not one to be cowed, she glared back. They had been friends when they were children but gone was the sweet boy who stole honey cakes for her, and in his place stood a man, leather clad and lithe, his features sharp almost as if he had been carved by the gods of old Valyria themselves. He truly was beautiful, just a shame he was such a loathsome cunt.

“Remind me of my father’s oath. King Aegon at least came with an offer: my swords and banners for a marriage pact. If I do as your mother bids-which one of my daughters will your brother’s wed?”

“My lord-I’m afraid that only two of my brothers are of age and neither are free to marry, they are already betrothed” replied Vaelyssa.

“-And what of you Princess?” asked Borros stroking his chin.

The rain outside Storm's End intensified, turning from a steady downpour into a relentless deluge. Thunder rumbled ominously in the distance, and lightning occasionally lit up the dark sky.

“Me? My Lord” questioned Vaelyssa.

“I have no longer have a wife-and you are of age to marry” said Borros “You are young and if you are anything like your mother, I am sure you will give me many sons”.

“My Lord I-“

“My late wife blessed me only with daughters-I am left without a male heir” replied Borros.

“Under my mother’s rule-the eldest would inherit lands and titles regardless of their gender” said Vaelyssa.

“But that is not my desire Princess-“ quipped Borros as he leaned forward slightly.

“Apologise my lord but I am not free to marry either-” replied Vaelyssa, her gaze momentarily fixed on Aemond who’s eye widened slightly at her announcement.

“Is that so?” asked Borros leaning forward slightly.

“My brother travels North to offer my hand in marriage to Lord Cregan Stark of Winterfell”.

Again, Vaelyssa looked towards Aemond who’s hand was now resting around the pommel of his sword, his jaw clenched tight.

His chosen Baratheon girl was trying to speak to him, but he paid her no attention.

“Then you come with empty hands-you will tell your mother that the Lord of Storms End is not some dog she can whistle up at need to set against her foes”.

“I will take your answer to the Queen” replied Vaelyssa as she bowed her head politely.

As she turned to go, the wind howled outside, and the heavy wooden doors of the hall rattled in their frames. The storm was worsening by the minute.

"Wait, Princess-" Lord Borros called out, his voice carrying over the sound of the storm. She paused and turned back to face him; her curiosity piqued.

"In good conscience, I cannot allow you to risk traveling back to Dragonstone in this storm," Lord Borros continued, his tone unexpectedly gentle. "The weather is too treacherous. I offer you a room for the night. You may leave in the morning once the storm has passed”.

Vaelyssa hesitated for a moment, then inclined her head in gratitude. "Thank you, my Lord. I accept your generous offer."

Lord Borros nodded, and then his gaze shifted to Aemond, who had been silently observing the exchange with a faint, unreadable smile. "Prince Aemond," Borros said, "I extend the same courtesy to you. It would be unwise to travel in such conditions."

Aemond's smile widened slightly, and he inclined his head in acknowledgment. "Your hospitality is appreciated, Lord Borros. I, too, will stay until the storm passes."

Vaelyssa's eyes met Aemond's for a brief, tense moment before she turned away, following the servants who had been summoned to show her to her room. The castle corridors were dimly lit, the flickering torches casting long shadows on the stone walls.

The sound of the storm outside seemed to grow louder, the wind howling and the rain lashing against the windows.

She was led to a modest but comfortable chamber, the bed adorned with thick furs and a fire crackling in the hearth. The warmth of the room was a stark contrast to the chill of the storm outside, and Vaelyssa felt a sense of weariness wash over her. She thanked the servants and closed the door behind her, allowing herself a moment of solitude.

As she sat by the fire, her thoughts turned to the events of the day. The refusal of Lord Borros was a setback, but she could not dwell on it now, Storms End might be a lost cause but mayhaps her brothers would have better luck.

Cregan Stark was said to be an honourable man and if he allied with her mother then the rest of the North would follow and Lady Jeyne Arryn was their kin, it was doubtful she would turn against them.

Vaelyssa stood by the window, gazing out into the stormy night. The rain pounded against the glass, and the wind howled like a restless beast. The food the maids had recently brought was only partially eaten, and the wine was bitter on her tongue.

Almost as if he sensed her unease, Vermithor’s deafening roar pierced through the storm. His massive, bronze-scaled form was a reassuring presence in the midst of her lingering uncertainty.

Almost immediately, Vhagar answered with an equally impressive roar, her call reverberating through the walls of Storm's End.

Vaelyssa let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding, seeing Aemond here had unsettled her and she couldn’t stop thinking of the look he had on his face when she announced that she was not free to marry, it was the same look he’d given her when she stood next to Jacaerys in the throne room for the petition for Driftmark and again when she sat next to him at the feast.

Never had a man looked at her in that way before.

She began to undress, her mind preoccupied with the events of the day and the challenges that lay ahead.

As she removed her outer garments, the door to her chamber suddenly opened. Startled, she turned to see Aemond standing there dressed in only a cotton shirt and leather trousers, his tall figure framed by the flickering light of the torches in the hallway. He stepped quickly inside, and shut the door, making sure to lock it behind him.

"What do you want, Aemond?" Vaelyssa demanded, her voice steady but edged with irritation. "Leave, or I will make you."

Aemond's lips curled into a smirk, his single amethyst eye glinting with amusement. "The fight would be little challenge," he said, his tone mocking.

“You clearly don’t know me very well” replied Vaelyssa, he face growing hot as she noticed Aemond’s gaze sweeping over her, pausing at her breasts which were no doubt visible through the thin material of her shift.

Aemond closed the distance between them, a determined glint in his eye. "There is a debt to pay" he said, his voice low as he reached up and removed his eyepatch, revealing the sapphire embedded in the socket where his left eye had once been.

Clearly her uncle was trying to intimidate her, but she would not fall for his provocations.

Vaelyssa scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest. "Is that supposed to frighten me? Because I can tell you now that it doesn’t, and neither does it impress me qȳbor" (Uncle).

Aemond's jaw tightened, his anger barely contained. "What if I demanded your eye in payment for the one, I lost?" he asked.

Vaelyssa met his gaze unflinchingly, her expression defiant. "Not my debt to pay and I thought your claim of Vhagar was worth the loss of an eye," she retorted. "Or is your hoary old bitch of a dragon no longer worth it?"

The insult hit its mark, and Aemond's face twisted with fury. His fists clenched at his sides.

"You dare speak of Vhagar that way?" he hissed, his voice trembling with rage. "You know nothing of what it means to ride her, to command the largest dragon in the world."

"Tell me, Aemond," she began, her tone mocking, "Do you truly believe the almighty Vhagar could withstand a combined attack from Vermithor, Caraxes, and Meleys? She might be the largest dragon in the world, but even she is not invincible."

Aemond simply stared at her, his expression unreadable as he processed her words.

"You always seem so eager to remind everyone how large Vhagar is," said Vaelyssa, a sly smile playing on her lips. "One might wonder if you're trying to overcompensate for other-smaller matters."

Aemond's face twisted in anger once again "You think you're so clever," he snarled, his voice dripping with venom. "But your sharp tongue won't save you from the reality of this war-your mother is not fit to rule.”

Vaelyssa's eyes blazed with defiance as she met his gaze. "And what about your precious Greens?" she shot back. "You cling to the throne like parasites. Your brother is nothing but a puppet, and you, Aemond, are his most pathetic string."

“You dare-“

“Tell me, does it sting knowing that your older, wastrel of a brother is given everything while you, the dutiful son, gets nothing?”

Aemond’s eye narrowed, his lips pressed into a thin line. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, but I do,” Vaelyssa purred as she reached out and ran a finger down Aemond’s chest. “Tell me, do you not envision yourself sitting upon the Iron Throne? Don’t you think yourself worthy to be King? Or are you content with always living in Aegon’s shadow?”

Aemond’s fists clenched, his knuckles turning white. “You think you can provoke me with your petty words?”

“Petty?” Vaelyssa laughed, a sharp, mocking sound. “-I’m merely pointing out the obvious. You serve, you obey, you sacrifice, and for what? To watch your drunken, whoring wastrel of a brother wear the crown that you believe should have been yours?”

Aemond took a step forward, his face contorted with anger. “Aegon is the King. That is the order of things.”

“The order of things?” Vaelyssa scoffed. “And you, so loyal and dutiful, never once imagined it differently? Never once thought that you could do better, be better?”

Aemond’s eye blazed with fury, and he took another menacing step toward her. “You presume too much”.

“Do I?” she challenged, her voice cold and piercing. “Or is it that I’ve struck a nerve? You can lie to yourself, Aemond, but deep down, you know the truth. You want the throne, you crave it, it is my mother’s by right, she is the named heir”.

“Viserys changed his mind”.

“According to who?” snapped Vaelyssa, her voice sharp and incredulous.

“My mother was tending to him in his final moments, and he declared in her presence that he wished for Aegon to be King,” said Aemond, his tone defensive but resolute.

Vaelyssa's eyes blazed with fury. “And my grandsire who that very same day, dragged himself out of his sickbed to defend his daughter in front of the realm—only to change his mind hours later? Do me a favour,” she retorted, her voice dripping with scepticism.

“Are you calling my mother a liar?” Aemond's singular eye narrowed, his jaw tightening.

“My grandsire steadfastly upheld my mother’s status as his heir for over twenty years. He wouldn’t change his mind, not like that” Vaelyssa said, her voice firm with conviction.

Aemond's face darkened with a mixture of anger and frustration. “You think I would lie about something like this?”

“You’ll believe what you want to in order to justify your actions-this entire situation reeks of Otto Hightowers manipulations, after the death of my grandmother he shoved his own daughter under a grieving Kings nose and used her to further his own ambitions”.

“That’s not-“ muttered Aemond.

“-What happened? Of course it is. Even down his clever manipulation of Viserys. He played on my grandsire’s fears over my father and advocated for my mother to be named heir because he knew damn well that it would be easier to usurp a woman-”

“Daemon was too much of a risk-” said Aemond.

“The only risk was my father seeing Otto Hightower for what he really is-” snarled Vaelyssa.

“Loyal and unwavering-“

“A CUNT!” snarled Vaelyssa.

“Your language is unbecoming of a Princess-“

“I don’t give a flying fuck-your grandsire is nothing but an oath breaking cunt who seeks to reach far beyond his station and it’s not a question of if my mother takes back the Iron Throne, it’s when and I can tell you that when she does your grandsire will find himself a head shorter, and so will the other treasonous dogs who plotted against her”.

Aemond observed her for a moment, a strange expression on his face before he seized her by the back of her neck, pulling her close. His lips crashed into hers with a fierce, almost brutal intensity. The kiss was rough, a clash of wills, a battle for dominance.

At first, Vaelyssa was stunned, her body rigid with surprise. But as the heat of the moment consumed her, she found herself responding, pulling him closer.

The initial shock melted away, replaced by a fiery passion that surged through her veins. She returned the kiss with equal fervour, their lips moving together in a furious dance.

Aemond’s grip on her neck tightened, his other hand snaking around her waist to press her against him. Vaelyssa’s hands found their way to his chest, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as she pulled him even closer.

When they finally broke apart, both were breathing heavily, their faces flushed. Aemond’s eye burned with a mix of anger and desire, and Vaelyssa’s own gaze mirrored that intensity.

"Is this what you wanted?" Aemond growled, his voice low and rough. "To provoke me?"

Vaelyssa’s lips curled into a defiant smirk, her breath still coming in ragged gasps. "Perhaps. Or maybe I just wanted to see if you truly were a dragon and not a slithering green Hightower snake."

Aemond’s grip on her neck loosened slightly, but he didn’t let go. "You’ve seen my fire," he murmured, his voice softer but no less intense. "Now, what will you do with it?"

In response, Vaelyssa leaned in and kissed him again, this time slower, more deliberate. The passion between them didn’t wane; if anything, it grew hotter, more intense. The kiss was no longer a battle but a mutual surrender to the heat that had been building between them.

As they broke apart once more, their foreheads resting against each other, the reality of their situation began to seep back in. They were on opposite sides of a war, bound by duty and loyalty to their respective causes. But in this moment, none of that mattered. All that existed was the fire they had ignited between them.

"We are playing with fire, Aemond," Vaelyssa whispered, her voice tinged with a mixture of exhilaration and trepidation.

"Let it burn," Aemond replied, his tone equally resolute. "Let it consume us both."

Vaelyssa had lost most of her senses the moment Aemond had pressed her onto the bed and knelt down between her open legs.

“My niece-my sweetest-” whispered Aemond.

Vaelyssa’s eyes rolled into the back of her head as Aemond’s tongue swept across her slick wet folds.

She bit the back of her hand to keep herself from screaming as Aemond began using his long fingers to slowly tease her entrance.

“None of that. I want to hear how good I make you feel” growled Aemond as he began moving his tongue against her, in rhythm with his fingers.

“A-Aemond. Oh god. Please” moaned Vaelyssa, as she writhed against the sheets.

“I know your almost there. Let it happen. Come for me” whispered Aemond, his tongue moving across her pearl.

Vaelyssa arched her back and let out a scream as her pleasure erupted.

Aemond slowly crawled up her body, placing gentle kisses on her skin as he moved higher and higher.

Vaelyssa blushed furiously when she saw that Aemond’s chin was shining with her slick.

“Calm yourself issa zaldrīzes” muttered Aemond, as he swiped his fingers over his chin and then placed them in his mouth, sucking off her slick. (My dragon).

Goosebumps erupted over Vaelyssa’s skin as Aemond removed his hand from his mouth and then took hold of her breast, his fingers teasing her rosy bud.

“A-Aemond” whimpered Vaelyssa.

“Sīr gevie” growled Aemond (So Beautiful).

“W-What are you doing?” asked Vaelyssa as Aemond’s hand slid down her body and began teasing her folds.

“I-I need to prepare you a little more” whispered Aemond.

“P-prepare me?” whispered Vaelyssa.

“I assume you are a maiden-I don’t want to hurt you” replied Aemond.

“Aemond” exclaimed Vaelyssa as he slowly slipped a finger inside her, the slick from her first peak easing the way.

Aemond buried his face in Vaelyssa’s neck as he began peppering kisses along her smooth skin as he added another finger, moving them in and out slowly.

“So warm-so wet for me” rasped Aemond, his hot breath tickling her skin.

“I-I think I’m ready” whispered Vaelyssa.

Aemond removed his fingers and then moved between her open legs, supporting his weight on his left arm as he reached down and took his hard cock in his hand and placed the tip of it against her slick entrance.

“A-Are you sure?”

“Yes-I want you Aemond-all of you” replied Vaelyssa as she felt him running his cock along her entrance.

“Y-You must tell me if it hurts” whispered Aemond.

Vaelyssa nodded and shut her eyes tight, taking a deep breath as Aemond sheathed himself within her.

“Your doing so well-” muttered Aemond trying to control himself.

“I-It h-hurts-“ whimpered Vaelyssa, the burning sensation bringing tears to her eyes.

“If it’s too much I can pull out-” offered Aemond.

“N-No just give me a moment” replied Vaelyssa softly as the tears ran down her cheeks.

Aemond leaned down and pressed gentle kisses to her cheeks, his tongue catching her fallen tears.

Aemond’s cock twitched and throbbed with need, and he released a shuddered breath while Vaelyssa sighed in relief.

“Are you ok?” asked Aemond.

“I-I think you can move now” whispered Vaelyssa her hands running along the smooth plans of Aemond’s back.

Slowly Aemond withdrew and then moved forward, his cock reaching deep inside her.

“Are you ok?” repeated Aemond as he thrust inside her.

“Y-yes-I think you can move faster”.

Aemond rested his head in the crook of her neck as he thrusts faster, his moans muffled against her skin.

“Ooh Aemond-that feels good” whined Vaelyssa.

“Your perfect-” whispered Aemond.

Feeling a spark of pleasure Vaelyssa dug her fingers into Aemonds back, holding him close.

“P-please Aemond. F-faster. H-harder” exclaimed Vaelyssa.

“Lyssa-” moaned Aemond as he began to pound into her, his hips slapping against hers.

“-I-I f-feel-” whimpered Vaelyssa, an odd sensation creeping across her stomach.

“-Let it happen-my sweetest, peak for me” exclaimed Aemond.

“OH-”

“Fuck-that’s it-that’s it” muttered Aemond as he slipped his hand between their bodies and slowly began rubbing her pearl.

“AEMOND” screamed Vaelyssa as her peak exploded, making her entire body shake.

“I-I’m going to give you my seed-see you all round and swollen with my child-your breasts filled with milk” moaned Aemond.

“Yes-yes. Aemond. I want it-” babbled Vaelyssa as his thrusts became more frantic.

“Fuck-” groaned Aemond as he felt the heat shooting across his abdomen.

“-Aemond” whimpered Vaelyssa.

“ñuhon, ry ñuhon” moaned Aemond pushed into the hilt for one last time, his cock throbbing as he spilled rope after rope of his seed (Mine, all mine).

“Ry aōhon” whispered Vaelyssa, as Aemond rested on top of her (All yours).

“A-Are you ok?” Aemond as he gently pulled his softened cock from Vaelyssa, he looked down and saw the mixture of his seed and her maidens blood dripping onto the sheet.

Vaelyssa nodded slowly, as she allowed him to enfold her in his arms and hold her close.

"What happens now?" asked Vaelyssa softly, her voice tinged with uncertainty. "Are we just to go back to being enemies in the morning?"

Aemond hesitated for a moment, his fingers tracing absent patterns on her bare shoulder. "No," he replied finally, his voice low and steady. "I will accompany you to Dragonstone and declare for Rhaenyra."

Vaelyssa's eyes widened in surprise, her heart skipping a beat. "You-you would declare for my mother?" she asked, incredulous.

Aemond nodded, his expression serious. "Yes," he affirmed. "For you."

Vaelyssa searched his face, trying to comprehend his sudden change of allegiance. "Why, Aemond?" she pressed gently. "Why would you do that?"

“Nyke jaelagon naejot dīnagon ao” replied Aemond (I wish to marry you).

“My father will have his sword at your neck the moment you leave Vhagar’s side”.

“That maybe so, but surely your mother will see the benefits of our union, without Vhagar Kings Landing is vulnerable and my brother’s position as King will be weakened, no doubt your father’s bloodlust will be sated by rooting out the traitors who conspired against his Queen-” said Aemond.

“-If you declare for her, then she is to be your Queen as well” muttered Vaelyssa.

“Only if she accepts my request for your hand in marriage," admitted Aemond, his voice tinged with a hint of vulnerability. "-And by our marriage, one day I will be King."

Vaelyssa blinked, processing his words. "Is that what this is? You desire the throne, and your using me to get it” she asked quietly, her mind racing with the implications of his confession and admittedly the thought of him using her did sting.

“Do you remember when we were children, when everyone else had their dragons and we only had each other”

“Yes” muttered Vaelyssa softly.

“-How I used to steal honey cakes for you and then we’d sit under the weirwood tree dreaming of our future-”

“What does that have to do with anything?” asked Vaelyssa.

“My vision for the future was of us-together. We have always been fated, bound by more than blood. You label me Hightower, but I am a dragon, and I have found my treasure. We belong together you and I” muttered Aemond.

“-And the throne?” asked Vaelyssa.

Aemond sighed, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. "-I do want to be King, but only with you by my side as my Queen".

“Your ambitious, I’ll give you that-but why not just displace Aegon?” mused Vaelyssa.

"When you steal something, you spend your whole life fighting to keep it. I want a legitimate route to the throne, through the bonds of marriage".

“What about your betrothal to one of Borros Baratheon’s daughters?” she asked softly, her fingers tracing patterns on Aemond’s chest. “He might see it as an insult that you promised to wed one of his daughters, yet you plan to take another to wife.”

Aemond scoffed, a smirk playing on his lips. “A boar is nothing compared to a dragon,” he said dismissively. “Lord Borros can be placated. If your mother accepts my terms, she can make the necessary arrangements for a marriage between Floris and some lord of note.”

Vaelyssa couldn’t help but smile at his confidence, but she knew the complexities of politics couldn’t be brushed aside so easily. “And you believe Lord Borros will simply accept this?”

Aemond’s expression turned serious. “He is ambitious, but he is also pragmatic. An alliance with House Targaryen, especially one that strengthens Rhaenyra’s claim, would be more valuable than a slighted promise. Besides, Rhaenyra can offer him, a position on the council and favourable marriages for his other daughters. He will not refuse such a boon”.

Vaelyssa nodded slowly, considering his words. “You have given this a great deal of thought” she admitted. “But there may be other who whisper of false promises”.

“Let them,” Aemond replied with a shrug. “The realm is on the brink of war. Loyalties will shift, alliances will be made and broken. In the end, what matters is who sits on the Iron Throne”.

“One might think you’ve been planning this for years.”

Aemond’s gaze was intense as he held hers. “I have,” he admitted, his voice low and fervent. “You are all I’ve wanted, since I was old enough to know the ache of wants and desires. My grandsire usurping the throne convinced me that my dream would no longer be achievable, and that placing the wants and needs of others above my own desires was something I would just have to accept.”

He paused, his fingers tracing the contours of her face. “But your arrival at Storm’s End was an opportunity I couldn’t pass up. I am a determined man, Vaelyssa, and I learned long ago that nothing was ever going to be handed to me. If I wanted something, then I would have to take it.”

Vaelyssa’s breath caught in her throat at his confession. “You would risk everything for this?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “For us?”

Aemond nodded, his expression resolute. “Yes. I would. Because for the first time, I see a path to the life I’ve always wanted. A life where I am not just the second son, where I am not bound by the whims of others. A life with you-providing of course that your mother accepts all of my terms-”

"What exactly are all of your terms, Aemond?" asked Vaelyssa curiously.

Aemond met her eyes, his expression resolute. "If Rhaenyra wants me to bend the knee to her, then she will allow us to marry," he stated firmly. "Our union will strengthen her claim and bring House Targaryen closer together, just as my dearly departed father always wanted-"

Vaelyssa nodded slowly "And what else?" she prompted.

Aemond's features softened slightly, a hint of vulnerability showing through his stern facade. "I want assurances that my family will be safe," he said, his voice quiet but determined. "-My mother, Aegon, Helaena, their children and Daeron—no harm will come to them. They must be allowed to live in peace."

“You will not advocate for your grandsire?” asked Vaelyssa.

“No-”

“Just as well, as my father wouldn’t allow him to live, not after what he’s done” replied Vaelyssa.

“Your father isn’t my only concern, your mother-” said Aemond.

"-My mother is not the monster you believe her to be," she began, her voice gentle yet firm. "Only those who actively repudiated the succession and conspired against her will be dealt with."

Aemond scoffed, a hint of bitterness in his tone. "Did she not demand that I be sharply questioned as a child?" he retorted, his voice growing colder. "To learn where I heard such slanders against her children—slanders which, by the way, are true."

Vaelyssa’s expression softened, a mix of sadness and determination in her eyes. "It doesn’t matter," she said quietly but firmly. "Laenor claimed us as his children, so therefore in the eyes of gods and men, we are his. He loved us as his, cared for us as his."

Aemond shook his head, his frustration evident. "The truth is plain to see, when it comes to your brothers at least, Rhaenyra's claim to the throne is weakened by those lies."

Vaelyssa took a deep breath, her hand reaching out to touch his arm. "The truth of our parentage does not change the fact that we are my mother’s children, and Laenor’s by law. We have the right to be acknowledged and accepted. We cannot let old grudges and suspicions destroy what we are trying to build."

Aemond’s eye softened slightly, though his jaw remained tense. "You ask much of me, Vaelyssa. To overlook what I know to be true, to forgive and forget what happened".

Vaelyssa took a deep breath, looking into Aemond’s eye with a mixture of sorrow and determination. "I am not asking you to forgive Luke for what he took from you," she began softly. "But I am asking for an understanding that all were in the wrong that night. Your claiming of Vhagar was ill-timed, at the funeral of her previous rider no less. You could have waited—but I understand. I know that feeling of not being enough, of having an egg that doesn't hatch-you weren’t the only one to be mocked for not having a dragon-”

Aemond's expression hardened slightly, but he listened intently, his jaw tense.

"-Vhagar chose you for a reason, just as my bronze fury chose me" Vaelyssa continued, her voice steady. "Your claim of her should have been celebrated, not marred by conflict. The fight shouldn’t have happened. You shouldn’t have tried to bash Jace’s head in with a rock, and Luke shouldn’t have taken your eye. But he was scared, and only wanted to defend his brother."

Aemond looked away, a mix of emotions playing across his face—anger, pain, regret. "That night changed everything," he murmured, his voice barely audible.

Vaelyssa nodded, her hand reaching out to gently touch his. "It did," she agreed. "And we cannot change what happened. But we can choose how we move forward. We can choose to understand each other’s pain, to acknowledge the mistakes that were made."

Aemond turned back to her, his eye searching hers for sincerity. "And what then?" he asked, his voice tinged with bitterness. "Do we simply forget? Pretend it never happened?"

"No," Vaelyssa said firmly. "We remember, but we also strive to be better. To not let the past dictate our future. We use our pain, our experiences, to guide us in making wiser decisions, in fostering a realm where our future children won’t have to face the same heartaches."

Aemond’s gaze softened slightly, a hint of vulnerability breaking through his hardened exterior. "It’s not easy," he admitted, his voice thick with emotion. "To let go of the anger, the need for vengeance."

"I know," Vaelyssa whispered, squeezing his hand. "But we have to try. For us, for our future, and for the realm. We can’t let the mistakes of our past define who we are now or who we can become, look at what it’s done to those who came before us-We must be the ones to break the cycle, or it will just keep happening until there is nothing left of House Targaryen"

Aemond's expression shifted as he absorbed Vaelyssa's words. A flicker of amusement danced in his eye, and he leaned closer, a teasing smirk curling his lips. "Our future children, you say?" he remarked, his tone playful.

Vaelyssa blinked, momentarily taken aback. "I'm trying to be sensible here and that's what you focus on?" she retorted, a hint of exasperation in her voice.

Aemond's smirk widened, a glint of mischief in his eye. "I quite like the idea of seeing you swelling with my seed," he murmured, his voice dropping to a low, intimate whisper. "Being all full of me. I think we should do all we can to ensure my seed takes”.

Vaelyssa's cheeks flushed with a mix of embarrassment and arousal, a shiver running down her spine at his words.

She opened her mouth to reply but found herself momentarily speechless as she felt Aemond’s hard cock pressed against her hip.

“Pār gūrogon issa, tepagon issa aōha nūmo se nyke shall tepagon ao nykeā tresy””muttered Vaelyssa as she coiled her hands in Aemond’s long silver hair (Then take me, give me your seed and I shall give you a son).

“Nyke jāhor emagon ao naenie jēdi bisa bantis” growled Aemond as he rolled on top of her (I will have you many times this night).

“Hae naenie jēdi hae ao jaelagon issa dārys” (As many times as you wish my King).

The morning sun broke through the clouds, casting a golden glow over Storm's End. The storm had cleared, leaving the air crisp and fresh.

Vaelyssa stood beside Vermithor, her hands resting on his warm, rough scales, her cheek pressed against him. "Jēda naejot jikagon lenton issa dōna," she murmured softly (Time to go home, my sweet).

Vermithor trilled happily, a low, rumbling sound that reverberated through her bones.

She took a deep breath, savouring the moment of calm before the journey ahead. As she glanced over, she saw Aemond climbing the rope ladder attached to Vhagar's saddle, his movements confident and swift.

He caught her eye and gave a slight nod, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. Vaelyssa couldn't help but smile back, feeling the dull throbbing sensation between her legs—a reminder of the night they had shared.

Aemond had made good on his promise, his appetite for her had been ravenous, he kissed, sucked, licked, and fucked her well into the hours of the night. Never fully satisfied until he’d filled her with his seed another three times.

Even just this morning he had reached for her again; he had refused to let her bathe afterwards and had worked himself into such a frenzy at the thought of her returning to Dragonstone with his seed dripping from her that he bent her over the small desk and fucked her hard and fast. His fingers digging into her hips as he lost himself to the pleasure he sought, his loud moans echoing around the room as he spilled himself inside her.

She placed a hand on her stomach and wondered if his seed had already taken root. She’d had her moonblood a fortnight ago and she would not take moontea so there was a chance.

Her thoughts then turned to her mother. She had been sent to secure Borros Baratheon's support, but she was returning to Dragonstone with a far greater alliance.

Vaelyssa wondered how her mother would react to the news. Would she see the wisdom in their union, the strength it would bring to her cause? Or would she be wary of the potential complications?

Vaelyssa knew one thing for certain: she had to convince her mother of the value of this alliance. She stroked Vermithor's scales one last time before stepping back, ready to mount.

Aemond was now settled atop Vhagar, his gaze steady and unwavering as he watched her. Vaelyssa climbed onto Vermithor's back, her movements graceful and practiced. She looked over at Aemond one more time, a mixture of resolve and tenderness in her eyes.

"Ready?" Aemond called out, his voice carrying over the morning breeze.

Vaelyssa finished securing the straps of her saddle and nodded, her heart pounding with anticipation. "Ready."

With a synchronized roar, Vermithor and Vhagar spread their massive wings, the powerful beats stirring up the air around them. They took to the sky, the ground falling away beneath them as they soared higher and higher.

As they flew side by side, Vaelyssa felt a sense of exhilaration and determination. She was not just returning to Dragonstone with a message; she was bringing back a promise of unity, a chance for a brighter future.

The wind rushed past her, and she closed her eyes for a moment, envisioning the world they could build together—a world where their children would grow up in peace and prosperity.

Opening her eyes, she looked over at Aemond once more, their paths now intertwined by fate and choice. Together, they would face the challenges ahead, and together, they would shape the destiny of their house and their realm.

Vermithor and Vhagar, circled Dragonstone in wide arcs, their loud roars echoing across the cliffs and the surrounding sea, announcing their arrival to all within earshot.

As the two dragons descended, their enormous wings created gusts of wind that swept across the grassy cliffs.

They landed with resounding thuds, the ground trembling beneath their combined weight. Vaelyssa swiftly unlatched herself from Vermithor's saddle, her movements practiced and fluid. She slid down his side and landed gracefully on the ground, her gaze turning to Aemond.

Aemond climbed down the rope ladder attached to Vhagar's saddle, his every movement exuding a calm confidence. When he reached the ground, he immediately sought out Vaelyssa, his eye locking onto hers. He crossed the short distance between them and took her hand in his, squeezing it gently.

The pair stood firm, side by side, as they awaited the arrival of her mother and father.

It wasn’t very long before the unmistaken shuffle and clang of armour permeated through the air.

Her mother and father were slowly making their way towards them, surrounded by the Queens guard.

Daemon's hand, as always, rested on the hilt of his sword, his gaze was sharp and assessing, taking in the sight of Aemond standing beside Vaelyssa.

The golden crown atop Rhaenyra's head shone brilliantly in the sunlight, a symbol of her rightful claim to the throne and the burden of the responsibility she bore.

As Rhaenyra neared, her expression one of regal composure mixed with a hint of curiosity and concern, as Aemond's grip on Vaelyssa's hand tightened.

"Mother," Vaelyssa greeted, her voice steady, though she felt the flutter of nerves in her chest.

Rhaenyra's eyes softened as she looked at her daughter, but her gaze quickly shifted to Aemond, a mixture of suspicion and curiosity evident. "Vaelyssa” she acknowledged.

Daemon stepped forward, his gaze flicking between the two. "Why is that Hightower cunt here” he asked, his voice carrying an edge of scepticism.

Vaelyssa took a deep breath, standing taller. "Please, Father let me explain-" she began, her voice strong. "As you know I was sent to secure Lord Borros Baratheon's support-but instead I have returned with an even greater alliance."

Daemon’s eyes narrowed slightly, his gaze locking onto Aemond. "Explain," he commanded, his tone leaving no room for evasion.

Aemond let go of Vaelyssa’s hand and stepped forward, he unsheathed his sword and dropped to one knee.

“I Aemond of House Targaryen pledge my loyalty and that of Vhagar to you Queen Rhaenyra of House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, and the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm-”

Daemon's gaze bore into Aemond with a piercing intensity, his hand still resting on the hilt of his sword. "And what assurance do we have, that this isn't some ploy?" he demanded, his voice edged with scepticism. "How do we know you're not seeking to gain our trust only to betray us later?”

Aemond met Daemon's challenging stare, his expression resolute "I swear upon my honour" he declared firmly, his voice carrying across the tense silence "My intentions are honest. I wish no harm to Queen Rhaenyra or her rule”.

Vaelyssa stepped forward, her voice joining Aemond's in earnest plea. "Father, please," she urged, her eyes pleading with Daemon. "Aemond has shown his commitment. He risked much to declare his support openly. We must consider the alliance this could bring."

Daemon's expression softened slightly as he regarded his daughter, then turned back to Aemond. "Words are wind," he stated bluntly, his tone challenging. "Actions speak louder. What will you do to prove your loyalty boy?"

Aemond's jaw clenched briefly before he spoke, his voice steady and unwavering. "I will swear any oath, undergo any trial, to prove my sincerity," he replied, his gaze locked with Daemon's.

Rhaenyra, who had been observing the exchange with a measured silence, finally spoke. "Daemon, let us hear him," she said softly, her eyes never leaving Aemond's face. "Let us hear what he proposes."

Daemon considered his wife's words, then nodded slowly. "Very well," he agreed, his voice gruff. "Speak, Aemond. What oath will you swear to prove your loyalty to the rightful Queen?"

Aemond straightened, the weight of the moment heavy upon him. He rose to his feet and took a step forward, his gaze unwavering as he addressed the Queen and her consort. "I swear by the old gods-" he began solemnly, "-that I will serve the rightful Queen with unwavering loyalty and devotion."

A murmur rippled through the Queen's Guard, and Rhaenyra raised a hand to silence them, her eyes never leaving Aemond's face. "And what do you seek in return?" she asked, her voice cool and measured.

Aemond glanced at Vaelyssa, drawing strength from her presence. "I ask for your daughter's hand in marriage," he said clearly. "And assurances that my family—my mother, my siblings and their children—will be kept safe and unharmed."

"And why do you not advocate for your grandsire?" Rhaenyra questioned; her voice measured.

Aemond met her gaze evenly. "Because it would be a pointless endeavour- he actively conspired against you" he replied firmly.

Daemon's voice cut through the silence that followed. "Who were Otto's co-conspirators?" he demanded, his tone sharp and demanding. "There is no way he acted alone. Speak the truth, boy-"

Aemond's jaw tightened briefly, his resolve unwavering. "I will name those I know of," he answered, his voice steady. "But I cannot guarantee it is an exhaustive list."

He took a breath and began, each name a weighty admission in the cold air. "Tyland Lannister” he stated plainly, his gaze flicking briefly to Vaelyssa "As well as Jasper Wylde, Maester Orwyle and Larys Strong-”

“I shall see everyone of those traitorous cunts suffer for this-” snarled Daemon, his knuckles turning white as he tightly gripped the hilt of Dark Sister.

Rhaenyra considered Aemond’s words carefully and finally, after what felt like an eternity, she spoke.

"I agree to your terms, brother-" Rhaenyra declared, her voice resonating with authority. "I will guarantee the safety of Alicent, Aegon, Helaena, their children, and Daeron."

Aemond's expression softened slightly, a flicker of relief crossing his features. Beside him, Vaelyssa's eyes shone with gratitude and hope.

"But-" Rhaenyra continued, her tone firm, "-Only when I have reclaimed the Iron Throne will I permit you and Vaelyssa to marry. For now, you will be betrothed, as a pledge of our alliance."

Aemond bowed his head respectfully. "Gratitude-Your Grace”

"Now the two of you will be escorted inside-" Rhaenyra announced, her voice commanding yet tinged with a touch of warmth. "-Baths will be prepared. You both smell of dragon"

Vaelyssa and Aemond exchanged a glance, their expressions reflecting a mixture of relief and anticipation. "Of course, Your Grace," Aemond responded respectfully.

"And I expect the both of you at dinner tonight," Rhaenyra added firmly, her eyes shifting between them to emphasize her expectations.

"Yes mother-” Vaelyssa affirmed with a nod, her voice steady despite the whirlwind of emotions within her.

As they turned to make their way back toward Dragonstone, Daemon halted Vaelyssa with a gentle yet firm grasp on her arm.

Aemond hesitated momentarily, but Vaelyssa reassured him with a reassuring glance and a soft-spoken promise to join him shortly. He nodded and followed Rhaenyra and the Queen's Guard towards the castle.

Alone with her father, Vaelyssa felt a surge of pride mingled with a touch of vulnerability as Daemon gently took her face in his hands and turned her head to the side to see the various love bites that graced her skin.

"Well done-” muttered Daemon, his voice gruff yet tinged with unmistakable approval.

Vaelyssa smiled, her heart swelling with gratitude at his words. "I learned from the best,"

#house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #hotd aemond #aemond fanfiction #hotd fanfic #aemond fic #aemond x oc #hotd fic #aemond one eye #aemond x original female character #aemond #aemond smut #aemond targaryen smut #prince aemond #prince aemond targaryen #hotd smut

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earlycuntsets · 2 months ago

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"Wanted: 1979 Pontiac Trans Am

Tuesday March 24, 2009 | Posted by: Gerard

Some of you, who have seen my twitter about wanting a 1979 Pontiac Trans Am, may be asking yourselves, "Is this for real?"

And my answer to you is one-hundred percent MFR ("Mad Fucking Real" for short).

Some of you may be asking, "Why?" , so I provided this photograph to answer your questions, and if you need further persuasion-

Quite simply, I need the vehicle for "research and exploration". I will be researching the high-voltage hydra known as the 9th dimension , I will be exploring the barriers of speed and time, the history of heavy-metal haircuts, and the 24-Hr rest-stop cappuccino.

I will be chasing the "electric-manticore", and unlocking the riddle of "Muscle Mystery" in this muscle-machine, and it will most likely occur in the desert.

Now that I've assuaged your curiosity, here's what I'm looking for, more or less, and some might think I'm picky, but I think you should be picky when looking for such an important piece of scientific equipment.

***What I want*** First and foremost, I want a good car. It doesn't have to be great, it doesn't need to have been kept in an airtight garage for 30 years, but I would prefer something that's not a piece of shit. I would like it to be in California, close to or within the greater Los Angeles area. I would also like "the fast engine" to show you how much I know about cars, though I have friends with vast automotive knowledge, and my father was a mechanic when I was a child. I want it to run, run well, and have no rust. Oh and it needs to be an automatic, as I can't drive stick (suprise!).

***Colors and specifics*** Exteriors (in order of awesome): Silver, the color of steel, and the eye of the falcon. Faded, slightly shitty, or semi-bombed out looking Nocturne Blue. This color looks great with some age. Mad-Max Black. Shitty bombed-out Red/Orange

Obviously I am looking for something with a bit of character but I will settle for better shape for a better car.

I am open to other things but I absolutely do not want Gold, Brown, or that frigging Smokey and The Bandit car- that shit is whack.

Interiors (again in "awesome order") Red leather (combined with a silver exterior is an ideal car for me- like a fucking Mach-5 red-velvet cupcake with Terminator 2 frosting) Black leather (of course) Blue (cuz it's cool, but this limits what I can paint the exterior if I choose to do so) Interior material is not as much a deal breaker as a bad color.

I've seen the "Anniversary Edition" '79 Trans and I like it but something about the silver leather interior rubs me weird. Looks like pudding, and a light color will only stain when I shit my pants as I tear-ass through scorched earth.

T-Tops a BIG plus.

All of this stuff I am semi-flexible on, as I just want a great car, but I think I will know the right one when I see it.

***Important*** No scams or hustles. I won't have cash on me, and I'm not important enough to kidnap, but if you've got the right car and the right "vibe" I can find us someone important enough to kidnap together- IN-THE-CAR-YOU-JUST-SOLD-ME. Like, for example, the Jonas Brothers. I have been on T.V. and I have access.

You bring the 'bird- I'm bringing "British Steel" by Judas Priest.

xo g

PS- Thanks for everyone's help thus far- you guys are great. I will be looking in the twitter replies for leads. ***Update*** I have noticed that some people are wondering if I am having a mid-life crisis or asking why I am not buying a station wagon or something for a baby. Answers! Firstly, I am only 31, so I have a bit of time before that whole "crisis" thing, and secondly- I've run the numbers on car safety and have come to the conclusion that this IS the car for the baby. This thing is a tank. Usually, when people get into accidents while driving a Trans Am they usually ask "How is the other guy?". Trust me. I got this."

from gerards blog on mychemicalromance.com 03/24/2009

#gerards trans am search 2009 #omg he's hilarious in this #“this IS the car for the baby”#mad fucking real #(mfr)#my chemical romance #mcr #gerard way

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unboundprompts · 1 year ago

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Hiii love your blog! Can you please do prompts about gray eyes description? I'd really appreciate it!!!!

Different Ways to Describe Gray Eyes

-> feel free to edit and adjust pronouns as you see fit.

They had eyes like dark storm clouds.

She had eyes that held the fog that clouded a winding road on an early spring morning.

In his gray eyes, she could see the sparks of a fire.

Their eyes were the same color as the pencil sketches on the paper laid out before them.

His eyes made them think of the sea after a terrible storm, the gray rolling clouds reflecting onto the almost-blue surface of the water.

She had eyes like the black-and-white movies she watched as a kid.

Their eyes were the rocks by the cliffsides.

Her eyes were unwavering and hard as steel.

At first glance, he had thought their eyes were blue. Now that he was close, however, he saw that they were gray.

Their eyes were the same as the smoke that escaped from their lips.

Her eyes held no emotion. They were blank. Clouded and gray.

His eyes were like two blinking moons, and she was trapped in their light.

Their eyes made her think of soot from a fire. The kind that clung to your skin and reminded people of tragedy.

Her eyes were nearly silver, and they twinkled like the stars in the night sky.

His eyes reflected the sword in his hand: dangerous and ready to strike.

Gray eyes had never held such color.

She had eyes the same color as the silver jewelry that hung from her neck and wrists.

There was a fire behind his gray eyes.

Her eyes reminded him of the full moon, bright and constantly watching.

He had eyes like smoke and they followed her as she walked through the alley.

Their eyes were silver lightning: quick and observant.

She was certain that his eyes reflected the stars in the night sky, twinkling and mirroring his white smile.

If you like what I do and want to support me, please consider buying me a coffee! I also offer editing services and other writing advice on my Ko-fi! Become a member to receive exclusive content, early access, and prioritized writing prompt requests.

#ask box prompts #writing prompts #dialogue prompt #otp prompts #soft prompts #prompt list #rp prompts #writing prompt #romance prompts #dialogue ideas #writing ideas #love prompts #character description

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chrismerle · 10 months ago

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Been a while since I posted an ad, so I tossed one together with some of my favorite pieces! If you're interested in any of them, all of them are available in my Etsy shop, Widget's Apparel. There's a link to the shop in my pinned post and my blog description. There will be a link to the shop and the individual listings in the notes of this post!

Items, left to right, top to bottom:

Labradorite and sterling silver necklace. $72.

Moss agate, jasper, and copper crescent moon pendant. $35.

Rhodonite, sunstone, agate, and copper necklace. $52

Iridescent glass and silver-plated copper necklace. $38.

Gold stone and silver-plated copper pendant necklace. $50.

Quartz, aventurine, glass, and silver-plated copper necklace. $48.

Sodalite, glass, and steel viking knit necklace. $75.

Glass and silver-plated copper pendant necklace. $42.

Dyed palm room and copper tree pendant. $65.

Sodalite, lava stone, and silver-plated copper bracelet. $30.

Unakite, glass, and copper bracelet. $30.

Quartz, aventurine, and silver-plated copper bracelet. $28.

#necklace #necklaces #pendant #pendants #bracelet #bracelets #jewelry #jewellery #quartz #sodalite #agate #jasper #sunstone #aventurine #gold stone #silver #copper

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novaursa · 3 months ago

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Fires That Never Freeze

- Summary: You receive the news about Rhaenys' death at Rook's Rest, before Jace arrives as he secures the Twins.

- Paring: targ!reader/Cregan Stark

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is only daughter of Rhaenyra, has silver hair and violet eyes and is bonded to a dragon. These events happen after The Heir of Ice and Ash. To read all parts in chronological order, or more of my works, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Word count: 5 524

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @21-princess

You cradle your son, Killian, against your chest, his soft breath a soothing rhythm amidst the storm brewing in your heart. His dark hair is thick for one so young, a stark contrast to your own silver strands that cascade down like a river of moonlight, braided intricately yet now trembling at the edges as you shudder with grief. His violet eyes—your eyes—peek up at you in curiosity, innocent to the world that has been drenched in blood and betrayal. You wish you could preserve this innocence forever, shield him from the horrors beyond these stone walls, but you know all too well that the winds of war spare no one.

The letter lies crumpled beside you, the wax seal of the Three-Headed Dragon snapped in two. The words are still fresh, cutting through you like Valyrian steel, sharper than any sword you could ever wield. Your grandmother—brave, indomitable Rhaenys—is gone. The Queen Who Never Was met her end at Rook’s Rest, where she and Meleys faced the combined fury of Vhagar and Sunfyre. The account is almost too monstrous to believe: how Meleys’ head was severed and paraded as a trophy, how Aegon the Usurper was carried away like a broken thing, sealed in a crate to hide his mangled form. They say he is scarcely more than a corpse now, held together only by pride and the twisted whims of fate.

Your tears fall silently, trailing over Killian’s soft cheeks as he looks up at you, gurgling without a care in the world. He knows nothing of what has been lost, what will never be.

Suddenly, you feel Cregan’s presence behind you—warm and steady like the roots of an ancient tree. He kneels by your side, his grey eyes searching yours with concern. His large, calloused hand rests gently on your back, grounding you in the present. “Y/N,” he murmurs, voice soft as the snow falling outside. “I heard. The raven...”

You can’t find the strength to speak, so you only nod. He understands without needing further words; he always has. The Lord of Winterfell was never meant for courtly games or gilded halls, but here in the cold North, his honesty and strength have become your rock amidst all the chaos. Yet even his unwavering strength can’t shield you from this hurt.

“I thought dragons were… unkillable,” Cregan says after a pause, his voice rough with both sorrow and disbelief. “The stuff of legends, creatures older than men, forged in fire. I thought they were eternal.”

You blink away the tears that threaten to blind you and force yourself to meet his gaze. There is no room for illusions, not in this world where even gods bleed. “Anything can be killed, Cregan,” you whisper, voice trembling yet laced with a fierce conviction. “Even the gods. Even kings and Kingmakers alike.” The venom laced in the last words is unmistakable. Ser Criston Cole, the leech in royal armor, the wretched man who enabled this war to take root with his false oaths and blackened soul—how you despise him. The thought of him twisting the fate of nations with his cruelty makes bile rise in your throat

Cregan’s brow furrows as he takes in your words. He knows of your distaste for Cole, for all those who put ambition over loyalty, who would see the world burn if only to rule over the ashes. He moves closer, wrapping a protective arm around you and Killian. “You’re right,” he says quietly, his voice a deep rumble, “but we’re still here, and we’ll fight back for those we’ve lost. For those who remain.”

Killian shifts in your arms, cooing softly, as if sensing the turmoil in your heart. You lean into Cregan’s warmth, letting yourself take solace in the strength he offers. “Rhaenys was always so brave,” you murmur, your voice breaking slightly. “She defied them all her life, never once bending to their will. They feared her because she was a woman who would not be cowed, and now… they parade her death like some kind of victory.”

“They can parade all they like,” Cregan says, his voice turning steely, “but a victory built on treachery and murder will crumble. Aegon’s body may still cling to life, but his cause is already rotting from within. The realm will see it.”

His words, though meant to comfort, bring little ease. The war rages on, and with it, the losses mount like a tolling bell. Your heart aches, both for those who have fallen and for those who must still face what lies ahead. Yet, as you look down at Killian, you feel a flicker of hope amidst the darkness. He is a symbol of all you fight for—a future not bound by the horrors of the past, but shaped by those who endure.

“Thraxata will know,” you murmur, more to yourself than to Cregan, your thoughts turning to your own dragon, the Midnight Fury. “She will mourn with me.”

Cregan tightens his grip around you, his chin resting on the top of your head. “And when the time comes, she’ll fight with you too, alongside us all. This isn’t over, Y/N. We have something they’ll never understand—a love forged in fire and ice, bound by loyalty.”

You close your eyes and let yourself be held, the flicker of strength in your chest rekindling. The tears still fall, but now, with every drop, there is something else too—a growing resolve. Rhaenys’ death will not be in vain. The world will hear the roar of her legacy through you, through your son, and through every soul that refuses to bow to the false kings who sit on thrones built on blood.

For now, you hold your family close, taking what comfort you can in the warmth of Cregan’s embrace, in the small heartbeat thrumming steadily against your chest. The autumn winds howl outside, but here, amidst stone and fur, there is still love, still life. The storm may rage, but you will not break.

Not yet.

The weirwood stands tall and ancient, its pale bark almost glowing in the dim twilight. The blood-red leaves flutter softly in the breeze, a stark contrast against the gray skies overhead. You feel small before it, like a child gazing up at something vast and unfathomable. The face carved into the heart tree’s trunk stares down at you with those deep, knowing eyes, as if it sees not just you, but every thought, every secret tucked away in the recesses of your soul.

You’ve been standing here longer than you intended, lost in the quiet of this sacred place. Yet, beneath the peace, there’s an unease gnawing at you. The chill of autumn clings to your skin, sharper now, more present. It crawls into your bones, but you can’t bring yourself to move. You’re here, but not truly—your thoughts scattered like leaves on the wind.

For a moment, everything sharpens. You feel the press of the cold more keenly now, and your breath curls in the air like faint wisps of smoke. Then, the world begins to shift. The rustle of the leaves grows distant, muffled, until it’s almost drowned out by something else—a whisper that’s barely more than a breath, carried on the wind. You stiffen, your heart quickening. It’s a voice, faint yet clear as the first crack of ice on a frozen lake.

Y/N.

It speaks your name, though you cannot tell whether it’s a man’s voice or a woman’s. It sounds old, ageless even, and it seems to echo within your mind as much as in the air around you. A rush of images floods your vision—flashes of faces, places, events yet to come or perhaps already past. You see fire and blood, wings spreading wide against a burning sky. There’s the glint of steel, a flash of a crown—someone crying out, their voice lost in a roar of flames.

Then, as suddenly as it came, the frenzy halts. You stagger back a step, your surroundings snapping back into focus, the world real again. But the cold clings to you, more than it did before. The weirwood watches you, its eyes holding secrets it will never share. You swallow, trying to steady your breath, your heart pounding loud enough to drown out all else.

“Y/N!” A familiar voice cuts through the fog of your thoughts, pulling you back fully to the present.

You turn, dazed, and see Cregan striding toward you, his expression tense with concern. Behind him is Maester Kennet, his gray robes fluttering as he hurries to keep pace. Cregan’s eyes are locked on you, his brows drawn together, the worry evident in his every movement. “What’s wrong? You’ve been out here too long—it’s freezing.” His tone is gentle, but there’s an edge to it, the underlying fear for your well-being.

You blink, still feeling the lingering echoes of the vision, the remnants of those hurried images flickering in your mind’s eye. “I… I’m fine,” you say, but your voice is shakier than you intend, betraying the truth of your unease.

Cregan stops in front of you, reaching out to cup your cheek with one roughened hand, his thumb brushing against your cold skin. “You don’t look fine, love,” he murmurs, eyes searching yours as if trying to find the cause of whatever has you so shaken. “What happened?”

“I’m not sure,” you admit, closing your eyes briefly as you lean into his touch. “The weirwood… I thought I heard something. Saw something.”

Maester Kennet approaches cautiously, his gaze darting between you and the heart tree. “The Old Gods have their ways of sending messages, Lady Y/N,” he says softly. “The weirwoods are their eyes, their ears. It is not unheard of for them to reach out to those who carry their favor.”

Cregan frowns at that, his grip on you tightening protectively. “She’s been out here too long, alone,” he says, not taking his eyes off you. “Whatever she saw or heard can wait until she’s had some rest.”

But Maester Kennet shakes his head, his face grim as he pulls a folded letter from his robes. “I wouldn’t have interrupted if it weren’t important. A raven came not long ago—from the Twins. Your brother, Jacaerys, has secured passage for his forces. He’s on his way to meet you, Lady Y/N.”

The words bring a sudden, fierce surge of emotion—relief mixed with dread. Jacaerys is alive, fighting as he always promised he would. Yet with every victory comes new dangers, new battles. And the visions, whatever they meant, linger in your mind like a shadow cast over the joy of the news.

Cregan, ever perceptive, sees the conflict in your eyes and places a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “We’ll face whatever comes,” he promises, his voice a low rumble, the kind that always makes you feel like you’re standing on solid ground, even when the world tilts.

You manage a small smile, nodding. “Yes…”

But as you glance back at the weirwood, its face still and expressionless, you can’t shake the feeling that the Old Gods are watching more keenly than ever. The autumn winds whisper secrets you’re not sure you want to hear, and deep in your heart, you sense that whatever lies ahead, the choices you make will ripple far beyond the snow-covered hills of the North.

With a deep breath, you turn away from the tree, allowing Cregan’s steady presence to guide you back toward Winterfell, leaving the whispers of the gods behind—for now.

The winds bite sharper today, swirling through the bare branches of the godswood and over the snow-covered battlements of Winterfell. You stand beside Cregan at the edge of the courtyard, your cloak pulled tight against the chill. Thraxata looms behind you, her obsidian scales gleaming in the pale winter light. The Midnight Fury’s violet eyes are fixed on the skies above, where your brother is soon to arrive. The air hums with anticipation, the kind that makes your heart race and your fingers twitch. Beside you, Cregan rests a hand on the pommel of his sword, his gaze as steady as the stone walls that surround you.

“Are you ready?” Cregan’s voice is low, warm like a hearth fire, grounding you in the present moment.

You nod, though the tension in your chest remains. “I haven’t seen Jacaerys in so long. I only hope he’s as safe as his letter claimed.”

Cregan squeezes your hand, a brief but reassuring gesture. “If he’s anything like you, he’ll be stronger than ever.”

You smile at his words, but the edge of worry still lingers. War changes people, molds them into something else—sometimes into something harder, colder. You’ve seen it already in the eyes of the soldiers who have passed through Winterfell, men whose laughter now rings hollow, whose smiles are mere shadows. What has the war made of your brother?

Before your thoughts can spiral further, the distant roar of a dragon echoes through the sky, accompanied by the deep flap of massive wings. All eyes turn upward, and there—emerging from the rolling clouds—is Vermax. His green and bronze scales shimmer with an ethereal glow against the muted grays of the northern sky, his wings outstretched as he circles lower. Your heart lifts at the sight, despite everything.

Thraxata rumbles low in her throat, a sound that’s half-greeting, half-challenge. She shifts, restless, her powerful tail sweeping across the ground and leaving deep grooves in the snow. You place a calming hand on her side, feeling the heat radiating from her scales, even in the biting cold. “Easy, girl,” you murmur, though a part of you understands her unease. The bond between dragon and rider is one forged in fire and instinct—Thraxata senses your tension as clearly as you do.

Vermax lands with a powerful thud in the courtyard, snow scattering like dust beneath his claws. Jacaerys dismounts swiftly, his dark curls wild from the wind, his face shadowed with exhaustion and resolve. His eyes—dark brown—search the crowd until they find you. Despite the grimness that hangs about him, a grin breaks across his face.

“Y/N!” His voice is hoarse, but filled with unmistakable affection.

You rush forward, closing the distance between you, and throw your arms around him. For a moment, you’re children again, finding comfort in each other amidst the storms that have always threatened to tear your family apart. But the moment is brief, tinged with the weight of all that has passed. When you pull back, you can see the subtle changes in him—the deeper lines etched into his face, the hardened edge in his gaze.

“Brother,” you breathe, cupping his face, your thumb brushing against the scar just above his brow—a mark of a recent battle, no doubt. “You’ve grown into a man of war.”

Jacaerys huffs a quiet laugh, though it lacks the lightness it once held. “It seems the war gives us little choice in what we become.” His gaze flickers over your shoulder, landing on Cregan. “Lord Stark,” he greets formally, though the respect in his tone is genuine. “Your hospitality has been unmatched. It’s a comfort to know my sister has found such a strong ally—and husband.”

Cregan inclines his head, his usual sternness softened slightly by a hint of warmth. “Your family is ours now, Jacaerys. Winterfell stands with you, as do the men of the North. We fight together.”

The words, though simple, carry a promise, one that Jacaerys seems to take solace in. He nods, a flicker of relief crossing his features before his expression grows serious once more. “The Twins have bent the knee. Their armies are ready to march when we give the word. The Riverlands will rally to our cause, though they’ve suffered much at the hands of the greens.”

You clench your fists at your sides, feeling the familiar fire of rage ignite in your belly at the thought of those who serve the usurper, those who’ve turned against your mother, against your family. “We’ll make them pay for every drop of blood spilled,” you vow, your voice cold with determination. “They’ll learn the price of treachery when fire and blood rain upon them.”

Jacaerys’ gaze meets yours, a shared understanding passing between you. “We will, sister,” he says quietly. “But we must be wise in how we strike. Our enemies are many, and some hide in shadows even we haven’t uncovered.”

As he speaks, the men of Winterfell gather closer, eager to hear news from the South. Thraxata moves to stand beside Vermax, her violet eyes fixed on him, a low rumble vibrating through her chest. Vermax, ever the more temperate of the two, remains still, watching her with a calm curiosity. The two dragons are like night and day, one fierce and unpredictable, the other steady and patient—a reflection of the bond shared between their riders.

Maester Kennet steps forward from the crowd, ever the dutiful servant, and bows his head. “My lord, my lady,” he addresses you both, “the men are ready to host your brother and his retinue. Supplies are being gathered for the march south, but it would do you both good to rest and break bread together before the night grows colder.”

Cregan nods, though his gaze remains fixed on Jacaerys. “You’ve traveled far, and winter’s grip grows tighter by the day. We’ll speak of war and plans soon enough. Tonight, we celebrate family.”

Jacaerys glances at you, his eyes softening briefly before he returns his attention to Cregan. “I’d welcome that. It’s been too long since I’ve felt the warmth of kin.” He turns to you once more, taking your hand and squeezing it. “Mother would want us to stand strong, Y/N. For her, for all of us.”

You swallow back the knot in your throat, nodding. “We will, Jace. We will.”

As you walk back toward the Great Hall, arm in arm with your brother and Cregan beside you, the dragons shift close behind ready to take flight, their steps heavy on the snow-covered earth. Above, the first stars begin to pierce the twilight sky, cold and distant. You can still feel the echoes of the weirwood’s whispers, the glimpses of futures yet unwritten. But here, with your family by your side, you draw strength from the bonds that even war cannot break.

The Great Hall of Winterfell is alive with the low murmur of voices and the crackle of hearth fires. The long table is crowded with Stark bannermen, their weathered faces drawn with the seriousness of the discussion. The banners of the North hang proudly on the walls—gray direwolves on fields of white and gray. The smell of pinewood smoke and spiced wine fills the air, mingling with the scent of roasted meats brought out for the evening. It is a scene both warm and solemn, a brief moment of respite before the weight of strategy drags everyone back into the cold reality of war.

You sit beside Cregan at the head of the table, your hand resting on his arm as Jacaerys stands before the gathered lords. He wears his determination like armor, though there is a heaviness in his eyes that no amount of resolve can mask. His voice, strong despite the weariness clinging to him, rings out over the hall.

“Our enemies have grown bolder since my brother’s and grandmother's murders. Aemond has broken the oldest of laws—he’s a kinslayer, and for that, he’s forfeited not only his honor but any right to mercy. The greens think the deaths of Luke and Rhaenys will weaken us, make us retreat into mourning. They’re wrong.” His words are met with murmurs of agreement, grim nods from the assembled bannermen.

Lord Cregan speaks next, his voice deep and measured. “Justice for Prince Lucerys and Princess Rhaenys will be served, Jacaerys, but the North is not free of its own burdens. The men and Houses we pledged to your cause will march with you as promised—greybeards and veterans who have survived more winters than most. But the majority of our forces must remain here, at least until the winds shift and winter’s bite eases.”

A rumble of assent follows Cregan’s words. The greybeards, some of whom are gathered here tonight, nod their heads, weathered faces set in stony determination. These are men who’ve lived through harsh winters, wars, and endless trials. They know the cost of every step taken southward, but they also understand the weight of their oaths.

You lean forward, feeling the cold steel of duty and sorrow twisting within you. “The Wall grows restless,” you add, your voice quieter but cutting through the room. “Reports from our scouts say the wildlings stir, and there are whispers of darker things in the woods. The North cannot abandon its duties here, not entirely, not with winter closing in. We fight on two fronts—one for vengeance, and one to hold back the darkness that always comes with the cold.”

Jacaerys’ jaw tightens, though there’s no anger in his gaze, only acceptance. “I know what I ask of you, of the North. I wouldn’t pull you from your duties lightly. But we’re in desperate need of men who’ve seen true battle—men who won’t falter when the greens come for us again.” He looks around the table, locking eyes with each of the bannermen. “Aemond’s murders of Luke and Rhaenys aren't just an insult to my family, it’s a warning of what’s to come. They’ll strike at us all, one by one, until there’s nothing left to fight for.”

Maester Kennet, seated near the fire, clears his throat, his thin fingers wrapped around a goblet. “A measured approach is wise. The North is vast, and winter makes even the shortest march an ordeal. Splitting our forces to both hold the Wall and reinforce the Riverlands is a sound strategy. But we cannot be reckless. The cold is our greatest enemy—aside from the greens themselves.”

A grizzled voice interrupts, belonging to Lord Harwood Flint. “We’ve sworn our oaths to your mother, Prince Jacaerys, and those oaths stand. The greybeards and I will march south, aye, but only as far as the weather allows. If winter deepens, we’ll be forced to retreat—lest we lose more men to frost than to battle.”

Lord Cregan nods solemnly. “The North keeps its promises, Jace, but our duty here is unbreakable. If winter passes, we’ll ride in full force, dragons and all. Until then, you’ll have what men we can spare, the strongest and the most experienced. The rest must remain to guard our lands and prepare for whatever winter may bring.”

You watch Jacaerys as he absorbs their words, weighing them against the urgency of his mission. It’s a hard truth, but one he’s known in his heart. “I understand,” he finally says, though the strain in his voice is evident. “The North has always held its ground when others falter. Your men’s presence in the Riverlands will tip the scales more than you know. We’ll make every sacrifice count, for all of our sakes.”

A silence falls over the hall, filled only by the crackling of the fires and the occasional clink of cups against wood. It’s a heavy silence, the kind that carries the weight of lives yet to be lost, battles yet to be fought. You feel the tension in your own shoulders, the mix of sorrow and determination that has become all too familiar.

Cregan’s voice breaks the silence, firm and resolute. “Then it’s settled. The North will march with you, Jacaerys, and we’ll hold the line here until the time is right to unleash the full might of Winterfell. The Wall must remain guarded, our lands defended. But rest assured—the North remembers, and we will have vengeance for both Lucerys and Rhaenys.”

Jacaerys meets his gaze with a nod of gratitude, his eyes glistening with something more than just determination—hope, perhaps, or at least the stubborn refusal to let despair take root. “Thank you, Cregan. Thank you all. My mother will hear of your loyalty, and when the time comes, I’ll see that those who’ve wronged us pay with fire and blood.”

You reach out, placing a hand on Jacaerys’ arm, drawing his attention back to you. “We’ll see this through together, Jace,” you say softly, yet with unshakable conviction. “For Luke. For our family.”

His lips press into a tight line, but he nods, and in that moment, you see the boy you once knew, the one who would always protect his siblings, no matter the cost. War has hardened him, yes, but it hasn’t broken his spirit. And for that, you’re grateful.

The meeting ends with agreements made, plans solidified. As the lords begin to rise and drift away, you, Cregan, and Jacaerys remain, sharing a moment of quiet amidst the chaos. Thraxata and Vermax can be heard outside, their low growls a reminder that no matter how heavy the burden, you are not alone in this fight.

You glance at Cregan, who offers you a small, reassuring smile, and then at Jacaerys, whose eyes hold the same fire that burns within you. The North may be bound by its duties to the Wall, but when the time comes, it will roar in unison, and the South will tremble beneath the weight of vengeance and justice.

Until then, you steel yourself for the battles to come, knowing that winter is both your enemy and your greatest ally. The North will remember, and so will the world.

The chambers are dimly lit, the glow of the hearth casting flickering shadows across the stone walls. The scent of pine and smoke lingers in the air, mingling with the faint hint of sage and lavender from the herbs hung above the door. Outside, the cold wind howls, but in here, the warmth is grounding—a cocoon that holds only the two of you.

You stand before the fire, watching the flames dance, lost in the flicker of embers. Thoughts of the day’s discussions linger in your mind, heavy like the weight of armor. You’re still processing the event, the decisions, and the weight of what’s to come. But for now, those thoughts seem distant as you feel Cregan’s presence behind you. His steps are soft as he approaches, yet you can sense the strength in each movement. When he wraps his arms around you from behind, drawing you into his chest, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

“Y/N,” he murmurs into your hair, his voice a deep rumble. There’s a tenderness there that you’ve come to cherish—an intimacy that only grows with each passing day. You lean back into him, feeling his warmth seep into your skin, grounding you in this moment, away from the burden of duty and war.

His hands slide over your waist, tracing the curves of your body with a reverence that never fades, no matter how many times he’s touched you this way. “You’re troubled,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to the side of your neck. It’s not a question; he knows you too well.

You close your eyes, allowing yourself to melt into his embrace. “I’ve been thinking… about everything. About Jace, the war, what lies ahead. But mostly… about what I felt in the godswood.”

Cregan’s hands still for a moment, his grip tightening just slightly. He turns you gently to face him, his eyes searching yours, concern and affection mingling in his gaze. “You saw something, didn’t you?” he asks quietly.

You nod, reaching up to cup his face, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, roughened by stubble. “I did, but I don’t want to think about it right now,” you whisper, letting your thumb brush over his lips. “Right now, I just want to feel alive. I want to feel us.”

Something shifts in his gaze, the concern giving way to something deeper, more primal. His hand moves to cradle the back of your neck, drawing you closer, and when his lips finally meet yours, it’s with a passion that sends a surge of heat through you. The kiss is slow at first, a tender exploration, but it quickly deepens, becoming something more urgent, more consuming.

You thread your fingers through his hair, tugging slightly as you press closer, your bodies molding together as if trying to erase any distance between you. His hands roam over you, rough and strong, yet every touch is filled with affection. It’s a contrast that you’ve always found intoxicating—the fierce warrior and the gentle lover, both sides of him intertwined in every caress.

Cregan’s mouth trails down your neck, leaving a line of burning kisses along your skin. “Y/N,” he growls against your throat, his voice thick with desire. “You’re mine.”

You shiver at the possessiveness in his tone, the words igniting something deep within you. “Yours,” you breathe, tugging at his tunic, eager to feel the heat of his skin against yours.

Clothes fall away with hurried hands, the cold air biting at your exposed skin for only a moment before the warmth of Cregan’s body presses against you. You pull him with you, leading him to the bed, his eyes never leaving yours as he lays you down then, his weight a comforting pressure above you.

The passion between you ignites like wildfire. His hands grip your hips as he enters you, and you gasp, arching into him as he moves with a rhythm that feels like a dance, one you’ve perfected together over countless nights. Every thrust is filled with a mixture of desire and love, each one drawing you closer to the edge, making the world beyond these walls fade away until there’s only him—only you.

Your hands roam over his back, nails digging in as the pleasure builds, each moan, each whispered word of affection driving you both higher. There’s a desperation in the way you cling to each other, as if the passion is the only thing anchoring you both in a world that threatens to tear everything apart.

“Cregan,” you gasp, his name a prayer on your lips as you reach that peak together, the intensity of the moment overwhelming. He groans your name, his voice rough and breathless as he collapses against you, burying his face in your neck, holding you as if he’ll never let go.

For a long while, neither of you speaks, content to simply breathe together, hearts pounding in unison. The room is warm, the glow of the fire casting soft light over your tangled limbs. Cregan’s hand strokes your hair absently, his fingers combing through the silver strands as you lay nestled against him.

But eventually, the silence gives way to the thoughts that have been haunting you. You shift slightly, turning to look up at him. His eyes are closed, a peaceful expression on his face, but you know he’s awake, lost in his own thoughts.

“Cregan,” you say softly, drawing his attention. His eyes open, meeting yours, and the concern returns as he sees the seriousness in your expression.

“What did you see, love?” he asks, his voice gentle, though the tension in his jaw betrays his worry.

You take a breath, recalling the frenzied images that had flashed before you in the godswood, the voice that had called your name. “It was like a storm in my mind,” you begin, your voice barely above a whisper. “I heard my name—felt something pulling at me. And then… I saw flashes of fire, blood, wings beating against a sky that burned. There was steel, a crown, and screams lost in the roar of flames. It was so vivid, so real, but I couldn’t make sense of it. And then it was gone, as quickly as it came.”

Cregan listens, his brow furrowed as he considers your words. “The Old Gods speak in riddles and symbols,” he says quietly. “I’ve heard tales of their whispers, of visions granted to those who stand before the weirwoods. But they’ve never been clear—they show what might be, not what is certain.”

You nod, but the unease still lingers. “It felt like a warning, Cregan. Like something terrible is coming, something we’re not prepared for.”

He tightens his hold on you, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Whatever it is, we’ll face it together. You’re not alone in this. The North is with you, I’m with you, and we’ll do everything in our power to protect what we hold dear.”

You close your eyes, letting his words soothe some of the anxiety that gnaws at you. “I know. But there’s so much at stake… and so many unknowns. I can’t shake the feeling that the gods are watching, waiting to see what choices we’ll make.”

“The gods may watch,” Cregan murmurs, his voice a low rumble against your skin, “but it’s our choices that shape the future. Whatever comes, we’ll face it, side by side.”

You find comfort in his certainty, the steady strength he always offers when you need it most. Nestled in his arms, you feel the tension slowly drain from your body, replaced by a sense of peace, however fleeting. For now, the future can wait.

#house of the dragon #hotd cregan #hotd #hotd x y/n #hotd x reader #hotd x you #cregan x you #cregan x y/n #cregan x reader #cregan stark #jacaerys velaryon

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