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randomdragonfires · 4 months ago

Text

Parallel Lines, Act I

Text Divider by @saradika-graphics

SUMMARY | He fears her proximity, and she fears his distance. As war looms, they’ll have to learn to make their marriage work to find comfort in each other.

Or at least, try.

PAIRING | Aemond Targaryen x Wife!Reader

WARNINGS | 18+; SMUT; Angst; Complicated Relationship Themes; Emotional Negligence; Infidelity; Major Character Death; Aemond and his issues are a warning on their own ok?

AUTHOR’S NOTE | All Valyrian lines were translated from english using a free online translator. They are likely to be grammatically wrong - but I don’t even know man. Yeah.

WORD COUNT | 9.5k - and not a single word is beta read. We die like warriors, I guess?

The moonlight spilled through the series of windows of her husband’s - not theirs, his - apartments in the Red Keep, casting a silvery glow over the austere elegance of the chambers. His wife stood by the window, her silhouette framed against the backdrop of the night sky, the soft rustle of her gown the only sound in the otherwise silent room.

She turned slowly, her gaze sweeping across the dimly lit interior, taking in the cool, stone walls that seemed to absorb the flickering torchlight. She glided through the hall where intricate tapestries depicted dragons in flight, their scales shimmering with threads of gold and silver. The grand fireplace dominated one wall, the warmth emanating throughout the space from the burning logs within. She folded her arms into her chest, as if to preserve the heat as she shivered from the cold night - her thin nightdress didn’t help. Above the mantelpiece, Vhagar's fierce eyes followed her every movement, a fierce presence in paint.

Moving through the chambers, she passed through his personal library, every page a stern reflection of his interests. Shelves of dark, polished wood lined the walls, filled with ancient tomes and scrolls, their faint scent of aged parchment and leather permeating the air.

He mostly smelled of smoke, fire and leather. Of books and dragons - both of which he is passionate about.

It makes sense then, that no one will ever catch a whiff of her perfume on him.

They were far from passionate, after all.

In the center, his heavy, ornately carved desk was strewn with maps and documents, a well-used quill and inkwell ready for his expert hand to wield. She leaned on the table to look at it all, and spun one of the wooden markers between her nimble fingers for a moment - as she had seen him do countless times - before leaving it back where she found it.

She stepped into the bedchamber, its stark stone walls softened by the rich, crimson fabrics of the large, canopied bed. Dragons were subtly woven into the bedspread and curtains, a constant reminder of the Targaryen lineage that she had married and given birth to.

How long has it been since she laid with him on this bed? More than a year, she surmised. They did their duty on their wedding night, and the Mother was graceful enough to make his seed quicken in her immediately. She laid with him for a few weeks after - and when the maesters made it known that she was with child, that had stopped.

A good wife knows how to keep her husband satisfied, they said. Her husband never sought her out. If the whispers of the few around her were to be believed, he frequents a whore in a Silk Street brothel.

Was she not a good wife then?

She gave him a son. He may be sickly, but he is a son nonetheless. Surely it must count?

With a weary sigh, her eyes shifted to the adjoining armory, where Aemond’s armor and weapons were meticulously displayed. This part of his room exuded an air of readiness, a silent promise of the warrior who would soon return to his space.

From the whorehouse, no doubt.

She turned back to the window, her thoughts as fluid as the shimmering waves below. The apartments were a microcosm of her husband's existence: regal yet austere, scholarly yet martial.

And no sign of marriage, leave alone happy or healthy. How could there be, when he doesn’t feel half the happiness with her that he does when left alone with his beast or books?

There was no hate between them, surely not. Her husband was agreeable, but that was that. There was never any doubt in her mind that he did not want her - or the idea of her - but had to marry her anyway. There was no passion, and she could count with two hands the number of times they have lain with each other in the past year that they have been married - even that was before she had become with child.

There was nothing, truly.

She tried with him, initially. But any illusion of interest that she thought he may grow towards her was shattered the moment she heard that the very night that she’d met him, he was seen moving out of the castle grounds and into the Street of Silk.

He didn’t even bother with making it discreet.

Their wedding was a morose affair. They were the very picture of a royal couple, but neither felt the part - more like a pair of chastised children made to listen after a screaming bout. Even when he took her, he took her from behind - and she was fully clothed. It was nowhere close to the slow exploration that some of her ladies promised. He’s a scholar, he’d be willing to learn for your pleasure, they had said. He’d not even kissed her after their wedding ceremony, not once - he simply demanded that she get on the bed, and took her like an animal while the Small Council and their families watched her eyes pool with painful tears.

What had she done to warrant such embarrassment? She didn’t know what she’d done to make him shirk her so, but it was the way it was. It just was.

When he kept calling her back, he’d taken to offering her wine when they were finished. She didn’t linger when her goblet was emptied. She simply walked out, and wished him a good night.

He never once asked her to stay.

When the news of the babe in her belly had arrived, she’d been relieved - she’d never have to lay with a man who did not want her, ever again. He didn’t seem overjoyed either, and simply hummed with a hand on her belly.

“There is blood of the dragon in you now,” he said. And then he let his thumb run over her cheek. It was the softest he’d ever been with her, and she relished those few seconds. For a moment, he looked so peaceful and content… a stranger. That’s when it occurred to her that perhaps there’s more to Aemond than what he lets anyone see.

She could have fallen in love with him, if he’d cared enough to show her. But it seemed that he’d only viewed her as a duty and a burden.

The ghost of his touch lingered, and she brought her own hand to her cheek as though the warmth still remained. What did the whores have that she did not? Or was it the same whore each time?

Jealousy is unbecoming of a princess, she reminded herself. But so is unhappiness and a constant sense of dread, surely?

Her thoughts were interrupted as the door swung open. Her husband strode into the room, immediately aware of her presence. She felt the shift in the air and watched as the shadows of his boots slow, absorbing the sight of her. He removed his cloak with a fluid motion, letting it fall onto his chair before approaching her with the deliberate grace of a predator.

“Wife.” His voice was clipped and devoid of warmth, as though addressing a servant rather than the mother of his son.

She turned to face him, the pale moonlight highlighting the tension etched across her features. "Husband," she responded, mirroring his tone, though a flicker of hurt glimmers in her eyes.

Do you think of me as I think of you? Do you think of me at all?

A heavy silence settled between them, thick with unspoken words. Her gaze scanned his face, searching for any trace of the man whom she foolishly once thought would love her. Instead, she found only the cold mask he wore, a fortress against the world and his own buried emotions.

Against her.

“Has the council kept you long?” she asked, her voice steady despite the turmoil within. They both looked outside the windows, with her leaning into the railing while he stood with his hands held back, ramrod straight.

Always on guard.

“Long enough,” he replied, his eyes drifting to the dark expanse of the bay. “There are matters that require my attention.”

“And our son?” she asked, a touch of warmth infusing her words at the mention of their child. “Will you see Aerys tonight?”

For a brief moment, something softened in Aemond’s gaze, a fleeting shadow of tenderness. She must have imagined it - it was too fleeting and quick to hold any kind of weight.

She was jealous of her own son, for he elicits more from Aemond than she ever has, as little as it is.

“Perhaps. If time allows.”

She nodded, turning back to look at him; to see him.

The weight of his indifference settled over her like a shroud. The Blackwater Bay stretches out before them, vast and unchanging, mirroring the growing distance between them.

“I worry for you,” she murmured, her voice almost swallowed by the night. “War will come to us soon, will it not?” If it hadn’t come so far, she knew it would now. Vaemond Velaryon’s rolling head and King Viserys’ worsening condition only made sure of it.

He stood rigid beside her, his posture unyielding. “It is my duty,” he said, as if that alone suffices.

“I know,” she replied, sadness threading through her voice. “But you are more than your duty, Aemond. You are Aerys’ father and my…”

The emotions were high tonight, higher than they’d ever been. She didn’t know why she sought him out. There has been ample evidence to support that he would not care, and yet here she was.

She wanted safety, and the only person she could approach is the one who has never made her feel welcome or safe in any capacity.

Who else do I have here?

The tears mangle her vision and she swallowed what threatened to follow.

“I have given you a son.” She trembled, her voice threatening to give way to s stream of tears. “The shadow of war looms upon us, and you’ve set me aside and I worry…”

He lifted his head just slightly as the words sank in, but she was too dejected to care about his acknowledgement. He may be cold, and his reactions to her come far and few in between - but she could not bring herself to mull over it too at the moment.

“War is coming. I am as certain of it as I am of the sun rising on the morrow and I know you are too -” He opened his mouth to interfere, but she was quick to not give him the gap to take over her speech. “Do not insult my intelligence by suggesting otherwise.”

“I was not.”

She turned to face him, a whirlwind of emotions swirling in her eyes as she wondered why the Gods had not seen fit to give her a husband who loved her. He was beautiful, a cruel irony that made her anger flare even more. Despite all the hurt he had caused, she could not help but feel drawn to him. To hide her tears, she looked to the floor, trembling as she forced out her next words.

“I know you do not love me. I know you do not want me. But I… I have given you a son. An heir to continue your legacy, and that… I like to think that it would be reason enough to ask you to not forsake me. We have not supported each other all this time, but the least you can do is assure me that you will keep us safe.”

A flicker of something unrecognizable flashed in his eye, and he turned to face her fully, leaning against the window arch. “Did you… truly think that I would leave you to die if it came down to it?”

“You haven’t given me reason to believe that you’ll want me around.” Her voice was bitter, dripping with contempt.

He was ethereal as he reached out, holding her jaw between his thumb and finger, bringing her closer to his porcelain skin and alabaster hair. Her gaze flitted about chaotically, struggling to meet his eye. Her body shivered from the cold, torn between wanting him to let her go and needing him to hold her tight.

“You are my wife. I swore to the Gods that I would honor and protect you. You and Aerys are my family, and I would be slain a hundred times over before I see either of you hurt. I may not be… I may not be the man you want, but I can assure you that I am an honorable husband who will safeguard you and our boy.”

She did not know what she expected. A declaration of hidden love? Certainly not. But somehow, his assurances fell short. “Honorable.” She tested the word on her tongue, finding it the most bitter sound she had ever uttered. Her cheek alarmed him, and she spat venom. “Honorable?” His grip on her chin tightened, and she took it as a sign to continue.

“I know you frequent the Silk Street brothels. I know you’ve been going there since the very first day we met. Unless the professions of whores have changed, it is safe to assume that you are not honorable or loyal. And if you are, it is certainly not to me.”

A whore out there enjoyed her husband’s undying devotion, while she sat in the castle hoping and praying he would recognize her, let alone love her.

His expression shifted, a storm brewing behind his eyes, but he did not release her. The weight of her words hung heavy in the air, a chasm of pain pulling them apart. She met his intense gaze finally, tears brimming in her eyes, the anguish of their fractured bond laid bare for him to see.

He tasted of smoke and fire, and yet her mouth craved him anyway. He was an eternity away from her—always, always—and yet her fingers yearned to touch him.

“I do not go there for…” He took a long breath before completing his sentence, almost as if he needed his composure to simply survive.

Not there for what? Was he not fucking the whores? What else could he possibly do?

“Do you think I do not know the sacrifices you have made?” His voice was a harsh whisper, a mixture of anger and something deeper, almost pleading. “Do you think I do not feel the weight of our shared duty, the responsibility to our son? My responsibility to you?”

“But you have never shown me,” she whispered back, her voice breaking. “You have never given me a reason to believe that you care, that you see me as more than just a broodmare for an heir!"

For a moment, they stood frozen, the distance between them both physical and emotional. The moonlight casted a cold glow over their figures, highlighting the stark contrast between their proximity and their separation.

“It is not easy for me.”

“It should not be hard to love your wife. Or at the very least respect her.”

“I—”

She brought her hand up to stop him before any more of his lies spewed out and stepped away from him. She walked to the door at an amazing speed, her skirts swishing past as she tried to get out before her tears spilled out. In a late change of heart though, as her hand rested on the door latch, she turned.

“No lady should beg her husband to love her. No matter if he is a prince. It is beneath her, and I am no different. I will not beg…” If she had looked at him properly, she’d have noticed him flinch at her damning words.

“I will not beg you to love me after dismissing me all this time; I do have my pride. But I will beg you to save my life if it needs saving. That is all I ask.”

“You never had to ask.”

She took a breath and drank some leftover wine in the goblet next to her, not caring for whose it originally was. The thought would make her retch usually, but she was beyond caring.

“Your mother… she loves me surely, but I think she doesn’t like me very much. Your sister and I never managed to understand each other. Your brother… well he is a mindless lecher. I can’t quite figure out your grandfather at all. And you… you know what we’re like. I just… I worry that in this impending war within kin, I will be forgotten and left to die simply because my job is done with the birth of my son and I am too close to the storm and you don’t care and I don’t want to die. I don’t want anyone to die-”

“You are my kin.” he said. It made her smile, albeit a woeful one. “You may need to remind me every once in a while.”

He didn’t respond. She simply left.

And even now, he didn’t ask her to stay.

She wished he did.

Aemond stood by the hearth, cradling their feverish son in his arms.

Dressed in his somber blacks, he looked every bit the stern warrior, yet the gentle way he held Aerys belied that image. The babe was flushed and fretful, his tiny hands gripping Aemond’s hair and tugging insistently. Aemond hissed softly at the sharp pull, but did not dislodge the child's grip.

“Byka zaldrīzes,” he grumbles. It is strict, but not unaffectionate - she was familiar with that tone. She’d watched him use it with their son often when he thought no one was looking. [Little dragon.]

From the doorway, she watched them. They looked like a loving family - the devoted mother standing watch, her eyes filled with affection as she observed her husband and son. But appearances were deceiving, and both of them knew the truth beneath the surface.

Aerys, in his restless state, grabbed at Aemond’s eyepatch, tugging it down and exposing the scarred, empty socket. Aemond’s expression tightened as he shifted the boy from one arm to the other, quickly adjusting the patch back into place. In that brief moment, their eyes met, and she glimpsed the vulnerability he so meticulously hid. He seemed to close himself off even more, as if shielding his heart from her gaze.

It was a deep, almost dark blue. She noticed, she always noticed.

“I came to check on him before luncheon,” she said softly, breaking the silence that had settled like a heavy shroud. She always ensured that she made a solitary routine of her visits, ensuring that he’d have time alone with her son like he seemed to want. To be together - as a family - stumped her beyond belief, no matter how second nature it should be.

What was he doing here?

Aemond nodded, his voice measured as he recounted the maester's instructions. “The maester believes he will grow healthy with time. We must be diligent with the poultices and draughts.” His tone was clinical, as if discussing a strategy for battle rather than the wellbeing of their son.

She watched as he laid Aerys gently in the cot, the child’s feverish grip slackening as he drifted into a fitful sleep. She approached, brushing a strand of hair from Aerys’s forehead, her touch tender and light.

Aemond stepped back, retreating to the armchair close to the cot where a goblet of wine awaited him. He took a long sip, his gaze fixed on her as she sat at his foot, and peered in to take a look at their son. Facing away from him, she began to sing softly. Her voice, though tinged with sorrow, was soothing, and Aemond’s stern expression softened as he watched the scene unfold. For a moment, the room was filled with a fragile peace.

The Seven Gods who made us all,

are listening if we should call.

So close your eyes, you shall not fall,

they see you, little children.

Just close your eyes, you shall not fall,

they see you, little children.

She didn’t say anything and let the silence engulf them both when she finished her song. She then turned around and sat on the floor near his feet, her back leaned against her son’s cot as she looked up to face her stoic husband. After what seemed like an eternity, he spoke - his words measured but with the intent of concern. He spoke them like he was testing them out on his tongue.

“The maesters… they say you’re being given herbs as well.”

She nodded, feeling the weight of her exhaustion in every fiber of her being. The birth had been horribly hard on her body, leaving her depleted and fragile. Only now was she beginning to regain her strength. The whispers of the servants echoed in her mind—comments about how all this suffering was for a sickly child. But those whispers meant nothing to her. She would move the ends of the earth for her son, no matter what anyone thought.

He was the blood of the dragon. Dragons do not concern themselves with the opinions of sheep, and she would not allow her son to be any different.

“Ever since the birth, I have grown… weak,” she began, her voice barely above a whisper. “Aerys took a toll on me when he came.”

Aemond’s eyes were detached, but she heard the slight concern and contemplation in his voice. “Were you in pain? In the days after?”

She hesitated for a moment, surprised by his sudden show of concern. “Yes,” she admitted, her voice trembling. “I was. I still am.”

His questions were gentle, as if he truly cared, as if he genuinely wanted to understand what she had gone through. This unexpected tenderness from him was jarring, and it took all her strength not to withdraw. She had longed for this moment for so long, the chance to finally, truly connect with the man she had married.

And now that it was here, it felt as foreign to her as the other continents of the realm.

“I should have been there,” he said, his voice laced with regret. He didn’t look at her, head turned away as he spoke. “I should have been by you-”

She’d heard the rumors that her good mother worked hard to ensure she’d never hear. While she labored and went through all the Seven Hells giving birth to their son, Aemond was at a whorehouse, doing Gods know what.

She shook her head, her eyes filling with unshed tears. “I don’t want to know,” she interrupted, her tone gentle but firm. “I’d rather choose blissful ignorance than a painful truth. Especially when it comes to you.”

Aemond nodded slowly, regality exuding from him even in his slightest movements. “I have failed you,” he confessed, his voice almost a whisper. He did not apologize, and she knew that he never would. This was the most she would get from him, and for now, it had to be enough.

It didn’t mean that it shocked her any less.

Summoning her remaining strength, she stood and moved toward him. She leaned forward, resting her hands on the armrests of his chair, bringing herself closer to him. The curve of her breasts nearly brushed his chin, and she could feel his breath, warm and shallow, on her skin. His goblet of wine lay forgotten on a nearby desk, the contents slowly going tepid.

He looked up at her, surprise and something deeper flickering in his eye. His expression was a mixture of pain and longing, as if he too yearned for what she did. Slowly, almost hesitantly, he moved his hand and covered hers with his. His touch was tentative, as if he feared she might pull away. But she held firm, her fingers entwining with his.

He was warm to the touch. She remembered that much from the first days of their marriage, but it felt better to be reminded of it this way. Almost as though he was tender towards her, like they never spent any time being purposefully apart from each other.

She felt like they were getting somewhere, a tentative bridge forming between their fractured hearts. Carried away by the newfound closeness, she hesitated only for a moment before reaching out, her hand trembling as it neared his face. Her fingers were delicate, soft against the rough texture of his skin as she traced the scar that marred his otherwise perfect visage.

Aemond’s breath hitched, his entire body tensing at the intimate touch. She moved slowly, her fingers gliding over the jagged lines. Her touch was feather-light, almost reverent, as if she could heal his old wounds with her tenderness.

Her eyes locked onto his, searching for any sign of discomfort or rejection. Instead, she saw vulnerability, a crack in his formidable armor that allowed her a glimpse of the man beneath the warrior’s facade. His eye, the one not covered by the patch, was wide and filled with an emotion she couldn't quite name - something between longing and fear.

With a gentle caress, her finger traced the path of the scar down to his cheekbone, lingering there for a moment before moving toward the eyepatch. She felt his breath warm against her hand, the rise and fall of his chest quickening as her fingers danced over the leather. The eyepatch was cool and rough under her touch, a stark contrast to the smoothness of his skin.

She paused, her heart pounding in her chest as she felt the tension coiling in him. Would he push her away? Would he retreat back into the cold distance that had defined their relationship for so long? But he remained still, his gaze fixed on hers, a silent permission in his eyes.

Encouraged by his silence, she allowed her fingers to explore the edges of the eyepatch, feeling the worn leather against her skin. Her thumb brushed over the strap that held it in place, her touch gentle and soothing. He shivered, a barely perceptible tremor that ran through him, and she felt a surge of something warm and hopeful rise within her.

His reaction was slow, almost imperceptible. He closed his eye briefly, as if savoring the sensation, then opened it to meet her gaze again. She could see the conflict within him, the struggle between the desire to protect himself and the yearning for this rare moment of intimacy.

She moved closer, her body almost pressing against his as she continued her exploration. The curve of her breasts brushed against his chin, and she felt the heat radiating from him, the tension in his muscles. Her fingers lingered on the eyepatch, tracing the lines where it met his skin, feeling the pulse of his heartbeat beneath her touch. His hand reached up, covering hers. For a moment, the world shrank to just the two of them, suspended in a fragile, tender silence.

“Will you let me see?” she whispered, her voice trembling.

His hesitance and silence said more than his words ever could.

The moment stretched, taut and fragile, until it seemed to snap under the weight of unspoken fears. She saw the flicker of rejection in his eye, a retreat behind the barriers he had so carefully constructed. Her face fell, the light of hope dimming as she realized she had pushed too far. But she understood; perhaps he needed more time. Withdrawing her hand, she felt the ghost of his touch linger on her skin, a burning reminder of the closeness they had almost shared.

He grasped her wrist gently, as if he wanted to ask her to stay, but the words remained unspoken. She did not want to stay unless he wholeheartedly asked her to. His grip was firm, yet she felt the reluctance in it, the silent struggle to decide whether to hold on and let go.

“I should go,” she said softly, gathering her skirts. “Your mother and sister await me at luncheon, and it would be unseemly to be late.”

He watched her walk away, her steps slow and measured, each one pulling her further from the fragile connection they had started to form. Left alone with his son, Aemond felt the weight of his failure press down on him, a cold, heavy burden that settled in his chest.

Aerys slept in the cot nearby, his tiny body trembling with each breath as if the sickness that plagued him might take him at any moment. Aemond moved his chair closer to the cot, peering down at the infant with a mixture of fear and determination. The soft tufts of silver hair marked him as undoubtedly his, a tiny mirror of his own lineage.

How many nights had she spent alone, watching over him like this? Scared that if she stepped away, Aerys may be gone?

In a quiet tone that would otherwise go unheard, he whispered to his son, his voice thick with emotion. “Ao kostagon’t tepagon bē va īlva, riñnykeā.” [You can’t give up on us, child.] After a moment of composure, he continued. “Ziry braved vīlībāzma naejot tepagon ao naejot issa. Gaomagon daor henujagon zȳhon.” [She braved battle to give you to me. Do not leave her.]

Aemond's voice trembled, the words almost breaking under the weight of his desperation. He held his son closer, cradling the tiny, fragile body against his chest. He thought of his wife's strength, the pain she had endured, and winced at the realization of how badly he had treated her. His neglect, his coldness - they had all but shattered her.

He had done enough to her. The last thing he wanted was to see her lose Aerys too.

The dim light of the chamber cast soft shadows on Aemond's face, highlighting the sharp lines of his jaw and the furrowed brow etched deep with worry. His eye, normally a piercing blue, now seemed almost muted, dulled by the depth of his concern. He reached out, placing a gentle hand on his son’s chest, feeling the weak but steady rise and fall of his breaths. Aerys stirred slightly, his tiny fingers curling around a strand of Aemond’s hair. The grip was weak, but determined.

“You are the blood of the dragon,” he continued, his voice a fierce whisper. “You will grow strong.”

The Dragonpit was packed, the air heavy with the murmurs of the gathered smallfolk and the flickering light of countless torches. She stood beside Aemond, her posture as straight and regal as she could manage, her heart pounding in her chest. The spectacle of Aegon's coronation was unfolding before her eyes, a momentous event that would shape the future of the Targaryen family.

Hers.

The ceremony began with the Grand Maester stepping forward, the crown of Aegon the Conqueror held reverently in his hands. The weight of history seemed to press down on the room, making every breath feel heavy, every movement deliberate. Aegon - looking more like a squabbling, crying child than a King - ascended the steps to the dais, his face a mask of acceptance.

And when her husband nodded to his new King, she bowed deep.

She watched as Aegon’s expression shifted from indifference to a flicker of recognition of the power now bestowed upon him. The crowd erupted in cheers, their loyalty and fervor palpable, yet she felt a pang of unease amidst the celebration.

Beside her, Aemond stood tall and vigilant, his eye never leaving the proceedings. She glanced at him, seeking comfort in his composed demeanor, his presence a steady anchor in the sea of chaos. The noise of the crowd swelled, and she could feel the anticipation hanging thick in the air, a tangible force that seemed to wrap around them all.

Aegon, now crowned, raised Blackfyre high above his head, the ancient sword gleaming in the firelight. The sight was awe-inspiring, a symbol of power and legitimacy. Yet, beneath the grandeur, she sensed the underlying tensions and overheard the words that Helaena kept mumbling.

There is a beast beneath the boards.

Her feet shifted, and she heard the hollow sound that the ground made when her shoe met the surface. A hollow sound that comes when feet meets -

The boards.

Suddenly, the ground beneath them trembled, a low rumble that grew into a deafening roar. Gasps of shock and fear rippled through the crowd, and she instinctively reached for Aemond’s hand. Before she could react further, the floor of the Dragonpit exploded upward, sending debris and chaos flying in all directions.

Rhaenys, astride her dragon Meleys, emerged from the smoke and dust, her presence formidable and terrifying. The dragon’s scales shimmered with an otherworldly glow, its eyes blazing with fury. The people scattered, screams of panic filling the air as the beast roared, the sound reverberating through the hall and shaking her to her core.

Her heart raced, terror gripping her as she stared at the massive dragon, its wings spreading wide, casting a shadow over the entire chamber. Aemond’s hand tightened around hers, pulling her behind him protectively. She could feel his body tense, ready to shield her from any danger. Despite the fear that threatened to overwhelm her, a faint surge of gratitude washed through.

You never had to ask.

Meleys roared again, the sound like thunder, and the heat of its breath washed over them. She could see the flames flickering in the dragon's throat, the promise of destruction just a heartbeat away. Rhaenys, regal and unyielding, locked eyes with Alicent, a silent challenge passing between them.

Aemond stepped forward, his presence a wall of defiance and strength. “Get behind me,” he commanded, his voice steady despite the chaos. She obeyed without hesitation, her body pressed close to his, drawing comfort from his unwavering resolve.

The dragon’s eyes fixed on them, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still. She could hear her own heartbeat, a frantic drumbeat in her ears, and the cold sweat on her palms. Every muscle in her body was taut with fear, and she kept her eyes firmly set to the ground.

This is how I die. Do you call it a dragonrider’s death when you don’t ride a dragon?

My son. AerysAerysAerys-

Aemond.

Rhaenys stared at them all, the weight of her decision hanging in the air. Meleys shifted, the ground trembling beneath its weight, and for a moment, it seemed as though the dragon would unleash its fury. But then, as if making a choice that defied all expectations, Rhaenys turned Meleys away, the dragon's wings beating powerfully as they ascended through the shattered roof of the Dragonpit.

The relief was overwhelming, a rush of emotions that left her weak at the knees. She clung to Aemond, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps as she tried to process what had just happened. The hall was filled with the sounds of weeping and the murmurs of disbelief, the aftermath of the encounter leaving everyone shaken.

Aemond’s arm wrapped around her, pulling her close, his breath warm against her ear. “Are you all right?” he asked, his voice low and filled with concern. She nodded, still trembling, her heart beginning to slow as the adrenaline ebbed away.

She did not notice how closely he held her when it came down to it - for the very first time.

Aemond's fingers dug into Sylvi's hips as he thrust into her from behind, each movement fierce and relentless. Her back arched under the pressure of his hand, pushing her down onto the bed. The room was filled with the raw sounds of their coupling, echoing off the walls.

His breath came in ragged gasps, mingling with her moans. His grip tightened, nails biting into her flesh as he drove into her harder, seeking release in the violent act. The scent of sweat and sex hung heavy in the air, an intoxicating mix that fueled his aggression. "Gods,” He growled, his voice a low, primal rumble. He watched as her body responded to each thrust, the way her muscles tensed and relaxed, the sheen of sweat on her skin glistening in the candlelight. She was a willing vessel for his frustrations, and he took her with a ferocity that bordered on madness.

Her moans turned into cries of pleasure, her fingers clutching the sheets beneath her as she braced herself against his onslaught. He felt a dark satisfaction at the way he could bend her to his will, the power he wielded in these moments of raw, unbridled lust.

The climax came in a wave of intense pleasure, his body shuddering as he spilled into her. He collapsed over her, panting, his chest pressed against her back as he tried to catch his breath. The aftermath was a stark contrast to the ferocity of their coupling – a quiet, intimate moment where their bodies remained entwined, slick with sweat and the remnants of their shared passion.

Her arms wrapped around Aemond's naked body, her touch tender and soothing after their rough encounter. The room was dimly lit, the soft glow of candlelight casting shadows on the walls. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and sex, mingling with the faint aroma of lavender from the sheets.

Aemond's breathing gradually slowed, his chest rising and falling against hers as he allowed himself to relax in her embrace. His mind, however, was anything but at ease. He thought back to the scene that had haunted him since he left his chambers earlier: his wife, cradling their son, her eyes red from crying, her body and mind still fragile from the ordeal of facing a dragon at Aegon’s coronation.

"She was crying before I left to come here," he began, his voice a low murmur against her neck. "Holding our son, so shocked by near-death.. It didn’t seem as terrifying to me, but... she was so scared. She's worried, you know. About the impending war."

The Madame’s fingers traced gentle circles on his back, encouraging him to continue. "She doesn't have dragonrider's blood," he went on, almost to himself. "I didn’t know how to comfort her. I want to help, but I don’t know how."

Her hands moved up to his shoulders, her touch grounding him. Her presence was a stark contrast to the chaos in his mind. He lowered his head to her chest, his lips finding her breast. He suckled softly, kneading the soft flesh, seeking solace in the familiar act.

Holding their son brought comfort to his wife, and for him, coming here to the Madame, was his escape. The warmth and intimacy they shared, however fleeting, was his way of coping with the weight of his responsibilities and the emotional distance between him and his wife. As he continued to be held, he couldn’t help but wonder if he and his wife would ever find this kind of comfort in each other; if he’d ever find the courage or the trust to truly tell her what he needs without worrying about losing her respect.

If he'd walked in and held her while she cried instead of leaving her to it and coming here, could he have made her feel safer?

Too many questions, not enough courage for answers. Too much pride and so little sense between them both.

Aemond's heart pounded in his chest as Vhagar soared through the stormy skies back to King's Landing. The cold wind bit at his face, but it was nothing compared to the icy dread gripping his heart.

He had killed Luke. His nephew, his blood.

The act had been unintended, a consequence of their reckless chase, but it was done. There would be no undoing it. If there hadn't been a war before, there certainly was now. The weight of his actions settled heavily upon him, more suffocating than the fiercest storm. As the familiar silhouette of the Red Keep came into view, a storm of emotions churned within him. Guilt, fear, and a desperate need for comfort twisted together, making his insides writhe.

He dismounted Vhagar with a heavy heart, his drenched form slipping through the darkened halls of the castle like a shadow. His mind raced, an entire host of thoughts battering against the walls of his consciousness. He needed solace, a place to hide from the storm he had created. The whorehouse crossed his mind briefly, a familiar escape, but he knew it wouldn’t be enough this time. He needed... he needed...

Before he knew it, his feet had taken him to her apartments.

Her. His wife.

He stood before the door, hesitating for a moment before pushing it open. His wife was readying for bed, her state of undress evident. She wore a robe over her shift, her hair loose around her shoulders. The soft light from the hearth bathed her in a gentle glow, as he took her in. She turned to him in shock, her eyes widening at the sight of him. It was clear how rare this occurrence was, how unexpected his presence was in her chambers. But she was quick to pull him in, taking in his drenched form with a worried expression.

"Husband, what has happened?" she asked, her voice filled with concern.

He did not answer, his eyes trained on her as she moved. Her exposed skin drew his attention, and he found himself wondering.

Was she softer? Kinder? Would she hold him in her soft arms if he so wished? Did he deserve it from her? Would she shame him?

She kept asking, but he remained silent, his mind too chaotic to form coherent words. She moved to find him something to dry off with, but he reached out, his hand wrapping around her wrist in a death grip.

"Don't go," he whispered, his voice raw and choked, barely more than a breath.

She looked up at him, her confusion gradually giving way to a quiet curiosity. He gently guided her arms around his cold and damp waist, his touch unexpectedly tender. This was not a whore; this was his wife. She deserved to be treated differently.

At first, she froze, her body tense and uncertain, but slowly, she let herself relax – at least as much as she could manage with a husband who had sought her out for the first time in a year.

He felt her hesitation and understood the significance of her yielding. The weight of his guilt pressed harder against his heart, but he clung to this moment of closeness, desperate for the comfort he so craved.

"What has happened, husband? Why are you here?" she asked softly, parts of her words muffled into his chest.

He remained silent, waiting to see what she would do. Her repeated questions slowly stopped, a resigned understanding settling in her gaze. In the silence, he became acutely aware of her form – soft, untouched by anyone but him, made for him. The thin layers of her robe and shift did little to keep his hands from exploring her.

His fingers trembled as they traced the curve of her spine, brushing against the delicate fabric of her robe. Every slight movement, every breath, every shiver she made became magnified in his mind. Her body responded to his touch with a delicate gasp, and he felt a surge of something he couldn't quite name – a need, a longing, a desperate desire for solace in her embrace.

He watched the rise and fall of her chest, every intake of breath, every flinch and gasp. He noticed a stray hair that had fallen across her face, the way the delicate hairs on her skin raised at his touch, the way her eyes widened and then softened. Each detail etched itself into his mind, a stark contrast to the murder that had driven him here.

She tightened her arms around him, her touch gentle yet firm. He buried his face in her hair, breathing in her scent – lilacs and something uniquely her that anchored him to this moment, to her. It was a comfort stronger than any he had ever received, yet calm and grounding at the same time.

His hands roamed her back, feeling the delicate curve of her waist, the slight tremor in her muscles as she responded to his touch. He pressed his lips to her neck, feeling the pulse of her heartbeat, steady and reassuring. Her breath hitched, and he felt the vibration of her voice as she whispered his name, a question and a plea all at once.

"Aemond," she murmured, her voice breaking the silence. His body reacts in shivers and heat at the sound of his name upon her lips. "Please, tell me what's wrong."

Had she ever said his name out loud before? He did not know. But he wanted to hear it again and again until the world as he knew it ended. Perhaps it was the guilt - over Luke, or over his neglect of his wife - he did not know. But it was all bubbling at the surface now, and he was much more open and vulnerable than he’d ever been.

He bent his head down, his eye locking onto hers. The intensity of his gaze seemed to drown out the room, focusing solely on her. He could see the concern, the worry etched in her features, and it tore at him. He couldn't tell her, not yet. Not about the blood on his hands, the life he had taken, not why he was here and what he’d wanted.

But he could let her consume him, to forget. He could lose himself in her.

He felt the warmth of her skin, the softness of her curves against him, and for a moment, he allowed himself to forget the horrors of the night. He traced the line of her jaw with his fingers, memorizing every curve, every angle. Her skin was smooth and warm, a stark contrast to the cold, damp leathers clinging to him.

He pressed his forehead to hers, their breaths mingling in the scant space between them. Her eyes searched his, looking for answers he couldn't give. Despite her confusion, the turmoil in his mind quieted, replaced by the steady, reassuring rhythm of her heartbeat. She was his anchor, his solace, and he clung to her like a lifeline in the storm.

Wordlessly, he moved back enough to get a good look at her, his eyes tracing her form with a reverence that made her pulse quicken. He then slowly untied the front of her robe, the silk falling away with a whisper. His hands fell to her shoulders, pausing there for a moment as he sighed. As he pushed the sleeves down, his hands traced the newly revealed skin - his fingers glided from her collarbone to her shoulders, down her arms, and finally to her fingers, which he intertwined with his own. The robe slipped to the floor, leaving her in a thin shift that clung to her curves, leaving little to the imagination.

His eyes remained locked on hers, the intensity of his gaze a silent plea for forgiveness, a desperate need to be anchored by her presence. He took her trembling hands and placed them on his damp leathers, his touch firm but gentle, giving her silent permission—no, a quiet command—to undress him. His breath hitched slightly as he waited for her to take the lead.

She moved slowly, her fingers deftly working the buckles and straps, peeling away the layers of his clothing until he stood before her in only his trousers. Her hands hover over his chest, her touch hesitant, almost afraid, as if she's not sure she's allowed to touch him. His skin was warm under her fingertips, his heart pounding just beneath the surface.

His hands covered hers, guiding them lower, to the waistband of his trousers. His touch was both a plea and a command, silently asking, demanding, begging her to take this final barrier away. She did, her movements slow and deliberate, until he stood bare before her, exposed in every sense of the word.

She did not dare try to take off his eyepatch, not this time.

He watched her intently, noting every flinch, every gasp, every shiver that runs through her. His fingers traced delicate patterns on her skin, exploring every inch with a tenderness that speaks of his desperation for her. He needed this moment, her touch, to forget what he'd done to Luke, to drown the guilt that threatened to consume him. Every breath he took was a reminder of his failures, every brush of her skin against his a lifeline that pulled him back from the proverbial edge.

He leaned in, his lips brushing against her neck, her collarbone, her shoulder - not her lips, he had not kissed her on the lips since their wedding ceremony. His hands roamed her body, mapped out the places that made her gasp, the spots that made her arch into him. He was attuned to her every reaction, his focus entirely on her.

All he asked for in return - with no words - is that she make him feel safe for this one night.

With his body bare and hers still clad in her shift, he silently gestured to her bed with a tilt of his head. She moved toward it, her movements graceful yet hesitant, and then crawled to the back, letting her spine rest against the headboard. He stood there for a moment, watching her, his breath uneven and his mind a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions.

He did not miss the way she looked at him. Desire flickered in her eyes, growing with each second her gaze roved over his body. Her eyes widened when they settled on his manhood, and he could see the anticipation building within her. She expected him to take her tonight, he knew. He hadn't given any indication otherwise in the last few moments, and she had no clue what he actually wanted; or why.

Would she welcome him to her bed if she knew he was a kinslayer?

The thought gnawed at him, but he chose not to tell her. She might not offer her true acceptance, but he would take her false comfort tonight – even if she thought it true.

He moved to the side of the bed with all his characteristic grace. She looked up at him, her eyes filled with a mix of confusion and longing. When he lifted his knee to place it on the plush mattress, she shifted to make space for him. He laid down beside her, his movements deliberate and slow, as if fearing she might vanish if he was too hasty. She mirrored his actions, and soon they were facing each other, their warm breaths mingling in the stillness of the room.

Their eyes locked, and he saw her questioning gaze. Her next words, soft and tentative, knocked the breath out of his lungs.

"Are you alright?"

For a moment, he couldn't answer, the weight of the day's events pressing down on him. He looked at her, truly looked at her, and saw the worry etched in the lines of her face, the softness of her eyes, the way her lips parted slightly as she waited for his response.

"I will be," he finally said, his voice rough with emotion.

Tentatively, he placed his hand on her thigh, feeling the warmth of her skin through the thin fabric of her shift. He slid the material up, his fingers tracing the smooth expanse of her leg.

"Gevie.” [Beautiful.]

His fingers continued their journey, moving to her inner thigh. Her legs shivered at his touch, and he smirked for a moment before he withdrew his hand and moved closer. Their bodies were now a hairsbreadth apart, the heat between them palpable.

His hands moved to her breasts, feeling their fullness beneath her shift. He was acutely aware of every breath she took, every flinch and gasp that escaped her lips. Each reaction to his touch drew him further into the present moment, away from the dark thoughts that threatened to consume him. Her body was a haven, a sanctuary where he could lose himself, if only for a while.

Encouraged by her soft gasps, he continued to knead the mounds of flesh and pinch her pert nipples, his touch gentle yet insistent through the shift. Lowering his head, he nestled himself at her bosom, inhaling deeply. The scent of lilacs and milk overtook him, and he let out a contented sigh.

"You are a mother... the mother of my heir," he murmured into her chest, his voice a mix of reverence and disbelief.

She said nothing, but when her initial shock faded, she began to comb her fingers through his soft hair, humming the same song she sang to their son to sleep. The melody was soothing, a balm to his frayed nerves. He didn't know if her singing was to calm him or herself, but he found solace in the gentle rise and fall of her breasts with each breath she took.

He took in the way her body trembled slightly beneath him, the softness of her skin, the rhythmic beating of her heart against his cheek. This was not the harsh, immediate and uncertain release he sought at the whorehouse.

This was more, more, more.

Sleep came to him easily in her arms, draped in her comfort; devoid of any nightmares, dreams, or heavy thoughts.

If she wondered why he'd simply laid with her rather than fuck her, she did not ask.

Would she welcome him again when she finds out what he did?

The council branded him a kinslayer when he told them what he'd done. He embraced it, staring into their eyes, defiant and unyielding. He told them he did it on purpose, each word a dagger thrown with precision. Kinslayer, kinslayer, kinslayer-

Aegon patted his back, a twisted smile playing on his lips. "A job well done, drawing first blood in the King's name," he said, his voice a blend of admiration and malice. His grandfather's face remained a mask, revealing nothing. Criston was disappointed, his disapproval a heavy weight in the room. And his mother...

His mother was disgusted, her eyes filled with a sorrow he had never seen before. When he stepped out and walked through the corridors, the word had spread like wildfire.

Kinslayer.

The whispers followed him like a relentless shadow. Servants and maids stepped out of his way, their gazes avoiding his. The tension was palpable, a living thing that tightened the air around him. He wanted to escape them all, to flee to the skies where their judgment could not reach him. But before then, he wanted to see them.

He stood near the doorway as she had a few days prior, watching her rock their fitful, sick son to sleep. Her movements were gentle, contrasting all the shock, anger and brashness he’d seen since he stepped out of her room before she awoke. He wanted her to look at him, to see beyond the blood and the sin. He was asking too much of her, he knew that. They were strangers bound by duty, their recent shared moments brief and fraught with his own selfish needs for comfort.

His heart pounded as she finally met his gaze. He was not prepared for the slight fear in her eyes. It cut through him deeper than any sword ever could. She looked at him as if he were a creature she could not recognize.

Kinslayer, kinslayer, kinslayer-

The word echoed in his mind, a relentless chant that drowned out everything else. He took a step forward, his hands trembling. "I—" he began, but the words died in his throat. What could he say? How could he explain the unexplainable, justify the unforgivable? She held their son closer, her grip tightening protectively. The room was thick with unspoken words, with the weight of what he had done and what it meant for them. His mind raced, filled with a cacophony of anger, regret, and despair.

The need to escape surged within him again. He wanted to flee to the skies, to find solace in the cold, indifferent clouds. But he couldn't move, couldn't tear his gaze away from the image of her fear-stricken eyes.

Kinslayer, kinslayer, kinslayer-

With a heavy heart and a mind in turmoil, he turned and walked back into the shadowed corridors, each step echoing the relentless chant of his new title.

Kinslayer, kinslayer, kinslayer-

The word echoed through the empty halls, a reminder of the path he had chosen and the price he would pay.

If he’d told her last night as he laid in her arms, would she have understood?

He’d never know.

MASTERLIST

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halcyone-of-the-sea · 1 year ago

Text

Run Away To Me (I)

AU MASTERLIST || PART II

PAIRING: Blacksmith!Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish x F!Runaway Bride!Reader

WORDCOUNT: 4.8k

WARNINGS: Blood, wounds, being hunted/chased, medieval period-esc standards, arranged marriage insinuations, toxic family insinuations, angst, protective Johnny?, etc.

A/N: This series is so Lord Huron coded

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You rush through the low-hanging branches of the reaching pines, their green arms tearing at the once perfect and virginal white dress clothing your body; waves of delicate fabric like bird’s wings. Shredded and torn, you sob in large gasps while the shouting gets louder behind you—the pound of vile hooves along cobblestone.

“After her!” Blood was rushing down a long slice in your palm, dripping to the verdant grass as you traversed the off-trial paths, the roads of animals and bandits—monsters in the night.

Flashes of torchlight had gone out long ago, the rain slamming the ground with ancient purpose as the storm got angrier. Tree trunks slam into your shoulders, the wedding dress ripping away in strips as pine needles pierce the bare skin of your feet. Your shoes had slipped off as soon as you had started this mad dash.

“She went this way! Quickly!” You run faster, shuffling down a long hill as mud gets packed into your flesh; infecting wounds with its slimy make-up.

“Please,” your voice begs lowly, hiccuping out vowels as you drop to your knees at the bottom of a ravine before you sob and grit your teeth. Wading through the stream of chilled water, you dig into the ground and shove yourself up on shaking legs as rain pelts your head. “Please, I can’t go back.”

Even your thin clothes are heavy on you—body weighed down by terror and a desperate plea. Because what you said was true. You can’t go back. Can’t go back to the search party, can’t go back to the ceremony…and you can’t go back to the man you were supposed to marry. No, you’d rather face the woods.

Scaling up the other edge of the ravine, you slam a bloody hand down to the rocks atop, pebbles flying past your face as a flash of lightning momentarily illuminates your field of view. Noises reminiscent of an animal carve their way out of your esophagus, teeth gritted as feet slip and strain.

You heave yourself over and fight the weakness in your arms. Coughing, you pray the storm will wash away any trace of your charge to freedom—the blood and the tracks. With any luck, the hounds won’t be able to pick up your scent even with the strips of your dress left behind in the branches.

Pushing away the water from your forehead, you stumble onwards on unsteady feet that pound with pain. Grasping at your gushing palm, you cry out as the burning pain echoes up your forearm.

“Whatever God is out there,” You speak in gasps, slurring the words as your dry throat grates. It’s all but lost to the wind in its great bouts of staggering attacks through the trucks of the trees. “Please, offer me sanctuary.”

Lightning is the world’s answer, more streaks of light that make your soaked body flinch and shake even more. Yet, in that tiny second of light, there had been something in the far distance—a shadow.

Your eyes peer harder, the calls from the riders suck in the back of your mind as they taper off as the search is re-routed.

What was…?

Wooden sides, three separate rectangular shapes that stand firm in the rampaging elements. Your feet slide over the ground as you limp in the direction you’d seen them, the flesh of your body so cold that you had gone numb in the sheets of rainfall.

A heart fills with senseless hope.

A homestead! With no other option, you take a deep, ragged, breath and continue on as quickly as you’re able; dress hanging off one shoulder. When you reach the front door some ear-ringing minutes later you’re barely standing upright—legs teetering and thighs shaking with dying vigor.

Panting, your first banging to the wood is weak at best, barely a sound above the thunder and the slap of rain. You strangle a sob and wrench your shoulder back, landing three hard hits that act more like punches. Pain blossoms in your hand, but you continue striking the wood.

There’s a loud ruckus from behind the blackened barrier, a yell, and before your knuckles can make themselves bleed from fear-filled adrenaline, the door is whipped open. A dim firelight spills out from a low hearth and you find yourself staring into the narrowed eyes of a man and his exasperated expression.

There’s the beginning of a growl, heavy with an accented voice, “Now who in the hell is—!”

A strong jaw goes slack, brunette stubble stilling. Blue eyes like cobalt instantly peel back to show the whites, words strangled away in a sharp inhale.

The man is in his late twenties, stocky, and clothed in a loose sleep shirt made of thin linen with black pants. His shoulders were near large enough to knock on the frame of the door as he stood in it, built with the strength of a boar and then some. His large, lightly-tanned hand on the door slackens as his eyes speedily dart down your disoriented form. Biceps the size of your skull.

Heart hammering, you stare for a moment longer, rain pelting your back and looking like a wet dog. It’s as if you’ve forgotten to speak beyond gasps for air, but your eyes implore enough for you. The stranger recovers from his surprise at seeing such a beautiful lone woman at his door with a clearing of his throat.

“...Christ, Dearie, you’re soakin’ wet out here.” He shoulders the door open wider without another question. “Inside, now, quickly.”

You wrap your arms around your waist and speed into the shelter of the home, water dripping down to the wood as you shiver and your teeth clatter. Not for a second did you think if this might be safe or not, too scared of the riders and their hounds than anything. You wouldn’t allow them to drag you back to your husband-to-be. Not in a million years.

Your voice is hiccuping as you speak.

“I…I don’t mean to i-intrude, I’m very sorry, Sir.” The man looks around his home before he spots a large bear fur by the messy bed in the corner—he rushes over and grabs it. “I ask forgiveness for w-waking you at such an hour.”

“Jesus, is that what you’re worried about?” Blue eyes crease at you as the heavy fur over your shoulders; your hands snap to catch it, the entire thing swallowing you as gaze up in confusion. The man frowns, staring back as water drips from your nose. “Let’s just focus on gettin’ you dry, yeah? You’ll catch your death like this, Little Lady.”

A wide hand presses to the expanse of your spine, prodding you forward as you squeak at the sudden contact. You’re guided to a small chair in front of the hearth, plopped down and the sides of the fur are hiked up to your neck quickly.

The stranger kneels down in front of you, focused, and his tired eyes alight with worry. He makes sure the fur isn’t going to fall as he blinks over the state of your hands. He pauses, his large grip stalling at the sight of spreading blood.

Your wound—you’d almost forgotten.

“Now what’s this, then?” The brunette's words are quiet, very in-tune with your state as you try to catch your breath and shiver. It was like coaxing a wild animal.

Blinking, you shift your hand farther under the bear's fur, bringing it to your chest.

“I won’t be here long, Sir. I promise,” you try to change the topic, but quickly jerk your nose into the crook of your arm as you sneeze, bending over slightly as mud and blood stain your skin.

Lips tighten along a square face.

“It’s Johnny, Miss.” The world outside rages on, blocked out by the four walls of this nicely sized home of wooden logs and boards. It was well-made with pine and cider, the large hearth in the back wall with inlets near the shuddered windows and various crudely carved pieces of art.

Weapon displays lined the walls, various makes and models hung on pegs. Axes and swords, spears with red-leather shafts set next to halberds of black steel. You blink at them in slight concern, not used to being around weapons.

Johnny, as he calls himself, sees this and quickly explains as he rubs at the back of his head, eyes crinkling.

“Ah, Johnny MacTavish, the blacksmith, that is,” a small, rough chuckle echos out.

You ease at that.

“Mr. MacTavish,” you give your name and offer a kind, yet still anxious, smile. “I give my thanks for allowing me shelter. A-and the fur.”

His gaze slips down to your hidden hand once more, face swirling with an unidentified emotion before studying your torn wedding gown.

“Well, I’m not one to leave a person out on my doorstep in weather like this. Certainly not a Lady.” His brow raises, head tilting. “You going to let me clean that wound a’yours or am I going to have to fish it out myself?”

Your body tenses slowly, bare feet shuffling over the floor. Staring at Johnny, you gaze at the strangely cut hair atop his head and the messy strands that speak to a night of shifting on his bed. His face is honest and open to you, blinking in soft question as his head angles to the side with an easy twitch of his lips.

“It’s really not necessary,” you try to chuckle but it falls flat, eyes red and heart still speeding.

Johnny sighs and glances at the fire, blinking before he shifts to grab another log and toss it in with no concern for the heat of the flame that lap at his fingers. You watch his muscles bunch under his shirt and quickly look at your lap.

“I’m not the greatest doctor out there, Dearie, but I can do good with washin’ out a cut an’ wrapping it.” You study him and nervously tighten your lips. Johnny’s face seems to soften, hands going up and wrists tilting as his knee stays connected to the floor; firelight on his face. A small smile blooms. “C’mon, I’m not that scary of a bastard, am I?”

You spare a tiny chuckle, shoulders jumping as rainwater slips down your chin. Your shivering was still going on, and would until you got a change of clothes, but the warmth from the fire was helping tremendously. Already feeling was returning to your limbs.

“Ah,” the blacksmith huffs a laugh, “there’s a smile. Now, let's have a little look-see shall we?”

Under the fur, your hand lightly shifts, coming back into view, slit palm and all. Johnny’s eyes darken, face going serious behind his stubble. Brown brows turn in.

“Now where in the hell did you get a—” Just as his gigantic hands were about to circle around yours, there was a violent knock at the door.

You shoot up in an instant, jerking away from the blacksmith as he snaps his head to the front, eyes lighting. He stands up slowly as you back up a few paces, eyes frantically darting back and forth. The knocking starts up again and thunder peels from outside.

Your form flinches.

“You can’t let them take me back,” you say quickly, breathing catching up in speed again. Fear burns your lungs and suddenly you’re ten times colder than before. “Mr. MacTavish, please, I can’t go back.”

Another round of knocking shakes the barrier. Blues eyes stare at you blankly, half-turned face pulled in visible confusion as Johnny’s jaw clenches.

A voice echoes from under the door as the blacksmith once more lets his eyes linger down your battered frame; taking in cuts and the limp you carry. Muddy feet and water stained red. His hands twitch at his sides.

“These are the guards of Lord Wilkin, would anyone in this home come to make him or herself known? It is of the utmost urgency!” You grow more fearful, head darting to find any other exit in this home but you land on nothing besides the windows. Your fingers shake with panic.

No, no, no.

Confusion gives way to deep concern.

A hand grasps your upper arm and you’re being hurried to the corner wall by the front door with fast feet and a firm, iron, grip. An accented voice mumbles quietly by your ear, “Keep quiet for me, Dearie. It’s alright, you let me take care of it.”

He stands you there and takes one last look at you, blinking, before grabbing the bear fur and pulling it above your head in a swift motion. There’s a quiet chuckle as you tense and slam a hand up to the brown material instinctually before Johnny darts around the corner and opens the door. You hold your breath and listen.

“Well, steamin’ Jesus, you bastards have any idea what time it is?! And in this damning weather, you show up at my door reamin’ on the wood like you’re the one who has to keep it anchored to the frame.” There’s a fast conversation of apologies and explanations that you can't catch above the yell of the rain.

“Does it look like I give a shite about a lost bride? Not my fuckin’ place to keep ‘er…I’ve seen nothing besides you…anyone out in this storm is as good as lost…” You listen and stay completely still, holding your breath as if it’s a prisoner in your lungs.

You can hardly believe it. Why was this man…lying for you? A wounded stranger that had shown up at his doorstep in nothing but a tattered gown and babbling through tears. Anyone else would have turned you over—especially to your betrothed, Lord Wilkin. He owned these lands and held fiefs by all who lived here. Not a man to mess with, if your slit palm was anything to go by.

“Go on!” Johnny calls loudly, and the door closes a second later, the latch locking. There’s a moment of nothing, before the clearing of a throat and a soft call. “Well, they won’t be back, least.”

He pops around the corner and smiles comfortingly.

“Sorry about the yellin'.” You part your lips in innocent awe and you take a deep breath before speaking slowly.

“Why would you do that?” His expression tightens, crossing his arms over his chest. Under him, his large hips shift.

“Ya asked, didn’t you?” Your blank expression only serves to make him chuckle heartily, head shaking. Johnny hums, “I won’t press you about it all tonight, though I well should. You’re in no shape for it.” Cobalt eyes glance at the food before looking back up. “But I’m guessin’ you have a good enough reason to sneak off as I hear you did.”

The very blood in your body heats with warmth.

You’re waved back over to the chair by the hearth. “Let’s get that injury looked at and I‘ll get you a change of clothes. You can take my place for the night,” eyes twinkle, “there’s no bed bugs in it, Dearie, knight’s honor.”

“What about iron shavings?” You call back softly, lips jerking up momentarily. The man’s actions had given you a large amount of trust in him. Johnny blinks in surprise at your joke, but a large grin grows moments later as you walk over delicately.

“Can’t say for certain, but I promise there’ll be no weapons under the covers. If anyone breaks in they’ll find my fists to be the first iron they get a touch of.”

Your laugh bounces off the walls, hand coming up to cover your mouth in the picture of a cultured upbringing. Johnny chuckles in turn, looking smug. He liked your laugh, it seems.

“That was detestable, Mr. MacTavish.” You sit down, and Johnny kneels where he had been before—his hand outstretched where you carefully place your wounded limb.

Immediately you feel the scrape of old burns and calluses, hands hardened by long hours of labor and intensive demands. You’re certain these are the hardest hands that have ever touched your skin, but it astounds you by how gently you’re being caressed and turned. People with far fairer flesh have never handled you like this. As if you would break apart with the barest of pressures.

Your breath stills as the blacksmith, with all the care of a butterfly, tilts your cut into the light and studies it, thumb absentmindedly brushing up and down your wrist. You hold back a shiver.

“Ah,” he grumbles, still smiling yet more focused on your injury now. “It wasn’t that bad.”

You hum under your breath and try not to flinch when he wipes away a stain of mud near your wound. The blacksmith grunts to himself, gentle pressure at your flesh like the scuff of tree bark. But it wasn’t unpleasant. No, you thought, not at all.

The two of you fall into a hole of soft silence, Johnny leaving for a moment to grab a bucket of water and bandages, saying in a mutter that he had plenty of the former to go around.

“Have a habit of burnin’ myself on my bad days, y’see,” he shimmies past, pausing before pulling back up the bear fur from where it had slightly slipped down your neck. “Comes with the job.”

Your face burns as he grabs what he needs, eyes stuck on your lap. You were astounded by the man’s ability to put away his obvious confusion for your care, how he was content to wait for answers until you were rested. It was honorable of him.

Thinking back to Lord Wilkin’s guards at the door, your thighs shift over the chair. They’d be looking for you until they found you—be that days or months, it didn’t matter. The Lord wasn’t someone to let what he wanted get away from him. Like senseless beasts, your family would undoubtedly help. Your chest is stiff with worry. How would you get away with this?

The scene you’d made at the wedding wasn’t exactly subtle.

Johnny comes back carrying a small bucket of fresh water, ladled from the wash basin, and a bundle of clean white cloth.

“Alright,” he huffs, “let’s get this sorted, eh, Dearie?” The wound was very obviously a slice from a knife, anyone could see it.

Johnny takes your hand once more and holds it in his palm, glancing up at you before dipping one of the cloths into the water and beginning to clean the cut.

“Is it…bad, Mr. MacTavish?” You ask, worried about the likelihood of scarring. That would be the last thing you would want. The blacksmith looks up from where he pats the edges, the fabric already going red.

“Just Johnny, if it pleases you,” he smiles, hulking form seemingly all a facade to hide a cheeky and loyal Scot. “And…no, not bad. If you’re worried about a mark, don’t be—it’s deep but only at the beginning. A slight discoloration, no more.” His brows pull back, teasing, “You’ll not end up like me, at any rate.” Your shoulders ease back, and you let him work with a thankful comment and a giggle.

You watch and take in the way his jaw clenches and loosens as he works, completely focused as if he was fashioning an axe and not helping a complete stranger.

“There’s no harm in scars,” you settle on saying, thinking over his last comment. Blues lock with your eyes, head tilting like a hound. Your face gains a slight heat to it and you stutter, “It’s just this one I’d rather not carry, Johnny.” Smiling warmly, you see the man’s lips part, his motions stalling for a moment as he looks up at you and blinks. “But yours suit you if…I’m allowed to say.”

It’s then that you realize that a slight flush has come to his cheeks, starting from under his stubble and leaking out to his cheeks like a red blaze—his gaze burrows deep with hidden fire that rivals the dancing shadows from the hearth.

Noticing, your own face burns all the hotter as the blacksmith quickly clears his throat, snapping his eyes away. Fingers once more cleaning your cut, he grunts out, neck now shifting to a blush of crimson, “...Thank you, Miss.”

You stay in silence for the rest of the delicate process; the air heated and rolling with something. Electricity sparks when Johnny’s hands rub across yours, large enough to break you in an instant but acting like moss over a stone. You find yourself falling into a sort of comforted state you hadn’t felt in a long time—the fur over your shoulders and the tingle of skin-on-skin contact that expects nothing but offers all.

“There,” Johnny says at last, and a part of you wants to cry when he pulls back, standing slowly. A firm but malleable wrapping is over your palm, a tiny knot tied in the middle to keep it from falling off.

You bring it to your abdomen and blink, the other hand going to run over the material.

“Thank you, Johnny. Truly. If I hadn’t found your homestead, I would have been lost.” The man rubs at the back of his neck, tunic bunched up by his elbows.

“Gah,” after a second of bruising off the comment, he waves a hand while his wide chest puffs with pride. “It’s no trouble, really. Keeps me on my toes.”

Outside the storm continues to beat the walls, and the blacksmith can’t help but feel his eyes drawn to your dwarfed form under the large fur, the dripping water, and the weight of your gown. Based on the information from the guard, he had a decent story already forming in his head.

A runaway bride and an angry Lord. By his own role as the fiefdom’s accomplished blacksmith, he should be turning you over. But your eyes had been flooded with tears when you’d pounded on his door; soaked in rain and mud—blood. No shoes. Freezing.

You had looked so afraid, his heart had hurt for you, a strong need to shelter you stuck like a knife into his ribs. Johnny had seen much in his life, war, and death, but your desperation had stuck a cord in him.

He’d keep you here with no charge, offer food and shelter, and do what he can to understand your situation. If not for simply hospitality sake, then because he had heard your laugh and had found it to be like a bird’s call in the wake of a dew-coated morning. Your soft skin like the wisps of fire from his forges. Your voice like a rippling spring. There was no way to describe the way he wanted to help besides to admit to himself that he was a good man.

And, while cocky, the blacksmith had never once been self-absorbed.

He watches you rub at your damp cheek and starts out of whatever trance he had been sucked into.

“I’ll…” Johnny rubs at his neck again, “I’ll get you that change of clothes, Bonnie. You just wait right here.”

You stare at his back as he strides over, the fatigue washing back over you now that the adrenaline leaves in its stupendous sweep of heavy heartbeats. Anyone else would have given you up. Your face softens, seeing the quick dig of hands into the stack of clothes in the dresser.

“Fuckin’ hell,” the man huffs, looking over his shoulder and shaking his head. “I’m sorry, Dearie, all I’ve got are my tunics and pants.” Black and pale cream linen is held up on display.

“Oh,” you mutter, “I don’t mind,” your chuckle makes his lips twitch with care. “I would just prefer to be out of this…thing.” Your eyes glare down at the tattered gown, breathing softly. “Anything is perfect.”

“Well, then I hope you don’t mind the smell of fire,” Johnny hums. “Here you are.” As much as his insides twist to understand the story, making sure you don’t run a cold was more important.

Your legs push you up and you walk over softly, gliding over the wooden floor to take up the articles and dig your fingers into the warm and easy texture, thin stitching, and cuffed wrists. There was a cut down the neck with a tied cord looped through, making up an ‘x’ pattern.

“I would say thank you again,” you begin, “but I think you’ll be getting annoyed with how many times I’ve already said it.”

Johnny laughs, crossing his arms over his chest and setting his feet.

“Ah, perhaps only a little.” Silence laps into a minute, and you study him with slow puzzlement, tilting your head. For a moment, the man wonders what he’s done. The blacksmith’s dark brows furrow, lips moving back. He looks down at the clothes again and starts with a wild blinking of his lids.

“Oh! Hell’s bells, right,” Johnny walks to the other side of the room and swiftly turns his back to you with respect and a burning neck. He cringes. “Christ.”

You laugh brightly, letting the fur fall to the floor as you undress and shimmy into the borrowed clothes. Your nose takes in the scents of metal and fire—fatty linseed oil used to protect a blade against corrosion. With the crackling fire, you slip the large tunic above your head and find that it falls heavily over you; far thicker than it seemed and very comfortable, ending at your lower thigh.

But those scents make your head spin, rolling up the cuffs as you bring your nose to the collar and once more take it in with a slow breath. You hum and move, throwing the bear fur back atop your shoulders and grabbing your ruined garments from the floor before calling out to the rod-straight figure.

“Johnny?” His arms lightly jerk, as if he’d been unfocused, but he doesn’t turn around. “Where would you like me to throw these?”

The blacksmith delicately tilts his head to the side and utters with his eyes stuck to the side wall. “Bin by the door is just fine.” You look to the container holding scraps and other garbage to be taken out and drop the gown in before rubbing your cheek.

Wide cobalt eyes stare at the clothes you wear heavily, jaw loose before he re-set it and averts his gaze. Johnny chuckles to ease himself and loops his thumbs into his waistband, embarrassed.

“Do you need anything else, then?” Your eyes blink with fatigue.

“No, I…I don’t think so.” Gazing at the home, your lips thin. Your family would have a heart attack if you even mentioned that you were staying the night at a complete stranger’s homestead. No protection, no way to beat off a blacksmith beyond a well-placed punch, and running from your betrothed. To say that you’d cause anything less than a heart attack would be generous. But Johnny felt different. Firmer in his emotions and intentions. Far more than the Lord.

That was really all that matted.

“Are you really sure this is okay,” you still ask hesitantly, gargantuan clothes atop your frame. Johnny is already nodding firmly.

“It’s my pleasure. I won’t be turnin’ you back out to the woods in a storm like this.” For whatever reason, the next words fall from his lips like an oath. “There’ll be no harm comin’ to ya as long as you stay under my roof.”

Your hand burns with the memory of his gentle grip and your heart skips beats. You feel as if a great weight is lifted, even if only for a night.

“Alright,” your words barely make it to air, and you grip the bear fur harder to stop yourself from kissing this man’s cheek, wanting to take him into a tight hug.

Johnny takes a blanket from the bottom of his bed and shuffles over to the inlet below the shuddered window, sitting down while you slowly walk forward.

“But, Little Lady,” you rest on the edge of the bed and look up to find him watching you intently, leaning back with a hand behind his head and the other on his stomach. The fire still crackles, the storm still dances outside, and the room is still tight with something you can’t put a name to. Like you’re caught in a trap of soft pillows and the scent of metal, you listen to the blacksmith with bated breath. “I’ll be needin’ answers…you hear?”

Licking your lips, you nod tersely. “Tomorrow,” you agree.

Johnny gazes off into your eyes, the runaway bride that had shown up on his doorstep and captured his attention like a bird made of a white wedding gown and panicked breath. He sneaks a peek down at your wrapped hand as you settle on his bed, burrowing into his furs and his covers—wearing his clothes.

For some unknown reason, the smallest of blood stains makes his chest roll with bright anger.

“Tomorrow,” he grunts through a tight jaw before he fights to turn his head away from you. It’s a long while before he sees any type of sleep, listening to the sound of your soft breath and the crackle of the fire.

TAGS:

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misswynters · 3 months ago

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Tamed Targaryen Heart

Aemond Targaryen x fem!wife! reader

[warnings: pregnancy, difficult birth

[word count: 1.1k

[a/n: maybe i will turn this into a series…

[note | pls don’t just like, reblog & give me feedback. i don’t want to get shadowbanned

The dimly lit chamber was filled with the scent of lavender and the muffled sound of Aemond Targaryen’s pacing footsteps. He glanced over at you, lying on the bed, sweat beading on your forehead as you gripped the bed sheets tightly. Your two sons, Aerys and Daeron, were asleep in their chambers, blissfully unaware of the turmoil that you were enduring.

“Aemond,” you groaned, your voice strained with frustration and pain, “I can’t take this anymore. This girl is taking her sweet time.”

Aemond moved swiftly to your side, his single eye filled with concern. He brushed a damp strand of hair from your face. “You are strong, my love. She will come when she is ready.”

“I’m tired of waiting!” you snapped, your patience long gone. “I just want her out. Now!”

The midwives and nurses exchanged wary glances but kept their focus on preparing for the birth. Your irritation was palpable, and the tension in the room thickened with each passing moment.

“Why don’t we try going for a walk?” you suggested suddenly, struggling to sit up. “Maybe that will help get things moving.”

Aemond hesitated. “Are you sure that’s wise? Perhaps we should bring one of the nurses.”

“No,” you insisted, your eyes blazing with determination. “Just you and me. I need to get out of this room.”

Aemond nodded, knowing better than to argue when you were in this state. He helped you to your feet, supporting you as you made your way out of the chamber and into the dimly lit corridors of the Red Keep. The familiar halls were quiet, the stillness broken only by the occasional flicker of torchlight and the distant murmur of guards on patrol.

As you walked, Aemond kept a steadying arm around your waist, his presence a comforting anchor. “What shall we name her?” he asked softly, hoping to distract you from the pain.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, leaning heavily on him. “I haven’t been able to think of anything that feels right.”

“How about Visenya?” Aemond suggested, his voice thoughtful. “After the conqueror queen.”

You shook your head. “That’s a cursed name. Even so, it doesn’t fit. She needs a name that’s isn’t so common.” You continued your slow pace, Aemond offering more suggestions: Rhaella, Alysanne, Naerys. Each name was met with a thoughtful pause, then a gentle shake of your head.

Finally, as you turned a corner, you stopped abruptly. “Aemond, what about Aelora?”

“Aelora,” he repeated, testing the name on his tongue. “Aelora Targaryen. It’s beautiful.”

You smiled faintly, a glimmer of excitement breaking through your exhaustion. “Aelora it is.”

Suddenly, a sharp pain gripped you, and you doubled over with a cry. Aemond’s grip tightened as he steadied you. “What is it?”

A pool of water began to form as it dripped down your leg. “My water just broke,” you gasped, clutching your swollen belly. “Its time now…she likes the name Aelora.” You slightly chuckled in pain.

Panic and excitement surged through Aemond as he helped you back towards your chambers, shouting for the midwives as you neared. The nurses rushed to your side, guiding you back to the bed and preparing for the final stages of labor.

The next few hours were a blur of pain and struggle. You gripped Aemond’s hand tightly, your nails digging into his skin as you fought to bring your daughter into the world. Aemond stayed by your side, whispering words of encouragement and love, his own heart aching to see you in such pain.

“Come on, my love,” he urged softly, brushing his lips against your forehead. “You can do this. She’s almost here.”

“I can’t,” you cried out, tears streaming down your face. “It hurts too much.”

“You can,” he insisted, his voice firm but gentle. “You are the strongest woman I know. Just a little more.”

With one final, agonizing push, a wail filled the room, and your daughter was born. You collapsed back against the pillows, sobbing with relief and exhaustion. Aemond’s eye shone with pride and joy as the midwife placed the tiny, crying bundle into your arms.

“Look, Aemond,” you whispered, your voice choked with emotion. “She’s finally here. Our little Aelora.”

Aemond gazed down at the newborn, his heart swelling with love. He gently touched the baby’s cheek, awed by the miracle in his arms. “She’s perfect,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “You did it, my love. You brought her into the world.”

You held Aelora close, tears of happiness mingling with the sweat on your face. Aemond wrapped his arms around both of you, a rare, genuine smile spreading across his face.

Once the midwives had cleaned and tended to both you and the baby, Aemond and you made your way to your sons’ chambers, eager to introduce them to their baby sister. Aerys and Daeron, roused from their sleep, looked up in wonder as their parents entered with the tiny bundle.

“This is your sister, Aelora,” Aemond said softly, kneeling down to their level. “Say hello.”

Aerys, the elder of the two, reached out a tentative hand to touch his sister’s tiny fingers. “She’s so small,” he whispered in awe.

Daeron, younger but no less curious, leaned in to peer at the baby. “Can we hold her?”

“Of course,” you said, carefully transferring Aelora into Aerys’s waiting arms. The boys’ faces lit up with joy as they cradled their sister, their excitement infectious.

Aemond watched his family with a sense of profound contentment, a rare, unguarded smile gracing his lips. For this moment, all was right in their world. His heart swelled with love and pride, knowing that together, he had a beautiful family. And so, in the heart of the Red Keep, surrounded by the warmth of your family, you both welcomed your daughter into the world. Your hearts full of hope and love for the days to come.

banner by: @cafekitsune

#house of the dragon #hotd fanfic #hotd imagine #hotd season 2 #house targaryen #aemond x reader #aemond fanfiction #prince aemond #aemond x you #aemond fic #viserys targaryen

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drtrashgames · 9 months ago

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Here’s a series of board games I’ve made recently.

Astro Asterid’s Quick Shuttle Repair

Derelict ships in space need to be fixed quickly, so they call on Astro Asterid to repair them! Carry resources through the halls of various ships to repair systems that have crashed. The more resources you carry, the slower you move, and the more likely more systems will go offline! Move quickly but strategically to repair all the systems before time runs out!

Treasure by Torchlight

A single player dungeon crawling role playing game featuring cute little mammal characters in a fantasy setting. Journey through dungeons collecting treasure and defeating monsters to level up your character so you can take on the final boss! But be careful, with every step you take your torchlight grows dimmer. Keep that torch lit as you explore randomly generated dungeons!

Treasure by Torchlight: Bite Size

This is a mint-tin version of the same game. This “bite size” version contains everything the full size game does. An enormous game in a tiny package!

Noah’s Ark

A very simple mint-tin game for young players. Move down the landscape collecting animals and bringing them one by one back to the ark. But hurry up! The flood waters are rising! Count up points at the end of the game and see if you got a high score!

The Longest Week

In the middle of a zombie apocalypse you manage to find shelter and call for help. However, help won’t arrive for 7 days. During the day scavenge for weapons, farm for food, or gather resources to strengthen your gate because when night falls the zombie horde attacks! As the days progress the horde outside grows larger and stronger. Can you survive the week and be rescued?

All of these games can be found with more information and prices on my storefront on The Game Crafter website here!

#the game crafter #board games #game crafter #rpg #single player #zombie #noah’s ark #mint tin #zombie apocalypse #dungeon crawler #dungeons and dragons

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novaursa · 3 months ago

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The Secret Flame

- Summary: You sneak out of the Red Keep again. And as alway, Harwin is there to chase you down.

- Paring: targ!reader/Harwin Strong

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is twin sister of Rhaenyra and has striking resemblance to her grandmother, Alyssa. For more of my works visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Word count: 3 599

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

- A/N: I've never posted anything so fresh in my life. This work is just written, like a few minutes ago. I don't usually post my works so soon. They tend to sit way longer before being posted, especially if they are supposed to be made into a series. Those works are posted once all parts are complete, or way, way close to being done. I've slept like two hours, maybe. My blood is 90% coffee. Luckily, it's my day off. 😅 As always, I'll see how you guys like this before it becomes something larger. Enjoy! ❤️

The chill of the night air is a welcome contrast to the stifling warmth of the Red Keep as you slip quietly through the hidden passageways beneath Maegor’s Holdfast. You’ve navigated these shadowy tunnels since you were a child, memorizing each twist and turn like a whispered secret shared only with you. The cool stone beneath your hands feels like freedom as you push through the last concealed door, emerging into the moonlit streets of King’s Landing.

The city is alive, even in the depths of night. You breathe in the scent of the sea mingled with smoke and distant perfumes, savoring the feeling of anonymity that only these stolen excursions bring. You’ve always felt as if you were a dragon bound in chains within the walls of the Keep, and here, at least for a little while, you are free.

You keep your hood low, concealing the distinctive silver-gold hair that marks your heritage. The cobblestones beneath your feet are slick from the earlier rain, and the shadows dance with flickering torchlight as you weave through narrow alleys, away from the watchful eyes of your father’s guards.

The tension between you and your father has grown unbearable in recent moons. He sees in you too much of his mother, Alyssa, and perhaps that is why he clings so tightly. You can’t breathe under his watchful eye, can’t stretch your wings when he’s always hovering, reminding you of duty, decorum, and the precarious balance of the realm.

But here, no one knows you as the princess, no one sees the crown’s burden pressing down on your shoulders. Here, you are simply a shadow among shadows.

The night hums with the distant laughter of taverns and the murmurs of lovers hiding from prying eyes. You’re about to turn a corner when a rough hand reaches out from the darkness, yanking you into an even darker alley.

“Now what’s a fine lady like you doing alone in these parts?” A low, sneering voice slithers out from the gloom. You tense, instinctively reaching for the dagger hidden at your hip, but there’s no time to draw it before you’re shoved roughly against the wall. Two more men step into view, all grinning like wolves who’ve cornered a lost lamb.

“You’re far from home, aren’t you?” one of them taunts, his breath reeking of stale ale.

You glare up at them, defiance burning in your eyes. “I assure you, you’ve made a grave mistake tonight,” you hiss, your voice edged with the fire that runs through your blood.

“Is that so?” The leader laughs, leaning in closer. “I think we’ve found ourselves a little bird with some fight.”

Before you can spit back a retort, there’s a sharp whistle from the shadows, and suddenly the men stiffen. The leader barely has time to turn before a strong hand grabs his collar and slams him face-first into the wall beside you. He crumples to the ground with a groan.

“Seems you lot forgot whose streets you’re crawling through,” a familiar voice says, smooth as velvet and rich with amusement.

Ser Harwin Strong steps into the faint light, his broad frame and easy confidence radiating a quiet authority that sends the other two men stumbling back in fear. His hand rests on the pommel of his sword, but it’s the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth that unsettles them more.

“Run along, boys, before you find yourselves missing fingers or worse,” he advises in a tone that suggests he’s making them a very generous offer.

They don’t need to be told twice, bolting into the night like startled prey. Harwin watches them go before turning his attention to you. The glint in his dark eyes tells you he’s more amused than surprised to find you here, as if he half-expected it.

“You have a peculiar way of taking your nightly strolls, princess,” he says, the smirk widening into a grin. “I should have known I’d find you stirring up trouble.”

You roll your eyes, gathering your composure as you adjust your cloak. “I can handle myself, you know.”

“Clearly,” he chuckles, giving a pointed look at the discarded dagger still in your hand. “But I doubt King Viserys would agree if he knew his daughter was sneaking into Flea Bottom on a whim.”

You lift your chin defiantly. “I wasn’t in Flea Bottom.”

He arches a brow. “You’re not far from it.”

Silence hangs between you, broken only by the distant clamor of the city. The moonlight catches the chestnut in Harwin’s eyes as he studies you, his expression softening into something less playful and more sincere. “Y/N… You know I can’t let you stay out here. I’m supposed to be your protector, after all.”

“Are you my guard now, too? I thought you were just Rhaenyra’s Gold Cloak protector.”

His lips twitch at that. “Rhaenyra doesn’t run off nearly as much as you do.”

You let out an exasperated sigh, stepping away from the wall and back toward the street. “You’re insufferable, Harwin.”

“And you’re reckless,” he counters, reaching for your arm as if to steer you back toward the Keep. “Come on, before you get us both into even more trouble.”

But you’re not done with the night just yet. You twist free of his grip, darting back into the alley. “Catch me if you can, Ser Breakbones!”

For a heartbeat, Harwin simply stares after you, caught between disbelief and admiration. Then he shakes his head with a low chuckle and gives chase, the sound of his footsteps pounding behind you as you race through the winding streets.

The thrill of it all—the wind in your hair, the laughter bubbling in your chest, and the sound of Harwin’s voice calling your name—feels like flying. You know he’ll catch you eventually, but for now, you’re just out of reach, teasing the line between freedom and the inevitable return to your gilded cage.

But that’s part of the dance, isn’t it? The chase, the daring escapes, and the knowledge that while he may be tasked with returning you to safety, a part of him enjoys the game just as much as you do.

And for tonight, that’s enough.

The pounding of your heart echoes in your ears as you dart through the narrow streets, your feet barely skimming the cobblestones. Harwin is right behind you, his heavy boots making it clear he’s gaining ground. You can’t help the exhilarated laugh that slips past your lips, feeling the cool night air whip through your hair. For a brief moment, you almost wish he wouldn’t catch you, just so you could revel in the rush of freedom a little longer.

But then you hear his voice—low, deep, laced with a blend of exasperation and amusement. “Y/N, you’re only making this worse for yourself!”

You glance back just in time to see the determined gleam in his eyes, and before you can react, his hand closes around your wrist. You let out a surprised gasp as he spins you, tugging you close until your chest is flush against his. You can feel the heat radiating from him, his breath ghosting over your lips as he stares down at you with a mixture of desire and reprimand.

“You truly are a wild thing, aren’t you?” His voice is husky, rough with the thrill of the chase.

“Perhaps,” you murmur, a sly smile tugging at your lips, “but you seem to enjoy it.”

Without giving him a chance to respond, you tug him into the shadowed alleyway beside you. The darkness wraps around you both, cloaking you from any prying eyes that might still be wandering the streets. There’s a moment of tension, of anticipation crackling between you like lightning in a summer storm.

You push him back against the stone wall, your hands fisting in the front of his tunic as you pull him down to meet your lips. The kiss is fierce, hungry—born of a shared need that has simmered beneath the surface for far too long. Harwin’s hands are quick to respond, gripping your waist with a possessive strength that sends shivers down your spine. He tastes of salt and warmth, of nights spent in armor and the fire that burns within him.

There’s no room for words now, just the frantic rustle of fabric as your fingers work to loosen his breeches, his own hands tugging at the ties of your skirts. The air is thick with the scent of desire, mingled with the cool, damp earth and stone around you. Your breath comes in ragged gasps as you free him, your bodies already pressing together with the desperate anticipation of what’s to come.

When he moves into you, it’s with a practiced ease that speaks of all the times you’ve stolen moments like this before. Your head falls back, a soft moan escaping your lips as he fills you, the familiar stretch and heat drawing gasps from both of you. For a heartbeat, you both remain still, savoring the way you fit together, the way your bodies seem to crave this connection as much as your hearts do.

“Gods, Y/N,” Harwin groans, his voice low and strained. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

You smile against his lips, your nails digging into his shoulders as you start to move, setting a rhythm that’s as familiar as it is intoxicating. “Better than dying in the Keep, caged and suffocated,” you manage to whisper, your voice breathy with desire.

He lets out a deep, rumbling laugh, but the sound quickly fades into a grunt as your hips grind against his. The tempo between you quickens, each thrust driven by pure, unbridled need. There’s a primal urgency in the way you cling to each other, as if the world outside these walls doesn’t exist, as if all that matters is this moment, this passion, this escape.

His hands grip your thighs, lifting you slightly as he presses you harder against the wall, deepening the angle until you’re both lost to the rhythm of your bodies. Every movement draws a gasp, a moan, a whispered name into the darkness. Your nails rake down his back, desperate to hold onto the sensation building within you. He’s rough and tender all at once, his control fraying with each stroke as he buries his face in the curve of your neck.

“Y/N… you drive me mad,” he rasps, his breath hot against your skin.

You bite down on your lip, stifling a cry as he hits a particularly sensitive spot, pleasure coiling tight in your belly. “Good,” you manage, your voice breaking on the word as your hands slide into his hair, tugging him closer, demanding more.

The pace is relentless now, both of you moving in sync, lost in the frantic need to reach that edge together. You’re barely aware of anything but the feeling of him inside you, the way your bodies collide with a desperate intensity. His name slips from your lips again and again, a plea, a prayer, as the pleasure builds to an unbearable peak.

When release finally crashes over you, it’s like wildfire spreading through your veins. Your body trembles, tightening around him as you shatter, a cry breaking free from your throat. Harwin isn’t far behind, his grip bruising as he thrusts deep one final time, a guttural groan spilling from his lips as he finds his own release. He holds you there, chest heaving, his forehead pressed against yours as you both ride out the last waves of pleasure together.

For a long moment, there’s only the sound of your ragged breathing mingling in the darkness. The intensity slowly ebbs away, leaving behind a warmth that’s almost tender as you both come back to yourselves. Harwin’s thumb traces a gentle line along your jaw, his eyes soft as he studies your flushed face.

“Reckless, wild, and impossible,” he murmurs, but there’s no scolding in his tone, only fondness.

You lean into his touch, a contented smile tugging at your lips. “And yet you keep coming back, Ser Harwin.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, pressing a lingering kiss to your lips, slow and sweet this time. “How could I not? There’s no taming a dragon, but gods be damned if I don’t love the fire.”

For a moment, you allow yourself to savor the warmth of his embrace, the comfort of his presence in the midst of all the chaos that defines your life. But the night is waning, and the world beyond this alleyway is still waiting.

Reluctantly, you begin to disentangle yourself, smoothing your skirts and adjusting your cloak. Harwin mirrors you, straightening his tunic and tightening the laces of his breeches. There’s a lingering heat in his gaze as he watches you, as if he’s already thinking about the next time he’ll chase you through these streets.

“Come,” he finally says, extending his hand with a grin. “I suppose I should get you back before anyone notices your absence… though I doubt I’ll be able to explain why you’re looking so disheveled.”

You smirk, taking his hand as you step back out into the moonlight. “That’s your problem, Ser Breakbones. I’ll leave the excuses to you.”

With a chuckle, he leads you back toward the Red Keep, but not before stealing one last kiss under the stars, a reminder that, for all the rules and restrictions of your world, some fires simply can’t be contained.

The flickering light of the hearth casts dancing shadows on the walls of the private dining chamber, illuminating the worn but sturdy wooden table where Lord Lyonel Strong and his son, Ser Harwin, sit across from one another. The aroma of roasted meats and spiced wine fills the room, yet Harwin barely touches his food, his mind lost in thought as he absently stirs his cup of wine.

Lyonel watches his son with keen eyes, noting the subtle tension in his posture, the way his gaze drifts toward nothing in particular as if he’s waging some silent battle within himself. They’ve shared these private dinners often, moments away from the demands of the court, but tonight there’s a charged undercurrent in the air that neither man can ignore.

After a long silence, Lyonel clears his throat and decides it’s time to broach the subject. “You seem distracted, Harwin. A rare occurrence for you.” His tone is gentle, probing, as he carefully measures his son’s reaction.

Harwin’s head snaps up as if he’s been startled out of his thoughts. He forces a smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s nothing, Father. Just tired, perhaps.”

Lyonel isn’t convinced, but he decides to tread forward nonetheless. He takes a deliberate sip of his wine before speaking, choosing his words with the precision of a man accustomed to walking the tightrope of politics. “There’s been much discussion in the Small Council of late regarding alliances and… strategic marriages.”

Harwin tenses slightly, though he tries to mask it with a casual nod. “That’s always the way of things, isn’t it? Who’s being sold to whom for power and coin this time?”

Lyonel’s eyes narrow, noting the edge in his son’s voice. “In this case, it concerns someone close to you. The King is making plans for Princess Y/N. It appears he’s leaning toward a betrothal to the heir of House Blackwood.”

The words hang heavy in the air, and for a moment, Harwin’s face betrays nothing. But Lyonel’s sharp eyes catch the brief flicker of something—shock, anger, and something dangerously close to despair—before Harwin schools his features into a stoic mask.

He swallows hard, the lump in his throat making it difficult to speak. “House Blackwood,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “She’s… she’s to be sent away, then.”

Lyonel arches a brow, watching the way his son’s knuckles whiten as he grips the edge of the table. “It would seem so,” he replies slowly, studying every nuance of Harwin’s reaction. “The marriage would be advantageous for the realm—bringing the Riverlands more firmly into the fold, securing loyalties through blood ties.”

Harwin’s gaze drops to his plate, the food now entirely forgotten. His mind races, a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions churning within him. The mere idea of Y/N being wed to someone else—of her being taken away to some distant castle, away from the Red Keep, away from him—it’s unbearable.

And Lyonel sees it, clear as day. The horror settles over him like a weight as he begins to piece together what Harwin’s response truly means. He knows his son—knows that Harwin has never been one to be so easily unsettled. For him to react this way… there must be something more, something deeper beneath the surface.

“Harwin,” Lyonel says, his voice now laced with a quiet urgency. “You’re taking this news rather hard, considering it is not your place to determine who the princess marries. Why does this trouble you so?”

Harwin clenches his jaw, fighting to keep his emotions in check. But his father’s probing gaze is relentless, cutting through the defenses Harwin has so carefully constructed over the years. “It’s not—” he begins, but the words catch in his throat. He can’t find a plausible excuse, can’t weave a tale that would satisfy his father without revealing too much.

Lyonel’s expression darkens as he begins to draw his own conclusions, his shrewd mind piecing together the puzzle. His eyes widen slightly in realization, a flicker of disbelief crossing his features before settling into grim understanding. “Harwin…” he breathes, the name laced with a mixture of disappointment and concern. “Tell me you haven’t done something foolish.”

Harwin’s silence is damning. His hands tighten into fists on the table as he struggles to find the words, his heart pounding in his chest. He doesn’t need to confirm it; his father already knows.

The weight of Lyonel’s realization crashes down like a hammer. He leans back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face as he exhales a long, weary breath. “Gods help us,” he mutters, more to himself than to Harwin. “You’ve gone and entangled yourself with the princess, haven’t you?”

Harwin’s gaze remains fixed on the table, shame and defiance warring within him. He knows there’s no point in denying it now. “It wasn’t supposed to happen,” he admits hoarsely, his voice thick with emotion. “But I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t stop myself.”

Lyonel closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose as the full implications settle in. “You fool. Do you have any idea what this could mean? What could happen if this gets out? The scandal, the danger—not just to you, but to her?”

“I know,” Harwin snaps, his voice strained, as if the very acknowledgment of the truth is tearing him apart. “But I… I care for her, Father. More than I should. More than I’ve ever cared for anyone.”

The raw confession hangs in the air, and for a moment, Lyonel can only stare at his son with a mixture of anger and pity. He sees the turmoil in Harwin’s eyes, the desperate, reckless need that has clearly consumed him. This isn’t just a passing infatuation or a dalliance. It’s something far deeper, something that could lead to ruin if it’s not carefully managed.

“Harwin,” Lyonel finally says, his voice low and grave, “you’ve put us all in a precarious position. If the King suspects, if the wrong person finds out, it could be the end of not just you, but our entire house. You must let her go. The marriage will happen, and you cannot interfere. Do you understand me?”

Harwin’s fists tremble as he fights back the overwhelming urge to protest, to scream that it’s impossible, that he can’t just let her go. But he knows his father is right. He knows the reality of their situation, knows that they are both trapped in a world of politics, duty, and expectations that neither of them can escape.

“I understand,” he finally grits out, though the words feel like ashes on his tongue.

Lyonel’s gaze softens slightly, a hint of sympathy bleeding into his stern expression. “I do not doubt your feelings, son, but some battles are not meant to be fought. And this is one you cannot win. You must think of what’s at stake.”

Harwin doesn’t respond, unable to trust himself to speak without betraying the depth of his anguish. Instead, he nods stiffly, forcing himself to swallow the pain that threatens to overwhelm him. He can’t imagine a future where Y/N belongs to someone else, where she’s out of his reach, but he knows he may have no choice in the matter.

Lyonel watches him with a heavy heart, knowing he’s asking the impossible of his son but also knowing it’s the only way to avoid disaster. “Be careful, Harwin,” he warns quietly, his voice tinged with regret. “Love is a powerful thing, but it can also be a weapon if wielded recklessly. Do not let it destroy you.”

The room falls into silence once more, the crackling fire the only sound between them. Harwin’s gaze remains fixed on the flames, but his thoughts are far from the warmth of the hearth. They’re with her—always with her—no matter how impossible the road ahead may seem. And even as he tells himself to let go, to do what’s expected, he knows in his heart that the fire between them isn’t something he can simply snuff out. It burns too bright, too fiercely, and like all dragonfire, it may yet consume them both.

#house of the dragon #harwin strong #harwin breakbones #ser harwin #harwin x reader #harwin x you #harwin x y/n #viserys targaryen #rhaenyra targaryen #hotd harwin #hotd #hotd x reader #hotd x y/n

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flowerandblood · 11 months ago

Text

The Fall from the Heavens (4)

[ canon • Aemond x Strong • niece female ]

[ warnings: oral sex, smut, angst, arranged engagement, violence, swearing, humiliation, chauvinism ]

[ description: A cool distance turns into friendship and more when two children see that they can find refuge and understanding in each other. However, naïve dreams collide with the reality in which every event has consequences and what once could have been love becomes a dark, newly painful obsession. Angst, sexual tension, obsession, violence, madness, very dark Aemond. ]

The story in this series is an alternate reality from the oneshot Stay and love, leave and die, in which Aemond reads the letters his niece has sent to him over the years. They are the same characters and it shows what would have happened between them − I have changed the background story from their childhood slightly for the sake of the plot.

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

That evening she could not sleep; she felt anxious, felt that danger lurked all around her, the darkness in her chamber full of chill and tension. She pressed her lips together lying under the thick furs, recalling for the hundredth time the expression on her uncle's face when he recognised her.

Terror, disbelief, rage, disgust.

She knew that she would be facing him in the throne room the next day anyway, that they would be forced to remind each other of their existence.

She sighed quietly, wondering if her letters had reached him at all.

What if his grandfather or his mother simply did not deliver them to him?

What if his rage was because he thought she had abandoned him?

She felt a quick pounding of her heart, a naïve hope, anything she could grab onto in a situation that seemed to her to have no way out.

She thought she had to visit him, she had to see him, speak to him, end this once and for all, explain to him how she felt, how sorry she was that it had all happened this way.

Just like when she was a child, she slipped out of her chamber, walking ahead in the torchlight. She remembered what time the guards on watch at his quarters exchanged and took the opportunity, with her heart pounding fast, to knock on his door.

She swallowed loudly, horrified to hear the cold, sure, rough come in and stepped inside, closing the door behind her. She turned and saw his silhouette sitting by the fire, in his hand the dagger he was skilfully playing with between his fingers, his gaze fixed on her, his eye wide open as if he was anticipating this visit.

She didn't know what she should say, where to begin.

She wasn't sure if she was trembling so much from the cold or from fear.

She tried to repeat to herself that even though he looked different, the same man was sitting in front of her, the one who had stroked her hair all night as a child, soothing her this way when she couldn't fall asleep.

Grasping at these memories she finally choked out what she had come for.

"Did you received my letters?" She asked in trembling voice, trying to sound soft and calm, to be the opposite of his aggressive attitude, to make him understand that she was coming in peace.

She shuddered when she saw the dangerous glint in his eye, the dagger in his hand spun around its own axis and curled between his fingers again, an involuntary grimace appeared on his face that resembled a smile but showed that he was furious.

"Yes." He answered finally, and she drew in a loud breath, analysing his answer quickly in her head.

He had received her letters, all of them.

She could see it in his face.

Did he despise them? Did he throw them away? Did he burn them?

"Have you read them?" She asked, wrinkling her eyebrows in helplessness, feeling that this was one of the most important moments of her life.

She saw him settle more comfortably in his chair, lifting his chin high as he stabbed the blade of his knife into the armrest, running it over it, making shivers run through her.

She had the feeling that he had just imagined himself ripping her flesh this way.

"Yes, my Lady Strong. I have read them all. Many times, here, in this chair." He muttered, and she felt a jolt of heat, of disbelief, of both humiliation and desire at the same time, because here he was, just admitting that he'd read her letters more than once, yet he'd never written her back.

She thought it was all a punishment he was inflicting on her – even though he wanted her words, his reply would have shown that he had forgiven her, that he was seeking reconciliation, that he was weak.

It all suddenly became so clear to her that she felt lighter, understanding that there was no moment in which she could do anything more to change his mind, that exactly what was supposed to happen had happened.

She looked around his chamber and moved ahead, noticing that where there had been a small cupboard of books now stood three large, tall, oak bookcases filled to the brim with thick tomes.

"Does your mother-whore know you're here?" She heard his cold, indifferent voice and pressed her lips together at the thought that he was doing it on purpose, that he was aware of what would hurt her, that he knew her too well.

She felt a squeeze in her throat when she spotted the familiar name of the philosopher among his collection and stepped closer, pulling out the book she had borrowed from him when she dared to kiss him for the first time.

"My, as you put it, mother-whore, never knew when I visited you, uncle. I was very determined not to be caught." She said lowly, in a way tired of the fact that she seemed to be speaking to stone, a cold marble to which nothing could reach.

She heard him snort, clearly displeased that his question did not elicit the effect he would have expected from her.

"Do you often visit men like this?" He asked perfunctorily, as if there was an answer in his question, as if it was obvious that she was not waiting for him.

Something in the way he said it, in the superiority in his voice made her feel rage; she moved towards his chair and stood in front of him, looking at him with furrowed brows.

Who was he to speak to her this way?

She saw that he lifted his gaze to her, surprised, apparently completely not expecting her to dare come so close to him, the hand with his dagger froze in mid-motion.

"Have you no shame?" She asked with regret and disapproval. She saw that his nostrils quivered dangerously, his healthy eye turned black, his lips pressed into a thin line.

She knew he was about to say something, something that would make her hate him, make her unable to look at him, and she decided that she would be the first to express her opinion, her suffering.

"I don't know who you are, the man who sits now before me, but if there is even a fragment of the boy I was meant to marry in you, let that boy know that he was and will be the only one in my heart. He was my beloved friend and I failed him. It is hard to live with the thought that someone you loved so deeply has died in a way, but there is neither a grave to pray over nor any hope of peace for his soul. What I fear is that the boy I knew has disappeared among the darkness and is dying in it every day."

She muttered, and although she tried to hold them back, tears of helplessness and despair ran down her cheeks as the last sentence left her lips.

She had lost him, lost him forever, this boy who had soothed her fears, who she had looked up to with such pride and joy, who would never speak to her as this man did now.

It seemed to her that she had put him into a state of complete shock, as he looked at her with his mouth parted, his healthy eye wide open – he was breathing faster, completely frozen, as if he didn't know what to make of her words.

She couldn't believe how much he had changed, his white hair long and beautiful, partly tied back, his scar pale, hidden under a black eye patch, his jaw even more sharply defined, his chin pointed, his healthy eye gleamed in the firelight, his leather tunic and breeches framing his well-built body.

He was a handsome man.

She thought about Daemon's words, about how it was better to rip her heart out than to humiliate herself, but she thought she was unable to do that.

That she needed to feel his closeness this one last time.

It seemed to her that her body threw itself towards him on its own, climbing into his lap, pressing her face and hands against his tunic, his familiar warmth, his scent filled her nostrils.

She heard his dagger slide out of his hand straight onto the stone floor with the loud clang of steel.

For some reason, her body relaxed completely and she burst into sobs, as if those years of suffering and separation had poured out of her like a river; she began to babble and apologise to this little boy who certainly felt alone, who couldn't cope with what had happened and with what he had lost.

She shuddered and hopped up, feeling something hard throb between her thighs, then again and again – she looked at him in disbelief, his gaze terrified, his breath heavy.

She thought she was going to hear him say that she should leave, that she was humiliating herself, that he didn't want to know her, that she was pathetic, but he just stared at her, apparently unable to get a word out.

She looked at his lips – they seemed even fuller and softer to her than they were then and she wondered if they would be as pleasurable if she touched them.

Just this once.

"– can I kiss you? –" She asked so quietly that she herself barely heard the words leave her lips. She saw his pupil narrow, his nostrils twitching restlessly.

She felt a throbbing inside her, as well as in his breeches beneath her when he leaned in slightly, exactly as he had done then, wordlessly involuntarily betraying his will and she threw her hands over his shoulders, pressing her warm, thirsty lips to his in a sweet, loud kiss.

It seemed to her that their bodies were moving on their own, his hips rubbing his twitching erection against her from underneath making her feel something like warm tickling between her thighs.

One, slow, tentative kiss turned into a second, a third and a fourth, his hands suddenly on her body, clamping down on her hips and neck as if he wanted to make sure she didn't leave his side.

She shuddered, looking down at him with slightly parted lips, suppressing a moan when she felt his free hand slip shamelessly under the material of her nightgown and clamp down on her naked buttock, rubbing his hardness against her hidden womanhood with slow, uncertain rocking of his hips.

No one had ever touched her like this before, and she wondered if this was his first time, or if perhaps he had already tasted another woman's body, sinking inside the ladies of the court or the servants.

She felt an overpowering jealousy and pain at the thought, at the thought that he might have desired and taken another, and she thought that this night he would desire only her.

That she would spend the night with him and then leave, surrendering her fate to destiny.

"− uncle −" She mumbled, responding with movements of her hips to his treatments, feeling her insides begin to swell once she had decided what was going to happen.

He waved his hand into her hair and kissed her, greedily, aggressively, quickly, his slick tongue forced it's way deep into her throat.

It had nothing to do with what they had done as children – now their lips teased each other with a loud click of their saliva, his tongue trailing over her palate, licking her encouragingly, inviting her to let their tips touch.

They licked each other like this, panting and moaning into each other's mouths – she let him push her hips closer to him, rubbing his hard cock against her with increasingly intrusive, shameless movements as she wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing her breasts against his body.

Gods, he wanted this.

She shuddered when she felt his hand pull at the ties of her nightgown, in slow, gentle movement slipping it off her shoulders. He pulled away, panting loudly, to look at the sight of her bare chest, her plump little breasts; she gasped quietly and trembled when his fingers timidly run and squeezed one of them.

She felt something sticky run down her thighs onto the material of his breeches, felt the moisture between her legs.

"− uh − it tickles − here −" She mumbled helplessly, stroking his jaw with her thumb, not knowing completely what she should do next, somehow asking him to spare her the humiliation and take the initiative. She shuddered as his fingers ran over her lust-swollen, puffy lips.

"− it's understandable − you missed your uncle − hm? −" He asked softly, tenderly, startling her completely – she felt the muscles inside her clench around nothing at his words, the tension in her lower abdomen was unbearable.

She didn't know when he took her in his arms and stood up with her, when he laid her down on his bed; she watched as he took off his tunic, commanding her to lie on her back, and she obeyed him.

She squirmed in horror as he suddenly grabbed her thighs and spread them in front of him, lifting the material of her nightgown up, leaning his face between them.

"− Aemond − s-stop, uncle, what are you −" She mumbled in a trembling voice, trying to push him away, to protect herself; she tilted her head back with a sweet, surprised moan when she felt his rough tongue run over her puffy folds, licking what was leaking out of her.

"− o-oh, gods −" She mewled losing immediately the urge to interrupt him, laying obediently on her back and clasping her hands in his wonderfully soft white hair, pushing against him with her hips, listening to the sounds of sucking and licking, whimpering in front of him like a whore, understanding that it was obvious that he wanted to give her pleasure, that he wanted to satisfy her.

"− have you touched yourself here? −" He huffed with some kind of amusement and satisfaction, as if he had been dreaming of this moment all his life, of her at his mercy, with her thighs spread wide shamelessly in front of his face.

She swallowed loudly at the memory of the night she had sunk her hand into her heat seeking fulfilment, thinking of him, the way he looked now, the way he still desired her, and helplessly nodded her head.

She knew he would recognise immediately if she lied.

She heard him murmur with satisfaction at this information, as if he was perfectly aware, looking at what was happening to her now, who she was thinking of at the time.

She moaned in pleasure as his nose ran over her puffy bud hidden between her soft folds; she clenched her hands in his hair trying to push him away as he tightened his lips around it, licking and sucking it, making it almost painful. His hand reached for her mouth to silence her, but she clamped her fingers on his wrist, stopping him.

"− please, uncle, too much − too much −" She cried out pleadingly, trying to pull away from him, and breathed a sigh of relief when he released her from between his lips, looking at her in shock, apparently writing down in his mind that this place was extremely sensitive and delicate.

He hummed under his breath, returning to his earlier caresses, tentatively and slowly sliding his tongue into her tight, hot interior. She threw her head back, surprised at how pleasurable it was, her walls throbbing and clenching like crazy around nothing as he licked her shamelessly with a quiet, lewd clicks of his saliva and her moisture.

"− uncle − mghmm −" She babbled desperately, feeling something approaching, the tension and tickling in her lower abdomen unbearable, her hips rocking to the motion of his mouth.

She prayed shamelessly to the gods that he would just keep going.

"− it'll be wonderful to feel it clench around my fat cock one day − don't you think, sweet niece? −" He murmured between the flicks of his tongue, and she felt his words do something to her; she raised herself up on her elbow throwing her head back, feeling the wonderful, throbbing pleasure spill over her body in waves. She moaned some words, probably his name, feeling stunned and hot with fulfilment, her thighs trembling in his hands.

She fell on his cold bed, panting heavily, begging him to stop, but he made sure to lick her dry, as if he took unspeakable pleasure in her state and pleas.

He rose at last, breathing loudly, wiping his face, his eye wide open as if he couldn't believe what had just happened, with a quick, desperate movement he untied his breeches.

"Touch me." He muttered grabbing her hand; she squealed quietly when she saw for the first time what the erection of a man looked like. He tightened her fingers around its thick root, the tip of it pink and glistening, dripping from his own juices.

She breathed loudly, squeezing it with the kind of movements he was forcing on her with his palm, up and down, feeling it pulsing and twitching in her grasp, that it was swelling more and more, his breath erratic and heavy, full of desire.

"− fuck − fuck, come here −" He breathed out, grabbing her by her hair, pressing her lips to his in an aggressive, frantic, sticky kiss, tasting her own wetness on his palate, his hips rocking aggressively to the rhythm of her hand.

"− don't fucking stop − faster − fuck-fuck-fuck −" He hissed and groaned helplessly with some kind of immense relief, clenching his eye, his lips parted in pleasure; she squealed when she felt something wet spill out of him onto her nightgown, startling her completely.

He leaned in to kiss her, to reassure her.

"− easy, it's just me − shhh −" He whispered between one lazy, moist kiss of their lips and another, releasing her at last, her hand all sticky with his warm spend.

He ordered that nothing was to be wasted and that she was to lick it off, so she did so without a word of objection.

His seed was slightly salty and smelled like nothing she had felt before.

Like sin.

He watched her every move with satisfaction.

"− you are going to spend the night with me −" He commanded, and she nodded, not having the strength to oppose him or think about the consequences.

She didn't care.

"Mmm." He hummed contentedly, sighing quietly, pulling her by her arm along with him, laying down on his back, letting her embrace him.

She breathed a sigh of relief as she hugged her face to his chest, to where his heart was – his fingers began to stroke her hair, just as they had then, years ago.

He knew she loved it.

They lay in silence for a long time, their silhouettes surrounded only by the warm light of the fire burning in the distance.

"– I missed you –" She whispered at last and heard his hand freeze in stillness.

She was frightened that she had frustrated him and felt relieved when, a moment later, he placed a soft kiss on the top of her head, stroking her further with his warm palm.

It took a long time before he said anything, as if he needed to think it all over, to put it all back together in his head.

"Do you still wish to marry me?" He asked at last, apparently assuming that what the others were planning didn't matter and that he had to have a good understanding of what had happened between them, whether they wanted the same thing.

She lifted her head, looking at him already without fear – even though his gaze was cold and his face stern, she already knew what lurked underneath, that if he had built a wall around himself as a child, it was now a giant fortress separating him from everyone else that could not be taken by storm.

What they had done didn't change the fact that they still didn't know if they could trust each other.

"Yes." She whispered, tracing her fingers over the area underneath where his heart was beating. He looked at her for a moment, as if he wanted to make sure she was telling the truth, and then he grabbed her hand and lifted it to his lips, placing a warm, lingering kiss on it.

"− you have such big hands −" She whispered, looking in awe at the clearly defined lines of his veins. The inside of his palm was rough – she thought it was the fault of his daily holding of the sword.

"− they're not as delicate as yours − your skin feels like it's made of silk −" He murmured with some kind of admiration, gazing at the innocent play of their fingers brushing against each other in the air.

She felt a squeeze in her throat at the sight, the elation and pain, thinking of all the years she had dreamed of him coming back for her, of telling her that he still loved her. She felt involuntarily tears under her eyelids and pressed her lips together, trying to hold them back, however to no avail.

They flowed down her cheeks one by one, and she felt her chest begin to vibrate as did her breathing. He glanced at her, hearing this and they looked at each other for a moment in silence.

He lifted his free hand and with a slow, tender movement of his thumb rubbed the moisture from her warm skin.

"Don't cry. Come here." He said lowly, grabbing her waist and pulling her close, his hand slipped into her hair hiding her face in the hollow of his neck, her bare breasts pressed against his chest.

She breathed quietly, focusing on his wonderful, familiar scent and the embrace in which, even though she shouldn't, she felt safe.

It seemed so right.

"Tomorrow, Luke will lose his rights to Driftmark. Justice will be done, and I will announce that our betrothal was never officially called off. We will marry in the tradition of our ancestors, ending at last these years of misery." He said calmly, as if he thought it was the only sensible thing to do – his hand trailed involuntarily through her hair and down her bare shoulder, but his mind was far from her.

She swallowed loudly and tensed all over hearing his words, words concerning her younger brother's inheritance which, after all, Corlys had passed on to him, obviously aware that they bore his name but were not of his blood.

He felt her hesitation immediately and began to breathe louder, his fingers digging warningly into the soft skin of her arm.

"Say something." He muttered in an anxious, trembling voice, but she didn't know what she was supposed to answer, her heart pounding like mad, tears welling up again in the corners of her eyes.

She thought with horror that she had made the mistake of assuming that the fact that he could forgive her meant that he could also forgive Luke.

She had noticed it then, in the courtyard, seeing the way he looked at her brother, but she preferred to push it deep into her consciousness, to pretend that it would all be easily resolved, that they would live together in peace and prosperity.

"What will you do if he doesn't lose his rights to Driftmark?" She asked quietly, feeling her voice tremble with every word she spoke.

This time it was his body that tensed all over; she heard him draw in air loudly, his heart pounding like mad under her hand.

"Is your mother-whore plotting something again? Hm?" He growled, gripping her cheeks painfully tight in his hand, forcing her to look at him in a sharp, aggressive motion.

She felt that familiar terror again, fear at the sight of madness, darkness and hatred lurking in his gaze.

"– n-no, I swear –" She whimpered with difficulty. She saw him tighten his lips, his nostrils quivering restlessly in a quick, laboured breath, his eye opened wide.

"Is she the one who sent you to me? To soften me up, to fucking distract me, to divert my attention?" He hissed with growing anger and a note of desperation, a sense of betrayal that escaped his throat as his fingers dug warningly into her skin.

She thought he had completely lost his mind.

Seeing her state, the way she said the words, his grip on her face softened, his thumb ran tenderly over her soft, tear-wet skin.

"– no, Aemond, she wants me to marry someone else, she doesn't know I'm here –" She cried helplessly, recognising that he could do whatever he wanted with her, beat her or kill her.

Nothing could change the fact that she was heartbroken.

"No. No, don't cry. Don't cry, my love. Don't cry." He whispered drawing her to him again and she burst out into loud sobs, seeking comfort in his arms; he kissed the top of her head again and again repeating that he believed her, that he just had to be sure.

Whatever would happen, the boy she knew had never been violent towards her.

"I would never hurt you." He whispered, and her words burst out of her mouth before she had time to think them through, full of pain and disappointment.

"You have done it now and you will do it again." She muttered lifting herself up, putting the sleeves of her nightgown over her breasts, wanting to lift herself off his bed. His hand clamped on her arm stopped her – he raised himself up on his elbow with her, however this time he was careful with how much force he used.

"No. I didn't mean to. Gods, I swear." He muttered, gripping her cheek in his palm, clearly wanting her to look at him, but she shook her head.

"You desire me, but you're not in love with me. You abhor me and whenever you forget that I can give you pleasure, you will hurt me." She choked out between sobs, getting up from his bed; he got up behind her, catching her waist, hugging her back.

She felt his warm, shaky breath on her skin, his hands quivering, his face pressed against her neck.

How could she be so blind, to think that after all this time he would look upon her as an equal?

"I have waited for you for so many years. Don't leave, it won't happen again." He muttered in a trembling, pleading voice.

She knew it was a lie, that he was desperate now, that if only he could be sure she wouldn't escape him, he would do whatever he wanted with her.

"You're right to think I was never worthy of you. Forgive me that you had to endure such humiliation because of me for so many years." She choked out in pain, pulling herself out of his embrace, walking out of his chamber, startling his guards, not caring if they told the Queen of her visit or not.

She returned to her quarters and threw herself on her bed, quivering and sobbing with despair breaking her heart, realising with pain that there was never any hope for them.

He did not love her.

_____

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exitpursuedbyavulcan · 4 months ago

Text

The Silver Dragon (10)

The Decisions of Father

On their way back from the beach, Aemond and Arianwyn are confronted by their four furious cousins.

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x OC (Daemon and Rhea's daughter)

Warnings: description of injuries and medieval medical procedures

Series Masterlist - Previous Chapter - Next Chapter

Aria collapsed.

Through his pain and increasingly blurred vision, her motionless body was all Aemond could see. Had Luke struck her, too? Did she bleed into the sand as he did? Was she even still alive? As the horrible thoughts raced through his mind, he began to scream again. Wordless, agonized, soul-rending screams.

He was vaguely aware of voices around him. Some of them seemed familiar – Ser Westerling, maybe? Or Cole? Armored hands lifted him, sending pain shooting through his veins. But he did not care.

All he cared about was Aria.

Hands bearing the shining gauntlets of the Kingsguard lifted her from the sand, and relief washed over Aemond like a great wave when he saw her chest rise and fall. She still bore the scratches she received from her half-sisters, and a bruise was already forming around her neck, but she was no longer bleeding, and her breathing was steady.

She would be all right.

It was only after the realization settled that he felt his own pain. The dull aches across his body were insignificant compared to the searing, excruciating pain he felt in his face.

He felt as though a venom-tipped fang of a Dornish viper was scraping across his brow.

He felt as though the skin of his cheek was being peeled off layer by layer.

He felt as though a dragon had dropped the heart of its burning fire in his eye, boiling and roasting every bit of flesh it touched.

Just an hour ago, he experienced a joy grander than anything he had ever felt.

Now, all he could ever remember feeling was pain.

As Aemond’s screams began anew, Arianwyn woke. The sounds of his anguish awakened something deep within her, calling her to go to him, to be by his side. If only her body could obey, but her feet were not touching the ground.

Blearily, she recognized that she was being held by someone wearing armor – its clanking filled her ears as they ran. It was not until they emerged into the brighter torchlight of the castle proper that she finally recognized the face.

Ser Criston’s warm brown skin had gone pallid, sweat beading at his furrowed brow as he rushed to keep up with Ser Westerling, who held Aemond in his arms.

A trail of blood followed them.

The salt in her tears stung the cuts crossing her face as she gathered her remaining strength to speak.

“Is he dead?” Her words seemed to break Cole from a trance. As he looked down at her, she realized the full depth of his concern. Tears were threatening to spill from his dark eyes.

He and Aemond had always been close, even beyond the training yard, where Cole gave him better instruction, more advice, and closer attention. Aemond had once confided in her that he wished the Kingsguard was his father rather than the king. Seeing the prince wounded like this, he must have felt as though he had failed. He needed to know how well Aemond had fought, how brave he’d been.

With a deep breath, Ser Criston replied, “He is alive, my lady. We sent one of the house guards ahead to fetch the maesters. They will meet us in the throne room.”

“What about the queen?” she whispered. “Aemond will need his mother if…”

Cole shushed her before she could finish. His expression and voice softened, “It will not come to that, Aria. He is lucky – he is near to a maester. Besides, I have seen many men recover from injuries far worse than this.”

Arianwyn buried herself closer to his chest. “He was trying to save me.”

She did not see the kingsguard's eyes widen in fear and confusion as he pondered the meaning of her words, nor how a small, proud smile bloomed on his lips as he looked towards the injured prince he cared for so dearly.

Orwyle and the maester serving House Velaryon, as well as several of Arianwyn’s Runestone guards, were already in the throne room when the Kingsguard arrived. Where the other children had been taken, she didn’t know. Aemond and Arianwyn were placed by the roaring fire – Aemond in a plush chair lined with what looked like any spare fabric they could find to soak up his blood, Arianwyn on a small stool by his side – and were immediately set upon by the maesters.

Aemond was tended to by the Velaryon maester. She watched him through the gaps between Orwyle’s arms as he tended to her injuries. Cole had set her on Aemond’s right side so she could not fully see his wound. For that, she was grateful.

She flinched as Orwyle pressed a cloth soaked with boiled wine to her cuts, and he followed her gaze. She watched intently as the Velaryon maester unstopped a large vial of thick, pale liquid, holding it up to the prince’s lips and commanding him to drink.

“It is milk of the poppy, Arianwyn,” Orwyle whispered, gently cleaning the girl’s wounds. “It will dull his pain for what is to come.”

She, at last, turned her gaze to her familiar maester – her teacher, her friend. “What is he going to do to him?” Her eyes were filled with fear, though her tears were dry at last.

Orwyle kept his voice low. “Maester Kelvyn will clean his wounds, as I am doing,” he squeezed the cloth for emphasis, sending droplets of liquor running down Arianwyn’s chin.

“If the initial cut was not clean, he may have to… remove some of the damaged flesh. A clean wound will heal better and leave less of a scar. And the eye…” Orwyle trailed off, his hand stilling over Arianwyn’s cheek.

“Is it still there?”

He frowned. “I believe so, but it is severely damaged, Arianwyn. It may have to be removed.” Arianwyn did not respond; she only continued to gaze at her dear companion as Kelvyn continued his work.

Though he had been given a massive amount of the milk of the poppy, Aemond still winced when Kelvyn began to clean the wound. Arianwyn reached across the gap between them, lacing her fingers through his. She squeezed once. Though his hand trembled, he squeezed back.

“Aria?” he asked weakly.

“I’m here, Aemond.”

“Are you hurt very badly?”

That he would concern himself with ensuring that she was well while he must be in so much pain warmed her heart. She wanted to climb into the chair with him and hug him but did not want to hurt him any further. “I am hardly hurt at all.”

Any reassurance she was trying to give Aemond was smashed when Orwyle unexpectedly pressed another soaked cloth to her face, causing her to whine with pain.

“Stop it!” Aemond shouted. He attempted to rise from the chair but was restrained by both Maester Kelvyn and Ser Criston. “Don’t hurt her!”

Never before had she heard him raise his voice at Orwyle or look at him with such fury. “I’m fine, Aemond,” she insisted. “It just stings a little. I’m fine, I promise.”

“Aria,” his uninjured eye filled with tears, and his lips trembled. “I’m sorry.”

She shook her head. What could he possibly be sorry for? He had saved her from her sister’s wrath and had been injured for it. If anything, she should be apologizing to him. But before she could, he again screamed in pain, clutching at his ruined eye.

Orwyle turned to him, pushing Kelvyn aside. “My prince, my prince, please.” When he got no response, he seized the boy by the chin to force him to meet his gaze. “Aemond! You must not cry. Not now. No matter what you feel or how much it hurts, you must not cry.”

Arianwyn gasped as she realized why. The salt in her tears had stung fiercely at her scratches. What Aemond felt when he cried must have been torture from the Seven Hells, especially since—gods have mercy—his tears were not coming only from his uninjured eye.

From the corner of his ruined eye, salty tears mixed with blood as they trailed down his cheek, both cleaning and staining him. Aemond hiccuped as he tried to stifle his tears, but they kept flowing.

“Prince Aemond,” Orwyle begged again. “I know it is hard, but you must be brave now. Please.”

“I can’t – ”

Ser Criston interrupted him, bracing his hand on Aemond’s shoulder. “You can. My prince, you are already brave. You defended Lady Arianwyn despite being outnumbered and unarmed. You are a prince, but you are also a warrior.”

“And a dragonrider.”

All eyes turned to Arianwyn.

“He rides Vhagar now,” she explained with a wavering smile. “He claimed her, and it was the bravest thing I have ever known.”

Cole murmured something, and the maesters whispered between themselves. But she did not care, for Aemond had stopped crying. He reached toward her to again take her hand.

“I am a dragonrider,” he declared. “I can be – will be brave.”

The maesters had begun to prepare their instruments when the queen swept into the room, and the sight of her distraught and weeping nearly made Aemond’s bravery falter. “Mother – ”

“Oh, my dearest boy,” she croaked as she fell to her knees before him – on his left, where she could see the full extent of the wound. Her face paled. “Who has done this to you?”

The bastards, he wanted to say. But not here, not when there were Velaryon servants present to hear and report his words back to Lord Corlys. Still, they would pay for what they had done to him and Aria. “Lucerys.”

“Jace was there, too.” Alicent startled when she heard Aria. Upon seeing the scratches on her face and the reddening bruise on her neck, the queen reached a hand to cup her niece’s chin. “And… Baela and Rhaena.”

The look on her face as she named her sisters – the sisters she had dreamed about meeting for years – was devastating. Whenever Aria spoke of them, and the bond she was sure would form the moment they laid eyes on her, he humored her. But he never told her what he really thought, that the girls were raised by Daemon, who, at best, did not care for Aria or, at worst, hated her. It was likely her sisters felt the same.

It was the closest he ever came to lying to her.

Now, he wished he had told her, if only for the chance that he could have prevented the sadness that now clouded her eyes.

The queen shook her head as she looked between them. “Why would they do such a thing?”

“Because – ”

Maester Kelvyn cleared his throat. “Forgive me, my queen. But it is best we begin the procedure as quickly as possible.”

“Procedure?” she asked, her hand flying to the base of her throat, where her pendant of the seven-pointed star usually lay.

It was Orwyle, holding a small, empty tray, who answered. “The prince’s eye is damaged beyond saving, your grace. It must be removed.”

The queen and Aria both sobbed, but Aemond said nothing. He knew it was inevitable. He had felt how deep Lucerys’ blade had cut. Still, he was afraid.

Would he still be able to wield a blade?

Would reading become harder? Writing? Could he still help Aria with her runes?

Would he be able to ride Vhagar with only one eye?

The sounds of armor entered the room, and Aemond turned to see Ser Westerling, followed by Jacaerys, Baela, Rhaena, and Lucerys. When they looked at him and Aria, there was no regret in their eyes. No pity. Nothing at all to suggest that they were sorry for what they did. In fact, each of them, save Rhaena, looked almost proud.

That was all he needed to strengthen his resolve. He would overcome this. He would not allow them to break him.

Aemond braced himself, gripping the arms of the chair as tightly as he could. He did not look at his mother or Aria. “I am not afraid.”

The maesters had nearly finished stitching Aemond’s skin back together when the king hobbled into the room, a score of other lords and ladies that had been woken by the sound of screaming behind them. Leaning heavily on his cane, it took him many long moments to come to his son’s side. When he finally laid eyes on the ugly wound, he looked like he might be sick.

Arianwyn stared up at him, waiting for him to say something. To ask his son how he felt or the maesters if he would heal. To order the bystanders gawking and gossiping away to spare Aemond from their judgemental gazes. To learn who it was who maimed the prince.

But he said nothing. He hardly even looked at Aemond for more than a heartbeat.

The king slowly made his way to the Driftwood Throne. He shook his head, anger seeming to grant him strength. “How could you allow such a thing to happen?” he asked. When, after a moment, none of the guards – Kingsguard, Runestone guards, or otherwise – spoke, he raised his voice. “I will have answers!”

It was Ser Westerling who finally replied. “The princes were supposed to be abed, my king.”

Viserys closed his eyes for a long moment, clearly unimpressed by the answer. “Who had the watch?”

This time, Ser Criston answered. “The young prince was attacked by his own cousins, Your Grace.” When Arianwyn looked at him, he was still pale, not yet recovered from the sight of Aemond’s wounds.

The King rose from the throne with a sudden burst of rage. “You swore oaths to protect and defend my blood!” he roared.

Arianwyn had never seen the king so angry. It was enough to make her shy away. She slid from the ottoman, kneeling on the stone floor with her chin on the arm of Aemond’s chair, her lips pressed to their joined hands.

“I am very sorry, your grace,” Westerling said, fully accepting the king’s anger with the grace of a dutiful servant.

Ser Criston was less obedient. “The Kingsguard has never had to defend princes from princes, your grace.”

“That is no answer!” Viserys shouted before the knight had finished speaking.

Arianwyn flinched again, at last noticing that Aegon and Helaena had arrived, standing by their mother’s side. Aegon looked at his brother’s wound with a furrowed brow and a frown, his wine-glazed eyes clearing with each passing moment. Helaena stood with her back turned, gazing into the fire, completely detached from what was happening around her.

Alicent looked to Orwyle and Kelvyn, “It will heal, will it not?” The entire room turned to hear the answer.

“The flesh will heal,” Kelvyn said, punctuating his words with a final stitch to Aemond’s cheek. “But the eye is lost, your grace.”

Arianwyn felt the declaration like a blow to the chest. Never again would she gaze eye to eye with Aemond, with his beautiful violet eyes. True, most of her family bore similar eyes, but Aemond’s were her favorite. His was a delicate purple, closer to blue than most – perhaps better-called periwinkle rather than a true violet. And now one of those lovely eyes was lost forever.

The queen stood from Aemond’s side, descending on Aegon with a fury. “Where were you?”

“Me?” Aegon balked. But that was not the answer Alicent wanted; she told him as much with a hard slap. “What was that for?”

“That was nothing,” Alicent spat, “compared to the abuse your brother suffered while you were drowning in your cups, you fool!” It was not an indictment of his behavior that night but of the years before, when he had encouraged his cousins to join him in mocking Aemond – the very behavior that had eventually culminated in their fight that evening.

The large doors above the throne creaked open, and Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys descended the winding stair from their bedchambers.

“What is the meaning of this?” Corlys demanded as his wife called for their granddaughters. She held their faces to assess their wounds – though they were far fewer than Arianwyn or Aemond’s.

Not a moment later, Princess Rhaenyra burst through the doors at the far end of the room, shouting for her sons as she ran across the hall. None but Arianwyn seemed to notice Daemon behind her, striding slowly as if he did not want to be seen. Anger twisted the Princess’ face when she saw the bruise forming around Luke’s crooked nose. “Who did this?” she demanded.

Arianwyn’s anger began to rise again, chilling her every breath. “They attacked Aemond!” she yelled back as she stood, still holding Aemond’s hand. “He did naught but defend himself. And me!”

The last of her words were drowned out by the overlapping shouts of her cousins and sisters.

“He attacked Baela!” Luke screamed.

“He broke Luke’s nose!” Jace cried.

“He stole Vhagar!” Rhaena barked, apparently unconvinced by Arianwyn’s earlier words.

“He disrespected my mother!” Baela bellowed.

The shouts began to overlap, and Arianwyn and Alicent joined the clamor, refuting the children’s outrageously false claims and defending Aemond, but there was too much noise – none could hear their words.

Though his heart felt full to bursting watching Aria defend him so fiercely, Aemond tugged on her hand, glancing with his one remaining eye at the king, who was weakly trying to quiet their words. He was well aware that in a conflict between him and his half-sister’s bastards, he was at a severe disadvantage in the eyes of the king. After all, he was born to the wrong queen.

Viserys had some affection for Aria, at least. It was likely only because she was Daemon’s daughter, but it may still earn her some protection from his anger. But he still would not take any risks. Not when it came to her.

When she finally looked down at him, there was a question in her silver eyes. “What?”

He raised himself as far as he could without straining his aching body. Close enough that, within the din that had settled within the room, he could speak without being heard by anyone else. “Be quiet. Don’t make him angry.”

Aria nodded, stepping closer to him and pursing her lips as she always did when biting back her words. It made him smile.

“Silence!” the king bellowed. All fell silent as he climbed down the steps of the throne toward the chair where his wounded son sat. “Aemond, I will have the truth of what happened – now.”

Aemond looked sheepishly away from his father and toward Arianwyn, uncertain. She knelt back down, nodding, and kissed his hand. He understood her as clearly as if she’d said the words. No matter what was said against him, they both knew the truth, and he would have her unending support.

But before he could respond to his father, his mother stepped forward. “What else is there to hear?” she pleaded, though her husband was turned away from her. “Your son has been maimed. Her son is responsible.” The queen glared across the room toward Rhaenyra, who now stood with her arms around her sons.

“It was a regrettable accident,” the Princess said, refusing to look either her father or the queen in the eye.

“Accident?” the Queen nearly laughed at the word. “The prince Lucerys brought a blade to the ambush. He meant to kill my son!”

Rhaenyra stepped forward. “It was my sons who were attacked and forced to defend themselves,” she growled.

“Liar!”

Arianwyn understood why her cousins and sisters had lied – they wanted to protect themselves from the punishment they rightly deserved. But for Rhaenyra, whom Viserys wished to be queen one day, to lie? When she had only just arrived, with no idea what happened in the tunnel?

That, Arianwyn could not stand.

“You’re a liar!” she yelled again, ignoring the sounds of shock that reverberated around the room. It did not matter that Rhaenyra outranked her; she had lied so blatantly to the whole court for years, but she could not be allowed to lie about this. “You were not there; you did not see what happened. I saw it all.”

The king turned his eyes to her, assessing. She lifted her chin and met his gaze, not allowing him to see the fear that had her tightening her grip on Aemond’s hand. After a long moment, Viserys nodded, leaning on his cane with both hands.

“Very well, Arianwyn.” Something cracked in her chest when he did not call her ‘Aria’ as he usually did. As her family always did. He was not her kind, if distant, uncle in that moment. He was The King. “Tell us what happened – but speak only the truth.”

“Aemond and I were returning to the castle,” she said, confident despite the many inquisitorial eyes upon her. She spoke the truth. Surely they must believe her. “We… we had snuck out earlier.”

Her tale was interrupted by the voice she was least eager to hear – her father’s.

“And where had you gone?” Daemon leaned calmly against the door where he had entered and gestured to his daughters by Laena. “It seems to me that detail may be crucial to this story.”

Arianwyn did her best to swallow her rage as Aemond nearly growled behind her. “We went to the beach south of the castle,” she said, “where Aemond laid claim to Vhagar.”

The silence in the room was palpable. Some seemed impressed by her claim. Others – mostly Velaryon – were enraged.

The Queen looked towards Aemond. “Is this true?” she asked. A wave of joyful relief swept over her face as her hand flew to the Seven-Pointed Star medallion around her neck, and she murmured a prayer of thanks.

Even the King seemed to forget his anger for a moment as he looked at Aemond with something close to pride.

“He stole her!” Rhaena’s voice shattered the fragile peace of the moment.

Arianwyn’s blood blazed cold with anger. “A dragon cannot be stolen! Vhagar claimed Aemond as much as he claimed her!”

She turned back to the King. “The four of them were in the tunnel when we got back. It was Rhaena who started the fight – she attacked Aemond. He defended himself, and in return, Baela hit him. We both fell and when he saw that I had been hurt, he returned the blow – but he was only trying to defend me.”

Hot, stinging tears welled in her eyes. “They all attacked him, and they would not stop. He was on the ground – he could not fight back – but they just kept hitting him and hitting him.” She began to sob in earnest as she looked at her sisters.

“I just wanted to get them to stop, so I pushed Rhaena off of him. She scratched me, and Baela pulled me away. She had her arm around my throat,” she gestured to the beginnings of bruises on her neck, “I was struggling to breathe – I had been since I fell. Aemond got away from Jace, and he found a rock somewhere in the sand. He hit Jace with it once, but only after Jace drew the knife.

“Baela wouldn’t release me, so Aemond threatened to hit him again if she didn’t let me go.” She blinked furiously, looking down at Aemond as she finished her story. “But Jace threw sand in his eyes, and Luke used the distraction to – to cut him. And then… nothing else happened until Ser Westerling arrived, I swear.”

Viserys looked between her and Aemond, weighing what he had heard. Arianwyn was so focused on him and what he might say that she did not notice that at the door, Daemon’s eyes had darkened. He examined the scratches crossing her skin, pride rising in his chest for Rhaena’s ferocity. Arianwyn’s assault on her, no matter her motivation, would not go unpunished.

Before the king could pass judgment, Rhaenyra spoke again. “I think you are forgetting, Lady Arianwyn, that amidst the fray, Aemond levied vile insults against my sons.”

It was true; Arianwyn had forgotten. The words had been least amongst the vileness she had witnessed that night – what were mere words against blood spilled? “Aemond’s words were mild compared to what your sons have said to him for years and certainly not deserving of this.”

“What insults?” the king asked, holding up a finger to silence her. Arianwyn balked. Was he really considering words – a single, true word – against the irreparable damage that had been done to his son?

Rhaenyra lifted her chin, confident in her hold over her father. “The legitimacy of my sons’ birth was put loudly to question.”

Viserys tilted his head, “What?”

“He called us bastards,” Jacaerys answered.

As silence once more fell over the room, Aemond released Aria’s hand. She looked down at him, her face lined with worry, but he just smiled at her. In the firelight, her silver eyes had turned golden.

He knew he had just lost his father’s sympathy – and whatever small pieces of affection, if any, he held for Aemond – and would likely face further punishment for his words. Men had been maimed and sent to the Wall for voicing that plain truth. Though Aemond was his child, the king had always favored Rhaenyra and her brood. Even his second son would not likely be forgiven.

“My sons are in line to inherit the Iron Throne, You Grace,” Rhaenyra said, striding toward her father with confidence. “This is the highest of treasons. Prince Aemond must be sharply questioned so we might learn where he heard such slanders.”

Aria let out a cry like a wounded hawk. “You want to torture him?”

“Over an insult?” the queen asked in utter disbelief. “My son has lost an eye.”

Rhaenyra did not respond. She merely watched as Viserys looked down once more on his son. All pride and concern had gone from his face. Instead, he looked at Aemond with the rage of a king.

“You tell me, boy,” he hissed. “Where did you hear this lie?”

Aria was speechless, but Alicent was not. “The insult was training yard bluster. The lot of boys. It was nothing.”

But her pleas fell on deaf ears. “Aemond. I asked you a question.”

Aemond merely stared at his father.

‘Father.’ How he hated the word.

“Where is Ser Laenor, I wonder?” The queen asked, desperate to steer her husband’s ire away from their son. “The boys’ father. Perhaps he might have something to say in the matter.”

The distraction worked. “Yes, where is Ser Laenor?” The King asked. When he turned away, Aria again fell to her knees, gripping Aemond’s hand with all her might.

“It will be okay,” she whispered, though Aemond knew she did not believe it to be true. “I’m here – I will not leave you.”

Aemond stroked the back of her hand with his thumb. “I know.”

Daemon watched them closely, the beginnings of a plan forming in his mind.

Rhaenyra’s confidence seemed to slip at the queen’s question. “I do not know, Your Grace. I… could not find sleep. I had gone out to walk.” Aemond suppressed the urge to point out that no one asked her where she had gone. As she entered the hall with Daemon on her heels, that detail may be quite ‘crucial.’

Alicent quirked her head at the answer. “Entertaining his young squires, I would venture.”

But the distraction was done. Viserys turned back to his son. “Aemond, look at me,” he said, slightly lightening his tone. The prince took a heavy breath and looked up at his father. “Your King demands an answer. Who spoke these lies to you?”

Aemond glanced at his mother for guidance or perhaps a new distraction. But the king followed his gaze. Not wanting his mother to become the object of the King’s wrath, he said the first name that came to mind. “It was Aegon.”

“Me?” Aegon asked for the second time that evening. But it was too late to object. The king needed a scapegoat, and Aegon was well-suited for the role.

The fear on Aegon’s face as his father’s wrath turned on him was almost enough to make Aemond regret naming him. Almost.

Viserys limped over to his eldest son. “And you, boy?” he asked. “Where did you hear such calumnies?”

Silence.

His patience at an end, Viserys screamed. “Aegon! Tell me the truth about it!”

But Aegon was unfazed, still drunk enough to let his tongue loose – to let the truth loose. “We know, Father,” he sighed. “Everyone knows. Just look at them.”

Not even Rhaenyra protested the words. Since the moment Jacaerys emerged from his mother’s womb with hair as dark as night, the truth was clear. Only the King and Rhaenyra herself still denied it.

Though on this night, it seemed that even the king had not the energy to uphold the lie. Rather than assert the legitimacy of the boys, Viserys addressed the entire room.

“This interminable infighting must cease!” he shouted, pounding his cane on the floor. “All of you! We are a family! Now, make your apologies and show goodwill to one another. Your father, your grandsire, your King demands it!” Then, with a look to Aemond that was almost apologetic, he began to walk away.

Arianwyn’s pulse quickened, a now familiar icy creeping through her veins. That was it? Aemond deserved more. Retribution. Justice. Something. “Uncle – ”

“That is insufficient,” Alicent called to her departing husband, entirely exasperated. She gave Arianwyn a single look that demanded her silence. “Aemond has been damaged permanently, my king. ‘Good will’ cannot make him whole.”

The King sighed. “I know Alicent, but I cannot restore his eye.”

“No, because it’s been taken.”

“What would you have me do?” the King asked, exhaustion plain on his face.

But Alicent held firm. “There is a debt to be paid,” she declared, turning to face Rhaenyra. “I shall have one of her son’s eyes in return.”

A murmur passed through the crowd, shock setting in at the price the queen demanded. Even the King seemed surprised.

Arianwyn looked up at Aemond and did not know what to make of his small smile.

“My dear wife,” Viserys began.

Alicent’s voice broke as she tried to move her husband. “He is your son, Viserys. Your blood.”

The king stalked back to her, “Do not allow your temper to guide your judgment.” Thinking his words were final, he turned away.

“If the king will not seek justice, the queen will,” she said, resolute in her defense of Aemond. “Ser Criston, bring me the eye of Lucerys Velaryon.”

‘An eye for an eye,’ Arianywn thought. Perhaps an extreme punishment, but certainly fair, wasn’t it?

Luke cried for his mother, and the king pleaded with his wife, but she stood firm. “He can choose which eye to keep,” she ordered, though the knight did not move, “a privilege he did not grant my son.”

Rhaenyra placed a protective hand on her son’s chest. “You will do no such thing,” the warning she issued Cole burned like fire in her eyes.

“Stay your hand,” the king warned, though Alicent immediately objected.

“No,” she ordered, her voice growing frantic, “you are sworn to me!”

Ser Criston looked over all those commanding him and bowed to the orders of the king. “As your protector,” he muttered, though he seemed displeased by the words.

With a sigh, the king faced his wife. “Alicent, this matter… is finished. Do you understand?” He took her silence as affirmation and turned away.

Rhaenyra smiled, the expression as smug as her voice, “Thank you, Father.”

Arianwyn could hardly follow what happened next. One moment, she was watching Alicent stalk toward the King. She heard the ringing of a blade being drawn, then shouting, and the clanging of armor rung out from across the room.

Aemond pulled her towards him with such force that she collided with him as he stood and stepped in front of her, shielding her with his arms and taking a defensive stance. She could not understand how he could stand with his body weakened by pain and his mind clouded by milk of the poppy.

But he stood resolute, her sworn protector, even if no oath had been taken.

They watched together in horror as Alicent collided with Rhaenyra, holding the king’s Valyrian Steel dagger above the princess’ head, poised to strike. Not even the Kingsguard dared approach the women as Rhaenyra struggled to hold the queen at bay.

“You have gone too far,” the Princess hissed.

“I?” Alicent asked, verging on hysterics. “What have I done, but what was expected of me? Forever upholding the kingdom, the family, the law. While you flout it all to do as you please.”

“Alicent, let her go!” the King shouted – but she did not listen.

“Where is duty?” she demanded. “Where is sacrifice? It is trampled under your pretty foot again.”

The Hand stepped out from behind the Driftwood Throne to calm his daughter. “Release the blade, Alicent.”

Still, she pressed on. “And now you take my son’s eye, and to even that, you feel entitled!”

Aemond clenched his jaw, trying to step forward. Arianwyn held him back with only a hand on his shoulder. Had he not been in such a state, she doubted she would be able to stop him.

Rhaenyra whispered something too soft for them to hear.

Suddenly, the queen shouted, breaking free from Rhaenyra’s grasp and slashing with her stolen blade. Aemond surged forward, out of Arianwyn’s grasp, leaving her reaching for the empty space where he once stood.

Rhaenyra fell back into Lord Corlys’ arms, the queen to her husband’s. Even the roar of the fire seemed to quiet as a stream of blood began to pour from the Princess’ arm. The king’s blade clattered to the floor.

Fear overtook Aemond’s entire being. If Viserys would allow Lucerys to take his eye for a mere insult, what would he do to his mother for drawing Rhaenyra’s blood?

It was his fault. He had been the one to seek out Vhagar, knowing that Rhaena had aims for the dragon.

He stepped from the crowd, his feet unsteady as he fought through the fog in his mind and the agony in his body. “Do not mourn me, Mother,” he said, trying to summon the joy he felt while riding Vhagar back into his heart. “It was a fair exchange. I may have lost an eye – but I gained a dragon.”

Lucerys was not forgiven. No, this debt would be repaid. But to protect his mother in this moment, Aemond would say anything.

Fortunately, the king took him at his word. “This proceeding is at an end,” he declared.

But not all were finished. Not yet.

Daemon stalked out of the crowd, his eyes dark as he glared at Aria. He made his way to Rhaenyra, cradling her wounded arm in his hands, and turned to his brother and the queen.

“I think,” he remarked, not breaking his gaze from his daughter’s, “that it is long past time for Arianwyn to come and live with her father – and her sisters. When you leave for King’s Landing in the morning, brother, she will remain here. With me.”

#aemond #aemond fanfic #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #aemond imagine #prince aemond #aemond x oc #house of the dragon aemond #house of the dragon #hotd #hotd aemond #aemond fic #hotd fanfic #aemond xf!oc #aemond x original female character #aemond x original character #the silver dragon

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devieuls · 2 months ago

Text

ˋ Haunted . ☽

Qimir x Ex Jedi Fem Reader < SERIES >

Warning of the Serie: MDNI. Sith Lord Qimir x Fem ex Jedi Reader.

(during the series)

SMUT: Dirty Talk; Bites; fingering; Blood; Spit; Jealousy and Possessiveness; Foreplay; violence; Swearing; Teasing; Unprotected Sex; betrayal; oral sex; dacryphilia; outdoor sex; jealousy BDSM. Dom Qimir ANGST: toxic relationship, self-harm, derealization, suffering, Requited / Unrequited love, prejudices, bullying and insults. There will be flashbacks in this series

Aged characters: Qimir 35 y.o / You 22 y.o.

Synopsis: In a twisted web of light and darkness, two opposites are facing each other, dancing on a thin thread called fate. What happens when light and darkness dance on a wire called destiny, two eternal opposites that inevitably attract each other and create something perfectly powerful and chaotic to unite the power of two in one? The answer emerges in a journey of tension and attraction, where yin and yang discover that their opposition is nothing but a reflection of a deep and unexpected connection. This is the story of how destruction is akin to peace, how the moon one day decided to save the sun, how darkness is not so dark and evil so bad. A journey towards change and desire, where opposing forces merge into a future that no one could have predicted.

(Following some events of the series)

Lenght: 4.4k

TW: THE SERIES WILL BE FULL OF DELICATE TOPICS!

⇠ Previous chapter ✵ Next Chapter ⇢

· · ─────── · 𖥸 · ─────── · ·

Chapter III: Something about you

The moon had been shining in the sky for hours when Qimir decided to return inside the cave with light steps. His discreet gaze fell on you, still seated in the same spot where he had left you, your head bowed while your eyes were fixed on an indefinite point. He pretended not to notice the traces of tears still visible on your face, the redness of your eyes, and your slightly irregular breathing. He could silently read every tiny expression of yours. After all, they were the same as Mae’s when he first met her, and having learned to understand her, he could now understand you. He wasn’t sure if he was okay with seeing his precious apprentice in another body, unfamiliar to him. In this way, he could still feel her close, still see a piece of her in you.

Qimir’s eyes lit up with subtle satisfaction when he saw the empty soup bowl next to the stove. He didn’t show it openly, but inside, he felt a sense of relief: at least you had eaten. That small gesture was a sign that, despite everything, you weren’t allowing yourself to be completely overwhelmed by grief. Qimir bent over his workbench, the torchlight reflecting off the cold metal of the helmet he was welding. Sparks flew under the precise blows of his hands, while his breathing remained steady, calm. He ignored you, or at least tried to, knowing that any word of comfort at that moment would only fuel your anger. He wasn’t a man easily fooled by emotions. He manipulated them, dominated them. But he also knew when someone, like you, needed space to breathe, to grieve in solitude.

Your gaze followed his every movement, watching how his skilled hands worked the metal, his fingers tracing precise lines. He seemed focused, detached, yet there was something in the way he worked that intrigued you. You wiped away the last of your tears with the back of your hand, but the pain inside was still alive. The image of your sister hovered heavily in your mind, and the only connection you now had with her was the man in front of you. Your eyes first followed his silhouette, then his hands, moving up to his shoulders and hesitating there for a few seconds, while the question you wanted to ask kept forming in your mind, heavy as a stone. The fresh tears were drying on your cheeks, and no matter how much you tried to avoid that lump in your throat, you knew you had to know more.

"She…" you began in a whisper, breaking the silence that had become almost suffocating. The word seemed to vanish between the rocky walls of the cave, while the thought of your sister still ached in your memory. Qimir didn’t turn, but you could feel that he was listening. "Did she choose to become a Sith?"

For a moment, the sparks stopped, as if that question had interrupted even the work of his hands. Qimir hesitated, then resumed welding, swallowing hard. His tone revealed a slight hesitation. "Yes," he responded with the calm of someone who knows full well what that answer means. "I only offered her a way out of her pain… I made her understand that her darkness had to be embraced, not rejected."

The silence grew thicker, filled only by the sound of metal fusing onto the helmet. Your heart weighed heavy as you tried to absorb those words. Your sister had made a choice. She wasn’t forced, she wasn’t manipulated as you had believed. She had embraced the darkness, willingly. And you felt broken, torn between hatred for what she had become and compassion for the pain that had led her to that decision. If only you had found her earlier… maybe? You suppressed the thought of "what if?", knowing that changing the past was no longer in your power.

"Was she happy?" you asked, your voice broken, barely a whisper. You needed to know if, at least in the dark side, she had found some form of peace or if her fate had been just another spiral of suffering. Again.

Qimir stopped working, the welding flame went out with a hiss, and the cave suddenly seemed more silent, more empty. He placed the helmet on the bench with a faint metallic sound, keeping his gaze on it as if it were too difficult for him to look you in the eyes while he answered. His expression remained unchanged, but his eyes betrayed a slight melancholy, something he perhaps didn’t even want to admit to himself.

"Happiness was not a feeling that belonged to her," he said slowly, with a sincerity that he rarely let show. "But she was relieved. Relieved of the weight of her past, of the chains that kept her bound to suffering. She found a new purpose."

That answer hit you harder than you wanted. Relieved. Not happy, not peaceful, but simply relieved from her pain. Your heart clenched as you tried to imagine your sister trapped in an existence so painful that she found solace only by embracing darkness. You had hoped, even for a moment, that there had been a bit of light in her life, a fragment of joy, but reality was much harsher. She had suffered just like you, but unfortunately, she no longer had the chance to redeem that pain. "A purpose…" you whispered softly, almost ironically.

Qimir took the welder back in his hands, ignoring what you had said as he reignited the tool. His fingers moved skillfully over the instruments, his gaze remaining fixed on the helmet, as if it helped him remember the first time he had met Mae. "She was young when I first met her," he began slowly, his tone low and delicate, almost as if he were speaking to himself. "She wasn’t yet fully aware of who she was or what she truly wanted. But there was something in her… a constant anger, a pain that drove her to seek something greater, she was searching for vengeance. She wanted to avenge your death."

His words hit you like a punch to the heart. Your death? The thought that your sister had spent years believing you were dead made you shudder, especially since you had thought the same thing before the Order came to find you.

Qimir paused, the sparks stopped again as he observed the metallic line forming on the helmet. "I saw her for the first time on Olega. She was fighting with some kids, she must have been around eight or nine years old, I can’t say for sure…" He took a brief pause, a faint smile crossing his face, as if the memory of young Mae gave him a kind of happiness. "She was using the Force against them. Grief, fear, and anger consumed her so much that her power seemed almost… uncontrollable. In fact, shopkeepers had been complaining for days about disturbances caused by what they thought was a rebellious Padawan. I found her before the Jedi could." Your eyes softened as you listened, imagining your sister alone, abandoned in a world that couldn’t understand her.

Qimir turned slightly toward you, and for a moment, his eyes seemed lost in a distant memory. Perhaps he saw Mae in you, or maybe it was a fragment of something you couldn't comprehend. You stared at him, unable to look away. Every word that left his mouth brought you closer to her past you had never been able to know. “Was she scared?” you finally asked, with another lump in your throat threatening to choke you. “She didn’t show fear… not at first, at least. Her anger was too strong. But yes, behind that strength, there was a frightened child. She didn’t trust anyone.” His words seemed like a distant memory, and you recognized your Mae in those words, believing him. His eyes, after all, spoke more than his mouth ever could. “But I didn’t need to tempt her. It was enough to promise her vengeance if she followed me. That was all she wanted.”

Your eyes filled with hostility and disgust, pain and anguish. “You corrupted her.” you said, your voice full of disdain and anger. “No,” Qimir replied calmly, meeting your gaze directly, showing complete sincerity. “As I said, I offered her an escape from her pain. I showed her that she wasn’t weak because of her pain, but that she could find strength in it. I didn’t corrupt her. I simply offered an alternative to her suffering.” His words were measured, but there was a subtle sincerity in his tone, as if he were trying to explain a deep and personal truth. “I can’t change the past, y/n,” he said, his voice softer and gentler. “But I can help you understand. That’s all I ask of you: to understand. Mae was a complex person, and her path wasn’t easy. But she found meaning in it all, and that, in a way, gave her peace.” His words hung in the air, his tone no longer monotone and cold. Qimir’s gaze seemed pained, you could see it now, but not the same pain reflected in your eyes; his emotions were a whirlwind of feelings and memories. There was sweetness and sadness in those eyes.

“You loved her…” you whispered, realizing what that continuous, unexplainable feeling in his behavior was. That look had to be of a man in love, it was clear now.

Qimir swallowed, his jaw tightening as he tried to maintain his composure. His face was now devoid of any mask of indifference. The gaze of Qimir, which had been almost impassive until then, softened. There was a sweetness in his eyes that spoke of a deep affection. He lowered his gaze, his face now partially hidden by the shadow cast by the dim light of the cave. His expression was a mix of nostalgia and pain, as the words you had spoken seemed to strike him deeply.

“No,” he replied, his voice cold and detached. “She was my pupil… I loved her as a master loves his pupil.” The statement, though devoid of warmth, concealed a truth that spoke of a deep and sincere feeling. The pain that came through his voice seemed genuine, and the way he spoke of Mae revealed a connection that went beyond appearances. The special bond between a master and his pupil… you remembered.

You remained silent as Qimir turned back to his workbench, trying to regain control of his emotions. “I saw something special in Mae,” he continued, his voice now calmer and more reflective. “And I hoped that as she grew, she would want something more than revenge. Something that I also wanted… but it didn’t turn out that way.” “And what do you want?” you asked, closing the chapter on Mae, which seemed to be hurting both of you equally. “The power of two.” he said with a renewed calmness in his tone, as he took the edges of his shirt to wipe the sweat from his forehead, revealing the large scar on his back that you had already seen that morning by the shore.

“Did Mae do that to you?” you asked, your voice low and uneasy, as you examined the scar with a mix of concern and curiosity. “What do you think?” Qimir responded, turning to you with a tired, curious look, as if challenging your intuition. There was a hint of stoicism in his expression, a defensive barrier against your question. “No…” you replied, a slight doubt creeping into your voice, part of you could imagine Mae as the cause of such a deep wound. “It was someone who throw me away" Qimir answered, his tone dry and his expression showing how painful that memory was. “Was it your Sith master?” you asked with a curious look, continuing to dig into his past. “No, my first master,” His face twisted with a mix of pain and stoicism, as if the memories of that night had suddenly resurfaced after a long time.

“A master… Jedi?” you replied, noticing his subtle hint that confirmed your suspicion. “You were a Jedi…?” you continued, your growing confusion as you tried to piece together a puzzle of his past. Qimir’s gaze turned sharp, like a blade ready to defend itself from a wound reopened after too long. His dark eyes reflected a gentle hardness, as if the question had touched a nerve still somehow alive. “A long time ago,” he answered tersely, cutting off the possibility of further questions.

You looked at him and nodded, understanding that it was best not to press him further. Shifting your gaze back to the strange helmet that seemed so important to him. “Why do you use that?” The man’s gaze shifted back to you once again, this time with something new in his eyes, that made you look away. “It’s made of cortosis,” he began. “Useful against lightsabers. Or as an isolation helmet.” Qimir stood up from the bench to retrieve the toolbox he had used. “Like those of the padawans.” He began to walk toward you with a light and relaxed step. “It blocks all the senses?” your tone was curious again as you observed the helmet he had left on the bench. “It's just you and the Force,” he stopped in front of you, then nodded towards the spot where the object was. “Try it.” “I don’t trust you.” you hissed with a tone too much acid. “Trusting me is fair,” Qimir said in a calmer and warmer tone, looking at you. “But you should trust yourself, y/n. Good night.” He concluded, then moved past you and disappeared into an undefined point in the cave behind you.

You spent the night staring at the cortosis helmet on the workbench, its shiny and cold surface reflecting the dim light of the cave. Qimir had been gone for hours, probably gone to sleep, leaving you alone with your thoughts, but his presence still lingered in the air like a shadow you couldn’t shake off. His words kept echoing in your mind. “It’s just you and the Force.” Each time your gaze returned to the helmet, your curiosity grew. There was something tempting about that object. Your mind wandered through conflicting thoughts: the pain of loss, the anger towards the Jedi, the confusion about your sister’s past. You wanted answers, but you feared what you might discover. “Would Mae have tried it?” you wondered. Probably. The thought that your sister might have already walked the same path now offered to you burned inside you.

You crouched on the makeshift bed, your knees drawn to your chest, and the cold of the cave seemed to seep under your skin, but it wasn’t the physical chill that made you shiver. It was the possibility that, by putting on that helmet, you might see something greater, a truth that eluded you. “I don’t trust him,” you repeated to yourself, but another part of you whispered that maybe Qimir wasn’t the problem. Perhaps, you were afraid of what you might discover about yourself. Hours passed slowly, but the helmet continued to call to you silently. Perhaps your connection to the Force was still there, buried under layers of pain and distrust. Maybe that object could offer you a way to rediscover it.

With a deep breath, you rose and approached the wooden table, reaching for the helmet, your fingers brushing the metal surface. Your eyes studied the object with curiosity and interest, silently debating whether to wear it or not. You withdrew your fingers from the metal lump and quickly moved away to return to bed, ignoring the strange allure that drew you to it. The night dragged on, each moment seeming to stretch into infinity, and the shadow of the decision you were avoiding continued to haunt you. “Maybe tomorrow,” you thought, trying to convince yourself. But deep down, you knew it was just an excuse to procrastinate. The cave was immersed in a profound silence, broken only by the faint, constant song of the distant ocean. The waves crashed against the shore with a slow, hypnotic rhythm, as if trying to lull you to sleep. But your heart still beat strongly, unable to calm down, filled with the myriad emotions experienced throughout the day.

Lying on the bed, you tried to let go of your thoughts, but it was impossible. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw the helmet, felt its call, an invisible force that seemed to pull you toward it. It wasn’t Qimir, it wasn’t even your sister; it was something within you that demanded attention. Your hands trembled slightly as you tried to adjust the worn blanket over yourself, but the cold seemed to come from within. Outside, the sound of the sea continued, a tranquil and rhythmic murmur, occasionally interrupted by distant gurgles of marine creatures moving in the depths. You heard the occasional chirping of something on the shore, perhaps Skura singing with the moonlight, or just the wind stirring some debris. Despite your restlessness, the sound of the sea had a calming effect. Slowly, your body began to relax. Each breath grew slower, deeper. You closed your eyes; the thoughts still wandered in your mind, but less insistently. “Yeah…Maybe tomorrow…” you thought again, but this time with a bit more conviction. Sleep began to take hold, and the sound of the waves blended with your dreams, taking you far from the cave, the cold, and the questions you were not yet ready to face.

The night passed silently, as your thoughts, one by one, slipped into the oblivion of sleep. When the sun began to filter into the cave, bathing the space in a soft light, Qimir was already awake. He moved with a light step, running a hand through his slightly tousled hair. However, something made him slow down as he passed by where you had fallen asleep.

He paused for a moment, his eyes settling on you, watching with an attention that lingered a few seconds too long. Your face, relaxed in sleep, appeared more serene, almost angelic, free from the weight of the pain and anger that had burdened you. His gaze wandered discreetly, lingering first on your delicate features, then on your lips, as a subtle but growing emotion began to stir within him. It wasn’t carnal desire, no, it was something deeper, more intimate. There was a sweetness in the moment, a sweetness he hadn’t allowed himself to feel for a long time. He clenched his jaw, feeling a weight pressing on his chest, a realization that made him uncomfortable. With slow and silent movements, he bent slightly toward you, reaching for the blanket that had slipped a bit away during the night. Gently, as if fearing to wake you, he pulled the blanket up, covering you better and noticing the goosebumps on your arms. The gesture was simple, but within him, he knew that something different was beginning to grow, something that shouldn’t have been there.

Your face was partially hidden by some strands of hair that had fallen across your face while you slept. His gaze fixed on those fine threads covering your skin, and without thinking much, his hand moved on its own, as if guided by an impulse he couldn't control. He brought his fingers close to your face with an almost exasperating slowness, as if every second was stretched. His breath caught in his throat as he brushed against the strands, feeling them lightly under his fingertips. Each movement was cautious, almost fearful of disturbing your tranquility. His fingers followed the line of your hair, gently pushing it aside to reveal the soft contour of your face.

The silence in the cave seemed to grow thicker, the moment suspended in an invisible tension. When he finally withdrew his hand, Qimir felt his heart pounding hard in his chest. He had maintained control, but at a cost. For a moment, he had forgotten everything: his mission, his discipline, his resistance. There was only that simple gesture, that touch which had unveiled a part of himself he hadn’t intended to confront. Qimir paused again, his inscrutable gaze fixed on you for a few seconds too long. When your eyes slightly opened, you glimpsed his blurred figure in the shadow, as if he had just stepped away from you. Your body was still wrapped in the fatigue of sleep, but his presence seemed closer than he wanted to admit. He clenched his jaw, aware that you might have felt his touch, but when your voice broke the silence, his gaze returned to you, masking any emotion.

"I want to go home," you said, your voice low but firm, still slightly thick with sleep. Your eyes had barely opened, capturing his increasingly clear figure once more. "You don't have a home to go back to, y/n," he replied, his tone calm but still cold, carrying a sense of stark realization. He hadn't said it to hurt you, but to make you understand a reality you might have been trying to avoid.

You pressed your lips together, refusing to let his words affect you more than they already had. You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing how much they hurt.

"How long will it take to fix the ship?" you pressed, unwilling to linger on his statement. He looked at you sideways, taking a half-breath as if about to respond brusquely, but then something in his gaze softened. "Still quite a while," he finally said, his tone practical and direct. Then, as if trying to break through the wall of hostility you were desperately maintaining, he added, "Are you hungry?"

The question caught you off guard. For a moment, you felt almost disarmed by his unexpected kindness. There was no trace of manipulation in his words, only a simple concern that seemed almost out of place.

"I'm not hungry," you lied, wrapping your arms around yourself. But your stomach betrayed you with a soft growl, and Qimir looked up at you with a shadow of an amused smile. "Doesn’t seem" he said with a side glance, maintaining that smirk that made you roll your eyes. Qimir picked up a basket with some fresh fruit inside and offered it to you. Noticing that you refused to take the bowl from his hands, he set it down on your lap, still covered by the blanket.

"I just want the ship fixed and to leave," you finally said, your tone softer, almost as if you were trying to convince yourself. But Qimir didn’t respond immediately, holding a piece of fruit that looked like an apple, taking a bite while watching you with almost sarcastic indifference. "If that’s what you want," he said finally, raising an eyebrow slightly, letting his words hang in the air. "I have no rush to leave." His indifference was palpable, almost irritating.

You gritted your teeth, taking a deep breath to avoid jumping at him and smashing the woven basket over his head. His calculated and detached attitude made you seethe, but you understood that reacting impulsively would only play into his hands. You needed to be more cunning. Thus, you decided to change your approach. "I don’t understand," you began, breaking the silence with a soft, almost sweet voice. "Why are you helping me? After everything you’ve done, after what you are…" Your tone sounded too sweet to Qimir’s ears, which made him suspicious right away.

Qimir’s eyes narrowed slightly, a faint smile curling at the corner of his lips as if he was reading your intentions as easily as flipping through a book. He decided to play dumb, entering your game. "Maybe… because not everything is as you think, y/n," he replied slowly and measuredly, tilting his head to the side as he scrutinized you carefully. "Or maybe, because I’ve lost something too." His words seemed to float in the air, vague. There was something in his expression, in his dark eyes that seemed to dig into you, making your defenses waver. There was no hurry, no defensiveness in his voice, just a strange weariness that made you think for a moment that perhaps he wasn't so different from you.

Every move you made, every word you said, seemed to resonate with him in the same calculated manner, as if you were studying each other, careful not to reveal too much but also curious to see where the other would take the conversation. You moved slightly closer, your eyes meeting his for an instance too long. "And what have you lost?" you asked in a barely perceptible whisper, your voice low, as if that question was as much for him as it was for yourself. Qimir didn’t respond immediately. He simply stared at you with those dark, penetrating eyes, the smile gone from his lips. His fingers played absently with the apple he still held, as if pondering his next move carefully. "Maybe more than you can imagine," he finally replied. There was a hint of vulnerability, a glimpse of something deeper, but it closed quickly, as if he didn’t want to reveal too much. "more than you can think." he continued, as his gaze once again hesitated on your lips

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TAGLIST: @neteyamtanhi

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Notes :

I know I’ve disappeared, but I’ve been busy and not a little.

The next chapter I plan to do even better. I’m starting to write now, so I’m a little rusty. Forgive me.

I was also thinking of doing a small taglist for the series, maybe for those who want to follow it and stay updated without forgetting it, in case you tell me in the comments. I hope you enjoyed the chapter, Have a good day. <3

-Mel

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔　　　. 　　˚　　　　*　　　　✦　　　.　　.　　　✦　˚

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blarrghe · 6 months ago

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because I've had a lot of trouble understanding what genres the videogames I like are over the years and have learned some Proper Words, here's a better poll

#ran out of options #the joke is RPGs #ok thank

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superficialdomina · 11 months ago

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Pain (Into Submission, Part 2)

Series masterlist

Note: This part is a continuation of Part 1, Vulnerable. If you haven't read it, may I suggest you start there? Big thank you to @acidcasualties for reading, suggesting, encouraging and just generally being spectacular.

Word count: 2.1k

Warnings: 18+; minors DNI. Implied smut, much angst. Awkward conversation and tortured metaphors. Loki's a bit upset.

Loki was avoiding you.

Since that night in the basement chamber, when you had held him as he caught his breath, and the light in the chamber turned from warm torchlight to the stone grey of dawn, he’d carefully managed to deflect your gaze – your presence, even, on multiple occasions. You sighed inwardly as you glimpsed the edge of his booted foot disappearing around the corner ahead of you. Again.

The memory of him vulnerable and naked on the cold floor remained rich and vivid in your mind. Images of him splayed before you – remembered and imagined – had been a source of much solo entertainment under your sheets in recent nights. Was there anything more deliciously seductive? Beautiful, powerful, dangerous… kneeling.

The two of you had had few interactions since. Briefings, meetings, public interludes that blurred and obscured your newly exposed power dynamic. It was difficult to read him. Superficially, he was as haughty as always; obnoxious and glib, his expression disdainful, his proud chin lifted arrogantly as he argued with the others over petty, trivial matters.

But there were tells. His eyes following you across a crowded room. His tongue nervously wetting an already moistened lower lip as you spoke. And once, that contemptuous laugh breaking off a fraction too early when your gaze fell upon him, his expression quickly and inexplicably contrite.

You frowned slightly at that memory, pressing your lips together as you felt a rush of frustration and lust. He had been avoiding you. It was mildly irritating, though not surprising; you had not expected his submission to be complete after a single orgasm in your hands. Fear, shame, ego - whatever their personal reasons, capitulation was rarely so easy, even in the weak ones. And if you could be certain of one thing, it was that this beautiful God was going to fight it.

It would make his eventual – inevitable – acceptance all the more delightful.

This morning was another irksome example. The team were congregating in one of the smaller conference rooms with general agitation, to “await further instruction” from Rogers. The tight space forced Loki to squeeze by you – to your utter delight, and his patent discomfort.

Less than a week ago, you thought wryly, you would have relished the chance to brush by my thigh. Gone out of his way for the opportunity, even. Pathetic little God. The idea was oddly emotive.

"Good morning, prince", you murmured as he passed, emphasising the lowercase "p" on the last word, weighting it with a subtle mockery that only you and he would notice. His eyes widened at your little neg, and you imagined him swelling in his too-tight trousers as you reminded him of his place. Did he want to fall at your feet then and there in the briefing room? Kiss your boot as you roughly twisted his perfect raven curls in your fingers? The God of Mischief might not quite be ready for such a public display of devotion.

Rogers droned on, and your concentration drifted.

Loki leaned in carefully orchestrated nonchalance against the window, his face set in his trademark smirk. From this vantage, you had an uninterrupted view of his full profile. He did cut a menacing figure, contrived though you were certain it was; long, lean legs rising up to meet slender hips and narrow waist, all sluttishly wrapped in black and green leather that dully reflected the morning sunlight. His broad shoulders rolled back regally, and you could clearly see the outline of his shoulder blades flexing gently with each breath.

Fuck. Pay attention.

You had been watching him more closely since that night in the chamber; knowledge was power, after all, and you had to find it where you could. He was so tactile - the way he traced invisible patterns on the backs of his hands when he was nervous; caught the condensation from the side of his glass and absentmindedly rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger as Steve repeated himself “for those in the back”. You followed his fingertips now as he distractedly drummed them across his leather-clad thigh, imagining them pressing into your flesh as he came undone beneath you. Gods, you needed to stop torturing yourself.

His hair was swept back into a low, tousled bun at the nape of his neck, exposing the soft skin there. Was there still the hint of a bruise where you had nipped his skin? Could he still feel where you had kissed him wetly across his magnificent jaw? As you watched his face, the corner of his mouth twitched up into the briefest smirk, and you felt another jolt of unexpected emotion. I miss him, you realised sadly.

The room broke abruptly, and you were suddenly aware that you hadn’t been listening for several minutes. You shot a quick look at Nat – had you missed anything crucial? Training, 3pm, she mouthed knowingly, and you nodded once in acknowledgement and appreciation. You probably deserved the eye-roll she gave you.

As the room emptied, you glanced at Stark’s fancy translucent wall clock and made a decision. 3pm gave you time to have a little chat with a certain Norse God.

It took several minutes for him to answer your knock, and you wondered briefly if he had been tempted to ignore you.

When he did throw his door open, he wore his usual air of regal arrogance; chin still lifted, shoulders thrown back. But you could feel his awkwardness – his movements seemed mechanical, his breathing a little rapid, his elbows held too close to his body to be entirely natural. He’s nervous, you thought with a thrill.

“Yes, Agent?” His polite words dripped with acid.

“Loki.” His face remained impassive, but he moved back just enough to let you step lightly into the room; his wordless acquiescence made your pulse quicken.

His chambers were richly and elegantly furnished, but dark and secretive. In the quick glimpse you had, you saw him reflected in every detail; from the furs lining the floor like area rugs (was that a polar bear?), to the Nordic relics and symbols adorning every wall. It was unexpectedly sensual.

Loki haughtily cleared his throat, and you resisted the impulse to slap him squarely across the jaw. His perfect, condescending jaw, you thought longingly.

Instead, you opted for candour with a side of hubris. “Why are you avoiding me, Loki?”

He scoffed imperiously. “I am not.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve made leaving a room as I enter it into an elite sport,” you insisted. “Why? Are you ashamed?”

“Of course not,” he snapped, angry, his carefully curated indifference now askew. “I have simply moved on to… other matters of interest.”

“You’re ghosting me?” You raised your eyebrows mildly, a smile curling your mouth. “That seems unlikely. I thought we had a nice time.”

His jaw clenched and unclenched, his legendary silver tongue momentarily caught by his growing and uncharacteristic rage. “That’s not – it is not a matter of -” Loki blustered meaninglessly, and you watched insult and fear battle to own the bitterness that swept across his face. With some effort, he collected himself, settling on a mask of seething outrage. “What do you want?”

“I have a proposition. A repeat of our previous tryst, and – hopefully – much more than that.”

He raised his voice – something you rarely heard him do. “I have neither time nor inclination-”

“Loki,�� you admonished gently, “we both know that isn’t true. You can pretend it didn’t happen. You can deny how much you enjoyed coming undone in my hands, blindfolded and exposed.” You took a chance at stepping closer to him, reaching out to gently trace your hand up his outer thigh. “But I know what you felt.”

He didn’t move away, but his lips parted in a snarl that bared his perfectly white teeth. “You know nothing, Agent.” He had regained control of his volume, and his words were now menacingly low. “I am a Prince of Asgard,” he hissed. “I am a literal God. Why would I have any interest in what you are suggesting? This proposal,” his lips popped at the word, “is ludicrous and insulting.” He glared down at you, your hand paused at his beautifully curved hip, his chest so close to your face that you could feel it rise and fall. Desire thrummed between your thighs at his proximity.

“Is it?” You lifted your chin, meeting his gaze and reaching for the ascendancy and authority you knew you had, filling yourself with the memory of him vulnerable and naked and sobbing at your feet. “Surely what I can offer you is infinitely preferable to the deftly crafted pain you’re currently stewing in.”

He remained silent, but you imagined you saw the briefest glimmer of surprise dance across his face. What was it that you had said?

Pain.

Cogs whirred in your head. Loki had had plenty of experience with pain. Did he need it? Did he seek it? My sweet little masochist, you thought with a smile.

“You know, humans – and human-like Gods, I suppose – are the only animals that actively seek out pain?” you ventured tentatively. “You can’t train a mouse, for example, to enjoy spicy foods, or to find pleasure in intense exercise.” You continued to trail your hand up the side of his torso, fingers drifting over his sculpted obliques like a beautiful instrument. “Is that what you want, Loki? Does pain make you feel… alive?”

He narrowed his eyes at you. “What could you possibly know of pain, Agent?” he hissed. “I have felt pain that you could not imagine; pain that would hurt you just to think about.”

You hesitated, unsure if you were going too far. "Are you sure you're not conflating pain with fear?” He raised his chin defiantly, but you continued quickly. “There’s a correlation between the anticipation of pain, and the intensity with which it is felt. That is, fear of pain is often a far more noxious experience than the stimuli of pain itself.”

He sneered down at you over his long, straight nose. “What exactly are you trying to say, Agent?”

“Only that physical pain doesn't have to come from physical violence.” You paused, willing him to catch up. “You might find pain without fear to be… enjoyable. Exquisite, even.”

“I…” Whatever he was going to say trailed off into the air behind you. You saw the muscle in his jaw quiver as he swallowed nervously.

“I know your feelings about it confuse you." You lowered your voice until it was almost a whisper. "Why would anyone – let alone the great Loki, God of Mischief, future King – why would you want to feel pain? But you do, don’t you? You need it, and you are consumed by shame because of it.” You reached up to stroke his cheek, but this time he turned his head away, eyes closed.

I’m missing something, you thought. There was a wound here… Maybe even one that you could heal. If I could just find it…

And it came to you in a rush that left you giddy. The thing he needed - the onlything Loki had ever needed.

“I am offering you a chance at authenticity, Loki; something that I hazard you’ve not had much opportunity for in your long, if somewhat apocryphal, life. I am offering you a place to belong.”

At your last word, Loki took an unsteady step backwards. His rage evaporated as quickly as it had surfaced; only desperation and sadness remained writ across his face, and you realised with some trepidation that it had been several minutes since he had spoken. You wanted to wrap him in your arms, caress him, hold him until all his fear and shame had been shed like blood.

Not yet.

When he did eventually speak, his voice was composed. “I think you should leave, Agent,” he said coolly, drawing himself up again to his full height, masking his softness once more in leather and steel.

You paused for a fraction of a second, then nodded, letting your hands fall and stepping back from him. Did I reach him? His door snapped closed behind you with a resounding click. I guess we’ll see.

Continued in Part 3: Lost

Tagging some folks who enjoyed part 1. No hard feelings if you'd rather be removed!

@lokisgoodgirl @acidcasualties @infinitystoner @lady-rose-moon @coldnique @thomase1 @kats72 @vickie5446 @holymultiplefandomsbatman @tomlugirl @lokisninerealms @missmushroomsstuff @ladyloki3 @fandxmslxt69 @sinsandguilt @sarahscribbles @lunarnights95 @meowmeow-motherfucker @simplyholl @divine-knight-hand

#sub!loki/femdom!reader #sub!loki #loki fic

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mykuup · 2 months ago

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Of bone and bloom - Cryptid!Eddie Munson AU Part 4

Moodboard + summary + Serie Masterlist

My masterlist

Summary : Despite all your efforts, the hunters decided to act to finally kill the beast. And because of your father keeping an eye on you, you arrived a little too late.

wc : 1,3k

Warnings : monster romance // fluff // smut // MDNI // unprotected piv (wrap it irl guys) // mention of injuries // mention of blood // size gap // no mention of y/n // porn with plot // afab reader (but no description)

A/n : @saphirmoraitie you're the best, thank you for helping me with this! To everyone who read this, thank you for being here 💜

Taglist : @jasminelafleur @maedesculpaeusoubi @sassidykassidy

The hunt

The night was thick with tension, the air heavy with the anticipation of what was to come. The men of the village had gathered at the edge of the forest’s edge, their torches flickering in the darkness, weapons ready. They were hardened hunters, men who had faced the dangers of the wild countless times, but tonight there was a different kind of fear in their eyes—a fear of the unknown, of the creature that haunted their dreams and whispered in the shadows.

You stood on the outskirts of the group, heart pounding with a sickening dread. You had tried to find Eddie, to reach him before the hunt began, but the men had moved too quickly. Driven by a mix of fear and anger, nothing you said could dissuade them. Your father had kept a close eye on you, ensuring you stayed far from the hunt. But your mind raced, desperate to find a way to prevent the inevitable.

The leader of the hunting party, a grizzled man named Harven, stepped forward, raising his torch high. “Tonight, we end this!” he declared, his voice firm and resolute. “This creature has haunted our woods for too long. We’ve lived in fear, but no more. Tonight, we take back our land!”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd. The men steeled themselves and moved as one, plunging into the forest with grim determination, their torches casting eerie shadows. The forest seemed to close in around them, the usual sounds of the night muted as if the very woods held their breath.

You stood frozen, helpless as you watched them disappear into the darkness. You knew the forest better than most and had walked its paths since you were a child, but you had never felt so powerless. The weight of what might happen pressed down on you, suffocating your thoughts. You had to do something, but what?

Time dragged on, each minute stretching into eternity as you waited, praying that Eddie would sense the danger and escape before it was too late. Deep down, you knew the odds were slim. The hunters were skilled and relentless. They wouldn’t stop until they found their prey.

Then, faintly, you heard it—the distant sound of shouting, the clash of steel, and the unmistakable roar of something primal, something not of this world. Your heart lurched a cold fear gripping you as you realized the hunt had found its target.

Without thinking, without caring about the consequences, you broke into a run, racing toward the source of the noise. Branches tore at your clothes, your breath coming in ragged gasps, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t. You had to find him, to save him before it was too late.

The sounds of the struggle grew louder as you neared, the shouts of the men mingling with the guttural growls. You burst into a clearing, your heart pounding in your ears, and what you saw made your blood run cold.

Eddie was surrounded, his massive form hunched and bleeding, the torches casting a fiery glow on his dark fur. He fought with a ferocity born of desperation, his claws slashing through the air, but he was outnumbered. His strength was fading.

Harven and the others circled him like wolves, weapons gleaming in the torchlight, faces twisted with determination. One of them lunged forward, thrusting a spear at Eddie’s side, and he roared in pain, the sound echoing through the forest like thunder.

“No!” you screamed, your voice cutting through the chaos. But your cry was lost in the din, drowned out by the frenzy of the hunt.

Eddie turned, his eyes locking onto yours for a brief, agonizing moment. In that instant, you saw in them the same fear that had gripped you when you first encountered him. But there was something else there too—recognition, and maybe even a plea.

Then, with a powerful swipe of his claw, he moved, faster than any of the men could react. He knocked two of them to the ground, their weapons clattering uselessly to the dirt. Harven shouted orders, trying to rally the others, but Eddie was already gone, melting into the shadows of the forest with a speed that defied his size.

The hunters cursed and scrambled after him, but it was too late. Eddie had vanished into the night, leaving only the trampled grass and bloodied bodies in his wake.

You didn’t hesitate. You plunged into the forest, following the trail of blood that Eddie had left behind. The shouts of the hunters faded behind you. Your only thought was to find him, to reach him before they did.

The trail led you deeper into the forest, the trees thickening, the air growing colder. Soon, you were alone, the darkness closing in. But you pressed on, heart pounding, guided by something beyond reason.

Finally, you found him.

Eddie was slumped against a large oak tree, his massive form barely visible in the shadows. His breathing was ragged, each exhale a struggle, his fur matted with blood. He had fought bravely, but the wounds were too many, too deep. He was dying.

Your breath caught in your throat as you knelt beside him, tears blurring your vision. “Eddie…” you whispered, voice trembling.

He lifted his head weakly, his dark eyes meeting yours. There was no anger or rage there, only pain and resignation. He knew what this meant, knew that his time was running out. But he didn’t move, didn’t try to flee. He simply watched you, waiting.

You knelt beside him, your hands trembling as you reached out to touch him. His fur was warm beneath your fingers, the pulse of life still faintly beating beneath the surface. “I’m so sorry,” you whispered, tears spilling down your cheeks. “I tried to stop them. I tried…”

Eddie made a low, rumbling sound, not quite a growl, but something softer, almost comforting. He closed his eyes, his breath coming in short, labored bursts.

With shaking hands, you tore a strip of your skirt, pressing it against the worst of his wounds. “Stay with me,” you begged, your voice breaking. “Please, just stay with me.”

You worked quickly, your hands moving with a desperate urgency as you tried to stem the bleeding. You knew you were no healer, that these wounds were beyond anything you could truly fix, but you couldn’t just sit by and do nothing. You had to try.

Eddie winced as you applied pressure to a deep gash along his side, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he watched you, his eyes softening as you tended to him with a tenderness he hadn’t felt in centuries.

Time blurred as you worked, and the outside world faded away. It was just the two of you, alone in the dark, the only sounds were the soft rustling of leaves and Eddie’s labored breaths.

After what felt like hours, you sat back, hands covered in blood, your heart pounding with fear and exhaustion. You had done what you could, but you knew it might not be enough. Eddie’s wounds were too severe, his strength waning with every passing moment.

But he was still alive, still watching you with those intense, dark eyes. And in them, you saw something you hadn’t expected—gratitude, and maybe even a flicker of trust.

You reached out, your hand resting gently against the side of his skull, your fingers brushing against the cold, smooth bone of the mask he wore. “I won’t let them hurt you again,” you whispered. “I’ll protect you, I promise.”

Eddie closed his eyes, a low sigh escaping his chest. It was as though he was surrendering, not to death, but to you, to the warmth of your touch, to the strange, inexplicable connection that had formed between you both.

You heard the horn ringing far far away but this time you would not follow its call. You stayed there, your hand never leaving his, offering comfort to the ancient, wounded soul beside you.

#mykuup #cryptid!eddie munson #monster!eddie munson #eddie munson x you #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things au #eddie munson au #eddie munson x reader #of bone and bloom

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atopvisenyashill · 4 months ago

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Bran The Time Traveling Toddler

Yes that IS a reference to the Tyrion the time traveling fetus theory. The thing about MY insane theories is that they actually make sense and I’m right. Follow me please down the worm hole!!

There’s very clearly Someone Influencing things when it comes to the Starklings and even the overreaching plot in general - there’s enough weird magic surrounding them, whispering in the wind, that it’s a no brainer they’re being watched over. The question is WHO and WHEN. For me, personally, I think it’s Bran, and I think it’s an older Bran from the future (whether it be Bran In TWOW and ADOS or Bran post canon) trying to lead his siblings to safety.

Now, like my Harrenhal meta, I don’t think I’m saying anything new so much as compiling what people have said scattered across the interwebs. There’s a lot of theories about whether Bran can time travel, time travel in general in the series, how george has dealt with time travel before, and about the three eyed crow’s identity and I agree with bits and pieces of what other people have said - preston jacobs is a more famous example of this theory for example. But I don't want to get caught up on things like time travel paradoxes because, like, i don’t care about that, and george has talked about how time travel is more fantasy than scifi bc it’s just not really scientifically possible. do you know what that means? it means there’s no weird physical paradoxes because it’s ✨magic✨ and Bran isn't literally going through space and time. It's as Jojen says-

With two eyes you see my face. With three you could see my heart. With two you can see that oak tree there. With three you could see the acorn the oak grew from and the stump that it will one day become. With two you see no farther than your walls. With three you would gaze south to the Summer Sea and north beyond the Wall

Through his greenseeing abilities, Bran can see the whole of a lifespan, from conception to burial, and can pop out at any point in that lifespan, because a span of 100, 1000, or 1,000,000 years is all the same to the weirwood. So I don't think it's in the realm of Crazy Ass Theories to say that Bran is capable of a more magic based form of time travel. That he can whisper in people's dreams, on the wind, taking on the voice of the old gods themselves and doing his best to nudge things the way he needs them to be in order to keep the people he loves safe.

I also don't think Bloodraven is Three Eyed Crow (though I do think he also uses this metaphor of "flying" wrt magic, and that's why Euron also has a comment about flying in his dreams - I just don't believe that metaphor originates with Brynden himself. Rather, I think he picked it up from somewhere else), but instead, it's Bran, using the weirwood network to get all the pieces on the board he needs where he needs them to be for the endgame. Notice that Brynden doesn't seem to know what Bran is talking about when he mentions the Three Eyed Crow-

"Are you the three-eyed crow?" Bran heard himself say. A three-eyed crow should have three eyes. He has only one, and that one red. Bran could feel the eye staring at him, shining like a pool of blood in the torchlight. Where his other eye should have been, a thin white root grew from an empty socket, down his cheek, and into his neck. "A … crow?" The pale lord's voice was dry. His lips moved slowly, as if they had forgotten how to form words. "Once, aye. Black of garb and black of blood."

Brynden mentions the watch, but doesn't mention the three eyed crow. Everyone simply refers to Brynden as the greenseer, not the three eyed crow, except for Bran himself, who simply assumes Brynden is the three eyed crow (and we know magical assumptions in this series are generally wrong!).

What’s double interesting to me about this “bloodraven is the three eyed crow” assumption is brynden himself makes his “a thousand eyes and one” comment - but doesn’t mention a third eye. Meanwhile, Bran’s narrative is obviously filled with bird references and the opening of his third eye from Bran feeding the crows on the towers before he falls then longing to go back to the crows afterwards, of a crow sending Jojen to “the winged wolf,” of his dreams of living as a bird in maester luwin’s rookery with his siblings - Jon Snow even compares him to a bird in their final scene face to face when he thinks bran has “fingers like the bones of birds.”

And notable that though both Rickon and Bran have a greendream where they talk to Ned in the crypts of Winterfell just before Ned is executed, Rickon makes no mention of a three eyed crow, but Bran explicitly sees him-

The mention of dreams reminded him. "I dreamed about the crow again last night. The one with three eyes. He flew into my bedchamber and told me to come with him, so I did. We went down to the crypts. Father was there, and we talked. He was sad."

"Shaggy," a small voice called. When Bran looked up, his little brother was standing in the mouth of Father's tomb. With one final snap at Summer's face, Shaggydog broke off and bounded to Rickon's side. "You let my father be," Rickon warned Luwin. "You let him be." "Rickon," Bran said softly. "Father's not here." "Yes he is. I saw him." Tears glistened on Rickon's face. "I saw him last night."

What that says to me is that the Three Eyed Crow has the ability to speak directly to only Bran and can only otherwise appear in a more ephemeral way to others. With the established rules about not being able to communicate properly with the past, I think this makes sense - being able to use the weirwood hivemind/greenseeing powers to appear in a different form to yourself but unable to appear in a concrete form to anyone else.

I think it's even likely we'll see Bran doing some of this nudging and whispering on page in ADOS or maybe as early as TWOW, but it won't be the exact same sort of "Bran can literally reach out and touch someone in a weirwood dream" that they had in the show with the later scenes. It'll be more like that very first scene in the show where we see Bran influence the past slightly - you know, when he calls out "father!" and young Ned turns around, having heard a voice on the wind-

And there's a direct parallel to ADWD here, where Bran is certain Ned heard him speaking in the godswood but Brynden says it's not possible (not possible for Brynden perhaps!)-

Lord Eddard Stark sat upon a rock beside the deep black pool in the godswood, the pale roots of the heart tree twisting around him like an old man's gnarled arms. The greatsword Ice lay across Lord Eddard's lap, and he was cleaning the blade with an oilcloth. "Winterfell," Bran whispered. His father looked up. "Who's there?" he asked, turning … … and Bran, frightened, pulled away. His father and the black pool and the godswood faded and were gone and he was back in the cavern, the pale thick roots of his weirwood throne cradling his limbs as a mother does a child.

It's not quite time travel. It's like the acorn and stump metaphor - Bran can't appear in his physical body in the past but he can make a bit of noise, perhaps even be mistaken for one of the old gods.

As TWOW and ADOS go on, I think we'll see Bran's powers grow (likely in ways that frighten him and horrify the reader), and we'll see the very beginnings of him influencing the plot that happens during the previous books, showing up in scenes we've already experienced, similar to the Ned scene above. I think this because, well...he's already done it!

Now, as for What Time Traveling Bran Has Already Done - it’s tricky because we have a LOT of magic users waking and shaking. I’m not including every single instance of weird whispering or funny birds here, just the moments I think are more likely to be Bran than anyone else because I think Bran mostly deals with his siblings. I imagine they're easiest to reach out to magically because they already have the ability to access magic, and they're also the people he cares most about. The most obvious to me is in A Clash of Kings, when Jon hears a voice on the wind, very similar to the young Ned scene in the show-

Jon VII in A Clash of Kings

The call came from behind him, softer than a whisper, but strong too. Can a shout be silent? He turned his head, searching for his brother, for a glimpse of a lean grey shape moving beneath the trees, but there was nothing, only … A weirwood. It seemed to sprout from solid rock, its pale roots twisting up from a myriad of fissures and hairline cracks. The tree was slender compared to other weirwoods he had seen, no more than a sapling, yet it was growing as he watched, its limbs thickening as they reached for the sky. Wary, he circled the smooth white trunk until he came to the face. Red eyes looked at him. Fierce eyes they were, yet glad to see him. The weirwood had his brother’s face. Had his brother always had three eyes?

Not always, came the silent shout. Not before the crow. He sniffed at the bark, smelled wolf and tree and boy, but behind that there were other scents, the rich brown smell of warm earth and the hard grey smell of stone and something else, something terrible. Death, he knew. He was smelling death. He cringed back, his hair bristling, and bared his fangs.

Don’t be afraid, I like it in the dark. No one can see you, but you can see them. But first you have to open your eyes. See? Like this. And the tree reached down and touched him.

This moment was when I really started paying attention to Weird Shit Bran Might Be Doing because of that line "not before the crow." Now, we know Bran mentions talking with Jon later on, in the very last chapter of the book, here-

He could reach Summer whenever he wanted, and once he had even touched Ghost and talked to Jon. Though maybe he had only dreamed that.

But I think it's both Bran in the present and Bran in ADOS speaking here - brothers reaching out to each other in their fear, and future Bran piggybacking off that connection to send a warning (this is back in Jon VII, during the shared Jon-Bran dream as before)-

Then he realized he was looking at a river of ice several thousand feet high. Under that glittering cold cliff was a great lake, its deep cobalt waters reflecting the snowcapped peaks that ringed it. There were men down in the valley, he saw now; many men, thousands, a huge host. Some were tearing great holes in the half-frozen ground, while others trained for war...This is no army, no more than it is a town. This is a whole people come together.

Bran warns Jon of the wildling army headed their way because he needs the Night’s Watch to stop fighting the wildlings, get them safely out of the True North (so they can’t be reanimated as wights), and focus on the Long Night. When you read the passage, it seems as if Bran is trying to awaken Jon’s third eye - something present baby Bran isn’t concerned with, because he barely understands his own third eye awakening. But a Bran in ADOS or beyond would know exactly what to say and do to get Jon and himself to wake up! Not just because of the paradox, but because of his connection to his brother and his vast understanding of his own magic. Similar to the idea that “who would know how to motivate Bran better than Bran himself” who would know how to motivate Jon better than one of his beloved siblings?

Arya X in A Clash of Kings

In the godswood she found her broomstick sword where she had left it, and carried it to the heart tree. There she knelt. Red leaves rustled. Red eyes peered inside her. The eyes of the gods. "Tell me what to do, you gods," she prayed.

For a long moment there was no sound but the wind and the water and the creak of leaf and limb. And then, far far off, beyond the godswood and the haunted towers and the immense stone walls of Harrenhal, from somewhere out in the world, came the long lonely howl of a wolf. Gooseprickles rose on Arya's skin, and for an instant she felt dizzy. Then, so faintly, it seemed as if she heard her father's voice. "When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives," he said.

“But there is no pack," she whispered to the weirwood. Bran and Rickon were dead, the Lannisters had Sansa, Jon had gone to the Wall. "I'm not even me now, I'm Nan."

"You are Arya of Winterfell, daughter of the north. You told me you could be strong. You have the wolf blood in you."

"The wolf blood." Arya remembered now. "I'll be as strong as Robb. I said I would." She took a deep breath, then lifted the broomstick in both hands and brought it down across her knee. It broke with a loud crack, and she threw the pieces aside. I am a direwolf, and done with wooden teeth.

Once again, we have a voice - it seemed as if it was her father's voice - telling a Starkling to do something specific, reminding that Starkling of their ties to Winterfell, the north, and home. The voice she hears, speaking her true name, is the kick in the pants Arya needs to grab Gendry and Hot Pie and get out of Harrenhal. There's something interesting, engaging, heartbreaking, that when Arya is at one of her lowest points, lamenting the loss of her pack, and out comes the voice of one of her pack urging her to keep faith, and helping to inspire one of her best moments - I am a direwolf, and done with wooden teeth. Again, we have a voice trying to get the Starklings to wake up and face their reality!

Sansa in A Storm of Swords

That night Sansa scarcely slept at all, but tossed and turned just as she had aboard the Merling King. She dreamt of Joffrey dying, but as he clawed at his throat and the blood ran down across his fingers she saw with horror that it was her brother Robb. And she dreamed of her wedding night too, of Tyrion's eyes devouring her as she undressed. Only then he was bigger than Tyrion had any right to be, and when he climbed into the bed his face was scarred only on one side. "I'll have a song from you," he rasped, and Sansa woke and found the old blind dog beside her once again. "I wish that you were Lady," she said.

To be clear I think there’s a large change this is nothing. BUT. Considering Bran seems to be reaching out to his siblings, I like the idea that Bran, and magic in general, is trying to talk to Sansa but she can’t quite hear it. Winterfell and it’s magic and it’s family is calling it’s daughter home, even torn from her magical guide as she is, still trying to reach out through her dreams and through the animals around her. I’m desperately hoping that at some point in Sansa’s early TWOW chapters, we’ll start to see birds acting and speaking funny around her as Bran tries harder to reach his lost sister.

Theon Greyjoy in A Dance With Dragons

BUT. I don't think it's just the Starklings that get these messages from Bran - it's everyone he cares about, everyone he loves or will love. One of the other more obvious examples of this is Theon Greyjoy, himself clearly capable of some degree of magic, just like the Starklings-

The night was windless, the snow drifting straight down out of a cold black sky, yet the leaves of the heart tree were rustling his name. “Theon,” they seemed to whisper, “Theon.” The old gods, he thought. They know me. They know my name. I was Theon of House Greyjoy. I was a ward of Eddard Stark, a friend and brother to his children. “Please.” He fell to his knees. “A sword, that’s all I ask. Let me die as Theon, not as Reek.” Tears trickled down his cheeks, impossibly warm. “I was ironborn. A son … a son of Pyke, of the islands.” A leaf drifted down from above, brushed his brow, and landed in the pool. It floated on the water, red, five-fingered, like a bloody hand. “… Bran,” the tree murmured. They know. The gods know. They saw what I did. And for one strange moment it seemed as if it were Bran’s face carved into the pale trunk of the weirwood, staring down at him with eyes red and wise and sad. Bran’s ghost, he thought, but that was madness. Why should Bran want to haunt him? He had been fond of the boy, had never done him any harm. It was not Bran we killed. It was not Rickon. They were only miller’s sons, from the mill by the Acorn Water.

“he had been fond of the boy” please allow me this moment to contemplate killing myself thanks.

okay back on track but this is very self explanatory - we know Theon has some sort of capacity for magic because he had a vision of the Red Wedding in ACOK and unlike Jaime who just fell asleep on a weirweed tree, Theon was just up in bed. We see it again here, where Theon can hear a voice on the wind and then seems to see Bran’s own face in the face of the weirwood tree. Once again, the voice on the wind is trying to help a loved one of Bran’s find their way back to themselves, back to home. And Theon, for all the harm he has done, is still so so loved by Bran, and loves Bran in return.

Samwell Tarly III in A Storm of Swords

Sam made a whimpery sound. “It’s not fair …” “Fair.” The raven landed on his shoulder. “Fair, far, fear.” It flapped its wings, and screamed along with Gilly. The wights were almost on her. He heard the dark red leaves of the weirwood rustling, whispering to one another in a tongue he did not know. The starlight itself seemed to stir, and all around them the trees groaned and creaked. Sam Tarly turned the color of curdled milk, and his eyes went wide as plates. Ravens! They were in the weirwood, hundreds of them, thousands, perched on the bone-white branches, peering between the leaves. He saw their beaks open as they screamed, saw them spread their black wings. Shrieking, flapping, they descended on the wights in angry clouds. They swarmed round Chett’s face and pecked at his blue eyes, they covered the Sisterman like flies, they plucked gobbets from inside Hake’s shattered head. There were so many that when Sam looked up, he could not see the moon. “Go,” said the bird on his shoulder. “Go, go, go.”

Whoever this is - it's Bran!!!! - helps to save Sam and Gilly's lives, actively tells them to run for it, and just a little bit later, Sam is around to help save Bran in turn. I think there's also something to be said for the brotherhood connection here. They refer to each other as brothers in the book because of their connection to Jon; that connection to Jon, and therefore each other, means a lot to both Sam and Bran. There's a practical reason for saving Sam here in that he can help Bran in the "present" timeline, will likely help in the future, but more than that there's an emotional bond here and it seems to me that magic runs off emotions just as assuredly as it runs off of other important stuff like blood and and sacrifice and weirwoods.

Jon Snow XII in A Storm of Swords

With a raucous scream and a clap of wings, a huge raven burst out of the kettle. It flapped upward, seeking the rafters perhaps, or a window to make its escape, but there were no rafters in the vault, nor windows either. The raven was trapped. Cawing loudly, it circled the hall, once, twice, three times. And Jon heard Samwell Tarly shout, “I know that bird! That’s Lord Mormont’s raven!” The raven landed on the table nearest Jon. “Snow,” it cawed. It was an old bird, dirty and bedraggled. “Snow,” it said again, “Snow, snow, snow.” It walked to the end of the table, spread its wings again, and flew to Jon’s shoulder. Lord Janos Slynt sat down so heavily he made a thump, but Ser Alliser filled the vault with mocking laughter. “Ser Piggy thinks we’re all fools, brothers,” he said. “He’s taught the bird this little trick. They all say snow, go up to the rookery and hear for yourselves. Mormont’s bird had more words than that.” The raven cocked its head and looked at Jon. “Corn?” it said hopefully. When it got neither corn nor answer, it quorked and muttered, “Kettle? Kettle? Kettle?” The rest was arrowheads, a torrent of arrowheads, a flood of arrowheads, arrowheads enough to drown the last few stones and shells, and all the copper pennies too.

The Night's Watch seem to take this as some sort of divine sign, and Jon's friends take it as an excellent ploy from Samwell Tarly. But when Pyp confronts Sam over it a page later, Sam completely denies it -

“I had nothing to do with the bird,” Sam insisted. “When it flew out of the kettle I almost wet myself.”

Everyone has their theories about people warging Mormont's crow of course. I think what's interesting to me here is that Jon is really wrestling with the idea of leaving the Watch for Winterfell, in which case Janos Slynt was likely to take over command. Someone like Slynt being in charge when the Long Night is coming is a bad idea, and here, Mormont's bird directly contributes to Jon staying where he needs to be - watching over the wildlings and making sure they aren't turning into Wights.

(And this is getting into my other theories here, but IF Sansa as the Girl In Grey is true, I think this is a neat sort of timeline fixing - almost as if Bran is saying “no, not yet, the pieces aren’t aligned, Jon can’t leave yet, Brienne isn’t at the Vale to get Sansa, I haven’t trained enough, Jon still keeps slapping his hands over his third eye so he can’t see, I need to give myself more time here.”)

Bran II in A Game of Thrones

But...it's not just his family and friends that I think Bran is trying to help here, and of course, if he IS the Three-Eyed Crow, he isn’t YET. What I think is going to be a big climactic part of Bran's story is self sacrifice, giving up some of his own power, his own happiness, to save others. Yes, part of this is my absolute refusal to accept Borg Hivemind Fantasy Police State King Bran in that he will say NO to the hivemind, but I think there's something magical here as well!

I think in order to access great power you need to be willing to put your own body on the line.

Jojen mentions having gotten sick with "greywater fever" shortly before his greendreams started

Dany experiences a miscarriage then literally walks into fire in order to hatch her dragons

both Beric and Catelyn have to quite literally be gruesomely murdered in order for Thoros' fire magic to work to bring them back to life

Melisandre has to physically give birth in order for her shadow assassination to work

on and on it goes. In order to be capable of great power, you can’t just have a willingness to throw someone ELSE onto the pyre but yourself as well. But Bran is pushed out of the window instead of willingly jumping. Or...

The wolfling was smarter than any of the hounds in his father’s kennel and Bran would have sworn he understood every word that was said to him, but he showed very little interest in chasing sticks…Finally he got tired of the stick game and decided to go climbing….

The wolf did as he was told. Bran scratched him behind the ears, then turned away, jumped, grabbed a low branch, and pulled himself up. He was halfway up the tree, moving easily from limb to limb, when the wolf got to his feet and began to howl.

Bran looked back down. His wolf fell silent, staring up at him through slitted yellow eyes. A strange chill went through him. He began to climb again. Once more the wolf howled. “Quiet,” he yelled. “Sit down. Stay. You’re worse than Mother.” The howling chased him all the way up the tree, until finally he jumped off onto the armory roof and out of sight.

I think this is future Bran, finally becoming the Three Eyed Crow, inside Summer. Summer shows no interest in the game and it’s only then that Bran decides to go climbing. Future Bran is sacrificing himself for the greater good - but can’t stop his mournful cry of the fate that awaits his own young self.

#valyrianscrolls #bran stark #getting on my soap box #starklings #twow speculation #ados speculation #magic in asoiaf #the winged wolf #rani attempts meta #lawyering for bran #i started writing this over a year ago alsdjflk #tbh i also did a write up bc the only 'bran is doing some light time travelling' meta i've found is in fact preston jacobs and people #that are building off of preston jacobs. and the thing is i fucking hate video format #give me a goddamn pdf or pure audio for the love of god. so i wanted a write up of this SOMEWHERE for my own reference #if nothing else!!!!!#anyways i know 'bran is a time traveler' sounds insane but 'bran can whisper through the trees even in the technical past' makes sense #i will be doing more bran posting i have had this blog over a year and i do not post about my son enough #i'm doing my fandom name thewingedwolf a disservice here #i’m basically just trying to write up all my various bran theories. i promise to post more than once a year for bran aksksjdjd #i gotta post this now or it’s gonna sit for another year so if there are spelling or grammar mistakes no there’s not

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d-z20 · 3 days ago

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The Ballad of Agatha Harkness

Sad about not getting more backstory to Agatha (and Rio lol) so I'm creating my own. We're going right back to the start and I'll probably turn this into a series leading up until the pre-wandavision time. It's gonna be so so gay dude.

Find it here on AO3

Feedback is encouraged to help shape this story to fill in what the show missed!!!

anywho without further ado I present to you chapter 1.

Story Main Menu

Birth Under Darkness

The night Agatha Harkness was born, the skies grew restless. Clouds roiled and churned as if in silent protest, cloaking the moon in a shroud of ominous shadow. A cold wind whispered through the trees surrounding the small clearing just outside of Salem, its ghostly lament slipping through the cracks in the walls and weaving around the chamber where the birth was to take place. The haunting notes of Greensleeves drifted through the clearing, carried on the crisp night air from the nearby tavern where townspeople gathered. Their voices, layered in mournful harmony, wove a prophecy into the darkness, each verse heavy with a sense of foreboding. The flicker of torchlight and the murmurs of conversation added to the charged atmosphere, as if the song itself were an omen, whispered from lips that knew of secrets better left unsaid.

“Alas, my love, you do me wrong,

To cast me off discourteously.

For I have loved you well and long,

Delighting in your company.

Greensleeves was all my joy

Greensleeves was my delight,

Greensleeves was my heart of gold,

And who but my lady greenleeves.”

In the heart of the chamber, where spells whispered through the walls and shadows seemed to have a life of their own, Evanora Harkness prepared for the arrival of her firstborn. The place was aglow with blue energy, pulsating with the power of enchantments that crackled in the air. The scent of yew and nightshade smoke coiled like serpents through the dim light. Evanora was a figure of formidable beauty and authority, standing draped in ceremonial robes that shimmered like a midnight sea, with deep indigo hues shot through with veins of silver. Her raven-black hair was meticulously braided and adorned with tiny, glistening gems, and her eyes - cold and calculating - held a relentless sharpness. The witches surrounding her were loyal but fearful, knowing the witch could bring them to ruin with a flick of her wrist.

“Your vows you’ve broken, like my heart,

Oh, why did you so enrapture me?

Now I remain in a world apart

But my heart remains in captivity.

Greensleeves was all my joy

Greensleeves was my delight,

Greensleeves was my heart of gold,

And who but my lady greenleeves.”

Evanora’s voice, when she spoke, carried an edge that cut deeper than any blade.

“Begin” she commanded, her voice steady as the storm brewed above.

The coven, robed in shades of deep blue, chanted an ancient incantation in Latin, weaving magic into the very fabric of the room. When Agatha’s first cry pierced the thick silence, a subtle change swept through the air. A ripple of movement in the dim corner of the room caught Evanora’s attention - a shadow deepening momentarily before melting back into the gloom. But Evanora’s glare dismissed it as a trickery of the light; she had more pressing concerns than phantom shapes. Outside, lightening carved jagged scars across the sky, illuminating the expressions of the coven, who stood huddled and silent, eyes wide with both reverence and dread. Once again, the melody of the townsfolk’s singing floated in, seeming almost spectral as it intertwined with the first breath of the newborn.

“I have been ready at your hand,

To grant whatever you would crave,

I have both wagered life and land,

Your love and good-will for to have.

Greensleeves was all my joy

Greensleeves was my delight,

Greensleeves was my heart of gold,

And who but my lady greenleeves.”

The air was now cool and unfamiliar, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and something older, more mysterious. The shadows seemed to shift, deepening in the corner of the room again. For the briefest moment, a presence stirred, one not invited but always present when life and death converged.

Rio Vidal, the original Green Witch and the living embodiment of death, watched unseen from the veil between worlds. Her presence was imperceptible to mortal senses, yet powerful enough to send a chill down the spine of even the most seasoned witch.

Rio’s deep, dark eyes, filled with an ageless wisdom and tinged with sorrow, lingered on the infant girl. She watched with an expression of curiosity and something deeper, a premonition whispering through her veins. Her figure was no more than a blur, a silhouette against the shifting shadows. To mortal eyes, she did not exist; to Agatha, she would one day be salvation and damnation intertwined. Rio felt the pulse of the newborn’s soul, a song thrumming with notes both light and dark, a complexity that piqued even death’s eternal interest. She sensed a unique power within Agatha, one that would grow twisted by fate and fear. Evanora, however, saw none of this. Rio’s gaze shifted to the new mother, that cold spectre of ambition, and a wisp of something - pity perhaps - flickered through her ageless eyes. The magic that saturated the room tasted bitter, sharp with control and fear.

“If you intend this to disdain,

It does the more enrapture me,

And even so, I remain

A lover in captivity.

Greensleeves was all my joy

Greensleeves was my delight,

Greensleeves was my heart of gold,

And who but my lady greenleeves.”

Evanora held her daughter not with the wonder of a mother but the scrutiny of a sorceress appraising a relic. The baby’s cries were sharp and defiant, but even they seemed to falter under Evanora’s unrelenting stare.

“Quiet,” she commanded, her voice flat and unyielding. The room seemed to tighten around her words, stifling Agatha’s wail to a whimper.

A faint glow of blue energy pulsed from Evanora’s fingers as she whispered, “You will be powerful, or you will nothing.”

Her touch was neither warm nor gentle, and as she passed the child to the waiting hands of a coven member, there was no tender smile or proud tear. Only the glint of ambition. The coven collectively drew their breath, for they knew Evanora’s love was reserved for one thing alone - power. She was known for wielding her blue magic with unmatched ferocity: she could fly with blue smoke trailing beneath her like ethereal wings, hurl beams of energy that shattered stone, and project formidable barriers that deflected even the most cunning spells. Yet despite her outward display of might, whispers of an unyielding fear lingered. It was said that Evanora Harkness feared what she could not control, and Agatha, with her uncanny stillness, became the silent embodiment of that fear.

“Ah, Greensleeves, now farewell, adieu,

To God I pray to prosper thee,

For I am still thy lover true,

Come once again and love me.

Greensleeves was all my joy

Greensleeves was my delight,

Greensleeves was my heart of gold,

And who but my lady greenleeves.”

The witches murmured amongst themselves, their voices woven with a tremble.

“Born to an eclipse,” one whispered, fingers tightening around her charm, the metal biting into her skin. “A sign.”

Evanora’s lips curled into a thin smile, brittle as old parchment.

“A sign indeed,” she echoed, the weight of her tone silencing the murmur like a blade to a throat.

She lifted her hand, and a current of blue energy hummed to life, coiling around her fingers like sentient smoke. Her eyes flickered over Agatha’s tiny form, searching, judging.

“This child,” she announced, each word heavy as stone, “will be either the vessel of power that secures our legacy or the greatest mistake I have ever allowed to exist.”

The coven nodded in unison, but in the corners of their eyes, doubt glimmered like a secret flame. No one dared question her, not when blue energy hummed in the air around her like a living thing, not when her gaze threatened to turn that energy into something lethal.

Rio’s eyes narrowed, absorbing the scene with a depth that even time could not erode. She felt electric tension, the raw potential in the room that radiated from both mother and child. Yet it was not the cold ambition of Evanora that stirred Rio’s ancient curiosity; it was the untamed spirit that flickered within Agatha, the blend of light and shadow that resonated through the fabric of existence itself. Here was a child who could grow to be a beacon or a blight, shaped by the relentless hand of her mother’s obsession. Rio distrust of Evanora’s intentions, honed over centuries of witnessing power twisted and weiled without conscience, made her decision simple. Agatha’s fate was now bound to her watchful eye. She would remain unseen but ever-present, a silent guardian and, when needed, a guide in the dance between destiny and darkness.

Satisfied with her resolve, Rio retreated, her silhouette melting into the gathering shadows as if swept away by the whispers of the wind. The veil between worlds shifted with her departure, leaving only the faintest chill in her wake. The night resumed, punctuated by the final notes of Greensleeves and the restless stirrings of the coven, as though the very air braced for the storm to come.

Read the next chapter

Please like and reblog if you enjoyed :)

#agatha all along #agatha harkness #agathario #agatha backstory #evanora harkness #agatha all along backstory #agathario fic #agatha all along fic #fanfiction #agathario you have my heart #agatha x rio #agatha x rio fanfic #agatha x rio fan fic

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novaursa · 7 days ago

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Ashes of the Faithful

- Summary: After Faith of the Seven has sent an assassin to kill you, Maegor declares war against the gods.

- Paring: niece!reader/Maegor I Targaryen

- Note: This story is part of Fire and Blood series, and it happens right after Fragile Hope. The masterlist is pinned to the top of my blog.

- Rating: Mature 16+

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

The flickering light of torches casts an eerie glow over the Great Hall, illuminating the black banners emblazoned with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. The air buzzes with the voices of lords and ladies gathered to celebrate Maegor’s victories and his long-sought return to the Iron Throne. A bitter smile plays across your lips as you shift your hand to rest protectively over your stomach, feeling the soft, burgeoning weight there—the promise of Maegor’s heir. After years of separation, of exile and whispered prayers in the cold halls of Dragonstone, you’ve finally returned to his side, bound by his unbreakable will. Maegor’s unwavering gaze follows you as you rise to mingle with the guests, his expression one of fierce pride and possessiveness.

The evening wears on, and you share fleeting glances with your husband from across the hall, silently marveling at the sheer force he exudes even from a distance. Though your union remains contested by the Faith, and many openly despise him, none would dare deny the power Maegor wields. The hall quiets as he rises to make a toast, raising a goblet of wine.

"To House Targaryen, unbroken and bound by blood and fire," he declares, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that commands attention. "And to my queen, who carries our future within her.”

The guests raise their goblets, voices mingling in a chorus, though you can see the apprehension in some eyes, the covert glances exchanged by certain highborn lords and pious knights, wary of the Faith's condemnation.

As the applause fades, you make your way toward the shadows for a brief respite from the crowd, grateful for a moment to gather your breath. But in the next heartbeat, the chill of steel presses against your throat, and you realize—too late—what is happening. The assailant’s voice is a venomous hiss in your ear, dripping with fervent conviction.

“Your unholy union will end here, for the gods do not suffer blasphemy.”

You struggle, reaching instinctively to shield the precious life growing within you, but the assassin’s grip is unyielding. A muffled shout erupts somewhere in the hall, and the clash of steel on steel fills the air. In the chaos, you’re suddenly yanked backward as Maegor’s knights descend upon the attacker. The glint of Maegor’s own sword, Blackfyre, catches the torchlight as he strides forward, his face a mask of pure, unrestrained fury.

His voice is a low snarl. “Who sent you?”

The assassin glares defiantly, his eyes bright with fanatical zeal as he spits, "The Faith will never bless your bastard line."

The words are met with the brutal swipe of Maegor’s fist, sending the man sprawling. Maegor’s rage is unmistakable, a tempest waiting to be unleashed. He barely spares a glance for the blood pooling beneath the assassin as his gaze shifts to you, his voice softening, though the raw intensity remains.

"Are you hurt?"

You shake your head, reaching a trembling hand toward him. "Our child… I feared…"

He clasps your hand in his, grounding you with the weight of his presence. “No one will dare harm you again,” he promises, his tone as unyielding as iron. His thumb brushes over your knuckles, a rare display of tenderness that only you are allowed to see, and in his eyes, you catch a glimpse of the lengths he would go to keep that vow.

The assassin, barely conscious, is dragged upright by Maegor’s guards. Without hesitation, Maegor approaches, towering over the man like an avenging shadow. “Tell me the names of those who sent you,” he demands.

When the man remains silent, defiance flickering in his gaze, Maegor lifts his sword. Blackfyre’s blade gleams ominously in the torchlight, and his words are laced with icy finality. “If the Faith dares to send another of your kind, I will burn their septs to the ground. And you will be the first to watch.”

A ripple of fear passes through the onlookers, their expressions a mix of awe and terror as they watch their king take vengeance. Maegor turns to you, his voice softer. "Return to your chambers, Y/N. I will handle this."

Though you hesitate, knowing the bloodshed to come, you nod. "I trust you, my king," you whisper, pressing a hand to his cheek before leaving.

In your chambers, guarded on all sides, you try to steady your breathing. The shadows outside flicker, signaling the torches carried by men as they move through the halls. Soon, shouts echo from the square below, where you know Maegor has gathered his court to witness the assassin’s fate, a display meant to instill fear in any who would challenge his claim—or threaten his family.

As you sit, the quiet hum of life within you reassures you. Whatever comes, you and your child are shielded by the relentless force of Maegor’s love, a love bound in fire and forged through blood.

Hours later, he returns, smelling faintly of smoke and steel, his eyes softening when they meet yours. "It is done," he murmurs, his voice a mixture of exhaustion and conviction.

You reach for him, pulling him close, and whisper, "Thank you, Maegor. For us… and for our child."

He presses his lips to your forehead, a rare, almost reverent gesture. "No one will take you from me, Y/N. Not the Faith, not the realm. None can come between us."

And in that moment, beneath the pale moonlight, you believe him.

The dawn breaks in a haze of gray clouds, but for you, the morning feels no less ominous. You watch from a high window in Maegor’s hall as Balerion, the Black Dread, spreads his wings wide across the sky, casting an enormous shadow over the land. Maegor’s resolve is unshakable, and he has vowed that the Faith will answer for their transgressions. He has given orders, brief and absolute, his voice carrying the weight of his fury. None could miss the look in his eyes—the wildfire rage that demanded to be sated.

As he prepares to mount Balerion, he approaches you, his gloved hand reaching out to tilt your chin upward, forcing you to meet his gaze. His eyes, dark and relentless, seem to devour you.

“This realm has mocked me for the last time, Y/N,” he says, his tone simmering with a quiet rage that sends a chill through you. “They do not know loyalty or respect; they only know fear. I will make them remember it.”

You rest a hand over your belly protectively, feeling the faint stir within you, as if the child growing there senses the dread. “And the Starry Sept?” you ask quietly, knowing all too well what its destruction would mean, not only for the Faith but also for the Hightower family—his late wife’s kin.

His lips twist into a cruel smile. “That den of false gods and hypocrites? It shall be the first to burn. None will dare to insult my queen again.”

You nod, feeling an odd mixture of fear and awe as you stand beside him. The Maegor before you is no longer just a man—he is a storm incarnate, a maelstrom of fury bound to a creature of fire and shadow. “They will see Balerion’s flame from miles away,” you murmur, almost to yourself.

He leans in, his hand settling over yours on your stomach, where his heir grows. “I do this for you and for our child. So you will live without fear. So our child will not know a world that questions his right.”

You swallow, feeling the intensity of his words and knowing that, in his twisted way, Maegor does love you deeply—perhaps as much as he can love anything. “Come back to me,” you whisper, pressing your forehead against his. “Return to us, Maegor.”

He gives you a rare, almost tender smile, before pulling away, the steel in his eyes returning. “Wait for me, Y/N,” he says, his voice firm. “By the time the moon rises, the Faith will feel the fire of House Targaryen.”

With that, he mounts Balerion, and you watch as they rise into the sky, becoming a dark silhouette against the dawn. The moment they disappear over the horizon, you turn back into the hall, nerves tingling with the knowledge of the destruction to come.

The Starry Sept in Oldtown stands proud as it always has, a beacon of the Faith’s ancient power. Its towering walls, adorned with stars and golden trimmings, seem almost untouched by the passage of time, a testament to its sanctity. The Faith Militant, dressed in their glinting silver armor, stand guard outside, their hands resting on the pommels of their swords.

And then, a shadow falls over Oldtown.

The people in the streets look up, gasping, children screaming as they behold the black shape in the sky, his massive wings blotting out the sun. The bells of the Starry Sept toll, signaling a warning, but it is already too late. Balerion lands with a bone-rattling impact, his claws digging into the earth just outside the grand doors of the sept. Dust and debris fly as the ground trembles beneath his weight. The Faith Militant immediately raise their shields and swords, but they are little more than ants to the dragon that towers over them.

Maegor, seated upon Balerion’s back, calls out, his voice echoing like thunder through the city. “I am Maegor Targaryen, your rightful king! And I declare the Faith Militant enemies of the realm!”

There is a murmur of defiance from the knights below, and one of the septons dares to raise his voice. “You blaspheme, Maegor! The gods themselves deny your union. You will face judgment!”

Maegor lets out a short, humorless laugh, glancing down at the man with disdain. “Then let your gods protect you from my wrath.” He raises his arm, signaling to Balerion.

With a rumbling growl that reverberates through the stone walls, Balerion opens his jaws, and a torrent of fire bursts forth, consuming the sept’s doors in an instant. The flame spreads with terrifying speed, licking up the stone walls and turning them to blackened, smoking ruin. The Faith Militant try to flee, but Balerion’s fire is relentless, consuming them as they run, their silver armor melting, the flesh beneath charring to bone.

The people of Oldtown watch in horror from the streets and rooftops, their faces pale, their voices strangled with fear. Maegor’s voice rises above the roar of the flames, clear and unyielding.

“This is what happens to those who defy the Crown,” he shouts, his voice filled with the fury of a man wronged for too long. “To those who think they can take my queen from me.”

The sept’s grand structure crumbles as the fire sears through wood, stone, and glass alike. The stained glass windows, depicting scenes of saints and the Seven, shatter in the intense heat, raining shards upon the Faith Militant and those unfortunate enough to be nearby. Balerion’s fire leaves no sanctuary, no corner of the sept untouched. Statues of the gods melt under the flames, the Seven themselves reduced to ash and rubble, as if even they cannot withstand Maegor’s wrath.

From his perch atop Balerion, Maegor watches with an unsettling satisfaction. His expression is grim, merciless, as he surveys the destruction below. The High Septon himself, garbed in his white and gold robes, flees the Starry Sept, clutching a holy tome to his chest as though it might shield him from the flames. Maegor’s gaze locks onto him, his mouth twisting into a sneer.

“You, who claim to be closest to the gods, will not escape their punishment,” Maegor calls, his voice carrying across the square.

The High Septon falls to his knees, raising his trembling hands in a plea. “Spare me, Your Grace! I have served the gods faithfully—I am but their humble servant!”

Maegor’s face hardens, the glint in his eyes cold and unfeeling. “Your Faith sent assassins after my queen, my child,” he growls. “You will burn for that.”

With another signal, Balerion releases another torrent of fire, engulfing the High Septon in a scorching blaze. His screams echo through Oldtown, a terrible symphony of agony that seems to reach even the highest towers of the Hightower itself. The onlookers, paralyzed by fear, watch as the flames consume the last remnants of the Starry Sept and those who served within it. The High Septon’s cries fall silent, leaving only the crackling of fire and the distant sobbing of townsfolk horrified by the display of power.

As the Starry Sept collapses in a smoldering heap, Maegor directs Balerion to soar higher, circling the ruined city below. His gaze sweeps over the Hightower, a place where he once lived when he took a wife from among their daughters—a wife who dared to defy his queen, to question the place of Y/N at his side. Her blood, like that of the septons below, was shed without hesitation. Maegor has always ensured that no voice rises above his own, not even those of the gods.

But now, his voice rings out again across Oldtown, a decree that none can ignore.

“Let it be known throughout the realm,” he declares, “that the Faith Militant and any who align themselves with the false righteousness of the gods shall face the same fate. No man, no god, no Septon shall question the rule of House Targaryen or my right to claim my queen.”

The words echo in the silence, seared into the minds of all who listen, the weight of them settling upon the city like a brand. And then, with a final glance down at the burning ruin below, Maegor commands Balerion to rise, leaving a trail of smoke and ash in their wake.

Hours later, Maegor returns to the capital, his armor and cloak singed, his face streaked with soot but unbowed. You wait for him at the entrance, heart pounding, watching as he dismounts Balerion and strides toward you, his gaze hard and impenetrable. Yet, as he nears, that hardness softens, if only slightly, as his eyes meet yours.

Without a word, you reach for him, pressing a hand to his chest, feeling the heat still radiating from his armor. “You’ve done it, then,” you murmur, barely above a whisper.

He nods, his hands coming to rest on your shoulders, his grip firm but protective. “No one will dare threaten you again. They have seen what becomes of those who defy us.”

You meet his gaze, searching for the man beneath the rage, the one who has risked everything for you, who will stop at nothing to secure the life of the child growing within you. “And the Faith? Will they stop?”

His jaw tightens, and his voice lowers, almost gentle but carrying a fierce undercurrent. “If they don’t, I will burn every sept in the Seven Kingdoms until not a single one remains.” His hand slips to your belly, resting there possessively. “They will never again come close to you or our child.”

You nod, feeling the weight of his promise, the depth of his wrath. Maegor may be feared, hated even, but in his own brutal, unyielding way, he is yours, and he will keep you safe no matter the cost.

He steps back, exhaling, his eyes never leaving yours. “Tonight, let the realm know that House Targaryen’s fire is boundless,” he says, his voice softer now, almost a murmur. “I will destroy all who oppose us. And in time, they will kneel, knowing they have no choice.”

In that moment, you feel a surge of fierce pride, not only in Maegor’s power but in his loyalty, however ruthless. With him, you will carve a place in this unforgiving world for your child, even if it must be forged in flame and blood.

“Then let them see,” you reply, matching his intensity, feeling the strength of his determination coursing through you. “We will stand together, and the realm will learn to fear us.”

Maegor’s hand tightens over yours, a silent vow exchanged between the two of you. And as he pulls you close, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead, you know that whatever comes next, you will face it together—bound by blood, fire, and an unbreakable loyalty that no god or mortal can shatter.

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