#the conqueror concedes

[knight-conqueror-fn]

cool grey: if your muse could ensure one thing for certain in their future to come, what would it be?

That I live, preferably. Though, I think that is already ensured, It's terribly hard to kill a shade, you know...

Asides from that, I think I'd ensure... company.

[eraenaa]

Blessed Curse

Aemond Targaryen x Strong Reader Tag List

Synopsis: When a marriage between you and Aemond was arranged and forced by your grandsire, conflicting emotions arise, but which one will loom greater? Loathing or Love?

Warnings: Enemies to Lovers Trope, ¿Softer Aemond?, Arranged Marriage, Jealousy, Mature, 18+, P in V Sex, Fingering, Oral Sex (F receiving), Targcest, Not Proofread 

Word Count: 6,803

A/N: Final tribute (maybe) to Season 1 Aemond, you have fed us with your crumbs for the past two years. Based on a few anonymous requests where they wanted a prequel of 'Loathe to Love.'

Aemond’s frown severed as he looked through the window and watched as you and your kin exited the wheelhouse. He felt his sneer severe as he spotted a look of dissatisfaction adorned your plain face as you had realized the lack of welcome provided for your kin’s return. “Spying, brother?” Aemond jumped in his spot, his sister taking him by surprise as she appeared by his side. “I am not,” he said defensively, and Helaena only hummed, gazing below as the day of your awaited arrival had arrived. “Then why have you been waiting by this window since the morning?” Helaena asked, and Aemond clenched his jaw and stayed silent, not giving a response to his sister. 

“Come, join us, Mother, and I shall greet them,” Helaena invited, and Aemond shook his head, scoffing at his sister’s invitation. “I’d rather not subject myself to their… treasonous presence,” He said, and Helaena sighed, walking away in silence. 

Jacaerys raised his gaze and caught the sight of a silver prince looking down upon them. He warily traveled his oak gaze to you, who stood by the side of your stepfather. “Should we not tell her already? How long must we keep her in the dark about our true purpose here?” Your brother whispered to your mother. “Your grandsire shall be the one to tell her. The king must be the one to impart to her his wishes and orders,” Your mother sighed, guilt heavy in her heart as the whole of your family had kept the true reason for your return to Kingslanding from you. 

“Helaena!” You called out in excitement as you entered the walls of the keep, your aunt, along with her mother, welcoming you. Helaena smiled widely at you as you took her into an embrace; though you had a distaste for the capitol, Helaena was the only one you were actually excited to see once more. “How are you?” You asked, paying no mind to the tense conversation between your parents and the queen. “Well. I am glad of your return,” She smiled, and you only smiled as well as you could not lie and agree with her statement. “I’ve been told you now have three children,” You tried to converse, and Helaena nodded. “I do; little Maelor arrived just two moons ago,” She confirmed, “Would you like to meet them?” Helaena asked, and you eagerly nodded, slipping away from your kin who were to venture to your grandsire’s chambers. 

Aemond stalked the halls and watched behind the pillar as you walked with his sister, arms linked. He rolled his eye as you strutted through the halls as if your mere presence were not damnable. “Are you spying, brother?” Aegon appeared by his side, Aemond being caught off guard for the second time that hour. “I am not,” Aemond spat and walked off, but Aegon still followed him. “I have to admit, even I did not expect our niece to grow so… enchanting,” Aegon hummed, looking steadily at his brother to see what reaction his words would garner him. Aemond shook his head, not wanting to concede or show agreement with his brother. 

“If you’re still having qualms about this marriage, perhaps it could be I to marry her instead.” Aegon hummed, further testing his brother. “The conqueror had two wives, did he not?” Aegon added and noted the way his brother clenched his jaw and fisted his fists. “You are no conqueror,” Aemond gritted and made hastened steps towards the tiltyard to escape his brother.  “I do not understand your animosity, brother,” Aegon still followed.

“Were you not so… overly fond of her years before?” He asked and made fast steps to match his brother’s furious gate. “If I had remembered correctly… you had even asked Mother if you could be betrothed to her when you were nine,” Aegon reminded, and Aemond halted in his steps as he was made to recall the instance. “Leave before I succumb to my thoughts and maim you,” Aemond gritted, his hand already clenched around the hilt of his sword. Aegon let out a laugh at his brother’s threat but retreated because there was a murderous intent in Aemond’s eye. 

Aemond had a few moments of solace in the tiltyard before you once again began to haunt him. Aemond halted his sparring with Ser Criston as he heard a laugh so melodious he was certain it was brought by delusion. He turned to the side and frowned as he learned that the laugh he had heard came from your lips, the melodiousness he relished upon just moments ago; he now convinced himself it was aggravating. The prince huffed as he saw his older brother standing by your side, Aegon being the reason for your mirth, and Aemond could not help but wonder if his brother’s actions were genuine or just another ploy to aggravate him. 

“I see your intended has arrived,” Ser Criston stated as his eyes went towards where the prince’s gaze was placed. “Aye, she has,” Aemond gritted and shook his head, twisting the sword in his hands and urging himself to continue training. “Have you spoken to her?” Ser Criston could not help but ask, curious as to what the marriage order by the king would entail. 

The knight held no fondness for any offspring of the spoiled cunt they call heir, but he himself could not be so cruel to show any animosity towards you. You were saved from the insults that he had no trouble throwing at your brothers. Ever since childhood, you were kind and gentle and good-humored. You were the only one who genuinely showed kindness to Aemond even if he was being picked on by his brother and yours. You were the only one who never cowered away from Helaena and her odd demeanor. You were the only child of Rhaenyra that the queen and her sworn protector could tolerate. It also bodes well for you that you were not present during the ambush in Driftmark. Instead, you were sound asleep next to your aunt as her brother’s eye was cruelly taken. 

“No,” Aemond answered, his tone held disgust that the knight was a tad confused by, but he made no mention of it. Ser Criston readied his position to return to sparring with the prince, but Aemond was still wholly distracted by your presence. His frown severed as the smile on your lips did not lessen whilst you kept chatting with Aegon. It would seem his brother would make good with his tease of taking you to wife as well, and though Aemond had no wish to marry you, there was a pestering feeling inside him that savored greatly of jealousy, but he did not wish to admit. 

The one-eyed prince disregarded his training and walked in your direction. You were in the midst of a laughing fit, but it quickly died as he arrived, the wide smile on your lips lessening. “Niece,” Aemond greeted, the word said through his teeth. “Uncle,” you curtsied quickly, and Aegon smirked as the scene unfolded before him. “Well, isn’t this nice,” he stated, and you turned your gaze to your elder uncle. “A reunion that is well overdue, do you not think so, brother?” He asked and clapped the back Aemond, who stared daggers at him. You licked your lips as you felt tension now surrounding the air. Aemond’s eye shifted back to you, your gaze lowered, your fingers playing with each other, and your bottom lip in between your teeth. He swallowed thickly as he did not expect a sudden surge of an odd sensation to overcome him. 

You parted your lips, ready to speak, but a call through the tiltyard caught your attention. “Tala,” Your stepfather called; the three of you turned towards the steps and saw the Rogue prince approaching. “Good day, uncles,” You said quietly and curtsied before them before running towards your father. Daemon eyed curiously his two nephews you were speaking with. Daemon offered his arm for you to take as he escorted you up the steps, and judging by the smile that was still on your lips and there was no horror in your eyes, he deduced that none of them had spoken about the true reason for your return. 

Daemon tried earnestly to contest the marriage. To make his brother see reason and not cruelly tie you with his deformed son. He even went as far as returning to Kingslanding the moment he and his wife received the message of his brother’s order. But the king had made up his mind. You were to marry Aemond. 

Two days had passed since your return to the Red Keep, and you were still clueless as to why you and your family had returned. “When do you think we’ll leave?” You asked Lucerys as he went along with you in the gardens, your younger brother carrying the flowers you picked and were planning to give your grandsire you were still yet to visit. “I do not know, sister,” Lucerys mindlessly said, his focus transfixed on your uncle, who stood by the side, glaring at him with his lone eye. You, however, were oblivious to the presence of a silver prince. 

Aemond clenched his jaw as he watched you leisurely pick at the flowers. He had been observing you through the days of your return, and he could not fathom why you were not bothered by the whole ordeal as to why he saw no aggravation or anger in you as you both were tasked to marry each other. You exuded an entirely different outlook than Aemond when it came to this doomed union which made him wonder at the possibility that perhaps you wanted it. That you were willing to marry him. Aemond found the possibility preposterous, but it was the only answer to your lax, unbothered disposition. The more Aemond thought about the possibility of your agreement to the marriage, the more it left him unnerved. But it would answer his questions as to why you did not show any outward animosity towards him. Completely civil at any of your encounters— even going as far as flashing Aemond a ghost of a smile when you passed him by the hall. Were you truly in want of this marriage? Aemond was torn on how to feel or perceive this. 

“Must we not already tell her? We’ve been here for two days already, and she is still completely clueless about the reason for our return,” Jacaerys asked his mother, who sighed deeply. “Aye, I would take she would not appreciate this secrecy— especially the severity of the situation,” Daemon added, studying his wife who stepped towards a window that overlooked the gardens where you spent the afternoon in. 

“The king must be the one to tell her. He… he must be the one to tell her his wishes.” Rhaenyra said once more, unable to be the bearer of bad news. She could already foresee the anger, hurt, and fear in your eyes, and it made her stomach pit and twist painfully. She had made a promise to herself that her daughter would be saved from the political marriages most of them were subjected to— to save her from the heartache and the displeasure of having a husband bound to you not by love but by political gain. But even she could not protect you from such cruel fates. Having no choice but to watch as you would retell the plights of women before you. 

“The king has been incoherent for days. The wedding ceremonies they prepared are set in a fortnight— we must tell her Rhaenyra. She must know of the matter now so she could prepare herself,” Daemon spoke, “Prepare herself to escape,” Jacaerys muttered under his breath, already imagining your reaction that would surely be filled with shock and betrayal. 

Rhaenyra sighed heavily and shook her head, her hand unconsciously going to her forehead to soothe the throbbing pain as she thought about the matter. “If my father still has not regained his thoughts by the morrow, then we shall tell her at tomorrow evening’s supper,” Rhaenyra decided, putting a buffer on the matter, praying to the gods that her father shall regain consciousness and be the one to tell you of his orders. 

You returned inside the castle walls as the afternoon sun was proving to be too scorching for you. Your younger brother went to the tiltyard, and you were left alone as you wandered around the castle you once called home. You were admiring a portrait hung on the wall, your eyes completely fixed on the bold colors and the detailed strokes of the work that your surroundings started to fade, and you did not realize someone had joined your company. “Quite luminous, is it not, your highness?” You slightly jumped, startled by the voice that made itself known. You turned to your right and saw a son of House Tyrell. “It is my lord,” You agreed with a small smile finding itself on your lips. 

Aemond watched the scene steely-eyed behind a pillar as you acquainted yourself with the lord in the empty hallways, unescorted. There was a smile playing on your lips as you two conversed. He watched as the lord started to inch his body closer to you, daring to brush his hand with yours that held flowers in it. Aemond’s already impaired vision burned as he saw a blush rising to your cheeks. The scandal of it! Here you are, a betrothed woman still acquiring and entertaining the attention of eligible young men. 

When Aemond saw the lord take a flower from your hold and dare place it by your ear, Aemond removed himself from his spot of observation and stomped towards the both of you. “Uncle,” You greeted in surprise as Aemond suddenly appeared in the hall. “Good morrow, my prince,” Lord Tyrell greeted, and Aemond could not make the effort to not let his contempt not show. “My Lord,” was all he replied with, feeling your confused gaze by his left as he stood by your side. “The Princess and I were just discussing this portrait. I had remarked on its luminosity and sh—“ Aemond rolled his eye and cut the lord off. 

“If you shall excuse us, Lord Tyrell, I must speak with my betrothed. Alone.” He said, voice utterly cold and almost threatening. Your lips agape at his words, your mind unable to comprehend what he had uttered. “What?” You suddenly asked as Lord Tyrell bowed towards you before hastily walking away. Aemond turned to you, expression angered. “Are you truly this careless? Walking the halls alone, engaging with a lord without an escort. Do you not thin—“ You hindered him from completing his scolding. “What are you saying?” You asked in confusion. “Betrothed?” You added, and Aemond’s brows furrowed. 

“Do not act simple with me; you know perfectly well of o—“ You cut Aemond off once more. “What are you talking about? Betrothed? What?” You continued to voice out your bewilderment. Aemond stared at you, calculating if the confusion on your face was an act. But as he stared at your eyes, he knew your confused state was genuine. “You do not know, do you?” He asked quietly. “Know what?” Aemond licked his lips and looked around the empty hall. Just hours ago, he believed you were in full knowledge of the upcoming union between the two of you— that you were completely fine with a marriage with him, for he saw no resistance or rebellion. But what is there to resist or rebel about when you are left utterly clueless? 

“We are to be married,” Aemond stated, and you gazed up at him as if he had grown three heads. “Us… married?” You asked slowly, and Aemond gave a curt nod, waiting for the dread in your eyes, but he was left shocked as you began to laugh. The hall rang and echoed your laughs, Aemond watching you as you clutched your stomach and continued to laugh at the absurdity of it. He scowled as you gasped for air, your laugh still ringing in his ears and riddling his skin with gooseflesh. “You have an odd sense of humor, Aemond. But I am glad that after all these years, you finally learned how to jest,” you said in amusement, gazing at his lilac eye as you waited for him to break his peculiar act. However, when only seriousness was present in his Valyrian orbs, the smile on your lips faltered. 

“Are you serious?” You asked, your tone dripping heavy in disbelief. “It is the order of the king,” he replied, and you shook your head. Aemond clenched his jaw as you still did not believe his words. “Why do you think you’re here? After all these years of informal exile, why do you think your family was summoned? You and I are to be married.” He explained, frowning at how slow you are to comprehend the situation. Now, the dread that Aemond was waiting for was presented greatly on your plain but pretty face. “I… I do not believe you; you are lying.” You say, and Aemond stepped closer. “Why must I lie about this unsavory matter? What I speak of is the truth. If you do not take my word for it, go ahead and ask your parents, and they will tell you the same thing: you and I are to be bound to one another.” Aemond said lowly, his face drawing closer to yours. 

You shook your head and stepped back, your gaze still locked with Aemond, who stared at you undeterred, seriousness the only thing on his face. “You will be my wife.” He stated and watched as fear grew heavier in your eyes, and you ran across the hall in search of your parents. As Aemond stared at your departing figure, he began to wonder if it was satisfying to finally see the fear and rage in your eyes that he had been expecting ever since your arrival or if there was another pestering emotion that he wished not to entertain. 

“Mother!” You called through the halls, eyes already threatening to spill with tears. When you reached her chambers, she and your father turned to you, worry shining on their faces. “My sweet girl, what is it?” She asked and took hold of your hands. “Tell me it is not true— tell me he lies,” You almost begged. “What?” Your mother asked quietly, not accepting the fact that you now knew of the betrothal. “Please, you’re not marrying me to Aemond, are you? That’s not true, yes? He was just teasing me,” You said desperately, willing your mother to confirm your theory. But as she said no word and only went pale, your knees felt weak, and a pitting of your stomach presented itself greatly. 

“It… it is the order of your grandsire,” She said delicately, moving you to sit down as your breath had been rendered short through your cries. Daemon watched by the side, his hold on his sword tight as he could not bear to see you in such a state of distress. “No… please, you cannot make me!” You wailed as your mother tried to hush you, soothing you, running her hands through your hair, and patting your back just as she did when you were a child. “Please… I… let me speak with grandsire— he cannot marry me to him,” You pleaded, and your mother’s saddened eyes gazed at you, her warm touch moving to wipe the tears on your cheeks. “I’m sorry, my sweet… we have begged your grandsire, implored him that this union could not be. But he had made up his mind, and none of us could alter it, not even Alicent.” Your mother whispered. 

You sniffled in your seat, your thoughts running with dread and confusion. “Why did you only tell me now? How could you hide this from me?” You asked in betrayal. Daemon sighed and went to where you sat, kneeling before you. “We wanted to tell you, tala. To prepare you, but we foolishly thought that we could still alter the decision of the king. We had not told you, for we did not wish to distress you with a matter that we thought we could change.” He said softly, watching as tears fell from your eyes. You bit your cheeks and shook your head, “When… when must we marry?” You asked in dread. “In a fortnight,” Your mother replied and felt her heart clench as you stifled a sob. “I’m truly sorry, my sweet girl,” She said softly as you cried quietly in her arms. 

“It would appear they hid it from her,” Aemond remarked to his mother as he sat in her chambers. “They thought they could still alter the orders of the king,” She remarked as quietly as she observed her son, who stared at the fire. “I still have not asked you about your thoughts on this marriage,” The queen remarked, watching as her son clenched his jaw. “You need not ask; you already know of it,” Aemond answered. The queen breathed in heavily. 

“This may not be what you want now… but this was all you had wanted when you were a boy,” Aemond shook his head, a scoff leaving his lips. “Will all of you stop reminding me of it? Aye, I did want her when I was a child, but I am a man grown. I do not wish for a marriage forced upon me— especially when my bride is to be so… plain,” Aemond frowned at himself as he sensed hesitancy as he uttered the words that used to roll off effortlessly. It was the truth; you were plain— your features nonconforming to the house they tried to sell as yours. But you had never been plain the sense of attractiveness, your beauty celebrated throughout the realm, beguiling the lords of Westeros and years before, Aemond as well. Alicent stayed silent, for she could not offer comfort to her son, who was bound to a marriage that was devised for the crown.

When the crown announced your impending matrimony with your one-eyed uncle, mixed reactions were shared. Nevertheless, the kingdom was made to celebrate the event. You tried to hide your frown as your grandfather made you and Aemond parade around the streets of Kingslanding, a picture of unity to be sold to the small folk so they could attest to the new age of dragons. 

“Is this truly necessary?” You asked your father as you were sitting in a carriage. Aemond was still to board it, but he and his grandfather were conversing. “It is what your grandfather wished,” You hear your stepfather say, his violet eyes shifting to your betrothed. “But why? Is he even of sound of mind? I thought others were now tasked to do his bidding; why did they let this happen?” You asked in a plea, ready to jump off the carriage as you felt it jostle and your soon-to-be husband sitting next to you. “Best stop your bellyaching. You are not the only one who is shortchanged with this marriage.” You gritted your jaw at his words, turning to your father wide-eyed, trying to discern if he had heard it as well. 

Daemon clenched his fist around the hilt of his sword at his nephew, who had the gull to offend you, his precious daughter. “Your brothers and I will follow closely behind. It is only for a few hours, tala,” he gritted, and you unconsciously pouted as your father walked away, leaving you alone in the presence of Aemond. 

You traced the patterns of your gown as you rode out of the castle gates. When you reached the streets, you straightened your back and plastered a slight smile to appear as if you were somewhat happy with the devised marriage. Aemond scoffed and rolled his eye as you greeted the small folk, smiling at them and giving them a small wave of your pampered hand. He frowned at how much you loved their attention, giving them a pitiful show. “You might want to lessen the scowl… the purpose of all this is to present a united figure,” You whispered as you passed a crowd. 

“I will not be part of this farce,” Aemond spat and glared at a group of men whose hungry gaze were enclosed on you. “You are a prince of this realm. You have no choice but to be the crown’s puppet,” You said, with a tight smile as you waved toward a group of women. You feel Aemond’s glaring stare at the side of your face, but you willed yourself to ignore it. However, when the other small folk started to notice the glare of your betrothed, you turned to Aemond with a smile still on your lips, looking at him with your fictitious love-struck gaze, and you wanted to laugh as your act took him aback. 

Aemond stared into your eyes, perplexed at the look you gave him. Soft, adoring, and… he could not name the other element in your enchanting eyes. He had to look away as he felt himself stagger, and his breath was caught in his throat. When the crowd lessened, Aemond returned his gaze to you, the smile on your lips at the look in your eyes gone within a snap. You turned to him angrily, “Play the part for the subjects, Aemond. I do not expect much from this marriage, and I certainly do not expect us to get along behind closed doors, but when in the eyes of the public… best not to dishonor our house with another display of a fraudulent marriage. As all have kept reminding us, this is our duty.” You say quietly, tone bitter and overly severe. Aemond pursed his lips and clenched his fists around the air as the tumultuous crowds started to return once more, and the counterfeit smile on your lips returned. 

The day all had dreaded finally came. You stared blankly in the mirror as you were dressed like a doll. You were resisting the urge to run through the halls and escape a life of hate with a man who had only loathing in his heart for you. 

You stood before the door of the great hall, your arms linked with your mother as she walked you down the aisle. “I don’t want to,” You suddenly said, cold and clammed hands holding a bouquet of your favorite flowers. You tried to walk away, but your arm was linked with your mother’s, and she prevented you from doing so. “I am so sorry, my sweet, but not even you are above duty… none of us are,” She said solemnly, and you breathed out a previous breath as trumpets sounded out and the doors of the halls started to open. You bit your lip as you planted yourself on the ground, resisting the pull of your mother for you to walk. Your knees felt weak as you took small steps towards your groom, your mother practically dragging you down, her body a step ahead of your reluctant frame. 

When you reached the end of the hall, and your hand was placed upon your betrothed, you resisted looking Aemond in the eye. Aemond stared you down, the image of you wholly too much and all-consuming. This was all he had wanted. This was the dream he dreamt every night in childhood. You, in a white gown and a veil covering your comely face, and him standing before you as your groom. 

He could not explain how— how he had kept up his act for this long. To fake his animosity and loathing just in hopes that one day it would turn true because hoping and waiting for you was only a dream he had. Pretending to hold distaste for you because it was easier than letting himself hope that one day you will be his. But now, all those years of yearning have finally come to an end because before the sun could set, you will forever be bound to him.

“With this kiss, I pledge my love,” Aemond recited and hesitantly looked toward you. Your hands were cold upon his, and Aemond took a deep breath before leaning in to seal your marriage with a kiss, your first kiss. The deafening roars and cheers of your guests were unheard as Aemond could only focus on the way it felt to kiss your lips. His mind only concentrates on the small taste he had of you— his entire being immediately starved for so much more than the quick and chaste entanglement of your lips. 

You and Aemond were silent for the whole feast, a small smile plastered on your lips as to appear agreeable to the hundreds of eyes upon the both of you. You were too entranced to appear joyous that you were oblivious to the strong, calloused hand that had never left yours. Long, slender fingers drawing circles upon your flesh as if to soothe you. 

You turned to Aemond, his eye on the sea of dancers on the floor. In disbelief that he was still holding your hand. You were in shock that he was willing to keep up the pretense so immensely— a pretense of unity that none seemed to notice, for your hands were tucked under the table. 

When Aemond felt your stare, he turned to you, and you searched for the familiar cruelty and hatred in his eye; you found none. “Do you wish to dance?” He asked, and your lips parted in shock, taking a moment to comprehend his words. You could only nod, your husband leading you to stand. You were silent as he placed his hand on your waist and pulled you closer to his body. The other dancers disappeared to make room for you and your groom, a slow, mellow melody enveloping the great hall as the eyes of your guests were turned to you and Aemond. 

You stared blankly at his chest, eyeing the metal buttons of his vest, and tried to ignore the erratic beating of your heart. Aemond took in a deep breath, your scent intoxicating his senses more than the wine he had indulged himself for the night in preparation for the later activities. When it was the end of your third dance, you finally spoke, “I’m quite tired,” You said lowly, and Aemond gave a curt nod, taking your hand into his once more and guiding you to your seats. 

Five more songs passed with you and Aemond in complete silence when your sisters appeared by your side. “Sister… we’re to help you to prepare for the… night,” Rhaena said lowly and cautiously. You feel your stomach drop and your nod. You stole your hand from Aemond and excused yourself before disappearing with your sisters, Aemond’s eye following your frame until you fully disappeared away from his view. 

Aemond gritted his jaw as he felt his brother clap his shoulder, “Are you ready for the bedding ceremony, brother? I hope you still remember what I have taught.” Aegon teased and took your vacated seat. Aemond stayed silent and downed another chalice of wine, ignoring his brother. “But it is fine if you are not ready… perhaps I could substitute in y—“ Aemond turned to his brother with a severe glare. “One more word concerning my wife, and I will cut your tongue,” Aemond gritted, and Aegon’s amusement only grew. “There he is— there is the boy who wanted no one else but our niece.” Aegon grinned. 

“You are a great actor— you almost had me fooled, but no amount of hate you display could make me forget about the little boy who would follow around our strong niece like a lost pup,” Aegon’s grin grew wider, and he quickly stood to walk away before his brother turned violent. 

Aemond downed another cup before he had no choice but to join you in your chambers. He stood by the door and took deep breaths; the shy little boy in him returned, and he had no idea how to cope. Aemond bit his lip and mustered all his courage to step inside your marital chambers. He knew neither of you could perform what was expected that night— as much as he wanted to perform his duty, he knew in himself he could not.

Aemond walked in quietly, his eye on the floor as he entered. Aemond heard shuffling, and he lifted his eye. Lilac orbs placed on a screen divider lit by the flickering light of a candle, your silhouette traced upon the thin paper of the divider as you fixed your shift. Aemond felt his knees weaken, taking a seat on a chair, his eye still fixed on your shadow. By just the outline of you, of your peaked apples straining through your shift and your graceful body turning behind the divider, he already felt pleasure wash through the whole of his body. His cock painfully straining in his trousers, he would think by the amount of wine he had downed, he would be left slack that night. 

You took in deep, calming breaths as you stepped out of the divider and decided to wait for your husband, but to your surprise, he was already seated in your chambers. You looked at him wide-eyed, having the urge to cover your body, but you reminded yourself that this intimacy was part of your marriage— at least tonight. 

Your gazes did not meet as you stood by a distance from where Aemond sat. The crackling fire between the two of you is the only sound surrounding the room. You gulped before you stepped close to your husband, footsteps overly heavy with every step taken in his direction. “Kneel,” You hear aemond grit, and you frown at his words, ready to fight his order, but you remind yourself that just for tonight, you will do your duties as a wife. 

Aemond was left breathlessly as he watched you slowly sink to your knees. He bit his tongue harshly as his eye went to your plush thighs pressed together, having the urge to squeeze them and feel if your skin was as soft as his mind imagined. 

You waited, wrapped in anticipation of what was to happen next. You shuddered as you felt his cold hand come to cup your face, his thumb grazing your cheek. Your eyes fluttered to a close at the surprisingly gentle touch, your body moving closer to him without any way of controlling it. As your eyes were still fluttered close, you felt the familiarizing way of his lips upon yours. You felt yourself already quivering and you placed your hand on Aemond’s leg to steady yourself. Aemond leaned forward to feel more of your lips, his cold touch placing itself on your shoulder, feeling the bare skin as the sleeve of your shift had dropped off. 

You moved to part from him, out of breath with the kiss you shared. The taste of him and wine imprinted on your tongue. Rose your gaze to meet his eye, and you saw that the lilac orb had turned dark. Without another word, Aemond smashed your lips once more. Kissing you more fervently and pulling you to stand. You whimpered as you felt him bite your lip and pull down further the thin cover you wore. You were in a daze as his lips kissed your sand, and his hands roamed your body, harshly gripping your behind as he led you to the bed. 

It was his turn to part your lips. You lay bare on the silk sheets of the feathered bed, his standing before you still fully clothed, and you feel a rush of embarrassment course through you, showing its evidence on your cheeks. Aemond hastily undid the buttons of his vest, eye still locked with yours; he did not miss the embarrassment and perhaps even scandal in your eyes, the tell-tale sign of your purity, and he could not help but succumb to more pleasure by the thought. 

You shifted your gaze as Aemond stood bare before you, the image of him quickly engraving itself in your mind. You bit your lip as you waited for him to shift his weight atop yours, but you were left perplexed when, from the side of your eye, you saw him sink to his knees. You propped yourself on your elbows as he pried your legs open, a deep frown on your face as you tried to comprehend what he was doing. When you noticed his head straying closer to your cunny, your eyes widened in further scandal. 

“What— Aemond, no!” You say breathlessly and try to close your legs shut, but his hold on your thighs is too strong. “You told me we must perform our duty, wife… let me perform them,” You could only fall back on the plush mattress as you felt the foreign feeling of lips upon your cunt. Aemond sucking upon the pearl of your cunt as his tongue would dart out and tease the bud. You breathed heavily and bit your lip to prevent any sound from being heard, which only made Aemond double his efforts, wanting to hear you be wrapped in utter pleasure. 

Aemond groaned at the taste of you, palming his length as it already wept, crying to be inside you, but he knew he must prepare you first. That he must savor you like this, for he did not know if after this— after this initial duty, when would be the next time he’ll have the opportunity to have your cunt against his face. 

Aemond finally pried a moan from you, smirking as he moved his finger to tease your folds, a louder moan coming from your lips as he teased your entrance. “A—Aemond,” You called as he inserted the digit, your body rigid and back arching the sensation. “Such a tight cunt… you kept yourself pure for me,” Aemond hummed and groaned as he felt your legs wrap themselves around his neck, pushing his face further to your cunt. He chuckled, and the vibrations from it made further wetness escape your cunt, your hips, your hips gaining itself upon his face; his finger found a companion, and the digits curled inside you. Brushing against the rough spot that spurred you quickly into your climax. Aemond groaned as he heard your muffled voice moaning his name.

You stared at the canopy bed as Aemond rose to his feet and finally placed his weight upon you, his lips finding yours again. You taste yourself on his tongue, and you cannot help but moan, Amend smirking as you find pleasure in tasting yourself; you were quite sweet. 

Aemond finally gave in to his wants and aligned himself against your entrance, brushing away your tears that were quick to escape your eyes as he pushed further into your cunt. He was cautious with his movements, not wanting to cause you any unnecessary discomfort. He was patient, waiting for the pained furrowed in your brows to turn to a furrow of pleasure; when it did, his thrust was still cautious. It was some pleasurable torture; he needed more, but he could not be so cruel to present you with such pain. 

“Faster,” You breathed out as you felt his thrusts were too slow to bring you to the climax you now sought. Aemond was uncertain if he heard you correctly, so he played it safe and kept his initial pace. “Aemond… please, I— I need it faster,” You urged, letting go of any pride in you as your body needed him. Aemond blinked for a moment, comprehending your quest before wholeheartedly obliging. 

Your moans spewed loudly as his thrusts were deep and fast, his finger drawing circles upon your cunt and supper you further into your release. “Oh gods… Oh gods, Aemond!” You cried and clawed his back as you came undone. Aemond groaned into the shell of your ear as his own release was quick to follow, his lips finding yours as his seed rooted itself deeply in your cunt. The thought of heirs already festering in his mind. 

That night, Aemond held you in his arms as you slept. His mind was made; he would do anything for your marriage to prevail, for the past to be shed and be forgotten. For you to be happy and contented in his arms, for he already was. As long as he had you, the only girl he had and will ever want and love, he was perfectly content with this blessing of a marriage they had disguised as a curse. 

Part Two: Loathe to Love

[myownwholewildworld]

v. a Roman’s rotten heart - acta, non verba

chapter 4 | series masterlist | ao3 | chapter 6 pairing: conqueror!marcus acacius x ofc!reader. summary: temptation is sweeter than honey. a/n: well, well, well, what can i say other than this whole chapter had me howling? over half of it is smut, so if that's not your thing, i'm sorry? 🤓 as always, all interactions welcome, i do appreciate you liking, sharing and/or commenting! take care 💖 warnings: 18+, mdni. mentions of war, death, starvation, marital abuse, infidelity. some fluff because cormag is a grumpy sweetheart. marcus is the praise/consent king. very soft!marcus (yes, this is a warning). he talks you through it. a lot of fingering. nipple play. unprotected piv. reverse lap dance and reverse cowgirl positions. dialogue in italics means it’s spoken in gaelic (unless stated otherwise, i.e. latin). marcus is 49, ofc!reader (callie) is 26. unbeta'd, very minimal editing (soz). w/c: ~8.8k. dividers by @\saradika-graphics taglist at the end (let me know if you want to be added/removed please!)

“Come see me tonight,” Marcus almost begged you as you turned around in his embrace.

He had you pinned against the wall of the garderobe, the small room filled with the scent of wine and sex.

You chuckled, eyeing him through your lashes. It was a good sign that he was eager, but you wondered if he was just trying to bed you, fuck you and then be done with you. All men were the same, especially men like him — drunk with power, believing they were above everyone else, that they could get anyone to bend to their will.

And… was not that what you were trying to do anyway?

“I’ll see what I can do,” you conceded, leaving him hanging. “But won’t you have an early day tomorrow? I’m sure being the General of Rome have you waking up like an early bird.”

You were fishing for information, and hoped he would bite the bait.

Surprisingly, he did.

“Tomorrow we are going on a reconnaissance mission around the area, stalk out some points of interest where…” he trailed off, probably realising he had spoken too much. “But I don’t mind having a late night when I know it will be worth it.”

He surely knew how to make one feel fucking special. But what he said was like gold dust to you — it wasn’t much, but enough to get your plan working. You’d need to speak to some people, see what could be arranged, but if it worked out, perhaps your people could instil some fear in those rotten Roman hearts.

You wondered if Marcus’ was as rotten as his people’s. An idea of him had formed in your mind, and it contradicted what he had shown you so far. But only a man with a rotten heart could cause so much pain, so much grief.

You chewed your bottom lip, crouching for a second to collect the jug you had dropped before.

“If I finish early after cleaning up all the mess of your birthday’s celebration…” you teased.

“Right,” Marcus took a step back, liberating you from the warm prison of his body. “You go first, I’ll wait a couple of minutes then leave.”

“Such a gentleman, worried about my reputation,” you mocked him a bit, hand on the doorknob.

“I am,” Marcus replied, and you were not sure if he was joking back or being serious.

You didn’t stay to find out, scurrying away down the hallway straight to the kitchens. There were a lot of people in the small room, with Cormag at the forefront of it, barking commands and orders to everyone. The air was heavy, a cloud of smoke collecting close to the low ceiling.

The poor cook was profusely sweating near the hearth, his paw stirring a cauldron with a big wooden spoon.

“Ye deaf lad?! Bring that over right now!” the old git screamed at the top of his lungs, breaking into a coughing fit a second later.

Tomorrow you would make sure to put out the fire and clean that damn chimney, because one of these days Cormag was going to cough up a lung. You wouldn’t tell him though, otherwise he would try and talk you out of it, pointing out that it was no job for a lady. As if you cared.

Placing the empty jug down on one of counters, you saw Brighid and Isla tattling in a corner, giggling and blushing. You could only imagine what they were talking about. Had Brighid recognised you? It was dark inside the garderobe, and Marcus had tried to shield you from her, but the maid could be very perceptive.

Then Brighid swept the room and waved at you to come over, still snickering.

You steeled your back and sauntered towards them, not sure what to expect.

“Oh, mo bana-phrionnsa, you’re not going to believe what I just saw!” she squealed, almost too excitedly. “I just saw the Roman General fucking one of the harlots in the garderobe!”

Should you take offense in being mistaken for a prostitute? Perhaps you should but didn’t. It was actually a relief. Being caught red-handed sheathing Acacius’ cock in a crowded event like this would have been bad, really bad.

“Did you now?!” you faked the same level of excitement, sharing in the gossip.

The rest of the night was a haze, serving plates and taking empty ones away, cleaning up after the unwanted guests, replenishing wine and beer one pint after the next. Your feet hurt, although the dull, pleasant aching between your legs had nothing to do with standing up for hours. You had Marcus to thank for that.

Perhaps you were being paranoid, but you felt strangers’ eyes on you for the remainder of the night. You had avoided looking at the dais the whole evening, slightly worried that if your eyes lingered on him for too long, people would notice and add up your absence with his. That wasn’t the kind of attention you needed.

The last of the Romans had left now while you and the maids continued to clean after them. Marcus and Maximus were the last ones to exit the great hall, and you could sense the General’s brown eyes burning through your skin as he walked towards the double doors. You didn’t look his way, although the temptation was there. You knew if you did, you would not be able to stop yourself from following him to his room.

Two hours had gone by, and you were knackered. Rummaging through a basket, you found one of the plums that Cormag had gotten for you from Fachabair, jumped and sat on the clean counter. Your feet dangled in front of you, your mind stuck in that garderobe.

You were so distracted, your heart almost escaped your chest when someone spoke behind you.

“Meanbh-chuileag (Highland midge),” you almost fell from the counter when you turned around to look at the old cook.

“Cormag! I almost threw up my heart right now,” you accused him, his hearty laugh reverberating in the room.

“Didnae ye hear my ol’ knees clicking? Umnae (am not) that stealthy, fear beag (little one). What are you doing here? It’s so late, you should be in bed,” he questioned you, stopping in front of you with arms folded.

You rolled your eyes — Cormag was too close to a father figure to you, so you would sometimes give him the same attitude you did your dad.

“I was about to go, just wanted something sweet before I left.”

“Is that why all the plums are disappearing so quickly?” his brows knitted together, and you couldn’t help but laugh.

“Coireach (guilty). They are just too sweet. Didnae you say you bought them for me exclusively?”

“Exclusively? Now I don’t recall saying that, ye wee liar,” Cormag joked, his expression softening. “Are you and your family having enough to eat?”

The old man had a nose for hunger. While you were not starving, you did save as much food as possible so your niece and nephew would not go to bed with an empty belly. Bonnie was trying her best to keep you all fed, but four more mouths to cater for in the household meant that resources were a tad scarce. Your sister’s children were used to Cormag’s cooking, not having known hunger for a single day of their lives. And you didn’t want that to change now.

“We are making ends meet,” you eluded, shrugging, while sinking your teeth in the plum.

Cormag tutted at you and with no other words, he veered around and shuffled around in the kitchen. You watched him with curiosity, not sure of what he was doing. Got off the counter to drop the stone in the bin.

“Here, you take all of this with you, and I won’t accept no for an answer,” Cormag placed down a basket full of food. “They are leftovers from tonight. Brighid, Isla and the lads have already had their share.”

You could smell the stew even with the tiny cauldron covered. Fresh vegetables, berries, bread, and, of course, quite a few plums along with other seasonal fruits. All that food would keep you all fed for a few days.

His generosity made the knot in your throat swell, your eyes lighting up with unspent tears. You had not expected to feel emotional, but the cook’s kindness reminded you too much of the family you had lost.

“Cormag,” you whispered, fearing your voice might crack, “mòran taing (thank you).”

He waved one of his paws, making light of the situation.

“Dinnae mention it. You still have a few inches to grow,” he jested, palming your shoulder.

His joke worked — it lightened your mood.

“I am six and twenty. I don’t think I’m growing any more than this,” you chortled, grabbing the basket to rest it on your hip. “Awright, I’m leaving before you diminish the castle’s reserves.”

“Off you go then,” his hands did a brushing motion, the man almost pushing you out of his kitchen.

If you had planned on visiting Marcus tonight, that had now changed — carrying all this food to Bonnie’s home was your main priority. You couldn’t wait to see the sparkle in your niece and nephew’s eyes when they woke up in the morning, plums and berries ready for them to break their fast.

Marcus knew that the rebels would be up in arms, but he did not expect them to be so bloodthirsty. The barbarians from the Highlands were not going to go down quietly, he had come to learn.

He had lost at least a dozen of men in the skirmish. They had been ambushed in their way to Cùil Lodair (Culloden), and none of his trackers had seen any indication of the small legion being followed. The moment they entered the woods and the path narrowed, arrows flew from tree to tree. Hell ensued, a dance of swords quickly singing its melody up to the treetops.

With his wounds still fresh and healing, Marcus had been able to knock down the first two men that approached him. Maximus and Cassius had come to his aid in time — the warmth soaking the tunic underneath his armour a good indication that he was bleeding again.

The General looked around him before jumping onto Faun’s back. Death followed him everywhere he went, like an old companion stalking his every step. He should be used to it by now—the reeking stench of humanity’s demise—but the truth was, Marcus never would. It never became easier, just manageable, but his duty to Rome had him drown the lingering doubts living quietly in the back of his mind.

After an unsuccessful mission—never made it past the woods—they returned to the castle, carrying their own dead and leaving behind a pile of bodies for their people to mourn and bury.

His muscles ached with exhaustion as he crossed the barbican. A dense fog had settled in the bailey, not a soul to be seen. As he trudged forward and the warm air of the keep hit his damp skin, his senses flared — alert, hoping to cross eyes with you.

Marcus had not seen you since his birthday. Despite asking you to join you that evening, you had not shown up at his door. He had waited up for a couple of hours and when reality dawned, he called it a night, somewhat resigned.

Perhaps it was for the best. He was a married man, after all. It was normal for men to take up a mistress or two, but Marcus was the kind to think that matrimony was holy — despite the hardships and the cheating, that was. At least, that was his mind up until he met you.

Should not be after a woman who was several years younger than himself either, he thought with a pout. But whatever spell you had him under, he could not break free from. You were like the opium poppy — your mere proximity could soothe pain, but also cause it.

“You need to get that stitched up again, Acacius,” Cassius pointed out, interrupting his line of thought.

Marcus’ palm was pressing on the wound on his hip — he had almost forgotten about the pain, the thought of you soothing.

“I’ll call for Atticus,” Maximus chipped in, and Marcus nodded.

“Shite!” you staggered backwards.

The hardened soot and coal you had been poking at with a broomstick to unblock the chimney’s breast dislodged from the inner walls. Snapping your head back, your face was saved by hair’s breadth, but the black ash had cascaded down your chest, staining the red linen dress you were fashioning today.

You clapped your hands together, a cloud of soot flying around you as you tried to shake off the rest of it off your clothes.

Huffing and puffing, you grabbed the damn broomstick and brush the mess off the floor. At least the chimney was unblocked now, so the air would not be loaded with smoke when the hearth was ignited again.

At least the kitchen was empty, so no one was witness to what has happened. Not that you were a refined lady worries about being seen like this, but you just knew that if Cormag was around, he would be giving you hell.

Once you were done, you left the kitchen and sauntered towards the doors to the bailey. You were in dire need of a dunking to clean yourself — you knew the perfect secluded spot on River Ness’ bank, one you had been going to since you were a child.

“Callie?”

The voice behind you made your heart skip a beat and your feet freeze. One you would now recognise anywhere.

“Dux Meus,” you murmured, turning around to face the fire of your desire.

Dux Meus. His lower tummy burnt at the words.

The last thing Marcus had hoped to see this fine morning was you standing in the hallway, a red dress hugging the hourglass figure he longed for. Your chest was covered in what seemed to be ash and soot, a deep black staining ruining the front of your pretty dress. It spread to your neck, your cheeks, the tip of your nose — and your green eyes so bright that they were pulling him in.

“What’s happened?”

“A minor inconvenience in the kitchens, Dominus. I was unblocking the chimney’s breast and, well…” you lifted your arms and pointed at yourself. “I guess my reflexes are not as sharp as I would have liked.”

Marcus grinned, the annoyance in your voice adding to the entertainment.

“I guess not,” he hummed, his fingertips burning to touch you. “I can help you,” the words escaped him before his brain was able to catch up with his own intentions.

I can help you clean yourself, he meant.

Your eyes locked for what felt like an eternity, the pupils in your orbs flickering, pondering.

One of your brows raised in your forehead and you took a step forward towards him.

“Only if it is not inconvenient for you, Dux Meus,” you cooed with a girlish smile.

“Of course not,” he quickly replied. “I wouldn’t have offered otherwise.”

“I believe your pretty dress is ruined,” Marcus husked, the damp rag brushing the exposed skin of your clavicle.

This was fucking torture. He was playing a game, and your patience was running thin. He had been paying immense attention to every inch of your skin, cleaning off all soot and ash. You knew he was debating, but he wouldn’t have taken you to his bedchambers—your room—if he hadn’t had something in mind.

The same thing you had in mind, to be completely honest.

“It appears so,” you said, sliding your hand to his.

To hell with subtleties — the tension was eating you up.

You guided his hand, the one holding the linen cloth, to the valley between the swell of your boobs. Slowly you pushed it down, one corner of the rag disappearing between your breasts.

Marcus didn’t say a word. And he didn’t need to, because the way he was looking at you—like a man who had not drunk water in days—was speaking for him.

You were not sure who had taken the initiative, but soon enough you were in his embrace, his mouth warming your lips as his hands rested gently on either side of your waist.

“I need you,” you mumbled, possibly being sincere for the first time.

You had not been able to stop thinking about what happened in the garderobe. Every time the memory came back, you would find yourself rubbing your knees together to quench the thirst between your thighs.

Marcus groaned in reply, his hands harsher now as they found the buttons on the back. With steady fingers, he undid every single one of them until your dress cascaded off your body and gathered at your feet. Soon your loincloth was also on the floor, leaving you completely naked.

The General took a step back to take in the sight of you — the intensity in his brown eyes making you blush as he studied every square inch of your body.

“You look beautiful,” he muttered, one hand reaching up to cup one of your breasts, his thumb skimming the nipple. You pursed your lips at the gentle touch. “You are beautiful, mel.”

Then he bowed down to kiss you again, and he took control of your hands to show you how to undress him. So you did under his delicate guidance, until you both were equally bare.

Marcus’ body was a woman’s dream — or, at least, yours. Toned but not too muscular, a hard chest, strong and defined arms, his lower tummy slightly softer with the passage of time, a pronounced V line, and then a happy, hairy trail that your eyes eagerly followed.

His cock had started to harden, the tip pearly with his excitement. The length was generous, but the girth was what caught your attention.

No wonder why he couldn’t fit it in the first time. Perhaps it hadn’t been your body’s rejection, but that Marcus’ dick was thick, very thick.

“It’s alright, honey, we’ll make it work,” he hummed, his thumb tilting your chin up to press a soft kiss on your mouth.

Then he walked to the bed—his ass, goddamn his ass—and sat on the feathery mattress.

You were standing there, completely naked and suddenly you felt shy — your arms wrapping around your body to try and cover yourself up. Your skin had bristled, not because of the room temperature, but because you felt completely exposed to him.

Being shy was not something you were used to, but everything you had endured with your late husband had taken a toll on you, one you had not expected at all. It pained you to acknowledge that Iain might have broken your spirit a tad more than what you would have liked to admit.

Marcus’ nudity should have calmed you, but instead it made your eyes widened and your heart pound harder.

He was big, really big ― to the point that you pondered if he would ever fit inside you. No wonder why he had only fucked you with the tip a couple of days ago. Taking more inches of his cock seemed like an unachievable task, at least for you. You were no stranger to sex, having been subdued to satisfy all of Iain’s vices, but this… this was too fucking different to what you had expected.

Doubt nagged at your mind, questioning yourself. Perhaps this was all a bad idea, wanting to seduce Marcus to get information off him. But you truly didn’t see any other way of obtaining what you needed ― leverage.

Marcus extended one of his hands towards you.

“It’s alright, melculum. Just want to make you feel good,” he husked, his palm an open invitation to join him, sat on the bed. Your bed.

You slipped your hand to his and he pulled you gently until you were sat on his bare lap. His hardening dick rested on the side of your left thigh, warm and heavy. His right hand traced mindless lines on your back, while his left caressed your belly, the pads of his fingers lightly stroking your mound.

With eyes shut, you sighed, relaxing at his touch. Marcus kissed your shoulder, then the curvature of your neck.

“That’s it, mel, relax. We are not doing anything you don’t want to,” he whispered.

And you believed him. Knew better than trusting your enemy, but his voice was so reassuring, there was no more room for your initial doubt.

His left hand surprised you travelling up instead of down, cupping your left breast while his thumb stroked your nipple. A shiver of need went down your spine, soothed by the gentle pet of his right hand on your back. His beard scratched your bristled skin as he crouched down a little to trap your taut nipple between his lips.

Inevitably, your head tilted back, mouth agape with short breaths. Marcus worked your nipple diligently, the warmth of his lips dripping onto the wrinkled nub. And even as you started trembling on his lap, he did not stop. If anything, your little gasps and quiet moans spurred him on, his tongue flicking your nipple.

The sensation was too much ― Marcus latched on your breast as a man starved, his broad hand cradling your breast with reverence. He was intent on making it good for you and not asking for anything in return. But your instinct wanted you to reciprocate, you needed to do something.

Your left hand found his stiffened cock, leaned against your thigh. Tentatively, your fingertips stroked the leaky mushroom head, which gifted you a deep groan coming from his chest. Hearing him moan around your nipple was a great incentive to explore him a bit more, so you swiped his glans with your thumb, collecting a pearl of precum and buttering it onto his tacky skin.

“You don’t have to,” he purred between licks.

“But I want to,” you cooed back, mind mushy with pleasure.

Marcus’ efforts on your nipple doubled, twirling the tight button between his teeth and pulling slightly before soothing the gesture with a wet kiss on your bud. You couldn’t help but whimper, dampness gathering between your thighs.

As if he knew how drenched you were getting, the hand that cupped your breast slowly trailed down until it found your mound again. His ring finger stroked the outline of your seam a few times, your knees pressed together so your juices wouldn’t leak out.

“Let me see how wet you are, please,” Marcus murmured in a moment of reprieve, his lips pecking your nipple with every word he spoke.

You couldn’t resist him, not anymore, so you parted your legs just enough to let his hand slip between your thighs. The moment his ring finger dunked in your warmth, you both moaned in unison. The pad of his finger slid across your velvety skin, from your clenching hole to your writhing clit, a few times, as if he wanted to get acquainted with the map of your pussy.

“You’re soaking,” he grunted. “So damn wet for me, melculum.”

His words in combination with his cheeky finger short-circuited your brain, that coiling sensation you had been craving these last two days starting to take form low in your belly. It was warm in here now, so much your cheeks flushed as if you had drunk a pint of uisge beatha.

With lazy strokes on your soggy slit, Marcus’ tongue kept on licking and flicking your nipple, now completely sodden with his spit. His digit worked you slowly too, moving up and down between your swollen pussy lips until it caught on your needy clit. You sobbed quietly at the touch, and sensing how much you enjoyed that, Marcus repeated it.

Soon enough you were mewling into the abyss as the General pressed languid circles on your bundle of nerves at the same time he was lapping at the tip of your boob. And the moment he sunk the first phalange of his ring finger in your leaking hole, your wails just grew louder.

With an unhurried pace, he pumped the tip of his digit in and out of you, feeling your inner walls relaxing around him. A couple of minutes later, your walls had adjusted to the intrusion, his finger now completely buried in your seeping hole down to the knuckle.

You heaved, pursing your lips in a vain attempt to control your moaning, but the pleasure building up inside you was too great to bear. Too intense to ignore. You bit down your bottom lip until you almost drew blood, your hips bucking up with a mind of their own.

“That’s it, sweetheart, you feel that?” Marcus’ devilish mouth abandoned your nipple, lips pressed against your ear. “Come for me, please. Melt for me.”

You resisted, wanting to prolong this moment. It felt too good to let it go just yet, albeit your whole body was commending you to. Your insides tightened around Marcus’ lone finger as you tried to hold on to the feeling a little longer.

You were so lost to the new sensations, you hadn’t realised your own fingers were wrapping snugly around Marcus’ throbbing erection. Hoping he would falter, you began to pump him slowly, his hot glans leaking onto the skin of your thigh.

“Don’t be a tease, mel, don’t want to come yet,” he groaned in your ear. His finger suddenly left your insides to slap your hand away from his shaft.

You sobbed at the emptiness, the coiling feeling starting to diminish. The idea of not finding relief haunted you, so you obeyed his command.

Your fingers found his wrist, gripping it tight and guiding him back to your beating cunt. You coaxed your pussy lips apart with his fingers and silently begged him to resume where he had left off.

“Are you going to be good for me and come?” he asked, kissing your shoulder. “Do you promise?”

You nodded with vehemency.

“Good girl.”

With more urgency now, Marcus worked you back to the edge of the pleasure cliff, forcing you to climb up to the top with a relentless pace. Every time his ring finger bottomed out inside you, his thumb would flick your burning clit. The repeated tease of his hand was your undoing.

Teary eyes and parted lips, you moaned as an enormous wave washed over you, the coil inside finally snapping with a force unknown to mankind. Or, at least, unknown to you. Marcus kept on fingering you throughout, pulling the last bit of pleasure out of you until you were spent.

You hadn’t realised how much you had leaked until you felt his wet thigh underneath, sticky and warm with your release.

“I’m sorry, I’ll clean―” you tried to move off his lap, but Marcus’ strong arm wrapped around your waist, grounding you on his lap.

“Don’t apologise, it’s normal. It means you’re enjoying it,” he reassured you, then lifted his gaze to yours, a lingering question dancing in his dilated pupils. “I thought you were a widow?”

He was not wrong. But not all men spent the time he was taking to make it pleasurable for women.

“I am. But my late husband only cared about himself,” you told the truth, a crack of sincerity in your carefully built façade. “Never took the time to… make it good for me.”

Marcus frowned with incomprehension at your revelation, his mouth falling into a flat line. Was that a ray of anger? If it was, it quickly disappeared from his brown eyes.

Judging by what had just happened, you knew he was the complete opposite to Iain in that respect.

“Two days ago, in the garderobe. Was that your first time orgasming?”

You pouted, feeling like the conversation was taking a very personal turn. But you didn’t want to lie to him, there was enough deceit between you two. So you nodded, eyes withdrawn with a tinge of embarrassment.

Marcus cursed himself, annoyed with something although you didn’t know what. Annoyed with you, perhaps?

His thumb stroked your bottom lip, soothing the grimace showing on your face.

“Had I known, I wouldn’t have taken you like that. This should have been the first time you climaxed, melculum. I am sorry,” he apologised, and your heart jolted.

He was angry with himself. But the whole thing had been so good, you wouldn’t have done anything different. The memory of Marcus’ tip fucking the first two inches of your pussy had kept you warm at night.

“What? Nay, don’t. It was good, really good. I wouldn’t change a thing about what happened,” you quickly replied.

And what was worst, you actually meant it.

For a minute, Marcus didn’t speak a word, studying your face expression until he reached the conclusion that you were not lying.

“Stand up for me,” he said out of nowhere.

You obliged, the tremor of your knees almost gone. standing in front of him, he leaned forward, hands on either side of your waist, to kiss your mound. The intimacy of such gesture caught you off guard. Then he leaned back and dragged his body on the bed until he was sat in the middle of it, back resting against the headboard, knees bent with his soles resting flat on the silky bedsheets.

He palmed his thigh, his cock so erect it twitched with every heartbeat against his happy trail.

“Come here,” he mumbled with need.

You might not know what you had to do, but your body definitely knew what it needed to do to chase that high again. So you crawled on the bed until you were straddling him, the tip of his throbbing cock kissing your hooded clit.

Marcus’ hand cupped your ass, and then tutted.

“Not yet, mel, I need to make sure you are completely ready,” he husked.

It was your time to frown.

“I am ready,” you assured him.

“It was only one finger, sweetheart―”

“One thick finger,” you remarked, snappy.

Marcus chuckled, shaking his head.

“Yes, but I need you to take all of this,” he whispered, his hand gripping the base of his cock to direct your attention there.

He was girthy. Probably too girthy. One of his fingers was nothing in comparison.

You swallowed, your gaze looking for his.

“Yeah, I know, dove. We’ll take it slow,” he leaned forward a bit to kiss your right nipple. “Turn around, I want you to sit on my lap with your back resting on my chest.”

The promise of another climax numbed your mind, so you did exactly as he had asked. Sat on his lap, you leaned back until your bare back met his hard torso. His knees were still bent, and he slipped his forearms under your thighs to lift them up over his own thighs. The back of your thighs were now resting on top of his, and when Marcus pulled his knees apart, your legs followed the motion, leaving you completely open and exposed.

When your eyes drifted down your own body, you saw Marcus’ erection poking in between your thighs, gently lodged between your pussy lips. His hips moved slightly under you, his length skidding along your drenched fold, the head disappearing from sight as it dragged backwards across your seam. It hitched in your entrance, just briefly ― then Marcus tugged his hips upwards and his glans reappeared again, protruding where your slit began.

Marcus repeated the whole process a few times, his name dripping from your mouth in choked moans. He buried his crooked nose in your hair, inhaling your scent.

“You feel like heaven right now,” he mumbled, kissing the nape of your neck. “Play with your boobs for me, mel, my hands are about to be very busy, sadly can’t be everywhere.”

His request had your cunt gushing some more, if that was even possible. You felt so wet down there, you even wondered if there was something wrong with you. Couldn’t be that out of all men on this world, the one who killed your family was who had you melting under his touch.

Feeling a bubble of slick leaking from your hole on his thudding shaft, you leaned your head back on his shoulder and moved your hair out of the way, some ginger curls cascading down your front, covering your breasts. Cupped your underboob and pushed them up, creating a deep valley between your tits.

“That’s it, stroke them for me, melculum,” he mused as both of his hands rode up your inner thigs until your pussy was framed between them. “Brush both of your nipples with your thumbs, just lightly. Don’t be too harsh with them, they are sensitive.”

Marcus talked you through playing with your buds, petting them gently as he was telling you. While doing so, his left hand grabbed at his cock and began to pump himself, while his right started working your clit again. Looking down, you just caught a glimpse, which sent you trembling on his lap like a newborn foal.

He cupped your mound, the pads of all his fingers rubbing your clit leisurely, as if you had all time in the world. The fire burning between your legs hiked up your spine the moment Marcus let go of his cock and it sat snug against your pussy again, his fingers stopping for a second.

You whimpered in protest, your nipples hardening under the touch of your thumbs.

“Shh, it’s okay, Callie,” he heartened you, only to resume the petting of your slick nub. You let go a sigh of relief. “There you go.”

His free hand went down your thigh to find your drooling entrance, testing it out with one finger. Your pussy sheathed it with ease and Marcus hummed behind you.

“You’re much more relaxed now,” he praised. “Pinch those nipples for me, twist them gently between your thumb and index.” You did as you were told, another wail tearing your throat apart. “Yes, just like that, you’re doing so well, mel.” He gave you a moment to acclimatise to the feeling of having hands everywhere ― your nipples, your clit, your hole. It was almost too much. “Now, suck on your thumbs so they are wet and go back to rub those beautiful buds for me. Imagine they are my fingers. Can you do that for me, sweetheart?”

You nodded, desperate. Doing exactly as you were told, the sudden cold of your spit on your nipples made the sensitive skin under your thumbs wrinkle. The brief pain transformed into something else, hellfire running through your veins.

So focused on your breasts, you had almost forgotten about Marcus fingering your pussy and smothering your clit at the same time. Your toes curled, hips bucking up, so close to that cliff again, one you would throw yourself off gladly.

“You’re doing very well―so, so well,” Marcus’ praise was like music to your ears, all your nerve endings firing with delight. “You think you can take another finger?”

You sobbed, shaking your head.

“Yes, please,” you begged.

As promised, Marcus introduced his middle finger, the pads of both dragging along your anterior wall to find that sweet, soft spot. Your hips jerked up and then back down on him, grinding a circular motion on his lower tummy.

“Well done, mel. I am sure we can get your sweet tight pussy to make room for me.”

His cock twitched between your thighs, leaking, and you knew he was as desperate as you. So, while one hand skimmed your nipple, the other drifted down to caress his glans with your thumb. Marcus rumbled underneath, his breath hitching with a quiet moan ― you did it again.

His fingers sunk inside of you effortlessly now, pumping in and out and all you could hear were the squelching noises coming from your swollen lips. It should have felt embarrassing, but it had the opposite effect on you ― if anything, they made you gush even more.

“If you can take three fingers… shit…” Marcus almost lost his composure there, “if you can, then you’ll be ready, sweetheart. Shall we try?”

You gripped his beating erection harder in response, mewling audibly now with every stroke on your clit, every thrust of his fingers, the caress of your own thumb on your nipple… Then the third finger went in smoothly and you saw stars behind your closed eyes.

It just was too much. Your knees quivered and so did your cunt, clutching on his fingers. You felt your inner walls contracting, but this time it was different ― it wasn’t to get the fingers out, but to push them as far in as you could. And Marcus obliged, bottoming out, then slipping them out and back in. The coil inside you twisted feverishly and you just couldn’t take it anymore.

You started wailing, grinding your ass against his tummy, in an attempt to increase the friction in your drenched opening, in your clit, everywhere.

“You’re close, mel, you’re so close,” Marcus huffed. “I want to try something. Do you trust me?”

You were barely able to nod at his words ― right now, you would do anything he asked for.

His fingers left your hole with a pop, and the second hand stopped petting your clit right when you were so close to fall off the cliff of your pleasure.

You panicked, tears brimming now as a sense of anxiety peaked inside you.

“M-Ma-Marcus,” you complained in a stutter, your whole body shaking.

You didn’t have much time to finish your protest, because he grabbed your hand off his cock and pushed your fingers against your clit. He showed you how to move them in circles, coaching you for a minute, teaching you how to pleasure yourself.

“Keep touching your sweet little clit for me, deliciae (darling),” Marcus groaned, his voice raspy and deep. “I’m going in. I want you to come while you sheathe me.”

And with no further ado, he slipped his forearms under your thighs, lifted you off his lap to align the tip of his veiny dick with your entrance. Slowly he dropped you, his length furrowing its way up your cavity with no difficulty.

The moment his glans was sat and more inches intruded, you finally came. The strength of your release had your whole being shaken up, your climax so intense you couldn’t see anything even through half-lidded eyes. Feral moans escaped your lips, every inch of Marcus’ cock intensifying the climax that had you on its tight grip.

Your inner walls hugged his cock, choked it actually. Your heart was racing so fast, you could feel the heartbeat in your quivering cunt, a sensation so overwhelming it almost sent you over the edge again.

You hadn’t realised, but Marcus was completely seated inside you, buried down to the hilt, his balls intimately kissing your puffy lips. Fullness tugged at your walls, stretching them, still adapting around his girth. He was everywhere ― filling every crevice, every nook and cranny. You felt his presence so intensely, it was staggering.

“Oh Gods…” Marcus sounded like he was within an inch of his life. “You feel so good, melculum. So warm, so wet, s-so… uhm… so tight. Heaven on Earth,” he prayed in a hush, his tone almost breaking. “How… are you feeling?”

“Blissed out,” you hummed. “Full, in the best way possible.”

Those were all the words Marcus needed to hear from you. He had been to hell and back, and even though his cock had been barely stimulated, he was throbbing for you. Marcus couldn’t remember the last time he felt this… needy.

And now he was in heaven, his shaft sweetly embraced by your wet warmth. A gift you were, sent by Gods themselves ― there was no other explanation.

Marcus’ forearms were still resting on the back of your thighs, then he hoisted you up ever so slightly, moving you up his length so you would free a few inches of his cock. The cold air of the room clung onto his damp shaft, a shiver running down his spine, then placed you back down on his lap.

Every time he pushed you up and down on his lap, you would moan like a woman possessed. Your little sobs and whimpers were the best melody he had ever listened to ― so quiet, yet so wanton. They filled your mouth and spilt over your lips like honey. He would drink them right now if he could.

His dick pulsated hard when your pussy fluttered around him, then your walls tensed around him and Marcus snapped his head back against the headboard, a feral groan ringing in his eardrums.

“Do that again, please,” he requested, all his fingers digging in the flesh of your thighs.

“W-what?”

“Squeeze your walls for me, sweetheart. Hug me tight,” Marcus mumbled, struggling towards the end the moment you did exactly as he asked. “For everything that is holy―”

And you did it again, his words dying out as you clamped down on him with a strength that had him delirious. His mind spiralled down and just in the last second, Marcus stopped himself from coming.

“Such a mischievous nymph you are,” it wasn’t an accusation but a compliment. “Let me see if you’re still playing with that taut pearl in your pussy the way I’ve shown you.”

When he looked over your shoulder, you coaxed your sodden flaps apart for him, showing him how your fingertips worked your clit. Marcus’ hips jerked up at the irresistible sight, burying himself further down in you. His waist waved underneath you, his cock sliding in and out of you with ease.

“You’re doing great, mel. Such a good girl,” he moaned in your ear, nipping your lobe. “Do you like that, hm? Rubbing your tight little button?”

Your reply was a trembling whimper, your pursed bottom lip quivering with your eyes shut. Your brows were knitting together, bunny lines hugging your upturned nose. Marcus could feel your need, your palpitations. Your desperation.

“Is it too much, melculum?” You nodded, almost crying now. “I know, sweetheart, but we can remedy that. Do you want to come so you feel better?” Another nod of your head. “Alright, do you think you can ride me?”

“Aye, I want to ride you, Marcus,” you sobbed his name, his balls tensing up into his lower tummy.

Marcus let go of your thighs and helped you accommodate your knees to either side of him, so you were straddling him backwards. His hands caressed your round ass cheeks, eyes locked on where your bodies connected.

“Do whatever feels right, honey.”

Overtaken by instinct, you leaned forward and placed your hands between his calves, fisting the bedsheets as you started bouncing your hips up and down on his lap. Marcus let you find your rhythm, standing still underneath, letting you use him as needed.

The sweet choke of your pussy was too much ― too tight, too wet, too warm. This was the best he had felt in fucking decades, all thanks to you. Slowly, he matched your thrusts with his own, fucking up into you, meeting you halfway while his hands on your hips kept you grounded.

The slapping of his testicles on your swollen fold went on for a few minutes, a lewd cacophony echoing between the walls of his bedchamber. And soon enough he found himself grasping for control, his cock pulsating uncontrollably inside you.

You might have felt his pulse, because you spoke between choked wails.

“You can come inside, I can take―”

“What? No,” his response was instinctual, cutting you off before you finished. “You don’t need to take anything.”

Because the mere idea of you drinking some sort of potion so his seed wouldn’t take made him sick. Was that what your late husband had taught you? Was that how you were treated in bed, like a simple plaything to be used to satiate a man’s lust?

Those thoughts were deserted the moment your entrance squeezed hard around him, your moans mixing with the clapping sound of skin on skin. You pushed down your hips onto his lap, your sweet ass flush with his lower tummy. He felt another orgasm hit you and Marcus fucked you through it, steadily rutting up into you.

His own climax was near, all his muscles tensing with anticipation, his hips stuttering. With the last drop of his sanity, he lifted your butt up, his erection becoming free and resting between the swells of your ass cheeks. A second later, white ropes painted the small of your back while Marcus let go of a guttural groan.

With a fucked-out expression and a sweet grin, you looked over your shoulder and down at his spent sliding down your back. Marcus reached for the bedsheet and cleaned his cum off your skin delicately, his brown eyes fixed on your emerald ones.

“You’ve done extremely well for me, melculum. Exquisitely well,” he remarked, his hands smoothing over your thighs. “Come here.”

You turned around and laid down besides him, the upper half of your body resting on top of his torso. Your cheek rested on his sternum while his fingers traced invisible lanes on your arm, just above your elbow.

A moment of quietness lingered as your rapid breaths calmed down, your hearts settling back into a normal pace at the same time.

“I thought it was bad for you,” you muttered, the palm of your hand splaying right underneath his belly button.

“What was?” Marcus asked, confused.

“Uhmm…” you paused for a second, dubious, but then decided to trust him with your questions. “Coming outside. I was told it was extremely painful for the man to come if you are not buried… deep inside of a pussy.”

Your words awakened something with him, something dark and primal ― protective. For a moment, Marcus wished your husband was alive, so he could teach him how to be a real man. He had started to create a picture of what your sex life had been so far, and it wasn’t a pretty one.

In retrospect, he regretted having taken you so hastily in the garderobe. Barely took the time to work you to a climax. Marcus had paid worshipping attention to your breasts, but when it came to your clit, he had not been as attentive. Marcus should have shown you how good that could feel, should have taken his sweet time like he had done today, but he had been too anxious to fuck you.

Marcus looked for the best way to tell you without making you feel naïve. He didn’t want you thinking something like that, that he would force his seed on you for his own pleasure.

“That’s not how it is, mel. I’m sorry you’ve been told that,” his lips brushed your red crown, then pressed a kiss on your forehead. Could you hear how hard his heart was pounding with rage? One he was trying to quiet down. “I can come outside just fine, that’s not an issue. I prefer that a thousand times over you having to drink some nasty potion that will end up hurting you.”

His care for you was genuine, and Marcus was shocked at the truth that thought held. He barely knew you, but what he had seen of you so far had him reeled in like a fish attached to a rusty hook.

You were so direct, snappy even, with a sarcastic retort always at the ready. Your strong personality was refreshing, especially to someone like Marcus, used to be surrounded by women who would bow their head down at the sight of him. But knowing this side of you now―a tad insecure and inexperienced, rediscovering what sex was really like―, he wondered how much of your façade was just that, a carefully built stonewall to keep people at bay.

“Oh, I see,” you muttered, the skin between your brows pinching.

Marcus tilted your chin up with his thumb. His gaze roved over your face, studying it and finding that you seemed to be upset, possibly with yourself. He didn’t like that.

His thumb stroked your bottom lip to relax your pouting expression.

“If you were told such a thing, it’s normal that you believed it. I just don’t want to lie to you, don’t want to take advantage of you, melculum. I want you to enjoy yourself, to discover what you like and don’t like in bed.” The hand that was caressing your arm travelled down your back, went over the swell of your round globes until he found the slick of your arousal clinging onto your pussy lips. He stroked them carefully, buttering your sticky cunt with your own juices. “This is how I want you, sweetheart. Creamy and satisfied. That’s all I care about.”

You hummed at his words, eyes shut and mouth agape. His fingers pried your pussy open, the cold air on your wet, sensitive skin made you shiver on his chest.

Acacius knew too damn well what he was doing, taunting you again like this. You didn’t think you had it in yourself to come again, but the General seemed to think otherwise.

His index found your clit and stroked it maddingly slow. Seemed like he was right.

You gasped, chewing your bottom lip, your mind drifting away at his intimate touch.

“I think you can come for me again, don’t you?”

You whimpered in response, lifting your bent left leg until it rested on of his lap, so he could reach your swollen, reddened pussy better. You humped the side of his thigh, grinding on his hairy skin to get you off.

“You’re drenched,” he purred with satisfaction, kissing your forehead as your seeping hole sucked in his finger eagerly. You moaned. “Seems like you need me to take care of you again, mel.”

His fingering had you drooling onto his chest until you came again, sobbing like a babe gasping for their first breath. Your limbs felt numb as your pussy pulsed a few more times, releasing the last of your arousal onto Marcus’ palm. He rubbed your seam, cupping your whole pussy, until you were completely done.

Then tapped your cunt softly, gently. “Feeling calmer now?”

You nodded, blissed out and speechless.

You remained on top of his chest while coming down from your latest high. You had lost count of how many times Marcus had made you come now, but keeping count had not been on your foremind. What you had realised though was that this―whatever this was―was dangerous.

You had expected Marcus to behave exactly like Iain ― to take you how he wanted and discard you when he was done with you. Yet here he was, making sure you had no more orgasm to give him tonight. This was not your plan at all ― you banked on him being a complete monster who would ravish you given the chance.

This could complicate everything, and you even wondered if you should stop this madness before shit got too real.

A man with a rotten heart would not have you question your decisions. Perhaps it wasn’t rotten, only spoilt.

It’s just sex, a means to an end. Doesn’t matter how good, how fucking delicious he makes it to be. Fuck him, enjoy it, get what you need from him, then destroy him. Easy, you reminded yourself, albeit with less determination than before.

“I should be going,” you mumbled, unwilling to leave this bed despite the inner talk you just gave yourself ― your bed that now was his.

“So soon?” he whispered, his lips twitching in a pout.

Damn him for making it difficult to leave.

“My aunt will be wondering where I’ve gone. Can’t risk her coming here looking for me, can we?” you tried to make light of the situation with a white lie.

“I guess not,” he finally agreed after a brief silence, then kissed your forehead. “Will I see you tomorrow?”

“Patience is a virtue, Marcus,” you mocked him a bit, sitting up on the bed. “And mine has run out, I’m afraid. Aye, I’ll come tomorrow.”

Marcus sat up on bed too, hugging your waist, his mouth dangerously close to yours.

“I will make sure that you come tomorrow, mel,” the double meaning was not lost on you, even less on your gushing pussy.

You swallowed a whimper, kissing his lips briefly to then jump out of bed and grab your clothes off the floor. You put them on as fast as you could.

“You better,” you threatened him, softening the gesture with a wink, before you disappeared through the door.

@orcasoul @immyowndefender @sjc7542 @fairiebabey

@thepalaceofmelanie @harriedandharassed @whoaitspascal87

@verybigvag @jessthebaker @ivoryandflame @missadangel

@pepperstories @mewantpeepaw @inept-the-magnificent

[targ-shelby-stark]

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨ ʚ 𝖎 𝖈𝖍𝖔𝖔𝖘𝖊 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖒𝖊, 𝖗𝖊𝖑𝖎𝖌𝖎𝖔𝖚𝖘𝖑𝖞 ɞ ୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

. ༘˚⋆𐙚｡ 𝐚𝐞𝐠𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐞𝐧 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 ⋆𖦹.✧˚

⤷ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ; language, FLUFF.

⤷ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀꜱ; Aegon Targaryen, Original Female Character, Alicent Hightower (mention), Rhaenyra Targaryen (mention), Viserys Targaryen (mention).

⤷ ɪᴍᴘᴏʀᴛᴀɴᴛ; this is all work of fiction. in no way am i prompting the acts in this fictional story nor am i encouraging acts done or words said in this piece of writing. i heavily recommend only those who can stomach this universe proceed as the heavy themes are not the most suitable for a most audiences.

Aegon found himself in the throes of an unbearable headache. The cause remained a mystery to him— was it the remnants of last night's wine, or the ceaseless prattle of the Small Council on matters that held no interest for him? Yet, above all, it was his Mother's incessant nagging that grated on his nerves. Her unsolicited critiques and condescending remarks had left him feeling hollow, devoid of joy.

For two decades, he endured the relentless torment of inner conflict, torn between his true identity and the expectations placed upon him. Despite being named after a great conqueror, he harbored no ambition for political power. Though hailed as the kingdom's beacon of hope and the King's heir, he would willingly submit to Rhaenyra if it meant finding relief from the torment that consumed him.

He sought solace only in the peculiar wines and the depths of brothels. However, they were no longer sufficient. He was weary of the alcohol-induced headaches and the constricting pain in his chest after waking up next to a woman who was only there for payment. His pride was crumbling, and he could finally concede to the world's judgment of him; Aegon II Targaryen was indeed pathetic.

Aegon yearned for unspoiled air, free from the breath of others. He sought refuge in solitude, fearing that his inner turmoil would drive him to drastic action. The gardens offered a temporary reprieve, their natural beauty calming his troubled mind. Yet, it was not the flowers that brought him peace, but rather her comforting presence. It was she who soothed his troubled soul.

Perhaps it was the knowledge that she chose to stand by his side willingly. He was accustomed to women being in his presence out of obligation or for their own gain due to his royal status, but he could discern that she was there out of genuine desire. Despite her naivety as a foreigner in the court, she seemed genuinely sincere when she expressed her admiration for him. Or maybe she was not naive. She was smart; he dare say smarter than him in a lot of topics, but no amount of smart helped him understand why she wanted him.

"Your Majesty," she curtsies gracefully as she catches sight of him approaching. Aegon shook his head, "Simply fucking not. I am here to escape from all of that," he required no reminder of his identity. He longed for a few moments to simply be Aegon— not the King, not the man bearing the name of the great Targaryen conqueror, not the man embroiled in war. He despised that persona. He despised himself when he was himself. Yet, he could endure his own company when he was with her, and that was more affection than he had ever felt for himself.

He gazed upon her as she chuckled at his severity, the melodic sound reverberating within him. She remained unfazed by his inadvertent hostility. Was she aware that this was a result of his upbringing? Endless reprimands were all he received as a child, it was all he knew how to express.

She delicately toyed with her exquisite golden rings; oh, how he could admire her endlessly. His sole desire was to etch into his mind every one of her subtle mannerisms, to decipher her emotions with just a glance, to interpret the unspoken signals that revealed her innermost feelings. "What troubles you?" she softly murmured, her head tilted in genuine worry. Worry for him.

"Absolutely everything," Aegon exhaled deeply, wandering aimlessly in front of her, "I feel as though I could stand before Sunfyre and embrace her flames," he watched as her eyes widened slightly. She huffed out, "Please refrain from saying such things," her tone filled with dread. He smiled and casually remarked, "I have vowed to speak only the truth with you. And that, my dear, is the truth."

He observed her closely while she pondered her response. Each word carefully selected, not out of insincerity, but out of a genuine desire to provide him solace. She had once advised him to consider his words before speaking, she inspired him to follow suit as she spoke up, "What can I do to make you feel better?" she inquired.

He indeed considered the counsel and pondered his response. Aegon II Targaryen would retort with a clear desire for wine and the companionship of whores to alleviate his emptiness. But what words would Aegon choose? What would truly bring solace to Aegon? He remained uncertain. He had never looked beyond those trivial matters. Those basic indulgences that he had been taught were the sole source of a man's contentment.

Was he truly acquainted with his own being? By the Seven Hells, she provoked such profound contemplation within him. Yet, he understood the value in it. It was her influence that guided him towards self-awareness, allowing him to delve deeper into his thoughts. What could bring solace to Aegon? After much deliberation, he concluded, "Peace."

"Peace?" she inquired with curiosity, seeking further elucidation, yearning to delve deeper into his thoughts. Aegon pondered for a moment before responding, "I crave tranquility. I yearn to be free from the burdens of duty and the weight of responsibility," he paused, collecting his thoughts. With a resolute tone, he continued, "No. That is not entirely accurate. I do desire responsibility, but not in this form. I have no desire to wear the crown, for I am not fit for such a role. I am better suited for the responsibilities my Father neglected."

“What do you mean?”

"I intend," he murmured softly, "to outshine him, but not as a monarch. Rather, as a father," he chuckled softly. The image materialized before him, a daydream of a serene existence where he could slumber undisturbed until a child with his own hair and eyes rudely awakened him with a plea. Occupying himself throughout the day with the babbling, disorder, and vexation of children—yet, by the deities, it was an exasperation he would never wish to dispel. The unending juvenile needs, the perpetual reliance on him, and the nerve-wracking moments at feasts while they scampered off to play.

Following his duties diligently, he would eventually retreat to his private chambers. Ensuring everyone was settled for the night with a reassuring word of meeting again in the following morn. Upon entering his chambers, a heavy sigh would escape his lips as he sank into a luxurious bath, losing track of time. With damp hair cascading and hovering over his shoulders, he would leisurely make his way to his opulent bed, where the familiar chuckle he cherished would resonate as the mattress welcomed his presence.

Subsequently, he would raise his gaze. He would lift his eyes and with mesmerizing violet eyes, he would behold her. He would behold her all the time; as he looked upon his children and he would behold her when he desires to, referring to her as his beloved spouse. His wife. This was the aspiration of Aegon. This was what would elevate Aegon to a higher state of being.

"Aegon?" Her voice interrupted his reverie, yet the tenderness with which she uttered his name mirrored the way she did in his dreams. Aegon dismissed her with a shake of his head, "Let it go. Dreams are not meant for rulers," he chuckled, aware of the ambiguity in his words. Drawing closer to him, she insisted, "But they are. Kings possess the power to obtain anything they desire. That is the essence of royalty— turning fantasies into reality," her voice carried a sense of urgency, imploring him to fulfill the desires of a King for Aegon.

He was immediately persuaded. He entwined his fingers in her luscious dark locks and shut his eyes, savoring the flavor of her lips reminiscent of the sweetness described in the romantic High Valeryan poetry. As he gazed into her eyes after pulling away, he made a firm decision.

Aegon made the bold choice to embrace both roles. Despite the hardships that came with being King, he knew it was the only path to winning her heart. To having her be his.

And Aegon II Targaryen might get burnt for this, the Septa might judge him and the Gods might haunt him but he will be damned if he did not choose her when she was right there.

masterlist.

[eldritch-spouse]

I want to be smothered by both Cero and Livius They're the worst of the icons, I say with hearts in my eyes

TW: Implied noncon.

The worst of the Icons, who also manage to get mildly along, so this could happen?

See, it's not too much of a stretch that the Icon of Pride would like to be mimicked, and Livius finds this incredibly funny, so while the two can never fully trust each other, they've become bizarre almost-friends along the way. The type of friends that definitely talk massive shit about each other behind the other's back.

You could, let's say, be one of the servers in Rinx's massive "Conqueror's Spoils" auctions. Other Icons often have to attend these auctions when invited, or else Rinx spreads open rumors of their supposed lacking financial status. Although Rinx tends to buzz all around the place during these events, appearing almost orgasmic with the sums of money being so readily tossed around, the other Icons scatter and seek their own crowds.

Cero and Livius have chatted idly at the tall balconies more than once during these auctions. All it takes is you passing by, and catching Cero's eye for a fraction of a second too long, enough for Livius to notice, store it in the back of his head.

" Huzzah! " The envious one cheers after urging Cero into a deserted room, revealing you alone, about to sweat yourself to death in anxiety.

" I've rented her services exclusively for ourselves tonight. We deserve that, don't we? What sense does it make for us to not have our own specific server? "

Cero had to concede some part of Livius' logic made sense, but that doesn't mean he's not aware of the demonlord's little jab. Perhaps he is jealous of Rinx's more appealing servants present today, but he knows Livius is jealous of Rinx in general, so Cero doesn't see this as something to worry about...

He opts to focus on you instead.

With each question the two of them ask you, they get closer, while your feet remain planted to the ground.

Where would you run? Behind you is Livius, whose arms corral you forward, and in front of you is Cero, who you have no doubt would yank you back by the hair.

Whatever answers and suggestions you stutter are ignored by the two, until your face is pressed against the frills of a brochure-clad suit and something breathes against your scalp.

The ruckus outside is nothing more than a faint murmur. One hand across your side become two grabbing and squeezing, then four fondling just about anywhere. A slow rocking back and froth between two sets of large hips and a throbbing from both sides.

It doesn't matter what they do, no one will believe you.

[thaliajoy-blog]

Some Young Griff/Aegon VI/fAegon thoughts. Cause I feel so sad about his very probably ending, to die young. I love Dany and her story, and Young Griff is this person revealed out of the blue in the last book, this supposed legitimate heir, more legitimate than Dany (or less) depending on the rules, this kid who's been trained all his life to be a perfect king, to be Aegon V reborn in some way, with both a formal education worthy of his rank and intimate knowledge of the way commonfolk live. I kind of empathize with the way he decides to go to Westeros instead of going to Dany. It's foolish and reckless, but it's really the move of someone who wants to have something of his own. His conversation with Tyrion throws off his assumptions about his future with Daenerys. She's not a future wife, she's a rival. He could go to her and she could decide he is worth nothing to her. She has dragons, conquests, power, and he has a bloodline, some knowledge, and a claim. All that he has been taught, all he's been said he would be one day could mean nothing in the presence of Daenerys & how much she has accomplished. And in the face of that, Aegon decides he wants to meet with her on equal terms. It's foolish but so natural. He wants to conquer, to rule, to have something of value to bring to the table other than blood & a name he can't back up alone. In a sense he wants to be like her. He doesn't have the core drive and spark that made her so exceptional (her desire to overthrow an unfair status quo and a pure connection to magic) but he has the drive to have a place, a name, a power of his own. There's obviously sexism/masculine pride in there as well, he doesn't want to depend on a woman or concede that she might have a better claim. But also just, the desire to be someone on his own.

It's so fucked up and kind incredible when Dany emulates without exactly meaning to or having had training her ancestors Aegon the Conqueror (and also other good leaders, like Alysanne or Aegon V) ; and Young Griff, who wants to emulate that founding figure, also ressemble Daeron I, who is practically as mythical and beloved (but way more doomed). Interesting given how Daeron I kind of obviously wanted to emulate the Conqueror himself, but failed. And how he's of Aegon III's line, the line the Blackfyres come from, in relation to Young Griff's suspected actual ancestry.

And that last part...like remember the "Daenerys is actually a Lyseni dragonseed" WTF theories ? Well Young Griff is the actual guy who has this kind of reveal planned out for him. And it's the core of why I feel so sorry for him - he's been lied to and manipulated for power all his life. He doesn't know who he really is. "Young Griff" is the closest he has to an actual name of his own, as far as we know. And if he gets to live to see that reveal, it's just gonna be so heartbreaking.

[dragondream-ing]

If someone defends Rhaenyra’s usurpation because of tRaDiTiOn, they better be waving a Maegor banner proudly.

I’m being serious.

So many people in this fandom care about the tradition of Westerosi inheritance and act like yelling about it justifies team green’s actions. They never seem to take into consideration what it means.

This post is inspired by my allergy to inconsistency and hypocrisy. Here we go.

The only consistent tradition of Targaryen succession is the ruler choosing their own heir. Sometimes that aligned with Westerosi tradition, often it did not. And it started with the very first heir. So either you admit Maegor was the rightful heir over Aenys, or you admit he wasn’t because Aegon the Conqueror said so.

Let me explain.

Visenya was Aegon’s first wife. In Westerosi tradition, Rhaenys would be considered at best a mistress and her children out of the succession or, at the least, behind Visenya’s children. The lords accepted the validity of Aegon’s plural marriage because they didn’t have the power to oppose the Conquerors, simple as. Tradition didn’t matter in the face of dragons. It is not a genuine argument and hasn’t been since the creation of the Crown itself. House Targaryen’s exceptionalism went beyond incest and dragons from the start, and accepting Aenys as king shows the nobles accepted this when it was convenient.

So I’d like team green to be consistent. Is the king’s word law, a la Aegon choosing Aenys as his heir? Or is this a break from tradition that was only corrected when Maegor killed his nephew and took the throne?

It gets messy from here. Maegor, as we know, didn’t have a child, so he chose his great-niece, Aerea as his heir. Jaehaerys was still alive, he could’ve chosen him. Heck, that might’ve eased like a drop of the tension between him, Jaehaerys and Alyssa Velaryon. So if you’re a tradition truther, Maegor was the proper king but then chose an untraditional heir. Hmm.

Then we get to Jaehaerys, and a tradition truther might think YES, THAT’S OUR GUY. But he’s really not.

Yes, he stopped considering his eldest living child, Daenerys, as his heir after Aemon was born. But then Aemon died.

Aemon did, however, die with an heir. Her name was Rhaenys. In Westerosi tradition, she’d inherit after him, because a daughter inherits before a brother. Now, I know the lords do all sorts of things to circumvent this (see Alys Karstark), but that *is* Westerosi tradition.

Did Jaehaerys follow tradition? Nope. He picked his second oldest son, Baelon.

Some might say there are logical reasons for this. Baelon was a warrior, older, and had grown sons. Rhaenys was like 18, married to an ambitious lord not named Targaryen, and at risk of dying in childbirth (Baelon was named heir in 92, Rhaenys had her first child in 92). HOWEVER, we see with Jeyne Arryn becoming Lady of the Vale while still a *toddler* that Westerosi tradition doesn’t set aside claims merely because such concerns exist. In fact, in ASOIAF, some Lannister married an f-ing BABY to lay claim to her lands because *she* is the acknowledged inheritor.

You could argue that it matters more when it’s the Crown, and I’ll concede that while pointing out you’ve made my argument for me: isn’t that a good reason for the Crown to do what it wants instead of following traditions that hamstring it?

If you’re a tradition truther, however, you should be in a rage and insisting Rhaenys inherit, and you should be outraged by what was done to her at the Council of 101 after Baelon dies. Her claim wasn’t even considered, Laenor’s was—ya know, her toddler son who got his claim *through* her.

So then Viserys takes the throne and continues the Targaryen custom of choosing his heir. And the tradition truthers of the fandom rise up and boo, and they cry “duty and sacrifice! What about tradition!?”

Just admit that the lords of Westeros, Alicent, her merry band of greens, and the fans that make excuses for them didn’t and don’t care about tradition unless it suits them, and they only become vocal about it when a woman stands a good chance of inheriting over a man.

Viserys never wavered in his choice, the realm knew it and so did the greens. This is precisely why Rhaenyra had far more support than her brother, and why the argument that the realm wouldn’t accept her is bs. The realm DID accept her. Because they understood something many in this fandom struggle to

There was only one consistent tradition of royal succession between the Conquest and the Dance: the ruler chooses their heir.

[grandisknight]

keep a secret, please!

summary: MC has unannounced company one morning in the middle of handling a particular firearm.

tags: canon compliant, light-hearted, conversations, firearms, "MC" as a nameholder, she/her pronouns used

wc: 1.3k | ao3

notes: happy main story update and zayne branch release day!!! i saw simone's gorgeous face and knew immediately she was a girl's girl so this naturally came about ₍ ᐢ.ˬ.ᐢ₎ / references to sylus' myth pair (relentless conqueror) are made!

dividers from cafekitsune

“No. Way.” A voice punches out their discovery in awed breaths, looking over MC’s shoulder.

“Huh?”

MC thought she could have a moment alone at her desk, comfortably laid in the Alpha Team headquarters. That was usually the case on most days, with the team (more often than not) out on missions or convening at Captain Jenna’s beck and call when an important discovery is made. MC’s gaze quickly scans the room, to find it was just the two of them, and almost lets out a sigh of relief.

The two of them, yes, and an unissued firearm in her possession. The implications alone could send MC into a spiral of how the Association’s rules and regulations would tear her apart—she’d rather not deal with it on such a fine morning.

Though caught red-handed, MC makes an effort to turn in her chair and block the table top view with a tight-lipped smile.

“Simone.”

MC greets with feigned nonchalance to simmer the jump in her beating heart. She eyes her appearance, from the top of her ponytail down to the buttons of her uniform. “What are you doing here?”

It wasn’t that finding her former colleague of the Armament Tech division was unwelcomed—more so, it wasn’t an everyday occurrence in the first place. Only recently did the two become well acquainted after MC’s firearm enhancements and return to Linkon, clicking almost immediately following a fruitful conversation.

“I was going to get something Lead Andrew left at his desk,” Simone answers, though her gaze was anywhere but on MC’s poor acting. Rather, it was ardently glued to the desk space behind her, where the wrinkled corner of a small cloth greeted the eye.

“Oh, well, Captain’s desk is over there—“

“You have the Harrier 700?” Simone blurts out, and it’s only then that MC meets the girl’s gaze. Rounded with excitement and tangible curiosity, the gray orbs reflected MC’s own look of shock at the announcement.

“I… Well,” MC concedes, rubbing her temple in thought to conjure an explanation. To which, she ran to a blank—after all, how could she make excuses around someone whose expertise laid in weaponry modifications? She couldn’t, at least not in these circumstances, and turned to a proposed compromise instead.

“Promise not to tell the Association? I know we’re supposed to keep to the ones they issued.” MC turns back around then, slightly moving over to allow the newfound company a place next to her. Her hands hover above the weapon in thought. “But this one was a particular case, to put it mildly.”

Memories of her time with Sylus quick flash past her mind, and the very rooftop that bared witness to their exchange. That very night in a foreign country, which cemented another pillar in the foundation of their complicated relationship—a ‘mutual use of each other,’ one that simultaneously gives and takes while learning all the same.

“I swear on my beloved railgun this stays between us,” Simone assures. Hip to the desk, she gestures downwards. “And this beauty right here.”

Simone taps the exposed crystal nestled into the barrel, shining in a radiant crimson that resembles the gifter’s gaze. It rings MC back into the present, dispersing the clouds of memory in their recollection. 

She resumes her actions prior, taking the wrinkled cloth and delicately wiping between the engravings. She’s careful to dust away the surface, mirroring the care the peculiar crow boss demonstrated during one of their confrontations.

“You recognized the model so quickly,” MC mentions, turning over the heavy model in hand to rinse and repeat. 

Simone tilts her head, finger lifted in voiced thought. “It’s such a rare commodity in the market, how could I not? Everyone and their mothers would kill to own one.” She redirects said finger to MC, wiggling playfully and curiosity growing. “How did you manage to snag one of these bad boys, anyhow?”

“A crow’s nest has its treasures,” MC offhandedly remarks. Not wanting to ruffle any more feathers, she puts the cloth aside to change the subject. MC raises the weapon between the two of them in offering, akin to gracing a child with a candy they sought after. 

“Go on, I could tell from the moment you spoke up you wanted to take a closer look.”

Simone gasps in gratitude, “Oh, you rock!” 

With the grace of cradling a newborn, Simone carefully weighs the renowned firearm and gazes in awe. “Amazing, you don’t even need to modify it… ah, the protocore can go here… these barrels are…” Mumbles under her breath continue, fascinated that the illustrious piece of advanced tech was in her grasp. 

It truly was an impressive artifact, on a scale of its own and of greater weight in comparison to the Association’s issued weaponry. An overall hard exterior of onyx was decorated with trims of crimson, bulky to accommodate the powerful pellets within. 

MC’s eyes follow every contour of the metal as Simone inspects it—if she looked hard enough, swirls of familiar red and black could be imagined. Fleeting memories once more of the battlefield blink past, an energy storm magnified by resonance and raw ability perfected into every single bullet that rang out. The sensation of fighting with such a relentless conqueror has her heart surging, and her fingers twitch for a brief second.

“This is the real deal,” Simone concludes, thoroughly impressed. Her eyes glimmered with a sense of pride, as if it were one of her own. “My regards go to whoever handled it before you. They know their stuff—say, do you think I could get in touch?”

“He’s—I mean, they’re not much of a day person,” MC catches herself, biting her tongue when his name nearly slips from it. Nope, not today (or ever, possibly) was she going to expose her curious relationship with the Onychinus head. Though he enjoys the company of her colleagues, she wouldn’t hear the end of it with gossip floating about. And she doesn’t get paid enough to deal with more than one headache at a time.

MC nods instead. “I’ll make sure to pass on the regards.”

Simone raises a brow, but doesn’t press the issue further. With a wink and hand sliding the weapon over, a cheery demeanor repaints her face. “If you ever need a touch up or two, you know where to find me.”

Slotting it back into its hidden holster, MC regards her once again with a more relaxed smile. “You’re one of the best,” she spoke earnestly. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

A ring shrills from Simone’s watch then, to which the girl lets out a less than please groan. “Ugh, I forgot Andrew’s waiting on me.” She slides away from the desk space, waving to MC and her steps following behind. “Your secret’s safe with me! I’ll see you for the mission later?”

“Mm. See you then.” MC waves back, watching the girl quickly find the object in question before scowling at her watch—yet another call came through, and her voice faded into the departing hall with a ‘Yeah, yeah. I got it. Relax, won’t you?’

The office space resumed the tranquility from moments ago, specks of light and dust filtering through the air. MC leans back into her chair, mindlessly staring at the high ceiling before his face comes to mind. It had been a while since their last rendezvous, though his presence lingered in conversation today alone.

Faint buzzing shakes a small space of her desk, redirecting her gaze to the caller ID with pursed lips. Speak of the devil. A thumb swipe and press to the ear later, MC answers with, “It’s not like you to be up this early.” 

The voice that drips into the receiver is slightly rough around the edges, though laced with a fond chuckle. “That’s a new way of saying good morning, sweetie.”

[kckt88]

Taking of a City.

Summary:

After Aemond leaves for Harrenhal, Rhaenyra and Daemon arrive in Kings Landing to reclaim the Iron Thone.

Warning(s): Swearing, Blood, Death,

Word Count: 2100

Author Note: A companion piece to Wedding & Consummation/Bath Time/Arrival(s)/Mother & Father/Petitions & Final Tributes/The Hand, The King & The Dragon/Dragonstone/Blood & Cheese/A Time for Grief/The Gullet/Harrenhal and the Rivers/The Gods Eye, The Fallen Queen & New Beginnings.

But can be read as a one-shot.

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

Comments, likes, and reblogs are very much appreciated.

“You want to go to Harrenhall?” asked Vaera.

“We’ve given Rhaenyra a month to concede. It’ll be easier if we get rid of Daemon first”.

“What about Kings Landing?” asked Vaera.

“I will leave my Queen in charge” replied Aemond as he took of the conquerors crown and placed it on Vaera’s head.

“B-But the other Lords. Aemond they won’t accept me” exclaimed Vaera.

“Yes, they will. Besides Ser Criston is coming with me. There is no one else that can sit the Iron Throne. I’ve already spoke to them, and they’ve all pledged to support you in my absence”.

“How many of them did you threaten to kill?” asked Vaera sheepishly.

“Only three. But I know you’ll be fine. I need someone on the Throne that I can trust, and I need Cannibal here just in case” said Aemond.

“What about my mother?” asked Vaera as she eyed Vhagar in the distance.

“I should be back in time. Harrenhall isn’t too far from Kings Landing.”

“Assuming of course you manage to deal with Daemon in that time” muttered Vaera.

“I have to try Vaera” said Aemond firmly.

“I know you do. I’m just worried. Daemon is no ill trained knight. He’s a seasoned warrior, and if anything happened to you. I don’t know what I’d do” said Vaera her lips wobbling.

“Listen to me, if something was to happen-“

“-Aemond. No” gasped Vaera shaking her head.

“If something was to happen to me, you need take Rhaegar and leave Westeros” urged Aemond.

“L-Leave Westeros?” asked Vaera.

“You and Rhaegar get on the back of Cannibal, and you fly as far east as you can. I will go to my death content with the knowledge that you and our children will live” said Aemond as he ran a hand over the small swell of Vaera’s stomach.

“D-Don’t die” sobbed Vaera.

“I’ll try not to. But I swear if I do, I will take your cunt of a father with me” said Aemond, as he pressed one last kiss to Vaera’s forehead and headed towards Vhagar.

Almost a week without Aemond and Vaera was missing him terribly and sitting in endless council meetings was boring.

Day in day out, the Lords would argue on the best way to deal with Rhaenyra and Daemon, it was getting tiresome, for every argument there was no progress.

Everything hinged on Aemond being able to retake Harrenhall and deal with Daemon.

Thinking about Aemond confronting Daemon made Vaera feel sick to her stomach. Both Daemon and Aemond were skilled with a blade, but Daemon had seen battle. He once been crowned King of the narrow sea.

Vaera just prayed to the gods of old Valyria that Aemond would survive.

After having a meeting with grand maester Orwyle, to check that everything was progressing well with the babe she carried, Vaera decided to distract herself and spend time with the children.

Maelor was fussy so Alicent decided to keep him inside but permitted Vaera to take Jaehaera to the gardens with Rhaegar.

“Do you think my Kepa will like these?” asked Jaehaera, holding up a tulip.

“He’ll love them” replied Vaera smiling.

“Can I pick flowers too mama?” asked Rhaegar quietly.

“Of course, you can sweet boy” said Vaera.

Rhaegar squealed excitedly as he humped off his mother’s knee and joined Jaehaera.

“What about this?”

“Rhaegar, that’s a weed” sighed Jaehaera rolling her eyes.

“Oh” muttered Rhaegar sadly.

“B-But it’s got pretty leaves, maybe we could include it” suggested Jaehaera smiling.

Rhaegar’s face immediately brightened up and he nodded eagerly.

After half an hour, it was beginning to get a little bit chilly, so Vaera decided it was time to head inside.

“Right, let’s take those flowers to your Kepa” said Vaera as she took hold of Rhaegar and Jaehaera’s hands.

“Ser Arryk” called Vaera.

“Yes, Your Grace?”

“Would you be so as to escort us to Aegon’s chambers?” asked Vaera.

“Of course,” replied Ser Arryk.

Vaera and the children followed the knight to Aegon’s chambers in silence, the only noise echoing around the corridors was the clanking of Ser Arryk’s armour.

“Kepa. We brought you flowers” cooed Jaehaera as she kissed her father’s forehead.

“They’re beautiful” breathed Aegon.

Jaehaera smiled as she snuggled into her father’s arms.

“I-Is that a weed?” asked Aegon.

“Rhaegar picked them. Jae said they had pretty leaves” replied Vaera.

“I have to agree” muttered Aegon.

“When will you get better Uncle Egg? asked Rhaegar.

“I’m not sure, but I hope its soon”.

“Me too. I miss you Kepa” whispered Jaehaera.

“I’ll be back on my feet soon, don’t you worry”.

“Maybe mama will get better soon as well” said Jaehaera hopefully.

“Let’s hope so” said Vaera quietly, as she noticed a single tear slide down Aegon’s cheek.

The death of Jaehaerys had devastated Aegon more than anyone realised. His devastation was also coupled with the guilt that he’d not been a good father in the first place.

Since the death of his son and nephew, he vowed that he would try to be a better man, a better father, and a better husband.

Loving Helaena as his sister was easy. It was loving her as a wife that was difficult.

“Have you heard from Aemond recently?” asked Aegon.

“No. But no news is good news, right?” muttered Vaera.

Aegon reached forward and took Vaera’s hand in his, trying to offer his good sister comfort.

Suddenly their was a loud bang and screams were heard.

“W-What’s going on?” asked Aegon shocked.

“I’m not sure, I’ll go check” replied Vaera.

Rhaegar and Jaehaera huddled closer to Aegon as Vaera left the room.

Ser Arryk who had been standing guard outside the door, was nowhere to be found and there were no other guards around.

So, Vaera made her way slowly down the corridor to one of the secret passageways.

After managing to squeeze through the gap, Vaera cautiously walked through one of the secret corridors. If something was wrong, it was better to keep out of sight, and soon she found herself squeezed into a secret alcove attached to the Throne room.

There was a sudden rush of footsteps and Vaera peered through the gap in the stone, to see what was happening and what she saw made her blood run cold.

“Rhaenyra. You must stop this madness before it is too late.” said Alicent.

“Madness?. You speak of madness? One of your sons steals my birth right and the other murders my Luke, and you accuse me of madness?” sneered Rhaenyra.

“My son stole nothing. He is Viserys first-born son and Aemond did not murder Lucerys. It was you who had assassins sent into the Red Keep to murder innocent children, one of them your own grandson” said Alicent squaring her shoulders.

“That was not my-“ said Rhaenyra.

“Do you have any idea how your daughter has suffered because of your cruelty?”

“A necessary loss. The brat was part Hightower” quipped Daemon.

“You despicable excuse for a man” spat Alicent.

“Speaking of my daughter, where is she and that other Hightower spawn of hers?” asked Daemon.

“Not here, they went with Aemond to Harrenhall” lied Alicent.

“Lies. The Cannibal still rests beyond the walls of the Red Keep. Vaera is here and believe me as soon as we’ve dealt with you then she will be found” said Daemon.

“Do you intend to harm her?” asked Alicent.

“She supported my usurper, had her Cannibal destroy the Velaryon fleet and she kidnapped my son. My daughter will answer for what she has done,” said Rhaenyra.

“Your daughter is what you made her” snapped Alicent.

“Seize them!” snarled Daemon.

“That will not be necessary. I will cooperate. I am your prisoner. I will go quietly to my chambers, or to the dungeons”

But Daemon only laughed.

“The only place you’re going is to the Seven Hells to be with your precious gods.”

Otto roared in anger, and jumped protectively in front of his daughter even as the remaining Kings guard surrounded them. Not that it helped.

Ser Rickard fell first, slain by Ser Harold Westerling and soon all of the remaining Kings guard were dead, leaving their defence solely in the hands of the castle guards. And to their credit, they fought bravely. They did not stop fighting until the last of them fell.

Soon, the throne room was strewn with bloodied corpses, but ultimately, the Greens were outnumbered. Within minutes, the Green council was wearing chains, and Rhaenyra was climbing the steps to the Iron Throne.

Seizing Otto roughly, Daemon dragged him in front of the Iron Throne. With his arms bound, he was helpless to defend himself as Daemon forced him to kneel.

Wide-eyed, Alicent turned to Rhaenyra, silently begging for her father’s life, and for a moment, she thought he might be spared.

“Otto Hightower. You are guilty of treason. You are guilty of conspiracy against the rightful heir to the Iron Throne and you are also guilty of being a massive cunt.” snarled Daemon.

And to Alicent’s sheer horror, Rhaenyra didn't utter a single word to stop her husband.

“Send him to the Wall. Let him take the black” cried Alicent.

But it was useless. The look on Daemon’s face said it all. He was not there for justice. He was out for blood.

Otto was not even granted the dignity of last words before Daemon raised Dark Sister and quickly sliced off his head.

Vaera clasped her hand to her mouth, trying not to make a sound as Otto’s severed head hit the stone floor with a dull thud.

She had to get back to Aegon and the children. Now.

Her mother and Daemon would not linger in the throne room for much longer and it would only be a matter of time before they gave the command for their soldiers to tear through the Red Keep.

Picking up her skirts, Vaera ran as fast she could back to Aegon’s chambers.

Bursting unceremoniously through the doors, startling Aegon and the children.

“We-We have to move. Now” said Vaera.

“W-What’s going on?” asked Aegon.

“My mother and Daemon are here. They’ve captured your mother and your grandsire is dead” exclaimed Vaera.

“G-Grandsire is dead” gasped Aegon his eyes wide.

“We have to leave. Now” snapped Vaera.

“I-I can’t walk” said Aegon.

“You have to try. I can’t leave you here. Daemon will kill you”.

“What about Helaena and Maelor?” asked Aegon as he shuffled uncomfortably on the bed.

“They spared your mother, so they’ll most likely spare Helaena and Maelor, they'll need hostages-” said Vaera.

“-How are we going to-“

Suddenly the door flew open, and a haggard looking Ser Arryk came barrelling into the room.

“Where the fuck have you been?” snarled Vaera.

“Apologise, I was helping Lord Strong escape with young Prince Maelor, he intends to take him to Old Town”.

“You’re here now. I need you to help Aegon and get him out of the Red Keep” urged Vaera.

“What about you?” asked Ser Arryk as he hauled Aegon from the bed.

“I don’t-“

“G-Go to Harrenhall. Aemond is there” said Aegon wincing in pain.

“We don’t have much time. We need to leave now” urged Ser Arryk.

“What about Daeron?”

“If he has any sense, he’ll stay in Oldtown” said Aegon.

“Go Your Grace” urged Ser Arryk.

Vaera gathered Rhaegar and Jaehaera in her arms and held them tight.

“Now, I need you both to be quiet. Can you do that for me?” asked Vaera.

Both the children nodded quickly.

“Let’s go” muttered Vaera.

The walk through the secret passageways was tough, as they had to keep stopping for Aegon to catch his breath.

Daemon’s soldiers were now tearing through the Red Keep.

The sounds of shouting, banging and screaming echoed through the Red Keep.

“You need to get the dragon pit” said Vaera.

“What about you?” wheezed Aegon.

“Cannibal rests outside of the Red Keep, the secret passage just past Balerion will take me too him” replied Vaera.

“Get to Harrenhall. Tell Aemond what’s happened” urged Aegon wincing as Ser Arryk picked him up once more.

“I will” said Vaera nodding.

“Take care of my daughter.” replied Aegon.

“I promise”

“Be good for your aunt Vaera my butterfly. I’ll see you soon” said Aegon.

“I will Kepa” said Jaehaera quietly.

“It looks good on you” quipped Aegon.

“What does?” asked Vaera.

“The crown”.

“I forgot I was wearing it” exclaimed Vaera.

“Go Princess. It won’t be long before the passageways are searched,” said Ser Arryk.

Vaera nodded and spared Aegon one more glance before she led the children down another darkened tunnel.

[ionlymadethissoicouldleaveanask]

"You can't escape my cuddles" with Tom and Chyler

I am so sorry for taking so long to finish this prompt, but I am finally finished with it! I hope you enjoy it :D

---

Tom bent down and rested his hands on his knees, breathing heavily. He had been through a lot over the course of his life - Covenant invasions, the resurgance of ancient alien conquerors, even a robotic uprising like the science fiction stories of the turn of the millennium.

None of that had even begun to prepare him for this. He was flinching at every shadow, his heart hammering in his chest with every breath he took. He knew he was running out of time; he'd found somewhere to hide, to frantically try to finish his project, but he knew deep down that it wasn't going to be enough.

"I know you're in here... you can't hide from me."

The voice was chasing him... haunting him. It sent a chill down his spine in spite of himself. "I just need a little more time," he muttered under his breath as he tapped frantically on his pad. He had to keep working... he was so close, he just needed a little more -

His train of thought was derailed by the gentle swish of the door to his hiding place sliding open. He squinted as light spilled into the otherwise dark room, and his blood ran cold as a silhouette filled the doorway.

"There you are," the voice hissed, dark satisfaction dripping from every note. "You should have known better than to think you were going to get away from me."

Lasky held his hands up placatingly. "Wait," he pleaded, his breath catching nervously in his throat. "I just - "

Faster than he could track, the silhouette was upon him. The datapad was shoved out of his hands and suddenly he was pressed down against the couch cushions beneath him, and arms were wrapped around his neck almost tight enough to strangle him.

In spite of the rush of adrenaline coursing through him, Tom found himself laughing. "You were supposed to be asleep, Chy," he protested as his wife curled up against his chest.

Chyler lifted her head to scowl at him, though with her puffy sleep-riddled eyes and droopy lips it looks far more like a pout. "No," she argued, prodding him in the chest with her finger, "We were supposed to be asleep." She wrapped her arms back around him and rested her head on his chest.

Tom laughed again. "I needed to finish that report," he explained as he tried to reach again for his datapad. "Then I'll come back to - "

Chyler cut him off once more with a scowl, the expression appearing more serious this time. "No," she said firmly, grabbing his arm and pushing it against his side before pinning it there with her own arms. "You're staying right here, so you'd better get comfortable and put your arms around me."

Tom thought about protesting - about reminding her that he had work to do, and that he wasn't just her pillow - but he knew that it would have been a futile effort. He had never had much success in turning her down... for anything. "Alright," he finally conceded, wrapping his arms around her waist. "You win."

Chyler hummed contentedly. "Good answer," she breathed, nestling in tighter against him. "You should know by now that you can't escape my cuddles."

Tom rolled his eyes, but couldn't help but relish the weight of her body in his arms. "As if I could ever want to," he smirked, then pressed a kiss against the top of her head and settled in to sleep.

---

ALSO - as a bonus, here's a sneaky extra in my AU of your AU of your AU, in which Chyler survived Circinius IV and Cadmon was actually put on ice by ONI to hide his knowledge of the Covenant and upon his defrosting he was given and subsequently took the opportunity to become a Spartan-IV... and eventually fell for a certain best friend of one Captain Thomas Lasky. (That was such a massive mess for what this is actually turning out to be but I don't even care it's worth it.)

Prompt comes from this list.

"Infinity to Fireteam Marquis, report in."

Commander Sarah Palmer's voice was tight. Measured. Professional. Everything it was supposed to be. It was important to be on her game - especially considering the fact that she wasn't really supposed to be personally handling training missions. However, as the leader of the Infinity's Spartan contingent she had a habit of affording herself a few creature comforts.

'Marquis Lead to Infinity, go ahead,' came the answer.

It was ridiculous, but just the smug tone of voice was enough to make her stomach flutter. She scowled to mask the way the corners of her lips threatened to turn up in a traitorous smile. "Report mission status, Marquis Lead," she said tersely, trying to at least pretend to keep up the image of impartial leadership. "You're running low on the mission timer."

Even as she spoke, Palmer tried to ignore the fact that she really wasn't supposed to be having this conversation on a direct encoded transmission. She also tried to ignore the thought of how badly she wished she were down there so she could watch his back in person.

No matter how hard she tried to ignore those things, however, her stomach still fluttered again when he answered.

'Don't worry about us, Infinity,' he said, and she could hear the little smirk that he always wore whenever he teased her. 'We'll make sure to come back pretty and punctual for you, Ma'am.'

Sarah shook her head, a quiet smirk on her lips. "Take care of yourself out there, Marquis Lead. Infinity out." With that she tapped the icon to cut their link and, in what had turned out to be something of a mission ritual of hers, she reached out with her index finger and brushed it against the solitary picture that she kept tucked in a drawer on her desk.

It wasn't a great picture - slightly blurry, her hair was blowing across half her face, and she hardly even recognized herself... but it was still her favorite. Specifically because of the man in whose arms she was wrapped... Spartan Cadmon Lasky, younger older brother of her CO and arguably best friend, Captain Thomas Lasky. Their relationship was a secret to everyone except Roland, and for good reason - there were about a million different reasons for them not to get together; the fact that Cadmon had spent the better part of three decades on ice being but one of many.

Still... Cadmon Lasky had a way of making her break the rules. "I love you, you idiot," she whispered to the photo with a fond smile that even he rarely got to see.

That same smile disappeared in an instant when her comm lit back up with a new transmission. 'Sorry Infinity, last got garbled; can you repeat that?' Cadmon asked. She could only imagine that his customary smirk was somehow even more smug than before.

Sarah ran a hand over her tight ponytail, sighing deeply. "No, Marquis, I will not repeat that," she said stiffly even though she couldn't quite stop the corners of her lips from turning up into a small grin. "Go kill some Covvies and ask me in person.

'Strong copy, Infinity. Anything for you.'

Sarah rolled her eyes as she tapped the icon more firmly, making sure that she severed the transmission this time. She rested her head in her hands and groaned softly.

He was never going to let her live this one down.

[aajjks]

Y/N’s lips curl into the faintest smirk as she raises a brow.

“No need for seduction to conquer?" she echoes, voice laced with quiet amusement. Her eyes flicker over him, slow, deliberate.

It’s a taunt—a challenge wrapped in silk.

Because they both know the truth.

She sees it in the way his breath hitches, in the way his fists clench at his sides like he’s holding himself back. He is a conqueror, yes. A man who takes, who devours.

And yet, here he stands—undone by nothing more than her touch. She feels dangerously attracted by this reaction.

Her gaze lingers just long enough to let the words sink in.

"I never said you needed seduction to conquer." she whispers, gaze fixed into his eyes “You do things your way,” she concedes.

She can feel it—the tension crackling between them, the unspoken weight of everything she refuses to name.

🦖

Jungkook’s lips twitch, his dazed expression shifting into something darker—something smug. Your challenge sinks into his skin like fire, and the tension between you ignites, thick and heady.

His gaze, once vulnerable and raw, sharpens with a glint of something playful, something dangerous. He tilts his head just slightly into your touch, his eyes never leaving yours.

“You think I can’t conquer you without seduction?” he murmurs, his voice low and thick, dripping with a heat that crawls down your spine.

His hand moves, slow and deliberate, brushing the tips of his fingers along your wrist— featherlight, but electric, sending a shiver through your body.

He watches you react… your slight intake of breath, the flicker in your eyes—and his lips curve into a smirk.

“I don’t need tricks for you to fall, do I?” he breathes, his voice like velvet, laced with dark promise.

His other hand lifts, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face, his knuckles grazing your cheek with an unbearable gentleness.

“The way you look at me,” he continues, his voice a murmur that slips between you, “already tells me everything.”

His thumb trails the line of your jaw, slow and lazy, as his smirk deepens, eyes half-lidded and burning. “You like this, don’t you?” he whispers, his breath warm and taunting against your skin. “You like when I lose myself for you.”

And then, his voice drops even lower, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he finishes, a wicked grin in his voice—

“…Do you want to see what happens when I stop holding back?”

[knight-conqueror-fn]

malachite: has your muse ever done anything that they winded up feeling incredibly guilty for in the end?

Ah.. Quite a few things come to mind, unfortunately- Namely about him.

I'm not often one to dwell on the past though.

[atopvisenyashill]

i feel like everyone asks "what if maegor was a girl" but never "what if aenys was a girl"? would aegon the conqueror want her to be queen regnant because of his love for rhaenys or does he value patriarchal inheritance law above that? he might be more willing to accept a fem!aenys/maegor marriage because the alternative is marrying off his beloved daughter to another house and potentially allowing them dragons (though i guess one solution is marry her off to one of orys's sons and hope house baratheon doesn't get irresponsible with dragons). but if fem!aenys and maegor get married, it might spell a quick end to house targaryen if maegor's fertility issues remain.

what do you think would happen?

i think aegon values patriarchal law too much. i think he’d expect girl aenys to be given some sort of ruling power the way visenya & rhaenys had, but i think he could ultimately let visenya badger him into betrothing the two - visenya was older than him after all, yet he’s the head of their household. even tho i think aegon Does Not Fuck With Maegor, i think he’d concede here. as you say, the trouble comes when maegor and aenys are unable to have children. does aegon suspect it’s some magic visenya did? does he suspect the problem is maegor and not aenys? we don’t really know how much aegon understands of magic, whether he’s as magically aware & in tune as visenya is or whether he’s just like, some dude who can ride a dragon and that’s it. like we know this dream exists in some respect….so does he start getting suspicious when all of aenys’ kids come out as little dragon mutants? i think he might be forced to step in and do something but god knows what he would do.

[kazamajun]

More Tekken Hades AU brainrot

Her influence has taught him much. Things he never needed nor particularly wanted to know, but because it was her, he listened. Attentiveness is a form of respect; and they have both, he must admit, become quite adept at indulging each other. Thus, he learns the names of the trees, observes the small creatures (insignificant small lives, but meaningful to her) making their homes in them, and watches as new species of flowers spring into being under her hands and beneath her feet. The power of destruction meets creation. He has seen the strength in it.

That doesn't mean it is always pleasant, but for her he will endure.

To her credit Jun also reciprocates; just as often as she will coerce him out to experience the vibrancy of life, she spends time in the hells acquainting herself with the nuances of his existence. Kazuya's job is the other side of the coin to hers so perhaps a measure of curiosity was natural.

"It is rather… bureaucratic here." Her word choice is generous. Hell is made of laws, the red tape of its contracts and punishments like a noose to so many souls.

"Does it bore you?"

"No." Jun shakes her head. The natural world above has structure too, and its necessary principles can be just as brutal. The relationship between predator and prey, to name one. "I suppose I am just seeing yet another different side to you, here. From ambitious conqueror to reluctant planter of trees, though it is at this desk you seem most in your element."

She's not wrong. Despite this domain not being something he had ever asked for, Kazuya has managed to make it his. He thrives off of being in control, and it has become what he views freedom to be. True mastery of his environment, and the ability to shape it in accordance with his wishes.

In the room dedicated to sparring -- the existence of which Jun notes with amusement, as she doubts there are many who present a satisfactory challenge to Kazuya -- they once more take up the steps of the dance initiated the day they'd first met. A series of advances, attacks, evasions and reversals that prove evenly matched. An exhausting yet satisfying affair, even though she would prefer the grounding feel of grass and dirt as they do so; a connection to the earth helps her remain truly balanced and centred. Eventually they mutually concede to a time out, breathless and satisfied. These sessions are an enjoyable outlet for stress and tension, along with helping condition the body and mind; something they both value.

Perhaps it should be strange to feel this comfortable in the presence of one who was once an enemy, to feel that longing for connection, but the sensation is so natural now that Jun has long since ceased questioning it and takes his hand in hers. A gaze into his red eyes sees them soften with uncertainty and she finds it emboldening. The palm of her free hand rises to graze his jaw, fingers splayed across his cheek and it remains there as she leans in to press a kiss to his mouth, chaste and soft. This small contact is enough to send Kazuya's senses reeling, his nerve endings on fire with a pleasant frisson so fierce that he forgets to react until she begins to pull back. A gentle squeeze of her hand signals he does not wish for her to go anywhere, though the true quelling of any uncertainty comes when he reciprocates with a kiss of his own. This one is firmer, more heated, the king of hell is accustomed to being demanding even though there is no need to demand that which is given freely. Jun merely smiles against his lips before matching his desire, pressing against him and arms slipping around his neck. He grabs her waist with lightly trembling arms as flowers bloom inside his cold, stony heart; an organ previously thought useless but it might - just might - exist solely to be given to her.

[roguelioness]

fables from the field

[written for ffxivwrite2024]

Day 13: Butte

Rating: T Words: 1176 Pairing: none

“I know Alisaie is quite spirited, but surely she cannot possibly have compared the land there to arses,” she can almost see Aymeric shaking his head in disbelief.

Alyzen laughs, the lush dichondra soft beneath her back. Above her, the night sky gleams with all its finest splendor, the only velvet background the perfect foil for the luminescent jewel tones of the stars.

“Well, it’s not entirely untrue,” she concedes, “I believe her exact words were, and I quote, ‘Tis remarkable that this landscape sports buttes in all manners of shapes and sizes. Mind you, she said that in the plainest of voices, with the most serious expression on her face. And then she looked at me and winked, and Halone’s breath, ‘Meric, it was nigh impossible for me to hold back my laughter.”

“It seems she has a most remarkable sense of humor,” His voice, fond and affectionate, warms her.

“Aye, that she does.” She shifts slightly, reaching beneath her to remove a particularly irritating pebble. “It’s good to know that there can still be moments of levity to be found no matter how trying the situation may be.”

“And you, cher-” her heart stutters for a moment, then sinks as he corrects himself. “My friend, how are you faring?”

She closes her eyes, regret digging into her side like a dull blade. There is guilt there too, that despite the way she had ended affairs with him, he still indulges her need for conversation. She should, perhaps, not rely on him so much – and yet she cannot bring herself to entirely cease the mundane chats. Sighing internally, she brings her thoughts to answering his query.

“It has been…” she trails off, gnawing on her lip. “In all truth, ‘Meric, it has been a challenge. I yet feel cheated out of dealing Ilberd the retribution he so rightly deserved, and I am still angry that in the end, he got what he wanted. I am annoyed, to say the least, that it is we who have to shoulder the yoke for his actions.”

“‘Tis understandable,” he murmurs. “Though I would imagine the chance to see your homeland must provide some measure of compensation?”

“You would think so,” she watches Astor circle the sky, riding a thermal current, his wings stretched out in full glory. “But…” she hesitates. It bothers her, this lack of… recognition she feels with her mother's – with her – homeland. 

“But?” he prompts, and she is reminded of Alisaie’s quip once more, and starts to laugh. Aymeric must have also heard the same thing she did, for he joins her in laughter. “That was unfortunate timing, he chuckles. “Yet I would know what troubles you, Aly.”

She idly plucks a blade of grass and rubs her thumb over the leaf to aid her focus. “I thought I would have an immediate connection,” she says at last. “To this place. After all the stories I’ve been told, the many times my mother has described it to me, after… after all that time and effort she and I spent for the Resistance…” She sighs. “I look around, and I feel… nothing. Though that is not to imply that I have no sympathy for the people here,” she hastily adds, “they have been through much and more, and it shows. That we should be here to free these lands of Garlean rule is the right path. And yet…”

“You hoped you would feel as though you belonged?” Aymeric’s soft words and quiet sympathy makes her eyes prickle with unwanted wet heat.

“Aye,” she admits, just as softly. “I thought I might find a home here. That I would gaze upon the land and its hills and ridges and instantly know that I was where I should be. Instead, all I see is a once-beautiful land despoiled by its conquerors. There is no familiarity here, and I… I do not know why. I cannot understand why the only ties I feel to this land and its people are those of responsibility. Why can I not feel the same kind of ease Lyse does? Especially when I have done more for this land than she has,” it comes out with all the bitterness she feels towards the young Scion.

“She has not been disillusioned as you have,” he says gently. “From what you have told me of her, she is young and has the fierce righteousness of youth. You have heard the best of Ala Mhigo from tales, but you have also experienced for yourself the struggles of the Resistance. Do not be so hard on yourself; allow yourself the opportunity to look around without thinking of how matters should be. ‘Tis important that you bear in mind that, for all intents and purposes, it is a new and unfamiliar land to you. When you find your own reasons to marvel at it, you will find the connection that you seek.”

“What if I do not?” she voices the fear at the back of her mind. “What if I remain unmoved?”

Aymeric laughs. “I cannot believe that you will remain unmoved, Aly. ‘Tis most unlike you. You always have an opinion on every affair, be they little or no.”

“You make me sound like a belligerent grouch,” she grumbles. 

“Indulge me for a moment, if you will, and describe your surroundings to me.”

“From where I am, atop a hill, it feels enormous,” she begins. There are peaks of all shapes jutting out from the ground. Most of them are flat, and covered in vegetation, like a green carpet over the striped rock. The pathways through them look like a labyrinth; from the ground, I can tell you they twist and wind, and there is always the worry of getting lost.” 

She shifts to sitting cross-legged, the better to view her surroundings. Her tone becomes increasingly passionate. “It should feel arid, and yet there is a wild, untamed beauty about the area.Every plant, every tree grows in defiance of the rocky ground. Ruins of buildings carved into the cliffs might be weathered, but that they yet exist speaks to the craftsmanship. And oh, ‘Meric, how beautifully they have been carved. I cannot imagine how much time it must have taken to create them; they are truly a labor of love, each and every one. I wish you could see them for yourself; I think you would enjoy the sight as much as I do.”

“It sounds most picturesque,” he murmurs. “I too hope that I might see it someday.”

“If all goes our way, you shall,” she exhales. “Though I cannot say how long it will take.”

“Do you still believe yourself to be unaffected?” he sounds amused, and her eyes narrow at the hint of smugness within his tone.

“...No,” she mutters ungraciously.

His laugh pulls a smile to her face.” As I thought. You may have your many buts, but it is plain to me that you enjoy the sight of the buttes that surround you.”

“Aymeric de Borel, you did not just say that!” 

[sarandipitywrites]

NaNo update 11/22

hey i actually finished before midnight today! and this was SO MUCH FUN to write. have a longer snippet than usual, because snowball fights and pining make me happy:

Shrieking with delight, Lienzo ducked the massive, less-than-aerodynamic snowball and sheltered behind a barren tree. "You think you can win a duel with the Snow King? This is my domain!" He scraped up another missile and waited. Crunch. Crunch. He leaned out of his shelter and fired; Baz dodged it, if only just, and bent to forge more ammunition. "You can't be the Snow King; you'd never even seen snow until you came here." "What can I say? I'm an efficient conqueror." Another hastily-made snowball, another wreath of snow around Baz's head. Lienzo cackled as he retreated behind his tree. "You don't have a stealthy bone if your body, do you? The townsfolk can hear you all the way from the in-between!" Crunch. Silence. The distant crash of waves. He peered around the trunk. Splat. Cold stung his face, flooded his lungs. He yelped and sputtered. Baz's laugh, long and warm as summer days. "Oh, now you've done it. You're going to regret that, fang boy!" He wiped the snow from his face, the frozen fibers of his mittens catching on his chapped lips. He blinked out into the white. No one there. Taloned footprints came within two arms of his tree, then vanished. "Bazali, I thought better of you than this." He turned his head left and right, tried to pinpoint his cheating associate by sound alone. "Using magic to win a snowball fight is not good sportsmanship." No response. Not a chuckle, not a sigh. Not so much as a crunch of packed snow. "I'm giving you till the count of three," he turned in place, searched for anything out of place, a streak of brown or violet, "to prove you're not using magic. Otherwise, I will declare you a dirty little cheater and your reputation and credibility will be forever tainted. One. Two—" A creak from above. A load of snow fell from the tree, burying Lienzo with a muffled thud. The cold encased him, sending a chill throughout his body. Gasping, he pushed himself up to his knees. He ruffled his braids, snow falling around him in clumps and flakes. Baz jumped down from the tree and landed next to Lienzo in a spray of powder. "I would thank you not to insult my honor, Lienzo." Face burning, Lienzo looked up, a retort hot on his tongue. It sizzled and evaporated in the light of Baz's smile. He beamed down at Lienzo, a sun in his own right, hand extended. A silent offer of peace. They were close, now. Close enough for Lienzo to notice the fine, deep violet scales that dusted the backs of Baz's hands, his brows, along his hairline. Close enough to see the line of raised scar tissue in the center of his palm, to smell that familiar peppery sandalwood, to feel the warmth radiating from his skin. They were close, now. They'd been closer before. They could be that close again. "Well? Do you concede?" He knew he shouldn't. But gods below, was Baz making it impossible. "Alright." He clasped Baz's hand. Rough, warm skin wrapped around his. "You win this round." Baz stepped back to lever Lienzo up. Off balance. Lienzo wrenched his arm back, yanking Baz face-first into the snow beside him. His yelp morphed into a muffled shriek as Lienzo stuffed a handful of snow down the back of his shirt. He brought his lips to Baz's ear. "Long live the king." Baz grabbed the back of Lienzo's head and smashed his face into the snow.