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retiredteabag · 2 months ago

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Hidden from sight

Synopsis: In a state of humiliation, you attempt to hide an injury from your master, Sukuna, this, of course, does not go to plan.

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Foolish.

That, you were sure, was what Lord Sukuna would call you when you returned to the estate.

He was a harsh, and strict man. He never liked for you to stray from his presence too long, and more than anything else, he was mean. He said what he wanted, and always meant it.

You had begged the king of curses to allow you a day amongst the townsfolk, a day to explore the gardens outside of Sukunas domain, a day to see and hear and feel the world you so rarely saw.

The king, of course, was not too keen on this. You were not a member of kitchen staff, or a concubine, or a groundskeeper either. Like many people on the compound, you were simply a servant to the king. Yet, your relationship was not one that could be compared to your peers.

Beloved to the king, perhaps being too strong of a word. You were special to him, however. He expected your attendance at his meals or downtime. One might think you were close, but the truth of the matter was:

You hardly knew the king.

And he barely spoke to you either.

You had come to the palace an adult, knowing little of the king's mannerisms. Meeting him on rare occasions proved a thrilling experience. He was unlike any man you had ever met.

One evening, your presence was needed in the bath chamber. You had been told to assist in the cleaning of your king. Nonplussed as you were, you pled your case. An uninformed and inexperienced launderer. You were in no position to touch the king, too dirty yourself to even wish for such a position.

Having been told to never deny the king of anything he demanded, you were certain the response would not be one of pleasure. You escaped that day unscathed, a mere,

"Then depart from my sight"

Uttered from him, eyes closed, hand shooing you away.

But time passed and with the phases of the moon, so too did your relationship with the king alter. Night after night you grew more and more certain the king was calling for you directly. You grew acquainted with the king, with his bloodthirsty antics, with his unforgiving nature, with his intolerance for rebellion.

You served him through it all.

Twas' your job.

A launderer.

A foot servant for your employer.

You were sure, he would not be forgiving if you returned to his estate in such disarray. Only having warned you to be mindful a mere two hours prior, you limped from the ache in the side of your pelvis.

Your feet shook on the uneven ground beneath you. You had only just left the village you so desired to see, basket in hand full of goods to bring to your fellow maids. Evening was falling and the memory of the king's warning flooded your mind.

As you had made the trek back, the sight of a deer in the woods had shocked you. Certain you were looking at a curse, you gasped, lunged for cover, and promptly tripped over a stone lining the path through the woods.

Too eager to protect the contents of your basket your hands had been too occupied to catch your weight. You were certain there were scratched on your knees, but the real pain came from just above your hip, where an ill-placed stone had bludgeoned your flesh.

Dark red sept through your kimono, it had never looked so much like your kings. But he would not be pleased. Of this you were sure.

Foolish.

Too easily frightened.

Weak.

You knew little of Lord Sukuna's vast abilities. One thing you knew for certain was that the king had the ability to feel the souls of those around him. He knew when someone was guilty when someone was excited and fearful. He could sense it as if he was feeling those things himself. For this reason, before drawing too close to the palace gates, you steadied your heart and mind, reaching for peace as to not alert Sukuna of your presence so soon.

You went first to the washhouse, and rid yourself of the filthy clothes. After which, you were at once able to see the depth of your injuries. It had hurt, your way back to the palace, but after seeing them for what they were, you had to fight to keep the spike of panic from rising. How could you hide this? Hide it from him?

You wash your kimono of the coppery smell, disposing of it behind a pile of extra wash bins. You occupy your hands by dabbing at the open wound, wrapping yourself in a linen cloth, and dressing in one of the extra cleaning uniforms.

You were so caught up in walking in a straight line back to the estate, you almost forgot your gifts and whine out at the thought of making the trip back to the wash house. But you steel yourself and do it.

By the time you make it to the kitchens, it is far later than you intended. You simply drop the basket off on a staff table, wobbling to your chambers.

All you want is to sleep, to hide yourself from all the noises of the estate night shift, but the throbbing pain in your side is intense, and worse, you've bled through both your linen bandage as well as a laundry uniform. Even so, you are too tired to come up with a way to right this, you decide, that will be the job of tomorrow y/n.

Of course, when you arise the next morning, unable to sit up, you regret your choices of the night prior. Unintentionally a wail escapes your lips, the pain is so deep, so unchanging that you want to cry. You feel the humiliation once again from yesterday, what would Sukuna say if he knew of this? Would he remove you from the estate? Or would he simply look at you with disgust? Would he ever speak to you again?

Something you were sure of, at least, was that there was no way you would be able to work, bent over a wash basin, in the condition you are in. Knowing that, you were concerned with how long you could hide away in your chambers before someone came to get you.

Several maids had already come to speak through your door, asking about your trip, the basket of goodies you left in the kitchen, and eventually, in concerned tones, if you were alright.

You reassured them in a comforting voice that you were quite well but exhausted from your journey and would likely retire before dinner was served.

You had never been up however, still, the other launderers did not question your words, sure you just needed a nights more rest. There was, however, a person in the estate you could never evade, and contrary to popular belief, it was not Lord Sukuna. He certainly did not care enough for you to need to hide yourself from him, however, his loyal servant and chef, Uraume, always had everything in order and was aware of all the "goings on" that occurred within the estate walls.

Only a few minutes after the communal dinner bell was rung did Uraume arrive at your chambers, requesting your presence. Unfortunately, they were not so easy to dissuade. I have no appetite did not work, I long for rest, did not work, I tire from my journey, did not work. None of it worked. They were determined, if nothing else, to see you. There was nothing to be done.

In a grand effort, you slid from your bed to the floor, a dull moan muffled by the mattress as you strained your legs to rise but it was a tireless endeavor. Wincing, you shuddered to the door, opened it a crack to meet th Uraume's stern eyes.

"You are unwell." They announced.

You knew you could not lie, not directly. Still, you attempted to fib your way around it, claiming your menstrual cycle was nearing, but it did not work, claiming you had eaten something foul in the village, they merely squinted at you, you were blundering, grasping for straws. In your desperation, you did not notice Uraume's foot slip out to the threshold, slowly pressing your door ajar.

You had been resting your weight said door, and yelped at the pressure. The chef raised an eyebrow and pressed on more firmly. You called out their name and stumbled to the floor.

"You've been attacked?" They question but the pain is so intense you can simply shake your head, in a show of patience you rarely see from Uraume, they brush the hair from your face.

You knew they could use reversed curse technique on themself, but the management of this injury was something that would likely take time.

In the moments it took Uraume to lift you to your bed, and start to clean your wound they had you recount the story, in between each sentence you begged them to keep this from the king. Do not say a word, I beg, followed by, I pray you wouldn't speak of this, ending your story with Lord Sukuna mustn't know.

Even with all the begging, they never once promised you a thing. Pressing your gouged pelvis more firmly still, they wiped your eyes of tears. And when you finally met their gaze, their look seemed to whisper, do not be stupid. You could only hope.

Your hope had been stupid.

You knew it had been last night when Uraume had bandaged you up, you knew it had been when you fought to dress yourself this morning, you knew it had been when you trudged to the wash house, you knew it had been when you began to set up a bin full of sudsy water and even now, bent painfully over, scrubbing away at towels, you knew of your fate.

You had been invited to dine with the king. Once dismissing yourself for not being worthy to wash your king's body had been shockingly, acceptable at one time. But you knew you could not skirt this. You could not deny your presence to him twice.

And in his presence, you knew you could not hide. Uraume had been the one to collect you before the evening meal, washing you, clothing you, and redressing your wound. You walked with intention now, three steps behind the personal chef to the king. You found, however, that you would not be having dinner in one of the many dining rooms, but rather, in the kings chambers.

In an attempt to plead once more, you made to grab Uraumes robe, they simply gave you a look of greatest disdain, opened the door to Sukunas chambers, and bowed.

You could not meet his eyes, you could feel them as they traced over you. Despite the fiery pain, you fell to your knees. You did not speak, Uraume left, and you stayed glued to the floor.

"I hold no affection for those who hide from me."

You could do nothing but nod in your place on the floor. "Yes, my king."

"You know this."

"Yes, my king." You nod again,

"And yet-" You can hear his voice ever louder, he has gotten up from his place on the bed, coming to you, his steps echoing in your ears. "You evade me like an elusive snake." He paces around you steadily. "You hide yourself from my presence, and you beg" He spits it out, vehement, "beg- Uraume to keep your condition from me."

He has stalked behind you now, and begins to creep ever closer to your side, bending to your position to whisper in your ear,

"Did you believe I could not find you, did you think, even for a moment, you could fool me?" You cannot read his tone, nor his face, too ashamed to look.

He stretches back to his full height. "You have always been the one who's appearance I delight most in. Yet, now, you only appear at my demand. Must I demand you to speak as well in order for you to tell me why you have shamed me so?"

Shaking your head quickly, you heave, "I-I'm sorry! I'm sorry, I did not want to- to show you-" You began but Sukuna cuts you off, whirling around,

"That much is very clear. Tell me why without the blabbering nonsense. I wish not to hear apologies fall from your lips now."

You murmur once more, ashamed, but speak up, "I am such a fool." You look up, resigning yourself, you want to see his face, "I wished not for you to see me as such. I am a weak and poor worker. Please, know, I did not mean to shame you."

Sukuna does not respond. Silently making his way to your form, "You cannot even stand on your own. Do you intend to lay there all night, or do you expect aid to be granted to you?"

He sounds genuinely curious, you are unsure of what to say, you had no plan. Your head falls to your lap but in a sudden movement, Sukuna is before you, one arm stretched out to catch your crestfallen face, "Look at me." He speaks gentler than you have ever heard.

With one hand on your jaw, and another cupping the back of your head he huffs air from his nose. "You are a fool."

You cannot look away from him, but all you want now is to hide your face.

"So very foolish." He speaks clearly, "To hide from me, to work in such a condition." Before his words even hit you, you are struck but the grasping of your waist by his other two hands. His eyes remain open but within a moment all your pain is gone. An unintentional noise escapes you at the immediate relief you are brought.

It cannot be said whether the shock of Sukunas RCT or the grasp he had on you caused you to fall limply into his grasp but you have no time to prepare before he is lifting you tenderly into his arms. An unseen sparkle in his eyes. He carries you the few feet to his bed before he lays you across his lap.

"Your condition is not ideal. You shall not work. You are to stay with me" He is petting your hair rather oddly, as if you are a wounded animal he has found.

Attempting to rise you start, "I feel- I- I must extend my gratitude-"

But he is placing a hand on your stomach to keep you down, "You will extend your gratitude by never hiding from me again."

There is no room for argument. You nod up at him. He has one arm still under your knees, another on your waist, and a third stroking your cheek.

"I will never allow you pain again." He murmurs. "Never again." His palm is large enough to cover your face wholly. "I shall keep you within my sight henceforth."

And it is at this moment that you wonder if, perhaps, you are closer to the king than you had originally thought. If you, by chance, meant something to him? If he had been worried for you. But in your dazed state within your king's arms, you smile to yourself, thinking tiredly of how kindly and merciful he had always been to you.

What you did not yet know, was that it was he that was a fool for you.

〰・♡・〰〰・♡・〰〰・♡・〰〰・♡・〰〰・♡・〰

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entitled-fangirl · 4 months ago

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A gentle wolf.

Cregan Stark x Arryn!reader

Summary: Rumors had spread of the Lord's fierceness. When the reader marries him, she fears if the rumors are true. He defends her at the ceremony, and she believes that perhaps he's just a gentle wolf.

Warnings: talks of sex, cursing, blood and death, crude comments, attempted s.a. (not from our boy), a bedding ceremony, read at your own discretion

A/n: This was based on a few different asks!

Masterlist

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Y/n's father, Lord Arryn,was a firm man. Headstrong, he fought for the best for his children.

When Rickon Stark accepted the proposal of Y/n Arryn to his only living son, Cregan, the smile that came to her father's face was the only one she'd ever seen graze his features.

This betrothal was the highest honor her family could have received.

She had never met Cregan before, but only being eleven, there was much time before she had to worry about such things.

…

The years had moved by quickly, a rapid approach to the girl's end to childish things.

The rumors through the years of Cregan's growing formidable northern spirit increased tremendously.

Perhaps some of them were true.

He's ruthless. Heartless. More animal than human.

She grew fearful of how her future husband would treat her.

"Perhaps he'll finally get the bratty behavior out of you," her brother mused.

Her brother's wife, the future Lady Arryn, hit his chest, "Be gone with you. Do not frighten the poor girl."

When he had left, the woman turned to Y/n to speak, but Y/n beat her to it.

"Will it hurt as bad as they say?" She asked in a hushed tone.

She paused to answer her, careful of her word choices, "It… may not be pleasant, my lady."

She had to swallow the lump that was forming in her throat.

"But I'm sure Lord Cregan will be merciful to you."

She wanted to believe her sister-by-law. She really did.

But even she could not believe the tense look in the woman's eyes.

…

Cregan was just as intimidating as the rumors had made him.

Strong. Hardy. Gruff and unforgiving. Stern and harsh.

Yet his eyes always held an unfamiliar look to them, as if his next move was completely undecided to the person that stared into them.

A small smile came to his face as he held a hand out to her, "I'm sure your family wishes to rest from their long travel. I would be overjoyed to show you Winterfell if you'll allow me."

Y/n looked over to her father, who gave his stern look that he always gave. A silent warning to behave.

She took Cregan's hand with her own, trying to still the small tremor to it. Her voice was meek, "I'd like that, my lord."

"Cregan."

"Hmm?" She questioned.

"My name," he began, "It's Cregan. Please use it."

She nodded, "Very well… Cregan."

His smile grew as he studied the girl. As the two began to walk from the main hall, Cregan softly murmured to one of the servants to show her family to their chambers.

"I do apologize that Winterfell has no lavish garden or beautiful art to view. It's rather lacking in color." He spoke lightly after a while.

She let out a soft breath, relishing in his voice finally. It was low, yes, but not the growl that she had thought it would be.

"However," he continued. "It has formidable walls and a strong structure. Those who stand on this side of it are safer than King's Landing."

She hummed, "I don't believe the North really focuses on color and art over warmth and survival."

A chuckle escapes his throat, "Aye." His steps slow as they near one of the few balconies, "But perhaps you may breathe life into it."

She wanted to turn and question him, but the view from the balcony caught her attention.

He made a motion with his hand, encouraging her to look out.

She took slow steps, reaching the bannister as she looked out at what Winterfell had to offer outdoors.

What she didn't notice was what laid within the walls as well, for Lord Cregan Stark's eyes had softened tremendously as he watched the young woman.

"I'm afraid I don't know how to be a lady," she lightly remarked as she looked over the courtyard.

He stepped forward to her, meeting her at the bannister, "It is not a matter you know, it is one you learn."

When she looked over, she finally took him in.

The man was every bit the wolf they had said. She knew that.

But like every Stark, he was still a man.

"I became the Lord when I was only three and ten," he said. "It was frightening. I was hardly old enough to know the sword, much less to lead such a people as the Northerners." His eyes softened again as he looked into her eyes, "It will come in time. Do not fret."

"Thank you, my lord."

He head tilted lightly, a small twinkle to his eyes.

"Oh. Cregan, I meant," she bit back a small smile at her words.

A surprising chuckle bubbled from him as he looked out over the bannister. "You're a quick learner, pretty girl."

She fought to keep the blush rising to her cheeks at bay.

She couldn't let the wolf sink his teeth into her just yet.

…

She was completely zoned out for the ceremony. She wanted to be involved and remember it, yes. But everything was just too much.

Right now, she focused on the heavy feeling of Cregan's cloak draping over her shoulders as he stated his vows to protect her under his house.

She had already stated her part, leaving her to stare up at Cregan. She couldn't look away from how his breath could be seen in the cold chill.

Her attention reverted back when his hands cupped her cheeks and he leaned down to her, placing a heavy kiss to her lips.

Her hands gripped his wrists, thrown off at the feeling.

When he pulled away, a wide grin was pulled across his face. His forehead rested to hers. "I am yours, and you are mine," he whispered to her.

A breath escaped her lungs at his proclamation.

Perhaps she truly was a lamb brought to appease the wolf.

But then why was the wolf's smile so charming?

…

She sat in her seat anxiously, her entire body practically shaking.

She was supposed to sit with Cregan and enjoy the feast.

But she couldn't stop worrying of the bedding ceremony.

To be naked in front of all these people? It made bile rise in her throat.

"Something amiss?" Cregan asked as he leaned towards her.

She quickly shook her head, "Just nerves is all."

He nodded slowly, debating a thought. Finally, he handed her his own cup, "For the nerves."

Y/n took it gratefully, sipping the dark wine.

She barely noticed when Cregan stood and kissed the crown of her head. "I'll be back momentarily. I've a few guests to greet."

He straightened himself up, leaving the table to disappear into the crowd.

Perhaps a moment alone in her thoughts would be good-

"Excuse me, Lady Stark," a new voice mused.

The lady paused, looking up to the voice. Across the table was a man no older than thirty, his surcoat a bright red. His smile was all teeth, and it put her on edge.

"Lord Bolton, my lady." He bowed his head before letting his eyes rake her form, "I was hoping to ask you for a dance."

"Ah," she quietly acknowledged. Her eyes began to look around for her husband. "I was led to believe that a first dance is required between a husband and his w-"

"-Lord Stark doesn't dance, my lady. Most northerners don't."

"I suppose that makes you… different." She said as she studied him.

He grinned again, "Aye. I suppose so."

With no Cregan in sight and no reason to say no despite wishing to, she nodded and began to stand, "Very well, Lord Bolton."

When she rounded the table, she took his hand, forcing a smile to her face.

The two descended down to the floor as the small quartet began to play.

Lord Bolton's moves were careful and calculated, that much was clear. That alone seemed to describe him wholly as a person as well.

Another man rushed to Bolton, a smile on his face as he leaned to him, "Is it time yet?"

Bolton sighed mid step, "No. I will inform you when it is."

The man sulked off. Before the woman could ask, Bolton made a quick effort to spin her, distracting her from the conversation before.

She tries to ignore the feeling of Bolton's hand on her waist. It's forced, uncomfortable. She feels controlled under his grip.

As the song comes to an end, he makes no move to step away. "I must say, my lady, I have been most eager for this."

"Hmm?"

"The ceremony, I mean. I am quite eager for it."

"What do you mean, my lord?"

His hand reaches up to her cheek, his thumb running along her bottom lip as he stares at it, "To tear your clothes from you and watch you be throughly fucked by your lord husband."

Cregan stood with a cup of ale in his hand, his laughs loud through the hall as he joked with a friend of his. With his back turned to the high table, he had yet to notice his wife's absence from it.

Until a voice whispered in his ear.

His head turned, his face suddenly serious. "Repeat that?"

"The Lady… she danced with Lord Bolton."

His attention was completely lost from the previous conversation as he looked over to the busy floor.

Sure enough, he saw Bolton with his filthy hand on her cheek, his eyes full of lust.

When Bolton reaches up to the shoulder of her dress and tugged harshly, Cregan moved.

A downright mob formed, eager to begin the bedding ceremony of stripping the couple and marching them to their room to consummate. But any body that moved toward Cregan was met with injury.

He pushed and shoved bodies left and right, finally getting to Bolton.

Y/n laid on the floor, pushing Bolton's hands away, as well as others, as they pulled on what material they could. She cried out with every sound of the ripping dress.

Fire filled the Stark, and his voice showed it.

"GET THE FUCK OFF OF HER!" His voice echoed through the hall.

All the attention shot to Cregan, silence filling the room.

He forced himself to breathe. "I said," he muttered lowly, "Get. Away."

One by one, the people stepped away from the girl, creating distance. When Bolton stood, he straightened his clothes, huffing as he did so.

Y/n sat in tears as she pulled up what material she could to cover herself. Her dress was all but tatters, her shift containing large rips that only chilled her already shaking body.

"Bolton," his voice growled out.

A shiver ran down Bolton's spine at the sound of Cregan's voice. He stepped to the man, "My lord?"

"Explain yourself before I murder you at my wedding."

"The bedding ceremony," he said as if it was obvious, "We were beginning the ceremony."

"And I told you there would be no such thing. Did I not?'

"Aye, but it is tradition," Bolton continued.

"Aye, but I'll have your fucking head for this," Cregan mocked him.

Cregan knelt down to Y/n, helping her cover herself in what he could, as well as his own body shielding some of the stares. His voice was soft in her ear, "Are you harmed?"

She moved to speak, but her breath was all hiccups from her tears, so she shook her head instead.

Cregan turned his head to look at the nearest servant.

"Bring me Ice."

Whispers moved across the hall immediately.

What would Lord Stark need with his longsword?

Soon, Ice was in his hand, and he stood from his wife to glare at Bolton. "I'm going to take something from you. But I'm noble enough that I'll let you choose."

Bolton's eyebrows shot up, "Take, my lord? W… What do you-"

"I was not finished," Cregan growled. He paced back and forth in front of the man. "I can take your hand, your tongue, your feet," he paused as a smirk came to his lips, "…or your cock."

"This is outrageous-"

Ice was suddenly pointed at Bolton's throat, "The next words from your mouth will be your answer or I will take your head entirely."

When silence filled the room again, Cregan turned his head barely to his servant again, "Get my cloak for my wife to cover."

When the warmness returned to the woman's shoulders, she pulled the cloak to her as much as she could, hoping it would sooth the chill and embarrassment that had settled into her bones.

"Take her to our chambers," he muttered lowly, not letting his eyes leave Bolton. "I'd hate to ruin her wedding night with the sight of blood."

…

Cregan met her a few hours later as he entered their chambers. His shoulders were still tense and his eyes still held fire, but it was better than before. "Forgive me."

She looked up from the sofa, a new, unripped shift covering her body now. "For what?" She asked softly.

Her eyes were still puffy, her nose a bright red from irritation.

It didn't help his anger.

"I made a vow to protect you under my house and my name and I've already failed you."

"No, forgive me," she sniffled.

His mouth opened to rebut against her, but no words came out.

"I… I did not mean to mislead Lord Bolton. I… I have sullied the Stark name. Dirtied it with… with a mere dance. I am sorry."

Cregan wanted to scoff. "What?"

"I mislead him. He-"

"Quiet," he said. "You've done nothing wrong."

"I've not angered you?"

He took a step to her.

Her sniffles grew to hiccups, "Please don't."

His confusion grew, "What are you speaking of?"

But when he stepped to her again, she flinched away, pushing herself further down the sofa.

"My sweet wife, please speak plainly," he tried to reason with his hands up.

"I… I can be better. Give me a chance, please."

"B…Better?" He scoffed. "You are an image of the Mother herself. I hold no anger to you."

She hiccuped again as she wiped her eyes with her sleeve, "None?"

"No. Only a creature of a man would ever be angered at his wife so. I defended you, did I not?"

Y/n considered his words. She was deep enough in thought that she didn't notice Cregan's closing steps until he was sat on the sofa next to her.

His hand reached up to her chin, pushing her face up to look at him. "I promise. I promise to be entirely too gentle with you."

This was no wolf at all.

All of this time, she feared the Warden of the North. The wielder of Ice. The Stark Wolf.

She hadn't considered that she had married Cregan.

"What have you done to Lord Bolton?" She dared to ask him.

His head tilted, "Enough to help him learn better."

He may have been all of those frightening things outside of their chambers. But for her, he was only Cregan.

He laid her down with careful movements, his touch light as he began to undress her.

…

She was unsure what happened to Bolton that night, but rumors spread throughout the castle that the man's blood had to be cleaned from the Winterfell floors over a dozen times over to get the stain out.

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Taglist: @misswynters, @cosmosnkaz, @sithapprentice, @kaniromi, @lovemesomevesey, @its-jackie-bb, @callsignwidow, 8812-342, @nyxbranwenn, @thorins-queen-of-erebor, @kingdomzeldaquest,

#fanfiction #game of thrones x reader #house of the dragon fanfiction #cregan stark x reader #cregan stark x you #house of the dragon #cregan stark x y/n #game of thrones fanfiction #game of thrones x y/n #game of thrones imagine #house of the dragon fanfic #house of the dragon imagine #cregan stark x female reader #cregan stark x wife reader #cregan stark #cregan stark imagine

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graceintorah · 2 years ago

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The Unforgiving Servant

The vast mercy, grace, and abounding chesed (lovingkindness) of our Father and King culminates in His willingness to forgive. So, as recipients of His lavish love, why do we often prefer vengeance, pay back, and punishment when wrongs have been committed against us? The parable of the unforgiving servant demonstrates this truth perfectly; and yet, I wonder if we really can see just how much we…

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#Cain #Counting the Omer #Erekh Apayim #forgiveness #Jonah #Lamech #longsuffering #Love #Mussar #Parable of the Unforgiving Servant #patience #Speaking the Truth in Love #The 13 Attributes of Mercy #Yom Kippur

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marthawrites · 8 months ago

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Could you write smut for Aemond targaryen with the prompts 17,40,44,47,53 and 54 maybe with a targaryen reader? Just something gentle, sweet and soft <3 btw I’m talking abt this prompt list

I absolutely can! Apologies for making you wait since January for this. I hope you're still around to see (and, fingers crossed) enjoy it!

"Vok" (Perfect)

Aemond Targaryen x sister reader

Word count: 2.6k+

About: You and Aemond pledged to each other long ago. Tonight, beneath the blanket of darkness, you revel in each other's adoration.

Includes: SMUT. Featuring brother x sister incest, Aemond is soft but only to his little sister, dirty talk, female masturbation, guided masturbation, praise, unprotected vaginal sex, and a splash of breeding kink

Note: Hello lovely reader! It's been a hot minute since I've wrote Aemond - the posters and trailers have me going (affectionately) insane! Triple warning: this fic is brother x sister targcest. If you do not like that KEEP ON SCROLLING. This is my first time writing this dynamic. Reader is implied to have silver hair, pale skin, and purple eyes. Everything else is up to you! As always, I hope you enjoy this fic! ❤️

To the realm, Aemond Targaryen was the cruel prince. Aloof, stoic, unforgiving.

To the realm, he was an ambitious and willful young man who rode Vhagar, the largest and oldest dragon in the world–the same dragon who helped Queen Visenya conquer Westeros.

To the realm, he was the second son of King Viserys. And, as such, would play the game of nobility by putting duty above love–marrying outside of his Targaryen lineage to seed dragons further into the world.

To you, his little sister and second daughter of King Viserys, he was your protector.

Your secret.

A poorly kept secret in some corners of the castle; nosy servants and their obnoxious fucking tendencies. But, with Aemond’s less than idle threats about cutting the tongue out of anyone’s throat who would speak about it, it ended up being a well-kept secret.

The second son and second daughter of the Dragon King; who better to love, and cherish, and pledge to, than each other?

Aemond would sooner die than see you marry off to some lowly lord of a “great” House. You were the blood of Old Valyria. Everyone–no matter their feats–was lowly in comparison to you. And you, his sweet sister, deserved only the best.

Barely a year separated your ages. Neither of you remembered a life without the other.

Long before you gave your maidenhead to your brother you gave him your heart. And your heart he held.

The night was late. These dark hours were some of the only unadulterated times you had together. Aemond kissed you slowly, passionately, gently stroking along your cheeks with his thumbs as he did. You were tangled in his bed together. You, stripped down to only your shift, and him, stripped down to only his sleep trousers. One of your shift’s thin straps kept sliding down your shoulder, and each time it did Aemond’s warm mouth kissed over the smooth lovely skin. You panted soft sounds–each feminine simper jolting right to his cock–as he lavished you in affection.

“You’re kissing me silly, lēkia (brother). My head feels full of bees and I’m hot. So, so hot,” you whispered against his kiss-swollen mouth. “Will you not feel for yourself?” He hadn’t yet made a move to touch you where you really, truly, wanted him; something that had you whining and pouting. While his hands alternated between stroking your face and groping your body–waist, hips, thighs–yours were buried in his hair. It was all down and free. The silken sheet of it spilled over his shoulders, spilled over you, and you relished the feel of it inside your hands. Against your bare skin. “Please?”

“Please what, hāedar? (little sister)” He asked, voice mellow with just the right amount of rumble from his chest.

“Please touch me,” you answered, back naturally arching to press your soft body against the hard planes of his own.

Another low sound came from him. He pressed a warm, wide palm up the perfect curve of your back until he squeezed into the nape of your hair. “Such a pretty word from a pretty mouth. Have my kisses made you ache with need, byka zaldrīzes (little dragon)?”

“Yes.” The single word, its single syllable, rolled off your tongue before your brain even fully registered his question. You stared at him desperately. One eye was so beautiful; so ancient in its color and proclamation, just like your own. The other reflected faceted edges of the sapphire he wore in place of his missing eye. You didn’t know which was more enchanting.

“How long can you go, hm? Without me touching you?”

“W-what?”

He laughed. A rumble beneath his pale, taut chest. “How long before you succumb to madness by me not touching your perfect cunny?”

“Aemond…,” you whined. Pitiful. “Not much longer! Please, lēkia, I need you, please.”

A serpent’s grin curved his mouth and darkened his eye as he shifted positions with you. Now, he sat upright with his back against his headboard and pulled you to sit in front of him.

You nestled between his legs, your back flush with his chest, and his stiff cock rested against the small of your back. A blush bloomed beneath your cheeks. You knew lust ran as wild in his veins as it did in yours.

“Tell me, sweet sister…,” he started, whispering by your ear. Both his hands cupped and squeezed over your breasts. Their softness melted against his palms and he groaned at the sensation. Perfect. You were so fucking perfect. “Have you touched yourself to peak before?”

A stammer replaced the little mewl in your throat. “H-how do you mean?”

He laughed again, pinching your nipples. “Mm… are you sure?”

Lust and need and fire roared in your blood to the point of almost drowning everything else out. “I d-don’t understand,” you admitted. But, it was a lie. You knew what he meant. You could only hope he’d go easy on you so you wouldn't have to admit, prove, or say you knew what he spoke of.

“Why are you playing shy with me, hāedar? I think you know exactly what I mean. There is no shame in it,” he spoke sly, hands pushing the hem of your shift up until he held the material in a fist upon your abdomen. With his other hand he tugged your smallclothes down your bare legs, tossing them off. The flats of all his fingers ghosted over your exposed cunt. Testing you. Feeling you. He hissed an inward breath. “Fuck–”, he growled. “‘Tis a good thing I was born a prince. Gods know if I had this wet little cunt between my thighs I wouldn’t get anything done. Ever. For how often I’d fuck myself silly on my own fingers.”

Aemond’s vulgarity sent a coil of tension wringing in your belly. Slick arousal pooled hotter beneath his touch. Your clit throbbed–the little pearl silently screaming for attention. “Yes,” you breathed, shuddering.

“Yes, what?”

Your older brother wasn’t going easy on you. “Yes. I… I know what you speak of. And.. yes, I do. Sometimes…,” you admitted with a wave of embarrassment.

Somehow he grew harder against the small of your back. He throbbed. “Show me,” he demanded.

“What! Aemond, no. Please, please, please no. Don’t make me show you.” Mortification replaced your previous embarrassment. Yet, your spine quivered with another rush of liquid arousal.

“I would love nothing more than to see how you bring yourself pleasure. Do you think of me when you do, byka zaldrīzes?”

You nodded. Dizziness warbled your brain.

“Such a sweet perfect thing,” he cooed. He'd felt that nervous energy tense you. He also saw the exquisite thrum of your pulsepoint beneath your neck, too. Two sides of the same coin: carnal desire. When he spoke again it dripped with wicked passion. “Don’t be nervous, I'll guide you through it.”

It had been quite some time since you last brought yourself to climax all on your own. Aemond was always more than eager to give you pleasure. Tonight, however, something was different. Idly you wondered what it could be. Before you thought about it too much, Aemond guided your dominant hand to that delicate space between your thighs. You gasped at the sensation of your own touch. Torture never felt so divine. Your little bud sang as you circled it, rubbed over it. You sighed sweetly. “How did you make me so wet?”

It took controlled effort to not spill himself across your back at that very moment. “Spread your legs for me, princess. Let me see and hear what you’re doing.”

You obeyed. With your legs spread wider, now, it was all the easier to resume your previous motions. Flicking and rubbing over your bud felt divine–excited little sounds already spilled from your mouth. You ached inside, too, wanting–needing–to be stretched around something. The memory of Aemond's long fingers pumping into you while his thumb claimed your clit had your face hot. You couldn't reach those same spots he could. You bit your bottom lip, whimpering.

Aemond watched from above with a hungry lecherous eye. Beneath your shift he could see your breasts, slope of belly… and then further below, your creamy thighs spilled wide open. Fuck–he was so hard his back hurt. Your girlish sounds sent his desire blazing. “Your little clit is so achy, isn’t it? I know how much you like it played with,” he said by your ear. “Do you ever go inside?”

You nodded, allowing your head to fall back against his shoulder. You stayed on your pearl, still, legs tensing with bliss as it warmed and tingled your blood.

“Show me,” he growled again. “Be a good girl. And afterward? Don’t worry, I'll take care of you. Promise.”

Without hesitation you pushed two of your fingers into your warmth. Your body squeezed around the intrusion, inner walls flexing, trying to pull them in deeper. A gasped moan left your parted lips. “I-I’ve never done this before.” You’ve never shown anyone this before is what you meant. Aemond knew what you meant.

“I know. Shh… it’s okay, I'll guide you through it.” He gently touched the top of your hand and relished your little tendons flexing with the effort of your self pleasure. He pushed–coaxing your fingers deeper, silently urging you along. More.

Soon the wet sounds of your hand against pink swollen flesh mingled with your moans. Lewd. Dirty. You tried to stay quiet. You really did. But it felt too good, and Aemond’s hand on yours guiding you along had your toes curling. Of course he would help you. Of course he wouldn’t let you do it all on your own. “Aem..!,” you whimpered, hips rocking with your movements. “‘M close.”

“I got you,” he whispered, voice heavy.

As soon as your fingers found that little patch of hidden nerves along your walls, you weren’t able to hold on much longer. The bliss, all at once, became too much. Tension snapped in your belly as colors flashed behind your closed eyelids. Your legs trembled at the tip of your peak, and as you crested downwards Aemond held you tighter against him.

“Vok (perfect),” he said as he watched you. How perfect you were with your silver hair framing your face. How perfect you looked when ecstasy became too much. How fucking perfect your eyes were as they opened and locked on his, bright and glassy with excitement.

You carefully pulled your fingers free and began to turn around to face him. Before you could, however, he held you tighter against him. Confusion furrowed your brow and whatever you were about to say was cut off by his impatience.

“I’m greedy, byka zaldrīzes. Go on, one more time. I know you can do it. Show me again how you peak.”

Without arguing you again settled back against him. You planted your feet along the outside of his legs, spilling your thighs open wider than they were before. You angled your hips to the perfect position and this time a third finger joined your previous two. This time you fucked yourself without shame–not that you held on to it long in the first place.

Aemond all but snarled behind you, absolutely ravenous at the sight of three of your little fingers pumping and curling up into your body. He moved a hand downward, too, and the pads of those fingers worked over your clit in time with your pumps.

“Gods! Aem–!” You quivered against him. The addition of his lascivious attention had your hips squirming. Wanton moans, no longer trying to stay quiet, had your mind blanking. Nothing existed outside of you and Aemond. Nowhere existed outside of the spaces in which your bodies touched. Climax found you faster this time. Your second orgasm had you crumbling against him. Sweat sheened your brow. Your face bloomed. Sated. You were wholly sated.

“Good girl,” he praised. “Such a good girl. Giving me exactly what I wanted,” he kissed you, stealing your lips in a kiss that had you floating all over again. You could have fallen asleep right there in his arms and been the happiest thing in the realm. Breaking away, he added, “now I’ve a promise to make up to you, hm?”

Honestly, you’d forgotten about it. But, now that he mentioned it, your belly did a silly little flop.

With great care, Aemond moved from behind you and stood. Offering a hand to you, he said, “take your clothes off and lay on your back.”

And with that, you both finally shed the last pieces of your clothing.

Laying like he said, you leaned back on your elbows to prop yourself up to still see your brother. Spilled messy hair, tall lean body littered with nicked scars, sapphire eye on full display…hard cock blushed angry red with need. They say Targaryen’s are closer to Gods than men, and with the hearth’s orange light reflecting on his ivory form, you believed him to be a God.

Aemond thought the same about you as you laid there bathed in the moonlight and hearthlight.

“Spread your legs for your lēkia, I want to see you.”

As soon as you did–proudly showing off the slick mess of two climaxes, Aemond pumped along his rigid length. Despite butterflies twirling in your belly, your smile up at him was purely feline.

To Aemond’s credit, his voice only broke slightly when he said, “get on your hands and knees.”

You did. You dipped your spine as low as it could comfortably go, propping your ass up for him. As much as he loved fucking you with your legs wrapped around his waist, you knew he loved this position, too. “Māzigon va, lēkia (come on, brother),” you purred. “Keep to your promise.”

In an instant one of his hands squeezed harshly into the fat of your hip while the other spread the meat of your ass apart. He planted one foot firmly on the bed, and the other stayed rooted on the ground. The position gave him more leverage, and power, and control as he loomed above you. With a flex of his entire abdomen he pushed forward; the hot stretch of your body around him had both of you gasping. “I plan on leaving a babe in your belly tonight, hāedar. That way mother will have no other choice than to wed us,” he groaned, pulling backwards only to snap his hips against the smooth underside of your cheeks once again. And again.

You fisted the sheets as Aemond fucked you. You moaned your delight at his words, nodding. “Yes, please,” you panted. “Faster,” you begged.

His thrusts were precise and brutal. The slap of your smacking skin was utterly depraved and you hated–no, loved–how it made you impossibly wetter. Aemond did too. “Already squeezing around me? Fuck–I’m not going to last much longer,” he said, strained.

You began to push back against him, meeting his thrusts halfway with a frenzied need to make him release. “Fill me. Fill me up, Aem,” you still begged, breathing heavily.

He rutted against you with the same need–a primal haze taking over as his stones began to tighten. His fingers dented firmly into your flesh as he continued plunging in and out of you. Instinct to spill his seed built by the moment and soon he became sloppy. He grunted and growled, and with a final shove–cock buried as deep as it could be inside your walls–he spent against your body’s end. Pulse after mighty pulse emptied his spend into you. Stray strands of hair stuck to a sheen of sweat upon his forehead.

You joined him in peak; left boneless and exhausted after three orgasms. Even at the top of your bliss, and his, he never eased until you were both done.

Aemond pulled his softening length out from you and urged you to fall forward upon his bed. You followed his motion and happily laid there. Naked, glowing, and full. You reached a hand out to pull him to you. “Avy jorrāelan (i love you).”

Aemond easily settled next to you, scooping you into him. “Avy jorrāelan tolī (i love you too),” he said between slow, satisfied kisses.

Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed, please consider a follow, and/or reblog, and/or letting me know as it all makes me vvvery happy! ♥

To be added or removed from the taglist, hit me up!

Masterlist

Main taglist: @watercolorskyy @melsunshine @girlwith-thepearlearring @arcielee @barbiedragon @targaryen-dynasty @succnfuccubus @fan-goddess @schniiipsel

Aemond taglist: @darylandbethfanforever9 @bellaisasleep @aemondsblog @khaleesihel @sirenofavalon @doublesparrows @aemonds-fire @nikstrange @abbyandizzysmum @rafeism @lost-and-founds @castellomargot @avidreader73 @snh96 @boofy1998 @connorsui

#house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #aemond x reader #aemond smut #aemond fic #aemond request #aemond imagine

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lovelyyandereaddictionpoint · 5 months ago

Text

Yandere Elite Serial Killer (2)

Part 1

Like frightened deer you scatter

In your opinion, you get pretty far

At one point climbing up high to see where the lights of the small town were

You were making great time

“(Y/n)! Down here!”

The sun was rising and while you were hesitant you did go to meet ‘Piggie’

She seems high-spirited for such a horrible situation

But she shares the berries she’s found that weren’t poisonous

And clues you in on some helpful camping knowledge

So you’re none the wiser when you feel a sharp pain in the back of your head

Waking bleary-eyed to the tight hold of a bloody rope around you

The sun has long since set and all you can gather is that you're tied to a tree

You hesitate to call for the girl only for somebody’s nails to dig into your scalp

It's her and she looks deranged covered in dirt and blood (it doesn’t look like it's hers)

Being sure to throw rocks and kick at you for emphasis she explains how she already knows the major twist of this hunt

They own the town

No help would have been given if you had arrived there

Or even to the airport

So she says she’s going to stand her ground to entrap them the second they come for the bait

And the bait just so happens to be you

When you ask her why it’s because she hates your pity

“At least when they kick me in the dirt they have the decency to know I belong there!”

She sounds demented

But determined

So much so you’re sure if this was a movie she’d be the 'final girl'

But you’re here so that’s not happening

Hearing sticks snap and bushes shake you’re sure they’re on the way

So you shut your eyes in fear

Saying your final prayers as you feel the heat of another person stalking up to you

“How disappointing I expected you to get farther.”

It sounds like something he’d say before lobbing off your head

So you prepare for the oncoming blow

Only to hear a shotgun fire off

‘Piggie’ screams

So you look up to see Wille grinning madly in that direction before turning back to you

He holds your face gently but firmly

Turning your head as he examines you

“She really did a number on you.”

He sighs snapping his fingers

An unknown masked person cuts through the ropes

Holding you on their back and securing the back of your knees

“Take them back to my room and patch them up I’ll gladly delight in my prize once I’ve finished.”

Wille takes off in a giddy sprint as he watches another masked servant drive off in a quad bike with you on the back

Now that the only real stake in this hunt is out he can really let loose

He’s been doing this for a long while

Enticing the masses at whatever new college or preparatory school he could

Providing a plentiful harvest for his family

And it’s great for a while but unfortunately, he just hasn’t found what’s missing

His mother and father have each other and their pets respectively

His brother does as well

And then his sister…well she enjoys just hunting

But he was never like her

He took care of his appearance more, grew his hair long, and wasn’t pretending to be an apathetic prick

Though he could see how easy it was to become that way

He hates how forward people are when they want something from him or his family

He does admire the tenacity of the poor

But among the fellow rich?

Absolutely unforgivable

He can only imagine the terrified faces he stalks being that of those hated elites

And of course, in the midst of a mission to harvest is when he becomes aware of you

It’s not really any one thing you do

You just happen to exist close enough to his latest harvest grounds

It’s not your college but something of a rival school

And all it takes is one mutual and he’s whipped

Suddenly he’s decided that you're the perfect one for him

The prize that’s greater than anything he could buy

To be Continued

#yandere x reader #yandere x you #lovelyyandereaddictionpoint #yanderexrea #yandere #yanderes #yandere oc x you #yandere oc #yandere oc x reader #yandere rich oc #yandere elite serial killer #yandere serial killer #yandere serial kiler oc #yandere rich killer #yandere original character #yandere original characters #yandere oc elite serial killer #yandere ocs x reader

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beloveds-embrace · 4 hours ago

Text

Dukedom au masterlist (yes i need to update it ik) and we will not talk abt the abrupt ending 😭

The grand ballroom of glittered with the light of a thousand candles, their flames dancing across marble floors and golden fixtures hung from the ceilings. A symphony played softly in the background, a perfect complement to the hum of ongoing conversation and chatter. You stood at the center of it all, draped in a gown of midnight blue silk, embroidered with silver thread that mirrored the stars. A gift from Simon, one that had you staring at the beautiful dress in awe.

Tonight, you were the very image of grace and poise.

Your face and movements are calm and collected, hiding what you truly feel beneath. Lately, whispers of dishonor had begun circulating; rumors that your husband had fled a border skirmish back when he’d been deployed, abandoning his men, yet had paid for the matter to be buried. Vile lies, born of cowardice and malice. John’s name, his reputation, and the honor of your house were at stake; disloyalty towards the empire was seen as treason, and that was unforgivable.

You would not allow it.

The first spark of rage had ignited the moment you’d overheard the vile accusations from another lady, one of your more arrogant rivals who had laughed snidely. From there, the rumors spread like wildfire, poisoning the halls of the court and society.

But you were no stranger to such games like these. Tonight, after much planning, you’ll put an end to this farce.

You began with your loyal ladies-in-waiting. Each one owed their position to you, and in return, they offered their unwavering loyalty. “Listen carefully,” you instructed them during a private meeting in your sitting room, the door locked behind you. “Go into the court, the markets, the salons- anywhere whispers thrive. I want names, places, and patterns. Who speaks these lies, and who listens too closely?”

They curtsied and departed without hesitation, melting into the bustling world outside of the manor. Meanwhile, you turned your attention to your maids and house staff. Servants were the lifeblood of any noble house, privy to secrets thought hidden.

You met with them personally with Kyle’s help, ensuring they understood the stakes. “Speak subtly,” you said, your voice calm but firm. “Let it slip that those who spread these rumors do so for their own gain, that there’s no substance to the rumors. Plant doubt. Create cracks.”

“As you wish, my lady.” Kyle nods his head, hands on your waist. He leans down, and kisses your forehead, and you smile all sweet and pretty at him. “Whatever you want.”

While you wove your network of spies, John watched quietly from the shadows of the manor. Though he trusted you implicitly, he couldn’t help but feel a mixture of awe and unease. He didn’t want to doubt you, but he worried nonetheless for you.

In his study, he sat with Kyle.

“How’s she faring?” John asked, puffing a cigar as he leaned back in his chair. Papers were scattered on his desk, though they didn’t require immediate attention or replies. Pressed close to Kyle, bodies warm, he didn’t want to go back to working for now.

Kyle hesitated for a moment, choosing his words carefully. “She’s… efficient, John. The staff is utterly devoted to her even without my help. I’ve seen no signs of hesitation in her plans.”

John chuckled dryly, though there was a flicker of appreciation in his eyes. “I am not surprised. She’s scarier than any battlefield, Kyle. And they love her.”

With the groundwork laid, you began preparing to host a big gala at the manor. Invitations were sent far and wide, carrying the promise of exquisite dining, captivating entertainment, and the opportunity to curry favor with one of the most powerful families in the region.

None dared refuse.

Johnny worked tirelessly to ensure every detail of the menu was flawless, and though he would have helped anyways, he still enjoyed all the kisses he got as reward from yoh. “You’re pilin’ it on thick, Duchess,” he remarked one evening, wiping his brow as he inspected a rack of lamb. “Even for you.”

“This isn’t just a party, Johnny,” you replied, humming. “This is war.”

“War it is, then. Anything for you, bonnie.” he muttered, diving back into his work with renewed determination. After a very heated look from you that had him preening, though; he looked handsome in his element. And you’ll make sure to really show him your appreciation for all his hard work later, in the privacy of your rooms.

At every other gala and gathering, you moved through the crowd like a dancer with a purpose. You guided conversations subtly, planting seeds of doubt and faltering those who tried to be a bit too brave- and your reputation as a “people’s princess” helped so greatly. Your allies- the few you trusted among the nobility-played their roles perfectly.

Simon, especially. You had specifically asked for his help, curled warm and cozy on his lap one night. He’d kissed you breathless and told you he would always be there for you.

“Lord Marcan, was it?” Simon mused during one party, his glass of whiskey balanced effortlessly in his hand. The others immediately listen to him; though he isn’t the most talkative noble, his words carry weight. “I’ve heard some interesting things about him. Did you know he’s deeply in debt? I wonder how far a man would go to escape ruin.”

The other nobles exchanged glances, uncertainty flickering across their faces. You watched from a distance, satisfied as Simon delivered the blow with effortless charm.

Your web was nearly complete, each thread pulling tighter around Lord Marcan- the instigator of the rumors- until he had no room to maneuver. At the final ball of the season, the one hosted by you and John, you made your final move.

You descended the grand staircase as the guests gathered, your presence commanding attention. At your signal, the servants unveiled a surprise: a performance of actors reenacting a scene from an old skirmish. But this was no ordinary play; it was a dramatized retelling of that battle, one that highlighted John’s bravery and leadership even when Lord Marcan had tried to say John had fled that day.

The crowd was entranced, all earlier doubts finally wavering and shattering. You saw Marcan shift uncomfortably, his face pale as his lies unraveled before him and eyes turned towards him in disgust.

From the balcony above, John watched with Simon and Kyle at his side. “She’s terrifying.” he murmured, though his voice carried a note of awe.

Simon smirked. “You married a bloody tactician.”

Kyle simply nodded. “She fights for you, for us, John. And she wins.”

By the end of the evening, Lord Marcan was a broken man and his wife, Lady Marcan who had laughed at you by the rumor, was seething. Their allies abandoned them, their name tarnished by his cowardice and deceit and her aftions.

And the rumors about John’s supposed abandonment of his men? Gone.

That night, as you removed your jewelry in the quiet of your chambers, John approached you. His hands rested on your bare shoulders, his touch warm and grounding.

“You’ve been busy, beloved.” he said, his voice soft but laced with admiration.

“I did what needed to be done.” you replied, meeting his gaze in the mirror. “I know you could have simply challenged him to a duel… but we didn’t have full confirmation it was him who started. I had to do it this way.”

He leaned down, pressing a kiss to your temple. “You’re terrifying, love. But I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

From the shadows of the room, Simon leaned casually against the doorframe. “She’s not wrong, John. Best keep on her good side.”

Johnny’s voice echoed from the hallway as he came by with a tray of food. Kyle comes as well, carrying glasses of wine. “Aye, and keep feeding her. Keeps her from plotting.”

Kyle sighs, though he has a smile on his face as he sets the glasses down and instead comes to help you. “…he isn’t exactly wrong. You were incredible…. And scary.”

“Perfect, in other words.” John hums, an eyebrow raising. You do not have enough time to ask anything before he and Kyle are gently turning you around on the seat, face to face with John who kneels down. “You’ve worked so hard for me, for us, my Duchess. Let me take care of you now, hm?”

“John…“

“No more words, my love,” he shakes his head, Kyle’s hands reaching to unlace your dress, your corset, until your breasts spill out. John doesn’t even seem mildly bothered by the layers of your skirt, flipping them up until you are indecent in front of your men and he is face to face with your panties. The way they look at you, so much want…

You don’t mind. The slick spot forming speaks more than enough anyways.

“Tonight,” John murmurs, kissing your inner thighs. “Will be all about spoiling you, wife.”

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1920sladydectective · 5 days ago

Note

Mhhhhh, maybe

-Ambessa x Babett's "Worker"

-A captuered War Prize 😌

But also

-A Servant of Hers

Please dont feel forced to write anything, Just saw your request and wanted to give Suggestions.🙊💕

Hello darling! Thank you for the ideas, whilst I may visit them all I have done a captured war prize for now. It was supposed to be short and sexy but then it became..this? She plays the slow game and conquers the reader in other ways.

I hope you like it, thank you for the support <3

I haven't proof read it much because I am literally exhausted lol

MDNI 18+

Warnings - Manipulation, Mind Games, Captive, Degradation, Pet names, Reader doing accidental voyeurism, Oral, hair pulling.

Her Prized Possession - 3.8K NSFW

They’d come through like a tornado, ripping apart your entire life and feasting on the rubble. People had fled, terrified of the swift and unforgiving invasion. Those who remained were rounded up and tossed into carts. The ground shook, frightened by the fury of Noxus and at the heart of it all was her. Ambessa Medarda was renowned for her cruelty, her efficiency and most of all her greed.

You were the perfect example of that.

You had been pulled from your apothecary’s hut, cotton dress filthy from your attempts to hide. They raided you of your life’s work, people throwing you into a pile of frightened villagers. The air shifted, the soldiers straightening as certain steps commanded their attention. Without looking up you knew it was her, and fury burned bright. This self obsessed, pompous woman had destroyed your life and for what? She lingered a step away, sword raised lazily as if taunting farm yarn animals. You only had a few seconds, and even if it was fruitless you had to try.

As others cowered, obeying her cruel words, you slipped your fingers around the knife in your sock and shot forward. Somehow it made contact, slicing a gash into her leg, trailing down her leg.

“Monster,” You snarled.

You were risen into the air by your hair, a pained yelp leaning you as you stared into the eyes of a hungry beast. Golden eyes gazed at you, surprised and amused. You were going to die now, and she was laughing in your face.

“She’ll do,” She said easily, throwing your body at the ground behind her, before wandering off with no sign of injury. Confusion had eaten you until two lean Noxian soldiers had appeared, spears in hand.

Their touch was uncomfortably gentle, ushering you like a scared dog from the village into an imposing, structured tent. Fear licked at your bones, a fate worse than death settling on you like a thick cloak. Maids with pretty eyes and practised fingers removed your dress and replaced it with a soft red silk slip. Oh. You were a prize, an object like the towering pile of goods in their camp, to be used and discarded.

It didn’t take long for them to chain you to a small post next to a large, velvet armchair. There you sat, resting on your knees on cold marble. You felt ornamental, your humanity dripped away as you merged with the surroundings. You could only be thankful that it was warm in the tent, for the winter winds howled outside as afternoon beckoned.

When she entered you refused to look up, muscles tensing.

“Sulking, are we Dear?” It was honeyed, as fabric dropped to the floor, “I wouldn’t, it was a good hit, if you’d gone up slightly it might have even done something,”

Your cheeks coloured with frustration. You hated her, hated how small she made you feel, how effortlessly she had crushed you. Worst of all you hated the beauty she wielded. Like a serpent, blinding you with glittering scales as she wound around you, squeezing you till you burst.

“Don’t tell me you’re ignoring me now,” She pouted, summoning your eyes instinctively, “There she is, brave warrior,”

You frowned, “I suppose it’s not enough that I’m here, you have to mock my only agency,”

Ambessa moved forward leisurely, in only black underwear and a robe, settling into her armchair, “I never mock a bold manoeuvre, little one, no matter how fruitless,”

She tugged you forward slightly, your head forced to rest on her thigh as she poured a cup of tea. You grunted, staring at the rug between her legs as she intertwined her fingers in your hair. Her touch was kind and repetitive, caressing your locks as she picked up a book and began to read aloud. Adrenaline was drowning you but your anticipation garnered nothing. She stayed like this for hours, muttering to you. The fire and her touch forced you into acknowledging your exhaustion. Occasionally she would offer water, fingers wielding a crystal glass for you. It took five tries for you to accept, your throat aching from dehydration. You were rewarded with a scratch under your chin as her voice continued to wash over you. In another life this would have filled you with contentment and it grated at you.

Moments later you were being moved again, picked up as though a feather to rest on her silky thighs. The hand she reattached to your head pushed you into the crook of her shoulder, her smell potent and warm. Iron and sweat clashed with spices and sea air, leaving your flagging mind woozy. You couldn’t escape and you had no way of harming her, so sitting in her lap became your only option.

You hadn’t noticed your fluttering eyelids and heavy breath until your stomach growled, cramping at its emptiness. Her voice stopped immediately as the book slammed shut. Those eyes, now kind, surveyed you. With a melodic ring, a bell to her side beckoned two maids.

“What do you wish to eat?” Ambessa asked, tucking a strand behind your ear, “I shall share whatever you have,”

“Pork stew,” You muttered, desire for food and comfort outweighing your doubts. If she’d wanted you dead, you’d be a corpse.

“A local delicacy, I’m told,” Her words are in your ear, lips practically against them.

The food arrived faster than you’d thought possible, steaming and hearty in little gold bowls. Your stomach interjected again, eyes wide and desperate. To your immense surprise, she undid your shackles and allowed you to feed yourself. Though you were still anchored to her lap by a strong arm, this newfound freedom caused a rush of joy. The stew was exceptional, though more decadent than you ever would have had it. The chef must have had a heavy hand with the spices, no cares as to their cost, the heat flooding you. Ambessa seemed comforted too, her portion over double yours as you watched in subtle amazement at her appetite. It could have fed a family of four from your village with ease.

Whatever plans she had for you, it seemed she would not be enacting them tonight. Your silk slip was a nightgown and nothing more, as she moved with you through the tent into an adjoining room with a large, fur covered bed.

“Now then,” Her hand held your chin, “Shackles for bed tonight, wouldn’t want you wandering off until you’ve proved your loyalty,”

Loyalty? That’s what she wanted?

The metal felt warmer than before, less weighted as she clasped it shut and bundled you up. Her form slid in next to you, though she mercifully did not insist you touch her. You did not speak, unable to give her the satisfaction after having to tolerate so much, though she wished you a tender goodnight.

Your sleep was fitful, filled with slashing blades and burning embers. You awoke alone, furs wrapped tight. A slip of parchment was to your left in a sharp hand.

I shall be away all day,

There are clothes and some books on my armchair for you.

Mira will see to anything you need,

A.M.

True to her word, a slight serving girl entered the moment you moved to the main space, trays of food and drink with her. She helped you dress, braided your hair and even undid the shackles.

“Lady Medarda said this is a show of trust,” Her words were clear, as if dictating from a note, “If you attempt anything, guards will be on you before you can lift a scrap of the tent’s fabric,”

“Lovely,” You grumbled to yourself, “Her trust gives me the ability to lift a glass unaided,”

“If you behave she will bring your medical journals and allow you to sleep without restraint,” She said, a smile on her face. Of course she had predicted you’d complain.

The book she had read to you yesterday was in the pile and after breakfast you found yourself wanting to learn its conclusion. Warm in the wool trousers and jumper Ambessa had provided you, you sat in the chair and finished it. If Mira had any opinions about you sitting in her Mistress’s chair she did not voice them, and the small rebellion quieted some of the caged panic that rattled in your chest. Her slowness to act just gave you time to think of an escape plan and then you could get away elsewhere

The sun set quickly, your time wasted with dozing and books as you memorised each corner of the room. Though this was technically a tent, it was secured enough to act as a house, with the only way out being forward which wasn’t a way out at all. Lady Medarda ensured that.

When Ambessa returned dinner had long since passed, and you had begrudgingly put yourself to bed. The curtain parted and her fatigued face came into view.

“There you are,” She sighed, “I thought you would have dug a tunnel out of here by now,”

“Cutlery’s too dull, no doubt a coincidence,” You found yourself quipping, observing the way her mouth creased into a grin.

“No need for a sharp knife when your meat is tender,” She purred, moving to the other side of the bed and removing her outer clothes, “Did you have a restful day?”

She seemed genuinely interested, and not for the first time you wondered where the wolf had gone. Shifting your tactics in the hopes of softening her, you gave a muffled answer. Mollified, she curled up as she had the night before and fell asleep almost immediately.

You were gloriously shackleless and yet if you fled now she would probably crush your throat before both feet hit the floor. It was expected this first night, and probably the second, a test of your resolve and patience. The only way to go would be when she genuinely trusted your obedience.

Ten days and a camp change later you were beginning to lose patience. She was vigilant, but considerate and it left you now windows of opportunity. You weren’t a hardened warrior as she had joked that first day, you were an apothecary with nothing to do but lounge around and be read to by a infamous warlord. You were beginning to feel mad, a life of leisure so roughly thrust upon you. The conditions only improved with the move and her tent now had its own bathroom, a humongous glistening tub calling to you. Ambessa had begun to ask you for opinions on her expansion plans, seemingly wanting to preserve the charm of your land whilst overpowering it with Noxian glamour. WIth your input she kept the old churches and allowed your people to tend to their lands if they swore allegiance to Noxus.

In a gilded cage, miles away from your home, you weighed the advantages of staying entangled against the bliss of freedom. The guards were becoming more lax, allowing you to wander through parts of the camp and make friends with Mira and the other maids. She had not harmed you, save pulling your hair that first day and you were well provided for. She’d even managed to tug more substantial conversations from you, even when they lacked a business element. You’d told her of your journey to becoming an apothecary, and she had explained the first time wore armour, clattering to the floor mid fight.

At night, as rain slammed down and the wind chilled your toes, you would gaze longingly at the doorway and then find yourself tugged into warm, firm arms. Much like reading time, you were held and pressed into her, scent dizzying. She smiled, you had noticed, when she cradled you in her sleep. Each time it would wipe the door from your mind as you succumbed to a more contented sleep. Most confusing of all, she was showing no signs of tiring of you as a ‘toy soldier’ as she had affectionately dubbed you. Nobody seemed to understand why you lingered in her space rather than being given your own, perhaps not even her.

On the thirtieth day things shifted. After dinner, a heavy dress floating around your feet, you slipped back into the tent and were met with breathy, loud moans. Not Medarda’s, though she was clearly the cause. Hidden by the thick curtains, a high female voice begged and cried the warlord’s name, the creaking of your bed audible.

Your bed.

Her bed, you corrected grimly, embarrassment sticky in your throat. The noise ceased almost immediately after you had entered, and your feet froze to the ground. A nameless, unknown girl slipped from the bedroom, meeting your gaze with a pleasure struck face. A vapid giggle left her as she slipped past you.

Ambessa appeared moments later, robe loose around her, with an easy expression. It darkened imperceptibly in your presence, though you felt the subtle chill.

“I didn’t realise you were back, Warrior,” She muttered, voice heavy, “That wasn’t planned, I-I shall notify you if I intend to use our space like that,”

Our.

Wait, did she think you’d be jealous?

“How the mighty have fallen,” You scoffed, unable to meet her gaze, “Shouldn’t I be fearing consequences from you, as the captive,”

“You’re not the one with a new leg scar,”

Touche. She seemed to hold you on a pedestal for that act alone and you had yet to decipher why.

It was made clear by the flurry of people that the bedroom was stripped and remade. It calmed you, the faceless woman erased from the space though you and Ambessa lingered. You didn’t care what she did with her love life but you decided you didn’t need to know about it.

Unfortunately, it was hard to avoid. Trysts, people trying to charm their way into your her bed as you ate at the communal table and several conquests leaving that you had to face the next day. It made your stomach ache, fingers dancing with nervous energy every time she lay next to you, her scent changing every so slightly if she had had company. Almost another month passed with you on tenterhooks, stuck between the safety of your leisure with her and the stain of sin on your sanctuary.

The worst of all had to be tonight though. You had awoken alone for the first time, colder than ever, when you heard it. Ambessa’s blissful sigh. She was actively being pleasured in her armchair whilst you fucking slept. Through a crack in the curtain you could see tan legs kneeling just as you had that first night, between her thighs with their head on her skin. The notable difference was how they devoured her, pulling dark moans and filthy words from her gravelly voice. It was hard to ignore, her scent drenching you in the bed you shared as she used another’s body. You tried to stifle the noise, covering your ears and burrowing into the bed. This made the scent issue exponentially worse, especially when the mattress dipped and her still sex slicked body curled against your form. Her lips kissed your forehead, the burn of her skin scalding you.

Her pleasure haunts your dreams, lurking shadows and echoing noise. Close, but just out of reach. For the first time you wake before her, skin muggy and unsettled as you dressed in a robe and wandered into the morning dew. The grass was beginning to have that telltale icy crunch, cracking under your velvet slippers as you slipped out of the camp unnoticed. Your thoughts sit like damp coffee grounds, thick and grainy as you fight the memories of the night before, choking what they make you feel. It was not jealousy, it was anger to be sure.

There was no direction to your wandering. The treeline called to you with its snowy arms reaching high, animals dancing through the dense white landscape. Not too far in the distance there stood a frozen lake and a childish part of you yearned to skate across it, your body moving you unbidden. It was larger up close, iridescent swirls of nature showing the loose water below. It reminded you of how you felt about your life now, about Ambessa.

Fear and nostalgia sat steadfast as your ice, hardening your resolve and keeping your wit sharp, but beneath was the flow of her. In two short months she had managed to nurture your underfed body and mind, relishing in your rebellion and cherishing your input. The warlord existed so clearly to you, but you could not reconcile her with the reader who brewed you floral tea. One stirred anxiety and the other calm. Picking up shards of ice and flinging them across the lake, you attempted to untangle the Noxian web within you. Sparkles of sunlight grew higher as you stewed, beginning to blind you as you stepped closer to the edge, ice grunting under you.

“I’m not sure you’re dressed for whatever this is,” Ambessa’s voice rang out, her body leaning against a tree.

You had sensed her, though her movements were muffled, form tightening.

“Something troubling you?”

“Just fancied a walk,”

“In a robe and slippers?” She snorted, “Some walk indeed,”

“Did you need something?”

“You, Dear,” She muttered, at your back in an instant, “I woke up alone,”

Your heart panged oddly, her presence fueling the rushing currents under the ice, as you lent into her warmth. “Here I am,”

Her cloak engulfed you, dragging you under as her dulcet tones rasped in your ear, “Let’s get you home, Little one,”

Home.

It occurred to you then as you stumbled back with her that perhaps you hadn’t been a prisoner in a while. Here you stood, free and yet wishing only to return to the warmth she had made for you.

A bath was drawn and you crawled into it obediently. Her eyes were shut, though she cleaned your hair and muttered to you about her day to come. It was peace. It was bliss. It was your worst nightmare. Cold receded and you allowed yourself to slip into a warm lull.

She left soon after, leaving behind new pyjamas and a sweetbread. You stayed in bed, as confused and dazed as those first weeks.

That night you were awoken by the same wanton sounds in the living room and your nostrils flared, fingers crushing the softness of your sheets. Your emotions flopped again. You hated her. She was vile and infuriating and brutal and somehow constantly having fucking sex.

When Ambessa slid into bed this time, sweet smells of pleasure wafting from her, you let out a growl.

“DId I wake you?” She muttered, a smile etched on her lips.

“You don’t touch me like that,” It slipped out, fury and turmoil.

“Pardon?” Her eyes had darkened, observing you curled and tense.

“W-We do everything else, you treat me as an equal and give me freedom, but you use our space for cheap pleasures whilst I sleep,”

“I was unaware it was a pro-”

“You don’t touch me like that,” It was a whine now, “Why?”

“You’ve never asked, little warrior,” Her voice was sin, soaking you and tugging you close, “I didn’t realise you were unhappy with me,”

“Please,” You croaked, gripping her forearm weakly, “I-”

Her lips were on yours, firm and rough, her tongue slipping into your mouth. Pretty girl, she thought, delicate and hers. You melted like butter, nuzzling close and stroking her grey curls. She was perfect, and you finally had all of her. Her fingers danced along your silk nightgown, cupping a breast with a firm hand. Leaning forward, she nipped at your neck as skilled hands massaged neglected flesh. You were keening instantly, eyes glossy and lips parted.

Minutes drained away against her ministrations as your thighs rubbed together, the burn beginning to hurt as she teased your pebbled nipples in her mouth. Your nightgown was wet from her saliva, and the friction of the fabric with her tongue had you rutting against her thigh. Bruises were forming on your neck, your upper body ruined before she’d even undressed you.

“Please,” It seemed the only word you could remember, puffy mouth slurring it at every opportunity.

“Again,” She teased, finally ripping your clothes from you, “Louder,”

You pleaded and gasped, each word heightening your arousal, your desperation, as her fingers stroked your folds. She was kind, allowing you the pleasure you yearned for, slicked thumb rubbing circles on your clit as she stretched you slowly.

Ambessa felt a swell of triumph. It had taken her endless hours of uncharacteristic kindness and stern patience, allowing you to cycle through defiance, anger and acceptance as often as you needed until you finally succumbed. You were drenched and mewling against her, sex drunk eyes stuck to her. It had been fulfilling, breaking you in, just as she had suspected when she caught eyes with a crazed, dirt covered woman with the audacity to wield a blade to her.

Tugging orgasm after orgasm from you, cunt quivering and tensing as you drooled mindlessly, she relished in her victory. Her power was etched into you now.

“Silly girl,” She cooed, voice a knife edge, “I knew I could make you mine,”

Her words cut through the tingling fog. You realised, with a dizzying stab, that you had always been her war prize, she just hadn’t conquered you till now. Each tender touch and measured interaction was to break you into her willing little toy and here you were, fucking yourself shamelessly on her thick digits. You would have been more hurt, a flare of resistance kicking in, if it weren’t for the unabashed love and satisfaction in her eyes. Well then, you guess you’d both been played. The mighty warlord may have broken you, reshaping your desires, but she had fallen in love in the process and you would relish that till your dying breath.

“Wouldn’t it have been easier to just use me months ago,” You quipped, starting a slow and methodical worship of her scarred body.

“You wouldn’t have wanted it, warrior,” She muttered, amused by your acceptance, “I am many things, but I only fuck those who ask,”

“I want it,” You sucked her nipple, humping her leg as her eyes slammed shut.

“I know, doll,” Her hands pulled your hair, making you yelp happily, “You soaked my hand like a good girl to prove it,”

For a moment, as you curled between her legs and began to eat like a woman starved, you wondered if this was the right choice.

Ambessa let out a noise, confusing to your ears. It was nothing like the others you had heard in her time with others, it was delirious and light, happy pants slipping out as you sucked and fucked her with your tongue. She came quickly, face blank as she suffocated you with her cunt. Her touch, despite it all, was tender. She was yours and you were hers.

There was nothing more right than that.

#ambessa x reader #ambessa medarda #ambessa smut #arcane ambessa #reader insert

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novaursa · 3 months ago

Text

The Veil of Fire (3/3)

- Summary: Conclusion of the Dance and your terrible purpose.

- Paring: aunt!reader/Jacaerys Velaryon.

- Note: For more of my works visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top. This was requested by @witch-of-letters. Enjoy! ❤️

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (just to be safe)

- Word count: 7 000+

- Previous part: 2

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

You storm down the corridor of the Red Keep, the heavy wooden doors rattling in their frames as you pass. The servants who normally crowd these halls shrink away at the sight of you. They know better than to cross your path when you’re in such a state. Your blood hums with the fury that has been building since you left Aegon’s chambers. The image of your elder brother lying helpless, swathed in bandages, the flesh of his body charred and raw, is seared into your mind. And now, all you can think of is the one responsible.

Your brother Aemond.

The thoughts tumble in your mind as you reach his chambers, pushing the door open without knocking. Aemond stands by the window, his back to you, seemingly lost in thought. The light of the setting sun casts a long shadow across the room, a stark contrast to the heat you feel boiling within.

“Aemond,” you say, your voice sharp as Valyrian steel. “Why did you do it?”

He turns slowly, his one remaining eye locking with yours. For a moment, you think you see a flicker of something—surprise, perhaps, or regret. But it’s gone as quickly as it came, replaced by the cold, calculating expression he often wears.

“What are you talking about?” His voice is measured, but you can hear the tension beneath it.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” you snap. “Aegon. Why did you burn him?”

Aemond’s lips tighten into a thin line. “He was unworthy of the throne,” he says, his tone clipped. “He’s always been unworthy. He was a drunkard, a fool who laughed at me every chance he got. I merely did what needed to be done.”

Your breath catches in your throat at his words, and you take a step closer to him, your anger morphing into something more complex—something tinged with sorrow. “Aegon is our brother,” you say softly, the fury in your voice giving way to something else, something pleading. “He is family. Your family. We are not your enemies, Aemond.”

For a moment, he says nothing, merely watching you with that unblinking gaze. Then he takes a step toward you, his expression softening. “You spoke to Helaena, didn’t you? She always knows what lurks in the shadows, even when the rest of us do not.”

You nod slightly, your throat tight. “She knew… but that does not change what you’ve done.”

His hand twitches at his side, as though he wants to reach out to you but cannot bring himself to. “He was a threat,” Aemond insists, though his voice has lost some of its earlier conviction. “To me. To the realm.”

You shake your head slowly, your eyes never leaving his. “You’re wrong. The real threat isn’t Aegon or any of us. It’s the idea that we are enemies, that we must destroy each other to claim power. Is that what you’re planning, Aemond? Will you strike me next?”

The question hangs heavy in the air between you, and for a moment, Aemond looks stricken. His gaze drops to the thin scar that now mars your cheek and lips, a reminder of the horror you faced to protect Helaena’s children. You see the way his jaw tightens, the conflict playing out in his mind. He’s always been so fond of you and Helaena, always protective in his own way, and yet now, he stands on the precipice of something dark and unforgivable.

“No,” he says finally, his voice barely more than a whisper. “I could never… not you.”

You take a breath, your heart aching with a mixture of relief and sorrow. “Then do not let this madness consume you, Aemond. We are Targaryens—blood of the dragon. But we are still human, still family. Do not lose yourself to this war.”

He meets your gaze again, and for the first time since you entered his chambers, you see the boy he once was—the brother who would debate with you for hours, who sought your approval as much as you sought his. But that boy is fading, buried beneath the weight of ambition and the demands of the crown.

“I will consider your words,” he says finally, though there is a weariness to him now. “But do not ask me to abandon my duty.”

“I would never ask that of you,” you reply, reaching out to gently touch his arm. “I only ask that you remember who you are, and who we are to you.”

He nods, though you can see the turmoil still simmering beneath the surface. This conversation is far from over, you know that much. But for now, you’ve said what needed to be said. You’ve planted a seed of doubt in Aemond’s mind, and you can only hope it will take root before it’s too late.

As you turn to leave, Aemond’s voice stops you in your tracks. “Sister…”

You glance back at him, waiting.

“Thank you,” he says, and though his voice is still strained, there is a sincerity there that you haven’t heard in a long time.

You nod once, a small gesture of understanding, before slipping out of his chambers. As the door closes behind you, you feel the weight of the day settle on your shoulders. But there is a small glimmer of hope now, too, fragile but real.

You leave Aemond’s chambers, the heavy door closing with a soft thud behind you, the sound echoing in the empty hallway. The conversation still lingers in your mind, a tangled web of emotions—anger, sorrow, fear for the future, and a thread of hope so thin you’re afraid it might snap at any moment. Your hand trembles slightly as you brush it against the stone wall, steadying yourself as you navigate the labyrinth of corridors that make up the Red Keep.

The fortress, usually bustling with life, feels eerily silent in the wake of Rook’s Rest. The weight of the events—of the war that rages beyond these walls—presses down on your shoulders, making each step feel heavier than the last. You try to shake off the oppressive thoughts, focusing instead on the task ahead. There are still things that must be done, plans to be made, and words that must be spoken.

As you turn a corner, you nearly collide with a tall, familiar figure—your uncle, Gwayne Hightower. He catches your arm instinctively, steadying you before you can stumble. His eyes widen with surprise, and then soften into concern as he takes in your expression.

“Niece,” Gwayne greets you, his voice low and cautious. “You seem troubled.”

You offer him a small, tired smile, one that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “It’s been a long day, Uncle. The burden of our house grows heavier by the hour.”

He nods, his expression grave. Gwayne has always been a steady presence, someone who prefers to stay out of the more treacherous waters of court politics. Yet, like you, he has been drawn into the web of deceit and ambition that has ensnared your family.

“I tried to confront Ser Criston earlier,” Gwayne says after a moment, his voice hushed as if the very walls of the Red Keep might be listening. “About his… affair with Alicent.”

You pause, surprised by his admission. You had written to Daeron about this in one of your letters to Dragonstone, knowing that Gwayne would likely read it, but you hadn’t expected him to act on it so soon. The thought of Cole and your mother… It has always made your skin crawl, but in these times, you’ve had to push it aside, focusing on the greater dangers looming over you all.

“And?” you ask, though you can already sense from his tone that the conversation did not go as he had planned.

Gwayne sighs, running a hand through his graying hair. “It didn’t go well. Ser Criston… he’s not the man I remember. He’s… broken, shattered, perhaps beyond repair.”

A shiver runs down your spine at his words, a cold reminder of the man Ser Criston Cole has become. The once noble and honorable knight, who served as your mother’s sworn shield, now reduced to a creature of bitterness and cruelty. You’ve seen it firsthand—how he treated Jace and his brothers when they lived here, how he sneered at them, never missing an opportunity to remind them of their supposed illegitimacy, to belittle them. The memory stirs a deep anger within you, one that simmers just below the surface.

“He’s not broken enough,” you mutter, the words slipping out before you can stop them. There’s a sharpness to your voice that catches even you by surprise, a reflection of the anger you’ve been holding onto for so long.

Gwayne’s eyes narrow slightly, his concern deepening. “Niece…”

You shake your head, brushing off his worry. “I just… I remember how he treated Jace and his brothers. How he tormented them. This war… it’s turning us all into something unrecognizable, something dark and twisted. I don’t know if any of us will be able to find our way back.”

Gwayne regards you quietly for a moment, his expression unreadable. “You’ve always been strong,” he says finally. “Stronger than many realize. But you must be careful, child. This war is a poison that seeps into the soul. Do not let it take hold of yours.”

You meet his gaze, feeling the weight of his words settle heavily upon you. He’s right, of course. The war has already changed you, made you colder, more calculating. You’ve had to become this way to survive, to protect those you love. But there’s a part of you, the part that remembers the girl you once were, who fears that you might lose yourself entirely if this continues.

“I’ll be careful,” you promise, though the words feel hollow even as you say them. How can anyone be careful in a world that’s falling apart around them?

Gwayne nods, though you can see the doubt in his eyes. He knows, as well as you do, that there are no guarantees in this war, no promises that can be kept.

“Take care of yourself, Uncle,” you add, reaching out to squeeze his hand briefly. “We need to look after each other, now more than ever.”

He returns the gesture, his grip firm and reassuring. “We will, niece. We will.”

As you part ways, the weight of your conversation settles into your bones, mingling with the exhaustion that’s been building since the events of Rook’s Rest. The war is changing everything, and everyone. But as you continue down the corridor, you can’t shake the feeling that the worst is yet to come.

The cool air of the Red Keep wraps around you like a shroud as you walk through the corridors, your thoughts occupied with the latest reports from the warfront. It has been almost a year since the events of Rook’s Rest, a year of bloodshed and betrayal, and the toll of it all is evident in the weary faces of those you pass. You’ve learned to navigate the treacherous waters of this war with the same care you used to avoid the serpents of court. But despite your best efforts, the tide seems to be pulling you under.

As you pass by the council chambers, your attention is caught by the low murmur of voices—a conversation too hushed to be meant for anyone but those within. Yet, something about the tone, the urgency in the words, draws you closer, until you find yourself lingering just out of sight, listening intently.

“…fleet from the Free Cities,” comes the voice of Jasper Wylde, the Ironrod, who has become a frequent presence in these halls as the war drags on. “Tyland Lannister has secured their support, and they are en route to the Gullet as we speak. They should reach it soon.”

Your blood turns to ice, your heart skipping a beat as the words sink in. The fleet from the Free Cities, the Gullet—it all aligns too closely with something Jace told you not long ago. The secret letter he sent you, so carefully worded and hidden, comes rushing back to you in a flood of memory.

“I will be escorting my brothers to Pentos, across the Narrow Sea,” Jace had written, his words full of determination but also a sense of foreboding. “We must ensure their safety, away from the reach of those who would see them dead. I will return once they are secure.”

Your breath catches in your throat as you piece it together, the realization hitting you like a physical blow. Jace is taking his brothers across the Gullet—right into the path of the enemy fleet.

The voices in the chamber continue, unaware of your presence, but you can no longer focus on the words. The world around you narrows to a single point of panic, a sharp, suffocating fear that grips you with icy fingers. Jace and his brothers are in danger—real, immediate danger.

You turn on your heel, your feet carrying you swiftly down the corridor as your mind races. There’s no time to lose, no time to think. You have to act. You have to warn Jace, to do something, anything, to protect him and the boys. But how? The fleet is already en route, and there’s no way to send a raven in time, no way to intercept them before they reach the Gullet.

The panic claws at you as you reach your chambers, slamming the door shut behind you with trembling hands. Your heart pounds in your chest, and for a moment, you can’t think, can’t breathe. The walls feel like they’re closing in, and the weight of what you’ve just heard threatens to crush you.

But then, in the midst of the chaos in your mind, a thought surfaces—a memory, a power. Morgoth, your dragon. You share a bond with him, one that goes beyond the usual connection between dragon and rider. It’s something deeper, something primal, and you’ve used it sparingly, only when there was no other choice.

But now, with Jace and his brothers’ lives hanging in the balance, there’s no question in your mind. You have to do this. You have to warg into Morgoth.

You close your eyes, forcing yourself to take a deep breath, to calm the storm raging inside you. You focus on that bond, the thread that ties you to your dragon, and you reach out with your mind, searching for him. It’s a feeling like plunging into icy water, the sensation of your consciousness leaving your body and traveling through the air, across the distance that separates you.

And then you find him.

Morgoth is there, a massive presence in your mind, all fire and fury, a living embodiment of power. He feels you as well, recognizing your touch, and you can sense his confusion at your sudden intrusion. But there’s no time to explain, no time to ease him into it. You push forward, letting your consciousness merge with his, until you are no longer two separate beings but one.

The world shifts around you, and when you open your eyes, you are no longer standing in your chambers. Instead, you are high above the world, the wind whipping past you as you soar through the sky. You can feel the powerful muscles of Morgoth’s body, the heat of his fire burning within you, and the clarity of his senses as they become your own.

The Red Keep is far below, the landscape spread out like a map beneath you, but you barely notice it. Your focus is entirely on the sea, on the Gullet, where the enemy fleet will soon arrive. You can feel the urgency in every beat of Morgoth’s wings, the need to reach them before it’s too late.

You push him harder, faster, your combined will driving him toward the narrow strip of water that could become Jace’s grave if you don’t intervene. The cold air bites at you, but you barely feel it. There’s only the mission, only the desperate need to protect your brother.

As you fly, your thoughts remain with Jace, with the secret letter he sent you, and the promise he made to return. You cannot—will not—let that promise be broken. Not when there is still a chance to save him.

And with that, you and Morgoth fly toward the horizon, the weight of your mission pressing down on you, the fate of your family resting on the power of your bond. The war has taken so much already, but you refuse to let it take Jace and his brothers.

Not while you still have the strength to fight.

The Battle of the Gullet is one of the bloodiest and most devastating clashes of the war, as recounted in the histories of Westeros. The Free Cities’ fleet, backed by their gold and hatred for the dragons, sought to break the Targaryen stranglehold on the Narrow Sea. It was meant to be a decisive blow against the Blacks, a maneuver to cut off Dragonstone from the support of the Crownlands. But history, as it would be written, tells of how that battle turned into a massacre for the attackers, thanks to a shadow in the sky—one that was not entirely expected.

The day was clear as the Free Cities’ fleet approached the Gullet, a narrow strip of sea separating Blackwater Bay from the waters of the Narrow Sea. Hundreds of ships sailed together, their sails marked with the sigils of Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh. They came prepared for dragons, armed with scorpions and vast nets meant to bring down the winged beasts. They believed their numbers and preparations would grant them victory.

But they had not accounted for the presence of Morgoth, the Cannibal. Nor had they considered that one of House Targaryen’s own, your spirit merged with the ancient dragon, would be waiting for them.

You had flown fast and far, Morgoth’s powerful wings cutting through the skies. You could feel the rage within the dragon, the deep-seated hunger for destruction that had earned him his fearsome reputation. But you harnessed that rage, directing it with your own will, focusing it on the threat below.

From your vantage point high in the sky, you spotted the fleet before they saw you. The sea was dark with their sails, a sprawling mass of ships moving toward their goal. And in the midst of that fleet, you saw him—Jacaerys, riding on Vermax, leading his brothers on their fateful journey across the sea.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you realized how close they were to disaster. The ships were spreading out, forming a net around Jace and his brothers, their scorpions aimed skyward, ready to strike. There was no time to lose.

You dived.

Morgoth responded to your command without hesitation, folding his wings and plunging toward the fleet with the speed of a falling star. The wind screamed in your ears, and the sea rushed up to meet you. Below, the sailors saw the dark shape hurtling toward them, but by then it was too late.

You opened Morgoth’s jaws, and the world below exploded into flames.

The first ships were engulfed in a torrent of dragonfire, their wooden hulls splintering and burning, their sails catching like dry kindling. Screams echoed over the water as men were thrown into the sea, their armor dragging them down, or they were incinerated where they stood. The carefully laid trap was unraveling before it could even be sprung.

You and Morgoth weaved through the fleet, breathing fire, slashing with claws, and smashing into the ships with the full force of the dragon’s massive body. One after another, the ships fell, their crews fleeing in terror as the once mighty fleet was reduced to burning wreckage.

Jacaerys, still astride Vermax, turned at the sight of the devastation, his heart racing. He had expected to fight for his life, to protect his brothers as best he could, but what he saw instead was something entirely different—Morgoth, the dread dragon of legend, was laying waste to the fleet. And more than that, Jace could feel it in his bones, in the way Morgoth moved, the way he struck with precision and purpose. This was not a wild dragon on a rampage. There was a mind guiding him, a mind Jacaerys knew all too well.

“(Y/N)…” he whispered to himself, realization dawning. His heart swelled with a mixture of relief and awe. You had come for him. Even across the distance, he knew it was you, controlling the beast with the power of your warg.

And then, the reinforcements arrived—Ulf the White on Silverwing, Addam Velaryon on Seasmoke, and Hugh Hammer on Vermithor. They had expected to find the fleet in full force, prepared for a difficult battle. Instead, they were greeted by a scene of utter devastation, the sea littered with burning wreckage and the screams of drowning men. Morgoth was already amidst the destruction, tearing through the last remnants of the fleet, leaving nothing but charred remains in his wake.

Ulf, Addam, and Hugh hesitated for a moment, their dragons roaring in the skies, but there was little for them to do. The battle was already won—by you.

Jacaerys urged Vermax forward, guiding his dragon closer to Morgoth. He needed to see you, to confirm what he already knew. As he approached, Morgoth turned his great head toward him, and for a moment, their eyes met. And there, in the depths of Morgoth’s dark, ancient eyes, Jace saw a flicker of recognition, a spark that told him he was right.

“(Y/N)!” Jace called out, though his voice was lost in the roar of the wind and flames. But it didn’t matter—he knew you could hear him, feel him, just as he felt you.

The battle of the Gullet was over before it had truly begun, the fleet of the Free Cities shattered, their hopes of breaking the Targaryen hold on the Narrow Sea crushed under the might of Morgoth and the iron will of his rider. When the histories were written, they would tell of how the Blacks secured their victory in that battle, how Jacaerys Velaryon led the charge, and how the dragons burned the enemy to ash.

But you and Jace would always know the truth—how you had saved him and his brothers, how you had taken control of the fiercest dragon in the world and turned the tide of the battle with fire and blood.

As the last of the enemy ships sank into the sea, you guided Morgoth away from the wreckage, feeling the dragon’s rage slowly subside. The bond between you and Morgoth was still strong, still thrumming with the power of what you had accomplished. But as the adrenaline of the battle faded, you felt the strain of it all weighing down on you.

You knew it was time to return, to pull yourself back into your own body, to leave Morgoth to his own devices once more. But before you could fully withdraw, you felt a gentle nudge in your mind—Jace, sending a wave of gratitude, of love. He didn’t need words to convey what he felt. He knew you had saved him, and he would carry that knowledge with him always.

With a final, lingering look at Vermax and Jace, you released your hold on Morgoth, letting your consciousness slip away from the dragon’s mind and back into your own.

The world went dark, and when you opened your eyes again, you were lying on the cold floor of your chambers in the Red Keep, your body trembling with exhaustion. But despite the fatigue, a smile tugged at your lips. You had done it—you had saved Jace and his brothers, and you had struck a blow against your enemies that they would not soon forget.

The Red Keep was a fortress of dread and uncertainty, its halls echoing with the uneasy silence that had settled over King's Landing in the days following the fall of the Gullet. The tension in the air was palpable as the city awaited the arrival of Rhaenyra Targaryen, the rightful queen in the eyes of her supporters, and the usurper in the eyes of her enemies. You stood in the throne room, your heart pounding in your chest as you gazed upon the Iron Throne, that jagged seat of power that had brought so much strife and sorrow to your family.

Helaena stood beside you, her presence a quiet comfort amidst the chaos. Your twin had always been a beacon of gentleness in a world that often lacked it, but even now, you could see the fear in her eyes, the uncertainty of what was to come. Her children, Aegon’s heirs, had been safely hidden away, but the thought of what might happen to them, and to Helaena herself, gnawed at you. Your mother, Alicent, stood further apart, her face a mask of stoic resignation, though you could see the lines of worry etched into her features. She was trying to be strong, for herself, for her family, but you knew that beneath that composed exterior, she was breaking.

The doors to the throne room opened with a resounding creak, and the sound of boots echoed through the hall. Rhaenyra Targaryen entered, flanked by her loyal forces. Her presence was commanding, her violet eyes sharp and filled with a cold determination. She was the Dragon Queen, come to claim what she believed was hers by right.

And beside her was Jacaerys.

The moment Jace saw you, his eyes softened, the harsh lines of his face relaxing as he broke away from Rhaenyra and the others, striding across the throne room with purpose. Without hesitation, he gathered you into his arms, pulling you into a tight embrace. The warmth of his body against yours, the familiarity of his touch, brought a rush of relief that nearly overwhelmed you. He was here, he was safe, and for that moment, the world outside the two of you ceased to exist.

“You saved me,” Jace murmured into your hair, his voice thick with emotion. “You saved us all.”

You clung to him, letting the tension of the past days drain away, if only for a brief moment. “I had to,” you whispered back. “I couldn’t let you go, not like that.”

He pulled back slightly, just enough to look into your eyes. The gratitude in his gaze was matched by something deeper, something that made your heart ache. But there was no time to dwell on it, not now. Not with Rhaenyra standing mere feet away, her gaze locked onto the Iron Throne, her claim finally within reach.

Jace reluctantly released you, stepping back as you turned to face Rhaenyra. The room was silent, the tension thick enough to choke on. Helaena squeezed your hand, her grip trembling, and you knew you had to act now, before things spiraled out of control.

“Rhaenyra,” you began, your voice steady despite the turmoil inside you. “I ask for your mercy. My sister, Helaena, and her children—innocent children—had no part in this war. Neither did my mother, who was bound by duty to her House. I beg you, spare them.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze flicked from the Iron Throne to you, and for a moment, you saw the conflict in her eyes. This war had taken so much from her—her children, her home, her peace—but it had not yet taken her humanity. You knew that she had every reason to despise Alicent, to see her as the architect of much of her suffering. But you also knew that you had done something that few others had—you had saved her children, the precious heirs she had feared she would lose.

“You saved my children at the Gullet,” Rhaenyra said slowly, her voice measured.

You nodded, your heart pounding in your chest. “I did it because of my love for your son, Jacaerys. Please, let that be enough. Spare them.”

Rhaenyra’s expression softened, if only slightly. The steel in her eyes melted into something warmer, something that spoke of gratitude and perhaps even understanding. She looked over at Helaena, who stood silently by your side, her face pale and drawn, and then to Alicent, who had yet to speak a word.

“Your sister and her children will be spared,” Rhaenyra said at last, her tone decisive. “They will not be harmed. They may remain here in the Red Keep, under guard, but they will not be harmed.”

A breath you hadn’t realized you were holding escaped you, and you felt a wave of relief wash over you. Helaena’s grip on your hand tightened, a silent thank you in the midst of the storm.

“And my mother?” you pressed, knowing you were asking for a great deal, perhaps too much.

Rhaenyra’s eyes darkened, the softness giving way to the resolve of a queen who had suffered too many betrayals. “Alicent will be confined to her chambers, along with Aegon,” she said, her voice hardening. “They will remain there until Aemond has been dealt with. Once this war is over, we will decide their fates.”

You nodded, understanding that this was the best outcome you could hope for. Alicent would be spared, for now, but her future, like Aegon’s, was uncertain. But at least, for the time being, they would be safe.

“Thank you,” you said, bowing your head slightly in respect. “For your mercy.”

Rhaenyra gave a curt nod, her attention already drifting back to the Iron Throne, the symbol of power that had caused so much pain. The room began to stir as her forces moved to secure the Keep, but you remained where you were, beside Helaena, Jace close at hand.

As the days ahead promised more bloodshed, more loss, you knew that you had done what you could to protect your family. You had brokered a fragile peace, one that could shatter at any moment, but for now, it held.

The city lay under a blanket of darkness, its streets silent as the tension of the past days began to settle into an uneasy calm. But within the private chambers where you and Jacaerys now found refuge, the weight of the world seemed to lift, if only for a little while.

The room was dimly lit by a single candle. You sat on the edge of the bed, your heart racing as you looked at Jace, who stood before you, his expression tender yet filled with an intensity that made your breath catch in your throat.

“Jace,” you whispered, your voice barely audible in the stillness. The way his name fell from your lips, laden with emotion, seemed to draw him closer. He stepped forward, his hand reaching out to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing gently against the thin scar that ran across your face—an indelible mark left by the horrors you had endured.

“(Y/N),” he replied, his voice low and husky. The way he said your name, with such reverence, made you feel like the only person in the world that mattered. His touch was warm, comforting, and you leaned into it, savoring the closeness between you.

Jace’s other hand found yours, and he pulled you to your feet, bringing you flush against him. The warmth of his body seeped into yours, and you felt your heart steadying in his presence. You looked up at him, your eyes meeting his, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. There was no need for words; everything you felt, every emotion that had been building between you, was clear in the way you looked at each other.

Slowly, as if afraid to break the fragile moment, Jace leaned down and captured your lips in a gentle, lingering kiss. The world outside faded away, leaving only the two of you, wrapped in the intimacy of the moment. His lips were soft, yet there was a hunger there, a need that mirrored your own. You kissed him back, your arms winding around his neck, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss as your heart pounded in your chest.

Jace’s hands slid down your back, tracing the curve of your spine before settling on your waist, pulling you even closer. You could feel the strength in his arms, the way his body molded perfectly against yours, and it sent a shiver of anticipation down your spine. You had been through so much together—so much loss, so much pain—but here, in this moment, there was only love, only the fierce need to be with each other.

He broke the kiss, his breath ragged as he rested his forehead against yours, his hands framing your face. “I was so afraid I’d lose you,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “When I saw you in the skies, when I realized it was you… I’ve never been so relieved in my life.”

You smiled softly, your fingers threading through his dark curls. “I couldn’t let you go, Jace. Not when I had the power to save you.” Your voice was a whisper, your words carrying all the love and fear and hope that had been swirling inside you since that fateful day.

Jace’s hands tightened around you, and before you knew it, he was guiding you back toward the bed, lowering you onto the soft mattress. He hovered above you, his eyes searching yours, as if asking for permission, for reassurance. You gave it to him with a slow nod, your hands sliding up his arms, feeling the muscles tense beneath your touch.

He lowered himself beside you, his body pressing against yours as he kissed you again, this time deeper, more urgent. The weight of him against you was grounding, a reminder that despite the chaos of the world around you, this—what you shared—was real, was something worth fighting for.

Your hands roamed over his back, tracing the lines of his muscles, memorizing every inch of him. The feel of his skin beneath your fingertips, the way he responded to your touch, made your heart swell with love for him. You wanted to lose yourself in him, to forget everything else and simply be here, with him, in this moment.

Jace’s kisses trailed from your lips to your jaw, to the sensitive spot just beneath your ear, and you couldn’t help the soft gasp that escaped you. He smiled against your skin, his breath warm as he whispered your name like a prayer, a promise.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him back to you, needing to feel his lips on yours again. He obliged, kissing you with a fervor that matched your own. The world outside ceased to exist; there was only the feel of him, the taste of him, the way his body moved against yours, igniting a fire in your veins.

“I love you,” Jace murmured between kisses, the words, a reaffirmation of a confession stated long ago, a vow. “I’ve loved you for so long… I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Your heart soared at his words, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. “I love you too, Jace,” you whispered back, your voice trembling with the intensity of your feelings. “More than anything.”

The night stretched on, the two of you lost in each other, your bodies and souls entwined in a dance as old as time. The love you shared, forged in the fires of war and tempered by the trials you had faced, was unbreakable, unyielding.

In that quiet, intimate moment, there was no war, no throne, no crown—only love, fierce and unwavering, binding you to Jacaerys in a way that nothing, and no one, could ever sever.

Excerpt from Fire and Blood by Archmaester Gyldayn, detailing the events following the fall of King’s Landing and the end of the Dance of the Dragons:

The Fate of Aemond Targaryen, Aegon II, and Helaena Targaryen

With the fall of King’s Landing to Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen and her forces, the war known as the Dance of the Dragons reached its bloody climax. Aegon II, the deposed king, was confined to his chambers within the Red Keep, his body broken by the fires of Rook’s Rest and his spirit shattered by the weight of his defeat. His sister-wife, Helaena Targaryen, remained by his side, her gentle presence a balm to his tortured soul even as the world crumbled around them.

Aemond Targaryen, the most feared and relentless of the Green faction, continued his campaign of terror from Harrenhal, vowing to bring down his enemies in a storm of fire and blood. Yet, despite his ferocity, he was ultimately undone by his own ambition. Reports from that time tell of Aemond’s fateful encounter with the so-called Witch Queen Alice Rivers, who was said to have foreseen his doom. Whether through sorcery or sheer force of arms, Aemond met his end in the ruins of Harrenhal, his body found amidst the scorched remains of Vhagar, his dragon. It is said that Aemond died laughing, unrepentant to the last, his eye fixed on the west where King’s Landing lay, just beyond his reach.

Aegon II’s fate, however, was far less grand. Confined to his chambers, Aegon lingered in a state of despair, plagued by the injuries inflicted upon him by Sunfyre’s fall. Queen Rhaenyra, now on the Iron Throne, decreed that Aegon be kept alive, not out of mercy but as a reminder of the price of ambition and betrayal. His mother, Alicent Hightower, was likewise confined, her influence over the realm broken. Helaena, spared through the intercession of her twin sister, remained in the Red Keep, caring for her children and maintaining a fragile peace between the remaining members of the divided family.

In the end, Aegon II perished in his chambers under mysterious circumstances. Some say it was poison, a final act of mercy by his sister-wife Helaena; others whisper that it was his own hand that delivered him from his suffering. The truth remains shrouded in mystery, as does much of the Dance of the Dragons.

The Reign of Jacaerys Velaryon-Targaryen and the Union of the Houses of Black and Green

Following Rhaenyra’s ascension to the Iron Throne, the realm was plunged into a brief but brutal period of chaos. Yet it was her son, Jacaerys Velaryon, who would ultimately bring the Seven Kingdoms back from the brink. After Rhaenyra’s tragic death, Jacaerys assumed the throne as King Jacaerys I, the first Targaryen monarch to successfully unite the warring factions of Black and Green.

Central to this reconciliation was Jacaerys’ marriage to his cousin, the daughter of Alicent Hightower and twin sister to Helaena, often referred to in histories as the Scarred Princess or The Silent Protector. This union, born of both love and political necessity, helped to heal the rift that had torn the Targaryen family apart. Together, they ushered in a period of relative peace and prosperity, remembered as the Redolent Peace, a time when the wounds of the Dance began to slowly heal.

The marriage of Jacaerys and his queen produced several children, ensuring the continuation of the Targaryen line. Their eldest son, Viserys, would inherit the throne, carrying with him the legacy of both the Black and Green factions, and serving as a symbol of the unity that Jacaerys and his queen had fought so hard to achieve. The peace they fostered, though not without its challenges, proved lasting, a testament to the strength of their bond and the wisdom of their rule.

The Conclusion of the Scarred Princess and Her Terrible Purpose

Yet for all the peace and prosperity she helped bring about, the Scarred Princess carried with her a dark secret, one that weighed heavily upon her throughout her life. This secret, known to only a few, was her bond with the fearsome dragon Morgoth, once known as Cannibal, and her ability to warg into him. This power, unheard among Targaryens, had been both a blessing and a curse, enabling her to protect those she loved but also tying her to a creature of immense and terrible power.

In the later years of her life, as the weight of her past and the fear of what her abilities might mean for her children grew, the queen made a decision that would forever change her legacy. Accounts vary, but it is said that she warged into Morgoth one final time, flying the ancient beast away from Dragonstone, far across the sea, to the lands beyond the known world. There, in the desolate wastes where no man or dragon had ever returned, she released her control over Morgoth, allowing him to live out his days free from her influence. Whether she returned to her body or perished in that distant land is a matter of speculation and legend.

What is known is that after her disappearance, Morgoth was never seen again, and her body, pale and cold, was found in her chambers, her face at peace for the first time in many years. Her children and her king mourned her deeply, and she was laid to rest beside her husband, Jacaerys, in the crypt of Dragonstone he had commissioned to be built for them, a queen who had given everything for her family, for her love, and for the realm.

In the years that followed, she became a figure of legend, remembered not only for her role in ending the Dance but for her quiet strength, her fierce love, and the sacrifice she made to ensure that the darkness within her would never again threaten the peace she had helped to create.

And so ended the tale of the Scarred Princess, a woman who, though born into a world of fire and blood, forged a path of love and redemption, leaving a legacy that would echo through the halls of history for generations to come.

The Shadowlands

Far to the east, beyond the known world, where the sun rises over the jagged peaks of the Mountains of the Morn, lies a land shrouded in mystery and dread—the Shadowlands, a place where the sky is perpetually dark, and the air itself seems to whisper ancient secrets. It is a land where few dare to tread, where magic runs wild, and where dragons, long thought to be creatures of the west, still haunt the skies.

In the vast, foreboding wilderness of these Shadowlands, a great shadow moved across the sky, its wings blotting out the meager light that filtered through the perpetual gloom. This was Morgoth, the dread dragon once known as Cannibal, and within him, the spirit of the Scarred Princess—her consciousness intertwined with the ancient beast's in a bond that transcended time and space.

As Morgoth flew, his powerful wings cutting through the thick, heavy air, the Scarred Princess within him could feel the pull of this strange and ancient land, a place where the old magics still held sway. The landscape below was a desolate expanse of twisted rock and blackened earth, dotted with ruins of civilizations long lost to the memory of men. Rivers of fire ran through the land like veins of molten blood, and the very air seemed to hum with a dark, malevolent energy.

But Morgoth was not deterred by the inhospitable terrain. He was a creature of fire and shadow, a dragon born of the darkest recesses of the world, and this land, so unlike the green hills of Westeros or the sunlit skies of Essos, felt almost like home to him. Here, he was truly free, far from the conflicts of men, far from the eyes of those who would seek to control or destroy him.

Yet even in this place, Morgoth was not alone.As he flew over the darkened peaks, Morgoth sensed it—a presence in the sky, another dragon. The Scarred Princess, her consciousness still entwined with his, felt the thrill of the hunt rise within him, a primal instinct that she could not fully suppress. This was a place where the old ways held true, where dragons ruled, and there could be no sharing of the sky.

Morgoth’s keen eyes spotted the dragon—a great beast, pale as bone, its scales shimmering with a faint luminescence that seemed to draw in the darkness around it. The dragon, larger even than Vhagar, flew with a grace and power that marked it as a creature of immense age and strength, a relic of a time when dragons ruled the skies without challenge.

But Morgoth was not daunted. With a roar that echoed through the mountains like thunder, he descended upon the pale dragon, his massive form cutting through the air with terrifying speed. The other dragon, sensing the approach of its rival, turned to meet him, its own roar shaking the very ground below.

The two dragons clashed in a fury of fire and claws, their roars reverberating through the mountains, sending flocks of terrified birds into the air. Morgoth struck first, his jaws snapping at the pale dragon’s neck, his claws tearing through its scales with savage ferocity. The other dragon fought back with equal fury, its tail lashing out, its own fire scorching the sky as the two beasts twisted and turned in a deadly dance of power.

The Scarred Princess could feel the raw strength of Morgoth’s body, the immense power that surged through him as he fought. She could feel the heat of the fire that burned within him, the rage that fueled his every move. And yet, even as she shared in his primal fury, there was a part of her that remained distant, watching, waiting, knowing that this was the final act of a story that had been building for so long.

Morgoth’s jaws found purchase on the pale dragon’s throat, and with a savage twist, he brought the great beast crashing down to the earth below. The impact shook the ground, sending up clouds of dust and ash as the pale dragon struggled beneath Morgoth’s weight. But it was no match for the ancient black dragon, who tore into its flesh with a hunger born of ages.

The pale dragon let out one last, pitiful cry as Morgoth’s teeth sank deep into its neck, tearing through flesh and bone, ending its life in a torrent of blood and fire. The Scarred Princess, still within Morgoth, could feel the life drain from the other dragon, could feel the satisfaction that pulsed through Morgoth as he claimed his victory, as he consumed the flesh of his fallen rival.

As Morgoth fed, the Scarred Princess allowed herself to fully merge with the dragon’s mind, feeling the primal joy of the hunt, the savage satisfaction of victory. But within that wild exultation was a deep sorrow, a melancholy that came from knowing that this was the end of her journey, the fulfillment of a purpose she had never fully understood until now.

Here, in the Shadowlands, far from the conflicts of men, she had found her final resting place, her final act. She had come to this place to free herself from the bonds of the world, to release herself from the terrible power that had both protected and cursed her. And in doing so, she had become one with Morgoth, with the ancient dragon who had always been her shadow, her companion in the darkness.

The pale dragon was consumed, its bones left to bleach in the eternal twilight of the Shadowlands. Morgoth, sated and triumphant, lifted his great head to the sky, letting out a final roar that echoed through the mountains, a sound that spoke of power, of victory, and of an end.

And then, as the last echoes of that roar faded into the distance, the Scarred Princess released her hold on Morgoth, letting her consciousness drift away, leaving the dragon to his own devices. Her spirit, tired and worn, slipped from the world, leaving behind only the memory of a woman who had walked the path of fire and blood, who had flown with dragons, and who had found peace in the end.

Morgoth, the dread dragon, flew on, his wings beating against the darkened sky, a creature of legend, of terror, and of freedom. He was no longer bound by the will of men or women, no longer tied to the conflicts of the world. He was a force of nature, a creature of the old world, and he would live out his days in the Shadowlands, far from the reach of men.

And so ended the tale of the Scarred Princess and Morgoth, her terrible purpose fulfilled, her legacy left behind in the children she had borne, and the peace she had helped to forge. In the histories that would be written, she would be remembered as a queen, a protector, and a woman who had faced the darkness within herself and emerged victorious.

But in the Shadowlands, she would be remembered as the last rider of Morgoth, the black dragon who had flown beyond the known world, to a place where legends are born and where the shadows never end.

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saintartemis · 1 year ago

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"The British Museum curators I have encountered in the course of my work – who do not include the man who has been named in connection with the alleged thefts – have been among the most diligent, generous and committed public servants I have ever met. They are also paid shockingly little given the qualifications and skills required for the work at the country’s most celebrated museum. (A highly specialised job as a curator focused on Roman-period Egypt, for example, is currently advertised at £32,000.) The case of alleged thefts is a terrible blow for those working on the ground in the museum, and the cause of fury and disbelief. And yet, no one seems to care very much for the curators, as the media become ever more frenzied, and the culture warriors sharpen their swords."

"The ultimate irony, the elephant in the room? The chair of this foundering museum is George Osborne, the ex-chancellor of the exchequer, now multimillionaire fund manager. When he took a job at BlackRock in 2017, he was paid a day-rate of £13,000 – yes, earning in three days more than that new British Museum curator will make in a year. As chancellor he was behind the “austerity” cuts to public services and cultural organisations of 2010 onwards. That was not a theft. What it was was a withholding – on a grand and unforgivable scale – of care."

#museums #museum issues #the British museum #British museum thefts #museum professionals #museum workers #museum curators #politics

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delicatebarness · 5 months ago

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winters widow | chapter ii

Summary: A small gesture of concern from Lord James suggests a possible change in the dynamic.

Warning: Arranged Marriage. Emotional Distress.

Word Count: 1390

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A/N: I was going to post this earlier but everyone asked for Cry Baby so you're getting both. - Please feel free to leave feedback or let me know where and how you want the story to continue, this is just as much yours as mine. - B

Winter’s Widow: @lanabuckybarnes | @sapphirebarnes | @sebastians-love

Everything: @hallecarey1 | @pattiemac1 | @uhmellamoanna | @scraftsku35 | @ozwriterchick

The following days were as cold and unforgiving as the walls of Winter’s Reach. Every morning, you’d wake early, hoping to catch a slight glimpse of Bucky and perhaps try to engage in conversation. He remained elusive, seen only from a distance. His stern demeanor and closed-off nature seemed impenetrable as he trained in the yard or discussed with his men.

Soughting ways to familiarize yourself with your new home, you were determined not to be deterred. The Reach staff had initially been distant, yet they gradually warmed to your kind and gentle nature. Taking it upon yourself to learn the names of the servants, you wanted to understand the daily workings of the House. And, bring a touch of warmth to the cold stone.

Wandering through the dimly lit corridors, one evening, you found yourself drawn to the library. Towering shelves filled with ancient tomes and scrolls in the vast room, a fire crackled in the hearth which cast warm glows over the worn furniture. You marveled at the wealth of knowledge contained within these walls as your fingers ran along the spines of the books.

Lost in thought, you didn’t hear the heavy door open behind you. It wasn’t until a shadow fell across the floor, startling you, that you turned. Bucky stood in the doorway, his expression was hard, annoyance etched in his features.

“My Lord–”

“What are you doing in here?” his sharp tone cut you off as he demanded.

You took a step back, his hostility wasn’t surprising. “I was admiring the collection. It’s a beautiful room.”

His gaze trailed down to your hands as a particular old book lays in them. “This isn’t a tour you're on,” he snapped. “You don’t belong here, meddling with things you don’t understand.”

“I’m sorry,” your voice was soft as you tried to keep it steady. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I thought–”

“You thought wrong,” he interrupted, stepping closer. “This place is filled with history you know nothing about. It is not your place.”

You swallowed hard, trying not to look up at his looming figure. “I’m just trying to understand, connect with you in some way.”

Bucky scoffed, tension evident in his posture. “This isn’t some fairy tale, Lady Romanoff. You’re here because of duty, nothing more, no happily ever after.”

His words cut deep, a dagger twisting in the pit of your stomach. Yet, you refused to back down. “Fairy tales are all I know, Lord James. I know this isn’t one of them. Yet, we’re both here, and we have to make the best of it. I am willing to try, even if you are not.”

For a moment, you could have sworn his expression softened as you finally met his gaze. A flicker of something unreadable passed through his eyes. But his walls built back up just as quickly. “Do what you want,” he said curtly. “But don’t expect any warmth from me.”

The chill that settled in your bones as he turned and left, leaving you standing alone in the library, made the fire suddenly feel insufficient. Sighing, you gently placed the book back on the shelf.

You resolved to continue your efforts to make Winter’s Reach feel like home. Focus on exploring the grounds once more, familiarizing yourself with lands that now surround you, covered in frost and snow.

Walking through the courtyard, you saw Bucky training with his men. His movements, precise and powerful, halted you. They reflected his years of discipline and experience. You admired him, and his skill.

Granting him space, you turned your attention to the stables, where your horse was being kept along with the Reach’s.

The stable master greeted you warmly. “Lady Romanoff, it’s a pleasure to see you here,” he said with a genuine smile weathering his face.

“Thank you,” you replied, returning his smile. “I thought I might get to see Honeybreeze, it could do her good to ride around the Reach.”

The man nodded, gesturing toward your beautiful, chestnut mere. “Here she is, gentle and sure-footed, perfect for riding.”

As you patted Honeybreeze’s neck, the sound of approaching footsteps caught your attention. Another unreadable expression greeted you as you turned, coming face to face with Bucky. He paused when he saw your smaller frame, irritation etched his face in an instant.

“Taking up riding now, are we?” he asked, his tone clipped.

You met his gaze, refusing to let his hostility deter you. “I’ve always rode, my lord. I thought it would be a good way for us both,” you gestured toward your horse, stroking your hand down her mane. “To familiarize ourselves with Winter’s Reach.”

His eyes narrowed, however, they weren’t aimed at you. His gaze moved toward the stable master. “Make sure the lady is properly equipped for her ride,” he ordered the man before turning back to you. “The terrain can be treacherous, especially for outsiders. Be careful.”

“I will,” you replied softly, you tried to keep your voice steady, not to show the pain his words caused. “Thank you for your concern.”

“It’s not concern,” he scoffed, once more. The sound filled the air between you with bitterness. “Just practicality. We don’t need any unnecessary accidents.”

With that, he left you again. The stable master gave you a sympathetic look as he handed you the reins. “Forgive me, my lady,” he said quietly. “But, my lord wasn’t always like this. The war changed him.”

You nodded, “I understand, thank you.”

Mounting Honeybreeze, you guided her out of the stables, making your way toward the open fields surrounding Winter’s Reach. The air was crisp, and the expansive landscapes offered a sense of freedom. A brief moment of peace, away from the tension within Reach’s walls.

Thoughts of your future husband returned to your mind as you rode. Despite his harsh exterior, you couldn’t help but wonder who the man was beneath the black and gold armor.

Hours passed as you explored, and the cold air bit at your cheeks. Finally returning to the stables, dusk had almost settled over Winter’s Reach. Dismounting the horse, you handed her reins back to the waiting stable master. Thanking him, he nodded appreciatively and led your horse away, leaving you standing alone.

Your mind reflected on the day's events as you made your way back toward the Reach. The hostility and bitterness from Bucky had been palpable, but you couldn’t help but feel sympathy for him. It was clear the way had left its mark on him, you wondered what had happened to transform him into the hardened man you were to marry.

As you approached the entrance, you were surprised by Bucky standing there, waiting. His usual stern expression across his face. However, there was a hint of something softer in his eyes.

“Did you enjoy your ride?” his voice gruff.

You nodded, taken aback by his question. “I did, my lord. The land around your home is beautiful.”

Looking away, his jaw tightened. “The Reach has its own kind of beauty,” he admitted.

“I would love to understand more of it,” you spoke softly. “And, to understand my future husband.”

Bucky’s expression hardened again, his gaze meeting yours as a flicker of something else– perhaps vulnerability passed over his eyes. “There’s not much to understand. I’m a soldier, nothing more.”

“I don’t believe that,” you replied gently, offering a small smile. “I think there’s more to you, more than you want to show.”

For a second, he looked as though he might argue. Then, he sighed, his shoulders sagging slightly. “Maybe… if so, it’s buried deep.”

You took a small step closer, daring to place your hand gently on his arm. “I’m willing to find it if you’ll let me.”

He glanced down at your hand on his arm, another unreadable look passed through his eyes. Then, he stepped back, offering you a small nod. “Just… be careful,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I will, my lord,” you promised, watching him walk away. For the first time, you felt like you had hope as you saw a glimpse of the man beneath the armor.

Taking a deep breath, you continued on your way through The Reach, feeling a renewed sense of determination. You silently vowed to break through his defenses and uncover a heart worth loving and understanding.

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