#the crown prince has too many names

[blueteller]

....pls, youre the only one i can rely on, was there a clear progressive difference for Alberu Crossman's characterization between earlier chapter and after the war with white star? thank u;v;

Hm, good question! Alberu's characterization is tricky, because it's very subtle. I consider it a steady slope, with several "critical" moments worth noticing.

The moment when Cale gave him Dragon's dead mana was obviously one of those points. Others could be the time Alberu personally fought the White Star, or that time he used Taerang to create light with the Sun God's power. Out of them all, the most important moment would obviously be the time he took Cale underneath the royal library to show him the rock with the "curse of the Crossman Family".

Why do I think it;s the most important, aside from being a major plot-relevant reveal? (Also the importance of the development for Cale and Alberu's friendship, but that's a whole other topic so I won't dive into that too much.) Well, it shows that throughout the whole series, despite the show of confidence he was putting, Albreru was filled with doubt. I'm not 100% sure he knew about the "curse" since the start of the novel (I'm using quotation marks because I don't believe it was a real thing, or not in the sense the Crossman family believed it; I think the Angelina was simply keeping an eye on them and wrote that thing to scare them off from being bad kings, when the rock was really just a "package" with a secret weapon inside). Alberu could have been told about it sometime in the middle of the story, after he cemented his position a the heir. But that's beside the point; Alberu had this whole act where he acted like he was totally confident he would and should become the ruler. But that was all a front.

He wished to become the king because he wanted to help people; the Dark Elves most of all. Did he believe himself worthy of it? Maybe a bit, he does have a bit of an ego haha. ...But definitely not completely. His insecurities become clear once we take a closer look.

He did not have flattering thoughts about his own race – he knew his people were considered "dirty" in the eyes of others. He was worried he wouldn't be able to have relationships because of his secrets (remember how he kept Choi Han at arm's length in the "Birth of a Hero" the whole time). Most of all, he was scared that he was not actually worthy of the throne. The moment he showed that vulnerability to Cale shows his growth the most, because I'm convinced that the Crown Prince at the beginning would NEVER have done that. And once Cale validates him and tells him upfront that he should be the king, Alberu sheds that doubt and allows himself to "step in".

Notice how most of the moments where Alberu personally takes action happened after that point. The fight with the White Star, the Earth 2 arc when Alberu was in charge of the army in Cale's absence, the Puzzle City battle. While not completely free just yet – I don't believe that will happen until his identity as a quarter Dark Elf gets revealed and the whole nation accepts him as their ruler despite his status – I had the feeling that Alberu "broke the final chains" that were holding him back mentally. He finally felt like he could take action and "become one of the main characters", you know?

Now, after all that, back to your original question. "Was there a clear progressive difference for Alberu Crossman's characterization between earlier chapters and after the war with the White Star?" I think the main thing is the confidence. Second would be how much support Alberu got, but I don't think that really counts as "characterization" and more of a "situation".

As for his "relationships with other characters"; we see that Alberu befriended more than just Cale. After Cale fainted in the Empire when the White Star showed up for the first time, we see that Alberu took care of things while he was unconscious. He was casually hanging out in Cale's room (Adin's room but whatever lol) in his true form where Cale's allies could walk in at any time. Which shows how much he trusted them; either not to do so or that it would not matter if they did. (Of course Raon and Eruhaben don't really count because they're Dragons and I'm sure Alberu knew he could not hide his identity from them, but the point still stands.) Alberu begun trusting Cale's people after trusting Cale himself, and that allowed him to make real friends outside his previously tight circle of family members from his mother's side. After that scene, Alberu really starts having a lot more fun scenes with other characters, such as giving cookies to the kids or hanging out with Choi Han. Remember that one time he jokingly asked him if "he would like to die with him"? There was definitely a big difference in how much he opened up.

So sum it all up: the confidence, the trust, and the degree Alberu was taking charge and his experience as a leader, all those things steadily grew throughout the series. There were other things of course, like Alberu personally growing stronger, or him getting more casual and snarky with Cale, but most of that happened pretty early on. ...Oh and the frequency of headaches and stress levels because of Cale's shenanigans, we can't forget those 😂. And in Part 2 (no major spoilers don't worry) Alberu continues his growth in a slow but steady pace, the degree of his involvement increasing in later arcs. ...As well as his personal hobbies lol. It IS subtle, but the character development is definitely there.

...I'm not sure if that answered your question to your satisfaction, but I hope it helps! 💖

[m4tthewmurd0ck]

did some force take you because i didn’t pray?

── aegon x fem!reader (you’re one of helaena’s lady’s in waiting)

the 2 times Aegon had someone there to comfort him

(i’m slightly changing things but just go with it pls)

small a/n before we begin: no use of y/n, i do my best to avoid descriptors BUT do use she / her and mention reader being shorter than aegon. when he hugs / holds you he is able to rest his head on yours. also i know everyone has titles and long names but to save time and also make it easier i just use first names. changing aegon’s rant just so im not word for word with the show.

also disclaimer: i know aegon is not a good person by any means! this is just the alternate reality version of him where things could turn out different if he’s shown genuine love and care

For as long as you’ve known the Targaryen family, it dawns on you one day that you’ve never seen Aegon cry.

In the beginning, that didn’t mean much. You were one of Helaena’s ladies’ in waiting, and only ever saw the then prince on occasion.

Then Aegon was crowned King, and you saw him a bit more as Helaena was required to be present at what felt like too many ceremonies. Because you were almost exactly the same age, although it was against an unspoken rule, she came to see you as a friend.

When the twins were born and Helaena saw how good you were with them, it seemed to anyone who was around that she wanted you near at all times. She practically begged you to begin sleeping in her chambers to help with the fussing and crying at night, and of course you said yes. It occurred to you later that night that she could’ve just demanded it.

It wasn’t long at all before the twins also formed an attachment, as their mothers need to have you close by didn’t lessen even as they got older.

Though they both loved you, Jaehaerys in particular, was very fond of you. Jaehaera was a lot more independent and chose to play with her dolls or little trinkets by herself. But the boy, the other ladies’ in waiting and even Helaena herself, often called him your little shadow.

Whatever task you were given, it wasn’t uncommon for Jaehaerys to be nearby. As he grew a little older, he began to ask questions.

Once, he asked why his mother wore such fancy dresses, but yours and the rest of the ladies’ were only ever plain. It hadn’t occurred to you that because you spent so much time with him and had a big hand in raising him, he saw you as family and genuinely didn’t understand why you dressed differently.

Luckily, you didn’t need to answer. Aegon appeared from around the corner, calling for his son. Once Jaehaerys ran to him, he gave you a nod before grabbing his sons hand and leading him in the opposite direction.

To the King, you were a mystery. He knew his sister preferred you to the other ladies’ in waiting, and he knew she’d rather you over any of them to be looking after the twins when she was busy, but he didn’t know why. Still, his sister was set in her ways, and in the end he simply decided it was best to not ask questions. Even he could see that you cared deeply for his children, and for him that was enough.

On the day Aegon wished for his son to sit in on a council meeting, Jaehaerys was being a bit difficult that morning. For whatever reason, he refused to go unless it was you that escorted him.

After assuring him that you’d only get the boy in the room and then quickly make your exit, Aegon nodded and led the 2 of you into the room.

Just like you knew he would, Jaehaerys immediately went for “the ball” as he called it, in front of Tyland Lannister. You could see irritation immediately all over the man’s face, but to his credit he did his best to hide it.

The third time the ball was grabbed, you were the only one that heard it when Tyland snapped. The meeting hadn’t yet begun but you could see he already wished it to be over.

“That child doesn’t belong in here,” he muttered to himself, unaware that you could hear him.

“I will escort him to his mothers chambers now. Is the heir to the throne bothering you a bit too much?” That last bit slipped out, and you immediately regretted it as the room grew silent and all eyes turned to the 3 of you. After a few tense seconds, most everyone resumed their conversations.

You slowly stood up, Jaehaerys now on your back as that was the only way he agreed to leave the room. “Apologies Ser Lan—”

“Hold on,” the room stilled once again when it was Aegon that spoke this time. He looked at you, then back at Tyland. “She has nothing to apologize for. And I believe she asked you a question. Is the heir to the throne, my son, is he bothering you?”

Even Alicent opted to look down and fiddle with her hands rather than step in. You didn’t think you’d ever been more grateful for Aegon that in that moment.

🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️

ONE.

On the night Jaehaerys was murdered, you were knocked unconscious. You’d later find out it was the man they called Blood that hurt you, but at the time all you knew / remembered was waking to a loud noise. Immediately you got out of bed, but before you could properly realize what was happening, you felt something sharp across your cheek. And before you’d even had time to cry out, something hard hit the side of your head, causing everything to go dark.

When you woke, you ignored the maesters requests to stay in bed. As soon as you stood up, you almost wished you’d listened as you immediately felt dizzy. That was also when you felt the stinging pain of the cut on your cheek. The maester explained that you wouldn’t need to have it stitched up, but he hadn’t yet bandaged you because even in your sleep, you tossed and turn whenever he tried to tend to that injury.

After agreeing to not over exert yourself, you were off to find Helaena. It was then that another one of the ladies’ in waiting broke the news to you.

When you were let in to Alicent’s chambers, and locked eyes with Helaena, she immediately stood up from her spot on the floor and ran to you, Jaehaera still held tightly in her arms.

“Are you alright?” You knew she would be with the maester if she were injured, but you still had to ask. “They said—”

“He’s dead,” was all Helaena could say. That and “they killed him”.

What felt like an eternity later, and you’d gotten Jaehaera to sleep and convinced Helaena to at least lay down with her, you were unsure of what to do. Only a few moments later, you found yourself wandering the halls. Every inch of the place had been searched almost immediately, so you know that the halls were alright once again.

Part of you felt like you didn’t have a right to mourn Jaehaerys, as he wasn’t actually your son. You were just trying to process the fact that you’d never see his little smile again. Never again would you turn a corner and be greeted with that sweet voice asking where the 2 of you were going, because him staying with anyone else was out of the question.

You were one of the first to hold him after he was born, and had seen him every day since. To already be in a world where he no longer existed, it seemed cruel.

When you stopped walking, you realized that you’d come to Aegon’s chambers. The doors were obviously closed, and you had only managed to take a few steps back the way you came, when you heard them open.

“Oh, good,” you turned around, surprised that it was Alicent that had spoken. “Did Helaena send you?”

You stuttered as you tried to form a response, but she seemed to take your silence as a confirmation.

“He’s distraught, obviously. I’m not sure he’ll speak to you but…” she seemed unsure of herself. In the end she sort of motioned towards the doors, before turning and walking away.

Before you even raised your hand to knock, you heard sobbing. It was then that you realized you were wrong. Yes, your heart could break even more.

It didn’t escape your notice that Alicent left the room as her son was sobbing. You knew she wasn’t the comforting type, but you couldn’t imagine simply walking the other way.

After a few knocks, you weren’t surprised when there was no answer. As you slowly opened the door, then shut it behind you, you thought to yourself that you should’ve thought about what to say beforehand. Here was this normally stone-faced man, showing more emotion now than he had in the entire time you’d known him. And after more thought, you realized that perhaps Alicent had tried to comfort him but was asked to leave.

“Who is there?” Aegon finally seemed to notice someone else’s presence, but hadn’t actually looked up. His head remained in his hands, and you could hear him trying to quiet his cries.

“I am sorry, I— I just thought I should check on you.” You noticed how pathetic you sounded only after the words left your mouth.

He let out a humorless chuckle, then slowly stood up and made his way towards you. “Check up on me?”

You nodded. “I just wanted to see how you were doing. Stupid question to ask if you’re okay, I know.”

He studied your face for a moment, and his guard came down ever so slightly. He believed your concern to be genuine. And for Gods sakes, his own mother couldn’t even comfort him. She left quietly and Aegon knew it was in the hopes that he wouldn’t know she’d ever entered the room.

Still, he couldn’t bring himself to answer you. Instead he returned to his sitting position, once again leaning forward so that his head was in his hands.

“I should’ve been there,” he spoke so softly that you didn’t quite hear him.

“Pardon?”

He looked up at you, fresh tears in his eyes. “I should’ve been there!” When he saw how you flinched, he regretted being so loud. But a larger part of him didn’t care. You were the first person to allow him to speak freely. He needed to let out his emotions somewhere. “I should have been there. But I thought who’d be stupid enough to try anything here? Look at how wrong I was.”

“There’s nothing you could’ve done,” you shook your head.

“That is bullshit!” He stood up and began pacing back and forth. “My son is DEAD! It was an act of revenge, why else do you think the rest of you were left alive?”

You were about to ask if they already know who is responsible, but it’s as if he read your mind.

“My brother kills her son, so she has taken it upon herself to exact revenge, a son for a son!” He laughs, but again there is no humor in his tone. “My son, the heir to the throne, he is gone. Murdered while he slept and I did nothing!”

As he sat crying, you kneeled in front of him. Trying not to think about it too much, you placed your hands on his and forced him to look at you.

“Everyone around knows how much you love that boy. And he loved you just as much.” You decided it was better to not repeat that he couldn’t have done anything. Right now in front of you, was a father who needed to grieve.

Aegon knew he should be cautious. His sister knew you well, but he did not. He was already ashamed that you’ve seen him cry. Yet you didn’t seem repulsed. You allowed him to rant and didn’t try to shove advice down his throat. His son was gone, but you reminded him of the love that existed, that still exists.

The angry part of him wanted to shout at you to leave, but he couldn’t bring himself to yell again in that moment. So he allowed your hands to remain on his as he cried for his son.

You prayed that no one would walk in, as you stood up and pulled Aegon up with you. Before he could ask what was happening, you gave him a hug.

His first instinct was again, one of anger. He resisted the brief urge to push you away. After a few seconds, he even surprised himself when he almost melted into your touch. He genuinely couldn’t remember the last time he was in someone else’s embrace like this. And you didn’t ask questions. You only held him and listened to his heartbeat.

He found himself crying again as he returned the gesture and wrapped his arms around you. Although he knew he could never speak of this, and he’d have to ask that you not do the same at some point, he allowed himself to do nothing but mourn the loss of his son as you held him in your arms, and you in his.

He was grateful that at least in this moment, you allowed him to grieve.

🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️

TWO.

After that, there was a noticeable change. Aegon gravitated towards you if he entered a room and you were already there. Everyone noticed, but none dared to speak on the matter, not even Alicent or Otto.

You heard about the meeting in which it was ultimately decided that Jaehaerys’ body would be placed on a carriage led through the streets, so that the public might see just what Queen Rhaenyra was capable of. You didn’t think this was her doing. How could a mother who has just lost her son, inflict that pain onto someone else? Surely she wouldn’t. But everyone else was so sure. And you were but a low-born lady in waiting, so you remained silent.

The thought of Jaehaerys being used, paraded through the streets for all to gawk at, it angered you. Yes, he was a prince. And you understood the message that they hoped it would send, but it didn’t make you any less upset. He was just a boy. You thought of the boy who would run into your embrace whenever you walked in to his mothers chambers.

You couldn’t even imagine how Aegon was feeling. He loved that boy deeply, and you had no doubt that he was pressured into agreeing.

That same night, you were abruptly woken up. Immediately you looked to Helaena’s bed, filled with relief to see her and Jaehaera fast asleep. But it alarmed you that it was Ser Criston Cole of all people, who’d woken you up.

He put a finger to his lips, then turned and exited the room. You made sure you looked at least half decent before you followed him, wondering what on earth possessed him to wake you at such an hour.

“I—” He looked unsure of where to start.

“Has something happened?”

“It’s the King.” He didn’t wait for you to respond, instead turning and practically running out of the room.

As you chased after him, it did occur to you that it was odd for him to fetch the King’s sisters ladies’ in waiting. You also realized that he never technically responded when you asked if something happened.

When the 2 of you finally reached Aegon’s chambers, Criston didn’t even open the door. He didn’t need to though, you could hear the shouting and loud noises from outside.

“Who else is in there?” You fiddled with your hands, unsure of what you were walking into.

Criston merely shook his head. “No one. He kicked everyone out. But I know you helped him that— that night. Can you…?”

Without giving it a second thought, you nodded. Instead of leaving, Criston sort of stood guard right outside the door. You’d seen Aegon angry before, and were secretly relieved that he was outside should anything go wrong.

This time, you didn’t bother knocking. You did, however, try to open and then close the door as quietly as possible.

“I declare war!” It was the first thing you heard since entering the room, and you didn’t bother asking who he was declaring war on.

“My King —”

It was as if he was in a sort of angry trance. You speaking didn’t even cause him to look in your direction.

“I want them all dead! They’ll all pay for this, every fucking one of them!” As he spoke, he moved about the room destroying King Viserys’ carefully and meticulously constructed display.

You could see he needed to let his anger out. And didn’t exactly want to approach him while he held something that could hurt you. Not that he intentionally would, but seeing as he had no reaction to you calling out to him, you didn’t think it wise to sneak up on him.

As the smashing and destruction went on, you could see Aegon begin to wear himself out. It wasn’t so much that the anger was leaving his body, but rather that he was losing the energy to continue. Now, you thought to yourself, was a good time to gauge where he’s at mentally / emotionally.

“My King—” you tried again. This would be a moment you’d come to regret, seeing as you hadn’t considered the fact that Aegon was so blinded by his rage that he hadn’t noticed it was you in the room. Sure he heard the doors open and close, but he assumed it had been one of his men.

Not registering who it was that just spoke, and only hearing that someone was interrupting his rampage, he turned around with an arm swung out. It ended up being sort of a backhanded slap, and unfortunately he was wearing a ring.

Once he realized it was you that he’d just harmed, Aegon froze. His eyes widened and he immediately dropped to his knees.

“Are you hurt? Did I— did I…” He didn’t seem to know what he wanted to ask.

You put a hand to your cheek and examined your fingers, nothing a small amount of blood. He hit almost exactly where you were cut, and by the feel of it you guessed that his hit reopened the wound.

“It’s fine,” you tried to reassure him. “I am sure I will be healed in no time. There is no need—” Before you could finish speaking, he’d fled from the room, but not before hurriedly asking you to stay put.

Only a short while later he returned with the maester quickly following behind him.

As the man tended to your face, you could practically see the gears turning in his head as he debated on speaking. In the end, he decided to ask the question.

“How did you manage to reopen this wound?”

Luckily for you, you’d studied the room and had your answer prepared.

You pointed to a spot on the floor where a glass of wine lay spilt. “I slipped just there. Tried to steady myself and ended up landing on my face and cutting it with one of the broken pieces.”

Because you spoke immediately and with such confidence, your lie was believed.

“Might not heal as well if it’s opened a third time. Still doesn’t need stitches, just try not to fall again, eh?” He gave you a pat on the shoulder before giving you a small jar of ointment to apply to the cut, instructing you to apply it once a day.

As soon as the man left the room, you studied Aegon. He was pacing the entire time, only stopping once the maester had left.

“Why?” He whispered.

You knew what he was asking. “I did not think it would do any good for him to know the truth. I know you didn’t mean to,” you shrugged.

He was almost in a state of shock. Here he’d just injured you, accidentally, sure, but it was still done in anger. And it wasn’t that long ago that he broke down in front of you. Despite all of that, you were still kind to him. You covered for him.

Aegon fell to his knees once again in front of a large portion of the mess he created. “I’m sorry,” he spoke softly.

“My King you do not need to apologize. As I said, I know it wasn’t on purpose.”

He looked up at you, fresh tears in his eyes, and you lost count on how many times your heart broke for him. You joined him on the floor, and put what you hoped was a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“I can’t do anything right,” the first tear fell, but he didn’t bother wiping it away. “I allowed men to break in and murder my son, and this is twice now you’re hurt because of me.”

The fact that he blamed himself for it still, brought tears to your eyes as well.

“No one thinks this was your doing, and I swear to you that I don’t blame you.”

He was silent for a moment, deep in thought. “How am I meant to continue?”

His question caught you off guard. “Pardon?”

“My son is dead. Murdered, and my dear sister that claims to be the rightful heir may not have held the knife but I know she commanded the men that did. How am I supposed to to sit on the throne and continue to rule as if none of this has happened?”

“I do not think anyone expects you to act as if nothing has happened —”

Hearing that caused Aegon to laugh. “Have you met my mother? She is one of the many against me declaring war.”

“This tragedy —”

He cuts you off once again. “Tragedy? Hah! Understatement of the fucking year. And people are already speaking about my sons murder as if it’s a lesson! My grandfather, dear old Otto Hightower, wants to parade my sons body for all to see. Says it will show them the kind of Queen that Rhaenyra really is. You should’ve seen how many nodded their heads in agreement. How do I just hand him over to be stared at, as if he is no more than a piece of meat on display at the market?”

“I hate this,” you finally get a chance to speak. “Jaehaerys was the sweetest little boy I kno—knew. And I wish his death wasn’t being used in this way. A tragedy should not always be a lesson. Sometimes it should be allowed to be just that, a tragedy. I am truly sorry you are having to deal with all of this.”

Something about what you’ve said causes tears to spring to Aegon’s eyes. Perhaps it’s the way you speak so kindly of his son. He knows you genuinely loved the boy, after all. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” His quiet sobs begin as he echoes your use of those 2 words, and when you turned to face him, he practically falls into your embrace. You stop counting how many times he utters I’m sorry. In between the I’m sorry’s, he mostly said his sons name, but you heard your name as well as Helaena and Jaehaera’s.

Night turned into morning and Aegon finds himself in your arms once again. Eventually his sobs had slowed down, and he fell asleep, laying on the hard floor with his head in your lap.

As he slept, you allowed yourself to run your hands through his hair, just for a moment. Aegon let out a content sigh, finding comfort in your movements even in his sleep.

Here was this boy who was feared by many, who didn’t ever want anyone to see him as weak, and yet twice he allowed himself to cry and grieve in front of you.

At some point, you gently wake Aegon and convince him to get into bed.

As you take one last look at him before exiting his chambers, you can’t help but silently hope that the future would be a little kinder to him.

TAGLIST — @blupblupfish | @sapphirest0nes

If you’d like to be tagged in future Aegon pieces, let me know!

[gracexthoughts]

Seven

jacaerys velaryon x targaryen!aunt!oc

content/warnings; canon typical incest, slight talk of death/violence, Alicent being rude, angst and fluff

summary; Jacaerys and Aelyria were childhood bestfriends, inseparable and mischievous, until the princess Rhaenyra moved her family to Dragonstone, leaving her youngest half sister without her closest companion. Nearly a decade later, King Viserys has decided the feud within his family too far gone and declared the betrothal of Prince Jacaerys to his youngest daughter to help heal the rift. 

a/n; inspired by seven by taylor swift and jace’s talk with baela about fathers. I know this pairing has been done a lot but I really love it and hope I did it justice. about 4k words. 

Please picture me In the trees I hit my peak at seven feet In the swing Over the creek I was too scared to jump in But I, I was high in the sky With Pennsylvania under me Are there still beautiful things?

“Aely!” The young prince Jacaerys called after the princess as she sprinted off into the woods. “Slow down!” Even though he was taller, she was quick and had run off before he could even get ready. Her laugh rings out over the grass as she darts into the woods, Jacaerys on her heels. 

The entirety of the royal family, accompanied by many lords and ladies, had traveled to the Kingswood for a royal hunt in celebration of the Prince Jacaerys' 10th name day. As he is the future heir to the Iron Throne, the crown had spared no expense for the celebration. Jacaerys himself, however, was not at present interested in whatever creature was being tracked down in his name, his sights set on adventure with the young Princess Aelyria, the King and Queen’s youngest child. Having been born mere months apart, they had grown to be quite close; they trained with their dragons together in the Dragonpit, had discovered and begun exploring the passageways in the Red Keep, and Aelyria had taken to sneaking into the princes’ training sessions in her own desire to learn to fight along with her favorite nephew. And when she would inevitably get dragged away by her mother or the septa, Jace would sneak into her chambers later that evening with two training blades in hand to teach her what he had learned that day. 

As Jacaerys breaks through the treeline, he runs straight into Aelyria, who had stopped suddenly in the woods, sending the pair tumbling forward in a heap of limbs. “Jace!” the princess cried, a laugh in her voice as they disentangled themselves and their cloaks. 

“You’re the one who stopped!” Jace laughs in his defense. “Why did you? I thought we were racing to the creek,” he wonders, standing and extending his hand down to help up the princess, a princely boy even at his young age. 

“I thought I saw something but we must have scared it off now,” she says, taking his hand and standing, not bothering to brush the dirt off her skirts. The princess’ lilac eyes flicker with mischief as she looks around the woods surrounding them, her eyes settling on a nearby tree with low branches fit for climbing. “C’mon!” 

Before Jacaerys can respond, the princess is pulling herself up to the lowest branch, swinging her legs over with ease, not a care in the world for the preservation of her skirts. She was always quite boyish, never heading her mother’s lessons of ladylike manners and behaviors. The young prince has never minded though, enjoying her wildness and sense of adventure. A day with her was never boring. 

Soon the young royals were high in the treeline, standing on either side of the large trunk balanced on branches as they took in the view around them. Their breaths were labored from the climb, their cheeks flushed and smiles wide. The ruckus of the hunt was left far behind and below them, not able to reach them in the trees. “I wish we could stay here forever,” the princess sighs, sitting down on her branch, her legs swinging. 

“Why?” the prince asks, watching her curiously. 

“It’s quiet,” she says softly, looking up at the still standing prince. “And beautiful and here my mother can’t yell at me to be more ladylike.” She rolls her eyes and mimics her mother’s intonation. Jacaerys laughs, climbing over and sitting next to the princess on her branch. 

“When we are older, I’ll be King and I’ll command your mother to leave you be.” 

“Will you let me be a knight?” the princess asks, excitement in her voice. 

“If you’d like!” Jacaerys laughs. “You could be my sworn protector.” 

“I’d be a brilliant knight.” the princess declares, straightening her back and puffing out her chest and the pair fall into giggles. 

“Well I promise then, once I’m King I’ll make sure your mother can never tell you to be ladylike again!” Jacaerys declares, holding out his pinky to the girl, who smiles and links hers with his, thankful for him. 

Sweet tea in the summer Cross your heart, won't tell no other And though I can't recall your face I still got love for you

Jacaerys makes his way through the dark halls of Dragonstone, his footsteps echoing through the hall as he makes his way to the Great Hall. Nearing his destination, the voices of his mother and stepfather leak out through the ajar door. He pauses for a moment, not wishing to walk in on an intimate moment. 

“He says he wishes for it in the hope it will heal the rift between our families,” his mother says, her voice smooth and calm. 

“So he may fall prey to their vicious children? How do we know this isn’t a Hightower scheme?” Daemon challenges with clear disdain in his voice. 

“I cannot believe this idea came from Alicent nor Otto,” the princess responds. 

“Does not mean she won’t take advantage of it. She may be instructing Aelyn on how to best manipulate him at this moment.” 

“Her name is Aelyria, Daemon,” Rhaenyra corrects, peaking Jacareys’ interest further. His mother’s youngest half-sister was not a common topic of conversation in their home, even if she far preferred her half-sisters to her half- brothers. “They were friends when they were children; Jace doted on her even. It may prove to be a good match.” 

Daemon opens his mouth to respond but stops when he sees Jacaerys entering the room with a questioning look on his face. 

“Jace,” his mother says happily, smiling at him and motioning for him to come in. He obliges, his long stride carrying him through the room quickly to stand at the Painted Table with his mother and stepfather. “Apt timing. We just received word from your grandsire the King, he has suggested a match for you.” 

“A match? Who?” the young prince inquires, his gaze darting between Rhaenyra and Daemon, acting as if he had not been eavesdropping. 

“The Princess Aelyria. You are the same age, both unwed, and the King remembers how close you were as children,” his mother states, setting down the scroll of parchment in her hand on the table. “He thinks you would make a fine pair, and she a good Queen to have by your side.” Daemon scoffs slightly to her left, walking away to lean against the mantle above the hearth. Jacaerys stays silent for a moment. Marriage was something he knew would be coming but in truth, he hadn’t given it much thought. The princess he remembered was a small, spirited little girl with a quick wit and even quicker temper. She often snuck out of her own lessons to join the princes in their trainings, and trained in the Dragonpit alongside them for many years. He’d certainly held a boyhood crush on her then but Jacaeyrs struggles to imagine who she has grown into.

“What say you, Mother?” he asks finally, looking up from the Painted Table to meet her eyes. 

“I quite agree with my father,” she says after a moment. “It would do well to have our line of succession shored up, and the princess would make a fine match. While she has a reputation for being a little wild, I also hear that she has a good heart and a kind reputation among the smallfolk that would strengthen your reign when the time comes,” She says, moving closer to her son, “But it is your opinion that matters most in this.” 

“And of the Hightowers?” Daemon interjects from his place at the hearth, his eyes fixed on the flames. 

“Even they are not above the will of the King,” Rhaenyra responds, “We would have to go to King’s Landing for the wedding, but we needn’t stay.” Jacaerys holds his mother’s gaze for a long moment, mulling the idea of marriage, to someone he hardly knows any longer, over in his mind. “So?” 

“Yes, I accept,” he says with a nod, attempting to look more sure of himself than he feels. His mother smiles, raising his confidence slightly, and nods. 

“Then I shall write to my father,” she says, and kisses Jacaerys’ forehead before retrieving the scroll from the table and retreating from the room. Jacaerys lingers for a moment, watching Daemon whose eyes are trained on his wife’s retreating figure.

“The Hightowers are scheming and dangerous. You should watch this girl carefully,” he says to the young prince finally. 

“She’s not a Hightower, she’s a Targaryen,” Jacaerys responds quickly, already feeling protective over his betrothed. 

“Same thing for that lot,” Daemon responds darkly before grabbing his sword from the table and following after the princess. 

Your braids like a pattern Love you to the moon and to Saturn Passed down like folk songs The love lasts so long

The Prince grunts slightly as his feet hit the solid ground after lowering himself from Vermax’s back, stiff from the long ride. He and his mother have come to King’s Landing for the first time in many years so he and the princess can be reacquainted before their wedding in a moon. The rest of their family will come for the wedding but Rhaenyra wanted to avoid any repeat of the last time they were all together. 

Jacaerys would never reveal this secret but he was quite nervous. He could barely remember the face of the princess, let alone what she could look like or what her personality was now. Was she still as wild and rebellious and boyish as she was or has she relented to her mother’s will and become a lady? Jacaerys watches quietly as his mother speaks with the guards, requesting a carriage be brought to take them back to the castle, and as the Dragonkeepers escort Vermax and Syrax into the Dragonpit. Jacaerys wonders if Vermax remembers his first home still, the place they first bonded. He is quickly torn from his thoughts as a shadow passes over them and looking up, he sees a beautiful white and golden dragon making its descent to the ground.

The dragon and her rider’s backs are facing the prince once they land but the woman in front of him was undoubtedly the princess, for he’d recognize her dragon, Starfyre, anywhere. He watches as the princess pats her dragon on the neck, before leaping from the saddle and landing easily on the ground. She faces away from him still, speaking to the Dragonkeeper in High Valyrian but the prince finds himself taking in every detail he can. Her silver gold hair is intricately braided to hang down to the small of her back, her legs are long and wrapped in trousers made for riding, and a black riding coat accentuates her curves and hangs to her knees, her voice is melodic and sure in her High Valyrian. She nods to the Dragonkeeper and turns, pulling her riding gloves off with her teeth before her lilac eyes find Jacaerys and Rhaenyra. 

“Jace?” she calls, stepping away from her dragon and closer to him. She has the wide doe eyes of her mother still but everything else of her is Targaryen through and through, sharp features and high cheekbones, and her smile more beautiful than Jacaerys remembers it. 

“Aely,” he responds with a smile, resting his hands on the hilt of his sword, unsure of where else to put them. 

“I didn’t think you were arriving until later this evening,” the princess says, her eyes scanning the prince. Like Jacaerys, she has spent much time wondering how the boy she knew has changed into the man she’s been betrothed to and she is stunned at what she finds. His face is angular and handsome framed by long dark curls. He is tall and lean while still appearing strong, his warm brown eyes the exact same as she recalls. 

“We got an earlier start than expected,” Rhaenyra steps forward, “How are you, sister?” 

“I am well, and you?” Aelyria nods. Rhaenyra has always been her favorite sibling, even if they weren’t close. She looked up to the women as a child, and her mother’s distaste towards the princess made Aelyria feel a certain kinship with her half sister. 

“We are well. Are you headed back to the Keep?” 

“I am, would you ride back with me?” she offers, motioning to the carriage pulling up to the gates of the Dragonpit. 

“That is kind, thank you,” Rhaenyra says with a smile, and a wink for her son, and moves toward the carriage but Aelyria hangs back, her eyes trailing over her betrothed again. 

“You are much changed since I last saw you,” the prince says, stepping forward. 

“I can say the same for you, nephew,” she says, failing to keep her mischievous smile from her face. Jace had always hated when she called him that as children, but he can’t find the annoyance in him at the moment, too entranced by the sound of her voice. Instead he laughs and shakes his head, holding his arm out to escort the princess to the carriage so they can make their way back to the Red Keep. 

And I've been meaning to tell you I think your house is haunted Your dad is always mad and that must be why And I think you should come live with Me and we can be pirates Then you won't have to cry Or hide in the closet And just like a folk song Our love will be passed on

Jacareys wanders through the halls of the Red Keep, familiarity and strangeness battling in his mind. The castle has changed much in the near decade of his absence and yet, he could see it as it was in his youth: the halls the same he and his brother ran through, the Dragonpit the same as it was the first day he rode Vermax, the secret passages the same as when he and Aelyria discovered them as children. Jacareys found himself mindlessly making his way to the training yard, allured by the sound of steel against steel. 

Jacareys steps into the training yard to find Princess Aelyria and Prince Aemond sparing in the center. He remembers well how she would watch the princes in training, even picking up a sword and practicing herself before being run off by Ser Cristen or her mother or the septa. She’s grown much in the years since he last saw her, her skills far outpacing that of which he had imagined. Jacareys watches as she circles Aemond, striking, blocking and dodging with surprising speed and accuracy. Jacareys finds his gaze drawn to her legs, unhidden by skirts as she stands in trousers, the riding coat she favors tossed over a training dummy. 

Princess Aelyria’s laughter echoes off the walls of the yard as she stands up from her dodge of her brother’s blunted sword, having ducked and rolled under the blade to recover behind him. Aemond turns around in frustration, swinging again with his blade as Aelyria reaches up to block his attack before stepping under his reach and elbowing the prince in the side. With her small stature and lesser strength, the princess had learned that speed and agility were her friends in bouts and quickly excelled in her capabilities. Aemond grunts from the blow to his side, his steps staggering slightly as his sister circles him, waiting for her to recover. 

“Ready to yield, brother?” she taunts, her lips turned up in a smirk. 

“You’re the one running,” he bemoans, righting himself and raising his sword, readying to strike again but lowers his blade, his eyes fixed over Aelyria’s shoulder with a sly smile. “Come to train, nephew?” The princess turns, her eyes finding Jacaerys pushing off the wall, his brown eyes trained on the prince. 

“To speak with my betrothed,” he answers, his gaze shifting to Aelyria and softening for her. Aemond eyes narrow, upset at the match as much as his mother, leveling a menacing glare at his nephew before taking his leave without another word. “He doesn’t like me,” Jacaerys states, as the door to the yard slams, and turns back to Aelyria who chuckles. 

“Aemond likes no one,” she responds, leaning on the training blade, "He merely tolerates me as he has no one else to spar with save Cole."

“It may be,” the prince says, suddenly feeling uneasy under her gaze. “When did the Queen surrender to your training?” 

“Soon after your leave, if I remember correctly. They grew weary of disciplining me with no effect,” the princess smirks. 

“As you always hoped,” they chuckle, a hint of their old familiarity returning. The prince glances at the table of training weapons. “Care for another round?” 

“If you can keep up,” she smirks, tossing him the blade Aemond had left in his wake. Aelyria makes the first move, but Jacaerys quickly counters. He holds back at first, unsure of fighting with a woman, but he quickly learns that Aelyria is quite capable and a formidable opponent and he begins to let loose. They are well matched, meeting blow for blow until both of them are sweaty and panting. 

“You fight well,” the prince compliments, his chest rising and falling quickly and a curl sticking to his damp forehead. 

“Thank you, you do as well. Much better than when you would teach me in my chambers,” Aelyria laughs, wiping at her hairline where baby hairs stick to her skin. 

“You make it sound quite scandalous,” Jacaerys jests, setting aside the training blades. 

“It was to us then,” the princess points out, remembering how careful they were to not get caught. 

“True enough,” he laughs, his eyes lost in hers, the soft lilac of her irises beautiful and intriguing to him as ever. “You know, I’ve missed you, in truth. I never had as much fun alone as with you here,” the prince says softly, stepping forward and brushing a stray hair from the princess’ brow. The air becomes thick between them, their eyes locked together. 

“I missed you too, my brothers are poor company compared to you-” 

“Aelyria!” The voice of the Queen rings out over the courtyard, startling the Jacaerys and Aelryia who back away from each other quickly. The queen stalks over to her daughter, grabbing her arm roughly. Aelyria’s face sours and she yanks her arm from her mother’s grip, leveling her with a hard stare. “You have a dress fitting you are currently missing and you look a mess. I thought you could put away this foolishness for one hour. You would think this is my wedding for as much as you seem to care about it!” 

“Mother, I-”  

“I apologize, your Grace. The princess had finished near an hour ago but I stepped in. I don’t have many sparring partners save my brothers on Dragonstone. The fault is mine,” Jacaerys steps in, unable to ignore the anger bubbling in his stomach at the queen’s treatment of her daughter. 

“Price Jacaerys, it is good to see you again. I am afraid I cannot stay, but I hope you are settling back in well,” Alicent says to the prince, her face barely masking her distaste of him, before she turns back to her daughter. “Come, Aelyria.” Jacaerys watches as the princess takes a deep breath and, flashing him an apologetic smile, turns to follow her mother back into the castle. 

Please picture me In the weeds Before I learned civility I used to scream ferociously Any time I wanted

“Come in,” Aelyria calls softly at the knock on her door. Jacaerys steps into her chambers at her permission and smiles as he closes the door. “Hi.” 

 “Hi,” the prince says softly, moving to sit next to Aelyria at the table in the center of her room. “I wanted to apologize for earlier. I did not mean to keep you and I regret that I did.” 

“I do not. I could have been bathed and early and perfectly excited and she still would have found something wrong. The fault is not yours,” the princess assures, placing a hand over his and squeezing gently. Before she can pull her hand back, Jacaerys clasps his hand to hers, relishing the feeling.  

“I’m sure it is hard for girls and their mothers as it is with boys and fathers,” the prince says sympathetically. 

“Is it hard, with you and your stepfather?” The princess asks, her eyes on their hands. 

“Sometimes, it was strange at first but he’s been my father almost as long as my actual father was,” Jacaerys shrugs. 

“You know, I don’t think I ever got to tell you how sorry I was for you when your father passed,” Aelyria says softly.

“Oh,” the prince says, surprised by her and shakes his head. “Seems so long ago now but I was glad he passed on Driftmark, I know he missed it while away.” 

“That’s not who I meant,” the princess says, and Jacaerys, on instinct stiffens at the realization she means Ser Hardin Strong, and not Leanor Velaryon from whom Jace received his name. “I don’t hold it against you like my mother and brothers do. Seems a silly thing for them to care so much about,” Aelryia adds quickly, sensing his unease. 

“Really?” Jacaerys eyes find hers, shock shining in the dark brown of them. 

“You wouldn’t be you if you had another father and I’ve always quite liked you as you are,” the princess smiles, her thumb grazing against the back of Jacaerys’ hand as a slight blush colors his cheeks. “What was he like?” She asks after a moment. 

“He was gentle, and fierce… They called him Breakbones,” Jacaerys smiles, Aelyria along with him, but there’s a sadness in his eyes still. “He loved us, I think.” 

“Of course he did. Otherwise he would not have defended you so fiercely against Cole.” 

“You remember that?” 

“I do,” Aelyria nods, leaning back in her chair. “It was the first time I saw a true fight. I remember thinking that I had to learn how to fight like that. It felt so necessary, like it was all I wanted… Your father gave me that.” Jacaerys blinks at her for a moment, a strange smile on his lips. “What?” He shakes his head slightly. 

“No one ever calls him my father, not even my mother,” he says after a moment, looking down to where their hands are intertwined on the table. “It’s nice,” he adds after a breath. 

“He’d be proud of you, of who you’ve become,” Aelyria says suddenly, sitting forward and using her free hand to lift Jacaerys’ chin. 

“He’d be happy we’re betrothed,” Jacaerys smiles, leaning closer to the princess. 

“Really?” 

“Yes,” he nods, “I remember one time, he happened to be watching training and you had just gotten dragged away by the Queen but you had put up a good fight before you left and he said, ‘There’s a warrior if I’ve ever seen one.’ I remember looking up at him and he just winked at me, almost like he knew.”

“I wish I had known him better,” Aelyria says softly after a moment and  Jacaerys nods, squeezing her hand. 

“Me too…” Jacaerys nods. For a moment, the pair sit in a comfortable silence, gazing at each other, taking in the fact that they’re together again after all this time. “Do you remember that hunt we had on my tenth nameday? When we ran off into the woods, hiding in the trees?” Aelyria laughs, the memory washing over her at his question and nods. 

“Yes, I do. Oh, what fun we had that day. We only got found because we could not stop laughing as they rode underneath us. Mother was so angry I ruined that dress,” they laugh at the memory together. Even though it had ended in a scolding for each of them, neither ever regretted that day. 

“I remember what I promised that day, and I swear I’ll keep it. Now that we’re betrothed, you are mine, and I am yours and once we’re wed, I’ll make sure you never have to heed your mother unless you wish to,” Jacaerys leans forward, intensity in his gaze as he makes this promise to Aelyria. “I quite like you as you are, and I won’t have her try to change you.” 

Aelyria smiles gratefully, wondering how she got so lucky as to be marrying this man; the boy she grew up with and loved as a girl, and the man sitting in front of her, with all his fierceness and devotion. Aelyria, too moved to speak, leans forward instead, pressing their lips together softly in thanks. Jacaerys doesn’t miss a beat, his hand reaching up to cup her cheek as he kisses her back. Her hand winds in his hair and their hands hold to each other tighter on the table between them. As their lips part, they don’t move away, instead connecting their brows together. They smile at each other, giddy in their love, hearts beating rapidly as one, as they always have and always will.  I, I Sweet tea in the summer Cross my heart, won't tell no other And though I can't recall your face I still got love for you Pack your dolls and a sweater We'll move to India forever Passed down like folk songs Our love lasts so long

[kiss-me-muchoo]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐧 𝐟𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐭 || 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐮𝐬 𝐀𝐜𝐚𝐜𝐢𝐮𝐬 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐋𝐮𝐜𝐢𝐮𝐬 𝐕𝐞𝐫𝐮𝐬

summary_ having an affair with General Acacius overseas while conquering lands turned into a problem after coming back to Rome, when you fell for a gladiator that turned out to be a missing prince.

warnings_ CRINGE, girthy age gap (legal) (I’m 20, sorry) historical inaccuracy, angst, violence, gore, animal death, sexism and misogyny, fluff but angst, a lot of canon divergence bc I said so. NO PROOFREAD, BEWARE!

note_ i can’t remember if Denzel’s character was named Macrino, I can’t remember which year the movie is set in, I can’t remember many things but let me know if I fucked up too much. And listen to fallen fruit from Lorde while reading.

♪ ♫ Pedro playlist | ✰ Index (+ fics here)

𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆ 𓆇𓆸⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆ 𓆇𓆸⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆ 𓆇𓆸

The sea was a free land. Nobody could conquer it because there wasn’t anything valuable floating around. Perhaps at the bottom of the ocean, a treasure may lay, but no man had shown the desire to dive into the deep.

The screams of the innocents are loud enough to make you feel empathy for them. But Acacius had trained you to put a mask of neutrality when leading war.

Loving the most effective soldier of Rome was your little secret. He married the daughter of an old emperor and he fought to get her privileges and prevent her from danger.

Always the insane little girl running around the palace, rambling about plants, the stars, a dream of Rome in flames. It was enough to be secretly sent to a scribe's university in Egypt for some time.

Upon your return, not much had changed, only that your father, once lead of the council, then the wise of Rome had died. Consequently, your evil stepbrothers were crowned emperors. They named you a soldier and made sure you were at every battlefront, hoping for your death.

But your general trained you well, and with months of practice, you ended up tangled up with him on his sheets in Greece.

Adultery was considered a crime in Rome and you’d give the perfect reason to your brothers to burn you like a witch. Or worse, to send you to fight at the arena of the Colosseum.

But the people who accompanied you and Acacius overseas were loyal and couldn’t care less if you had an older man fucking you each night. They only cared about you being a good soldier on the battlefront and being a good princess in Rome.

With a couple of hours left to be home again, you had your wounds checked. Conquering Numidia was one of the last African cities to be marked by the Romans and your brothers desperately wanted to own it. Only a few burns scattered across your leg and your shoulder needed stitches were the price to pay.

The wooden floor creaked and the general turned around alert but as soon as he saw you, he seemed to calm down.

Your arms wrapped around him and he immediately had to lean and kiss you. His lips tasted like devotion, peace, and lust. Acacius always grabbed your hips first. Then he moved to your waist, only to end up caressing your cheeks as his lips kept marking you his.

“What did the doctor say?” asked Acacius as he gasped for air.

“Nothing to worry about…” You nodded at him and he turned his back to you again, looking at his open windows, to the sea.

“What about yours? How is the scar on your nose?”

“It’s fine. Could’ve been worse” You walked towards him, sensing he had bathed like you as well, his hair looked perfectly curly and you couldn’t help but smile.

You could stay looking at the horizon forever, just because he was by your side. The sound of the waves calmed your mind after another day of calamities brought by war.

“For those who chose the sea, greatness waits at the end of the rainbow,” you said smiley. But the general remained stood silent.

“Those are ludicrous tells, the truth is that even war has infected the sea as well.”

“Because we chose to fight, then yes, the sea is also an arena. But if we chose not to, the way will not depict war” his eyes kept looking at you, completely fixated and even threatening, like Acacius was trying to understand how much you were judging him.

“We do this because we don’t have any other choice, princess y/n,” Acacius said, finally turning to look at you.

“We could run away, to the south, the islands of the Tyrrhenian Sea are empty, nobody wants to live there” your voice trembling, nervous and waiting for his response. He stared at nothing, probably thinking. And that made you uneasy.

“I can’t leave Rome, I have to go back to…” he said coldly.

“Your wife….Right”

Silence. Even the sea seized the sound of the waves.

“Haven’t you told her?”

“What’s there to be told? I said this was only a thing of passion and lust” You bit your tongue at his harsh words.

“Was it? Would you say that all those nights you shared your past with me meant nothing, Marcus?”

There it was. His most personal name, that one nobody used. The general got closer to you, paying attention to your face. Princesses did not have scars, but you did. He wanted to say so much, but he couldn’t. You noticed how his fingers were about to trace the pink scar on your chin but he moved away.

“I was drunk most of the nights, doping the pain” Finally your eyes crystallized.

“Do you love Lucilla, General?” His steps stopped then turned around to face you one last time.

His eyes looked doubtful but soon landed on his feet.

“… I do love her” you nodded, holding the tears and bursting out of his room in anger.

“Of course you do”

Your disappointment was so evident that Acacius was able to look at your face reddening and tears falling freely. He could only sigh and go back to pack his things and get ready to arrive in Rome again.

If only you knew…

…

The crowds of Rome couldn’t stop screaming your name. It was “PRINCESS Y/N!” and “ACACIUS!” everywhere.

You were no hero, you just wanted a peaceful life in a free Rome with the man you loved. And you can feel his hand brushing yours while his left salutes the parade of people chanting both of your names. The truth is you have no purpose but to serve your brothers and pretend that is your life.

The twins always hated you. Their mother was a wealthy woman but yours was the emperor’s true love. The twins used to pull your hair and always picked poisonous berries to give you as a meal while being toddlers. It got worse as everyone noticed you were your father’s favorite. And with him gone, you were utterly alone in the world.

Your clumsy steps made you arrive later. There was no crown for you waiting like it had been for Acacius. Geta and Caracalla were talking to him. And when you noticed the sword in the general’s neck, your face went serious.

“Do not forget the privileges we’ve made for your wife” you heard Geta saying.

“Same benefits we’re making for your whores, frater” The twins turned to look at you, quickly releasing Acacius and going straight to you. Their golden armors were a mere matter of display. They could barely wield a sword. They were bad with the bow and arrow and their reflections were poor too. They were good with numbers and shapes, but that wasn’t much in the city they shaped. One full of segregation and violence.

“Dear, soror… you’re back…” you think Geta gets closer to hug you, but his hand has raised and he gives you a sharp slap across the cheek.

“Dazzling and with such a big mouth as always” he added while you looked down, your cold hand against the reddening skin and sending him the worst look you had.

“Leave the princess alone, emperor. We should be focusing on the games ahead. We brought many slaves that some of them could fit as gladiators” Acacius said, looking affectionately at you, with disguise.

Caracalla only laughs in your face and his monkey reaches you for some seconds, but your brother pulls him away quickly. You wonder how far his disease has spread. Before leaving Rome, he was completely against seeing a doctor.

“Acacius is right, Geta. Let’s focus on the games” the twins agreed but sure, they had to humiliate you one last time.

“Alright then. But the next time I see you, dear y/n… I don’t want to see your hair down freely. You look like a whore and not the princess of Rome” he whispered loud enough to make everyone hear. But finally, the twins were gone.

“Are you alright?” The general asked but you rolled your eyes.

“I don’t need your help, Acacius. I’ve dealt with Geta and Caracalla since the day I was born. Which was before we met you” he sighed, understanding you were still mad from your last conversation. He appreciated your free hair, long and healthy despite the fires you went through while in combat.

“I just don’t want to see you hurt. It’s enough they sent you to serve in the war when you should be here, safe from the horrors”

“Go home to your wife, Acacius. Your dinner will be cold…” you spit out with a bitter tone before walking away, disappearing through the walls of the palace.

…

Standing naked, dripping, and waiting for servants to dry you up, you stare at the dress hanging in your room. It had been months since you wore a dress, used to armor and tight braids, and the sensation of the fabric felt odd.

As a kid, you wished to befriend your servants, but they remained professional and apologetically brushed away your questions. Which made you feel even more lonely while they dressed you up; placing gold jewelry and rings with quartz, spraying perfume, and cleaning your teeth. Geta and Caracalla always stole the sweets from you as kids, you thanked them because instead, it was Caracalla who ended up with a decayed tooth and a gold one as a replacement.

“You’re ready, princess,” said one of the servants and you smiled at her as a thank you.

The whole time while you and your brothers awaited to arrive at the Colosseum, you ignored them. You sneaked away as soon as you arrived. Knowing the place like the palm of your hand, you took a secret passage, in hopes to go and tend your horse to delay the entertainment as long as you could.

Gladiator fights were of no interest to you. But the people loved it. Their ignorance made you understand why they hadn’t tried to throw your brothers from the thrones.

But being months away made you forgetful of the architecture of the Colosseum, forgetful enough to end up in the cells of gladiators. Looking perplexed, you gulped nervously. There were indeed many slaves brought.

Being the only woman there made you the center of attention. Even worse when you looked exactly like a princess would do.

“Princess y/n, What are you doing here?” Asked one of the high-rank soldiers, running towards you.

“I wanted to tend my horse. It was brought here by accident” you replied, eyes wandering through the cells, noticing the people inside them were full of new people, probably from Numidia. You wonder if they recognized you.

Your eyes met the ocean-blue ones of a man, he certainly recognized you as he looked at you with anger. You gulped once again, looking away from him. But his gaze had been so strong that you didn’t hear a servant come running from the end of the hallway.

“A TIGER ESCAPED! A TIGER ESCAPED! CLOSE THE DOORS!” he screamed and soon everyone went into panic mode. You didn’t have enough time to process what he said and do anything. You stood there confused for some seconds. The violent roars of the animal could be heard closer. You looked around trying to find a weapon.

“Stay behind me, princess,” said the same soldier but you didn’t trust him so you went to grab a bow and arrow. The prisoners yelled and quickly you understood they were having a private show. They hated you for being Roman, and they thought they would see you dying.

But you wouldn’t give them that satisfaction as much as you sympathized with them.

The tiger appeared, big and imposing. The animal was angry, visibly distressed, and ready to attack.

You had killed men, but an animal was different. There was no exact description of what to do. Just pure instinct. So you try to calm yourself before the tiger spots you and the soldier, who are the only ones that remain vulnerable. The guards closed the entrances as protocol, unbeknownst that you were there. And it had been too late to use the secret passage.

You felt the same man’s eyes on you and indeed, he looked carefully at you, probably wondering what would be your next move.

“PRINCESS, STAY AWAY!” The soldier screamed when the tiger came running towards you two.

The tiger jumped and threw the soldier, roaring as it tried to kill him. So you ran away in hopes of aiming at the eye of the animal to gain time. Your hands shaking and you could feel your legs get tangled up in the fabric of your dress. But your nervousness isn’t visible as your hands work on getting ready for the arrow. You don’t have time to calculate, the tiger has already bitten the soldier’s fingers.

You hit it very near the eye and the animal roared even louder, in pain. That’s when you spotted the sword the soldier had left behind, where you threw yourself to, as the tiger had tried to attack you again. The man with blue eyes pushed the sword towards you from inside the cell and you didn’t even look to thank him, you only grabbed the weapon and rolled to the right before the animal could scratch your face and kill you.

You heard the soldier cry out in pain but you couldn’t help him. Thinking you could end the beast chasing you, you failed, sinking the sword in the ribs of the animal. You felt a deep scratch in your arm and you cried out. Anger quickly builds up as you know you had to get out of there before everyone at the coliseum found out. The tiger roared one last time and before it could throw you to the sandy ground you grabbed another arrow and directly pierced the eye of the animal. Blood starts pouring and before the tiger can try to bite and break your neck, your hands end up in its mouth.

The fangs were dangerously digging into your hands and more blood started coming. Scarlet droplets fell all over your face and you didn’t care. You screamed in pain and pulled all the strength in your body to put the pressure on your arms and hands. The men inside the cells cheered and made you even more angered. Until you had torn open the tiger’s mouth, breaking its jaw and killing the animal.

Breathe….

Pushing the dead animal aside, you sighed, resting on the dirty floor for a couple of seconds before taking a long breath and standing up.

Every man inside each cell looked at you quietly. What’s there to say?

Five guards open the main entrance and look confused at the mess, then at you tending the heavily injured soldier.

“Bring a doctor,” you tell them and they nod without asking more questions. Only one comes to your side.

“The games are about to begin, princess. I must escort you back to where you should be” Trying to catch your breath, you nodded.

“Do not say a word about this mess” The guard only bowed his head in agreement.

The least you could do was to put some bandages around the bloody hand of the soldier. Then you cleaned yourself and noticed you were a mess.

Giving that soon-to-be gladiator one last look, you tried to thank him with your eyes for what he had done to help you. He understood, giving you a cold nod.

And as you walked towards the royal platea, you wondered if that was the slave your brothers mentioned. A poet…

“Oh heavens! What happened to you?” Asked Lucilla as soon as you tried to take a seat beside Geta. Then everyone turned to look at you in horror. You noticed Acacius looked worried and he couldn’t keep his eyes away from the blood in your dress and bandaged arm.

“An accident” you replied politely at the woman, not in the mood to face the wife of your ex-lover.

“You look horrible,” said Caracalla.

“It won’t; happen again, frater” you tiredly answered, sinking onto the chair, ignoring Acacius’ eyes on you.

Soon you are surprised to see the gladiator who helped you in the arena. You don’t face him when he ends up winning and he looks at you. But you do notice Lucilla’s behavior and quickly you have connected the dots.

What an odd coincidence…

…

This time, you checked the animals first, then you made sure nobody had seen you entering the cells, but you went where the mysterious gladiator of blue eyes rested.

“Barbarian, monkey eater, slave, gladiator…. Prince of Rome, How may I call you? Hanno or Lucius?” Soon you had him inches away from your face. At that moment, you had time to appreciate his features. He was handsome and looked pretty much like he belonged to Roman royalty. But his gaze was fueled by anger and pain.

“What do you want?”

“I know Lucilla came before me. She had been waiting for you ever since I can remember” he looked at you with cold eyes and unbothered. But you knew he was curious about you too.

“What do you care? You’re the princess, you support all of this” his anger was palpable, it was part of his way of fighting you had noticed.

“Who did you lose?” You asked.

“My wife” he replied after a little silence, you nodded apologetically. He didn’t believe you.

“My father was a friend of your grandfather, part of the council. Now I realize that when he was elected emperor, he started hunting you down. I’m sorry”

“You don’t. You joined their cause and you fight proudly on the battlefront. I saw you…” you chuckle sarcastically.

“The twins you met the other day are my half-brothers. And they have tried to kill me since I was born. They sent me to war as punishment, but Acacius trained me well enough to survive each battle”

“So what? Should I pity you?”

“No, please don’t. But I don’t support any of this. I want to be a free woman and be with the man I love but I don’t think I’ll live enough to make it happen” he seemed interested in your words but pretended he wasn’t. Either way, you kept talking.

“You can’t kill Acacius. He’s leading a rebellion against my brothers” he stood quiet, trying to taste the lies in your words. But you seemed very truthful.

“Interesting that you want his head when all I’ve wanted is his heart” Through the cell his eyes sparkled and looked tentatively at you, for some seconds you got too attached to them.

“What about Macrino?” The old man had been trying to gain your brother’s trust and you thought that was suspicious.

“Don’t trust him. Stop sharing any detail that could tell him what you want or fear”

“I don’t trust you either”

“You shouldn’t,” you said, a little smile unconsciously appearing on your face. And to your surprise, Lucius smiled too. There was something about you that he found lovely. You seemed honest, but he couldn’t trust you yet. So he cursed once you had left, you had him looking forward to meet you again.

…

Across the room runs a large table filled with food. A variety of fruits, bread, lamb, duck, pork, and lots of wine. Your hands float around the punch though, reminding you of the first time you tried Egyptian beer. You ended up drunk with Marcus Acacius, laughing on the sand and soon both ended up naked. You frown, trying to forget that messy night.

“You’ve been oddly quiet these past days,” said Lucilla appearing by your side, grabbing more fruits and placing them on her plate.

“I’ve been busy”

“Have you met Macrino?” She said pointing in disguise at the man who laughs with some senators and your brothers.

“He’s been around for some time. But I don’t like him” you confessed.

“I’ve also met his poet gladiator” you added, opting to not look at her eyes because she responded very shocked.

“What?”

“He wants to kill Acacius for the death of his late wife, avenge his homeland, etcétera etcétera. I told him not to because we plan to free the city. You can’t proceed with the nonsense of taking him out of the Colosseum. Your son can’t be the alibi to start a revolution, Lucilla” you said whispering. She gasped in shock, wondering how you knew already. All while you carefully watched if any of your brothers or that nosy man were looking. Not even Acacius was looking.

You sigh, shrugging and looking at the woman.

“As soon as he came out wielding that sword in the arena, your face said everything. Then just by hearing his mysterious backstory. It was obvious, Lucilla” She didn’t say anything else, so you continued.

“I shall repeat myself once again. You won’t encourage Acacius to get your boy out of the Colosseum.”

“Why not?” you chuckled at the woman.

She was very pretty, sweet and caring. No wonder why the general loved her.

“You and your husband were lucky that I found out one of your maids heard everything and was about to spill it”

“What did you do, y/n?” She asked tired, thinking destiny was so meticulous and how you had ended up in such a position to hear and stop the maid before chaos unleashed.

“Let’s say I granted her eternal silence,” you said, Lucilla sighed, understanding. And before she could thank you, you spoke again.

“Wait till Lucius is in the arena to save him. And stop looping Acacius into this madness, you’ll make him get killed” She understood everything by the way your eyes looked at her. It shocked her, but she remained calm as you left to sit at the table. Only a woman in love spoke with a mix of venom and sweetness like that.

Taking a seat beside the General, he turned to look at you.

“What were you talking about there with Lucilla?” He asked in a very low but deep tone.

“Just gossiping about Senator Brutus and his new wife…” he knew you were lying but tried to act normal.

“Princess y/n… How true are those rumors about you breaking the jaw of a tiger?” asked a scribe, making you look away from Acacius, Lucilla returned to the table and your brother was already laughing at you for something you couldn’t hear.

“Well… it’s true, domine.” The table burst into laughter. Only the general and his wife remained silent.

“You did what?” Asked Acacius looking at you in horror.

“A princess shouldn’t be in combat” added Macrino, making you set your eyes on him.

“Oh I am a princess but I’m also a soldier, domine. And I have to thank my brothers because they made me a woman capable of wielding more than one weapon by sending me to war” The twins stopped laughing. Geta sipped from his wine and returned to you.

“That’s true. While you were there getting battle scars, Caracalla and I focused on diplomacy, ensuring we gained more land” You want to laugh at his face. The council did that, not the twins.

“Did you ensure the poor were stable by cutting from the rich? Did you do the math to financially cover each branch Rome rules, Geta? Or did you and Caracalla just point at lands on a map to get like prizes?”

“y/n…” Acacius whispered your name, trying to make you stop. The tension has risen very quickly.

“You have one task, soror. To give us India. A woman shouldn’t even be speaking on the table” Caracalla said when you were about to stand up and burst out. Marcus grabbed your hand under the table.

And immediately calmed you down.

“I’m only saying you should wisely rule this great empire. Do not let it fall…”

Soon the chatting turned into drinking after the awkward moment. When most of the men were getting drunk you returned to the table, cautiously grabbing food again. When you looked up, you encountered the image of Acacius kissing Lucilla. And it made your blood boil.

In a thick piece of fabric, you placed bread, some fruits, cheeses, and a small piece of lamb.

“What are you doing?” you nearly screamed when you noticed Acacius standing by your side.

“I’m grabbing food”

“Isn’t it a little late to eat again?” He wasn’t judging you, he never would, but he was very curious.

You would start up a little fire after seeing the painful image of him kissing his wife.

“It’s not for me…” before he could ask you you sprinted away. His blood boiled too, his hand firmly grabbed your wrist to stop you.

“What are you playing?” He asked.

“Playing? I’m definitely not”

“Is this some kind of punishment for what I told you days ago?” You sighed.

“I didn’t mean to say it was nothing. But… you have to wait, y/n” Acacius whispered and you chuckled.

“I’ve waited long enough to realize you will always be trapped in a marriage with two different kinds of love. And Lucilla will never love you like you want because her heart will always beat for that gladiator whose name was carved from the Colosseum”

You had raised your voice, Lucilla was looking at you two, and everyone else was drunk. So you violently flinched away from the man, who looked at you with a mix of pain and rage.

You leave and he immediately sends a guard to follow you in disguise.

“We must talk,” Lucilla said to Acacius, taking his hand.

He nodded.

…

What did that man have that made you feel safe? He didn’t protest when you walked inside his cell. He didn’t demand you to go away. He quietly lets you inside, talk, and explain yourself.

Two visits filled with food from your dinners were enough to let him know you had no intention of killing him. Your curiosity must’ve been too big, his eyes too attractive, and an odd vibration that warmed your chest.

To be honest, you had no idea why you came back to him. You just felt something. And you hated to admit it.

“If the emperors have made your life so difficult, Why didn’t you leave?” Lucius asked. He had eaten everything you gave him and was sitting beside you on the dirty floor.

“Every time I tried to escape, I couldn’t make it far enough. So I stayed and accepted my fate. To serve them will keep me alive ” he nodded, finally understanding why you hadn’t revealed yourself against the evil emperors.

“You didn’t come down here just to talk”

“I didn’t. I- I guess I just want to believe you’ll do something greater than I have always tried. Everyone talks about your rage but I think you quite act like a prospect hero… with honor” you revealed and wanted to cut your thong like you did with that old maid. You hated oversharing. But instead, Lucius chuckled and you frowned confused, expecting him to talk.

“You reminded me of my wife…”

“How so?”

“She said similar things to you” Most unexpectedly, you blushed. Thankfully the darkness of the cell made it unnoticeable.

“I’m trying to find a way to get you out of here before your mother does something rushed”

“I was very harsh with her”

“How couldn’t you? I would have behaved the same way. But she loves you and she doesn’t want to let you go just when she found you” Lucius smiled once again, making you remain still, unsure of what to do next. Soon you realized the sun was very close to coming up again.

How many hours had you spent talking with the rightful Prince of Rome?

“I must go, Geta and Caracalla will know I spent the night away,” you said standing up, trying to clean the mess your dress had become.

“Will I see you again before that revolution happens?” You smiled, walking back near him.

He was tall, you had to completely raise your head to face him.

“The final day of the games is closer. I’ll bring you more food and I’ll try to see what will the next encounters look like”

“Thank you. I judged you too fast…” he said and you chuckled.

“You still have time to change your mind”

You didn’t notice when he closed the distance. Just when his face had been inches away from yours, you gasped.

But neither of you two protested, your lips touched his at the same time.

Tasting the wine you brought him made you feel intoxicated. No intrusive thoughts appeared while you kissed him.

You could only taste his passion, his need to take control. But all his hidden softness too. One of his hand caressed with softness your cheek and the other grasped your neck.

“Stay safe, Lucius,” you said as you moved away from him.

…

The whole day was lost because you spent it sleeping. Only when you woke up for dinner, did you learn you had missed the games of the day. But Lucius was alive at least. You dreamt of his kiss but when you woke up you had an odd sensation in your stomach. Confusion filled you and then… ache.

As you brushed your hair, you got lost looking at a red candle. It had been a present from your father some years ago. A red candle to be lit whenever you felt like you needed to feel love, he had said.

The wise emperor had wished to see his daughter with her true love. Just like had always wanted but couldn’t.

There was a broad shadow that you spotted through the mirror. It made you pull out a silver knife and point a the figure.

Soon the cape was removed and you sighed but also gasped shocked to see Acacius standing in the middle of your room.

“What are you doing here?” You asked worriedly, standing up and hurrying to close your windows.

“You had spent all these past nights in the Colosseum,” he said, sounding a little angered.

“Now you’re spying on me, Acacius?” He sighed exasperated.

“What are you doing with that gladiator?”

“What do you care?” You asked with defiance.

“He’s going to get you in trouble, princess y/n” Your eyes pierced his, but you decided to move away, leaning against the towers of your bed.

“He deserves more. And not only him, but every slave we brought and all those we left in ruins” you admitted, looking at the fire of the candle.

“They do, but it’s not our duty, at least not yet. We need to focus on the plan we have…” you wanted to roll your eyes and yell at him, his wife could’ve ruined everything and he was only paying attention to you.

Only paying attention to you?

“Stop going to see that man”

“His name is Hanno and I’ll visit whenever I desire” you spit out with bitterness and you knew he was angry. Acacius clenched his jaw and sighed once again. Under his cape rested his armor, his hair messy, and his scars fading.

“Why? Because he makes you feel things?”

You remained quiet. As simple as it was, his question took you by surprise.

“I-… I don’t know. I had no reason to go back to him, but I did it anyway”

“Oh heavens, y/n. Don’t you see that I’ve always told you to wait? Because I’m counting every golden coin I have to give you that house on the island you always point at. To leave Rome with you…”

It took you on a curve. You didn’t know what to say, only the tears wanted to be present.

His hands found your hips and his lips seek yours. Sometimes, while being overseas, you two would argue. And the only cure was to be silent and kiss after a day of ignoring each other.

This time feels different. You feel so confused.

His forehead softly bumped yours and you two stayed like that for some time.

“If you had those ideas to fulfill with me. Why do you remain married, Marcus?” He smiled.

“That’s different, satis. I was set to marry when you were very young. I just can’t undo it.”

“Why do I feel like you’re only doing this because you feel pressured?”

“It’s not like that”

“Either way you wouldn’t tell me that you love me. So it’s in vane…”

“BUT I DO LOVE YOU!”

You frowned, biting the inside of your cheek. For a moment you thought you could only hear how your heartbeats slowly thumped. What you wanted to hear for years had been delivered. It felt good, even right to hear it. And when you were about to believe it, something clicked.

“No, Marcus. You just realized you hate the idea of me falling in love with someone else. Even worse when it’s the son of your wife”

Without the strength to say anything else, you moved away. Your feet quickly dragged you out of your room, and then out of the palace.

You walked through the streets of Rome, seeing all the hunger, poverty, the lack of love from the government.

By midnight you arrived at the shore. The warm sand cured your bolting mind.

There was an imminent battle coming up. You had a place in the rebellion. And yet you had to be only thinking in two men. Who had made a mess of you in a matter of days.

You had nothing with any of them. It was just the causality of what they made you feel.

Lucius made you feel like the woman you would’ve been if you had escaped Rome years ago.

Acacius made you feel adored like the woman you turned into wasn’t as bad as you thought. He believed in you.

But it wasn’t enough. None of them were enough. Your mind was spiraling and you realized you were sobbing in the middle of the dark. You can hear and faintly distinguish the sea. You had cracked, like the fallen fruit every poet and philosopher always mentioned.

And even when you knew you had to only focus on the war, you still didn’t know what to do. You barely knew the men that had you losing it.

_________________________

Taglist: @stargirl-mayaa @willowpains @nicolebarnes

I don’t love the ending but I genuinely don’t know who should reader end up with. PLEASE SEND IDEAS!!

[adkawariatka]

Hi, it turns out that fanfiction is really addictive and I still cant move past any recomendations without checking it out. So I have another idea for a dcxdp crossover….

Danny is living on Gotham streets for 4 months. Its perfect hiding place becouse of its aura. Many tradic deaths and general danger on every corner creats ideal barier for all sorts of ghost hunting equipment. Danny wos relucant about Gotham at first but after few failed attempts at finding hiding space, he decided that to hell with that and he will at least try. And thank the ancients that he did because its perfect. No one pays him any attention there is too much homless out there. Even if most kids are staying at Crime Alley seeking Red hood protection. thats one of the reasons why he hestitated at coming to ghotam: vigilinates. They are dangerous, becouse of partnership with goverment…. Who according to Anti-Ecto laws considers him non-sentient and in need of contamination or more often elimination. So yes Danny wos relucant but it turned out fine….. for now. No ghost or human gosthunter found him yet so he counts it as a success. Any other city, forest, mountains or everything else he tried didn’t last longer that a month. He might not be proud of his surviving technics like stealing, laying and dumpster diving but its not like he has a choice…. He is too much alive to be accepted in to infinite relams for good which is dumb if you ask Danny becouse he is at the same time its Crown Prince. But maybe Danny is just too naive or something. He does not care. On the other hand he is too dead to be accepted by humans so he kind of floats in between never to fit properly anywhere. He is surviving, and for about a year he wos completly alone until that one day…

Danny wos sitting on the bench in his favourite park close to lovely Café that had really beatifull cupcakes with blue whipped cream. He liked to pretend that he is a customer there and just waits for his order….that wos never placed…. Well who is he kidding he is just creepy homless kid that stares at people eating sweets from across the street. Pretty pathetic IF you ask Danny but he prefers not to dwell on his mental health thank you very much. So he is staring when a group of kids takes one of the outside tables. And like a serious creep listens in to their conversation. Well its not like he can swich off his super hearing.

The boys are talking about some homework from school. Danny assumes they are classmates becouse of their maching clothes. When to their table comes another one with darker skin and black hairs. The occupants share meanigfull glances and let the newcommer sit. Danny knows that look. It does not indicates anything good. Its the expression that Dash would make whenever he wos about to do something awful to him. Then the guy with blonde hair says

- Damian why don’ t you eat with us?

And then procedes to push the plate with cookies closer to the boy

- I thought I informed you Winser that I do not eat anything made of milk or other animals products. I am vegan.

Answered Damian with monotone voice. He sat incredybly straight and wos so stiff that Danny thought that must hurt.

- But its so good. beside I offered it. wouldnt it be polite of you to at least try?

Wisner insisted. Sly grin on his lips.

- Leave him be Mike he probably has problems with digesting such hard avaible products.

Said boy to the left with massive collection of pimples on his Chin. Danny named him spotty.

- I do not have any „digestive problems” as you put it Jenkin. I simply choose not to.

- of course pardon our lack of knowledge. Its just we worry that your… original diet wos a little lacking… or maybe you ate a little too much chocholate when you where younger. Thats all

And all of the group snickers to spotty „jokes”. Danny Thinks its primitive and disgusting. Racizm is low blow specially after Damians next words:

- I do not understand

And they laught even more. Damian just sits there confused and oblivious to insults vowen in to conversation. And Danny listens and decides that he must tell that boy the truth. He cant turn blind eye to that. He may no longer be a hero but that? He can help with that. Soon bullies get bored of throwing hidden insults at Damian and go away. Damian sits at their table alone staring at the crumbs of cookies. He looks lonely. Danny standard and walks over to him. But before he reaches the table his occupant whirles to face him. His eyes are very green. Not like ectoplasm but close. They are pretty expresive. Danny can see frustration and confusion in them.

-hi there!

Geats cheerfully.

- I don’t have any cash on me right now

Its the first thing Damian says to him. Rude Danny thinks even if he does looks like a beggar with his thorn jeans and dirty jumper, but he has a mission. And he does the one thing that helps him in stressfull, akward or life treathening situations: he turns it into a joke

- Shame but I will make an exeption for you and give you my services for free

- I am not interested

Damian seems irritated now. Danny procedes to ignore him and sits at the table.

- Well as an expert in friendship I can tell you that those guys weren’t your friends. Better keep away from them

- Thats none of your business. Go away

- well maybe not but you should know what they were saying to you….

And then Danny proceded to inform Damian about the hidden insults and racizem comments. Damian tried to say something and even walk away but Danny wos presistent. When he finaly finished Damian exploded

- Leave me you insolent lowborn go find yourself another imbecyle to milk for money! Or I will stab you!

- Wow that same fancy insults there. I havent Heard lowborn yet. Anyway have a good day!

And Danny proceded to turn on his heel and walk away. He left Damian dumbfoned staring at his back. if the boy decided to do something about this then good if not then Danny at least feels like he did everything he could in this situation.

-

Damian wos confused. That homless lowborn wos strange. He wos not familiar with Damian nor his family. But. Damian couldnt stop thinking about what he told him. About his classmates their words and hidden meanings. Damian wos not hier to Demons head and son of Batman without a reason. He had skills, keen mind and wos curious. So he checked, he spent almost all night reading different forums and sites about bulling and racizem. He tried not Think about how much he resembled Drake in the morning. What he found wos…. Not plesant. It turned out he missed a lot of signs of his position at school. It wos unbeconing of someone of his class. He wos glad to be aware of that problem but now he did not know what to do with it. Father and Grayson expected him to make „friends” and up until yesterday he thought he fullfiled their orders thru his classmates but now he realised it wos failure. He did not want father to Discover his mistake. So now he has different problem he does not know exacly what that „friendship” wos supposed to be. Internet wos not really helpfull, there were so many diversive definitions that he wos confused about what wos true. He wos not going to admit to father or Grayson his incompetence. He will find solution himself. He has one idea that just might work. The lowborn named himself expert in friendship. Damian just has to find him and ask. He seemed willing to sell his knowledge.

-

Danny wos a little confused and suprised to see angry boy from two days before him. In his defense Danny did not start this conversation. It wos Damian who came to his bench across the café and demanded his services. Which wos weird in itself even before he asked about the price. But he did remember that he made a joke about services so that checks.

- look I am not…

Started Danny but Damian cut him off.

- you introduced yourself as an expert in friendship so I require your services. I will pay generously.

God now Danny wos going to be arrested for child manipulation and thieft. No that can’t happen. He already is hunted for his halfa status that’s enough.

- Listen I don’t want any money. I joked that day. I saw a kid being bullied and stepped in. Further events does not concern me.

Danny tried to leave but the kid wos presistent.

- Well your knowledge proved usefull. I want more

-kid, Damian I don’t want to get in trouble by using you or something. I am pretty sure there is some paragraph for that. Ask Google, it’s better option. And without me involved

- you think I didn’t do it already?! I am not stupid, but the information there are contradicting itself and I can’t distinguish what is true and what is not!!!!

Danny looks at Damian. He is shaking a little, and his words are colored by desperation. Ancients this is trouble… but he wos in this situation before wosnt he? A boy who does not know basic social skills in foreign dimension…alone and lost. Fuck he can’t leave Damian hanging. He can feel his fear in the air. Damn ghost abilities.

- Fine what’s your problem?

-

Danny has been meeting with Damian for over 2 months now. the kid wos socially awkward but quick witted and genarlly nice company. Well Danny wos alone for so long that his judgement may be clouded by he does not dwell on that. It’s nice having someone around. And Damian talks to him. He missed that. First few meeting wos a little awkward but it got better. Danny tried to be helpful,?first they talked about the school interactions, who even wos a friend. But then they got deeper, it turned out that Damian knew about social interactions little to nothing. They talked about family how it works, what it should be like. It wos ironic considering Danny neglectful parents and dangerous home. But he knew how it should look like. Jazz make sure of that when she wos alive. Then Damian started to open up about his origin. Trainings, mother and weird hierarchy. Well Danny saw a lot wilder shit in the zone. A kid from assassin cult wosnt the most shocking but still fucked up. He thinks that Damian might be even winning his little competition: „who had more screwed childhood” He thinks that his calmness helped Damian to share. Ancients he feels like Jazz…. It is not that bad. Damian brings him snacks, becouse Danny refused any money. And Danny talks to him too. Tells him about the stars, laughs about stories of Sam and Tucker Damian will never know who is he talking about so there is no harm. First time from death of everyone loved he does not feel alone.

-

Damian didnt plan to get close to Danny. It wosnt the plan. But he wos such good listener. Danny wos systematic in his explanation of reactions and habits that are „normal” in society. He wosnt showing horror or acted surprised when he told him about discipline in league or it’s hierarchy. He didn’t even flinch when he conveyed stories of trying to establish his position in manor by attempting to murder Drake. He listened then pointed out how different manor and league functioned and then calmly suggested that he should talk to Timothy. Just like that no screaming or anger. Now he knows why father wos so frustrated with him. According to Danny family doesn’t have strict hierarchy or rules punishable by death. It wos strange to have everything finally explained. He understands so much more. He sees that Grayson tried to explain it to him before. But as much as he is fond of the man he wos unsuccessful in his attempts. But he still has one problem… father told him to make friends. It’s a mission that he is failing right now. And if he is being honest he is not talented in this department. Not that he will admit it to anyone… well apart from Danny. When he asked him what else he should do to accomplish this mission he got quiet and fidgeted for a while and then offered

- well if you want I can be your friend

Damian stopped his walk and stared at him. Did Danny filled all the requirements? He did helped Damian not expecting anything in return which friends are supposed to do according to Danny himself, his presence wos entertaining. They understood each other. Both suspicious of their surroundings and cautious in every situation. They know about each other a lot of useless information like favourite food (Danny loved burgers), colors, hobbies or general interests.

-yes that would be acceptable

Damian saw the happy glint in Danny’s eyes and the way he relaxed. They started to walk again as if it wosnt admission of most importance.

So I may post a little follow up about how Tim reacted to Damian apology? I will see. As you can see my writing isn’t the best sorry😅. So in here Danny’s family and friends from Amity are dead and he is 16-isch Damian is fresh from the league and is obviously confused.

[thebadboyfanclub]

Will You Teach Me? (Jacaerys x Reader)

Oh I’m on fire! Ok so I think I’m getting my groove back and I’m actually really proud of this one cause it’s been a while since I’ve written something that is so fluff and I hope you guys enjoy it too!

-

(Y/n) Starks name and legend were one that the starks would always bring up when it came to honor and loyalty, the first of their house to have the crown of the seven kingdoms placed on her head, she was two years older than her lord husband Jacaerys and excellent at the art of archery, “the kind she-wolf” was the name that the realm bestowed to her.

Princess (y/n) was the one that had urged Rhaenyra to protect Jacaerys claim, the greens might have been able to digest their defeat but like snakes (y/n) had guessed that they were just waiting for their turn, raising banners to come and swear to protect Jacaerys claim and promising her daughter to the Reach, her eldest son to the daughter of Baela Velaryon and her youngest son to the daughter of the lord of Arryn, ensuring that everyone else beneath them would follow.

The mutual respect and love Queen Rhaenyra shared with Lady Stark was well known in history, they were many witnesses on the morrow that (y/n) brought her second born child to present it to the queen and informed her that the couple has decided to name her Rhaenyra, with tears in her eyes the queen hugged her son and good daughter and thanked them for such a generous gift.

As Princess Rhaenyra was hastily made queen before her dearest father passed, he had commanded to let her take the throne so he could watch his firstborn rule better than he ever could, in reality, he feared what would happen if he passed, as much as he trusted Otto with certain affairs the matter of Rhaenyras realm was delicate and having a queen for the very first time had to be handled with utmost care.

The lady (y/n) had attended the coronation along with her brother Cregan, she had bowed before the new queen with a smile of admiration on her lips, Rhaenyra had seen the girl before, she was a little girl back then but she could recall how well she and Jacaerys had played in the garden, back then (y/n) was wearing a light pink dress that had gotten caught on some type of thorn and Jacaerys patiently worked around the fabric to free her.

“It is an honor to stand before you, my queen”

“You are very sweet, you have grown so much since we saw you last, you are already so beautiful”

“I am trying to catch up to our queen I suppose”

“I hope you remember my son, Prince Jacaerys”

“How could I forget?”

It was the first time that (y/n) broke eye contact and looked at the floor, her cheeks were already a tad rosy and after Jacaerys took a step towards her it grew closer to the color of a tomato. Jacaerys cleared his throat before he took the lady’s hand and placed a subtle kiss on her knuckles.

“My lady”

That was when Queen Rhaenyras's eyes met with Cregans and they both nodded in unison, any person with good vision could see what was happening here, the pair had grown into their comely selves and with brave heart, still, the jitters of the first heartbeat took them over like a storm.

“It is not often that we have the pleasure to have the guardians of the north in our court, may I suggest you stay for another morrow or two”

“I am afraid I must go back and tend to my duties, however, my sister can stay, if that is something that she wishes”

“Can I brother?”

“It is settled then, Jacaerys please escort the lady to all of our available chambers, let her have her pick”

“You are so generous my queen, I must thank you”

(Y/n) bowed again before mother and son, Jacaerys only turned his gaze to his mother and closed his eyes briefly, he mustn’t say anything else, a mother knows when her son is compelled by the eyes and the smile of a woman.

“Go now”

“Right away, my queen”

Jacaerys jested and instinctively took (y/n) 's hand to scurry away, as they walked away as fast as they could without causing trouble Cregan and Rhaenyra watched disappear to the crowd, Cregan adored his youngest sister and Rhaenyra held such undeniable love for her eldest son, the first fruit of her love with Ser Harwin.

“You promise to take care of her?”

“As she was my own, well technically she will be my good daughter, do you promise that she won’t murder my son in his sleep?”

“Unfortunately I cannot, one time she threw a rock at the back of my horse so I would be knocked off because she wanted it”

“Then she will make the perfect queen”

-

(Y/n) had been nervous to attend supper with the Targaryens, her betrothal with Prince Jacaerys had just been announced and so many decisions had to be made, she must be perfect so she can honor her house.

“It is such a blessed day, my grandson is to be married to the lady Stark, a wonderful match that will bond our houses for reigns to come, let us drink to love”

“You do know how the act is done right? Do not sweat I shall be there to watch it all happen I can even happily replace you if you cannot rise to the occasion”

“You can be as nasty to me as you wish,  but hold your tongue in front of my betrothed”

(Y/n) was thankful for the hushed lash back of Jacaerys, Prince Aegon thought himself to be clever with such remarks ever since she stepped foot at court, his gawking made her uncomfortable and now she found herself squeamish of such behavior.

(Y/n) turned her attention to Jacaerys and mouthed a thank you to which Jacaerys responded with a smile and reached for her hand for the gentlest of touches, as the morrows passed the couple was growing their bond little by little, learning new things about one another and spending hours talking about anything they could think about.

As the supper went on smoothly, laughter and chatter filled the room, Jacaerys had left (y/n) side for only a moment so he could entertain his niece Heleana, a timid girl who seemed to keep to her own, (y/n) did not mind, on the contrary, she watched as they messed around and danced, all she could see was how endearing her betrothed prince was.

“I would also like to raise a toast”

“Aemond” Alicent pleaded

“To the health of my nephew Jacaerys, may he grow old and wise in his wedlock, and to the lady of the hour, (y/n), it is not common for such beast as a wolf to have the honor to exist next to a dragon”

“You are vile”

“Why? ‘‘Twas only a compliment, I thought starts took pride in being loyal dogs to their master”

That was enough for Jacaerys to lash out like never before, landing a punch to the eyed prince's face and Aemond responding with a shove, everything else happened in a blink of an eye and Aegon had pushed Lucerys head on the table, (y/n) felt like this was the best time to finally have a go at him and with all her might shoved the silver head drunken fool off the poor boy, when he took a step to attack her (y/n) grabbed a knife that was laying on the table and pointed it at Aegon.

“Come on you low life, let us have it then”

“Wait! Wait”

Daemon was heard in close range, causing the ruckus to stop, (y/n) remained still, she did not trust Aegon enough to give up, a man of his…ways would probably not play fair enough for her to give up her weapon or turn her back on him.

“Go to your chambers, all of you”

Still, (y/n) waited. Aegon eyes were fixated on her with an evil grin, (y/n) held on to appear poised and courageous but her breath was ragged and uneven, she was almost shaking from the sudden rush of emotions, it was only when queen Rhaenyra stuck her hand out with the palm up towards the princess that (y/n) glanced away from him.

“(Y/n)”

Her tone was steady and warning, yet with a touch of softness to reassure her that (y/n) would be safe if she gave away her knife. (Y/n) exhaled deeply and let the knife rest on Rhaenyras hand, at that moment it was when she heard footsteps and turned just in time to watch Jacaerys walk out of the room.

“Go on”

Rhaenyra could read the concern on the lady's face like an open book, (y/n) cared for her son and that brought her comfort, she was ready to harm a prince to protect her good brother, and loyalty ran through her veins, a trait that many lacked.

(Y/n) curtsied swiftly and then shuffled away, as she went up the stairs one after the other she thought over what she shall do, mayhaps the prince wished for some time alone, but on the other side, the comfort one gets from a pair of arms wrapped around you is the remedy to most wounds.

For a few moments, the lady paced in front of his door like she was guarding it until a young chambermaid approached with a wooden bucket.

“My lady, are you alright?”

“Yes I am fine, what is that?”

“The prince has requested more hot water for his bath”

“Oh, give it to me”

“My lady, are you sure”

“Do not fret over it, you may go”

The young girl handed the bucket over and walked away, without thinking over it she knocked on the door a few times only to be met with a man this time.

“My lady, the prince is bathing”

“I am aware, you may go as well”

“My lady-“

“What is it Alfred?”

Jacaerys questioned from inside. (Y/n) did not allow herself to think over this, she stepped into the room and was met with Jacaerys sitting in a tub, his arms spread on the side and the water was so hot that steam came out of it.

She swallowed down the lump in her throat as she stood there, bucket in hand and her lips merely moved halfway up to show some type of an extremely awkward smile.

“Leave us”

Jacaerys simply said. (Y/n) found it quite interesting that when they talked to her they questioned her motives, but for Jacaerys it only took two words for them to literally disappear. As the door closed behind silence overtook them, (y/n) walked closer and leaned down very slightly so she could tilt the bucket over and let the water run without splashing.

“Thank you”

“The water might burn your skin off”

“It helps after sword practice, it is often that my legs ache”

“May I?”

She interrupted him whilst she showed him the sponge, insinuating if she was allowed to scrub him with it. Jacaerys nodded and (y/n) sat on her knees before she dunked the sponge in the soap and let it touch the prince's skin.

Jacaerys skin glistened under the candlelight, (y/n) was holding on to any decency she had to not drool over the prince, as the muscles on his chest seemed to be carved onto him the lady guessed what the rest of his body looked like, his arms also had the appearance like they were drawn to perfection, as the sponge was the only thing that kept her from gracing his skin she let her mind run off to the idea of what it would feel like when he would pull her close.

“Thank you, for defending me”

“You are to be my lady wife, I will always be there to defend you, my nephew had it coming, I should be the one thanking you for protecting my brother”

“As much as I do not wish to see Lucerys get hurt a part of my motive was that I have been praying for a time were I can put my hands on Aegon”

Jacaerys cackled at the little remark of hers, seeing her wash over his skin so gently and how her eyes sparkled was something he did not know he needed, as the lady rose and took a cup that was there she then let her hand touch the top of his forehead before she let the water run on his long hair.

“You are far more careful than the servants”

“I shall hope so, when the time comes I wish for us to not need them for such affairs”

“Is that your way of admitting you’ve been dreaming of seeing me in such a state?”

“No, no my prince, I would”

“You are quite the sight when you get flustered do you know that”

A devilish snicker escaped Jacaerys lips while (y/n) placed her hands on her hips in defense while she pouted, Jacaerys could watch her furrowed eyebrows with pursed lips all day, like a child that was denied cake.

“Ah my eye”

“That is what you get”

(Y/n) reported in triumph after she let the soapy water run over his eyes causing the sting that everyone hates, Jacaerys shook his head in defeat in the meantime he let his head hang back and relaxed his shoulders, as he recalled her childish demeanor he caught himself thinking about having a daughter, dark long hair and piercing eyes that would pout just like her mother, oh how whipped would he be for that little girl.

“If I’m being frank I always wondered what it would be like to run a brush over those locks”

“I like to braid my hair before I sleep, my mother used to say it helped with keeping it neat, she would always make one thick braid in the middle of my head”

“Seems simple enough, will you teach me?”

“Gladly”

Instinctively (y/n) bends down and lets a kiss in the middle of the princess's head. The second she did it her eyes went as wide as they could, her torso snapped straight back and her hand went up to her mouth to hide her gaping lips.

Jacaerys was also taken aback and had followed her on the small gasp of surprise but seeing her so shocked over such a simple matter made him giggle once again, her cheeks turning rosy as he continued to laugh, seeing her in such distress over such a small act was rather amusing.

(y/n) always strived to portray herself as strong and untouchable by anything, being able to view her acting so delicate and sweet made him feel special like he was being let in on this secret world of hers, it made Jacaerys wonder what else would he be able to discover as the years would progress.

“I apologize, I should go”

“No, what is the problem? It was only a kiss, I promise I won’t tell a soul, besides, I need help rinsing, dearest”

Jacaerys had held her by the hand to not let her walk away, as he finished his sentence it was his turn to show his affection by leaving a kiss on her knuckles, the lady bit her lip as she thought over what to do, alas the little voice in her head that pushed her to stay won and (y/n) walked back to her original spot to a prince that grinned from ear to ear.

Jacaerys enjoyed being pampered, as the firstborn son his duties knocked on his doorstep when he was far too young, he never complained though, he yearned to make his mother proud, but there was no harm in indulging in (y/n) 's soft touch.

“It might not be the right time though I was hoping we could discuss something”

“Anything you want”

“I know we have not declared when we shall be wed, however, I wanted to express my concern over a certain part of it”

“Do not worry about anything, no matter what it is it shall be yours”

“It is not a thing I desire, I am afraid it is more complicated”

“Then what is it?”

“I do not wish to have a bedding ceremony”

She blurted out, her movements came to a halt as Jacaerys closed eyes opened to meet hers, (y/n) had kneeled to his eye level so it was not hard for him to stare right out her, her expression showed a hint of fear and a pang of guilt struck him right in the middle of his chest.

“I should have known”

“A public one is what I do not want, my septa has informed me about my wifely duties so I will not resist the ceremony as a whole, I am more than willing to give you children it is just the fact that-“

“You mustn’t explain yourself, I had just completely forgotten about that part since I’ve thankfully never attended to one”

“I understand it is tradition, however, I thought since your mother is the queen and if she agrees we can overlook it”

“The ceremony won’t take place, at all if that makes you happy, I will not start our wedlock by letting everyone see us like that”

(Y/n)s frown quickly turned back to a beam of pleasure, her eyes shining with hope. (Y/n) dreaded the moment ever since she found out about it, to be naked in front of numerous people and let them see her lord husband- no, no, no just the idea made her shiver.

Jacaerys had been honest when he said that he had forgotten about it he could not have been more sincere, he had the arrogance of a man since a ceremony of that nature would not fall heavy on his shoulders as much as if he had been the lady, of course, it is not as nice as a walk on a warm day but being intimate with your lady wife was something sacred.

That time he reached for her hand again, their faces inches away from one another and all one could hear was their deep and shallow breaths along with a few drops of water as Jacaerys remained completely still, (y/n) saw his other hand that extended over to neatly tuck her hair behind her ear before his fingertips casually followed along the line of her chin, his touch was hot and damp though (y/n) felt it was perfect.

For the briefest of moments (y/n) dared to imagine what their future would be like, Jacaerys with grey hair and wrinkles around his eyes bouncing their grandchildren on his lap as they drank tea in the garden, one thing that she could not deny was that amid chaos and the burden of the crown, Jacaerys was her peace, the comfortable silence amongst mindless chatter.

“When I was younger I asked my mother when I have a wife, knowing my mother had lost her first husband, she told me that when I feel like my heart will come out of my throat and when I would be willing to get on my dragon to bring the stars to her”

“I do not-”

“I will bring you the moon if that is what you long for”

“I long for love, honor, and respect”

“Promise me you will never shy away from speaking your mind to me”

“Careful, my brother would advise you to take your words back”

“I quite enjoy your blabbering, your voice is like a song of angels”

Requests are open!

[threepandas]

Bad End: Poisoned Cups

I hadn't adjusted well, at first. I don't think anyone could have. Being an elf sound cool, on paper. The better eye sight, the incredible hearing, the stamina. All sorts of perks right? But what they don't tell you, is that when your soul is human? When you get isekai'd by some divine oversight or fucker with a truck?

It doesn't adapt that well, to a new body. Your soul INSISTS you should still be human, with all the trappings, and throws a FIT, when you just.... aren't. So you end up with migraines. Eyes that swim in and out of focus. Wheezing, struggling, breathe. A body at war with itself.

The world was so loud. Too loud. I could hear EVERYTHING and it HURT. Couldn't breathe and THAT hurt. Was nauseated all the time, from my eyes refusing to focus properly. That too, hurt. All of it, pain. Just? Pain. Day after day, pain pain pain.

My poor parents were helpless. The doctors struggled.

But the King? HE could save me.

And he did.

He was younger then. Just barely into his rule. His Father having just stepped down. My parents, desperate, brought me before him. Waited in line for days. They didn't even know if he COULD do anything, were grimly prepared for him to say that sadly, nothing COULD be done. But? Instead? He looked me over, called for several old texts, looked again, then called upon the strength of the Throne.

My parents apparently started weeping the second I stopped.

All I remember is the pain going away. Being exhausted. A REALLY pretty elf man in a crown. Things getting... better, after that.

I was told that story often, as a child. It utterly transformed our household. From merely loyal citizens, to devote Loyalists. Speaking ill of the King in THIS house? Would now get you HURT. My parents had been convinced they were going to LOSE me. The King as far as they were concerned, saved my LIFE.

Which is why I didn't put anything together. Seeing as we were an "all King all the time" Sort of house. We had one(1) team and we were sticking to it. Permanently. His son? Eeeeh, maybe. We'd figure that out later. We didn't care to know. And I was too busy with school work to CHECK.

Which? Meant I didn't NOTICE? He looked? More and more... Otome Capture Target as time went on. Specifically, he looked kinda crown prince from "Dance of the Secret Forest! A True Love For Me?!" sort of Shaped. Which... gee, what ARE the odds? Especially given that so many OTHER things are named suspiciously similar or exactly the same to that game?

.........yeeeeeah. I decided not to take chances.

I looked that shit UP.

And wouldn't you know it? Protagonist-chan? Not there yet. But she SURE COULD BE! All the legends were EXACTLY what they should be. Forests and locations the same! PEOPLE the same! Oh HELL no. Good to know where NOT to be, I guess.

Not my circus, NOT my Otome Drama Monkeys.

I? Would be working for the KING. My family owed him a debt.

And when I graduated? I applied. Top of my class. I studied my ASS off. Could have gone anywhere. But I was aiming for the TOP. A debt to be repayed and frankly? Excellent job security on top of it! So filling busy work in dusty ass backrooms it was. Gotta start from the bottom, after all.

I exhausted them. Was honestly barely trying too at that point. They should see me TRYING to put my nose to the grindstone. Burn the midnight oil! Ha! HA, I say! Long elven lifespans slow you all down! I? Used to live in a capitalist hellscape! This is NOTHING.

I'm not even multi-tasking. It's not even LUNCH YET.

Did I get promoted? Yes. Do I worry my coworkers? Deeply! But shit needs doing and we don't have all day! There is a nation to run! Have some tea. Eat a turnover. Now~! Where are my fuckin documents~☆?

I get promoted again.

Then again.

Aaaaand again.

I'm pretty sure it's cause I scare people. Am FAST. Efficient. Willing to hunt my coworkers for SPORT, like a god damned bloodhound, if it means we get that one extra tax document that makes or breaks us. I have (and will again if necessary) climbed through people's fucking WALLS. Cause, honestly? If they wanted to stop me?

They should have warded the gods damned vents.

Fuckin casuals. Get on my level.

So, now? I am the baby. King's inner circle. And EVERYONE? Is damn near twice my age! And, granted, yes. It IS hilarious I still scare like half the people working under me... but come ON! You are elite government officials! Do BETTER! (Geez. At least my PARENTS couldn't be prouder.)

But... (and God damn it, why is there ALWAYS a "but"?) here's the thing. It? Took me a WHILE to get where I am now. Long enough, in fact, for our... Problem, to arrive. A Problem which is GOING to cast his Majesty's kingdom into chaos and turmoil, in fighting and divides. Religious upheaval. A PROBLEM, which? In the name of luuuuuv~?

Is going to get NEIGHBORING COUNTRIES involved.

And WHO do you think is going to have to deal with that? WHO will have to prevent all out WAR? Religious schisms? Ward off assassins in the night? Certainly not Mr. "But Daddy, I love her!". Oh no, HE gets to sit back and enjoy the fruits of his father's suffering! Make more trouble! (Fucker.)

But, hey! Maybe I should throw in with his SECOND son, right? The supporting character? He seems vastly more reasonable and emotionally more balanced doesn't he? Well educated, cautious, why, thoughtful even! Ha ha... yeah... he DOES seem that way, doesn't he?

SEEMS.

He Is Not. Little fucker is a SPECIAL flavor of batshit. Completely "wake to find him standing over you, in your LOCKED BEDROOM, asking if you want to see his new favorite knife" nutty puffs. Not sure which side of the family it comes from, to be honest. Disturbingly good at getting past my warding.

Or at least he WAS, until I got the King involved. Ha! Royal wards! You can't touch me! I sleep like a BABY now! The only people who can enter my rooms now? Are literally JUST me and the KING HIMSELF! How safe is that~‽

But for real... poor his Majesty, you know? It's not like he didn't TRY to be a good father. Take time he couldn't afford out of each day, to spend time with his sons. Insist on eating meals together so he could ask them about their interests, how each day had gone. Involved them where he safely could.

He's a somber man. A dignified one. But let NO ONE say, he is not a LOVING one.

And HOW do his children fucking reward him? Middle school love dramatics and MURDER ATTEMPTS IN THE NIGHT! Because, YES, I have found the disturbing murder board that the second prince has in his "secret" room. Right along his equally disturbing stalker board of ME.

I, obviously, told the King.

He did not look pleased.

Don't know if my new reality has, like, intensive therapy programs or something? But I hope for ALL our sakes, that the second Prince is at the winter palace getting HELP, instead of just? You know... plotting.

His Highness has a nasty tendency to plot, after all. But hey, his Majesty says not to worry about it? I choose to believe him. Concern myself with more immediate threats. Enjoy, no longer turning around to find some baby faced little creep with a hunter's stare, just... watching me. As I try to work. As I try to eat. Around corners, still as a statue, yet somehow a THREAT, in lonely and too empty corridors.

God fucking DAMN, his little "crush" was creepy!

If it weren't for his Majesty? I would have run and run FAR. But... but I? And you CAN NOT repeat this, okay? It's WILDLY inappropriate! A-And I SWEAR I'm never going to.. to ACT on it! I would NEVER. So...so PROMISE, okay?

....cause.... I may... MAY! Possibly! Just a LITTLE bit! Sorta, kinda, just a BIT? Have a TEENY? Little crush... on... his Majesty? Maybe???

YOU CAN'T TELL!

It's SO fucking inappropriate. Oh my GOD. I hate this so much!? Cause he's my BOSS! And old enough to be my DAD! I SHOULDN'T be so attracted to him, right?! Plus he's the KING! There's definitely a power imbalance there! How would that even WORK?! We would have no future! I don't know the first THING about how to BE royalty. And no one would accept me!

Not that I think I even have a CHANCE! Fuck no! I'm not THAT arrogant.

But, like? A girl can day dream. Fantasize, you know?

Which is why? Having his SON? Be a creepo stalker at me? Kinda the WORST. I've literally JUST discovered I'm into older men! Thanks! BEGONE, zygote! Also, your vibes are RANCID! No thanks! I hated that and am SO glad it's gone. Now? All I have to worry about? Is Protagonist-chan and the political SHIT SHOW she drags after her like trail of destruction.

Why is she involving foreign royalty? PLEASE stop involving foreign royalty! Dukes! Religious leaders! MILITARY LEADERS. Stop "Helen of Troy"-ing your ass through our nice, PEACEFUL, kingdom!!! What the ACTUAL FUCK!? This is NOT A THEME PARK.

I watch, vaguely horrified, as his Majesty finishes reading three (yes, count um! Fucking THREE!) different royal missives demanding three different women of legend, from three DIFFERENT legends, who coincidentally enough? Happen to ALL BE THE SAME PERSON. Fucking Protagonist-chan.

They were from long standing ALLIES.

We could not AFFORD to lose those.

And the FOURTH message? Oh, THAT? That, was from his SON! Mr. "But Daddy! I Love her!" HIMSELF! He wants permission to marry the random woman of unknown province he found in the woods! Could be a foreign spy! Could be a mad woman. Who CARES right? They're SO in love~

Enough to START A WAR OVER IT.

I skip the tasting cups and instead? Bring his Majesty a bottle of the strongest star wine I can find. The sort that could damn near eat through rocks and vaporizes in air if you pour it out. Pain killers too, for what HAS to be a killer headache. Then I hesitate. You know what? Fuck it. I grab a cart. Make a care package.

Paper, ink, the STRONG tea, that special occasions tea (in case he needs a reason to remember his will to live), some snacks, a few shawls in case he decides to work late...

It's worth it, to see the way his stressed face relaxs when I return. Eyes softening, corner of his mouth curling up in that tiny, secret, little smile. We can get through this. We WILL get through this. I may not be able to stand by his side, but? I can support him. Help.

So long as HE sits in this office, burning himself down to keep this nation warm, so too, will I.

Tea or booze, your Majesty?

"A blend, I think. Unfortunately, I fear it is going to be a long night for us both." He replies. His voice smooth and low, effortlessly filling the room. A lifetime of public speaking, ingrained so very deep. "You should pour yourself a cup as well, my dear. Sleep will be a long time coming, we will need both the calm and the clarity."

I rolled my borrowed tea cart to the side and got to work. Strong tea and stronger star wine. Certainly a... flavor. Fairly certain such a thing should be illegal. Pretty sure our healers are going to be appalled. But, oh well. Needs, must. One for me, one for him.

He held out a hand. It was a sweeping gesture of his arm, a gentle turn of his wrist. I could never get used to his casual... elegance. The beauty of him. Like a living art work. A dancer. As though he were an actor, striking a pose, about to consider the soul of the simple tea cup. I handed it over, gently and with as much elegance as I could.

It still felt clumsy in comparison.

Yet he still smiled, just slightly. In that way I had learned to spot. Tension dripping away from his shoulders like thawing ice. Running in little rivers like melt waters, as he sat back in his chair, half turning it to face me. A brief moment to relax. Before work begins again.

"Ah... completely vile. Thank you, dear. It's disgusting." He said dryly, catching me off gaurd, and making me damn near snort into my cup. "If it did not work so well? I would never consume this swill again. What a perfect waste of tea and wine. We should invite Yevault."

I laugh. A snirking, snorting, choked little thing into my cup. God, but I've been TRYING to laugh more elegantly. Hell, I've even practiced. But when he catches me off gaurd? I swear to God, I cackle and pop. Like some sort of deranged witch pig. Ow, my sinuses.

"Oh but that's right, Yevault is a healer, on the occasions he takes time from being an unbearable snob. He might actually make us rest, dear. Then where would we be?" His Majesty muses, taking another sip before grimacing at the taste.

I go to respond. Probably some quip about "preferably in bed" or "asleep". Only... only to find my tounge sluggish. My exhaustion mounting, not slipping away. The world has begun to sway. Just a little at first, then notable. My mouth... fuzzy? Prickly. W...what?

His Majesty has begun to frown. Delicately setting down his cup... cup? Something about... a cup... I have taken too long to respond. He rises. Strides in a few, urgent, steps over to where I lean. Against the edge of my assistants desk. Swaying~ swaying~ w-why is the ground... my tounge feels to big. Think? I've begone to drool?

Warm, big hands cup my face. Was slipping forward, to the side. Gonna fall? Not anymore. Up. Hi! Is the king. Hi King. I... I don't feel so good...

His eyes have gone focused and cold. Pretty. Crown begins to glow. Leaves. Gold and gold, a halo of light. From within and beyond him. Power of the throne. Oh... oh I was here before, wasn't I? My bones remember. Like the roots to his great tree, power seeping deeper and deeper into my body, finding imperfections to consume. So... so much LIGHT.

I can not look away.

"Poison, was it? How terribly banal. Do they think me so simple to kill?" There is scorn in his voice. Utter distain. But deep beneath, like the hidden embers of a forest fire, there is rage. "How dare they drag you into this. Bad enough they throw a FIT over some trouble making tart, now they get the innocent involved? What if I had not been paying attention? Or you had taken that tea where I could not see it? Unacceptable."

Like spreading branches, like antlers, the light spread. The hands on my face gentle even as his Majesty's face might as well have been carved from stone. I tried to protest, swallowing thinking past the still rolling nausea. It was my fault! The tasting cups exsist for a REASON. They're supposed to test for things like this. I got too comfortable.

"No." The word slammed down as about an absolute as any sentence CAN. A declaration from on high. The commandment of a king. "It takes far more then simple poisons or common blades to kill me. The power that flows through the Throne insures it. You do not have that luxury. You could have DIED."

"....might still yet."

The last bit, almost a confession, pressed to my brow as he leaned down to press his lips to my forhead. His grip tighter, as though to stop his hands from shaking. My joints were starting to hurt, like I had a nasty cold, and I was already starting to feel feverish. I was starting to drip sweat. Shit.

I tried to stay calm. But... but I was scared. What do I do? Your Majesty! What do I DO?!

"We are going back to my quarters. Work can be brought to me. You need to lay down." He decided after a long moment of deliberation. Something had shifted in his eyes. I couldn't make heads or tails of it. Clung to the only trustworthy source of comfort I knew, in the chaos of this moment. "I'm going to take care of you. I have you, dear. Just trust me, darling. I will fix this. I swear it. You don't have to worry about a thing. Just put all of your trust in me, all right?

"Just come with me, dear. Everything will be all right."

"You can trust me."

[rosyandraw]

idk if this is redundant on your end but thoughts on Damen needing to talk during sex? in the books it isn’t even dirty talk it’s just endless want for Laurent and how long he’s been waiting for him and how different Laurent feels. Also in canon & in ur own writing

Definitely not redundant! You have just knocked on the Damen Character Study door in my head lmao but it's late and idk how much sense this will make so i'm sorry in advance.

Mini meta on Why Damen Likes to Talk During Sex in Canon

First and foremost words are hugely important to Damen, not just during sex but in general. It is part of the reason that Vere trips him up so badly, why he just doesn’t get it. Because Vere is a veil of word play and innuendo, it’s double speak and flowery bullshit and lies.

That’s not Damen. His word is his bond, it’s tied to his honour and they mean a great deal to him. He never says anything he doesn’t mean. Ever. If it’s coming out of his mouth he is saying that shit with his whole damn chest and doesn't give a fuck.

The few times he is forced to lie or to say something he doesn’t mean he says it as a strategy play but it barely makes it out of his mouth and he hates it.

For a long time by the time they get to Ravenel Damen has been playing a part. Living a half truth and not saying everything he means. Or wants to say.

Likewise, in Akielos, Damen keeps himself held back. We know this because in 3 books, despite being the darling crown prince and heroic military leader, he mentions 1 person by name that he is actually and genuinely close to. One. He’s never been in love with anyone before Laurent, he doesn’t get close, he doesn’t get particularly attached. If he did Jokaste would have been a Princess and not just his mistress.

It speaks of a whole heap of childhood trauma and issues, thanks in large part to his father and Kastor and this picture that is painted of strength in Akielos being The Most Important Thing. (And i have too many thoughts on said implied trauma to write it all out properly here because it's an essay unto itself.)

We also know that Damen does the talking thing with Jokaste too. So we know it's an indicator of intimacy in bed for him. He's certainly not doing it in Vask, for example. Because Damen values words so highly he does wear his heart on his sleeve, but he guards that heart close. Sharing his feelings becomes something then tied to both the value Damen places on words and the lack of emotional intimacy in his life. To Damen, opening up like that especially during sex, is an act of giving unto its self.

Damen is strong, yes. Crazy strong and the perfect warrior. But he also likes the wordy sad poems and has craved approval (and affection) from his father and Kastor seemingly most of his life. For example, Kastor stabbed him and made Damen believe with words that it was a good thing because it meant Kastor respected him enough to fight him like a man.

It’s the perfect anecdote to draw all of those ideas together. Damen being happy about being stabbed at 13 by his brother because Kastor said it was a good thing to be strong enough to fight properly and bear the consequences.

Words matter to Damen, he assumes they do to other people too. It's what nearly gets him killed.

It’s funny really, because Damen values words but he himself is a man of action and Laurent values action but is a man of words.

When it comes to sex we see them swap places from their usual dynamic and therein lies the intimacy.

Laurent acts and Damen talks. It’s a complete role reversal and it was always meant to be. Pacat has said, several times, that Laurent tops Damen with words all the time and it was a purposeful choice to have Laurent bottom because of this. So to follow that through to it's logical conclusion for the sex scenes to really hit we needed to see them swap places completely and Damen needed to talk.

Laurent is a mouthy little shit but when it comes to his important scenes (the building of their intimacy and their sex scenes) it's never his words that he's speaking loudest with. Like when he just hugged Damen after the meeting with Jokaste in KR or when he went to get ice for him in PG, it's an offering in place of words and Laurent does it frequently: letting his actions speak louder than any of his words because to Laurent words don't really matter, lies are too easy. He's been taken in by words before.

Damen gets to Laurent through his actions and it's Laurent's moments of honesty, of saying something unexpected, that make Damen really pay attention. This isn't to say that Laurent's actions don't get to him, they do of course, but only really when Damen comes to realise that's how Laurent is being honest. Likewise in reverse for Laurent.

It's the language the other understands that allows the distance to bridge, but the intimacy comes in the opposite every time.

So when they fall into bed Laurent instigates with action, all three times they are together. And Damen talks. Because it’s the thing that is important to them that they are willingly giving and sharing and that is what makes it intimate.  

Quite simply, Damen holds himself back emotionally so talking during sex like that is a way for Damen to let go and to let his partner know that's it not just sex. Laurent, in reverse, shows his want through the instigation and by the time it happens they both know what it means: Laurent never does that and Damen knows it. Laurent knows Damen says what he fucking means.

It's such an intimate sex scene because of that awareness.

In my writing I kind of try to take that and run with it. Damen says what he means and what he wants Laurent to hear, because words of affirmation are important to him personally so he makes sure to share that.

Plus, it’s just sexy, you know? Got to love a man who talks in bed, that sex rough voice when he’s so far gone you know what his saying is just the shit flying through his head?

Hot.

Loved this ask so much. I could literally write a thesis on Damen lmao

[e1dritchjackal0pe]

𝔏𝔬𝔳𝔢 𝔗𝔥𝔶 𝔈𝔫𝔢𝔪𝔶

𝔖𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: The perilous position you have assumed within the hierarchy of the Red Keep has been discovered for the farce that it is. You can see it in the way that the prince watches you; like a beast with glinting claws and teeth waiting for the prime moment to lunge for your throat.

You must leave if you wish to keep your life intact, but in an attempt to flee, you run right into his lethal maw. You had just never imagined the nature that the outcome would be.

𝔚𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: 18+ content, MDNI!! Some Aegon slander (sorry to the aegon stans), brief mentions of past SA of maids by Aegon but it is not stated in detail, AFAB, and fem aligning pronouns used. Dubious consent, the reader is technically the seducer, but there is a clear, uneven power dynamic, and her life is under threat, so the implications are not lost on me. The sex is consensual but keep the warning in mind. Oral sex (M! Receiving), deep throating, Switch wanna be dom sub leaning Aemond, medieval slut shaming, degradation, praise kink, unprotected sex, creampie, wall sex.

𝔑𝔬𝔱𝔢𝔰: 23.4k words. Not proofread. Enemies to (reluctant) lovers coded. Reader is a spy. She is also the definition of, "well, mark me down as scared and horny."

You truly cannot help but to berate yourself. This could possibly be the most foolish, idiotic situation you have ever allowed yourself to be a part of. Never have you ever so willingly dangled yourself so close to death. Constantly teetering - swinging to and fro above destruction like a pendulum. The urge to slip away in the cover of the night has never been so great before. No other venture has gnawed at you in such a way. Not the petty gossip you have traded over for coin at the expense of bothered and arrogant nobility and ambassadors, not the misdeeds and horrors of bureaucrats that you have passed off to their disgruntled rivals - no matter how formidable or perceptive they might have been. But those feats are all so small in comparison to your tasks now. Pathetic even. Trivial. 

You have maintained your position within the castle for years. Posing many false expressions and surviving many demeaning orders from arrogant, leering lords and insincere, vapid ladies. Despite the ignorance of the common individuals among the court, there have still always been keen, all-seeing eyes that flicker about the halls and rooms in search of treason and threats. You have learned to dance about their line of vision. To hardly be seen, and never heard as you slip around amongst the shadows to collect what is necessary. 

All of these loose lips and wagging tongues with hardly any consciousness or smarts to command them. These people, the many of them akin to animals cavorting around in rich fabrics and imported diamonds, remain wildly blissful in their ignorance. Still, there are few that skulk about the dark just as you do, and it is only by the grace of the gods that you have not blindly bumped into them in your endeavors. 

You should have vanished as soon as the others had been dispatched. Executed silently by the hand of Lord Hightower for their espionage. It was close. Far too close for comfort. They had all been snuffed out so silently. It had not been made a public spectacle, their deaths, but instead was performed with an eerie quiet. Not strung up like the ratcatchers that had snuck into the walls of the castle and slain the King's heir, but silent. As though they had never even existed at all. As though they were merely false phantoms in your memory. 

You owe your life to the lot of them. For not allowing your name to slip from their ragged breaths as they no doubt endured horrendous torture by the hands of the crown. You should take the opportunity that their deaths have provided and run far from King's Landing when you still had the chance. And yet you remain fixed in your position, tending to the requirements of your station on the day to day. Perhaps you are merely making an effort to honor their memories. To remain here, surrounded by danger out of a sense of duty. You have always survived, no matter the circumstances. You have carved a place out for yourself here within the great walls of the caste, burrowed in the cracks beyond where others can see, and you know that you will weather this storm. But you understand truly that that must be a lie. Perhaps, after all of this time, your arrogance has finally gotten the better of you. 

You have waited for the Worm's call. A raven, a word, her presence, a middleman. Naught have come. She has been absent. Like a whisper lost on the wind. It has you fear the worst. That perhaps that she too has been found out by proxy of the other informants, and the bloody and ruthless sword of the crown has struck her down. You can only hope that she has escaped before the killing blow was delivered. She is crafty beyond compare, and you know (you hope) that in your heart of hearts that she has made it out. 

Soon she will be able to send word to you. As of now, you can only strive to keep your own throat untouched and free of gashes as you continue to change the King's soiled linens and to toss out his chamber pot full of putrid piss while you cling to the notion that you may make it out of this endeavor; still slaving after him even while he has been forced bedridden by his ailments. Now lying along his bedding, whimpering like a wounded dog as he is tormented by the grave burns that sear along his body. 

The delight that had risen inside of you when you had first lain eyes on him in such a state was traitorous. It would have surely cost you your breath had the smile that threatened to lift at your mouth broken through your troubled facade. He is now wrapped from head to foot in bandages that are now so often tinged with the sickly red that seeps from his agonized, mottled flesh. His limbs twitch and quiver weakly, wracked with painful tremors that cause his breath to skip and snag inside his tender chest. He moans at all hours of the day and night, mumbling incoherently with a slurring tongue from the influence of the milk of the poppy that he is frequently dopped on.  

It was a retribution delivered by the will of the gods for his skin to be scorched so severely. Flesh for flesh, you had dared to think elatedly. And you could only hope that the young servant girls and chamber maidens that he has debased throughout the years have also reveled in his suffering. 

Isolde, Lena, Dyana. 

All of them. Soiled and treated as playthings for his vial pleasure. His entitlement truly knows no bounds; as though he is privileged to the blood that runs through their veins, the spirit that possesses their limbs. A disgusting little man.   

It was a task that you once loathed with every fiber of your being. Detesting the moment that you would wake before the sun has even made its descent upward and crested above the horizon in a banner of gold to cross the threshold of his apartments. To urge him from his bed, only done out of his own accord lest you get berated harshly while alcohol still saturated his breath, or rudely shoved away from the edge of the bedding with the unbridled strength of his arm. But now he is too weak to so much as force his eyes open to look upon you and the others as you go about your work, laboring alongside the direction of the maester's as they dabble in their endless tending. 

No matter the hour, he is now too drained, drugged, and afflicted to spare so much as a single word. Energy eludes him and leaves him little more than a shell of the boorish, obstreperous man that he had been before. And though he can hardly speak, his eyes tell so much. They open wide in distress, becoming glassy with unshed tears when you light the candles aflame at night, as not to leave his room in darkness. You know that his mind must be betraying him then. Thrusting him headfirst to that day where he sliced through the air on dragon back, pinned in place by the enemy's jaws and talons as the roaring, spirals of fire rushed towards him and doused his armor with the burning rivulets, melting and fusing steel and flesh. 

He is haunted, and it always gives you a joy that should shame you, but the guilt remains elusive. 

You make sure to keep your satisfaction tucked away and hidden. Managing your expressions to keep them controlled and devoid of the contentment and glee that capers and frolics underneath, deep within the privacy of your own psyche. But no matter how disturbing your internal amusements are, it seems that you may not be the only one that delights in the agony of the King. Whom basks in his misery. 

You can spot it in his eye. Dancing and glimmering within the crystalline blue and lilac like a flame swaying atop its wick, eager to burn and spread and devour like a starved inferno. It makes you wonder if the others can see it as well. If the maesters feel a cold prickle scatter down their spines when he perches at the foot of the bed, leather bound hands gripping the engraved footrest like the awaiting talons of a predator longing to sink into the vulnerable belly of their gutted prey. Gloating over the kill. 

He only darkens the doorway of the King's chambers on rare occasion. Infrequently, and it keeps you on edge in an attempt to guess when his next appearance might be. Like a great vulture circling overhead, waiting for the frail animal below to finally succumb and give underneath its own weakened weight. It is strange. There is no love or kinship in the way that he stares. Only patience and cunning, and the frigid, subtle edge of cruelty. It is not the devoted, worried gaze of a brother, but instead the brutal stare of betrayer. 

You have heard some of the hushed gossip and perturbed claims that drift about the circles of the Courts and the depths of the city's underbelly. They speak of the second son's many feats: of his talents with sword, his possession of the biggest dragon, and his nearly unmatched cunning. But people also talk of his more unsettling traits. Unfounded tales really, but even lies often have merit. They converse of jealousy for the throne. The pursuit of retribution. Not to be trusted, some have said. 

You personally know little of the prince - or Prince Regent now. Your paths rarely intercept, and the attention that he has spared you has blessedly been little. Fleeting, almost unseeing glances. You see him often, striding throughout the corridors in that confident, leisurely way of his. Always in the route to improve or study or join council. Circling around the castle grounds, sword in hand to spar against the finest soldiers and lords that the crown has to offer; scouring over ancient tomes and scrolls in philosophies and military strategies; studying diligently with tutors until he has all but mastered the tongue of his ancestors. He is meticulous and determined, you will give him that, but there is a strange, sinister spirit that clings to his person like an undercurrent. 

The calculated glint in his eyes burns too fiercely. It is a look that you recognize easily. You have faced it in men and women, highborn and peasant alike throughout the years; all of them formidable in their own right. And it is a dangerous sort of passion to have in a person that holds a position of power. Of someone who stands so closely to the Iron Throne. You have seen the same ardor that he holds manifest so violently in the others that have come before him. Impowered by their greed, their desire to claim what they felt they deserved. Many have suffered underneath the intensity of it. Both Highborn and smallfolk. You wonder if his ardor will manifest in the same way. If people will be bent like stalks underfoot and left smoldering and burning like embers from the scorching breath of his she-dragon. 

Still, you cannot help to be drawn by the magnetism of it. To be grasped almost violently and taken into the influence of it like a trout captured by a strong current, unable to fight against the pull. The restrained, conniving violence that he holds himself with should concern you. It should make you shudder and wish to flee, and yet the desire to truly do so remains distant and deep, like a long-forgotten instinct. 

He is like a predator curled in plain sight, hiding underneath the cover of camouflage as it waits for the opportune moment to strike. And horrendously, you were eager to see the moment that his teeth would sink into the naked jugular of his prey's throat, to wrestle the crown down upon its knees to power it into a kneel. Even if only to watch the Greens crumble underneath the will of one of their own. 

But for now, you will have to settle for the tormented cries and begs for mercy that mumble past the King's raw lips. To delight in the wince that pinches his brows close as sweat glints and dampens his disfigured flesh. 

And his cries were particularly raucous one that one particular morning. Induced by the gentle moving of his body as you and Eira were directed to tear the sullied linens from the down stuffed bedding - slightly damp from his perspiration, tinged with a dull yellow from it - so that the filth would not further aggravate his great wounds. You had both made sure to be quick with your work as you stood alongside the edges of the underbed, making to center your attentions on your tasks as the maester's crouch around him, chattering and discussing almost conspiratorially the nature of his condition and the effectiveness of their concoctions and instruments. All the while the King moans from his place settled along the floor, supported on the cushion of thick blankets as you finished in preparing his bed, drawing the linen sheet taught and smooth over the expanse of it. 

He whimpered and shook on his place along the floor like an injured dog. Even while he was effectively immobilized, trapped in place by the ruined confines of his body, you could still spy Eira's discomfort as she assisted you in your efforts. The tension in her shoulders, the hunched way her spine attempted to curl in on itself, as though she was attempting to appear small, trying to shrink in on herself as though she may succeed in vanishing. 

King Aegon has never ventured to seek out her flesh. At least she has not claimed as such. Still, you know the stories of the other chambermaids' awful recounts of their assault has shaken her soul. She is a girl too sweet, too delicate for such a cold, indifferent place, where kindness is a charade and the smiles given do not truly reach the eyes of the bearer. You can only hope that she will not wilt under the extremes of this world. 

Her hands quivered just the slightest as she drew the linen over the edge of the bed. It had you reaching a hand to the center of the underbed, motioning it in the guise of smoothing out a crease but it succeeded in gaining her attention. Her vision lifted up from its down casted position and flickered up to meet your own, wide and glossy like a startled doe, cheeks flushed with worry. You made to keep your expression as neutral as possible, but you did not hide the gentle warning in them, silently urging her to keep her composure and wits about her as you went about your task. 

She swallowed deeply, head jerking in a subtle nod as she reached for the final layer of dressings from the wicker basket near her feet. Quick but rigid in her movements as she did so, as though she is frightened that the King may suddenly jerk up from the floor and lunge for her. But he remained where he lies. Still burned and damaged, surrounded by fretting measter's. It urged you to smile. It threatened to lift upon your face like sunlight piercing a coat of ice. Prickling along your skin like bursts of a playful warmth, and you think you could have laughed if you were so brazen and foolish enough. 

You felt the shift in the room before you noticed it outright, the others pausing unanimously from their ministrations to pass acknowledgments to an oncoming presence. Eira had also drawn up straight, ceasing in her duties to address whoever had entered. You noticed the shape of them in your peripherals, the dark of it looming like a shadow. It commanded that you looked to them, the compulsion to do so seemed to take ahold of your head and turned it on your neck to gaze upon them as though drawn by a string; your body acted on its own accord. 

Here to relish in the King's pain once again it seemed. 

Shifting himself across the stone floor with light feet as he drew closer, hands clasped carefully. So relaxed, so indifferent for someone who should be in mourning. Entirely untouched of worry or unease. His eye found his brother's temporary place along the floor, and you are certain that you caught a glint of delight pass through his aloof expression. 

You managed yourself to extend a gentle greeting, nudging your head downwards as you carried about your work, though he did not offer you or the others so much as a passing glance. Instead, he angled himself in the direction of the King, daring to tread closer until he stood before the injured man's feet to consider him with a closer expression. His cold eye darting about the stretch of his brother's gnarled body and the fresh bandages that had been wrapped along his skin. Looming over his gnarled form like the Stranger patiently waiting to collect. 

"Has there been any progress in his recovery?" 

His voice was soft in its nature, nearly placid. A betrayal of the violent, vindictive nature that no doubt lurks underneath, though it does not make the impact of it any less. It still projected itself across the room highly, cutting across the mild chatter that the maester's had returned to and expelling them back into a hush. It was Grand Maester Orwyle who turned to answer him, ceasing his dotting on the King to address the inquiry. "We do not yet know, my prince. His condition is still delicate, but he grows stronger by the day. Gods willing he will be back to full strength and ready to lead us once again." The Grand Maester dabbed a soaked compress along Aegon's tender flesh carefully, spreading the healing ointment along the wounds. "We should be so lucky having you to guide us while he recovers, Your Grace. " 

If you did not know any better, you would have said that the comment nearly sounded like some sort of quip in disguise of a well-meaning praise. It almost caused you to lapse in your task as you assisted Eira in tugging the thicker blankets right along the bedding, but luckily you did not faulter. You watched the exchange out of the corners of your eyes then, making sure to appear uninterested in the exchange as you eagerly listened for more of the subtle tension that lies beneath the surface of their conversation. 

You expected for Prince Aemond to rise to the indistinct jab. But he remained impassive and unruffled. Quiet. His silence somehow makes him even more unsettling. His head tilted just the slightest as he observed what remains of the man on the floor. A pale ghost of his former self. You must wonder how much he truly comes to visit his fallen sibling. If he waits for the cover of the night to come lurking, slipping inside of this very room while the King fitfully slumbers to gaze upon his ravaged flesh. He nearly appeared as though he is inspecting some sort of pathetic creature that has carried itself across the floor and collapsed in a weary heap. 

Unsympathetic. 

"Hmm, quite." He finally agreed. "Let us hope that his rehabilitation is swift. There are . . . many dangers about; it is a comfort to have him secure in the safety of your healing hands." 

And then the piercing shade of his eye was suddenly fixed on you. Sharp and evaluating. You saw it and bore its weight even from the peripherals of your vision. It was as though you were the accused. As though he meant to gauge your reactions. To see a twitch of emotion bleed across your face. It was like being flayed open. As though he was reaching inside of you and rummaging around to find something of interest. For a moment you had insisted upon yourself that you were merely being paranoid, but in your line of work your instincts are invaluable. And in that moment, you knew the truth. 

You have finally been seen after all of this time. Analyzed and looked within and past. It was horrific to be appraised so openly, as though he was raising a challenge. Imploring you to meet his invasive stare head-on. You had done your best not to flinch or waver underneath it even while your mind scrambled and panicked like the frantic heartbeat of a startled hare. 

He cannot know. He does not. Your thoughts rushed and whipped around like a tempest. Relentlessly chanting, he knows, he knows, he knows. 

But that is not possible. You would be dead. Slaughtered. Executed on the spot for your treason against the crown. But there is an acute knowing in his eye. Like a beast lurking at the entrance of a burrow, smelling blood and life and fear on the earth scented air as a shaking rodent huddles up against the walls of the tunnel. 

You managed yourself to be calm and collected as you and Eira finished off tidying up the bed and fluffing the pillows along the headboard. You are simply a dull chambermaid, tasked with tending to all of the King's frivolous and tedious needs. Dull and simple in your function. But the Prince Regent it seems has just as sharp instincts as you.

You can practically feel when his focus finally retracted from you to turn back to the maester's. It is akin to breathing after forcing your chest motionless and starved of air for a period of time. But you remain outwardly poised as you shared looks with Eira, nodding at a finished job before you had reached down at your side to pick up the basket full of soiled linens and swiftly turned on your feet to make for the door. She trailed after you dutifully with her whicker vessel and dirtied sheets clutched in her hands as she stuck close to your heels. 

Still, you were unable to keep yourself from sparing a brief glance upward towards the Prince Regent, and your breath threatened to snag inside of your throat when you noticed that his vision is once again on you to mark your leave. Head tilted just the slightest to spy you as you entered the scope of his blind spot; the edges of his curled mouth seem to be much more raised than usual. As though he was pleased. Everything seemed to be compressed down to this single, terrible moment. With your heart thumping wildly in your ear; the pained, ragged wheezing of the King seeming to scratch along the walls and claw down your spine like the echoes of a bad omen. A promise. Ringing around the depths of your mind like a hoarse whistle or a shrill scream. 

You are in danger. That much is apparent. 

Will he give word to Lord Larys or Otto Hightower? Signal to them to make preparations for your death? To cut out your traitorous, loose tongue? If he suspects you of treason, it forces you to wonder for how long he has been privy. What might have given you away and revealed your true nature. What blunder might have tripped you into his sight. Perhaps he merely desires to dispatch you by his own hands. To slay the serpent that has snuck its way into the courts and hidden away within the cover of the King's apartments; tucked underneath his bed. 

You should have fled. You should have just fucking fled when you were graced with the chance to do so. But now the city gates have been decreed shut. Guarded and sealed, trapping all who reside inside King's Landing at the order of the new Prince Regent. A wonderful development for your current position. You are certain that he has not secured the city simply in the hopes of weeding out a single spy, especially when he already has you so clearly in the palm of his hand from tending to his brother's needs. This simply happens to be an ill-timed coincidence. 

He has, more than likely, invertedly imprisoned you. A pure accident that has worked fully in his favor. It will have to be near to impossible to escape now. With the constant patrolling of the walls and gates to ensure that the smallfolk remain sealed tight to be properly controlled and herded. 

You should have said to hells with this entire operation and tossed away the many years you have spent tasked with collecting gossip and information. Mysaria is possibly dead or even worse, having been carried away to the castle dungeons to endure great torture. And yet here you are, still toiling away, playing maid while the realm is thrown into disarray and your life hangs in the balance of the Prince Regent's suspicions. And if he has indulged those speculations in another is entirely beyond you. 

You are damned it seems. The gods have turned their backs to you and left you to the wills of men. Or apparently, one man in particular. A kinslayer. 

There must be some sort of play at hand. You would not still be currently breathing otherwise. But if you can at all help it, you would rather not discover what that purpose may possibly be. 

It made you drift about the remainder of your duties like a phantom. Flitting about the other apartments and rooms, washing and cleaning linens, stocking the hearths of fuel for the fires that will be lit to chase away the coming night's chill. You maintained to keep a level head upon yourself as you went about your duty. Only a single day has passed since then, but it flickered by like distorted, murky water and the chaos that stormed within you was still great. You could only hope that it was not noticeable. Eira makes no outward note of it which gives you some solace. She is typically unrestrained in her concerns and opinions, so you put faith in the fact that she would have made her worries voiced had she noticed a difference in your demeanor. 

You see little of the prince, blessedly. Only but during a fleeting moment, having passed him in the corridor with him most likely in route to join the Small Council. He had spared you the weight of his eye. Ignoring you as though you did not exist. As though the subtle warning or threat that he had given only a morning ago had never existed at all. It nearly made you doubt yourself. That you had simply gone mad, but the instincts in your gut shouted otherwise. 

Still it makes you dubious of yourself. Never before have you been so uncertain about your abilities before. Not since you were a young girl child, not since the purging of the other spies within King's Landing. But now you know that there are truly eyes everywhere - much more seeing than you had anticipated. You have always known of Prince Aemond's intellect and perceptiveness, and yet he had never been one to be considered a true threat. Not of the likes of Otto Hightower or Lord Larys Strong, at least. How entirely foolish of you. 

Your stress keeps you sitting in an odd in-between. Dangling somewhere between a sense of odd detachedness and a constant state of vigilance. It has you spread thin. Contemplating on vanishing in the dark and attempting to escape the walls, even if the attempt would yield a lack of results. Perhaps, if fate would have it, you could manage to sneak down upon the docks and stow away within one of the vessels of independent merchants set for the seas for Drift Mark, or if the gods are willing, Pentos. A death among the salted waves, confined to creaking, groaning walls of a rocking ship would be more merciful than what the Prince Regent may have in store for you. 

Even once the sun sets, slipping low underneath the horizon and vanishes to allow the pale shade of the heavens to give to the dark, you are still unable to settle. Comfort eludes you still as you are tucked away beneath the cover of your rough wool blanket; the welcoming arms of sleep refusing to open to accept you. The presence of the other servants surrounding you in their slumber only serves to heighten your paranoia. The noisy, guttural snores and the occasional dry cough that ceaselessly sound out around you only grate upon your anxiety, cutting deep into the musky atmosphere with all of the grace of cutlery slicing obnoxiously over porcelain.  

You stare at the ceiling of the shared quarters, tracing the silvery threads of spider silk and cobwebs that cling to the corners and divots in the damp stone. Feeling the pulse of your own heart thumping within the cavity of your chest, urging the blood to roar lowly within your ears. The chill radiating from the cold floor seeps into your bones and finds home within the marrow; taking root so deeply that not even your blanket and the harsh straw stuffed inside of your bedding could ward it off. 

It causes you to toss and turn, listening to the stalks rustle and snap softly underneath your head as you struggle to calm yourself. But your mind is too frenzied. Awaiting the moment that one of the many bodies may leap up from their place, blade in hand, glinting violently before it plunges into your chest or the sharp of it notches against the tender flesh of your throat to slit it open allowing the damp warmth of your blood to spill from the gash, heating your chilled flesh as the life slips from your limbs. 

But the servants remain still and slumbering soundly. Tucked away underneath their own scratchy blankets, unaware of your own restlessness. The war inside of you is too great. The walls of the quarters seems as they are growing narrow. Shifting close to loom over you with the threat of suffocation and sealing you in tight like the cradle of a casket. It makes your palms grow slick with a nervous sweat and your fingers curl into the rough texture of the bedding underneath you as though your nails desire to tear into the worn fabric and burry themselves along the brittle sticks of the straw inside. Perhaps the sting of the little rods would help in pulling you from your internal panic then. 

That train of though is enough to rip you from the vicious trap of your thoughts. Prying your mind free from the sinking snapping teeth of anger, worry, and dread, and like a shadow your body follows suit. You jerk up from your reclined position with a silent gasp, propping yourself up with your palms to sweep a cursory glance around the somber room, taking in the repetitive rise and fall of the other servants' torsos as they draw in leisurely breaths. Somewhere a leak drops upon the stone floor. Landing with a reoccurring dull plop that echos softly within the chamber of the quaint quarters.  

It feels like a tomb. Like you are another body that has been packed in alongside the dead within the depths of some forgotten catacomb, lost to time; forever lost to the living. What would truly happen of you were to be killed? Would there be anyone left to remember you? There is no remaining family left to whisper your name in hushed, nostalgic admiration, recalling your memory with fondness and sorrow. The White Worm - if she still skulks about the earth with life in her chest, would hardly recount you at all. You are simply a willing body for hire. Another individual capable to fulfill the task that is required. But would she mourn your passing? 

You can hardly imagine that she would. 

Loyalty is bought with coin; compassion is a luxury. 

Like a puppet upon tugging strings, you jerk up from your place on the bedding, tossing the blanket aside to stand upon your bare feet. The stones are shocking against your soles, so harsh that you could compare the temperature to a winters snow. The depths of the servant chambers are too deep within the bowels of the Keep to find the solace and warmth of the sun. Like a hell, the balmy, dulcet rays of the light are unable to breach through the walls and bring you and the other servant's comfort, regardless of the season. 

You must leave, you decide suddenly. Perhaps not tonight, but soon. Quickly. 

It is such a sudden thought, rushed and impulsive but you are unable to rein it in. The possibility of death hangs far too closely. The Prince Regent is plotting. Why he desires to extend your life, to allow you to wallow inside the icy, ripping depths of your worry and dread - that must be it then. A sort of sadism on his part. Delighting in the way that you ruminate over your own impending execution. Like a cat toying with an injured mouse clutched inside of its claws. 

The White Worm and her plotting can be done with. You must leave, no matter what the cost may possibly be, and if you are caught in the process of fleeing, then at the very least you shall die on your own terms. You will die trying. And even while you internally curse the moment that you had met Mysaria and allowed her to pull you into the influence of her clutch - a young, inexperienced soul for sale in exchange for coin - your mind still frantically latches onto the many faces that fall inside of her employ. Faithfull followers that are tied together by a shared belief, or more often than not, the promise of money. They will be your best bet in escaping this horrid city. There is one in particular that you know you will easily be able to barter with, especially as fellow hire of the White Worm. 

You hold onto his name. Your best bet on such short notice. Often a ferryman of sorts for the White Worm and the many spies that lay within her pockets; one whose service you yourself have counted on many times to give you passage to the cities that rest along the coasts of Blackwater Bay. 

Bahram Mercer is always present in that high-end brothel, tucked away inside a dark corner to drown himself in ale, or to partake in the body of the whores that frolic and dance about like water nymphs, bare with only strips of silk and chemise to drape around their forms in a mockery of dress. It will be a dangerous place to show your face, with the Prince Regents appetites frequently taking him outside of the Red Keep to spoil himself in the rich variety of talents that line down the notorious Street of Silk. But now with panic festering deep in your gut you can hardly be bothered to care.  It must be creeping close to the hour of ghosts, and yet you are certain - you are desperate to hope that Mercer is still there. Partaking in his favorite sins. 

It is enough to find yourself navigating around the bedding and slumbering bodies, careful to place your feet within the narrow space sliced between the blankets and cushions. Squinting in the dark to step over wayward legs and arms that have slipped outside of the boundaries of their respective linens and onto your path in the throes of slumber. You are even quicker in finding an old, homely garment of yours and snatching someone's worn cloak to cover your coverings. Dressing yourself hurriedly, ice and terror in your veins with no time to spare. 

You are even quicker as you ascend the stairwell in the goal to seek out the old secret tunnels that stretch throughout the bowels of the castle, hiding behind stone walls and lurking just beneath the floors. Traversing up the steps to enter the dimly lit corridor. You feel as though you are being chased up by phantom threats, imaginary fangs snapping at your heels, and assassins with daggers tucked away in the dark with the intent to leap and gut you from gullet to groin. But the horrid paranoia is not enough to halt you in your trek. You continue in your path, listening keenly for a second pair of footsteps trailing after your own, the sharp brush of feet murmuring along the texture of the stone, but it remains as a single set. 

The patrol of the Keep has been intensified since the murder of the King's heir. A slip in the guards' schedule, an unfortunate gap in postings led to the poor child's brutal decapitation. A great lapse in the Lord Commanders judgement. And if Talya's last speculating gossip holds any bearing, then it may have been a command given by Ser Crispin Cole himself so that he may be able to have a tryst with his paramour, the Queen Dowager herself. A scandalous and ignorant relapse for the Commander if that happens to be a truth, considering the crown is in the midst of a war conducted by a grieving mother. 

But fortunately, with your knowledge of the guards' schedules and positions, you are able to navigate the labyrinthian corridors with hardly crossing paths, managing to evade and slip past their posts as you make for the library. It is there that you enter the passage securely tucked behind a false door fashioned from one of the looming bookcases built into the far southern wall.

 It was horribly silent in there. That was the first thought that slipped into your mind as you stared into the inky, flat black before you. Gazing into it like a heroin of an old tale peering into a hellmouth, like an animal staring straight down the gullet of a starved beast. The pathetic flame of the candle that you had stolen from the roost of one of the many scones along the corridor wall lightened only a pace or so in front of you, dipping it in a shade of muted amber. Bathing what little you could make out in weak shadows, the divots in the walls created from the spacings between the stones seemed to stretch and pool forward like blotches of ink from the casting of the light. 

You felt as though you were holding your breath the entire trek. Anticipating for some unseen creature to rush from the dark with lashing claws. Many of the passages are fruitful of traps and horrors intended to wound or kill possible intruders. Though if those snares are only rumors fabricated to dissuade possible thieves or assassins, you are not certain, but you are thankful that you have yet to wander upon one in your usage of the tunnels. 

Fortunately, you already knew of what to expect with this particular shaft, allowing your feet and the dim flame of your light to guide you beneath the Red Keep and under the slumbering life of the city. You took familiar turns and listened to the patter of your feet along the floor, the whisper of your skirts on the dust covered stone as you went about. Clutching the candle within your grasp so tightly that it had nearly molded to its shape, giving underneath the warmth and nervous sweat of your palm. You snuff it once only you come across the worn old ladder posted along the damp wall. A ragged thing, constructed of weakening, damaged wood and rusted nails. You could only attempt to guess how long it might have been down there in the depths of the tunnel. Of how many people before you may have climbed along it and for what purposes. 

It creaks and quivers unsteadily when your haul yourself up its worn rungs, reaching upward to shift the rounded stone plate that conceals the opening. Slipping it to the side with unsteady fingers to allow yourself to lift your body through the open mouth and into the crisp night air. The majority of the Red Keep may be deep in the safety of slumber, but Flea Bottom is forever in the wild throes of depravity. Men and women alike prance about in the similarities of the devils of the Seven Hells. Cavorting down the lively streets in flashes of flesh and smiles. Even in the midst of the night, salesmen still gather to sell their cheap wares, forcing themselves into the spaces of unfortunate victims and passerby's with longwinded speeches and the promise of life altering effects. 

You make sure to avoid the desperate folk that hope to pull you into their influences with the shoddy products and goods. Though "goods" is being generous. Especially considering that a man had tried his very hardest in persuading you to purchase the dried womb of a rat as a means to bring about good fortune. A prompt, but polite decline had been your only response. 

You allow your feet to carry you down the chaos that runs rampant along the Street of Silk. Blocking out the unintelligible clamoring of the spirited masses around you as they indulge in their most debased desires in the open. Unabashed and uncaring. You weave through the crowd, undeterred by the vulgarity that pervades around you, keeping your head low and face indiscernible underneath the cover of your hood.  

You use a small cluster of men as a shield to enter the brothel, hiding behind their shadows and the drunken wobble of their bodies to give you passage within the walls. The air here is so much heavier. Balmy and scented with the sharp bite of ale, the floral undertones of oils and perfume, heady from the distinct fragrance of sex. The pleasured cries of women and the low groans of men hum and rise within the air, scattered about like a lecherous sort of music, rising and falling in pitches of ecstasy, intensified by the unmistakable smack of skin meeting skin. 

Only when you slip far enough into the depths of the brothel do you depart from the rowdy, intoxicated cover of the men, ignoring them as they jest in slurred shouts, shoving at each other boyishly in favor of allowing your eyes to rake over your surroundings in the hopes of landing on that familiar, rugged face. It is difficult to make out ones features, as all the men present are currently caught indulging in the many facets of sex. It is writhing bodies shed underneath the golden glow of firelight, sweat glittering and winking like diamonds, mouths dropped open in rapture to release high whines and begs for mercy. A painting of pure hedonism. 

You navigate the depravity with watchful eyes, scrutinizing the guests for the familiar, but unfortunately quite common shade of auburn hair, peppered with worn, aged gray and silver. It makes you fear the worst. That he has perhaps broken his tradition of frequenting the brothel in the night and has invertedly nudged you closer towards your doom because of it. But you do not allow yourself to be dissuaded. The desperation burns in you too hotly, nipping at your fingertips like the chill of winter and skittering down your spine. It all but forces you to press on deeper into the bowels of the brothel, slinking past the women men frolicking about like the fair folk whispered about in the tales of old, winking and smiling demurely in the hopes of luring away the patrons who come to crawl inside the bottom of a bottle or to lose themselves in the haze of sex. 

It is all so overwhelming, with the many bodies that pack themselves. Boisterous laughter, drunken shouts, wild cries and moans scattered and thick along the air. Shoulders and arms brush along your own as you slink past them, weaving throughout the sea of shifting limbs and torsos, observing each and every face as you pass them, but none bear the weathered features you search for; reddened, sun stung cheeks, or a stern pair of dark eyes. 

You make a sweep through the dining area as efficiently as possible, making a quick note of the patrons as you circle the room, but they are all entirely unfamiliar. Though you do spot a few of the lords that occupy the Red Keeps courts, a ser or two occupying the tables and drowning in ale, and politicians and bureaucrats - nearly all of which are married, and none of which you are searching for. 

In one final attempt, you move back to the farther stretches of the brothel, peeking past the sheer canopies and heavy fabrics that conceal private quarters and hide the beds that have been dispersed about the spaces, catching people in the throes of bliss, acting out exotic positions that you yourself had never even guessed to consider. Still, you had yet to find him. With each passing moment you can feel yourself threatening to slip further and further into that suffocating sense of worry and dread. Skirting up your form like thousands of claws, hooking in deep and you nearly let the primal fear sinking down at the base of your spine to fuel you and possess your body. You have to be mindful to control your pace, to not walk about too quickly, or to jerk the canopies aside harshly as you search. 

There are many men of the courts here at present. He could be here, skulking about like a demon prowling around one of the Hells. Or possibly partaking in the flesh of his woman. That gives you pause suddenly. Searing through you as though you have been struck by a rod of lightning, causing the hand you have gripped on a draped piece of heavy fabric to pause. Freezing in place like hare overcome with shock. A woman moans and keens just behind the hanging cloth, more than likely accompanied by a man. It could just be a man. A simple, average man. 

Or a Prince Regent, your mind notes treacherously. 

It has you jerking back from the canopy, stepping away with a weak breath snagged in your throat. You have been reduced breathless by the simple dawning realization that in an attempt to flee from him, you may have invertedly stumbled right into his path. It was something that you had initially considered before, but here and now it seems too real. The walls are drawing in close. The moans and shouting pitches too high; all but wailing and slicing through the soft, balmy atmosphere that now suddenly seems too scorching and humid. 

This was stupid. A foolish idea. You are entirely out of your depth. A simple information broker, a barterer of petty gossip that allowed yourself to be spun and caught within the wiles of the conniving White Worm in exchange for petty coin and security. What a lie that was when you allowed her to toss you into the dragonpit. Drawing you before mouths full of glinting teeth and throats burning with fire to play the role of a tool; a piece that truly had no part in the traitorous game that she played. You were practically an ignorant child, bewitched by the promise of money. The shelter that wealth could give you. 

One thing that you know for certain is that you cannot go back to the Red Keep. You will not allow yourself to willingly walk into the snare again. Not now that you have managed to sneak out of it. You know naught of where you will go. Many of the White Worm's contacts surely must have slipped off into the shadows. The threat of revealing themself too great in the recent executions of her spies. The sudden train of thought makes you feel as though you could strike yourself if you were not out in the open. Perhaps that is why Mercer is unusually absent from his place in the brothel. Especially with how the regent himself has come to frequent its halls; it is a dangerous place to be spotted. You are so stupid. Reduced to that inexperienced, floundering child who clumsily slipped around the alleys and shadows of Flea Bottom, trailing after unfaithful spouses and gathering fatuous gossip in exchange for scrap and measly coin. 

You have come so far from that shaking little girl, skin smeared and soiled with grime and dirt and ravaged by hunger in her belly, but suddenly it is as though you have been plopped right back into that place; shoved into that horrible point of time. It makes you angry and lost. Burning with a quiet irritation that prickles and sears beneath your flesh like a fever brought on by a poison. 

You are sure that the only reason as to why you may presently be alive is due to the Prince Regent's own uncertainties. The possibility that you might not truly be a part of something nefarious, and he is operating on speculations alone. That is the only thing that makes sense. But fleeing after he had subtly called you out will look badly. It will absolutely validate whatever assumptions he has been withholding and eliminate the doubts that he may have, but hopefully you will be long gone before he can even realize that you have escaped. Long gone from the boarder of King's Landing and far beyond the influence of his reach. 

You have to get out of this brothel. You need to slip somewhere to gather your thoughts; to formulate some sort of plan. There are many other ships that rest port along the bay that stretches beyond the city. And even with the Prince Regent's decree, many continue to slip past the eyes of patrol; holding illegal cargo and goods set for faraway places such as Essos. It will be next to impossible to sneak or barter your way on board, but with the threat of the prince's blade looming overhead, it does little to dissuade you. 

You turn to go back the way that you came, crossing through the gaps in the ever-shifting crowd in the goal of reaching the door, eager for the fresh air. Or as fresh as the air can possibly be in the filth of Flea Bottom, with the tainted breeze that sweeps all the way up from the lowest points of the warren, putrid with hints of human wastes and tanneries that settle at the bottom of the hill. 

You cannot stay here with the possibility of danger so close. You should not have come in the first place. You were ignorant and weak to allow your panic to get the better of you, to drag yourself out here like a desperate animal. 

You need peace and quiet. Somewhere safe from the dangers of this place and the Red Keep to gather yourself. The urge drags you forward. Shuffling and sliding past the men who shout and cheer lecherously and the women who chortle and dance; navigating silently around the quaint tables and the people that laugh raucously and bang their fists upon the tabletops to pronounce their cackling. 

You draw near the door, nearing the small set of steps. A taut grip clasps around your forearm. Seizing you so tightly that the rigidity of their hold jerks you back a pace or two, snapping your head back to sharply that the fabric of your hood slips free from the crown of your head and unveils your face. Your lungs snatch, feeling hollow and tight as your head snaps on your neck to look at who has captured your arm. Fear takes root in your stomach, dropping like a chilled stone. 

Venom rushes through your veins when your vision lands on the dazed, flushed face of a stranger. He rocks on his feet unsteadily, and when his spit smeared lip's part open, you have to fight of the urge to let your nose scrunch at the stench of alcohol on his breath. "Why's a pretty creature like you all clothed and hidden away? Hmmph?" 

You long to lash out and strike him. To rake your nails down up the sweat dampened skin of his face, to gauge his leering eyes out. That will have to remain a last resort. He will surely retaliate if you were to even attempt such a thing, and the overwhelming number of men that occupy the space will hardly take to protect a woman, much less a woman that they believe to be a whore. 

He is clearly too far gone to remark the homely state of your dress. The underwhelming, ugly garments of a peasant and not fabrics that one would wear to entice the appetites of lords and politicians. 

You school your features into something much softer. Pulling the grimace of your mouth into something neutral and unbothered as you restrain the desire to twist yourself from his grip. The clutch of his arm will no doubt cause your flesh to smart and turn tender. 

"I am sorry, my lord, but I am promised to another client tonight," you lie easily. It is only then that you allow eyes to drop down to the place where his hand still holds onto you, his knuckles having turned pallid from the ferocity behind it even as the effect of alcohol causes him to sway and hold himself on weak ankles. "He will not be pleased to see me in the arms another." 

The grin that pulls his lips apart is horrid, revealing snarling teeth that seem as though they want to rip you apart. He squints his eyes at you, probably seeing double from the copious amounts of ale that ravage his veins, and he leans himself forward with an unsteady jerk of his spine. His arm also tugs you closer, squeezing you to the press of his body until you can feel the harsh bite of his buckle prodding at your stomach through your garments. He smells of sweat and booze, a putrid combination that begs you to gag.

"An' this client of yours then? I bet I could pay you so much more than he." He dares to tuck his face closer to your person. Near enough that you can feel the ghost of his breath along your throat, the heat of his body brushing on your skin. 

"I doubt it," you snap suddenly. You regret it as soon as it leaves you. He seems the type to rise to the apparent challenge that you have just set. Instead of wondering off and having his pick of the plethora of many willing women that giggle and dance about the brothel, he will much rather remain here, stripping you of much needed time and personal space. 

You only vaguely register his response but are hardly able to pay it any mind as your dare to shift your focus about the room, sweeping it along the many bodies and corners of the space as though a guiding apparition may materialize and spirit you away into safety and out of this hellmouth. All at once time and motion seems to grind down into a thrumming, inaudible halt. The boorish presence of the man crowding himself against you shifts from a horrific weight to an inconvenience; like a gnat buzzing about your ear. 

The galvanized pandemonium bursting around you falls into a hushed chatter as your heart plummets and stills. This must truly be a punishment. The gods have forsaken you and allowed you to bumble into the pits of the Seven Hells: electing to torment you for a fault in your past life. Maybe this is where you finally die. Slain by sword or choked until your life passes from your lungs. 

He seems so menacing standing in the wide entrance of the room, posted above the small set of stairs as he stares past the ocean of writhing and jeering bodies. His attention has not been ensnared by the displays of intemperance and lust that pervades the air. 

Instead, it rests on you. Flaying and arresting in its intensity; as though it is gripping you, slicing you open and seeing you all at once. Never have you ever been so evaluated. So observed. And yet, you can see an equal amount of surprise projected in the wide glint of his eye. It gives you some small, fleeting sense of comfort to know that you are not the only one who has been taken entirely off guard, but you are not given the bliss of basking in it for long. 

You can practically see the thoughts circulating and warring within in his mind. His stance is rigid underneath the shroud of his cloak. The hint of shock thaws at the firm set of his features, the frustration that must have rested there before giving beneath your shared bewilderment as the sight of his single eye seems to burn into you. A sort of stalemate. 

You dare to pray and wish that it is not truly him, but the leather concealing his socket and the unmistakable silver glint of pale hair pouring down his shoulders gives you no other option but to accept this reality. It has you gasping in dread, swiftly turning your head to once again look upon the drunken man who still clings to you like a parasite. 

"It seems that my customer is finally here." You blurt, tongue heavy in your mouth like stone while your heart skips and flutters like the wings of a startled bird. His brows cinch close as though you have presented him with a troubling paradox, and his eyes leave you to observe where you had your focus had pinned just breaths before. 

You dare not to follow his scrutiny, giving yourself a few seconds of reprieve but the unattractive, smug grin that stretches his mouth snuffs it as quickly as it was kindled. 

"And jus' where is he supposed to be?" Comes his smarmy, obnoxious reply. 

It forces you look in the prince's direction once again. Terror grips you to see that the space that he had once occupied is now horrifically vacant, as though he had merely been a figment of your imagination. It has you spinning on the heels of your feet, rotating as much as the stranger's grip will allow as you frantically scan the crowd for the faintest traces of silver and white flickering within the bare flesh and writhing throng, but there is nothing. 

You are damned soul, whisked away and trapped within the maw of Hell as one of its devils' skulks about the masses to taunt you. You must escape. You have to. He will kill you here and now if he manages to get his hands upon your flesh. He will have you tortured inside the depths of the Red Keep's dungeons where your cries for mercy will go unheard. You have listened to many horrific tales of the agony that the prisoners of the crown endure. Whispers of the rats, bigger than housecats, that gnaw upon flesh and trim limbs down to gnarled, bloody nubs with the slicing of their teeth; how soldiers and practitioners of torment are ordered to flay skin from sinew while the prisoner is still living; the pulling of limbs until they pop wetly from their sockets and finally give and rip free from the torso as the victims scream and plead to their gods salvation. 

The alarm of it gives you strength, pouring vigor inside of your bones, and with a sudden lurch you lift a knee to crush it between the apex of the man's legs, bearing the point of it upon his manhood. As soon as the sound of his piercing cry snaps inside of your ears you twist and tug your arm free from his slackened hold. Leaving him to collapse pathetically upon his knees on the floor. You rush away quickly. Separating yourself from the scene before the witnesses of his sobbing are able to notice you and connect you to the crime. Blessedly, most hardly realize his whimpering and swearing at all. Far too engrossed in their own gratification and lust to hear the sharp, sniveling sounds of his pain. 

You veer off sharply, straying away from the direction of the front entrance. That will be far too obvious. The risk of Prince Aemond lurking outside of the threshold, waiting for you to foolishly slip past is far too great. It would be an obvious slip for you to make. Though luckily you know of the rear entrance of the establishment, often where they cart in the barrels of ale and wine to avoid the constant coming and goings of clientele.  

As of now it may only be your only hope of escaping. Of finally freeing yourself of this horror and dread that you have so ignorantly offered yourself to; stupid, young and too confident in your abilities to see where you lacked until it was too late. Now you may pay for it dearly. 

This must be what a lamb feels as the shadow of a dragon engulfs it, promising danger from above. A threat that it will be unable to see, and once it is finally able to perceive it, the peril and talons will already be upon it, guaranteeing a death by fire. But much like the startled lamb, you will at the very least try to extend your life. To run forward in the attempt to escape the snap of lethal jaws and the cracking of giant, leathery wings. 

You cannot stop the way that your vision continues to skip about the faces that pass you. Dancing from person to person and gliding along the dim corners to catch even the faintest traces of his person sneaking along the cover of the dark, but he is absent. And that terrifies you more than if you had seen him. You have to wonder if this is somehow amusing to him. If a part of him delights in this chase. If he sees your presence here as some sort of confirmation for your assumed treason. If there is a possibility that he has not made any note of you being here (the fantasy of a desperate person, you know) or if he prowling after you like beast sniffing after the blood trail that pours from the wound of its prey. 

A run threatens to break through your brisk pace as you all but shove past a pair that blocks your path, breaking the two of them apart without a shred of an apology on your lips. The woman yelps in surprise, though you do not spare so much as a glance in your desperation, the curse and bothered shout of her client that follows after you remains unheard. 

It is difficult to feel guilt or mind social expectations while fear douses itself over you like a flammable fuel, waiting for a single spark to set you off and send you into a spiral. Never have you floundered so frequently before. So enormously. Though, in your defense, you have never taken on a task of this caliber. The threats that you had faced did not rise to such a scale or prove to be so daunting. 

A sheep destined for the dragonpit. 

The delicate, lively music that drifts from the farther reaches of the brothel dampen somewhat, the sound of the instruments fading into a mild hush. The pleasured moans and wailing of bliss become less in volume and the frequency of them are less prevalent that before as you drift towards the back of the establishment. The number of people grow spars. Most of the couples and even quartets that frequent the connecting halls and adjoining rooms are few and far between; the majority far too engrossed in their pleasures to take notice of your passing by. A blessing and a curse all at once. You no longer have the shield that the thick crowds provided you, but it will also make it easier to tell if you are being followed and stalked. 

So it seems so cruel when you are snatched for a second time tonight. A hand grips around the back of your neck like a band of steel, fingers burying at the tender flesh harshly enough for you to gasp out a ragged, hissing cry of pain. Your body instinctively twists against the pull of it, but the strength of their grasp is too strong. They haul you back as easily as a cat plucking a wiggling mouse between the clutch of its sharp teeth. 

The world blurs for a moment, tipping unsteadily as you are spun on your feet and your back in slammed against the flat of a wall. It forces the remaining scraps of air from your chest, leaving you choking on nothing as you slump along the chilled stone. You can hardly register it as a warmth blankets itself over you, pursued closely by the fragrance of leather and wind. You lurch when fingers come to grip your face, guiding you pitilessly to gaze up at your attacker. You are not surprised when you meet the vehement, pale glare of the Prince Regent; you are simply disappointed, frightened. The weight of it, the both of you tucked away within the confines of a darkened alcove has your mind drawing a terrible blank. The thoughts slip free of you as you will your lungs to function and draw in air. 

There is so much that seems to show on the prince's face, now fully revealed with his hood having been knocked free from the scuffle, to show it all simultaneously expressed through the demonstrative gleam of his eye: bewilderment, amusement, delight, anger. 

It is overwhelming for you to look at. So much chaos and emotion displayed from a single person. It leaves you rooted in place, fixed along the wall even if the rude, persistent hold of his fingers were not upon your face. The curled edges of his mouth have twisted in an enraged grimace or the possibility of a smirk, you cannot tell. Not with the shadows and the oily amber light that casts upon the sharp contours of his face. He appears wild. As though he is barely restraining himself from acting on whatever terrible thoughts prance about his mind. As though he wishes to lash out more thoroughly but will not give himself the permission to do so. 

Not yet anyway. 

"Now what purpose could a handmaiden to the King possibly have in an establishment such as this, hm?" His fingers tighten just the slightest degree, enough to pull a hiss from your lips. It has your mouth twisting into a weak snarl. You have to resist the urge to rip your face from his grasp to sink your teeth into his flesh when he tilts your head just the slightest, as though he is examining you. Like an animal being studied by a hunter. It makes your skin prickle uncomfortably; irritation and terror searing through your body, but you do not allow yourself to quail away underneath the severity of his observations. 

"That is quite a hypocritic statement to make, my prince, considering that you have become such a loyal patron." It leaves you much more scathing than you had intended, though you suppose there is truly no delicate way for you to deliver the quip. It is foolish to prod at him this way. To rouse his anger while he already dangles so precariously over the edge of control, but you find your own wanning thin. "Perhaps I whore myself out in the night. Despite being so over bloated with riches, the crown is quite greedy with its wages. I am surprised that you have failed to notice me here before, though I suppose that you have been too caught up in the skirts of your madam. Have you come to visit her tonight?" 

His nostrils flair at the barb. You can see that fire in his eye flickering and burning brighter, the shape of it widening in a glint that you could only consider wild. It was a low blow from you certainly. You heard whispers of Prince Aemond's preference among the Court. The rumor stemming from the rambunctious crowd of King Aegon's men, and it had spread throughout the Red Keep like a wildfire. Like a plague, carried by the hushed giggles and snickers of the Lords and Ladies alike. Adults laughing like snobbish children, spreading the taunt on their lips that the fierce Aemond Targaryen had fallen in love with a whore from the Street of Silk. 

It has clearly struck a nerve. He manages to crowd himself even closer to you, curling in on himself to lean his head towards your ear. His hand moves, fingers slipping from your face but not daring to part from your skin as they drift downward to cup the length of your throat. The uncomfortable weight of his palm on your neck forces you to nudge your chin up, but in an attempt to escape the press of it, you only bare more of yourself to his grip. All of your air once again seems to slip free of you. Not from the presence on your throat, but the fervor in his eye all but steals it from you. 

You think that this may be what it is like to look upon death. To stare the Stranger down its eye. But it offers no reprieve when he creeps closer still to your ear, parting his lips to speak to you lowly. The warmth of his breath sweeping over your flesh in a nearly scathing hiss. 

"I saw you down here before. Slipping down the streets and alleys. I could have thought nothing of it. " He pauses for a short moment, eclipsing you further into shadow as he nudges you tighter along the wall of the alcove. Forcing you further into the dark. Even as the laughter and music and pleasured cries continue to thrum and drift through the air and past the walls in a lively current, it is not enough to bring you solace. It seems, instead, like a cruel jest. A horrid juxtaposition to fully drive your circumstances deeper. A rabbit caught within talons, trying to struggle and snap at the unwavering grip. "But then there was that woman - one of my mother's ladies in waiting. What was her name? Talya? " - his fingers flex and he shifts your face to direct you to stare at him once again - " and I've seen you traversing in the shadows, using the hidden passages of the Keep to whisper about in secret, no doubt. There is talk among the Court for her sudden disappearance. Speculations of treason against the crown."  

Your mind scrambles wildly, thoughts swirling and twisting like debris caught within a vicious storm. You struggle to think back on all of your past meetings with the fellow spy. The care that you both had established in curating your assemblies. Or so you had so foolishly assumed. 

"And you somehow managed to survive the purge." It sounds like such an insult. And coming from someone as sardonic and sharp tongued as he, it most certainly is. "The former Hand is not typically so careless, especially in regard to the security of our family; you were in league with her, I am willing to bet. So . . . How did you manage to evade the watch of his eyes?" 

Your mouth has long gone dry. Your tongue a heavy, useless lump of flesh in your mouth as you struggle to think. You could attempt to lie to him. To cover your tracks and fabricate a story to explain your meetings with the recently deceased Talya. But you truly know that no good would come of it. He will sniff it out; see it plain on your face. As volatile and rigid as the Prince Regent may be, he is not one that is easily tricked. There is no possible way for you to claw yourself out of this burrow, to weasel your way free from the trap. You have fully been caught between teeth. Balanced between rows of lethal fangs that long to puncture meat and snap bone at the faintest hint of a lie. You must tread careful, lest you guide yourself to stumble and fall in the hopes of saving yourself. 

"I do not know," you answer truthfully. A low, bare whisper. 

You can see the faintest trace of surprise reflect in his expression. It was fleeting. Hasty and nearly fragile, but unmistakable; replaced just as quickly as it had been with the blaze of anger. You know instantly that he is not satisfied with the response. The subtle contraction of his fingers around your throat confirms as much. 

"The ratcatchers-" he begins but his voice seems to snag. It's such a soft hitch that you would not have noticed if your attentions were not siphoned down onto him. "Did you play a part? Did you show them how to find the passages?" His hold around your throat becomes harsher than ever before. Fully threatening the possibility of suffocation. It almost causes your head to go light, and the rush of your blood thumps lowly within your ears. "Did you give them aid into the castle?"  

Your hand reaches upward to claw onto his wrist, nails threatening to dig into his skin in an effort to try and rip yourself from him or to merely anchor yourself, you are not truly certain. His inquiry and all of its ire is a righteous one. It is one that you yourself would have asked if the roles had been reversed. But you are still unable to resist the anger that licks up your spine and smolders inside of your chest. You struggle for a moment to still your mind and collect yourself, drawing in a ragged, harsh breath that drags sluggishly up your throat and you are just barely able to gain enough air support your words. "I am many things, Aemond Targaryen, but a child killer is not one of them." Still his grip does not waver. The venom in his stare still burns like a lilac fire, streaks of cerulean blazing through the shade in his fury. His jaw clenches, the muscles tensing as his eye pins you in place, much firmer and resolute than the hold of his palm. "I am here to observe, not to interfere." You assure and it sounds much like a promise. "I would much sooner cut out my own heart than bloody my hand with the life of an innocent." 

He only continues to stare. Considering you closely as though he is trying to sniff out the possibility of a lie. It must only last for but a second, but for you it seems like a lifetime passes before he allows his grip to slacken. It does not dare to recede from your skin, lest you slip away like a snake slithering through a snare.  

There is so much warring within him. No matter how aloof or guarded he has constructed himself to be, you can see it all playing out on his face. Reflecting through the expressive stare of his eye. It is a vulnerable sort of anger. The sort of rage that comes from a person who must allow the agony and fire to consume them, or else they will give underneath the pressures and anguish around them and collapse instead. 

You could hardly consider the Prince Regent as a virtuous person. The atrocities that he has committed in the name of his house is already many. There is a volatile aggression that has been cultivated inside of him. Purely by his own hands or simply as a product of his environment, you cannot say for certain. Perhaps it is definitely both; crafted by the rigid expectations of the crown, the aggression in him nourished and flourished by the madness that seems to be carried within the Targaryen bloodline. 

But there is something delicate in him too. You see that here and now. Cracking and pouring through the fissures in his carefully made armor and walls. He is struggling underneath the weight of it all. That much is apparent. Snapping at the seams and straining underneath the facade of pride and indifference. It makes him appear delicate almost, but equally untamed. Like a beast that has been drawn into a corner and threatens to lash out with ferocity and desperation. 

Perhaps, just perhaps you can use that. 

It might rebound back upon you horrendously. It could flare up in your face in a frenzy of chaos and plummet you down into the pits of your own destruction if he manages to discover even the faintest hint of deceit. But you are a dead woman regardless; at least this way, you may be able to prolong the length of your life, even if only for a few days, a few moments longer. 

"I am sorry," you whisper. That is the truth, at least. It is the only shred of honesty that you may be able to extend tonight, and regardless of how he will respond, it gives you some sense of consolation. A glimmer of something pure that you may hold for yourself even as the fury in his eye burns bright. You may have only roused the dragon in him. Prodded and poked at it until it has uncoiled from its slumber and lifts its head to face you with a rumbling growl and the promise of fire in its throat. His brows furrow subtly, threatening to pinch close in bewilderment or denial or annoyance. Perhaps all three. 

He shuffles closer, shoulders threatening to hunch forward even while his arms straighten out, as though his body is at war with itself, struggling to decide if he should recoil away from you or dare to tip closer. The draw of his rage and confusion fixes you in place like an invisible force. Like the grip of a phantom sweeping you inside of its deathly embrace and forcing you to look upon him. 

"You are sorry?" He mutters the echo lowly, but you can still clearly hear the heat and venom lacing each word. He articulates it carefully, as though it is foreign. As though he is shocked that you would be ignorant enough to claim such as thing. It is such a short sentence, but you can hear the fraying of his psyche around the edges; stretched thin and taught underneath the weight of everything. 

Hypothetically, he is closing in now. The fire in his throat welling up to scorch you with burning heat and agony. Danger is crowding in on you much higher than it has ever been before, even more so than when you were trapped within the perilous walls of the Red Keep. The tensing of his hand around your throat is confirmation of that enough. Seizing tight and threatening to snuff the air from your lungs once again. 

"You come here to commit treason again the crown, the heir to the throne is dead; slain where he slept, and you are sorry?" 

Him repeating it aloud makes it seem so silly now. And truthfully, it is. You are not worthy of his forgiveness, and neither is he, of yours. You are both sinners you suppose. Monsters in your own right. Two twisted souls desperate to claw a place for yourselves in this piss-soaked pit of an earth. 

"Yes, I am," you repeat, just as firm and honest as the last time. And in a mad scramble, your mind sifts through all of the knowledge it has. Latching onto whispers and gossip in a wild attempt of saving yourself from being burned. To keep your throat and life intact lest he squeeze too tightly and wring your life from your straining lungs. You do not allow your eyes to flutter underneath the strain of it all. Maintaining the contact between your gaze and his single, piercing eye, even as tears blur your vision, welling up along the corners. "But it begs me to wonder if you are capable of feeling any guilt. Was it not you who is responsible for the disfigurement of the King himself?" 

You can see that you have succeeded in catching him entirely off guard; delivered a blow that he has not anticipated. But the disorientation will not last for long, and desperate to keep him reeling, the hand that had cautiously holds his wrist slips free and raises to delicately cup the side of his face. You know for certain that the rigid, detached Prince Regent craves for something that has been withheld from him for a good period of his life. Maybe even the entirety of it: affection, warmth, comfort. 

The boisterous gossip of his laying with the madam. He was not caught in the act itself, but instead found secure in her arms. He had not immediately left as most men would have done, having got their fill; the ache in their balls drained and satisfied. He had stayed with her. Perhaps even requested - insisted that she remain with him to take him in the solace of her arms. It feels revolting to you to use such a soft vulnerability in your favor. To capitalize on his desire for touch for your survival's sake, but you have been backed into a corner. Literally and figuratively speaking with little other options afforded to you. 

Positions of power are often unforgiving. It is lonely at the top, you have heard, lifted so high above others, where so little are capable of treading. Peace and relief must be a luxury, and it is clear to see that such a denial of it has impacted the prince so heavily. A man that must seek out the false intimacy of a woman for hire to replace what he has been denied his entire life. 

Even now, with hatred still tenacious and rich in his eye, something in him weakens at the warmth of your palm along his face. The sweep of your thumb motioning dangerously close to the sliver of damaged flesh that raises and slices down the swell of his cheek. His eye nearly flutters, pale lashes quivering just the slightest like a delicate flake of snow caught within a low breeze, like he longs to let his eye slip shut. His posture seems to go taut and pliant simultaneously. As though his desires have been split down the center and divided into two separate beings. 

"The few survivors of Rooks Rest often speak amongst themselves. They talk quietly, but if you listen closely, you may hear them, recounting the horrors of the battlefield. The wounded cries of men and dragons alike. The bursts of light that brightened the sky as though comets rained down along the clouds. " He watches you so intently. As though he is suspended upon every word that leaves your lips, and the abrupt shift of it all leaves you perplexed and astray in your own right. If you allowed yourself to be foolish enough, you would let yourself to believe that you held sway over him. That he is ensnared by the tender press of your hand on his cheek. "They say that the prince - or should I say Prince Regent, lit an enemy dragon aflame with no consequence of the King being locked within its jaws." 

His brows furrow close again, his chest expanding in a harsh, silent breath as though he means to ground himself. Those fingers clench again, though they no longer hold your throat as though they mean to crush and wring. "They could be executed for daring to say such things. Just as you could be, a threat to the security of the crown, speaking in sedition and tongues." 

"Have I not already committed worse offences?" You allow your features to soften while your heart races fretfully within your chest; you are sure that he can detect the crazed thrum of your blood rushing just underneath his palm. "Aegon Targaryen is no king of mine, Your Grace. He is hardly befit to rule a kingdom so great. Foolishly rushing into the fray, urging his young dragon to the battlefield like a lamb for slaughter. A recklessness that is unbefitting for a realm in the throes of war. I think you are inclined to agree." 

Your fingertips brush close to his hairline, parting them around the shape of his ear, daring yourself to thread them through the thick of those pale tresses. It parts easily, like water slipping through your fingers, glinting like the face of a river flowing through your palm, reflecting like silver in the shine of the sun. That stormy look breaks upon his face again, weighing his striking features down with ire and offence. It makes you worry that you have dreadfully overstepped. That you have lent your hand to the open maw of the dragon, above and below so many lethal teeth. 

"Do you dare to trick me? Do you think that I am so easily fooled?" 

The question seems to be an affront rather than stimming from a place of righteousness - a brother meaning to protect the name and title of his sibling and king. It is the hubris that you have heard so much about. That you have seen from him as you allowed yourself to observe him the corridors overlooking the courtyard, spying him as he trains rigorously in the art of swordsmanship with the Kingsguard; his eye flashing with an almost conceited sense of satisfaction whenever the blow lands and he successfully bests his opponent. All but preening underneath the title he often receives, proclaimed as the best swordsmen in the realm by many of the lords and knights alike. 

"Would it truly be a trick if it is the truth?" You answer calmy. It is not lost on you that despite his reservations and anger, that he has yet to remove his face from your hand, that the grip of his own on your neck has softened considerably; still firm but no longer threatening. As though he means to keep you close and beneath him as opposed to caught and forced in place. "You are so much more observant that he. After all this time, busying myself about his chambers, cleaning the drunken vomit from the corners of his room and changing his linens, he had never suspected me. He has never suspected you. How can a man be expected to lead and protect a realm when he cannot even do the same for himself?" 

You let your thumb drift lower. Emboldened by the heavy breathing that causes his chest to rise and fall, allowing yourself to skim just underneath the shape of his bottom lip, even though he appears as though he may snap at any moment. He is just hardly restraining himself. From what you are not certain. And perhaps it is stupid to let yourself touch him in such an intimate way. A fool who has let themself fall into a false sense of security, tricked into stroking the snout of a dragon that pretends to be placated. Waiting until you are entirely at ease and snapping its fangs down around the flesh of your arm when it is least expected. 

But the fire in his throat does not brighten and blaze, the rows of teeth do not bare themselves to you. And there it is again. That hint of something vulnerable, and woefully unnurtured flickers to life in that hue of lilac and cerulean. It is starved, even in its subtly. Uncertain, delicate, and yet equally fervent and hungry. 

Some treacherous little part of you cannot help but to mourn that tender side of him that has been neglected. Shunned in favor of honing himself into the perfect picture of a Targaryen, a prince, and a man. Hacking away those soft pieces of himself off like a sculptor chiseling away sharp edges of stone and sanding away perfect imperfections in the name of making art; cutting away everything that makes him human. But you stomp that little train of thought down, burying those horrid feelings deep. Shoveling the blossoming warmth and empathy underneath the heft of indifference and spite. 

"And whom then, would be better suited?" He asks. The question surprises you, and it begs you to wonder if he can see the confusion bleeding through your features. It is difficult to tell if the query comes from a place of contempt. If he means to mock you. You are certain that that is the case, but the tone of his voice has abandoned its pervious harshness. It has thawed, whether he realizes it or not, like ice melting from the rays of a spring sun. It seems so genuine. As though he truly desires to hear your opinion. 

Certainly, it is some sort of ploy. An odd means to lure you into a false sense of security. It is here that he means to finally engulf you in the spires of his flames and anger should you answer incorrectly. Or perhaps, at all. This a dangerous game that you are playing. A mouse scurrying around the paws of a lashing house cat. It will be in your best interest to keep him on his toes, but toying with him too much could, at the same time, wear his patience thin and nudge you closer to the sword. 

The pommel of which digs painfully against the flesh of your torso, jutting out from its place secured along his waist to poke just shy of the edge of your rib. It does not allow you to forget your position. Of where you stand with the Prince Regent and the precariousness of your circumstances. 

"My opinion matters little, Your Grace." You respond, swallowing underneath the insistent press of his hand. 

His eye narrows just the slightest degree. Annoyance and entitlement flaring unanimously. He manages to move himself closer, eliminating the faintest scraps of space between you two until he is flush along your body. You can feel the warmth projecting from his skin, seeping through the barriers of both of your garments with a potency that would be alarming in the average man; fueled by the liquid fire that vitalizes the Targaryen heart. It has his scent rushing upon you again. Eclipsing you a shroud of spice, warm and rich and earthy in its musk, but the sharp hint of wind and leather cuts through in a distinct undercurrent. It manages to ground and disorient you all at once. The severity of his stare burrowing through you, urging you to meet his eye; the passion behind it prickling along your skin. 

"I expect a proper answer; use your tongue and speak freely." That demanding, unforgiving quality is back lurking within the tone of his voice. It almost causes you to flinch. You manage to catch yourself before the instinct brings you to do so, but you do choose to remove your hand from his face all the same. The air that brushes along your palm is chilling now that your skin has parted from the balmy warmth of his flesh. Still, as though trapped in a current, you hand does not stray far. It falls downward, and your fingertips come to hook against the metal clasps of his doublet as your palms flattens against his chest. 

"Do you want me to say that it is you, Your Grace?" You inquire. Fear and caution clings to you, but despite it all, you swear that you can detect the presence of amusement reluctantly gathering underneath it all, scattering dimly. Something telling passes through his expression, his posture. More revealing than any words or confession could be. The prince desires approval. The revelation, though known to some extent, douses itself over you like chilled water, seeping along your chest like the sun's rays. He has been so deprived that would be led to search out your favor. You; a peasant, an enemy to the crown. To his family and power. He hides it behind the mask of a command. As extending his strength and dominance, but the truth of it is painfully clear. It nearly makes your heart ache, but you have little time to entertain such sympathies. "That it is you who deserves to sit on the Iron Throne? Commanding the realm and all of its powers. . . " 

For the first time this night, it is you who leans forward, allowing your head to lift from the chill of the stone wall to tilt your face to his own. So close that the point of your nose nearly nudges his. The authority that his gaze had held over you has transferred places, and now it is he who watches you as though you are the one who wields the blade. It could be intoxicating if it were only the truth, but the reality of your state refuses to leave you. 

Drawn under a spell of your own, your eyes dare to flicker down the curve of his lips, rosy and slightly parted as he draws in a deep breath. It is simply a means to tide him further under the pull of his own sudden fixation, and it seems to work with the way that his eye dips down openly admire yours. His hand flexes again. Not out of aggression, but it feels more like a mindless compulsion. His body acting out to grip you greedily; betraying him while he struggles to maintain and latch onto the remaining flickers of anger that rest upon his features; growing fainter by the second to be replaced by bewilderment and a type of fixation. 

The shift of it is odd. A strange, untreaded territory that you could never have possibly imagined with every ounce of your creativity. It feels so dangerous. The tendrils of your fear still hold tight, slithering along your spine like rivulets of freezing water, but it almost produces a haze when it meets the cloud of wonder and intrigue that packs your skull. It makes you feel emboldened. A dangerous thing, you know, but it is a great temptation, urging you to murmur against his lips. 

"Smallfolk and lords alike bending the knee to you . . . King Aemond Targaryen, in all of your glory." He does not speak. Either the ability has escaped him, or he has drawn himself silent to process your words; evaluating the best response. It empowers you and frightens you all at once. It is so overwhelming. Your circumstances, the emotions that is stifling across the air, thrumming and thick across the perfumed atmosphere around you. You fear that you could choke on it. On the scent of him, the fear trembling down your spine, the intrigue nestling within the center of your gut. The combination of it all gives you a courage that you never could have foreseen, prompting you to further press your palm to his nearly panting chest, forcing you to speak still. "Unfortunately, that day is not yet upon us. But I could bend the knee for you, Your Grace, if that would bring you satisfaction." 

Those words surprise you, even as they leave your own mouth. They are foreign on your own tongue, but shockingly, they do not feel entirely unwelcome. But the confidence is snuffed when you a spiteful type of amusement twists his features. Anger and delight alike, as though your sudden hubris has truly caught him astray. And in truth, it has done the same to you. It is difficult to grasp that you have allowed yourself to be snatched within the intoxication of your own ego, bewitched by his apparent infatuation. And now you may pay for it dearly. 

"And what leads you to believe that I could desire such a thing of you?" The mockery is not hidden or restrained. His aim to correct you and cut down your confidence is accurate and successful in its endeavor. It is humbling and horrific; embarrassing in a way makes you uncomfortable in your own flesh. But you force yourself to remain poised while he observes you, trailing his eye across your countenance before meeting your vision. "What value could the loyalty of a treasonous serpent possibly hold?" 

Your mind blanks and for a second you flounder. This is where you drown; sunk by the weight of your own hubris. You have finally missed a step in the dark. Stumbled, not blindly, but from your own sudden, idiotic confidence. But the desire to survive, no matter how short that period of time may be, burns strong and bright. Undisturbed and stirred from the unbroken passion of his stare. 

The cast of the candlelight that douses along the alcove paints over his face in hues of dull gold and rich amber. The dramatic nature of the glow and the crowded intimacy of the small space hides pieces of his features in shadow, making the striking, pronounced ridge of his nose and the subtle plush of his mouth that much more defined. It reflects through the fine, smooth drape of his hair, shinning along the pale silver and ivory, projecting around the crown of his head like a halo. As though he has been blessed by the gods themselves; a god in his own right. Or at least that is what is claimed of his lineage. You ponder now that such a bold claim could be true. 

You have never considered the prince in such a way before. Not in all the years that you have traversed the corridors of the Keep. You have always been aware that he has held a sort of beauty. All of the Targaryen's do. There is an otherworldly grace about them all, carried within their blood, in the lilac shade of their eyes. As such his allure has always been unavoidable, but it had never given you any sort of trouble before apart from a fleeting appreciation for it as you went about your tasks. 

But now, forced within his presence, bared to his proximity and drawing in the scent of him with each breath, listening to the soothing, velvet cadence of his voice, it seems to guide forth notions and sensations that you had never perceived. 

You are beginning to feel less like a lamb to slaughter and more so a moth fluttering around the edges of a dazzling fire.  

"I suppose you're right," you agree easily. "My devotion bears little weight. But it could be nice, even if only for a moment. To pretend. To indulge." 

You can taste the shift on your tongue, hot and dulcet and rich. It hums and tingles across your skin, raising the hair along your nape and shuddering down the notches of your spine. From fear or from the heat that engulfs your body it is impossible to distinguish. The lines between dread and attraction have blended and merged into a confused chaos. It is messy and bewildering, splitting you between two primal instincts that serve very different purposes. To crowd closer or to back away; those are the warring factions within you. Each just as desperate as the other, and the sight of that intriguing sort of longing returning to the glint of his eye fuels the curious hunger gnawing in the pit of your gut. Your fingers long to grip him, to claw over his skin, leaving red to blossom in their wake along the alabaster of his flesh. A mark that he will bear long after you may be gone. 

There is conflict in him too. You doubt that it is much different than your own. Just as troubled and unsure as you are. It leaves you both to remain silent in each other's presence. Simply evaluating and observing as the festivities and echoes of pleasure persists around you, seeping along the shadows and privacy of the alcove. 

It leaves you to breathe each other in. To simply admire and contemplate while that strange brand of desire hangs heavy. You cannot tell the passage of time. It seems as though you have been taken under and swept in the influence of a haze and fog. It seems to settle in your lungs, finding home between the apex of your thighs, coiling and starved. 

It is the prince who seems to come to a decision. The hand around your throat, going slack until it is only his fingertips that brush along the stretch of your throat, a mere suggestion.  

"Go on then." He answers, voice rumbling low and firm. "Get on your knees and serve."

Like many things tonight, it takes you by surprise. You had insinuated and stewed within your own confused lust. You saw his own reflecting inside of his eye. But you never suspected that he would truly have the means or the desire to agree to such a thing. To request so boldly for you to act the strange, starved hunger between you. It makes you freeze, limbs falling motionless as you struggle to repress the shocked, silent gasp that escapes your lungs. But even while lost inside the sea of your raging emotions and thoughts, you are unable to resist the sliver of want that rip through you; smoldering, hot and twisting as it moves underneath your flesh, the sinew, muscle and bone like a prickle of lightning present in the swell of a summer storm. 

On instinct alone your body shifts. Your knees slowly bending to guide you in sliding down the wall slowly, as though you are scared on some primal level that quick movements may rouse the hunter in him and bid him to lunge forward. You are unable to remove your stare from his in your descent, fully entrapped by the extreme focus of it, even as your knees come to settle upon the floor, the harsh cold of the stone seeping through the layers of your skirts and burrowing in your bones like a morning chill. 

His hand has not left you. Remaining fixed to your skin as you drop in place, slipping from its stubborn position from the stretch of your neck to settle along the edge of your jaw. Cupping the shape of it in a way that could be mistaken as gentle. Cherishing. The nudge of it along your chin gives you no other option but to gaze upon him, even as the weight behind it is feather light. As though it is a suggestion instead of a command. 

You are experienced enough to know what his goal is, what the ardor in his eyes hails from. Your face hovers close to his groin, the space diving you so short that you could only lightly lean forward to have your lips brush along the soft wool of his breeches. The urge to do so tugs at you like a lead around your neck but you will yourself to resist. You draw your hands up to clutch the thick of your skirts, bunching them up within the palm of your hands to keep them from the possibility of wandering. The sudden compulsion to allow them to amble and touch rises up high. The impulse is not entirely unwelcome, just uncertain and new. This thing - this situation you have found yourself in, that you have somewhat blindly meandered and snuck into is unlike anything you have instigated before. 

Never have you attempted or desired to pursue such a thing. Not for the sake of acquiring information or luring the targets of your past surveillances into a false sense of security. There were always other means of escape. Of surviving. But that is not right either. Despite the uncertainty that suspends in the air, being here, pressed inside the alcove with the Prince Regent keeping you obstructed within the intimate space of the niche is not unwelcome, oddly enough. 

There is something tantalizing about it. Kneeling before a person so dangerous and volatile, who holds so much power over you, over an entire realm. It should revolt you. How easily you have succumbed to the peculiar want that aches and gnaws at the pit of your stomach like a horrendous type of hunger. You had hardly put up a fight to resist the desire coiling in your belly. It had descended upon you like an enchantment, enrapturing you as easily as a dry brush taking to the embers kindled by a lightning strike; rising into flames and smoke that sweep a forest up in the throes of an inferno. 

It nearly makes you feel like a traitor to yourself. To your cause. A deserter to the task that you had been assigned by the trusting guidance of the White Worm, but she is presumably dead. Or best, has escaped to safety, long gone from the boundaries of King's Landing and far from the reaches of the crown, and with it the course of your life now lies entirely in your hands. Something as fickle as morality has no place in the means of survival. Loyalty, in this case will not extend your life, nor will it shield you from the horrors that prevail the world, the war that threatens to tear the earth to shreds and pieces. 

But here and now, it almost easy for all of those worries to slip your mind, for the dulling prickle of fear that trickles down the nape of your neck like a cold breath to go unnoticed. The pommel of his sword glints in the low light of the alcove like a warning. A promise of what could come should the circumstances shift. If the dragon in him wakes and chooses to snap you between its jaws. 

And yet that demented lust that he has managed to inspire in you does not waver. You have become bewitched by the heavy rise and fall of his chest, the flex of the muscles in his throat as he draws in deep breaths as though he is trying to orient himself. He watches you so eagerly. A multitude of different emotions alight in his eye; wanting and longing. There is a blending of authority and desperation in his expression so strong that it nearly boarders on fanatic. It should concern you to some extent. To be watched with such bare zeal. But it does not. It feels empowering. 

You are the one on your knees, awaiting instruction with the patience of a pupil and yet you are certain that you could easily switch the positions of your power if you pursued it enough. The naked longing in his expression seems to solidify as much. There is a need in him that has been so clearly denied, and now that you are here, plopped within his hands and awaiting a command at his feet, you can see the desire in him to finally satiate what has been lacking. 

It begs you to wonder if he would become pliant under your hand if he allowed himself to. If he would give to the warmth of your palm and become as malleable and soft as a rich clay, eager to be shaped and supported by the gentle sweep of your fingers. Perhaps for now you will have to settle for taking him apart with your mouth instead. To feel him quiver and give from your touch alone, even if it will only last for a small moment. To taste him so that you may die with the salt of his skin on your tongue. 

"You know what is expected of you." Is all he says, pinching his thumb gently to the swell of your cheek before releasing your face entirely, gripping your hair instead as though he is unable to come to terms with the possibility of letting you go. Whether that be because he means to keep you trapped in his grip or because he is unable to part from the physical contact that he has been starved of for so long, you do not know. 

He speaks the command as though he has all of the control. And yes, you are not ignorant enough to believe otherwise. Physically, politically, he wields your life in his hands. He could smite you down with the flick of his wrist. But here, in the shade and gold of the candlelight, you know that it is you who exercises dominance over his body, over the heat of his flesh and the ardent tremble of his rapacious hands. 

It makes you crave it. Drunk and stupid on the lust that hums throughout the atmosphere like the pulse and breath of a living creature. And you are unable to deny him any longer. To deny yourself. 

Finally you allow your grip to lift from your skirts, freeing the bunched fabric from your clutching fingers to slip along the groin of his breeches. You almost gasp when you feel him underneath your palms. Hot and straining against the soft material. His lips part just the slightest at the sensation of you pressing against him, shamelessly sweeping your fingers along the shape of him. His hips jerk when you stroke around it, rounding the head of his cock from over the obnoxious barrier of his breeches and you are immediately rewarded by the low sigh that rips from his throat. 

The sound of it, as simple as it was, causes your heart to flutter in your chest and liquid heat pools along the base of your spine, scorching like warm honey and melted sugar. He does not allow you to bask in it for long, his grip on your hair tightening to draw you closer to his pelvis, making your mouth run along the wool and the rigid press of his cock underneath. 

The action seems more brattish and desperate rather than demeaning and dominant. It has you resisting the urge to smile. You are sure the sight of your internal amusement making an appearance would only cause him to become cross. Which would only prove to be dangerous given the circumstances. 

"Don't test my patience," he warns lowly in a baritone velvet. 

"I wouldn't dream of it, my prince." You dare to murmur before leaning forward to press your lips where your hands wandered, dropping your mouth open to drag your tongue along the rough material over press of his length. There is a weight to it even while tucked behind the hindrance of his garment. It already feels delightful along your tongue, and you cannot stop the satisfied moan that shudders from your lungs as your gaze peers into his own. He looks as though he has been lit on fire. Engulfed in heat and want as you continue to kiss him through the wool. 

It is only then, spurred on by the irritation and ardor in his expression that you finally reach for the ties of his breeches. Picking and plucking at the lacings until they unravel. Despite your previous teasing the movement of your hands is almost frenzied as you slip the ties free. It makes your fingers nearly catch on themselves as you work to draw the laces slack, but you do not miss the amused hum that rumbles from the prince's chest and drifts down to your ears. The humiliation that flares through you only serves to strengthen your desire, and it intensifies tenfold once you finally loosen and ruck his breeches down enough to free his cock. 

He hisses sharply when the air brushes along his rigid length, flushed and heavy from his arousal.  You have held and witness only a few in your time. The unforgiving nature of your trade allows you little time for yourself and the pleasures of the flesh, but you are sure that his may be amongst the prettiest that you have seen. You blatantly trace plump vein that winds underneath the length of him, studying the tantalizing path where it vanishes just before reaching the swell of the head. He is pale but blushed rosy and red from the lust burning in his loins; the evidence of it smears and drips from the crown of his cock in a pale, pearlescent sheen, glittering lowly in the dim light. Your mouth waters to taste him, to have the salt of it on your palate. 

As though tugged on string your hand lifts to take him in your hand without any instruction. You cannot help but to marvel at the heat and softness of his skin, the near velveteen nature of it. He is not intimidating in size like some of the men that you have seen or even lain with, but you are almost thankful for it. He is still thick in your hand, long enough that you know that he would fill you up so deliciously. Stuffing you full on the substantial length, and it makes you long to have him inside of you. 

You see that there is another barb at the ready on the tip of his tongue, and so you make sure to use your own. Parting your lips to lick along the head of his cock, smearing and lapping his arousal into your mouth. It is curious, unhurried as you taste him, gauging the reactions that you pull from him. And you are not disappointed. You have done so little and already a heavy breath spills from him. It is low, dark, almost guttural and somehow edging on a whimper. It makes you wonder if he had meant for it to slip past his chest at all. 

The salt of him pours over your tongue, earthy and distinct in its flavor and like the wanton thing that you have been so easily reduced to, you crave more. A slave to your desires, you are unable to keep yourself from further opening your lips to take him further into the wet heat of your mouth. His reactions are like a balm on the sting of the vicious lust that courses through you. His head tosses back as the pleasure washes over him before his shoulders curl forward, eclipsing his body over you as he further nudges you along the wall with the greedy drag of his cock rocking into your mouth. 

The silvery curtain of his hair pours over his shoulders, framing his face so beautifully. The shadow casted by it pronouncing the way that his brows pinch close, almost as though he is pained by the sweep of your tongue. It nearly distracts you from the way that he chases after the fire in his belly, seeking out the solace of your tongue to fuck his cock deeper, almost rocking it against the back of your throat. 

You focus on your breathing, stilling yourself to drag in steady gulps of air in between his thrusts as he uses you for a vessel for his pleasure. It should be a little demeaning, the way that he utilizes you as though you were only crafted for his gratification. But the desperate clutch of his hand on your hair keeps that bit of disgrace at bay. He holds you as though you might vanish otherwise. Like he aches for your touch. A desperate, starved thing that has stumbled upon a banquet and means to gorge itself. 

And it seems impossible to deny him. Especially now with the traces of whimpers on his breath. Subtle but no less alluring, much more so than the constant cries and groans that still drift down the halls and through the vigorous, intoxicating atmosphere. It makes you crave to hear more from him. To watch him shed that imposing, untouchable armor that he has fashioned around himself. To see the vulnerability underneath it all. To see him as a man. Just a man. Not a Prince Regent or Protector of the Realm or fearsome dragon rider, or any other title that he may bear. Simply a human being. Just as weak and liable as you. 

You bob your head over him, working alongside the rhythm that he has set with the insistent roll of his hips, slipping your mouth further down his length until he brushes the back of your throat, until the thatch of hair around the base of his cock tickles against the point of your nose. The threat of tears prickle along the corners of your eyes, and even with the blur challenging the edges of your vision you can still notice the way that his abdomen clenches above you through the layer of his garments. A gasp shudders through him and his free arm drops against the wall to support his weight as though he might double over otherwise. 

He is not the only one who needs to ground themselves, and in an attempt to weather the need that ravages your body, your hands clench around the leather belts and straps that wind around his waist and hips; nails digging into the thick of them as though you are torn between urging him away to breath and guiding him deeper so that you can choke on the weight and taste of him. 

"Fuck, look at you," his voice marvels mockingly from above. It forces you to try and meet his eye, though the position is straining with how he has curled himself above you, his head leaning against the support of his arm posted against the wall, and the both of you refusing to allow your mouth to leave his cock. The expression on his face is derisive, the curl his lips is equally amused and shaming all at once, but something about it has your own hips grinding into the air to seek a friction that is not there. "A great, allusive spy reduced to a common whore of the Street of Silk. "

You whine around the width of him stretching your mouth open. Disgustingly, it is not a noise of objection but a drunken sort of agreement. Though it is difficult to be disappointed or upset with yourself when the musky, heady scent of his skin nestles deep inside the hollow of your lungs. The effects of it seem to stuff your skull full of an intoxicating influence much like the drugs that you have heard of that permeate the air inside of the underground dens here in Flea Bottom. Inebriating fumes that turn your limbs to syrup and dull your thoughts into nothing but a euphoric, silent haze. 

"So you agree then?" Comes his taunting response. "I do still think that 'whore' may be generous. They at least necessitate a need for payment, but here you are, on your knees without coin or little prompting to take your would-be executioner down your throat." 

The snark, the bite of his words licks a fire between the crux of your hips, and you can feel the wet heat of your arousal smearing down the inner skin of your thighs. But it is also a challenge. He has grown far too articulate and the desire to draw him breathless and silent again raises up high. It has you redoubling your efforts. Lapping your tongue over the slit on the head, drinking down the little bit of arousal that trickles from there to pour on your tongue before cupping your lips around him to lightly suck. 

It causes his hips to twitch sharply, and you use the motion to once again take him all the way down again, working him in until he is in your throat. Your hands releasing their grips on the leather straps around his waist to quickly follow and cup the heat of his stones as you suckle and swipe your tongue across him. 

The doubling of the sensations tears the most delicious reaction from him. It feels like a gift when his mouth drops open in gutted groan. The focus of his eye seems to glaze over from the wet warmth of you on his cock, the strokes of your fingers on the soft skin of his balls. Massaging and cradling them within your palms. The following sound he makes can only be described as gutted. You do not think that you have ever been able to draw such a noise from a man before. Not one as mindless and consumed as that, as though he has been doused in pleasure and left to drown in it. 

It nearly makes up for the crude taunts that he had hurtled at you. Nearly. 

He is close to his release, that much is easy to tell. The thrusts of his hips have become eager and just toeing the line of wild; plunging his cock into you in a fervent chase for his peak. Whether he realizes it or not, his breathing has become thin and frequent, punching softly across the sultry air in desperate pants. The glossy gaze of his eye is fastened onto you has you bob your head along his girth, relishing in the warm stretch of your throat giving around the drive of his cock, pushing spit around the tight seal of your lips with each clumsy thrust. It is sloppy and unseemly, but you have no choice but to relish in the depravity of it. To bask in the flush that has come to stain his cheeks, the way that his lashes flutter around the dazed hold of his eye. 

The fingers gripping your hair tenses and threatens to burrow into your scalp, and his abdomen squeezes harshly in anticipation for the bliss that fastens around his body; preparing to wring him for all that he is worth. 

You rip your lips from him quickly, jerking your mouth from the rigid swell of his cock just before his rapture can wash over him. It is a difficult feat with the way that his hand holds you like steel, but you manage to succeed, hissing past the sting in your scalp as you pull back enough, being mindful of your teeth as you move until your lips are free to brush along his head. Smudging his arousal across your lips. 

The noise that leaves him is a whimper. High and full of despair as the cruelty of your denial causes his release to rip and ebb away into what must be a painful ache. A torturous agony for certain. The sound of his anguish is a desperate one, but the outrage in his eye is close to terrifying. It burns bright like the promise of something hellish. Like he might consume you alive until there are only scraps left. It is equal parts horrifying and arousing, and it has a twisted sort of excitement and appetite welling up inside of you. 

"Do not test me," he hisses with pure venom and contempt. The hold he has on your hair manages to become harsher, tugging against your scalp with enough force to tug your head back to further meet his stare. 

Even with the danger in his posture you are unable to quail away from the threat that hangs between you both. It only serves to rouse that demented brand of delight in you. The hold that keeps your head secure in place is still fixed, but you are close enough that are able to reach up to take his length back in your hold, proudly presenting your tongue to tap the head of it along your open mouth. Transferring the salt of his arousal back along your palate, teasing yourself just as much as him. 

"Take what you want," is your only answer. 

The feral flash in his eye is the only warning you are afforded. You expect for him to force your mouth back onto his length, to steal his pleasure. So it is a complete surprise when he hauls you up onto your feet by the sting of your scalp to shove the flat of your back against the wall. It is disorienting to be lifted so suddenly, to be pinned back against the stone bricks in such a short period of time. It is jarring, sweeping you astray and leaving you lost. But just as quickly as it happened, Prince Aemond descends down on you like a shadow. Herding you in place and keeping you secure with nothing but the weight of his body. 

HIs hands are on you like a glutton sweeping their hands along a feast. Gripping and clawing at the shape of your body to begin plucking and tugging at your skirts to ruck them up around your hips, baring your legs to the air. It tears a gasp from your chest as he nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck, nipping at the tender skin there with the blunt edges of his teeth. 

"Is that truly what you want, hm? To be used up and split open for me? Nothing more than a whining, whimpering thing on my cock." The way that he speaks is so vulgar. It would be repulsive to any respectable lady, but it only serves to make you burst alight. Cut hollow and wanting to be filled and fucked with a man that you should despise. And perhaps you do still hate him. But here and now, with him so close and hot, flushed against you, you are unable to conceptualize such a notion. You long to feel him. The warmth of his skin, the bite of his teeth, the slice of his nails. 

It has you dragging your hands up the sturdy support of his shoulders, your fingers gripping harshly before gliding upward to thread through the fine silk of his hair, burrowing them along his scalp as a means to draw him closer. You hitch one of your legs around his hips, pulling him flush with your body even while the buckles of his belts and the pummel of his sword burrows meanly into your flesh. 

"Yes, yes, please," you beg easily. The please rises out of you with hardly any resistance at all, flowing freely like a deluge of water spilling past a fracture in a dam. 

You expect more teasing. More degrading remarks to further fray your pride thin and humiliate you, but the prince it seems, is intent on surprising you tonight and just as impatient. There are no moves to warn or prepare you. The only thing you get to serve as a notice is the brush of his cock slipping against the soaked heat of your cunt, and then, seemingly all at once he drives himself into your entrance, splitting you open and forcing your walls to stretch open and give around the shape of him. It punches all though and air from you, reducing you to some mindless, moaning thing to cling onto his shoulders as though your life depends on it. As though it might actually save you. 

The pace that he sets is punishing and intense from the start; desperate to rekindle the pleasure that you had stoked within him just before. Chasing after it like a thirsting man stumbling after a mirage. It leaves you try and stay aloft. Only able to hold on as he ravages your body like he has been tipped into the throes of a frenzy; feral and hungry. 

He tries to muffle the low noises that stirs from his chest, clasping his teeth along the junction of your neck rough enough that you are positive that it will leave a mark behind. It forces him to breathe through his nose, wrenching yearning pants from him to spill across the flesh of your shoulder in warm puffs of air. The hug of his teeth on your sensitive skin is not the concern that it should be. The stamp of his mouth will be left behind for sure. A clear claim posted on your body that he had touched you. That he has staked a sign on you that no other man has been able to or dared to do before. 

But you care little now. Not with the way that he drives himself into you. The constant drags of his cock inside of you, brushing deep and firm in strokes that threaten to liquify your mind. It has your body split between winding up tight and going lax in its place tucked between him and the wall. Your limbs longing to squirm and reach for something, anything to anchor yourself as he devastates you with a prowess that you never imagined he would possess.  

His cock drives sharp, pitchy sounds from you with every cant of his hips. His pelvis and the curls at the base of his cock nudging against your clit with every and every thrust. The sensation of it sears through you like smoke and embers, coiling in your gut like a band of molten steel. It has one of your arms extracting itself from its place nestled in his hair, flying out wildly to scramble along the wall behind you; nails digging into the soft corners of the stone for purchase. 

The sound of your voice has him releasing the clutch of his teeth from your neck, lifting it to nudge his face along your cheek until you can feel the defined bridge of his nose nuzzling along your flesh. A gesture that could so easily be misconstrued as tender if the circumstances were so completely different. If he did not hold your life inside of his hands. "You're fucking soaking, love." He croons, his voice all teasing and velvet. But it only serves to make you clench tighter around him, causing the want in you to lick along the cradle of your hips and rest there. "Did sucking my cock do it for you? Does your mouth being fucked - being treated like you deserve - excite you?" 

And now that he has drawn attention to it, you are forced to notice the wet sounds that echo within the quaint chamber of the alcove. The sloppy, lecherous noise of your coupling bouncing of the walls crudely. It is impossible not to hear the soaked smacking of his hips joining yours, of his cock parting the slick heat of your cunt repeatedly. 

The only facet that saves you from true embarrassment is that you have happened to find yourself in a brothel; a place where not a single soul will care or be appalled by the pair of you, should they happen to stumble upon you both. 

And despite it all, you find yourself nodding in agreement. "Gods, yes Aemond - fuck - I - " 

Something between a laugh and groan leaves him at the sound of your failed, broken words; entirely pleased and arrogant with the almost drunken state that he has reduced you to. That persistent part of you longs to make a quip of your own. To knock him down a peg or two, but even in your muddled condition, you are still able to realize that it may be a bad idea. Thankfully it is overcome with a new desire before it can get the better of you. The need to be closer to him washes over you like a wave crashing along the surf. It has your arms moving to lock around the nape of his neck, the leg secured around his hip tightening to guide him even closer. 

The loss of that little bit of remaining proximity changes the rhythm of his thrusts. Instead of the quick, impactful pace, it has changed them into deep, churning strokes. His cock barely leaves you now. He has been pinned too closely, leaving him with the ability to only grind himself against your heat, circling his hips against your sensitive clit in tight, intense motions that cause your jaw to drop. It has your entire body drawing up tight. Squeezing and working up in preparation for the release that hurtles before you like the swell of an oncoming storm. 

You are chanting his name now while the taste of him is still thick and warm on your tongue. Uttering his name as though it is a prayer, a curse; a salvation and damnation all at once. The weightlessness of it all, the desperation in your veins directs you to turn your face towards his own, tilting it until you are able to properly look at him, your nose nuzzling along his with each pronounced, grinding, debilitating thrust he delivers. 

Lightning wracks through you when you see that his eye is already on you. The lilac and traces of blue cutting so intently that you swear the gaze of it brushes along your soul. Strands of his hair have come loose from their tie, hanging slack and slightly askew around the curtains of silver that spill around his face. Pink has flushed around the points of his cheeks and nose - even the tips of his ears, and his lips are parted. You both draw in each other's breath, breathing yourselves in as though you only need the other's air to survive. 

It suddenly feels wildly intimate, and that hungered glint in his eye only serves to nourish that. Here, underneath the dark, with the anger absent from his posture and stare, it is easy to admire him. To notice how enchanting he truly is. And for a dangerous moment, you can pretend that you have not been brought here out of hate and violence or the need to flee. The dulcet warmth of it builds within your chest, swarming with a multitude of emotions that you cannot allow yourself to truly process. But some of them manage to slip past your grip regardless, seeping through the fissures and holes. 

"Aemond - pretty, so pretty." You choke on your words. Caught up within your admiration, your pleasure. But you are unable to keep yourself from sweeping a hand along the plains of his face, caressing the swell of his cheek. Adoring the striking features that press along your palm; scar and all. 

The vulnerability that breaks past the lust in his eye is tragic. He looks at you as though you are strange, unfamiliar, and yet as if he has known you for an eternity. As though no one has ever dared to blatantly praise and favor him, and he does not know how to manage it. But you feel the way that his cock twitches inside of the tight clutch of your cunt; his lashes flutter as though his eye was going to roll back inside of his skull. 

The power that it feeds you is unlike anything you have ever felt before. The way that he has reacted to a jumbled compliment, hanging onto your words as though they were a scripture and he a man in need of salvation. 

"So good, Aemond, don't stop, please don't stop," you pant against his lips. Almost immediately the grind of his hips becomes invigorated, as though the sound of your voice alone has galvanized him. And now that you have begun, it is difficult to stop; threading your fingers through his hair, gripping the back of his head to keep him close and orient yourself through the rush of it. "Just like that, my love. You're so good like this - so deep - it's you, just you, no one else." 

The endearment slips out unintentionally, a mirror of when he had used it himself to mock you, but the utilization of it coming from your lips seems nearly damning for him. He pitches forward to drop his face back into the nestle of your neck, as though he means to hide himself from you and bask in the press and scent of your flesh all at once. It makes his voice muffled and low, suppressed by your skin as his speaks out in a way that you just barely catch. But the words, your muddled brain sluggishly realizes, is not of the Common Tongue. It sounds out in a way that is rumbling and flowing all at once, his tongue cradling around rolling r's that belong to his ancestor's language. The tone of it nearly sounds as dazed as your own, and though you know naught what he is saying, the wrecked, slurred state of his voice pleases just as much if you were able. 

"Please, please," you beg against the crown of his head. The rapture coiling around your body is burrowing its claws in deep, slicing into your stomach to tear you asunder. And you welcome it. Longing to feel it lighting you up from the inside out, and the ceaseless drag of his cock and the grind of his pelvis on your clit has it suspended over you. Dangling so close that you swear you are able to taste it. That you would be able to reach out and touch it as though it is a tangible thing. 

"Do it," comes his strained reply. "Fucking do it." 

As though it was waiting for his permission, your body seizes up as though it has been struck. Heat and bliss lashes through every facet of you, ripping and twisting inside of you like it means to eat you alive. This is what it is like to be consumed. To be plucked up piece by piece and given over to someone else to fuel them, to prolong the ecstasy that pours over you like melted wax; like stars bursting in the heavens. In the haze of your pleasure, you can feel it doing just that. You can hear the loud grown that pierces the air as his own peak crests over him, induced by the clenching of your cunt flexing and tightening around him as though it means to keep him locked and buried inside forever. 

Liquid warmth spreads and settles inside of you with the twitch of his cock. His hips continue to grind and hump against your own in a strive extend the rapture that possesses your bodies. And that is how you both remain for a blurry stretch of time. Buried in each other's warmth and arms, saturated in bliss, and no longer enemies with the promise of bloodshed and war on the horizon. 

The scent of sex is heady and thick in the air, embellished by the spice and sweat on his skin and the wind in his hair. You do not move from your position cuddled against him. And you do not pay any heed to the clarity and the cruel realities of your situation as they clamor to draw your attention. You would like to remain ignorant to the truth for as long as possible. The horrors of your circumstances will come knocking on your door soon, rising up like a dawn you may not be alive to see. But for now, it will just be you and him. 

Not enemy and enemy, but two lovers intertwined in a private alcove designed for two. Safe in shadow and candlelight with the steady thump of each other's hearts rushing together; your breaths synced and calming. 

But the prince it seems is in no mood to afford you solace as he shifts to straighten his posture. A pathetic part of you mourns when he removes his face from the safety of your neck to meet your eyes. There is a curiosity in them that makes you unsure. The contentment in the way he watches you is so odd to see that it brings you more unease than his ire and rage could. He almost appears tender. Placated by the press of your body and the grip of your cunt still tight and hot around him, and he makes no moves to leave your body. 

He lifts a hand, allowing his fingers to trace along your jaw and lips as though he is studying a delicate valuable. Something that could easily shatter if handled too harshly. There is a possessive edge to it as well. Wanting and greedy like he fears someone may try and snatch you from him. It leaves you to fear that you may have coaxed that starved half of him out and left it with no desire to leave. Now he truly does mean to pluck you between his teeth. Not to rip and tear, but to devour carefully. With a mouth that longs cradle bone and stroke flesh lovingly. 

You may have just made a monster. But even worse still is that you cannot help but to delight in the possibilities of it. 

And when his voice speaks out next, soft and tranquil, and welcoming in your ear, you find yourself waiting on his promise. 

"I think I'll keep you." 

[convenientalias]

Why Nirvana in Fire Wins at Revenge Story with Identity Porn

Nirvana in Fire was my first ever cdrama that was a revenge story with identity porn. Since then, I've seen many other dramas along similar lines. A League of Nobleman. Blood of Youth. City of Streamer. Fighting for Love. Legend of Anle. Long Ballad. Princess Weiyoung. Rise of Phoenixes. Sword Dynasty. Weaving a Tale of Love. Word of Honor. Some of them are quite good but none of them really hit the same way. So, apart from the fact that it was the first one I ever watched, I thought I'd made a brief list of reasons why I think Nirvana in Fire is the best.

Lin Shu's Identity

I just appreciate that when shit went down and Lin Shu's whole family and army and many of his friends were killed and he became a man on the run, he was a full-grown man (okay, still pretty young, but definitely not a child) with his own life and even an army position.

A lot of these identity porn dramas will have their MCs meeting ppl for the first time in many years, in disguise, but they only knew these ppl when they were children. Childhood friends are great and all that, but can they hit as hard as the complicated, fleshed out relationships that Lin Shu had and lost? He had a friendship of many years with Jingyan. He had an engagement and a longstanding friendship with Nihuang. He has friends from the army, younger cousins playing the role of "we don't even understand what happened back then and maybe that's better", older friends and relations who he actually knew as an adult.

Simultaneously, his past identity increases the threat of discovery for Lin Shu. He's a known factor to many, many people in the capital. Yes, they think he's dead. But small things like a hazelnut allergy or his mannerisms or his previous friendships with people are still memorable enough that even with a completely different face, if he's not careful, he might give himself away. He's not infiltrating a group of strangers or people who only knew him as a kid. He's infiltrating a group of people who were close to him for many, many years of his life.

HOWEVER. Lin Shu's identity is not so important that everyone in the capital is still obsessed with him twelve years later (with some exceptions). This isn't Mysterious Lotus Casebook where we're all still pining for Li Xiangyi, because...

2. The Chiyan Case Wasn't Even About Lin Shu?? (Also, No One Cares About That Ancient History Anymore (Jingyan, Sit Down))

The Chiyan case wasn't about the Lin family at all, really.

No one specifically wanted Lin Shu dead or had a big grudge against his dad or anything. It's all about power, military and political. For some conspirators, it was just about getting a leg up in court. But mostly, it was about Prince Qi, the previous crown prince. The Lin family just happened to be friends with him and ended up in an uncomfortable (highly murderable and frameable) position.

Lin Shu may mourn his family, but for the majority of the show, he doesn't talk about it. He doesn't talk about his mother and his family back at the capital either committing suicide or being killed indiscriminately. He only mentions his father's name a handful of times in the whole show. Lin Shu's drive is that his father's ARMY was killed, tens of thousands of men. That's the weight on Lin Shu's shoulders: the death of all these innocent men because they were in the way. The Chiyan Case; the Chiyan Massacre. The denouement of Lin Shu's victory (not to give too many spoilers) is not just his father's name being cleared of a treason charge. It's when there's finally a memorial put up for the Chiyan Army, with memorial tablets that he can publicly visit to pay respects.

Why does this make it a better revenge story with identity porn? A couple reasons. First, Lin Shu is very much the center of the story and has very personal beef, but he treats himself like a tool and his objective isn't about himself or familial connections (they're part of it but they're not everything). He doesn't even know all the people he's avenging. That's fine; he'll still carry that weight. I just think it's neat.

Second, the fact that the Lin family (and the whole Chiyan Army) were really just collateral damage for getting rid of Prince Qi really emphasizes just how careless the current regime is of the value of human life.

Third, as Meng Zhi says when Lin Shu comes to the capital, everyone at court is busy with their own little power struggles and no one has time to care about Lin Shu or protect him. Lin Shu's like yeah that's fine :) I'm not anyone's focus anymore and the Lin family has been swept under the rug like we never existed :) and no one even talks about the Chiyan case anymore for fear of being accuse of treason :) that's all okay because I'm about TO MAKE THIS EVERYONE'S PROBLEM ANYWAY and honestly the fact that everyone's trying their hardest to forget will just make them more oblivious when I come to fuck them up.

3. All Of This is Whose Fault, Again?

That's right, folks, we're in a show that knows that when shit goes down at court and your family gets framed for treason and the emperor orders them executed, sure, you can blame the conspirators who framed them all you want, but also, YOU KIND OF DO HAVE TO BLAME THE EMPEROR.

People have said enough about how great this is on a thematic level of accountability but seriously I've seen so many shows dodge this. ~It's not the emperor's fault bc he was misled by these conspirators~ or ~the emperor is only a puppet emperor, if he actually had power instead of this evil person, he would put everything right.~ Or, if they dare to blame the emperor, maybe he's just an evil emperor and was bad all along. NIF says yeah, he was lied to on many levels. There was a whole complicated conspiracy going on and many people to blame. But he could have taken things slower. He could have required better evidence. He could have trusted people who had supported him for many years, at least enough to listen to their side of the story BEFORE KILLING THEM. And why didn't he? It's not because he's an idiot. It's because he's an emperor, and emperors don't like seeing other people gain enough power to even potentially become a threat. It's because he wasn't looking for the truth, he was looking for an excuse to kill. And he's not unusually evil for that; this kind of callousness towards murder and grasping for power at all costs is more the norm at court than any kind of honor or morality.

The Emperor's a nice guy sometimes! He used to fly kites with Lin Shu when he was young! His sons give him a headache, but honestly, relatable, they'd give you a headache too! He likes Consort Jing and honestly, who wouldn't! And he killed one of his sons, one of his closest friends, and an entire army, and he would do it again without hesitation. He's not especially evil. Being an emperor is bad enough.

4. Other Bad Guys

It's worth mentioning that Lin Shu's opponents are not stupid.

Xie Yu and Xia Jiang, Prince Yu and the Crown Prince, even the Empress and Noble Consort Yue: They aren't all geniuses, but they aren't idiots flailing around in spite. They're pretty smart, and if Lin Shu wants to take them down, he has to be smarter.

It's also worth mentioning that this is not one of those shows where the protagonist happens to take down his opponents mostly by standing still and just defending himself when they lash out at him. This seems like an obvious thing in a revenge drama, but the number of times I've seen the opposite, the protagonist swearing revenge and then just struggling with self preservation.... but no. Lin Shu has A Plan. He is going to be proactive and actually take his enemies down. Admittedly he will do this by revealing their past misdeeds but this isn't a case of "the misdeeds will just happen to pop up". This is a case of "I will actively unearth skeletons from where you threw them in a well in an abandoned manor".

TO SUM UP

Without going into the things that make Nirvana in Fire a great show in general (great acting, good pacing and plotting, good costuming, and so on and so forth) I think the main things that make it hit for me as a revenge story with identity porn are 1) letting the MC's past identity be that of a grown man who actually had a life (more connections to the past, but also more to lose and more danger in the present as a result), 2) the fact that the offense that the MC is avenging wasn't even like a personal thing to the offenders (bc! it's fucking infuriating!), 3) the fact that the drama is willing to face the root of the problem (the problem is both corruption at court and the fact that the highest arbiter is flawed, not just individual conspirators), 4) the supply of multiple good antagonists, and 5) LETTING THE MC ACTUALLY, ACTIVELY PURSUE REVENGE AND THAT'S THE MAIN PLOT AND WE AREN'T SPENDING MOST OF OUR SCREENTIME ON SIDEPLOTS AND ROMANCE OR MERE SELF PRESERVATION. These may not seem like large things but my friends, you would be surprised how many revenge dramas I've watched at this point that can't do them.

ok I'm done ranting. Feel like most of this is actually stating the obvious but I'm just in a mood and had to get it out. (...also possibly I've been let down by some revenge dramas lately but I won't get into it. it's okay. we can't all be Nirvana in Fire; only Nirvana in Fire can be Nirvana in Fire.)

[yuriisclumsy]

Sending in a request for a Genshin or Lout fic! I’ll give you a few prompts you can choose from (you only need to pick one) and write a fic for who you think suits it best!

intuition, obvious, (il)logic, test, levity

((thank you so much and no rush!!)) - @paimonial-rage

Intuition

𝚆𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝙲𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝: 2058

[Authors Note]: OMG I'm so sorry guys for the late update! Something went wrong and now is now I figured it out. So here you go! It took me a while to figure this one out, but I managed to get something going. This is a gift for another blog, @paimonial-rage! They do Genshin requests (fanfiction with reader insert) for anyone interested.

»»►Cale has an intuition that [Name] is in danger.

»»►...

»»►What?

»»►That’s all I’m telling you, no spoilers for you!

The high walls of the Roan Kindom’s palace stood the testament of war being waged at its firmament. It had been many a time someone dared to destroy it, but none came close to achieving their goal.

Not when there was a great commander in charge.

In one of the many rooms withholding secrets never to shed light to the world in the palace, stood two esteemed figures; one, bearing the crown, the other, his most trusted friend and sworn-brother.

“Cale, Cale, what will I be without you?” The ever-loved crown prince–now king–asked.

“You’d still be a crown prince fighting to retain the crown, Alberu,” Cale sipped his tea nonchalantly, ignoring the unamused face he was getting.

Alberu sighs from the otherwise boring reaction. “Even after all this time, you’re still trying to piss me off. And here I thought that perhaps marrying that  girl would make you more sensible.”

“Then you guessed wrong, my king,” Cale slightly vowed.

“Stop that.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” he gave a polite smile.

Alberu shook his head and let out another sigh. This won’t stop until Cale won, so it was simpler to just surrender. “How is married life going for you?” He took his tea and blew to calm it.

“It's actually going well,” Cale responded, thinking back on his experience so far.

He got married a while ago, two months ago, to be precise. It had been slow, sharing the same room with someone, but they had adjusted just fine ...aside from the fact that his wife moves a bit too much when she sleeps. Cale learned to either build a fortress of pillows that separated them or hug her the whole night–though this option comes with sweat greeting them the next morning.

“I’m still not used to her being in my—our room,” he corrected himself. “And when will you get a wife, huh? Don’t you think the kingdom deserves a queen?”

Alberu threw daggers at him mentally, hoping he’d drop dead where he stood. “Haha…funny.” He placed the cup down on the table where the saucer was. “Although…it would be nice to have someone to share my troubles with,” he looked Cale in the eyes when saying that.

Liar. You want me to ask so I can fix your messes, Cale thought, internally scuffing at the man.

He put in his diplomatic smile. “Oh, but your highness. You always can share your concerns with me, your most loyal subject. I can assure you that even the future queen would agree with me.”

“Ha! You’re a bastard through and through,” Alberu crossed his arms in amusement.

Yeah, right. The only bastard here is you—! Cale’s cup fell lento, as if time had slowed down entirely.

Alberu’s eyes widened in surprise, “Cale, are you okay?” He stared at Cale to see if it was another of his antics but he looked completely still, with his face growing paler by the second. The king shot up thinking of the worst. “Damn it! Is it poison?!” He checked the teapot for any unusual smells.

“No, no,” Cale patted the king, who by now was by his side, to calm down. “I just…had a shiver run down my spine.”

His sworn brother remained silent for a short moment, and then his mouth opened. “If it were a mare shiver, you wouldn't have reacted like that. Cale, I know you. And the you, I know, doesn’t fear much.” He grabbed Cale by the arms, “now tell me, what made you react in such a way?”

“...” Cale looked at him and then at the floor, unsure of what to tell him.

“Cale…” Alberu shook him a little, firming his hold a bit more, to show that he was there if it were something bad.

“*sigh*...I got this feeling…” he paused, inhaling grimly, “that something bad is going to happen to [Name]. But, it’s just a feeling. It’s probably my overthinking, you needn't worry about it.”

Alberu was at a loss for words. Yes, with fame and power, came great danger. But he didn’t think that his friend–his brother-in-arms–would be so unworried for a thought like that.

No… He was more worried about it than he let on.

He released his hold on Cale, straightening himself.

“Alberu?” Cale looked up from the loss of pressure, “did something happen?”

“...You need to go,” he said.

“What?”

“You need to go,” he repeated.

Cale could only stare, not sure why he was saying that. “But…why?” He looked like a small child who had lost their mother in the market and was asking for help from a stranger with a sad look on their face.

“Oh, for heaven's sake…” Alberu’s hands clutched themselves to Cale’s coat, “damn it, you dense donkey! You had a thought about your wife being hurt, you need to go, and make sure she’s in perfect shape like the good husband you are!!"

At this point some of the knights were hearing the commotion inside but dared not intrude on the scolding from a mother to their child, it brought trauma none of them wished to relive.

“So you will stand up,” he brought Cale to his feet, “and go to your wife!!”

And that’s how Cale Henituse, the great commander of the Roan Kingdom, was promptly kicked out and banned from entering the castle until the king received notice of his wife’s safety.

Cale gawked at the castle for a few minutes after that. He looked like a fish out of the water: stupid.

He sighed out of his daze. “Ron?” He turned to his butler who accompanied him on his trip.

“Yes, young master?” Ron vowed.

“Get me home as fast as you can,” he ordered as he opened the carriage doors and climbed in, shutting the door in the process.

“As you wish, Master Cale,” Ron got up to the carriage’s coachman seat. Taking the leach of the horses, he made a swift movement, and the horses were galloping towards the exit.

The path home was peaceful. Yes, there were a few pours here and there, but that was only for a bit. What could not find rest, was the man inside the carriage.

He fidgeted sporadically, his leg went up and down in impatience, and his eyes fixated on the outside where they could see the slightest glance of his territory's walls. Anything that could calm his unease.

I should have brought Raun with me, or a magic item that could teleport me back faster. He thought of all the things he could have done to fasten the transportation to his manor.

The sight of walls and a flag in the distance made Cale happy.

Home. Alas, he was closer to his wife.

The carriage passed the high gates of the city, not needing to check inside for threats when the man who had saved them plenty of times was inside. The knights saluted as he entered.

Arriving at the manor, he dismounted the carriage walking to the entrance. A few servants waited right outside the door, vowing to greet their master. He stopped just as he passed the doors, making his two trusted butlers look at him: one in worry, and the other in amusement.

“Master Cale?” Hans called. “Is something the matter?”

“...Ron,” he said his butler's name without looking back.

“Yes, Master Cale?”

“Can you do me a favor, and go hunting for a few loud quails?” He said.

Ron smirked. “As you wish, Master Cale,” he vowed before turning and leaving the manor.

“Quails?” Hans asked, “But we already have plenty of them.” His eyes widened, “please don’t tell me what I think that is referring to…”

Cale continued to the gardens where he knew his wife would be. “Don’t worry about Hans. You’re not the one getting their hands dirty with animal feathers,” he said with a smile.

“Please don’t smile when you say that…” he looked nauseous.

…

The wind blew swiping and budging any object its strength could move. The wind chime followed the rhyme of the calm breeze as it passed through. Soft humming that sounded like they belonged to a fairy filled the air of the manor’s garden. It came from the lady of the house; a beautiful and delicate flower, who married the lout son of the family.

She lowered herself to be a few inches from the bed of flowers planted for her by her husband's wishes;.He planted them for her happiness; she loved flowers as much as she loved him. 

Her hands lifted a white tulip, her eyes observed its color and physique. “You have grown from the last time I saw you,” she songily whispered. “Cale would be happy to see you like this.”

People often gossiped how, in their eyes, she took care of the plants like if they were her children. Yet, they know not that these small greeneries are as alive as any other living creature. They can call her crazy all they want, for she already found someone that loves her. Even if he did find this fixation of hers a little odd.

“Happy to see who?” a voice asked from behind.

Her head turned to see who it was that questioned her, but her smile made it clear that she knew who it was that asked.

“Cale,” she said his name, love surrounded his name. She stood up to greet her one and only husband. “You’re back so soon, I thought you said you would be in the capital for 10 days.”

“Something came up for the king, so I decided to come back,” Cale embraced her warmth. She smelled like the flowers she loved.

She returned the hug by wrapping her arms around him, “you missed me that much?”

“Shut up,” he scuffed and let go of her.

She giggled in response. “Hehehe, didn’t you though?” her eyes met his, “you missed your wife so much, that you came running here.”

“As if. I had no other business in the capital other than meeting with his majesty.” Excuses. His wife could tell. He might think that he's not that easy to read, but for her, he was like a poster in a billboard right in the public's eyes.

“Sure, sure…I believe you.”

“No, you don’t, [Name].”

“Yes I do!” She pouted.

“Master Cale,” Ron made himself known as he walked towards them.

“Ron!” [Name] ran to the old butler. “Ron, won’t you agree that Cale came back so quickly because he loved his wife so much, he couldn't spend a single day more in the capital?” She asked, dramatizing the whole thing to embarrass her husband.

Ron had the smile only a demon could have when they had their enemies greatest weakness.

“Don’t you dare,” Cale warned.

“Oh, but I must agree with Lady [Name],” he closed his eyes, “The young master whined the whole way here. “Oh, how I wish I was next to my wife. My sweet, and beautiful, [Name]...”” Ron was mocking him. And there was nothing he could do about it.

Damned old man…

“I see, I see…” she nodded along. She was enjoying this far too much.

“Okay, that’s it,” he stepped towards them and grabbed her by the arm, “we’re leaving.”

“Awe, if you wanted to have me all to yourself you can always ask,” [Name] placed a hand on her check, cooing at Cale.

“Why did I marry you?”

“Because you love me!” She gave him the happiest smile she had; the same one she had on their wedding day; the same one she had when he asked her to marry him; the same one she had when he pronounced his love. It was her normal smile.

“...” Cale had a blush on his face. He caught the smug smile from Ron, and that just made him instantly frown, ruining the beautiful moment. “Let's go,” He continued to pull her along. She giggled at his antics.

“Oh, Ron?” he halted.

He smiled, “Yes, young master?”

“Did you finish your hunt?”

Ron’s smile widened. “Yes. We’ll be having 6 quails for dinner.”

“Great,” he resumed his pace.

“Wait, I thought it was beef for dinner today.”

“That too.”

“???”

Fin

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Master-List

[rubycruzin4abruzin]

Forbidden Crown - VIII

Summary: Will you follow your head, and stay in Tir Asleen to marry Airk and rule your kingdoms together? Or will you go with your heart, and run away with Kit to hide in the valley of Nockmaar?

Pairing: kit tanthalos x princess!reader

Contains: non-explicit smut, kissing, homophobia, commitments, arranged marriages

Word Count: 3.7k

A/N: we’re finally here… the final chapter. Thank you to everyone who’s supported what is over 30k words of pure lesbian pining. Extra thanks to anyone leaving comments, replies, or messages to tell me how the story has affected you—whether it be positive or negative, your words brightened my day!! Onwards and upwards, onto the next writing process, but until then, without further ado… here’s the Forbidden Crown finale :,)

Kit gazed at her reflection in her bedchamber’s polished mirror, the white satin of her gown flowing around her ankles. She shifted her legs with a grumble, feeling bare beneath the billowing fabric.

“Please hold still, Your Highness,” the seamstress murmured from behind, carefully removing pins from the gown. Kit couldn’t recall her name in the moment. “I wouldn’t wish to prick you.”

With the last pin removed, the seamstress stood and circled Kit, inspecting every inch of the newly-finished garment, The way the lace dipped low at her back before forming sleeves that cascaded down her arms like bells, while the satin hugged her hips, gathering at her thighs before softening into delicate folds around her feet. Every stitch was impeccable, the dress handcrafted specifically to give Kit the appearance of the most elegant bride.

With a final nod of approval, the seamstress began to pack up her workbox. “The gown is ready for the morrow’s matrimony, my lady,” she said. “You’re sure to make a radiant bride.”

As she left Kit alone to undress, Kit couldn’t help but note how the seamstress had avoided her gaze throughout the entirety of the fitting. It didn’t surprise Kit; much of the castle staff had been behaving strangely after the events of the previous night. Of course, they knew better than to blatantly give voice to scorn about any member of the royal family, but their sudden eschewal and reproachful stares were difficult to ignore.

It wasn’t as if Kit was overly concerned by their sudden change in demeanor; she had long grown accustomed to strange looks—after all, she wasn’t exactly a ‘beloved’ princess. What troubled her more was how you were faring. Your parents had ordered guards posted outside your doors during the night, making it impossible for Kit to check on you after you were sent to your separate chambers.

Kit turned her attention back to the mirror. Despite her unease, she chuckled softly at the sight of herself in the gown—the white gown; a color worn by brides to signify their purity, something Kit was proud to admit that you had ruined many times over.

Reaching behind herself, she tugged at the laces holding the gown together, only to groan upon realizing the seamstress had left her locked in a double-knot. She clutched at the fabric in frustration, knowing she’d be resigned to waiting until her lady’s maid came to relieve her.

Just when she was considering reaching for a dagger to cut herself free, her door swung open. She turned away from her reflection, expecting her maid—and ready to scold for the delay—but instead came face-to-face with her brother.

“Airk,” she exclaimed in surprise. “What are you…? I could’ve been undressed! You shouldn’t…”

“Come with me,” he interrupted, taking her hand and pulling her along.

Kit was not one to yield to orders and quickly began to protest, but her objections went unheard as Airk continued to lead her through the castle corridors. Anxiety gnawed at her as he steered her around the busy servants who paid them no mind—why would they? To them, it was simply a prince walking with his sister through their home, never mind that Kit was debuting her wedding gown a day too early.

“Could we please just…”

“Here,” Airk opened the door to a random guest chamber and pushed Kit inside. “Half an hour. No more,” he declared cryptically before slamming the door shut.

Kit stared at the wooden barrier in shock and confusion before revolving to take in the room. It was small, dark, lit by nothing but a mullion window in the corner, and only by its narrow rays of sunlight could Kit see you, standing in the center of the floor, donning your own fluffy white gown.

“Princess…” she breathed, taking in the sight of you in your dress. Ivory brocade embraced your chest and torso, flowing into a full skirt around your feet. Gilded laces formed a mock-corset at your waist, matching the gold trim along your neckline and attached hood. You were the picture of wealth, the portrait of a perfect bride, and if you had been wearing that dress in any other context, Kit might have taken you right there and then.

“I’ve just finished my final fitting,” you explained, stepping closer.

“As did I,” Kit chuckled, gesturing to her own gown. “But, what are you…” Her voice trailed off as she noticed the tears staining your face. You wrapped your arms around her neck and kissed her gently, your lips salty from crying. Kit hesitated, but soon brought her hands to your waist, drawing soothing circles into your hips in an attempt to comfort you. Her small gesture prompted the lump in your throat to rise again, and you pulled back, deepening Kit’s confusion. “Princess, what…”

“I just… I wanted to see you… one final time,” you whispered, your voice shaking as you held her tight.

“You… final?” Kit questioned, a nervous chuckle slipping through. Her hands clasped at the small of your back, pulling you closer. “Don’t be ridiculous, Princess. We leave tonight, remember?”

All you could do was shake your head, unable to meet her eyes.

Kit’s face faltered. “No?” She moved you to sit on the edge of the bed, wrapping an arm around your waist. “I don’t understand…”

Your gaze dropped to your lap as you spilled everything in a single breath—how your kingdom was in dire straits, how Tir Asleen had been financially supporting Azarenth in exchange for your betrothal to Airk, and how your engagement was necessary to save your people. When you finished, you looked up to find Kit’s eyes swelling with tears.

“So… this is it?” She asked, her voice cracking.

You didn’t respond; you swallowed the lump in your throat and seized her lips in a passionate force, almost as if she could take this thing from you, as if you could somehow rid yourself of this reality if you kissed her hard enough. She grasped your hips, falling back onto the bed as you covered her with your body, your hand already slipping beneath her dress.

This would be how you remembered each other—faces flushed and limbs twisted in the linen sheets, hair splayed about the pillow, skirts bunched at your waists, eyes clouding over in pleasure upon reaching your peaks. Kit brought her lips to yours as you came down, removing her fingers from within you and wiping them on the soiled coverings. “I love you,” she whispered against your skin.

“I love you too,” you murmured, still overtaken with bliss. But as your breath evened, and your skin cooled, you felt the fragile oasis you had built begin to crumble, leaving only a devastating reality behind. “It… nothing will ever feel whole… not without you.”

Kit shook her head, stroking your cheek. “Don’t say that. You don’t mean it.”

“I do,” you insisted, your voice breaking again. “I’ll remain in Tir Asleen, but my heart will wander with you, wherever you go—whether that’s Galladoorn or beyond.”

Kit desperately wanted to protest—argue that you would be sisters, that you could see each other all the time, that you could live for little stolen moments like this during visits. But deep down, she knew better—that if you would be risking your lives for slivers of secret bliss, and even if you were extra cautious, your royal responsibilities would keep you far too busy for such endeavors.

Instead, she lifted your chin, meeting your tear-filled gaze. With a sad smile, she whispered, “I want you to have something.”

She helped you sit up, smoothing out your hair while you pulled your freshly-wrinkled skirt over your legs. The lace of her sleeve bunched around her elbow as she pushed it up, revealing a thin, gray string hanging loosely around her wrist; it was frayed, discolored, worn to mere threads, but you instantly recognized it as the once bright-pink ribbon she had stolen from you as children. With one careful motion, she released the knot, letting the ribbon dangle freely from her pinched fingers.

That lump returned to your throat. “Kit, I…”

“Take care of this, would you?” She gingerly took your wrist, wrapping the ribbon around it. “It means a lot to me.”

You shook your head. “Kit, no, I can’t take this. You’ve kept it for fifteen years.”

“Then give it back to me in another fifteen.”

There was nothing you could do to stop the tears from spilling down your cheeks as Kit secured the knot. The tattered strings appeared foreign on your wrist, but not as much as the pale band encircling Kit’s—a narrow strip of skin shielded from sunlight for nearly a lifetime. Unable to trust your voice, you simply nodded, silently accepting her gesture.

She caressed your cheek, her thumb wiping away your tears, though her own had begun to fall. Her voice came out weak, barely audible. “I love you.”

You let out a watery laugh, your own voice trembling. “I love you too.”

She leaned in for another kiss, the taste of salt lingering between you, only to be interrupted by a knock at the door. You both pulled back reluctantly, standing up to fix and flatten your gowns as the door cracked open, Airk’s head peeking through, his eyes shut tight. “Are you presentable?”

Both of you let out breathy laughs. Kit took your hand as she responded, “You’re clear.”

Airk opened his eyes, blushing slightly. “Forgive my intrusion, but the half-hour has passed.”

You smiled back warmly. “We truly appreciate it, Airk. Thank you.”

He bowed his head, extending a hand to Kit. “Come on, then.”

Kit glanced at you, her eyes filled with unspoken words suppressed by the absence of time. She squeezed your hand once, holding on until she was out of reach. And then the door snapped shut, and Kit was gone, and you were once again left alone, surrounded by empty darkness.

The following morning, Kit had expected to be awakened before dawn by a frantic servant sent to fetch the bride. Instead, she awoke to golden rays of sunlight spilling through her chamber window and the cheerful sound of birds chirping outside. She rubbed her eyes, allowing them to adjust to the newfound brightness when she heard a soft rap at her door.

Expecting her lady’s maid, she sat up. “Enter.”

The door swung open to reveal Sorsha, standing in the doorway with her hands clasped in front of her.

“Mother,” Kit groaned, her voice raspy with the weight of sleep. “What are you… am I late?” Her gaze drifted to her wedding gown, carefully hung on a rack in the corner of her chamber. “Nobody came to fetch me…”

Sorsha cut her off with a shake of her head. “Make yourself presentable and meet us downstairs.”

“Presentable?” Kit pressed. “I… where’s my maid? I’ll need help donning the gown…”

“There will be no need for that,” Sorsha interrupted. “Dress in your everyday attire and come downstairs. We’re met in the Great Hall.”

Before Kit could further question, her mother made a swift exit, clicking the door shut behind her. Kit sighed, throwing off the covers and dragging herself out of bed. She trudged to the storage chest at the foot of her bed, selecting a loose, woad-dyed blue tunic, some boots, and black trousers. As she dressed, a feeling of unease crept through her—fear of the unknown gnawing at her insides, coupled by an intrusive, pondering voice rattling through her mind and growing louder with each step, only ceasing upon reaching the Great Hall.

All eyes turned to Kit as she stood in the doorway, but her gaze settled only on you—sitting in a beige linen gown, your confused expression mirroring that of your parents sat on either side of you. Sorsha motioned to the seat beside her, and Kit obliged, settling across from you and your parents.

The air in the hall hung as heavy as a drawn bowstring, everyone waiting with baited breath for the meeting’s purpose to be revealed. Kit glanced around the long table, realizing something was missing, and decided to ask, even if she didn’t necessarily want the answer. “Where is Graydon?”

Sorsha let out a long exhale before answering, a breath perhaps even she hadn’t known she was holding. “Prince Graydon and his father have returned to Galladoorn,” she replied finally. “They left early this morning, and Airk has gone with them.”

Everyone at the table seemed to gape at this news, but it was your mother who pressed further. “What do you mean my daughter’s betrothed has fled?”

“He hasn’t ‘fled,’” Sorsha clarified. “I’ve sent him to train with the knights of Galladoorn.”

Not a jaw in the room remained shut. Your mother’s face quickly hardened. “You’ve done what?”

Sorsha merely nodded. “He’s always been quite the swordsman; I think you’d agree. King Hastur certainly did. I had him demonstrate his abilities late last night, and he agreed to take him on as a trainee.” She turned her attention to Kit, her expression unreadable. “Due to this new arrangement, your betrothal to Prince Graydon is no longer necessary.”

Kit could have sworn her heart ceased its beating.

”And our daughter?” Your mother asked angrily. “What is the nature of her engagement?”

”Well,” Sorsha began. “Airk will reside in Galladoorn for the time being—five years, perhaps more. Because of this, I believe the best course of action would be to… postpone the nuptials.”

Something snapped inside your mother; she rose, slamming her hands on the table. “You’re delaying our daughter’s matrimony? You’ve decided all of this without even taking the time to discuss it with us?”

“I see no reason for such commotion.” Sorsha stated, folding her hands atop the table. “The engagement still stands, it’s simply postponed until further notice. Your alliance with Tir Asleen remains intact.”

She glared across the table, her gaze hard and unblinking. Your mother faltered, reminded of something she momentarily forgot; Sorsha held the power—she always had, whether financial, political, or otherwise. With an awkward clearing of her throat, your mother resumed her seat.

“But how shall I fare?” You couldn’t help but ask. “Am I to return to Azarenth for the next decade?” A sense of dread washed over you at the thought of living with your parents for another ten years, especially knowing what they know now. Not to mention, the idea of being away from Kit for just as long made your heart ache.

Sorsha took in a breath, fiddling with her hands as if preparing to say something controversial. “It is of utmost importance to keep up appearances… for the sake of our people, of course. After all, we’ve just made a spectacle of an engagement party.” She glanced at you. “Your parents may return to Azarenth. You shall remain here so our people see Airk’s departure as an unexpected change of circumstance rather than a capricious stunt.”

Something flashed within Sorsha’s eyes—something small and brief, almost imperceptible, but you saw it: recognition. This wasn’t about Airk, or her kingdom, or anything else but her acknowledging the love between you and her daughter. A short gasp escaped your throat as you realized this, tears pricking the corner of your eyes.

Your father turned to you, noticing your hand over your mouth. “Are you alright, Princess?”

You could barely speak; you stood, muttering something along the lines of “you must excuse me” before making a brisk exit, overwhelmed with emotion and unable to meet anyone’s gaze as you pushed through the doors of the Great Hall.

Kit stared after your retreating figure until you were out of sight, wanting nothing more than to run after you—to hold you in her arms, to cry together tears of joy, to promptly move all of your belongings into her chamber despite the protests she would face. It was Sorsha who shook her from her trance with a hand on her shoulder. “I believe we can handle the remainder of the meeting,” she said, gesturing to your still-seething parents. “Why don’t you go… settle your own arrangements.”

With a smile full of gratitude, Kit mouthed a quick word of thanks and dashed out of the Great Hall, determined to find you. She beelined toward your guest chamber, throwing open the door, but was met only with dark, empty space. Her heart quickened its pace, and she rushed through the castle corridors, her resolve to find you growing more desperate with each empty room. All hope was beginning to fade, and Kit became anxious. Her hand moved to fiddle with the ribbon on her wrist—a nervous habit she’d developed—but her fingernails only scratched a pale strip of sunless skin. In that moment—that moment of fleeting forgetfulness—she remembered the sacred oasis you two had shared for so many important moments, and suddenly, Kit knew exactly where you would be.

The wintry February air nipped at her skin as she stepped outside, the tall stone walls of the castle doing little to stave off the shivers running up her spine. Despite the chill, she pressed on until she reached the garden gates, finding you exactly where she thought she might—perched beneath the protective branches of the large tree. You had your knees tucked to your chest, your arms wrapped around yourself in a feeble attempt to shield against the frigid air. The wind whipped at your hair, leaving messy strands strewn about your face and framing your cheeks, stained red from a mixture of tears and the cold.

“You’ve never looked more beautiful,” Kit murmured, latching the gate shut behind her.

You lifted your head to look at her. “Kit…” you whispered, your voice shaky and fragile. “What… what’s happened?”

“I’m not sure myself,” Kit replied, moving to sit beside you. She smiled, reaching up to wipe away your tears. “Can’t we just enjoy it?”

You let out a shuddering breath, shaking your head. “I… I can’t…”

Kit frowned. “Why not?”

“I don’t understand,” you sniffed. “Your mother… after all this time… why?”

Kit smiled, brushing away the wisps clinging to your cheeks. “My mother knows of love,” she explained softly. “Her own union was not arranged.”

You sniffed again, hugging your knees tighter. “This doesn't feel true,” you admitted. “It feels like a cruel trick.”

“No tricks,” Kit assured. “It is true, Princess. Yes, there will be some conditions, and we must make sacrifices for a public appearance, but we can be together. Isn’t that what matters most?”

“But your brother,” you protested. “I’m still his betrothed. What happens when he returns from training?”

“We have at least half a decade until that day, perhaps more,” Kit chuckled. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” She took your hands in hers, compelling you to look at her. “Princess, I may not know what fate has in store, but I do know I want you in it. I’ve known since our first kiss under this very tree. I remember it well—you wore that muddy pink gown, all tucked into a pair of my breeches. I’d never seen anyone so beautiful. Somehow, since that day, you’ve only grown more so. Every time I look at you, I manage to fall in love all over again.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but Kit quickly shook her head. “We’ve been granted an opportunity, Princess, and if you’ll have me, I’d like to spend the rest of my days—or as long as I’m able—with you, falling in love again and again. Please, Princess. Will you let me?”

Kit’s words swirled in your mind like birds around the eye of a storm. You stared into her pleading eyes, filled with hope and adoration, and your own began to well with tears once more. Dropping her hands, you stood and silently made your way over to a barberry bush in a corner of the garden, Kit’s curious gaze following you all the way. Your fingers fell to your wrist, toying with the delicate knot Kit had tied so carefully the day before until it hung from your skin like a loose thread. Kit’s brow furrowed, but before she could speak, you plucked a branch from the barberry bush and used its piercing thorns to slice the ribbon in two.

A strangled gasp escaped Kit’s throat, her eyes following the tattered string as it drifted atop the garden dirt. “Princess…” she whispered, her face twisting with hurt and confusion. “I don’t… why…?”

You seized the two pieces and knelt beside her again. She couldn’t bring herself to look at you, only at the ruined ribbon hanging limp from your palm. Without a word, you took her left hand and tied one of the pieces around her fourth finger.

“I meant what I said,” you murmured, securing the final knot. “Nothing is whole, not without you, not even this ragged ribbon.” You chuckled breathily, your cheeks reddening at such a blatant display of sentiment, but you continued on. “Because it’s not mine—it hasn’t been in fifteen years—but it’s not yours either. It’s ours, and it cannot be complete without both of us.”

Kit stared down at her finger, once bare and reserved for Graydon’s wedding ring, now occupied by a sweet promise, a piece of you. The gray, uneven bow drooped down the back of her hand, brushing against her skin with every movement. Her heart swelled with affection, and she saw your gesture for what it was—a symbol of your commitment to her, as official as one could be within a realm of disdain.

“I promise myself to you,” you held out your own left hand, the other half of the ribbon resting in your palm. “Will you do the same?”

Kit let out a breathy laugh, overwhelmed with emotion. “What sort of question is that?” She secured the knot before bringing up her own left hand and intertwining it with yours, the tattered laces blending into each other like the tree branches overhead. “I love you, Princess.”

You sighed, a blissful smile painting your features. “I love you, always.”

As you tangled beneath the big tree, sealing your promise with a sweet kiss, you both knew how different your vow was from your previous betrothals; marriage may not have been about love, but the commitment you shared, your bond, would be forever forged within it.

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[who-let-me-out]

Suddenly got very into House of the Dragon and now I have an idea to share.

Platonic Yandere targaryens with Aegon.

Viserys and alicent become obsessed with him when he was born. He has dozens of knights to protect him, never alone unless with his family. He’s so precious he must be protected. He can do no wrong.

Viserys wants to move him into a tower so he is safe from everyone and everything that could hurt him. Still brings it up, trying to convince Aegon that the tower would be so good and fun for him! His own space (locked away, only for his families eyes. No one else can see him, they could hurt his precious boy.) Aegon is often called to his fathers side, enjoying the loving attention and affection from his father.

Rhaenyra is very protective of her baby brother. Considers taking him to Dragonstone many times. Precious baby boy loves his big sister too. Always excited to see her. She rubs it in alicents face that Aegon gets more excited to see her then his own mother.

Uncle Daemon will commit several war crimes for this small boy. Makes sure to rest every single one of his guards to ensure he is safe. The safest boy.

Grandsire Otto will use every connection he has to keep the boy safe and secluded. No one outside the castle will see him, anyone who could be a threat is arrested and put to death for crimes against the crown.

Helaena and Aemond keep him company as they grow older. They are selfish and want to keep him to themselves, not even they’re parents can see him if they are there. Aemond trains to ensure he can protect his big brother, he’s so fragile. He and Vhagar can protect him, who would go against the largest Dragon in the world. He claimed Vhagar and lost an eye to protect him. He remembers his dear sweet brother crying for him, for his injuries. Helaena will keep watch through her dreams. Though criptic they can help her keep her brother safe with them. Only with them. No one else. They can’t touch him!

His nephews follow they’re mother. So protective. He can do no wrong. They try to convince Aegon to go with them to Dragonstone, they can protect him there. They have more dragons there, they will make sure no one can hurt him.

Baela and Rheana follow too. They were taught from a very young age to watch over they’re cousin, he is fragile and to be protected. He needs them. They will run to Daemon for the slightest thing regarding his safety. He was found in the gardens with only 12 guards? They will get Daemon to punish them for slacking off on they’re duty. One of his servants looked at him for 0.2 seconds longer then they should? Clearly they are stalkers and seek to harm the Prince! They should be punished

Even Sunfyre is obsessed with him. However unlike the humans of the family, Aegon will go willingly where every the dragon flies. Aegon can be seen sneaking away to the dragon pit to fly with his beloved dragon. They’ve lost many men because the fools tried to seperate the dragon from his rider. If he could, sunfyre would follow him around the castle.

Suprise twist is that Aegon remembers being king. He remembers the dance of the dragons. He remembers dying. He woke up in this strange world where his whole family is begging for his attention and will kill in his name. Viserys tried to name him Heir to the throne but Aegon refused, it is Rhaenyras birthright and he would not take that from her.

[aesteries]

⋆✴︎˚。⋆ ─ ❝sweetling❞ ─ aemond targaryen and original female character. ❝alicent hightower's youngest daughter, haera targaryen, has returned to king's landing after eight long years in old town and aemond finds himself inexplicably drawn to the girl kissed by the moon and with the eyes that seem to only look at him.❞

how could i not love eyes that see me in all my forms as beautiful?

〔incest, innocence and fantasies, fluff and romance, smut, virginity, events of blood and cheese, family rivalry, disabled main character, hints of book!aemond, modified show!timeline and events.〕

words: 6.6k series' masterlist.

                 CHAPTER 2. 

Court affairs often put him to sleep, hours of incessant complaints and requests from worthless high-born lords and ladies who wanted more than they deserved, but not today. What was unfolding before his healthy eye was just too gripping to ignore, and for once, he thanked the gods that he did not fake an illness to miss the spectacle. His half-sister, Rhaenyra, had been bold enough to bring her illegitimate children to the Red Keep to stake their claim on Driftmark. She was demanding to recognise her second son’s legitimacy, placing him as his apparent father’s heir, amidst opposition from Vaemond Velaryon, who argues that the title belonged to him instead. Many lords in the room nodded in secret agreement with Vaemond's reasonable demand, yet Rhaenyra refused to back down, her determination palpable.

The sudden boom of the throne room doors echoed throughout the chamber as they parted, a loud announcement of the King’s arrival snapping everyone back to reality. Glancing to his side, he saw his siblings straightening up, eyes fixed on their father, King Viserys, as he struggled down the stairs with his body curved over himself. Haera, ever the dutiful daughter, had perked up at the mention of her father’s name, but her clouded vision refused to settle over the fragile man as he began his laboured progress toward the throne. 

“King Viserys of House Targaryen, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, and the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.”

The room sank into silence, a deafening sound as all eyes focused on the King's pathetic frame. The status of his health was known, but to witness his decay was a shock to everyone, and even the unflappable Otto Hightower had concern etched all over his face, though it did not seem quite genuine as he scrambled out of the throne he had been keeping warm. The air was heavy with tension as the King's slow, agonising approach to the throne seemed to take an eternity, pain burning up his skin with every step.

He trudged up the steps toward the Iron Throne, pridefully waving off the guards' offers of assistance as he stumbled, his legs trembling beneath him. In his struggle and exhaustion, the crown that dangerously balanced over his balding head slipped and fell to the granite floor with a shattering clank of metal. Aemond’s eye locked on the back of his uncle’s head as the man was the only one to act, guiding his older brother on the final few steps and placing the crown on his head. 

“I do not understand,” King Viserys’s voice was frail, breathless as he spoke, “why petitions are being heard over a settled succession.”

The sight of the bastard-born boy, with his head of brown locks and the whiteness of his skin standing between the rich tones of the Velaryons, triggered a low laugh from the prince’s lips, earning a side glance from his mother. The air in the throne room was thick, an obvious buzz of energy flowing between the Targaryen royalty. 

“As a matter of fact, the Princess Rhaenyra has just informed me of her desire to marry her sons, Jace and Luke, to Lord Corly’s granddaughters, Baela and Rhaena.” Princess Rhaenys’s tone was firm and confident: “A proposal to which I heartily agree.”

Suddenly, as if he had finally heard something that interested him, King Viserys’ eyes snapped to attention, rising on his seat as if the weight of his crown had been redistributed to him with full health. The left side of his face, that side that was uncovered by the mask, twisted into a smile of cracked lips. “Very well…” His voice filled the space with anticipation, his tired eyes darting around the faces of his family. "However, I have a say in the matter of the betrothal of my grandson, Prince Lucerys.”

Aemond’s gaze drifted to his half-sister, who was already watching them with an air of confidence, a smirk on her lips with a subtle challenge. Her piercing glare seemed to dare him, to provoke him, to let him know that she knew something that he did not. His stomach twisted into knots, and he suddenly felt the ghost of a noose around his neck.

"I believe in the continued union of our families, those with the blood of Old Valyria," the king declared, his voice echoing through the hall. "And therefore, I have decided to unite my youngest daughter, Princess Haera Targaryen, to Prince Lucerys of House Velaryon, the rightful heir to Driftmark, the Driftwood Throne, and the future Lord of the Tides."

The young prince’s world was shattered, like that night when he claimed Vhagar, the remnants of untouched innocence finally scattering over the floor for everyone to see. His despair must have been that obvious, as Aegon’s worries were evident when he turned to glance at him. Aemond remained statue-still, his gaze fixed on the back of Haera's head as she stood rigidly, flanked by Helaena and their mother. Alicent's grip on the young girl's wrist was like a vice, a desperate attempt to prevent them from tearing her away, her knuckles white with tension.

Aemond’s heartbreak was soon replaced by a raging fire, like Vhagar’s fire, that consumed his every thought as his eye daggered Lucerys Velaryon, who in return dared to challenge him with a subtle nod. Any outburst in the King’s presence would be suicidal, his wrath barely contained as his hand lingered on the hilt of his sword. He was all too familiar with the King's blind devotion to Rhaenyra and her brood, and he knew his powerlessness against it. Perhaps he could take her and rescue her from the toxicity of the court, where her innocence was being sullied by the very presence of the Strong bastards. He recalled the day Lucerys had slashed him, the resentment still festering like an open wound. In this moment, Aemond felt trapped, forced to endure the insolence of his nemesis.

It was only when gentle warmth had wrapped around his fingers that he was brought back to the present from his deadly fantasies. He looked down to find Haera’s tearful eyes welling up with crystal tears, her mind consumed by her future. The quivering of her lips fed the fire in the pit of his stomach. She was likely aware of the implications of their union, of the dark legacy they would pass on to their children, a heritage shrouded in deceit and tainted by the lies that had defined their past. She was meant to clean Lucery’s dirtied Valyrian blood with their union.

Time stopped for them as they gazed into each other’s eyes, the gentle flutter of her white eyelashes betraying the warmth of her adoration. He knew, deep down, that he and she were meant to be; it transcended tradition. It was fate; it was the will of the gods—they made her just for him, everything that he was not. Even if she were to stand before the altar, before that naive boy to exchange vows, Aemond was resolute; he would set things right. His sweetling would not be made to suffer for the mistakes of others. He would move heaven and earth to ensure her freedom from the shackles of injustice, no matter the cost.

A sudden scream cut their moment short.

Aemond’s mind was reeling, struggling to comprehend just what was unfolding before him as the two of them snapped out of their trance that had drowned out the inheritance hearing. Daemon Targaryen’s sword sliced through the air with a swift swing, decapitating Vaemond Velaryon with a deadly motion. In the aftermath of the violence, as the body began to spill over the floor, Haera instinctively wrapped her arms around his middle for protection. He enveloped her tightly, his hand on the back of her head as he held her close to his chest. The feeling of her slender frame pressed against him and his arms cradling her felt surprisingly natural, out of a dream. It was a gesture that brought a sense of calm to the chaos surrounding them; it grounded them, a fleeting moment of solace in the face of Daemon's ferocity.

His heart was racing as he clutched her. It was where she belonged: sheltered in his embrace, secured in his grasp, shielded by his unwavering protection. The half-sister’s eyes were fixed on the pair, intense with the fire of the dragon, her mind reeling with the plan she had put in place. A brother consumed by his passion and a sister who reciprocated those feelings, now a forbidden romance. She felt the danger in the pit of her stomach, not for her claim to the throne but for the future of her second-born son. Persuading her father to accept the match had been easy, serving the young prince an opportunity on a silver platter. Lucerys saw the two Targaryens lost in their own world, and he saw a challenge. 

The air was heavy with tension, thick with the weight of forbidden love and the ominous foreshadowing of strife to come.

The day after the disastrous inheritance hearing, the sun cast a gentle glow on the beautiful gardens of the Red Keep, its rays illuminating the many flowers that adorned the greenery. As she strolled through, a soft breeze caressed her face and tangled her hair, pulling the strands from the intricate braids her ladies had crafted. Yet she was overwhelmed by anxiety and a sense of unease that had settled in her stomach. The company, she was convinced, was to blame for her discomfort. Her mother’s encouragement still echoed fresh in her mind, and she would not let her down even if she had missed the worry behind the Queen’s forced smile.

Lucerys Velaryon had appeared outside the Queen’s chambers; his arm extended in invitation as a way to formally begin courting his promised princess. The young man possessed an unusual charm, an air of innocence one moment, and a sharp tongue the next. Within mere minutes of their stroll, he had dropped too many complaints for her comfort, criticising the alterations to the Red Keep, the gardens, and even the maids’ outfits. The food, as well, was apparently not to his liking, and she found herself on edge, bracing for the next critique to tumble from his lips.

Lucerys droned on about the dragonpit or something about dragons, but her mind had drifted to some of the times she had taken strolls around the garden. Aemond cherished their shared moments. He never complained, never interrupted her, and listened to her. She recalled how he would gently hold her hand over the cracked stones, ensuring she didn't trip and fall. He'd pluck flowers from the nearby bushes, presenting them to her so she could marvel at their beauty up close. In those quiet moments, Aemond always reminded her that she possessed a beauty that rivalled the flowers, making her feel treasured and unique.

As she stood beside her betrothed, Lucerys, her eyes widened in stark realization. Her thoughts strayed back to Aemond as if her mind were trying to escape the present.

The one-eyed prince lingered in the darkness, fixed on every step they took. The torches cast long shadows over him, clouding him from their sight and helping him blend into the darkness with his black leather. His mother had attempted to stop him, claiming that it was for her own good, but he refused to abandon her, especially since she was to be alone with that bastard and Gods knew what he could be capable of. She looked radiant, shining like jewels even under the weak sunlight, clad in an exquisite silk dress with delicate lace patterns. Her beauty, so pure, made his heart ache with jealousy, seeing how her beauty was being wasted on Lucerys when it should be reserved for him alone.

“I was wondering,” Lucerys’ voice finally directed at her shook her from her thoughts. “How come you do not ride your dragon?”

Her brows furrowed, initially confused at his question but realising he had no idea about the tragedy that had befallen her hatchling, Brightfyre, during childhood. The memory of that painful day was still so fresh in her mind, even if she had been too young. It was like an open wound that would never heal, and his question had rubbed salt over it. "My dragon passed away when it was just a hatchling," she explained, her voice laced with a hint of sadness.

As she spoke, Lucerys's face lost its colour, his features contorting into a grimace. "The dragon keepers believed it was due to a malformation during incubation. According to the maesters, I wouldn't have been able to ride for long even if Brightfyre had survived anyways, as my sight would have continued to deteriorate with age.”

She missed the expression, her gaze fixed on the ground as she continued her walk, her footsteps steady and deliberate. Behind her, Lucerys had to consciously relax his facial muscles, shaking off the tension that had built up. Aemond, ever the observer, caught the subtle movement and raised an eyebrow, his eyes darting between the young couple as they strolled through the castle grounds.

“I’m relieved,” she confessed, her tone a stark contrast to the sorrow that had taken over her voice moments ago. “It gives me a sense of freedom, not being bound to one of them... being different from the rest of my family, to make a name for myself and not through my dragon.”

Lucerys's incredulity was palpable as he struggled to comprehend her words. "But you're a Targaryen," he protested, his voice laced with disbelief. "The blood of dragonlords from Old Valyria runs through your veins. Having dragons is the greatest symbol of our power and strength." He couldn't imagine a life without a dragon; it was unthinkable, especially for a Targaryen and for someone like him. Memories of his childhood came flooding back like an aggressive tide of the times he and the others had mercilessly teased Aemond for not having a dragon, only for him to claim the largest one alive. Lucerys swallowed hard, the memory still a bitter pill to swallow, especially when he thought of the Aemond of today.

She halted, her footsteps suddenly heavy on the stone floor, and turned back to him with an unreadable expression etched on her face. "I do not believe that," she said, her voice laced with conviction. "To me, we are more than the blood of dragons.”

Lucerys's response was immediate and firm. "Blood is everything.”

Her eyes, a light shade of purple that no other Targaryen shared, narrowed, and a spark of defiance flashed within them, lighting up like a flame. It was a glint Lucerys had never seen before—a darker, more intense, suffocating as she stepped closer, her shoulders squaring and her chin tilting upward. Lucerys felt a jolt of surprise. The gentle girl he had been introduced to had transformed before his very eyes into someone else. The corner of her lip curled into a faint, mischievous smirk, and for a fleeting moment, Lucerys could have sworn Aemond's spirit had possessed her, imbuing her with his audacity.

Her voice, usually so sweet and feathery, was laced with sarcasm that sent icy cold shivers down Lucery’s spine as she spoke. “Is that so, my prince?” Her tone dripped with irony. “Is your blood that..." Her eyes wandered over his form, her tilted head making it seem that she was speaking down on him. “Strong… that it defines who you are and determines your worth?” The emphasis on the word "strong" was a subtle challenge, a dare to Lucerys to defend his stance.

Aemond smiled to himself, filled to the brim with a sense of satisfaction as he observed the confrontation from his corner, her voice clear as she landed her verbal blow. He couldn't help but feel proud of her, amused by this feisty side of hers that she had never shown. Despite likely dying inside from the weight of her words, she had stood up to Lucerys, refusing to back down. Aemond knew she would learn to defend herself, and their nephew wouldn't easily intimidate her.

Lucerys's face flushed with anger, his ears burning as he understood the hidden message in her words, her intention to offend him clear as day. His nails dug deep into his palms to the point they almost drew blood, a desperate attempt to restrain himself from lashing out and from raising his hand to teach her a lesson about disrespect. He had to find a way to bend her to his will, and despite her venomous words, she had a rather fragile nature, and he was sure that a few swift blows would be enough to shatter her spirit.

“Anything the matter, nephew?” Aemond’s velvety voice halted the conversation between the young prince and princess, as he had made his way out of the darkness and into the light, having decided that they had spent too long together. His voice dripped with superiority, his shoulders tight as he looked down at the boy. 

They turned to face him, eyes wide as they fixed on the intimidating figure with hands clasped behind his back and a smile that froze the prince in place, a smile that seemed to revel in the power it held over others. Lucerys' skin broke out in goosebumps as the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. In stark contrast, Haera’s body reacted differently the moment his calming presence washed over her; tense muscles relaxed, breathing slowed, and calmness took over her.

Lucerys, on the other hand, stumbled over his words, his voice trembling as he tried to find an excuse for their conversation that had taken a disgusting turn, eyes darting towards Haera, who seemed to be the only one immune to Aemond's intimidating aura. The prince's courage, once bold enough to consider striking his future wife, now shrank to the size of a timid rat, cowering in the face of Aemond's dominance.

Aemond turned to address his younger sister, his eye intense with adoration that seemed to suck up all the air around them, to the point Lucerys felt bitter jealousy like a kid watching someone else play with his toy. He could not lose this silent competition over Haera; she was his to claim, announced in front of everyone.

"Our mother has requested your presence," Aemond said, his voice low and husky, like the rustling of leaves in an autumn breeze. "Shall I escort you to her chambers?" He extended his arm, inviting her to take it.

And Haera smiled, the sight so beautiful that it would inspire the finest painters for their masterpieces. She placed her hand on his arm, touching gently and lovingly, and he pulled her away from Lucerys to seethe in silence. As they walked away, Haera's eyes sneakily shifted back to look at the dark-haired prince through a blurred gaze, sparkling like diamonds in candlelight, their secret message clear as day: she knew the game they played, and she would not be swayed. Aemond was the one she wanted, and he was who she was going to get.

The entire family gathered in the grand dining room after the darkness of the night took over the once clear sky, forced out of their chambers to avoid each other since Rhaenyra’s kin arrived. Even the melodic notes of the music could not fill the space between the strained relationships or clear the thick tension of the room as they sat around the table. 

The two sides of the family sat awkwardly in silence until the arrival of the King, carried in by his guards in an ornate chair that allowed him to move with ease. As he was placed in the centre of the gathering, between both sides of the family, Aemond's gaze darted to the far end of the table, where Haera had reluctantly taken her seat beside Lucerys. It had been their mother’s idea, her sullen expression telling him all he needed to know as her pouting lips and folded arms screamed defiance.

The king spoke, his wheezing voice piercing the air, the frail state of his body evident even as he rested in a seated position. He welcomed his heir and her family with genuine warmth between laboured breaths. Aemond’s mind wandered, tuning out the king as he spoke of the importance of family unity. But, as the king began to congratulate the newly formed alliances, he snapped back to the conversation. His stomach churned with disgust as their father praised Lucerys and Haera, his jaw clenched in frustration. He wasn't alone in his sentiment; Aegon, too, seemed put off by the king's flowery words, his eyes fixed on some point beyond the gathering.

Aegon couldn’t contain himself for much longer, pent-up frustration and anger simmering like a pot about to boil. His eyes darted around the room, meeting Haera’s as he looked at the faces of his family. Though her vision was blurry, she could make out the wink he sent her way, tilting his head towards the young prince beside him. 

“Well done, Jace. You’ll finally get to lie with a woman.” He was a master at pushing his buttons. He took great pleasure in witnessing his reactions, his face reddening with each carefully crafted comment that would leave him fuming and frustrated, like a shaky vial of Wildfire ready to explode. “You do know how the act is done, I assume... like, where to put your cock.”

“Let it be, cousin.” Baela did her best to manage the situation before the two boys escalated it. 

However, Aegon continued; this time he addressed her instead, "I... regret the disappointment you are soon to suffer.” The young man gave her a pitiful look; the drunken joke was clear in his amethyst eyes: “But if you ever wish to know what it is to be well satisfied, all you have to do is ask.”

Everyone was jolted out of their casual chatter as Jace’s fist thundered down on the wooden table, the sound like a crack of lightning, and all eyes darted to the source to find him springing up from his seat. He gave Aegon’s shoulder a tight, almost brutal squeeze but then gave a playful punch to his arm. He then strode around the table with heavy footsteps and offered his hand to Aegon’s sister-wife, Helaena. 

There was a sudden spike in tension, as if there was room for any more, as Jace boldly trespassed into forbidden territory. The King, in agony, remained oblivious to the rift between the members of the royal family, his sentimental gaze fixed on the unfolding drama until his frail health betrayed him, forcing him to be escorted back to his chambers for a dose of much-needed medicine.

The servants emerged from the kitchen with steaming plates of food, momentarily easing the bubbling tension that set over the family, calming their sharp glares at each other. During the bustle, one kind-hearted servant, unaware of the significance of her actions, placed the largest, most impressive plate in front of Aemond—a massive, glistening pig', its beady eyes staring up at him like a haunting spectre from his tormented childhood.

Lucerys did not miss the way Aemond’s gaze shifted momentarily, and he let out a snort, his own dark eyes shining with mockery.

As the room fell silent, Aemond's hand came crashing down on the table to get their attention, the sound echoing through the chambers like a challenge. He rose from his seat with his cup in his hand, holding it up to toast. Everyone turned to face him, their hands tightening around their cups of wine as if bracing for an impact that would rival Vhagar’s powerful landing, eyes fixed on the one-eyed prince as his voice boomed through the hall, "Final tribute."

“To the health of my nephews: Jace, Luke, and Joffrey. 

Each of them handsome, 

wise, 

strong. 

Come! 

Let us drain our cups to these three... strong... boys.”

The fragile vial of wildfire shattered, releasing the fury of the young princes as they jumped to their feet, determined to defend their honour, no matter who witnessed it. Jace moved wildly at Aemond, landing a blow to his face, who barely staggered backwards. Meanwhile, Aegon shoved Lucerys headfirst into an empty plate. The guards hesitated, taking a second too long to intervene and separate the boys, allowing the drama to unfold as the frantic mothers rushed onto the scene, their worried cries piercing the air.

Aemond's voice resonated through the air as Haera rushed towards the group that formed, her grip on her mother's shoulders tight with concern. Her older brothers stood before her, their faces tense with anger but their bodies relaxed. Jace's swift punch had left its mark after all—a small gash on the corner of Aemond's lip, a dark bruise starting to spread over his skin. "I was merely expressing how proud I am of my family, Mother," Aemond said, his words dripping with sarcasm as he gazed at Haera. The real insult, however, lay in his next sentence: "Though it seems my nephews aren't quite as proud of theirs, an unlikely match for my sister."

The family was dismissed, and each of them was sent away to enjoy their dinners in each of their chambers. 

The flickering flame in front of Aemond captivated him, his gaze fixed on the gentle rhythm of the dancing fire. Time had passed since the tumultuous events of dinner, and he had yet to return to his chambers, finding himself in Haera’s safe library instead as he tried to ease the disgust that still lingered in his stomach. He waited for a long time to make sure everyone had returned to their chambers for sleep to avoid having anyone see him visit his beloved in her chambers.

But before he could act, the creaking of old hinges shattered the silence, and his eye darted instinctively to the source, finding no other than his girl, Haera, seemingly coming to fetch him. His heart immediately picked up the pace at the angelic sight. 

Her cloud-like hair was elegantly pulled up by a soft braid, and her slender body was delicately wrapped in the rich velvet she was accustomed to wearing to bed. Only a thin, embroidered coat rested over her shoulders, tied at the front of her chest with a delicate silk cord, covering her modestly yet radiating an aura of luxury.

The gentle smile he always saved for her tugged on his lips, the book he had been holding slipping from his hands and forgotten in the excitement of her arrival. "Haera," he whispered, his voice full of affection, as he welcomed her. The young princess sighed in relief, the tension in her shoulders finally released. Her soft eyes caressed the contours of his familiar face. "I was looking for you, brother," she said, her voice tinged with worry. Why did you leave your chambers?” The words hung in the air as if she had been searching for him everywhere, her heart heavy with anticipation.

“I needed some time to myself.” He muttered, his eyes fixed on the floor as she approached him, stopping only in front of the chair where he sat with an air of exhaustion. Now that she had moved closer, she could see the purplish bruise on the corner of his lips more clearly in his swirl of colours, and something shifted in her stomach, stirring of concern. He was leaning back on the backrest, his legs splayed out before him, signalling a sense of comfort. His coat, discarded on the floor next to him, and the leather jacket, unbuttoned and open, revealed his plain cotton undershirt. She had never seen him in such a vulnerable state, somehow so at peace after the fiery argument he had sparked with their family, like a stormy sky clearing.

Aemond noticed how her eyes travelled over his figure, absorbing every detail, and his hand motioned for her to get closer to him to take a step into his quiet world. He would have gladly slid over to allow her some space next to him and enjoy the warmth of her company. Still, she might have interpreted it differently, as she lifted herself over the cushion to sit sideways on his lap instead, her movement sudden and fluid, taking place over him as she had always belonged there.

Somehow, courage had taken over her, building from the adrenaline of dinner; if her brothers were capable of such, she was as well. Haera had promised herself that her secret would remain locked away, especially now that she was a betrothed woman, yet witnessing Aemond’s distress over the impending union with Lucerys Velaryon and the impassioned speech he delivered at dinner had ignited a fire within her. A dormant aspect of her character had awakened, a part she never knew existed. This newfound sensation felt distinct, like the first crackle of autumn leaves. It felt exhilarating and empowering. With deliberate intent, she had taken over his lap, her legs dangling off his side, her side pressed flush against his chest, and her hands settled upon his shoulders, claiming him as her own.

Aemond’s vision blurred, everything around him dissolving into nothingness as his mind came to comprehend what was happening—her gentle pressure against him. The scent of her sweet skin, a blend of flowers, enveloped him, making his senses reel. She flushed a deep crimson, her bold facade crumbling beneath a wave of embarrassment, her cheeks burning. His hands trembled with longing, hovering above her hips as if touching her would shatter her and make her disappear forever. "Sweet girl," his voice was low and husky, his throat parched as the desert. "What are you doing?" The words were barely above a whisper, a struggling sound, as if speaking too loudly would banish the moment's magic.

She responded with silence, her unsteady gaze on him, eyes narrowing to clear her vision. The proximity served them like her magnifying glass, bringing him into sharp focus. She was drawn to the subtle curve of his eyebrows, the slight crook of his nose, and the sharp cut of his chin. Her eyes lingered on the corner of his lips, where the faint imprint of the punch had turned into a delicate purple bruise, barely staining his skin. Without thinking, she reached up, her fingertips lightly tracing its edge. The gentle touch sent a shiver through Aemond's body, and he sucked in a breath, caught off guard by the sudden intimacy of the gesture.

She had touched him before, gentle and hesitating as she searched for his hand, arm, or shoulder to rest her head on, but that was not with the same intensity or intimacy as now. Her touch was a spark, setting his body aflame, a drive that propelled him forward with a motivation that came from the desire to be worthy of her. 

Haera’s skin felt strange, her body shifting from hot to cold and back to hot again while his hands finally came to rest on her waist, his slender fingers digging softly into the thin material of her nightgown. The voices in her head took to a contradictory choir, some screaming at her to feel more of him and the other trying to force her away, but a side was stronger and yearned to feel every inch of him, to be consumed by his presence, and for him to realise she would forever be his. The marriage to another man was nothing for her. She would forever be bound to him in her heart, and no contract or agreement could change that.

Her curiosity got the better of her, and she leaned forward, her lips brushing against the corner of his mouth in a hesitant, gentle touch. It would be her first kiss if she had pressed herself fully over his, and her inexperience in the intimacy of her touch was too evident in the way she just pushed against his skin, unsure of how to proceed. The gesture was so sweet and innocent, yet it almost sent him over the edge with a surge of heat, causing his desire to wrestle with his sense of restraint. His mind was a battleground, torn between the purity of her intention and the depravity of his own desires, as he felt the softness of her lips tantalisingly close to the spot where he wanted her to be, to devour her.

But Aemond was a gentleman; he cared for her feelings, so he refused to push her into anything she was not ready for and instead let her take the lead, allowing her to explore and discover the sensations at her own pace. 

Haera pulled back with wide, innocent eyes that sparkled with the surprise of the burning sensation on her lips, covering them with her hands as the tingling was left behind. She looked unsatisfied, her curiosity still burning bright, but she didn't know how to ask the questions she wanted to. So she tried again, her lips finally pressing squarely over his in a chaste, exploratory kiss before pulling back to gauge his reaction. She repeated this once, twice, and three times as she peppered kisses over his lips, each time pulling back to look at him with her beautiful eyes.

He realised she was testing him, watching how he responded to her touch. Aemond smiled, his grip on her waist tightening to hold her in place. “Go ahead.” He muttered, a voice reserved just for her. "You can keep going." The words were an invitation, a permission to explore, and he could sense her hesitation dissipating as she leaned in again, her lips a whisper away from his.

The next time they touched, he leaned in to meet her halfway, brushing against hers with a guiding touch to encourage her to follow his lead and discover the warmth of a real kiss, one between lovers. She immediately mirrored his movements with the soft, tender pressure when his lips danced across hers. As she tilted her head, the kiss slowly gained intensity, and she felt herself becoming lost in the sensation, the heat taking over her lower body as her desire for him grew. Despite her initial uncertainty with him, she felt an innate knowing, as if she had been kissing him all her life.

The kiss deepened, and she felt herself melting into him as the flame grew within her, body moulding to his and pressing heavily against his thighs underneath her legs. Aemond's hand cradled the back of her head, taking control of the kiss, his passion for her growing with every passing moment. His hunger was palpable, and she felt herself responding, drawn to him like a winged insect to a funeral pyre, the world around them fading into insignificance.

His tongue darted out to press itself against her lips, a gentle invitation that she accepted with boldness, granting him entrance to her mouth. He slid inside, his hot muscle caressing hers tenderly as the kiss escalated from their tongues intertwining, sending shivers down their spines as they set into a passionate rhythm with their kiss. At first, her body had stiffened, unfamiliar with the sensation, but he persisted, his gentle prodding wearing down her defences. Soon, she found herself melting into the embrace, her senses surrendering to the intensity of the moment. It was as if her entire being had been submerged in a cauldron of molten lava.

The world around her began to fade, leaving only the two of them, lost in the vortex of their passion. The air was heavy, alive with the promise of what could be, and she felt herself getting swept away by the sheer force of his desire. The kiss was no longer just a meeting of lips but a fusion of bodies that left her gasping for air yet craving more. She started to feel the overwhelming pressure of release, and her body began to sway over him, seeking for something. 

Aemond's senses grew heightened as the darkness within him began to unfurl, a dragon awakening from a deep slumber. With each deliberate roll of her hips, the danger escalated, threatening to engulf him. The thoughts swirling in his mind were primal, raw, and completely consumed by the proximity of her body to his. She had surrendered completely to him, pressing her small form against him on the worn couch, her arms wrapped tightly over his shoulders. The light of the room seemed to fade into nothing as Aemond's focus narrowed to the rhythmic movement of her hips as she began to squirm over him, the gentle pressure of her body, and the sweet curve of her neck as his hands began to travel over her body, feeling her form under his rough palms. 

His mind wandered, consumed by the forbidden thought: could he claim her innocence? The notion sent a searing flame through his gut, fuelled by the knowledge that she was promised to another for political alliances, someone devoid of honour and talent. Another would never cherish her like he could, never adore her like he would. Aemond, a man of substance, could provide her with everything her heart desired. He would mount Vhagar, his majestic dragon, and fetch the moon itself if that's what she yearned for.

Yet he resisted the temptation to take her on that chair, despite the alluring sight of her sitting over him, her barely covered body pressing against him, unknowingly seeking pleasure as she rocked herself over him. She merited more than a fleeting passion; she deserved to be cherished and worshipped. The chair limited him to mere sensations—the feel of her skin, the rhythm of her movements, the sweetness of her taste. He needed to be patient to witness the moment she discovered true pleasure for the first time.

Perhaps if he were her first—the first to touch her, to feel her, to take her maidenhead—he would leave an indelible mark on her soul. She would remember him forever, even on her wedding night and the following nights. Even without the most intimate of touches, she had awakened a deep longing within him that he couldn't ignore. He yearned to be the one to ignite the flames of true pleasure within her and to hear her soft, velvety voice whisper his name in rapturous surrender. The thought of another person claiming the right to shatter her, to push her to the limits, and to witness her stunning features twisted in ecstasy was unbearable. She would see him, not some other man, in her mind's eye. Maybe she would gaze upon her firstborn child and imagine what a child with him would look like—a Valyrian offspring with snow-white hair and piercing purple eyes. The thought tormented him, a sweet temptation that echoed through his being.

He refused to let the beast win—that beast that wanted to break her innocence over a pathetic chair, as tempting as she was in her sheer gown. Instead, he encircled her waist with his arms and drew her nearer, their lips parting with the most lustful sound as they pulled apart to breathe, a translucent string of saliva still connecting their mouths. She let herself fall over him, her head resting on his shoulder as she struggled to catch her breath. The love he harboured for her was a tidal wave, threatening to engulf him at any moment, but having her close and feeling her warmth and weight in his embrace was a balm to his troubled mind. It was as if the world, with all its cares and worries, receded, leaving only the two of them, lost in the silence of their own private universe.

Nothing could prepare them for what would come next.

ᡣ𐭩 ─ author's note ;

i HATE this chapter lol. i feel like it's so much of the show content that i didn't really play around with more stuff, but at least i added an alone moment with lucerys and finally a moment with aemond at the end, to help spice things a little bit before that inevitable chapter where everything goes to shit.

as i think i have said before, this is not a story that will continue with the show or books, so after chapter three there will only be two more chapters remaining and i'm planning for the last one to be almost no-plot smut, since that is what this series was originally. i have added the posibilities to little "spin-offs" one shots in the masterlist and if everything goes right i will go through with them but after i'm done posting other content.

i apologize for any mistakes in grammar or something, i did not have much time for editing but i'm hoping that it gets better by the next chapters! i'm definitely trying to pull my big guns for the last two chapters for sure.

a big question; should i cover blood & cheese completely, or let it be something that happens in the background and is not written down? it will happen, and it will be referenced, i just don't know if i want to write it all going down.

chapter two; Sunday 10th. ╰⪼ thank you for reading!

[lovelykhaleesiii]

Can I put this in as a request? 🤭

omg omg omg I imagined this too!!! how hot would it be fucking him on the way to his coronation in that little ass carriage + that bumpy road ughh. the thots I had during that scene, UNHOLY!

Merciless or Ruthless?

PAIRING: Aegon ii Targaryen x Wife!fem!Reader

WORDS: 2,019.

WARNINGS: degradation kink, name-calling, praise kink, breeding/pregnancy kink, brief mentions of implied pregnancy, mentions of p in v sexual intercourse, slight exhibitionism, swearing.

A/N - I may have gotten slightly carried away with this. but he deserves it <3 hope you enjoy lovely x

The inevitability of death could be a comforting notion of peace to some, and yet marks a heavy burden of loss, sorrow and responsibility on others. King Viserys, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhonyar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, or more commonly dotted as Viserys the Peaceful, had passed peacefully in his sleep.

His death was one that many held their breaths anticipating in the final previous months, considering the haste deterioration of the king's ill health. Nonetheless, during these months of anticipation, whispers of preparation had begun to churn behind the back of the sickly King, plans to anoint his eldest son, your dearly beloved husband, Aegon the Second of His Name, as King of the Realm.

Regardless of such talks, Aegon remained blissfully oblivious to it all. Relishing in the banquets and spoils of royalty, he remained keen and satisfied as Prince, and from time to time, expressed the notion of respecting his elder half-sister, Rhaenyra, as the rightful Queen.

It was only with you, that Aegon openly delved deeper into his reluctance of being adorned as King, expressing a distaste for the role and the heavy burden.

"I have no wish to rule...Only to wine, dine and fuck you senseless and raw, till you are practically dripping of me."

As his faithful and devoted wife, you ultimately respected and supported his well wishes. No desire to dissuade him further, despite the conniving tactics employed by his mother and grandsire, who often urged you to encourage him to seek and accept the duty of the Crown. You denied their efforts, remaining stagnant to Aegon's choice.

That was until Viserys' death began to ignite a ripple of chaos...

"A-Aeg... You've been distant all morning. Talk to me, my love."

You had awoken beside Aegon that morning, although he was not the same... His last few pending hours as Prince, before his looming coronation, was he to be anointed as King. Having quarrelled tirelessly against his grandsire, mother and liege council, he was outnumbered and ultimately defeated... More so, it was after his discrete one on one talk with Ser Criston, that seemed to shove Aegon into accepting his fate, without even so uttering a rebuttal.

"I am not fit to rule, Y/N... Everyone knows it, I know it. This is going to be a disaster, and Nyra, I-"

He pauses as his breath hitches in his throat, gulping as he composes himself, his lilac eyes swell, glistening in the streaks of sunlight, yet no tears fallen: his lounged body swayed in motion to the rocking carriage.

"-I know what is expected of me, but I doubt myself."

"Aeg- It is just nerves, my dear. We'll take it step by step, day by day, I promise-"

Reaching out, your arm stretches over as you lean towards your Targaryen husband. Your gentle hand firmly holding his, as your thumb caresses his pale skin. The colour in his face has faded, except for the dark circles embedded beneath his lower lash line. Despite your encouraging words, and half-hearted smile, you earned a simple shrug and huff, as Aegon continued to longingly look onwards towards the bustling crowds gathering and trodding towards the Hill of Rhaenys.

"Please Aeg- Is there anything I can do in my power, my love? I cannot bear to see you in such a miserable state for longer."

Silence remained still for a few sparing seconds, before Aegon's tiresome eyes sparked with a familiar yearn. Flickering from your seated position towards your entwined hands, taking a deep breath before he dared to speak.

"Do me the honour, of fucking me one last time as a Prince. Do it for me, as a gift to your King."

You could not deny, nor did your body try to hide it, you were taken aback in shock by his demand.

"Right now? Here? Aeg- Can this not wait for after the coronation, mayhaps back in bed-"

"Please, Y/N... Unorthodox I know, but when have we not been? It would really help to calm my nerves, baby. If I could just feel you, let me be with you. You always know how to make me feel better."

Exhaling a defeated sigh, you lean back, pulling aside a curtain shading a small window through the carriage, and see there is still much a way ahead, along with all the disrupting foot traffic.

Carefully standing up as you felt your stance unsteady attempting to pull up the rich, silk layers of your custom gown up. The cobbled road beneath the wheeled carriage strewed with potholes and uneven surfaces, made it near impossible to stand still. Immediately your hand instinctively reaches, latching and gripping onto Aegon's sturdy shoulder, as he remains comfortably seated. His arm reaches over to you, supporting your waist, as your other hand grips onto his forearm, as you nestle yourself atop his wide lap, as he slightly readjusts himself.

"Is this what you wanted, hmm? Want your pretty, little wife's cunt on your cock to make you feel better? You are worse than the whores out there-" You head tilts gesturing towards the Street of Silk in passing by, often where your young husband would venture during his bachelor days. Your fingers begin to find their way to his tussled, short hair, pulling at his platinum strands. Although he was dressed and prepped dutifully this morning, it still looked somewhat unkempt. You pursue his soft lips, eager as you delve in for a kiss, Aegon succumbing to it, trying desperately to hold for as long as possible, before you break apart, both of you breathless.

His familiar taste tinged with the essence of wine lingering, etched on your lips as you savour it, your focus remaining solely on one another. Each of your hands remain gripped to his shoulders, your body weight atop of Aegon's kept him steady during the rocky ride, as you swayed in motion. The haste, harsh turns made you grind against your husband's clothed lap: sensing a brewing, hungry twitch growing more blatant beneath your bare, throbbing cunt.

"I can feel you stirring, handsome... Such a needy Prince today, aren't you? Gods help me, when you are crowned King. I shall be at your beckon call day and night," You breathlessly utter closely into the elder Prince's ear. Aegon's rough hands firmly clutched at your hips, guiding your natural movements, as you buck backwards and forwards against his larger frame. The friction was palpable, as the heat infused between your inner thighs over his crotch.

"That you will be. I'll have you bent and fucked stupid over that fucking throne when I want... The only perks I shall relish in as King. Keeping you safe and sated," Aegon lowly whispered, an almost fearsome growl echoed in his throat.

"Is that so? Ugh- I must say, dear husband... To see you crowned and seated almighty on that throne, ordering us subjects below you. I might just faint at the sheer sight."

A snarling chuckle escaped his plump lips, as his hands glided over towards your front, pulling the hem further up, exposing your undergarments. Without so much as a warning, and with such swift strength, Aegon tore the piece of fabric apart.

"Just the thing I needed to cheer me up, and look at you--"

Aegon's thick digits teasing at your arousal, gently encircling your entrance as he attempted to pry you open, before hungrily licking your sweet taste off his fingers.

"Already making such a wet mess, who exactly is the whore now? I've barely touched you, and your body desperately craves for my cock, huh?"

"Mhmm-" You whimper, as Aegon elevated himself, unbuttoning his clean trousers, his stiff cock lively springing into action.

"Tell your King exactly what you want, baby... Tell your King and I shall listen. Mayhaps I will be merciful and grant you what you desire, or be ruthless."

His hard, strained cock, red and glistening enticingly with his pre-cum oozing at the tip, appeared aching for release. Teasingly stroking at the entrance of your moist folds, feeling its pulsating throbs against the sensitive skin of your cunt, was enough to send you into overdrive.

As you instinctively lifted yourself up slightly off of Aegon's lap, readying yourself to plop yourself back down, Aegon's grip over your waist, held you steady and preserved.

"Not yet, baby... Use your words. I need to hear it from you first. Can't just let you roam around and do as you please now. You think you get some sort of special treatment?"

"A-Aeg, please-" You had mindlessly moaned: the rugged motions of the carriage persisted, the unsteadiness plunging you back down against Aegon's lap, as you nestled for support. His cock thrashed against your velvet folds, earning a sly smirk on his behalf and a helpless moan from yourself.

"Words, princess."

"Y-Your cock, my King. I-I want you to f-fuck me rough and hard, till I'm nice and round with heirs for m-my King."

"Fuck. That's it, baby-" Satisfied, Aegon's hands effortlessly lifted you once more momentarily, before having you plunge down over his cock. Its wide, intimidating girth was a sensation you could never quite adjust to, naturally stretching your silky walls, clenching tightly over his thudding cock.

"Let me fuck my heir into you now, and let it be known that you carry the offspring of the King. These tits will swell ample with milk for the babe and for I-" He breathlessly growls, as his lips softly suckle at your cleavage, his hands once more ventured, fingers pulling at your corset fabric, before roughly pulling apart the seams: busting your breasts more open, enough to shed any last remaining source of modesty.

"-These hips will grow wide to carry and birth a whole damn litter. This precious stomach, may the Gods be good, will swell greatly in the moons to come. Fuck me, you will be such a heavenly Queen."

Aegon's frame now moving against the uphill, rocky drive naturally his cock followed his motions delved deep inside of you, striking at your cervix. Whimpering moans of pleasure and pain, coaxed in your voice chiselled through the carriage, layered with Aegon's heavy breathing.

"You w-will be s-such a good King, such a g-good father, as you have been an honourable husband. P-Putting my needs first."

"S-Say more, precious-" Aegon sternly proclaimed, his tone growling louder, as his large hands had subtly snaked their way towards your backside, rough palms [tarnished from training] kneading at your plush flesh.

"You are the rightful King. I devote my entire being, my entire existence to you, Aeg. Forever bound to you, I am at your disposal. Love me, ch-cherish me...F-Fuck me."

With all the swaying, harsh motions from the carriage itself alongside the sensual love-making, Aegon's cock released all the tension from the anticipation, the buildup from your touch, that he desperately needed. Reaching his ultimate peak, in return spoiling you with a climatic apex.

The moments that followed timely, had forever changed the course of history itself...

Aegon had been crowned and accepted by the realm as King. And as he spoke like a true, honest ruler, the Gods saw fit as they did anointing your husband, and you began to swell healthily with child in the months that followed. It was widely known however, that the conception of the King's soon to be heir, was poetically the day its father was crowned.

"As tense as we all were for Aegon, it seemed you two were rather ugh- eager for the coronation... If the Gods blessed the Queen with child now, then we shall be thankful for the holy plans of the Seven," Alicent, the Dowager Queen, had reminisced over the intimate family dinner that night.

Regardless, it took time for Aegon to grow accustomed to the heavy burden and responsibility of having to rule Seven Kingdoms. And yet he did so willingly, so long as you had remained dutifully by his side. That, he forever was eternally thankful for.

general taglist [bold means I could NOT tag you] - @evenstaris @bel-bottoms @fan-goddess @malfoytargaryen @hightowhxre @bibli0thecary @m1ndbrand @connorsui @elegantsplendour @randomdragonfires @sylasthegrim @arcielee @s-we-e-t-t-ea @sahvlren @aemondtargaryensrider @watercolorskyy @hypnos-daughter-certified

Aegon ii taglist - @who-told-you-this-was-butter @f4ll-for-you @amiraisgoingthruit @bucknastysbabe @jawline-of-steel

credit for dividers - @/firefly-graphics

[mccoyquialisms]

Incredible things from the london D20 live show in no particular order (straight from memory so may not be totally accurate or have much context at all):

First of all the line up was incredible. Kugrash, Pete, Sundry Sydney, Skip, Fabian and Adaine. What a terrible combination of personalities, it was so funny

Btw everyone looked so good. They looked really good, those fits <3. Murph striped button up/polo? shirt and Lou grandpa sweater you will always be famous

When Siobhan rolled Adaine everyone was so excited. Lou (who had already rolled for Fabian) hugged her, picked her up and spun her around on stage ❤️

Everyone was so excited to have a buddy ❤️

The setting was rolled as a crown of candy, after Brennan literally said “wow we happened to have a few people from the same place, wouldn’t it be hilarious if we got a crown of candy or neverafter or something?”

Everyone arrives and are doing introductions and the first thing Fabian says is “[tearfully] Adaine is that a giant rat?” Cue the whole atrium losing it.

Sydney then proceeds to minor illusion Kugrash as “sexy.” After some deliberation and when prompted by Brennan, Murph decided this means he looks exactly the same except for giant veneers

Beardsley: Can I distract the guard?

Brennan [flabbergasted, as the rest of the party was doing INSANE shit around this]: Sure, the DC is 500.

Beardsley: If I crit will you let it happen

Brennan [indulgently]: sure

Beardsley: [rolls a nat 20]

Brennan: [despair], cast: [running around in circles on stage and jumping], fans: [losing it]

And that’s how they accidentally start a revolt in Candia within minutes of arrival by Pete the Chosen Outsider with the peppermint tooth and prophesied king of candia. But it’s cool because in the next few minutes Kugrash teaches them about democracy.

So many little references to past campaigns and character one liners. Way too many for me to list but the cast was clearly enjoying dropping them

Sundry Sydney hitting King Calroy with 3 grenades ON SIGHT

A Hasted Kugrash doing an opposed athletics against Calroy and Brennan rolls a Nat 1. The dice wanted that motherfucker DEAD.

Kugrash to Calroy: “I eat from the trash, and I’ve never seen a cake as shitty as you!’ And then proceeds to 300-style kick him off the castle wall (as acted out by human man Murph)

Sooo much PVP though really most of that was between Pete and Fabian as they fought over the crown of candia

Sundry Sydney successfully seduced and awakens personhood in Adaine’s identify spell. His name is ANUS now. (Another use…)

Skip is quangled out and replaced by Lapin (played by Zac) and tries to keep the party on track. He fails many times. He takes up smoking from the stress. Adaine does as well.

At some point Pete’s wild magic turns his hands into rock candy, which he uses to deal 2d20 damage to Fabian during a fight

Emily as Sydney, whenever crazy shit happens: this is canon! [raises cannon arm]

All of them (except Pete) have some bad baby milk and do kublacaine. Cue a small detour for more pvp between Pete and Fabian

Arthur Aguefort is released from captivity in a castle full of/made from eggs. He and Lapin may or may not know each other biblically. They met on an app for old magical men, don’t worry about it.

Bill Seacaster is the pirate prince of the dairy lands and has the quangle. They get into his castle with Operation Fancy Perfume Part 2 except Emily rolled a nat 1 for her assist, so first poisonous perfume takes out most of the party and everyone inside the castle. I think Emily may have been crying she was laughing so hard.

They sort of defeat Bill by giving him pleasure putty (which he USES behind a curtain in front of EVERYONE) and then has to go take a nap, so they sneak into the rest of the castle to find the quangle. I am never going to forgive Brennan for making it canon that he goes “yar har har YO HO HO” when he gets off. I WILL NEVER UNHEAR THIS.

Pete Conlan somehow gains the power of flight from Bambi LeRoux (Sydney brought her) singing the Reading Rainbow theme song. He does a flying ribbon dance out the window, where she stops singing and he falls and takes max fall damage. He’s still up, so Fabian jumps out the window with Feather Fall and shoots him with a laser gun until he actually dies lmao. He gets injured too somehow but I forgot how. They both get healed and everyone continues on like nothing happened.

Emily took her dice that rolled a Nat 1, kissed it, and threw it into audience with a cheeky expression. I’m in love with her I fear

The time quangle is an entire pool of lemon yogurt. At the bottom of the pool is a completely naked Gilear Faeth

Kugrash eats all the yogurt despite knowing it will kill him in order to end the quangle. His farewell speech has as a backdrop Gilear’s giant hog (played by Brennan’s arm, as he got out of his chair to stand behind Murph the ENTIRE time he was talking). Kugrash then ascends to the big bodega in the sky.

Sydney also seduces Annabelle Cheddar (EDIT: fuck it was like 12 AM forgive me) Primsy Coldbottle, who is explicitly 29 in this version of time. Both her and Anus join Sydney in returning to AnarchEra. I cannot emphasize enough how horny this live show was

Everyone gets sent back to their respective universes, except Arthur. He’s going to hang out in Candia for a bit to be Lapin’s “roommate.”

Fabian’s last line is that he has to call his banker because he has a new nemesis

Lapin: “That was the worst group of people I have ever met.”

God that was so funny, I really hope these live shows are getting recorded and will be released somewhere later. I need everyone to experience the epic highs and lows of this d20 session.