#the relentless dowager

[londonfalling]

My girl needed new kicks after becoming a monster hunter (as if I need an excuse to put her in more outfits) THEREFORE-

[londonfalling]

What she would say : if you were to ask the Lady Grey about her sexual tastes, you would get either one of two answers.

A sound slap to the face and an offended “How dare you, that is a private matter”

No answer but her blushing and storming off with a stammered excuse; the second, of course, if she’s fond of you.

What the writer says:  Lady Grey, more like Lady Gay

I’ll be putting it in today’s 21st century terms for clarity! (Also under the cut because I have so many thoughts)

Sexuality: Repressed  Bisexual

TLDR, she views her own sexuality as something to be hidden and expressed only in private, mostly for safety and social standing reasons.

She’s attracted to men, sure, but the type of man she enjoys-or enjoyed past tense- disreputable, some flavour of queer himself, doesn’t fit the mould of what society requires a Good Woman to feel for a Good Man. So whatever relationship she may have with men is haunted by the shitty ghost of compulsory heteronormativity and Victorian social mores, which requires her to squeeze herself into a gender role she despises. 

(There’s also a whole other discussion to be had about the role of women in aristocracy versus in the working class, but this isn’t an academic paper XD)

As far as women and GNC folks are concerned, she has been loosening up a bit since the Neath is far more accepting. She does have some experience from her previous life on the surface, when she was still a youngster unknown to polite society, but that part of her got very heavily pushed down when she got married- again, for safety and social standing. Still, with her more recent experiences (wink wink) she’s starting to move past her (quite literally) austere attitude.

Fun fact- her type across genders, more often than not, is some form of Tall and Dashing.

Romantic identity: Alloromantic

Despite her stoic appearance, she’s the type of woman that wears her heart on her sleeve whether she wants to or not. She’s easily wooed by gestures of honesty and kindness, and endlessly flustered by this fact about herself.

Gender: cis woman

Again, I’d like to write a whole academic paper on Victorian attitudes to gender and women’s role in society BUT suffice to say Deirdre doesn’t really question her gender, but rather the presentation of it. I’ve said before that, if left to her own devices long enough and/or in a future setting, she’d start leaning towards more androgynous/masculine clothing. She’s gonna get to it, eventually :P

happy pride month!

question: how would you (their writer) describe your character's gender + sexual + romantic identity, and how would the character themselves describe it? fallen london is pretty welcoming of queer people, although their vocabulary for it is naturally very different from modern day

[dolicekiss]

Silver Sobs

PAIRING: Aemond Targaryen X Sister!reader

CONTENT WARNING: incestous relationships (obviously) noncon, dubious con (?), somnophilia, smut (18+, mdni), dark aemond, unprotected sex, breeding, nipple play, forced kissing, threats, coercion, praise, obsessed and sick aemond, display of possessiveness, hair pulling, biting.

SYNOPSIS: After the terrifying battle which took place at Rook’s Rest, Aemond’s lust for power had still not subsided despite burning his own brother, the king of Westeros. He arrives at King’s Landing with one thing in mind; to claim everything that belongs to his brother which included — you, his sweet dear sister. The Queen.

Restless and relentless, you paced around the floor of your chambers. Finger nails scratching the skin around them, drawing blood from beneath the stripped flesh.

War was blooming, like a dangerous grey cloud above your heads with the prominent promise of a storm. Panic was everywhere, as well as despair. Multiple soldiers had died, leaving behind their families to fend for themselves, the King had fallen.

And amongst all that, you could only possibly worry for the well being of your only child, Jaehaera. After what had befallen your innocent babe, you had completely disconnected from everything.

Under the name of war, you suffered. You witnessed the atrocities committed by Rhaenyra’s men and your mind had become a void — as you found yourself sinking deeper and deeper into it. Images and reality merging together. Both a foreign concept.

There was no one there for you.

Everyone enamoured with the idea of winning the war, playing their parts, desperate to stay alive. You were all but a pawn, a machine to produce heirs. You knew they didn't even consider you a proper Queen.

The smallfolk and even your own mother, Dowager Queen as well as your brother, Aemond.

Yet you did not care.

You wished to be left alone, pay no mind to such things. Break free from the uneasy restraints of danger and war. Form peace, relish in it. Is all you wanted.

You were not blessed with the courage to go pay your badly injured husband a visit, choosing to nip and scratch at your own skin was a much better and comforting option.

Losing your babe made you realize none of this was worth it. Not a single person in Westeros could end the brewing war and you'd left everyone to fend for themselves — just as they had abandoned you.

Darkness fell over Westeros and meanwhile your maidens were preparing you for bed, Aemond on the other hand battled obscene thoughts and needs at such a dark hour.

Aemond drowned himself in wine yet it had no affect on him. Instead he found himself wondering about staking a claim over everything that belonged to his brother. He got the throne, when he didn't even wish for it and he got you — the sister that Aemond himself wanted.

From when you both were only children, little kids, Aemond had thought of marrying his older sister. Only a year younger, he was. Hoping he'd be the one who's children you'd carry, watching your stomach swell up with his babes and be his wife but even that was snatched right away from him in the name of serving the realm.

His childhood snatched — face left deformed and disabled, a laughing stock that he'd become for his older brother. The drunken fool who had no right to even linger around such a prestigious throne, made only for strong willed men and warriors to take a seat on.

Aegon was no warrior.

He was foolish, an embarrassment and an utter disappointment.

Incapable of pronouncing a word properly in high valyrian.

And he surely did not deserve to have such a sweet little bird such as yourself by his side.

He finished his wine in one gulp and slammed the glass down, aggressively against the wooden table. Criston Cole was nowhere to be seen and Aemond made up his mind to ravage you, to claim you like he had already desired to from the beginning of time.

His steps were stable and strong, booming through the halls of the red keep. Each step only brought him closer to your chambers, driving himself quickly up the stairs which lead to your chambers.

He was relieved to find no guards guardian you and scoffed, realizing how little and less important you were to the Hightowers.

Aemond’s hands moved to push past the doors and there you were, sound asleep in your bed. Your daughter asleep in a cradle a little far away from your bed. He closed the heavy doors and sauntered towards the bed, standing at its foot.

He had consumed wine but he was not drunk at all. Matter of fact, Aemond was as sober as the day he was born.

Your silk robe concealed the plush of your creamy breasts as they rose up and down in soft little attempts to inhale air, one arm laid leisurely over your stomach while the other somewhere concealed within your silver, sparkling hair.

Aemond felt his cock harden in his leather slacks, his sword still attached to his hip. Reaching for it, he undid it and placed it over a table across and then moved his body to continue admiring your body, the vulnerability you showcased had him frozen on the spot.

The lecherous act he was heading to engage in would surely leave you in disarray too but Aemond was too far gone to even care anymore.

He'd arrived to claim what was rightfully his.

He walked to the side of the bed, hands reaching out to remove the blanket from your frail figure. Then his hands pried open the robe, revealing your kirtle. It scarcely did anything to veil your dignity and Aemond shuddered.

His hands, his war causing hands, sinful hands, moved covetously over your body. Fingers digging into your neckline to pull it down, watching with his one good eye as your breasts spilled out. The cold air forced your pebbles into peaks and Aemond nearly lost all restraint.

Large hand cupping your left breast, a callous thumb flicked your nipple and your already parted lips released a short lived gasp. He was pleased with the soft sound, as subtle as it was.

Aemond sat next to you on the empty space, slithering his tongue over his plump lips. Your breaths were soft, the only sound echoing in the expanse of your room, cutting through the silence like butter. His own breath hitched in his throat, upon witnessing the disarray you were in.

Hair like rippled waves of the narrow sea, body loose and comfortable. Aemond leaned in, shrinking the space between the two of you, to analyze your features. He'd never gotten the chance to do, you'd never allow him. You were anything but an immoral woman who'd give herself to him on a silver platter.

You were the Queen.

Aemond knew he'd be reprimanded for even being in your room, staring at you up close like this. He had unraveled you like some gift, like a present and he wished to do so much more.

Your beautifully long lashes coated the apples of your cheeks and Aemond, with a gloved hand, reached to swipe the thick strand of hair away from your cheek. Just by touching you, despite having leather separate his skin from becoming one with yours, he was already thanking the Gods for blessing him with you.

Aemond slowly slipped his gloves off, resting them on the table next to the bed. He fully slipped into bed next to you, face buried in the crook of your neck and bare hands slithering to fondle with your beautiful, plump breasts.

Soft flesh with hardened nipples.

A soft breath from his lips ghosted over your nape, his hips pushing into your hip in dire need for physical affection. Aemond had slept with whores, he'd fucked them but for the first time in his life he wanted to lay with a woman to satiate his hopelessness for affection.

Something he never received from his mother, Alicent and Rhaenyra always managed to overshadow him.

He let out a guttural moan, pushing his hips more into you and when you shifted in your sleep — back turned to him, Aemond fucking lost it. You had exposed your perfect curves to him, how your ass was shaped and how your side dipped in, giving you the shape of a goddess.

In your state of unconsciousness, you had presented yourself to him like a feast.

Aemond’s actions grew haste. Hands reaching from behind to grope your tits much more roughly, hips stuttering into you from behind and his cock leaked from the amount of pleasure the depravity of this endeavor brought him.

His breath grew quicker, heavier and your sleep was soon disturbed. As you fluttered your eyes opened, revealing the purple hues, your sleepy brain finally acknowledged your surroundings and the cold, callous hands fondling you from behind.

You gasped, giving away hint of your consciousness and before you could even scream, Aemond had already wrapped a palm over your mouth.

“Sh, sh. It's me, Aemond.” As if that would make things much better for you, but this revelation only worked to make things harder for you.

Your eyes widening in horror and when you tried to shift, a feeble attempt to slip out of his tight grasp, you realized the severity of the situation. Aemond’s hard manhood was pressed up right between your ass. Your brother's and it left you completely astonished. Your flight or fight response being triggered.

You tried to say something but only muffled words paired with broken sobs tore managed to make through the little space between Aemond’s slim fingers clasped tightly over your lips. Your vision blurred as you tried to focus on the cradle in which your daughter laid, asleep and in peace.

Aemond had glued himself to you. “I've missed you, dear sister. I miss our childhood, I miss what we had. Remnants of our childhood always haunts me.”

You almost felt bad. Guilt ridden because somewhere, deep down, you were aware of the feelings your brother harbored for you. The two of you would even go as far as behaving as you were already betrothed to each other when younglings.

You moved past it, accepted your loveless marriage with the care less drunken brother of yours. You succumbed to your targaryen traditions, roles and duties bestowed upon you by the Gods but it appeared that Aemond decided to fight that Gods.

He chose to go against destiny and the traditions.

“I will remove my hand and you shall keep your honor and dignity intact, Dear sister.” You nodded in desperation and Aemond with great reluctance peeled his hand off your face, causing you to inhale a sharp breath.

You registered the situation you were in. Breasts spilled out, hair pushed aside with Aemond buried in your nape. Seeking solace that he never found in his mother's embrace and you swallowed. Tears streamed down, soaking into the cushions.

“This is wrong.” You whispered, hoping that you don't awaken the dragon in him. “Immoral, Aemond. I am your sister, the Queen. I carried His Grace’s heirs. You cannot do this.”

Your tone was fearsome and Aemond’s irritation grew when you faced him with the facts. He knew about this already and he did not care, not in the slightest. His arm which had wrapped around your waist, tightened, a warning to tread carefully.

“His Grace is also your brother, our brother, so what is so immoral about us engaging in such..” Aemond couldn't call it debauchery, because he didn't see it exactly as that. He saw it as something more, something pure beyond anyone's understanding. “acts.”

You tried to shift, to face him and when you did, Aemond was already staring back at you, his patch still over his disabled eye.

Surely with more persuasion he would leave your chambers and you could pretend that none of this happened but unfortunately for you, there was no God, no sept or no traditions that could change his mind.

“Aemond, I'm his lady wife. I'm merely your sister. Please try to understan—”

Aemond nearly growled. “Do not remind me over and over again that he – a drunkard, an idiot – managed to put his heirs in you when you were supposed to carry mine! You were mine, do you hear me? It is about time I get what is rightfully mine, what was taken from me.”

Before you could say more, Aemond closed the space between you two and captured your lips in a rough kiss. One with which you could not keep up — small fists banging at his chest, in tethered hope that he might have a change of heart and dissipate from your presence.

Your husband was fighting for his life, meanwhile you were laying nearly bare in front of your brother.

You felt bile rise up in your throat but you had no other option than to swallow it back down as Aemond’s passionate lip lock grew more restless and haste. Using up all your strength in an endeavor to push him, yet there was no retribution. He carried on with his sick intentions.

His hands moved down to grab a handful of both your tits, his lips swallowing your little whines and pleas. His rutting which had stalled, continued again as he pushed his hardened cock into your mound.

“A-Aemond.. ” You tried to reason, still.

His hands worked their way around your breasts, flicking your hardened peaks repeatedly and your body twitched. You did not wish to accept it but this was the most pleasure you'd felt in your whole life.

Warming your husband’s bed was only to fulfill his desires, his needs and wants. You were solely a doll, a lifeless being who only existed for Aegon to have his pleasures with. You always wondered how your own mother could subject you to such cruelty, such monstrosity.

To lay awake at night and welcome your husband, whom you do not wish to even breath the same air as, with open arms.

Aemond’s potent tongue pried your lips open and you let it happen, not possessing any more of courage. His tongue danced with yours, a reminiscent of the dragons that danced above Rooks’s Rest. He panted like a wild beast, and you followed.

Dire need to consume you warred with his ache for you and Aemond soon tore away from you but continued flicking your swollen buds. He stared at you, eye dark and rapacious.

Your cheeks were flushed and the rays of moonlight illuminated the beads of sweat on your forehead. Aemond was lost in you, drunk off a single kiss and he simply could not wait to have more of you.

“You have grown into such a beautiful woman, Sister.” Aemond praised, pinching both your hardened pebbles simultaneously and you cried out a wail. “But before me I still see my older sister, nuha byka hunte.”

You flinched at the name.

He addressed you as his little bird in high valyrian when you were kids and then he stopped, after witnessing your wedding to his brother. In all honesty, you longed to be called that and Aemond had finally responded to that longing of yours, unknowingly.

Aemond’s hands fell, fingers tucking underneath the edge of your silk robe as he tugged at it. You didn't allow it — still fighting back as you stayed still. He didn't like that one bit. The Targaryen man pressed his forehead against yours, warm breath lingering like a looming threat.

“You will let it happen.” He commanded, rendering you speechless. Chills dancing across your frail frame at the sheer dominance in his voice. Just when did your little Aemond grow up into a masculine and domineering man?

You shook your head, staring at him with a plea. “Stop ‘tis for I am the Queen, I am your Queen and I demand you to stop.”

Aemond tugged at the dress, bunching it up past your thighs. “I wish you were my Queen but instead those fucking cunts had you warming up my brother’s bed like some common whore.”

The overwhelming urge to cry took over and you sobbed, banging your fists against Aemond’s chest. It didn't seem to affect him much but it did rile him up how you fought to accept him but most probably allowed his brother in — gave yourself up to him in the name of duty and sacrifice.

“I'm not a whore!” You wailed, punching him over and over again. To flee from the upcoming acceptance of your situation but Aemond reprimanded you. He forbade you and greeted you in the form of your queasy truth.

Aemond grabbed both your wrists, glaring at you. “Yet he treats you as one. You're even below that for him. I have seen him show kindness he's never shown you, to a fucking whore. Not the mother of his children, not his queen, but a whore for some coin.”

The reality Aemond was making you face was slowly poisoning you from the inside. You couldn't even hit him anymore as your wrists had been restrained. Your demeanor fell and Aemond took notice, his fingers unclasping from around your small wrists.

He saw how you cried.

Softly, each tear falling as your pale pillow awaited to absorb your pain.

“But I would treat you differently. If it had been me, I would have cherished you like the only woman in the seven kingdoms and beyond that.” He whispered to you with yearning obvious in his voice.

Aemond managed to slip the petticoat off your body and revealed you to him — in all your glory. Skin bare and glistening from sweat. Each curve delicious and crafted by the seven Gods themselves. You were the embodiment of pure targaryen beauty, some even going as far as claiming you to be the most beautiful targaryen woman.

You tried to reach for the blanket, to cover the shredded pieces of your dignity but Aemond hurried to refrain you from doing so.

He grabbed both your wrists, slamming your back down on the bed and pinning you against the mattress. His body hovering over yours, knee bent and settled between your thighs. Your chest heaved, and tits bounced from the force of harsh pants.

Aemond’s knee pried open your thighs rather forcefully, pressing his knee against your cunt. His vile action had earned a whimper of discomfort and embarrassment out of you, your whole being resenting the throbbing sensation spreading in your core as it flourished.

“Tonight I shall have you and cherish you like you deserve, like I should have.” Aemond whispered, tone grave. “If you choose to stay adamant and resilient, I cannot promise you humility, nuha byka hunte.”

Your lips formed into a pout, tear ducts sore from all the droplets you'd shed. “A-Aemond please, don't. If you do this, everything will change.”

Aemond scoffed at your naivety. “Everything has changed, Sister. Brother is injured, I'm prince regent and you're going to carry my children.”

You shook your head, pushing at his slim frame but that only resulted in Aemond’s hand drowning in your silver, pale locks. A malicious grip tugging at the roots, a fiery sensation blooming.

“They will be bastards.” A lone tear slid down.

Aemond’s lips broke in a sadistic smirk. “And? The pretender can have bastards, not even remotely close to her late husband’s features but I can't have bastards with you?”

He licked his lips, his pointy, sharp nose caressing against your own. “Our children will look like true born Targaryens. They will have our purple eyes and silver hair.”

There was no point.

You were defeated.

Aemond saw you accept defeat and he smiled in victory, his other letting go off your hair and moving to grab yours. He pulled it to the strings of his leather slacks and encouraged you to undo them.

You shook your head and that angered Aemond.

How adamant could you be?

“I will shove my cock into your cunt one way or another and I will make sure my seed takes root inside you.” The vulgarity of his words made you sob, your hands trembling as you began to undo his strings. Pulling each one from the knots and finally loosening the leather enough for him to slide out of it.

Aemond was pleased and soon, he was naked too.

Leather pieces thrown over to the side along with his eye patch too.

When your gaze captured the sparkling sapphire in the void of his left eye, you were left appalled.

He had never ever shown you what was behind that eye patch. Even after you begged him to, he grew cold and pushed you away but now you had begun to realize it was probably because of the announcement of your betrothal to Aegon.

His silky strands were in a tedious contrast to your wavy, thick ones.

Lingering eyes caught the awakened cock between his legs and horror flashed in your widened eyes. He was blessed by the Gods, that was for sure and no wonder your brother was this famous amongst the ladies. He had the equipment to satisfy them.

You gulped, nervousness donning your face.

“I slept with other woman so I could become better for you. Incompetence and lack of experience would surely ruin this time, don't you think so, sweet Sister?” Aemond spoke, as his hand dropped from your knee to your center.

You flinched every time he caressed your skin and your abdomen twitched with absolute need. You failed to fathom where all this rush and need was birthing from — how the disgust lingered but along it roamed a feeling of desire which had erupted in the form of essence from your hole.

Aemond ran his slim, tenacious fingers over the stripe of your cunt, gathering the arousal you produced. “Your little cunt is very wet, Sister. Disobedience, wails and pounding at my chest. Is this all merely an act, to veil your sickly desires beneath?”

Your breath broke and humiliation draped itself around you like an invisible blanket. Your small hand reached over to deliver a tight slap to your brother's face, but it barely caused an impact. All you left was a red hand print on his face.

Aemond looked at you, head tilted and fire born in his eye.

You had awakened the dragon.

“Your actions tell me you have no desire to be treated with respect. So be it then.”

Your low chances of rebuttal were revoked as he slid two fingers at once into your opening, going to the point until he was knuckles deep inside your squelching cunt. You sobbed hopelessly, hands trying to push at him but none of it worked.

Your resistance only boosted his ego, his god complex. He had all the power over you, despite you being the Queen. How fucking pathetic and cruel life had been to you but Aemond was here. He was here to save you, and in order to do that, he had to claim you first.

You pushed inside you, caressing your cervix and your gummy walls clasped around his fingers. Your nails dug into his shoulder to cause him pain but that was a failed attempt as Aemond’s cock hardened even more — if that were possible — when he felt the prickling feeling on his shoulder.

The pain inflicted only heightened his arousal.

“A-Aemond, please.” Your cries were the least bit of his concerns, as he curved his fingers up and managed to hit that sweet concealed spot of yours.

Your back arched, lifting up from the mattress, hands bunching up the sheets in them. Writhing your hips, Aemond used his other hand to strike you down — a stinging sensation blossoming on your thigh. You suckled on your lower lip, to stifle your sounds. Jaehaera waking up could possibly ruin everything.

“The Queen’s cunt is truly worth becoming a kingslayer for. Look at how tightly you squeeze around my fingers, Sister.” He whispered, staring at you. You caught the shimmering of the sapphire and sniffled, your cheeks and nose a crimson color.

Death was much better than this humiliation at the hands of your own brother — one you used to see as your protector when you were a little girl.

“H-Have shame. Your sister.” You managed to whimper out and Aemond groaned in annoyance, retrieving his fingers from your cunt.

Your hole gaped as you whined at the loss of contact. He laid next to you, flipping you so your back was facing him. Aemond kicked your thighs open with his shins and pressed his red leaking cock head over your clit, moving it in soft little circles. The burial of your face in your pillows made you realize just how unbearable all this was.

“Do not turn away from me.” Aemond’s voice had a plea in it. “You allowed Aegon in, why is it so difficult to allow me in? I promise you, nuha byka hunte. You will never feel shame again, you will never be embarrassed by your husband again.”

His promises almost worked.

You found yourself wondering whether this was so bad. You'd slept with Aegon, in a much more brutal way, worse than Aemond. Usually he'd ignore you and your pleasure in his drunken state, only chasing after his own. Aemond made you feel good.

He actually cared enough to bring you pleasure.

You nodded your head with a soft sob. You wished things were better, that your betrothed was Aemond, not the other brother but things never turned out the way you wanted them to.

Aemond aligned his cock with your hole and sunk into you, face hidden in your nape as his naked body sought comfort in your presence, basking in it. His chin resting on the small cup of your shoulder, breath caressing the skin of your neck.

He was almost like a babe.

“Aemond.” You called out, feeling bad for what he was put through as a child. For what he had turned out to be.

Having your own children made you realize how easy it was to provide them with affection, so it was difficult for you to fathom why your own mother failed to show you and your brothers affection.

Aemond melted at the way you softly called out his name and his cock had fully sheathed inside your cunt, thighs pressed up against your ass. You'd become one and he was going to have you for himself now.

“Yes, my sweet sister?”

“It feels weird.” You spoke truthfully as you had never ever lay with a man in such a close and intimate position. Aemond figured what you were hinting at and he smiled, pressing a chaste kiss to your nape.

He moved his hips, stuttering inside you, grinding into your ass. Your sounds nearly woke up your daughter if it wasn't for Aemond’s hands slithering from behind, one groping your tits while the other silencing you.

“Quiet now. You don't wish to wake up your daughter, do you now?” You shook your head as he slowly rutted his cock inside you, pushing it deeper into that weak spot of yours and muffled sounds escaped your sealed lips.

Tears fell, and so did your dignity as your brother fucked himself into you with newfound vigor meant to swallow you whole.

Aemond lost his demeanor, his usually calm and nonchalant demeanor. Transforming into the sadistic monster that he was. He pulled his hand back from your swollen breasts and brought it to your hair, pulling it up rather harshly to expose more of your sweet skin.

A perfect spot. A clean canvas for him to paint his bloody streaks across.

He parted his lips open, baring his teeth and sinking the sharp canines into your skin. Being punctured with such severity, even his hand could not prevent the piercing scream that tore through your throat.

Your eyes squeezed shut as Aemond sunk his teeth. The searing pain of prickling bones a deadly contrast with the soft, sensual thrusts of his cock. A mess he had made you into and there was no escape from the lecherous bounds of your brother.

“I-It hurts. Aemond, it hurts!” You cried out, writhing against his body but his arm had locked you in place. Right against him.

The more you struggled, the more his long arm like a snake tightened around your stomach. He did not budge, not at all. Focused fully on the task at hand which was to leave a gut wrenching mark, as a testament to his claim over you.

When he was done suckling and drawing blood, he pulled back and hummed in satisfaction at the mark. A mix of reds, blues and purples. Such hues looked absolutely breathtaking on you. He pressed a soft kiss over the bruise, the two punctured hole and you shuddered.

Helplessness washed over you.

Your husband was hurt, in pain meanwhile you engaged in such debauchery with your brother.

Aemond snapped his hips, now ramming his cock into you. Pounding with potency and your body surged forward. He reached for your leg and pulled it up, holding it in air as he fucked you.

“P-Please. You're my broth–”

“Shut your damn hole.” Aemond snapped, patience wearing thin. “Keep saying I'm your brother but it only arouses me more.”

You gasped when you felt his cock head hit into that spongy bubble of sensitivity and Aemond scrunched his brows in over whelming pleasure. He had taken many maidens and whores but you were different – of course you were. A targaryen princess turned Queen, his own blood and flesh.

You ought to be different.

Aemond reveled in the feeling of your tight cunt pressing down on his cock, caressing every vein, soaking it in your juices. The sounds of his flesh colliding against yours enticed him in a way that he could not fathom. Like milk of the poppy, he wished to continue absorbing you.

His fingers rubbed your clit, the swollen bud twitching. All this pleasure, that you were so foreign to, it overwhelmed you. Thighs convulsing and abdomen building up knots, a warning of your upcoming orgasm.

“Brother, something’s happening. Aemond, please!” You wailed and he stared at your sweaty, flustered face.

Gods, had Aegon never once made you unravel?

How fucking pitiful.

Aemond grinned. “Yeah? You're going to make a mess, dear sister.”

Your stomach tightened and this unfamiliar feeling took over. Your eyes rolled to the back of your skull and your hands shifted hastily to find something, anything to grab a hold of as your body transcended to another realm. One visible to those who indulged themselves im such debauchery.

Aemond hissed. The sheer tightness of your cunt made him feel like he'll snap in half, his own groans and moans loud enough to reverberate through your chambers. He still continued to thrust, earning your climax out of you.

When you were done, Aemond raised himself and pulled his cock out of you. Relief washed over you but how naive were you, to assume he'd get dressed and leave without chasing after his own pleasure. Your eyes fluttered open and you found him right between your legs, kneeled.

“Are you not done?” Your voice was weary, soft and tired. Aemond chuckled at your innocence, both hands pulling your thighs apart.

His one good eye stared at your cunt, pink flesh glistening from your creamy arousal. He felt the urge to lean in and lick along the swollen stripe of your pussy but the throbbing of his cock made him cave in. He slipped inside you again, pulling both your legs up and balancing them on his shoulders.

Your lips released a gasp.

Aemond’s bestial and rapacious thrusts made you cry, muffled wails breaking apart. He stared at you as the sapphire glinted, his cock driving itself with fervor into your cunt, enjoying your sweet vice like grip.

Your shaky hands reached for his face, to cup it and Aemond leaned in your touch. Affectionate it was, his lips parted as he let out a broken breath, similar to how he felt on the inside. A broken boy and you felt horrible, like it was all your fault to begin with.

He had turned into a monster and it was all your fault.

“Your eye,” you whispered, his snaps coming to a halt. “its beautiful. You look so beautiful, Aemond.”

He admired you before snapping out of the trance and pounding into you. Aemond’s cock found comfort in your tight cunt and his release had grown closer to. You cried out, vision completely blurry and lips swollen, covered in drool.

“My beautiful sister.” He growled, pressing his pelvis against yours. “I shall fill you up, give you a child of mine. Your stomach will swell with our child. Your beautiful breasts will once again pump milk, this time for our babe.”

His palm laid flat on your stomach and you shook your head. You didn't want him to give you a child, as it would end badly for the both of you yet Aemond did not bother himself with traditions. He nuzzled his cock into you and with a loud groan, shot ropes after ropes into your walls.

Tainting your gummy flesh white. You sobbed as you felt the warm fluid fill up your stomach, your whole body suffering from prominent convulsions. Aemond’s cock bulged against your taut stomach, a fine print visible to you both.

When Aemond was done with his release, he pulled out and dropped on the bed right besides you. Body numb and throat parched from all the sounds you'd made, your gaze lingered across the room to find your daughter sound asleep.

Thank the Gods.

You turned to Aemond and found him already staring at you. His arm wrapped around you, refraining you from moving away from him as he nuzzled his neck into your neck. Aemond sniffed your scent, closing his eyes and relishing the sweetness of it. God, you were a dream come true for him.

“I will get rid of him soon.” Aemond whispered, hair mixing in with yours. “And then I will have you as my wife. Our child shall be conceived within the bounds of our marriage.”

[novaursa]

Fire's Legacy

- Summary: A few moons after he came for you, Maegor finally took you as his under eyes of the Old Gods of Valyria. And it didn't take long for you to find yourself with his child. Now it's the time to bring that innocent life into the world of fire and blood, and all you can do is pray it lives.

- Paring: niece!reader/Maegor I Targaryen

- Note: This short story follows the events of Fire and Blood.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Next part: bloodline

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

- A/N: Unplanned post.

The day began like any other in the Red Keep, the sun casting a dull haze over the court. You could feel the weight of your pregnancy pressing against your body, every step a reminder of the life you carried within you. The maesters had said it would still be weeks, but something inside told you otherwise. You sensed it in the way your belly tightened, the sharp twinges that had begun early in the morning.

It was Maegor’s presence that both comforted and unnerved you. He had been a dark storm ever since you were taken as his wife, fierce and relentless in his possession of you. His touch was often rough, claiming, but there were moments, brief as they were, where you saw something softer flicker in his eyes. But softness had no place in Maegor's world, not now, not when he held the Iron Throne in a grasp as unyielding as dragonsteel.

He was seated on the dais, the Blackfyre sword at his side, when the pains became unbearable. You could not stop the gasp that tore from your throat, sharp and urgent. Maegor’s head snapped toward you immediately, the room around you falling into a hush. His dark eyes narrowed in on you, assessing, as you pressed a hand to your belly.

“It is time,” you whispered, breathless, and the realization hit you both at once.

The maesters scrambled to their feet, rushing to assist you, but Maegor rose faster, his steps heavy and purposeful as he closed the distance between you. He dismissed the maesters with a growl, sweeping you into his arms. His grip was fierce, but there was an underlying protectiveness you had rarely seen in him before.

“Visenya,” Maegor barked, his voice carrying through the hall.

The queen dowager appeared as if summoned by the very gods themselves, her face calm but her eyes sharp. She had always been an imposing figure, her silent strength a constant presence in Maegor’s life. She regarded you with a knowing look as Maegor carried you toward your chambers, her hands deftly organizing the chaos around her.

Once inside the room, Maegor set you down carefully, though his hands lingered on your arms, his gaze intense. He didn’t say a word, but you could feel the command in his posture. You would survive this, for him, for the child you carried.

Visenya took charge with an efficiency that belied her age, directing the midwives and maesters with curt nods and gestures. Maegor, however, refused to leave your side. His hand found yours, gripping tightly as the labor began in earnest. He watched with a burning intensity as each contraction wracked your body, his jaw set as though he could command the pain to cease by sheer will alone.

Hours passed, the agony becoming nearly unbearable, but you could feel the moment drawing closer. Maegor's face never wavered, though you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes darkened with each scream that left your lips.

Then, suddenly, it happened. The first babe emerged, a healthy, wailing boy. The midwife handed the squirming child to Maegor, and for a moment, he simply stared, his face a mixture of disbelief and pride. His firstborn son.

“Your heir,” Visenya whispered, a rare softness in her voice as she looked upon the boy.

But before the moment could settle, another wave of pain crashed through you. The midwives rushed back into position, their hands working swiftly, and then, just as swiftly as the first, a second child came forth—a girl, strong and full of life.

“Twins,” one of the maesters muttered, astonished.

Maegor was silent, but the weight of the moment pressed down on the room. He held his son in one arm and, when the midwives offered, took his daughter in the other. His face, hard as stone and as fierce as the dragon he was, betrayed nothing at first. Then, slowly, a rare, dangerous smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

“Two,” he said, his voice low, reverberating with something primal. “Two strong babes.”

Visenya’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction as she looked between you and the twins. “It seems the gods favor you after all, Maegor,” she remarked, though there was a glint in her eye that spoke of more than just familial pride. She approached, inspecting the babes as if they were her own creations, her approval unspoken but seen.

You, exhausted beyond measure, watched through bleary eyes as Maegor gazed upon his children, the weight of what had happened finally settling over him. He turned his attention to you, his expression unreadable, but there was something new in his gaze—a fierce possessiveness, yes, but also a deeper, quieter pride.

“You have given me a dynasty,” he murmured, low enough for only you to hear. “You will be remembered as the mother of dragons.”

And in that moment, you knew—whatever fears you had before, whatever doubts—Maegor had truly claimed you, not just as his wife, but as the mother of his legacy. The realm might tremble under his rule, but here, in this room, Maegor Targaryen had found something he valued even more than power.

His family.

[latenighttalking00]

A Work of Art

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x Fem! Reader

Summary: You are a Marchioness from france and your mother is adamant that you wed. She is a very close friend of the Dowager Vicountess Bridgerton who has so generously agreed to be your sponsor for the season. Perhaps in doing this, she has unknowingly found her son's perfect match as well.

Warnings: slow-ish burn, friends to lovers, smut, 18+, minors dni, hair pulling, possessive/dirty talk, fingering, oral (f receiving). This is just porn with a plot.

Word Count: 2k

Author's Note: Hi! This is my first time writing, so apologies if it's a bit rough; English isn't my native language. Hopefully, you all absolutely drool over Benedict the same way I do. enjoy!

Once the social season had begun its approach, you and your family make haste on your return from france. Due to your newly given title, you are projected to be quite the diamond this season indeed.

As a close friend of the family, the Dowager Viscountess, Violet Bridgerton kindly offers to sponsor your debut this season, meaning that it is now of the utmost importance to arrive promptly at the Bridgerton home in London before the season is to begin.

As you sit in the drawing room, awaiting the next potential suitors you will inevitably send on their way, the clear and evident dread in your expression does not go unnoticed by your mother. A quick swat to your knee from her fan catches your attention, a visible look of warning on her face as your eyes meet hers.

"I do hope that attitude of yours is quick to dissipate." She sighs, "Men will find you quite inadequate to wed if you are to continue this ridiculous behavior. It is quite unladylike." Your mother's words cut right through you as if she had taken a hot paring knife to both of your ears. Not being able to withstand it any longer, you quickly stand from your seat and interrupt her.

"Mother, this gown and the line of men outside the door are quite suffocating enough; no need for your incessant nagging as well." You take a moment to pause, regaining your composure.

"I believe I am feeling quite faint; perhaps I've seen enough suitors today." You threaten rather than suggest, "I will return to my chambers and perhaps get a bit of rest seeing as the sun has already began it’s departure from the sky."

You bow and quickly excuse yourself before making haste out the door, walking as fast as your feet can take you, right past the men who are practically begging for just a minute of your attention.

You race directly to your bedroom, entering quickly and not even fully shutting the door before you are pulling down the zipper of your gown and letting it fall to the floor. "This retched thing must come off immediately," you mumble to yourself as you pull at the laces of your corset, loosening them just enough to slide off your body. A sigh of relief leaves your lips as you slip off your stays and slip on a beautiful white nightgown you purchased from one of the most talented modiste in france.

Shortly after the maids come to collect your gown, you are quick to wander down the halls in search of a cure to your relentless boredom. you find what appears to be an art studio and you are instantly overjoyed. you quietly sneak in through the door left ajar.

Art was your pride and joy; your sketches and the ability to produce beautiful works on canvas were the only things keeping you from becoming a mad woman.

Unbeknownst to you, Violet's second-eldest son and the owner of said art studio had just returned home from the gentleman's club. As he makes his way down the hall, prepared to return to his studio and peacefully finish up some things he started the night prior, he is met with complete and udder surprise at the sight of a woman flipping through his sketchbooks.

He feels as if the air has been knocked right from his lungs. Never once has a woman looked so real, raw, and simply ethereal to him in nothing but a simple yet elegant night gown, the pages in between your delicate fingers, the way in which you sit, your effortless and beautiful features, and the way they change and turn to show your focus, the true and utter intrigue at the charcoal etched on the paper is more than enough to bring a man directly to his knees.

He watches as you adjust your position, your nightgown sliding up your thighs as you cross a leg over the other. He feels as if he might faint.

“those are from my time traveling.” he points, making his way in to the room.

So lost in thought, you are quickly brought back by the sound of the deep and sultry voice coming from the hallway, it sends chills down your body, you are unable to fight the butterflies in your stomach and are completely unprepared for what you’re eyes are met with the second they dare to leave the pages in front of you. He is perhaps one of the most beautiful men you have ever seen, the way his features darken in the dim candle light could cause scandal merely on its own.

As he makes his way over to you, you scramble to find any sort of words to not appear as a complete and udder fool. “désolée, my Lord. All this beautiful artwork caught my eye and i could not help myself.” your voice only making his new found attraction grow even stronger.

“Benedict Bridgerton..” he says just loud enough for you to hear. He is quick to take your hand in his, pressing a gentle kiss to your knuckles.

“Miss y/n y/l/n” you respond, a blush creeps over your cheeks as your eyes meet his. Your name and accent are both very quick explanations as to why a very random beautiful woman was wondering in

his family home.

“Ah yes, the Marchioness from France. My mother has done quite a bit of boasting upon your arrival, i can now see why she was so keen on you being the diamond of this social season” he chuckled lightly “merci, Lord Bridgerton.” you offer him a warm smile as you place the sketch book in his hands.

Your hand grazes his and you feel as if your body is set aflame. You quickly fumble to stand, attempting to leave before any further scandal is to happen. he is quick to catch you by the arm, his light grasp more than enough to keep you in place.

“Please, stay as long as you’d like.” He offers, taking a step towards you, but you are quick to shake your head, knowing staying any longer may very well affect your title and rank during this very precious season.

“You are more than kind.” you place a hand over his and squeeze lightly. He leans even closer, your face mere inches from his. his scent fills your nose and you cannot control the heat that consumes your body, the sheer need you have for him in this very moment. “I must- i uh-..” he raises an eyebrow at your words. though his proximity fogs your brain, you attempt to compose yourself. “Perhaps i can show you some of my art in the duration of my stay here.“ he smirks, dragging his teeth over his bottom lip as he nods “if what you create is half as beautiful as you, my art will never hold a candle to yours.” he compliments.

Your breathe catches in your throat as his words. “..Benedict- Apologies, Lord Bridgerton..” you quickly correct yourself, the use of his first name not going unnoticed by him. “I’m sure both your and my Mother will have quite the earful if i am found in here, i must go.” Before he is even able to protest, you are gone.

As the days pass, You begin to consume his every waking thought, the sound of your voice, the feeling of your skin on his is burned in to his memory and he cannot shake his want for you.

Anthony is quick to notice his admiration, the wandering stares and close proximity immediately become apparent in Anthony’s eyes. As the family settles in the drawing room, Anthony is quick to pull His younger brother aside “You’ve grown quite close with Marchioness” Anthony offers his younger brother a warning glance and Benedict simply smirks in return “Brother, are you suggesting that i’ve compromised Miss y/l/n?” he laughs. Anthony in no way finds this amusing “See to it that your intentions are well thought out and you are thinking with your brain rather than something else. She is a Marchioness, toying with oversea affairs may be more than risky, even for a Bridgerton.” Anthony notes, the clear and evident weariness in his voice wipes the smile right off Benedict’s face

“Brother, do remind me. Did you not ask for one Sharma’s hand in marriage and then proceed to marry the other? You need not inform me on scandal for i am more than well aware of what i am doing.” he place a hand on Anthony shoulder and squeezes light before walking away.

time skip

Benedict does everything in his power to gain every fraction of your attention when it is available. The two of you spending more time together than any of the men attempting to court you. This new grown fondness blossoms quickly and Benedict soon becomes one of your most trusted friends. Spending late nights in his art studio, promenades in the garden, pall mall with his family. You’ve never felt more at home than with your dear Benedict and his lovely family. This fondness grows very quickly to something much stronger. Knowing Benedict’s stance on courting and marriage in general, you shake the thought. Knowing your dear friend will never see you as anything but.

While enjoying another late night in his studio, you can’t help but feel different. You both are well aware your time together is coming to end. Suitors begin growing impatient and proposals begin rolling in faster than the tide.

“I quite like Lord Lumley, he is handsome and he finds interest in poetry.” Benedict is quick to laugh “Lord Lumley is a dimwit after nothing but your title.” you wince at his words “Clearly he’s much more of a gentleman than you.” You tease, crossing your arms over your chest. “Excuse me?” he asks, the change in his tone sending heat right between your thighs. He rises from his place on the stool and saunters over to you, his large frame towering over yours.

“Repeat what you said.” he orders

“Ben i was merely kidding i-“ you stutter, his proximity making your skin feel as if it were on fire.

“Do not make me ask you again.” he warns, a smirk on his face

You are a bit taken a back by his demeanor but the insatiable desire in your body fills you with a sudden surge of confidence. “Lord Lumley is more of a gentleman than you, Lord Bridgerton.”

Benedict lets out a low chuckle before leaning down, his mouth right by your ear.

“Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps Lord Lumley isn’t plagued by the same un-gentleman like thoughts that fill my head the moment you step into a room.” he sighs, his breath on your skin only making matters worse.

Your hands find his half buttoned shirt and you press your hands lightly to his chest “Benedict.” you warn.

he pulls back just enough to meet your eyes with his own. Your noses practically grazing as he speaks. “Tell me now that you do not desire me.” His hands rest on either side of your face “Simply speak the words and i will respectfully withdraw and allow you to be with whomever you like but first you must tell me you do not desire me and you wish for me to leave you alone.”

“Ben.” You mumble quitely. Every feeling or emotion that the second eldest Bridgerton has ever caused immediately rises to the surface. At a complete loss for words, you do what you feel is right in the very moment and you bring your lips to his.

The kiss quickly fills with passion, weeks of hidden adoration and care comes bubbling over the surface.

“Marry me.” he say breathlessly as he breaks from the kiss. “You have shown me what is it truly like to admire a woman. To look at her and feel inspiration. To delight in her beauty. So much so that all of her defenses crumble and that you would willingly take on any pain or burden for her. To honor her being with your deeds and words. You make me feel what only a true poet describes." his works nearly bring you to your knees as tears threaten to escape your eyes. “I would move the heavens down to earth for you if i knew it would make you smile.”

“Benedict.. Je vous aime.” you reassure him “I love you mon chéri, more than the moon loves the night sky. You are my everything, my best-friend. I would give anything to be your wife.” He pulls you back in for another kiss which very quickly becomes heated.

He trails hot kisses all over your jaw, neck and bosom. “My beautiful Fiancée.” he mumbles, his wandering hands sliding their way up your thighs, threatening to breach the hem of your nightgown. You are immediately reminded of your current location and you push the dark haired boy back “Ben.. not here” you breathe out, The second Bridgerton son just smirks before kneeling down in front of you.

Unsure of what he’s planning, you remain silent, eyes trained on his as he begins trailing kisses up from your ankle to your inner thigh. His hands trail up the back of your legs, giving your ass a playful squeeze as he reaches it, causing a gasp to escape from your lips.

The mere sight of him like this sends heat directly between your thighs, all logical thinking thrown out the window as he begins to tug your panties down your thighs. A blush creeps over your cheeks and your hands find his hair, tugging lightly. Benedict continues with no hesitation, pressing light kisses all over your inner thighs, leading right up to your aching core. You’re unable to fight back the sounds that leave your lips as you feel his tongue pressed against your clit. “Christ Benedict… you’re going to be the death of me.”

He wastes no time, lapping, kissing and sucking at your soaked heat as strong hands grip on to your thighs, throwing one of your legs over his shoulder. You lean against his desk to keep yourself upright while quiet moans and whimpers escape your lips, your hands pulling and tugging at his messy black hair, only encouraging him more. He pulls back only for a moment to look up at you “You taste fucking divine, my beautiful work of art.”

He is quick to return to your soaked heat. As his tongue works relentlessly on your clit, he slowly pushes two fingers inside of you, giving you a moment to adjust before slowly thrusting them in and out. Shortly after, you feel an unfamiliar knot form in the pit of your stomach and Benedict is aware immediately due to your incoherent mumbles and the way you clench around his fingers. “That’s my girl..” he says breathlessly “just like that..” After hearing his words, you completely unravel, shaky moans escape your lips as one hand grips on to the table and the other with a tight hold on your Fiancées hair.

Once your body has relaxed, he gently pulls your panties back up before standing to face you. You watch as he brings his fingers to your mouth “Open.” he commands and you immediately oblige, opening your mouth as he slides his fingers past your lips. The unfamiliar taste and the sheer sight in front of you causes a blush to fall over your face. He removes his fingers with a groan and offers your a smirk “You, my dear Fiancée are going to be the death of Me.”

A/N: Hi guys! I really hope every likes this :) if you have any request, feel free to send them to me :)

[icarusignite]

An Eye for an Eye Ch.1

MASTERLIST

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x OC

"There are teeth marks on everything you have ever loved."

Summary: In the span of a single harrowing week, Daenys Velaryon’s dream of a love-filled marriage to Aemond Targaryen crumbles into ashes. What was meant to be the dawn of a new life is marred by the swift death of her grandsire, King Viserys, the usurpation of her mother’s throne, and her own imprisonment within the marital chambers that were to be her sanctuary. As the walls close in, her despair deepens when the man she hoped to love, delivers the most devastating blow of all: the news of her brother’s death.

Word Count: 4.7k

Daenys Velaryon had been awake long before they came to get her.

Sleep eluded her these days, and she had stayed curled up by the open window all night, eyes wide open in the silent communion with the stars and storm outside. The room—her husband's room and her prison—remained draped in shadows, and she relished in the chill that wrapped around her like a phantom, seeping into her very bones. She welcomed its frigid breath and the thousand piercing needles of the rain's relentless assault. 

She used to be afraid of storms, afraid of the flash of lightning that momentarily lit up the dark world, chased by the peal of thunder that sounded as if a great beast had taken up residence in the sky. She used to be afraid until her father taught her not to be. 

She never even had to go to him. He would simply be there, a candle in one hand, and a book in another, slipping into her chambers when the sky began to darken in the slightest. He would tell her all about his voyages at sea then, and teach her to count the moments between the streak of lightning and the crack of thunder, for they always came at an interval. He always knew when the storms came, he always knew when he would be needed. 

Perhaps not always though, for how was Laenor Velaryon to know that he was so desperately needed by her now, dead and gone that he was, forever swallowed by the waves at Driftmark. 

The night was almost over, and along with it the downpour, when she spotted a familiar shadow, a hulking silhouette flying into King's Landing. She could not make out the beast's rider of course, but she imagined him all the same, silver hair streaking across the sky like a falling star. She wondered what errand could have possibly had him out at such an hour, during a tempest where the gods wept and raged in the heavens above. 

She was awake when the first tendrils of dawn crept into the room, casting long shadows that danced upon the walls, and in the timeless space between night and day, she wondered what troubles the encroaching day would bring.

She was awake when moments later, the heavy wooden doors to Daenys Velaryon's chamber burst open with a resounding crash, breaking the fragile tranquility of the damp morning. Two knights stormed in, clad in armour that clinked with every step, and the first, his eyes betraying a hint of regret, offered a shallow bow and spoke with a tone of reluctant apology.

"Princess, forgive the intrusion-"

The second knight, however, exuded none of the first's courtesy. His eyes, cold and unyielding, narrowed as he impatiently interrupted, "Enough with pleasantries. Your presence is demanded in the Dowager Queen's chambers. Now."

Daenys remained seated by the window, her gaze fixed on some faraway point. She felt the energy shift in the room, the air thickening with tension as the knights awaited her compliance, but her resolve remained unbroken, and she did not stir. A gust of wind, carrying the scent of wet earth and uncertainty, swept through the open window, rustling the tendrils of her dishevelled hair.

"Princess, please understand. It is not our desire to disturb you, but the orders are explicit."

Daenys finally turned her gaze toward the knights, her eyes reflecting a weariness that went beyond the physical. "Orders," she mused, her voice a quiet whisper carried away by the storm. "Whose orders?"

"The King's orders!"

The impetuous knight scowled at her apparent defiance. With a brusque motion, he advanced toward her, his gauntleted hands reaching for her drenched shoulders to haul her to her feet. Daenys resisted the urge to flinch at his touch, her eyes closing in silent protest. 

She knew she should resist, and fight back, but her malnourished body betrayed her weakened state. She doubted the outcome of a real chase, and her chamber held no weapons to aid her escape. Still, she refused to grant them the satisfaction of obedience. She allowed her body to remain uncooperative, forcing her captor to exert more effort in dragging her from her perch.

"On your feet! The king does not appreciate delay."

"Tell your precious king he can take his orders and shove them where-"

She did not even have the time to fully unleash her volley of disdain, before the force of his hand shot forward with alarming speed, striking across the face. The metallic gauntlet caught on her lip, splitting it open, a crimson bead forming at the corner of her mouth.

The other knight, his eyes wide with horror, rushed forward to intervene. "By the Seven, what have you done?" he exclaimed, his voice a mixture of shock and rebuke.

"Nothing she did not deserve for insulting the king."

Daenys wiped the back of her hand across her bleeding lip, a scarlet smear left in its wake. "A bit heavy-handed, aren't we?" she quipped, her defiant grin widening. "Seems manners and chivalry are quite scarce in the Red Keep."

"Mind your tongue, princess, or you might have it removed. We won't tolerate insolence."

Her captor's companion frowned at him. "She's still the prince's bride, and more importantly, the granddaughter of King Viserys. Show some respect," he chided, his tone firm.

"Respect? Oh, what a novel concept," Daenys mused. "Yet another scarcity."

"Princess, please," the kinder man pleaded, taking her arm from his partner. "Do not make this more difficult than it needs to be."

Daenys, a portrait of silent rebellion, allowed herself to be pulled unceremoniously across the chamber's stone floor, and as they crossed the threshold into the corridor, she maintained her stoic demeanour, stumbling along only because she didn't fancy another strike to the face. 

Reaching Alicent's chambers, they heard a commotion. There was yelling, a frustrated sigh, and then furious whispering as someone paced back on forth inside. Daenys could barely make out the words but she could swear her name had been said, along with her brother Lucerys's. 

He was here then. 

A burst of hope, wild and untamed, bloomed in her heart. 

Her mother had not forgotten about her. She had sent Lucerys, and he was here to take her home. He had promised her that he would visit on her name-day and she would forgive him for being a day late. She would forgive him if it meant she could finally go home. 

The traitors couldn't very well keep her in King's Landing if her mother sent an envoy to bring her back. 

The knights accompanying her knocked on the door, earning them a cheerful response from Aegon as he bade them to enter. His voice was an upbeat contrast to the disgruntled sounds emanating from the chamber earlier, but Daenys did not let that dissuade her. 

She was going to see her most beloved brother again, and she was going home, where she could pretend that this farce of a marriage had all been a terrible nightmare. 

With significantly less resistance, she allowed them to drag her into the room, where everyone fell silent at the sight of her. Her brother was nowhere to be seen and she was greeted by a strange scene. 

Alicent was pale, pacing the room with tears streaking down her face. Her nailbeds were a bloodied mess as she picked at them incessantly, peeling away at the skin until fresh blood seeped to join the scarlet crusts of the old. 

"Mother have mercy on us all," she muttered repeatedly.

Otto Hightower was there too, his hands gripping his grandson's shoulders with a grip that might have shattered bone. 

"You only lost one eye at Driftmark. How could you be so blind-" he was saying, just before he cut himself off at Daenys's entrance. 

Aegon, however, shared none of their concerns. He was sprawled across his mother's chaise, legs thrown over the arm as he lounged with carefree approval. 

"What is she doing here?" Otto snapped, being the first to notice. 

The knights at her side balked at his sharp tone, their fingers still digging into the flesh of her arm. 

"The...king requested the princess's presence, my Lord," one of them stammered. 

"Well, she is here now, isn't she? You may leave us," Aegon waved a hand to dismiss them. 

The Hand sighed, releasing his grandson to massage his temples. It was only then that Daenys finally managed to bring her eyes to her husband. 

Aemond Targaryen looked lost. His eyepatch was missing, his eyes were wide in what looked like equal parts of disbelief and horror. His hair was mussed like he had just been riding, and she imagined something must have disturbed him while he was out, though she couldn't think of a single thing that would possibly scare the mighty one-eyed prince. 

Despite herself, she found worry gnawing at her, and she resisted the urge to rush to his side and take his trembling hands in her own. 

He was no one to her now. She did not owe him the kindness. 

When the queen's eyes landed on her, they softened immediately.

"You should not be here, my dear," she whispered. "Oh, you should not be here."

"No, here is exactly where she must be, Mother," Aegon responded with a mischievous grin. 

Daenys swallowed, finally finding her voice, "What is going on? What has happened?"

At the sound of her voice, Aemond flinched. 

Aegon smirked.

"Tell her, dear brother. Tell her how you've secured Storm's End for me. Go ahead. It is the most interesting news I've heard in a long time," he crowed with pleasure.

He was clearly drunk, and Otto's lip curled in disgust at the display, which only added to the young king's amusement. 

"Daenys my dear, pay him no mind. The King simply has too much on his mind," Alicent said gently, coming over to put her hand comfortingly on Daenys's shoulder.

The princess scoffed, already steeling herself to be struck again.

"Aegon is no King."

No one moved to say anything, and when she did not receive even the slightest admonish, she knew something was deeply wrong. 

"Oh for Seven's sake, stop being such cowards. Tell her the truth. Tell her about her brother, Aemond?" Aegon turned to him. "Tell your beloved how you earned your new title! "

Daenys stilled. His new title? Her brother? 

Is that why they were talking about Luke earlier? Had something happened to him? Her heart stuttered, a sparrow thrashing against the cage of her ribs, aching to be freed. She tried once again to meet her husband's gaze, even as his remained glued to the floor.

"Daenys, there's been an accident, I'm afraid..." Alicent tried again before Aegon interrupted.

"Why let Mother fight your battles, Aemond? You seemed perfectly capable of fighting for yourself against that Strong Bastard. An eye for an eye was it then?"

An eye for an eye. 

My brother should have taken out both your eyes.

The sparrow in her chest thrashed harder, laden with dread.

Slowly, she approached the one-eyed prince, her eyes brimming with questions and her jaw clenched so tight she might have ground her teeth to dust. 

"You fought with my brother?" her voice was barely above a whisper. "Was that the accident then? Did you...did you hurt him? Where is he now?"

"At the bottom of Shipbreaker Bay..." the false king stopped with a scowl as his brother glared daggers at him. 

"Lucerys Velaryon is dead," Otto Hightower finally grunted, impatient with the proceedings. "A regrettable accident, no doubt, but there is no point in beating around the bush when the truth of the matter remains. Lucerys Velaryon is dead."

"Mother have mercy on us all," Alicent whispered again, a hand clamped against her lips, both to hold in the sob building in her chest, and to stop her fingers from trembling. 

Lucerys Velaryon was dead. 

Lucerys Velaryon was dead. 

No. 

No, he could not be dead. He was just a boy. He was coming to visit her on her name-day. He could not be dead before he fulfilled his promise to her. She would not let him. 

"I don't believe you."

Her voice was quiet, but filled with steely determination. 

Otto's expression remained unchanged, his features stoic, "I wish it were not so, but the news is unfortunately true. He perished in the storm last night."

"I. Do not. Believe you."

"Oh, but it is the truth, dear niece," Aegon sneered. "A name-day present from your husband. The true blood of the dragon he is, for he has made us a good beginning."

Silence hung in the chamber like a shroud. 

Aemond Targaryen stood like a shadow in the dimly lit room. His eyes, usually a source of comfort, now bore the weight of a terrible secret. As Daenys turned to him, desperation etched on her face, he averted his gaze, unable to meet her pleading eyes.

"Aemond," she implored, her voice cracking. "Tell me this is not true. Tell me they are lying. Tell me that Lucerys is still alive."

She searched his eyes for reassurance, for a glimmer of hope that would dispel the nightmare unfolding around her. Tears, unbidden, traced a path down her cheeks, mingling with the blood from the cut on her lip. She clutched at the fabric of her gown, her knuckles turning white with the intensity of her emotions.

Her husband remained silent, his countenance grim, and his shoulders hunched. 

"I am sorry, please, I am sorry." 

She sank to her knees before him, the cold stone floor beneath her unforgiving as she looked up at him, her voice reduced to a soft, hoarse whisper.

"I am sorry...for what I said. I did not-I did not mean it. I swear, I meant none of it...so please, please, say it is not true. Be done with this cruel jest, and tell me it was not your doing."

"He cannot do that."

She ignored Aegon's comments, hands reaching out to clasp Aemond's fingers in hers. She held his hand like she held his gaze, with a desperation that bordered on manic. She begged as one begged the divine — for forgiveness, for relief, for respite. She'd stay there until he told her what she needed to hear, which meant she'd stay there for all eternity, she'd stay there until her knees bled and her bones melded into the ground. 

Or until Lucerys Velaryon rose from the dead to greet her. 

Whatever came first. 

Aemond's gaze slipped to some distant point, a void that mirrored the emptiness in his wife's heart. He couldn't bring himself to meet her eyes, to witness the pain he had wrought upon the woman he had once promised to protect. He noticed the carmine cut marring her lips, and he yearned to wipe away the blood, just as he yearned to take her into his arms and comfort her. 

It did not suit her, the kneeling and the begging, and guilt flooded the one-eyed prince in torrents. He had reduced her to this. To this crumbling, snivelling creature who clutched at him like he was her lifeline, like he was the only thing who could give her what she wanted. 

And perhaps he was, but he could not give it to her. He had nothing in him but the truth and the truth was far too ugly to push past his lips again. Already he had struggled to form the words the first time around, when his mother eyed him in horror, when his grandsire branded him a Kinslayer with scorn, when his brother celebrated. 

Kinslayer. 

Monster. 

Murderer. 

Was there a more hateful creature to the gods? 

He could not do it again. He could not bear the inevitable look of disappointment, disapproval, and loathing that would fill his beloved's eyes once she learned the truth. 

It was wishful thinking on his part, for she would learn it anyway, but it would not be through him. He would do her this minuscule kindness. Or maybe the act was for himself more than it was for her. 

Perhaps Aemond Targaryen was a bigger coward than he thought.  

"Lucerys Velaryon is dead, and my brother has returned home a victor, so let us not curse the occasion with this ceaseless crying," Aegon sighed. "Perhaps we might hold a feast."

"Be silent!" Otto admonished icily. 

"No," Daenys mumbled breathlessly. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Please. I am so sorry. I know we had our quarrels and I said things I didn't mean but please...I just...need to hear you say it, Aemond. Please, tell me you did not kill my brother. Tell me you did not take him from me."

"I cannot."

His words were barely audible, but they crashed down upon her with all the fury of the tempest she had been watching earlier. His face was a picture of torment, of guilt, of shame, and his sapphire eye glittered in the flickering candlelight of the room. 

Daenys felt sick. 

"Please."

"I am sorry, Daenys."

"Ple-"

"I cannot."

Oh.

Her hands fell to her side, all the fire inside of her going out. 

The sparrow ceased its thrashing. 

Silent. Still. 

Like the dead. 

Like her brother. 

Oh.

Alicent reached for her, but she flinched away from her touch, her tears still tracking well-worn paths down her cheeks. It still hadn't quite sunk in yet, the reality of it. It felt unreal. 

"You should rest, dearest."

"Daenys, listen..." Aemond's voice made her flinch again. 

"Don't," she let out a sound that was halfway between a whimper and a plea.

"Daenys, please."

Aegon, the only occupant of the room who was vehemently enjoying the scene, stretched out his arms and grinned at his brother. A grin no one returned, but that did not matter. For once in his miserable life, he was not the object of everyone's ire— of their disappointment and their contempt. For the first time in his life, it was his brother, his paragon of perfection brother, who held that position. 

Helaena would be furious too. She would now disdain Aemond as much as she disdained him, and the thought brought a miserable sort of satisfaction to Aegon. 

This is what they were now. 

Brother, brother, sister. 

Kinslayer, king, kook. 

What a miserable group of children their mother had birthed. 

"You have finally rid us of that bastard, brother, and secured us Lord Boros's support no less."

Aemond's single eye remained rooted to Daenys as she slowly lifted her head to look at him.

"Why...how..." she could barely get the words out, stilted and choked.

"It was an accident, I swear it. I would never...you know I would never..." 

His words trailed off. It was the truth—or most of it was anyway. 

"Oh quit being modest brother. You finally went after the bastard who took your eye. You were even kind enough to offer him a choice. It was only after he so rudely denied you your repayment that you went after him. As king, I declare it to be a fair game to be sure," Aegon winked at Daenys, regurgitating the tale of Aemond's chase that the one-eyed prince had himself spilled to their mother. 

The false king's grin grew wider as his niece's expression grew more horrified.

"If you are too upset with my brother to warm his bed, you know where to find me, don't you? After all, it was his dragon that took a bite out of your brother."

A strangled sob of horror and disbelief escaped Daenys's lips.

"How could you-"

"Your brother did steal his eye first."

"You are still on about that?" she hissed, whirling to face her reluctant husband. "After all these years, you still haven't let it go?"

"He took my eye!" he finally protested.

"He was five! A child!"

A new feeling reared its head inside Aemond Targaryen's chest. Hot and self-righteous amidst the guilt. 

"And what of me? I was a child too. A child who lost his eye and had to live with this hideous disfigurement for the rest of his life!"

He resisted the urge to cover it then, as Daenys's gaze trailed over it in scrutiny. He had thrown out his eyepatch in his hubris and it had been swallowed by the storm, the same way Lucerys had been. 

"He was a child..." she hiccuped—he still was...he still was a child— "he was a child and didn't know better. That still didn't give you the right to take his life."

"I... I'm telling you it was an accident. I didn't mean for it to happen like that. I just...I just got so angry and wanted to teach him a lesson. I gave chase only as a prank, to scare him a little. I didn't mean for him to get hurt. He was not supposed to get hurt."

Another half-truth. 

"You chased my little brother and his baby dragon in a storm on that monstrosity you ride, and you tell me that he wasn't supposed to get hurt?" Daenys was finding it hard to breathe now, her breath catching in the cavities of her lungs, refusing to let go. "What did you expect? What did you expect? What did you expect?" 

It didn't feel real. 

"You killed him? You...you and your stupid giant brute of a dragon killed my baby brother."

It still didn't feel real, her voice a forlorn whisper, as if the mere act of speaking the words pained her with the unbearable truth.

"Daenys, please. I'm sorry. I swear I didn't mean for this to happen." 

Liar. Liar. Liar. 

More half-truths. 

Aemond knelt next to her then, unable to keep his distance any longer. It was a foolish act—he knew it even before he touched her shoulder and tried to take her into his arms as her entire body vibrated with grief and rage.

She was damp, her dress sodden. She'd catch her death of cold, he found himself thinking absentmindedly. 

She was so quiet. 

It hurt him to see her this way, coming apart at the seams, and still so quiet. He expected her to scream, to hit him, to throw something. The gods knew he deserved it. But she was so quiet.

Just shaking. 

Trembling. Shuddering. Quivering. 

So utterly quiet. 

She pulled away from him violently, trying to catch her breath, but the sparrow in her chest remained motionless and her lungs would not pull in the air they needed.

He reached for her again, and she recoiled from his touch as if his hands were searing brands.

"Stay the fuck away from me!" she shrieked—or so she wanted to. In reality, the sound that pushed itself past her frozen vocal cords was more of a wheeze, a mere puff of air. 

Aemond lowered his hands, heart aching, eye throbbing. She looked beseechingly at his mother, and Alicent, attempting to provide solace, knelt too. 

"Shhhh, my darling, you're going to be alright," she whispered, her voice gentle, reminiscent of the occasional lullaby she would grace her with, back when Daenys was still a child, and none of her brothers had been born yet. The memory was sharp and bitter. 

The room felt claustrophobic, the walls closing in on her like a vice. Daenys, now on her hands and knees, scrambled away from the encroaching figures. They surrounded her, each face a mask of deceit. Aegon leered at her with malicious satisfaction and Otto eyed her warily, as if she were a time bomb about to go off.

Perhaps she was. 

In her desperate attempt to escape, Daenys pushed herself to the edge of the room. The carpet beneath her palms felt rough against her skin, and another burst of nostalgia threatened to drown her in its memory. This was where she and Aemond spent hours playing with Daeron when he was just a babe. Crouched on the floor, just as she was now, her knees stinging. 

She chewed on her lips and tasted blood. 

Oh, how the times had changed.

She was now a dragon trapped in a pit of snakes.  

She closed her eyes and doubled over, her body convulsing with the weight of her grief. It felt as though her insides were burning, a relentless fire consuming everything in its path. She pressed her forehead against the warm carpet, willing the ground to swallow her whole, to escape the reality that now seemed a cruel nightmare.

It was not real. None of it was real. 

If she could just go back to sleep, she'd be able to wake up in a reality where none of this had happened. 

Her chest tightened, each breath becoming a laborious effort. When the sobs threatened to escape, she clamped down on her grief, choking back the sounds that sought release. 

She would not make a single sound. 

The threads beneath her blurred as her vision clouded with tears, and as her strength waned, Daenys allowed herself to slip into the darkness that hovered at the edge of her consciousness. The pain became a distant echo as the shadows claimed her, offering a temporary respite she hoped she would never wake up from. 

Alicent Hightower looked at the girl who lay slumped on the floor in pity, her own tears having long dried. First, by crowning Aegon as King and now by killing her son, her family had officially earned the undying enmityof Rhaenyra Targaryen.

War was sure to come. 

She didn't want to believe it, not when her father returned from Dragonstone with the self-proclaimed Queen's threats and warnings, but now the truth was plain to see. 

There was no coming back from this. 

She did pity her son though, and by extension, his poor young wife. She had hoped, in some foolish naive way, that at least one of her children would have what she never did—a pleasant marriage. 

Perhaps she'd try again with Daeron when the time came. Perhaps he might be granted a chance at happiness. 

She doubted it. Unhappy mothers carried unhappy children, and she was almost certain that she had passed on some of her loneliness to them. Blood was inherited after all, and if all a woman felt was resentment and loathing, how could some of it not flow into her children, when they were so deeply connected? 

Viserys Targaryen did this to her, and to her children. He made them what they were, and she would never forgive him for it. She hoped that he would only rot further wherever he was now. 

The words, once so traitorous that she could scarcely even think them without feeling guilty, now came with ease. 

It was easy being hateful. 

It was easier than grieving. Grieving the girl she should have been, the woman she could have been. 

It was agony being fully conscious of the injustices she had been dealt, and expected to swallow with all the patience and penance of a Queen. 

Alicen needed to pray. The gods were all she had now. They were all she had ever had. 

"Take your wife up to your room, Aemond. She needs to rest," she sighed. 

Her son nodded, gathering the girl into his arms as carefully as he could to take her back to his chambers. He was wound too tight, like a coil waiting to spring, and Alicent wondered what new havoc he'd wreak when he finally did. 

"And make sure her room is secured," Otto called out after them. "A wounded dragon is a dragon nonetheless."

Aemond did not dignify his grandsire with a response, but he wondered all the same. 

A wounded dragon was a dragon nonetheless. 

Who would this dragon destroy first?

He looked at his wife with eyes full of remorse. He never meant to hurt her like this. He supposed the cruel part of him wanted to hurt Lucerys, but never her. 

He wondered if they could ever come back from this, if she would ever forgive him for this crime. He wondered if he even deserved her forgiveness.

He couldn't resist placing a gentle kiss upon her troubled brow, and she whimpered at the contact.

A/N: likes/reblogs/comments are highly appreciated, would love to hear your thoughts <3 Comment to be added to the taglist

[lovelykhaleesiii]

Servant to the Moon.

HEADCANON

PAIRING: Alpha!Werewolf!Aegon ii Targaryen x fem!Reader

WORDS: 2,316.

SUMMARY: Aegon’s unfortunate condition, had him feeling unfavoured by the Gods, until he was blessed with your arrival... 

WARNINGS: mentions of ABO dynamic x human!reader, mentions of breeding kink, lactation kink, innocence kink, mentions of p in v sex, slight BDSM (biting), mentions of pregnancy/birth, mentions of complications in birth, swearing. 

A/N - my beloved friend, @ilikeitbetterangsty and I have created our own little monster, that is alpha Aeg, and now there is no turning back. I need him to bite me, claim me, breed me, and just down-right fuck me. in this little AU or in general, I always thought that Aemond leans more towards being a vampire and Aeg is werewolf coded. Perhaps Helaena could be a nymph hehehe <3 credit to the artist (I need to make proper moodboards)…

Aegon was bit and turned at a young age: King Viserys had wronged and broken a promise to House Stark, that had long been associated to the folklore of werewolves. 

Nonetheless, Rickon Stark had demanded and sought for bitter vengeance, and who better than to target the long-awaited firstborn son, King Viserys had dreamt of. 

From a young age, Aegon was a quick-tempered and unpredictable boy: this new found “disease” [Viserys often labelled it] did not help. Upon each full moon, the Dowager Queen, Alicent Hightower sought to it that her son be secluded and highly confined in a desolate strong hold of the castle, with no light but a few dimly lit candles, beneath the dungeons, heavily guarded and armed, if need be... 

As a child, Aegon relented in these periods where he was often forcefully dragged away, tearful to be locked in heavy, cold metallic chains to his lonesome self. 

During his adolescent years, Aegon did often try to escape, run away before he could be taken and imprisoned against his will before turning, only to be caught. 

His mother and Ser Criston had often given him endless earaches, lecturing him about the dangers of him freely roaming, had he not yet learned to control his strength nor anger. 

As he grew older and mature, into the young man that he presently was, the more acquainted he got with the process, and defeatedly went along with it. No longer needing to be dragged, instead he found himself walking upon each full moon cycle, sometimes even chaining himself down. 

It was blatant to say, he hated turning. It was excruciatingly agonising, often his yells could be heard bellowing beneath the castle floors if one dared to loom close enough to the dark, desolate dungeon halls. 

Once the cycle had ended, his mother often found him close to unconsciousness, covered in matted, ripped clothes clinging to his heavy, heaving body. It pained her, seeing him in such a weakened state, out of his control, she blamed Viserys for his damnation. 

Nonetheless, Ser Criston was determined to help Aegon in steering his carnal urges, especially when in heat. He located outcasted werewolves and appointed them to help the “heir”, negotiating in return for gold, property, titles and copious women. During this process, they’d come to realise that Aegon had a formidable power over them, deeming him an alpha amongst omegas. 

Aegon in heat though, was Alicent’s worst nightmare come true. He was relentless and incontrolable, and as reluctant as she was to admit it, there was no hope in stopping him. Instead of blocking his urges, she allowed him to be, often organising whores for him to bed (not imprint), only able to perform damage control, having the maesters create and supply moon tea and other methods of birth control. Avoiding the risk of “pup” bastards at all costs. 

That was until you arrived, waltzing mindlessly into his life.

Your scent was the first thing that Aegon had noticed about you [without even actually seeing you, he could smell you out], the sweetness of your aroma was intoxicating to him. 

He managed to swiftly sniff you out, finding you in the castle gardens in the dull company of the royal women of the court. 

Feeling his heart pace growing faster and stronger, feeling the intensity of each pulse against his chest, the heaviness of his breath, his fangs naturally growing, and the aching throbs in his hardening crotch: it was all a visceral response, not one that he inflicted upon himself, although he’d made the decision.

You would be his one and only mate. 

Throughout the days you remained within the castle walls, your scent became stronger and more potent: Aegon could feel himself growing weaker, more debilitating to it, desperate to control his urges as to not hurt nor frighten you off. 

Having you around feasts or in the court yard amongst the youth, he needed you far from him, but seeing the keen interest and lustful eyes of the young men you’d caught, he felt inclined to stay. 

If they dared to defile you, he’d rip their throats out. 

Etching closer and closer to you, he could hear your innocent laughter from across the room, and your delicate voice, it made him helplessly smile, looking like a smitten fool.

He could fervently smell your virginity oozing from you, untouched by another man, intact, your aroma remained untainted, and with no ring sighted attached to your proposed finger, it drove him even more savage to think he could be the first to renounce you of your innocence. Day dreaming of fucking you beyond the ability to walk, think or speak coherently, earning a teasing chuckle from himself. 

If he could without being frowned upon, he’d fuck you right there and then, before the eyes of the realm. 

The nights were gruelling for him: not a single night went by since having met you, that he did not dream of you. Constantly, the same image replaying over and over again in his tainted mind: it began with him lustfully devouring you whole, passionately making love to your bare, naked body, eagerly marking you all over, enough for other male wolves to know that you belonged to him. He bites you, imprinting himself on you, before knotting inside of you, pumping his potent seed into you, filling you to the brim till your cunt is practically drowning in him. The last thing he’d see before he’d inevitably wake, is you swollen close to full term with his pup, just lovingly caressing your belly, thanking him. 

It was torture for him to carry on about his day: unknowing of how exactly to approach you. 

Coming up to his next cycle, Aegon found himself wandering eerily close by to your allocated quarters, being able to smell you, hunting your exact location like some predator, he found himself face to face with your shut door. 

Mustering every fibre of strength to resist his primal desire to force himself deep inside of you, piercing his canines deep into your flesh, imprinting his DNA inside of you. Whether you fought against him, would be meaningless he knew, for his strength had heightened greater than that of a human [much to Aemond’s displeasure when training with Aegon]. 

Nonetheless, by some ungodly force, he mustered himself away hastily, from now on having a reckoning of guards between him and yourself. 

Close to his next cycle, he opened up to his mother regarding his intentions about you. She initially did try to convince him otherwise, that this was just his “heat” talking, although seeing how determined and hopeless he was to have you, she promised to make the formal arrangements to betroth you to him, before leaving him to his cell. 

 When he recovered from this cycle, he’d been met with the happy news that the betrothal was offered and approved by your family. In a days time, Aegon and yourself had formally acquainted, and he felt immense content like he never had before. 

He was determined to keep you sated, safe and happy at all times: much to your surprise, surpass the intimidating, formidable look he had, he was pleasant and loving. 

The night before the marriage, Aegon along with his mother, Grandsire and Ser Criston Cole, had initially planned to disclose his condition to you, after consummation. However, he could not bring himself to deceive you. 

Hoping his honesty would be enough to compensate, he remained doubtful, convinced that you would change your mind about wanting to marry a “beast”, and had he gone with the initially plan, you would have been forced to remain in such a union. 

Yet he was blessed: you were not repulsed by him, though more so grew sorrowful and nurturing towards him. Saddened by his story, you reassured Aegon that he was unfortunately a victim caught in a feud between old men, and that this form was thrusted upon him. 

You were keen to remain by his side, to nurse him, to abide by him and most significantly, to love him. 

Nonetheless, he did not disclose to his family that he had told you the truth, and the marriage ceremony proceeded and was sealed before the law of the realm. 

The night of consummation, Aegon informed you that it would hurt, regardless, of the endless promises he’d made that he’d attempt to control himself. 

Imitating his dream, the reality surpassed his expectations. It hurt nonetheless, and often at times, you had to voice Aegon to take it easy, although he did what needed to be done, imprinting and knotting himself deep inside of you, opening you up wide enough, keen to keep his thick, girthy cock inside of you all night long. Now your sweet scent was masked heavily in his musky scent, he was definite no other male would dare to smell you out. 

Bite marks on your ass, is a must for Aegon.

In a few moons, the maesters confirmed of your pregnancy: your changes were rapid as it seemed to be an escalated circumstance due to Aegon’s genes overpowering yours. 

Aegon felt somewhat guilty for this: he ensured that maids were present at your beckon call, instructing you to not lift a single finger, even the slightest of movement from your half, a maid came rushing over, pleading to help. He forced the maesters to keep you bed ridden, confined in the Red Keep of your shared, private chambers, although he allowed for visitors of people’s company you enjoyed, including his mother. 

He made sure you were well fed, bathed and even sought to massaging you himself. 

When he was forced to be absent due to his recurring cycles, he loathed being teared apart from you: genuinely, it infuriated him. It became a habit to keep guards posted outside your chambers, even entrusting Aemond to keep you safe; instructing his dear mother or Helaena to keep you constant company from inside. He would often return in a frail state, yet remained eager to prioritise your needs above his own.

At this point, now that Aegon had a mate, he was more in control of his primal instincts: and was allowed to roam at a distance, far from the walls of King’s Landing, beyond deep into the woods, where he could turn freely.

Reassuring him that you were fine, you would tend to his wounds, as he cherished having you give him your full attention. 

In the months to come, closer to the birth of the babe, Aegon became stupendously possessive over you, with the right reasons though. As irritating as he could be, being constantly on top of you, refusing to leave the bedside to fulfil his princely responsibilities, training and duties, he was simply smitten for you. 

He even grew infatuated with your pregnant body, how your hips grew in preparation for the birth, your breasts swollen, tender, occasionally dripping with the warm milk for the pup, he drank to give you relief [his bright idea], and would teasingly bite at your nipples. Reminding him to keep the supply ready for the babe. 

Your belly was swollen beyond relief, often struggling to sleep or lay still, he hated seeing you in such discomfort. The maesters were certain, it was either twins or simply just a physically big babe [like its father]. 

The time had finally arrived: Aegon promised he would be present at the birth regardless, and he upheld it promisingly. It was a torturous experience to say the least, what felt like days [12 hours], nor could milk of the poppy sustain the aching contractions for a prolonged time. At one point, Aegon grew pale, fearful that The Stranger would make an appearance, and take you from him: he couldn’t bring himself to see you pass in his arms, growing quiet and distant. At one point, he noticed you growing drowsy whether it was from the milk of the poppy you or the constant blood trickling from below, his mind refused to make coherent, logical thoughts. Gripping your hand firmly in his, his deep, soothing voice flowed to your ears, drawing your attention, like a moth to a flame, he whispered, tender, encouraging words into your ear.

“I have asked for too much from you already, my love, my sweet, sweet wife. Yet here I am, to plead for more. I need you to stay with me,Y/N, promise me that you’ll stay with me. I cannot bear to live with myself in this ridden state, no more if you are not by my side, promise me you’ll make it.” 

Justice to his words, you pulled through strongly. A healthy, baby boy was born in the dawn, kicking and screaming vivaciously, holding him warmly and gazing upon him, made every agonising second of his coming worth it. 

He was a split image of his father, as Alicent softly decreed, the sight of the babe bringing joyful tears to her eyes as she reminesced. 

Aegon smitten over his son, was more relieved that you were alive and well, now determined to have you fully recover until the next babe. 

The next time Aegon would organise for maesters and midwives with more preparation and experience in birthing pups of his kind, Alicent also advised “the first is always the hardest, eventually it eases on the body”. 

Aegon slipped into fatherhood with difficulty. Fearful that his condition was thrusted upon his son, without choice just as he was, he grew wearisome that his son would eventually hate him, as he did his own father, for his own reasons. However, despite the outcome you reassured Aegon otherwise.

“Our son will love you regardless, Aegon. And so be it, if he bears the same fate, he has his father to guide him, where he had no one else. He will be grateful for you, I am certain.”

general taglist - @evenstaris @chompchompluke @fan-goddess @malfoytargaryen @ilikeitbetterangsty @bibli0thecary @m1ndbrand @connorsui @teamaemond @elegantsplendour​ @randomdragonfires

Aegon taglist - @who-told-you-this-was-butter​

[hongjoongspoetry]

A Love Written in Gold | Masterpost

🦢 Summary: Whispers of piano keys and music sheets danced through your dreams since the tender dawn of your existence — a passion evidently inherited from your esteemed father. Alas, following the tragic demise of the late Viscount Lee, Dowager Viscountess Lee cast a ruinous ban upon any melodious pursuits within the confines of her lavish abode, thus steering you towards the trials of the debutante season and the quest for a love match. Yet the relentless glares of your brother proved a formidable obstacle in your pursuit of a gentleman worthy of your affections. Enter the dashing Duke Park, whose prospect dazzled your kinfolk, yet unbeknownst to them, your heart harbored a secret rendezvous with one commoner by the name of Hongjoong. Dare you tread the dangerous path between the gilded elite and the humble heart, or perchance would you instead find yourself enchanted by the charms of Duke Park, who is indeed the talk of the ton?

🦢 Pairing(s): Proletarian!Hongjoong x Noble!Reader, Duke!Seonghwa x Noble!Reader

🦢 Genres/Tropes: Bridgerton AU, Regency era, forbidden love, fluff, angst, romance, suggestive themes, drama

🦢 Warnings/Tags: no use of (Y/N), female reader, explicit language, everyone is 20+, sexism, classism, betrayal, set in London... more to come with each chapter!

🦢 Current Wordcount: 14.7K

🦢 Author's Note: Soooo, I did a thing 👀 I know everyone's waiting on the final part of Cold Hands, Warm Heart buuuuut I'm not feeling all that inspired to write it yet and I'd rather wait than post a rushed ending no one will be satisfied with! This little gem has been in the works since Bridgerton S3 aired, but I've only gotten around to writing it now! Anyway, the first part will be posted next week so if anyone wants to be tagged either leave a comment or join my permanent taglist. Also, I don't know how many parts this one will have, but I'll aim to not make it more than 10!

This is all fiction and not meant to represent the idols involved in any way or form. This work is NSFW and not appropriate for minors as it contains explicit scenes. Minors and ageless blogs refrain from reading or interacting with this work!

AO3 Masterpost Moodboard Permanent taglist

01 — The Debut

02 — The Garden [TBD]

03 —

© HONGJOONGSPOETRY 2024 - All rights reserved. Copying, editing, reposting or translating my work is not allowed.

[sunnycanvas]

Can you write about a scenario, where, Baldwin loses yn, and gets incredibly upset over it, tries to find her (but secretly because people can't know he's actually seeing someone because of his leprosy) only to find out she was killed ? Maybe he finds her body too/retrieves it

Adiuva nos, Domine,

In tribulatione nostra.

Te clamamus, Sancte Deus,

Exaudi preces nostras

O Maria, Mater Gratiae,

Tu es refugium nostrum.

In tenebris et angustia,

Sustenta nos, o dulcis Virgo.

Sancte Michael, protector noster,

Defende nos in proelio.

Contra insidias diaboli,

Fidei nostrae fortitudo.

Gloria Patri et Filio,

Et Spiritui Sancto.

Sicut erat in principio,

Et nunc et semper.

Baldwin IV gripped his rosary with trembling hands, his knuckles white as he prayed fervently. He prayed for your safety. It had been days since you vanished, and he was drowning in helplessness. He couldn't launch a full investigation, not without risking exposure of the bond between you. The very thought of anyone discovering what you meant to him sent a cold shiver down his spine. Baldwin understood the dangers of being associated with him. Especially now, as a leper. His condition, his cursed existence, only amplified the peril for anyone close to him. He had kept you hidden. Your presence, your existence and shielded from the world, all to protect both of you. But now, the silence stretched on, and Baldwin could feel his sanity slipping. The thought of anything happening to you, of you being hurt or worse, twisted inside him like a sharp knife. Baldwin could feel his heartbeat beating so hard that it was painful. Baldwin never knew what fear was until he met you. The thought of you being injured or worse, Baldwin wouldn't know how to live.

"No," he whispered, trying to force away the dread that clawed at his insides. "You’re safe. You have to be safe."

Just as he finished his prayer and turned around, his eyes fell upon his mother, Agnes de Courtenay. She approached him with hesitant steps, her face drawn tight with worry. Baldwin didn’t need to see her expression to know it was bad news.

"Any word?" His voice was colder than he meant it to be, a harsh edge creeping into his words.

Agnes paused, her hands wringing together as she looked down. "No, my son," she stammered, her voice faltering. "I’m doing everything I can. I swear, I—"

"Everything you can?" Baldwin cut her off, his words sharp and cutting. His frustration was boiling over, the fear for you overwhelming everything else. "Your best isn’t enough, Mother. Not when her life is on the line!". His gaze was relentless, piercing through her with the weight of his anger. "I entrusted you with this. I trusted you to keep her safe, and now look where we are no answers, no progress". "How many days must pass before you start doing what you promised?" Agnes flinched, her eyes wide with the sting of his words, but Baldwin’s gaze didn’t soften. He was beyond patience. Baldwin IV continued with his voice that cut through the air like a blade. "So, it seems her presence was discovered after all," he said, his tone ice-cold. "Mother, you’ve failed utterly in keeping her hidden, just as I entrusted you to do. Is this truly the best you can manage?" He paused, his eyes narrowing, fury flickering in them. "Perhaps I was a fool to trust you at all. I should have given the task to my uncle, someone who might actually be competent. Clearly, you can't even manage something as simple as this." His words were like a slap, and the venom in his gaze made it clear he had no room for excuses.

Agnes flinched at the sharpness in her son’s tone. She had braced herself for his wrath, but the sheer intensity still struck a chord deep within her. Yet, she wasn’t going to retreat without a fight. Gathering her courage, she straightened and replied with calm defiance. “Of course,” she began, her voice firm despite the tension in the air, “a mere noblewoman like me is no match for the Dowager Queen, your stepmother, who has been quietly maneuvering to place your half-sister Isabella on the throne. Let us not forget that Isabella holds a claim through your father.” Baldwin’s brows furrowed, confusion momentarily softening the fury etched into his features. The sudden mention of Maria Komnene was unexpected. Agnes caught the subtle shift in his demeanor, recognizing the spark of intrigue. She pressed forward without hesitation. “I have evidence,” she continued, her voice steady and deliberate, “that a woman matching (Y/N)’s description was seen in Nablus. And where does your stepmother reside? Nablus. It’s no coincidence, Baldwin.” His eyes widened, a mix of shock and desperate hope flashing across his face. Without waiting for his mother to elaborate further, he barked out a command. “Prepare the horses! We’re leaving at once.” Agnes started, alarmed by his abrupt reaction. “Baldwin, wait! The evidence we have, it’s flimsy at best. It only hints at her presence, nothing certain—”

“I don’t care!” Baldwin cut her off, his voice trembling with emotion. “If there is even the slightest chance (Y/N) is there, I will go. No matter how faint the trail may be.” Determined to avoid unnecessary attention, Baldwin insisted on going alone, without knights or a retinue. Agnes, unwilling to let her son journey into potential danger alone, argued until he relented. Exhausted from the emotional storm, Baldwin agreed with little resistance. Both mother and son disguised themselves as common travelers, cloaked in simple garb with hoods obscuring their faces.

As they rode under the cover of blazing hot sun, Baldwin’s thoughts churned in turmoil. His stepmother, Maria Komnene, had always been ambitious, but would she truly act so brazenly? He scowled beneath his hood, considering the other players in the shadowy game of politics. Could Raymond of Tripoli, his calculating cousin, be involved? Or the Ibelin brothers, notorious for their scheming alliances? His instincts told him 'No, they wouldn’t dare'. That left only one man: Guy of Lusignan, his reckless and power-hungry brother-in-law. The very thought of Guy made Baldwin’s grip tighten on the reins, rage building in his chest.

Agnes, as if sensing her son’s thoughts, spoke softly. “Do not let your mind run wild, my son. This reeks of your stepmother’s hand. She has made alliances in the court, strengthening her position. Her marriage ties to the Ibelins have been... advantageous.”

Baldwin’s lips pressed into a thin line, his silence betraying the storm within.

As they neared their destination, something caught his attention. A familiar figure moving in the distance. Baldwin’s breath hitched. “Sibylla?” he muttered, his voice tinged with disbelief. His gaze snapped to his mother, who appeared just as stunned. Without a word, Baldwin motioned for silence, urging his horse to follow his sister at a safe distance. Agnes, still reeling, followed his lead.

Sibylla led them to a secluded area, where she dismounted and began speaking to a shadowy figure. Baldwin and Agnes dismounted as well, watching from a concealed position. “Make sure her body is disposed of in a way that it can’t be recognized,” Sibylla ordered, her voice cold and resolute. The man bowed slightly, replying grimly, “Of course, my lady. Anything else?”

Sibylla smiled, a cruel satisfied expression that sent a chill through Baldwin. “Oh no, you’ve done an absolutely fantastic job in killing (Y/N). My brother may mourn her now, but he will thank me later.”

Baldwin froze, the weight of her words crashing down on him like a tidal wave. For a moment, the world seemed to stop. His vision blurred with a mix of fury and devastation. Then, without hesitation, he unsheathed his sword and spurred his horse forward.

"SIBYLLA!" His voice thundered, raw with fury, reverberating like a war cry that sent chills down the spines of even the most hardened knights. Agnes barely had time to reach out before her son was charging toward his sister, the blade in his hand glinting like justice itself.

Baldwin IV’s horse reared back, its hooves striking the air as his roar echoed through the desolate clearing. His blue eyes, ablaze with rage, locked onto his sister’s frozen figure. She stood trembling, her schemes exposed, with no crowd to shield her from her brother's wrath . The man standing beside Sibylla, realizing it was the king himself bearing down upon them, stumbled backward, stammering incoherent apologies before bolting into the shadows. Sibylla was left alone, her fear-stricken body rooted to the ground. Baldwin’s horse halted mere feet away from her, nostrils flaring, its king equally volatile. “I should kill you where you stand!” he bellowed about to striker her with his sword. Sybilla although fearful of her brother's wrath somehow narrowly escaped the sword stumbling backwards in fear by sheer luck. "You scheming, treacherous fool!" he growled, his voice low and deadly as he urged his horse forward ready to strike her again. "You dared to betray me?" His tone was laced with a venom that made Sibylla’s knees weaken. She stumbled backward again, her face pale, eyes wide with dread. She had never seen her brother like this, his normally composed demeanor shattered by pure, unrestrained fury. As Baldwin surged toward her, his expression promising retribution, Agnes’s voice cut through the chaos, her horse galloping into the scene as she placed herself squarely between her son and daughter. Her arms spread wide in a protective gesture, shielding Sibylla from Baldwin’s wrath.

"Baldwin, stop!" Agnes implored, her voice trembling with urgency. "You cannot do this!" “Please, Baldwin, don’t do this!”. Agnes reasoned, her voice steady but her eyes betraying her fear. She had seen her son angry before, but never like this—never so unhinged, so consumed.

Baldwin’s horse came to an abrupt halt, its hooves digging into the dirt as he glared down at his mother. His blue eyes burned with fury as he snarled, “Get out of my way, Mother.” His voice was low, trembling with restrained anger. “She doesn’t deserve your protection" "Not after what she’s done. None of you do.”

Agnes held her ground, her voice firm but laced with desperation.“(Y/N) wouldn’t want this,” she pleaded, her eyes softening.

Her words acted as a spark to dry tinder, igniting an even fiercer blaze of rage in her son. His horse snorted and shifted as he practically snarled in response. "DON’T YOU DARE BRING HER INTO THIS!" Baldwin’s voice boomed, his rage untethered. "Do not use her name to shield your guilt! You all killed her!" He gestured wildly toward Sibylla, his accusations cutting like daggers. "You, with your selfish schemes! You destroyed the only person who ever made this wretched existence tolerable!" he snapped, his voice cracking as he gestured sharply toward Sibylla. “You all killed her!

Agnes desperate in fear mumbled "Please Baldwin, you can't do this" "Killing your sister will start a civil war" "Our kingdom won't receive donations to survive by our own cousins" . Baldwin in anger retorted "Do not speak to me of what I can and cannot do, Mother! Do you think I care for appearances anymore? Do you think I care for laws or blood ties when my very own family killed her?" His voice cracked as it reached a crescendo, raw grief mingling with his fury.

Agnes's lips parted as if to argue, but Baldwin’s voice thundered again, silencing her. "She was the light of my life, the only light in this accursed kingdom of shadows. And you snuffed it out!" Sibylla, trembling and unable to meet his gaze, muttered something unintelligible, but Baldwin would not hear it. "Speak not a word to me!" he hissed, his voice lowering to a dangerous growl as he pulled his horse closer. "I should end you for what you’ve done."

His horse shifted uneasily beneath him, mirroring its master’s fury. Agnes held her ground, her hand gripping her saddle tightly to steady herself. “Baldwin, please!” she implored, her voice softer now, pleading. “Your anger won’t bring her back!” “No!” Baldwin’s shout tore through the night, his face contorting in agony. “But it will ensure justice is served! I will not let her memory be trampled on by the people who betrayed her.” Sibylla whimpered behind Agnes, tears streaming down her pale face, her voice barely audible as she tried to speak. But Baldwin ignored her, his gaze fixed on his mother as if daring her to move. “Step aside, Mother,” he warned, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous tone. “Or I swear, I’ll ride through you.”

Agnes moved her horse with determination, shielding Sibylla fully. "You are King, Baldwin. Do not let your grief destroy what she loved in you." "Your sense of duty. I am asking you, for the sake of the kingdom, to control yourself' "You know right how stability is fragile because of complex court politics right now". Agnes knew Baldwin just like her late husband Almaric was man of duty. Luckily for Agnes her trick worked and Baldwin took long labored breath to calm down Baldwin’s chest heaved as he sucked in a long, ragged breath, his fingers trembling on the hilt of his sword. His smoldering eyes burned with suppressed fury, unshed tears glistening under the hood of his cloak. Agnes knew, as much as Baldwin hated to show weakness, had his leprosy not robbed him of tears, they would be falling freely now.

Once assured that Baldwin was reigning in his rage, Agnes turned her attention to Sibylla, her face hard with disgust. “Why did you do this to (Y/N)?” she demanded, her voice like ice.

Sibylla, though visibly shaken at first, straightened her posture. She squared her shoulders, her voice gaining strength as she spoke. “I acted for the good of the kingdom,” she declared, her tone resolute. “You yourself have said how precarious the court’s balance is, especially after Father’s second marriage. (Y/N) was a poison to this realm, indulging herself with my leprous brother and leading us all to sin.” Baldwin’s fists clenched tighter at her words, his jaw set in a way that made it clear he was barely containing his rage. His voice, low and dangerous, cut through the air. “(Y/N) had no interest in court politics,” he growled, his tone trembling with anger. Agnes added swiftly, her voice icy, “Whatever schemes you think she wove, they existed only in your mind, Sibylla.” Sibylla scoffed, her confidence growing as she met her mother’s glare. “That’s what she wanted you all to believe,” she replied, a sneer curling her lips. “That whore seduced my sinful brother, wrapping him around her finger. She made herself indispensable to him, and in doing so, she threatened the delicate peace we’ve tried so hard to maintain. So, I acted.” Her voice hardened, her gaze unrepentant. “I drowned her.” Agnes gasped, her revulsion barely concealed, while Baldwin’s body tensed like a coiled spring, his fury on the verge of erupting. “Sibylla,” he warned, his voice deadly calm, “choose your next words carefully, or I will claw the very tongue from your mouth.” Agnes, sensing the explosion brewing within her son, leaned forward and hissed in a low voice to Sibylla, ensuring Baldwin couldn’t hear. “Where did you get this vile notion? Who planted these ideas in your head?” For a brief moment, Sibylla faltered, her expression shifting into something unsettling. A lovestruck reverie. Her voice softened as she whispered, “My husband told me. Guy explained everything. He opened my eyes to her true nature.”. Agnes froze, but Baldwin let out a groan of exasperation, the sound a mix of fury and dismay. He had heard enough to piece together the whispered exchange. His eyes blazed as he locked his gaze on Sibylla. The crackling silence between them spoke volumes, Baldwin’s composure hanging by a thread as he stared down the sister who had shattered his world.

“Show us her body,” Agnes commanded, her voice sharp and leaving no room for argument. To her relief, Sibylla gave no protest, silently turning to lead them toward an abandoned house. The acrid stench of death grew stronger with every step, guiding them like a trail. Baldwin dismounted his horse in silence, his face an unreadable mask. Inside the house, the smell became suffocating. It led them to a small room where (Y/N)’s body lay on a rickety bed, her lifeless form bathed in the dim light filtering through the cracks in the walls. Though the odor was strong, the appearance of her body was hauntingly serene, as if death had only just brushed her. Baldwin froze in the doorway, staring at her still form as if unable to comprehend what he was seeing. “(Y/N),” he whispered, his voice trembling. Slowly, he stepped forward, each movement heavy with disbelief and agony, until he reached the bedside. He sank to his knees, his trembling hands hovering over her face before cradling her lifeless body in his arms. His breath hitched as he took in her features the faint curve of her lips, the delicate eyelashes resting against her cheeks. “Look at you,” he murmured, his voice breaking. “So beautiful. You don’t look dead... only asleep.” His hand caressed her cold cheek, his touch desperate, as if his warmth alone could bring her back. “Oh, (Y/N),” Baldwin whispered, his eyes stung with unshed tears, his chest heaving with suppressed sobs. “Please... wake up. You promised me,” he pleaded, his voice raw and thick with despair. “You swore you wouldn’t leave me, not as long as I lived. You lied to me, my love... you lied...” He clutched her closer, his shoulders shaking as the grief consumed him. “You were my light... my only light in this wretched world,” he choked out, his voice cracking under the weight of his sorrow. “How am I to go on without you? How am I to face the darkness without you beside me?” Wailed by his diseased dry eyes . He kissed her hair dampening by his lips. He pressed his lips to her temple, his trembling breath ghosting over her still form. Agnes stood nearby, her own heart heavy as she witnessed her son’s anguish. She had seen Baldwin face countless battles, seen him stand tall against unimaginable pain, but this, this broken man before her, was a sight she could barely bear. His grief was raw, unfiltered, and so profound it filled the room with its weight. Baldwin rocked (Y/N)’s body gently, his words becoming incoherent as sobs wracked his body. His fingers brushed through her hair as though soothing her to sleep. “Please... just one more moment,” he begged the heavens, his voice barely audible. “Let me hold her... let me hear her laugh again... her voice, her heartbeat...”His cries pierced the air, echoing through the empty house, a king brought to his knees by the unbearable loss of the woman who had been his everything. And as Baldwin cradled her lifeless form, it was as though his own heart had stopped beating alongside hers.

Sibylla watched her brother’s grief with an almost placating smile. "It’s okay, brother," she said softly, though her tone carried a trace of condescension. "Let out your grief. This sacrifice was necessary for the betterment of the kingdom." Baldwin’s trembling stopped abruptly as her words reached him. His reddened face lifted to meet her gaze, his expression hollow yet sharp, like a blade dulled by too much use but still capable of cutting. "Who else worked with you?" His voice, though low, carried the unmistakable edge of restrained fury. Sibylla straightened, confidence flickering in her anger as she retorted, "Me. I acted alone." Baldwin’s gaze didn’t waver. "So Mother didn’t know about this," he said, his words heavy with accusation. His tone made even Agnes flinch at the mention of her involvement. "No," Sibylla answered firmly. "Mother didn’t know about this." For a moment, Baldwin seemed to freeze. His grief contorted into something darker, something terrifying. His face, already ravaged by disease and despair, now carried an expression of such cold rage that even Sibylla, emboldened as she was, felt her confidence falter. When he spoke again, his voice was chilling, devoid of any humanity. "You’re going to feel what you’ve done to me. The same pain, the same torment" "You will suffer just as you made me suffer. I will make sure of it." Sibylla’s eyes narrowed, her anger surging forth like a storm. "You dare call me selfish?" she snapped. "You sit on that throne, clinging to your miserable life, bringing sin upon this kingdom by indulging in your lust for that woman! It’s you who’s selfish, Baldwin not me! You should step down and let my husband rule" "A man who is strong and capable, unlike you." Baldwin let out a bitter, humorless laugh that echoed in the small, decrepit room. "Capable? Your husband?" He sneered, his lip curling with disdain. "A coward who hides behind you to make his moves? Don’t worry, dear sister. He’ll have his time to shine" "In the dungeon. I’ll ensure he becomes intimately acquainted with every torture device we own before I execute him." Sibylla gasped, her fury boiling over. She raised a hand to strike him, but Agnes, weary of the madness around her, stepped forward and caught her wrist, shielding Baldwin with her body. "Enough!" Agnes’s voice carried the weight of her authority, silencing the escalating storm. Turning to her son, she placed a steadying hand on his shoulder, her expression softening. "Baldwin," she said gently, "this... this isn’t what (Y/N) would have wanted. Let us focus on her, not on revenge." Her voice cracked slightly as she continued, "We should give her a proper burial. She deserves that, if nothing else." Baldwin’s breathing slowed, his shoulders sagging under the weight of her words. His rage momentarily abated, overtaken by his grief as he looked down at (Y/N)’s body once more. "A burial," he whispered, nodding slowly, his focus entirely on the woman he loved. "Yes. She deserves that." Sibylla scoffed loudly but said nothing else, her lips pressed into a tight line. The tension in the room simmered, unspoken words and unresolved hatred hanging heavy in the air as Baldwin’s attention remained solely on (Y/N), his sorrow drowning out all else.

All three rode in solemn silence, Baldwin insisting on carrying (Y/N)’s lifeless body on his horse. No one dared argue. As they traveled back, Agnes swore she could hear Baldwin murmuring soft, sweet words to (Y/N), as if she could still hear him. She had always admired her son’s resilience and the strength of his mind, his determination to lead even as his body battled the ravages of disease. But now, watching him, Agnes feared that (Y/N)’s death might shatter him entirely, driving him into the depths of madness. They arrived at a small, secluded church under the protection of Agnes’s allies. Baldwin dismounted, his movements stiff but deliberate, and cradled (Y/N)’s body in his arms as he entered the hallowed ground. His hollow, vacant eyes met those of Patriarch Heraclius, who quickly approached with an air of confusion. Baldwin addressed the archbishop in a voice devoid of life, yet carrying the weight of an unbreakable command. "Take her body," he said, his words measured and heavy. "Ensure she is given a proper burial. On her grave, inscribe the words: ‘Light of the world for the leper.’" Heraclius froze in stunned realization, his gaze falling to the woman in Baldwin’s arms realizing that she was the lover of the leper king . Before Heraclius could respond, Agnes quickly stepped forward, leaning in to whisper firmly, "Keep her presence here a secret. Let no one know." Her voice was quiet but sharp, leaving no room for argument. Heraclius nodded, too shocked to protest, and turned to oversee the arrangements as Baldwin reluctantly placed (Y/N) down for the last time. Once outside, Agnes found her son standing near the churchyard, staring blankly into the distance as if searching for something beyond the horizon. His voice broke the silence, low and filled with a crushing sorrow. "As much as I speak of revenge, I know it is impossible. My actions would destroy the kingdom." He paused, the grief in his tone cutting through Agnes like a blade. "I couldn’t protect her in life, and now I’ve failed her in death. But I will protect the kingdom she loved. At least... when I meet her again, I can tell her I wasn’t a complete failure." Agnes reached out and rested her hand gently on his shoulder, her voice soft but resolute. "The fault lies with me as well. We both failed her, my son. But for your sake and hers, I swear to you—I will ensure that Sibylla and her husband never sit on the throne. Her son, your nephew, will rule instead. I will see to it." For the first time since (Y/N)’s death, a faint glimmer of relief flickered in Baldwin’s eyes. He turned to his mother, his voice regaining a trace of its usual sharpness. "Yes, you are right. This kingdom must not be ruled by (Y/N)’s murderer." His expression hardened. "I entrust you with this, Mother. Convince the Haute Cour. Do not fail me as you did before."

Agnes straightened her posture, her voice carrying a quiet determination. "I won’t. I promise you that."

[theroyalhouseofwindenburg]

The Reaving: Part 1

By the winter of 1360, Bagley's soldiers were weathered and broken, their numbers decimated by relentless combat. Fields once green now lay soaked in blood, where brave men fought tirelessly for their homeland. Yet, despite every ounce of strength, their ranks dwindled with each assault. The faces of those who remained showed the toll of countless battles, yet their spirits stood defiant, willing to face the bitter end. But as the snow fell, heavy and silent, it became grimly clear: the tide of war had shifted, and the conclusion was only a matter of time.

At Windenburg Castle, Bagley’s royal family had sought refuge for nearly two years, with King Henry traveling back and forth to rally his forces. On this night, they gathered in the warmth of their privy chamber, sharing a silent understanding of the call soon to come. Henry held Philippa close as she spoke, her voice trembling. “Henry… must you truly go? I know this is your duty, but I can hardly bear the thought of you riding off into such danger again.” Henry gently took her hand in his, clutching her arm in reassurance. “I must, my love. Our people need me. You know I would stay if I could.”

Philippa nodded, struggling to steady her heart, but a lingering dread stayed with her as she looked at the flames. Nearby, Prince Harold wrapped an arm around his young wife, Princess Anne. He tried to calm her worry, speaking with a gentle resolve, “I know you’re frightened. But everything will be fine, I promise. This is part of what it means to be in my family, and one day, a king.” She met his gaze, her sadness unmistakable. “But must it always be war? Must you always ride off, leaving me behind to wonder if you’ll return?” Harold looked toward the fire, his gaze somber. “One day, I will have to hold the crown, and I’ll need to know how to lead. These moments, these trials, they’re how I’ll learn. How we will learn.”

Just then, a guard entered with urgency. “Your Grace, the storm is closing in fast, and we must make haste if we’re to reach the camp before dawn.” Prince Harold rose quickly, then turned to his son Philip, kneeling to meet his eyes. “My son, I must depart, and it may be long before I see you again. But remember this: no matter how far I may go, my heart remains here, bound to you and your mother. While I’m gone, guard our home with a strength that belies your years, for you carry a part of me within you.” With those final words, King Henry, Harold and the men departed into the early winter morning.

Later that morning, the dim glow of candles, shadows danced along the stone walls of the Arnold family’s privy chamber. Lady Prudence, Countess of Westfield, and Princess Jane sat close, sharing wine and food as they conversed in hushed voices. Prudence leaned forward with a conspiratorial tone. “You would not believe the scandal that unfolded at court last week, Jane. The Dowager Duchess of Richmond was caught sneaking a letter to that dreadful baron, no doubt hoping to secure herself a ‘better alliance.’”

“Truly?” Jane replied, a slight smirk touching her lips. “The ambition of some never ceases to amuse me. They grasp and claw as if the throne itself were but a heartbeat away.” They exchanged a knowing glance, laughter simmering just beneath the surface before the topic shifted to matters more immediate.

"And speaking of the throne… it appears our sweet Adelaide has captured the King’s eye quite thoroughly, wouldn’t you say?” Prudence’s voice dripped with feigned innocence. Jane raised an eyebrow. “Thoroughly indeed. She hardly leaves his side. It seems just a matter of time before we’ll see her crowned queen.”

Prudence laughed softly. “Ah, imagine the gowns we shall commission then! Silks and brocades finer than any the court has seen. After all, Adelaide will be in quite the position to indulge our tastes once she’s… comfortably seated beside the King.” Jane’s face softened into an equally sly grin. “And your granddaughter is as malleable as clay in your hands, no doubt.”

Prudence’s expression shifted, a gleam of intent flashing in her eyes. “Let us say she knows where her loyalty must lie. A word here, a nudge there, and she becomes the instrument of my will without even knowing it.” Jane’s eyes sparkled with understanding. “Then let us hope our King is as blinded by love as Adelaide is by ambition. Together, I daresay, we shall shape this kingdom to our liking.”

Later that evening, King Edward held court with a display of undeniable intent, Lady Adelaide at his side—a position typically reserved for a queen, a signal that echoed through the halls of Windenburg Castle, sending ripples of speculation among the gathered nobles. As the hour grew late, Adelaide turned to Edward, her tone dripping with feigned politeness. “Your Grace, with your leave, I shall retire for the evening.”

Edward nodded, granting her permission, and she swept away, the soft rustle of her gown echoing in the grand hall.

As Adelaide ascended the staircase, she turned the corner of the dimly lit hallway, and her path collided with that of a maidservant who had been rounding the bend. The maid laughed, momentarily startled by the sudden encounter, but her laughter only served to ignite Adelaide’s ire. Offended by the girl's mistake, Adelaide’s expression hardened, and without warning, she struck the servant girl across the face with a swift, unforgiving motion.

"Watch yourself, girl," she hissed, her voice cold and cutting. "A clumsy servant with no regard for her betters has no place here. Remember your place, and remember who will soon wear the crown." The maidservant's eyes widened in shock as she touched her reddened cheek, words caught in her throat. Adelaide, a storm of disdain, continued her tirade. “Next time, show some respect, or you’ll find yourself out in the streets.” With that, she swept past, her silk skirts trailing like a shadow of malice as she stormed away, leaving the girl trembling in her wake.

Unbeknownst to Adelaide, Queen Cordelia stood at the top of the staircase on the third level, her expression a mask of concern as she had witnessed the entire encounter unfold. Every word struck like a hammer, revealing the true nature of the woman her son had chosen to elevate. In that moment, a chill of dread coursed through her, knowing that this girl could be a dangerous pawn in a game far more perilous than the politics of the court. She felt a deep worry for Edward, who was blissfully unaware of the darkness lurking behind Adelaide’s smile—a darkness that could one day threaten the very crown he sought to uphold.

[sanjerina]

Doing a Struggle because I’m usually the very! first! person to say that fatphobia is bullshit, that the relentless focus on body image is a tool of the patriarchy, that people come in Shapes and that is wonderful and just fine!

So.

Had a reunion of my college a capella group this past weekend and spent a lovely day singing with members representing the ~25 years of the group’s existence. We sounded amazing 🔥 and it was a lot of fun!

And someone took a video and I saw my hot, sweaty, fleshy body, a decade older than most of the people there, roughly twice as wide as almost everybody else, and I can’t get any of the fat hate out of my head. The dowager’s hump; the bingo wings; my hair frizzy and sweaty and matted against the back of my neck. Old words in my head: gross, slob, mess, the noteworthy “unfuckable” an ex-GF dubbed me once.

I had heat prostration and had to leave an hour early (the venue having been chosen for its acoustics rather than its HVAC system) — I just feel disgusting looking at the video, remembering feeling like they should have carted me out in a wheelbarrow.

I want to be be proud of my aging body and everything it has gone through. I want to be pleased that we all still remembered the music and could make a glorious noise together. I just feel like a whale, an object of disdain, and I am not sure how to find compassion for myself.

Which I guess I mean to say fighting against this stuff doesn’t magically end. I have done twenty years of therapy —a great deal of it trying to make peace with my body — and if I may say so I am a very good therapist myself! But it doesn’t magically stop: the noise in my head, the internalized self-hatred. Most days it’s easier to bear. Sometimes I don’t even notice it. But today I am doing a Struggle.

It’s okay. We will get up tomorrow and go again. Self-compassion will be renewed, a briefly emptied well running clear and cool again. But it’s okay to notice when things are a little harder.

[londonfalling]

Deirdre's Hallowmas fit for @neathyfashioncoalition!

She's dressed up as a banshee, with the signature green dress and the bloody tears, because 'tis the season to stand on a roof and scream like a vengeful ghost. As you do. Maybe the ghost had a little too much though...

[I mostly got inspired by the iridescent beetle wing dress in that one Lady Macbeth painting, as well as some pre-raphaelite artworks in general- the vibe is very much "Victorian interpretations of medieval clothing", it was quite fun!!]

[feyhunter78]

Trials of Tributes (15/?)

Description: You fulfilled your promise now it's time for Aemond to start fulfilling his.

You held Viserys tightly to you, Aemond’s chest pressed to your back, Vhagar’s wings cutting through the air as she swooped down towards the water, causing Viserys to let out a delighted squeal. Dreamfyre followed, keeping above the ship that housed her rider, and other members of the court.

You were unsure of how Aemond so easily convinced his mother to allow two of her remaining children to depart for Dragonstone, but had a feeling Aemond had not given her much of a choice. Viserys and Jaeheara were seven years of age, both without dragons. You worried for Jaeheara, her own dragon had been killed, many dragons had been killed with only Dreamfyre able to escape. The girl seemed shy around them, preferring to ride in a wheelhouse or ship over her mother or uncle’s dragons.

“Helaena has been too sick with grief to ride her dragon, Jahaera does not know of the connection that can be forged, but in time she will.” Aemond had told you, when you voiced your worries to him, as you packed Viserys’ belongings into a trunk.

Viserys himself, bright, and brimming with excitement seemed to have forgotten the damage dragons can cause, enamored by the tales of glory and the connection between Aemond and Vhagar.

No Targaryen or Velaryon blood ran through your veins, you would never have a dragon, and at times felt along the vein as the Dowager Queen did. It was foolish to attempt to rule the skies, the heavens were for the gods, not man.

“When we arrive, will I get to choose a dragon then?” Viserys asked, craning his neck to look at Aemond.

Aemond gave him a fond smile. He had made Viserys wait to claim a dragon, a mere few months, to ensure that he and Jaehaera trusted one another enough to stand together in the face of a dragon. “We must greet our host, your uncle, first. He has been quite anxious to meet my bride and her child.”

Daeron the Daring, they had called him during the war. He had broken formation and come to his mother and Grandsire’s rescue, preventing King’s Landing from falling into the hands of The Blacks. It had been a barbarous battle, Tessarion and Vhagar fighting Syrax and Caraxes with a ferocity unseen since the Conqueror’s reign. Despite the relentless bloodlust that was said to enter the eyes of the prince at the sight of his mother’s peril, all praised him as a kind man. Aemond spoke fondly of him, citing him and Helaena among his favorites of his family. Now he ruled Dragonstone, a gift from Aemond when he ascended to the throne.

“We will greet him, then Jaeharea and I will run, and run, and run, until we find our dragons.” Viserys said happily, his eyes drifting down to the ship, a small speck of silver you assumed to be Jaeharea on the deck.

“Why would you need to run? Does that help hasten the bond?” You asked, a comical image of ten-year-old Aemond running alongside a flying Vhagar filled your mind, and you bit back a giggle.

“Lord Hightower said that was what my kind does. He said the Princess Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon ran when they danced with Kepa and Kepus Daeron’s dragons.” The words were said so lightly, as if he did not speak of the gruesome death of her parents.

Truly you felt you should correct him, tell him to call them by their familial titles and not by their formal names, out of respect for the dead, but a stronger feeling surged forward.

“Lord Hightower told you that it was what your kind does, runs when around dragons?” You felt the slow trickle of rage, a protectiveness that you had been nurturing since you first laid eyes upon the boy.

Otto had never been fond of you, never deemed you an intelligent or suitable match for his grandson, and his hatred of the Rouge Prince seemed not to have died with the man but lived on, finding purchase in Viserys.

“Yes, and he laughed, but I did not understand the joke. Jaehaera seemed to, though, but she would not explain it to me.” He said, his brows furrowed but soon smoothed as he smiled up at you.

He was a darling child, sweet and forgiving, seeking goodness in others as a flower seeks the sun.

“Otto is old, his mind must be going, pay him no mind.” You said sharply, sharper than you intended, a flash of hurt across Viserys’ face.

You leaned down and brushed a kiss to his temple. “You will not need to run, kepa will guide you.”

“I will speak with my grandsire when we arrive, I swear to you.” Aemond whispered, his lips to your ear, sending a shiver down your spine.

This was not the only promise Aemond had made regarding your arrival at Dragonstone. As soon as Vhagar had touched down, and Viserys was following the guards out towards the incoming ship, Aemond beckoned you into an alcove, away from the eyes of others.

“Aemond you cannot allow your grandsire to say such cruel things to our son. Viserys is your son in all but blood—he is your blood, though you are not his father, he sees you as such, and it is callous to stand by while your grandsire torments him.” You said, crossing your arms over your chest. You had grown bolder in your time as queen, more willing to go against Aemond’s desires when you truly believed the battle worth fighting.

“I will speak with him, tell him not to speak with Viserys unless his words are kind.” He reassured you, a smile tugging at his lips, as he admired the fire in your eyes.

You smiled back, softening under his devoted gaze. “I thank you, husband. For your words, and for all this.” You motioned to the courtyard, to the gateway he provided for your son.

Aemond nodded, cupping your face, his thumbs stroking the apples of your cheeks possessively. “There is a great, painted table, a map of the realm, in a room with soaring windows, I wish to take you upon it, claim my wife over and over atop the physical representation of my realm. If she would be obliged to thank me in such a way.”

You had long since made the connection between Aemond’s lust for you and power, between his desire to be loved and affirmed in his role. Not only as husband, but king.

You leaned into his touch, eyes fluttering as his hypnotic voice swept over you, each word spoken softly and coated in desire.

“If she would allow her husband to do such a thing, to take her upon the realm, he would burn for her.” He purred, one hand sliding down, down, down, beneath your skirts as he pressed your back to the wall.

“My husband knows quite well; I would allow him to do all he wished.” You gasped, pitch rising when he hiked your leg up and pressed your core to his, his cock half hard against you.

“So very obedient, my sweet wife, perhaps we shall conceive a child upon the painted table, a child of the realm.” He groaned quietly, his forehead resting against yours. “You would take me so well as I seeded you, beg me to spill within you, keep me within you until you drain me of all seed and thought.”

You moaned quietly at his words, Aemond’s hips beginning to move, a slow grinding motion that makes your breath hitch.

“And what a perfect mother you would be, so beautifully swelled and flushed with health, the blood of my child within you, the flames of a Targaryen sheltered within such a divine form.”

“Aem—” He cuts you off with a hand over your mouth.

The sound of footsteps rapidly approaching has him stepping back in a hurry, attempting to straighten himself out.

“Brother, I was wondering where you were hiding.”

Taglist: @nyctophilic0vitnir, @svtansdaddyx, @fan-goddess, @dc-marvel-girl96, @shintax-error, @bellameshipper, @the141bandicoot, @the-phantom-of-arda, @haydee5010, @partypoison00, @serrhaewin, @issshhh, @pax-2735, @malfoytargaryen, @sahanna, @dellalyra, @mxrgodsstuff, @jkhomes, @unusual-raccoon, @boofy1998, @kravitzwhore, @caribbeangel, @krispold, @issshh, @afro-hispwriter, @ryswritingrecord, @prettykinkysoul, @elissanatok, @sahvlren, @its-sam-allgood, @happinessinthbeing, @8e-h-e8, @feyres-fireheart, @just-emmaaaa, @crazylokonugget, @hedahobbit98, @devils-blackrose, @mercedesdecorazon, @snh96, @imjustboredso, @izzicle, @hiatuswhore, @aslanvez, @devils-blackrose, @yentroucnagol, @queenofshinigamis, @partyposion00, @cryptidsrcool, @jennifer0305

[louvaem]

flickers of light — one ; kindling (reuploaded)

☆ aemond targaryen x gn!reader, house targaryen x gn!reader (platonic)

☆ summary: when the Light of the Realm – beloved in all of Westeros – begins to succumb to an illness that even the most skilled and wizened Maesters cannot treat, the royal inhabitants of the Red Keep must hold onto the flickers of light through memories of moments, before the Stranger snuffs them out. — 5k words

☆ warnings/tags: angst, terminal illness, mutual pining, friends to sort-of-lovers to strangers, dance of the dragons never happened and we'll see why, set 10 years after the dance should have happened, this is a fix-it fic basically, rhaenicent is very important to me, no use of y/n and no descriptions of reader, massive time jump, everyone gets along. enjoy!

News of the Light of the Realm's terminal state arrives at the Red Keep at the hour of the owl, on the 15th day of the twelfth moon of the year 139 AC, as a storm lashes above the Crownlands.

The halls of the Keep are empty, save for one Maester whose slipper-clad feet patter against the stone floors in earnest. A thin length of parchment threatens to crumple in his fist, and tears collect in his eyes as the words on the tiny scroll turn over and over in his mind.

A particularly loud howl of wind blows through the corridor, sweeps the cap off his head and blows out a few torch lights as it passes. The Maester continues on without pause, however, purpose and pain fueling his strides as he reaches the Queen’s quarters. 

The Dowager Queen Alicent faces the window of her solar, unable to sleep due to the relentless wails of the storm.

“It rages as if we are in Storm's End,” she mutters, her eyes tracking the rivulets of rain that slide down the glass. Worry creases her forehead over thoughts of the city folk who’ve no proper lodging, and she makes a mental note to speak to the small council about building more shelters for the needy.

A hum from behind her ripples through the quiet.

“Perhaps Lord Baratheon has convinced the gods to spare his lands for a night,” The Queen Rhaenyra jests, voice soft as she stares at the crackling flames warming the room.

She sips her tea after, eyes meeting Alicent’s as their heads both turn to look at the other. Rhaenyra’s lips curl around the edge of the teacup, a smile hidden by the ceramic. But Alicent knows it’s there, and she smiles back. 

“Thank you for lending your company, my Queen,” she starts, legs carrying her at a steady pace towards Rhaenyra. “Sleep does not come easily to me when the sky seems like it is falling.”

Alicent takes Rhaenyra’s hand not holding a teacup in both of her own. She looks down at her companion, noting the way the slope of her nose is more prominent in the orange shadows of the fire.

Rhaenyra returns her gaze through eyelashes, and her hand flips to tightly hold onto Alicent’s.

“You need not thank me, lo–”

A knock cuts the endearment off. Rhaenyra sighs, but does not pull away as Alicent grants entrance to the person at the door.

Ser Harrold steps in, bowing before the two queens. If he notices the tender aura that envelops the women, he does not mention it. Though, a conscious simper forms on his lips.

“Apologies, my lady, your grace,” he starts, and steps to fully push the doors open, “Maester Corren bears urgent news from Oldtown.”

Alicent’s brows knit together once again. Oldtown?

“Oldtown?” Rhaenyra echoes the other queen’s thoughts. “What news from Oldtown cannot wait to be heard ‘til the morning?”

The Kingsguard side-steps to let the Maester inside, the chained man swift in his movements to plant himself in the middle of the room.

“My sincerest apologies, your grace,” Maester Corren’s usually seasoned and stoic tone trembles as he speaks, and he holds his down-turned fist out to offer the parchment to Alicent.

“I would not come at this late an hour if it was not distressing,” he continues.

“Corren, what has shaken you?” Alicent questions him. After a beat, it dawns on her what news from Oldtown might mean.

“Has something happened at the High Tower? To Daeron, or my father?” She cannot help but ask aloud, not wanting to accept the parchment yet.

She receives only shakes from the head of the Maester, and his chains clank against each other from the movement. The two queens watch as the trained scholar reaches up with his other palm to wipe at his face.

“Please,” he pleads, as if a young child. “I know this is most uncouth, but I cannot bear to read it again, your graces.”

Alicent looks down at her queen, their hands still grasping one another’s. With a nod from Rhaenyra, Alicent releases her hold and turns her palm face up to accept the scroll. The Maester releases it, as if it’s burned him, and takes a step back. 

She unfurls the paper with surprisingly steady fingers, unwilling to let her nerves get the better of her. Once she reads the writing on the scroll, however, she understands why the Maester trembles all over.

The red-haired queen barely registers Rhaenyra urging the shaken Maester to sit as she herself takes a deep inhale to steady her breathing. Alicent’s eyes rake over the tiny parchment multiple times, not believing the words before her.

“Alicent?” Rhaenyra sees her turn towards the window again, head ducked and both hands clutching the scroll. “What is it? What has happened?”

Rhaenyra catches her utterance of the word light, and one look at Ser Harrold is enough to have the older knight take over with assisting Maester Corren. She tries again to capture Alicent’s mutterings, coming up right beside her to grasp her elbow in a gentle hold.

“My dear,” Rhaenyra whispers, soft enough that only she and her doe-eyed companion can hear. “Look at me, please.”

The sorrow in the Dowager Queen's gaze washes over Rhaenyra's entire being. The corners of Alicent's mouth struggle to keep from quivering as she tries to relay the news, but sounds refuse to form in her throat.

"It's alright, you do not have to speak," Rhaenyra reassures. She gestures with her palm for the scroll. "May I?"

Rhaenyra takes the miniscule parchment from Alicent, who offers no resistance. The paper curls again as Rhaenyra pinches it between her thumb and forefinger, her other hand reaching up to brush away a tear that has found its way out of Alicent's wide eyes. Her heart aches at the sight, and she wonders what news the little parchment holds to have had cast such a large wave of emotion over everyone around her.

Alicent’s eyes flutter to a close, and she ducks her head again as Rhaenyra finally looks upon the writing. She hears a gasp, and when Alicent glances up, Rhaenyra holds the same grief on her face that she’s sure she mirrors.

After a beat of silence, Maester Corren is the first to speak.

"The Prince Aemond should know."

"No," Alicent answers all too quickly. "It can wait until the morn–"

"I beg your pardon, your grace, but you know it cannot," he interrupts. He stands from where Ser Harrold has sat him down on a chaise, voice reverting back to the neutral yet firm tone of a chained Maester.

Rhaenyra watches as Alicent's posture straightens at the man's tone, watches Alicent steel and ready herself to retort at the Maester's apparent lack of respect. Before she can, however, he continues.

"You've read the scroll," he says. "By the end of the moon, the illness will take hold no later than when the first rays of light hit the sphere of the Citadel."

Rhaenyra hears a shaky exhale come from Alicent, whose hand maneuvers to clutch at Rhaenyra's forearm for support. She surrenders it, lets the Dowager Queen lean against her.

"Corren, you must understand," Rhaenyra is gentle in her address. "This news... it will break him."

"Please, your grace," the Maester pleads. "My dear cousin has suffered far too much; this illness has taken far too much."

No one talks but the Maester, as everyone in the chamber knows the truth in his sayings.

"If you could read the letters I have received... the hurt I have deciphered, embedded in my cousin's handwriting. Please, my queens, do not sequester away things that you can so easily give."

"And what are those, Maester?" Rhaenyra poses.

"Relief," his scholarly façade ripples away for but a moment. "Healing... Love."

Rhaenyra feels her jaw clench, feels Alicent's grip on her arm tighten, feels Ser Harrold's stare on her face, waiting for a command. She glances at her friend, her closest companion– with her head bowed and shoulders heaving, a finger picking at the cuticles of the same hand. She glances back at the Maester, notes the way his voice wavers slightly at the mention of his cousin, notes the fact that he has never faltered in his duties as first and foremost a Maester of the Red Keep, until now.

When she looks at Ser Harrold, Rhaenyra notes the hesitation on his face. He knows what is right, what must be done, what must be said aloud, but cannot acknowledge what is so until she commands it so.

For the sake of the queen beside her, however, she does not say the words. As Ser Harrold's gaze meets hers, she simply nods. He knows.

Only the sound of the crackling fire can be heard, along with the clinking of the knight’s armour, as he moves to grasp Maester Corren firm on the shoulder.

Before his gloved hand can make contact, Alicent speaks.

"There is no need, Ser Harrold."

Her hold on Rhaenyra's arm loosens, and ultimately falls away. Alicent steps towards the Maester, and for a moment Rhaenyra sees fear flash in his eyes. But as Alicent reaches forward to hold Corren's upper arm in comfort, the fear is replaced with something akin to gratitude.

"You are right, Corren," Alicent says, understanding. "It will break him, yes, but perhaps... perhaps it can also heal him. As reconciliation often does."

She continues, "Your cousin had once granted me these things you speak of."

Her gaze comes back to meet Rhaenyra's, tone reminiscent.

"So, what am I if not ungrateful, if I were to deny such things from the Light of the Realm?"

The two queens' illuminated smiles hold a twinge of melancholy to them. If the men in the room know of the reasons, of the events, of the love behind such smiles, they do not say.

Prince Aemond's light dims, to a darker dullness he thought was not possible, at the beginning of the hour of the wolf.

He’s sat atop the bed, sapphire eye uncovered, knees bent to accommodate the tome he cradles in his lap. There’s a familiar heft to it, having been in the prince's possession for nearly a decade. Its spine cracked beyond care, its pages dog-eared, margins riddled with writing.

Though, the ink on the paper remains as fresh as can be. The book rarely leaves the four walls of the prince's quarters, sunlight never having the chance to fade its text.

It has become a comfort to the prince, despite its heavy weight and heavier content. Though, it is not solely the scholarly content that draws the prince to reach for the tome every night, tucked away in his bedside drawer, before he surrenders to sleep.

Tis more so what lies in between the lines: illustrations scribbled over with black coal, highlighted passages, notes, reminders to pursue treatments that he once believed would be successful.

"Once I have a dragon, we will fly to the Citadel and have the Archmaesters conduct this," he had said, underlining the title of a procedure he thought had the most chance of curing an illness that threatened his companion.

"They would not dare deny a prince of the realm, I swear it."

Aemond’s forefinger traces the curve in a diagram of the human backbone as he recalls the promise he had made and failed to keep, though to no fault of his own. Still, the ache in his chest makes itself known once again, as recognizable as the tome he clutches.

Pages fly wildly about when a gust of wind manages to slip through a crack in a window. Aemond can only watch as the candles in his room dance and writhe until most of them flicker out, the scent of melted wax left to fester in the air.

A sigh escapes him. His sole eye strains to make out a passage with whatever light remains in the room, but the darkness swallows his bed area too much. As he contemplates whether to take this as a sign from the gods to rest, or to relight the candles and continue on, a knock sounds at his door.

Brow and marred skin crease together in confusion.

"Ser Arryk?" he calls out, unsure of which knight of the Kingsguard had taken station outside his chambers for the night.

The sudden arrival of the storm had scrambled the usual routine of the Red Keep, adding to that three of the Kingsguard having left to trail after members of the royal family who had ventured out into the Kingswood for a day or two of hunting.

Of the nephews, cousins, and siblings, only Aemond chose to remain– knowing in himself that he was lately not one for prolonged interactions, even if it was solely his family he'd be around.

"I would only dampen the mood, sister," he said to Helaena, tone playful. She carried Baela's youngest in her arms, the mother having stepped away for a few moments. "Bring me back one of those rare crawling creatures you are so fond of, won’t you?"

Helaena beamed at the request. She bounced the toddler excitedly on her hip, lilted voice asking the not-yet verbal babe what insects they might find in the forests. The child giggled in response, just as Jace and Luke walked into the room, hunting gear in their arms. Aemond noted the way Jace's eyes lit up at the sound of his child's laughter.

"Nephews," Aemond greeted them. Had he been the man that he was 10 years ago, malice and disdain would've seeped into his voice. Instead, he continued, genuine concern for his family coating his following advice.

"Be wary of your surroundings," he had said, grasping Luke's shoulder, "look out for one another."

When he asks again, it is not Ser Arryk who answers.

"It is me," his mother's voice calls out instead. "And Rhaenyra."

Aemond's puzzlement only grows, though not at the presence of his half-sister. He had long ago grown accustomed to the sight of the two women near each other after his father's death and the family's reconstitution– a process which had not settled so easily in him as it did in the matriarchs of their house.

No, his uncertainty at this moment comes from their joint company at such time of night. Nothing good nor godly has ever greeted Aemond during the wolf's hour.

"May we come in?" Rhaenyra says, muffled by the wood of the chamber door.

Aemond realizes that he's only clad in his breeches and a loose white poet shirt, hardly appropriate attire to wear in front of both Queens of the realm. He scrambles to where his dressing robe hangs by his bed and wastes no time in tying it closed before he whips the door open.

"Mother," he nods to Alicent before addressing his half-sister. "Your grace."

He takes in the sheen on his mother's face, and Rhaenyra's right arm outstretched behind her, no doubt on the small of her back in a steadying effort. Their solemn expressions pierce a needle of anxiety through him, the once stoic and confident one-eyed prince now overtaken with clammy hands and shaky breaths. He remembers his family stranded by the storm in the Kingswood, protected by sworn knights yet still vulnerable to the wrath of nature.

"What is the matter?” Aemond cannot help the worrying rambles that leave his mouth. “Has something happened to the hunting party? I can take Vhagar to retrieve them from the Kingsw–"

Rhaenyra's hand raising makes him pause. "They are alright, dear brother, you needn't worry."

"Apologies, sister," he says, sheepish. Aemond steps aside to allow them entrance. "Please, come in."

Alicent is first to cross into the threshold with Rhaenyra close behind. It is only when she passes Aemond that he realizes his mother has yet to look him in the eye.

He observes as Alicent settles herself down onto a seat around the center table of his quarters. Her gaze remains downcast, not meeting his.

"A Record of Incurable Illnesses in the Known Realm," Rhaenyra says aloud, tone questioning, eyes on the cover of the tome that he had haphazardly thrown upon the table in his haste. "Do not tell me you plan on forging a maester's chain, lēkia."

"I was doing some nightly reading," Aemond admits, though he's familiar enough with Rhaenyra's joking tone that he knows she is not fully using it. She knows why he reads what he reads, and he is thankful that she does not speak it plainly.

He hears his mother breathe in at the mention of the book, as though to brace herself. Aemond thinks she might plainly speak on it.

The prince decides he shall be forthright, not pleased with the feeling of his body physically manifesting his anxiety. His jaw clenches, and sweat begins to pool in the dip of his back despite the chilly air of the night.

"As much as I enjoy your company, my queens, I must ask, why have you graced me with it at such an hour?"

"Aemond," his mother at last looks up at him. Her eyes brim with tears. "A raven from Oldtown arrived earlier, at the hour of the owl."

His mouth runs dry. "Is it Daeron? Or grandsire?"

Aemond’s mind forbids itself from wondering about the only other person residing in Oldtown worth mentioning.

He does not miss the quaking exhale from Rhaenyra, who speaks when Alicent seems at a loss for words. "It came from the Citadel."

He goes still, as if turned to stone.

A cold rush starts from the tips of his fingers, and it spreads to his arms, to his torso, and grips his spine. The last word his sister had uttered melts into a continuous ringing in his ears which grows and grows until even the storm outside ceases to exist.

Numbness has rendered him immobile, he thinks, he is rooted to his spot.

And then he mutters a name his lips had not formed in years A name that he has not heard anyone say in his vicinity, in fear of what his reaction might be.

Your name comes out in a whisper. Posed as a question that he prays they leave unanswered.

He's undeserving to speak it with full volume. He fears that merely allowing his throat to form the sounds of it will make it so, manifest it into reality.

And Aemond thinks, when Rhaenyra nods in confirmation, what a twisted reality this has become.

She continues speaking, though the pealing in his ears has grown louder ten-fold and permits him to decipher only bits and pieces.

Raven... Maester Corren... take hold...

He sees Rhaenyra pull out a strip of paper and begin to read from it.

Aemond needs to sit down. Instead, he stumbles back, shoulder bumping against the wall. He vaguely hears the scraping of a chair–vaguely registers the arms that find purchase under his to keep him upright. He hears his mother call out his name, though it sounds distant and dampened. He sees his sister halt mid-statement, arms out in a ready stance to assist Alicent if need be.

But when Aemond's eye stares into hers, when he briefly glances at the parchment curled around her fingers, she knows what he is asking for and carries on reading.

"... most likely succumb to the illness not long after the first rays of light hit the sphere of the Citadel on the last day of this moon. We urge you – visit while you can, before the Stranger comes, while there is still time left."

"Aemond," his mother repeats. "Come, let us take a seat."

Alicent pulls her arms away from under his. She opts to clutch at his forearm instead and attempts to tug him towards a chair.

But Aemond is stock-still against the wall. The last sentence echoes in his mind.

Visit while you can.

While you are still alive.

Before the Stranger comes.

Death had not taken you yet.

While there is still time left.

He still had time.

The prince is shaken out of his stupor when another gust of wind flitters about his room, the howl of it catching his mother off-guard.

"Mother," he turns to her, places his hand atop hers that holds onto him. "I must go."

Alicent peers at her son for a moment to search his face. What she expects to find, he doesn't know. He half-expects her to argue, to protest against his admittedly rash and unspoken plan of action, and he fails to conceal his surprise when his mother does neither.

Alicent’s hands move to either side of his face, and he feels the press of a kiss to his forehead, where his scar topmost starts. A sad smile graces her face as she gazes into her son’s eyes.

“I know.”

He can see his mother's internal qualms with his leaving at such an hour, in such weather, but she does not voice them.

The Queen does, however.

"The storm is unrelenting," Rhaenyra states. "Too dangerous to face alone.”

“You’d have me wait?”

You’d have me wait, have me prolong my suffering even longer? Aemond wants to say, though he bites his tongue.

“That is not what I meant, lekia,” Rhaenyra says, soft, against his own firm voice. “You need not face it alone; I shall accompany you on Syrax."

“No,” Aemond blanches, the memories of what had almost occurred the last time dragons flew amidst a storm flashing through his mind.

“You… you are needed here, my queen,” he tries to reason.

"Aemond,” Rhaenyra tuts, worry in her voice. “You may ride the largest dragon, but even Vhagar might not be a match for the gales of wind that plague the skies tonight."

“Perhaps,” he starts. “But our family stays stranded, with no dragons, in the Kingswood. One of us should keep near, should they need assistance."

I will not be able to protect you, he wants to say. Not when my thoughts are elsewhere.

Aemond squeezes his mother's hand once, twice, smiles at her and lets her go to step towards Rhaenyra. She contemplates his statement, though part of her knows he is right.

But they are siblings, and Aemond's stubbornness is her own.

"Then perhaps wait and see if the storm breaks by sunrise," Rhaenyra suggests. "If it does not, then at the very least you will have light in the rain. But do not venture out during the night's darkest hour– not with this downpour added to it."

Aemond turns her counsel over in his mind. "Do you say this to me as queen?"

"I say this to you as your sister,” she stares at him fondly. “Though, you might consider, your older sister."

He glances at Alicent, who now stands once more beside Rhaenyra, and merely shrugs. "It is your choice, my son. I leave it to you."

There is not a trace of hesitation in his being. “Then I shall forge ahead to the Citadel.”

At that, he moves to turn to his wardrobe. He's eager to change into his riding leathers as quick as he can – when Aemond catches Rhaenyra's loving glance at his mother. And as Alicent returns the queen's gaze with equal, if not more, affection – an epiphany he had years ago, when he first lost your companionship over his foolishness and shortcomings, comes back to him.

You did this, he echoes in gratitude what he had once said to you in anger. You are the one I have to thank for this happiness.

(He still remembers the word he used then – this farce.)

“Mandia,” Aemond calls out to his sister, steps faltering. Rhaenyra meets his gaze— one that once held indifference and disdain towards her, now only full of gratitude and kinship.

“Thank you,” is all he breathes out.

Rhaenyra nods in understanding. “I shall follow after you with the others once they’ve returned from the Kingswood.”

The two queens watch as Aemond moves about with a fervor they’d not seen in the one-eyed prince for nearly a decade.

“Here you are,” Alma lifts a cup to your lips, its contents steaming. “Steady, dear.”

The fragrant tea is warm as you sip it, and you sigh in relief at the wonders it does to soothe your aches and pains. You sink deeper into the soft bed, your eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment, still slightly heavy with sleep.

“Thank you, Alma,” you say, voice shaky, as you gaze up at her. “Your tea is magical, and tasty, as always.”

She beams at your compliment and brings the cup up for another sip.

“Thank you, though I wish I could take credit for the beneficial parts of the concoction, dear light,” Alma says. “You know it is your cousin who has developed its base, I merely added the herbs to make it more bearable for consumption.”

Her use of your epithet does not go unnoticed by you.

“Hm, still, thank you for making it so,” you hum. “And you know I’m not particularly fond of that name, Alma.”

“Tis an apt title, in my opinion,” she retorts. Alma sets the cup down on the table by your bedside, afterwards reaching over to lovingly caress your hair.

“And one most deserved,” she adds, in a quiet voice. You can only grace her with a small smile, knowing that an argument with her will only end up with you frustrated and her ever more triumphant.

Alma leaves your side to flit about the room, tidying up the blankets at the foot of your bed and using the rag on her shoulder to wipe down the dust on the many shelves of books. She chats while she moves about, though her attempts at asking you questions about what literature you crave to read next are mostly ignored.

Your attention favours the arched window on the far-right wall of your chamber— large and low enough on the wall for you to be able to look at the world beyond from where you lay, bedridden. One of its stained-glass panels had been cracked open, and a light breeze jostles the short green drapes that frame the window. Not so distantly, the High Tower gleams solid white against the blue morning sky, an ever constant and looming presence, a permanent fixture within the limited view your chamber window offers.

The sight of the tall structure, clean and angular, never fails to remind you of the man half-descended from the family charged with its care.

A small crick forms in your neck from the prolonged turn of your head, and you slowly face forward again to avoid the discomfort turning into an ache. In your periphery, the High Tower remains, and so do thoughts of the man.

You cannot help the question that leaves your mouth.

“Have any ravens arrived from the Crownlands?” From the Red Keep, you mean to say, though Alma knows you well enough to know what hides behind the generalization, but kind enough to not point it out. You’ve asked the question many times to many others in the past few days, since the Citadel raven left with the Maesters’ scroll secured to its leg.

“I’ve not heard anything from the rookery,” she turns to you with a rehearsed answer. “There’s apparently quite atrocious weather over the capital, I don’t expect creatures of any kind would want to venture out into it.”

“I see,” you say, deflated. She turns at the change of pitch in your tone.

“Soon, dear light,” Alma reassures you from her spot in front of the bookshelves, kind gaze taking in your solemn expression.

You look up at her, grace her with a small smile and a nod in understanding. “Right, soon.”

“Now,” she says, determined to distract you from your anxiety. “I do think it’s about time to break fast.”

“Oh, I’m alright,” you start. “I’m not that hungry—”

Your stomach grumbles in discontent, the sound bouncing off the stone walls of your chambers.

Alma raises her eyebrows, as if to say What were you saying?

“Fine,” you sigh. “But something small, please. I don’t have much of an appetite, truly.”

“I’ll ask the cook for a warm meal,” Alma counters. “A large, warm meal.”

“Alma—” your groan is cut off by another, stronger growl, though this time not accompanied by the familiar vibrations of hunger in your stomach. Alma lets out a laugh at the noise.

“My!” she exclaims, hands on her hips as she looks at you. “Maybe some pastries as well, then? I’ll have Blythe fetch some from the bakery.”

“That wasn’t me,” you whisper, brows furrowing. Alma’s amused expression morphs into one of confusion, likely mirroring your own.

“What—”

A roar, loud as a crack of thunder and close enough that you feel it shake your bones, rattles the chamber. Dust falls from the ceiling, and your frail trembling fingers clutch at the sheets either side of you.

“Seven Hells!” Alma yelps. She drops the rag in her hand and strides to your bed. She sits down beside you and takes your hand. “What in the gods’ name was that?”

You don’t answer her, though an inkling feeling develops in your mind as you painfully whip your head to peer out the window. The quaking had caused the pane to open even more ajar, and your breath hitches in your throat at the sight you see.

The High Tower remains grand in the distance, though its domineering presence is now diminished by the shade of a winged shadow, which grows and grows until the being attached to it comes into view. It circles the tower twice around before it flies to land on an empty hill, stretching its wings and letting out another quaking roar.

Alma lets out a shaky breath beside you. “Is that…”

You nod, silently, to answer her trailed off question. The crick in your neck reappears, though you pay it no mind.

“Vhagar.”

☆ translations: lēkia= brother, mandia = sister

☆ this is a REUPLOAD bcs i didn't like the ending of the first version. also i chose the most hectic time of my life to start writing a multi-chapter fic so only the gods know when i'll be able to update this lol.

is this bad, is this good? let me know what you think!

[timesimmer]

TW: Starvation, Death

The cold, biting wind howled through the drafty halls of Gilbert Manor, a stark contrast to the warmth and opulence that had once filled them. The Great Famine had ravaged the land, leaving even the nobility hungry and desperate. Earl Nolan Gilbert, a man of unwavering strength and generosity, had sacrificed his own rations to ensure his family's survival. But even his noble spirit could not withstand the relentless hunger.

Countess Eda, once a vibrant and spirited woman, had become a mere shadow of her former self. Her eyes, once filled with warmth and kindness, now held a haunting emptiness. Nolan, too, had succumbed to the relentless grip of starvation. His once robust frame was now frail and gaunt, his once strong voice reduced to a hoarse whisper.

Dowager Countess Synnove, a woman of deep faith and unwavering devotion, watched her son and daughter-in-law slowly fade away, her heart heavy with sorrow. She pleaded with the watcher, begging for mercy, for a reprieve from the cruel fate that had befallen her family. But her cries fell on deaf ears.

One by one, the candles in the manor were extinguished, leaving the house shrouded in darkness. The last flicker of life in Nolan and Eda's eyes disappeared, and the Gilbert family, once a beacon of hope in the kingdom, was extinguished. Synnove was left alone, her heart shattered, to mourn the loss of her beloved son and daughter-in-law.

Great Famine Deaths:

Earl Nolan Gilbert

Countess Eda Gilbert

[miffy-junot]

Felix Yusupov on the February Revolution

The Revolution broke out on March 12*. Buildings all over the capital were set on fire, and there was heavy shooting in the streets. A great part of the Army and of the police joined the Revolution - among them the Cossacks of the Household, the elite of the Imperial Guard. After long discussions with the Soviet of Workmen's and Soldiers' Representatives, a Provisional Government was formed under the presidency of Prince Lvov, with Kerensky as Minister of justice at the demand of the Socialist Party. The Emperor abdicated on March 15. So as not to be separated from his delicate son, he handed over the crown to his brother, the Grand Duke Mikhail. The text of this historic document is well known, and I recall its noble words with the deepest emotion:

We, Nicholas II, by the grace of God Emperor of all the Russias, Tsar of Poland, Grand Duke of Finland, etc., etc., hereby make known to all Our loyal subjects: At this time of bitter strife against a foe who for nearly three years has been striving to invade Our country, it has pleased God to send down on Russia a fresh and grievous trial. The disturbances which have begun in our midst threaten to have a disastrous effect on the conduct of this fearful and relentless struggle. The destiny of Russia, the honor of Our heroic army, the welfare of the people, the whole future of Our beloved country, make it imperative that the war be brought at all costs to a victorious end. The enemy is making his last efforts, and the hour is at hand when Our valiant army, with the help of Our gallant Allies, will defeat him conclusively. In these decisive days so critical for the very existence of Russia, We deem it Our duty to do Our utmost to facilitate the close union of Our people so that in a common effort of the whole nation a rapid and decisive victory may be won. That is why, in agreement with the Duma of the Empire, We have thought fit to abdicate the throne of Russia and relinquish Our sovereign power. Not wishing to be parted from Our beloved son, we bequeath Our heritage to Our brother, the Grand Duke Mikhail Alexandrovich, and we give him Our blessing on His accession to the throne. We urge Him to govern Russia in close communion with the Representatives of the legislative Assemblies, and to swear inviolable allegiance to them in Our beloved country's name. We appeal to all the loyal sons of Russia, and ask them to fulfill their sacred and patriotic duty by obeying the Tsar and, in this time of grave national crisis, helping Him, together with the Representatives of the Nation, to lead the Russian State into the path of glory, prosperity and victory. God save Russia. Nicholas

On the following day, March 16, the Grand Duke Mikhail signed his provisional abdication. Kerensky, who had practically extorted this from him, was most eloquent in his thanks. The government having given the Emperor "permission" to bid farewell to the Army, the Dowager Empress and my father-in-law [Grand Duke Alexander] immediately left for Kiev, and from there went to General Headquarters in Mohilev. At the station, Nicholas II remained alone with his mother in her private train for two hours. Their conversation was not divulged. When my father-in-law was invited to join them, the Empress was weeping bitterly. The Tsar stood motionless and silent, smoking. The Provisional Government yielded to the demands of the Soviet and ordered the Tsar's immediate arrest. The infamous order of the day Number One was published; it empowered the soldiers to choose their own officers and to form regimental soviets, and it abolished saluting. This meant the end of all military discipline. In certain garrisons the men were already massacring their officers. It was the end of the Russian Imperial army.

Three days later, the Emperor left for Tsarskoe Selo where he was to be interned with his family. He wore a plain khaki tunic and the cross of St. George. His train was standing side by side with that of the Dowager Empress, who stood weeping at the window. She made the sign of the cross and a gesture of benediction. As the train moved out, the Tsar waved good-by. This was the last time he was to see his mother. On reaching Tsarskoe Selo, the Emperor was forsaken by all. The only one to accompany him to the Alexander Palace was Prince W. Dolgorukov.

I was allowed to leave Rakitnoe** at the end of March and we all returned to St. Petersburg. Before we left, a service was held at Rakitnoe; the church was full of weeping peasants. "And how are we going to live?" they asked. "Our Tsar has been taken from us!" At Kharkov station we wanted to go to the buffet. We had to force our way through a crowd of jostling men and women hailing each other as "comrade". Someone recognized me and spoke my name. The crowd closed in on us, and in their enthusiasm started to shove and push, till we were almost suffocated. I had the unpleasant feeling that the very people who were cheering us today might just as easily lynch us tomorrow. Some soldiers came to our help, and cleared a way for us to the refreshment room. The crowd tried to rush in after us, and the doors had to be closed. They called on me to make a speech but I refused, saying that I was unable to speak in public. just then, we were told that the train in which the Grand Duke Nikolai Nikolaievich was returning from the Caucasus had arrived in the station. To reach him, we had to make our way once more through the howling mob, which was now cheering the Grand Duke. He embraced me warmly, exclaiming: "At last we'll be able to triumph over Russia's enemies!" Our meeting was brief, as his train was leaving almost immediately. On getting back to ours, I met a singer called Altchevsky in the corridor. He told me that he had been in the country getting treatment for a serious nervous complaint; he came into our compartment and offered to sing for us. Suddenly in the middle of a song he stopped, and staring at me wildly asked: "Why are you looking at me like that? I can't sing any more." Taken aback, I begged him to continue, but be refused and launched into a long diatribe in a voice which grew louder and louder. His shouting attracted the attention of a friend of his in the next compartment who managed to find a doctor on the train to give him an injection. But in the dead of night, his howls echoed through the train, louder than ever. In the general atmosphere of strain and tension, this ghastly encounter with a madman was the highlight of our nightmare journey.

We found St. Petersburg very much changed. The confusion in the streets was indescribable. Most people were wearing red cockades. Our own chauffeur had thought it would be prudent to wear a red bow when meeting us at the station. "Take it off!" my mother cried indignantly.

One of the first things I did was to see the Grand Duchess Elisabeth in Moscow; I had not seen her since the tragic events in March. She came up to me with her eyes full of tears, and blessed and kissed me. "Poor Russia," she said, "What a terrible ordeal lies ahead of her! But we must bow before the will of Heaven. We are helpless. We can only pray and beseech God's mercy." She listened with close attention to my account of the tragic night of December 29. "You could not act otherwise," she said when I had finished. "You made a supreme attempt to save your country and the dynasty. It is not your fault if the result is not what you hoped for. The fault lies with those who failed to do their duty. It was no crime to kill Rasputin; you destroyed a fiend who was the incarnation of evil. Nor is there any merit in what you did: you were destined to do it, just as anyone else might have been." She told me that a few days after Rasputin's death the mothers superior of several convents had come to see her, to tell her of the disturbing events that had taken place in the communities on December 29. During the night offices, priests had suddenly gone mad, blaspheming and shrieking; nuns ran about the corridors howling like souls possessed and lifting their skirts with obscene gestures. "The Russian people cannot be held responsible for events to come," continued the Grand Duchess. "Poor Nicky, poor Alix, what suffering awaits them! God's will be done. But even though all the powers of hell may be let loose, Holy Russia and the Orthodox Church will remain unconquered. Some day, in this ghastly struggle, Virtue will triumph over Evil. Those who keep hose who keep their Faith will see the Powers of Light vanquish the Powers of Darkness. God punishes and pardons."

From the day of our arrival in St. Petersburg, our house on the Moika was filled with a continuous stream of people; we found this very exhausting... Mikhail Rodzianko, President of the Duma and a distant relative, was among our most frequent visitors. One day my mother sent for me. Irina and I went up to see her and found her deep in conversation with Rodzianko. The latter rose as I came in, walked up to me and said point-blank: "Moscow wishes to proclaim you Emperor. What do you say to that?" This did not come as a surprise, as I had been approached several times since our return by people of different classes: officers, politicians, priests. Later on, Admiral Koltchak and the Grand Duke Nikolai Mikhailovich also discussed the matter with me. The Grand Duke said: "The throne of Russia is neither hereditary nor elective: it is usurpatory. Take advantage of the Circumstances; you hold all the trumps. Russia cannot go on without a monarch, and the Romanovs are discredited; the people don't want them back." I was deeply dismayed by the irony of the situation. The very man who had killed Rasputin in order to save the dynasty was himself requested to play the part of usurper!

Meanwhile, I was becoming very anxious about Dmitri, who had fallen ill at Tehran and was in despair at being so far from home.***

*although the date falls in March in the Gregorian calendar, which is used in the majority of the world and modern Russia, the Russian Empire used the Julian calendar, where the beginning of the revolution occurred at the end of February, hence the name of the "February Revolution"

**Felix Yusupov had been exiled to his country estate Rakitnoe for his participation in the murder of Rasputin.

***Grand Duke Dmitri Pavlovich had been sent to Persia for his participation in the murder of Rasputin.

source: Lost Splendour by Felix Yusupov, chapter 25