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randomdragonfires · 5 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 · 4 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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novaursa · 26 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.

#fire and blood #fire and blood x reader #house of the dragon #game of thrones #hotd #asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #maegor i targaryen #maegor targaryen #maegor the cruel #maegor x reader #maegor x you #maegor x y/n

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drtrashgames · 10 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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flowerandblood · 11 months ago

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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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padfootagain · 7 days ago

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Love in Verses (XXIX)

Chapter 29: ‘My lover’s words were shooting stars which fell to earth as kisses on these lips’

Hi! Here is a new chapter! It’s the poetry reading!!! Also, we’re getting some special guests in this chapter!

I hope you like this chapter! Tell me what you think!

****

Pairing: Hozier x fem!reader (professor!AU)

Warnings: slow burn, angst, hurt, hurt/comfort, tooth-rotting fluff in later chapters, some scenes in later chapters will have heavy sexual themes even if it’s not explicit nsfw description, so minors here

Summary: Your life seems perfect. You're engaged, your career is thriving as you become an assistant professor at Trinity College, and this Andrew Hozier-Byrne you're sharing an office with seems to be a nice guy you hope to call a friend soon. Life seems to be smiling at you... until everything goes sour. When your fiancé breaks up with you, your perfect world shatters. And when your colleague also gets his heart broken soon after, your shared office seems to be a curse rather than a blessing. But Andrew seems determined to mend your broken hearts... Will things finally go according to plan?

Word Count: 5237

Masterlist for the series – Hozier’s masterlist – Main masterlist

Anne Hathaway

‘Item I gyve unto my wief my second best bed…’ (from Shakespeare’s will)

The bed we loved in was a spinning world of forests, castles, torchlight, clifftops, seas where he would dive for pearls. My lover’s words were shooting stars which fell to earth as kisses on these lips; my body now a softer rhyme to his, now echo, assonance; his touch a verb dancing in the centre of a noun. Some nights, I dreamed he’s written me, the bed A page beneath his writer’s hands. Romance and drama played by touch, by scent, by taste. In the other bed, the best, our guests dozed on, dribbling their prose. My living laughing love- I hold him in the casket of my widow’s head as he held me upon that next best bed.

Carole Ann Duffy, The World’s Wife

It was raining in Dublin that afternoon.

Andrew was nervous, to say the least. As he hurried into the bookshop that was hosting his poetry reading, he was questioning all of his life’s choices. If he was proud of his work, if he had been on a stage before, if he was used to talking in front of crowds… he still had dreadful nerves right before any of these events.

He tried to calm down, opening the glass door of the bookshop in a hurry. He was suddenly very aware that the rain must have made his hair look like a bird’s nest, and as he bent to enter the shop, he could feel himself taking up too much space.

He put these thoughts aside, forcing himself to smile as he walked across the shop, recognising his agent instantly as she was talking with the bookshop owner.

“Andy! This is Niamh O’Brien, the owner of the bookshop,” said Caroline, as Andrew shook hands with the fifty-something woman in front of him.

“It’s very nice to meet you, thank you for organising this,” Andrew smiled, his voice sounding a little hoarse as the stress was making his throat tighten.

“Oh, it’s nothing! It’s a pleasure, indeed! Thank you for accepting to come here, I truly admire your work,” complimented O’Brien, making Andrew nod and blush.

“Thanks,” he answered automatically, pushing the compliment away instantly.

“Alright, let’s go to my office so we can run through today’s event, and then I’ll give you a little time to get ready if you need,” explained the owner of the bookshop while they walked across the shop and to a small door at the back, near the Shakespeare section. “As I was telling Caroline, we have a large room upstairs for these readings, for seminaries, lectures… all those things. The response to the advertisement was very encouraging, indeed! We’re expecting over two hundred people today.”

Andrew nervously chuckled.

“I thought this was a small event…”

“I thought it would be! Poetry readings are not always the most popular events, sadly. But we had underestimated the popularity of your work, clearly! We have about two hundred seats upstairs, and we’re expecting a full house!”

“Wow… that’s grand,” Andrew grinned, digging his hands into his pockets.

They walked inside O’Brien’s office, and discussed some details about the afternoon around a warm cup of coffee.

“We have planned some questions after the reading,” O’Brien went on, sipping on her beverage. “Anything that we should… avoid or that you are adamant to discuss?”

“Erm… like… I reckon it’s best if you decide what questions are more relevant. I’m not going to discuss anything too private, though.”

“Too private?”

“Like… my personal life is private, and I want to keep it that way.”

“Of course. I can understand that.”

“Thank you.”

“We gave Caroline a few titles that we would really like you to read, if that’s fine by you. But I’m curious to know what are the other poems you’ve decided to share today.”

“Erm… yeah, totally! Erm… I’ve noted the ones you asked for, I’ll read them obviously. Then, I’ve just picked a few that I felt fitted your selection. I’m also going to publish a few poems next month, so I thought I could read three of these.”

“Oh, that would be amazing! Maybe finish the reading with these new ones!”

“Yeah, I thought I could do that. Do you prefer to read them before hand?”

“Oh, no, no! You’re the author, you choose what you read and want to share today! On the contrary, I can’t wait to discover them when you read them aloud!”

She grinned excitedly.

“Oh, now I truly cannot wait! Right, we still have about forty-five minutes before the reading begins, I’m going to help welcome our visitors. You take some time to get ready, and ask us if you need anything, alright?”

“Totally… yeah. Thank you.”

As soon as O’Brien had left the room, Caroline heaved a sigh, relaxing in her chair while she turned to Andrew.

“You’re ready for today?”

“Of course, I am.”

“Good… are your parents coming? I mean… they always come when the readings are in Dublin, I don’t know why I’m asking,” she chuckled, and Andrew enthusiastically nodded.

“Yeah, they’ll be here! Jon is off to Cork for a project he’s working on, but both my parents are coming.”

“Anyone else you’ll know in the crowd? Alex?”

“No, Alex is busy working on a music project with his new band at the moment. I… I have another friend who’s coming, though.”

“Really? Who?”

“Erm… Her name’s Y/N. We work together, actually.”

As she studied his features, Caroline raised a teasing eyebrow, a grin slowly creeping over her lips.

“And… is this Y/N nice to look at, too?”

“Caroline!” Andrew chuckled, rubbing at his cheek. “She’s just a friend.”

“She is at the moment, perhaps… but is she meant to remain just that?”

Andrew didn’t say anything at first.

“I can’t see the future, you know? I didn’t pass the exams in divination back in College.”

“Are any of these new poems influenced by her?”

Andrew cleared his throat, reached for the thermos of tea and honey he had brought for his throat.

“I wouldn’t know what you’re talking about,” he mumbled under his breath. “I should read these again, just to practice.”

“Yeah, I bet you should,” Caroline laughed, taking her phone out of her purse to check her emails.

Meanwhile, Andrew read some of his poems again, just to remind himself of the pauses, the stresses, the intentions he wanted to add when he would read them out loud. About ten minutes before the beginning of the reading session, he checked his phone. His father had sent him a couple of texts, one to notify him that they were ten minutes away from Dublin, and another later on once he and Andrew’s mother were already seated in the bookshop.

There was another text from you as well, and Andrew’s heart skipped a beat at the sight.

Waiting for the reading to begin! Just wanted to wish you good luck, although I have no doubts you’re gonna kill it!

He started typing while Caroline was checking a few last-minute details.

Hey! Thank you again for coming today, it means a lot to me. I’ll try not to make too much of a fool of myself out there.

Your answer was almost instantaneous.

No need to thank me for that. I’m glad to be here.

You’ve got a full house btw! I was right to come here early, the room is packed. Some people are sitting on the floor, others are just standing. Apparently they’ve had to turn some people away, there was just no room left.

And I didn’t even know you wrote poetry, shame on me…

Andrew chuckled at that, not noticing that Caroline was talking to him. He was too busy answering.

Ha… thanks. Now, I’m going to die of stress before I can get up there and read.

Also, I hadn’t warned you, but all these people were hired. I’m only trying to impress you.

He realised there was a little bit of flirt in that last message, but he didn’t change it. Instead, he bit on his nail, eyes fixed on his screen while you typed a response.

Ha, that explains it then! You’re actually a rich egomaniac who is forging his success!

He chuckled.

Indeed, I am. You’ve read right through me.

Caroline frowned, but he didn’t notice either.

And I thought you were just a talented poet.

He blushed, tried to brush the compliment away.

Christ, I really am not, trust me.

“Andy!”

Andrew finally looked up, startled.

“Hmm?”

“It’s time to go, come on.”

“Oh, yeah, yeah…”

“You’ll do just fine. You always do great in these.”

Andrew nodded, typing quickly one last message before he would follow Caroline upstairs.

Time’s up. I’ll talk to you after the reading, if you want to stick around a little.

You sent him one last encouraging text that he didn’t have the time to read, but that would make him grin later that night, when he would discover it, hours later.

For now though, he was walking inside the large room, after O’Brien had quickly introduced him, and he waved shyly while the crowd clapped for him. He settled in front of the mic stand, readjusted its height to fit his tall body better.

When he looked up again, he easily spotted his parents, first row, as per usual. They grinned proudly at him, and the sight made him relax instantly. He took one more second to scan the room quickly, and it was indeed packed with people, more than he had anticipated for such an event, that was supposed to be a small gathering.

His eyes finally landed on you, fifth row, grinning at him with genuine excitement. You gave him a thumbs up, and it made him grin, almost laugh. You were wearing a green shirt that was revealing your cleavage a little more than usual, he noticed that right away. He noticed how you were smiling, how your eyes were shining, how you seemed happy to be here.

He blushed, before finally speaking.

You were beyond impressed, to be fair.

Andrew’s deep, soft voice was lulling you into another world, another plane of existence, while you listened to him reading his poems. There was something unbelievably magnetic in the way he spoke, in the way he stood there, alone in a single spotlight, a hand in the pocket of his brown corduroy trousers, the other holding his book. He looked so handsome like this too, curly hair partially tied back, the rest let loose over his shoulders. His brown jacket matched the colour of his trousers, the black of his turtleneck was the same shade as his leather shoes. His glasses perched on his nose caught the light from time to time, but you were obsessed by the eyes beyond them, irises seeming brownish in this light. You noticed that he often looked at you as he spoke, or while he talked a little in between poems, explaining something about the text before he would read it, or sipping on his thermos of hot tea. You spotted the two teabag tags hanging from the grey bottle, and couldn’t refrain a fond smile at the sight. He liked his tea so strong, just like his coffee…

Behind him, across the white wall, there were pictures projected while he read, matching the poems. Sometimes short, silent films. You were particularly struck by the LGBTQ+ meaning on the black and white extract for Take Me To Church, the roughness of the themes for Cherry Wine, the dancers that moved behind Andrew’s frame for Movement. You were more impressed by his work itself though, by the beauty in the images he summoned, the sincerity he seemed to inject into each word, the gentleness he used to speak about love, the complexity of the feeling, too, and the way he talked about sex as an act of worship instead of pure lust, as a sacred act of loving. You loved every second of it.

Finally, he closed his second book, but pulled from it a few loose sheets of paper, and smiled at the crowd.

“We have only a few minutes left, and… erm… I thought I could share with you a few new poems today. They will soon be published in a poetry journal, but this sounded like the perfect occasion to finally… erm… release them into the world and… and… erm… to just, let them loose, I guess. The first one is called Why Would You Be Loved, and it is about… the despair that comes with love. With sharing something so absolute, and wondering why it should even occur to you, and why you should let yourself be engulfed in this kind of… erm… like… this kind of overwhelmingly strong feelings, that will probably hurt you an awful lot, in the end. So… yeah, I definitely thought that I needed to lift up the mood a little for this last part, and thus chose the most pessimistic poem I could find for you all. I expect a lot of smiles and giggles for this one.”

Everyone chuckled at that, and you weren’t an exception.

Although, you were most definitely not laughing when Andrew started reading. He seemed a little more nervous with this poem, you noticed how he was fidgeting with this piece of paper, how his eyes were shining a little more now, how his voice sounded deeper than before.

You listened, not realising that you were tearing up. But you were, you noticed it at last when a tear rolled all the way across your neck, tickling your skin.

His words echoed into your own pain, and you read in them his heartbreak after Samantha’s betrayal.

Why would you play it all on somethin' as hollow as trust?

What if you gave it all, to find that it wasn't enough?

Damn, you brushed your cheeks to dry them on your sleeve. This was echoing in your soul a little too much, a little too desperately…

The woman next to you was crying as well, you noticed the man before you rubbing discreetly at his eyes.

And then Andrew was quiet again. The applause was so loud, he looked up in surprise.

“Erm… thank you,” he smiled, nodding his head. “I… I have a couple more poems. This next one is called NFWMB, you’ll find out pretty quickly what that stands for. And it’s just… I had fun with the theme of the world ending, and I was reading a lot of Yeats too at the time, so there’s a bit of that in there. I just played with the… erm… like, the idea of having your partner being absolutely terrifying, and actually almost… thriving in that chaos. So, yeah…”

He cleared his throat, caught your eyes as he took a deeper breath before starting reading. And there was something different in his gaze, something so intense, it made you unable to look away. When Andrew looked down at his paper to read, his body was still slightly turned in your direction.

Your breath caught in your throat when he spelled out the title, when you realised what this was truly about…

Nothing fucks with my baby

You thought back about that afternoon with him, that conversation. That joke you made about being tougher than you looked; the way he had replied with a serious gaze, a firm tone, that you were tougher than you thought you were.

He looked up right after that verse, caught your eyes with his, and you knew then, you knew without a doubt that this was about you.

If I was born as a blackthorn tree

I'd wanna be felled by you

Held by you

Fuel the pyre of your enemies

But these words, they couldn’t be aimed at you… how could they? Was that what he thought of you? Was that… was that what he was ready to be and do for you?

You were struggling to breathe by the end of the poem.

Did that mean that he wrote about you?! That Andrew wrote love poems about you?

And not just love poems, but poems that showed you as some badass independent woman?!

Was that how he saw you? Strong like that?

“This is our last poem for today. It’s more of a tongue-in-cheek kind of poem. I played with the idea of using language to seduce someone. Especially in poetry, we use words in an aesthetic way, like… erm… like, I wanted to play with that idea of using poetry to lure someone in, in a way… like, using metaphors and beautiful turns of phrase to hide the fact that you just… want to jump their bones, basically.”

He smiled humorously, while the audience laughed and chuckled.

But then his eyes were back on you, and you noticed the way he blushed before he began reading.

He stole a few glances at you throughout the poem, and you almost liquified on your chair when he looked at you right after reading a certain verse…

Imagine being loved by me

I won't deny I've got in my mind now all the things I would do

So I'll try to talk refined for fear that you find out how I'm imaginin' you

You struggled to swallow when he kept eye contact with you while he repeated that verse, your heart pounding, head spinning a bit, and feeling your entire body react to his deep, suave voice speaking these words directly to you.

You could barely breathe by the end of it.

You didn’t pay attention while Andrew was sitting now with O’Brien, you merely clapped along, but couldn’t conjure up any logical thought.

You took a couple of deep breath, feeling your entire body on fire. And then, you were the one imagining things he could do to you as you stared at his hand while it reached the microphone O’Brien was handing him…

The questions offered an interesting insight on many of Andrew’s poems. He sounded passionate about them, about the political messages he wanted to carry, about the vision he had of love and sex and the honesty that he thought was necessary in poetry. You listened attentively, often agreeing with his views. When the interview was over, and the applause had quieted down again, O’Brien announced a short break, before Andrew would sign copies of his books. You weren’t sure if you ought to talk to him now, as people were walking out of the room, some to go home and some to wait outside to get their books signed. You had already bought both of his books, even though you had not read them, wanting to discover Andrew’s work while he would read it. So, you stood there awkwardly for a while, hesitating to walk up to Andrew even though he was now talking to a couple of people he seemed to know, or to walk out of the room.

You were about to listen to your anxious self and walk away to wait for him outside when he called for you.

He approached with a grin on his face, and you tried to ignore how everyone was staring at the two of you.

“Thank you for coming!” he grinned, and you offered him back the same happy smile.

“No need to thank me. On the contrary, thank you for inviting me! It was amazing.”

He looked nervous for a moment.

“You… you liked the poems, then?”

You chuckled.

“That… is the understatement of the century!” you joked, and Andrew seemed deeply relieved. “I loved it. You… your poems are so beautiful, and so deep and complex and insightful and just… amazing. Truly, absolutely stunning.”

He stared at you for a moment looking a little stunned by your words, blushing more and more. He nodded, burying his hands in his pockets.

“Thank you so much. I’m glad you liked my work.”

“I really loved all your poems.”

You saw him biting the inside of his cheek, and he was about to speak again when he was interrupted by the woman he had been talking to a moment before. Actually, she didn’t speak to him, but he must have felt her approaching, and he turned to her with a warm smile.

“Oh, erm… This is Y/N,” Andrew started introducing you while a man was joining them too. “We work together at Trinity, I told you about her. Erm… Y/N, this is my mom Raine, and my dad John.”

You raised a surprised eyebrow, hearing that Andrew had told his parents about you, but you quickly recovered and shook their hands, warmly greeting them.

“Of course! Andy has told us a lot about you, indeed!” Raine nodded, making Andrew blush. “We were thinking about going for a coffee while Andy is signing some autographs. Would you like to join us? We could all go for dinner after that!”

Andrew raised a surprised eyebrow, and looked at you with a careful expression, that seemed to convene the message that you shouldn’t feel pressured to accept if you didn’t feel like it. But you merely grinned, nodding enthusiastically.

“I don’t want to bother you,” you politely declined a first time, but Raine insisted, and this time you accepted, excited at the thought of talking with Andrew’s family.

“Alright,” Andrew nodded, and he seemed a little uncomfortable but happy all the same. “This shouldn’t take too long, I’ll join you all when I’m done here.”

You ended up in a coffeeshop nearby, bought some cake and a coffee with Andrew’s parents. You were a little nervous, worried that they might dislike you, although you refused to dig into the reasons that made your heart quicken with dread. Your fears were unfounded though, the conversation went smoothly, and both of his parents were kind-hearted. His father was a little quieter than Raine, but you couldn’t help but notice how much Andrew and John were alike, both physically and in their behaviour. They made you laugh while telling you some funny stories from Andrew’s childhood, and you answered their questions about your life, your career. Andrew joined you about an hour later, and he offered for all of you to come to his flat for dinner. You didn’t want to intrude, but they all insisted, and so you ended up yielding.

Andrew was nervous, although he tried very hard to hide it.

The adrenaline from the afternoon had not waned yet, he was still a little high on it. The fact that his parents were now sharing some of his childhood stories with you wasn’t helping. It felt a little surreal, to have you talking with them, joking, laughing with his parents. You seemed to easily fit in though, and Andrew couldn’t help but draw the comparison with Sam, how she never quite felt at ease with his parents, especially his father, who was a little more reserved than Raine. But now John was deep in conversation with you, telling you about the days when he was a blues musician, the drummer of a band called Free Booze, and you laughed with him at his anecdotes.

“Of course, everybody was coming in with that written on the sign by the door of whatever pub we were playing at. And once they were inside they thought ‘might as well buy a beer’, and so we were often booked around town!”

You laughed at that.

“So cunning. Great marketing skills right there,” you joked, everybody laughing at the happy memories.

“Ha, these were back in the days,” John heaved a nostalgic sigh. “Then, we had Andrew, and… I had a choice to make. Being a gigging musician wasn’t paying all the bills every months, sometimes it was working well, but other times it was inconsistent. Having a second child, I had to give up on it. Besides, I didn’t feel like travelling around the country with my two lads at home.”

“Do you ever regret quitting music?” you asked, voice gentle.

“No, not really. It was not an easy choice to make, but music demands a lot of sacrifices. And I was certainly not ready to sacrifice my family for it.”

You nodded, humming in quiet agreement.

“So, that’s where your love for music comes from then?” you turned to Andrew, and he nodded with a smile.

“Yeah… grew up being fed a lot of blues, rock, soul music… stuff like that.”

You nodded, before Raine would draw the conversation to another topic. Andrew saw you sneaking a bit of food to Elwood, and he smiled fondly at the sight, his heart growing warm at the thought that you fitted so easily into his family, into his home. His parents seemed to genuinely like you, and you seemed to like them as well. By the end of the evening, you had learned a worrying number of silly anecdotes about Andrew’s childhood, you were planning to exchange recipes with Raine, and were setting a bet on the next win for the Irish Rugby team with John. It seemed easy for you to fit into the bubble of love that surrounded Andrew. Sam had never felt like that…

His parents were staying a little longer, planning on helping Andrew clean up, but they all shushed you when you offered to help. You seemed tired, Andrew could see it, and he knew you had classes early the next day. He offered to walk you back to your car, just so that he could steal a few minutes alone with you.

“Thank you for today, Andy! It was grood craic!” you grinned up at him as you both walked across the street towards your car.

“Thank you for coming. I hope my parents weren’t too obnoxious, especially while I wasn’t around.”

“No! Not at all! Your parents are lovely.”

“Yeah… yeah, they’re very nice people.”

“And now I have so much to work with to laugh at you… mister ‘I’m a bad boy because I climbed a rotten tree thinking it was a ladder, and now I have scar on my chest and I look like I was attacked by a bear!’”

You both exploded with laughter, Andrew shaking his head.

“Christ, don’t tell that to anyone, I’m begging you…”

“Don’t worry, my lips are sealed.”

You reached your car, but lingered by the door, turning to him instead.

And God, you looked so beautiful like this, in your black jeans and green shirt… the lights of the lampposts shining in your hair. It wasn’t raining anymore, but the street was still damp, tainted with orange hues by the light.

He wanted to kiss you so badly…

“Andy… can I ask you something?”

“Hmm?” he encouraged you, tilting his head to the side a little.

“I… I assume the poems you wrote in your collections are about Sam, as you were together at the time, but… the ones you added… the new poems you read at the end of the session… were they about her as well?”

Andrew’s heart started to quicken its pace until it was pounding. He nervously rubbed his palms together.

“Hmm… no. I wrote these after she left, so… they were not about her. They… they are about another woman.”

He intensely stared at you, silently trying to convey his feelings. That the poems were about you, about his desire for you, about how strong he thought you were…

He saw that you were struggling to swallow, heard that your breath was catching in your throat. He could have sworn that you were glimpsing at his lips…

But then you shook yourself, and looked away in a hurry.

“Well, good night, Andy! I’m gonna read the rest of your poems this weekend. I’d love to talk about it with you next week, if that’s okay.”

“Yeah! That would be grand, yeah. Sure… Totally!”

You exchanged a shy smile, before you would turn to your car.

And as he watched you drive away, Andrew wondered if you had understood him. If you knew that he had written NFWMB and Talk for you. And if you had, indeed, understood him… were you running away now? Had he made you uncomfortable? Perhaps he shouldn’t have chosen these poems after all, perhaps he should have kept them a secret, or at least, hidden their true meaning, hidden that they were about you.

He walked back to his home, helped his parents wash the dishes.

“Y/N is such a lovely woman!” Raine praised while Andrew was getting busy washing the plates.

“She is,” he nodded with a soft smile.

“Very smart, and with a lovely humour too,” John approved with a nod, putting the washed glasses back into the right cupboard.

“And she is very beautiful,” Raine added. “And single.”

Andy laughed, although he was blushing.

“Mom! Stop it! How do you even know she’s single?”

“I asked her!”

“You’re incorrigible…” Andrew laughed, shaking his head.

“All I’m saying is that… she’s beautiful, around the same age as you, that she… has a strong career, a stable situation. And as your father said, she has a lovely personality, she’s smart… and you seem to have a lot in common. And she seems to be so nice, Andy. So very nice…”

“She is,” Andrew nodded quietly.

Raine looked carefully at her son for a moment, before speaking again.

“You like her, don’t you?”

Andrew said nothing, merely pressed the sponge against a plate.

“You know, we’ve never told you about it but… your father and I… we’ve never really liked Samantha very much.”

Andrew chuckled.

“I know, mom. It was pretty obvious.”

“She was… I don’t know. There was something off with her. I’ve never felt like she fitted into your world very well. Not that a couple should share everything! It’s very important that you both have hobbies of your own, some things that belong to you. But it’s something else entirely to show no interest in your partner’s life.”

“She made efforts,” Andrew answered, growing defensive out of habit more than conviction.

“She never came to your readings. She never read your poetry…”

“She doesn’t like poetry…”

“And I don’t know anything about music. I still listen to your father when he talks about it, still try to support him in the things he loves, even though I don’t understand it on the same level as he does. Just like your father supported me with my art, with me going back to university for a degree…”

Slowly, Andrew nodded.

“You’re right. She wasn’t like that with me.”

Slowly, Raine nodded.

“It’s good that you can see that now, son,” John patted Andrew’s shoulder.

“Hmm…”

“We really want to see you happy, you know?” Raine added, and Andrew nodded with a tender smile. “So… Y/N… for how long have you been writing poems about her?”

Andrew laughed, clearly uncomfortable now.

“Who said I am?”

“Come on now, I’m not blind. The way you look at her…”

Andrew blushed all the way up to his ears.

“Have you asked her out yet?” John asked, but Andrew shook his head.

“We’re both getting out of difficult break-ups… I don’t think this is the right time. I don’t think I feel ready for that. I… I like her a lot. I don’t want to mess it up because I’m trying to move on too soon.”

He didn’t tell them that he was in love with you. That he had fallen in love with you a little bit more every day for months now… that he kept on falling every time he looked at you, with every conversation and every new detail he learnt about you.

No, he didn’t tell them that. Instead, he merely cleared his throat.

“Anyway… I don’t think she sees me like that at all,” he added, but both his parents exchanged a look, and then chuckled fondly at their son.

“You can be so blind sometimes, Andy…” John shook his head.

“What?”

“She likes you. A lot,” Raine stated as if it was the most obvious truth on Earth.

Andrew blinked at her, his hands still in soapy water.

Did you? Did you like him? Really?

#andrew hozier byrne #hozier #the hoziest #hozier x reader #hozier x you #hozier x y/n #hozier x fem!reader #hozier fanfiction #hozier fanfic #hozier series #hozier professor au #hozier au #professor au #writting #fanfiction #fanfic #series

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sun-snatcher · 16 days ago

Text

( credits to @perryabbott for this phenomenal gifset ! )

1/? | SEAWARDS, TO YOU. ; REPENTANT!AU

summ. Mairon Sauron repents. The Valar test his resolve. or: A Seabird meets a Jailbird. pairing. (Repentant!Mairon/Sauron) Halbrand / f!reader w.count. 4k a/n. AU!s1 in which the Valar are the ones who habit Sauron into Halbrand’s body , Númenor timeline is extended , Reader has an established Númenórean name , Galadriel’s call-to-arms is Sauron’s temptation , The Valar are just curious which path he’ll take atp

[This looks to be setting up for a series... Feel free to send requests so we can explore this AU together!]

HE BEHOLDS A LIGHT.

And then— and then.

Grief follows.

Great and bitter and relentlessly pitiless.

It swallows him whole— spirit and body and thought alike— an all-consuming maw of devouring sorrow that he’d been forcefully severed from. All that Melkor— no, Morgoth— had sought to smother and sunder from his very esse, stirring back to life from where it’d first been cast to the black depths, like a scalding brand of hot iron against skin.

An eternal, burning reminder.

RETRIBUTION—

—howls the great Winds.

It muffles his screams from unseen heights. Pure, unadulterated agony; his heart aflame of every pain he’d ever wrought throughout the age, throughout the centuries—

It takes a moment for him to realise he’s dying.

Enough, comes a soft-rising lament. He despairs. He is not yet forsaken.

The voice lilts like a mournful dirge, and with it had come a gentle peace, and the torture seemed to cease nigh in an instant.

Any will despair in the face of Death, booms another. It rumbles across towering pillars and a cavernous hall of light.

He is not as others. A mighty wave crashes on unseen shores. There’s a swelling cascade. He is Mairon, Maiar of Aulë.

His name lights the world alive. Other voices have come, now. A curious crowd, a divine council.

He seeks repentance---Does he deserve it?---He is dying---Irredeemable!---He has yet to weep a single tear in the name of any that is good---You would grant him a chance to inflict the same corruption?---Cast him away--- Condemn him to the Night!---He is but a servant hand of M—

A fierce billow of wind. Lashing and deafening, enough to sweep the black name into muteness; into nothingness.

INVOKE NOT THE DARKNESS HERE.

Quickly follows is a crescendo of music, a song of all Age and that carries all note of harmony, so beautifully terrifying it chills him to the bone. Strikes an utter fear in his heart he hadn’t felt since he’d first been tortured by—

“Let him speak,” commands One.

At once, All had fallen into quiet. The tides recede. The earth stills. The stars dim.

And then—

“Peace,” Mairon trembles, bowing low and terrified, guilt-ridden in his and all eyes. “I wish only for peace.”

Halbrand startles awake.

There are tears down his face.

Númenor, he remembers. He’s in the prisons of Númenor.

His senses are devoid of howling winds, of rumbling earth, and of roaring waters. No thundering night sky of stars. No agonising pain.

But then, echoing from behind, a voice resounds— delicate and openly gentle— and for a terrifying moment he thinks he might still be dreaming; that one of the Valar is speaking to him unseen once again, or perhaps the statue of Uinen graced outside his cell has come to life.

“Nightmare?”

A beat.

“…Memory,” he answers tentatively, from where he’s curled in his cot. He rubs his face awake. “Where is Galadriel?”

“Trying to win over the heart of the Queen, still.”

“Here.” Halbrand hearkens, and can see a figure shift neath the torchlight closer to the wrought bars, kneeling down to offer him a sip from a carafe of wine.

A bitter memory involuntarily resurfaces in him: A bottle of wine in his hands, red as a blood moon, feeding it to a black-haired elf chained upon a dark and nameless peak, scarred to the brink of death.

A blistering ache crawls down his nape. He grimaces.

“No than—”

The moonlight gleams. Halbrand seizes.

It’s… you .

The fair lady; from ereyesterday he’d recalled standing alongside the Captain of the Sea Guard, when he and Galadriel had first been brought before the royal court to face Tar-Míriel, and you looked like a vision of gold and ocean-blue. He had only caught a glimpse of your profile at the time, but here, now—

You’re beautiful , Mairon thinks candidly. The kind that would make men drown themselves at sea.

“…No thank you,” Halbrand repeats, significantly less bitter than before. He shifts to sit comfortably, and leans his head back against the barred wall as he carefully scrutinises your ensemble under the hanging firelight— the shell-braid hair, the fresh-water pearl jewellery, the deep-teal gown.

Princess? He reckons. No. You carry yourself light in both presence and step, but not sophisticated in the high and tight way someone of noble status tends to— not quite like Galadriel, even in all her salt-soaked mien.

Politician, perhaps? Considering the attempt at an olive branch; an out-of-place kindness if you were to compare it to the scorn from the other Númenorean folk.

Nevertheless: “I was told nobody kneels in Númenor.” Then, more scathingly: “You’re not supposed to be here, are you?”

The rough blatancy would have put anyone off.

But instead, you blink in surprise and laugh. It’s a soft, wind-chime of a sound, quickly ducked down so he could only catch the tail-end of your obscured, dimpled smile.

(He was surprised to find himself thinking he should have sat closer to the light to see it.)

“So says the castaway,” you volley breezily, rising back to your feet with your peace offering.

Halbrand finally stands to height before you move to leave. He’d much rather take the opportunity for a decent conversation at the very least, than stare mindlessly at the dark until something else interesting happens.

He’s tall, you come to realise. Dizzyingly so.

For someone who’d supposedly been adrift for weeks in the ocean, he looks surprisingly as hale as the she-Elf. Strong, even. It shows in the curl of his biceps, in the firm way he’s leaning down onto the bars now, forearms poking out as the sea-green shift in his eyes regard you almost inquisitively.

If not for the tell-tale signs of a bad sunburn and his salt-licked wounds, you wouldn’t have been able to tell him apart from a local Númenorean sailor.

“To whom or what do I owe the pleasure of a fair maiden’s presence?”

But you aren’t so easily swayed. “Flattery will not get you far, Southlander.”

“So says the one who tried offering me wine,” he shoots, cocking his head to your bottle.

Well —

Well.

Fine. Maybe you are easily swayed. Blame the quick-wittedness of him and that cheeky, roguish smile cutting across his chapped lips.

“Offered,” you correct, uselessly. He can surely recognise it: your meek attempt to have the last say. “You’ve lost your chance.”

He hums. “Hopefully not the chance for a name, at least?”

Though it seems he’s lost that too—

A clamour descended from a distance; the jingle of skeleton keys, the sound of approaching footsteps in heavy armour. Change in guard shift, maybe, or it could be Galadriel’s escorted return. Regardless, you’re quick to gather your senses and make headway to the shadows.

“Wait—” Halbrand catches your fingers just as you turn to leave. The touch feels like a kindle; a spark of ember. “What are you called?”

“Tell no guard I was here, and I may just yet be able to tell you another day,” you whisper, before quickly slipping from his grasp.

And then you’re gone. Like sand between his fingers, like a ripple in water—

(Something, however, tinkers to the floor.)

“Who’re you talkin’ to, Southlander?” comes a snap.

(Halbrand stomps a foot on the rolling ring.)

“Myself,” he smiles.

You come the next night after.

Galadriel recognises you.

“Does your father not caution you to speak with strangers?” she bites, when she watches you poke your hand into her cell. It’s a canteen of water.

A shrug. “If you speak of the Captain, you are mistaken.” Then, almost breezily, as if a tale told by you countlessly: “More he my ward and I his charge, if nothing else. Elendil found me in a tidepool, as an infant.”

Something flashes in Galadriel’s mind. A memory that never dims: Seaside, and a skin of water she’d given to a tidal-haired half-Elf, who had been left estranged with neither friend nor kin.

She casts her eyes aside.

“Erulaitalë will begin soon,” you warn. “The guards may likely conveniently forget to bring down your dinner amid the days-long occasion.” (You leave out the obvious: And because you’d socked two of them in the face during your little tirade towards the Queen yesterday.)

Galadriel begrudgingly relents.

When you get the canteen back to offer her prison mate, he’s already looming at the bars of his cell.

“That’s not why you came, though, is it?”

He’s fidgeting with something in his hand. A mixed metal ring— silver and gold— dainty and elegant, crowned with a freshwater pearl in its centre. To someone like him the build is simple. Ordinary. But the startled look in your eyes seems to imply it’s not as meaningless as it appears.

“You ought to reshape this,” he murmurs, thumbing at the edge as he studies it. Scrutinising, almost, in his mind’s eye— like he couldn’t help a habit of assessing the details and correcting any flaws. “It’s loose.”

You wrinkle your nose. “What would a castaway like you know of craft?”

His face lights with a soft smile. (Galadriel thinks it might’ve been the most genuine she’d ever seen of him yet.) “Plenty, if you consider I was once a Smith.”

“Captivating,” you dismiss. “Now give it b—”

You reach out reflexively, but he’s quick to retreat back into the safety of his cell.

“Ah. I believe you owe me your name,” he cocks his head slowly. “Fair lady.”

A huff. It’s almost comical how your shoulders sink in defeat as he continues. “Or perhaps you’d prefer, hm, I don’t know; Seabird —?”

“Eärmaril,” you admit, reluctantly. “Now give it back, lest I cut it apart from your very fingers myself, jailbird .”

There’s a long, tense moment.

You wonder if he’ll return it to you; if he’ll continue to covet it as a method of leverage, perhaps— but then you watch him slowly make his way to lean on the bars to meet your gaze once more, and to your surprise, gestures for your hand.

You hesitate.

Halbrand patiently waits.

Then, tentatively, you reach out.

Seducer, you want to scoff—

He carefully flips your hand palm-down, slides the ring gently back in place.

—But you’re too distracted by the striking feel of him on your fingers. It’s callous, rough, strong. You’re surprised a man of his seemingly boorish nature can handle your hands this delicately at all, much less be this effortlessly charming.

“Sea-crystal,” he dazedly translates your name, once your presence had finally slipped free from the dungeon. “No?”

“A pearl,” Galadriel specifies. “The Heart of the Sea. ”

You’re back, again.

Halbrand is pleasantly surprised, to say the least. He’d half-expected you to stop showing up after the stunt he’d pulled, but there’d also been that gnawing part of him that knew (hoped) you’d return. There’s a stubbornness in you he can recognise from the she-Elf— it must be why the both of you take to each other so easily.

“It’s no Lembas,” you tell Galadriel, handing her an apple. (Fresh, still. She can smell the dew rolling down its skin.) “But it’s better than what the guards have been offering you, here.”

He knows what you’re doing, if Galadriel’s word is right. You’re trying to turn the tides towards their favour; to, at the very least, get them out of these wretched cells while the kingdom debates their fate. Getting into their good graces, however, and why you’re going the extra mile with feeding them— he’s not quite sure he’s figured that out exactly yet.

“Enlighten me, what do you stand to gain from your act of breaking proverbial way-bread?”

“Halbrand,” Galadriel warns.

“It’s fine. He’s right to be wary,” you say, before turning to him. “Is plain amity not enough of a reason?"

“Not to my esteem. Everyone has wants,” he says. “Besides, looks can oft be deceiving.”

(You can’t discern if that’s a jab or a compliment or something else entirely. Perhaps all at once.)

“And what is it you think I want, Southlander?”

He leans on the cell, studies you purposefully. “An escape. Off of this island home you’ve grown bored of. That in hopes, if the Queen should let us free, you could set sail along with us,” he says. “I think you long for a grand adventure, outside the shores of Númenor, to seek the finer joys of life beyond your charted waters.”

A stagnant moment passes.

“Hm,” you shrug, sounding unimpressed. “…Of grand adventures and finer things. That shall be my reason, then, if it is enough for you, Halbrand.”

He falters. The name rolling from your tongue sounds like the purl of a steady, clearwater stream. Like he’d been quenched of something he couldn’t quite place; of something he never noticed longed to be slated.

“What about you? What do you want?” you ask, setting the apple in his hands.

You miss the turn of Galadriel’s head.

Sauron doesn’t.

Vengeance, his heart cries instinctively, meeting Galadriel’s rallying-like gaze.

But then Halbrand blinks your way.

“Peace,” Mairon recites. “I wish only for peace.”

Someone else delivers in your stead, this time.

A cadet, who appears still wet-behind-the-ears; tanned with a mop of tight curls on his head, and holding a dissimilar kindness to your own eyes. He seems less inclined to linger in his visit, nor to entertain any of their questions.

“Where is Eärmaril?” Halbrand asks, when the cadet clarifies your supposed order to him.

“…She regrets her absence.”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” he says, and couldn’t bite back the demand of his tone in time.

“Occupied,” states the cadet.

“With?” Galadriel urges.

“Dealings of which are not of your concern.”

He doesn’t know either, they quickly realise, sharing a knowing glance at each other.

It’s only when five long minutes pass that the cadet concludes the bowl of scallops prepared will go stubbornly untouched out of distrust, and so decides to clear the evidence away, and turn on his heel to leave.

You fail to appear a night after.

And then the next.

Halbrand just stares at Uinen, and worries.

“Awfully hungry, are you?”

With a handful of fruit, you freeze in place. There’s a chill you feel crawling over you, the type you get when you know you’re caught red-handed; the type a child would get at the icy wrath of their father.

He’s not your father, you try to thaw. But it would be impossible to attempt that. So you allow yourself to look at him as Captain of the Sea Guard instead. “…Very much so.”

“We may not be of blood, Eärmaril, but to me you are still my eldest,” he reminds, “I’ve raised you longer than I have Isildur and Eärien.”

“Only by three years,” you dismiss, leaning back onto the kitchen counter and crossing your arms.

“You’ve been sneaking to the prison.” He doesn’t sound surprised as he puts it out in the open. You wish he would’ve at least sounded as such, even a little bit.

“The Faithful have believ—"

But having brought up that subject alone seems to effectively tip the scales against your favour. “Stop,” he says, in the authoritative tone he always uses to clinch arguments, “You will cease this madness.”

“Is that what we’re calling kindness, now?”

Elendil pinches the bridge of his nose.

“You are lucky, foolish girl, that I caught on, and not any other of the Guard. Why is it you care so much for these castaways?”

I don’t know would’ve been a terrible answer, but it would’ve been an honest one. That you cannot explain the call or the pull towards them since the day those two had set foot on Númenor—

“The sea put them in your path the same way I was put upon yours. And the sea is always right.”

“That was different. You were an infant,” he corrects. “With no past to haunt you, and no intentions hidden in your heart. These are strangers.”

“Galadriel is known to Númenor. She was the Scourge of Orcs,” you defend, waving an arm. “And of H— the Southlander, I have seen nothing in him but the utter desire for peace.”

Elendil’s face twists into incredulity. “You can see that, and yet for Valandil you were seemingly blind to how involving him could have risked dismissal from the coming Sea Trials—?”

“Don’t bring him into this.”

“You brought him into this!”

“He offered to help—”

“Because he has a good heart.”

“—because you declined to help in the first place!” you snap, and set the apple down with an irritated thud. “All you had to do was convince Chancellor Pharazon to consi—”

Elendil huffs your name, and it feels the verbal equivalent of him flicking your ear. “Don’t you dare fault any of this on me.”

“I am not,” you assert. “I am merely stating the truth. I can take full responsibility for everything else, but whatever fault you feel inside of yourself is not my doing.”

Your expression sinks. “And what I asked of you was simple. If you cannot do even that, then at the very least: turn your gaze inwards for once, instead of casting it across the waters.”

That seems to have knocked the wind from his sails.

(Surprisingly, yours too.)

“You know,” he sighs, after the silence stretched for a moment. “You are so much like your mother, sometimes.”

“She’s—” Not my mother, you defy reflexively. Though that would’ve been unfair. She may not have been your mother, but you will always be her daughter; she had raised and cherished and loved you as her very own nonetheless; had chivvied and taught you the ways of water and the world better than anybody ever could have. “—She’s gone.”

“She lives in you. I can see it. Everyday,” he says.

But that is all the grief he allows you to see. His hard, insular gaze set back into place, and suddenly you’ve found Elendil of the Sea Guard, again, as he goes to swipe the bag from your hands.

Later— much, much later, in fact— you learn Elendil’s following meeting with the castaways that night goes a little something like this:

A cut-glass voice, and a stomp of his feet. “Ever since you two driftwoods have sailed into my path,” echoes Elendil, “A discourse has been sown between me and my daughter.”

“What damage could we possibly have done,” Galadriel says in an undertone, watching him stride in. “Locked in a cage like beasts since our arrival?”

Halbrand shoots her a chiding look. Let me handle this. “Our… sincerest apologies, Captain. We did not intend as such. Your daughter merely extended us a kindness.”

A snort. It’s Galadriel’s.

“I don’t know what she sees in the both of you.” Elendil sighs, and a deep set frown makes itself known on his weary face. The Captain stops short at the foot of Uinen’s statue. “Perhaps a reflection of herself,” he continues, admiring the stone-carved hair blend into crested waves of the sea. “A key to understanding it.”

There’s a cold, calculative look in his eyes as he turns to face them. It’s nothing like the one you wear— warm, assessing. But there’s a kindness, still, in both of you; where the familial thread connects.

It seems you’ve managed to pluck that chord.

“Erulaitalë is a week-long trip to and fro. With the storms we’ve been having, maybe more. I’ve managed to get the both of you an audience with the Queen before then,” he lays the bag of fruit to their cells. “Tomorrow you will have a chance to plead your case. But whatever is commanded of me, I will obey. So for the sake of my daughter, and for yourselves, I ask you tread lightly .”

The last line is said pointedly at Galadriel.

“Thank you,” Halbrand says. It’s forced— but genuine.

Galadriel says it too, though the day after; and not to the Queen nor Elendil, but to you, after the audience had gone as well as it could have.

Tar-Míriel now considers them guests of the island while she travels to perform her duties amid Erulaitalë, though they will be surveilled for the time being until her return, and will personally ensure the matter of their fate be seen to by then.

Throughout the final mandate, however—

Ivory white is a beautiful colour on you, Halbrand concludes, distractedly.

“Glad to see the Captain didn’t lock you up in a tower,” he says after, as the Guards unlock his shackles. “Do you always have a tendency to help strays? To beachcomb for flotsam and jetsam that wash ashore?”

“A thank you would be nice,” you scoff, but without heat. “And yes. Call it a mutual understanding.”

The Guards shuffle off. Halbrand is left in the borders of the court, speaking to you, who’s robed in a dress like a monolith of pure light. Salvation, you look like. And you had been, in a way. He cannot deny that.

But he cannot deny he doesn’t trust any of it either.

(Something about things being too good to be true. He’s learned that lesson before.)

“I still don’t know what you want of me, Eärmaril,” he remarks, and was glad to know the sound of your name finally being uttered by him seems to have an effect on you. “But a part of me gathers that staying in those cells to rot might benefit me more, than to be at risk of being at your disposal outside these stone walls.”

Hurt flashes in your eyes. It’s the first he’d ever seen it.

As if the thought of having someone in thrall to you was— outlandish. And here, perhaps now Sauron will see the malice cut through your façade. That alas, your true colours and intentions will bleed through, as always, like he’s been expecting and predicting all this while.

But then:

“You must have been hurt so, to be this distrusting, Halbrand.”

He seizes.

Your gaze melts into something sickeningly compassionate. Severe, almost, as Estë’s healing touch in his faded dreams.

Sauron doesn’t know what to make of it.

“You— think me afraid,” he manages, terse enough to be a statement more than a question. (Enough, hopefully, to hide the fact you have, indeed, rattled him.)

“No. I think you don’t know what true kindness looks like, even if it’s being handed to you on a silver platter.”

“I’ve done evil,” he says, slow and careful, and accompanies it with an intimidating step into your space; your orbit.

You don’t waver.

If anything, you’ve boldly bared your throat as you crane your neck to level his steely gaze. “It is said only the sea can wash away all that is evil. That it can erode all given time. I believe that’s why you were adrift and washed here.”

“A baptism,” he muses, suddenly remembering Ossë, between the battle-drum in his ears.

“Whatever floats your boat.”

Halbrand scoffs. “You think you know me.”

“I know enough,” you say. “I know I’m the only person in this moment who can give you what you want.”

“You alone cannot give me peace.”

“I cannot,” you agree, before cocking your head to the side. “Though, I can lend you a Smith’s hammer and tongs.”

In spite of himself, and against his better judgement—

Mairon lights up.

Footnotes:

Erulaitalë was a ceremony observed on the summit of Meneltarma, the tallest mountain peak of Númenor, in which praise was given to Eru for his works.

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exitpursuedbyavulcan · 5 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

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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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haveyoureadthismcytfic · 15 days ago

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Summary:

Martyn is not a religious man, no, but he is a desperate one. What use is a prayer to a forgotten god?

Author: @liloinkoink

#haveyoureadthismcytfic #life series fanfic #liloinkoink #mcyt fanfiction #mcytblr #mcyt polls #mcytumblr #haveyoureadthisfic

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devieuls · 3 months ago

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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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alec-volturi · 11 days ago

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LAMENT | Alec Volturi x Fem!Reader

This is chapter 1 to this series.

Summary: Drawn by reports of a violent string of murders plaguing Seattle, you take a detour to uncover the truth for yourself. But in the shadows of the chaos lies a sinister secret: a newborn army of vampires wreaking havoc on the city. As you navigate the perilous streets, you must stay hidden, evading not only the feral young vampires but also the relentless Volturi, who have been trying to track you across the years.

Pairing: Alec Volturi x fem!reader Genre: angst, romance, drama, fantasy, suspense, dark, vioIence, friends to lovers, dark academia, gothic horror, canon divergence Word Count: 2k Warnings: This will have the lore of both films and books of the Twilight Saga series but with much darker themes. Gore/blood, mentions of witches, witchcraft, burning at stakes, devils and demons, vampires. And ofc NSFW so minors don’t interact. All characters in this series are aged up or are above the age of 18.

A/N: Reader description not described besides having red/gold eyes, clear/blemish-free like skin, and having some abilities as canon to all vampires in the books. And clothing from time to time. Dividers by @cafekitsune ♡

Stories usually start with a "Once upon a time," a simple phrase that loosens the veil between the familiar and the forgotten, leading listeners into worlds safely confined to dreams. But this story was different; it felt like a secret, like shadows pooling at the edges of your vision, waiting to pull you into a night where time doesn’t pass, where mysteries linger, and every whispered word tastes like something forbidden. This wasn’t just ink on a page; it was a door to someplace half-real, someplace where darkness wrapped you close and left you wondering whether you'd ever find your way back.

This world isn’t like that. Instead, it’s a place where time stands still, its hands frozen in a perpetual twilight, neither moving forward nor offering escape. For some, it feels like eternity, an endless stretch of nothingness where the hours blur together, unchanging. But for others—those who wander the shadows or fall prey to what lurks within—it’s a once upon a nightmare, a story where the darkness never relents, where hope is a fleeting, hollow echo swallowed by the night.

In the year 1663, as dusk painted the sky in blood and shadow, the people of London knew better than to linger outside. Each night, as the first stars appeared, every family bolted doors, snuffed candles, and whispered fevered prayers as they hid behind thick walls. Beyond the windows, darkness belonged to those who had vowed to fight it: priest with holy scriptures clutched tight, town braves with sharpened stakes and pitchforks dispatched in blind white anger, sworn to rid the world of creatures who defied mortal law. Blood demons, shapeshifters, and witches—they were all condemned as sin’s cruel agents, hunted as monsters by men who claimed their duty was divine.

As the town’s lamps extinguished, the silence was cut by hounds howling at the scent of something unnatural. The synchronized march of boots clattered against the cobbled streets, while shouts and commands ricocheted off stone walls, penetrating even the thickest household walls and rattling the bravest hearts. Fear and faith held sway in equal measure as the men marched, some clutching crosses while others wielded silver weapons they designed thinking it would pierce the skin of creatures they had never truly seen.

But beneath the city, where no torchlight reached, another world had been hiding—a world of thirsting hunger, of whispers, of sleepless dark eyes. Through the damp and nearly caved-in sewers, slick with grime and infested with rats, a vampire coven had staked their claim. For months, they’d made their den in this forgotten labyrinth of foulness, surviving in silence, drinking only when the thirst grew unbearable. They’d kept to themselves, unnoticed by the townsfolk above, their existence a secret safeguarded by shadows and silence.

Yet tonight, their precarious sanctuary would be breached. The hunt’s new leader, a young man, by the name of Carlisle Cullen, had taken over from his now deceased father and previous Anglican priest, saw the world through different eyes. Only twenty-three, bold and relentless, he refused to limit his search to open fields or deserted woods as his predecessor had. People would whisper that he was smarter, shrewder; that he sought darkness where no one dared look. And tonight, that unyielding curiosity and grim resolve drove him down, down into the labyrinth of decay beneath London where he’d sworn he saw the monsters lurk. A little far behind him, lanterns casting jagged shadows as his men held their breath and followed.

With each step, the air grew colder, thick with the stench of age-old rot and black mold everywhere. Carlisle pressed forward in step much faster than the others with only two other men at his side, determined until he found it: the coven his father had hunted for two decades and never found was but three arm lengths away from them.

Chaos erupted as soon as the men were heard by this coven. They saw their bright burgundy eyes and weakened bodies suddenly stirring with a vicious, desperate hunger faster than their eyes could keep up. Blood splattered the stone as some of the creatures broke away, dragging one man into the darkness while another, a man speaking in Latin, lashed out on the spot, jaws bared, too starved to hold back. And amid the frenzy, she appeared.

She stood apart from the others, more kept and clean, her form delicate yet unyielding, framed by a grey gown that looked lavish, handmade of silk and cotton. Her skin was impossibly clear, like striking stone, and her fathomless eyes gleamed with something between rage and sorrow. Her lips, faded smooth, curled slightly into frown as she observed the slaughter around her, a cruel beauty etched in her features that seemed both ancient and timeless. She was like a statue come to life, a creature of elegance wrapped in death's chill, and as her gaze locked onto Carlisle, the air thickened.

Carlisle, though terrified, refused to flee. Heart hammering, he charged forward, blade in hand, toward one of the creatures—the one who chanted something fierce in Latin, rallying the other swift, chilling figures that blurred through the shadows as they ran away. But then, in one brutal moment, the world tilted; he was thrown to the ground by the man who had gone into a sudden frenzy, his side searing with pain. Blood seeped from his wounds, pooling on the grimy stone, and his breaths came shallow and sharp. He opened his mouth to scream but bit back the sound, fear taking hold as he thought of the townspeople—would they turn on him, claim he was infected, cursed by the vampire’s disease?

As he clawed at the ground, desperate to pull himself to safety, his gaze drifted upward, and there she was. He could do nothing but stare. Her form seemed to emerge from the darkness like a dream or an illusion, her skin radiant as though lit from within. Every inch of her invited him closer, her elegance disarming him, and he forgot, for a moment, that she was one of the monsters he’d been sent to kill.

“Miss!” he gasped, breath shaky, arm outstretched in a futile plea. “Hurry, quick! Get inside or hide before they… before they kill you!” His voice wavered, a desperate edge creeping into his words as he beckoned to her, oblivious to the danger she posed.

Her expression softened, a flicker of sadness crossing her face, almost as if she pitied him. Then she spoke, her voice ringing out like a gentle chime that seemed to drift through the chaos.

“Dear boy, you should not have come here.” she spoke, her tone light and melodic, as though she needn’t draw a single breath to speak. Her words lingered, brushing against him like silk.

He faltered, as tears traced down his cheek from pain and blood loss trickling from his arm and leg, mingling with the dirt. Confusion contorted his face as he fought to understand while staring at her, then all at once, the truth struck him like a blow to the chest. She’s one of them, his mind spinning, his eyes widening with horror. How easily, how effortlessly, he had been drawn in.

“Don’t be afraid,” she murmured, tilting her head, her dark gaze unwavering. “I won’t kill you.”

“Why wouldn’t you?” he spat, a note of anger mingling with the brokenness in his voice. He could feel the cold tendrils of despair creeping in, the bitter realization that he’d been charmed, deceived by beauty. A little hope that she may put an end to his suffering.

Her lips curled into the faintest smile, her eyes glinting with something unreadable. “I’ve been watching you—son of Cullen,” she replied, a strange fondness in her voice.

“You’ve piqued my interest. You dream of becoming like your father, don’t you? But you desire more. You wish to help others, to save them, and yet here you are, hunting us when you’re worth more. Tell me, why do you follow such cruel orders by such a man that cared not for you?”

Gracefully, she lowered herself to his level, kneeling close enough that he could feel the chill radiating from her. He was breathless, the words caught in his throat as he stared into her dark burgundy, fathomless eyes. The scent of blood hung thick in the air, mingling with the faint, sweet perfume that seemed to cling to her skin. Around them, the body of one of his men lay motionless, strewn like a broken doll across the ground, his eyes glazed and empty.

“You know nothing of me!” he shouted, his voice cracking, the burn of tears threatening to break free. He was shaking now, fear and anger warring inside him. All he could hear were the distant cries of his comrades, the faint echoes of those still coming to join the fray. Yet, for all their noise, it felt as though he and this creature were alone, the last souls in a world drenched in blood and shadow.

Her expression softened, her gaze flickering over his face as if she saw past his fear, his hatred, into something deeper. And for a fleeting moment, he wondered what lay behind those dark eyes, what truth might live within a creature so cold, so deathless. But he pushed the thought away, forcing himself to look anywhere but at her.

“You won’t have to suffer for long. At least not like right now,” she said, a frown lingering on her lips. “But I will tell you this—there is a price to every vow, every hunt, every act of mercy shown. And one day, you’ll have to choose what you stand for.”

Too weak to move, he lay trembling, silent cries catching in his throat as the cold of his skin pressed in. She watched him with a sorrowful frown, her eyes shadowed with something almost tender. And then, with a suddenness he could barely comprehend, she swept him up in her arms. The world blurred, and in the span of a breath, they were far from the echoes of shouts and the clamor of pursuit. She lowered him carefully onto the cool grass beside a riverbank, the night air thick with the quiet gurgling of the slow-moving stream.

“You don’t have much time left,” she murmured, voice softened. “Too much blood lost—you’re dying.” She paused, gazing down at him, her dark eyes almost regretful. “But maybe. . .maybe you’ll take this chance and do something good with it, with this second life. There’s light in it, I swear, if you find it.”

Her words were little more than a whisper, slipping through the cool night air like secrets meant only for him. She took his limp arm, holding it gently before lowering her mouth to his skin. Her fangs pierced his flesh with a sharp, burning pain of silver, and he gasped, feeling the warmth of his blood slipping away, mingling with something that felt like ice, binding him to a pain unlike he felt previously. And then, in the blink of an eye, she was gone, leaving nothing but the faintest swirl of mist where she had knelt.

For a moment, he thought he’d dreamed it all—the pain, a fierce burning agony that raced through his veins, igniting his senses, hollowing him out from the inside out. His arm throbbed with searing heat spreading up to the tips of his fingertips and into his heart, each heartbeat like a pounding fire surging through every inch of him. His breath caught in his throat, unwilling to let out, vision blurring as the transformation began its slow, merciless work.

It would take three days for the change to complete, for his body to surrender fully to the chilling darkness now coursing through him. In those days, he would be caught between two worlds, his mind twisting, his memories reshaping, his humanity slipping away like sand through his fingers. And by the time he would open his fresh red eyes, the girl—the one who had granted him this second life—wouldn’t be seen again. It would be decades before their paths crossed again, though the memory of her face, her voice, her lingering sadness, would haunt him through every year of his endless life.

#twilight #twilight saga #new moon #eclipse #breaking dawn #volturi #alec volturi #carlisle cullen #edward cullen #bella swan #vampires #alec volturi x reader #volturi x reader #edward x reader #alec volturi x y/n #alec volturi x you #jane volturi #lament #aemond x reader

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novaursa · 3 months ago

Text

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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